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Title: Truth [Vérité]

Author: Émile Zola

Translator: Ernest Alfred Vizetelly

Release date: October 30, 2017 [eBook #55849]
                Most recently updated: May 14, 2022

Language: English

Credits: Dagny and Marc D’Hooghe


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRUTH [VÉRITÉ] ***




TRUTH

[VÉRITÉ]

By

ÉMILE ZOLA


Translated by

ERNEST A. VIZETELLY


NEW YORK: JOHN LANE

THE BODLEY HEAD

1903




PREFACE


Conspicuous among the writings which influenced the great changes
witnessed by the world at the end of the eighteenth century were the
'Nouvelle Héloise,' the 'Contrat Social,' the 'Émile ou l'Éducation' of
Jean-Jacques Rousseau. At the close of the nineteenth, the advent of
the twentieth century, one finds three books, 'Fécondité,' 'Travail,'
and 'Vérité,' the works of Émile Zola, Rousseau's foremost descendant.
It is too soon by far to attempt to gauge the extent of the influence
which these works may exercise; but, disseminated in French and in many
other languages to the uttermost ends of the earth, they are works
which will certainly have to be reckoned with in a social as well as a
literary sense. The writings of Rousseau, violently assailed by some,
enthusiastically praised by others, ended by leaving their mark on
the world at large. Very few may read them nowadays, but in certain
essential respects their spirit pervaded the nineteenth century, and
their influence is not dead yet, for the influence which springs from
the eternal truths of nature cannot die. As for the critics who will
undoubtedly arise to dispute the likelihood of any great influence
being exercised by the last writings of Émile Zola, I adjourn them
to some twenty years hence. Rome was not built in a day, many long
years elapsed before the spirit of Rousseau's writings became fully
disseminated, and, although the world moves more quickly now than it
did then, time remains a factor of the greatest importance.

Moreover, the future alone can decide the fate of Émile Zola's last
books; for, while dealing with problems of the present time, they are
essentially books which appeal to the future for their justification.
Each of those three volumes, 'Fécondité,' 'Travail,' and 'Vérité,'
takes as its text an existing state of things, and then suggests
alterations and remedies which can only be applied gradually, long
years being required to bring about any substantial result. It is known
that the series was to have comprised a fourth and concluding volume,
which would have been entitled 'Justice'; and indeed the actual writing
of that volume would have been begun on September 29 last if, at an
early hour on that very day, the hand of Émile Zola had not been stayed
for ever by a tragic death, which a few precautions would undoubtedly
have prevented. At an earlier stage it was surmised--on many sides I
see by the newspaper cuttings before me--that this unwritten book,
'Justice,' would deal chiefly with the Dreyfus case, in which Zola
played so commanding and well-remembered a part. But that was a
mistake, a misconception of his intentions. Though his work would have
embraced the justice dispensed in courts of law, his chief thought
was social justice, equity as between class and class, man and man.
And thus the hand of death at least robbed those who are in any way
oppressed of a powerful statement of their rights.

As for the Dreyfus case, it figures in the present volume, or rather
it serves as the basis of one of the narratives unfolded in it.
The Dreyfus case certainly revealed injustice; but it even more
particularly revealed falsehood, the most unblushing and the most
egregious mendacity, the elevation of the _suppressio veri_ and the
_suggestio falsi_ to the dignity of a fine art. The world has known
greater deeds of injustice than the Dreyfus case, but never has it
known--and may it never again know--such a widespread exhibition of
mendacity, both so unscrupulous and so persevering, attended too by
the most amazing credulity on the part of nine-tenths of the French
nation--for small indeed (at the beginning, at all events) was the
heroic band which championed the truth. Behind all the mendacity and
credulity, beyond the personages directly implicated in the case,
stood one of the great forces of the world, the Roman Catholic Church.
Of all the ministers of that Church in France, only one raised his
voice in favour of the truth, all the others were tacitly or actively
accomplices in the great iniquity. And that will explain much which
will be found in Émile Zola's last book.

The horrible crime on which he bases a part of his narrative is not
ascribed to any military man (in fact the army scarcely figures in
'Vérité'); it is one of the crimes springing from the unnatural lives
led by those who have taken vows in the Roman Church, of which some
record will be found in the reports on criminality in France, which
the Keeper of the Seals issues every ten years. Many such crimes,
particularly those which are not carried to the point of murder,
are more or less hushed up, the offenders being helped to escape by
their friends in the Church; but sufficient cases have been legally
investigated during the last thirty years to enable one to say that
the crime set forth in 'Vérité' is not to be regarded as altogether
exceptional in its nature. The scene of the book is laid in the French
school world, and by the intriguing of clericalist teachers the crime
referred to is imputed to a Jew schoolmaster. Forthwith there comes an
explosion of that anti-Semitism--cruelly and cowardly spurred on by the
Roman Church--which was the very _fons et origo_ of the Dreyfus case.

On the dogmas of the Roman Church, and on her teaching methods with
the young, falls the entire responsibility of such fanaticism and
such credulity. Republican France, fully enlightened respecting the
Church's aims by many circumstances and occurrences--the Dreyfus
case, the treasonable monarchical spirit shown by her officers when
educated in Jesuit colleges, the whole Nationalist agitation, and the
very educational exhibits sent by the Religious Orders to the last
great world-show in Paris, exhibits which proved peremptorily that
1,600,000 children were being reared by Brothers and Sisters in hatred
and contempt of the government of the country--France is now driving
the Church from both the elementary and the superior schools. Those
who merely glance with indifference at the Paris letters and telegrams
appearing in the newspapers may be told that a great revolution is now
taking place in France, a revolution partaking of some of the features
of the Reformation, a change such as England, for instance, has not
witnessed since Henry VIII. and James II. The effects of that change
upon the world at large may be tremendous; Rome knows it, and resists
with the tenacity of despair; but faith in her dogmas and belief
in her protestations have departed from the great majority of the
French electorate; and, driven from the schools, unable in particular
to continue moulding the women by whom hitherto she has so largely
exercised her influence, the Church already finds herself in sore
straits, at a loss almost how to proceed. By hook or crook she will
resist, undoubtedly, to the last gasp; but with the secularisation of
the whole educational system it will be difficult for her to recruit
adherents in the future, and poison the national life as she did poison
it throughout the years of the Dreyfus unrest. She sowed the storm and
now she is reaping the whirlwind.

Besides the powerful 'story of a crime' which is unfolded in the
pages of 'Vérité,' besides the discussion of political and religious
methods and prospects, and the exposition of educational views which
will be found in the book, it has other very interesting features. The
whole story of Marc Froment and his struggle with his wife Geneviève
is admirable. It has appealed to me intensely, for personal reasons,
though happily my home never knew so fierce a conflict. Yet experience
has taught me what may happen when man and woman do not share the same
faith, and how, over the most passionate love, the sincerest affection,
there may for that reason fall a blighting shadow, difficult indeed to
dispel. And though Marc Froment at last found his remedy, as I found
mine, living to enjoy long after-years of perfect agreement with the
chosen helpmate, it is certain that a difference of religious belief
is a most serious danger for all who enter the married state, and that
it leads to the greatest misery, the absolute wrecking of many homes.
In 'Vérité' the subject is treated with admirable insight, force, and
pathos; and I feel confident that this portion of the book will be read
with the keenest interest.

Of the rest of the work I need hardly speak further; for I should
merely be paraphrasing things which will be found in it. Some of the
personages who figure in its pages will doubtless be recognised. Nobody
acquainted with the Dreyfus case can doubt, I think, the identity of
the scoundrel who served as the basis of Brother Gorgias. Father Crabot
also is a celebrity, and Simon, David, Delbos, and Baron Nathan are
drawn from life. There are several striking scenes--the discovery of
the crime, the arrest and the first trial of the Jew schoolmaster,
the parting of Marc from his wife, and subsequently from his daughter
Louise, the deaths of Madame Berthereau and Madame Duparque, and the
last public appearance of the impudent Gorgias. But amid all the
matter woven into the narrative one never loses sight of the chief
theme--the ignominy and even the futility of falsehood, the debasing
effects of credulity and ignorance, the health and power that come
from knowledge--this being the stepping-stone to truth, which ends by
triumphing over all things.

Let me add that the book is the longest as well as the last of my dear
master's writings. While translating it I have pruned it slightly here
and there in order to get rid of sundry repetitions. In so long a
work some repetition is perhaps necessary; and it must be remembered
that with Émile Zola repetition was more or less a method. One blow
seldom, if ever, sufficed him; he was bent on hammering his points into
his reader's skull. With the last part of 'Vérité' I have had some
little difficulty, the proofs from which my translation has been made
containing some scarcely intelligible passages, as well as various
errors in names and facts, which I have rectified as best I could.
These, however, are matters of little moment, and can hardly affect
the work as a whole, though, of course, it is unfortunate that Zola
should not have been spared to correct his last proofs.

And now as this is, in all likelihood, the last occasion on which I
shall be privileged to present one of his works in an English dress,
may I tender to all whom my translations have reached--the hundreds
of reviewers and the many thousands of readers in the lands where the
English language is spoken--my heartfelt thanks for the courtesy,
the leniency, the patience, the encouragement, the favour they have
shown to me for several years? As I said in a previous preface, I am
conscious of many imperfections in these renderings of mine. I can only
regret that they should not have been better; but, like others, I have
my limitations. At the same time I may say that I have never undertaken
any of these translations in a perfunctory or a mere mercantile spirit.
Such as they are, they have been to me essentially a labour of love.
And now that I am about to lay down my pen, that I see a whole period
of my life closing, I think it only right to express my gratitude to
all whose support has helped me to accomplish my self-chosen task of
placing the great bulk of Émile Zola's writings within the reach of
those Anglo-Saxons who, unfortunately, are unable to read French. My
good friend once remarked that it was a great honour and privilege to
be, if only for one single hour, the spokesman of one's generation.
I feel that the great honour and privilege of my life will consist
in having been--imperfectly no doubt, yet not I hope without some
fidelity--his spokesman for ten years among many thousands of my race.

E. A. V.

MERTON, SURREY, ENGLAND January, 1903




TRUTH




BOOK I




I


On the previous evening, that of Wednesday, Marc Froment, the Jonville
schoolmaster, with Geneviève his wife and Louise his little girl,
had arrived at Maillebois, where he was in the habit of spending a
month of his vacation, in the company of his wife's grandmother and
mother, Madame Duparque and Madame Berthereau--'those ladies,' as folk
called them in the district. Maillebois, which counted two thousand
inhabitants and ranked as the chief place of a canton, was only six
miles distant from the village of Jonville, and less than four from
Beaumont, the large old university town.

The first days of August were oppressively hot that year. There had
been a frightful storm on the previous Sunday, during the distribution
of prizes; and again that night, about two o'clock, a deluge of rain
had fallen, without, however, clearing the sky, which remained cloudy,
lowering, and oppressively heavy. The ladies, who had risen at six in
order to be ready for seven o'clock Mass, were already in their little
dining-room awaiting the younger folk, who evinced no alacrity to
come down. Four cups were set out on the white oilcloth table-cover,
and at last Pélagie appeared with the coffee-pot. Small of build and
red-haired, with a large nose and thin lips, she had been twenty years
in Madame Duparque's service, and was accustomed to speak her mind.

'Ah! well,' said she, 'the coffee will be quite cold, but it will not
be my fault.'

When she had returned, grumbling, to her kitchen, Madame Duparque also
vented her displeasure. 'It is unbearable,' she said; 'one might think
that Marc took pleasure in making us late for Mass whenever he stays
here.'

Madame Berthereau, who was more indulgent, ventured to suggest an
excuse. 'The storm must have prevented them from sleeping,' she
replied; 'but I heard them hastening overhead just now.'

Three and sixty years of age, very tall, with hair still very dark, and
a frigid, symmetrically wrinkled face, severe eyes, and a domineering
nose, Madame Duparque had long kept a draper's shop, known by the
sign of 'The Guardian Angel,' on the Place St. Maxence, in front of
the cathedral of Beaumont. But after the sudden death of her husband,
caused, it was said, by the collapse of a Catholic banking-house, she
had sensibly disposed of the business, and retired, with an income
of some six thousand francs a year, to Maillebois, where she owned a
little house. This had taken place about twelve years previously, and
her daughter, Madame Berthereau, being also left a widow, had joined
her with her daughter Geneviève, who was then entering her eleventh
year. To Madame Duparque, the sudden death of her son-in-law, a State
revenue _employé_, in whose future she had foolishly believed but who
died poor, leaving his wife and child on her hands, proved another
bitter blow. Since that time the two widows had resided together in
the dismal little house at Maillebois, leading a confined, almost
claustral, life, limited in an increasing degree by the most rigid
religious practices. Nevertheless Madame Berthereau, who had been
fondly adored by her husband, retained, as a memento of that awakening
to love and life, an affectionate gentleness of manner. Tall and dark,
like her mother, she had a sorrowful, worn, and faded countenance, with
submissive eyes and tired lips, on which occasionally appeared her
secret despair at the thought of the happiness she had lost.

It was by one of Berthereau's friends, Salvan, who, after being a
schoolmaster at Beaumont, became an Inspector of Elementary Schools
and, subsequently, Director of the Training College, that the
marriage of Marc and Geneviève was brought about. He was the girl's
surrogate-guardian. Berthereau, a liberal-minded man, did not follow
the observances of the Church, but he allowed his wife to do so; and
with affectionate weakness he had even ended by accompanying her to
Mass. In a similarly affectionate way, Salvan, whose freedom of
thought was yet greater than his friend's, for he relied exclusively on
experimental certainty, was imprudent enough to foist Marc into a pious
family, without troubling himself about any possibility of conflict.
The young people were very fond of each other, and in Salvan's opinion
they would assuredly arrange matters between them. Indeed, during her
three years of married life, Geneviève, who had been one of the best
pupils of the Convent of the Visitation at Beaumont, had gradually
neglected her religious observances, absorbed as she was in her love
for her husband. At this Madame Duparque evinced deep affliction,
although the young woman, in her desire to please her, made it a duty
to follow her to church whenever she stayed at Maillebois. But this
was not sufficient for the terrible old grandmother, who in the first
instance had tried to prevent the marriage, and who now harboured a
feeling of dark rancour against Marc, accusing him of robbing her of
her grandchild's soul.

'A quarter to seven!' she muttered as she heard the neighbouring church
clock strike. 'We shall never be ready!'

Then, approaching the window, she glanced at the adjacent Place des
Capucins. The little house was built at a corner of that square and
the Rue de l'Église. On its ground floor, to the right and the left
of the central passage, were the dining and drawing rooms, and in the
rear came the kitchen and the scullery, which looked into a dark and
mouldy yard. Then, on the first floor, on the right hand were two rooms
set apart for Madame Duparque, and, on the left, two others occupied
by Madame Berthereau; whilst under the tiles, in front of Pélagie's
bed-chamber and some store places, were two more little rooms, which
had been furnished for Geneviève during her girlhood, and of which
she gaily resumed possession whenever she now came to Maillebois
with her husband. But how dark was the gloom, how heavy the silence,
how tomblike the chill which fell from the dim ceilings! The Rue de
l'Église, starting from the apse of the parish church of St. Martin,
was too narrow for vehicular traffic; twilight reigned there even at
noontide; the house-fronts were leprous, the little paving-stones
were mossy, the atmosphere stank of slops. And on the northern side
the Place des Capucins spread out treeless, but darkened by the lofty
front of an old convent, which had been divided between the Capuchins,
who there had a large and handsome chapel, and the Brothers of the
Christian Schools, who had installed a very prosperous educational
establishment in some of the conventual dependencies.

Madame Duparque remained for a moment in contemplation of that deserted
space, across which flitted merely the shadowy figures of the devout;
its priestly quietude being enlivened at intervals only by the children
attending the Brothers' school. A bell rang slowly in the lifeless air,
and the old lady was turning round impatiently, when the door of the
room opened and Geneviève came in.

'At last!' the grandmother exclaimed. 'We must breakfast quickly: the
first bell is ringing.'

Fair, tall, and slender, with splendid hair, and a face all life and
gaiety inherited from her father, Geneviève, childlike still, though
two and twenty, was laughing with a laugh which showed all her white
teeth. But Madame Duparque, on perceiving that she was alone, began to
protest: 'What! is not Marc ready?'

'He's following me, grandmother; he is coming down with Louise.'

Then, after kissing her silent mother, Geneviève gave expression to the
amusement she felt at finding herself once more, as a married woman,
in the quiet home of her youth. Ah! she knew each paving-stone of
that Place des Capucins; she found old friends in the smallest tufts
of weeds. And by way of evincing amiability and gaining time, she was
going into raptures over the scene she viewed from the window, when all
at once, on seeing two black figures pass, she recognised them.

'Why, there are Father Philibin and Brother Fulgence!' she said. 'Where
can they be going at this early hour?'

The two clerics were slowly crossing the little square, which, under
the lowering sky, the shadows of their cassocks seemed to fill. Father
Philibin, forty years of age and of peasant origin, displayed square
shoulders and a course, round, freckled face, with big eyes, a large
mouth, and strong jaws. He was prefect of the studies at the College
of Valmarie, a magnificent property which the Jesuits owned in the
environs of Maillebois. Brother Fulgence, likewise a man of forty, but
little, dark, and lean, was the superior of the three Brothers with
whom he carried on the neighbouring Christian School. The son of a
servant girl and a mad doctor, who had died a patient in a madhouse, he
was of a nervous, irritable temperament, with a disorderly overweening
mind; and it was he who was now speaking to his companion in a very
loud voice and with sweeping gestures.

'The prizes are to be given at the Brothers' school this afternoon,'
said Madame Duparque by way of explanation. 'Father Philibin, who
is very fond of our good Brothers, has consented to preside at the
distribution. He must have just arrived from Valmarie; and I suppose he
is going with Brother Fulgence to settle certain details.'

But she was interrupted, for Marc had at last made his appearance,
carrying his little Louise, who, scarcely two years old, hung about his
neck, playing and laughing blissfully.

'Puff, puff, puff!' the young man exclaimed as he entered the room.
'Here we are in the railway train. One can't come quicker than by
train, eh?'

Shorter than his three brothers, Mathieu, Luc, and Jean, Marc Froment
had a longer and a thinner face, with the lofty towerlike family
forehead greatly developed. But his particular characteristics were
his spell-working eyes and voice, soft clear eyes which dived into
one's soul, and an engaging conquering voice which won both mind and
heart. Though he wore moustaches and a slight beard, one could see
his rather large, firm, and kindly mouth. Like all the sons of Pierre
and Marie Froment,[1] he had learned a manual calling, that of a
lithographer, and, securing his bachelor's degree when seventeen years
of age, he had come to Beaumont to complete his apprenticeship with
the Papon-Laroches, the great firm which supplied maps and diagrams to
almost every school in France. It was at this time that his passion
for teaching declared itself, impelling him to enter the Training
College of Beaumont, which he had quitted in his twentieth year as
an assistant-master, provided with a superior certificate. Having
subsequently secured that of Teaching Capacity, he was, when seven and
twenty, about to be appointed schoolmaster at Jonville when he married
Geneviève Berthereau, thanks to his good friend Salvan, who introduced
him to the ladies, and who was moved by the sight of the love which
drew the young folk together. And now, for three years past, Marc
and Geneviève, though their means were scanty and they experienced
all manner of pecuniary straits and administrative worries, had been
leading a delightful life of love in their secluded village, which
numbered barely eight hundred souls.

[Footnote 1: See M. Zola's novel, _Paris_.]

But the happy laughter of the father and the little girl did not
dissipate the displeasure of Madame Duparque. 'That railway train is
not worth the coaches of my youth,' said she. 'Come, let us breakfast
quickly, we shall never get there.'

She had seated herself, and was already pouring some milk into the
cups. While Geneviève placed little Louise's baby-chair between herself
and her mother, in order to keep a good watch over the child, Marc, who
was in a conciliatory mood, tried to secure the old lady's forgiveness.

'Yes, I have delayed you, eh?' he said. 'But it is your fault,
grandmother; one sleeps too soundly in your house, it is so very quiet.'

Madame Duparque, who was hurrying over her breakfast, with her nose
in her cup, did not condescend to answer. But a pale smile appeared
on the face of Madame Berthereau after she had directed a long look
at Geneviève, who seemed so happy between her husband and her child.
And in a low voice, as if speaking involuntarily, the younger widow
murmured, glancing slowly around her: 'Yes, very quiet, so quiet that
one cannot even feel that one is living.'

'All the same, there was some noise on the square at ten o'clock,' Marc
retorted. 'Geneviève was amazed. The idea of a disturbance at night on
the Place des Capucins!'

He had blundered badly in his desire to make the others laugh. This
time it was the grandmother who, with an offended air, replied: 'It
was the worshippers leaving the Capuchin Chapel. The offices of the
Adoration of the Holy Sacrament were celebrated yesterday evening at
nine o'clock. The Brothers took with them those of their pupils who
attended their first Communion this year, and the children were rather
free in talking and laughing as they crossed the square. But that is
far better than the abominable pastimes of the children who are brought
up without moral or religious guidance!'

Silence, deep and embarrassing, fell immediately. Only the rattle of
the spoons in the cups was to be heard. That accusation of abominable
pastimes was directed against Marc's school, with its system of
secular education. But, as Geneviève turned on him a little glance of
entreaty, he did not lose his temper. Before long he even resumed the
conversation, speaking to Madame Berthereau of his life at Jonville,
and also of his pupils, like a master who was attached to them and who
derived from them pleasure and satisfaction. Three, said he, had just
obtained the certificate awarded for successful elementary studies.

But at this moment the church bell again rang out slowly, sending a
wail through the heavy atmosphere above the mournful, deserted district.

'The last bell!' cried Madame Duparque. 'I said that we should never
get there in time!'

She rose, and had already begun to hustle her daughter and her
granddaughter, who were finishing their coffee, when Pélagie, the
servant, again appeared, this time trembling, almost beside herself,
and with a copy of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ in her hand.

'Ah! madame, madame, how horrible! The newspaper boy has just told
me----'

'What? Make haste!'

The servant was stifling.

'That little Zéphirin, the schoolmaster's nephew, has just been found
murdered, there, quite near, in his room.'

'Murdered!'

'Yes, madame; strangled in his nightdress. It is an abominable affair!'

A terrible shudder swept through the room; even Madame Duparque
quivered.

'Little Zéphirin?' said she. 'Ah! yes, the nephew of Simon, the Jew
schoolmaster, a child with a pretty face but infirm. For his part
the lad was a Catholic; he went to the Brothers' school, and he must
have been at the ceremony last night, for he took his first Communion
lately.... But what can you expect? Some families are accursed!'

Marc had listened, chilled and indignant. And careless now whether he
gave offence or not, he answered: 'Simon, I know Simon! He was at the
Training College with me; he is only two years older than myself. I
know nobody with a firmer intellect, a more affectionate heart. He had
given shelter to that poor child, that Catholic nephew, and allowed him
to attend the Brothers' school, from conscientious scruples which are
seldom found. What a frightful blow has fallen on him!'

Then the young man rose, quivering: 'I am going to him,' he added; 'I
want to hear everything, I want to sustain him in his grief.'

But Madame Duparque no longer listened. She was pushing Madame
Berthereau and Geneviève outside, scarcely allowing them time to put
on their hats. The ringing of the last bell had just ceased, and the
ladies hastened towards the church, amidst the heavy, storm-laden
silence of the deserted square. And Marc, after entrusting little
Louise to Pélagie, in his turn went out.

The elementary schools of Maillebois, newly built and divided into two
pavilions, one for boys and one for girls, stood on the Place de la
République, in front of the town hall, which was also a new building of
corresponding architecture, and only the High Street, really a section
of the road from Beaumont to Jonville running across the square,
separated the two edifices, which with their chalky whiteness were
the pride of the district. The High Street, which the parish church
of St. Martin likewise faced, a little further down, was, as became
a centre of trade, a populous thoroughfare, animated by the constant
coming and going of pedestrians and vehicles. But silence and solitude
were found again behind the schools, and weeds sprouted there between
the little paving-stones. A street, the Rue Courte, in which one found
but the parsonage and a stationer's shop kept by Mesdames Milhomme,
connected the sleepy end of the Place de la République with the Place
des Capucins, in such wise that Marc had few steps to take.

The school playgrounds faced the Rue Courte, and were separated by two
little gardens set apart for the schoolmaster and the schoolmistress.
On the ground floor of the boys' pavilion, at a corner of the
playground, was a tiny room, which Simon had been able to give to
little Zéphirin on taking charge of him. The boy was a nephew of his
wife, Rachel Lehmann, and a grandson of the old Lehmanns, who were poor
Jew tailors, dwelling in the Rue du Trou, the most wretched street
of Maillebois. Zéphirin's father, Daniel Lehmann, a mechanician, had
contracted a love-match with a Catholic girl, an orphan named Marie
Prunier, who had been reared by the Sisters, and was a dressmaker. The
young couple adored each other, and at first their son Zéphirin was not
baptised nor indeed brought up in any religious faith, neither parent
desiring to grieve the other by rearing the child according to his or
her particular creed. But after the lapse of six years a thunderbolt
fell: Daniel met with a frightful death, being caught and crushed to
pieces in some machinery before the very eyes of his wife, who had
come to the works, bringing his lunch with her. And Marie, terrified
by the sight, won back to the religion of her youth, picturing the
catastrophe as the chastisement of Heaven, which thereby punished
her for her guilt in having loved a Jew, soon caused her son to be
baptised, and sent him to the Brothers' school. Unhappily, through some
hereditary taint or flaw, the lad's frame became distorted, he grew
gradually humpbacked; in which misfortune the mother imagined she could
trace the implacable wrath of God pursuing her relentlessly, because
she was unable to pluck from her heart the fond memory of the husband
she had adored. That anguish, combined with excessive toil, ended
by killing her about the time when little Zéphirin, having reached
his eleventh birthday, was ready to take his first Communion. It was
then that Simon, though poor himself, gave the boy shelter, in order
that he might not become a charge on his wife's relations. At the
same time the schoolmaster, who was tolerant as well as kind-hearted,
contented himself with lodging and feeding his nephew, allowing him to
communicate as a Catholic and to complete his studies at the Brothers'
school.

The little room in which Zéphirin slept--formerly a kind of
lumber-room, but tidily arranged for him--had a window opening almost
on a level with the ground, behind the school, the spot being the
most secluded of the square. And that morning, about seven o'clock,
as young Mignot, the assistant-master, who slept on the first floor
of the building, went out, he noticed that Zéphirin's window was wide
open. Mignot was passionately fond of fishing, and, profiting by the
arrival of the vacation, he was about to start, in a straw hat and a
linen jacket, and with his rod on his shoulder, for the banks of the
Verpille, a streamlet which ran through the industrial quarter of
Maillebois. A peasant by birth, he had entered the Beaumont Training
College, even as he might have entered a seminary, in order to escape
the hard labour of the fields. Fair, with close-cut hair, he had a
massive pock-marked face, which gave him an appearance of sternness,
though he was not hardhearted, being indeed rather kindly disposed; but
his chief care was to do nothing which might impede his advancement. He
was five and twenty years of age, but showed no haste to get married,
waiting in that respect as in others, and destined to become such as
circumstances might decree. That morning he was greatly struck by
the sight of Zéphirin's open window, although there was nothing very
extraordinary in such a thing, for the lad usually rose at an early
hour. However, the young master drew near and glanced into the room.
Then stupefaction rooted him to the spot, and his horror found vent in
cries.

'O God, the poor boy! O God, God, what can have happened? What a
terrible misfortune!'

The tiny room, with its light wall paper, retained its wonted quietude,
its suggestion of happy boyhood. On the table was a coloured statuette
of the Virgin with a few books and little prints of a religious
character, carefully arranged and classified. The small white bed was
in no wise disarranged, the lad had not slept in it that night. The
only sign of disorder was an overturned chair. But on the rug beside
the bed Zéphirin was lying strangled, his face livid, his bare neck
showing the imprint of his murderer's cruel fingers. His rent garment
allowed a glimpse of his misshapen spine, the hump, that jutted out
below his left arm, which was thrown back across his head. In spite of
its bluish pallor his face retained its charm; it was the face of a
fair curly-haired angel, delicately girlish, with blue eyes, a slender
nose, and a small sweet mouth, whose gentle laugh in happy hours had
brought delightful dimples to the child's cheeks.

But Mignot, quite beside himself, did not cease to cry his horror
aloud. 'Ah! God, God, how frightful! For God's sake help, help! Come
quickly!'

Then Mademoiselle Rouzaire the schoolmistress, who heard the cries,
hastened to the spot. She had been paying an early visit to her garden,
being anxious about some lettuces which the stormy weather was helping
to go to seed. She was a red-haired woman of two and thirty, tall and
strongly built, with a round freckled face, big grey eyes, pale lips,
and a pointed nose, which denoted cunning and avaricious harshness.
Ugly though she was, her name had been associated with that of the
handsome Mauraisin, the Elementary Inspector, whose support ensured
her advancement. Moreover she was devoted to Abbé Quandieu, the parish
priest, the Capuchins, and even the Christian Brothers, and personally
conducted her pupils to the catechism classes and the church ceremonies.

As soon as she beheld the horrid sight, she also raised an outcry:
'Good Lord, take pity on us! It is a massacre; it is the devil's work,
O God of Mercy!'

Then, as Mignot was about to spring over the window-bar, she prevented
him: 'No, no, don't go in, one must ascertain, one must call----'

As she turned round, as if seeking somebody, she perceived Father
Philibin and Brother Fulgence emerging from the Rue Courte, on their
way from the Place des Capucins, across which Geneviève had seen them
pass. She recognised them, and raised her arms to heaven, as if at the
sight of Providence.

'Oh, Father! oh, Brother! come, come at once, the devil has been here!'

The two clerics drew near and experienced a terrible shock. But Father
Philibin, who was energetic and of a thoughtful bent, remained silent,
whereas impulsive Brother Fulgence, ever prompt to throw himself
forward, burst into exclamations: 'Ah! the poor child, ah! what a
horrid crime! So gentle and so good a lad, the best of our pupils, so
pious and fervent too! Come, we must investigate this matter, we cannot
leave things as they are.'

This time Mademoiselle Rouzaire did not dare to protest as the Brother
sprang over the window-bar followed by Father Philibin, who, having
perceived a ball of paper lying near the boy, at once picked it up.
From fear or rather prudence the schoolmistress did not join the
others; indeed, she even detained Mignot outside for another moment.
That which the ministers of the Deity might venture to do was not
fit perhaps for mere teachers. Meantime, while Brother Fulgence bent
over the victim without touching him, but again raising tumultuous
exclamations, Father Philibin, still silent, unrolled the paper ball,
and, to all appearance, examined it carefully. He was turning his back
to the window, and one could only see the play of his elbows, without
distinguishing the paper, the rustling of which could be heard. This
went on for a few moments; and when Mignot, in his turn, sprang into
the room he saw that the ball which Father Philibin had picked up had
been formed of a newspaper, in the midst of which a narrow, crumpled,
and stained slip of white paper appeared.

The Jesuit looked at the assistant-master, and quietly and slowly
remarked: 'It is a number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ dated yesterday,
August 2; but the singular thing is that, crumpled up in it, there
should be this copy-slip for a writing lesson. Just look at it.'

As the slip had been noticed by Mignot already, Father Philibin could
not do otherwise than show it; but he kept it between his big fingers
so that the other only distinguished the words, _'Aimez vous les uns
les autres'_ ('Love one another') lithographed in a well-formed
'English' round-hand. Rents and stains made this copy-slip a mere rag
of paper, and the assistant-master gave it only a brief glance, for
fresh exclamations now arose at the window.

They came from Marc, who had just arrived, and who was filled with
horror and indignation at the sight of the poor little victim. Without
listening to the schoolmistress's explanations, he brushed her aside
and vaulted over the window-bar. The presence of the two clerics
astonished him; but he learnt from Mignot that he and Mademoiselle
Rouzaire had summoned them as they were passing, immediately after the
discovery of the crime.

'Don't touch or disturb anything!' Marc exclaimed. 'One must at once
send to the mayor and the gendarmerie.'

People were collecting already; and a young man, who undertook the
suggested commission, set off at a run, while Marc continued to inspect
the room. In front of the body he saw Brother Fulgence distracted
with compassion, with his eyes full of tears, like a man of nervous
temperament unable to control emotion. Marc was really touched by
the Brother's demeanour. He himself shuddered at the sight of what
he beheld, for the abominable nature of the crime was quite evident.
And a thought, which was to return later on as a conviction, suddenly
flitted through his mind, then left him, in such wise that he was
only conscious of the presence of Father Philibin, who, full of deep
distressful calm, still held the newspaper and the writing-copy. For a
moment the Jesuit had turned round as if to look under the bed; then,
however, he had stepped back.

'You see,' he said, without waiting to be questioned, 'this is what I
found on the floor, rolled into a ball, which the murderer certainly
tried to thrust into the child's mouth as a gag, in order to stifle his
cries. As he did not succeed he strangled him. On this writing-copy,
soiled by saliva, one can see the marks left by the poor little
fellow's teeth. The ball was lying yonder, near that leg of the table.
Is that not so, Monsieur Mignot? You saw it?'

'Oh! quite so,' replied the assistant-master, 'I noticed it at once.'

As he drew near again and examined the copy, he felt vaguely surprised
on noticing that the right-hand corner of the slip of paper was torn
off. It seemed to him that he had not remarked that deficiency when
the Jesuit had first shown him the slip; but perhaps it had then been
hidden by Father Philibin's big fingers. However, Mignot's memory grew
confused; it would have been impossible for him to say whether that
corner had been torn away in the first instance or not.

Marc, however, having taken the slip from the Jesuit, was studying it
and expressing his thoughts aloud: 'Yes, yes, it has been bitten. But
it won't be much of an indication, for such slips are sold currently;
one can find them everywhere. Oh! but there is a kind of flourish down
here, I see, some initialling which one cannot well decipher.'

Without any haste, Father Philibin stepped up to him. 'Some
initialling? Do you think so? It seemed to me a mere blot, half effaced
by saliva and by the bite which pierced the slip, close by.'

'A blot, no! These marks are certainly initials, but they are quite
illegible.' Then, noticing that a corner of the slip was deficient,
Marc added: 'That, no doubt, was done by another bite. Have you found
the missing piece?'

Father Philibin answered that he had not looked for it; and he again
unfolded the newspaper and examined it carefully, while Mignot,
stooping, searched the floor. Nothing was found. Besides, the matter
was regarded as being of no importance. Marc agreed with the two
clerics that the murderer, seized with terror, must have strangled
the boy after vainly endeavouring to stifle his cries by stuffing the
paper gag into his mouth. The extraordinary circumstance was that the
copy-slip should have been found rolled up with the newspaper. The
presence of a number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ could be understood, for
anybody might have one in his pocket. But whence had that slip come,
how did it happen to be crumpled, almost kneaded, with the newspaper?
All sorts of suppositions were allowable, and the officers of the law
would have to open an investigation in order to discover the truth.

To Marc it seemed as if a calamitous gust had just swept through the
dim tragedy, suddenly steeping everything in horrid night. 'Ah!' he
murmured involuntarily, 'it is Crime, the monster, in the depths of his
dark pit.'

Meantime people continued to assemble before the window. On perceiving
the throng the Mesdames Milhomme, who kept the neighbouring stationery
business, had hastened from their shop. Madame Alexandre, who was
tall, fair, and gentle in appearance, and Madame Edouard, who was also
tall but dark and somewhat rough, felt the more concerned as Victor,
the latter's son, went to the Brothers' school, while Sébastien,
the former's boy, attended Simon's. Thus they listened eagerly to
Mademoiselle Rouzaire, who, standing in the middle of the group, was
giving various particulars, pending the arrival of the mayor and the
gendarmes.

'I went myself,' she said, 'to that touching Adoration of the Holy
Sacrament at the Capuchin Chapel last evening, and poor Zéphirin was
there with a few schoolfellows--those who took their first Communion
this year. He edified us all, he looked a little angel.'

'My son Victor did not go, for he is only nine years old,' Madame
Edouard answered. 'But did Zéphirin go alone? Did nobody bring him
back?'

'Oh! the chapel is only a few yards distant,' the schoolmistress
explained. 'I know that Brother Gorgias had orders to escort the
children whose parents could not attend, and whose homes are rather
distant. But Madame Simon asked me to watch over Zéphirin, and it
was I who brought him back. He was very gay; he opened the shutters,
which were simply pushed to, and sprang into his room through the open
window, laughing and saying that it was the easiest and shortest way. I
stayed outside for a moment, waiting until he had lighted his candle.'

Marc, drawing near, had listened attentively. 'What time was it?' he
now inquired.

'Exactly ten,' Mademoiselle Rouzaire replied. 'St. Martin's clock was
striking.'

The others shuddered, moved by that account of the lad springing so
gaily into the room where he was to meet such a tragic death. And
Madame Alexandre gently gave expression to a thought which suggested
itself to all: 'It was hardly prudent to let the lad sleep by himself
in this lonely room, so easily reached from the square. The shutters
ought to have been barred at night.'

'Oh! he fastened them,' said Mademoiselle Rouzaire.

'Did he do so last night while you were here?' inquired Marc,
intervening once more.

'No, when I left him to go to my rooms he had lighted his candle and
was arranging some pictures on his table, with the window wide open.'

Mignot, the assistant-master, now joined in the conversation. 'This
window made Monsieur Simon anxious,' he said; 'he wished he could have
given the lad another room. He often recommended him to fasten the
shutters carefully. But I fear that the child paid little heed.'

The two clerics in their turn had now decided to quit the room. Father
Philibin, after laying the number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ and the
copy-slip on the table, had ceased speaking, preferring to look and
listen; and he followed very attentively each word and gesture that
came from Marc, while Brother Fulgence, for his part, continued to
relieve himself with lamentations. Eventually, the Jesuit, who seemed
to read the young schoolmaster's thoughts in his eyes, remarked to him:
'So you think that some tramp, some night prowler, seeing the boy alone
in this room, may have got in by the window?'

From prudence Marc would express no positive opinion. 'Oh! I think
nothing,' said he; 'it is for the law to seek and find the murderer.
However, the bed has not been opened, the boy was certainly about to
get into it, and this seems to show that, the crime must have been
committed shortly after ten o'clock. Suppose that he busied himself
for half an hour at the utmost with his pictures, and that he then saw
a stranger spring into his room. In that case he would have raised a
cry, which would certainly have been heard. You heard nothing, did you,
mademoiselle?'

'No, nothing,' the schoolmistress replied. 'I myself went to bed about
half-past ten. The neighbourhood was very quiet. The storm did not
awaken me until about one o'clock this morning.'

'Very little of the candle has been burnt,' Mignot now observed. 'The
murderer must have blown it out as he went off by the window, which he
left wide open, as I found it just now.'

These remarks, which lent some weight to the theory of a prowler
springing into the room, ill-using and murdering the boy, increased the
horror-fraught embarrassment of the bystanders. All wished to avoid
being compromised, and therefore kept to themselves their thoughts
respecting the impossibilities or improbabilities of the theory which
had been propounded. After a pause, however, as the mayor and the
gendarmes did not appear, Father Philibin inquired: 'Is not Monsieur
Simon at Maillebois?'

Mignot, who had not recovered from the shock of his discovery, gazed
at the Jesuit with haggard eyes. To bring the assistant-master to his
senses, Marc himself had to express his astonishment: 'But Simon is
surely in his rooms! Has he not been told?'

'Why no!' the assistant answered, 'I must have lost my head. Monsieur
Simon went to attend a banquet at Beaumont yesterday evening, but he
certainly came home during the night. His wife is rather poorly; they
must be still in bed.'

It was now already half-past seven, but the stormy sky remained so dark
and heavy that one might have thought dawn was only just appearing
in that secluded corner of the square. However, the assistant-master
made up his mind and ascended the stairs to fetch Simon. What a happy
awakening it would be for the latter, he muttered sarcastically, and
what an agreeable commission for himself was that which he had to
fulfil with his chief!

Simon was the younger son of a Jew clockmaker of Beaumont; he had a
brother, David, who was his elder by three years. When he was fifteen
and David eighteen their father, ruined by lawsuits, succumbed to a
sudden attack of apoplexy; and three years later their mother died
in very straitened circumstances. Simon had then just entered the
Training College, while David joined the army. The former, quitting
the college at an early age, became assistant-master at Dherbecourt,
a large _bourg_ of the district, where he remained nearly ten years.
There also, in his twenty-sixth year, he married Rachel Lehmann, the
daughter of the little tailor of the Rue du Trou, who had a fair number
of customers at Maillebois. Rachel, a brunette with magnificent hair
and large caressing eyes, was very beautiful. Her husband adored her,
encompassed her with passionate worship. Two children had been born to
them, a boy, Joseph, now four, and a girl, Sarah, two years of age.
And Simon, duly provided with a certificate of Teaching Capacity, was
proud of the fact that at two and thirty he should be schoolmaster at
Maillebois--where he had now dwelt a couple of years--for this was an
instance of rapid advancement.

Marc, though he disliked the Jews by reason of a sort of hereditary
antipathy and distrust, the causes of which he had never troubled to
analyse, retained a friendly recollection of Simon, whom he had known
at the Training College. He declared him to be extremely intelligent,
a very good teacher, full of a sense of duty. But he found him too
attentive to petty details, too slavishly observant of regulations,
which he followed to the very letter, ever bending low before
discipline, as if fearful of a bad report and the dissatisfaction of
his superiors. In this Marc traced the terror and humility of the
Jewish race, persecuted for so many centuries, and ever retaining a
dread of outrage and iniquity. Moreover, Simon had good cause for
prudence, for his appointment at Maillebois, that clerical little
town with its powerful Capuchin community and its Brothers' school,
had caused almost a scandal. It was only by dint of correctitude
and particularly of ardent patriotism among his pupils, such as the
glorification of France as a military power, the foretelling of
national glory and a supreme position among the nations, that Simon
obtained forgiveness for being a Jew.

He now suddenly made his appearance, accompanied by Mignot. Short,
thin, and sinewy, he had red, closely-cropped hair and a sparse beard.
His blue eyes were soft, his mouth was well shaped, his nose of the
racial type, long and slender; yet his physiognomy was scarcely
prepossessing, it remained vague, confused, paltry; and at that moment
he was so terribly upset by the dreadful tidings that, as he appeared
before the others, staggering and stammering, one might have thought
him intoxicated.

'Great God! is it possible?' he gasped. 'Such villainy, such
monstrosity!'

But he reached the window, where he remained like one overwhelmed,
unable to speak another word, and shuddering from head to foot, his
glance fixed meanwhile on the little victim. Those who were present,
the two clerics, the lady stationers, and the schoolmasters, watched
him in silence, astonished that he did not weep.

Marc, stirred by compassion, took hold of his hands and embraced him:
'Come, you must muster your courage; you need all your strength,' he
said to him.

But Simon, without listening, turned to his assistant. 'Pray go back
to my wife, Mignot,' he said; 'I do not want her to see this. She was
very fond of her nephew, and she is too poorly to be able to bear such
a horrible sight.'

Then, as the young man went off, he continued in broken accents: 'Ah!
what an awakening! For once in a while we were lying late in bed. My
poor Rachel was still asleep, and, as I did not wish to disturb her, I
remained by her side, thinking of our holiday pleasures. I roused her
late last night when I came home, and she did not get to sleep again
till three in the morning, for the storm upset her.'

'What time was it when you came home?' Marc inquired.

'Exactly twenty minutes to twelve. My wife asked me the time and I
looked at the clock.'

This seemed to surprise Mademoiselle Rouzaire, who remarked: 'But there
is no train from Beaumont at that hour.'

'I didn't come back by train,' Simon explained. 'The banquet lasted
till late, I missed the 10.30 train, and rather than wait for the one
at midnight I decided to walk the distance. I was anxious to join my
wife.'

Father Philibin still preserved silence and calmness; but Brother
Fulgence, unable to restrain himself any longer, began to question
Simon.

'Twenty minutes to twelve! Then the crime must have been committed
already. You saw nothing? You heard nothing?'

'Nothing at all. The square was deserted, the storm was beginning to
rumble in the distance. I did not meet a soul. All was quiet in the
house.'

'Then it did not occur to you to go to see if poor Zéphirin had
returned safely from the chapel, and if he were sleeping soundly? Did
you not pay him a visit every evening?'

'No, he was already a very shrewd little man, and we left him as
much liberty as possible. Besides, the place was so quiet, there was
nothing to suggest any reason for disturbing his sleep. I went straight
upstairs to my room, making the least possible noise. I kissed my
children, who were asleep, then I went to bed; and, well pleased to
find my wife rather better, I chatted with her in an undertone.'

Father Philibin nodded as if approvingly, and then remarked: 'Evidently
everything can be accounted for.'

The bystanders seemed convinced; the theory of a prowler committing the
crime about half-past ten o'clock, entering and leaving the room by
the window, seemed more and more probable. Simon's statement confirmed
the information given by Mignot and Mademoiselle Rouzaire. Moreover,
the Mesdames Milhomme, the stationers, asserted that they had seen an
evil-looking man roaming about the square at nightfall.

'There are so many rascals on the roads!' said the Jesuit Father by
way of conclusion. 'We must hope that the police will set hands on the
murderer, though such a task is not always an easy one.'

Marc alone experienced a feeling of uncertainty. Although he had been
the first to think it possible that some stranger might have sprung on
Zéphirin, he had gradually realised that there was little probability
of such an occurrence. Was it not more likely that the man had been
acquainted with the boy and had at first approached him as a friend?
Then, however, had come the abominable impulse, horror and murder,
strangulation as a last resource to stifle the victim's cries, followed
by flight amidst a gust of terror. But all this remained very involved;
and after some brief perception of its probability Marc relapsed into
darkness, into the anxiety born of contradictory suppositions. He
contented himself with saying to Simon, by way of calming him: 'All the
evidence agrees: the truth will soon be made manifest.'

At that moment, just as Mignot returned after prevailing on Madame
Simon to remain in her room, Darras, the Mayor of Maillebois, arrived
with three gendarmes. A building contractor, on the high road to a
considerable fortune, Darras was a stout man of forty-two, with a fair,
round, pinky, clean-shaven face. He immediately ordered the shutters to
be closed and placed two gendarmes outside the window, while the third,
entering the house passage, went to guard the door of the room, which
Zéphirin never locked. From this moment the orders were that nothing
should be touched, and that nobody should even approach the scene of
the crime. On hearing of it the mayor had immediately telegraphed to
the Public Prosecution Office at Beaumont, and the magistrates would
surely arrive by the first train.

Father Philibin and Brother Fulgence now spoke of having to attend to
various matters connected with the distribution of prizes which was to
take place in the afternoon, and Darras advised them to make haste and
then return, for, said he, the Procureur de la République, otherwise
the Public Prosecutor, would certainly wish to question them about
the number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ and the copy-slip found near the
body. So the two clerics took their departure; and while the gendarmes,
stationed on the square outside the window, with difficulty restrained
the now increasing crowd, which became violent and raised threatening
cries, demanding the execution of the unknown murderer, Simon again
went into the building with Darras, Marc, Mademoiselle Rouzaire, and
Mignot, the whole party waiting in a large classroom lighted by broad
windows which faced the playground.

It was now eight o'clock, and after a sudden stormy rainfall, the sky
cleared, and the day became a splendid one. An hour elapsed before
the magistrates arrived. The Procureur de la République, Raoul de La
Bissonnière, came in person, accompanied by Daix, the Investigating
Magistrate. Both were moved by the magnitude of the crime and foresaw
a great trial. La Bissonnière, a dapper little man with a doll-like
face, and whiskers of a correct legal cut, was very ambitious. Not
content with his rapid advancement to the post he held--he was only
forty-five--he was ever on the watch for some resounding case which
would launch him in Paris, where, thanks to his suppleness and address,
his complaisant respect for the powers of the day, whatever they might
be, he relied on securing a high position. On the other hand, Daix,
tall and lean, with a sharp-cut face, was a type of the punctilious
Investigating Magistrate, devoted to his professional duties. But he
was also of an anxious and timid nature, for his ugly but coquettish
and extravagant wife, exasperated by the poverty of their home,
terrorised and distressed him with her bitter reproaches respecting his
lack of ambition.

On reaching the schools the legal functionaries, before taking any
evidence, desired to visit the scene of the crime. Simon and Darras
accompanied them to Zéphirin's bed-chamber while the others, who
were soon joined by Father Philibin and Brother Fulgence, waited in
the large classroom. When the magistrates returned thither, they had
verified all the material features of the crime, and were acquainted
with the various circumstances already known to the others. They
brought with them the number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ and the
copy-slip, to which they seemed to attach extreme importance. At once
seating themselves at Simon's table, they examined those two pieces
of evidence, exchanging impressions concerning them, and then showing
the copy-slip to the two schoolmasters, Simon and Marc, as well as to
the schoolmistress and the clerics. But this was only done by way of
eliciting some general information, for no clerk was present to record
a formal interrogatory.

'Oh! those copies,' Marc replied, 'are used currently in all the
schools, in the secular ones as well as in those of the religious
orders.'

This was confirmed by Brother Fulgence. 'Quite so,' said he; 'similar
ones would be found at our school, even as there must be some here.'

La Bissonnière, however, desired more precise information. 'But do you
remember having placed this one in the hands of any of your pupils?' he
asked Simon. 'Those words "Love one another" must have struck you.'

'That copy was never used here,' Simon answered flatly. 'As you point
out, monsieur, I should have recollected it.'

The same question was then addressed to Brother Fulgence, who at
first evinced some little hesitation. 'I have three Brothers with
me--Brothers Isidore, Lazarus, and Gorgias,' he replied, 'and it is
difficult for me to avouch anything.'

Then, in the deep silence which was falling, he added: 'But no, no,
that copy was never used at our school, for it would have come before
me.'

The magistrates did not insist on the point. For the time being they
did not wish the importance which they attached to the slip to become
too manifest. They expressed their surprise, however, that the missing
corner of it had not been found.

'Do not these slips sometimes bear in one corner a stamp of the school
to which they belong?' Daix inquired. Brother Fulgence had to admit
that it was so, but Marc protested that he had never stamped any
copy-slips used in his school.

'Excuse me,' declared Simon in his tranquil way, 'I have some
slips here on which a stamp would be found. But I stamp them down
below--here!'

Perceiving the perplexity of the magistrates, Father Philibin, hitherto
silent and attentive, indulged in a light laugh. 'This shows,' he said,
'how difficult it is to arrive at the truth.... By the way, Monsieur
le Procureur de la République, matters are much the same with the
stain which you are now examining. One of us fancied it to be some
initialling, a kind of flourish. But, for my part, I believe it to be a
blot which some pupil tried to efface with his finger.'

'Is it usual for the masters to initial the copy-slips?' asked Daix.

'Yes,' Brother Fulgence acknowledged, 'that is done at our school.'

'Ah! no,' cried Simon and Marc in unison, 'we never do it in the
Communal schools.'

'You are mistaken,' said Mademoiselle Rouzaire, although I do not stamp
my copies, I have sometimes initialled them.'

With a wave of the hand La Bissonnière stopped the discussion, for
he knew by experience what a muddle is reached when one enters into
secondary questions of personal habits. The copy-slip, the missing
corner of it, the possible existence of a stamp and a paraph would all
have to be studied in the course of the investigation. For the moment
he now contented himself with asking the witnesses to relate how the
crime had been discovered. Mignot had to say that the open window had
attracted his attention and that he had raised an outcry on perceiving
the victim's body. Mademoiselle Rouzaire explained how she had hastened
to the spot and how, on the previous evening, she had brought Zéphirin
home from the Capuchin Chapel, when he had sprung into the room by the
window. Father Philibin and Brother Fulgence in their turn related how
chance had connected them with the tragedy, in what condition they had
found the room, and in what particular spot they had discovered the
paper gag, which they had merely unfolded before placing it on the
table. Finally, Marc indicated a few observations which he had made on
his arrival, subsequent to that of the others.

La Bissonnière thereupon turned to Simon and began to question him:
'You have told us that you came home at twenty minutes to twelve, and
that the whole house then seemed to you to be perfectly quiet. Your
wife was asleep----'

At this point Daix interrupted his superior: 'Monsieur le Procureur,'
said he, 'is it not advisable that Madame Simon should be present?
Could she not come down here a moment?'

La Bissonnière nodded assent, and Simon went to fetch his wife, who
soon made her appearance.

Rachel, attired in a plain morning wrap of unbleached linen, looked
so beautiful as she entered the room amidst the deep silence, that
a little quiver of admiration and tender sympathy sped by. Hers was
the Jewish beauty in its flower, a delightfully oval face, splendid
black hair, a gilded skin, large caressing eyes, and a red mouth with
speckless, dazzling teeth. And one could tell that she was all love, a
trifle indolent, living in seclusion in her home, with her husband and
her children, like a woman of the East in her little secret garden.
Simon was about to close the door behind her, when the two children,
Joseph and Sarah, four and two years old respectively, and both of them
strong and flourishing, ran in, although they had been forbidden to
come downstairs. And they sought refuge in the folds of their mother's
wrap, where the magistrates, by a gesture, intimated they might remain.

The gallant La Bissonnière, moved by the sight of such great beauty,
imparted a flute-like accent to his voice as he asked Rachel a few
questions: 'It was twenty minutes to twelve, madame, was it not, when
your husband came home?'

'Yes, monsieur, he looked at the clock. And he was in bed and we were
still chatting in an undertone and with the light out, in order that
the children might not be roused, when we heard midnight strike.'

'But before your husband's arrival, madame, between half-past ten and
half-past eleven, did you hear nothing, no footsteps nor talking, no
sounds of struggling, nor stifled cries?'

'No, absolutely nothing, monsieur. I was asleep. It was my husband's
entry into our room which awoke me. He had left me feeling poorly,
and he was so pleased to find me better that he began to laugh as he
kissed me, and I made him keep quiet for fear lest the others should
be disturbed, so deep was the silence around us. Ah! how could we have
imagined that such a frightful misfortune had fallen on the house!'

She was thoroughly upset, and tears coursed down her cheeks, while
she turned towards her husband as if for consolation and support. And
he, weeping now at the sight of her grief, and forgetting where he
was, caught her passionately in his arms, and kissed her with infinite
tenderness. The two children raised their heads anxiously. There was
a moment of deep emotion and compassionate kindliness, in which all
participated.

'I was rather surprised at the time because there is no train at that
hour,' resumed Madame Simon of her own accord. 'But when my husband was
in bed he told me how it happened.'

'Yes,' Simon explained, 'I could not do otherwise than attend that
banquet; but when, on reaching the station at Beaumont, I saw the
half-past ten o'clock train steaming away before my eyes, I felt so
annoyed that I would not wait for the train at midnight, but set out
on foot at once. A walk of less than four miles is nothing to speak of.
The night was very beautiful, very warm.... About one o'clock, when the
storm burst, I was still talking softly to my wife, telling her how I
had spent my evening, for she could not get to sleep again. It was that
which kept us late in bed this morning, ignorant of the dreadful blow
that had fallen on us.'

Then, as Rachel began to weep again, he once more kissed her, like a
lover and like a father. 'Come, my darling, calm yourself. We loved
the poor little fellow with all our hearts, and we have no cause for
self-reproach in this abominable catastrophe.'

That was also the opinion of the onlookers. Darras, the mayor,
professed great esteem for the zealous and honest schoolmaster Simon.
Mignot and Mademoiselle Rouzaire, although by no means fond of the
Jews, shared the opinion that this one at all events strove by
irreproachable conduct to obtain forgiveness for his birth. Father
Philibin and Brother Fulgence on their side, in presence of the general
sentiment of the others, affected neutrality, remaining apart and
preserving silence, while with keen eyes they scrutinised people and
things. The magistrates, thrown back on the theory of some stranger who
must have entered and left the boy's room by the window, had to rest
content with this first verification of the facts. Only one point as
yet was clearly established, the hour of the crime, which must have
been perpetrated between half-past ten and eleven o'clock. As for the
crime itself it remained engulfed in darkness.

Leaving the authorities, who had certain details to settle, Marc,
after embracing Simon in brotherly fashion, was desirous of going home
to lunch. The scene between the husband and the wife had taught him
nothing, for he well knew how tenderly they loved each other. But tears
had come to his eyes, he had been deeply stirred by the sight of such
dolorous affection.

Noon was about to strike at St. Martin's Church when he again found
himself on the square, which was now blocked by such an increasing
crowd that it was difficult for him to open a way. As the news of the
crime spread, folk arrived from all directions, pressing towards the
closed window, which the two gendarmes could hardly defend; and the
horribly exaggerated accounts of the affair which circulated through
the crowd raised its indignation to fever heat and made it growl
wrathfully. Marc had just freed himself from the throng when a priest
approached him and inquired:

'Have you come from the school, Monsieur Froment? Are all these
horrible things which people are repeating true?'

The questioner was Abbé Quandieu, priest of St. Martin's, the parish
church. Forty-three years old, tall and robust, the Abbé had a gentle,
kindly face, with light blue eyes, round cheeks, and a soft chin. Marc
had met him at Madame Duparque's, for he was the old lady's confessor
and friend. And though the schoolmaster was not fond of priests he
felt some esteem for this one, knowing that he was tolerant and
reasonable--possessed, too, of more feeling than real mental ability.

In a few words Marc recounted the facts of the case, which were already
sufficiently horrid.

'Ah, poor Monsieur Simon!' said the priest compassionately, 'how deeply
grieved he must be, for he was very much attached to his nephew and
behaved very well in regard to him! I have had proof of it.'

This spontaneous testimony pleased Marc, who remained conversing
with the priest for another minute. But a Capuchin Father drew near,
Father Théodose, the Superior of the little community attached to the
neighbouring chapel. Superbly built, having also a handsome face with
large ardent eyes, and a splendid dark beard, which rendered him quite
majestic, Father Théodose was a confessor of repute, and a preacher of
a mystical turn, whose glowing accents attracted all the devout women
of Maillebois. Though he was covertly waging war against Abbé Quandieu,
he affected in his presence the deferential manner of a younger and
more humbly situated servant of Providence. He immediately gave
expression to his emotion and his grief, for he had noticed the poor
child, he said, at the chapel on the previous evening. So pious a child
he was, a little angel with a cherub's fair curly locks. But Marc did
not tarry to listen, for the Capuchin inspired him with unconquerable
distrust and antipathy. So he turned his steps homeward; but all at
once he was again stopped, this time by a friendly tap on the shoulder.

'What! Férou, are you at Maillebois?' he exclaimed. The man whom he
addressed by the name of Férou was schoolmaster at Le Moreau, a lonely
hamlet, some two and a half miles from Jonville. The little place had
not even a priest of its own, but was looked after, from the religious
standpoint, by the Jonville priest, Abbé Cognasse. Férou there led a
life of black misery with his wife and his children, three girls. He
was a big loosely-built fellow of thirty, whose clothes always seemed
too short for him. His dark hair bristled on his long and bony head,
he had a bumpy nose, a wide mouth, and a projecting chin, and knew not
what to do with his big feet and his big hands.

'You know very well that my wife's aunt keeps a grocery shop here,'
he answered. 'We came over to see her. But, I say, what an abominable
business this is about the poor little hunchback! Won't it just enable
those dirty priests to belabour us and say that we pervert and poison
the young!'

Marc regarded Férou as a very intelligent, well-read man, whom a
confined life full of privations had embittered to the point of
violence and inspired with ideas of revenge. The virulence of the
remark he had just made disturbed Marc, who rejoined: 'Belabour us? I
don't see what we have to do with it.'

'Then you are a simpleton,' Férou retorted. 'You don't understand that
species, but you will soon see the good Fathers and the dear Brothers,
all the black gowns, hard at work. Haven't they already allowed it to
be surmised that Simon himself strangled his nephew?'

At this Marc lost his temper. Férou's hatred of the Church led him too
far.

'You are out of your senses,' said Marc. 'Nobody suspects, nobody for
one moment would dare to suspect, Simon. All acknowledge his integrity
and kindliness. Even Abbé Quandieu told me a moment ago that he had had
proof of his fatherly treatment of the poor victim.'

Férou's lean and lanky figure was shaken by a convulsive laugh, his
hair seemed to bristle yet higher on his equine head. 'Ah! it's too
amusing,' he replied. 'So you fancy they will restrain themselves
when a dirty Jew is in question? Does a dirty Jew deserve to have the
truth told about him? Your friend Quandieu and all the others will say
whatever may be desirable if it is necessary that the dirty Jew should
be found guilty, thanks to the complicity of us others, the scamps who
know neither God nor country, and who corrupt the children of France.
For that is what the priests say of us--you know it well!'

Then as Marc, chilled to the heart, continued to protest, Férou
resumed yet more vehemently: 'But you know what goes on at Le Moreux!
I starve there, I'm treated with contempt, pressed down even lower
than the wretched road-menders. When Abbé Cognasse comes over to say
Mass he'd spit on me if he met me. And if I don't eat bread every day
it's simply because I refused to sing in the choir and ring the church
bell! You know Abbé Cognasse yourself. You have managed to check him
at Jonville, since you contrived to get the mayor over to your side;
but, none the less, you are always at war; he would devour you if you
only gave him the chance. A village schoolmaster indeed! Why, he's
everybody's beast of burden, everybody's lackey, a man without caste,
an arrant failure; and the peasants distrust him, and the priests would
like to burn him alive in order to ensure the undivided reign of the
Church Catechism throughout the country!'

He went on bitterly, enumerating the sufferings of those damned ones,
as he called the elementary teachers. He himself, a shepherd's son,
successful at the village school which he had attended, and afterwards
a student at the Training College, which he had quitted with excellent
certificates, had always suffered from lack of means; for in a spirit
of rectitude after some trouble with a shop girl at Maillebois, when
he was assistant-master there, he had foolishly married her, although
she was as poor as himself. But was Marc any happier at Jonville,
even though his wife received frequent presents from her grandmother?
Was he not always struggling with indebtedness, struggling too with
the priest, in order to retain dignity and independence? True, he was
seconded by Mademoiselle Mazeline, the mistress of the girls' school,
a woman of firm sense, with an inexhaustible heart, who had helped
him to win over the parish council and gradually the whole commune.
But circumstances had been in his favour, and the example was perhaps
unique in the department. On the other hand, the state of affairs
at Maillebois completed the picture. There, on one side, one found
Mademoiselle Rouzaire won over to the cause of the priests and the
monks, learning to take her pupils to church, and fulfilling so well
the office of the nuns that it had been considered unnecessary to
install a nuns' school in the little town. Then, on the other hand,
there was that poor fellow Simon, an honest man certainly, but one who,
from fear of being treated as a dirty Jew, tried circumspection with
everybody, allowing his nephew to be educated by the dear Brothers,
and bowing down to the ground before all the rooks who infested the
country.

'A dirty Jew!' cried Férou with emphasis, by way of conclusion. 'He is,
and always will be, a dirty Jew. And to be both a schoolmaster and a
Jew beats everything.... Ah! well, you'll see, you'll see!'

Then, with impetuous gestures which shook the whole of his big loose
frame he took himself off and mingled with the crowd.

Marc had remained on the kerb of the footway, shrugging his shoulders
and regarding Férou as a semi-lunatic, for the picture which he had
drawn seemed to him full of exaggeration. But of what use was it to
answer that poor fellow whose brain would soon be turned by ill luck?
Yet Marc was haunted by what he had heard, and grew vaguely anxious as
he resumed his walk towards the Place des Capucins.

It was a quarter past twelve when he reached the little house, and
for a quarter of an hour the ladies had been awaiting him in the
dining-room, where the table was already laid. This fresh delay had
quite upset Madame Duparque. She said nothing, but the brusqueness
with which she sat down and nervously unfolded her napkin denoted how
culpable she considered this lack of punctuality.

'I must apologise,' the young man explained, 'but I had to wait for the
magistrates, and there was such a crowd on the square afterwards that I
could not pass.'

At this, although the grandmother was resolved on silence, she could
not restrain an exclamation: 'I hope that you are not going to busy
yourself with that abominable affair!'

'Oh!' Marc merely answered, 'I certainly hope I sha'n't have to do
so--unless it be as a matter of duty.'

When Pélagie had served an omelet and some slices of grilled mutton
with mashed potatoes, the young man related all that he had learnt.
Geneviève listened to his story, quivering with horror and pity, while
Madame Berthereau, who was also greatly moved, battled with her tears
and glanced furtively at Madame Duparque, as if to ascertain how far
she might allow her sensibility to go. But the old lady had relapsed
into silent disapproval of everything which seemed to her contrary
to her rule of life. She ate steadily, and it was only after a time
that she remarked, 'I remember very well that a child disappeared at
Beaumont during my youth. It was found under the porch of St. Maxence.
The body was cut in quarters, and there was only the heart missing. It
was said that the Jews required the heart for the unleavened bread of
their Passover.'

Marc looked at her in amazement. 'You are not serious, grandmother: you
surely don't believe such a stupid and infamous charge?'

She turned her cold, clear eyes on him, and, instead of giving a direct
answer, she said: 'It is simply an old recollection which came back to
me.... Of course I accuse nobody.'

At this Pélagie, who had just brought the dessert, ventured to join in
the conversation with the familiarity of an old servant: 'It is quite
right of madame to accuse nobody, and others ought to follow madame's
example. The neighbourhood has been in a state of revolution since this
morning. You can have no idea of the frightful stories which are being
told. Just now, too, I heard a workman say that the Brothers' school
ought to be burnt down.'

Deep silence followed those words. Marc, struck by them, made a
gesture, then restrained himself, like one who prefers to keep his
thoughts to himself. And Pélagie continued: 'Madame will let me go to
the distribution of prizes this afternoon, I hope? I don't think my
nephew Polydor will have a prize; but it would please me to be present.
Those good Brothers! It won't be a happy festival for them, falling on
the very day when one of their best pupils has been killed!'

Madame Duparque nodded assent to the servant's request, and the
conversation was then turned into another channel. Indeed the end of
the meal was brightened somewhat by the laughter of little Louise, who
gazed in astonishment at the grave faces of her father and her mother,
who usually smiled so brightly. This led to some relaxation of the
tension, and for a moment they all chatted in a cordial, intimate way.

The distribution of prizes at the Brothers' school that afternoon
roused great emotion. Never before had the ceremony attracted such a
throng. True, the circumstance that it was presided over by Father
Philibin, the prefect of the studies at the College of Valmarie, made
it particularly notable. The rector of that College, Father Crabot, who
was famous for his society influence and the powerful part he was said
to play in contemporary politics, also attended, desirous as he was of
giving the Brothers a public mark of his esteem. Further, there was a
reactionary deputy of the department, Count Hector de Sanglebœuf, the
owner of La Désirade, a splendid estate of the environs, which, with a
few millions, had formed the marriage portion of his wife, a daughter
of Baron Nathan, the great Jew banker. However, that which excited
everybody, and which drew to the usually quiet and deserted Place des
Capucins such a feverish crowd, was the monstrous crime discovered in
the morning, the murder of one of the Brothers' pupils under the most
abominable circumstances.

And it seemed as if the murdered boy were present, as if only he were
there, in the shady courtyard where the platform was set up beyond the
serried rows of chairs, while Father Philibin spoke in praise of the
school, of its director, the distinguished Brother Fulgence, and of his
three assistants, Brothers Isidore, Lazarus, and Gorgias. The haunting
sensation became yet more intense when the prize-list was read by the
last-named, a thin, knotty man, showing a low, harsh brow under his
frizzy black hair, a big nose projecting like an eagle's beak between
his prominent cheek-bones, and thin lips which in parting revealed
wolf-like teeth. Zéphirin had been the best scholar of his class, every
prize of which he had won. Thus his name recurred incessantly, and
Brother Gorgias, in his long black cassock, on which the ends of his
neck-band showed like a splotch of white, let that name fall from his
lips in such slow lugubrious fashion that on each occasion a quiver
of growing intensity sped through the assembled throng. Every time
the poor little dead boy was called he seemed to rise up to receive
his crown and his gilt-edged book. But, alas! crowns and books alike
formed an increasing pile on the table; and nothing could be more
poignant than the silence and the void to which so many prizes were
cast, the prizes of that model pupil who had vanished so tragically,
and whose lamentable remains were lying only a few doors away. At
last the emotion of the onlookers became too great to be restrained;
sobs burst forth while Brother Gorgias continued to call that name
with a twitching of the upper-lip, habitual to him, which disclosed
some of the teeth on the left side of his mouth amid an involuntary
grimace-like grin, suggestive of both scorn and cruelty.

The function ended amid general uneasiness. However fine might be the
assembly which had hastened thither to exalt the Brothers, anxiety
increased, disquietude swept over all, as if some menace had come from
afar. But the worst was the departure amid the murmurs and the covert
curses of numerous groups of artisans and peasants gathered on the
square. The abominable stories of which Pélagie had spoken circulated
through that quivering crowd. A horrid story which had been stifled the
previous year, the story of a Brother whom his superiors had conjured
away to save him from the Assize Court, was repeated. All sorts of
rumours had been current since that time, rumours of abominations, of
terrified children who dared not speak out. Naturally there had been
much enlargement of those mysterious rumours as they passed from mouth
to mouth; and the indignation of the folk assembled on the square came
from the revival of them which was prompted by the murder of one of
the Brothers' pupils. Accusations were already taking shape, words
of vengeance spread around. Would the guilty one again be allowed to
escape? Would that vile and bloody den never be closed? Thus, as the
fine folk departed, and particularly when the robes of the monks and
the cassocks of the priests were seen, fists were stretched out, and
menaces of death arose: the whole of one group of onlookers pursuing
with hisses Fathers Crabot and Philibin as they hurried away, pale and
anxious; while Brother Fulgence ordered the school-gates to be strongly
bolted.

Marc, out of curiosity, had watched the scene from a window of Madame
Duparque's little house, and, becoming keenly interested in it, he had
even gone for a moment to the threshold, in order that he might see and
hear the better. How ridiculous had been Férou's prophecy that the Jew
would be saddled with the crime, that the rancorous black gowns would
make a scapegoat of the secular schoolmaster! Far from things taking
that course, it seemed as though they might turn out very badly for the
good Brothers. The rising wrath of the crowd, those menaces of death,
indicated that matters might go very far indeed, that the popular anger
might spread from the one guilty man to the whole of his congregation,
and shake the very Church itself in the region, if indeed the guilty
man were one of its ministers. Marc questioned himself on that point
but could form no absolute conviction; indeed, even suspicion seemed to
him hazardous and wrong. The demeanour of Father Philibin and Brother
Fulgence had appeared quite natural, full of perfect tranquillity. And
he strove to be very tolerant and just, for fear lest he might yield to
his impulses as a freethinker delivered from belief in dogmas. All was
dark in that terrible tragedy, and he resolved to wait until he should
learn more.

But while he stood there he saw Pélagie returning in her Sunday-best,
accompanied by her nephew, Polydor Souquet, a lad of eleven, who
carried a handsomely bound book under his arm.

'It's the good conduct prize, monsieur!' exclaimed the servant proudly.
'That is even better than a prize for reading or writing, is it not?'

The truth was that Polydor, sly but torpid, astonished even the
Brothers by his prodigious idleness. He was a pale, sturdy boy, with
very light hair and a long dull face. The son of a road-mender addicted
to drink, he had lost his mother at an early age, and lived chancewise
nowadays while his father broke stones on the roads. Hating every kind
of work, terrified particularly by the idea of having to break stones
in his turn, he allowed his aunt to indulge in the dream of seeing him
become a Brother, invariably agreeing with everything she said, and
often visiting her in her kitchen, in the hope thereby of securing some
dainty morsel.

Pélagie, however, in spite of her delight, was affected by the uproar
on the square. She at last looked round, quivering, and cast a glance
of fury and defiance at the crowd. 'You hear them, monsieur!' she
exclaimed. 'You hear those anarchists! The idea of it! Such devoted
Brothers, who are so fond of their pupils, who look after them with
such motherly care! For instance, there's Polydor. He lives with his
father on the road to Jonville, nearly a mile away. Well, last night,
after that ceremony, for fear of a mishap, Brother Gorgias accompanied
him to his very door. Is that not so, Polydor?'

'Yes,' the boy answered laconically in his husky voice.

'Yet folk insult and threaten the Brothers!' the servant resumed. 'How
wicked! You can picture poor Brother Gorgias taking that long walk in
the dark night, in order that nothing might befall this little man! Ah!
it's enough to disgust one of being prudent and kind!'

Marc, who had been scrutinising the boy, was struck by his resolute
taciturnity, by the hypocritical somnolence in which he seemed to find
a pleasant refuge. He listened no further to Pélagie, to whose chatter
he never accorded much attention. But on returning to the little
drawing-room, where he had left his wife reading while Madame Duparque
and Madame Berthereau turned to their everlasting knitting for some
religious charities, he felt anxious, for he perceived that Geneviève
had laid her book aside, and was gazing with much emotion at the tumult
on the square. She came to him, and with an affectionate impulse,
fraught with alarm, looking extremely pretty in her agitation, she
almost threw herself upon his neck.

'What is happening?' she asked. 'Are they going to fight?'

He began to reassure her; and all at once Madame Duparque, raising her
eyes from her work, sternly gave expression to her will: 'Marc, I hope
that you will not mix yourself up in that horrid affair. What madness
it is to suspect and insult the Brothers! God will end by avenging His
ministers!'




II


Marc was unable to get to sleep that night, for he was haunted by the
events of the day--by that monstrous, mysterious, puzzling crime.
Thus, while Geneviève, his wife, reposed quietly beside him, he dwelt
in thought upon each incident of the affair, classified each detail,
striving to pierce the darkness and establish the truth.

Marc's mind was one that sought logic and light. His clear and firm
judgment demanded in all things a basis of certainty. Thence came
his absolute passion for truth. In his eyes no rest of mind, no real
happiness, was possible without complete, decisive certainty. He
was not very learned, but such things as he knew he wished to know
completely, in order that he might have no doubt of the possession of
the truth, experimental truth, established for ever. All unrest came
to an end when doubt ceased; he then fully recovered his spirits,
and to his passion for the acquirement of truth was added one for
imparting it to others, for driving it into the brains and hearts of
all. His marvellous gifts then became manifest; he brought with him a
methodical power which simplified, classified, illumined everything.
His quiet conviction imposed itself on his hearers, light was shed on
dim notions, things seemed easy and simple. He instilled life into the
driest subjects. He succeeded in imparting a passionate interest even
to grammar and arithmetic, rendering them as interesting as stories to
his pupils. In him one really found the born teacher.

He had discovered that he possessed that teaching gift at the time
when, already possessed of a bachelor's degree, he had come to Beaumont
to finish his apprenticeship as a lithographic draughtsman in the
establishment of Messrs. Papon-Laroche. Entrusted with the execution
of many school diagrams, he had exercised his ingenuity in simplifying
them, creating perfect masterpieces of clearness and precision, which
had revealed to him his true vocation, the happiness that he found in
teaching the young.

It was at Papon-Laroche's establishment also that he had first met
Salvan, now Director of the Training College, who, observing his bent,
had approved of the course he took in yielding to it completely, and
becoming what he was to-day--a humble elementary schoolmaster who,
convinced of the noble usefulness of his duties, was happy to discharge
them even in a small and lonely village. Marc's affection for those
whose narrow and slumbering minds required awakening and expansion had
decided his career. And, in the discharge of his modest functions,
his passion for truth increased, becoming a more and more imperious
craving. It ended indeed by constituting the _ratio_ of his health,
his very life, for it was only by satisfying it that he enjoyed normal
life. When it escaped him, he fell into anguish of spirit, consumed
by his desire to acquire and possess it wholly, in order that he
might communicate it to others, failing which he spent his days in
intolerable suffering, often physical as well as mental.

From this passion assuredly sprang the torment which kept Marc awake
that night by the side of his sleeping wife. He suffered from his
ignorance, his failure to penetrate the truth respecting the murder
of that child. He was not confronted merely by an ignoble crime; he
divined behind it the existence of dark and threatening depths, some
dim but yawning abyss. Would his sufferings continue then as long as
he should not know the truth, which perchance he might never know?
for the shadows seemed to increase at each effort that he made to
dissipate them. Mastered by uncertainty and fear, he ended by longing
for daybreak, in order that he might resume his investigations. But
his wife laughed lightly in her sleep; some happy dream, no doubt,
had come to her; and then the terrible old grandmother seemed to rise
up before the young man's eyes, and repeat that he must on no account
meddle in that horrible affair. At this the certainty of a conflict
with his wife's relations appeared to him, and brought his hesitation
and unhappiness to a climax.

Hitherto he had experienced no serious trouble with that devout family
whence he, who held no religious belief whatever, had taken the young
girl who had become his wife, his life's companion. He did not carry
tolerance so far as to follow his wife to Mass, as Berthereau had done,
but he had allowed his daughter Louise to be baptised, in order that
he might have some peace with the ladies. Besides, as his wife in her
adoration for him had ceased to follow the religious observances of
her Church soon after the marriage, no quarrel had yet arisen between
them. Occasionally he remarked in Geneviève some revival of her long
Catholic training, ideas of the absolute which clashed with his own,
superstitions which sent a chill to his heart. But these were merely
passing incidents; he believed that the love which bound him to his
wife was strong enough to triumph over such divergencies; for did they
not soon find themselves in each other's arms again, even when they had
momentarily felt themselves to be strangers, belonging to different
worlds?

Geneviève had been one of the best pupils of the Sisters of the
Visitation; she had quitted their establishment with a superior
certificate, in such wise that her first idea had been to become a
teacher herself. But there was no place for her at Jonville, where
the excellent Mademoiselle Mazeline managed the girls' school without
assistance; and, naturally enough, she had been unwilling to quit her
husband. Then household duties had taken possession of her; now, also,
she had to attend to her little girl; and thus all thought of realising
her early desire was postponed, perhaps for ever. But did not this very
circumstance make their life all happiness and perfect agreement, far
from the reach of storms?

If, from concern for their future happiness, the worthy Salvan,
Berthereau's faithful friend, to whom the marriage was due, had for a
moment thought of trying to check the irresistible love by which the
young people were transported, he must have felt reassured on finding
them still tenderly united after three years of matrimony. It was only
now while the wife dreamt happily in her slumber that the husband
for the first time experienced anxiety at the thought of the case of
conscience before him, foreseeing, as he did, that a quarrel might
well arise with his wife's relations, and that all sorts of unpleasant
consequences might ensue in his home, should he yield to his imperative
craving for truth.

At last, however, he dozed off and ended by sleeping soundly. In the
morning, when his eyes opened to the clear bright light, he felt
astonished at having passed through such a nightmare-like vigil. It
had assuredly been caused by the haunting influence of that frightful
crime, to which, as it happened, Geneviève, still full of emotion and
pity, was the first to refer again.

'Poor Simon must be in great distress,' she said. 'You cannot abandon
him. I think that you ought to see him this morning and place yourself
at his disposal.'

Marc embraced her, delighted to find her so kind-hearted and brave.
'But grandmother will get angry again,' he replied, 'and our life here
will become unbearable.'

Geneviève laughed lightly, and gently shrugged her shoulders. 'Oh!
grandmother would quarrel with the very angels,' she retorted. 'When
one does half what she desires, one does quite enough.'

This sally enlivened them both, and, Louise having awoke, they spent a
few delightful moments in playing with her in her little cot.

Then Marc resolved to go out and resume his inquiry directly after
breakfast. While he was dressing, he thought the matter over
quietly and sensibly. He was well acquainted with Maillebois and
the characteristics of its two thousand inhabitants, divided into
petty _bourgeois_, petty shopkeepers, and workmen; the latter, some
eight hundred in number, being distributed through the workshops of
some four or five firms, all of which were prosperous, thanks to the
vicinity of Beaumont. Being nearly equally divided, the two sections
of the population fought strenuously for authority, and the Municipal
Council was a faithful picture of their differences, one half of
it being Clerical and Reactionary, while the other was Republican
and Progressive. As yet only a very few Socialists figured in the
population, lost among all the folk of other views, and they were
quite without influence. Darras, the Mayor and building contractor,
was certainly a declared Republican, and even made a profession of
anti-clericalism. But, owing to the almost equal strength of the two
parties in the council, it was only by a majority of two votes that
he, rich and active, with about a hundred workpeople under his orders,
had been preferred to Philis, a retired tilt and awning maker, with an
income of from ten to twelve thousand francs a year, who led the stern
confined life of a militant Clerical, interested in nothing beyond the
observance of the narrowest piety. Thus Darras was compelled to observe
extreme prudence, for the displacement of a few votes would unseat him.
Ah! if there had been only a substantial Republican majority behind
him, how bravely he would have supported the cause of liberty, truth,
and justice, instead of practising, as he was reduced to do, the most
diplomatic 'opportunism.'

Another thing known to Marc was the increasing power of the Clerical
party, which seemed likely to conquer the whole region. For ten years
the little community of Capuchins established in the old convent, a
part of which it had surrendered to the Brothers of the Christian
Schools, had carried on the worship of St. Antony of Padua with
ever-increasing audacity, and also with such great success that the
profits were enormous.[1] While the Brothers, on their side, derived
advantage from this success, which brought them many pupils and thus
increased the prosperity of the schools, the Capuchins worked their
chapel as one may work a distillery, and sent forth from it every
kind of moral poison. The Saint stood on a golden altar, ever decked
with flowers and ablaze with lights, collection boxes appeared on
all sides, and a commercial office was permanently installed in the
sacristy, where the procession of clients lasted from morn till night.
The Saint did not merely find lost things,--his specialty in the early
days of his _cultus_,--he had extended his business. For a few francs
he undertook to enable the dullest youths to pass their examinations,
to render doubtful business affairs excellent, to exonerate the rich
scions of patriotic families from military service, to say nothing
of performing a multitude of other equally genuine miracles, such as
healing the sick and the maimed, and according a positive protection
against ruin and death, in the last respect going indeed so far as to
resuscitate a young girl who had expired two days previously. Naturally
enough, as each new story circulated, more and more money flowed
in, and the business spread from the _bourgeois_ and shopkeepers of
Reactionary Maillebois to the workmen of Republican Maillebois, whom
the poison ended by infecting.

[Footnote 1: The Protestant reader may be informed that this Saint
(1195-1231) was a Portuguese Franciscan, famous for the eloquence of
his sermons. The practices of which M. Zola speaks are not inventions.
The so-called worship of St. Antony has become widespread in France of
recent years. Such is superstition!--_Trans._]

It is true that, in his Sunday sermons, Abbé Quandieu, priest of St.
Martin's, the parish church, forcibly pointed out the danger of low
superstition; but few people listened to him. Possessed of a more
enlightened faith than that of many priests, he deplored the harm
which the rapacity of the Capuchins was doing to religion. In the first
place they were ruining him; the parish church was losing many sources
of revenue, all the alms and offerings now going to the convent chapel.
But his grief came largely from a higher cause; he experienced the
sorrow of an intelligent priest who was not disposed to bow to Rome in
all things, but who still believed in the possible evolution amid the
great modern democratic movement of an independent and liberal Church
of France. Thus he waged war against those 'dealers of the Temple'
who betrayed the cause of Jesus; and it was said that Monseigneur
Bergerot,[2] the Bishop of Beaumont, shared his views. But this did
not prevent the Capuchins from increasing their triumphs, subjugating
Maillebois and transforming it into a holy spot, by dint of their
spurious miracles.

Marc also knew that, if Monseigneur Bergerot was behind Abbé Quandieu,
the Capuchins and the Brothers possessed the support of Father
Crabot, the all-powerful Rector of the College of Valmarie. If Father
Philibin, the Prefect of the Studies there, had presided at the recent
prize-giving at the Brothers' school, it had been by way of according
to the latter a public mark of esteem and protection. The Jesuits had
the affair in hand, as folk of evil mind were wont to say. And Simon,
the Jew schoolmaster, found himself caught amid those inextricable
quarrels, alone in a region swept by religious passion, at a dangerous
moment, when the victory would be won by the most impudent. Men's
hearts were perturbed; a spark would suffice to fire and devastate all
minds. Nevertheless the Communal school had not lost a pupil as yet;
its attendances and successes equalled those of the Brothers' school;
and this comparative victory was undoubtedly due to the prudent skill
displayed by Simon, who behaved cautiously with everybody, and who
moreover was supported openly by Darras, and covertly by Abbé Quandieu.
But the rivalry of the two schools would undoubtedly lead to the real
battle, the decisive assault which must come sooner or later; for these
two schools could not possibly live side by side, one must end by
devouring the other. And the Church would be unable to subsist should
she lose the privilege of teaching and enslaving the humble.

[Footnote 2: Frequently referred to in M. Zola's _Lourdes_ and _Rome_
as a liberal prelate at variance with the Vatican.--_Trans._]

That morning, during breakfast with the ladies in the dismal little
dining-room, Marc, already oppressed by his reflections, felt his
discomfort increase. Madame Duparque quietly related that if Polydor
had secured a prize the previous day, he owed it to a pious precaution
taken by his aunt Pélagie, who had thoughtfully given a franc to St.
Antony of Padua. On hearing this, Madame Berthereau nodded as if
approvingly, and even Geneviève did not venture to smile, but seemed
interested in the marvellous stories related by her grandmother. The
old lady recounted a number of extraordinary incidents, how lives and
fortunes had been saved, thanks to presents of two and three francs
bestowed on the Saint by the medium of the Capuchins' Agency. And one
realised how--one little sum being added to another--rivers of gold
ended by flowing to their chapel, like so much tribute levied on public
suffering and imbecility.

However, that morning's number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_, printed
during the night, had arrived, and Marc was well pleased when, at the
end of a long article on the crime of Maillebois, he found a paragraph
containing a very favourable mention of Simon. The schoolmaster, who
was esteemed by everybody, had received, it was said, the most touching
assurances of sympathy in the great misfortune which had befallen him.
This note had evidently been penned by some correspondent the previous
evening, after the tumultuous departure from the distribution of prizes
which had indicated in which direction the wind was likely to blow.
Indeed, nobody could have mistaken the public hostility against the
Brothers; and all the vague rumours, all the horrid stories hushed
up in the past, aggravated that hostility, in such wise that one was
threatened with some abominable scandal in which the whole Catholic and
Reactionary party might collapse.

Thus Marc was surprised at the lively and even triumphant demeanour
of Pélagie when she came in to clear the breakfast table. He lingered
there on purpose to draw her out.

'Ah! there's good news, monsieur,' said she; 'I learnt something, and
no mistake, when I went on my errands this morning! I knew very well
that those anarchists who insulted the Brothers yesterday were liars.'

Then she recounted all the tittle-tattle of the shops, all the gossip
she had picked up on the foot-pavements whilst going from door to
door. Amid the oppressive horror, the disturbing mystery that had
weighed upon the town for four and twenty hours, the wildest fancies
had been gradually germinating. It seemed as if some poisonous
vegetation had sprung up during the night. At first there were only
the vaguest suppositions; then explanations, suggested chancewise,
became certainties, and doubtful coincidences were transformed into
irrefutable proofs. And a point to be remarked was that all these
stealthy developments, originating nobody knew how or where, but
spreading hour by hour, and diffusing doubt and uneasiness, turned in
favour of the Brothers and against Simon.

'It is quite certain, you know, monsieur,' said Pélagie, 'that the
schoolmaster cared very little for his nephew. He ill-treated him;
he was seen doing so by people who will say it. Besides, he was
vexed at not having him in his school. He was in no end of a passion
when the lad took his first Communion; he shook his fist at him and
blasphemed.... And, at all events, it is very extraordinary that the
little angel should have been killed only a little while after he had
left the Holy Table, and when God was still within him.'

A pang came to Marc's heart; he listened to the servant with
stupefaction. 'What do you mean?' he at last exclaimed. 'Are people
accusing Simon of having killed his nephew?'

'Well, some don't scruple to think it. That story of going to enjoy
himself at Beaumont, then missing the train at half-past ten, and
coming back on foot seems a strange one. He reached home at twenty
minutes to twelve, he says. But nobody saw him, and he may very well
have returned by train an hour earlier, at the very moment when the
crime was committed. And when it was over he only had to blow out the
candle, and leave the window wide open in order to make people suppose
that the murderer had come from outside. At about a quarter to eleven
Mademoiselle Rouzaire, the schoolmistress, distinctly heard a sound
of footsteps in the school, moans and calls too, and the opening and
shutting of doors----'

'Mademoiselle Rouzaire!' cried Marc. 'Why, she did not say a word of
that in her first evidence. I was present!'

'Excuse me, monsieur, but at the butcher's just now Mademoiselle
Rouzaire was telling it to everybody, and I heard her.'

The young man, quite aghast, allowed the servant to continue:

'Monsieur Mignot, the assistant-master, also says that he was greatly
surprised at the head-master's sound sleep in the morning. And, indeed,
it is extraordinary that one should have to go and awaken a man on
the day when a murder is committed in his house. It seems too that he
wasn't the least bit touched; he merely trembled like a leaf, when he
saw the little body.'

Marc again wished to protest; but Pélagie, in a stubborn, malicious
way, went on: 'Besides, it was surely he, for a copy-slip which came
from his class was found in the child's mouth. Only the master could
have had that slip in his pocket--is that not so? It is said that it
was even signed by him. At the greengrocer's too I heard a lady say
that the police officials had found a number of similar slips in his
cupboard.'

This time Marc retorted by stating the facts, speaking of the illegible
initials on the slip, which Simon declared had never been in his hands;
though, as it was of a pattern in common use, one might have found it
in any school. However, when Pélagie declared that overwhelming proofs
had been discovered that very morning during the search made by the
officials in Simon's rooms, the young man began to feel exceedingly
disturbed, and ceased to protest, for he realised that in the frightful
confusion which was spreading through people's minds all arguments
would be futile.

'You see, monsieur,' Pélagie continued, 'one can expect anything when
one has to deal with a Jew. As the milkman said to me just now, those
folk have no real family ties, no real country; they carry on dealings
with the devil, they pillage people, and kill just for the pleasure of
doing evil. And you may say what you like, you won't prevent people
from believing that that Jew needed a child's life for some dirty
business with the devil, and cunningly waited till his nephew had taken
his first Communion in order that he might pollute and murder him while
he was stainless and full of perfume from the presence of the Host.'

It was the charge of ritual murder reappearing, that haunting charge
transmitted through the ages and reviving at each catastrophe,
relentlessly pursuing those hateful Jews who poisoned wells and
butchered little children.

On two occasions Geneviève, who suffered when she saw how Marc was
quivering, had felt desirous of interrupting and joining in his
protests. But she had restrained herself from fear of irritating her
grandmother, who was evidently well pleased with the servant's gossip,
for she nodded approval of it. In fact, Madame Duparque regarded it
as a victory; and, disdaining to lecture her son-in-law, whom she
deemed already vanquished, she contented herself with saying to the
ever-silent Madame Berthereau: 'It is just like that dead child who
was found many years ago in the porch of St. Maxence. A woman in the
service of some Jews narrowly escaped being sentenced in their place,
for only a Jew could have been the murderer. When one frequents such
folk one is always exposed to the wrath of God.'

Marc preferred to make no rejoinder; and almost immediately afterwards
he went out. But his perturbation was extreme, and a doubt came to him.
Could Simon really be guilty? The suspicion attacked him like some evil
fever contracted in a pernicious spot; and he felt a need of reflecting
and recovering his equilibrium before he called upon his colleague.
So he went off along the deserted road to Valmarie, picturing, as he
walked, all the incidents of the previous day, and weighing men and
things. No, no! Simon could not be reasonably suspected. Certainties
presented themselves on all sides. First of all, such a horrible crime
on his part was utterly illogical, impossible. He was assuredly healthy
in body and mind, he had no physiological flaws, his gentle gaiety
denoted the regularity of his life. And he had a wife of resplendent
beauty whom he adored, beside whom he lived in loving ecstasy, grateful
to her for the handsome children who had sprung from their affection
and had become their living love and worship. How was it possible to
imagine that such a man had yielded to a fit of abominable madness
a few moments before rejoining his well-loved spouse and his little
children slumbering in their cots? Again, how simple and truthful on
the previous day had been the accents of that man who was exposed to
the scrutiny of so many enemies, who loved his calling to the point of
heroism, who made the best of his poverty without ever uttering a word
of complaint!

The account he had given of his evening had been very clear, his wife
had confirmed his statements respecting the time of his return, none
of the information that he had furnished seemed open to doubt. And
if some obscure points remained, if that crumpled copy-slip found
with a number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ constituted an enigma as yet
unravelled, reason at least indicated that the culprit must be sought
elsewhere; for Simon's nature and life, the very conditions in which he
lived, showed that he could have had nothing to do with the crime. On
that point Marc experienced a feeling of certainty, based on reason, on
truth itself, which remains unshakable when once it is established by
observation and the deductions that facts supply.

Thus the young man's conviction was formed; there were certain
ascertained facts to which he would bring everything else back, and,
although every error and falsehood might be launched, he would brush
all assertions aside if they did not agree with such truths as were
already known and demonstrated.

Serene once more, relieved of the burden of his doubts, Marc returned
to Maillebois, passing the railway station at the moment when some
passengers were alighting from a train which had just arrived. Among
those who emerged from the station he perceived the Elementary
Education Inspector of the _arrondissement_, handsome Mauraisin,
as he was called, a very dark, foppish little man of thirty-eight,
whose thin lips and whose chin were hidden by a carefully kept
moustache and beard, while glasses screened his eager eyes. Formerly
a professor at the Beaumont Training College, Mauraisin belonged to
that new generation, the _Arrivistes_, who are ever on the lookout
for advancement, and who always place themselves on the stronger
side. He, it was said, had coveted the directorship of the Training
College, which had fallen to Salvan, whom he pursued with covert
hatred, but very prudently, for he was aware of Salvan's great
credit with Le Barazer, the Academy Inspector,[3] on whom he himself
depended. Besides, in presence of the equality of the forces which
were contending for supremacy in his _arrondissement_, Mauraisin, in
spite of his personal preferences for the clericals, the priests, and
monks, whom he regarded as 'devilish clever,' had been skilful enough
to refrain from declaring himself too openly. Thus, when Marc perceived
the Elementary Inspector, it was allowable for him to fancy that Le
Barazer, with whose good nature he was acquainted, had despatched his
subordinate to the assistance of Simon in the terrible catastrophe
which threatened to sweep the schoolmaster of Maillebois and his school
away.

[Footnote 3: In matters of education the French territory is
apportioned among a number of 'Academies,' such as those of Paris,
Caen, Rennes, Bordeaux, Dijon, &c., which are each governed by
Rectors, and which, combined, constitute the University of France,
of which the Minister of Public Instruction for the time being is
the grand-master. The Rectors communicate with him; under them, in
each territorial department within their jurisdiction, they have an
'Inspecteur d'Académie,' who is provided with a general secretary,
and who in turn has under him several subordinate inspectors called
'Inspecteurs de l'Instruction primaire.' There is one of these for each
_arrondissement_ into which the departments are divided.--_Trans._]

The young man therefore hastened his steps, desirous of paying his
respects to the Inspector, but all at once an unexpected incident
restrained him. A cassock had emerged from a neighbouring street, and
he recognised in its wearer Father Crabot, the Rector of the Jesuit
College of Valmarie. A tall, finely-built man, without a white hair
at five and forty, Father Crabot had a broad and regular face, with
a somewhat large nose, amiable eyes, and thick, caressing lips. The
only failing with which he was reproached was a tendency to become a
fashionable cleric as a result of the many aristocratic connections
which he was always eager to form. But those connections simply
increased the sphere of his power, and some people said, with good
reason, that he was the secret master of the department, and that the
victory of the Church, which was assuredly approaching, depended solely
on him.

Marc felt surprised and disquieted on seeing the Jesuit at Maillebois
at that hour. Had he quitted Valmarie very early in the morning then?
What urgent business, what pressing visits had brought him there?
Whence had he come, whither was he going, distributing bows and smiles
as he passed through the streets full of the fever born by rumour and
tittle-tattle? And all at once Marc saw Father Crabot stop at the sight
of Mauraisin and offer the latter his hand with charming cordiality.
Their conversation was not a long one; it consisted, no doubt, of
the usual commonplaces, but they seemed to be on excellent terms, as
if indeed they discreetly understood each other. When the Elementary
Inspector quitted the Jesuit, he drew his little figure erect,
evidently feeling very proud of that handshake, which had inspired him
with an opinion, a resolution, which perhaps he had hitherto hesitated
to form. But Father Crabot, going his way, also caught sight of Marc,
and recognising him, from having seen him at Madame Duparque's, where
he occasionally condescended to call, made a great show of doffing his
hat by way of salutation. The young man, who stood on the kerb of the
footway, was compelled to respond by a similar act of politeness, and
then watched the Jesuit as the latter, filling the streets with the
sweep of his cassock, betook himself through Maillebois, which felt
very honoured, flattered, and subjugated by his presence.

Marc, for his part, slowly resumed his walk towards the school. The
current of his thoughts had changed, he was growing gloomy again, as
if he were returning to some contaminated spot where slow poison had
diffused hostility. The houses did not seem to be the same as on the
previous day; and, in particular, the faces of the people appeared
to have changed. Thus, when he reached Simon's rooms, he was quite
surprised to find his friend quietly sorting some papers in the midst
of his family. Rachel was seated near the window, the two children were
playing in a corner, and if it had not been for the sadness of the
parents one would have thought that nothing unusual had occurred in the
house.

Simon, however, stepped forward and pressed Marc's hands with keen
emotion, like one who felt how friendly and bravely sympathetic was the
visit. The perquisition early that morning was at once spoken of.

'Have the police been here?' Marc inquired.

'Yes, it was quite natural they should come: I expected it. Of course
they found nothing, and went off with empty hands.'

Marc restrained a gesture of astonishment. What had Pélagie told him?
Why had people spread rumours of crushing proofs, of the discovery
among other things of copy-slips identical with the one found in the
room of the crime? Were lies being told then?

'And you see,' Simon continued, 'I am setting my papers in order, for
they mixed them up. What a frightful affair, my friend! We no longer
know if we exist.'

Then he mentioned that the post-mortem examination of Zéphirin's
remains was to take place that very day. Indeed, they were then
expecting the medical officer of the Public Prosecution service. But
doubtless it would only be possible to bury the body on the morrow.

'For my part,' Simon added, 'as you will well understand, I seem to be
living in a nightmare. I ask myself if such a catastrophe is possible.
I have been thinking of nothing else since yesterday morning; I am
always beginning the same story afresh, my return on foot, so late but
in great quietude, my arrival at the house which was fast asleep, and
then that frightful awakening in the morning.'

These remarks gave Marc an opportunity to ask a few questions. 'Did you
meet nobody on the road?' he inquired. 'Did nobody see you arrive here
at the hour you named?'

'Why, no! I met nobody, and I think nobody saw me come in. At that late
hour nobody is about in Maillebois.'

Silence fell. Then Marc resumed: 'But as you did not take the train
back you did not use your return ticket. Have you still got it?'

'My return ticket? No! I was so furious when I saw the half-past ten
o'clock train going off without me, that I threw the ticket away, in
the station yard, directly I decided to return on foot.'

Silence fell again, and Simon gazed fixedly at his friend, saying: 'Why
do you put these questions to me?'

Marc affectionately grasped his hands once more, and retained them for
a moment in his own, whilst resolving to warn him of impending danger,
indeed to tell him everything. 'I regret,' he said, 'that nobody saw
you, and I regret still more that you did not keep your return ticket.
There are so many fools and malicious folks about! It is being reported
that this morning the police found overwhelming proofs here, copies of
the writing-slip, initialled in the same way as the one which formed
part of the gag. Mignot, it seems, is astonished that he should have
found you so sound asleep yesterday morning; and Mademoiselle Rouzaire
now remembers that about a quarter to eleven o'clock on the night of
the crime, she heard voices and footsteps, as if somebody were entering
the house.'

Very pale but very calm, Simon smiled and shrugged his shoulders:
'Ah! that's it, is it? They are suspecting me. Well, I now understand
the expressions I have seen on the faces of the folk who have been
passing the school since early this morning! Mignot, who is a good
fellow at heart, will of course say as everybody else says, for fear of
compromising himself with a Jew like me. As for Mademoiselle Rouzaire,
she will sacrifice me ten times over, if her confessor has suggested it
to her, and if she finds a chance of advancement or merely additional
consideration in such a fine deed. Ah! they are suspecting me, are
they? and the whole pack of clerical hounds has been let loose!'

He almost laughed as he spoke. But Rachel, whose customary indolence
seemed to have been increased by her deep grief, had now suddenly
risen, her beautiful countenance all aglow with dolorous revolt.

'You, you! They suspect you of such ignominy!' she exclaimed; 'you who
were so kind and gentle when you came home, and clasped me in your
arms, and spoke such loving words to me! They must be mad! Is it not
sufficient that I should speak the truth, tell of your return, and of
the night we spent together?'

Then she flung herself upon his neck, weeping and relapsing into the
weakness of an adored and caressed woman. Pressing her to his heart her
husband strove to reassure and calm her.

'Don't be distressed, my darling! Those stories are idiotic, they stand
on nothing. I am quite at ease; the authorities may turn everything
here upside down; they may search all my past life, they will find no
guilt in it. I have only to speak the truth, and, do you know, nothing
can stand against the truth; it is the great, the eternal victor.'

Then, turning to his friend, he added: 'Is it not so, my good Marc? is
one not invincible when one has truth on one's side?'

If Marc had not been convinced already of Simon's innocence his last
doubts would have fled amid the emotion of that scene. Yielding to an
impulse of his heart he embraced both husband and wife, as if giving
himself to them entirely, in order to help them in the grave crisis
which he foresaw. Desirous as he was of taking immediate action, he
again spoke of the copy-slip, for he felt that it was the one important
piece of evidence on which the elucidation of the whole affair must
be reared. But how puzzling was that crumpled, bitten slip of paper,
soiled by saliva, with its initialling or its blot half effaced, and
with one of its corners carried away, no doubt, by the victim's teeth!
The very words 'Love one another,' lithographed in a fine English
round-hand, seemed fraught with a terrible irony. Whence had that
slip come? Who had brought it to that room--the boy or his murderer?
And how could one ascertain the truth when the Mesdames Milhomme, the
neighbouring stationers, sold such slips almost daily?

Simon, for his part, could only repeat that he had never had that
particular one in his school. 'All my boys would say so. That copy
never entered the school, never passed under their eyes.'

Marc regarded this as valuable information. 'Then they could testify
to that effect!' he exclaimed. 'As it is being falsely rumoured that
the police found similar copies in your rooms, one must re-establish
the truth immediately,--call on your pupils at their homes, and demand
their evidence before anybody tries to tamper with their memory. Give
me the names of a few of them; I will take the matter in hand, and
carry it through this afternoon.'

Simon, strong in the consciousness of his innocence, at first refused
to do so. But eventually, among his pupils' parents, he named Bongard,
a farmer on the road to La Désirade, Masson Doloir, a workman living
in the Rue Plaisir, and Savin, a clerk in the Rue Fauche. Those three
would suffice unless Marc should also like to call on the Mesdames
Milhomme. Thus everything was settled, and Marc went off to lunch,
promising that he would return in the evening to acquaint Simon with
the result of his inquiries.

Once outside on the square, however, he again caught sight of handsome
Mauraisin. This time the Elementary Inspector was deep in conference
with Mademoiselle Rouzaire. He was usually most punctilious and
prudent with the schoolmistresses, in consequence of his narrow escape
from trouble, a few years previously, in connection with a young
assistant-teacher who had shrieked like a little booby when he had
simply wished to kiss her. Malicious people said that Mademoiselle
Rouzaire did not shriek, although she was so ugly, and that this
explained both the favourable reports she secured and her prospects of
rapid advancement.

Standing at the gate of her little garden, she was now speaking to
Mauraisin with great volubility, making sweeping gestures in the
direction of the boys' school; while the Inspector, wagging his head,
listened to her attentively. At last they entered the garden together,
gently closing the gate behind them. It was evident to Marc that the
woman was telling Mauraisin about the crime and the sounds of footsteps
and voices which she now declared she had heard. At the thought of this
the quiver of the early morning returned to Marc; he again experienced
discomfort--a discomfort arising from his hostile surroundings, from
the dark, stealthy plot which was brewing, gathering like a storm,
rendering the atmosphere more and more oppressive. Singular indeed
was the fashion in which that Elementary Inspector went to the help
of a threatened master: he began by taking the opinions of all the
surrounding folk whom jealousy or hatred inspired!

At two o'clock in the afternoon Marc found himself on the road to
La Désirade, just outside Maillebois. Bongard, whose name had been
given him by Simon, there owned a little farm of a few fields, which
he cultivated himself with difficulty, securing, as he put it, no
more than was needed to provide daily bread. Marc luckily met him
just as he had returned home with a cartload of hay. He was a strong,
square-shouldered, and stoutish man, with round eyes and placid silent
face, beardless but seldom fresh shaven. On her side La Bongard, a
long bony _blonde_, who was also present, preparing some mash for her
cow, showed an extremely plain countenance, outrageously freckled,
with a patch of colour on each cheek-bone, and an expression of close
reserve. Both looked suspiciously at the strange gentleman whom they
saw entering their yard.

'I am the Jonville schoolmaster,' said Marc. 'You have a little boy who
attends the Communal school at Maillebois, have you not?'

At that moment Fernand, the boy in question, who had been playing on
the road, ran up. He was a sturdy lad of nine years, fashioned, one
might have thought, with a billhook, and showing a low brow and a dull,
heavy countenance. He was followed by his sister Angèle, a lass of
seven, with a similarly massive but more knowing face, for in her quick
eyes one espied some dawning intelligence which was striving to escape
from its fleshy prison. She had heard Marc's question, and she cried in
a shrill voice: 'I go to Mademoiselle Rouzaire's, I do; Fernand goes to
Monsieur Simon's.'

Bongard had sent his children to the Communal schools, first because
the teaching cost him nothing, and secondly because, as a matter of
mere instinct,--for he had never reasoned the question,--he was not on
the side of the priests. He practised no religion, and if La Bongard
went to church it was simply from habit and by way of diversion. All
that the husband, who was scarce able to read or write, appreciated in
his wife, who was still more ignorant than himself, was her powers of
endurance, which, similar to those of a beast of burden, enabled her to
toil from morn till night without complaining. And the farmer showed
little or no anxiety whether his children made progress at school.
As a matter of fact little Fernand was industrious and took no end of
pains, but could get nothing into his head; whereas little Angèle,
who proved yet more painstaking and stubborn, at last seemed likely
to become a passable pupil. She was like so much human matter in the
rough, lately fashioned of clay, and awaking to intelligence by a slow
and dolorous effort.

'I am Monsieur Simon's friend,' Marc resumed, 'and I have come on his
behalf about what has happened. You have heard of the crime, have you
not?'

Most certainly they had heard of it. Their anxious faces suddenly
became impenetrable, in such wise that one could read on them neither
feeling nor thought. Why had that stranger come to question them in
this fashion? Their ideas about things concerned nobody. Besides, it
was necessary to be prudent in matters in which a word too much often
suffices to bring about a man's sentence.

'And so,' Marc continued, 'I should like to know if your little boy
ever saw in his class a copy-slip like this.'

Marc himself on a slip of paper had written the words '_Aimez vous
les uns les autres_' in a fine round-hand of the proper size. Having
explained matters, he showed the paper to Fernand, who looked at it
in a dazed fashion, for his mind worked slowly and he did not yet
understand what was asked him.

'Look well at it, my little friend,' said Marc; 'did you ever see such
a copy at the school?'

But before the lad had made up his mind, Bongard, in his circumspect
manner, intervened: 'The child doesn't know, how can he know?'

And La Bongard, like her husband's shadow, added: 'Why of course a
child, it can never know.'

Without listening to them, however, Marc insisted, and placed the copy
in the hands of Fernand, who, fearing that he might be punished, made
an effort, and at last responded: 'No, monsieur, I never saw it.'

As he spoke he raised his head, and his eyes met his father's, which
were fixed on him so sternly that he hastened to add, stammering as he
did so: 'Unless all the same I did see it; I don't know.'

That was all that could be got out of him. When Marc pressed him, his
answers became incoherent, while his parents themselves said yes or no
chancewise, according to what they deemed to be their interest. It was
Bongard's prudent habit to jog his head in approval of every opinion
expressed by those who spoke to him, for fear of compromising himself.
Yes, yes, it was a frightful crime, and if the culprit should be caught
it would be quite right to cut off his head. Each man to his trade,
the gendarmes knew theirs, there were rascals everywhere. As for the
priests, there was some good in them, but all the same one had a right
to follow one's own ideas. And at last, as Marc could learn nothing
positive, he had to take himself off, watched inquisitively by the
children, and pursued by the shrill voice of little Angèle, who began
chattering with her brother as soon as the gentleman could no longer
detect what she said.

The young man gave way to some sad reflections as he returned to
Maillebois. He had just come in contact with the thick layer of human
ignorance, the huge blind, deaf multitude still enwrapped in the
slumber of the earth. Behind the Bongards the whole mass of country
folk remained stubbornly, dimly vegetating, ever slow to awaken to a
true perception of things. There was a whole nation to be educated
if one desired that it should be born to truth and justice. But how
colossal would be the labour! How could it be raised from the clay in
which it lingered, how many generations perhaps would be needed to free
the race from darkness! Even at the present time the vast majority of
the social body remained in infancy, in primitive imbecility. In the
case of Bongard one descended to mere brute matter, which was incapable
of being just because it knew nothing and would learn nothing.

Marc turned to the left, and after crossing the High Street found
himself in the poor quarter of Maillebois. Various industrial
establishments there polluted the waters of the Verpille, and the
sordid houses of the narrow streets were the homes of many workpeople.
Doloir the mason tenanted four fairly large rooms on a first floor over
a wineshop in the Rue Plaisir. Marc, imperfectly informed respecting
the address, was seeking it when he came upon a party of masons who had
just quitted their work to drink a glass together at the bar of the
wineshop. They were discussing the crime in violent language.

'A Jew's capable of anything,' one big fair fellow exclaimed. 'There
was one in my regiment who was a thief, but that did not prevent him
from being a corporal, for a Jew always gets out of difficulties.'

Another mason, short and dark, shrugged his shoulders. 'I quite agree,'
said he, 'that the Jews are not worth much, but all the same the
priests are no better.'

'Oh! as for the priests,' the other retorted, 'some are good, some
are bad. At all events the priests are Frenchmen, whereas those dirty
beasts, the Jews, have sold France to the foreigners twice already.'
Then, as his comrade, somewhat shaken in his views, asked him if he had
read that in _Le Petit Beaumontais_, 'No, I didn't,' he added; 'those
newspapers give me too much of a headache. But some of my mates told
me, and, besides, everybody knows it well.'

The others, thereupon feeling convinced, became silent, and slowly
drained their glasses. They were just quitting the wineshop when Marc,
approaching, asked the tall fair one if he knew where Doloir the mason
lived. The workman laughed. 'Doloir, monsieur? that's me,' he said; 'I
live here; those are my three windows.'

The adventure quite enlivened this tall sturdy fellow of somewhat
military bearing. As he laughed his big moustaches rose, disclosing his
teeth, which looked very white in his highly coloured face, with large,
good-natured blue eyes.

'You could not have asked anybody more likely to know, could you,
monsieur?' he continued. 'What do you wish of me?'

Marc looked at him with a feeling of some sympathy in spite of the
hateful words he had heard. Doloir, who had been for several years in
the employment of Darras, the Mayor and building contractor, was a
fairly good workman--one who occasionally drank a drop too much, but
who took his pay home to his wife regularly. He certainly growled about
the employers, referred to them as a dirty gang, and called himself a
socialist, though he had only a vague idea what socialism might be.
At the same time he had some esteem for Darras, who, while making a
great deal of money, tried to remain a comrade with his men. But above
everything else three years of barrack-life had left an ineffaceable
mark on Doloir. He had quitted the army in a transport of delight at
his deliverance, freely cursing the disgusting and hateful calling in
which one ceased to be a man. But ever since that time he had been
continually living his three years' service afresh; not a day passed
but some recollection of it came to him. With his hand spoilt as it
were by the rifle he had carried, he had found his trowel heavy, and
had returned to work in a spiritless fashion, like one who was no
longer accustomed to toil, but whose will was broken and whose body had
become used to long spells of idleness, such as those which intervened
between the hours of military exercise. To become once more the
excellent workman that he had been previously was impossible. Besides,
he was haunted by military matters, to which he was always referring
apropos of any subject that presented itself. But he chattered in a
confused way, he had no information, he read nothing, he knew nothing,
being simply firm and stubborn on the patriotic question, which, to his
mind, consisted in preventing the Jews from handing France over to the
foreigners.

'You have two children at the Communal school,' Marc said to him, 'and
I have come from the master, my friend Simon, for some information. But
I see that you are hardly a friend of the Jews.'

Doloir still laughed. 'It's true,' said he, 'that Monsieur Simon is a
Jew; but hitherto I always thought him a worthy man. What information
do you want, monsieur?'

When he learnt that the question was merely one of showing his children
a writing copy in order to ascertain whether they had ever used it in
their class, he responded: 'Nothing can be easier, monsieur, if it will
do you a service. Come upstairs with me, the children must be at home.'

The door was opened by Madame Doloir, a dark, short but robust woman,
having a serious, energetic face with a low brow, frank eyes, and a
square-shaped chin. Although she was barely nine and twenty she was
already the mother of three children, and it was evident that she was
expecting a fourth. But this did not prevent her from being always the
first to rise and the last to go to bed in the home, for she was very
industrious, very thrifty, always busy, scrubbing and cleaning. She had
quitted her employment as a seamstress about the time of the birth of
her third child, and nowadays she only attended to her home, but she
did so like a woman who fully earned her bread.

'This gentleman is a friend of the schoolmaster, and wishes to speak to
the children,' her husband explained to her.

Marc entered a very clean dining or living room. The little kitchen was
on the left, with its door wide open. In front were the bedrooms of the
parents and the children.

'Auguste! Charles!' the father called.

Auguste and Charles, one eight, the other six years old, hastened
forward, followed by their little sister Lucille, who was four. They
were handsome, well-fed children in whom one found the characteristics
of the father and the mother combined; the younger boy appearing more
intelligent than the elder one, and the little girl, a _blondine_ with
a soft laugh, already looking quite pretty.

When, Marc, however, showed the copy to the boys and questioned them,
Madame Doloir, who hitherto had not spoken a word, hastily intervened:
'Excuse me, monsieur, but I do not wish my children to answer you.'

She said this very politely, without the slightest sign of temper, like
a good mother, indeed, who was merely fulfilling her duty.

'But why?' Marc asked in his amazement.

'Why, because there is no need for us, monsieur, to meddle in an affair
which seems likely to turn out very badly. I have had it dinned into my
ears ever since yesterday morning; and I won't have anything to do with
it, that's all.'

Then, as Marc insisted and began to defend Simon, she retorted: 'I say
nothing against Monsieur Simon, the children have never had to complain
of him. If he is accused, let him defend himself: that is his business.
For my part I have always tried to prevent my husband from meddling in
politics, and if he listens to me he will hold his tongue, and take up
his trowel without paying any attention either to the Jews or to the
priests. All this, at bottom, is politics again.'

She never went to church, although she had caused her children to
be baptised and had decided to let them take their first Communion.
Those, however, were things one had to do. For the rest, she simply and
instinctively held conservative views, accepting things as they were,
accommodating herself to her narrow life, for she was terrified by the
thought of catastrophes which might diminish their daily bread. With an
expression of stubborn resolve she repeated: 'I do not wish any of us
to be compromised.'

Those words were decisive: Doloir himself bowed to them. Although he
usually allowed his wife to lead him, he did not like her to exercise
her power before others. But this time he submitted.

'I did not reflect, monsieur,' he said. 'My wife is right. It is best
for poor devils like us to keep quiet. One of the men in my regiment
knew all sorts of things about the Captain. Ah! they did not stand on
ceremony with him. You should have seen what a number of times he was
sent to the cells!'

Marc, like the husband, had to accept the position; and so, renouncing
all further inquiry there, he merely said: 'It is possible that the
judicial authorities may ask your boys what I desired to ask them. In
that case they will have to answer.'

'Very good,' Madame Doloir answered quietly, 'if the judicial
authorities question them we shall see what they ought to do. They will
answer or not, it will all depend; my children are mine, and it is my
business.'

Marc withdrew, escorted by Doloir, who was in a hurry to return to his
work. When they reached the street, the mason almost apologised. His
wife was not always easy to deal with, he remarked; but when she said
the right thing, it was right and no mistake.

Such was Marc's discouragement that he now wondered whether it would
be worth his while to carry the inquiry further by visiting Savin the
clerk. In the Doloirs' home he had not found the same dense ignorance
as at the Bongards'. The former were a step higher in the social scale,
and if both husband and wife were still virtually illiterate, they at
least came in contact with other classes, and knew a little of life.
But how vague was still the dawn which they typified, how dim was the
groping through idiotic egotism, in what disastrous errors did lack
of solidarity maintain the poor folk of that class! If they were not
happier it was because they were ignorant of every right condition
of civic life, of the necessity that others should be happy in order
that one might be happy oneself. Marc thought of that human house, the
doors and windows of which people have striven to keep closed for ages,
whereas they ought to be opened widely in order to allow air and warmth
and light to enter in torrents freely.

While he was thus reflecting, he turned the corner of the Rue Plaisir,
and reached the Rue Fauche, where the Savins dwelt. He thereupon felt
ashamed of his discouragement, so he climbed the stairs to their flat,
and speedily found himself in the presence of Madame Savin, who had
hastened to answer his ring.

'My husband, monsieur? Yes, as it happens, he is at home, for he was
rather feverish this morning and could not go to his office. Please
follow me.'

She was charming was Madame Savin, dark, refined and gay, with a
pretty laugh, and so young-looking also, though her twenty-eighth
year was already past, that she seemed to be the elder sister of her
four children. The firstborn was a girl, Hortense; followed by twin
boys, Achille and Philippe, and then by another boy, Jules, whom the
young mother was still nursing. It was said that her husband was
terribly jealous, that he suspected her, and watched her, ever full
of ill-natured disquietude, although she gave him no cause for it. A
bead-worker by trade, and an orphan, she had been sought by him in
marriage for her beauty's sake, after her aunt's death, when she was
quite alone in the world; and on this account she retained a feeling of
gratitude towards him, and conducted herself very uprightly like a good
wife and a good mother.

Just as she was about to usher Marc into the adjoining room, some
embarrassment came over her. Perhaps she feared the bad temper of
her husband, who was ever ready to pick a quarrel, and to whom she
preferred to yield for the sake of domestic peace.

'What name am I to give, monsieur?' she asked.

Marc told her his name and the object of his visit, whereupon with
graceful suppleness she glided away, leaving the young man in the
little ante-chamber, which he began to scrutinise. The flat was
composed of five rooms, occupying the whole of that floor of the
house. Savin, a petty _employé_ of the Revenue service, clerk to the
local tax-collector, had to keep up his rank, which in his opinion
necessitated a certain amount of outward show. Thus his wife wore
bonnets, and he himself never went out otherwise than in a frock
coat. But how painful were the straits of the life which he led
behind that façade so mendaciously suggestive of class superiority
and easy circumstances! The bitterness of his feelings came from his
consciousness that he was bound fast to his humble duties, that he
had no prospect whatever of advancement, but was condemned for life
to never-changing toil and a contemptible salary, which only just
saved him from starvation. Poor in health and soured, humble and
irritable at one and the same time, feeling as much terror as rage
in his everlasting anxiety lest he might displease his superiors, he
showed himself obsequious and cowardly at his office, whilst at home he
terrorised his wife with his fits of passion, which suggested those of
a sickly child. She smiled at them in her pretty, gentle way, and after
attending to the children and the household she found a means to work
bead-flowers for a firm at Beaumont, very delicate and well-paid work,
which provided the family with little luxuries. But her husband, vexed
at heart, such was his middle-class pride, would not have it said that
his wife was forced to work, and so it was necessary for her to shut
herself up with her beads, and deliver her work by stealth.

For a moment Marc heard a sharp voice speaking angrily. Then, after
a gentle murmur, silence fell, and Madame Savin reappeared: 'Please
follow me, monsieur.'

Savin scarcely rose from the arm-chair in which he was nursing his
attack of fever. A village schoolmaster was of no consequence. Short,
lean, and puny, quite bald already, although he was only thirty-one
years old, the clerk had a poor, cadaverous countenance, with slight,
tired features, light eyes, and a very scanty beard of a dirty
yellowish tinge. He finished wearing out his old frock coats at home,
and that day the coloured scarf he had fastened about his neck helped
to make him look like a little old man, burdened with complaints and
quite neglectful of his person.

'My wife tells me, monsieur,' he said, 'that you have called about that
abominable affair, in which Simon the schoolmaster, according to some
accounts, is likely to be compromised; and my first impulse, I confess
it, was to refuse to see you.'

Then he stopped short, for he had just noticed on the table some
bead-work flowers which his wife had been making as she sat beside him,
while he perused _Le Petit Beaumontais_. He gave her a terrible glance
which she understood, for she hastened to cover her work with the
newspaper.

'But don't regard me as a Reactionary, monsieur,' Savin resumed. 'I am
a Republican--in fact a very advanced Republican; I do not hide it, my
superiors are well aware of it. When one serves the Republic it is only
honest to be a Republican, is it not? Briefly, I am on the side of the
Government for and in all things.'

Compelled to listen politely, Marc contented himself with nodding his
assent.

'My views on the religious question are very simple,' Savin
continued. 'The priests ought to remain in their own sphere. I am an
anti-clerical as I am a Republican. But I hasten to add that in my
opinion a religion is necessary for women and children, and that as
long as the Catholic religion is that of the country, why, we may as
well have that one as another! Thus, with respect to my wife, I have
made her understand that it is fitting and necessary for a woman of her
age and position to follow the observances of religion in order that
she may have a rule and a _morale_ in the eyes of the world. She goes
to the Capuchins!'

Madame Savin became embarrassed, her face turned pink, and she cast
down her eyes. That question of religious practices had long been
a great source of unpleasantness in her home. She, with all her
charming delicacy, her gentle, upright, heart, had always regarded
those practices with repugnance. As for her husband, he, wild with
jealousy, ever picking quarrels with her respecting what he called her
unfaithfulness of thought, looked upon Confession and Communion solely
as police measures, moral curbs, excellently suited to restrain women
from descending the slope which leads to betrayal. And his wife had
been obliged to yield to him in the matter, and accept the confessor
whom he selected, the bearded Father Théodose, though with her woman's
instinct she divined the latter to be a man of a horrid nature. But if
she was wounded at heart and blushed with offended delicacy, she none
the less shrugged her shoulders and continued to obey her husband for
the sake of domestic quietude.

'As for my children, monsieur,' Savin was now saying, 'my resources
have not enabled me to send Achille and Philippe, my twin sons, to
college; so, naturally enough, I have sent them to the secular school
in accordance with my duty as a functionary and a Republican. In the
same way my daughter Hortense goes to Mademoiselle Rouzaire's; but,
at bottom, I am well pleased to find that that lady has religious
sentiments, and conducts her pupils to church--for, after all, such
is her duty, and I should complain if she did not do so. Boys always
pull through. And yet if I did not owe an account of my actions to my
superiors, would it not have been more advantageous for my sons if I
had sent them to a Church school? Later in life they would have been
helped on, placed in good situations, supported, whereas now they will
simply vegetate, as I myself have vegetated.'

His bitter rancour was overflowing; and, seized with a secret dread,
he added in a lower tone: 'The priests, you see, are the stronger, and
in spite of everything one ought always to be with them.'

A feeling of compassion came over Marc; that poor, puny, trembling
being, driven desperate by mediocrity of circumstances and foolishness
of nature, seemed to him in sore need of pity. Foreseeing the
conclusion of all his speeches the young man had already risen. 'And
so, monsieur,' he said, 'the information which I desired to obtain from
your children----'

'The children are not here,' Savin answered; 'a lady, a neighbour,
has taken them for a walk. But, even if they were here, ought I to
allow them to answer you? Judge for yourself. A functionary can in no
case take sides. And I already have quite enough worries at my office
without incurring any responsibility in this vile affair.'

Then, as Marc hastily bowed, he added: 'Although the Jews prey on
our land of France I have nothing to say against that Monsieur
Simon, unless it be that a Jew ought never to be allowed to be a
schoolmaster. I hope that _Le Petit Beaumontais_ will start a campaign
on that subject.... Liberty and justice for all--such ought to be the
watchwords of a good Republican. But the country must be put first, the
country alone must be considered, when it is in danger! Is that not so?'

Madame Savin, who since Marc's entry into the room had not spoken a
word, escorted the young man to the door of the flat, where, while
still retaining an air of embarrassment amid her submissiveness--that
of a slave-wife superior to her harsh master--she contented herself
with smiling divinely. Then at the bottom of the stairs Marc
encountered the children whom the neighbour was bringing home.
Hortense, the girl, now nine years old, was already a pretty and
coquettish little person, with artful eyes which gleamed with
maliciousness when she did not veil them with the expression of
hypocritical piety which she had learnt to acquire at Mademoiselle
Rouzaire's. But Marc was more interested in the twin boys, Achille
and Philippe, two thin pale lads, sickly like their father, and very
unruly and sly for their seven years. They pushed their sister against
the banister, and almost made her fall; and when they had climbed the
stairs, and the door of the flat opened, an infant's wail was heard,
that of little Jules, who had awoke and was already in the arms of his
mother, eager for her breast.

As Marc walked down the street, he caught himself talking aloud. So
they were all agreed, from the ignorant peasant to the timid and
idiotic clerk, passing by way of the brutified workman, the spoilt
fruit of barrack-life and the salary system. In ascending the social
scale one merely found error aggravated by narrow egotism and base
cowardice. Men's minds remained steeped in darkness; the semi-education
which was nowadays acquired without method, and which reposed on
no serious scientific foundation, led simply to a poisoning of the
brain, to a state of disquieting corruption. There must be education
certainly, but complete education, whence hypocrisy and falsehood
would be banished--education which would free the mind by acquainting
it with truth in its entirety. Marc trembled at the thought of the
abyss of ignorance, error, and hatred which opened before him. What an
awful bankruptcy there would be if those folk were needed some day for
some work of truth and justice! And those folk typified France; they
were the multitude, the heavy, inert mass, many of them worthy people
no doubt, but none the less a mass of lead, which weighed the nation
down to the ground, incapable as they were of leading a better life,
of becoming free, just, and truly happy, because they were steeped in
ignorance and poison.

As Marc went slowly towards the school to acquaint his friend Simon
with the sad result of his visits, he suddenly remembered that he had
not yet called on the Mesdames Milhomme, the stationers of the Rue
Courte; and although he anticipated no better result with them than
with the others he resolved to fulfil his commission to the very end.

The Milhommes, the ladies' husbands, had been two brothers, born at
Maillebois. Edouard, the elder, had inherited a little stationery
business from an uncle, and, being of a stay-at-home and unaspiring
disposition, had made a shift to live on it with his wife; while
his younger, more active, and ambitious brother Alexandre laid the
foundations of a fortune while hurrying about the country as a
commercial traveller. But death swooped down on both: the elder brother
was the first to die, as the result of a tragic accident, a fall into
a cellar; the second succumbing six months later to an attack of
pulmonary congestion while he was at the other end of France. Their
widows remained--one with her humble shop, the other with a capital of
some twenty thousand francs, the first savings on which her husband
had hoped to rear a fortune. It was to Madame Edouard, a woman of
decision and diplomatic skill, that the idea occurred of inducing her
sister-in-law, Madame Alexandre, to enter into a partnership, and
invest her twenty thousand francs in the little business at Maillebois,
which might be increased by selling books, stationery, and other
articles for the schools. Each of the two widows had a son, and from
that time forward the Mesdames Milhomme, as they were called, Madame
Edouard with her little Victor, and Madame Alexandre with her little
Sébastien, had kept house together, living in the close intimacy
which their interests required, although their natures were radically
different.

Madame Edouard followed the observances of the Church, but this did not
mean that her faith was firm. She simply placed the requirements of her
business before everything else. Her customers were chiefly pious folk
whom she did not wish to displease. Madame Alexandre, on the contrary,
had given up church-going at the time of her marriage, for her husband
had been a gay companion and freethinker, and she refused to take up
religion again. It was Madame Edouard, the clever diplomatist, who
ingeniously indicated that these divergencies might become a source
of profit. Their business was spreading; their shop, situated midway
between the Brothers' school and the Communal school, supplied articles
suitable for both--lesson books, copybooks, diagrams, and drawing
copies, without speaking of pens, pencils, and similar things. Thus
it was decided that each of the two women should retain her views and
ways, the one with the priests, the other with the freethinkers, in
such wise as to satisfy both sides. And in order that nobody might
remain ignorant of the understanding, Sébastien was sent to the secular
Communal school, where Simon the Jew was master, while Victor remained
at the Brothers' school. Matters being thus settled, engineered with
superior skill, the partnership prospered, and Mesdames Milhomme now
owned one of the most thriving shops in Maillebois.

Marc, on reaching the Rue Courte, in which there were only two houses,
the Milhommes' and the parsonage, slackened his steps, and for a
moment examined the windows of the stationery shop, in which religious
prints were mingled with school pictures glorifying the Republic,
whilst illustrated newspapers, hanging from strings, almost barred
the doorway. He was about to enter when Madame Alexandre--a tall
and gentle-looking blonde, whose face, faded already, though she was
only thirty, was still lighted by a faint smile--appeared upon the
threshold. Close beside her was her little Sébastien, of whom she was
very fond: a child of seven, fair and gentle like his mother, very
handsome also, with blue eyes, a delicately shaped nose, and a mouth
bespeaking amiability.

Madame Alexandre was acquainted with Marc, and she at once referred to
the abominable crime which seemed to haunt her. 'How dreadful, Monsieur
Froment!' said she. 'To think also that it occurred so near to us! I
frequently saw poor little Zéphirin go by, either on his way to school
or returning home. And he often came here to buy copybooks and pens. I
can no longer sleep since I saw him dead!'

Then she spoke compassionately of Simon and his grief. She considered
him to be very kind-hearted and upright, particularly as he took
a great interest in her little Sébastien, who was one of his most
intelligent and docile pupils. Whatever other people might say, she
would never be able to think the master capable of such a frightful
deed as that crime. As for the copy-slip of which people talked so
much, nothing would have been proved even if similar ones had been
found in the school.

'We sell such slips, you know, Monsieur Froment,' she continued, 'and I
have already searched through those which we have in stock. It is true
that none bear those particular words, "Love one another"----'

At this moment Sébastien, who had been listening attentively, raised
his head. 'I saw one like that,' said he. 'My cousin Victor brought one
home from the Brothers' school--there were those words on it!'

His mother appeared stupefied: 'What are you saying?' she exclaimed.
'You never mentioned that to me!'

'But you did not ask. Besides, Victor forbade me to tell, because it's
forbidden to take the copy-slips from school.'

'Then where is that one?'

'Ah! I don't know. Victor hid it somewhere, so that he might not be
scolded.'

Marc was following the scene, astonished, delighted, his heart beating
fast with hope. Was the truth about to come forth from the mouth of
that child? Perchance this would prove the feeble ray which spreads
little by little until it finally expands into a great blaze of light.
And the young man was already putting precise and decisive questions to
Sébastien, when Madame Edouard, accompanied by Victor, appeared upon
the scene. She was returning from a visit which she had just made to
Brother Fulgence, under the pretext of applying for the payment of a
stationery account.

Taller than her sister-in-law, Madame Edouard was dark, with a massive
square-shaped face and a masculine appearance. Her gestures were quick,
her speech was loud. A good and honest woman in her way, she would not
have wronged her partner of a _sou_, though she never hesitated to
domineer over her. She indeed was the man in the household, and the
other as a means of defence only possessed her force of inertia, her
very gentleness, of which she availed herself at times for weeks and
months together, thereby often securing the victory. As for Victor,
Madame Edouard's son, he was a sturdy, squarely-set lad, nine years of
age, with a big dark head and massive face, quite a contrast indeed to
his cousin Sébastien.

Directly Madame Edouard was apprised of the situation, she looked at
her son severely: 'What! a copy? You stole a copy from the Brothers and
brought it here?'

Victor had already turned a glance of despair and fury upon Sébastien.
'No, no, mamma,' he answered.

'But you did, for your cousin saw it. He does not usually tell
falsehoods.'

The boy ceased answering, but he still cast terrible glances at his
cousin. And the latter was by no means at his ease, for he well knew
the physical strength of his playmate, and commonly represented the
vanquished, beaten enemy whenever they had a game at war together.
Under the elder's guidance, there were endless noisy gallops through
the house; the younger, so gentle by nature, letting himself be led
into them with a kind of rapturous terror.

'No doubt he did not steal it,' Madame Alexandre observed indulgently.
'Perhaps he only brought it home by mistake.'

In order that his cousin might the more readily forgive his
indiscretion, Sébastien at once confirmed this suggestion: 'Of course,
it was like that. I did not say he stole it.'

Madame Edouard, having now calmed down, ceased to exact an immediate
answer from Victor, who remained silent as if stubbornly resolved upon
making no confession. His mother, for her part, doubtless reflected
that it would be scarcely prudent to investigate the matter in a
stranger's presence without weighing the gravity of the consequences.
She pictured herself taking one or the other side in the affair, and
setting either the Brothers' school or the Communal school against her,
thereby losing one set of customers. So, after casting a domineering
glance at Madame Alexandre, she contented herself with saying to her
son: 'That will do. Go indoors, monsieur; we will settle all this by
and by. Just reflect, and if you do not tell me the real truth, I shall
know what to do to you.'

Then, turning to Marc, she added: 'We will tell you what he says,
monsieur; and you may depend upon it that he will soon speak unless he
desires such a whipping as he is not likely to forget.'

Marc could not insist any further, however ardent might be his desire
to learn the whole truth immediately, in order that he might convey it
to Simon like tidings of deliverance. But he no longer felt a doubt
respecting the genuineness of the decisive fact, the triumphant proof
which chance had placed in his hands; so he at once hastened to his
friend's, to tell him of his successive repulses with the Bongards,
the Doloirs, and the Savins, and of the unhoped-for discovery which he
made at the Milhommes'. Simon listened quietly, showing no sign of the
delight which Marc had anticipated. Ah! there were similar copies at
the Brothers' school? Well, he was not astonished to hear it. For his
own part, why should he worry, as he was innocent?

'I thank you very much for all the trouble you have taken, my good
friend,' he added, 'and I fully understand the importance of that
child's statement. But I cannot accustom myself to the idea that my
fate depends on what may be said, or what may not be said, considering
that I am guilty of nothing. To my thinking, that is as evident as the
sun in the skies.'

Marc, who felt quite enlivened, began to laugh. He now shared his
friend's confidence. And after they had chatted for a moment, he took,
his leave, but suddenly returned to ask: 'Has handsome Mauraisin been
to see you?'

'No, I have not seen him,' Simon answered.

'In that case, my friend, he must have wished to ascertain the opinions
of all Maillebois before coming. I caught sight of him this morning,
first with Father Crabot, and afterwards with Mademoiselle Rouzaire.
While I was running about this afternoon, too, I fancied I saw him
twice--once slipping into the Ruelle des Capucins, and then, as it
seemed to me, on his way to the mayor's. He must have been making
inquiries in order to be sure of taking the stronger side.'

Simon, hitherto so calm, made a nervous gesture; for, timid by nature,
he regarded his superiors with respect and fear. Indeed, his sole
personal worry in the catastrophe was the possibility of a great
scandal which might cost him his situation, or at least cause him to be
regarded very unfavourably by the officials of his department. And he
was about to confess this apprehension to Marc when, as it happened,
Mauraisin presented himself, looking frigid and thoughtful.

'Yes, Monsieur Simon, I have hastened here on account of that horrible
affair. I am in despair for the school, for all of you, and for
ourselves. It is very serious--very serious--very serious.'

As he spoke the Elementary Inspector drew up his little figure, and
his words fell from his lips with increasing severity. In a formal way
he had shaken hands with Marc, knowing that Le Barazer, the Academy
Inspector, his superior, was partial to the young man. But he looked at
him askance through his glasses as if to invite him to withdraw. And
Marc could not linger, although it worried him to leave Simon alone
with that man, on whom his position depended, and before whom he now
trembled--he who had shown so much courage ever since the morning. But
there was no help for it; so Marc went home full of the new impression
that had come to him, the covert hostility of that man Mauraisin, whom
he divined to be a traitor.

The evening, spent with the ladies, proved very quiet. Neither Madame
Duparque nor Madame Berthereau referred to the crime, and the little
house fell asleep peacefully, as if nought of the tragedy in progress
elsewhere had ever entered it. Marc had thought it prudent to say
nothing about his busy afternoon. On going to bed he contented himself
with telling his wife that he felt quite at ease with reference to
his friend Simon. The news pleased Geneviève; and they then continued
chatting until rather late, for in the daytime they were never alone
together, never able to speak freely, in such wise that they seemed to
be strangers. When they fell asleep in each other's arms, it was as if
they had been blissfully reunited after a positive separation.

But, in the morning, Marc was painfully astonished to find an
abominable article against Simon in _Le Petit Beaumontais_. He
remembered the paragraph of the previous day which had expressed
so much sympathy with the schoolmaster and had covered him with
praise. Twenty-four hours had sufficed to effect a complete change,
and now, with a wonderful show of perfidious suppositions and false
interpretations of the facts, the Jew was savagely sacrificed, plainly
accused of the ignoble crime. What could have happened then? What
powerful influence could have been at work? Whence came that poisoned
article, drafted so carefully in order that the Jew might be for
ever condemned by the ignorant populace athirst for falsehood? That
newspaper melodrama with its mysterious intricacies, its extraordinary
fairy-tale improbabilities, would prove, Marc felt it, a legend
changing into truth, positive truth, from which people henceforth would
refuse to depart. And when the young man had finished his perusal
he again became conscious of some secret working in the gloom, some
immense work which mysterious forces had been accomplishing since the
previous day in order to ruin the innocent and thereby save the unknown
culprit.

Yet no fresh incident had occurred, the magistrates had not returned to
Maillebois, there was still only the gendarmes guarding the chamber of
the crime, where lay the remains of the poor little victim, awaiting
burial. The post-mortem examination on the previous day had merely
confirmed the facts which were already known: After a scene of horror
Zéphirin had been killed by strangulation, as was indicated by the
deep violet finger-marks around his neck. It had been settled that the
funeral should take place that afternoon, and, according to report,
preparations were being made to invest it with avenging solemnity.
The authorities were to be present as well as all the victim's
school-fellows.

Marc, whom anxiety assailed once more, spent a gloomy morning. He did
not go to see Simon, for he thought it best to do so in the evening
after the funeral. He contented himself with strolling through
Maillebois, which he found drowsy, as if gorged with horrors, while
waiting for the promised spectacle. After his walk the young man's
spirits revived, and he was finishing lunch with the ladies, amused
by the prattle of little Louise, who was very lively that day, when
Pélagie, on entering the room with a fine plum tart, found herself
unable to restrain her rapturous delight.

'Ah! madame,' she exclaimed, 'they are arresting that brigand of a Jew!
At last! It's none too soon!'

'They are arresting Simon? How do you know it?' exclaimed Marc, who had
turned very pale.

'Why, everybody says so, monsieur. The butcher across the road has just
gone off to see it.'

Marc flung down his napkin, rose, and went out without touching any
tart. The ladies were aghast, deeply offended by such a breach of good
manners. Even Geneviève seemed to be displeased.

'He is losing his senses,' said Madame Duparque dryly. 'Ah! my dear
girl, I warned you. Without religion no happiness is possible.'

When Marc reached the street he immediately realised that something
extraordinary was taking place. All the shopkeepers were at their
doors, some people were running, while an ever-increasing uproar of
shouts and jeers was to be heard. Hastening his steps Marc turned into
the Rue Courte, and there he at once perceived the Mesdames Milhomme
and their children assembled on the threshold of the stationery shop.
They also were deeply interested in the great event. And Marc then
remembered that there was some good evidence to be obtained there, of
which he had better make sure immediately.

'Is it true?' he asked. 'Is Monsieur Simon being arrested?'

'Why, yes, Monsieur Froment,' Madame Alexandre replied in her gentle
way. 'We have just seen the Commissary pass.'

'And it is certain, you know,' said Madame Edouard in her turn, looking
him straight in the face, and anticipating the question which she had
already read in his eyes, 'it is quite certain that Victor never had
that pretended copy-slip. I have questioned him, and I am convinced
that he is telling no falsehood.'

The boy raised his face, with its square chin and large eyes full of
quiet impudence. 'No, of course I am not telling a falsehood,' he said.

Amazed, chilled to the heart, Marc turned to Madame Alexandre: 'But
what was it your son said, madame? He saw that copy in his cousin's
hands--he declared it!'

The mother appeared ill at ease and did not immediately answer. Her
little Sébastien had already taken refuge in her skirts as if to hide
his face, and she with a quivering hand fondled his hair, covered his
head anxiously and protectingly.

'No doubt, Monsieur Froment,' she at last responded, 'he saw it, or
rather he fancied he saw it. At present he is not very sure: he thinks
he may have been mistaken. And so, you see, there is nothing more to be
said.'

Unwilling to insist with the women, Marc addressed himself to the
little boy. 'Is it true that you did not see the copy? There is nothing
so wicked as a lie, my child.'

Sébastien, instead of answering, pressed his face more closely to
his mother's skirt, and burst into sobs. It was evident that Madame
Edouard, like a good trader, who feared that by taking any particular
side in the conflict she might lose a part of her custom, had imposed
her will upon the others. She was as firm as a rock, and it would be
impossible to move her. However, she condescended to indicate the
reasons by which she was guided.

'_Mon Dieu_, Monsieur Froment,' she said, 'we are against nobody,
you know; we need everybody's help in our business. Only it must be
admitted that all the appearances are against Monsieur Simon. Take,
for instance, that train which he says he missed, that return ticket
which he threw away in the station yard, that four-mile walk when he
met nobody. Besides, Mademoiselle Rouzaire is positive that she heard a
noise about twenty minutes to eleven o'clock, whereas he pretends that
he did not return till an hour later. Explain, too, how it happened
that Monsieur Mignot had to go and wake him when it was nearly eight
o'clock in the morning--he who is usually up so early.... Well, perhaps
he will justify himself. For his sake, let us hope so----'

Marc stopped her with a gesture. She was repeating what he had read
in _Le Petit Beaumontais_, and he was terrified by it. He cast a
keen glance on both women--the one who so resolutely silenced her
conscience, the other who trembled from head to foot; and he himself
shuddered at the thought of their sudden falsehood which might lead to
such disastrous consequences. Then he left them and hastened to Simon's.

A closed vehicle, guarded by two plain-clothes officers, was waiting
at the door. The orders were stringent, but Marc at last contrived
to enter. While two other officers guarded Simon in the classroom,
the Commissary of Police, who had arrived with a warrant signed by
Investigating Magistrate Daix, conducted a fresh and very minute
perquisition through the whole house, seeking, no doubt, for copies of
the famous writing slip. But he found nothing; and when Marc ventured
to ask one of the officers if a similar perquisition had taken place
at the school kept by the Brothers of the Christian Doctrine, the
man looked at him in amazement. A perquisition at the good Brothers'
school? What for, indeed? But Marc was already shrugging his shoulders
at his own simplicity, for, even supposing that the officers had gone
to the Brothers', the latter had been allowed ample time to burn and
destroy everything likely to compromise them.

The young man had to exert all his powers of restraint to prevent
himself from expressing his feelings of revolt. His powerlessness to
demonstrate the truth filled him with despair. For yet another hour he
had to remain in the hall, waiting for the finish of the Commissary's
search. At last, just as the officers were about to remove Simon, he
was able to see him for a moment. Madame Simon and her two children
were there also, and she flung herself, sobbing, about her husband's
neck, while the Commissary, a rough but not hard-hearted man, made a
pretence of giving some last orders. There came a most heart-rending
scene.

Simon, livid, crushed by the downfall of his life, strove to preserve
great calmness.

'Do not grieve, my darling,' he said. 'It can only be an error, an
abominable error. Everything will certainly be explained as soon as I
am interrogated, and I shall soon return to you.'

But Rachel sobbed yet more violently, with a wild expression on her
tear-drenched face, while she raised the poor little ones, Joseph and
Sarah, in order that their father might kiss them once again.

'Yes, yes, the poor children; love them well; take good care of them
until my return. And I beg you do not weep so; you will deprive me of
all my courage.'

He tore himself from her clasp, and then, at the sight of Marc, his
eyes sparkled with infinite joy. He quickly grasped the hand which the
young man offered him: 'Ah! comrade, thank you! Let my brother David
be warned at once; be sure to tell him I am innocent. He will seek
everywhere, he will find the culprit, it is to him that I confide my
honour and my children's.'

'Be easy,' replied Marc, half-choking with emotion, 'I will help him.'

But the Commissary now returned and put an end to the leave-taking. It
was necessary that Madame Simon, wild with grief, should be removed at
the moment when Simon was led away by the two officers. What followed
was monstrous. The hour fixed for the funeral of little Zéphirin was
three, and, in order to prevent any regrettable collision, it had
been decided to arrest Simon at one o'clock. But the perquisition had
lasted so long that the very thing which the authorities had wished to
prevent took place. When Simon appeared outside, on the little flight
of steps, the square was already crowded with people who had come to
see the funeral procession. And this crowd, which had gorged itself
with the tales of _Le Petit Beaumontais_, and which was still stirred
by the horror of the crime, raised angry shouts as soon as it perceived
the schoolmaster, that accursed Jew, that slayer of little children,
who for his abominable witchery needed their virgin blood, whilst it
was yet sanctified by the presence of the Host. That was the legend,
never to be destroyed, which sped from mouth to mouth, maddening the
tumultuous and menacing crowd.

'To death! To death with the murderer and sacrilegist! To death, to
death with the Jew!'

Chilled to his bones, paler and yet more rigid than before, Simon, from
the top of the steps, responded by a cry which henceforth came without
cessation from his lips as if it were the very voice of his conscience:
'I am innocent, I am innocent!'

Then rage transported the throng, the hoots ascended tempestuously, a
huge human wave bounded forward to seize the accursed wretch and throw
him down and tear him into shreds.

'To death! to death with the Jew!'

But the officers had quickly pushed Simon into the waiting vehicle, and
the driver urged his horse into a fast trot, while the prisoner, never
tiring, repeated his cry in accents which rose above the tempest:

'I am innocent! I am innocent! I am innocent!'

All the way down the High Street the crowd rushed, howling louder and
louder, behind the vehicle. And Marc, who had remained in the square,
dazed and full of anguish, began to think of the other demonstration,
the indignant murmurs, the explosion of revolt which had attended the
end of the prize-giving at the Brothers' school two days previously.
Barely forty-eight hours had sufficed for a complete revulsion of
public opinion, and he was terrified by the abominable skill, the cruel
promptitude displayed by the mysterious hands which had gathered so
much darkness together. His hopes had crumbled, he felt that truth was
obscured, defeated, in peril of death. Never before had he experienced
such intense distress of mind.

But the procession for little Zéphirin's funeral was already being
formed. Marc saw the devout Mademoiselle Rouzaire bringing up the
girls of her class, after witnessing Simon's Calvary without making
even a gesture of sympathy. Nor had Mignot, who was surrounded by
some of the boys, gone to press his superior's hand. He stood there
sullen and embarrassed, suffering no doubt from the struggle between
his good nature and his interests. At last the procession started,
directing its steps towards St. Martin's amidst extraordinary pomp.
Again one realised how carefully artful hands had organised everything
in order to move the people, excite its pity, and its desire for
vengeance. On either side of the little coffin walked those of
Zéphirin's school-fellows who had taken their first Communion at the
same time as himself. Next appeared Darras, the Mayor, attended by
the other authorities and acting as chief mourner. Then came all the
pupils of the Brothers' school, led by Brother Fulgence with his three
assistants, Brothers Isidore, Lazarus, and Gorgias. The important
airs which Brother Fulgence gave himself were much remarked; he came,
went, and commanded on all sides, going even so far in his agitation
as to meddle with Mademoiselle Rouzaire's pupils as though they were
under his orders. And several Capuchins were also present with their
superior, Father Théodose, and there were Jesuits from the College of
Valmarie, headed by their rector, Father Crabot, together with priests
who had come from all the surrounding districts--such a gathering of
gowns and cassocks, indeed, that the whole Church of the region seemed
to have been mobilised in order to ensure itself a triumph by claiming
as its own the poor little body which, amid that splendid procession,
was now being carried to the grave.

Sobs burst forth along the whole line of route, and furious cries
resounded: 'Death to the Jews! Death to the dirty Jews!'

A final incident completed Marc's enlightenment while, with his
heart full of bitterness, he continued to watch the scene. He caught
sight of Inspector Mauraisin, who, as on the previous day, had come
from Beaumont to ascertain, no doubt, what might be his best line of
conduct. And when Father Crabot passed, Marc saw that he and Mauraisin
exchanged a smile and a discreet salutation, like men who understood
each other and regarded each other's conduct with approval. All the
monstrous iniquity, woven in the gloom during the last two days, then
appeared to Marc under the clear sky, while the bells of St. Martin's
rang out in honour of the poor little boy whose tragic fate was about
to be so impudently exploited.

But a rough hand was laid on Marc's shoulder, and some words addressed
to him in a tone of bitter irony caused him to look round.

'Well, what did I tell you, my worthy and simple colleague? The dirty
Jew is convicted of villainy and murder. And while he travels to
Beaumont gaol, all the good Brothers are triumphing!'

It was Férou who spoke--Férou the rebellious, starveling schoolmaster,
looking more gawky than ever, with his hair all in disorder, his long
bony head, and his big sneering mouth.

'How can they be accused,' he continued, 'since the little victim
belongs to them, to them alone? Ah! it's certain that nobody will
dare to accuse them, for all Maillebois has seen them take him to
the grave in grand procession! The amusing thing is the buzzing of
that ridiculous black fly, that idiotic Brother Fulgence, who knocks
up against everybody. He's over zealous. But you must have also seen
Father Crabot with his shrewd smile, which doubtless hides no little
stupidity, whatever may be his reputation for skilfulness. At all
events, remember what I tell you, the cleverest, the only really clever
one among them all, is certainly Father Philibin, who pretends to
look like a big booby. You may search for him, but you won't find him
there. It wasn't likely that he would come to Maillebois to-day. He's
keeping himself in the background, and you may be sure that he's doing
some fine work. Ah! I don't know exactly who the culprit may be--he is
certainly none of those--but he belongs to their shop, that's as plain
as a pikestaff, and they will overturn everything rather than give him
up.'

Then as Marc, still overcome, remained silent, merely nodding, Férou
went on: 'Ah! they regard it as a fine opportunity to crush the
freethinkers. A Communal schoolmaster guilty of abomination and murder!
What a splendid battle-cry! They will soon settle our hash, rogues that
we are, without God or country! Yes, death to the traitors who've sold
themselves! Death to the dirty Jews!'

Waving his long arms, Férou went off into the crowd. As he was wont to
say with his excessive jeering bitterness, it mattered little to him at
bottom whether he ended by being burnt at the stake, in a shirt dipped
in brimstone, or whether he starved to death in his wretched school at
Le Moreux.

That evening, when, after a silent dinner in the ladies' company, Marc
found himself alone again with Geneviève, she, observing his despair,
lovingly passed her arms about him, and burst into tears. He felt
deeply moved, for it had seemed to him that day as if their bond of
union had been slightly shaken, as if severance were beginning. He
pressed her to his heart, and for a long time they both wept without
exchanging a word.

At last, hesitating somewhat, she said to him: 'Listen, my dear Marc, I
think we should do well to shorten our stay with grandmother. We might
go away to-morrow.'

Surprised by these words, he questioned her: 'Has she had enough of us
then? Were you told to signify it to me?'

'Oh! no, no! On the contrary, it would grieve mamma. We should have to
invent a pretext, get somebody to send us a telegram.'

'But in that case, why should we not spend our full month here as
usual? We have some little differences together, no doubt; but I don't
complain.'

For a moment Geneviève remained embarrassed. She did not dare to
confess her anxiety at the thought that something had seemed to be
detaching her from her husband that evening, in the atmosphere of
devout hostility in which she lived at her grandmother's. She had felt
indeed as if the ideas and feelings of her girlhood were returning and
clashing with the life which she led as wife and mother. But all that
was merely the faint touch of the past, and her gaiety and confidence
soon returned amid Marc's caresses. Near her, in the cradle, she could
hear the gentle and regular breathing of her little Louise.

'You are right,' she said. 'Let us stay--and do your duty as you
understand it. We love each other too well to be otherwise than happy,
always.'




III


From that time forward, in order to avoid painful quarrels; nothing
more was said of the Affaire Simon in the ladies' little house. At
meals they spoke merely of the fine weather, as if they were a thousand
leagues from Maillebois, where the popular passions raged more and
more tempestuously, old friends of thirty years' standing, and even
relatives quarrelling, threatening one another and exchanging blows.
Marc, who in the home of Geneviève's family displayed such silence and
lack of interest, became elsewhere one of the most ardent combatants,
an heroic worker in the cause of truth and justice.

On the evening of the day when Simon was arrested he had persuaded his
colleague's wife to seek an asylum with her parents, the Lehmanns,
those tailors who dwelt in a little dark house of the Rue du Trou.
It was holiday-time, the school was closed; and, besides, Mignot the
assistant-master, remained to guard the building--that is, when he
was not fishing in the Verpille. Moreover, Mademoiselle Rouzaire, who
wished to take part in the affair, in which her evidence was likely
to prove important, had also remained at her post, renouncing on this
occasion the holiday visit which she usually paid to an aunt dwelling
at a distance. Thus Madame Simon, leaving her furniture behind, in
order that folk might not regard her departure as terrified flight and
a tacit acknowledgment of guilt, had taken Joseph and Sarah to the Rue
du Trou, with a single trunk of clothes, as if she merely intended to
stay with her parents for a few weeks.

From that moment Marc visited the Lehmanns almost daily. The Rue du
Trou, which opened into the Rue du Plaisir, was one of the most sordid
streets of the poor quarter of Maillebois, and the Lehmanns' house
was composed merely of a dark shop and a still darker shop parlour on
the ground floor, then three first-floor rooms, reached by a black
staircase, at the very top of which was a spacious garret, this
last being the only part of the house which the sunrays occasionally
entered. The damp, greenish, cellar-like shop parlour served as a
kitchen and living room. Rachel took possession of the dismal bedroom
of her girlhood; and the old people contented themselves with one
chamber, the third being given to the children, who were also allowed
the run of the garret, which made them a gay and spacious playroom.

Marc constantly felt surprised that such an admirable woman as Rachel,
one of so rare a beauty, should have sprung in such a horrid den from
needy parents, weighed down by a long heredity of anxious penury.
Lehmann, her father, was, at five and fifty, a Jew of the classic type,
short and insignificant, with a large nose, blinking eyes, and a thick
grey beard which hid his mouth. His calling had distorted him; he had
one shoulder higher than the other, and a kind of anxious discomfort
of body was thus added to his humility. His wife, who plied her needle
from morning till night, hid herself away in his shadow, being yet more
retiring in her humility and silent disquietude. They led a narrow life
full of difficulties, earning a scanty subsistence by dint of hard work
for slowly-acquired customers, such as the few Israelites of the region
who were in easy circumstances, and certain Christians who did not
spend much money on their clothes. The gold of France, with which the
Jews were said to gorge themselves, was certainly not piled up there.
Indeed, a feeling of great compassion came to one at the sight of those
poor weary old people, who were ever trembling lest somebody should
deprive them of the bread which cost them so much toil.

At the Lehmanns', however, Marc became acquainted with Simon's brother
David, whom a telegram had summoned on the day of the arrest. Taller
and stronger than Simon, whose senior he was by three years, David had
a full firm face with bright and energetic eyes. After his father's
death he had entered the army, in which he had served for twelve
years, rising from the ranks to a lieutenancy, and after innumerable
struggles and rebuffs being, it seemed, near promotion to the rank
of captain, when he suddenly sent in his papers, lacking the courage
to contend any longer against the affronts to which his comrades and
superiors subjected him because he was a Jew. This had taken place some
five years before the crime of Maillebois, at the time when Simon was
about to marry Rachel. David, who remained a bachelor, looked round
him for occupation, and, like a man of initiative and energy, embarked
in an enterprise of which nobody had previously thought. This was the
working of some very extensive sand and gravel pits on the estate of
La Désirade, which then still belonged to the millionaire banker,
Baron Nathan. The latter, taken with the young man's energy and sense,
granted him a thirty years' lease on fairly low terms, and thus David
was soon on the high road to fortune; for in three years he earned a
hundred thousand francs in this enterprise, which steadily increased in
magnitude and at last absorbed every hour of his time.

But, on hearing of the charge brought against his brother, he did not
hesitate; he placed his business in the hands of a foreman on whom he
could rely, and hurried to Maillebois. He did not for a moment doubt
his brother's innocence. It was materially impossible, he felt, that
such a deed could be the act of such a man, the one whom he knew best
in all the world, who was indeed the counterpart of himself. But he
evinced great prudence, for he desired to do nothing that might harm
his brother, and he knew, too, that all Jews were unpopular. Thus, when
Marc in his impassioned way spoke to him of his suspicions, declaring
that the real culprit must certainly be one of the Brothers of the
Christian Doctrine, David, though at heart of the same opinion, strove
to calm his friend, saying that one must not lose sight of the theory
of a prowling tramp, a chance murderer, who might have entered and left
by the window. As a matter of fact, he felt that he would increase the
popular prejudice against Simon by bringing any random charge against
the Brothers; he foresaw, too, that all efforts would be vain against
the coalition of the interested parties unless he were possessed of
decisive proofs. Meantime, in order that Simon might benefit by an
element of doubt, would it not be best to revert to the theory of that
prowler, which everybody had admitted as possible at the moment of
the discovery of the crime? It would serve as an excellent basis for
provisional operations; whereas a campaign at that moment against the
well-informed and powerfully supported Brothers could only turn against
the prisoner.

David was able to see Simon in the presence of Investigating
Magistrate Daix, and by the long hand-shake which they then exchanged
they fully understood that each was possessed by the same feelings.
Later, David also saw his brother at the prison, and, on returning
to the Lehmanns, he described Simon as being still in great despair,
ever straining his mind in endeavouring to unravel the enigma, but
displaying extraordinary energy in defending his honour and that of
his children. When David recounted all this, seated in the dim little
shop where Marc also was present, the latter was profoundly stirred by
the silent tears of Madame Simon, who looked so beautiful and dolorous
in her self-abandonment, like a woman of weak loving nature cruelly
struck down by destiny. The Lehmanns also could only sigh and display
the shrinking despair of poor folk who were resigned to contumely.
They still plied their needles, and, though they were convinced of
their son-in-law's innocence, they dared not proclaim it before their
customers for fear lest they should aggravate his position and lose
their own means of livelihood. The public effervescence at Maillebois
was unhappily increasing, and one evening a band of brawlers smashed
the shop windows. It was necessary to put up the shutters at once. Then
little manuscript notices were posted in various parts of the town,
calling upon patriots to assemble and burn down the shop. For some days
indeed--particularly one Sunday, after a pompous religious ceremony at
the Capuchin Chapel--the explosion of anti-semite passion became so
intense that Darras, the Mayor, had to send to Beaumont for police,
deeming it necessary to have guards posted in the Rue du Trou lest the
house of the Lehmanns should be sacked.

From hour to hour the affair expanded, and grew more virulent, becoming
a social battlefield on which rival parties contended hotly. Magistrate
Daix had doubtless received orders to conduct his investigations
with all possible speed. In less than a month he interrogated all
the witnesses--Mignot, Mademoiselle Rouzaire, Father Philibin,
Brother Fulgence, several schoolchildren and railway employés.
Brother Fulgence, with his usual exuberance, demanded that his three
assistants, Brothers Isidore, Lazarus, and Gorgias, should also be
interrogated; he likewise insisted that a search should be made at
his school, and this was done; but naturally nothing was found. Daix
thought it his duty, however, to inquire minutely into the suggestion
that the crime might have been committed by a tramp. By his orders the
entire gendarmerie of the department scoured the roads, and some fifty
tramps were arrested, and then released, without the slightest clue
being arrived at. In one instance a pedlar remained three days under
lock and key, but to no purpose. Then Daix, setting aside the theory
of a prowler, remained in presence of the copy-slip, the one tangible
piece of evidence at his disposal, the only thing on which he could
rear his charge.

When this reached the ears of Marc and David, they became calm again,
for it seemed to them impossible that a serious accusation could be
based on that slip of paper, the importance of which was so open to
discussion. As David repeated, although no guilty tramp had been found,
the hypothesis that one existed, or at least an element of doubt, still
remained. And if thereto one added the lack of proof against Simon,
the moral improbability of his guilt, his never-varying protests of
innocence, it was purely impossible for an Investigating Magistrate,
possessed of any conscience, to come to the conclusion that he was the
culprit. A _non-lieu_, otherwise a decision that there was no ground to
proceed further against the prisoner, seemed a certainty on which one
might rely.

There came days, however, when Marc and David, who co-operated in
brotherly fashion, began to lose some of their fine assurance. Bad
rumours reached them. The Congregations were bestirring themselves
frantically. Father Crabot was for ever visiting Beaumont, availing
himself of his society connections to dine with government officials,
members of the judicial and even the university world. As the Jew
prisoner seemed more and more likely to secure release, so, on all
sides, the battle grew fiercer. At last, then, it occurred to David to
endeavour to obtain the support of Baron Nathan, the great banker and
former proprietor of La Désirade, who was staying there as the guest of
his daughter, the Countess de Sanglebœuf, whose marriage portion had
consisted of that royal domain and a sum of ten millions of francs[1]
in hard cash. Thus, one bright afternoon in August, David and Marc, who
also had a slight acquaintance with the Baron, set out on foot for La
Désirade, a very pleasant walk, for the distance from Maillebois was
not much more than a mile.

[Footnote 1: About $1,940,000.]

Count Hector de Sanglebœuf, the last scion of his house, one of the
early members of which had been squire to St. Louis, had found himself
completely ruined when he was only thirty-six years of age. His father
had devoured the greater part of the family fortune and he himself had
consumed the remnants. After holding a commission in the Cuirassiers,
he had resigned it, feeling tired of garrison life; and for a time he
had remained living with a widow, the Marchioness de Boise, who was
ten years his senior, and far too intent on her own comfort to marry
him, for her penury, added to his own, would only have conduced to a
disastrous future. People related that it was this mistress who had
ingeniously arranged the Count's marriage with Baron Nathan's daughter
Lia, a young person of four and twenty, very beautiful and all ablaze
with millions. Nathan had negotiated the transaction with his eyes
open, knowing perfectly well what he gave and what he was to receive
in exchange, adding his daughter to the millions which left his safe
in order that he might have as son-in-law a Count of very old and
authentic nobility, which circumstance would open to him the portals of
a sphere from which he had been hitherto excluded.

He himself had lately acquired the title of Baron, and he was at last
escaping from the ancient 'ghetto,' that universal contumely of which
the haunting thought made him shudder. A dealer in money, he had
filled his cellars with gold, and his one frantic craving nowadays,
like that of the Christian moneymongers, whose appetites were fully
as keen, was to gratify his pride and his instincts of domination, to
be saluted, honoured and worshipped upon all sides, and in particular
to be delivered from the ever-pursuing dread of being kicked and spat
upon like a mere dirty Jew. Thus he quite enjoyed staying with his
son-in-law at La Désirade, deriving no little consideration from the
connections of his daughter the Countess, and remaining in so small
a degree a Jew that, like many other renegades of his class, he had
enrolled himself among the anti-semites, and professed the most fervent
royalism and patriotism. Indeed, the dexterous, smiling Marchioness de
Boise, who had derived from her lover's marriage all the profit she had
anticipated for him and for herself, was often obliged to moderate the
Baron's ardour. That marriage, it should be mentioned, had scarcely
changed the position of the Marchioness and Count Hector. The former,
a beautiful ripening blonde, was doubtless devoid of jealousy in the
strict sense of the word, besides being intelligent enough to combine
such worldly enjoyment as money may procure with the happiness of a
long and peaceful _liaison_. Besides, she knew the beautiful Lia to
be an admirable piece of statuary, an idol full of narrow egotism,
who found it blissful to be installed in a sanctuary, where attendant
worshippers adored but did not unduly tire her. She did not even read,
for reading soon brought her fatigue; she was quite content to remain
seated for hours together in the midst of general attentions, with
never a thought for anybody but herself.

Doubtless she did not long remain ignorant of the real position of the
Marchioness and her husband, but she dismissed the thought of it, not
wishing to be worried, and indeed she was at last unable to dispense
with that caressing friend, who was ever in admiration before her,
and who lavished on her such loving and pleasing expressions as 'my
pussy,' 'my beautiful darling,' 'my dear treasure.' A more touching
friendship was never seen, and the Marchioness soon had her room and
her place at table at La Désirade. Then another idea of genius came
to her. She undertook to convert Lia to the Catholic faith. The young
wife was at first terrified by the idea, for she feared that she might
be overwhelmed with religious exercises and observances. But, directly
Father Crabot was brought into the affair, he, with his worldly
graciousness, made the path quite easy. Yet the Countess was most won
over by the enthusiasm which her father displayed for the Marchioness's
idea. It was as if the Baron hoped that he would cleanse himself of
some of his own horrid Jewry in the water of the young woman's baptism.
When the ceremony took place it quite upset society in Beaumont, and it
was always spoken of as a great triumph of the Church.

As a final achievement, the motherly Marchioness de Boise, who directed
the steps of Hector de Sanglebœuf as if he were her big, dull-witted,
obedient child, had with the help of his wife's fortune caused him
to be elected as one of the deputies of Beaumont, insisting too
that he should join the little parliamentary group of Opportunist
Reactionaries, who gave out that they had 'rallied' to the Republic;
for by this course she hoped to raise him to some high political
position. The amusing part of the affair was that Baron Nathan, who,
scarce freed from the stigma of his Jewish ancestry, had become an
uncompromising Royalist, now found himself a far more fervent partisan
of the monarchy than his son-in-law, and this in spite of the latter's
descent from a squire of St. Louis. The Baron, who had found an
opportunity for personal triumph in the baptism of his daughter--on
which occasion he had chosen her new 'Christian' name, Marie, by which
he always addressed her with a kind of pious affectation--triumphed
also in the election of his son-in-law as deputy, for he felt that he
might be able to make use of him in the political world. But, apart
from questions of interest, he quite enjoyed himself at La Désirade,
which was now full of priests, and where all the talk was about the
various pious works in which the Marchioness de Boise associated her
friend Marie, with whom she became yet more intimate and loving.

David and Marc slackened their steps when, admitted by the lodge-keeper
of La Désirade, they at last found them selves in the grounds. It was a
splendid and enjoyable August day, and the beauty of the great trees,
the infinite placidity of the lawns, the delightful freshness of the
waters filled them with admiration. A king might have dwelt there. At
the end of the enchanting avenues of verdure extending on all sides,
one invariably perceived the château, a sumptuous Renaissance château,
rising like lace-work of pinkish stone against the azure of the sky.
And at the sight of that paradise acquired by Jew wealth, at the
thought of the splendid fortune amassed by Nathan the Jew money-monger,
Marc instinctively recalled the gloomy little shop in the Rue du Trou,
the dismal hovel without air or sunshine, where Lehmann, that other
Jew, had been plying his needle for thirty years, and earning only
enough to provide himself with bread. And, ah! how many other Jews
there were, yet more wretched than he--Jews who starved in filthy dens.
They were the immense majority, and their existence demonstrated all
the idiotic falsity of anti-semitism, that proscription _en masse_ of
a race which was charged with the monopolisation of all wealth, when
it numbered so many poor working-folk, so many victims, crushed down
by the almightiness of money, whether it were Jew, or Catholic, or
Protestant. As soon as ever a French Jew became a great capitalist, he
bought a title of Baron, married his daughter to a Count of ancient
stock, made a pretence of showing himself more royalist than the king,
and ended by becoming the worst of renegades, a fierce anti-semite, who
not only denied, but helped to slaughter, his kith and kin. There was
really no Jew question at all, there was only a Capitalist question--a
question of money heaped up in the hands of a certain number of
gluttons, and thereby poisoning and rotting the world.

As David and Marc reached the château they perceived Baron Nathan,
his daughter, and his son-in-law seated under a large oak tree in
the company of the Marchioness de Boise and a cleric, in whom they
recognised Father Crabot. Doubtless the Rector of the College of
Valmarie had been invited to a quiet family lunch, in neighbourly
fashion--for a distance of less than two miles separated the two
estates; and doubtless, also, some serious question had been discussed
at dessert. Then, to enjoy the fine weather, they had seated themselves
in some garden chairs, under that oak and near a marble basin, into
which ever fell the crystal of a source which an indelicate nymph was
pouring from her urn.

On recognising the visitors, who discreetly halted a short distance
away, the Baron came forward and conducted them to some other seats,
set out on the opposite side of the basin. Short and somewhat
bent, quite bald at fifty, with a yellow face, a fleshy nose, and
black eyes--the eyes of a bird of prey set deeply under projecting
brows--Nathan had assumed for the nonce an expression of grievous
sympathy as if he were receiving folk in deep mourning who had just
lost a relative. It was plain that the visit did not surprise him. He
must have been expecting it.

'Ah! how I pity you, my poor David,' he said. 'I have often thought
of you since that misfortune. You know how highly I esteem your
intelligence, enterprise, and industry. But what an affair, what an
abominable affair your brother Simon has put on your shoulders! He is
compromising you, he is ruining you, my poor David!'

And with an impulse of sincere despair the Baron raised his quivering
hands and added, as if he feared he might see the persecutions of olden
time begin afresh: 'The unhappy man! He is compromising all of us!'

Then David with his quiet bravery began to plead his brother's cause,
expressing his absolute conviction of his innocence, enumerating the
moral and material proofs which in his estimation were irrefutable,
while Nathan curtly jogged his head.

'Yes, yes, it is only natural,' the Baron at last replied, 'you believe
him to be innocent; I myself still wish to do so. Unfortunately it is
not a question of convincing me, you must convince the officers of the
law, and also the exasperated masses who are capable of doing harm to
all of us if he is not condemned.... No, I shall never forgive your
brother for having saddled us with such a dreadful affair.'

Then, on David explaining that he had come to him, knowing his
influence, and relying on his help to make the truth manifest, the
Baron became colder, more and more reserved, and listened in silence.

'You always showed me so much kindness, Monsieur le Baron,' said David,
'and as you used to invite the judicial authorities of Beaumont here,
I thought that you might perhaps be able to give me some information.
For instance, you are acquainted with Monsieur Daix, the Investigating
Magistrate who has the affair in hand, and who, I hope, will soon stay
further proceedings. Perhaps you may have some news on that subject;
besides which, if a decision has not yet been reached, a word from you
might prove valuable----'

'No, no,' Nathan protested, 'I know nothing, I desire to know nothing.
I have no official connections, no influence. Besides, my position
as a co-religionist prevents me from doing anything; I should merely
compromise myself without rendering you any service. But wait a moment,
I will call my son-in-law.'

Marc had remained silent, contenting himself with listening. He had
accompanied David merely to give him the support of his presence as
one of Simon's colleagues. But while he listened he glanced in the
direction of the oak tree, at the ladies sitting there--Countess
Marie, as the beautiful Lia was now called, and the Marchioness de
Boise, between whom Father Crabot was reposing in a rustic armchair,
while Count Hector de Sanglebœuf, who had remained erect, finished
chewing a cigar. The Marchioness, still slim and still pretty under
her fair hair, which she powdered, was expressing great anxiety
respecting a sunbeam which darted on the nape of the Countess's neck;
and although the beautiful Jewess, indolent and superb, declared that
she was in no way inconvenienced, her friend, lavishing on her all the
usual pet names, 'my pussy,' 'my jewel,' and 'my treasure,' at last
compelled her to change places. The Jesuit Crabot, who was evidently
at his ease, smiled at both of them with the air of a very tolerant
father-confessor. And meantime a never-ending flute-like strain came
from the crystalline water which the indelicate nymph was pouring from
her urn into the marble basin.

Sanglebœuf, on being called by his father-in-law, came forward slowly.
With a big body and a full and highly-coloured face, a low forehead
and short-cropped, ruddy, bristling hair, he had eyes of a dim blue, a
small flabby nose, and a large voracious mouth, half-hidden by thick
moustaches. As soon as the Baron had told him of the help which David
solicited, he became quite angry, though he affected a kind of military
plain-speaking.

'What! mix myself up in that affair! Ah, no!' he exclaimed. 'You must
excuse me, monsieur, if I employ my credit as a deputy in clearer and
cleaner affairs. I am quite willing to believe that you personally are
an honourable man. But you will really have a great deal to do if you
wish to defend your brother. Besides, as all those who support you say,
we are the enemy. Why do you apply to us?'

Then, turning his big, blurred, wrathful eyes on Marc, he began to hold
forth against the godless and unpatriotic folk who dared to insult
the army. Too young to have fought in 1870, he had merely served as a
garrison soldier, taking part in no campaign whatever. Nevertheless he
had remained a cuirassier to his very marrow, to cite one of his own
expressions. And he boasted that he had set two emblems at his bedside,
two emblems which summed up his religion--a crucifix and a flag, his
flag--for which, unfortunately for a good many people, he had not died.

'When you have restored the Cross to the schools, monsieur,' he
continued, 'when your schoolmasters decide to make Christians and not
citizens of their pupils, then, and only then, will you have any claim
on us should you ask us to render you a service.'

David, pale and frigid, allowed him to run on without attempting
any interruption. It was only when he had finished that he quietly
rejoined: 'But I have asked you for nothing, monsieur. It was to
Monsieur le Baron that I ventured to apply.'

Nathan, fearing a scene, then intervened, and led David and Marc away,
as if to escort them through a part of the grounds. Father Crabot, on
hearing the Count's loud voice, had for a moment raised his head; then
had returned to his worldly chat with his two dear lady penitents. And
when Sanglebœuf had joined the others again, one could distinctly hear
them laughing at the good lesson which, in their opinion, had just been
administered to a couple of dirty Jews.

'What can you expect? They are all like that,' said Nathan to David and
Marc, lowering his voice, when they were some thirty paces distant.
'I summoned my son-in-law in order that you might see for yourselves
what are the views of the department--I mean of the upper classes, the
deputies, functionaries, and magistrates. And so, how could I be of any
use to you? Nobody would listen to me.'

This hypocritical affectation of good nature, in which one detected a
quiver of the old hereditary racial dread, must have seemed cowardly
even to the Baron himself, for he presently added: 'Besides, they are
right; I am with them; France before everything else, with her glorious
past, and the _ensemble_ of her firm traditions. We cannot hand her
over to the Freemasons and the cosmopolites! And I cannot let you go,
my dear David, without offering you a word of advice. Have nothing to
do with that affair; you would lose everything in it, you would be
wrecked for ever. Your brother will get out of the mess by himself if
he is innocent.'

Those were his last words; he shook hands with them, and quietly walked
back, while they in silence quitted the grounds. But on the high road
they exchanged glances almost of amusement, however much they might be
disappointed, for the scene in which they had participated seemed to
them quite typical, perfect of its kind.

'Death to the Jews!' exclaimed Marc facetiously.

'Ah! the dirty Jews!' David responded in the same jesting way, tinged
with bitterness. 'He advised me to forsake my brother; and for his part
he would not hesitate. He has thrown his brothers over plenty of times
already, and he will do so again. I certainly must not knock for help
at the doors of my famous and powerful co-religionists. They shiver
with fear.'

Several more days now went by, and, however prompt Magistrate Daix
might have been with his investigations, he still delayed his decision.
It was said that he was a prey to increasing perplexity, having a
very keen professional mind, and too much intelligence to have failed
to divine the truth; but, on the other hand, being worried by public
opinion and browbeaten at home by his terrible wife. Madame Daix,
ugly, coquettish, and very pious--indeed, another of Father Crabot's
dearly-loved penitents--was consumed by ambition, tortured by penurious
circumstances, haunted by dreams of life in Paris, finery, and a
social position, as the outcome of some great sensational 'affair.'
Such an 'affair' was within her reach now, and she never ceased
repeating to her husband that it would be idiotic not to profit by the
opportunity; for if he were so simple as to release that dirty Jew
they would end by dying in a garret. Yet Daix struggled, honest still,
but perturbed and no longer hurrying, clinging in fact to a last hope
that something would happen to enable him to reconcile his interests
with his duty. This fresh delay seemed of good augury to Marc, who
was well aware of the magistrate's torments, but who still remained
optimistically convinced that truth possessed an irresistible power, to
which all ended by submitting.

Since the beginning of the affair he often went to Beaumont of a
morning to see his old friend Salvan, the Director of the Training
College. He found him well posted with information, and derived also
a good deal of faith and courage from what he said. Besides, that
college where he had lived three years, full of apostolic enthusiasm,
had remained dear to him. It stood on a lonely little square at the
end of the Rue de la République; and when in those vacation days he
reached the director's quiet private room, which looked into a little
garden, he felt himself in a spot where peace and happy confidence
prevailed. One morning, however, when he called, he found Salvan full
of grief and irritation. At first he had to wait in the ante-chamber,
for the director was engaged with another visitor; but the latter, a
fellow-schoolmaster named Doutrequin--a man with a low stubborn brow,
broad clean-shaven cheeks, and the expression of a magistrate conscious
of the importance of his functions--soon quitted the private room, and
Marc bowed to him as he passed. Then, his turn having come, he was
astonished by the agitation of Salvan, who, raising his arms to the
ceiling, greeted him with the exclamation: 'Well, my friend, you know
the abominable news, don't you?'

Of medium height, unassuming but energetic, with a good round face,
all gaiety and frankness, Salvan, as a rule, turned laughing eyes upon
those to whom he spoke. But now his glance was ablaze with generous
anger.

'What is it?' Marc inquired anxiously.

'Ah, so you do not know yet? Well, my friend, those blackguards have
dared to do it. Last night Daix signed an _ordonnance_ sending Simon
for trial!'

Marc turned pale, but remained silent, while Salvan, pointing to a
number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ which lay open on his table, added:
'Doutrequin, who just went out, left me that filthy rag which gives the
news, and he confirmed its accuracy, on the authority of one of the
clerks at the Palace of Justice whom he knows.'

Then, taking up the paper, crumpling it, and flinging it into a corner
of the room with a gesture of disgust, Salvan continued: 'Ah! the
filthy rag! If iniquity becomes possible it is because that paper
poisons the poor and lowly with its lies. They are still so ignorant,
so credulous, so ready to believe the stories that flatter their base
passions. And to think that paper first acquired a circulation, first
found its way into all hands, by belonging to no party, by remaining
neutral, by merely printing serial stories, matter-of-fact accounts of
current events, and pleasant articles popularising general knowledge.
By that means, in the course of years, it became the friend, the
oracle, the daily pabulum of the simple-minded and the poor who cannot
think for themselves. But now, abusing its unique position, its immense
connection, it places itself in the pay of the parties of error and
reaction, makes money out of every piece of financial roguery, and
every underhand political plot. It is of secondary importance if
lies and insults come from the fighting journals which are openly
reactionary. They support a faction, they are known, and when one
reads them one is prepared for what they may say. Thus _La Croix de
Beaumont_, the Church party's organ, has started an abominable campaign
against our friend Simon, "the Jew schoolmaster who poisoned and
murdered little children," as it calls him; but all that has scarcely
moved me. When, however, _Le Petit Beaumontais_ publishes the ignoble
and cowardly articles with which you are acquainted, those charges and
slanders picked up in the gutter, it is a crime. To penetrate among the
simple by affecting bluff good nature, and then to mingle arsenic with
every dish, to drive the masses to delirium and to the most monstrous
actions in order to increase one's sales, I know of no greater crime!
And make no mistake, if Daix did not stay further proceedings it was
because public opinion weighed on him, poor wretched man that he is,
afraid to be honest, and afflicted too with a wife who rots everything.
And public opinion, you know, is such as it is made by _Le Petit
Beaumontais_, which is the prime mover in the iniquity, for it sows
imbecility and cruelty in the minds of the multitude, whence now, I
fear, we shall see a detestable harvest rise!'

Salvan sank into his arm-chair in front of his writing-table with an
expression of despairing anguish on his countenance. And silence fell
while Marc walked slowly to and fro, overwhelmed by that recapitulation
of opinions which he himself fully shared. At last, however, he
stopped, saying: 'All the same, we must come to a decision, and what
shall we do? Let us suppose that this iniquitous trial takes place:
Simon cannot be condemned, it would be too monstrous! And, surely, we
shall not remain with our arms folded. When this terrible blow falls on
poor David he will want to act. What do you advise us to do?'

'Ah, my friend!' cried Salvan, 'how willingly I would be the first to
act, if you could give me the means! You readily understand--do you
not?--that in the person of that unfortunate Simon, it is the secular
schoolmaster whom they are pursuing and whom they want to crush. They
regard our dear training school as a nursery of godless, unpatriotic
men, and they are eager to destroy it. For them I am a kind of Satan,
engendering atheist missionaries, to ruin whom has long been their
dream. What a triumph for the Church gang if one of our former pupils
should ascend the scaffold, convicted of an infamous crime! Ah, my dear
college, my poor house, which I should like to see so useful, so great,
so necessary for the destinies of the country, through what a terrible
time will it now have to pass!'

All Salvan's ardent faith in the good work he did was manifest in his
fervid words. Originally a schoolmaster, then an Elementary Inspector,
a militant with a clear mind devoted to knowledge and progress, he had
given himself, on his appointment as Director of the Training College,
to one sole mission--that of preparing efficient schoolmasters ready
to champion experimental science and freed from the bonds of Rome--men
who would at last teach Truth to the people and make it capable of
practising Liberty, Justice, and Peace. Therein lay the whole future of
the nation--the future indeed of all mankind.

'We shall all group ourselves around you,' said Marc, quivering; 'we
will not suffer you to be stopped in your work, the most urgent and
loftiest of all at the present time!'

Salvan smiled sadly. 'Oh, all, my friend! How many are there around me
then? There is yourself, and there was also that unfortunate fellow,
Simon, on whom I greatly relied. Again, there is Mademoiselle Mazeline,
the schoolmistress at your village, Jonville. If we had a few dozen
teachers like her we might expect that the next generation would at
last see women, wives and mothers, delivered from the priests! As for
Férou, wretchedness and revolt are driving him crazy, bitterness of
feeling is poisoning his mind. And after him comes the mere flock of
indifferent, egotistical folk, stagnating in the observance of routine,
and having only one concern, that of flattering their superiors in
order to secure good reports. Then too there are the renegades, those
who have gone over to the enemy, as, for instance, that Mademoiselle
Rouzaire, who alone does the work of ten nuns, and who behaves so
shamefully in the Simon affair. I was forgetting another, Mignot, one
of our best pupils, who is certainly not a bad fellow, but whose mind
requires forming, liable as it is to turn out good or bad, according to
influence.'

Salvan was growing excited, and it was with increased force that
he continued: 'But a case that one may well despair of is that of
Doutrequin, whom you saw leaving me just now. A schoolmaster himself,
he is the son of one; in '70 he was fifteen, and three years later he
entered the college still shuddering at the thought of the invasion,
and dreaming of revenge. At that time considerations of patriotism
influenced the whole of our educational system in France. The country
asked us merely for soldiers; the army was like a temple, a sanctuary,
that army which has remained waiting with arms grounded for thirty
years, and which has devoured thousands upon thousands of millions of
francs! And thus we have been turned into a warrior France instead
of becoming a France of progress, truth, justice, and peace, such as
alone could have helped to save the world. And now one sees so-called
patriotism changing Doutrequin, once a good Republican, a supporter
of Gambetta, and still quite recently an anti-clerical, into an
anti-Semite, even as it will end by changing him into a clerical
altogether. A few minutes ago he favoured me with an extraordinary
speech, an echo of the articles in _Le Petit Beaumontais_. "France
before everything else," said he; it was necessary to drive out the
Jews, to make a fundamental dogma of respect for the army, and to allow
more liberty in education, by which he meant to allow the religious
Congregations full freedom to keep the masses ignorant. He typifies
the bankruptcy of the earlier patriotic Republicans. Yet he is a
worthy man, an excellent teacher, with five assistants under him,
and the best-kept school in Beaumont. Two of his sons are already
assistant-teachers in other schools of the department, and I know that
they share their father's views and even exaggerate them as young
men are wont to do. What will become of us if such sentiments should
continue to animate our elementary masters? Ah! it is high time to
provide others, to send a legion of men of free intelligence to teach
the people truth, which is the one sole source of equity, kindliness,
and happiness!'

He spoke these last words with such fervour that Marc smiled! 'Ah! my
dear master, now I recognise you,' he said. 'You are not going to give
up the battle! You will end by winning it, for you have truth on your
side.'

Salvan gaily admitted that he had previously given way to a fit of
discouragment. The infamous proceedings with which Simon was threatened
had unnerved him. 'Advice?' he repeated, 'you asked me for advice as to
how you should act. Let us see; let us examine the situation together.'

There was Forbes, the Academy Rector,[2] gentle and affable, a very
able man of letters, and a very intelligent man also. But he was deep
in historical studies, covertly disdainful of the present age, and
he acted as a mere go-between for the intercourse of the Minister of
Public Instruction and the university staff. Then, however, came Le
Barazer, the Academy Inspector; and Salvan's hope of future victory was
centred in that sensible and courageous man, who was also a skilful
politician. The experience of Le Barazer, who was now barely fifty
years of age, dated back to the heroic days of the Republic, when the
necessity of secular and compulsory education had imposed itself as
the one sole possible basis of a free and just democracy. A worker for
the good cause from the very outset, Le Barazer had retained all his
hatred of clericalism, convinced that it was absolutely necessary to
drive the priests from the schools, and to free people's minds from
all mendacious superstitions, if one desired that the nation should
be strong, well-instructed, and capable of acting in the plenitude
of its intelligence. But age, the obstacles he had encountered, the
ever tenacious resistance of the Church, had added great prudence and
tactical skill to his Republican zeal.

[Footnote 2: See foot-note, p. 44, _ante_.]

Nobody knew better than he how to utilise the little ground which
he gained each day, and to oppose inertia to the assaults of his
adversaries, when forcible resistance was impossible. He exerted
the power he held as Academy Inspector without ever entering into a
direct contest with anybody, either the Prefect or the Deputies or the
Senators of the department, though, on the other hand, he refused to
yield so long as his views were not adopted.

It was thanks to him that Salvan, although violently attacked by the
clerical faction, was able to continue his work of regeneration,
the renewing of the _personnel_ of the elementary schoolmasters;
and doubtless he alone could in a measure defend Simon against his
subordinate, Inspector Mauraisin. For that handsome gentleman also had
to be reckoned with, and he was likely to prove ferocious, a traitor
to the university cause, and an accomplice of the Congregations, since
he had come to the conclusion that the Church would prove victorious
in the affair, and pay a higher reward than the other side for the
services rendered to it.

'Have you heard of his evidence?' Salvan continued. 'It appears that
he said everything he could against Simon to Daix. To think that the
inspection of our schools is confided to Jesuits of his stamp! It is
the same with that fellow, Depinvilliers, the principal of the Lycée[3]
of Beaumont, who attends Mass at St. Maxence every Sunday with his
wife and his two ugly daughters. Opinions are free, of course; but if
Depinvilliers is free to go to Mass, he ought not to be free to hand
one of our establishments of secondary education over to the Jesuits.
Father Crabot reigns at our Lycée as he reigns at the College of
Valmarie. Ah! the bitter irony of it when one thinks that this secular
Lycée, this Republican Lycée, which I sometimes hear called the rival
of the Jesuit College, is in reality a mere branch of it! Ah! our
Republic does fine work, it places its interests in very trusty and
loyal hands! I can well understand Mauraisin working for the other
side, which is ever active and which pays its supporters well!'

Then, coming to the point, Salvan added: 'I tell you what I will do. I
will see Le Barazer. Do not go to him yourself. It is better that any
application should come from me, whom he supports so bravely. And it
is useless to hustle him, he will act at the moment he thinks fit,
and with such means as are at his disposal. He will certainly keep
Mauraisin quiet, if he can render Simon no more direct service.... But
what I advise you to do is to see Lemarrois, our Mayor and Deputy. You
know him well, do you not? He was a friend of Berthereau, your wife's
father. He may be useful to you.'

[Footnote 3: A government secondary college.]

Marc then took leave, and on reaching the street decided to call on
Lemarrois at once. Eleven o'clock was striking, and he would doubtless
find him at home. Turning, therefore, into the Rue Gambetta, a
thoroughfare running from the Lycée to the Hôtel de Ville, and thus
cutting Beaumont in halves, he made his way to the Avenue des Jaffres,
the famous promenade of the town, which also traversed it, but from
the Préfecture to the Cathedral. In that very avenue, in the midst of
the aristocratic quarter, Lemarrois owned a luxurious house, where his
beautiful wife, a Parisienne, often gave entertainments. Wealthy and
already of repute in his profession, he had brought her from Paris
at the time when he had returned to his native place to practise
there and satisfy his political ambition. While he was yet a medical
student, he had made the acquaintance of Gambetta, with whom intimacy
had followed, for he showed much enthusiasm and firm Republicanism,
and became indeed one of the great man's favourite disciples. Thus he
was regarded at Beaumont as a pillar of the middle-class Republic. And
not only was he the husband of an amiable wife, but, intelligent and
good-hearted, he was personally very popular with the poor, whom he
attended gratuitously. His political advancement had been rapid; first
he had become municipal councillor, then a departmental councillor,
then deputy and mayor. For twelve years now he had been installed in
the latter functions, and was still the uncontested master of the town
and the chief of the departmental parliamentary contingent, though the
latter included some reactionary deputies.

Directly he saw Marc enter his study, a spacious room furnished with
chastened luxury, he went towards him with both hands outstretched, and
an expression of smiling sympathy on his face. Dark, with scarcely a
grey hair, though he was nearly fifty, he had a big head, with quick,
bright eyes, and a profile fit for a medal.

'Ah! my good fellow, I was astonished not to see you, and I can guess
what motive has brought you to-day! What an abominable business,
is it not? That unfortunate Simon is innocent, that is certain from
the frantic way in which he is being charged. I am on your side, you
know--on your side with all my heart!'

Pleased by this reception, cheered at meeting a just man, Marc quickly
explained to him that he came to solicit his influential help. There
was surely something to be done. One could not allow an innocent man to
be tried and perhaps condemned.

But Lemarrois was already raising his arms to heaven. 'Do something,
no doubt, no doubt!' said he. 'Only, what can one do against public
opinion when the whole department is already stirred up? As you must
know, the political situation is becoming more and more difficult. And
the general elections will take place next May--that is, in scarcely
nine months' time! Do you not understand to what extreme prudence we
are reduced? for we must not expose the Republic to the risk of a
check.'

He had seated himself and his face became anxious while, toying with a
large paper-knife, he expressed his fears about the agitated condition
of the department, in which the Socialists were actively bestirring
themselves, and gaining ground. He did not fear the election of any of
them as yet, for none could command a sufficient majority; but if two
Reactionaries, one of whom was Sanglebœuf, the so-called _rallié_, had
been returned at the last elections, it was by reason of a diversion
created by the Socialists. Each time that he pronounced that word
'Socialists' it was with a kind of aggressive bitterness, in which one
could detect the fear and anger of the middle-class Republic, which now
possessed power, in presence of the slow but irresistible use of the
Socialist Republic which wished to possess it.

'So how can I help you, my good fellow?' he continued; 'I am bound hand
and foot, for we have to reckon with public opinion. I don't refer
to myself,--I am certain of re-election,--but I have to think of my
colleagues whom I must not leave wounded on the battlefield. If it were
merely a question of my own seat I would sacrifice it at once so as to
act solely in accordance with my conscience; but the Republic is at
stake and we must not allow it to be defeated.'

Then he complained of the Prefect of the department, that handsome,
well-groomed Hennebise, who sported glasses and arranged his hair so
carefully. He gave no help whatever; for being perpetually afraid of
getting into difficulties with his Minister or the Jesuits, he was
careful to offend neither. He probably had secret leanings towards the
priests and the military set, and it would be necessary to watch him,
while pursuing, however, a course of diplomacy and compromise similar
to his own.

'Briefly,' said Lemarrois, 'you see me in despair, reduced to measure
every step and weigh every word for the next nine months under penalty
of being hissed by the readers of _Le Petit Beaumontais_, to the great
delight of the clerical faction. This Simon affair falls on us at a
most unfavourable moment. If the elections were not so near, I would
march with you at once.'

Then, quite abruptly, he, usually so calm, lost his temper: 'To make
matters worse, Simon not only saddles us with this business at a
difficult moment, but he chooses Delbos as his advocate, Delbos the
Socialist, who is the _bête noire_ of all right-thinking people.
Frankly, that is the climax; Simon must be really desirous of seeing
himself condemned.'

Marc had remained listening, pained at heart, feeling that another of
his illusions was taking flight. Yet he knew Lemarrois to be honest,
and he had seen him give many proofs of firm Republican faith.

'But Delbos is very talented,' the young man answered, 'and if poor
Simon chose him, it was because, like all of us, he considered him to
be the man of the situation. Besides, it is not certain that another
advocate would have accepted the brief. It is a frightful moment;
people are becoming cowards.'

That word must have seemed to Lemarrois like a smack. He made a quick
gesture, but he evinced no anger--indeed, he began to smile. 'You
consider me very cautious, do you not, my young friend?' he said. 'When
you get older you will see that it is not always easy in politics to
behave in accordance with one's own convictions. But why do you not
apply to my colleague Marcilly, your young deputy, the favourite and
the hope of all the young intellectuals of the department? I have
become an old, spent, prudent hack--that's understood. But Marcilly,
whose mind is so free and broad, will certainly place himself at your
head. Go to see him, go to see him.'

Then, having escorted Marc to the landing, he again pressed his hands,
promising that he would help him with all his power, when circumstances
should permit it.

Indeed, thought Marc, why should he not go to Marcilly? The latter
also lived in the Avenue des Jaffres, and it was not yet noon. The
young schoolmaster was entitled to call on him, as he had acted,
very discreetly, as one of his electoral canvassers, being full of
enthusiasm for a candidate who was so sympathetic and possessed of such
high literary culture. Born at Jonville, Marcilly had distinguished
himself as a pupil of the Training College, and had subsequently held
a professorship at the Faculty of Beaumont, which post he had resigned
in order to become a parliamentary candidate. Short, fair, and refined
in appearance, with an amiable and ever-smiling face, he played havoc
with women's hearts, and even won the partiality of men, thanks to
his rare skill in saying the right word to each, and in evincing all
necessary obligingness. To the younger members of the electorate
he endeared himself by his own comparative youth, for he was only
thirty-two, and by the happy and elegant form of his speeches, in which
he displayed much broadness of mind and knowledge of men and things.
It was felt at the time of his election that one would at last have a
really young deputy on whom one might rely. He would renew the science
of politics, infuse into it the blood of the rising generations, and
adorn it with faultless language, all the delightful bloom of sound
literature. Indeed, for three years past Marcilly had been acquiring a
more and more important position in the Chamber. His credit constantly
increased, and, in spite of the fact that he was only two and thirty,
he had already been spoken of for a ministerial portfolio. It was
certain also that if he attended to his constituents' affairs with
untiring complaisance, he pushed on his own still more successfully,
profiting by every circumstance to rise a little higher, but doing so
in such a natural and easy way that nobody had yet regarded him as
a mere _Arriviste_, one of those representatives of hot, impatient
youth, eager for enjoyment and power in every form. His rooms were
furnished and ornamented in a delicate style, and he received Marc
like a comrade. He spoke of Simon, too, immediately, in a voice full
of emotion, saying how deeply he was affected by the poor man's fate.
Of course he did not refuse to help him, he would speak in his favour,
he would see people who might be useful. But whatever might be his
graciousness, he ended by recommending extreme prudence on account of
the proximity of the elections. If his manners were more caressing,
his answer was much the same as Lemarrois'; he was secretly resolved
to do nothing for fear of compromising the Republican party. The two
schools might differ in outward appearance--that of Lemarrois being
older and rougher in its ways; that of Marcilly, younger and more
prodigal of compliments--but both were determined to abandon no shred
of the power they held. And now, for the first time, Marc felt that
Marcilly might be merely an _Arriviste_ in his flower, resolved to
follow his own course and bear his fruit. Nevertheless, on taking
leave, it became necessary to thank him, for with a flow of gentle
words the young deputy repeated that he was at his visitor's disposal
and would assuredly give some help.

Marc was full of fear and anxiety when he returned to Maillebois that
day. Calling on the Lehmanns in the afternoon, he found the family in
desolation. They had so confidently expected that further proceedings
would be abandoned. David, who was present, quite upset by the bad
news, still tried to believe in the possibility of some miracle which
would prevent that iniquitous trial from taking place. But, on the
morrow, things began to move quickly. The Indictment Chamber[4] seemed
to be in a singular hurry, for, the case was set down for hearing at
the earliest assizes, those of October. In presence of the inevitable,
David, with his ardent faith in his brother's innocence, recovered
all his courage, all that strength and firmness of mind which were to
make him a hero. The trial would have to take place; it could not be
avoided; but where was the jury that would dare to convict Simon when
no proofs were forthcoming? The prisoner never varied in his cry of
innocence; and the calmness with which he waited, the confidence in
speedy release which he expressed to his brother at each visit, greatly
fortified the latter. At the Lehmanns' house, as the expectations of
acquittal grew stronger, plans were formed, and Madame Simon talked
of a month's rest which she, her husband, and the children would
afterwards take in Provence, where they had some friends. It was in the
midst of this fresh spell of hopefulness that David one morning asked
Marc to go with him to Beaumont in order that they might discuss the
affair with Delbos, Simon's counsel.

The young advocate resided in the Rue Fontanier, in the popular
trading quarter of the town. The son of a peasant of the environs, he
had studied law in Paris, where for a short time he had frequented
many young men of Socialist views. But hitherto, for lack of one of
those great causes which class a man, he had not bound himself to any
party. In accepting a brief in Simon's case, that case which made his
colleagues of the bar tremble, he had decided his future. He studied
it and became impassioned on finding himself in presence of all the
public powers, all the forces of reaction, which, in order to save the
old rotten framework of society from destruction, were coalescing and
striving to ruin a poor and guiltless man. And the rise of militant
Socialism was at the end of it all, the salvation of the country by the
new force of which the freed masses now disposed.

[Footnote 4: A tribunal discharging the duties of a grand
jury.--_Trans._]

'Well, so there is to be a battle!' Delbos exclaimed gaily, when he
received his visitors in his little study, littered with books and
papers. 'Ah! I cannot tell if we shall conquer, but at all events we
shall do the others some harm.'

Short, dark, and wiry, with eyes of fire and tongue of flame, he
possessed an admirable voice and an extraordinary gift of eloquence, at
once enthusiastic, logical, and precise. David, however, was struck by
his apparent doubt of victory and repeated what he had been saying for
a week past: 'Conquer? Oh! we shall certainly do so. Where can a jury
be found that would dare to convict my brother without proofs?'

Delbos looked at him, and then began to laugh, saying: 'Let us go down
into the street, my poor friend, and the first twelve citizens we get
together will spit in your face and call you a dirty Jew. You don't
read _Le Petit Beaumontais_, and you are ignorant of the beautiful
souls and minds of your contemporaries. But all allusions would be
dangerous and culpable: is that not so, Monsieur Froment?'

Then, as Marc spoke of the disappointment he had experienced when
visiting influential persons, Delbos, wishing to free his client's
brother of his erroneous views, insisted on the subject. No doubt they
had a friend in Salvan, but he was sorely threatened, and, instead
of defending others, needed to be defended himself. Then Le Barazer
would sacrifice something to the fire, suffering Simon to go to his
fate and reserving all his authority and influence for the defence of
secular education. Next Lemarrois, the once incorruptible Republican,
was unknowingly on that path of disquietude which leads straight to
reaction. Then came Marcilly, at the mention of whose name Delbos was
all afire. No trust whatever was to be placed in him, he had always
lied, and to-morrow he would become a renegade and a traitor. Indeed,
one would obtain only fair words from all those folks; nothing in the
way of deeds was to be expected, neither an act of frankness nor one of
courage.

Having thus judged the university men and the politicians, Delbos
passed to the judicial world. He was convinced that Magistrate Daix
had suspected the truth, but had set it on one side, terrified as he
was by the perpetual quarrels which his wife stirred up in order to
prevent him from releasing the dirty Jew. And in acting as he had
done he had surely experienced great perturbation of conscience, for
at bottom he was honest. But, apart from him, one had to fear the
Procureur de la République, the frisky Raoul de La Bissonnière, whose
speech to the jury would certainly prove ferocious. Vain of his petty
_noblesse_, it seemed to La Bissonnière great condescension on his part
to serve the Republic, and he meant to be rewarded for doing so by
rapid advancement, which he hastened as best he could, fawning on both
the Government and the Congregations, zealous too as a patriot and an
anti-semite. As for President Gragnon, in him one would have a jovial
judge, a hard drinker, a keen sportsman, fond of petticoats, addicted
to witticisms, affecting brusqueness, not certainly sceptical, without
soul or faith, and at the mercy of the stronger side. Finally, there
would be the jury, the composition of which it was easy to foresee. One
might expect a few representatives of the manufacturing and trading
classes, some professional men, clerks, and retired officers, and all
would have poisoned minds, all would tremble for their skins, and yield
to the general dementia.

'So, you see,' Delbos concluded bitterly, 'your brother, forsaken by
everybody since he so awkwardly requires help when fear respecting
the result of the elections paralyses even the friends of truth and
justice, will have a fine collection of stupidity, egotism, and
cowardice to judge him.' And, as David preserved dolorous silence, he
added: 'Oh! we shall not allow ourselves to be devoured without raising
an outcry. But I prefer to show you things as they are. And now let us
examine the position with respect to the case itself.'

He could tell what views would be set forth by the prosecution.
Pressure had been brought to bear on the witnesses from all sides.
Quite apart from public opinion in the midst of whose vitiated
atmosphere they lived, they were certainly being worked upon by occult
powers, caught in a skilfully contrived skein of daily exhortations
which dictated to them the statements they were to make. Mademoiselle
Rouzaire now declared peremptorily that she had heard Simon come home
at a quarter to eleven o'clock on the night of the crime. Even Mignot
now fancied that he had heard footsteps and voices about the same hour.
Then influence must have been exercised on Simon's pupils, the Bongard,
Doloir, Savin, and Milhomme children, with the object of extracting
from them statements unfavourable to the prisoner. Little Sébastien
Milhomme, for instance, had now declared, while sobbing distressfully,
that he had never seen his cousin Victor with any copy-slip coming
from the Brothers' school; and apropos of that affair, people spoke
of an unexpected visit that Madame Edouard Milhomme had lately
received from a distant cousin, General Jarousse, who commanded the
division garrisoned at Beaumont. He had never previously confessed his
relationship to the lady stationer, but had suddenly remembered it, and
paid her that friendly call.

Moreover, the prosecution insisted on the failure of all efforts
to find any tramp who might have committed the crime, as had been
originally suspected. It also asserted that it had vainly sought any
witness, guard, or wayfarer, who had seen Simon returning from Beaumont
to Maillebois on foot. On the other hand, it had failed to establish
that he had returned by train, for no railway employé remembered having
seen him; besides which several return tickets had not been given up
on the night of the crime. But it seemed that the evidence of Brother
Fulgence and Father Philibin would be very grave, particularly that of
the latter, who would prove that the copy-slip connected with the crime
had really belonged to Simon's school. And to make things complete, two
handwriting experts of the prosecution, Masters Badoche and Trabut, had
declared that they fully recognised Simon's initials, an E and an S
intertwined, in the faint and virtually illegible paraph on the slip.

Thus one could divine the form which the 'act of accusation' or
indictment would take. It would set forth that Simon lied, and that he
had assuredly returned from Beaumont by train, and must have reached
his home at the very time when Mademoiselle Rouzaire declared that
she had heard him. On the other hand it seemed certain that little
Zéphirin, after returning from the Capuchin Chapel at ten o'clock, had
not gone to bed immediately, but had amused himself by arranging some
religious pictures on his table, in such wise that one might say the
crime had been committed between a quarter to eleven and eleven o'clock.

It was easy to picture the scene. Simon, seeing a light, had entered
his nephew's room, and found him there, about to get into bed.
Arriving from a banquet, heated by wine, he had yielded to a fit of
abominable madness. Moreover, he hated the child, he was infuriated
by the fact that he was a Catholic, and thus it was allowable to hint
at the possibility of ritual crime, at the horrible legend fixed in
the minds of the masses. But, at all events, there certainly had been
abomination; and the maddened criminal, after thrusting the first
thing he had at hand into the victim's mouth in order to stifle his
cries, had lost his head, and, frantic with terror, had strangled the
lad when the improvised gag fell out and the cries began afresh, more
terrible than ever. It was not so easy to explain how it happened that
the number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ and the copy-slip had been mingled
together. Doubtless the newspaper had been in Simon's pocket, for the
boy would not have had one in his possession. As for the copy-slip,
the prosecution, after hesitating slightly, had adopted the view that
this also must have been in Simon's pocket, for the report of the
handwriting experts identifying the initials showed that it belonged to
him.

The crime accomplished, the rest was easily explained. Simon left the
body on the floor, touched nothing in the room, but contented himself
with opening the window widely in order to make it appear that the
murderer had come from outside. In one respect he had blundered badly,
he had not thought of picking up and destroying the newspaper and the
copy-slip, which had rolled to the foot of the bed. This showed how
great had been his perturbation. And, doubtless, he had not immediately
joined his wife, as she fixed the hour of his return at twenty minutes
to twelve. In all probability he had spent some time seated on the
stairs, trying to recover his calmness. The prosecution did not go so
far as to charge Madame Simon with complicity; nevertheless, it gave
out that she did not tell the truth when she spoke of the smiling
quietude, the gay affection displayed by her husband that night; and
a proof of her disregard for veracity was to be found in the evidence
of Mignot, who was astonished that his principal should have risen so
late the next morning, and who asserted that he had found him pale and
shivering, scarce able to walk, when he went to tell him the dreadful
tidings. Mademoiselle Rouzaire, Brother Fulgence, and Father Philibin
agreed that Simon had almost fainted at the sight of the little body,
although in other respects he showed the most revolting dryness of
heart. And in this again was there not an overwhelming proof of
culpability? The wretched man's guilt could be doubted by none.

Having thus explained the views of the prosecution, Delbos resumed:
'The moral impossibilities are gross; no man of good sense will think
Simon guilty, and, besides, there are several material improbabilities.
But this frightful tale is sufficiently well constructed to seize
hold of the masses and to become one of those legendary fables which
acquire the force of truth. Our weakness proceeds from the fact that,
not knowing the real story, we cannot set it up in opposition to the
legend now being forged. The theory of a night prowler, to which you
seem to cling, can only serve to cast a little doubt into the minds of
the jury; for there are serious objections to it. And so whom can we
accuse, and what shall my system of defence be?'

At this Marc, hitherto very attentive and silent, could not restrain
himself from giving expression to the conviction which had slowly
gathered in his mind: 'But there is no doubt at all for me; the
criminal was one of the Brothers!'

Delbos, well pleased with the answer, and signifying his approval by an
energetic gesture, then exclaimed: 'Quite so. My own conviction is the
same. The more I study the case the more I am led to that conclusion as
being the only one possible.' And as David anxiously shook his head,
he added: 'Yes, I know; it seems to you that your brother's position
would be very dangerous if one of those Ignorantines were accused
without decisive proof. And you are certainly right. Nevertheless, I
have to plead, and the best way to prove your brother's innocence is to
demonstrate who the guilty man must be. Is it not so? You will tell me
that the question becomes one of ascertaining who that man is, and for
that very reason I wish to go into the matter with you thoroughly.'

The discussion continued, and Marc recapitulated the reasons which
made him believe the murderer to be one of the Brothers. First, the
copy-slip had come from this school; that was virtually proved by what
had occurred at the Milhommes. Then there was the initialling of the
slip, and the corner of it which had been torn away, in which clue the
solution of the enigma probably lurked. A decisive moral proof was the
extraordinary zeal the Congregations displayed in denouncing Simon.
They would not have stirred up heaven and earth in this fashion if
they had not found it necessary to save some black sheep; though of
course they also hoped to crush the secular schools and to insure the
triumph of the Church. Moreover, there were features in the crime which
suggested that it could only have been perpetrated by some sly, cruel,
bestial frock-wearer. But unfortunately arguments did not suffice, and
Marc was in despair that his investigations had been thwarted by a
combination of obscurity, confusion, and dread which artful, invisible
hands seemed to increase each day.

'Come,' interrupted Delbos, 'you suspect neither Brother Fulgence nor
Father Philibin, eh?'

'Oh no!' Marc answered, 'I saw them near the body when the crime was
discovered. Brother Fulgence certainly returned to his school on
quitting the Capuchin Chapel on the Thursday evening. Besides, though
he is vain and crazy, I do not think him capable of such a dreadful
deed. As for Father Philibin, he did not quit Valmerie that evening.
Moreover, he also seems to me honest, a worthy man at bottom.'

Silence fell. Then Marc, with a dreamy expression in his eyes, resumed:
'Yet something had certainly happened that morning just as I arrived
at the school. Father Philibin had picked up the newspaper and the
copy-slip, and I now ask myself whether he profited by that brief
opportunity to tear off and do away with that corner of the slip, on
which, perhaps, there may have been some indication.... But But Mignot,
though he hesitated at first, now declares the corner must have been
missing when he first saw the slip.'

'And what about the assistant Brothers, Isidore, Lazarus, and Gorgias?'
asked Delbos.

David, who on his side had prosecuted unremitting inquiries with
admirable zeal, intelligence, and patience, shook his head. 'All three
have _alibis_ which a dozen of their set will establish in court,' he
replied. 'Isidore and Lazarus, it seems, returned to the school from
the Capuchin Chapel with their principal, Brother Fulgence. Brother
Gorgias for his part saw a child home, but he also had returned to the
school by half-past ten, according to all the members of the staff
and various lay witnesses--friends of the Brothers, it is true--who
perceived him going in.'

Again did Marc intervene in his pensive manner, his eyes wandering
afar like those of a man in quest of truth. 'That Brother Gorgias is
not to my liking; I thought of him,' he said. 'The child he escorted
home was Polydor, the nephew of a woman named Pélagie, who is cook to
my wife's relatives. I tried to question the boy, but he is sly, idle,
addicted to falsehoods, and I got nothing out of him except a little
more confusion. All the same, Brother Gorgias haunts me. He is said to
be brutal, sensual, cynical, displaying excessive piety, professing
a stern, uncompromising, exterminating creed. I have been told also
that he formerly had some connection with Father Philibin and even
with Father Crabot.... Brother Gorgias, yes, I certainly thought for a
moment that he might be our man. But then I found I had nothing to go
upon except suppositions.'

'Certainly, Brother Gorgias is not a pleasant customer,' declared
David, 'and my feelings are akin to yours. But can we denounce him when
we have only arguments to bring against him? No witness would support
us; all would stand up for the Brother and whitewash him in reply to
our impious charges.'

Delbos had listened attentively. 'At all events,' said he, 'I cannot
defend Simon without carrying the battle into the enemy's camp. Bear in
mind, too, that the only help from which you may derive some advantage
will perhaps come to you from the Church itself. The old quarrel
between our Bishop, Monseigneur Bergerot, and Father Crabot, the Rector
of Valmarie, is taking a very serious turn, by reason, precisely,
of the Simon affair. My own belief is that the crafty mind and the
invisible hand, which seem to you to be directing the whole business,
are those of Father Crabot. I certainly do not accuse him of the crime,
but it is he who is protecting the culprit. And if we attack him we
shall strike the head of the band, besides which the Bishop will be on
our side--not openly, of course; but is not such assistance something,
even if it be secret?'

A smile of doubt appeared on Marc's face, as if he felt that one never
had the Church on one's side when human truth and justice were at
stake. However, he likewise regarded Father Crabot as the enemy, and
to trace the developments of the case back to him and to endeavour to
destroy him was the right course. So they spoke of Father Crabot and
of his past life, which a somewhat mysterious legend poetised. He was
thought to be the illegitimate grandson of a famous general, a prince
of the First Empire, which relationship, in the estimation of patriotic
souls, endued his pious ministry with some of the resounding glory of
battle and conquest. But the romantic circumstances in which he had
taken orders touched people more deeply. At thirty years of age he had
been a rich, handsome, gallant cavalier, on the point of marrying a
beautiful widow, a Duchess with a great name and a great fortune; but
brutal death had struck her down in her flower. That blow, as Father
Crabot often said, had shown him the bitter nothingness of human joys,
and cast him into the arms of religion. He had gained thereby the
tremulous tenderness of all women's hearts; they were well pleased,
indeed, that he should have sought a refuge in heaven, for love of the
one woman whom he had adored.

Then another legend, that of the foundation of the College of Valmarie,
endeared him to the devotees of the region. The Valmarie estate had
previously belonged to the old Countess de Quédeville, who, after
notorious amours, had retired thither to sanctify her last years by the
practice of extreme piety. Her son and daughter-in-law having perished
in an accident while travelling, she remained alone with her grandson
and sole heir, Gaston, a boy of nine years, who was most aggressively
turbulent, violent in speech, and wild in his play. Not knowing how to
subdue him, and not daring to trust him to school life, the Countess
had engaged as tutor a young Jesuit of six and twenty, Father Philibin,
whose manners suggested his peasant origin, but who was recommended
to her for his extreme firmness. He, no doubt, made the Countess
acquainted with Father Crabot, who was some five or six years his
senior, and who was then at the height of his celebrity, radiant with
the halo of his great passion and its tragic, divine ending. Six months
later, as friend and confessor, he reigned at Valmarie, evil-minded
people asserting that he was the lover of the Countess.

As that turbulent boy Gaston seemed to disturb the happy quietude of
the domain, a truly royal one with its grand old trees, its running
waters, its great stretches of green velvet, there was at one moment
some thought of sending him to the Jesuit Fathers in Paris. He climbed
the loftiest poplars for rooks' nests, took to the river in his clothes
to fish for eels, came home in rags, with arms and legs bruised,
and his face bleeding, giving his grandmother no rest whatever from
anxiety, in spite of Father Philibin's reputed firmness. But all at
once the situation was tragically altered: Gaston was drowned one day
while walking out, under the nominal supervision of his tutor. The
latter related that the boy had fallen into a dangerous hole full of
water, whence it had been impossible to extricate him, in spite of the
efforts of a young fellow of fifteen, Georges Plumet--the son of one of
the gardeners and sometimes Gaston's companion in his escapades--who
had run up on seeing the accident from a distance. The Countess,
profoundly grieved, died during the following year, bequeathing
Valmarie and all her fortune to Father Crabot--or, to be exact,
to a petty clerical banker of Beaumont, who lent his name in such
matters--with directions to establish a Jesuit College on the estate.
Crabot, for a time, had taken himself elsewhere, then had returned
with the rank of Rector, and for ten years now the College had been
prospering under his control.

He reigned there from his austere and retired little cell, whose
walls were bare, and whose furniture was limited to a little pallet,
a table, and two chairs. He made the bed, he swept the floor himself;
and though he heard the confessions of his female penitents in the
chapel, it was in that cell that he listened to those of the men, as
if he were proud of the poverty and solitude into which he withdrew
like some redoubtable divinity, leaving to Father Philibin, the Prefect
of the Studies, all usual daily intercourse with the pupils of the
establishment. But, although he rarely showed himself to them in the
class-rooms, he reserved 'parlour-days' to himself, lavished attentions
on his pupils' relations, particularly on the ladies and young girls
of the local aristocracy, busying himself with the future of his dear
sons and dear daughters, arranging their marriages, insuring them good
positions, in fact disposing of all those fine folk for the greater
glory of God and of his particular Order. And it was thus that he had
become an all-powerful personage.

'To tell the truth,' Delbos resumed, 'Father Crabot strikes me as being
a mediocrity, whose entire strength proceeds from the stupidity of
those among whom he works. I am more distrustful of Father Philibin,
whom you think a worthy man. I am impressed by his affected roughness
and frankness. Suspicion clings to his doings and to Crabot's in the
time of the Countess de Quédeville, such as the drowning of that child
Gaston, and all the more or less lawful manœuvring to acquire the
estate and the fortune. It happens that the only witness of Gaston's
death, Georges Plumet, the gardener's son, is precisely Brother
Gorgias, for whom Philibin assumed great affection and of whom he made
an Ignorantine, when, of course, he changed his name. And now we find
those three men together again, and the solution of the present mystery
is to be found, perhaps, in that circumstance; for, if Brother Gorgias
be guilty, the efforts of the others to save him might be explained
by strong personal motives, the existence of some skeleton in their
cupboard, and the dread lest he should speak out if he were abandoned.
Unfortunately, as you said just now, we can only form suppositions,
whereas we need substantial, authentic facts. However, let us keep on
searching. Defence, I repeat it, will only be possible if I am armed
sufficiently to be an accuser and an avenger.'

That conversation with Delbos inspirited David and Marc. And, even as
had been foreseen, they tasted for a moment the pleasure of witnessing
a quarrel in the clerical camp. At the outset of the affair Abbé
Quandieu, the parish priest of Maillebois, had not concealed his belief
in the innocence of Simon. He did not go so far as to accuse one of
the Brothers; but he allowed it to be seen that he disapproved of the
frantic campaign which the Brothers and the Capuchins were carrying
on with the object of gaining the whole district for themselves;
for, apart from his own loss of parishioners, it distressed him, for
religion's sake, to see the basest superstitions triumphing. When he
found public opinion suddenly poisoned with respect to Simon's case,
he became neutral, never speaking of the affair, but dreading, in his
sincere piety, lest his dear gentle Lord of charity and love should
be slain and replaced by a God of falsehood and iniquity. His only
consolation was that his views coincided with those of Monseigneur
Bergerot, the Bishop, who was fond of him and whom he often visited.
Like the priest himself, the Bishop was accused of Gallicanism, which
simply meant that he did not invariably bow to Rome, and that the
idolatrous worship of images and the impudent trafficking of those
who contracted to perform spurious miracles were repugnant to his
pure faith. For instance, he observed with saddened eyes the invading
tendencies of the Maillebois Capuchins, who so openly traded on the
shrine of St. Antony of Padua which they had set up in their chapel,
thus competing disloyally with the church of St. Martin, where Abbé
Quandieu officiated. The Bishop's anxiety increased when behind the
Capuchins he divined the presence of the Jesuits, all the disciplined
troops of his enemy Father Crabot, who was always employing his
influence to thwart him, and who dreamt of becoming master of the
diocese.

The Bishop reproached the Jesuits with compelling God to go to men,
instead of forcing men to go to God, and he also saw in them the
artisans of the society compromise, of the falling off both in faith
and in observances, which in his opinion was destroying the Church. In
the Simon affair, on finding them so intent upon ruining the unhappy
prisoner, he became suspicious and studied the case very carefully with
Abbé Quandieu, who was well informed. He must then have arrived at a
decisive opinion. Perhaps indeed he learnt who was really the culprit.
But what course could he take, how could he give up a member of the
religious Orders, without risk of doing harm to religion? He lacked the
courage to go as far as that. Yet certainly his silence was full of
bitterness, and he felt anxious as to the consequences of the monstrous
adventure into which others were forcing the Church, which he would
have liked to see all peace, equity, and kindliness.

Thus Monseigneur Bergerot's resignation was not absolute. The idea of
abandoning his dear Abbé Quandieu, of allowing those whom he called
'the dealers of the Temple' to consummate his ruin, was unbearable
to him. On coming, then, to Maillebois in the course of a pastoral
round of inspection, he officiated personally in the ancient church
of St. Martin, and delivered an address in which he blamed all gross
superstition, referring plainly to the commerce carried on by the
Capuchins in their chapel, which was now driving as much trade as a
bazaar. Nobody was mistaken as to the Bishop's meaning; moreover,
everyone felt that the blow was directed not only against Father
Théodose, but against Father Crabot who was behind him. And as
Monseigneur ended by expressing the hope that the Church of France
would remain the pure source of all truth and justice, the scandal
became the greater, for in those words an allusion to the Simon affair
was detected, and the Bishop was accused of casting the Brothers of the
Christian Doctrine to the Jews, the bribe-takers, and the traitors.
On returning to his episcopal palace Monseigneur Bergerot must have
trembled at the thought of the courage he had shown, particularly
as everything was done to embitter his position still more. Some
intimates, in recounting the visit of thanks which Abbé Quandieu paid
him, mentioned that the Bishop and the poor priest had wept together.

The agitation at Beaumont increased as the assizes drew near; the
Indictment Chamber having returned the papers in Simon's case to the
Prosecution Office, the first hearing had been fixed for Monday,
October 20. Meantime the position taken up by the Bishop brought
popular passions to a climax. He was attacked even more violently by
_Le Petit Beaumontais_ than by _La Croix de Beaumont_, though the
latter journal was in the hands of the Jesuits. The Simonists had
plucked up a little courage at the advent of his unhoped-for help; but
the anti-Simonists poisoned public opinion with fresh romances, among
others an extraordinary invention to the effect that a Jew syndicate
had been formed to buy up all the powers of the world by dint of
millions. And three millions, it was said, had gone to Monseigneur
Bergerot as his share.

From that moment dementia and violence reigned throughout the town.
From Le Mauviot, the working-class _faubourg_, to the Avenue des
Jaffres, the aristocratic quarter, passing by way of the Rue Fontanier
and the adjoining narrow streets where the smaller shopkeepers
congregated, the contest became more and more bitter, the Simonists,
who were few in number, being crushed by the ever-growing hordes of
their adversaries. On one occasion a crowd went to hoot Salvan, the
Director of the Training College, as he was suspected of Simonism; and
in a like spirit, Depinvilliers, the Jew-hating and patriotic principal
of the Lycée, was acclaimed. Paid brawlers, recruited on the pavements
and reinforced by clerical young men of position, swept the streets
and threatened the Jew-shops. The saddest was that the Republican and
even some of the Socialist working men either disinterested themselves
from the contest or took up positions against right and truth. Then
terror reigned, cowardice became widespread, all the social forces
coalesced against the unhappy prisoner. The University, headed by
Forbes, its Rector, did not stir for fear of compromising itself.
The official Administration, personified by Prefect Hennebise, had
disinterested itself from the question at the outset, desirous as it
was of incurring no worries. The politicians, the Senators as well as
the Deputies, remained silent for fear they might lose their seats if
they spoke otherwise than the electors did. The Church, in which the
Bishop had ceased to count, Father Crabot becoming its real chief,
demanded the setting up of piles and stakes, and the extermination
of all Jews, Protestants, and Freemasons. The army, by the voice of
General Jarousse, also called for the cleansing of the country, and the
enthronement of an emperor or a king as soon as all the rogues without
God or fatherland should be sabred. And there remained the Judicial
Bench, towards which every hope went forth, for did it not hold in its
hands the necessary _dénouement_, the condemnation of the dirty Jew, by
which alone the salvation of France might be assured? Thus Gragnon, the
presiding judge, and Raoul de La Bissonnière, the Public Prosecutor,
had become great personages, of whom nobody doubted, for their
anti-Simonism was as notorious as were their desire for advancement and
their passion for popularity.

When the names inscribed on the general roll of jurors for the coming
assizes were made public, there was a fresh outburst of violence and
intrigue. The most terrible pressure was brought to bear on the persons
who were likely to serve; so that nobody might remain ignorant of
their names and addresses _Le Petit Beaumontais_ printed them, thus
designating them to the fury of the crowd in the event of their failing
to convict the prisoner. They received anonymous letters, they were
upset by strange visitors, they were begged to think of their wives and
children. In the drawing-rooms of the Avenue des Jaffres people amused
themselves with elaborate calculations, passing in review the more
or less certain opinions of each individual juror. Would such a one
convict or would he not? The question became a society pastime.

At beautiful Madame Lemarrois' house each Saturday, her day, nothing
else was spoken of. All the ladies came: Générale Jarousse, who,
although lean, ugly, and dusky, was said to be abominably unfaithful
to the general, her husband; Présidente Gragnon, who, still superb and
languishing, fascinated the young Assessors of the Public Prosecution
Service; Préfete Hennebise, who, like an artful and prudent Parisienne,
spoke little and listened a great deal; together with the eager Madame
Daix, the Investigating Magistrate's wife, and at times even Madame
de La Bissonnière, the Prosecutor's spouse, though she, gentle and
retiring in her ways, seldom went into society. The ladies had all
attended a great fête given at La Désirade by the Sanglebœufs in
accordance with the advice of Baron Nathan, who had prevailed on his
daughter to shake off her indolence and place herself, like others
of her sex, at the service of the good cause. The part which women
played in the affair was indeed an influential one: they were worth an
army, said young Deputy Marcilly, who, waiting to see on which side
victory would rest, comported himself as a Simonist with some and as an
anti-Simonist with others.

But a last quarrel maddened everybody. One morning _Le Petit
Beaumontais_ formally suggested that at least some part of the case
should be heard _in camera_. This idea had certainly not originated
with the newspaper itself; one divined in it a deep knowledge of
the sentiments of the multitude, a hope that mystery would make the
charges appear yet more monstrous than they were, and a desire for
some convenient means by which one might subsequently justify the
condemnation of an innocent man, as for instance by asserting that
facts had come out _in camera_ with which the general public was not
acquainted. The Simonists detected the danger, protested, appealed for
full light, the hearing of the whole case in open court; whereupon the
anti-Simonists, fired with indignation, shrieked that the appeal was
scandalous, and demanded to know whether the ears of respectable people
were to be soiled by being compelled to listen to the most abominable
particulars. Thus, during the last week, a furious _mêlée_ raged in
Beaumont.

At last the great day, October 20, arrived. The school term having
begun, Marc had been obliged to reinstall himself at Jonville, with
Geneviève and little Louise, whom Madame Duparque and Madame Berthereau
had insisted on keeping with them throughout the whole vacation that
year. Marc had assented the more readily as his sojourn at Maillebois
permitted him to carry on his investigations, which, alas! led to
nothing. But at the same time he had felt so uncomfortable in the
ladies' house, where never a word was said of the great affair, that he
was happy to find himself once more in his school, among his troop of
playful boys, some of whom were so dear to him. On the other hand, at
his own request, he had been cited as a witness in the case in order
that he might testify to Simon's good character; and he awaited the
trial with a quiver of emotion, again possessed by tenacious reliance
in truth and justice, for it seemed to him impossible that a man could
be condemned without proofs, in these days and in France, a land of
liberty and generosity.

When he arrived at Beaumont on the Monday morning the town appeared
to be in a state of siege. Most of the troops were kept under arms in
their barracks, but gendarmes and infantrymen guarded the approaches of
the Palace of Justice; and in order to reach it Marc had to overcome
all sorts of obstacles, although he was duly provided with a witness's
summons. Again, he found the staircases and passages likewise barred by
troops. The Assize Court, a new and very spacious hall, glittered with
gilding and imitation marble, in the crude light entering by six large
windows. The place was already crowded two hours before the opening of
the proceedings. All the fine folk of Beaumont were assembled behind
the judges' armchairs. There were ladies in full dress everywhere,
even on the benches usually reserved for witnesses. And the 'pit,'
where only standing room was provided, was already tumultuous. A picked
throng was gathered there; one recognised the church beadles and the
hired 'demonstrators' of the streets, with whom mingled some of the
ranters of the Young Catholic set. There was a long delay, and thus
Marc had ample time to examine the faces around him and to realise amid
what hostile passions the proceedings would take their course.

The Court appeared: first Gragnon and his Assessors, then the
Procureur de la République, La Bissonnière. The first formalities were
accomplished rapidly; but it was rumoured that a 'panel' had not been
formed without difficulty, several jurors on the roll having applied to
be excused, so great was their dread of incurring any responsibility
in Simon's case. At last the twelve chosen men entered the court in a
file, and took their seats morosely, like condemned criminals. There
were five shopkeepers, two manufacturers, two individuals living on
their means, a doctor, an architect, and a retired army captain. The
architect, a pious man, named Jacquin, who worked for the bishopric,
happened to be the foreman, his name having come first at the drawing
of lots. If the counsel for the defence had not challenged him by
reason of his connections, it was because he enjoyed a well-deserved
reputation for loyalty, uprightness, and honesty. Moreover, something
like disappointment became manifest among the anti-Simonists on the
arrival of the jurymen, whose names were repeated here and there, as
each in succession was identified. Some of them appeared to be doubtful
customers; and there had been hopes of a more reliable jury, one
absolutely determined to convict the prisoner.

Deep silence fell; then the examination of Simon began. Looking puny
and awkward as he entered the court, he had created an unfavourable
impression. But he had drawn himself up, and now, by reason of the
quiet and easy way in which he answered the questions addressed to him,
he appeared to be impudent. Gragnon, the presiding judge, had put on
the scoffing air which he assumed on great occasions, while keeping
his little grey eyes fixed upon the advocate, Maître Delbos, the
anarchist, as he called him, whom he had undertaken to suppress with a
thumb-stroke. Meantime he indulged in witticisms, striving to provoke
laughter, but growing gradually irritated by the calmness of Simon,
who, as he did not lie, was unable to contradict himself and thus give
himself away. The judge therefore became insolent, vainly endeavouring
to provoke a protest from Delbos; but the latter, knowing his man, held
his tongue and smiled. On the whole, the first day's proceedings, while
rejoicing the Simonists, rendered the anti-Simonists extremely anxious,
for the prisoner had clearly set forth the hour of his return to
Maillebois, and the manner in which he had immediately joined his wife,
without it being possible for the judge to produce a single certain,
ascertained fact in opposition to his declarations. At the rising of
the Court, when the crowd retired, the witnesses for the defence were
hooted, and there was almost a fight on the steps of the Palace of
Justice.

On the Tuesday the hearing of the witnesses began amid a yet greater
concourse of people. First came assistant-master Mignot, whose
statements were now less assertive than they had been during the
magisterial inquiry. He no longer spoke positively of the hour at
which he had heard sounds of footsteps and voices. Simple and worthy
fellow as he was at bottom, he doubtless felt disturbed when he thought
of the terrible consequences of such evidence as the judge tried to
extract from him. But Mademoiselle Rouzaire was pitilessly precise.
She specified the exact time, a quarter to eleven o'clock, adding even
that she had fully recognised Simon's voice and footfall. Then came a
long procession of railway employés, _octroi_ officials,[5] and mere
wayfarers, whose evidence was taken to solve the question whether the
prisoner had travelled by the 10.30 train, as the prosecution asserted,
or whether he had returned home on foot, as he himself claimed to
have done. The depositions on the subject were interminable, full of
confusion and contradictions. The impression they left, however, was
somewhat favourable to the defence. But next came the much awaited
evidence of Father Philibin and Brother Fulgence. The former, which was
very brief, proved a disappointment, for the Jesuit merely recounted
in a few husky sentences how he had found the little body on the floor
near the bed. But Brother Fulgence amused the whole assembly by the
vehemence he imparted to his narrative, throughout the whole of which
he gesticulated as wildly as a jumping-jack. Nevertheless, he seemed
quite pleased with the effect he produced. From the very outset of the
affair he had not ceased to muddle and spoil things.

At last the three assistant Brothers, Isidore, Lazarus, and Gorgias,
who had been specially cited by the defence, were called. Delbos
allowed the two former to retire after a few insignificant questions,
but he rose and remained erect while Gorgias was at the bar. That
former little peasant, the son of a gardener at Valmarie, Georges
Plumet as he was called in the days of the Countess de Quédeville, and
now Brother Gorgias of the Ignorantine Order, was a strong, thin, dark
and knotty man, with a low stern forehead, projecting cheek-bones, and
thick lips under a big nose shaped like an eagle's beak. As formerly
mentioned, he was afflicted with a tic, a convulsive twitching of his
upper lip on its left side, which thus disclosed his strong teeth, and
formed a kind of involuntary rictus, having a violent and scoffing
expression. When he stepped forward in his old black frock and with
his white band of doubtful cleanliness, a quiver, which had come
nobody knew whence, sped through the assembly. And immediately a duel,
with questions as keen as sword thrusts and answers as cutting as
parries, began between the advocate and the Brother on the subject
of the evening of the crime, on the time which the witness had taken
to escort little Polydor to his home, and the precise hour at which
he had returned to the school. The public listened in perplexity,
failing to understand the decisive importance of this examination,
for the witness was a stranger to most of the people present. As it
happened, Brother Gorgias, in his violent scoffing way, found an answer
for every question, produced proofs, and established the fact that at
half-past ten o'clock he had been in bed in his cell. Brothers Isidore
and Lazarus were recalled, the doorkeeper of the Brothers' school
was fetched, together with two inhabitants of Maillebois, belated
promenaders, and all swore and confirmed the Ignorantine's assertions.

[Footnote 5: Those who collect municipal dues at the gates or outskirts
of French towns.--_Trans._]

Of course this duel was not fought without considerable intervention on
the part of President Gragnon, who thought the opportunity favourable
to silence Delbos, on the ground that he addressed insulting questions
to the Brother. Delbos retorted by submitting 'conclusions,' and there
was quite a to-do, amidst which Brother Gorgias seemed triumphant,
turning on the advocate sly glances of disdain, as if to imply that he
feared nothing whatever, protected as he was by his God of anger and
extermination, who proved so terrible to infidels. But if the incident
yielded no result that Delbos could immediately put to use, it wrought
great perturbation; and some folk felt terribly alarmed lest Simon
should escape as the result of such attempts to cast doubt into the
minds of the jurors. That alarm must have spread to the Congregations,
for a fresh incident occurred after the evidence of the handwriting
experts, Masters Badoche and Trabut, who, amidst general stupefaction,
explained how they detected Simon's initials, an E and an S interlaced,
in the paraph on the copy-slip, when nobody else could see them there.
That copy-slip was the one document in the case, everything depended
on it; thus the evidence of those extraordinary experts was extremely
grave: it meant the condemnation of Simon.

It was then that Father Philibin, who had followed the proceedings
most attentively, asked the judge's permission to return to the
bar. There, in a ringing voice, he, who had first shown himself so
spiritless and retiring, recounted a brief story of a certain letter
he had seen--a letter written by Simon to a friend, and signed with
the same flourishes. And when Gragnon pressed him, asked for precise
particulars, the Jesuit raised his hand towards the picture of the
Crucifixion above the judgment seat, and declared theatrically that
it was a secret of the confessional, and that he would say no more.
Thus the second day's proceedings came to an end amid a paroxysm of
feverishness and tumult.

On the Wednesday the question of hearing the report on the post-mortem
examination and the evidence of the school children _in camera_ was
dealt with. The presiding judge had the right to take such a course;
but Delbos, without contesting it, set forth all the danger of wrapping
the affair in mystery, and submitted fresh 'conclusions' to the effect
that all evidence should be heard in open court. None the less Gragnon
quietly pronounced a judgment, which the numerous gendarmes who were
present immediately put into execution by pushing the public outside.
There was an extraordinary outburst of emotion, a perfect scramble,
followed by passionate discussions in the passages. During the two
hours occupied by the proceedings _in camera_ the excitement kept on
increasing. Frightful rumours and statements circulated as if what was
being said in court filtered through the walls. At first the chatterers
dealt with the report on the post-mortem examination, discussing in
turn every expression said to be contained in it, and adding horrible
particulars, hitherto unknown to anybody, but absolutely proving
Simon's guilt. Then came the evidence of the Bongard, Doloir, Savin,
and Milhomme children, who were pictured saying things they had never
said. However, people were convinced that all had been corrupted,
and, in spite of Delbos's protest, which indeed was regarded as
a mere comedy, it was declared that the Simonists themselves had
desired proceedings _in camera_ in order to save the secular school of
Maillebois from utter disgrace. Thus, was not condemnation certain?
Besides, those who might be disturbed by the lack of sufficient proof
respecting the death of Zéphirin would be told that certain things
had been stated _in camera_--things they would be unable to control,
knowing nothing of them.

When the doors were re-opened there came a rush, people swept
in tumultuously, searching and sniffing for some trace of the
monstrosities they had imagined. But during the remainder of the
sitting they heard little beyond the evidence of a few witnesses for
the defence, witnesses as to character, among whom Marc figured, and
who all declared Simon to be a very kind and gentle man, fondly
attached to his wife and children. Only one witness attracted any
attention, this being Mauraisin, the Elementary Inspector, who had felt
greatly annoyed by the citation which Delbos had intentionally sent
to him. At a loss between his desire to please the anti-Simonists and
his fear of displeasing his immediate superior, Le Barazer, whom he
knew to be discreetly a Simonist, Mauraisin was in the first instance
obliged to admit that he had reported most favourably on Simon and his
school, and subsequently he could only qualify those reports by vague
insinuations respecting the prisoner's sly character and the sectarian
violence of his religious passions.

The speeches of La Bissonnière and Delbos occupied the Court throughout
the Thursday and the Friday. During the earlier proceedings La
Bissonnière had intervened as little as possible, spending most of
his time in taking notes and contemplating his finger-nails. At heart
he was not free from uneasiness, and he must have asked himself if
he would not do well to relinquish certain charges as some of the
so-called proofs were so very fragile. Thus his address was rather
spiritless. He contented himself with pointing out the various
probabilities of guilt, and ended by asking merely for the application
of the law. His speech had lasted barely two hours, its success was
meagre, and the anxiety of the anti-Simonists again became acute.

Not enough time was left that day for Delbos, who only finished his
speech on the morrow. He began by drawing a portrait of Simon, showing
him in his school, esteemed and loved, having an adorable wife and
beautiful children at his fireside. Then, after setting forth the
horrible and ignoble circumstances of the crime, the advocate asked
if such a man could be guilty of it. He took the so-called proofs
of the prosecution one by one, and demonstrated their nothingness.
On the subject of the copy-slip, and the report of the hand-writing
experts, he waxed terrible; he showed that the ownership of the one
document in the case could not be attributed to Simon, and he exposed
the arrant stupidity of the report drawn up by Masters Badoche and
Trabut. He discussed and destroyed every item of evidence, even that
which had been taken _in camera_, thereby drawing on himself all the
thunders of President Gragnon. Quite a violent quarrel arose, and,
indeed, from that moment Delbos spoke under the constant threat of
being arbitrarily silenced. Nevertheless, from a defender he became
an accuser; he cast before the Court the Brothers and the Capuchins,
and the Jesuits also. He carried the case back to Father Crabot in
order that he might strike the chief of the coalition, as he desired
to do. Only a Brother, he said, could have committed the crime, and,
although he did not name Brother Gorgias, he designated him; he gave
all the reasons on which his conviction was based, he pointed out all
the underhand devices which had been adopted by the other side, the
formation of a great clerical conspiracy of which Simon was the victim,
and the necessity for the plotters that an innocent man should be
condemned in order that the real culprit might be saved. In conclusion
he cried to the jury that it was not the murderer of little Zéphirin,
but the secular schoolmaster, the Jew, whom they were really asked to
condemn. The end of his speech, though rent by the interruptions of the
presiding judge and the hooting of the audience, was, on the whole,
regarded as an oratorical triumph, which placed Delbos in the front
rank, but for which his client, no doubt, would pay heavily.

La Bissonnière immediately rose to reply to it, his countenance
assuming an expression of grief and indignation. An unqualifiable
scandal had taken place; the counsel for the defence had dared to
accuse a Brother without producing any serious proof in support of
his monstrous allegation. He had done worse: he had denounced as that
Brother's accomplices both his superiors and other members of the
religious Orders, including even one of high personality, before whom
all honest folk bowed with respect. Religion was outraged, anarchist
passions were let loose, those who acknowledged neither God nor
patriotic feeling would fain precipitate the country into an abyss. For
three hours La Bissonnière went on denouncing the enemies of society
in flowery language, drawing his little figure erect, as if he felt he
were at last rising to the high destiny to which his ambition aspired.
As he finished he became ironical; he wished to know if the fact of
being a Jew sufficed to make a man innocent; and then he asked the jury
for all its severity, for the head of the wretch who had degraded and
murdered a little child. Frantic applause burst forth, and Delbos, by
his vehement rejoinder full of exasperation, only drew on himself a
fresh tempest of insults and threats.

It was seven o'clock in the evening when the jurors retired to consider
their verdict. As the questions put to them by the Court were few in
number, it was hoped that matters would be finished in less than an
hour, and that one might then go off to dine. Night had fallen, and
the few big lamps placed on the tables did not suffice to illumine
the great hall. Candles, which looked like church tapers, had been
set up in front of the newspaper reporters, who were still working.
The atmosphere was hot and murky, but not a lady quitted her seat,
the crowd stubbornly remained there, phantom-like in places according
to the play of the lights, which threw great tragic shadows around.
All gave full rein to their passions, there was a deafening uproar
of voices, with an agitation, a seething and bubbling, as in some
fermenting vat. The few Simonists were triumphant; they declared it
would be impossible for the jury to convict. And, in spite of the
noisy applause bestowed on La Bissonnière's reply, the anti-Simonists,
who crowded the hall, showed themselves nervous, trembling lest the
expiatory victim should escape them. It was asserted that Jacquin, the
foreman of the jury, had spoken to somebody of the anguish he felt in
presence of the absolute lack of proofs. And three other jurymen were
mentioned as having appeared favourable to the prisoner. Acquittal
became possible. Thus there was angry waiting, waiting which lasted and
lasted, contrary to all previous expectations. Eight o'clock struck,
nine o'clock struck, and still the jurors did not return. They had been
shut up for two hours, unable, no doubt, to come to an agreement. This
only increased the general uncertainty, and, although the door of the
jury's retiring room was carefully closed, rumours came from it, nobody
knew how, raising the agitation of the ravenous, extenuated, impatient
throng to a climax.

All at once it was learnt that the foreman, acting for himself and his
colleagues, had begged the presiding judge to go to them. According
to another version it was the judge who had placed himself at their
disposal, insisting to see them, which seemed a scarcely correct
proceeding. However, the waiting began once more, long minutes went by.
What could the judge be doing with the jurors? Legally he might only
acquaint them with the dispositions of the law, should they be ignorant
of the consequences of their decision. But the delay which was taking
place appeared very long for a simple explanation of that kind; and,
indeed, a fresh rumour suddenly spread among Gragnon's intimates, who
did not seem at all struck by the enormity of such a story. It was to
the effect that a document had reached the judge after the close of
the proceedings, and that he had found it absolutely necessary to lay
it before the jurymen, though the prisoner and his counsel were not
present. However, ten o'clock struck, and at last the jury reappeared.

Then, in the anxious and suddenly silent hall, when the judges had
returned and taken their seats, their robes setting red blotches
against the background of shifting darkness, architect Jacquin, the
foreman, arose. His face, distinctly seen, for the light of a lamp
fell on it, was very pale. And it was in a somewhat weak voice that
he pronounced the customary formula. The jury's answer was 'yes'
to all the questions, but it granted the admission of extenuating
circumstances, illogically of course, and with the sole object of
avoiding the capital penalty. The penalty, in the circumstances, was
penal servitude for life, and sentence was pronounced by President
Gragnon with the air of a well-satisfied jolly dog and the jeering
nasal accent habitual to him. The Procureur de la République, La
Bissonnière, picked up his papers with a quick gesture, like a man
relieved and delighted at having secured his desire. From the audience
frantic applause had risen immediately--the loud baying of hungry
hounds, to whom the long-pursued quarry was at last flung. It was like
the delirium of cannibals gorging themselves with human flesh. And yet
amid that tumult, fraught with horrid savagery, above all the ferocious
baying, there rose a cry--Simon's unceasing cry, 'I am innocent! I
am innocent!'--a loud and stubborn call which sowed truth in worthy
hearts, whilst Advocate Delbos, with tears springing to his eyes, leant
towards the condemned man and embraced him like a brother.

David, who had abstained from appearing in court, in order that he
might give no occasion for an increase of anti-Semite hatred, awaited
the result at Delbos's rooms in the Rue Fontanier. Until ten o'clock
he remained counting the minutes, consumed by the most torturing
fever, knowing not whether he ought to rejoice or despair at such
delay. He continually went to the window to lean out, and listen to
the sounds in the distance. And the very atmosphere of the street,
and the exclamations of a few people passing, had already imparted
to him the fatal tidings, when Marc arrived, sobbing, exhausted, and
confirmed them. Salvan accompanied Marc--Salvan, whom the young man
had met on quitting the court, and who was also beside himself. There
came an hour of tragic despair, of utter collapse, when all that was
good and just seemed to be engulfed for ever; and when Delbos, after
an interview with Simon, whom he had found stricken yet still erect,
arrived in his turn, he could only cast himself on David's neck and
embrace him, even as he had embraced his brother yonder.

'Ah! weep, my friend!' he cried. 'It is the greatest iniquity of the
century!'




IV


On his return to Jonville after the vacation that year, Marc had found
himself engaged in another struggle, one having no connection with
Simon's case. His adversary, Abbé Cognasse, the parish priest, anxious
to get him into difficulties, had decided to make an effort to win over
the village Mayor, one Martineau, a peasant, through the latter's wife,
'the beautiful Martineau,' as she was called.

Abbé Cognasse was a terrible man, tall, lean, and angular, with a
determined chin, and a sharp nose under a low brow and a thick mane
of dark hair. His eyes glowed with aggressive fire; his knotty hands,
which he seldom washed, seemed made expressly for the purpose of
throttling those who dared to resist him. Forty years of age, he kept
one servant, Palmyre, an old maid of sixty, who was inclined to be
humpbacked and who was yet more terrible than her master, so miserly
and harsh indeed that she was regarded as the terror of the district.
The priest was said to lead a chaste life, but he ate a great deal
and he drank very copiously, though without intoxicating himself. A
peasant's son, and therefore narrow and stubborn in his opinions, he
always insisted upon his rights and his dues, never foregoing a single
copper of the latter, even when the poorest of his parishioners was in
question. Thus he was very anxious to hold Mayor Martineau in his power
in order to become the real master of the commune, and thereby increase
his own profits as well as assure the triumph of religion. As for his
quarrel with Marc, this had arisen over a sum of thirty francs a year
which the parish had arranged to pay the schoolmaster for ringing the
church bell, and which Marc, for a time, duly received, although he
absolutely refused to put his hands to the bell-rope.

Martineau was not easily won over when he found himself supported.
Of the same age as the priest, square of face and sturdy of build,
ruddy and bright-eyed, he spoke little and evinced great caution.
He was said to be the wealthiest cultivator of the commune, and, his
extensive property gaining him the favour of his fellow parishioners,
he had been Mayor of Jonville for ten years past. Scarcely knowing how
to read and write, he did not care to pronounce openly between the
Church and the school; he thought it best to affect neutrality, though
he always ended by siding with one or the other, according whether he
felt the priest or the schoolmaster to be the stronger. In the depths
of his heart he was inclined to favour the latter, for in his veins
coursed some of that ancient rancour which animates the French peasant
against the priest, whom he regards as an idle man bent on enjoying
life, one indeed who does nothing and yet requires to be paid, and who
captures the wives and daughters of his parishioners in the name of an
invisible, jealous and ever-threatening Deity. But if Martineau did not
follow the Church observances, he had never opposed his _curé_ without
assistance, for he held that the black-gowns were extremely clever,
whatever else might be said about them. Thus it was largely because
Marc displayed so much quiet energy and intelligence that Martineau had
joined his side, allowing him to go forward without pledging himself
too much.

But it occurred to Abbé Cognasse to make use of the Mayor's wife, the
beautiful Martineau, who, although she was not one of his penitents,
attended church very regularly on Sundays and festivals. Very
dark, with large eyes, a fresh mouth, and a buxom figure, she was
coquettishly inclined, fond of exhibiting a new gown, of airing a lace
cap, of arraying herself in her gold jewellery. Her assiduity at Mass
was due to that alone. Church-going had become her diversion. There was
no other spot whither she could repair in full dress, to show herself,
and pass her neighbours in review. Indeed, in that village of less than
eight hundred souls, for lack of any other meeting place and occasion
for ceremony and festival, the damp little nave of the church, where
Mass was so hastily celebrated, became the drawing-room, the theatre,
the one general parade and recreation ground of the women who were
desirous of pleasing. Those who went thither were influenced very
little by faith; their craving was to wear their Sunday finery and to
show themselves. Their mothers had done it, their daughters would do
it also; it was the general custom. As for Madame Martineau, on being
approached and flattered by Abbé Cognasse, she endeavoured to convince
her husband that the priest was right in the matter of the thirty
francs. But Martineau sharply bade her hold her tongue and return to
her cows, for he belonged to the old school, and did not allow women to
meddle in matters which concerned men.

In itself the story of the thirty francs was very simple. Ever since
there had been a schoolmaster at Jonville he had been paid that sum
annually to ring the church bell. But Marc, being unwilling to do so,
ended by persuading the parish council to devote the money to another
purpose. If the priest needed a bellringer he could surely pay for
one himself. But the old clock in the church steeple was in a sad
condition, constantly losing time, and a former clockmaker, dwelling in
the vicinity, was willing to repair it and keep it in working order for
that very sum of thirty francs a year. It was with some little malice
that Marc suggested the acceptance of the offer, while the peasants
reflected and sounded themselves, wondering whether their interests
would be best served by having the bell rung for Mass, or by having
a clock to tell them the correct time. As for ensuring both services
by voting an additional thirty francs, they never gave that point a
moment's thought, for their policy was to burden the parish with no
useless expense whatever. Nevertheless, there was a fine tussle, in
which the influence of the priest and that of the schoolmaster came
into collision, the latter finally remaining victorious, in spite of
the maledictions which Abbé Cognasse, in his sermons, heaped on the
impious folk who, by silencing the bell, wished to silence the call of
religion. One fine Sunday morning, however, after a month's quietude,
a succession of furious peals resounded from the church steeple; and
people then discovered that the priest's old servant, the terrible
Palmyre, was ringing the bell with all the furious strength of her wiry
little arms.

Abbé Cognasse understood that the Mayor was escaping him, and, though
inwardly aglow with anger, he henceforth became prudent, displaying all
the flexible craft of his cloth. Then, as Martineau grew conscious of
the firmness of the hands to which he had confided himself, he more and
more frequently consulted Marc, who at last felt that he was master.
As parish clerk the young man ended by discreetly guiding the council,
duly respecting the self-esteem of its members and remaining in the
background, content to inspire those peasants, whose chief desire was
for quietude and prosperity, with intelligence, sense, and healthy
determination. Under the young man's auspices education spread, casting
light upon all things, destroying foolish superstitions, and driving
not only mental poverty but also the poverty of homes away; for wealth
comes with knowledge. Never indeed had Jonville made so much progress;
it was becoming the most prosperous and the happiest parish of the
department.

It must be said that Marc was greatly assisted in his work by
Mademoiselle Mazeline, the mistress of the girls' school, which a
wall alone separated from the boys' school, where the young man
was master. Short and dark, quite destitute of beauty, but very
charming, with a broad face, a full kindly mouth, fine black eyes
glowing with tenderness and abnegation beneath a lofty and bossy
brow, Mademoiselle Mazeline was all intelligence, sense, healthy and
upright determination, like one born to educate and emancipate the
little girls confided to her. She came from that Training School
of Fontenay-aux-Roses which, thanks to the heart and mind of an
illustrious master, has already sent forth a whole cohort of able
pioneers, whose mission it is to form the wives and mothers of
to-morrow. And if, at six and twenty years of age, the young woman
was already mistress of a school, it was thanks to her intelligent
superiors, Salvan and Le Barazer, who were giving her a trial in that
lonely village in order to ascertain if she would turn out the good
work which they awaited. At heart they felt some anxiety on account of
her advanced opinions, fearing that she might indispose her pupils'
parents by her anti-clerical views, her conviction that woman would
only bring happiness to the world when she was at last delivered from
the priests. But Mademoiselle Mazeline behaved with great sense and
good humour, and if she did not take her girls to Mass, she treated
them in such a motherly fashion, taught them and cared for them so
affectionately, that the peasants became deeply attached to her. Thus
she greatly helped Marc in his work by proving that, although one may
not go to Mass, and although one may set one's belief more particularly
in human work and conscientiousness, one may nevertheless become the
most intelligent, most upright, and kindly woman in the world.

But Abbé Cognasse, whatever his repulse at Jonville, fully revenged
himself at Le Moreux, a little parish some two and a half miles
distant, which, having no priest of its own, was dependent upon him.
If, however, there were less than two hundred inhabitants at Le Moreux,
and if the village was hidden away among the hills, the difficult roads
cutting it off from frequent intercourse with the rest of the world, on
the other hand it was by no means a wretched spot. Its only poor family
was that of its schoolmaster; all the others possessed fertile lands,
and lived with hardly a care amid the sleepy quietude of routine.
Saleur, the Mayor, a short stout man with a bovine muzzle and little or
no neck, had been a grazier, and had suddenly made a fortune by selling
his meadow lands, herds, and flocks at a high price to a company, which
wished to syndicate all the stock-raising in the department. Since then
he had transformed his house into a coquettish villa, and had become
a _bourgeois_, sending his son Honoré to the Beaumont Lycée before
letting him go as a student to Paris. Although the people of Moreux
were jealous of Saleur, they reappointed him Mayor at each election,
for the all-sufficient reason that, having to do nothing for a living,
he was well able to attend to the parish affairs. He, however, cast
them upon the shoulders of Férou, the schoolmaster, who as parish clerk
received an annual salary of one hundred and eighty francs,[1] in
return for which he had to perform no little work, keep the registers,
draw up reports, write letters, and attend to something or other at
almost every moment.

Saleur was dense and heavy, crassly ignorant, scarce able to sign his
name, and, though not harsh at bottom, he treated Férou as if the
latter were a mere writing machine, regarding him indeed with the
quiet contempt of a man who had needed nothing like so much learning
to make his fortune and live at his ease. Moreover, the Mayor bore
the schoolmaster a grudge for having quarrelled with Abbé Cognasse by
refusing to take his pupils to church, and sing as a choirman. It was
not that Saleur himself followed the observances of the Church; for
it was merely as a supporter of the cause of order that he went to
Mass with his wife, a lean, insignificant, red-haired woman, who was
neither devout nor coquettish, but who also regarded attendance at
church on Sundays as a social duty. Thus Saleur's grudge against Férou
arose simply from the circumstance that the schoolmaster's rebellious
attitude aggravated the quarrels which were perpetually occurring
between the priest of Jonville and the inhabitants of Le Moreux.

[Footnote 1: About $35.]

For instance, the latter complained that the priest treated them with
little or no respect, that they only obtained from him some scraps of
Masses, bestowed on them like alms, that they were compelled to send
their children to Jonville for the catechism classes and the first
Communion, and that all sorts of difficulties were placed in their
way with respect to weddings, baptisms, and churchings; whereupon
the infuriated Abbé retorted that when folk wished to obtain favours
from Heaven their first duty was to provide themselves with a priest
of their own. On weekdays, when it was invariably closed, the church
of Le Moreux looked like a dismal empty barn; but for half an hour
every Sunday Abbé Cognasse swept down on it like a tempest, feared by
everybody and terrorising the parish with his capriciousness and his
violence.

Marc, who was acquainted with the situation, could not think of Férou
without feeling much compassionate sympathy. In that well-to-do village
of Le Moreux, he, the schoolmaster, alone was unable to satisfy his
hunger. The horrible misery which assails so many poor schoolmasters
became in his case most tragically acute. He had made his _début_ at
Maillebois as an assistant teacher, with a salary of nine hundred
francs,[2] when he was twenty-four years of age. And now, after six
years' work, exiled to Le Moreux on account of his bitter disposition,
he still only received a thousand francs a year, or, allowing for the
amount deducted for the pension fund, sixty-five francs a month--that
is to say, fifty-two sous a day.[3] Yet he had a wife and three little
girls to keep! Black misery reigned in the damp old hovel which served
as a school, the food was often such as dogs would have scorned to
touch, the girls went about shoeless, the wife did not possess a decent
gown. And indebtedness was always increasing, the threatening, deadly
indebtedness in which so many humble servants of the State become
engulfed, while those at the head of affairs are often wickedly paid
six times as much as their services deserve.

How great was the courage, the heroism which Férou needed to try to
hide that misery, to remain erect in his threadbare frock-coat, to hold
his rank as a man of letters, a monsieur who by the regulations was
forbidden to carry on any commercial calling whatever. Morning after
morning the struggle began afresh, night was only reached by force of
energy and will. That shepherd's son, whose keenly intelligent mind
had retained great independence, discharged his duties passionately,
as often as not without any show of resignation. His wife, a stout
and pleasant blonde, formerly assistant to her aunt, who kept a shop
at Maillebois, where Férou had met and married her honestly enough,
after getting her into trouble, gave him it is true some little help,
attending for instance to the girls, teaching them to read and sew,
while he had on his hands the ill-bred, dense, and malicious boys.
Under all the circumstances was it surprising that he sometimes yielded
to the discouragement which comes from ungrateful toil, to the sudden
rebellion of his suffering heart? Born poor, he had always suffered
from poverty, ill fed and ill clad, and now that he was a monsieur
his poverty became the more frightfully bitter. Around him he saw
only happy folk, peasants possessed of lands, able to eat their fill,
proud of the crown-pieces they had put by. Most of them were brutish,
scarcely able to write. They invariably needed his help when a letter
had to be drafted. Yet he, the only man of intellect, education, and
culture among them, often lacked a franc to buy himself a couple of
new collars or to pay for the repair of his old shoes. And the others
treated him as a lackey, overwhelmed him with scorn, jeered at his
ragged coat, of which, at heart, they were jealous.

But the comparison which they drew between him, the schoolmaster, and
Abbé Cognasse, the priest, was particularly unfavourable to Férou.
The schoolmaster was so poorly paid and so wretched, he was treated
impertinently by his pupils, and disdainfully by their parents; he
was destitute, too, of all authority, unsupported by his superiors;
whereas the priest, far more liberally remunerated, receiving moreover
all sorts of presents in addition to his stipend, was backed up by
his bishop and petted by the devout, whilst as for authority he spoke
like one who had only to address himself to his Master to bring as he
pleased thunder, or rain, or sunshine on the crops. Thus, although
Abbé Cognasse was always quarrelling with the folk of Le Moreux, and
although they had lost their faith and had almost ceased to follow the
observances of religion, he still reigned over them. And thus, on the
other hand, schoolmaster Férou, tortured by his life of indigence,
gorged with bitterness, turned into a Socialist by sheer force of
circumstances, drew bad reports upon himself by expressing subversive
views with respect to that social system which condemned him, the
representative of intelligence and knowledge, to starve, whilst all
around him stupidity and ignorance possessed and enjoyed.

[Footnote 2: About $175 per annum.]

[Footnote 3: About 50 cents.]

The winter proved very severe that year. Already in November Jonville
and Le Moreux were buried in snow and ice. Marc heard that two of
Férou's little girls were ill and that their father was scarcely able
to provide them with broth. He strove to assist him, but he himself
was very poor, and had to obtain Mademoiselle Mazeline's help in the
good work. Like Férou indeed, Marc, as schoolmaster, only received a
salary of one thousand francs a year, but his duties as parish clerk
were better remunerated than his colleague's. Again, the building in
which the Jonville boys' and girls' schools were lodged--the former
village parsonage, restored and enlarged--was more healthy than that of
Le Moreux. Nevertheless, the young man hitherto had only made both ends
meet by the liberality of Madame Duparque, his wife's grandmother, who
sent frocks for Louise, linen for Geneviève, besides little presents in
money at certain seasons of the year. Since the Simon case, however,
she had given nothing, and Marc was almost relieved, for the harsh
words accompanying each of her presents had often hurt his feelings.
But how straitened did the home now become, and what toil, courage, and
economy were needed to live and discharge one's office with dignity!

Marc, who loved his profession, had returned to it with a kind of
dolorous ardour, and nobody, on seeing him at work, punctually
discharging each duty through those first winter months so hard to the
poor, had any suspicion of the sombre grief, the bitter despair, which
he hid so jealously beneath a brave assumption of tranquillity. He had
remained sorely hurt ever since the condemnation of Simon; the wound
dealt him by that monstrous iniquity would not heal. In moments of
privacy he lapsed into black reveries, and Geneviève often heard him
exclaim: 'It is frightful! I thought I knew my country, and I did not
know it!'

Yes, how had it been possible for such an infamous thing to take
place in France, the France of the Great Revolution, which Marc had
regarded hitherto as the deliverer and justiciar promised to the world?
He loved his country dearly for its generosity, for its independent
courage, for all the noble and great work which he thought it was
destined to accomplish. And now it allowed--nay, actually demanded--the
condemnation of an innocent man! And it reverted to the old-time
imbecility, the barbarity of ancient days! Had it been changed, had it
been poisoned to bring about that dementia? Grief and shame haunted
him; it was as if he himself had had a share in that crime. And with
his eager passion for truth and his craving to impose it upon all, he
felt intolerable discomfort when he saw falsehood triumph, and found
himself powerless to fight and destroy it by shouting aloud the truth
which he had sought so zealously. He lived through the affair again,
he still sought and sought, without discovering anything more, so
great was the tangle created by invisible hands. And after his long
hours of teaching, such despair at times came over him in the evening
that Geneviève gently cast her arms about him and kissed him tenderly,
desirous of giving him a little comfort.

'You will make yourself ill, my poor friend,' she said. 'Don't think of
those sad things any more.'

Tears came to his eyes, so deeply was he touched. In his turn, he
kissed her tenderly. 'Yes, yes,' he answered, 'you are right, one must
be brave. But how can I help it? I cannot prevent myself from thinking,
and it is great torment.'

Then smiling, and raising a finger to her lips, she led him to the cot
where little Louise was already fast asleep. 'You must only think of
our darling; you must say to yourself that we are working for her. She
will be happy if we are.'

'Yes, that would be the more sensible course. But, then, is not our
happiness to come from the happiness of all?'

Geneviève had evinced much sense and affection throughout the affair.
She had been grieved by the demeanour of her grandmother towards her
husband, to whom, during the last days spent at Maillebois, even
Pélagie, with spiteful affectation, had never spoken. Thus, when the
young people had quitted the house on the Place des Capucins, the
parting had been a very cold one; and since that time Geneviève had
contented herself with calling on her relations at long intervals, by
way of avoiding a complete rupture. Now that she was back at Jonville
she had again ceased to attend Mass, for she did not wish to give Abbé
Cognasse any opportunity to approach her and endeavour to undermine her
affection for her husband. Evincing no interest in the quarrel between
the Church and the school, she was content to cling to Marc's neck;
and, like a woman who has given herself entirely to the loved one, it
was in his arms that she sought a refuge, even when heredity and the
effects of a Catholic education prevented her from fully approving
his actions. Perhaps in the Simon affair she did not think as he did,
but she knew how loyal, generous, and just he was, and she could not
blame him for acting according to his conscience. Nevertheless, like a
sensible woman, she occasionally recalled him to prudence. What would
have become of them and their child if he had compromised himself so
far as to lose his position? At the same time, they loved each other
so much, they were still so full of passion one for the other, that no
quarrel between them had a chance of becoming serious. The slightest
disagreement ended in an embrace, a great quiver, and a rain of ardent
kisses.

'Ah, my dear, dear Geneviève, when one has given oneself, one can never
take oneself back!'

'Yes, yes, my dear Marc, I am yours; I know how good you are; do with
me as you please.'

He allowed her all freedom. Had she gone to Mass he would not have
tried to prevent her. Whatever might be his own views, he wished to
respect her liberty of conscience. And, as christening was a usual
thing, he had not thought of opposing the baptism of little Louise.
When at times he felt worried by the divergence of religious views, he
asked himself if love did not suffice as a remedy for everything, if
one did not always end by agreeing, whatever catastrophe might befall,
when every evening there came the closest union, husband and wife
having but one heart and one being.

If the Simon affair continued to haunt Marc, it was because he was
unable to cease occupying himself with it. He had vowed that he would
never rest until he should discover the real culprit; and he kept his
word, influenced more by passion than by strict duty. On Thursdays,
when his afternoons were free, he hastened to Maillebois to call at the
Lehmanns' dark and dismal shop in the Rue du Trou. The condemnation
of Simon had fallen on that wretched dwelling like a thunderbolt.
Public execration seemed to cast the convict's family, his friends,
and even the few acquaintances who remained faithful to him, out of
the pale of humanity. Lehmann and his wife, who evinced such wretched
resignation to their lot, were forsaken by their customers, and would
have starved had they not secured some poorly-paid piece-work for
Parisian clothiers. But it was particularly Madame Simon, the mournful
Rachel, and her little children, Joseph and Sarah, who suffered from
the savage hatred assailing their name. It had been impossible for the
children to return to school. The town-lads hooted them, pelted them
with stones, and one day the little boy came home with his lip badly
cut by a missile. As for the mother, who had assumed mourning and
whose beauty became the more dazzling in the plain black gown which
she always wore, she spent her days in weeping, relying only on some
prodigy for salvation. Alone among the inmates of the desolate house,
amid the yielding grief of the others, did David remain erect, silent
and active, still seeking and still hoping.

He had allotted to himself a superhuman task--that of saving and
rehabilitating his brother. He had sworn to him at their last interview
that he would dedicate his life to the work of penetrating the
frightful mystery, of discovering the real murderer, and of dragging
the truth into the broad light of day. Thus he had definitively placed
the working of his sand and gravel pits in the hands of a reliable
manager, knowing that if he should lack money he would from the outset
find his efforts crippled. Personally, he devoted himself entirely to
his search for the truth, ever following up the slightest clues, ever
deep in the quest for new facts. If it had been possible for his zeal
to weaken, the letters from Cayenne, which his sister-in-law at long
intervals received from his brother, would have sufficed to inflame his
courage. Simon's departure, his embarkation with other unhappy beings,
the awful voyage, the arrival yonder amid all the horrors of the penal
settlement--those were scorching memories which threw David into
indescribable agitation, which returned amid dreadful shudders at each
and every hour. And now came letters, doctored and amputated by the
officials, yet allowing one to detect beneath each phrase the cry of
one who was enduring intolerable torture, the revolt of an innocent man
for ever brooding over his pretended crime, and at a loss to understand
why it was that he should expiate another's deed. Was not madness at
the end of that devouring anguish? Simon alluded gently to the thieves
and assassins, his companions; and one could divine that his hatred was
directed against the keepers, the torturers, who, uncontrolled, far
removed from the civilised world, became like the wild men of primeval
caverns, gloating over the sufferings they inflicted upon other men.
It was a sphere of mire and blood; and one evening a pardoned convict
recounted such horrible particulars to David, in Marc's presence, that
the two friends, their bleeding hearts wrung by terror and compassion,
were stirred to furious protest and cried their pain aloud.

Unfortunately the ceaseless inquiries, which both David and Marc
prosecuted with discreet stubbornness, yielded no great result. They
had resolved to keep a watch on the Brothers' school at Maillebois, and
particularly on Brother Gorgias, whom they still suspected. But a month
after the trial all three of the assistant Brothers, Isidore, Lazarus,
and Gorgias, disappeared together, being sent to some other community
at the other end of France. Brother Fulgence, the director, alone
remained at Maillebois, where three new Ignorantines joined him. David
and Marc could draw no positive conclusions from this incident, for the
Brothers often went from one establishment to another. Besides, as all
three assistants had been removed, it was impossible to tell to which
one of them that removal was really due.

So far as Maillebois was concerned the worst result of Simon's
condemnation had been the terrible blow dealt to the Communal school,
from which several families had withdrawn their children in order to
confide them to the Brothers, who had never previously known such
great prosperity. Nowadays the victorious faces of priests, monks,
and Brothers were met on all sides in the town; and the new master
appointed to succeed Simon, a pale and puny little fellow named
Méchain, seemed scarcely the man to resist that invading tide. He was
said to be consumptive, and he certainly suffered a great deal from the
severity of the winter, when he left his boys largely in the charge
of Mignot, who, always at a loss when he was not guided, now took the
advice of Mademoiselle Rouzaire. She was more than ever on the side
of the clerical faction which at present reigned over the region; and
thus she persuaded Mignot to take the boys to Mass, and even set up a
large wooden crucifix in the classroom. These things were tolerated in
official spheres, where it was thought, perhaps, that they might have a
good effect on certain families and facilitate the return of children
to the Communal school. But, as a matter of fact, all Maillebois was
going over to the Clericals, and the crisis had become extremely
serious.

Marc's desolation increased as he observed the spirit of ignorance
enthroned over the region. Simon's name had become a bogie name; one
could not mention it without driving people wild with rage and fear.
They regarded it as an accursed name which brought misfortune--a name
that summed up all human iniquity. Silence ought to be observed; no
allusion, however slight, ought to be made to it, for otherwise one
might draw the most dreadful catastrophes upon the country. A few men
of sensible upright minds had certainly felt greatly disturbed since
the trial, and had even admitted the possibility of the condemned man's
innocence; but in presence of the furious wave of public opinion they
no longer spoke; they even advised their friends to remain silent. What
would be the use of protesting, of endeavouring to secure justice? Why
should one expose oneself to utter ruin without rendering any practical
help to anybody? At each indication furnished by circumstances Marc
felt stupefied at finding everybody crouching in falsehood and error,
as in some ever-growing pond of filthy, slimy, poisonous water. On
various occasions he happened to meet Bongard the farmer, Doloir the
mason, and Savin the clerk, and he quite understood that all three
had been minded to withdraw their children from the Communal school
and send them to the Brothers', and that if they had abstained from
doing so it was only from some dim fear that they might thereby harm
themselves with the authorities.

Bongard, who kept very quiet, at a loss whether to side with the
priests or the government, ended, however, by relating that the Jews
spread the cattle plague through the country, for his two children had
seen a man throwing some white powder into a well. Doloir on his side
talked of an international Jew syndicate which had been formed to sell
France to Germany, and threatened to box the ears of Méchain, the new
schoolmaster, if his boys, Auguste and Charles, should learn anything
wrong at that Communal school where children were corrupted. Then Savin
became more bitter than ever, haunted at times by the idea that if
he vegetated it was because he had not joined the Freemasons, and at
others covertly regretting that he had not openly become a partisan of
the Church. At one moment also he declared the Simon affair to have
been a comedy. One culprit had been sacrificed to save all the others
and to hide what went on in every school of France, whether it were
secular or religious. Thus, to save his children, Hortense, Achille,
and Philippe, from perdition, he thought of removing them from school
altogether, and allowing them to grow up as nature might direct.

Marc listened to it all, feeling quite upset and at a loss to
understand how people of any sense could reach such a degree of
aberration. There was something more than innate ignorance in such
mentality. It had been created by the continuous working of all the
stupid things which were currently said, by the growth of popular
prejudices through the ages, by the virus of all the superstitions
and legends which destroyed men's reason. And how was purification
possible, how could one cure those poor ailing, intoxicated people and
endow them with good health, intellectually and morally?

Marc experienced deep emotion one day when he went to buy a schoolbook
of the Mesdames Milhomme, the stationers in the Rue Courte. Both of
them were in the shop with their sons, Madame Alexander with Sébastien,
and Madame Edouard with Victor. Marc was served by the latter lady,
who, though she seemed taken aback when he suddenly entered, promptly
recovered her assurance and frowned with an expression of harsh and
egotistical determination. But Madame Alexandre had risen quivering,
and under the pretence of making Sébastien wash his hands, she at once
led him away. Marc was deeply stirred by that flight. It was a proof of
what he suspected--the great perturbation that had reigned in that home
ever since Simon, the innocent man, had been condemned. Would the truth
ever come from that little shop then? He knew not, and, feeling more
distressed than ever, he withdrew, after allowing Madame Edouard to
tell him some extraordinary tales by way of masking her sister-in-law's
weakness. An old lady customer of hers, she said, often dreamt of
poor little Zéphirin, Simon's victim, who appeared to her, bearing a
martyr's palm. And since the Brothers' school had been suspected by the
freethinkers it had been granted the visible protection of Heaven, for
on three different occasions surrounding buildings had been struck by
lightning whereas the school had remained unharmed.

Finally, apropos of some administrative affair, Marc had occasion
to call on Darras, the Mayor, who had always been regarded as a
Simonist, having openly displayed his sympathy with the prisoner at
the time of the trial. But, after all, he was a functionary, and did
not his position now compel him to observe complete neutrality? His
discretion was increased by some little cowardice, a fear of coming
into collision with the majority of the electors and of losing his
position of mayor, of which he was so proud. So, when Marc's business
was settled and the young man ventured to question him, he raised his
arms to the ceiling despairingly. He could do nothing, he was bound
by his position, particularly as the Clericals would certainly secure
a majority in the municipal council at the next elections if the
population were irritated any further. That disastrous Simon affair had
given the Church a wonderfully favourable battlefield, where it gained
the easiest victories over the poor ignorant multitude, poisoned with
errors and lies. As long as that blast of dementia should continue
blowing, one could attempt nothing, one must bow the head, and let the
storm sweep on. Darras even exacted from Marc a promise that he would
not repeat what he said to him. Then he escorted him to the door as a
proof of his secret sympathy, and again implored him to remain silent
and motionless until the advent of better times.

When Marc, as the result of such incidents, felt overcome with despair
and disgust, there was only one spot where he found any comfort.
That was the private room of Salvan, the Director of the Beaumont
Training College. He visited Salvan frequently during the trying
winter months, when his colleague Férou was starving at Le Moreux
and contending against Abbé Cognasse. He spoke to his friend of the
revolting wretchedness of the poor ill-paid schoolmaster, beside the
prosperity of the fatly-kept priest. And Salvan admitted that such
wretchedness was the cause of the discredit into which the position
of elementary schoolmaster was fast falling. If students for the
Training Colleges were only recruited with difficulty, it was because
the paltry stipend of fifty-two sous a day, allowed a man when he
became a titular head-master at thirty years of age, no longer tempted
anybody. The peasants' sons who were anxious to escape the plough, and
among whom both the Training Colleges and the Seminaries found most of
their pupils, now preferred to go to the towns in search of fortune,
to engage in commerce there, and even to become mere clerks. It was
only exoneration from military service, obtained by signing a contract
to follow the teaching profession for at least ten years, that still
induced some of them to enter that calling, in which so little money
and so few honours were to be won, whereas a deal of worry and a deal
of scorn were to be expected by all.

Yet the recruiting of the Training Colleges was the great question, on
which the education of the country, its very strength and salvation,
depended. Co-equal with it in importance was that of the exact
training to be given in those colleges to the schoolmasters of the
future. It was necessary to animate them with the flame of reason and
logic, to warm their hearts with the love of truth and justice. The
recruiting depended entirely on the grant of higher remuneration to the
profession, such reasonable remuneration as would enable a schoolmaster
to lead a life of quiet dignity; whilst as for the training of the
future teachers an entirely new programme was needed. As Salvan rightly
said, on the value of the elementary master depended the value of
elementary education, the mentality of the poorer classes, who formed
the immense majority of the community. And beyond that matter there was
that of the future of France. Thus the question became one of life or
death for the nation.

Salvan's mission was to prepare masters for the liberating work which
would be entrusted to them. But hitherto it had been impossible to
create apostles such as were needed, men who based themselves solely on
experimental methods, who rejected dogmas and mendacious legends, the
whole huge fabric of error by which the humble of the world have been
held in misery and bondage for ages. The existing masters were mostly
worthy folk, Republicans even, quite capable of teaching reading,
writing, arithmetic, and a little history, but absolutely incapable
of forming citizens and men. In the disastrous Simon affair they had
been seen passing almost entirely to the side of falsehood, because
they lacked reasoning powers, method, and logic. They did not know how
truth ought to be loved; it had sufficed them to hear that the Jews had
sold France to Germany, and at once they had become delirious! Where
then, ah! where was that sacred battalion of elementary schoolmasters
which was to have taught the whole people of France by the sole light
of certainties scientifically established, in order that it might be
delivered from the darkness of centuries, and rendered capable, at
last, of practising truth, and liberty, and justice?

One morning Marc received a letter in which Salvan begged him to call
at the first opportunity. On the following Thursday afternoon the young
man therefore repaired to Beaumont, to that Training College which
he could never enter without a feeling of emotion, without memories
and hopes arising in his mind. The director was awaiting him in his
private room, a door of which opened into a little garden brightened
already by the warm April sunshine.

'My dear friend,' said Salvan, 'this is why I sent for you. You are
acquainted with the deplorable state of affairs at Maillebois. Méchain;
the new master, whose appointment in such grave circumstances was a
mistake, is not badly disposed; I even think that he is on our side;
but he is weak, and in a few months' time he has allowed himself to
be outflanked. Moreover, he is ill, and has applied for a change of
appointment, wishing, if possible, to go to the south. What we need
at Maillebois is a master of sterling good sense and strong will,
one possessed of all the intelligence and energy necessitated by the
present situation. And so there have been thoughts of you----'

'Of me!' cried Marc, taken aback by so sudden and unexpected an
announcement.

'Yes; you alone are thoroughly acquainted with the district and the
frightful crisis to which it is now a prey. Since the condemnation of
poor Simon, the elementary school has been, so to say, accursed; it
loses pupils every month, while the Brothers' school tends to take
its place. Maillebois is now becoming a centre of Clericalism, low
superstition, and reactionary stupidity, which will end by devouring
everything if we do not resist. The population is already relapsing
into the hateful passions, the foolish imaginings of nine hundred years
ago, and we need an artisan of the future, a sower of the good crop to
restore the Communal school to prosperity. So, as I said before, you
were thought of----'

'But is it merely a personal desire that you are expressing, or have
you been asked to consult me?' asked Marc, again interrupting.

Salvan smiled: 'Oh! I am a functionary of no great importance; I can
hardly hope to see all my personal desires accomplished. The truth
is that I have been requested to sound you. It is known that I am a
friend of yours. Le Barazer, our Academy Inspector, sent for me last
Monday, and from our conversation sprang the idea of offering you the
Maillebois school.'

Marc could not refrain from shrugging his shoulders.

'Oh! Le Barazer did not behave very bravely in Simon's case, I am aware
of it,' Salvan continued. 'He might have done something. But we have
to take men as they are. One thing which I can promise you is that if
you do not find him exactly on your side, hereafter he will at least
prove the hidden prop, the inert substance on which you may lean for
support without fear. He always ends by getting the better of Prefect
Hennebise, who is so dreadfully afraid of worries; and Forbes, the
Rector, good man, is content to reign without governing. The dangerous
party is that lay Jesuit Mauraisin, your Elementary Inspector, Father
Crabot's friend, with whom Le Barazer thinks it more politic to behave
gently. But come, surely the idea of battle does not frighten you!'

Marc remained silent, with downcast eyes, absorbed in anxious thoughts,
assailed by doubt and hesitation. Then Salvan, who could read his mind
and who, moreover, was acquainted with the drama of his home life,
stepped forward and took his hands, saying with great feeling: 'I know
what I am asking of you, my friend. I was a great friend of Berthereau,
Geneviève's father, a man with a very free, broad mind, but at the
same time a sentimental man who ended by accompanying his wife to Mass
in order to please her. Later I acted as surrogate-guardian to his
daughter, your wife, and I often visited the little house on the Place
des Capucins, where Madame Duparque already reigned so despotically
over her daughter, Madame Berthereau, and over her grandchild,
Geneviève. Perhaps I ought to have warned you more than I did at the
time of your marriage, for there is always some danger when a man like
you marries a young girl who ever since infancy has been steeped in the
most idolatrous of religions. But, so far, I have had no great occasion
for self-reproach, for you are happy. Nevertheless, it is quite true
that, if you accept the Maillebois appointment, you will find yourself
in continual conflict with those ladies. That is what you are thinking
of, is it not?'

Marc raised his head. 'Yes, I confess it, I fear for my happiness.
As you know, I have no ambition. To be appointed at Maillebois would
doubtless be desirable advancement; but I am perfectly content with my
position at Jonville, where I am delighted to have succeeded and to
have rendered some services to our cause. Yet now you wish me to quit
that certainty, and jeopardise my peace elsewhere!'

A pause followed; then Salvan gently asked: 'Do you doubt Geneviève's
affection?'

'Oh! no,' cried Marc; and after another pause and some little
embarrassment: 'How could I doubt her, loving as she is, so happy in
my arms?... But you can have no notion of the life we led with those
ladies during the vacation, while I was busy with Simon's case. It
became unbearable. I was treated as a stranger there; even the servant
would not speak to me. And I felt as if I had been carried thousands
of leagues away, to some other planet, with whose inhabitants I
had nothing in common. Worst of all, the ladies began to spoil my
Geneviève; she was relapsing into the ideas of her convent days, and
she herself ended by growing frightened, and felt very happy when we
found ourselves once more in our little nest at Jonville.'

He paused, quivering, and then concluded: 'No! no! Leave me where I am.
I do my duty there: I carry out a work which I regard as good. It is
sufficient for each workman to bring his stone for the edifice.'

Salvan, who had been pacing the room slowly, halted in front of the
young man. 'I do not wish you to sacrifice yourself, my friend,' he
said; 'I should regret it all my life if your happiness should be
compromised, if the bitterness born of conflict should infect your
hearth. But you are of the metal out of which heroes are wrought.... Do
not give me an answer now. Take a week to think the matter over. Come
again next Thursday; we will then have another chat, and arrive at a
decision.'

Marc returned to Jonville that evening, feeling very worried. Ought
he to silence his fears, which he scarcely dared to acknowledge to
himself, and engage in a struggle with his wife's relations--a struggle
in which all the joy of his life might be annihilated? He had decided
at first that he would have a frank explanation with Geneviève; but
afterwards his courage failed him, he foresaw only too well that she
would simply tell him to act in accordance with his opinions and as
his duty directed. Thus, assailed by increasing anguish of mind,
discontented with himself, the young man did not speak to his wife of
Salvan's offer. Two days went by amid hesitation and doubt; and then he
ended by reviewing the situation and weighing the various reasons which
might induce him to accept or refuse the Maillebois appointment.

He pictured the little town. There was Darras the Mayor, who, although
a good-natured man and one of advanced views, no longer dared to be
openly just for fear of losing his official position, and placing his
fortune in jeopardy. There were also all the Bongards, the Doloirs,
the Savins, the Milhommes, all those folk of average intellect and
morality who had favoured him with such strange discourses, in which
cruelty was blended with imbecility; while behind them came the
multitude, a prey to even more ridiculous fancies and capable of more
immediate ferocity. The superstitions of savages prevailed among the
masses, their mentality was that of a nation of barbarians, adoring
fetiches, setting its glory in massacre and rapine, and displaying
neither a shred of tolerance, nor of sense, nor of kindliness. But
why did they remain steeped--at their ease, as it were--in all the
dense filth of error and falsehood? Why did they reject logic, even
mere reason, with a kind of instinctive hatred, as if they were
terrified by everything that was pure, simple, and clear? And why,
in the Simon case, had they given to the world the extraordinary
and deplorable spectacle of a people paralysed in its sensibility
and intelligence, determined neither to see nor to understand, but
bent on enveloping itself in all possible darkness, in order that
it might be unable to see, and free to clamour for death amid the
black night of its superstitions and its prejudices? Those folk had
assuredly been contaminated, poisoned; day by day newspapers like _Le
Petit Beaumontais_ and _La Croix de Beaumont_ had poured forth the
hateful beverage which corrupts and brings delirium. Poor childish
minds, hearts deficient in courage, all the suffering and humble ones,
brutified by bondage and misery, become an easy prey for forgers and
liars, for those who batten upon public credulity. And ever since the
beginning of time every Church and Empire and Monarchy in the world
has only reigned over the multitude by poisoning it, after robbing and
maintaining it in the terror and slavery of false beliefs.

But if the people had been poisoned so easily it must have been because
it possessed no power of resistance. Poison, moral poison, acts
particularly on the ignorant, on those who know nothing, those who
are incapable of criticising, examining, and reasoning. Thus, beneath
all the anguish, iniquity, and shame, one found ignorance--ignorance,
the first and the only cause of mankind's long Calvary, its slow and
laborious ascent towards the light through all the filth and the crimes
of history. And assuredly, if nations were to be freed, one must go to
the root of things--that root of ignorance; for once again it had been
demonstrated that an ignorant people could not practise equity, that
truth alone could endow it with the power of dispensing justice.

At that point of his reflections Marc felt very much astonished. How
came it that the mentality of the masses was no higher than that of
mere savages? Had not the Republic reigned for thirty years, and had
not its founders shown themselves conscious of the necessities of the
times by basing the state edifice on scholastic laws, restoring the
elementary schools to honour and strength, and decreeing that education
thenceforth should be gratuitous, compulsory, and secular? They must
have fancied at that time that the good work was virtually done, that
a real democracy, delivered from old-time errors and falsehoods, would
at last sprout from the soil of France. But thirty years had elapsed,
and any forward step that might be achieved seemed to be cancelled by
the slightest public disturbance. The people of to-day relapsed into
the brutish degradation, the dementia of the people of yesterday,
amidst a sudden return of ancestral darkness. What had happened then?
What covert resistance, what subterranean force was it that had thus
paralysed the immense efforts which had been attempted to extricate all
the humble and suffering ones from their slavery and obscurity? As Marc
put this question to himself he at once saw the enemy arise--the enemy,
the creator of ignorance and death, the Roman Catholic Church.

It was that Church which, with the patient tactics of a tenacious
worker, had barred the roads, and gradually seized on all those poor
dense minds which others had tried to wrest from its domination. She
had always fully understood that she must remain the master of the
educational system in order that she might create night and falsehood
as she listed, if she desired to keep the bodies and souls of the
masses in subjection. Thus it was on the battlefield of the schools
that she had once again waged hostilities, displaying marvellous
suppleness in her hypocritical craft, pretending even to be Republican,
and availing herself of the laws of freedom to keep within the prison
house of her dogmas and superstitions the millions of children whom
those same laws had been devised to liberate. And all those children
were young brains won over to error, future soldiers for the religion
of spoliation and cruelty which reigned over the hateful society of the
era.

The crafty old Pope was seen leading the campaign, that turning
movement which was to drive the Revolution from its own land of
France, and, in the name of liberty, filch and appropriate all
its conquests. The founders of the existing _régime_, the early
Republicans, in presence of the feigned disarming of the Church, had
been simple-minded enough to regard themselves as victors, to lapse
into tranquillity, and even to smile upon the priests. They celebrated
a new spirit of concord and pacification, the union of all beliefs in
one sole national and patriotic faith. As the Republic was triumphant,
why should it not welcome all its children, even those who, again
and again, had tried to throttle it? But, thanks to that benevolent
grandeur of views, the Church went on prosecuting her subterranean
march, the Congregations which had been expelled[4] came back one by
one, the everlasting work of invasion and enthralment was pursued
without an hour's rest. Little by little the colleges of the Jesuits,
the Dominicans, and other Congregations peopled the civil service, the
magistrature, and the army with their pupils and creatures, while the
secular schools were dispossessed by those of the Brothers and Sisters.
Thus, on suddenly awaking with a great start, the country had found
itself once more in the hands of the Church, the best posts of its
governmental organisation being held by the Church's men, while its
future was pledged, since the children of the masses, the peasants,
artisans, and soldiers of to-morrow were held beneath the rods of the
Ignorantines.

[Footnote 4: This is not an allusion to the recent expulsions of
the religious Orders, but to those carried out a score of years
ago.--_Trans._]

Marc, as it happened, witnessed on the Sunday an extraordinary
spectacle which fully confirmed his impressions. He was still deep in
thought, still unable to make up his mind to accept Salvan's offer.
And having gone to Maillebois that Sunday in order to see David,
he afterwards came upon a remarkable religious ceremony, which _Le
Croix de Beaumont_ and _Le Petit Beaumontais_ had been announcing in
flamboyant articles for a fortnight past, in such wise that all the
devotees of the region were in a fever of excitement over it. The
question was one of a superb reliquary, containing a fragment of the
skull of St. Antony of Padua, a perfect treasure, for the purchase of
which as much as ten thousand francs, it was said, had been subscribed
by some of the faithful, who had presented it to the Capuchin Chapel.
For the inauguration of the reliquary at the feet of the statue of the
Saint there was to be a grand solemnity, which Monseigneur Begerot had
consented to adorn with his presence. It was the Bishop's graciousness
in this respect which impassioned everybody; for none had forgotten how
he had formerly supported Abbé Quandieu, the parish priest, against the
efforts of the Capuchins to gain all the faithful and all the money of
the region to themselves. Besides, he had always been regarded as a
thorough Simonist. Yet he had now consented to bestow on the Capuchins
and their trade a public mark of his sympathy; and it followed that
he must have submitted to very powerful influences, for it was
extraordinary that after an interval of only a few months he should
give the lie to all his previous actions, and resign himself to a
course which must have been painful indeed to a man of so much culture
and gentle good sense.

Attracted by curiosity, Marc repaired with the crowd to the chapel,
where during the next two hours he beheld the strangest things
possible. The trade which the Maillebois Capuchins carried on with
their St. Antony of Padua had become very considerable, amounting to
some hundreds of thousands of francs every year, collected in little
sums, varying from one franc to ten. Father Théodose, the superior,
whose fine apostolic head sent all the lady devotees into raptures, had
proved himself to be an inventor and manager of great genius. He had
devised and organised the democratic miracle, the domestic, every-day
miracle such as was within the reach of the humblest purses. At the
outset St. Antony's statue in the chapel had been a somewhat paltry
one, and the Saint had busied himself with little else than the finding
of lost things, his old-time specialty. But after a few successes of
this kind, as money began to flow in, Father Théodose by a stroke of
genius extended the sphere of the Saint's miraculous action, applying
it to all the needs and desires of his steadily increasing customers.
The sick who were afflicted with incurable maladies, those also who
merely suffered from head or stomach ache; the petty shopkeepers who
were in embarrassed circumstances, who lacked the money to honour their
acceptances, or who did not know how to get rid of damaged goods; the
speculators who had embarked in shady undertakings and who feared the
loss of their fortunes and their liberty; the mothers who were in
despair at finding no husbands for their plain and dowerless daughters;
the poor devils out of work, who were weary of seeking employment,
and who felt that only a prodigy could enable them to earn their
bread; the heirs who were anxious with respect to the sentiments of an
ailing grandparent, and who desired the help of Heaven to ensure them
a bequest; the idle schoolboys, the hare-brained school girls, all the
dunces who were certain to fail at their examinations if Providence did
not come to their assistance; all the sorry weaklings, destitute of
will, incapable of effort, who, regardless of work and common sense,
awaited some undeserved success from a superior power--all these might
address themselves to St. Antony, confide their case to him, and secure
his all-powerful intercession with the Deity, the chances of success in
their favour being six to four, according to careful statistics which
had been prepared!

So everything was organised in a lavish way. The old statue was
replaced by a new one, very much larger and gilded far more profusely;
and collection boxes were set up on all sides--collection boxes of a
new pattern, each having two compartments, one for money gifts and
the other for letters which were addressed to the Saint, and which
specified the nature of the applications. It was of course allowable
to give no money; but it was remarked that the Saint granted only the
prayers of those who bestowed at least some small alms. In the result
a tariff was established, based on experience--so Father Théodose
asserted--one franc and two francs given being for little favours,
five francs and ten francs when one was more ambitiously inclined.
Besides, if the applicant did not give enough, the Saint soon made it
known by failing to intervene, and it then became necessary to double
and treble one's alms. Those customers who desired to delay payment
until the miracle was accomplished ran the risk of never securing a
favour at all. Moreover, the Saint retained all freedom of action,
choosing the elect as he pleased, and rendering accounts to none. Thus
the whole affair was a gamble, a kind of divine lottery, in which one
might draw a good or a bad number; and it was this very circumstance
which impassioned the masses among whom the gambling instinct is so
keen. They rushed upon the collection boxes and gave their franc,
their two francs, or their five francs, all aflame with the hope that
they would perhaps secure a big prize, some illicit and unhoped-for
gain, some fine marriage, some diploma, some huge bequest. Never had
there been a more impudent attempt to brutify the public, a more
shameless speculation on human stupidity and the instincts of idleness
and covetousness, one which destroyed all self-reliance and spread
broadcast the idea of achieving success by chance alone without the
slightest show of merit.[5]

[Footnote 5: M. Zola's account of the worship of St. Antony is strictly
accurate. Can one wonder that the Government of the Republic should
have decided to expel from France some of the bandits who, masquerading
under the guise of monks, initiated this colossal fraud? The idea of
it sprang from their keen jealousy of the wealth of the Assumptionist
Fathers whom they found raking in money at Lourdes by the aid of bogus
miracles. They carried the miracle craze further by diffusing the
worship of St. Antony throughout France, preying on all the credulous
with the most astounding impudence.--_Trans._]

Marc understood by the feverish enthusiasm of the groups around him
that the business would spread still further and contaminate the
whole region, thanks to that chiselled, gilded, silver reliquary,
in which a fragment of St. Antony's skull was enshrined. This was
Father Théodose's last device in response to the competition which
other religious Orders had started at Beaumont, with a great swarming
of statues and collection boxes, in order that the public might try
their luck with other miracle-working saints. Mistakes would now be
impossible, he alone possessed the sacred fragment of bone, and he
alone would be able to supply the miracle gamblers with the very best
chances of success. Posters covered the walls of the chapel, a new
prospectus guaranteed the absolute authenticity of the relic, set
forth that the tariffs would not be increased in spite of the new
advantages offered, and carefully regulated operations in order that
no recrimination might ensue between the Saint and his customers. The
first thing, however, which struck Marc painfully was the presence of
Mademoiselle Rouzaire, who had brought the girls of the Communal school
to the ceremony as if their attendance were a part of the curriculum.
And he was stupefied when at the head of the girls he saw the tallest
of them carrying a religious banner of white silk embroidered with
gold. But Mademoiselle Rouzaire made no secret of her sentiments.
Whenever one of her pupils competed for a certificate she sent her
not only to take Communion, but to place two francs in one of St.
Antony's collection boxes, in order that the Deity might facilitate her
examination. When the pupil was more stupid than usual she even advised
her to put five francs into the box, as the Saint would assuredly have
extra trouble in her case. She also made her pupils keep diaries in
which they had to record their sins day by day, and distributed good
marks to them for attendance at Mass. Singular indeed was the secular
Communal school kept by Mademoiselle Rouzaire!

The little girls ranged themselves on the left side of the nave,
while the little boys of the Brothers' school installed themselves
on the right, in the charge of Brother Fulgence, who, as usual, made
no end of fuss. Father Crabot and Father Philibin, who had wished to
honour the ceremony with their presence, were already in the choir.
Perhaps they were further desirous of enjoying their victory over
Monseigneur Bergerot, for everybody knew how the Rector of Valmarie
had helped to glorify the worship of St. Antony of Padua, in such wise
that it was a triumph to have compelled the Bishop to make due amends
for his severity of language respecting 'base superstition.' When
Monseigneur Bergerot entered the chapel, followed by Abbé Quandieu,
Marc felt confused, almost ashamed for them, such dolorous submission,
such enforced relinquishment did he detect beneath their grave pale
countenances.

The young man easily guessed what had happened, how the dementia, the
irresistible onrush of the devout, had ended by sweeping the Bishop
and the priest from the positions they had originally taken up. Abbé
Quandieu had long resisted, unwilling as he was to lend himself to what
he regarded as idolatry. But at sight of the scandal occasioned by his
demeanour and the solitude growing around him, he had been seized with
anguish, wondering if religion would not suffer from his uncompromising
attitude, and at last resigning himself to the painful duty of casting
the holy mantle of his ministry over the new and pestilential sore.
One day he had carried the story of his doubts, his struggles, his
defeat to Monseigneur Bergerot, who like him was vanquished, who like
him feared some diminution of the power of the Church if it should
confess its follies and its flaws. And the weeping Bishop had embraced
the priest and promised to attend the ceremony which was to seal the
reconciliation with the Capuchins and their allies. Keen suffering
must have come to them from their powerlessness, from their enforced
cowardice; and they must have suffered yet more bitterly at seeing
their ideal soiled, their faith made a mere matter of barter. Ah! that
Christianity, so pure at its advent, a great cause of brotherhood and
deliverance, and even that Catholicism which had winged its flight so
boldly and proved itself so powerful an instrument of civilisation, in
what mud would both expire, if they must be thus allowed to sink to the
vilest trading, to become the prey of the basest passions, mere things
to be bought and sold, instruments for the diffusion of brutishness and
falsehood! Worms were gathering in them, as in all old things, and soon
would come rottenness, final decomposition, which would leave nought
save a little dust and mouldiness behind.

The ceremony proved a triumphal one. A constellation of candles
glittered around the reliquary which was blessed and censed. There were
orisons and addresses, and canticles chanted amid the mighty strains
of the organ. Several ladies were taken ill, one of Mademoiselle
Rouzaire's little girls had to be led away, so oppressive became the
atmosphere. But the delirium of the congregation reached a climax
when Father Théodose, having ascended the pulpit, recited the Saint's
miracles: one hundred and twenty-eight lost objects duly found; fifty
doubtful commercial transactions brought to a good issue; thirty
tradespeople saved from bankruptcy by the sudden sale of old goods
stored away in their shops; ninety-three sick people, paralytic,
consumptive, affected with cancer or with gout, restored to health;
twenty-six young girls married although they were portionless; thirty
married women becoming the mothers of boys or girls, according to their
choice; three hundred clerks placed in good offices with the salaries
they desired; six inheritances acquired suddenly and against all hopes;
seventy-seven pupils, girls and boys, successful at their examinations,
although their teachers had foretold the contrary; and all sorts of
other favours and graces, conversions, illicit unions transformed into
lawful ones, unbelievers dying converted, lawsuits gained, unsaleable
lands suddenly disposed of, houses let after remaining tenantless for
ten years! And ardent covetousness convulsed the throng at each fresh
announcement of a miracle, till at last a clamour of satisfied passion
greeted the enumeration of each favour, which Father Théodose announced
from the pulpit in a thundering voice. It all ended in an attack
of veritable dementia, the whole congregation rising and howling,
stretching forth convulsive hands as if to catch one or another of
those great lottery prizes that rained down from heaven.

Angered and disgusted, Marc was unable to remain there any longer.
He had seen Father Crabot await a benevolent smile from Monseigneur
Bergerot, then hold with him a friendly conversation, which everybody
remarked. Meantime Abbé Quandieu was smiling also, though a twitch of
pain lurked round his lips. The sacrifice was consummated. The victory
of the Brothers and the monks, the triumph of the Catholicism of
idolatry, servitude, and annihilation would prove complete. The young
man felt stifled in that atmosphere, so he left the chapel to seek the
sunshine and the pure air.

But St. Antony of Padua pursued him even across the square outside.
Groups of female devotees were chattering together, even as the women
gamblers had chattered in the old days while loitering near the doors
of the lottery offices.

'As for me,' said one very fat and doleful woman, 'I never have any
luck; I never win at any game. And perhaps that's why St. Antony does
not listen to me. I gave forty sous on three occasions, once for my
goat which was ailing, but all the same it died; the next time for a
ring I lost, and which I never found; and then, the third time, for
some potatoes which were rotting, but it was no good, I couldn't find a
buyer for them. Ah! I am really unlucky and no mistake!'

'You are too patient, my dear,' a little dark wizened old woman
answered. 'As for me, when St. Antony won't lend ear, I make him
listen.'

'But how, my dear?'

'Oh! I punish him. For instance, there was that little house of mine
which I couldn't let because people complain that it's too damp and
that children get ill and die there. Well, I gave three francs, and
then I waited. Nothing, not a sign of a tenant! I gave three francs a
second time, and still there was no result. That made me cross and I
hustled the statuette of the Saint which stands on the chest of drawers
in my bedroom. As he still did nothing for me, I turned his face to the
wall to let him reflect. He spent a week like that, but still nothing
came of it, for it did not humiliate him sufficiently. I had to think
of something else; I felt quite furious, and I ended by tying him to
a cord and lowering him into my well, head downwards. Ah! my dear, he
then understood that I was bound to have the last word with him; for
he hadn't been in the well two hours when some people called and I let
them my little house.'

'But you pulled him out of the well?'

'Oh! at once. I set him on the drawers again, after wiping him quite
clean and apologising to him.... We are not on bad terms together on
account of that affair, oh! dear no; only, do you see, when one has
paid one's money, one ought to be energetic.'

'All right, my dear, I'll try.... I have some worries with the Justice
of the Peace, so I will go inside and give two francs. And if the Saint
doesn't help me to win the suit, I will show him my displeasure.'

'That's it, my dear! Tie a stone to his neck, or wrap him up in some
dirty linen. He doesn't like that at all. It will make him do the right
thing.'

Marc could not help smiling in spite of his bitter feelings. He
continued listening, and heard a group of serious looking men--among
whom he recognised Philis, the Municipal Councillor and clerical
rival of Mayor Darras--deploring the fact that not a parish of the
_arrondissement_ had yet consecrated itself to the Sacred Heart of
Jesus. That was another clever invention, more dangerous still than
the base trafficking in St. Antony of Padua. True, the poorer classes
as yet remained indifferent to it, as it lacked the attraction of a
miraculous and a gambling element. None the less, there was a grave
peril in that idolatrous worship of the Sacred Heart, a real, red,
bleeding heart torn away amid a last palpitation, and portrayed like
the heart of some animal in a butcher's shop. The endeavour was to
make that gory picture the emblem of modern France, to print it in
purple, to embroider it in silk and gold on the national flag, so
that the whole country might become a mere dependency of the Church
which invented that repulsive fetich worship. Here again one found the
same manœuvre, the same attempt to lay the grip of priestcraft on the
nation, to win over the multitude by means of superstition and legend,
in the hope of steeping it once more in ignorance and bondage. And in
the case of the Sacred Heart, as in that of St. Antony of Padua, it
was particularly the Jesuits who were at work, disorganising the olden
Catholicism with their evil power, and reducing religion to a level
with the carnal practices of savage tribes.

Marc hurried away. He again felt suffocated, he longed for solitude and
space. Geneviève, desirous of spending an afternoon with her parents,
had accompanied him to Maillebois that Sunday. Madame Duparque,
being attacked by gout, was confined to her arm-chair, and had been
prevented therefore from attending the ceremony at the chapel. As Marc
no longer visited his wife's relations, he had agreed with Geneviève
that he would meet her outside the railway station in time for the four
o'clock train. It was now scarcely more than three, and so he walked
mechanically to the tree-planted square where the railway station
stood, and sank upon a bench there amid the solitude. He was still
pondering, still absorbed in a great, decisive, mental battle.

All at once light flashed upon his mind. The extraordinary spectacle
he had just beheld, the things he had seen and heard, filled him with
glowing certainty. If the nation were passing through such a frightful
crisis; if it were becoming divided into two hostile Frances, ready to
devour one another, it was simply because Rome had carried her battle
into French territory. France was the last great Roman Catholic power
that remained;[6] she alone still possessed the men and the money,
the strength needed to impose Roman Catholicism on the world. It was
logical, therefore, that her territory should have been chosen for the
supreme battle of Rome, who was so frantically desirous of recovering
her temporal power, as that alone could lead her to the realisation of
her ancient dream of universal domination. Thus all France had become
like those frontier plains, those fertile ploughlands, vineyards,
and orchards where two armies meet and contend to decide some mighty
quarrel. The crops are ravaged by cavalry charges, the vineyards and
orchards are ripped open by galloping batteries of artillery; shells
blow up the villages, grape-shot cuts down the trees, and changes the
plain into a lifeless desert. And, in like way, the France of to-day
is devastated and ruined by the warfare which the Church there wages
against the Revolution, an exterminating warfare without truce or
mercy, for the Church well understands that, if she does not slay the
Revolution, by which is symbolised the spirit of liberty and justice,
the Revolution will slay her. Thence comes the desperate struggle on
every field, among every class--a struggle poisoning every question
that arises, fomenting civil war, transforming the motherland into
a field of massacre, where perhaps only ruins will soon remain.
And therein lies the mortal danger, a certainty of death if the
Church should triumph and cast France once more into the darkness
and wretchedness of the past, making of her also one of those fallen
nations which expire in the misery and nothingness with which Roman
Catholicism has stricken every land where she has reigned.

[Footnote 6: Austria, the reader may be reminded, is in great straits,
held together merely by the prestige of its reigning monarch; Italy is
hostile to the temporal claims of the papacy; Spain has been killed by
its priests; Portugal slumbers in insignificance; even the prosperity
of Belgium has been largely affected by the blighting influence of its
religious Orders.--_Trans._]

Reflections, which previously had filled Marc with much perplexity,
now came to him afresh, illumined by new light. He pictured the
subterranean work of the Church during the last fifty years: the clever
manœuvres of the Teaching Orders to win future power by influencing the
children; and the policy followed by Leo XIII., his crafty acceptance
of the Republic for the sole purpose of worming his way into it and
subduing it. But if the France of Voltaire and Diderot, the France
of the Revolution and the Three Republics, had become the poor,
misled, distracted France of to-day, which almost reverted to the
past instead of marching towards the future, it was more particularly
because the Jesuits and the other teaching Orders had set their grip
on the children, trebling the number of their pupils in thirty years,
spreading their powerful establishments over the entire land. And, all
at once, impelled thereto by events, and compelled moreover to take
up position, the triumphant Church unmasked her work, and defiantly
acknowledged that she meant to be the sovereign of the nation.

All the various conquests hitherto achieved arose before the
scared eyes of the onlookers: The high positions in the army, the
magistrature, the civil and political services were in the hands of
men formed by the Church; the once liberal, unbelieving, railing
middle class had been won back to the retrograde Church-spirit from
the fear of being dispossessed by the rising tide of the masses; the
latter themselves were poisoned with gross superstitions, held in
crass ignorance and falsehood in order that they might remain the
human cattle whom the master fleeces and slaughters. And the Church,
no longer hiding her designs, impudently pursued her work of conquest,
setting up St. Antony's collection boxes with a great display of
puffery on all sides, distributing flags adorned with the gory emblem
of the Sacred Heart to the villages, opening congregational schools in
competition to every secular one, and even seizing on the latter, where
the teachers often became creatures of her own, and did her work either
from cowardice or interest.

She, the Roman Catholic Church, was now openly at war with civil
society. She raised money expressly to carry on her work of conquest;
many of the religious congregations had taken to industry and trade;
one alone, that of the Good Pastor, realising some twelve millions of
francs profit[7] every year by exploiting the forty-seven thousand
work-girls who slaved in its two hundred and seven establishments. And
the Church sold all kinds of things: alcoholic liqueurs and shoes,
medicines and furniture, miraculous waters and embroidered nightgowns
for women of bad character. She turned everything into money, she
levied the heaviest tribute on public stupidity and credulity by her
spurious miracles and her everlasting exploitation of religion. Her
wealth amounted to thousands of millions of francs, her estates were
immense, and she disposed of enough ready cash to buy parties, hurl
them one upon the other, and triumph amid the blood and ruin of civil
war. The struggle appeared terrible and immediate to Marc, who had
never previously felt how very necessary it was that France should slay
that Church if she did not wish to be slain by her.

[Footnote 7: $2,316,000.]

All at once the Bongards, the Doloirs, the Savins, the Milhommes
seemed to appear before him; he could hear them stammering the paltry
excuses that came from cowardly hearts and poisoned minds, seeking
refuge in ignorance and fear-fraught egotism. They represented France,
the scared, brutified masses, handed over to prejudice and clerical
imbecility. To rot the people more quickly anti-Semitism had been
invented, that revival of religious hate by which too it was hoped to
win over even unbelievers who had deserted the Church. But to hurl the
people against the Jews and to exploit its ancestral passions was only
a beginning; at the end lay a return to slavery, a plunge into darkness
and ancient bondage. And to-morrow there would be Bongards, Doloirs,
Savins, and Milhommes of a still lower type, more stupefied, more
steeped in darkness and falsehood than those of to-day, if the children
should still be left in the hands of the Brothers and the Jesuits, on
the forms of the many Congregational schools.

It would not be sufficient to close those schools; it was also
necessary to purify the Communal schools, which the stealthy work of
the Church had ended by affecting, paralysing secular education, and
installing reactionary masters and mistresses among the teachers, who
by their lessons and their examples perpetuated error. For one man
like Férou, so intelligent and brave, even if maddened by misery, for
one woman like Mademoiselle Mazeline, all heart and reason, how many
disturbingly worthless ones there were--how many, too, who were badly
disposed, who went over to the enemy and did the greatest harm! There
were Mademoiselle Rouzaires, who from ambition sided with the stronger
party and carried their interested clericalism to excess; there were
Mignots drifting, allowing themselves to be impelled hither and thither
by those around them; there were Doutrequins, honest old Republicans,
who had become anti-Semites and reactionaries from an error of
patriotism; and behind all these appeared the entire elementary staff
of the country, disturbed, spoilt, losing its way, and liable to lead
the children confided to it, the generations of which the future would
be compounded, to the bottomless pit. Marc felt a chill at his heart
as he thought of it. Never before had the peril threatening the nation
seemed to him so imminent and so redoubtable.

It was certain that the elementary schools would prove the
battle-ground of the social contest; for the one real question was to
decide what education should be given to those masses which, little
by little, would assuredly dispossess the middle class of its usurped
power. Victorious over the expiring nobility in 1789, the _bourgeoisie_
had replaced it, and for a whole century it had kept possession of
the entire spoils, refusing to the masses their equitable share. At
present the _rôle_ of the _bourgeoisie_ was finished; it acknowledged
it, by going over to reaction, desperate as it felt at the idea of
having to part with power, terrified by the rise of the democracy which
was certain to dispossess it. Voltairean when it had thought itself
in full and peaceful enjoyment of its conquests, clerical now that in
its anxious need it found it had to summon reaction to its help, it
was worn out, rotted by abuse of power, and the ever advancing social
forces would eliminate it from the system. The energy of to-morrow
would be found in the masses, in them slumbered humanity's huge reserve
force of intelligence and will. Marc's only hope now was in those
children of the people who frequented the elementary schools from one
to the other end of France. They constituted the raw material out of
which the future nation would be fashioned, and it was necessary to
educate them in such wise that they might discharge their duty as
freed citizens, possessed of knowledge and will power, released from
all the absurd dogmas, errors, and superstitions which destroy human
liberty and dignity.

No happiness was possible, whether moral or material, save in the
possession of knowledge. The view inspired by the Gospel dictum, 'Happy
the poor in spirit,'[8] had held mankind in a quagmire of wretchedness
and bondage for ages. No, no! The poor in spirit are perforce mere
cattle, fit flesh for slavery and for suffering. As long as there shall
be a multitude of the poor in spirit, so will there be a multitude
of wretched beings, mere beasts of burden, exploited, preyed upon by
an infinitesimal minority of thieves and bandits. The happy people
will one day be that which is possessed of knowledge and will. It is
from the black pessimism based on sundry passages of the Bible that
the world must be delivered--the world, terrified, crushed down for
more than two thousand years, living solely for the sake of death.
Nothing could be more dangerous than to take the old Semite doctrine
as the only moral and social code. Happy, on the contrary, are those
who know--happy the intelligent, the men of will and action, for the
kingdom of the world shall belong to them! That was the cry which now
arose to Marc's lips, from his whole being, in a great transport of
faith and enthusiasm.

[Footnote 8: This is how the French render the well-known words of the
Sermon on the Mount, as given in Matthew v. 2. It will be remembered
that in Luke vi. 20, only the word 'poor' is given, 'in spirit' being
omitted. I must confess that I do not know what the 'higher criticism'
has to say of this inconsistency, and I am not learned enough to
express an opinion of any value on the Greek texts.--_Trans._]

And all at once he arrived at a decision: he would accept Salvan's
offer, he would come to Maillebois as elementary master, and he would
contend against the Church, against that contamination of the people,
of which he had witnessed one of the delirious fits at the ridiculous
ceremony held that afternoon. He would work for the liberation of
the humble, he would strive to make them free citizens. To win back
those masses whom he saw weighed down by ignorance and falsehood,
incapable of justice, he would go to the children and to the children's
children, instruct them, and, little by little, create a people of
truth who, then alone, would become a people of justice. That was the
loftiest duty, the most pressing good work, that on which depended the
country's very salvation, its strength and glory in its liberating
and justice-bringing mission through the ages and through the other
nations. And if, after three days' hesitation and anguish at the idea
of imperilling the happiness he enjoyed in Geneviève's arms, a moment
had sufficed for Marc to arrive at that weighty decision, was it not
that he had also found himself confronted by the serious problem of the
position of woman, whom the Church had turned into a mere stupefied
serf, an instrument of falsity and destruction?

What would they become as wives and mothers, those little girls whom
Mademoiselle Rouzaire now led to the Capuchins? When the Church had
seized them and held them by their senses, their weakness, and their
sufferings, it would never release them; it would employ them as
terrible engines of warfare, to demolish men and pervert children. So
long as woman, in her ancient contest with man, with respect to unjust
laws and iniquitous moral customs, should thus remain the property and
the weapon of the Church, social happiness would remain impossible,
war would be perpetuated between the disunited sexes. And woman would
only at last be a free creature, a free companion for man, disposing of
herself and of her happiness for the happiness of her husband and her
child, on the day when she should cease to belong to the priest, her
present master--he who disorganised and corrupted her.

With respect to Marc himself, was it not an unacknowledged fear, the
dread of some drama, which might ravage his own household, that had
made him tremble and recoil from the prospect of doing his duty? The
sudden decision he had taken might mean a struggle at his own hearth,
the necessity of doing his duty to those of his own home, even though
his heart might bleed cruelly the while. He knew that now; thus there
was some heroism in the course he chose with all simplicity, with all
enthusiasm for the good, work which he hoped to prosecute. The highest
_rôle_ and the noblest in a nascent democracy is that of the poor and
scorned elementary schoolmaster, appointed to teach the humble, to
train them to be happy citizens, the builders of the future City of
Justice and Peace. Marc felt it was so, and he suddenly realised the
exact sense of his mission, his apostleship of Truth, that fervent
passion to acquire Truth, certain and positive, then cry it aloud and
teach it to all, which had ever possessed him.

Raising his eyes to the railway station, the young man suddenly
perceived that it was past four o'clock. The train which he and his
wife were to have taken had gone, and it would be necessary to wait
till six, when the next one started. Almost immediately afterwards
he saw Geneviève approaching, looking much distressed, and carrying
little Louise in her arms in order to get over the ground more rapidly.
'Ah! my friend, you must forgive me, I quite forgot the time,' she
exclaimed. 'Grandmother detained me, and seemed so annoyed by my
impatience to join you that I ended by no longer noticing how time
slipped by.'

She had seated herself on the bench beside him, with Louise on her lap.
He smilingly inclined his head and kissed the child, who had raised her
little hands to pull his beard. And he quietly answered: 'Well, we will
wait till six o'clock, my dear. There is nobody to interfere with us,
we can remain here. Besides, I have something to tell you.'

But Louise wanted to play, and, stamping on her father's thighs, she
cast her arms about his neck.

'Has she been good?' he asked.

'Oh! she always is at grandmother's; she's afraid of being scolded. But
now, you see, she wants to have her revenge.'

When the young woman had managed to reseat the child on her lap again,
she inquired of her husband: 'What is it you want to tell me?'

'Something which I did not previously speak to you about, as I had
not made up my mind. I am offered the post of schoolmaster here, at
Maillebois, and I am going to accept it. What do you think of it?'

She looked at him in amazement, at first unable to reply. And for a
moment in her eyes he plainly detected a gleam of joyous surprise,
followed, however, by increasing anxiety.

'Yes, what do you think of it?' he repeated.

'I think, my friend, that it is advancement, such as you did not expect
so soon--only, the position will not be an easy one here, amid such
exasperated passions--your opinions, too, being known to everybody.'

'No doubt. I thought of that, but it would be cowardly to refuse the
fight.'

'But to speak quite plainly, my friend, I very much fear that if you
accept the post it will lead to a complete rupture with grandmother.
With mother we might still get on. But, as you know, grandmother is
intractable; she will imagine that you have come here to do the work of
Antichrist. It means certain rupture.'

A pause, full of embarrassment, followed. Then Marc resumed: 'So you
advise me to refuse? You also would disapprove of it: you would not be
pleased if I came here?'

She again raised her eyes to his, and with an impulse of great
sincerity replied: 'Disapprove of what you do? You grieve me, my
friend: why do you say that? Act as your conscience bids, do your duty
as you understand it. You are the only good judge, and whatever you do
will be well done.'

But, though she spoke those words, he could detect that her voice was
trembling, as if with fear of some unconfessed peril which she felt to
be near at hand. There came a fresh pause, during which her husband
took hold of her hands and caressed them lovingly in order to reassure
her.

'So you have quite made up your mind?' she asked.

'Yes, quite: I feel that I should be acting wrongly if I acted
otherwise.'

'Well, as we still have an hour and a half to wait for our train, I
think we ought to return to grandmother's at once, to acquaint her with
your decision.... I want you to behave frankly with her, not as if you
were hiding things.'

The young woman was still looking at her husband, and at that moment
all that he read in her glance was a great deal of loyalty mingled with
a little sadness.

'You are right, my darling,' he answered; 'let us go to grandmother's
at once.'

They walked slowly towards the Place des Capucins, delayed somewhat by
the little legs of Louise, whom her mother held by the hand. But the
close of that fine April day was delightful, and they covered the short
distance in a kind of reverie, without exchanging a word. The square
had become deserted again, the ladies' house seemed to be wrapped in
its wonted somnolence. They found Madame Duparque seated in the little
drawing-room, resting her ailing leg on a chair, while she knitted
stockings for some charity. Madame Berthereau was embroidering near the
window.

Greatly astonished by Geneviève's return, and particularly by the
presence of Marc, the grandmother dropped her knitting, and, without
even telling them to sit down, waited for them to speak. When Marc had
acquainted her with the position, the offer made to him, his decision
to accept it, and his desire to inform her of it in a deferential way,
she gave a sudden start, then shrugged her shoulders.

'But it is madness, my boy,' said she; 'you won't keep the appointment
a month.'

'Why not?'

'Why? Because you are not the schoolmaster we require. You are well
aware of the good spirit of the district, where religion is securing
such splendid triumphs. And with your revolutionary ideas your position
would be untenable, you would soon be at war with the whole population.'

'Well, I should be at war. Unfortunately one has to fight in order to
be victorious.'

Thereupon the old lady became angry: 'Don't speak foolishly!' she
exclaimed. 'There seems to be no end to your pride and rebellion
against religion! But you are only a grain of sand, my poor boy, and
I really pity you when I see you imagining yourself strong enough to
conquer in a battle in which both Heaven and man will annihilate you!'

'It is not I who am strong, it is reason, it is truth.'

'Yes, I know.... But it is of no consequence! Just listen to me! I will
not have you here as schoolmaster. I am anxious for my tranquillity and
honourability. It would be too much grief and shame for me to see our
Geneviève here, in Maillebois, as the wife of a man denying both God
and country, and scandalising all pious souls by his actions. It is
madness, I tell you! You will immediately refuse.'

Madame Berthereau, sorely grieved by this sudden dispute, lowered her
head over her embroidery in order that she might not have to intervene.
Geneviève remained erect, but had become very pale, while little
Louise, whose hand she still held, felt so frightened that she hid her
face in the folds of her mother's skirt. But Marc was determined to
remain calm, and without even raising his voice he answered:

'No, I cannot refuse. I have come to a decision, and I merely desired
to inform you of it.'

At this Madame Duparque, although she was scarcely able to move, by
reason of her attack of gout, lost all self-control. As a rule nobody
dared to resist her, and she was exasperated at now finding herself
confronted by such quiet determination. A wave of terrible anger rose
within her, and words she would rather have left unspoken rushed from
her lips: 'Come! say everything,' she cried; 'confess it, you are only
coming here in order that you may busy yourself on the spot with that
abominable Simon case! Yes! you are on the side of those ignoble Jews;
you still think of stirring up all that filth, and pouncing upon some
innocent to send him yonder, in the place of the vile assassin who
was so justly condemned! And that innocent, you are still stubbornly
seeking him among the worthiest of God's servants! Is that not so?
Confess it! Why don't you confess it?'

Marc could not help smiling; for he fully understood that the real
cause of all the anger with which he was assailed was indeed the Simon
case, the dread lest he should take it in hand again, and at last
discover the real culprit. He could divine that behind Madame Duparque
there stood her confessor, Father Crabot, and that the Jesuits and
their allies, in order to prevent him from carrying on a campaign at
Maillebois, were determined to tolerate there no schoolmaster who was
not virtually in their hands.

'Why, certainly,' he answered in his quiet way, 'I am still convinced
of my comrade Simon's innocence, and I shall do everything I can to
demonstrate it.'

Madame Duparque in her rage jerked herself first towards Madame
Berthereau and then towards Geneviève. 'You hear him, and you say
nothing! Our name will be brought into that campaign of ignominy.
Our daughter will be seen in the camp of the enemies of society and
religion!... Come, come, you who are her mother ought to tell her that
such a thing is out of question, that she must prevent such infamy for
the honour of herself and that of all of us.'

The old lady's last words were addressed to Madame Berthereau, who,
utterly scared by the quarrel, had now let her embroidery fall from
her hands. For a moment she remained silent, for it cost her an effort
to emerge from the gloomy self-effacement in which she usually lived.
At last, making up her mind, she said: 'Your grandmother is right, my
girl. Your duty requires that you should not tolerate actions in which
you would have your share of responsibility before God. Your husband
will listen to you if he loves you. Indeed, you are the only one who
can speak to his heart. Your father never went against my desires in
matters of conscience.'

Geneviève turned towards Marc, at the same time pressing little Louise
to her side. She was stirred to the depths of her being: all her
girlhood at the Convent of the Visitation, all her pious training and
education, seemed to revive, filling her with vertigo. And yet she
repeated what she had already said to her husband: 'Marc is the only
good judge; he will do what he deems to be his duty.'

Despite her ailing leg, Madame Duparque had managed to struggle to
her feet. 'Is that your answer?' she cried wrathfully. 'You, whom we
brought up in a Christian manner--you who were well beloved by God--you
already deny Him, and live religionless, like some beast of the fields?
And you choose Satan without making even an effort to overcome him? Ah,
well, your husband is only the more guilty, and he shall be punished
for that also; you will be punished both of you, and God's curse shall
extend even to your child!'

She stretched forth her arms, and stood there in such a threatening
posture that little Louise, who was terror-stricken, began to sob. Marc
quickly caught up the child and pressed her to his heart, while she,
as if eager for his protection, flung her arms around his neck. And
Geneviève likewise drew near and leant against the shoulder of the man
to whom she had given her life.

'Be gone! be gone! all three of you!' cried Madame Duparque. 'Go to
your folly and your pride, they will work your ruin! You hear me,
Geneviève: there shall be no more intercourse between us until you
come back here in all humility. For you will come back some day; you
belonged to God too long for it to be otherwise; besides, I shall pray
to Him so well that He will know how to win you back entirely.... But
now be gone, be gone, I will have nothing more to do with you!'

Torn by anguish, her eyes full of tears, Geneviève looked at her
distracted mother, who was weeping silently. So heartrending was the
scene that the young woman again seemed to hesitate; but Marc gently
took her hand and led her away. Madame Duparque had already sunk into
her arm-chair, and the little house relapsed into its frigid gloom and
dismal silence.

On the following Thursday Marc repaired to Beaumont to inform
Salvan that he accepted his offer. And early in May he received the
appointment, quitted Jonville, and installed himself at Maillebois as
head-master of the Boys' Elementary School.




BOOK II




I


One sunny morning in May Marc, for the first time, took his class at
Maillebois. On the side facing the square, the large schoolroom had
three lofty windows, through whose panes of ground glass streamed a
gay, white, and vivid light. In front of the master's desk, which stood
on a small platform reached by three steps, the boys' little double
desks were set out, four in each of the eight rows.

Loud laughter, in fact quite an uproar, burst forth when one of the
lads, on proceeding to his seat, stumbled and fell intentionally.

'Now, boys,' Marc quietly said, 'you must behave yourselves. I am not
going to punish you, but you will find it more beneficial and pleasant
to behave yourselves with me.... Monsieur Mignot, please call the
register.'

Marc had wished to have Mignot's assistance on this first occasion, and
the other's demeanour plainly indicated his hostility and the surprise
he felt at having as his principal a man who had compromised himself
so greatly in the recent scandals. Mignot had even joined in the boys'
laughter when one of them had stumbled and fallen by way of amusing the
others. However, the calling of the register began.

'Auguste Doloir!'

'Present!' exclaimed a merry-looking lad in so gruff a voice that the
whole class again exploded.

Auguste was the mason's elder son, and it was he who had stumbled
a few minutes previously. Nine years of age, he looked vigorous
and intelligent, but he was wrong-headed, and his pranks often
revolutionised the school.

'Charles Doloir!' called Mignot.

'Present!' And this time Auguste's brother, two years his junior,
answered in so shrill a voice that the storm of laughter began afresh.
Though Charles was of a more refined and gentle nature than Auguste, he
invariably seconded him.

But Marc let the matter pass. He wished to be patient and to inflict
no punishments that first day. While the calling of the register
proceeded he glanced round the large room where he would have to deal
with all those turbulent lads. At Jonville there had been no such
lavish provision of blackboards--one behind his desk for himself,
and two others, right and left, for the boys--nor such a display
of coloured prints representing weights and measures, the mineral,
vegetable, and animal kingdoms, useful and harmful insects, mushrooms
and toadstools, without counting the large and numerous maps. There,
too, in a cabinet was a collection of the 'solid bodies,' as well as
various instruments for the teaching of physics and chemistry. But Marc
did not find among his new pupils the good understanding and cordiality
which had prevailed among those whom he had left at Jonville. The
neglect of his weak and ailing predecessor, Méchain, had evidently
helped to disorganise the school, which, after numbering nearly sixty
pupils, could now muster scarcely forty. Thus its position was sorely
compromised, and the hard task of restoring it to prosperity and
orderliness lay before him.

'Achille Savin!' Mignot called.

There was no answer, and he therefore repeated the name. Yet both the
Savins, the twin sons of the tax-collector's clerk, sat at one of the
double desks, with their heads lowered and a sly expression on their
faces. Though they were only eight years of age they seemed already
proficient in prudent hypocrisy.

'Achille and Philippe Savin!' Mignot repeated, glancing at them.

Thereupon, making up their minds, they answered leisurely but in
unison, 'Present!'

Marc, who felt surprised, inquired why they had previously remained
silent; but he could obtain no answer from them; they looked at him
distrustfully as if they had to defend themselves from him.

'Fernand Bongard!' Mignot continued.

Again nobody answered. Fernand, the peasant farmer's son, a sturdy boy
of ten, sat there huddled up, leaning on his elbows, with a stupefied
expression on his face. He seemed to be sleeping with his eyes open.
But one of his schoolfellows gave him a nudge, and then in a scared way
he shouted 'Present!'

This time none of the others dared to laugh, for they feared Fernand's
fists. And, silence continuing, Mignot was able to call the last name:
'Sébastien Milhomme!'

Marc had already recognised Madame Alexandre's son. Eight years of age,
with a face all gentleness, refinement, and intelligence, he sat at
the first desk on the right hand. And the young man smiled at the lad;
charmed by his candid eyes, in which he fancied he could detect the
early sparkle of a young mind, such as he desired to awaken.

'Present!' Sébastien answered in a clear gay voice, which to Marc
seemed like music compared with all the full or mocking voices of the
others.

The calling of the register was finished; and at a sign from Mignot all
the boys now rose for prayers. Since Simon's departure, Méchain had
allowed prayers to be said at the beginning and the end of each class,
yielding, in this respect, to the stealthy persuasion of Mademoiselle
Rouzaire, who, citing her own practice as an example, asserted that the
fear of hell greatly helped to keep her pupils quiet. Moreover, parents
were pleased with the prayer-saying, and Mauraisin, the Elementary
Inspector, regarded it with favour, although it in no wise figured in
the regulations. That morning, however, Marc swiftly intervened, saying
in his quiet and resolute way: 'Sit down, boys. You are not here to say
prayers. You may say them at home if your fathers and mothers desire
it.'

Mignot, nonplussed, looked at him inquisitively. Ah! well, he would
not exercise much authority at Maillebois if he began by suppressing
prayers! Marc fully understood the meaning of his assistant's glance,
for ever since his arrival in the little town he had been conscious of
the general feeling, the conviction that he was destined to encounter
rapid and complete defeat. Besides, Salvan had warned him, and had
recommended extreme prudence, a course of skilful tolerance during
the first months. If Marc, after due reflection, ventured to suppress
prayers, it was as a first step, the result of which would enable him
to feel his way. He would have liked to remove the big crucifix which
Méchain, exhausted by the pressure brought to bear on him, had allowed
to be hung over the blackboard behind the master's desk. But the young
man felt that he could hardly do that immediately; it was necessary
that he should establish himself firmly in his position and know his
ground thoroughly before he engaged in a real battle. Apart from the
crucifix he was also irritated by four glaring chromolithographs
which hung from the walls, one of them representing the fable of St.
Geneviève delivering Paris, another Joan of Arc listening to the voices
from heaven, another St. Louis healing the sick by the touch of his
hands, and another Napoleon riding across a battlefield. Miracle and
force, religious lie and military violence were ever given as examples,
ever sown as seed in the minds of the children who would become the
citizens of to-morrow. Marc asked himself if all that ought not to
be changed, if education ought not to be begun afresh at the very
beginning, with lessons of truth and solidarity, if one was to create
free and intelligent men, capable of practising justice.

The first class was duly held, Marc gently yet firmly taking possession
of his post among his new pupils, whose curiosity he found tinged
with rebellion. The pacific conquest of their minds and hearts which
the young master desired to effect proceeded patiently day by day. At
the outset he occasionally experienced some secret bitterness, for
his mind wandered back to the well-loved pupils, the children of his
brain, whom he had left at Jonville, and whom he knew to be now in the
hands of one of his former colleagues, Jauffre, with whose spirit of
intrigue and thirst for immediate success he was well acquainted. He
felt some remorse at the thought that he had abandoned his work yonder
to one who would surely destroy it, and his only consolation lay in
the circumstance that he had taken up yet more pressing and necessary
work at Maillebois. To that work he became more and more passionately
attached, devoting himself to it with enthusiastic faith as the days
flew by and lesson followed lesson.

On the morrow of the General Elections, which took place during
that month of May, quietude fell upon the region. Prior to those
elections silence and restraint with respect to Simon's case had been
declared imperative, in order that the result of the polling might
not prove disastrous for the Republic; and directly those elections
were over--the new Chamber of Deputies being composed of virtually
the same men as the previous one--silence was again declared to be
necessary, lest, by raising inopportune questions, one should retard
the realisation of promised reforms. The truth was that after all the
battling of the electoral campaign the successful candidates desired to
enjoy the dearly-bought fruits of victory in peace. Thus, at Beaumont,
neither Lemarrois nor Marcilly, on being re-elected, was willing to
mention Simon's name, although each had promised to act as soon as his
mandate should be renewed and he should no longer have to fear the
blindness of universal suffrage. But at present it was held that Simon
had been judged and well judged; in fact the slightest allusion to his
affair was deemed contrary to patriotism. Naturally enough the same
views prevailed at Maillebois. Darras, the Mayor, even begged Marc, in
the interest of the unhappy prisoner and his relatives, to do nothing
whatever, but to wait for some wakening of public opinion. Meantime
absolute forgetfulness was effected, perfect silence was enjoined, as
if there were no Simonists or anti-Simonists left.

Marc had to resign himself to the position, particularly as he was
entreated in that sense by the ever humble and anxious Lehmanns, and
even by David, who, with all his heroic tenacity, understood the
necessity of patience. Yet Simon's brother was now following up a
serious clue. Indirectly and without positive proof thereof, he had
heard of the illegal communication which President Gragnon had made to
the jury in their retiring room prior to the verdict; and if he could
only establish the fact that this communication had been really made,
the annulment of all the proceedings would necessarily follow. But
David was conscious of the difficulties of the times, and prosecuted
his inquiries with the greatest secrecy for fear of warning his
adversaries. Marc, though of a more feverish spirit, at last consented
to follow the same tactics and feign forgetfulness. Thus the Simon
affair began to slumber as if it were ended and forgotten, whereas, in
reality, it remained the secret sore, the poisoned, incurable wound
of which the social body--ever exposed to the danger of some sudden
and mortal outburst of delirium--was dying. For, be it remembered, one
single act of injustice may suffice for a whole nation to be stricken
with dementia and slowly die.

In this position of affairs Marc for a time was able to devote himself
entirely to his school duties, and he did so with the conviction that
he was contributing to the only work by which iniquity may be destroyed
and its renewal prevented--that work which consists in diffusing
knowledge and sowing the seeds of truth among the rising generations.
Never before had he understood so fully the terrible difficulties of
the task. He found himself utterly alone. He felt that his pupils and
their parents, his assistant Mignot, and his neighbour Mademoiselle
Rouzaire were all against him. And the times were disastrous; the
Brothers' school recruited five more pupils from the Communal school
during Marc's first month. A blast of unpopularity threatened to sweep
the young man away. Parents went to the Ignorantines in order to save
their children from the abominations of that new secular master who had
suppressed prayers on the very day he had entered upon his functions.
Thus Brother Fulgence was quite triumphant. He was again assisted by
Brothers Gorgias and Isidore, who had disappeared for a while after
Simon's trial, and who now had been recalled, by way of showing, no
doubt, that the community deemed itself to be above suspicion. If
Brother Lazarus, the third assistant, had not returned to Maillebois
with the others, the reason was that he had died during his absence.
The others remained the masters of the town, whose streets were always
full of cassocks.

For Marc the worst was the mocking contempt with which all those folk
seemed to regard him. They did not condescend to make any violent
attack on him, they waited for him to commit suicide by some act of
stupendous folly. Mignot's demeanour on the first day had become that
of the whole district. As Mademoiselle Rouzaire said, it was expected
that Marc would render his position untenable in less than two months.
The young man detected the hopes of his adversaries by the manner in
which Inspector Mauraisin spoke to him on the occasion of his first
visit. Mauraisin, knowing that Marc was covered by Salvan and Le
Barazer, displayed a kind of ironical indulgence, allowing the young
man to follow his own course, but watching stealthily for some serious
blunder which would enable him to apply for his removal to another
part. He said nothing about the suppression of prayers, he desired
something more decisive, an _ensemble_ of crushing facts. The Inspector
was seen laughing over the matter with Mademoiselle Rouzaire, one of
his favourites, and from that moment Marc was surrounded by spies,
eager to denounce both his expressions of opinion and his actions.

Every time that Marc called upon Salvan in search of a little comfort,
his protector repeated to him: 'Be prudent, my friend.... Yesterday Le
Barazer received another anonymous letter denouncing you as a poisoner
and a henchman of hell. You know that I wish all success to the good
work, but I also think that it may be compromised by precipitate
action. As a beginning, render yourself necessary, bring back affluence
to the school, get yourself liked.'

At this Marc, however bitter his feelings, ended by smiling: 'You are
right, I feel it is so,' he answered; 'it is by force of wisdom and
affection that one must conquer.'

He, Geneviève, and little Louise were now dwelling in the quarters
formerly allotted to Simon. The lodging was larger and more comfortable
than that of Jonville. There were two bedrooms and two sitting-rooms,
besides a kitchen and dependencies. And the whole was very clean and
very bright, full of sunshine, and overlooked a fairly large garden in
which vegetables and flowers grew. But the young couple's furniture was
scanty; and since their quarrel with Madame Duparque, it was difficult
for them to make both ends meet, for Marc's meagre salary was all they
had to depend upon. That salary now amounted to twelve hundred francs
a year, but it really represented no more than the thousand francs
allowed at Jonville, for there Marc had also received payment as parish
clerk, which post was not to be thought of at Maillebois. And how
were they to manage on a hundred francs a month in that little town
where living was more expensive than in the village? How were they to
maintain some little appearance of dignity and comfort? How was Marc
to wear fairly respectable frock coats, such as usage demanded? It was
a grave problem, the solution of which required prodigies of thrift,
continuous secret heroism in all the petty details of life. They often
ate dry bread in order that they might have clean linen.

But, in Geneviève, Marc found a valuable, an admirable helpmate. She
renewed the exploits she had accomplished at Jonville, she managed to
provide for all the requirements of the home, without allowing much
of its penury to be seen. She had to attend to everything--cooking,
washing, and mending--and Louise was ever all smiles and smartness in
her light-hued little frocks. If Mignot, according to usage, had taken
his meals with his principal, the money paid for his board might have
helped Geneviève slightly. But the young bachelor, who had his own
quarters on the other side of the landing, preferred to patronise a
neighbouring eating-house, perhaps in order to mark his hostility and
to avoid compromising himself by any companionship with a man for whom
Mademoiselle Rouzaire predicted the worst catastrophes. He, Mignot,
with his paltry monthly salary of seventy-one francs and twenty-five
centimes,[1] led the usual wretched life of a young assistant-master,
ill clad and ill fed, with no other diversion within his reach than
that of fishing on Thursdays and Sundays. This rendered him all the
more ill-tempered and distrustful, as though indeed it were Marc's
fault if he partook of such sorry messes at the eating-house. Yet
Geneviève displayed solicitude for his welfare. She offered to mend his
linen, and one evening, when he was suffering from a cold, she hastened
to make him some herb-drink. As she and her husband said, the young
fellow was not bad-hearted, he was badly advised. Perhaps, by showing
him some kindness and equity, they might at last win him over to better
sentiments.

[Footnote 1: A little less than $14.]

That which Geneviève dared not say, for fear of grieving Marc, was that
the home suffered particularly from the quarrel with Madame Duparque.
In former days the grandmother had provided Louise with clothes, made
presents, and rendered assistance at difficult times. Now that the
young people were at Maillebois, only a few doors distant from the old
lady, she might often have helped them. Under the circumstances it was
very embarrassing to live so near, and to be obliged to turn one's head
aside every time one met her. On two occasions little Louise, who,
being only three years of age, could not understand the situation, held
out her arms and called when the old lady passed, in such wise that the
fated reconciliation ended by taking place. Geneviève, on returning
home one day, in a state of great emotion, related that she had yielded
to circumstances and had embraced her grandmother and mother on meeting
them on the Place des Capucins, where Louise, in all innocence, had run
forward and cast herself into their arms.

At this confession Marc, in his turn, kissed his wife, saying with a
good-natured smile: 'But that is all right, my darling. For your sake
and Louise's I am well pleased with the reconciliation. It was bound
to come, and if I am on bad terms with those ladies you surely don't
imagine that I am such a barbarian as to demand the same of you.'

'No, my friend,' Geneviève replied, 'only it is very embarrassing in a
family when the wife visits a place where her husband cannot go.'

'Why should it be embarrassing? For the sake of peace it is best that
I should not call on your grandmother again, for I cannot possibly
agree with her. But there is nothing to prevent you and the little one
from visiting her and your mother also, from time to time.'

Geneviève had become grave, her eyes fell, and while she reflected she
quivered.

'I should have preferred not to go to grandmother's without you,' she
said. 'I feel firmer when we are together.... But you are right, I
understand that it would be painful for you to accompany me, and, on
the other hand, it is difficult for me to break off now.'

Thus the question was settled. At first Geneviève went but once a week
to the little house on the Place des Capucins, taking Louise with
her, and spending an hour there during the school work of Marc, who
contented himself with bowing to the ladies when he met them.

And now, for a period of two years, with infinite patience and good
nature, Marc prosecuted the conquest of his pupils amid hostile
surroundings and innumerable worries. He was a born teacher, one
who knew how to become a child again in order that children might
understand him. And, in particular, he strove to be gay; he willingly
joined in his pupils' play, behaving as if he were simply a companion,
an elder brother. And in the school work his strength lay in his power
to cast his science aside, to place himself within the reach of young
and imperfectly awakened minds, by finding easy explanatory words
suited to each occasion. It was as if he himself were still somewhat
ignorant, and participated in the delight of learning. Heavily laden
as the curriculum might be, what with reading, writing, grammar,
orthography, composition, arithmetic, history, geography, elementary
science, singing, gymnastics, notions of agriculture, manual work,
morals and civic instruction, he passed nothing by until the lads
had understood it. All his first efforts indeed were concentrated on
method, in order that nothing taught might be lost, but that everything
might be positively and fully assimilated.

Ah! how fervently did Marc devote himself to that sowing and
cultivation of truth! He strove to plan things in such wise that truth
might impose itself on his pupils by its own power, nourish their
expanding minds, and become both their flesh and their brains. And what
truth it was! It so happens that every error claims to be truth. Does
not even the Roman Catholic Church, though based on absurd dogmas,
pretend that it is the sole truth? Thus Marc began by teaching that
there is no truth outside the pale of reason, logic, and particularly
experiment. When the son of a peasant or a workman is told by his
schoolmaster that the world is round and revolves in space, he accepts
the statement upon trust just as he accepts the statements made to him
by the priest on matters of religion at the Catechism class. In order
that he may appreciate the difference, experiment must show him the
scientific certainty of the former statement. All so-called revealed
truth is falsehood; experimental truth alone is accurate--one, entire,
eternal. Marc therefore at the outset found it necessary to rebut the
Catholic catechism by the scientific catechism. He took the world and
mankind as they were explained by science, and set them forth in their
living reality and their march towards a continual and ever more and
more perfect future. There was no possibility of real amelioration,
liberation, and happiness otherwise than by truth--that is, by
knowledge of the conditions in which mankind exists and progresses. All
the craving for knowledge as a means for rapid attainment to health and
peace bore within itself its method of free expansion, science ceasing
to be a dead letter, and becoming a source of life, an excitant of
temperament and character.

Marc, as far as possible, left books upon one side, in order to compel
his pupils to judge things for themselves. They only knew things well
when they had seen or touched them. He never asked them to believe
in a phenomenon until he had proved its reality by experiment. The
whole domain of unproven facts was set aside, in reserve, for future
investigation. But he demonstrated that with the help of the acquired
truths mankind might already rear for itself a large and splendid home
of security and brotherliness. To see things for oneself, to convince
oneself of what one ought to believe, to develop one's reasoning powers
and one's individuality in accordance with the reasons of existence and
action, such were the principles which governed Marc's teaching method,
the only one by which true men might be created.

But knowledge was not sufficient--a social bond, a spiritual link of
perpetual solidarity was required. And this Marc found in Justice.
He had often noticed with what a flash of rebellion a boy, molested
in his rights, would exclaim: 'That isn't fair!' Indeed, any act of
injustice raises a tempest in the depths of those young minds, and
brings them frightful suffering. This is because the idea of justice in
them is absolute. Mark turned to good use the candour of equity, the
innate need of truth and justice, that one finds in children when life
has not yet inclined them to mendacious and iniquitous compromises.
By way of Truth towards Justice--such was the road along which he
strove to direct his pupils, as often as possible requiring them to
judge themselves when they happened to be in fault. If they had told
a falsehood, he made them admit the wrong they had done both to their
schoolfellows and to themselves. If they were disorderly and delayed
lessons, he showed them that they were the first to suffer. At times a
culprit spontaneously admitted his offence, thus earning forgiveness.
Emulation in equity ended by animating those young people; they learnt
to rival one another in frankness. At times, of course, there was
trouble, conflict, catastrophe, for all this was only a beginning, and
several generations of schoolboys would be needed for schools to become
the real abodes of healthy and happy life. Marc, however, rejoiced over
the slightest results that he obtained, convinced as he was that if
knowledge were primarily essential for all progress, nothing definitive
with respect to the happiness of mankind could be achieved without the
assistance of the spirit of justice. Why did the _bourgeois_ class,
which was the best educated, become rotten so soon? Was it not by
reason of its iniquities, its denial of justice, its refusal to restore
what it had stolen, to give to the humble and the suffering their
legitimate share of the world's good things? Some folk, in condemning
education, cited the ignominious downfall of the _bourgeoisie_ as an
example, and accused science of producing a multitude of casteless
individuals, thereby increasing the sum of evil and tribulation. And
yes, so long as the passion for knowledge merely for its own sake
should become keener and keener in a social system which was all
falsehood and injustice, it would only add to existing ruins. It was
necessary that science should tend towards justice, and bring to the
future city of fraternity a moral system of liberty and peace.

Even to be just did not suffice; Marc also required kindliness and
affection of his pupils. Nothing could germinate, nothing could flower,
unless it were by love and for it. In the universal flame of desire and
union one found the focus of the world. Within each human being was
implanted an imperious need to mingle with all others; and personal
action, liberty, and individuality were like the play of different
organs, all dependent on the universal Being. If each individual man,
even when isolated, represented so much will and power, his actions, at
all events, only began to count when they exercised an influence on the
community. To love, to make oneself loved, to make all others love: the
teacher's _rôle_ was found entire in those three propositions, those
three degrees of human instruction. To love--Marc loved his pupils
with his whole heart, giving himself to them unreservedly, knowing
full well that one must indeed love if one would teach, for only love
has the power of touching and convincing. To make oneself loved--that
was a task to which he devoted every hour, fraternising with his boys,
never seeking to make them fear him, but, on the contrary, striving
to win them over by persuasion, affection, the good-fellowship of an
elder brother still growing up among his juniors. To make all others
love--that again was his constant thought; he was ever recalling the
true saying that the happiness of each is compounded of the happiness
of all; and he brought forward the daily example of the progress and
pleasure of each boy when the whole class had worked well.

Schooling, no doubt, should have as its objects the culture of energy,
the liberation and exaltation of each individuality; a child must
judge and act by himself alone in order that as a man he may yield the
sum-total of his personal value. But, as Marc put it, would not the
crop resulting from such intensive culture increase the common harvest
of all? Could a man create true glory for himself without contributing
in one or another form to the happiness of others? Education
necessarily tended to solidarity, to the universal attraction which was
gradually blending mankind into one family. And Marc's mind and heart
were set on sympathy and affection, on a joyous, brotherly school, full
of sunshine, song, and laughter, where happiness was taught, where the
pupils learnt to live the life of science, truth, and justice, which
would come in all its fulness when the way for it should have been
sufficiently prepared by generations of children taught as they ought
to be.

From the very outset Marc combated the system by which violence,
terror, and folly were inculcated in so many children. The right of the
stronger, massacre, carnage, the devastation and razing of cities--all
those things were set before the young, glorified in books, pictures,
and constant, almost hourly, lessons. Great was the display of the
bloody pages of history, the wars, the conquests, the names of the
captains who had butchered their fellow-beings. The minds of children
were enfevered by the crash of arms, by nightmares of slaughter
steeping the plains in blood. In the prize books given to them, in the
little papers published for their perusal, on the very covers of their
copybooks, their eyes encountered the savagery of armies, the burning
of fleets, the everlasting calamity of man sinking to the level of a
wolf. And when a battle was not depicted there came a miracle, some
absurd legend, some source of darkness: a saint delivering a country
by his or her prayers, an intervention of Jesus or Mary ensuring the
ownership of the world to the wealthy, a Churchman solving political
and social difficulties by a mere sign of the Cross. The humble were
invariably warned that they must show obedience and resignation. To
impress it on their minds in childhood's hour, stormy skies were shown
them, illumined by the lightning of an irritated and cruel Deity.
Terror reigned, terror of that Deity, terror too of the devil, a base
and hideous terror, which seized on man in his infancy and kept him
cowering until he reached the grave after a life which was all dense
night, ignorance, and falsehood. In that manner one fashioned only
slaves, flesh fit to serve the master's capricious purposes. And indeed
that education of blind faith and perpetual extermination was based on
the necessity of ever having soldiers ready to defend the established
and iniquitous order of things.

Yet what an antiquated idea it was to cultivate human energy by lessons
of warfare! It corresponded with the times when the sword alone decided
questions between nation and nation, and between kings and their
subjects. But nowadays, if nations still guard themselves--as they do,
in formidable fashion, full of anxious dread lest everything should
collapse--who will dare to say that victory will rest with the warlike
nations? Who, on the contrary, cannot see that the triumphant nation of
to-morrow will be that which defeats the others on the economic field,
by reorganising the conditions of human toil, and by bringing more
justice and happiness to mankind?

To Marc it seemed that the only worthy _rôle_ for France was that of
completing the Revolution and becoming the great emancipator. The
narrow doctrine that one's sole purpose should be to make soldiers
of Frenchmen filled him with grief and anger. On the morrow of the
disasters of 1870 such a programme may have had its excuse; and yet
all the unrest of years and years, the whole abominable crisis of the
present times has proceeded from that programme, from having placed
one's supreme hope in the army, from having abandoned the democracy to
military leaders. If it be still necessary to guard oneself, surrounded
as one is by neighbours in arms, it is yet more necessary to become
workers, free and just citizens, such as those to whom to-morrow will
belong. On the day when France knows it and wills it, on the day when
she becomes a nation freed from error, the armour-plated empires around
her will crumble beneath the breath of truth and justice emanating
from her lips--a breath which will achieve that which can never be
accomplished by all her armies and her guns. Nations awaken nations,
and on the day when, one by one, the nations rise, enlightened,
instructed by example, the world will witness the victory of peace, the
end of war. Marc could imagine for his country no more splendid _rôle_
than that of hastening the day when all countries would mingle in one.
Thus he kept a strict watch over his pupils' books, replacing as far
as possible all pictures and descriptions of spurious miracles and
bloody battles by others which dealt with the truths of science and the
fruitful labours of mankind. The one true source of energy lies in work
for happiness' sake.

In the course of the second year some good results were already
manifest. Dividing his school into two classes, Marc took charge of
the first, composed of boys from nine to thirteen years of age, while
Mignot attended to the second, in which the lads were from six to nine
years old. The young principal also adopted the system of appointing
monitors, whence he derived certain advantages, a saving of time in
some matters, and an increase of emulation among his boys. Not a
moment was lost during school hours, yet he allowed the lads as much
independence as possible, chatting with them, provoking objections from
them, and imposing nothing on them by dint of authority, desirous as
he was that all feeling of certainty should come from their own minds.
Thus gaiety prevailed, and the lessons in which those young minds
passed from discovery to discovery were full of attractiveness.

On one matter only did Marc insist, and that was great cleanliness.
Under his guidance the lads took pleasure in washing their hands at
the water taps, and the classroom windows were opened widely at each
interval between lessons, as well as afterwards. Before Marc's time it
had been the practice (a usual one in French elementary schools) for
the boys to sweep the schoolroom floor, whereby they raised a terrible
amount of dust,--a redoubtable means of spreading contagion,--but he
taught them to wash the floor with sponges, a duty which they soon
regarded as a pastime.

One sunshiny day in May, two years after Marc's appointment to
Maillebois, Inspector Mauraisin paid the school a surprise visit during
the interval between morning lessons. It was in vain that he had
hitherto kept a watch on Marc. He was disconcerted by the young man's
prudence, infuriated by his inability to send in a bad report such as
would have justified removal. That clumsy revolutionary dreamer, whom
nobody had expected to see six months in office, was becoming a perfect
fixture, to the amazement and scandal of all right-thinking people. By
devising that surprise visit, however, the Inspector hoped to catch him
in fault.

As it happened, the boys had just been washing the classroom floor,
and handsome little Mauraisin, sprucely buttoned up in his frock coat,
raised a cry of alarm: 'What! are you flooded?'

When Marc explained that he had replaced sweeping by washing, for
reasons of hygiene, the Inspector shrugged his shoulders: 'Another
novelty!' said he. 'You might at least have warned the Administration.
Besides, all this water cannot be healthy, it must tend to rheumatism.
You will please content yourself with the broom so long as you are not
authorised to use sponges.'

Then, as the interval between lessons was not quite over, he began to
rummage everywhere, even opening the cupboards to see if their contents
were in order. Perhaps he hoped to find some bad books, some Anarchist
pamphlets. At all events he criticised everything, laid stress on the
slightest sign of negligence, passing censure in a loud voice, in the
very midst of the boys, by way of humiliating Marc in their presence.
At last, the boys having resumed their seats, the usual questioning
began.

Mauraisin's first attack fell upon Mignot because little Charles
Doloir, eight years of age, and therefore in the second class, was
unable to answer a question on a subject which he had not yet studied.

'So you are behindhand with the programme!' said the Inspector. 'Why,
your pupils ought to have reached that lesson two months ago.'

Mignot, who, though he stood there in a respectful attitude, was
plainly irritated by the other's aggressive tone, turned towards his
principal. It was indeed at the latter that Mauraisin had really aimed
his remark. And so the young head-master replied: 'Excuse me, Monsieur
l'Inspecteur, it was I who thought it right to intervert certain parts
of the programme in order to make some of the lessons clearer. Besides,
is it not better to attend less to the exact order of the lessons as
given in the books than to their spirit, in such wise, however, that
all may be taught to the boys in the course of the year?'

Mauraisin affected great indignation: 'What! you interfere with the
programme, monsieur? You, yourself, decide what to take of it and
what to leave out? You substitute your fancy for the wisdom of your
superiors? Well, they shall know that this class is behindhand.'

Then, his glance falling on the elder Doloir, Auguste, who was ten
years old, he told him to stand up, and began to question him about
the Reign of Terror, asking him to name the leaders of the period,
Robespierre, Danton, Marat.

'Was Marat handsome, my boy?' he inquired.

Now Auguste Doloir, though Marc had succeeded in obtaining a little
better behaviour from him, was still the rebel and trickster of the
school. Either from ignorance or roguishness, it was hard to say, he
now made answer: 'Oh! very handsome, monsieur.'

His schoolfellows, vastly amused, laughed and wriggled on their seats.

'No, no, my boy!' exclaimed Mauraisin, 'Marat was hideous, with every
vice and every crime stamped upon his countenance!' And, turning
towards Marc, he added clumsily enough: 'You do not teach them that
Marat was handsome, I imagine!'

'No, Monsieur l'Inspecteur,' the master answered with a smile.

Laughter arose once more, and Mignot had to step between the desks
to restore order, while Mauraisin, clinging to the subject of Marat,
began to refer to Charlotte Corday. As luck would have it, he addressed
himself to Fernand Bongard, now a tall boy of eleven, whom he probably
imagined to be one of the most advanced pupils.

'Here! you big fellow yonder, can you tell me how Marat died?'

He could not have been more unlucky. It was only with the greatest
difficulty that Marc taught Fernand anything. The lad was not merely
thick-headed, he did not try to learn, and as for the names and dates
of history he was on the worst possible terms with them. He rose with a
scared expression in his dilated eyes.

'Come, compose yourself, my boy,' said Mauraisin. 'Did not Marat die
under peculiar circumstances?'

Fernand remained silent, with his mouth wide open. But a compassionate
schoolfellow behind him whispered: 'In a bath'; whereupon in a very
loud voice he answered: 'Marat drowned himself while taking a bath.'

This time the laughter became delirium, and Mauraisin flew into a
temper: 'These boys are really stupid!' he exclaimed. 'Marat was killed
in his bath by Charlotte Corday, a young girl of high-strung nature,
who sacrificed herself in order to save France from a monster thirsting
for blood.... Are you taught nothing, then, as you cannot answer the
simplest questions?'

However, he interrogated the twin brothers Savin, Achille and Philippe,
respecting the religious wars, and obtained fairly satisfactory answers
from them. They were scarcely popular in the school, for not only were
they sly and addicted to falsehoods, but they denounced those of their
schoolfellows whom they saw in fault, besides telling their father
of everything that occurred. Nevertheless the Inspector, won over by
their hypocritical ways, cited them as examples: 'These boys know at
least something,' said he. And again addressing himself to Philippe he
inquired: 'Now, can you tell me what one ought to do to follow one's
religion properly?'

'One ought to go to Mass, monsieur.'

'No doubt, but that is not sufficient; one ought to do everything that
religion teaches. You hear, my boy--everything that religion teaches.'

Marc looked at Mauraisin in stupefaction, still he did not intervene,
for he guessed that the Inspector in putting that singular question
had been prompted by a desire to make him compromise himself by some
imprudent remark. Indeed, that was so fully the other's object that
he continued aggressively, addressing himself this time to Sébastien
Milhomme: 'You, the little boy yonder with the fair hair, tell me what
religion teaches?'

Sébastien, who stood erect, with an expression of consternation on
his face, made no answer. He was the best pupil of the class, with a
quick, intelligent mind, and an affectionate and gentle disposition.
His inability to answer the Inspector brought tears to his eyes. As he
received no lessons in religion, he did not even understand what he was
asked.

'Well, you need not look at me like that, you little stupid!' exclaimed
Mauraisin; 'my question is clear enough.'

But Marc was unable to restrain himself any longer. The embarrassment
of his best pupil, to whom he was growing extremely attached, proved
unbearable to him. So he came to his help: 'Excuse me, Monsieur
l'Inspecteur, the teachings of religion are contained in the Church
Catechism, and the Catechism is not included in our programme. So how
can the lad answer you?'

This answer, no doubt, was what Mauraisin had expected. 'I have no
lessons to receive from you, Monsieur le Maître,' he responded,
feigning anger once more, 'I know what I am about. There is no properly
conducted school in which a child cannot give a general answer to a
question about the religion of his country.'

'I repeat. Monsieur l'Inspecteur,' rejoined Marc in a firm voice,
in which a little rising anger became apparent, 'I repeat that it
is not for me to teach the Catechism. You are mistaken, you are not
at the school of the Brothers of the Christian Doctrine, who make
the Catechism the basis of all their teaching. You are in a secular
Republican school, expressly set apart from all the churches--one where
the teaching is based solely on reason and science. If it be necessary,
I shall appeal on the subject to my superiors.'

Mauraisin understood that he had gone too far. Each time that he had
endeavoured to shake Marc's position he had found his superior, Academy
Inspector Le Barazer, tacitly, passively supporting the young man,
refusing to take any action against him unless grave and well-proven
charges were brought forward. Moreover, Mauraisin knew Le Barazer's
opinions respecting the absolute neutrality of the schools in religious
matters. And so, without insisting on the subject, he curtailed his
inspection, soon bringing it to an end, though not without again
indulging in criticisms, for he was determined to find nothing
satisfactory. The boys themselves deemed him ridiculous, and covertly
made merry over the bad temper of that vain little fop whose hair and
beard were so sprucely kept. When he withdrew, Mignot went so far as to
shrug his shoulders, and whisper to Marc: 'We shall have a bad report,
but you were quite right. That man is becoming altogether too stupid.'

For some time now, Mignot, gained upon by Marc's firm yet gentle
behaviour, had been coming over to his side. It was not that he as yet
shared his opinions in all things, for he was still anxious respecting
his own advancement; but he had a sound mind at bottom, and was
gradually yielding to the other's good guidance.

'Oh! a bad report!' Marc repeated gaily; 'he won't dare to venture
beyond hypocritical and venomous attacks.... Ah! do you see him going
into Mademoiselle Rouzaire's? He's with his divinity now. The worst is
that his behaviour is not dictated by principle, but merely by personal
policy, a desire to make his way in the world.'

At each inspection Mauraisin lavished very favourable reports upon
Mademoiselle Rouzaire. She, at all events, took her girls to church,
compelled them to recite the Catechism in school hours, and allowed the
Inspector to question them about religion as much as he desired. One of
her pupils, little Hortense Savin, who was being prepared for her first
Communion, quite astonished Mauraisin by her extensive knowledge of
Bible history. And if Angèle Bongard, thick-skulled like her brother,
showed less proficiency in spite of her painfully stubborn efforts to
learn, on the other hand Lucile Doloir, a little lass six years of
age, who had joined the school only recently, gave promise of great
intelligence, and would make, later on, a very charming 'Handmaiden of
the Virgin.'

When morning lessons were over, Marc again caught sight of Mauraisin,
whom Mademoiselle Rouzaire was escorting to the threshold of her
school. They lingered there together, chatting in an intimate way
and making gestures suggestive of great distress of mind. They were
undoubtedly deploring what went on in the neighbouring boys' school,
which was still in the hands of the disgraceful master of whom, for two
years, they had been vainly trying to rid the town.

After long expecting the sudden removal of Marc, Maillebois was now
growing accustomed to his presence. At a sitting of the Municipal
Council, Mayor Darras had even found an opportunity to praise him;
and his position had been strengthened recently by an incident of
considerable significance: the return of two boys who had been
previously transferred to the Brothers' school. This indicated that
parents felt tranquillised, and were disposed to accept the young
man, and it was also a check for the Congregational school, hitherto
so prosperous and victorious. Was Marc about to succeed, then,
in restoring the secular school to honour, by dint of wisdom and
affection, as he had said to Salvan? Anxiety must have arisen among
the Ignorantines and the monks, the whole clerical faction, for the
young man suddenly found himself attacked in so singular a fashion
that he was quite surprised. Mauraisin, on calling upon the Mayor and
others, had left the Catechism question on one side, speaking only
of Marc's new system of washing the schoolroom floor, and in this
connection affecting much alarm for the children's health. A great
controversy arose: ought the floor to be washed or ought it to be
swept? Before long Maillebois was divided into two camps, which became
quite impassioned and hurled all sorts of arguments at one another. The
children's parents were consulted, and Savin, the clerk, denounced the
washing system so bitterly that for a moment it was thought he would
remove his twin boys from the school. But Marc carried the question to
a higher court, soliciting the opinion of his superiors, and requesting
them to appoint a commission of medical men and hygienists. Then came
a serious investigation, and victory rested with the washing system.
For the master this was quite a triumph; the children's parents became
more and more disposed to support him; even Savin, with whom it was so
difficult to deal, had to retract, and another boy came back from the
Brothers' school, which, people began to say, was horribly dirty.

But, in spite of this dawning sympathy, Marc harboured no illusions. He
felt that years would be necessary to free the region from the poison
of Clericalism. Gaining a little more ground every now and then, he
practised the greatest prudence, well pleased with the result, however
slight it might be. At the instance of Geneviève, he had carried his
desire for peace so far as to renew his intercourse with her relations.
This, as it happened, took place in connection with the famous washing
controversy, in which, contrary to custom, the ladies shared his views.
So now, from time to time, accompanying his wife and daughter, he again
visited the little house on the Place des Capucins. The two old ladies
remained ceremonious and carefully avoided all dangerous subjects
of conversation. Thus there was no pleasant intimacy. Nevertheless
the reconciliation delighted Geneviève, for it freed her from the
embarrassment she had felt when calling alone on her grandmother and
mother. At present she saw them almost daily, and sometimes left Louise
with them, coming and going from one house to the other, Marc evincing
no anxiety, but feeling, indeed, well pleased with the gaiety displayed
by his wife, on whom the ladies again lavished caresses, services, and
little presents.

One Sunday, on going to lunch with a friend at Jonville, Marc--by
the force of contrast--suddenly realised how much ground he had
already gained at Maillebois. He had never previously understood how
decisive a schoolmaster's influence might prove. Whilst Maillebois
was slowly reverting to justice, health, and prosperity, he found
Jonville relapsing into darkness, poverty, and stagnation. It grieved
him to find that little or nothing remained of the good work he had
done there in former years. And this was due solely to the deplorable
action of the new schoolmaster, Jauffre, who cared for nothing save
his own personal success. Short, dark, quick and cunning, with narrow
prying eyes, Jauffre owed his success in life to the priest of his
native village, who had taken him from his father, a blacksmith, to
teach him his first lessons. Later on another priest had enriched
him by negotiating his marriage with a butcher's daughter, who was
short and dark like himself, and who brought him as dowry an income
of two thousand francs a year. Jauffre was convinced, therefore,
that if he desired to become a personage he ought to remain on the
side of the priests, who some day doubtless would provide him with a
splendid position. The income he owed to his wife already rendered him
respectable, and his superiors treated him with consideration, for a
man who was not dependent on the administration for his living could
hardly be hustled about as if he were a mere starveling like Férou. In
the school world, as elsewhere, favours go to the rich, never to the
poor.

Besides, exaggerated reports were spread respecting Jauffre's fortune,
in such wise that all the peasants took off their hats to him, he
completing his conquest of them by his greed for gain, his wonderful
skill in extracting as much profit as possible from everybody and
everything. He was not troubled with any sincere belief; if he were a
Republican, a good patriot, and a good Catholic, it was only so far as
his interests required. Thus, although he called upon Abbé Cognasse
as soon as he was appointed to Jonville, he did not immediately hand
the school over to him, for he detected the anti-clerical spirit then
prevalent in the village. But he gradually allowed the priest to become
all-powerful by intentional relinquishment of his own privileges, and
by covert resistance to the express desires of the Mayor and the parish
council. Mayor Martineau, so strong and firm when he had leant on Marc,
became quite lost on having to contend single-handed against the new
schoolmaster, who soon became the real ruler of the parish, and ended
by relinquishing his authority to Abbé Cognasse in such wise that, at
the expiration of six months, Jonville was in the priest's hands.

Jauffre's line of conduct interested Marc particularly, because it was
a masterpiece of Jesuitry. He obtained precise information about it
from the schoolmistress, Mademoiselle Mazeline, on whom he called. She
was sincerely grieved at being unable to effect anything useful now
that she remained alone in a parish where all was rotting. She told
Marc, of the comedy played by Jauffre in the earlier days when Mayor
Martineau complained of one or another encroachment on the part of the
priest, which the schoolmaster himself had stealthily provoked. The
latter pretended to be as indignant as the Mayor, and accused his wife,
Madame Jauffre, who was very devout, of assisting Abbé Cognasse. As
it happened, the husband and the wife were in full agreement, and had
devised this plan in order to escape responsibility. And so Martineau
was speedily vanquished, particularly as his coquettish wife became
the great friend of Madame Jauffre, who, on the strength of her dower,
affected the manners of a born lady. Before long Jauffre began to ring
the bell for Mass, a duty which Marc had always refused to discharge.
It brought in only thirty francs a year, but then, in Jauffre's
opinion, thirty francs were not to be sneezed at. At Marc's instigation
the money had been devoted for a time to the repair of the old church
clock, and now the latter, being neglected as in former days, got out
of order once more, in such wise that the peasants never again knew
the correct time, for the clock went by fits and starts, being one day
too fast and another too slow. As Mademoiselle Mazeline remarked, with
a sad smile, that clock was the image of the parish, where nothing was
now done in accordance with sense and logic.

The worst was that Abbé Cognasse's triumph extended to Le Moreux, whose
Mayor, Saleur, the ex-grazier, impressed by the turn which things
were taking at Jonville, and fearing for the fat life which he led,
thanks to his new wealth, went back to the Church, however little
he might really like the priests. And it was on that wretched rebel
schoolmaster, Férou, that the effects of the reconciliation fell.
Whenever Abbé Cognasse now came to Le Moreux, he displayed a most
insolent sense of victory, and inflicted on the schoolmaster all sorts
of humiliations, with which the other had to put up, abandoned as he
was by the Mayor and the parish council. Never did a poor man lead a
more rageful life. Possessed of a broad, quick mind, but condemned to
live among so much ignorance and malice, Férou was impelled to the most
extreme views by his ever-increasing misery. His wife, worn out by
hard toil, and his three poor, pale, and puny daughters were starving.
Yet, although indebtedness was consuming his last resources, he did
not submit. Looking more of a scarecrow than ever in his old whitening
frock coat, he evinced greater and greater bitterness, not only
refusing to take his pupils to Mass, but even growling insults when the
priest went by on Sundays. A catastrophe was imminent, dismissal was
inevitable, and, to make matters worse, as the unlucky man had served
only eight of his ten years as a teacher,[2] he would be seized by the
military authorities immediately after his dismissal. What would become
of the mournful wife and little girls, when the husband, the father,
should be lodged in some barracks?

[Footnote 2: See page 137, _ante_.]

On leaving Jonville that day, Marc and Mademoiselle Mazeline, who
accompanied him as far as the railway station, passed the church
at the moment when vespers were ending. Palmyre, Abbé Cognasse's
terrible old servant, stood on the threshold, taking stock of those
who showed themselves good Christians. Jauffre came out, and two of
his pupils saluted him in military fashion, a mark of deference which
he exacted, and which flattered his patriotic feelings. Then appeared
Madame Jauffre and Madame Martineau, Martineau himself, and a stream
of peasants of both sexes. Marc hastened his steps in order to avoid
recognition and an impulse to express his grief aloud. He was struck
by the fact that Jonville was less well kept than formerly; signs of
abandonment, of a diminution of prosperity were already apparent.
But then was not that the law? Did not intellectual poverty engender
material poverty? Filth and vermin have invaded every country where
Roman Catholicism has triumphed. Wherever it has passed it has proved
a blast of death, striking the soil with sterility, casting men into
idleness and imbecility, for it is the very negation of life, and it
kills nations like a slow but deadly poison.

Marc felt relieved when, on the morrow, he once more found himself in
his school at Maillebois among the children whose minds and hearts he
was striving to awaken. Doubtless his work progressed very slowly, but
the result achieved lent him the strength to persevere. Unfortunately,
the parents of his boys gave him no help. His advance would have been
more rapid if the lads had found in their homes some continuance of
the principles inculcated during their school hours. But the contrary
happened at times. In Achille and Philippe Savin, Marc detected the
sullen, jealous bitterness of their father, and he could only endeavour
to check their propensity for falsehood, slyness, and tale-bearing.
Again, though the Doloirs were intelligent enough if they had only
been minded to learn, they showed little real improvement. Auguste was
very inattentive and quarrelsome, and Charles followed in his elder
brother's footsteps. With Fernand Bongard the difficulty was different;
he was exceptionally obtuse, and it was only with an incredible
amount of trouble that one could make him understand and remember the
slightest thing. Yet there was some improvement among the boys in their
_ensemble_ since Marc had brought them under a regimen of reason and
truth.

Besides, the young man did not hope to change the world with one
generation of schoolboys. The elementary master's task requires the
greatest patience and abnegation; and Marc's one desire was to furnish
an example by giving his whole life to the obscure work of preparing
the future. If others would only perform their duty one might hope
that in three or four generations a new liberating France might be
created, such as might emancipate the world. And the young man was
ambitious of no immediate reward, no personal success, though to his
great delight he did receive a recompense for his efforts in the
satisfaction which one of his pupils, little Sébastien Milhomme, gave
him. That gentle and remarkably intelligent lad had become passionately
attached to truth. Not only was he the first of his class, but he
also displayed much sincerity and uprightness, at once boyishly and
charmingly uncompromising in character. His schoolfellows often chose
him as umpire in a difficulty, and when he had pronounced judgment
he would not admit that any should free themselves from the effects
of his decision. Marc always felt happy when he saw Sébastien at his
desk, with his long and somewhat pensive face crowned by fair and
curly hair, and lighted by fine blue eyes, which, fixed on the master
with an ardent desire to learn, drank in every lesson. And it was not
only Sébastien's rapid progress which won Marc's heart; he was still
fonder of the boy on account of all the good and generous qualities
which he divined in him. Indeed, Sébastien's was an exquisite little
nature which Marc took pleasure in wakening, one of those child-natures
in which all the florescence of noble thoughts and noble deeds was
beginning to bud.

A painful scene occurred one day towards the close of the afternoon
lessons. Fernand Bongard, whom others were fond of teasing on account
of his dense stupidity, had discovered that the peak of his cap had
been torn off. Forthwith he had burst into tears, declaring that his
mother would surely beat him. Marc wished to discover the author of
this malicious act, but all the boys laughingly denied their guilt,
Auguste Doloir more impudently even than the others, though there was
reason to suspect that the misdeed was his work. And, indeed, as it was
proposed to keep the whole school in after lessons, until the culprit
should confess, Achille Savin betrayed Auguste by pulling the peak
of Fernand's cap out of his pocket. This gave Marc an opportunity to
denounce falsehood, and he did so with so much warmth that the culprit
himself shed tears and asked forgiveness. But Sébastien Milhomme's
emotion was extraordinary, and when the others departed he lingered in
the empty schoolroom, looking at his master with a desperate expression
in his eyes.

'Have you something to say to me, my boy?' Marc asked him.

'Yes, monsieur,' Sébastien replied. Yet he became silent, his lips
trembling, and his handsome face flushing with confusion.

'Is it very difficult to say, then?' Marc inquired.

'Yes, monsieur, it's a falsehood which I told you, and which makes me
feel very unhappy.'

The young master smiled, anticipating some peccadillo, some childishly
exaggerated scruple of conscience. 'Well, tell me the truth,' he said,
'it will relieve you.'

Another pause of some length followed. Signs of a fresh mental battle
became apparent in Sébastien's limpid blue eyes and even on his pure
lips. But at last the boy made up his mind and said: 'Well, monsieur,
I told you a falsehood a long time ago, when I was quite little and
ignorant--I told you a falsehood by saying what was not true, that I
had never seen my cousin Victor with that writing copy--you remember,
monsieur--the copy which people talked about so much. He had given it
to me as he did not want to keep it himself, for he felt anxious about
it as he had taken it from the Brothers'. And on that very day when I
told you I did not remember anything about it, I had hidden it in a
copybook of my own.'

Marc listened, thunderstruck. Once more the whole Simon case seemed to
arise before him, emerging from its apparent slumber. But he did not
wish the lad to see how deeply he was stirred by the unexpected shock,
and so he asked him: 'Are you sure that you are not again mistaken? Did
the copy bear the words "_Aimez vous les uns les autres_"?'

'Yes, monsieur.'

'And there was a paraph down below? I have taught you what a paraph is,
have I not?'

'Yes, monsieur.'

For a moment Marc relapsed into silence. His heart was beating
violently, he feared lest the cry which was rising to his lips might
escape him. Then, wishing to make quite sure, he continued: 'But why
did you keep silent till now, my lad? And what induced you to tell me
the truth this evening?'

Sébastien, already relieved, looked his master straight in the face
with an expression of charming candour. His delicate smile returned,
and he explained the wakening of his conscience in the simplest way.

'Oh! if I did not tell you the truth sooner, monsieur, it was because
I felt no need of doing so. I no longer remembered that I had told
you a falsehood, it was so long ago. But one day, here, you explained
to us how wrong it was to tell falsehoods, and then I remembered it,
and began to feel worried. Afterwards, every time you spoke of the
happiness one found in always saying the truth, I felt the more worried
because I had not said it to you.... And to-day it pained me so I
couldn't bear it any longer, and I had to tell you.'

Emotion brought tears to Marc's eyes. So his lessons were already
flowering in that little mind, and it was he who garnered that first
harvest--a harvest of truth--such precious truth, too, which would
perhaps enable him to bring about a little justice. Never had he hoped
for so prompt and so sweet a reward. The emotion he felt was exquisite.
With an impulse of tender affection he stooped and kissed the lad.

'Thank you, my little Sébastien, you have given me great pleasure, and
I love you with all my heart.'

Emotion had come upon the boy also. 'Oh! I love you very much,
monsieur,' he answered, 'for otherwise I should not have dared to tell
you everything.'

Marc resisted his desire to question the boy fully, for he feared
lest he might be accused of having abused his authority as master to
aggravate the confession. He merely ascertained that Madame Alexandre
had taken the copy-slip from her son, who did not know what she had
done with it, for she had never again mentioned it to him. For the
rest, the young man preferred to see the mother. She alone could
produce the slip--if it were still in her possession--and what a
precious document it would prove, for would it not constitute the
long-sought 'new fact,' which might enable Simon's family to apply for
the revision of his iniquitous trial?

On remaining alone, Marc felt full of joy. He wished it were possible
for him to hasten to the Lehmanns immediately, to tell them the good
news, and impart a little happiness to their sad, mourning home, which
was the object of so much popular execration. At last! at last! a
sunray had flashed upon the black night of iniquity.

Going upstairs to join his wife, he cried to her as he reached the
threshold, such was his excitement, his craving to relieve his heart:
'Geneviève, do you know, I now have proof of Simon's innocence ... Ah!
justice is wakening; we shall be able to go forward now!'

He had not noticed the presence, in a shadowy corner, of Madame
Duparque, who, since the reconciliation, condescended to visit her
granddaughter occasionally. She, on hearing him, gave a start and
exclaimed in her harsh voice: 'What? Simon's innocence! Do you still
persevere in your folly, then? A proof indeed! What proof do you mean?'

Then, after he had related his conversation with little Milhomme, the
old lady again flew into a temper: 'The evidence of a child! That isn't
of much value! He now pretends that he formerly lied; but what proof is
there that he is not lying now?... So the culprit would be a Brother,
eh? Oh! speak your mind plainly, acknowledge it; your only object is
to accuse one of the Brothers, is that not so? It is always the same
rageful impiety with you!'

Somewhat disconcerted at having thus come upon the old lady, and
wishing to spare his wife the grief of any fresh rupture, Marc
contented himself with saying: 'I won't discuss things with you,
grandmother. I merely wished to inform Geneviève of some news which was
likely to please her.'

'But your news does not please her!' cried Madame Duparque. 'Look at
her!'

Marc turned towards his wife, who stood there in the fading light which
fell from the window. And indeed, to his surprise, he saw that she
was grave, that her beautiful eyes had darkened, as if the night, now
slowly approaching, had filled them with shadows.

'Is it true, Geneviève?' he asked her; 'does a work of justice no
longer please you?'

She did not answer him at once. She had become pale and embarrassed,
as if tortured by painful hesitation. And just as he, likewise feeling
very uneasy, was repeating his question, she was saved the distress of
answering him by the sudden appearance of Madame Alexandre.

Sébastien, on returning home, had bravely told his mother of his
confession respecting the copy-slip. She had lacked the strength to
scold him for his good action; but full of fear at the thought that
the schoolmaster would call, question her, and demand the document in
the presence of her terrible sister-in-law, Madame Edouard, who was so
anxious for the prosperity of their little stationery business, she
had preferred to go to the school and do what she could to bury the
affair at once.

Yet now she was there her discomfort became great indeed. Like a gust
of wind she had darted out of her shop, hardly knowing what she would
say, and at present she remained stammering, full of embarrassment,
particularly as she perceived Geneviève and Madame Duparque with Marc,
whom she had hoped to see privately, alone.

'Monsieur Froment,' she began, 'Sébastien has just told me, yes, of
that confession he thought fit to make to you.... So I deemed it best
to give you the reasons of my conduct. You understand--do you not?--all
the worry which such a story would bring us with the difficulties that
already beset us in our business. Well, the fact is, it's true; I did
have that paper, but it no longer exists; I destroyed it.'

She breathed again as if relieved, having contrived to say what she
considered necessary in order to be freed from trouble.

'You destroyed it!' Marc exclaimed with a pang. 'Oh! Madame Alexandre!'

Some slight embarrassment returned to her and she once more sought her
words: 'I did wrong, perhaps.... But think of our position! We are two
poor women with nobody to assist us. And, besides, it was so sad to
have our children mixed up in that abominable affair.... I could not
keep a paper which prevented me from sleeping: I burnt it....'

She was still quivering so perceptibly that Marc looked at her as
she stood there, tall and fair, with the gentle face of a woman of
loving nature. And it seemed to him that she was experiencing some
secret torment. For a moment he felt suspicious--wondered if she were
lying--and it occurred to him to test her sincerity.

'By destroying that paper, Madame Alexandre,' he said, 'you condemned
an innocent man a second time.... Think of all that he is suffering
yonder. You would weep if I read his letters to you. There can be
no worse torture than his--the deadly climate, the harshness of his
keepers, and, above all else, the consciousness of his innocence and
the fearful obscurity as to the truth, amid which he is struggling....
And And what a frightful nightmare for you, should you remember that
all this is your work!'

She had become quite white, and her hands moved involuntarily as if to
ward off some horrible vision. There was kindness and weakness in her
nature, but Marc could not tell whether it were a quiver of remorse, or
some desperate struggle that he detected in her. For a moment, as if
imploring help, she stammered wildly: 'My poor child! my poor child!'

And that child, that little Sébastien, to whom she was so fondly, so
passionately attached, to whom she would have sacrificed everything,
must have suddenly appeared before her, and have restored some little
of her strength. 'Oh! you are cruel, Monsieur Froment!' she said; 'you
make me terribly unhappy.... But how can it be helped, since it's done?
I cannot find that paper again among the ashes.'

'So you burnt it, Madame Alexandre--you are sure of it?'

'Certainly, I told you so.... I burnt it for fear lest my little man
should be compromised, and suffer from it all his life.'

She spoke those last words in an ardent voice, as if with fierce
resolution. Marc was convinced, and made a gesture of despair. Once
again the triumph of truth was delayed, prevented. Without a word
he escorted Madame Alexandre to the door, she again becoming all
embarrassment, at a loss indeed how to take leave of the ladies who
were present. Bowing and stammering excuses, she disappeared, and, when
she was gone, deep silence reigned in the room.

Neither Geneviève nor Madame Duparque had intervened. Both had remained
frigid and motionless. And they still preserved silence while Marc,
absorbed in his grief, his head bowed, walked slowly to and fro. At
last, however, Madame Duparque rose to take her departure, and on
reaching the threshold she turned and said: 'That woman is a lunatic!
Her story of a destroyed paper appears to me to be a fairy tale which
nobody would believe. You would do wrong to relate it, for it would not
help on your affairs.... Good-night: be sensible.'

Marc did not even answer. With a heavy tread he long continued walking
up and down. Night had gathered round, and Geneviève lighted the lamp.
And when by its pale glow she began to lay the table in silence, her
husband did not even try to confess her. One sorrow was enough, and he
did not wish to hasten the advent of another, such as would come should
he learn, as he might, that she, his wife, was no longer in communion
with him in respect to many things.

But during the following days he was haunted by Madame Duparque's last
words. Supposing indeed that he should try to make use of the new
fact which had come to his knowledge, what credit would his statement
obtain among the public? Doubtless he would secure the testimony of
Sébastien; the boy would repeat that he had seen the copy-slip which
his cousin Victor had brought from the Brothers' school. But it would
be the testimony of a child barely ten years old, and his mother would
strive to weaken its importance. It was the paper itself that ought to
be produced; and the statement that it had been burnt would merely lead
to the affair being buried once again.

The more Marc reflected, the more he understood the necessity of
waiting. The new fact could not be put to use, given the conditions
in which he had discovered it. And yet for him how precious it was,
how fertile in decisive proof! It rendered his faith in Simon's
innocence unshakable, it confirmed all his deductions, materialised the
conviction to which reasoning had brought him. One of the Brothers was
the real culprit; a legally conducted inquiry would soon have shown
which of them it was. Yet the young man again had to resign himself
to patience, and rely on the strength of truth, which was now at last
on the march, and which would never more be stopped until full light
should be cast upon everything.

At the same time Marc's anguish increased, the torture of his
conscience became more tragical day by day. It was frightful to
know that an innocent man was suffering abominable martyrdom in a
penal settlement, and that the real culprit was free, near at hand,
impudent and triumphant, still pursuing his vile work as a corrupter
of children; and it was still more frightful that one should be unable
to cry all that aloud and prove it, confronted as one was by the base
complicity of all the social forces banded together by egotistical
interest to perpetuate the monstrous iniquity. Marc no longer slept,
he carried his secret with him like a sharp goad which incessantly
reminded him that it was his duty to ensure justice. Never for an hour
did he cease to think of his mission, and his heart bled despairingly
because he knew not what to do to hasten its success.

Even at the Lehmanns he said nothing of Sébastien's confession. What
good would it have done to give these poor folk a vague uncertain
hope? Life still treated them very harshly, overwhelmed them with
opprobrium and grief--grief for the prisoner yonder, whose letters
rent their hearts, and whose name was cast in their teeth as a supreme
insult. Old Lehmann's trade had declined yet more; Rachel, always
gowned in mourning like a widow, distressed by the rapid growth of her
children, who would learn everything before long, scarcely dared to
go out. Thus Marc only confided in David, in whom glowed the stubborn
determination to make everybody recognise and acclaim his brother's
innocence at some future time. He lived apart, ignored, carefully
avoiding all appearance on the scene, but never, not for an hour,
did he pause in the task of rehabilitation which had become the sole
object of his life. He reflected, studied, followed clues which he
too often had to abandon after a few steps. Despite two years of
constant research, he had discovered nothing decisive. His suspicion
of an illegal communication made by President Gragnon to the jurors
had become a moral certainty, only he had failed in all his efforts to
procure proof, and could not tell how to obtain it. Nevertheless he
was not discouraged; he had resolved to devote ten, twenty years of
his life even, to reach the real culprit. Marc's revelation inspired
him with additional courage and patience. He likewise held that it
was best to keep Sébastien's confession secret, so long as it was not
strengthened by some material proof. For the moment it merely supplied
the hope of an additional triumph. And that said, David again turned,
calmly and firmly, to his investigations, pursuing them with no haste,
but ever in the same prudent, continuous manner.

One morning, before lessons began, Marc at last made up his mind to
remove the large crucifix which hitherto he had left hanging from
the wall behind his desk. He had been waiting for two years to be
sufficiently master of the situation before expressing in this manner
the independence of the secular school--such as he understood and
desired it--in matters of religion. Until now he had willingly yielded
to Salvan's prudent advice, for he understood that he must assure
himself of his position before making it a position of combat. But
he now felt strong enough to begin the battle. Had he not restored
prosperity to the Communal school by winning back to it numerous pupils
who had been transferred to the Brothers'? Had he not gradually gained
personal respect, the affection of the children, the favour of their
parents? Besides, he was impelled to take action first by his recent
visit to Jonville, which he had left on the high road to knowledge,
and which Abbé Cognasse was once more transforming into an abode of
darkness, and secondly by all the anxiety and anger stirred up within
him by Sébastien's confession--anger with the ignominy that he divined
around him in Maillebois, which was enslaved and poisoned by the
clerical faction.

That morning, then, he had already climbed upon a stool to remove the
crucifix, when Geneviève, holding little Louise by the hand, entered
the classroom to inform him of her intention to take the child to spend
the day with her grandmother. At the sight of Marc on the stool the
young woman was quite surprised. 'What are you doing there?' she asked
him.

'Can't you see?' he answered. 'I am taking down this crucifix, which I
intend to give to Abbé Quandieu myself, in order that he may restore it
to the church which it ought never to have left.... Here! help me--take
it!'

But she did not hold out her arms. She did not move. Turning extremely
pale, she watched him as if she were witnessing some forbidden and
dangerous deed which filled her with fear. And he had to descend from
the stool unhelped by her, encumbered with the big crucifix, which he
immediately locked up in one of the cupboards.

'You wouldn't help me,' he exclaimed. 'What is the matter? Do you
disapprove of what I have done?'

In spite of her emotion, Geneviève answered plainly: 'Yes, I disapprove
of it.'

Her answer amazed Marc. Like her he began to quiver. It was the first
time that she assumed such an aggressive and angry tone with him. He
felt a little shock, a slight rending, such as presages rupture. And he
looked at her with astonishment and anxiety, as if he had heard a voice
he did not know, as if a stranger had just spoken to him.

'What! you disapprove of what I do? Was it really you who said that?'

'Yes, it was I. It is wrong of you to do what you have done.'

She it was indeed; for she stood before him, tall and slender, with her
fair amiable face, and her glance gleaming with some of her father's
sensual passion. Yes, it was she, and yet in the expression of those
large blue eyes there was already something different, a shadow,
a little of the mystical dimness of the _au-delà_. And Marc in his
astonishment felt a chill come to his heart as he suddenly observed
that change. What had happened, then? Why was she no longer the same?
But he recoiled from an immediate explanation, and contented himself
with adding: 'Hitherto, even when you did not think perhaps as I did,
you always told me to act in accordance with my conscience, and that
is what I have now done. And so your blame surprised me painfully. We
shall have to talk of it.'

She did not disarm, she preserved her angry frigidity of manner. 'We
will talk of it if you so desire,' she replied; 'meantime I am going
to take Louise to grandmother, who will not bring her back till this
evening.'

Sudden enlightenment dawned upon Marc. It was Madame Duparque who was
taking Geneviève from him, and who, doubtless, would take Louise also.
He had acted wrongly in disinteresting himself from his wife's doings,
in allowing her and the child to spend so much time in that pious
house, where the dimness and atmosphere of a chapel prevailed. He had
failed to notice the stealthy change which had been taking place in his
wife during the last two years, that revival of her pious youth, of the
indelible education of other days, which, little by little, had been
bringing her back to the dogmas which he imagined had been overcome
by the efforts of his intellect and the embrace of his love. As yet
she had not begun to follow her religion again by attendance at Mass,
Communion, and Confession, but he felt that she was already parting
from him, reverting to the past with slow but certain steps, each of
which would place them farther and farther asunder.

'Are we no longer in agreement, then, my darling?' he asked her sadly.

With great frankness she replied: 'No. And grandmother was right,
Marc; all the trouble has come from that horrible affair. Since you
have been defending that man, who was transported and who deserved
his punishment, misfortune has entered our home, and we shall end by
agreeing no more in anything.'

He raised a cry of despair. 'Is it you,' he repeated, 'you who speak
like that? You are against truth, against justice now!'

'I am against the deluded and malicious ones whose evil passions attack
religion. They wish to destroy God; but, even if one quits the Church,
one should at least respect its ministers, who do so much good.'

This time Marc made no rejoinder. A quarrel was out of place at that
moment when he was expecting the arrival of the boys. But was the
evil so deep already? His grief arose chiefly from the fact that at
the root of the dissentiment parting him from his wife he found the
Simon affair, the mission of equity which he had imposed on himself.
No concession in that matter was possible on his part, and thus no
agreement could be arrived at. For two years past that monstrous affair
had been mingled with every incident; it was like a poisoned source
which would continue to rot both people and things, so long as justice
was not done. And now his own home was poisoned by it.

Seeing that he preserved silence, Geneviève went towards the door,
repeating quietly: 'Well, I am going to grandmother's with Louise.'

Marc thereupon caught up the child as if anxious to kiss her. Would he
also allow that little one, the flesh of his flesh, to be taken from
him? Ought he not to keep her in his arms to save her from imbecile and
deadly contagion? For a moment he looked at her. Already at five years
of age, she showed signs of becoming tall and slender like her mother,
her grandmother, and her great-grandmother. But she lacked their pale
fair hair, and she had the lofty brow of the Froments, the brow that
suggested an impregnable tower of sense and knowledge. Laughing loudly,
she cast her arms prettily about her father's neck.

'You know, papa, I will repeat my fable to you when I come home; I know
it quite well.'

Yielding to a sentiment of tolerance, Marc, for the second time,
resolved that he would have no dispute. He restored the little one to
her mother, who led her away. Moreover, the boys were now arriving,
and the classroom soon became full. But anxiety remained in the
master's heart at the thought of the struggle which he had resolved
to wage when he removed the crucifix from the wall. That struggle, it
was now certain, would reach his own hearth. His tears and the tears
of his loved ones would flow. Nevertheless, by an heroic effort, he
mastered his suffering; and summoning little Sébastien, the monitor,
he bade him watch over the reading class, while for his part he gaily
proceeded with some demonstrations on the blackboard, amidst the joyous
brightness with which the sunshine flooded the schoolroom.




II


Three days later, in the evening, while Marc was undressing in the
bedroom, Geneviève being already in bed, he told her that he had
received an urgent letter from Salvan, who wished to see him on the
morrow, Sunday.

'No doubt it is about that crucifix which I removed from the
classroom,' the young man added. 'Some parents have complained, it
seems; and very likely there will be a great to-do. But I anticipated
it.'

Geneviève, whose head lay deep in her pillow, returned no answer.
But when Marc was in bed and the light was extinguished, he was
delightfully surprised to find her casting her arms about him, and
whispering in his ear: 'I spoke to you harshly the other day; and, it's
true, I don't think as you do about religion or about the affair; but I
still love you very dearly, I love you with all my heart.'

Marc felt the more moved by these words as, since the recent dispute,
his wife had turned her back upon him, as though in token of conjugal
rupture.

'And as you are going to have trouble,' she continued softly, 'I don't
want you to think me angry. One's ideas may differ, but all the same
one may love one another very much--is it not so? And if you are mine,
I am still yours, my dear, dear husband.'

On hearing her speak like that he clasped her to him with passionate
eagerness. 'Ah! my dear wife, as long as you love me, as long as you
are mine,' said he, 'I shall fear nought of the terrible threats around
us.'

She yielded to his embrace, quivering, transported by the joy of love
which was essential to her being. And there came a moment of perfect
communion, irresistible reconciliation. The good understanding of a
young couple, united by love, is only seriously threatened when some
divergency of that love arises. As long as they are swayed by passion
one for the other, they remain in agreement athwart the worst mishaps.
He who would part them must first of all destroy their mutual passion.

When Marc gave Geneviève a last kiss before both fell asleep, he
thought it well to reassure her: 'I shall act very prudently in this
affair, I promise you,' said he. 'You know too that I am moderate and
reasonable at bottom.'

'Ah! do as you please,' she answered prettily. 'All I ask is that you
should come back to me, and that we should still love each other.'

On the morrow the young man repaired to Beaumont, quite enlivened by
his wife's ardent affection. He derived fresh courage from it, and thus
it was with a smiling face and the demeanour of a combatant that he
entered Salvan's private room at the Training College. But the first
words spoken by the director, after they had shaken hands in a friendly
way, surprised and embarrassed him.

'I say, my good fellow,' Salvan began, 'so it seems that you have at
last discovered the new fact, the long-sought proof of our poor Simon's
innocence, which will enable one to apply for the revision of his
trial?'

Marc, who had anticipated an immediate explanation on the subject of
the crucifix, remained for a moment silent, wondering whether he ought
to tell the truth even to Salvan. At last, seeking his words, he said
slowly: 'The new fact ... no, I have nothing decisive as yet.'

But Salvan did not notice his hesitation. 'That is what I thought,' he
rejoined, 'for you would have warned me, eh? Nevertheless, there is a
rumour of some discovery made by you, a document of capital importance,
placed in your hands by chance, something like a sword of Damocles
which you are said to hold over the heads of the real culprit and his
accomplices, the whole clerical gang of the region.'

Marc listened, full of stupefaction. Who could have spoken? How was it
that Sébastien's confession and his mother's visit had become known?
How was it that particulars had been spread abroad, modified and
exaggerated as they passed from mouth to mouth? The young man suddenly
made up his mind to tell the truth to Salvan; he felt it necessary to
confide in that worthy and sensible friend and adviser, on whom he
placed so much reliance. So he told him how he knew that a copy-slip,
similar to the one brought forward in evidence against Simon, had been
taken from the Brothers' school, and how it had been destroyed.

Salvan, who was deeply moved, rose from his chair. 'It was the proof we
needed!' he exclaimed. 'But you act rightly in remaining silent since
we hold no material evidence. One must wait.... At present, however,
I understand the disquietude, the covert alarm, which for some days
past I have detected among our adversaries. Some words may have escaped
you or the boy, or his mother, and chance words often go far; or else
some mysterious agency may have placed the secret in circulation,
misrepresenting the facts. In any case the culprit and his accomplices
have certainly felt the ground quaking beneath them; and, naturally,
they are alarmed, for they will have to defend their crime.'

Then, passing to the subject which had prompted his urgent letter,
he resumed: 'But I wished to speak to you of another incident, which
everybody is talking about--your removal of that crucifix from your
classroom. You know my views: our schools ought to be purely and simply
secular, therefore all religious symbols are out of place in them.
But you can have no idea of the tempest which your action will raise.
Unfortunately, it is now the interest of the good Brothers and their
supporters, the Jesuits, to ruin you absolutely, alarmed as they are by
the weapons which they believe to be in your hands. By your action in
the matter of the crucifix you have laid yourself open to attack, and
so they are naturally rushing forward to the onslaught.'

Marc understood, and made a gesture of defiance, like a man fully
prepared for battle. 'But have I not acted prudently, in accordance
with your advice?' he responded. 'Did I not wait two long years before
removing that cross which was hung up after Simon's trial to indicate
that the clerical faction had virtually taken possession of the
Communal school? I have set that poor school on its legs again; it was
suspected and discredited, and I have made it prosperous and free. So
was it not legitimate that my first independent act as schoolmaster,
after winning acceptance and then victory, should be to rid the school
of all emblems, and restore it to that neutrality in matters of
religion, from which it ought never to have departed?'

Salvan interrupted him: 'Once again, I do not blame you. You showed
great patience and tolerance. Nevertheless, your action has taken
place at a terrible moment, and, feeling alarmed for you, I wished to
discuss matters in order to provide, if possible, for all dangerous
contingencies.'

They sat down and talked at length. The political situation of
the department was still very bad. Fresh elections had taken place
recently, and the result had been another step in the direction of
clerical reaction. An extraordinary thing had happened: Lemarrois, the
Mayor of Beaumont, Gambetta's former friend, whose position as deputy
had been deemed unassailable, had found himself obliged to submit to
a second ballot,[1] through the advent of a Socialist candidate, none
other than Advocate Delbos, whose address at Simon's trial had marked
him out for the support of the revolutionary _faubourgs_; and, at
the second polling, Lemarrois had only won by a majority of about a
thousand votes. Meanwhile, the Royalist and Catholic reactionaries had
gained a seat, the handsome Hector de Sanglebœuf having secured the
return of a friend, a general officer, thanks to the entertainments
which he gave at La Désirade, and the lavish manner in which he
distributed Jew gold, derived from his father-in-law, Baron Nathan.
Then, too, in order to secure re-election, the amiable Marcilly, once
the hope of all the young men of culture, had skilfully completed his
evolution towards the welcoming Church, which was very desirous of
concluding a new pact with the _bourgeoisie_, whom the progress of
Socialism terrified.

[Footnote 1: In French elections, when several nominees contest some
particular seat, a candidate, to be successful, must obtain one half,
_plus_ one, of the total number of votes recorded. If no candidate
secures that number a second ballot ensues a fortnight later. On the
second occasion a relative majority suffices for election.--_Trans._]

Though it had accepted political equality the _bourgeoisie_ indeed was
unwilling to concede equality in the economic field, for it desired to
restore nothing of what it had stolen. And to resist the onslaught from
below, it preferred to ally itself with its old enemies. It again began
to think that religion had some good features, that it was useful as
a kind of police institution, a barrier, which alone might check the
growing appetite of the masses. And as a first step the _bourgeoisie_
was gradually garbing itself in militarism, nationalism, anti-semitism,
and all the other hypocritical disguises under which invading
Clericalism pursued its road.

The army became merely the emblem of brute force upholding the thefts
of ages, an impregnable wall of bayonets within whose shelter property
and capital, duly gorged, might digest in security. The nation, the
country, was the _ensemble_ of abuses and iniquities which it was
criminal to touch, the monstrous social edifice, not one beam of
which must be changed for dread lest all should fall. The Jews, even
as in the Middle Ages, served as a pretext to instil fresh warmth into
cooling beliefs, to exploit ancestral hatred, and sow the horrid seeds
of civil war. And beneath that all-embracing movement of reaction
there was nought save the stealthy labour of the Church, seeking to
regain the ground she had formerly lost when the old world broke up
beneath the liberating breath of the French Revolution. It was the
Revolution that the Church strove to kill by regaining ascendency over
the _bourgeoisie_, which the Revolution had raised to power, and which
had decided to betray it in order to retain that power, of which it
owed account to the masses. And the return of the _bourgeoisie_ to
the bosom of the Church would lead to the reconquest of the people,
for the Church's vast design was to subjugate men by the influence of
women, and particularly to lay hold of the children in their schools
and confine their minds in the dim prison of dogmas. If the France
of Voltaire were again becoming the France of Rome it was because
the teaching Congregations had set their grip on the young. And the
position was becoming worse and worse, the Church was already shrieking
victory--victory over the democracy, victory over science--full of
the hope that she would prevent the inevitable, the completion of the
Revolution, the junction of the masses with the _bourgeoisie_ in the
seat of power, and the final liberation of the entire people.

'The situation grows worse daily,' said Salvan; 'you know what a
frantic campaign is being carried on against our system of elementary
education. Last Sunday, at Beaumont, a priest went so far as to say
in the pulpit that a secular schoolmaster was Satan disguised as a
pedagogue. "Fathers and mothers!" he cried, "you should wish your
children to be dead rather than in such hells as those schools!"...
As for secondary education, that also is a prey to clerical reaction.
Apart from the ever-increasing prosperity of such Congregational
establishments as the College of Valmarie, where the Jesuits finish
poisoning the sons of the _bourgeoisie_, the officers, functionaries,
and magistrates of the future, our Lycées, even, remain in the
power of the priests. Here at Beaumont, for instance, the director,
the devout Depinvilliers, openly receives Father Crabot, who is, I
think, the confessor of his wife and daughters. Lately, as he felt
discontented with Abbé Leriche, a worthy but very aged man who had
fallen asleep in his post, he secured a thoroughly militant chaplain.
At the Lycées, no doubt, religious exercises are optional; but for a
boy to be exempted from them a request from his parents is required.
And naturally the pupil about whom a fuss is made in that respect
is badly noted, set upon one side, and even subjected to all sorts
of petty persecutions.... Briefly, after thirty years of Republican
rule, a century of active free thought, the Church still trains and
educates our children, still remains paramount, intent on retaining
her domination over the world by moulding in the same old moulds as
formerly the men of bondage and error that she needs to govern on her
behalf. And all the wretchedness of the times comes from that cause.'

'But what do you advise me to do, my friend?' Marc inquired. 'After
acting as I have done, am I to retreat?'

'No, certainly not. Perhaps, if you had warned me, I might have begged
you to wait a little longer. But as you have removed that crucifix
you must defend yourself. After writing to you I saw Le Barazer, our
Academy Inspector, and I now feel somewhat easier in mind. You know
him, and you are aware how difficult it is to guess his thoughts. Yet
I believe that he is at heart on our side, and I should be greatly
surprised if he were to play into the hands of our enemies. But
everything will depend on you, on your power of resistance, on the
firmness of the position you have acquired at Maillebois. I foresee
a frantic campaign on the part of the Brothers, the Capuchins, and
the Jesuits, for you are not merely a secular schoolmaster, otherwise
an incarnation of Satan, but you are, particularly, the defender of
Simon--that is, the torchbearer, the soldier of truth and justice,
whose light must be extinguished and whose lips must be sealed. In any
case, be prudent and sensible and keep up your courage.'

Salvan, who had risen, grasped the young man's hands, and for a moment
they remained thus, smiling as they gazed at each other, their eyes
shining with courage and faith.

'At least you do not despair of the final result, my friend?'

'Despair, my boy? Ah! never! Victory is certain; I do not know when
it will come, but it is certain. Besides, there is more cowardice and
egotism than actual malice among some of our adversaries. How many
of our university men are neither really good nor really bad, though
on striking an average one finds perhaps rather more goodness than
evil among them. The worst is that they are functionaries, and as such
are wedded to routine, apart from which their one concern is their
advancement, as is natural. Forbes, our Rector, harbours, I fancy,
the contempt of a philosopher for these wretched times, and on that
account is content to play the part of a piece of administrative
mechanism connecting the Minister with the university staff. Then,
too, if Depinvilliers sets himself on the side of the Church, it is
merely because he has two ugly daughters on his hands, and relies on
Father Crabot to supply them with rich husbands. As for the terrible
Mauraisin--whom you will do well to beware of, for he has an ugly
soul--he would like to be in my shoes; and he would go over to your
side to-morrow if he thought you in a position to give him my berth....
Yes, yes, many of them are merely poor hungry devils, while others are
men of weak intellect--they will come over to our side and even help us
when we have won the battle.'

He laughed indulgently. Then, becoming grave once more, he added:
'Besides, the good work I do here prevents me from despairing. As
you know, I hide myself away in my little corner; but, day by day, I
strive to hasten the future. And things move--they move. I am very well
satisfied with my young men. No doubt it is still rather difficult
to recruit students, for the profession appears so thankless, so
poorly paid, leading to nothing but contumely and a life of certain
wretchedness. All the same, we had more competitors than usual this
year. It is hoped that the Chambers will end by voting reasonable
salaries, such as may enable the humblest masters to live in some
little dignity. And you will see, you will see what will happen when
properly trained masters leave this college and spread through the
villages and the towns, carrying words of deliverance with them,
destroying error, superstition, and falsehood on all sides, like the
missionaries of a new humanity! The Church will be vanquished then,
for it can only subsist and triumph amid ignorance, and when it is
swept away the whole nation will march unchecked towards solidarity and
peace.'

'Ah! my old friend, that is the great hope!' cried Marc; 'that is what
lends all of us the strength and cheerfulness we need to do our work.
Thanks for inspiriting me; I will try to be sensible and courageous.'

They once more shook hands energetically, and Marc returned to
Maillebois, where the fiercest battle, war to the knife, awaited him.

There, as at Beaumont, the political situation had become worse. The
last municipal elections, following those for the Chamber of Deputies,
had also given disastrous results. Darras had found his party in
a minority in the new Municipal Council; and Philis, the clerical
councillor, the leader of the reactionary cause, had now been elected
Mayor. Before everything else, Marc wished to see Darras in order to
ascertain how far the latter might yet be able to support him. So he
presented himself, one evening, in the comfortable drawing-room of the
handsome house which the contractor had built himself. Darras, as soon
as he perceived him, raised his arms to the ceiling.

'Ah! my dear schoolmaster, so now you have the whole pack at your
heels! Oh! I shall be on your side, you may rely on me now that I
am beaten, reduced to opposition.... It was difficult for me to be
always on your side when I was Mayor; for, as you know, the majority
I disposed of was only one of two votes. But even when I had to act
contrary to your desires, I repeated to myself that you were a thousand
times right. At present we shall be able to go forward, since the only
course open to me is to fight and try to upset Philis, and take the
mayoralty from him. You did quite right when you removed that crucifix
from the schoolroom; it wasn't there in Simon's time, and it ought
never to have been there at all.'

Marc made bold to smile. 'Why, every time I spoke to you of removing
it,' said he, 'you protested. You talked of the necessity of prudence,
of the danger of frightening the children's parents, and giving our
adversaries a weapon against us.'

'But I have just admitted to you how embarrassed I was! Ah! it is by no
means easy to manage a town like Maillebois, where the forces of the
different parties have always balanced, and where nobody has ever been
able to tell whether the freethinkers or the priests would win the day.
At this moment we are certainly not in a brilliant position, but we
must keep up our courage. We shall end by giving them a good licking,
which will make us masters of the town for good.'

'That's certain,' replied Marc, delighted with the fine valour
displayed by the ambitious contractor, who, at heart, was a worthy man.

'Particularly,' continued Darras, 'as Philis won't dare to take any
serious step, for, in his turn, he has only a majority of two, such as
rendered me so timid. He is condemned to mark time, and will live in
constant fear of some slight change which may place him in a minority.
I know by experience what that means!'

He made merry over it in a noisy way. He harboured against Philis the
hatred of a big and healthy man with a sound stomach and a sound brain,
who was chagrined by the sight of the new Mayor's lean little figure,
dark, hard face, pointed nose and thin lips. Philis had retired from
business as a tilt and awning maker, at the time of his wife's death,
and, though possessed of an income of some ten thousand francs a year,
the real origin of which remained somewhat obscure, he lived in great
retirement, attended by a single servant, a huge fair creature of whom
evil tongues spoke very badly. Her master had a daughter named Octavie,
twelve years of age, now with the nuns of the Visitation at Beaumont,
and a son, Raymond, ten years old, who was a boarder at the Jesuit
College of Valmarie, pending the time when he might enter the military
school of St. Cyr. Having thus rid himself of his children, the new
Mayor led a close, narrow life, most careful in all his religious
observances, ever in conference with the black frocks, and really
acting as the executor of the Congregations' decisions. His election
as Mayor was sufficient proof of the acute stage which the religious
crisis had reached in that town of Maillebois, which the struggle
between the Republic and the Church was ravaging.

'And so I may go forward,' said Marc; 'you will support me with the
minority of the Council?'

'Why, certainly!' cried Darras. 'Only, be reasonable, don't give us too
big an affair to deal with.'

On the very morrow the contest began; and apparently it was Savin,
the clerk, the father of the twin boys, Achille and Philippe, who was
chosen to strike the first blow. At all events, on leaving his office
in the evening, he came to the school to pick a quarrel with the master.

'You know what I am--is that not so, Monsieur Froment?' said he. 'I am
a radical Republican, and nobody can suspect me of conspiring with the
priests. Nevertheless, on behalf of a number of parents I have come
to ask you to replace that crucifix which you removed, for religion
is necessary for children as well as for women.... No priests in the
school, I agree to that; but Christ, remember it, was the first of
Republicans and revolutionaries!'

Marc, however, desired to know the names of the other parents whom
Savin represented. 'If you have not come merely on your own behalf,'
said he, 'will you tell me what families have delegated you?'

'Oh! "delegated"--that is not quite correct. I have seen Doloir the
mason, and Bongard the farmer, and have found that they blame you as I
myself do. Only, it is always compromising to protest and give one's
signature--is that not so? I myself risk a good deal by coming forward,
on account of my superiors. But the voice of my conscience as the
father of a family speaks too loudly for me to act otherwise. How shall
I ever manage those two scapegraces of mine, Achille and Philippe,
if you do not frighten them a little with fear of the punishment of
God and the torments of hell? Look at my big girl, Hortense, who is
so good in every respect, and who was admired by all Maillebois when
she took her first Communion this year! By taking her to church,
Mademoiselle Rouzaire has made her really perfect. Compare your work
with Mademoiselle Rouzaire's, compare my two boys with my daughter. By
that comparison alone you stand condemned, Monsieur Froment.'

Marc smiled in his quiet way. The amiable Hortense, a pretty
and precocious girl of thirteen, one of Mademoiselle Rouzaire's
favourites, occasionally contrived to climb over the wall separating
the playgrounds of the two schools, in order that she might hide away
in corners with lads of her own age. Even as Savin had suggested,
the young man had often compared his pupils, from whom by degrees
he obtained a little more reason and truth, with the pupils of the
schoolmistress, his neighbour--the affectedly prim and gentle little
girls who were fed on clerical pap, falsehood, and hypocrisy, and
perturbed, even secretly spoilt, by the corrupting influence of the
mysterious. Marc would have liked to have seen his boys and those girls
together--those girls who were now reared and educated apart, from whom
everything was hidden, whose minds and whose senses were heated by all
the fires of mysticism. They would then have ceased to climb over walls
to go in search of so-called sin, the forbidden fruit of damnation and
delight. Yes, only a system of mixed schools could ensure the health
and strength of the free and happy nation of to-morrow.[2]

[Footnote 2: This problem seems to have been solved in the United
States, where, judging by official reports, the mingling of the sexes
in the schools is extensive. Thence (I judge the matter as an European)
must have come the very great and distinctly beneficial influence
exercised by American women on the national character. Perhaps it is
not too much to say that, apart from such incentives as a mere desire
to gain money, the women of the United States have largely helped to
make their race the most enterprising and progressive in the world. As
for the influence of mixed schools on morals, Americans have repeatedly
assured me that it has been the best possible.--_Trans._]

To Savin, however, Marc merely said: 'Mademoiselle Rouzaire does her
duty as she understands it; and I do mine in the same way.... If
families would only help me, the good work of training and education
would progress more rapidly.'

At this Savin lost his temper. Lean and puny, buttoned up in his shabby
frock coat, he drew himself erect on his little legs: 'Do you insinuate
that I give bad examples to my children?' he asked.

'Oh! certainly not. Only everything that I teach them here is
afterwards contradicted by what they see in the world around them. They
find truthfulness regarded as dangerous audacity, and reason condemned
as being insufficient, incapable of forming honest men.'

Marc indeed was greatly grieved that he should be thwarted so often
by his pupils' parents, when he dreamt of obtaining from them the
necessary help to hasten the emancipation of the humble. If on leaving
school every day the children had only found in their homes some
realisation of their lessons, some practice of the social duties and
rights in which they were instructed, how much easier and swifter
would have been the march of improvement! Such collaboration was even
indispensable; the schoolmaster could not suffice for many things,
the most delicate, the most useful, when his pupils' parents did not
continue his work in the same spirit and complete it. The master and
the parents ought to have gone hand in hand towards the same goal
of truth and justice. And how sad it was when, instead of obtaining
the parents' help, the master saw them destroying the little good
he effected, unconscious for the most part of what they were doing,
yielding simply to the incoherence of their ideas and their lives.

But Savin was again speaking. 'Briefly,' said he, 'you will hang up
that cross again, Monsieur Froment, if you wish to please us all, and
live on good terms with us, which is what we desire, for you are not a
bad schoolmaster.'

Marc smiled again. 'Thank you,' he said. 'But why did not Madame Savin
accompany you? She, at any rate, would have been playing her proper
part, for she follows the observances of the Church--I know it.'

'She is religious, as all respectable women ought to be,' the clerk
answered dryly. 'I would rather have her go to Mass than take a lover.'

He looked at Marc suspiciously, consumed as he was by sickly jealousy,
regarding every man as a possible rival. Why did the schoolmaster
regret that his wife had not accompanied him? Had she not twice called
at the school recently under the pretext of explaining to the master
why Achille and Philippe had been absent on sundry occasions? For some
time past he, Savin, had compelled her to confess regularly once a week
to Father Théodose, the Superior of the Capuchins, for it had occurred
to him that the shame of avowal might stay her in her course along the
road to infidelity. On her side, if in earlier times she had followed
the Church observances merely in order to secure peace at home--for
she was quite destitute of faith--she now repaired with some alacrity
to the tribunal of penitence, for, like the other young devotees who
dreamt of Father Théodose, she had rid herself of earlier prejudices,
and begun to regard him as a superb and most delightful man.

'As it happens,' said Marc, with some little maliciousness, in response
to Savin's declaration, 'I had the pleasure of meeting Madame Savin
last Thursday. She was leaving the chapel on the Place des Capucins,
and we had a brief chat. As all her words to me were most gracious, I
thought I might express my regret at not seeing her with you to-day.'

The husband made a doleful gesture. His everlasting suspicions had
reached such a point that he himself now went to Beaumont to deliver
the bead work which he allowed his wife to do in secret in order to add
a few indispensable coppers to his meagre salary. Their case was one
of hidden wretchedness, with all the torments that make hells of the
homes of needy employés, burdened with children, the embittered husband
becoming an unbearable despot, and the gentle and pretty wife resigning
herself in silence until she at last discovers some consolation.

'My wife neither has nor ought to have any opinion but mine,' Savin
ended by declaring. 'It is in her name as well as my own, and in the
names of many other parents--I repeat it--that I have made this
application to you.... It is now for you to decide if you will act upon
it. You will think the matter over.'

'I have thought it over, Monsieur Savin,' replied Marc, who had become
grave again. 'Before removing that crucifix I understood fully what I
was going to do; and since it is no longer there, I shall certainly not
put it up again.'

On the following day a report spread through Maillebois that a
deputation of parents, fathers and mothers, had called upon the
schoolmaster, and that there had been a stormy explanation, a frightful
scandal. But Marc soon understood whence the attack had really come,
for chance acquainted him with the circumstances which had led to
Savin's visit. Though pretty Madame Savin took no real interest in the
affair, absorbed as she was in her desire for a little more personal
happiness, she had none the less served as an instrument in the hands
of Father Théodose; for it was on being approached by her, on the
Capuchin's behalf, that her husband had repaired to a secret interview
with the latter, which interview had prompted him to call on Marc and
endeavour to check a state of things which was so prejudicial to family
morality and good order. No crucifixes in the schools indeed! Would
that not mean indiscipline among the boys, and shamelessness among
the girls and their mothers also? So the lean and little Savin, the
Republican and anti-clerical, unhinged by his wretched spoilt life and
his idiotic jealousy, had set forth to champion the cause of virtue,
like an authoritarian, a topsy-turvy Catholic, who pictured the human
paradise as a gaol, in which everything human ought to be subdued and
crushed.

Besides, behind Father Théodose, Marc readily divined Brother Fulgence
and his assistants, Brothers Gorgias and Isidore, who hated the secular
school more than ever since it had been taking pupils from them. And
behind the Brothers came Fathers Philibin and Crabot of the College
of Valmarie, those powerful personages whose skilful unseen hands
had been directing the whole campaign ever since the monstrous Simon
affair. The accomplices in that slumbering crime seemed determined to
defend it by other deeds of iniquity. At the outset Marc had guessed
where the whole band, from the lowest to the highest, was crouching.
But how could one seize and convict them? If Father Crabot, amiable
and worldly, still showed himself constantly among the fine society
of Beaumont, busily directing the steps of his penitents and ensuring
the rapid fortune of his former pupils, his assistant, Father Philibin,
had virtually disappeared, restricting himself entirely, so it seemed,
to his absorbing duties as manager at Valmarie. Nothing transpired
of the stealthy work which was so ardently pursued in the darkness,
every moment being employed to ensure the triumph of the good cause.
All that Marc himself could detect was the espionage attending his own
movements. He was tracked with priestly caution, black figures were
constantly prowling around him. None of his visits to the Lehmanns,
none of his conversations with David could have remained unknown.
And, as Salvan had said, the others tracked him because he was an
impassioned soldier of truth and justice, because he was a witness who
already possessed certain proofs, and whose avenging cry must be thrust
back into his throat, even by extermination if necessary. To that
task the frock and cassock wearers devoted themselves with increasing
audacity, joined even by poor Abbé Quandieu, who felt grieved at having
to place religion at the service of such iniquitous work, but who
resigned himself to it in obedience to the behests of his Bishop, the
mournful Monseigneur Bergerot, whom he visited every week at Beaumont
to take his orders and console him in his defeat. Bishop and priest
cast the cloak of their ministry over the sore devouring the Church
whose respectful sons they were, hiding meantime their tears and their
fears, unwilling to acknowledge the mortal danger into which they saw
religion sinking.

One evening Mignot, on coming into the school from the playground, said
to Marc in a fury:

'It's getting quite disgusting, monsieur! I've again caught
Mademoiselle Rouzaire spying on us from the top of a ladder!'

Indeed, whenever the schoolmistress fancied that she would not
be detected, she set a ladder against the wall dividing the two
playgrounds, in order that she might ascertain what was going on in the
boys' school. And Mignot accused her of sending secret reports on the
subject to Mauraisin every week.

'Oh! let her pry,' Marc answered gaily. 'But there is no occasion for
her to tire herself by climbing a ladder. I'll set the door wide open
for her, if she desires it.'

'Ah! no, not that!' cried the assistant. 'Let her keep her place! If
she tries it on again, I shall go round and pull her down by the legs!'

Marc, to his great satisfaction, was now gradually completing the
conquest of Mignot. The latter, like a peasant's son whose one desire
was to escape the plough, a man of average mind and character, who like
so many others thought solely of his immediate interests, had always
shown himself distrustful with Simon. Indeed, nothing good could come
from a Jew, and so he had deemed it prudent to keep aloof from him. At
the time of the trial, therefore, though he was sufficiently honest to
refrain from overwhelming the innocent prisoner, he had not given the
good and truthful evidence which might have saved him. At a later stage
he had likewise placed himself on the defensive with Marc, with whom he
thought it would be foolish to ally himself if he desired advancement.
For nearly a whole year, therefore, he had displayed hostility, taking
his meals at an eating-house, grudging the help he gave in the school
work, and freely blaming his principal's attitude. At that time indeed
he had been very thick with Mademoiselle Rouzaire, and willing, it
seemed, to place himself at the orders of the Congregations. But
Marc, instead of evincing any perturbation, had treated his assistant
with unremitting kindness, as if he were desirous of giving him all
necessary time to reflect and understand that his real interest lay on
the side of truth and equity.

Indeed, in Marc's opinion, that big, calm young fellow, whose only
passion was angling, offered an interesting subject for experiment.
Though he became cowardly when he thought of the future, and was
somewhat spoilt by the environment of ferocious egotism in which he
found himself, there was nothing absolutely evil in his nature. In
fact, he might be made an excellent school teacher and even a man of
most upright mind if he were helped, sustained by one of energy and
intelligence. The idea of experimenting in that sense attracted Marc,
who felt well pleased as, little by little, he gained the confidence
and affection of this wanderer, thereby proving the truth of the axiom
in which he set all his hopes of future deliverance--that there is
no man, even one on the road to perdition, who may not be made an
artisan of progress. Mignot had been won over by the active gaiety, the
beneficent glow of truth and justice which Marc set around him. He now
took his meals with his principal, and had become, as it were, a member
of the family.

'It is wrong of you not to distrust Mademoiselle Rouzaire,' he resumed.
'You have no idea, monsieur, of what she is capable. She would betray
you a dozen times over in order to obtain good reports from her friend
Mauraisin.'

Then, being in a confidential mood, he related how she had repeatedly
urged him to listen at keyholes and report to her. He knew her well;
she was a terrible woman, harsh and avaricious, despite all her
varnish of exaggerated courtesy; and though she was big and bony,
with a flat, freckled face, quite destitute of any charm, she ended
by seducing everybody. As she herself boasted, she knew how to act.
To the anti-clericals who angrily reproached her for taking her girls
so often to church, she replied that she was compelled to comply with
the desires of the parents under penalty of losing her pupils. To the
clericals she gave the most substantial pledges, convinced as she was
that they were the stronger party and that on their influence depended
the best appointments even in the secular school world. In reality
she was guided solely by her own interests, as she understood them,
having inherited the instincts of a petty trader from her parents, who
had kept a fruiterer's shop at Beaumont. She had not married, because
she preferred to live as she listed, and, although she did not carry
on with the priests, as was maliciously rumoured by evil tongues, it
seemed certain that she had a soft spot in her heart for handsome
Mauraisin, who, like the little man he was, admired women built after
the fashion of gendarmes. Again, it was not true that she got drunk,
though she was very fond of sweet liqueurs. If she occasionally looked
very red when afternoon lessons began, it was simply because she ate
abundantly and her digestive organs were out of order.

Marc made an indulgent gesture. 'She does not keep her school badly,'
said he; 'the only thing that grieves me is the spirit of narrow
pietism which she introduces into all her teaching. My boys and her
girls are separated by an abyss, not merely by a wall. And when they
meet one another, later, and think of marrying, they will belong to
different worlds. But is not that the traditional custom? The warfare
of the sexes largely arises from it.'

The young man did not mention the chief cause of his rancour against
Mademoiselle Rouzaire, the reason which had impelled him to keep
aloof from her. This was her abominable conduct in Simon's case. He
remembered the quiet effrontery with which she had played the game of
the Congregations at the trial at Beaumont, how she had heaped impudent
falsehoods on the innocent prisoner, how she had accused him of giving
immoral and anti-patriotic lessons to his pupils. And so Marc's
intercourse with her since his appointment to Maillebois had never gone
beyond the limits of strict politeness, such as the proximity of their
homes required. She, however, having seen the young man strengthen his
position, in such wise that his sudden downfall could now hardly be
anticipated, had made attempts at reconciliation; for, in her anxiety
to be always on the stronger side, she was not the woman to turn her
back on the victorious. She had manœuvred particularly with the object
of ingratiating herself with Geneviève, but the latter in this matter
had hitherto shared Marc's opinions and kept her at a distance.

'At all events, monsieur,' Mignot concluded, 'I advise you to keep your
eyes open. If I had listened to La Rouzaire I should have betrayed you
a score of times. She never ceased questioning me about you, repeating
to me that I was a stupid and would never succeed in getting into a
decent position.... But you showed me great kindness, and you don't
know what horrid things you saved me from; for one soon listens to
those creatures when they promise you every kind of success. And, as I
am on this subject, I hope you will excuse me if I venture to give you
some advice. You ought to warn Madame Froment.'

'Warn her? What do you mean?'

'Yes, yes, I don't keep my eyes in my pockets. For some time past I
have seen La Rouzaire prowling around your wife. It is "dear madame"
here, a smile or a caress there, all kinds of advances, which would
make me tremble if I were in your shoes.'

Marc, who felt greatly astonished, made a pretence of smiling: 'Oh! my
wife has nothing to fear, she is warned,' said he. 'It is difficult for
her to behave impolitely with a neighbour, particularly when one is
connected by similar duties.'

Mignot did not insist, but he shook his head doubtfully, for his
intercourse with the Froments had acquainted him with the secret drama
which was slowly gathering in their home. However, it seemed as if
he were unwilling to say all he knew. And Marc, on his side also,
became silent, again mastered by the covert dread, the unacknowledged
weakness which assailed and paralysed him whenever the possibility of a
struggle between Geneviève and himself presented itself to his mind.

All at once the attack of the Congregations, which he had been
anticipating ever since his visit to Salvan, took place. The campaign
began with a virulent report from Mauraisin on the subject of the
removal of the crucifix, and the scandal caused among the boys'
parents by that act of religious intolerance. Savin's protest was duly
recorded, and the Doloir and Bongard families were cited among those
who blamed the proceeding. The incident was one of exceptional gravity,
according to the Inspector, for it had occurred in a clerical-minded
town, reputed for its frequent and numerously attended pilgrimages--a
town indeed where it was necessary for the secular school to make
concessions if it was to escape defeat from its Congregational rival.
Mauraisin concluded, therefore, in favour of the removal of the
schoolmaster, a sectarian of the worst kind, who had thus incautiously
compromised the university cause. And his indictment was completed by
the recital of a number of little facts, the harvest of all the daily
espionage carried on by Mademoiselle Rouzaire, whose docile little
girls, ever at Mass or at the Catechism classes, were contrasted with
the idle, rebellious, unbelieving lads trained by that anarchist
master, Froment.

Three days later Marc learnt that Count Hector de Sanglebœuf, the
Catholic deputy, accompanied by two of his colleagues, had made an
application on the subject to Prefect Hennebise. Sanglebœuf was
evidently acquainted with Mauraisin's report, even if he had not helped
to draft it in conjunction with his friend Father Crabot, who so
frequently visited La Désirade; and the idea undoubtedly was to take
that report as a basis in demanding the dismissal of Marc.

Hennebise, whose policy was to live at peace with everybody, and
who constantly urged his subordinates to refrain from stirring up
trouble, must have felt very worried by the incident, which might
lead to disastrous complications. The Prefect's feelings were with
Sanglebœuf, but it was dangerous to adhere publicly to the reactionary
cause; so, while sympathising with the fiery anti-Semite deputy, he
explained that he was not master of the situation, for the law was
precise and prevented him from removing a schoolmaster unless that
step were proposed to him by Academy Inspector Le Barazer. With some
relief, therefore, the Prefect referred the gentlemen to the Inspector,
to whose office, which was also in the Préfecture buildings, they
immediately repaired.

Le Barazer, an ex-professor who had become a prudent diplomatist,
listened to them with a great show of attentive deference. He was a
man of fifty, with a broad full-coloured face, and as yet scarcely
a grey hair. He had grown up hating the Empire, and as he regarded
secular education as one of the foundation stones of the Republic, he
pursued by all available means the task of crushing the Congregational
schools, whose triumph in his estimation would have killed France. But
experience had shown him the danger of violent action, and he adhered
to a long meditated and prudent course, which led some extremists
to regard him as a very lukewarm Republican. Yet he was associated
with some extraordinary victories achieved by long years of discreet
and patient action. At Sanglebœuf's first words he made a show of
disapproving Marc's removal of the crucifix, which, said he, was a
useless demonstration, though he pointed out that nothing in the laws
compelled the schoolmasters to allow religious emblems in the schools.
It was all a mere question of usage, and he discreetly allowed it to be
seen that this usage scarcely had his approval. Then, as Sanglebœuf,
losing his temper, proclaimed himself a defender of the Church, and
described the schoolmaster of Maillebois as a shameless individual
who had stirred up the entire population against him, the Inspector
placidly promised that he would study the question with all the care it
deserved.

But Sanglebœuf wished to know if he had not received a report from his
subordinate, Mauraisin; and whether that report did not suffice to
show the gravity of the evil, the demoralisation, which could only be
arrested by the immediate removal of the schoolmaster. At this question
Le Barazer feigned great surprise. What report? Ah! yes, the quarterly
report from the Elementary Inspector! Were its contents known, then? In
any case, those reports were purely administrative, and merely supplied
certain elements of appreciation for the Academy Inspector, whose duty
it was to make personal inquiries. And thereupon Le Barazer dismissed
the gentlemen, after again promising to take their application into
full account.

A month went by, and nothing reached Marc, who daily expected a
summons to the Préfecture. Le Barazer was doubtless following his usual
tactics in order to gain time and exhaust the determination of the
other side. Even as his friend Salvan had foretold, he was covertly
supporting the young schoolmaster. But it was essential that the
affair should not be aggravated, that increasing scandal should not
compel his intervention; for assuredly he would not defend Marc beyond
certain limits, but would end by sacrificing him if he thought that
course expedient in order that the rest of his slow and opportunist
campaign against the Congregational schools might not be interfered
with. Unfortunately, things went from bad to worse at Maillebois. _Le
Petit Beaumontais_, yielding to an inspiration which could be easily
identified, started a vile campaign against Marc. As usual, it began
with brief and vague paragraphs: Abominations were taking place in a
neighbouring little town, and if necessary precise information would
be given. Then schoolmaster Froment was plainly named, and under the
headline 'The Scandal of Maillebois,' which was repeated almost daily,
the paper published an extraordinary collection of tittle-tattle, the
results of a pretended inquiry among the pupils and their parents, in
which the schoolmaster was accused of the blackest crimes.

People were quite upset by these so-called revelations; the good
Brothers and the Capuchins helped to spread terror abroad, and devotees
never passed the Communal school without crossing themselves. Marc
became conscious that he was in great peril; and Mignot bravely began
to pack up his belongings, feeling certain that he would be swept away
with his principal, whose side he had taken. Meantime Mademoiselle
Rouzaire affected the most victorious airs when she conducted her girls
to Mass; Father Théodose in his chapel, and even Curé Quandieu in his
pulpit at St. Martin's, foretold the approaching restoration of God
among the infidels, by which they meant that the crucifix would be soon
set up again, with all solemnity, in the secular school; and, as a last
blow, Marc, on meeting Darras, found him very cold, resolved to abandon
him, for fear of losing the support of the minority of the Municipal
Council.

'What can you expect, my dear fellow,' said the ex-Mayor; 'you have
gone too far; we cannot follow you, at present at all events.... That
blackbeetle Philis is watching me, and I should merely share your fate,
which would be useless.'

In his despair Marc hastened to Salvan, whom he regarded as the only
faithful supporter remaining to him. And he found him thoughtful,
gloomy, almost embarrassed.

'Things are going badly,' said he. 'Le Barazer remains silent,
seemingly anxious, and such a furious campaign is being waged around
him that I fear he may abandon you.... Perhaps you acted too hastily.'

Marc's heart was wrung by a pang of grief, for he interpreted those
last words as signifying that even Salvan abandoned him. 'You, you as
well, my master!' he exclaimed.

But Salvan, full of emotion, caught hold of his hands. 'No, no, my
lad, you must not doubt me; I remain on your side with all my heart.
Only you can have no idea of the difficulties in which all of us have
been placed by your action, simple and logical though it was. This
Training College is suspected, denounced as a hot-bed of irreligion.
Depinvilliers profits by it to exalt the services which the chaplain
of his Lycée renders to the cause of national pacification, the
reconcilement of all parties in the bosom of the Church. Even our
Rector, the peaceable Forbes, is full of concern, fearing lest his
tranquillity should be destroyed. Le Barazer, no doubt, is skilful, but
does he possess the necessary strength of resistance?'

'What is to be done, then?'

'Nothing: one must wait. I can only repeat to you that you must show
yourself prudent and courageous. For the rest we must rely on the force
of truth and justice.'

During the next two months Marc displayed much brave serenity amid the
outrages by which he was assailed each day. As if ignorant of the muddy
tide beating against his door, he pursued his duties with wondrous
gaiety and uprightness. Never had he accomplished more important or
more useful work, devoting himself to his pupils, and teaching them, as
much by example as by words, how necessary it was to continue working
and to retain one's love for truth and justice amid the very worst
events. To the filth, the bitter insults flung at him by his fellow
townsmen, he replied with gentleness, kindliness, and sacrifice. He
strove to make the children better than their fathers, he sowed the
happy future in the furrows of the hateful present, he redeemed the
crime of others at the cost of his own happiness. It was the thought of
the young ones around him, the duty of helping to save them a little
more each day from error and falsehood, that lent him so much calmness
and enabled him to await the blow he expected with a quiet smile, like
one who, every evening, felt well satisfied with the work accomplished
during the day.

At last, one morning, _Le Petit Beaumontais_ announced that the
revocation of 'the ignoble poisoner of Maillebois' was signed. On
the previous day Marc had heard of a fresh visit which the Count de
Sanglebœuf had paid to the Préfecture, and he ceased to hope; his ruin
was about to be consummated. The evening proved a very trying one.
Whenever he quitted his classroom, and his boys, with their smiling
faces and their fair and their dark little pates, were no longer near
to remind him of the good time coming, he sank into sadness, and
only after a struggle recovered the courage which he needed for the
morrow. And so that particular evening proved particularly bitter. He
thought of his work, destined to be so brutally interrupted--of those
dearly-loved boys, whom he had taught perhaps for the last time, and
whom he would not be allowed to save. They would be taken from him,
handed over to some deformer of intellect and character, and it was the
wreck of his ministry that made his heart bleed. He went to bed in such
a gloomy mood that Geneviève gently, silently, cast her arms about him,
as she still did occasionally from an impulse of wifely affection.

'You are worried, are you not, my poor darling?' she whispered.

He did not answer immediately. He knew that she shared his views
less than ever, and he always avoided painful explanations in spite
of his secret remorse at allowing her to drift away from him without
attempting an effort to make her wholly his own. Indeed, if he himself
had again ceased to call on her mother and grandmother, he lacked the
courage to forbid her visits to that icy little house, though he well
divined that their happiness was greatly endangered there. Each time
that Geneviève returned from the Place des Capucins he felt that she
belonged to him a little less than before. Recently, while the whole
clerical pack was barking at his heels, he had learnt that the ladies
had denied him on every side, blushing for their connection as if it
were some unmerited shame that soiled their family.

'Why don't you answer me, dear?' Geneviève began again. 'Don't you
think that I share your sorrow?'

He felt touched, and, returning her embrace, replied: 'Yes, I am
grieved. But it is about matters in which you do not feel as I do, and,
as I don't wish to reproach you, what is the use of confiding them to
you? Still I may say I fear that in a few days we shall be here no
longer.'

'How is that?'

'Oh! I shall certainly be sent elsewhere if I am not dismissed
altogether. It is all over ... and we shall have to go away, I know not
whither.'

She raised a cry of delight: 'Oh, my dear! so much the better! That is
the best thing that can happen to us.'

He felt astonished, for her meaning at first escaped him. And when he
questioned her she seemed somewhat embarrassed, and endeavoured to
recall her words: 'Oh, I say that because, of course, it would be all
the same to me if I did have to go away with you and our Louise. One
may be happy anywhere.' But when he pressed her she added: 'Besides,
if we went elsewhere we should no longer be worried by all the horrid
things which go on here, and which might end by making us quarrel.
I should be so happy if we could be alone in some little nook where
nobody would come between us, where nothing from outside would try to
separate us. Oh! let us go away to-morrow, dear!'

Several times already, in moments of affectionate self-abandonment,
Marc had noticed in his wife that same dread of rupture, that desire,
that need to remain wholly his. It was as if she said to him: 'Keep me
on your heart, carry me away, so that none may tear me from your arms.
I feel that I am being parted from you a little more each day, I shiver
with the great chill which comes over me when I am no longer in your
embrace.' And, with his dread of the inevitable, nothing could have
upset him more.

'Go away, my love?' he answered; 'it is not enough to go away. But what
joy you give me, and how grateful I feel to you for comforting me like
that!'

Several more days elapsed and still the terrible letter expected from
the Préfecture did not arrive. No doubt this was due to the fact that
a fresh incident began to impassion the district and divert public
attention from the secular school of Maillebois. For some time past
Abbé Cognasse of Jonville, whose triumph was complete, had been
meditating a great stroke, striving to induce Mayor Martineau to
allow the parish to be consecrated to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. In
all likelihood the idea had not come from the Abbé himself for every
Thursday morning during the previous month he had been seen going to
the College of Valmarie, where he had long conferences with Father
Crabot. And a remark made by Férou, the schoolmaster at Le Moreux, was
circulating, filling some folk with indignation and amusing others.

'If those dirty Jesuits bring their bullock's heart here, I will spit
in their faces,' he had said.

Henceforth the worship of the Sacred Heart was absorbing the whole
Christian faith, developing into a new Incarnation, a new Catholicism.
The sickly vision of a poor creature stricken with hysteria--the sad
and ardent Marie Alacoque--that real, gory heart half wrenched from
an open bosom, was becoming the symbol of a baser faith, degraded,
lowered to supply a need of carnal satisfaction. The ancient and
pure worship of an immaterial Jesus, who had risen on high to join
the Father, seemed to have become too delicate for modern souls
lusting for terrestrial enjoyment; and it had been resolved to serve
the very flesh of Jesus, His heart of flesh, to devotees, by way of
daily sustenance, such as superstition and brutishness required. It
was like a premeditated onslaught on human reason, an intentional
degradation of the religion of former times in order that the mass of
believers, bowed beneath the weight of falsehood, might become yet
more stupefied and more servile. With the religion of the Sacred Heart
only tribes of idolaters were left, fetichists who adored offal from
a slaughter-house, and carried it, banner-wise, on a pike-head. And
all the genius of the Jesuits was found therein--the humanisation of
religion, God coming to man since centuries of effort had failed to
lead man to God. It was necessary to give the ignorant multitude the
only deity it understood, one made in its own image, gory and dolorous
like itself, an idol of violent hues, whose brutish materiality would
complete the transformation of the faithful into a herd of fat beasts,
fit for slaughter. All conquests effected on reason are conquests
effected on liberty, and it had become necessary to reduce France to
that savage worship of the Sacred Heart, fit for the aborigines of some
undiscovered continent, in order to hold it in submission beneath the
imbecility of the Church's dogmas.

The first attempts had been made on the very morrow of the great
defeats, amid the grief arising from the loss of the two provinces.
Then already the Church had availed herself of the public confusion
to endeavour to consecrate France to the Sacred Heart--France, which
after being chastised so heavily by the hand of God, repented of her
sins. And at last, on the highest summit of that great revolutionary
city of Paris, the Church had reared that Sacred Heart, palpitating and
gory red like the hearts which one sees hanging from hooks in butchers'
shops. From that summit it bled over the entire land, to the farthest
depths of the country districts. And if at Montmartre it kindled the
adoration of the gentility, of ladies and gentlemen belonging to the
administrative services, the magistracy and the army, with what emotion
must it not infect the simple, the ignorant, and the devout of the
villages and hamlets! It became the national emblem of repentance, of
the country's self-relinquishment in the hands of the Church. It was
embroidered in the centre of the tricolor flag, whose three colours
became mere symbols of the azure of heaven, the lilies of the Virgin,
and the blood of the martyrs. And huge, swollen, and streaming with
gore, it hung thus like the new Deity of degenerate Catholicism,
offered to the base superstition of enslaved France.

At first it had been Father Crabot's idea to triumph at Maillebois,
the chief place in the canton, by consecrating that little town to the
Sacred Heart. But he had become anxious, for at Maillebois there was a
manufacturing suburb inhabited by some hundreds of working men who were
beginning to send Socialist representatives to the Municipal Council.
Thus, in spite of the Brothers and the Capuchins, he had feared some
sensational repulse. All considered, it was better to act at Jonville,
where the ground appeared well prepared. If successful there, one might
always repeat the experiment on a larger stage, some other time.

Abbé Cognasse now reigned at Jonville, which schoolmaster Jauffre
had gradually handed over to him. Jauffre's guiding principle was
a very simple one. As Clericalism was sweeping through the region,
why should he not allow it to waft him to the headmastership of some
important school at Beaumont? Thus, after prompting his wife to make
advances to the parish priest, he himself had openly gone over to
the Church, ringing the bell, chanting at the offices, taking his
pupils to Mass every Sunday. Mayor Martineau, who, following Marc, had
been an anti-clerical in former times, was at first upset by the new
schoolmaster's doings. But what could he say to a man who was so well
off and who explained so plausibly that it was wrong to be against the
priests? Thus Martineau was shaken in his ideas and allowed the other
to follow his course, till, at last, prompted thereto by the beautiful
Madame Martineau, he himself declared to the parish council that it was
best to live in agreement with the curé. After that, a year sufficed
for Abbé Cognasse to become the absolute master of the parish, his
influence no longer being counterbalanced by that of the schoolmaster,
who, indeed, willingly walked behind him, confident that he would
derive a handsome profit from his submissiveness.

Nevertheless, when the idea of consecrating Jonville to the Sacred
Heart was propounded, some dismay and resistance arose. Nobody knew
whence that idea had come, nobody could have said by whom it had been
first mooted. However, Abbé Cognasse, with his eager militant nature,
immediately made it his business in the hope of gaining great personal
glory should he be the first priest of the region to win an entire
parish over to God. He made such a stir, indeed, that Monseigneur
Bergerot, in despair at the threat of a new superstition, and grieved
by its base idolatry, summoned him to Beaumont, where, however, after
a scene which proved, it was rumoured, both terrible and pathetic, the
Bishop once again was compelled to give way. But, on two occasions, the
parish council of Jonville held tumultuous meetings, several members
angrily desiring to know what profit they would all derive from the
consecration of the parish to the Sacred Heart. For a moment it seemed
as if the affair were condemned and buried. But Jauffre also made a
trip to Beaumont, and, though nobody guessed exactly what personage he
saw there, he no sooner came back than, in a gentle, insidious manner,
he resumed the negotiations with the parish council.

The question was what the parish would gain by consecrating itself
to the Sacred Heart. Well, first of all, several ladies of Beaumont
promised presents to the church, a silver chalice, an altar cloth, some
flower vases, and a big statue of the Saviour, with a huge, flaming,
bleeding heart painted on it. Then, too, said Jauffre, there was talk
of giving a dowry of five hundred francs to the most deserving Maiden
of the Virgin when she married. But the council seemed to be most
impressed by the promise of setting up a branch establishment of the
Order of the Good Shepherd, where two hundred girls would work at
fine linen, chemises, petticoats, and knickers, for some of the great
Parisian shops. The peasants at once pictured all their daughters
working for the good Sisters, and speculated on the large amount
of money which such an establishment would probably bring into the
district.

At last it was decided that the ceremony should take place on June
10 (a Sunday), and, as Abbé Cognasse pointed out, never was festival
favoured by brighter sunshine. For three days his servant, the terrible
Palmyre, with the help of Madame Jauffre and the beautiful Madame
Martineau, had been decorating the church with evergreens and hangings,
lent by the inhabitants. The ladies of Beaumont, Présidente Gragnon,
Générale Jarousse, Préfete Hennebise--and even, so it was said, Madame
Lemarrois, the wife of the radical mayor and deputy,--had presented
the parish with a superb tricolor flag on which the Sacred Heart was
embroidered, with the motto: 'God and Country.' And Jauffre himself was
to carry that flag, walking on the right hand of the Mayor of Jonville.
An extraordinary concourse of important personages arrived during
the morning: many notabilities of Beaumont, with the ladies who had
presented the flag; Philis, the Mayor of Maillebois, with the clerical
majority of his council, as well as a shoal of cassocks and frocks; a
grand-vicar, delegated by Monseigneur the Bishop, Father Théodose and
other Capuchins, Brother Fulgence and his assistant Brothers, Father
Philibin and even Father Crabot, both of whom were surrounded and
saluted with the greatest deference. But people noticed the absence of
Abbé Quandieu, who, according to his own account, had been laid up by a
violent attack of gout at the last moment.

At three o'clock in the afternoon a band of music, which had come from
the chief town, struck up an heroic march on the Place de l'Église.
Then appeared the parish councillors, all wearing their scarves, and
headed by Mayor Martineau and schoolmaster Jauffre, the latter of whom
grasped the staff of his flag with both hands. A halt ensued until the
band had finished playing. A dense crowd of peasant families in their
Sunday best, and ladies in full dress, had gathered round, waiting.
Then, all at once, the principal door of the church was thrown wide
open, and Curé Cognasse appeared in rich sacerdotal vestments, followed
by numerous members of the clergy, the many priests who had hastened
to Jonville from surrounding spots. Chants arose, and all the people
prostrated themselves devoutly during the solemn blessing of the flag.
The pathetic moment came when Mayor Martineau and the members of the
council knelt beneath the folds of the symbolic standard, which Jauffre
held slantwise above them in order that one might the better see the
gory heart embroidered amid the three colours. And then in a loud voice
the Mayor read the deed officially consecrating the parish of Jonville
to that heart.

Women wept and men applauded. A gust of blissful insanity arose into
the clear sunlight, above the blare of the brass instruments and the
beating of the drums which had again struck up a triumphal march. And
the procession entered the church, the clergy, the Mayor, and the
council, still and ever attended by the schoolmaster and the flag. Then
came the benediction of the Holy Sacrament; the monstrance glittering
like a great star on the altar, amid all the lighted candles, while
the municipality again knelt down most devoutly. And afterwards Abbé
Cognasse began to speak with fiery eloquence, exulting at the sight of
the representatives of civil authority sheltering themselves beneath
the banner of the Sacred Heart, prostrating themselves before the Holy
Sacrament, abdicating all pride and rebellion in the hands of the
Deity, relying on Him alone to govern and save France. Did not this
signify the end of impiety, the Church mistress of men's souls and
bodies, sole representative of power and authority on earth? Ah! she
would not long delay to restore happiness to her well-beloved eldest
Daughter, who at last repented of her errors, submitted, and sought
nothing but salvation. Every parish would end by following the example
of Jonville, the whole country would give itself to the Sacred Heart,
France would recover her empire over the world by the worship of the
national flag now transformed into the flag of Jesus! Cries of ecstatic
intoxication burst forth, and the splendid ceremony came to an end in
the sacristy, whither the council, headed by the Mayor, repaired to
sign the deed on parchment which set forth that the whole parish of
Jonville had for ever consecrated itself to the Divine Heart, the civil
power piously renouncing its claims in favour of the religious power.

But when the party quitted the church a scandalous scene occurred.
Among the crowd was Férou, the schoolmaster at Le Moreux, clad in a
wretched, tattered frock coat and looking more emaciated, more ardent
than ever. He had sunk to the worst tortures of indebtedness, he was
pursued for francs and half francs which he had borrowed, for he
could no longer obtain on credit the six pounds of bread which he
needed daily to feed his exhausted wife and his three lean and ailing
daughters. Even before it was due, his paltry salary of a hundred
francs a month disappeared in that ever-widening gulf, and the little
sum which he received as parish clerk was constantly being attached by
creditors. His growing and incurable misery had increased the contempt
of the peasants who were all at their ease, and who looked askance at
knowledge as it did not even feed the master appointed to teach it. And
Férou, the only man of intelligence and culture in that abode of dense
ignorance, grew more and more exasperated at the thought that he, the
man who knew, should be the poor one, whereas the ignorant were rich.
Feverish rebellion against such social iniquity came upon him, he was
maddened by the sufferings of those who were dear to him, and dreamt of
destroying this abominable world by violence.

As he stood there he caught sight of Saleur, the Mayor of Le Moreux,
who, wishing to make himself agreeable to the triumphant Abbé Cognasse,
had come over to Jonville, arrayed in a fine new frock coat. Peace now
reigned between his parish and the priest, though the latter still
grumbled at having to walk several miles to say Mass for people who
might very well have kept a priest of their own. However, all the
esteem which had departed from the thin, ghastly, ill-paid, penniless,
and deeply indebted schoolmaster had now gone to the sturdy and
flourishing priest who was so much better off, and who turned every
baptism, wedding, and burial into so much money. Beaten, as was only
natural, in that unequal duel, Férou was no longer able to control his
rage.

'Well, Monsieur Saleur,' he exclaimed, 'here's a carnival and no
mistake! Aren't you ashamed to lend yourself to such ignominy?'

Though Saleur was not at heart with the priests, this remark vexed him.
He construed it as an attack upon his own _bourgeois_ position as an
enriched grazier, living on his income in a pretty house, repainted
and decorated at his own expense. So he sought for dignified words of
reprimand: 'You would do better to keep quiet, Monsieur Férou. The
shame belongs to those who can't even succeed sufficiently to lead
respectable lives.'

Irritated by this rejoinder, which smacked of the low standard of
morality that brought him so much suffering, Férou was about to reply
when his anger was diverted by the sight of Jauffre.

'Ah! colleague,' said he, 'so it's you who carry their banner of
falsehood and imbecility! That's a fine action for an educator of the
lowly and humble ones of our democracy! You know very well that the
priest's gain is the schoolmaster's loss.'

Jauffre, like a man who had an income of his own, and who, moreover,
was well pleased with what he had done, replied with compassionate yet
crushing contempt: 'Before judging others, my poor comrade, you would
do well to provide your daughters with shifts to hide their nakedness!'

At this Férou lost all self-control. With his unkempt hair bristling
on his head, and a savage gleam in his wild eyes, he waved his long
arms and cried: 'You gang of bigots! you pack of Jesuits! Carry your
bullock's heart about, worship it, eat it raw, and become, if you can,
even more bestial and imbecile than you are already!'

A crowd gathered around the blasphemer, hoots and threats arose, and
things would have turned out badly for him if Saleur, like a prudent
Mayor, alarmed for the good name of his commune, had not extricated him
from the hostile throng and led him away by the arm.

On the morrow the incident was greatly exaggerated; on all sides people
talked of execrable sacrilege. Indeed, _Le Petit Beaumontais_ related
that the schoolmaster of Le Moreux had spat on the national flag of the
Sacred Heart at the very moment when worthy Abbé Cognasse was blessing
that divine emblem of repentant and rescued France. And in its ensuing
number it announced that the revocation of schoolmaster Férou was a
certainty. If that were so, the consequences would be serious, for as
Férou had not completed his term of ten years' duty as a teacher he
would have to perform some years' military service. And, again, while
he was in barracks, what would become of his wife and daughters, those
woeful creatures for whom he was already unable to provide? He gone,
would they not utterly starve to death?

When Marc heard of what had happened he went to see Salvan at Beaumont.
This time the newspaper's information was correct, the revocation of
Férou was about to be signed, Le Barazer was resolved on it. And as
Marc nevertheless begged his old friend to attempt some intervention,
the other sadly refused to do so.

'No, no, it would be useless,' he said; 'I should simply encounter
inflexible determination. Le Barazer cannot act otherwise; at least,
such is his conviction. Opportunist as he is, he finds in that course
a means of ridding himself of the other difficulties of the present
time.... And you must not complain too much; for if his severity falls
on Férou it is in order that he may spare you.'

At this Marc burst into protest, saying how much he was upset and
grieved by such a _dénouement_.

'But you are not responsible, my dear fellow,' Salvan replied. 'He
is casting that prey to the clericals because they require one, and
because he thus hopes to save a good workman like yourself. It is
a very _distinguée_ solution, as somebody said to me yesterday....
Ah! how many tears and how much blood must necessarily flow for the
slightest progress to be accomplished, how many poor corpses must fill
up the ditches in order that the heroes may pass on!'

Salvan's forecast was fulfilled to the very letter. Two days afterwards
Férou was dismissed, and, rather than resign himself to military
service, he fled to Belgium, full of exasperation at the thought that
justice should be denied him. He hoped to find some petty situation at
Brussels, which would enable him to send for his wife and children, and
make himself a new home abroad. He even ended by declaring that he felt
relieved at having escaped from the university galleys, and that he now
breathed freely, like a man who was at last at liberty to think and act
as he listed.

Meantime his wife installed herself with her three little girls in two
small, sordid rooms at Maillebois, where, with all bravery, she at
once began to ply her needle as a seamstress, though she found herself
unable to earn enough for daily bread. Marc visited her and helped
her as far as he could, feeling quite heartbroken at the sight of her
pitiable wretchedness. And a remorseful feeling clung to him, for the
affair of the crucifix appeared to be forgotten amid the keen emotion
roused by the sacrilege of Jonville and the revocation which had
followed it. _Le Petit Beaumontais_ triumphed noisily, and the Count de
Sanglebœuf promenaded the town with victorious airs as if his friends,
the Brothers, the Capuchins, and the Jesuits, had now become the
absolute masters of the department. And then life followed its course,
pending the time when the struggle would begin again, on another field.

One Sunday Marc was surprised to see his wife come home carrying a
Mass-book. 'What! have you been to church?' he asked her.

'Yes,' she answered,' I have just taken the Communion.' He looked at
her, turning pale the while, penetrated by a sudden chill, a quiver,
which he strove to hide. 'You do that now, and you did not tell me of
it?' said he.

On her side she feigned astonishment, though, according to her wont,
she remained very calm and gentle: 'Tell you of it--why?' she asked.
'It is a matter of conscience. I leave you free to act according to
your views, so I suppose I may act according to mine.'

'No doubt; all the same, for the sake of a good understanding between
us, I should have liked to have known.'

'Well, you know now. I do not hide it, as you may see. But we shall,
none the less, remain good friends, I hope.'

She added nothing more, and he lacked the strength to tell her of all
that he felt seething within him, to provoke the explanation which he
knew to be imperative. But the day remained heavy with silence. This
time some connecting link had certainly snapped and sundered them.




III


Some months elapsed, and day by day Marc found himself confronted by
the redoubtable question: Why had he married a woman whose belief was
contrary to his own? Did not he and Geneviève belong to two hostile
spheres, divided by an abyss, and would not their disagreement bring
them the most frightful torture? Some scientists were suggesting that
when people desired to marry they should undergo proper examination,
and provide themselves with certificates setting forth that they were
free from all physical flaws. The young man for his part felt convinced
that all such certificates ought also to state that the holder's heart
and mind were free from every form of inherited or acquired imbecility.
Two beings, ignorant one of the other, coming from different worlds,
as it were, with contradictory and hostile notions, could only torture
and destroy each other. And yet how great an excuse was, at the outset,
furnished by the imperious blindness of love, and how difficult it was
to solve the question in some particular cases, which were often those
instinct with most charm and tenderness!

Marc did not yet accuse Geneviève--he merely dreaded lest she should
become a deadly weapon in the hands of those priests and monks against
whom he was waging war. As the Church had failed to strike him down
by intriguing with his superiors, it must now be thinking of dealing
him a blow in the heart by destroying his domestic happiness. That was
essentially the device of the Jesuits, the everlasting manœuvre of
the father-confessor, who helps on the work of Catholic domination in
stealthy fashion, like a worldly psychologist well acquainted with the
passions and the means they offer for triumphing over the human beast,
who, fondled and satiated, may then be strangled. To glide into a home,
to set oneself between husband and wife, to capture the latter and
thereby destroy the man whom the Church wishes to get rid of, no easier
and more widely adopted stratagem than this is known to the black
whisperers of the confessional.

The Church, having taken possession of woman, has used her as its most
powerful weapon of propaganda and enthralment. At the first moment
an obstacle certainly arose. Was not woman all shame and perdition,
a creature of sin, and terror, before whom the very saints trembled?
Vile nature had set its trap in her, she was the source of life, she
was life itself, the contempt of which was taught by the Church. And
so for a moment the latter denied a soul to woman, the creature from
whom men of purity fled to the desert, in danger of succumbing if the
evening breeze wafted to them merely the odour of her hair. Beauty
and passion being cast out of the religious system, she became the
mere embodiment of all that was condemned, all that was regarded as
diabolical, denounced as the craft of Satan, all against which prayer,
mortification, and strict and perpetual chastity were enjoined. And
in the desire to crush sexuality in woman, the ideal woman was shown
sexless, and a virgin was enthroned as queen of heaven.

But the Church ended by understanding the irresistible sexual power of
woman over man, and in spite of its repugnance, in spite of its terror,
decided to employ it as a means to conquer and enchain man. That great
flock of women, weakened by an abasing system of education, terrorised
by the fear of hell, degraded to the status of serfs by the hatred and
harshness of priests, might serve as an army. And as man was ceasing
to believe and turning aside from the altars, an effort to bring him
back to them might be attempted with the help of woman's Satanic but
ever victorious charm. She need only withhold herself from man, and he
would follow her to the very foot of the shrines. In this, no doubt,
there was much immoral inconsistency; but had not the Church lost much
of its primitive sternness, and had not the Jesuits appeared upon
the scene to fight the great fight on the new field of casuistry and
accommodation with the world? From that time, then, the Church handled
woman more gently and skilfully than before. It still refused to take
her to wife, for it feared and loathed her as the embodiment of sin,
but it employed her to ensure its triumph. Its policy was to keep her
to itself, by stupefying her as formerly, by holding her in a state
of perpetual mental infancy. That much ensured, it turned her into a
weapon of war, confident that it would vanquish incredulous man by
setting pious woman before him. And in woman the Church always had a
witness at the family hearth, and was able to exert its influence even
in the most intimate moments of conjugal life, whenever it desired to
plunge resisting men into the worst despair. Thus, at bottom, woman
still remained the human animal, and the priests merely made use of her
in order to ensure the triumph of their creed.

Marc easily reconstituted the early phases of Geneviève's life: in
childhood, the pleasant convent of the Sisters of the Visitation, with
all sorts of devout attractions; the evening prayer on one's knees
beside the little white bed; the providential protection promised to
those who were obedient; the lovely stories of Christians saved from
lions, of guardian angels watching over children, and carrying the
pure souls of the well-beloved to heaven, such indeed as Monsieur
le Curé related in the dazzling chapel. Afterwards came years of
skilful preparation for the first Communion, with the extraordinary
mysteries of the Catechism enshrouded in fearsome obscurity, for ever
disturbing the reason, and kindling all the perverse fever of mystical
curiosity. Then in the first troublous hour of maidenhood the young
girl, enraptured with her white gown, her first bridal gown, was
affianced to Jesus, united to the divine lover, whose gentle sway she
accepted for ever; and man might come afterwards, he would find himself
forestalled by an influence which would dispute his possession of her
with all the haunting force of remembrance. Again and again throughout
her life woman would see the candles sparkling, feel the incense
filling her with languor, hark back to the wakening of her senses amid
the mysterious whispering of the confessional and the languishing
rapture of the Holy Table. She would spend her youth encompassed by
the worst prejudices, nourished with the errors and falsehoods of
ages, and, above all things, kept in close captivity in order that
nothing of the real world might reach her. Thus the girl of sixteen
or seventeen, on quitting the good Sisters of the Visitation, was a
miracle of perversion and stultification, one whose natural vision had
been dimmed, one who knew nothing of herself nor of others, and who in
the part she would play in love and wifehood would bring, apart from
her beauty, nought save religious poison, the evil ferment of every
disorder and every suffering.

Marc pictured Geneviève, somewhat later, in the devout little house on
the Place des Capucins. It was there that he had first seen her in the
charge of her grandmother and mother, the chief care of whose vigilant
affection had been to complete the convent work by setting on one
side everything that might have made the girl a creature of truth and
reason. It was enough that she should follow the Church's observances
like an obedient worshipper; she was told that she need take no
interest in other things; she was prepared for life by being kept
quite blind to it. Some effort on Marc's part was already necessary
to enable him to recall her such as she had been at the time of their
first interviews--delightfully fair, with a refined and gentle face, so
desirable too with the flush of her youth, the penetrating perfume of
her blond beauty, that he only vaguely remembered whether she had then
shown much intelligence and sense. A gust of passion had transported
them both; he had felt that she shared his flame; for, however chilling
might have been her education, she had inherited from her father a real
craving for love.

In matters of intellect she was doubtless no fool; he must have deemed
her similar to other young girls, of whom one knows nothing; and
certainly he had resolved to look into all that after their marriage.
But when he now recalled their first years at Jonville he perceived
how slight had been his efforts to know her better and make her more
wholly his own. They had spent those years in mutual rapture, in such
passionate intoxication that they had remained unconscious even of
their moral differences. She showed real intelligence in many things,
and he had not cared to worry her about the singular gaps which he had
occasionally discovered in her understanding. As she ceased to follow
the observances of the Church he imagined that he had won her over to
his views, though he had not even taken the trouble to instruct her in
them. He now suspected that there must have been some little cowardice
on his part, some dislike of the bother of re-educating her entirely,
and also some fear of encountering obstacles, and spoiling the adorable
quietude of their love. Indeed, as their life was all happiness, why
should he have sought a cause of strife, particularly as he had felt
convinced that their great love would suffice to ensure their good
understanding whatever might arise?

But now the crisis was at hand, heavy with menace. When Salvan had
interested himself in the marriage he had pointed out to Marc that if
husband and wife were ill-assorted there was always some fear for the
future; and to tranquillise his own conscience with respect to the
young man's case it had been necessary that he should accept the view
adopted by Marc, that when a young couple adored one another it was
possible for the husband to make his wife such as he desired her to be.
Indeed, when an ignorant young girl is handed over to a man whom she
loves, is it not in his power to re-create her in his own image? He
is her god, and may mould her afresh by the sovereign might of love.
Such is the theory, but how often is it put into practice? Languor,
blindness, come upon the man himself; and in Marc's case it was only
long afterwards that he had realised how ignorant he had really
remained of Geneviève's mind--a mind which, awaking according to the
play of circumstances, revealed itself at last as that of an unknown,
antagonistic woman.

The effects of the warm bath of religiosity in which Geneviève had
grown up were still there. The adored woman, whom Marc had imagined
to be wholly his own, was possessed by the indelible, indestructible
past, in which he had no share whatever. He perceived with stupefaction
that they had nothing in common, that though he had made her wife
and mother, he had in no degree modified her brain, fashioned from
her cradle days by skilful hands. Ah! how bitterly he now regretted
that, in the first months of their married life, he had not striven to
conquer the mind that existed behind the charming face which he had
covered with his kisses! He ought not to have abandoned himself to his
happiness, he ought to have striven to re-educate the big child who
hung so amorously about his neck. As it had been his desire to make
her entirely his own, why had he not shown himself a prudent, sensible
man, whose reason remained undisturbed by the joys of love? If he
suffered now it was by reason of his vain illusions, his idleness, and
his egotism in refraining from action, from the fear of spoiling the
felicity of his dalliance.

But the danger had now become so serious that he resolved to contend
with it. A last excuse for avoiding anything like rough intervention
remained to him: respect for another's freedom, tolerance of whatever
might be the sincere faith of his life's companion. With amorous
weakness he had consented to a religious marriage, and subsequently to
the baptism of his daughter Louise, and, in the same way, he now lacked
the strength to forbid his wife's attendance at Mass, Communion,
and Confession, if her belief lay in such observances. Yet times
had changed; he might have pleaded that at the date of his wedding,
and again at the period of his daughter's birth, he had been quite
indifferent to Church matters, whereas things were very different now
that he had formally rejected the Church and its creed. He had imposed
a duty on himself, he ought to set an example, he ought not to allow
in his own home that which he condemned in the homes of others. If
he, the secular schoolmaster, who showed such marked hostility to the
interference of priests in the education of the young, should suffer
his wife to go to Mass and take little Louise with her, would he not
render himself liable to reproach? Nevertheless, he did not feel that
he had the right to prevent those things, so great was his innate
respect for liberty of conscience. Thus, confronted as he was by the
imperious necessity of defending his happiness, he perceived no other
available weapons, particularly in his own home, than discussion,
persuasion, and the daily teaching of life in all that it has of a
logical and healthful nature. That which he ought to have done at the
outset, he must attempt now, not only in order to win his Geneviève
over to healthy human truth, but also to prevent their dear Louise from
following her into the deadly errors of Roman Catholicism.

For the moment, however, the case of Louise, now seven years of
age, seemed less urgent. Moreover, though Marc was convinced that a
child's first impressions are the keenest and the most tenacious,
circumstances compelled a waiting policy with respect to his little
girl. He had been obliged to let her attend the neighbouring school,
where Mademoiselle Rouzaire was already filling her mind with Bible
history. There were also prayers at the beginning and at the end of
lessons, Sunday attendance at Mass, benedictions and processions. The
schoolmistress had certainly bowed assent with a sharp smile when Marc
had exacted from her a promise that his daughter should not be required
to follow any religious exercises. But the girl was still so young that
it seemed ridiculous to insist on preserving her from contamination
in this fashion; besides which, Marc was not always at hand to make
sure whether she said prayers with the other children or not. That
which disgusted him with Mademoiselle Rouzaire was less the clerical
zeal which seemed to consume her than her hypocrisy, the keen personal
interest which guided all her actions. The woman's lack of real
faith, her mere exploitation of religious sentimentality for her own
advantage, was so apparent that even Geneviève, whose uprightness still
remained entire, was wounded by it, and for this reason had repulsed
the other's advances.

The schoolmistress, indeed, wishing to worm her way into Marc's home
and scenting the possibility of a drama there, had suddenly manifested
great friendship for her neighbour. What delight and glory it would be
if she could render the Church a service in that direction, separate
the wife from the husband, and strike the secular schoolmaster down
at his own fireside! She therefore showed herself very amiable and
insinuating, ever keeping on the watch behind the party-wall, hoping
for some opportunity which would enable her to intervene and console
the 'poor persecuted little wife.' At times she risked allusions,
expressions of sympathy, words of advice: 'It was so sad when husband
and wife were not of the same faith! And assuredly one must not wreck
one's soul, so it was best to offer some gentle resistance.' On two
occasions Mademoiselle Rouzaire had the pleasure of seeing Geneviève
shed tears. But afterwards the young wife, feeling very uneasy,
drew away from her, and avoided all further confidential chats.
That mealy-mouthed woman, with her 'gendarme' build, her fondness
for anisette, and her chatter about the priests,--'who, after all,
were not different from other men, and of whom it was wrong to speak
badly,'--inspired her with unconquerable repugnance. Thus repulsed,
Mademoiselle Rouzaire felt her hatred for her neighbours increase, and
visited her spite on little Louise by instructing her most carefully in
religious matters, in spite of the paternal prohibition.

If Marc was not seriously concerned as yet about his daughter, he
understood that it was urgent he should act in order to prevent his
beloved Geneviève from being wrested from him. It was now plain to
him that her religious views had revived at her grandmother's house.
The pious little home on the Place des Capucins was like a hot-bed of
mystical contagion, where a faith, which had not been extinguished,
but which had died down amid the first joys of human love, was bound
to be fanned into flame once more. Had they remained at Jonville in
loving solitude, he, Marc, might have sufficed for Geneviève's yearning
passion. But at Maillebois foreign elements had intervened between
them. That terrible Simon case had brought about the first snap, and
then had come its consequences, the struggle between himself and the
Congregations, and the liberating mission which he had undertaken.
Besides, they had no longer remained alone; a stream of people and
things now flowed between them, growing ever wider and wider, and they
could already foresee the day when they would be utter strangers, one
to the other.

At present Geneviève met some of Marc's bitterest enemies at Madame
Duparque's. The young man learnt at last that the terrible grandmother,
after years of humble solicitation, had obtained the favour of being
included among Father Crabot's penitents. The Rector of Valmarie
usually reserved his services as confessor for the fine ladies of
Beaumont, and only some very powerful reasons could have induced him
to confess that old _bourgeoise_, who, socially, was of no account
whatever. And not only did he receive her at the chapel of Valmarie,
but he did her the honour to repair to the Place des Capucins whenever
an attack of gout confined her to her armchair. He there met other
personages of the cloth, Abbé Quandieu, Father Théodose, and Brother
Fulgence, who became partial to that pious nook all shadows and
silence, that well-closed little house where their conclaves, it
seemed, might pass unperceived. Nevertheless, rumours circulated,
some evil-minded people saying that the house was indeed the clerical
faction's secret headquarters, the hidden laboratory, where its most
important resolutions were prepared. Yet how could one seriously
suspect the modest dwelling of two old ladies, who certainly had every
right to receive their friends? The latter's shadows were scarcely
seen; Pélagie, the servant, swiftly and softly closed the door upon
them; not a face ever appeared at the windows, not a murmur filtered
through the sleepy little façade. Everything was very dignified--great
deference was shown for that highly respectable dwelling.

But Marc regretted that he had not gone there more frequently.
Assuredly he had made a great mistake in abandoning Geneviève to the
two old ladies, allowing her to spend whole days in their company with
little Louise. His presence would have counteracted the contagion
of that sphere; had he been there the others would have restrained
the stealthy attacks which, as he well realised, they made upon his
ideas and his person. Geneviève, as if conscious of the danger with
which the peace of her home was threatened, occasionally offered some
resistance, struggling to avoid hostilities with the husband whom
she still loved. For instance, on returning to the observances of
the Church, she had chosen Abbé Quandieu as her confessor instead of
Father Théodose, whom Madame Duparque had sought to impose on her. The
young woman was conscious of the warlike ardour that lurked behind
the Capuchin's handsome face, his beautifully-kept black beard, and
his glowing eyes, which filled his penitents with dreams of rapture;
whereas the Abbé was a prudent and gentle man, a fatherly confessor,
whose frequent silence was full of sadness--one, too, in whom she
vaguely divined a friend, one who suffered from the fratricidal warfare
of the times, and longed for peace among all workers of good will.
Geneviève, indeed, was yet at a stage of loving tenderness, when her
mind, though gradually becoming clouded, still manifested some anxiety
before it finally sank into mystical passion. But day by day she was
confronted by more serious assaults, and yielded more and more to the
disturbing influence of her relatives, whose unctuous gestures and
caressing words slowly benumbed her. In vain did Marc now repair more
frequently to the Place des Capucins; he could no longer arrest the
poison's deadly work.

As yet, however, there was no attempt to enforce authority, no brutal
roughness. Geneviève was merely enticed, flattered, cajoled, with
gentle hands. And no violent words were spoken of her husband; on the
contrary, he was said to be a man deserving of all pity, a sinner whose
salvation was most desirable. The unhappy being! He knew not what
incalculable harm he was doing to his country, how many children's
souls he was wrecking, sending to hell, through his obstinate rebellion
and pride! Then, at first vaguely, and afterwards more and more
plainly, a desire was expressed in Geneviève's presence that she might
devote herself to the most praiseworthy task of converting that sinner,
redeeming that guilty man, whom, in her weakness, she still loved. What
joy and glory would be hers if she should lead him back to religion,
arrest his rageful work of destruction, save him, and thereby save
his innocent victims from eternal damnation! For several months, with
infinite craft, the young woman was in this wise worked upon, prepared
for the enterprise expected of her, with the evident hope of bringing
about conjugal rupture by fomenting a collision between the two
irreconcilable principles which she and her husband represented--she
a woman of the past, full of the errors of the ages--he a man of free
thought, marching towards the future. And in time the much-sought,
inevitable developments appeared.

The conjugal life of Marc and Geneviève grew sadder every day--that
life so gay and loving once, when their kisses had perpetually mingled
with their merry laughter. They had not yet reached the quarrelling
stage; but, as soon as they found themselves alone together and
unoccupied, they felt embarrassed. Something of which they never
spoke seemed to be growing up between them, chilling them more and
more, prompting them to enmity. On Marc's side there was a growing
consciousness that she who was bound up with every hour of his life,
she whom he embraced at night, was a woman foreign to him, one whose
ideas and sentiments he reprobated. And on Geneviève's side there was
a similar feeling, an exasperating conviction that she was regarded as
an ignorant, unreasonable child, one who was still adored but with a
love laden with much dolorous compassion. Thus their first wounds were
imminent.

One night, when they were in bed, encompassed by the warm darkness,
while Marc held Geneviève in a mute embrace as if she were some sulking
child, she suddenly burst into bitter sobs, exclaiming: 'Ah! you love
me no longer!'

'No longer love you, my darling!' he replied; 'why do you say that?'

'If you loved me you would not leave me in such dreadful sorrow! You
turn away from me more and more each day. You treat me as if I were
some ailing creature, sickly or insane. Nothing that I may say seems
of any account to you. You shrug your shoulders at it. Ah! I feel it
plainly, you are growing more and more impatient; I am becoming a
worry, a burden to you.'

Though Marc's heart contracted, he did not interrupt her, for he wished
to learn everything.

'Yes,' she resumed, 'unhappily for me I can see things quite plainly.
You take more interest in the last of your boys than you do in me.
When you are downstairs with the boys, in the classroom, you become
impassioned, you pour out your whole soul, you exert yourself to
explain the slightest things to them, and laugh and play with them like
an elder brother. But directly you come upstairs you get gloomy again;
you can think of nothing to say to me, you look ill at ease, like a
man who's worried by his wife and tired of her.... Ah! God, God, how
unhappy I am!'

Again she burst into sobs.

Then Marc, making up his mind, gently responded: 'I dared not tell
you the cause of my sadness, darling, but if I suffer it is precisely
because I find in you all that you reproach me with. You are never
with me now. You spend whole days elsewhere, and when you come home
you bring with you an air of unreason and death, which ravages our
poor home. It is you who no longer speak to me. Your mind is always
wandering, deep in some dim dream, even while you are sewing, or
serving the meals, or attending to our little Louise. It is you who
treat me with indulgent pity, as if I were a guilty man, perhaps one
unconscious of his crime; and it is you who will soon have ceased to
love me, if you refuse to open your eyes to a little reasonable truth.'

But she would not admit it; she interrupted each sentence that came
from him with protests full of vehemence and stupefaction: I! I! It
is I whom you accuse! I tell you that you no longer love me, and you
dare to assert that I am losing my love for you!' Then, casting aside
all restraint, revealing the innermost thoughts that haunted her day
by day, she continued: 'Ah! how happy are the women whose husbands
share their faith! I see some in church who are always accompanied by
their husbands. How delightful it must be for husband and wife to place
themselves conjointly in the hands of God! Those homes are blessed,
they indeed have but one soul, and there is no felicity that heaven
does not shower on them!'

Marc could not restrain a slight laugh, at once very gentle and
distressful. 'So now, my poor wife,' he said, 'you think of trying to
convert me?'

'What harm would there be in that?' she answered eagerly. 'Do you
imagine I do not love you enough to feel frightful grief at the
thought of the deadly peril you are in? You do not believe in future
punishment, you brave the wrath of heaven; but for my part I pray
heaven every day to enlighten you, and I would give--ah! willingly--ten
years of my life to be able to open your eyes, and save you from the
terrible catastrophes which threaten you. Ah! if you would only love
me, and listen to me, and follow me to the land of eternal delight!'

She trembled in his embrace, she glowed with such a fever of superhuman
desire that he was thunderstruck, for he had not imagined the evil to
be so deep. It was she who catechised him now, who tried to win him to
her faith, and he felt ashamed, for was she not doing what he himself
ought to have done the very first day--that is, strive to convert her
to his own views? He could not help expressing his thoughts aloud, and
unluckily he said: 'It is not you yourself who is speaking; you have
been given a task full of danger for the happiness of both of us.'

At this she began to lose her temper: 'Why do you wound me like that?'
she asked. 'Do you think I am incapable of acting for myself--from
personal conviction and affection? Am I senseless, then--so stupid
and docile that I can only serve as an instrument? Besides, even if
people--who are worthy of all respect, and whose sacred character you
disregard--do speak to me about you in a brotherly way which would
surprise you--ought you not rather to be moved by it, ought you not to
yield to such loving-kindness?... God, who might strike you down, holds
out His arms to you ... yet when He makes use of me and my love to lead
you back to Him you can only jest and treat me as if I were a foolish
little girl repeating a lesson!... Ah! we understand each other no
longer, and it is that which grieves me so much!'

While she spoke he felt his fear and desolation increasing. 'That
is true,' he repeated slowly, 'we no longer understand one another.
Words no longer have the same meaning for us, and every reproach that
I address to you, you address to me. Which of us will break away from
the other? Which of us loves the other and works for the other's
happiness?... Ah! I am the guilty one and I greatly fear that it is too
late for me to repair my fault. I ought to have taught you where to
find truth and equity.'

At these words, so suggestive of his profession, her rebellion became
complete. 'Yes, for you I am always a foolish pupil who knows nothing
and whose eyes require to be opened. But it is I who know where truth
and justice are to be found. You have not the right to speak those
words.'

'Not the right!'

'No; you have plunged into that monstrous error, that ignoble Simon
affair, in which your hatred of the Church blinds you and urges you
to the worst iniquity. When a man like you goes so far as to override
all truth and justice in order to strike and befoul the ministers of
religion, it is better to believe that he has lost his senses.'

This time Marc reached the root of the quarrel which Geneviève was
picking with him. The Simon case lay beneath everything else, it was
that alone which had inspired all the discreet and skilful manœuvring
of which he beheld the effects. If his wife were enticed away from him
at her relatives' home, if she were employed as a weapon to strike him
a deadly blow, it was especially in order that an artisan of truth, a
possible justiciary, might be smitten in his person. It was necessary
to suppress him, for his destruction alone could ensure the impunity of
the real culprits.

His voice trembled with deep grief as he answered: 'Ah! Geneviève, this
is more serious. There will be an end to our home if we can no longer
agree on so clear and so simple a question. Are you no longer on my
side, then, in that painful affair?'

'No, certainly not.'

'You think poor Simon guilty?'

'Why, there is no doubt of it! The reasons you give for asserting his
innocence repose on no foundation whatever! I should like you to hear
the persons whose purity of life you dare to suspect! And as you fall
into such gross error respecting a case in which everything is so
evident, a case which is settled beyond possibility of appeal, how can
I place the slightest faith in your other notions, your fanciful social
system, in which you begin by suppressing religion?'

He had taken her in his arms again, and was holding her in a tight
embrace. Ah! she was right. Their slowly increasing rupture had
originated in their divergence of views on that question of truth
and justice, in reference to which others had managed to poison her
understanding. 'Listen, Geneviève,' he said; 'there is only one truth,
one justice. You must listen to me, and our agreement will restore our
peace.'

'No, no!'

'But, Geneviève, you must not remain in such darkness when I see light
all around me; it would mean separation forever.'

'No, no, let me be! You tire me; I won't even listen.'

She wrenched herself from his embrace and turned her back upon him.
He vainly sought to clasp her again, kissing her and whispering
gentle words; she would not move, she would not even answer. A chill
swept down on the conjugal couch, and the room seemed black as ink,
dolorously lifeless, as if the misfortune which was coming had already
annihilated everything.

From that time forward Geneviève became more nervous and ill-tempered.
Much less consideration was now shown for her husband at her
grandmother's house; he was attacked in her presence in an artfully
graduated manner, as by degrees her affection for him was seen to
decline. Little by little he became a public malefactor, one of
the damned, a slayer of the God she worshipped. And the rebellion
to which she was thus urged re-echoed in her home in bitter words,
in an increase of discomfort and coldness. Fresh quarrels arose at
intervals, usually at night, when they retired to rest, for in the
daytime they saw little of each other, Marc then being busy with his
boys and Geneviève being constantly absent, now at church, now at her
grandmother's. Thus their life was gradually quite spoilt. The young
woman showed herself more and more aggressive, while her husband, so
tolerant by nature, in his turn ended by manifesting irritation.

'My darling, I shall want you to-morrow during afternoon lessons,' he
said one evening.

'To-morrow? I can't come,' she replied; 'Abbé Quandieu will be
expecting me. Besides, you need not rely on me for anything.'

'Won't you help me, then?'

'No, I detest everything you do. Damn yourself if you choose; but I
have to think of my salvation.'

'Then each is to go his own way?'

'As you please.'

'Oh! darling, darling, is it you who speak like that? Are they going to
change your heart after fogging your mind? So now you are altogether on
the side of the corrupters and poisoners?'

'Be quiet, be quiet, you unhappy man! It is your work which is all
falsehood and poison. You blaspheme; your justice and your truth are
filthy; and it is the devil--yes, the devil--who teaches those wretched
children of yours, whom I no longer even pity, for they must be stupid
indeed to remain here!'

'My poor darling, how is it possible that you, once so intelligent, can
say such foolish things?'

'When a man finds women foolish he leaves them to themselves.'

Thereupon, in his turn losing his temper, Marc, indeed, left her to
herself, making no effort to win her back by a loving caress as in
former days. It often happened that they were unable to get to sleep;
they lay in bed, side by side, with their eyes wide open in the
darkness, silent and motionless, as if the little space which separated
them had become an abyss.

Marc was particularly afflicted by the growing hatred which Geneviève
manifested against his school, against the dear children whom he so
passionately strove to teach. At each fresh dispute she expressed
herself so bitterly that it seemed as if she became jealous of the
little ones when she saw him treat them so affectionately, endeavour
so zealously to make them sensible and peaceable. At bottom, indeed,
Geneviève's quarrel with Marc had no other cause; for she herself was
but a child, one of those who needed to be taught and freed, but who
rebelled and clung stubbornly to the errors of the ages. And in her
estimation all the affection which her husband lavished on his boys
was diverted from herself. As long as he should busy himself with them
in such a fatherly fashion, she would be unable to conquer him, carry
him away into the divine and rapturous stultification, in which she
would fain have seen him fall asleep in her arms. The struggle at last
became concentrated on that one point. Geneviève no longer passed the
classroom without feeling an inclination to cross herself, like one who
was utterly upset by the diabolical work accomplished there, who was
irritated by her powerlessness to wrest from such impious courses the
man whose bed she still shared.

Months, even years went by, and the battle between Marc and Geneviève
grew fiercer. But no imprudent haste was displayed at the home of her
relatives, for the Church has all eternity before her to achieve her
ends. Besides, leaving on one side that vain marplot, Brother Fulgence,
Father Théodose and Father Crabot were too skilled in the manipulation
of souls to overlook the necessity of proceeding slowly with a woman
of passionate nature, whose mind was an upright one when mysticism did
not obscure and pervert it. As long as she should love her husband,
as long as there should be no conjugal rupture, the work they had
undertaken would not be complete. And it required a long time to uproot
and extirpate a great love from a woman's heart and flesh in such wise
that it might never grow again. Thus Geneviève was left in the hands
of Abbé Quandieu, so that he might gently rock her to sleep before
more energetic action was attempted. Meantime, the others contented
themselves with watching her. It was a masterpiece of delicate,
gradual, but certain spell working.

Another affair helped to disturb Marc's home. He took a great deal of
interest in Madame Férou, who had installed herself with her three
daughters in a wretched lodging at Maillebois, where she had sought
work as a seamstress while awaiting a summons from her husband, the
dismissed schoolmaster, who had fled to Brussels to seek employment
there. But the wretched man's endeavours had proved fruitless. He had
found himself unable even to provide for his own wants; and tortured
by separation, exasperated by exile, he had lost his head and returned
to Maillebois with the bravado of one whom misery pursues and who can
know no worse misfortune than that already befalling him. Denounced
on the very next day, he was seized by the military authorities as a
deserter, and Salvan had to intervene actively to save him from being
incorporated at once in some disciplinary company. He was now in
garrison in a little Alpine town, at the other end of France, while his
wife and daughters, scarcely possessed of shelter and clothes, often
found themselves without bread.

Marc also had exerted himself on Férou's behalf at the time of his
arrest. He had then seen him for a few minutes and was unable to
forget him. That poor, big, haggard fellow lingered in his mind like
the victim, _par excellence_, of social abomination. Doubtless he had
made his retention in office impossible, even as Mauraisin said; but
how many excuses there were for this shepherd's son who had become a
schoolmaster, who had been starved for years, who had been treated
with so much scorn on account of his poverty, who had been cast to the
most extreme views by his circumstances: he, a man of intelligence and
learning, who found himself possessing nothing, knowing not one joy of
life, whereas ignorant brutes possessed and enjoyed all around him. And
the long iniquity had ended in brutal barrack-life far away from those
who were dear to him, and who were perishing of misery.

'Is it not enough to goad one into turning everything upside down?'
he had cried to Marc at their brief interview, his eyes flashing
while he waved his long bony arms. 'I signed, it's true, a ten years'
engagement which exempted me from barrack-life if I gave those ten
years to teaching. And it's true also that I gave only eight years, as
I was revoked for having said what I thought about the black-frocks'
revolting idolatry! But was it I who cancelled my engagement? And
after casting me brutally adrift, without any means of subsistence,
isn't it monstrous to seize me and claim payment of my old debt to the
army, in such wise that my wife and children must remain with nobody
to earn a living for them? The eight years I spent in the university
penitentiary, where a man who believes in truth is allowed neither
freedom of speech nor freedom of action, were not enough for them! They
insist on robbing me of two more years, on shutting me up in their gaol
of blood and iron, and reducing me to that life of passive obedience
which is the necessary apprenticeship for devastation and massacre, the
mere thought of which exasperates me! Ah! it's too much. I've given
them quite enough of my life, and they will end by maddening me if they
ask me for more.'

Alarmed at finding him so excited, Marc tried to calm him by promising
to do all he could for his wife and daughters. In two years' time he
would be released, and then some position might be found for him, and
he would be able to begin his life afresh. But Férou remained gloomy,
and growled angry words: 'No, no, I'm done for. I shall never get
through those two years quietly. They know it well, and it's to get the
chance of killing me like a mad dog that they are sending me yonder.'

Then he inquired who had replaced him at Le Moreux, and on hearing
that it was a man named Chagnat, an ex-assistant teacher at Brévannes,
a large parish of the region, he began to laugh bitterly. Chagnat,
a dusky little man with a low brow and retreating mouth and chin,
was the personification of the perfect beadle--not a hypocrite like
Jauffre, who made use of religion as a means to advancement, but
a shallow-brained bigot, such a dolt indeed as to believe in any
nonsensical trash that fell from the priest's lips. His wife, a huge
carroty creature, was yet more stupid than himself. And Férou's bitter
gaiety increased when he learnt that Mayor Saleur had completely
abdicated in favour of that idiot Chagnat, whom Abbé Cognasse employed
as a kind of sacristan-delegate to rule the parish on his behalf.

'When I told you long ago,' said Férou, 'that all that dirty gang, the
priests, the good Brothers, and the good Sisters, would eat us up and
reign here, you wouldn't believe me; you declared that my mind was
diseased! Well, now it has come to pass; they are your masters, and
you'll see into what a fine mess they will lead you. It disgusts one to
be a man: a stray dog is less to be pitied. And as for myself I've had
quite enough of it all. I'll bring things to an end if they plague me.'

Nevertheless Férou was sent off to join his regiment, and another
three months went by, the wretchedness of his unhappy wife steadily
increasing. She, once so fair and pleasant with her bright and fresh
round face, now looked twice as old as she really was, aged betimes
by hard toil and want. She still found very little work, and spent an
entire winter month fireless, almost without bread. To make matters
worse, her eldest daughter fell ill with typhoid fever, and lay
perishing in the icy garret into which the wind swept through every
chink in the door and window. Marc, who in a discreet way had already
given alms to the poor woman, at last begged his wife to entrust her
with some work.

Although Geneviève spoke of Férou even as those whom she met at her
grandmother's house spoke of him, saying that he had blasphemously
insulted the Sacred Heart and was a sacrilegist, she felt stirred by
the story of his wife's bitter want. 'Yes,' she said to her husband,
'Louise needs a new frock; I have the stuff, and I will take it to that
woman.'

'Thank you for her. I will go with you,' Marc replied.

On the following day they repaired together to Madame Férou's sordid
lodging, whence her landlord threatened to expel her as she was in
arrears with her rent. Her eldest daughter was now near her death; and
when the Froments arrived she herself and her two younger girls were
sobbing in heartrending fashion amid the fearful disorder of the place.
For a moment Marc and Geneviève remained standing there, amazed and
unable to understand the situation.

'You haven't heard it, you haven't heard it, have you?' Madame Férou
at last exclaimed. 'Well, it's done now; they are going to kill him.
Ah! he guessed it; he said that those brigands would end by having his
skin.'

She went on speaking in a disjointed fashion amid her sobs, and Marc
was thus able to extract from her the distressful story. Férou, as was
inevitable, had turned out a very bad soldier, and unfavourably noted
by his superiors, treated with the utmost harshness as a revolutionary,
he had carried a quarrel with his corporal so far as to rush on the
latter and kick and pommel him. For this he had been court-martialled,
and they were now about to send him to a military _bagnio_ in Algeria,
where he would be drafted into one of those disciplinary companies,
among which the abominable tortures of the old ages are still practised.

'He will never come back, they will murder him!' his wife continued in
a fury. 'He wrote to bid me good-bye; he knows that he will soon be
killed.... And what shall I do? What will become of my poor children?
Ah! the brigands, the brigands!'

Marc listened, sorely grieved, unable to think of a word of
consolation, whereas Geneviève began to show signs of impatience.
'But, my dear Madame Férou,' she exclaimed, 'why should they kill your
husband? The officers of our army are not in the habit of killing their
men. You increase your own distress by your unjust thoughts.'

'They are brigands, I tell you!' the unhappy woman repeated with
growing violence. 'What! my poor Férou starved for eight years,
discharging the most ungrateful duties, and he is taken for another
two years and treated like a brute beast, simply because he spoke like
a sensible man! And now what was bound to happen has happened; he is
sent to the galleys, where they'll end by murdering him after dragging
him from agony to agony! No, no, I won't have it! I'll go and tell them
that they are all a band of brigands--brigands!'

Marc endeavoured to calm her. He, all kindliness and equity, was
shocked by such excessive social iniquity. But what could those on whom
it recoiled, the wife and children, do, crushed as they were beneath
the millstone of tragic fate? 'Be reasonable,' said he. 'We will try to
do something; we will not forsake you.'

But Geneviève had become icy cold. That wretched home where the mother
was wringing her hands, where the poor puny girls were sobbing and
lamenting, no longer inspired her with any pity. She no longer even saw
the eldest daughter, wrapped in the shreds of a blanket and looking so
ghastly as she gazed at the scene with dilated, expressionless eyes,
unable even to weep, such was her weakness. Erect and rigid, still
carrying the little parcel formed of the stuff for Louise's new frock,
the young woman slowly said: 'You must place yourself in the hands of
God. Cease to offend Him, for He might punish you still more.'

A laugh of terrible scorn came from Madame Férou: 'Oh! God is too busy
with the rich to pay attention to the poor!' she cried. 'It was in His
name that we were reduced to this misery, it is in His name that they
are going to murder my poor husband!'

At this Geneviève was carried away by anger: 'You blaspheme! You
deserve no help!' said she. 'If you had only shown a little religious
feeling, I know persons who would have helped you already.'

'But I ask you for nothing, madame,' the poor woman answered. 'Yes, I
know that help has been refused me because I do not go to confession.
Even Abbé Quandieu, who is so charitable, does not dare to include me
among his poor.... But I am not a hypocrite, I simply endeavour to earn
my bread by work.'

'Well, then, apply for work to the wretched madmen who regard the
priests and the officers as brigands!'

And thereupon Geneviève hurried away in a passion, carrying with her
the stuff for her daughter's frock. Marc was obliged to follow her,
though he quivered with indignation. And halfway down the stairs he
could restrain himself no longer. 'You have just done a bad action!' he
exclaimed.

'How?'

'How? A God of kindness would be charitable to all. Your God of wrath
and punishment is but a monstrous phantasy.... It is not necessary that
one should humble oneself to deserve assistance, it is sufficient that
one should suffer.'

'No, no! Those who sin deserve their sufferings! Let them suffer if
they persist in impiety. My duty is to do nothing for them.'

That same evening, when they were alone, the quarrel began afresh, and
Marc, on his side, for the first time became violent, unable as he
was to forgive Geneviève's lack of charity. Hitherto he had fancied
that her mind alone was threatened, but was it not evident now that
her heart also would be spoilt? And that night irreparable words were
spoken, husband and wife realised what an abyss had been dug between
them by invisible hands. Then both relapsed into silence in the black
room full of grief and pain, and on the morrow they did not exchange a
word.

Moreover, a source of constant disputes, one which was bound to make
rupture inevitable, had now sprung up. Louise would be soon ten years
old, and the question of sending her to Abbé Quandieu's Catechism
classes, in order that she might be prepared for her first Communion,
presented itself. Marc, after begging Mademoiselle Rouzaire to
exempt his daughter from all religious exercises, had noticed that
the schoolmistress took no account of his request, but crammed the
child with orisons and canticles as she did with her other pupils.
But he was obliged to close his eyes to it, for he realised that the
schoolmistress was only too anxious to have a chance of appealing
to Geneviève on the subject in order to create trouble in his home.
When the Catechism question arose, however, he desired to act firmly,
and watched for an opportunity to have a decisive explanation with
Geneviève. That opportunity presented itself naturally enough on the
day when Louise, returning from her lessons, said to her mother in her
father's presence: 'Mamma, Mademoiselle Rouzaire told me to ask you to
see Abbé Quandieu, so that he may put my name down for his Catechism
class.'

'All right, my dear, I will go to see him to-morrow.'

Marc, who was reading, quickly raised his head: 'Excuse me, my dear,
but you will not go to Abbé Quandieu.'

'Why not?'

'It is simple enough. I do not wish Louise to follow the Catechism
lessons because I do not wish her to make her first Communion.'

Geneviève did not immediately lose her temper, but laughed as if with
ironical compassion: 'You are out of your senses, my friend,' said she.
'Not make her first Communion indeed! Why in that case how would you
find a husband for her? What a casteless, shameless position you would
give her throughout her life! Besides, you allowed her to be baptised,
you allowed her to learn her Bible history and prayers, so it is
illogical on your part to forbid the Catechism and the Communion.'

Marc also kept his temper for the moment, and answered quietly: 'You
are right, I was weak, and for that very reason I am resolved to be
weak no longer. I showed all tolerance for your belief as long as the
child remained quite young, and hung about your skirts. A daughter,
it is said, ought to belong more particularly to her mother, and I am
willing that it should be so until the time comes when the question of
the girl's moral life, her whole future, presents itself. Surely the
father then has a right to intervene?'

Geneviève waved her hand impatiently and her voice began to tremble
as she answered: 'I wish Louise to follow the Catechism lessons, you
don't wish her to do so. If we have equal rights over the child we may
go on disputing for ever without reaching a solution. What I desire
seems to you idiotic, and what you desire appears to me abominable.'

'Oh! what I desire, what I desire! My desire simply is that my daughter
shall not be prevented from exercising her own free will later on....
The question now is to profit by her childishness in order to deform
her mind and heart, poison her with lies, and render her for ever
incapable of becoming human and sensible. And that is what I desire to
prevent. But I do not wish to impose my will on her, I simply wish to
ensure her the free exercise of her will at a later date.'

'But how do you provide for that? What is to be done with this big
girl?'

'It is only necessary to let her grow up and to open her eyes to every
truth. When she is twenty she will decide who is right--you or I; and
if she should then think it sensible and logical she will revert to the
Catechism and make her first Communion.'

At this Geneviève exploded: 'You are really mad! You say such absurd
things before the child that I feel ashamed of you!'

Marc also lost patience. 'Absurd, my poor wife? It is your notions
that are absurd! And I won't have my child's mind perverted with such
absurdities.'

'Be quiet! be quiet!' she cried. 'You don't know what you wrench from
me when you speak like that! Yes, you tear away all my love for you,
all our happiness, which I should still like to save!... But how are
we to agree if words no longer have the same meaning for us, if what
you declare to be absurd is for me the divine and the eternal?... And
is not your fine logic at fault? How can Louise choose between your
ideas and mine if you now prevent me from having her instructed as I
desire?... I do not prevent you from telling her whatever you wish, but
I must be free to take her to the Catechism class.'

Marc was already weakening: 'I know the theory,' said he. 'The child
enlightened by both the father and the mother, with the right of
choosing between their views later on. But is that right left intact
when a full course of religious training, aggravating the child's long
Catholic heredity, deprives her of all power of thinking and acting
freely? The father, who is so imperfectly armed, can do little when
he talks truth and sense to a girl whose senses and whose heart are
disturbed by others. And when she has grown up amid the pomps of the
Church, its terrifying mysteries and its mystical absurdities, it is
too late for her to revert to a little sense--her mind has been warped
for ever.'

'If you have your right as a father,' Geneviève retorted violently, 'I
have my right as a mother. You are not going to take my daughter from
me when she is only ten years old and still has so much need of me. It
would be monstrous! I am an honest woman, and I mean to make Louise
an honest woman too.... She shall go to the Catechism class, and, if
necessary, I myself will take her!'

Marc, who had risen from his chair, made a furious gesture of protest,
but he had strength enough to restrain the violent, the supreme words
which would have precipitated immediate rupture. What could he say,
what could he do? As usual, he recoiled from the fearful prospect of
seeing his home destroyed, his happiness changed into hourly torture.
He still loved that woman who showed herself so narrow-minded and
particularly so stubborn; there still lingered on his lips the taste
of hers; and he could not forget, he could not obliterate, the happy
days of their early married life, the powerful bond then formed between
them, that child who was the flesh of their flesh, and now the cause
of their quarrels. Like many others before him he felt he was driven
into a corner, whence he could not extricate himself unless he took to
brutal courses--tore the child from her mother's arms, and plunged the
house into desolation and commotion every day. And there was too much
gentleness, too much kindness, in his nature; he lacked the cold energy
that was requisite for a struggle in which his own heart and the hearts
of those he loved must bleed. On that field then he was foredoomed to
defeat.

Louise had listened in silence, without moving, to the dispute between
her father and mother. For some time past, whenever she had seen them
thus at variance, her large brown eyes had glanced from one to the
other with an expression of sad and increasing surprise.

'But, papa,' she now said, amid the painful silence which had fallen,
'why don't you wish me to go to the Catechism class?'

She was very tall for her age, and had a calm and gentle face, in which
the features of the Duparques and the Froments were blended. Though
she was still only a child, she displayed keen intelligence, and a
thirst for information which constantly impelled her to ply her father
with questions. And she worshipped him, and showed also great affection
for her mother, who attended to all her wants with a kind of loving
passion.

'So you think, papa,' she resumed, 'that if things which are not
reasonable are told me at the Catechism class I shall accept them?'

Marc, in spite of his emotion, could not help smiling. 'Reasonable or
not,' said he, 'you must of necessity accept them.'

'But you will explain them to me?'

'No, my dear; they are, and must remain, unexplainable.'

'But you explain to me everything I ask you when I come back from
Mademoiselle Rouzaire's and haven't understood some lesson.... It is
thanks to you that I am often the first of my class.'

'If you came back from Abbé Quandieu's there would be nothing for me to
explain to you,' Marc answered, 'for the essential characteristic of
the pretended truths of the Catechism is that they are not accessible
to our reason.'

'Ah! how funny!'

For a moment Louise remained silent, in meditation, her glance
wandering far away. Then, still with a pensive expression on her face,
she slowly gave utterance to her thoughts. 'It's funny; when things
haven't been explained to me and I don't understand them I recollect
nothing about them, it is as if they didn't exist. I close my eyes and
see nothing. Everything is black. And then, however much I may try, I'm
the last of the class.'

She looked charming with her serious little face, well balanced as she
already was, going instinctively towards all that was good, clear, and
sensible. Whenever an attempt was made to force into her head things
whose sense escaped her, or which seemed to her to be wrong, she smiled
in a quiet way and passed them by.

But Geneviève now intervened, saying with some irritation, 'If your
father cannot explain the Catechism to you I will do so.'

At this Louise immediately ran to kiss her mother as if she feared she
had offended her: 'That's it, mamma, you will hear me my lessons. You
know that I always try my best to understand.' And, turning towards
her father, she gaily resumed, 'You see, papa, you may as well let me
go to the Catechism, particularly as you say yourself that one ought
to learn everything, so that one may be the better able to judge and
choose.'

Then, once again, Marc gave way, having neither the strength nor the
means to act otherwise. He reproached himself with his weakness; but
such was his craving for affection that it was impossible for him to be
otherwise than weak when he thought of his devastated home where the
struggle each day became more painful.

The rupture was soon to be precipitated, however, by a final incident.
Years had elapsed since Marc's arrival at Maillebois, and there had
been all sorts of changes among his pupils. Sébastien Milhomme, his
favourite, now fifteen years of age, was by his advice preparing
himself for admission into the Training College of Beaumont, having
secured his elementary certificate already in his twelfth year.
Four other boys had left the school with similar certificates--the
two Doloirs and the twin Savins. Auguste Doloir had now embraced
his father's calling as a mason, while his brother Charles had been
apprenticed to a locksmith. As for Savin, he had declined to follow
Marc's advice and make schoolmasters of his sons, for he did not
wish to see them starve, said he, in an ungrateful calling which
everybody held in contempt. So he had proudly placed Achille with a
process-server and was looking about him for some petty employment
which would suit Philippe.

Meantime, the hard-headed Fernand Bongard had quietly returned to his
father's farm to till the ground, having failed to gain a certificate,
though in Marc's hands he had acquired more understanding than his
parents possessed. As for the girls who had quitted Mademoiselle
Rouzaire, Angèle Bongard, who was more intelligent than her brother,
had duly carried a certificate to the farm, where, like the shrewd
ambitious young person she was, quite capable of keeping accounts, she
dreamt of improving her position. Then Hortense Savin, still without a
certificate at sixteen years of age, had become a very pretty brunette,
extremely devout and sly. She had remained a Handmaiden of the Virgin,
and her father dreamt of a fine marriage for her, though there were
rumours of a mysterious seduction, the consequences of which she each
day found it more difficult to hide.

Of course several new boys had come to Marc's school, replacing their
elders there. There was another little Savin, Jules, whom Marc
remembered having seen as an infant at the time of the Simon case; and
there was another little Doloir, Léon, born subsequent to the affair,
and now nearly seven years old. Later on the children's children would
be coming to the school, and if Marc were left at his post perhaps he
would teach them also, thus facilitating another step to humanity, ever
on the march towards increase of knowledge.

But Marc was particularly concerned about one of his new boys, one whom
he had greatly desired to have at the school. This was little Joseph,
Simon's son, who had now almost completed his eleventh year. For a
long time Marc had not dared to expose him to the taunts and blows of
the other boys. Then, thinking that their passions had calmed down
sufficiently, he had made the venture, applying to Madame Simon and the
Lehmanns, and promising them that he would keep a good watch over the
lad. For three years now he had had Joseph in the school, and, after
defending him against all sorts of vexations, had prevailed on the
other boys to treat him with some good fellowship. Indeed, he even made
use of the lad as a living example when seeking to inculcate principles
of tolerance, dignity, and kindness.

Joseph was a very handsome boy, in whom his mother's beauty was
blended with his father's intelligence; and the dreadful story of his
father's fate, with which it had been necessary to acquaint him, seemed
to have ripened him before his time. Usually grave and reserved, he
studied with a sombre ardour, intent on being always the first of his
class, as if, by that triumph, to raise himself above all outrage.
His dream, his express desire, which Marc encouraged, was to become a
schoolmaster, for in this he boyishly pictured a kind of _revanche_
and rehabilitation. No doubt it was Joseph's fervour, the passionate
gravity of that clever and handsome boy, which the more particularly
struck little Louise, whose senior he was by nearly three years. At all
events she became his great friend, and they were well pleased whenever
they found themselves together.

At times Marc kept Joseph after lessons, and at times also his sister
Sarah came to fetch him. Then, if Sébastien Milhomme, as was sometimes
the case, happened to be at Marc's, a delightful hour was spent. The
four children agreed so well that they never quarrelled. Sarah, whom
her mother feared to confide to others as she did her boy, was, at ten
years of age, a most charming child, gentle and loving; and Sébastien,
five years her elder, treated her with the playful affection of an
elder brother. Geneviève alone manifested violent displeasure when the
four children happened to meet in her rooms. She found in this another
cause for anger with her husband. Why had he brought those Jews into
their home? There was no need for her daughter to compromise herself by
associating with the children of that horrid criminal who had been sent
to the galleys! Thus this also helped to bring about quarrels in the
home.

At last came the fated catastrophe. One evening, when the four young
people were playing together after lessons, Sébastien suddenly felt
ill. He staggered as if intoxicated, and Marc had to take him to his
mother's. On the morrow the boy was unable to leave his bed, a terrible
attack of typhoid fever prostrated him, and for three weeks his life
hung in the balance. It was a frightful time for his mother, Madame
Alexandre, who remained at his bedside, no longer setting foot in the
shop downstairs. Moreover, since the Simon affair she had gradually
withdrawn from it, leaving her sister-in-law, Madame Edouard, to
conduct the business in accordance with their joint interests. As a
matter of fact, Madame Edouard, who was the man in their partnership,
was designated for the directorship by the triumph of the clerical
party. The custom of the secular school was sufficiently insured by
the presence of Madame Alexandre behind her, and for her own part she
intended to increase her business among the devotees of the town with
the help of her son Victor, who had lately left the Brothers' school.

He was now a big, squarely-built youth of seventeen, with a large head,
a harsh face, and fierce eyes. He had failed to secure an elementary
certificate, having always shown himself an execrable pupil; and he now
dreamt of enlisting and becoming a general as in the old days, when
he had played at war with his cousin Sébastien, taken him prisoner,
and pommelled him passionately. Meantime, as he was not old enough for
soldiering, he lived in idleness, making his escape from the shop as
often as possible--for he hated having to stand behind a counter and
sell paper and pens--and roaming through Maillebois in the company of
his old schoolfellow Polydor, the son of Souquet the road-mender, and
the nephew of Pélagie, Madame Duparque's servant.

Polydor, a pale and artful youth, whose taste for idleness was
extraordinary, desired to become an Ignorantine by way of flattering
the inclinations of his aunt, from whom he thereby extracted little
presents. Moreover, by embracing this religious calling he would
not have to break stones on the roads as his father did, and, in
particular, he would escape barrack-life, the thought of which quite
horrified him. Though in other respects Victor and Polydor had
different tastes, they were in full agreement as to the delight of
roaming about from morn till night with their hands in their pockets,
to say nothing of their goings on with the little hussies of the
factory quarter of the town, whom they met in the fields near the
Verpille. In this wise, Victor being always out and about, and Madame
Alexandre remaining beside her son, Madame Edouard, since Sébastien had
fallen so seriously ill, found herself quite without assistance in the
shop, where she busied herself with her customers and gaily counted up
her takings, which were often large.

Marc went every evening to ascertain the condition of his pupil, and
thus he became a daily spectator of a heartrending drama--the bitter
grief of a mother who saw death taking her son a little further from
her every hour. That gentle, fair, pale-faced Madame Alexandre, who had
loved her husband passionately, had been leading a cloistered life,
as it were, ever since his death, all her restrained passion going to
that son of hers, who was fair and gentle like herself. Fondled, almost
spoilt by that loving mother, Sébastien regarded her with a kind of
filial idolatry, as if she were a divine mother whom he could never
requite for all her delightful gifts. They were united by a strong, a
powerful bond of tender affection, one of those infinite affections in
which two beings mingle and blend to such a point that neither can quit
the other without wrenching away his or her heart.

When Marc reached the little dark, close room over the stationery shop,
he often found Madame Alexandre forcing back her tears and striving
to smile at her son, who lay there already emaciated and burning with
fever.

'Well, Sébastien, are you better to-day?' the master would ask.

'Oh! no, Monsieur Froment, I'm no better at all--no better at all.'

He could scarcely speak, his voice was faint, his breath came short.
But the red-eyed, shuddering mother exclaimed gaily: 'Don't listen to
him, Monsieur Froment, he is much better, we shall pull him through it.'

When, however, she had escorted the schoolmaster to the landing, and
stood there with him after closing the door of the room, she broke down.

'Ah! God, he is lost, my poor child is lost! Is it not abominable, so
strong and handsome as he was! His poor face is reduced to nothing; he
has only his eyes left! Ah! God, God, I feel I shall die with him.'

But she stifled her cries, roughly wiped away her tears, and put on
her smile once more before returning to the chamber of suffering where
she spent hours and hours, without sleep, without help, ever fighting
against death.

One evening Marc found her sobbing on her knees beside the bed, her
face close pressed to the sheets. Her son could no longer hear or see
her. Since the previous night he had been overpowered by his malady,
seized with delirium. And now that he had neither ears to hear her nor
eyes to see her, she abandoned herself to her frightful grief, and
cried it aloud: 'My child, my child! What have I done that my child
should be stolen from me? So good a son, who was all my heart as I was
his! What can I have done then? What can I have done?'

She rose and, grasping Marc's hands, pressed them wildly. 'Tell me,
monsieur, you who are just,' said she. 'Is it not impossible to suffer
so much, to be stricken like this if one be free from all blame?... It
would be monstrous to be punished when one has done no wrong. Is it not
so? This, then, can only be an expiation, and if that were true, ah! if
I knew, if I knew it were so!...'

She seemed a prey to some horrible struggle. For some days past anguish
had been making her restless. Yet she did not speak out that evening;
it was only on the morrow that, on Marc's arrival, she hastened towards
him, as if carried away by an eager desire to have it all over. In the
bed near her lay Sébastien, scarce able to breathe.

'Listen, Monsieur Froment,' said she, 'I must confess myself to you.
The doctor has just left, my son is dying, only a prodigy can save
him.... And now my fault stifles me. It seems to me that it is I who
am killing my son--I who am punished by his death for having made him
speak falsely long ago, and for having clung so stubbornly to that
falsehood later on, in order to have peace and quietness in my home,
when another, an innocent man, was suffering the worst torture....
Ah! for many, many days the struggle has been going on within me,
lacerating my heart!'

Marc listened, amazed, not daring as yet to give a meaning to her words.

'You remember, Monsieur Froment,' she resumed, 'you remember that
unhappy man Simon, the schoolmaster who was condemned for the murder
of little Zéphirin. For more than eight years he has been in penal
servitude, and you have often told me of all he suffered yonder,
horrible things which made me feel quite ill.... I should have liked to
speak out--yes, I swear it! I was often on the point of relieving my
conscience, for remorse haunted me so dreadfully.... But cowardice came
over me; I thought of my son's peace, of all the worries I should cause
him.... Ah! how stupid, how foolish I was; I remained silent for the
sake of his happiness, and now death is taking him from me--taking him,
it's certain, because I wrongly remained silent!'

She paused, gesticulating wildly, as if Justice, the eternal, were
falling on her like a thunderbolt.

'And so, Monsieur Froment, I must relieve my mind. Perhaps there
is still time--perhaps Justice will take pity on me if I repair my
fault.... You remember the writing slip, and the search which was made
for another copy of it. On the day after the crime Sébastien told you
that he had seen one in the hands of his cousin Victor, who had brought
it from the Brothers' school; and that was true. But that same day we
were frightened to such a point that my sister-in-law compelled my son
to tell a falsehood by saying that he had made a mistake.... A long
while afterwards I found that slip forgotten in an old copybook which
Victor had given to Sébastien, and later Sébastien, who felt worried by
his falsehood, acknowledged it to you. When he came home and told me of
his confession, I was filled with alarm, and in my turn I lied--first
of all to him, saying, in order to quiet his scruples, that the paper
no longer existed, as I had destroyed it. And that assuredly is the
wrong-doing for which I am punished. The paper still exists; I never
dared to burn it; some remaining honesty restrained me. And here, here
it is, Monsieur Froment! Rid me of it, rid me of that abominable paper,
for it is that which has brought misfortune and death into the house!'

She hastened to a wardrobe, and from under a pile of linen she drew
Victor's old copybook, in which the writing slip had been slumbering
for eight years past. Marc looked at it, thunderstruck. At last, there
was the document which he had believed to be destroyed, there was the
'new fact' which he had sought so long! The slip he held appeared to
be in all respects similar to the one which had figured at the trial.
There were the words '_Aimez vous les uns les autres_'; there was the
illegible paraph recalling the one which the experts had pretended to
identify with Simon's initials; and it was difficult to contend that
the slip had not come from the Brothers' school, for Victor himself
had copied it in his book, a whole page of which was filled with the
words inscribed on it. But all at once Marc was dazed. There, in the
left-hand corner of the slip--the corner missing in the copy which had
been used in evidence at the trial--was an imprint, quite plain and
quite intact, of the stamp with which the Brothers stamped everything
belonging to their school. A sudden light was thus shed on the affair:
somebody had torn away the corner of the copy found in Zéphirin's room
in order to annihilate the stamp and put Justice off the scent.

Quivering with excitement, carried away by gratitude and sympathy, Marc
grasped the poor mother's hands. 'Ah, madame,' he exclaimed, 'you have
done a great and worthy action, and may death take pity and restore
your son to you!'

At that moment they perceived that Sébastien, who had given no sign
of consciousness since the previous evening, had just opened his eyes
and was looking at them. They felt profoundly stirred. The ailing lad
evidently recognised Marc, but he was not yet free from delirium.
'What beautiful sunshine, Monsieur Froment,' he stammered in a faint
voice. 'I'll get up and you'll take me with you. I'll help you to give
lessons.'

His mother ran to him and kissed him wildly. 'Make haste to get well,
make haste to get well, my boy! Neither of us must ever more tell a
falsehood, we must be always good and just!'

As Marc quitted the room he found that Madame Edouard, hearing a noise,
had come upstairs. The door having remained open she had witnessed the
whole scene, and had seen him place her son's old copybook and the slip
in the inner pocket of his coat. She followed him down the stairs in
silence, but when they reached the shop she stopped him, saying, 'I
am in despair, Monsieur Froment. You must not judge us severely; we
are only two poor lone women, and find it difficult indeed to earn a
little competence for our old age.... I don't ask you to give me that
paper back. You are going to make use of it, and I cannot oppose you:
I understand it fully. Only this is a real catastrophe for us....
And again, do not think me a bad woman if I try to save our little
business.'

Indeed she was not a bad woman; it merely happened that she had no
faith, no passion, apart from the prosperity of that humble stationery
business. She had already reflected that if the secular school should
gain the day, it would merely be necessary for her to retire into the
background and allow Madame Alexandre to direct the shop. Nevertheless,
this was hardly a pleasant prospect, given her business instincts and
her fondness for domineering over others. So she strove to lighten the
catastrophe as far as possible.

'You might content yourself with utilising the slip, without producing
my son's copybook,' said she. 'Besides, it has just occurred to me
that you might arrange a story and say, for instance, that I happened
to find the slip and gave it to you. That would show us in a suitable
_rôle_, and we could then openly pass over to your side, with the
certainty that you would be victorious.'

In spite of his emotion Marc could not refrain from smiling. 'It is, I
think, madame, easiest and most honourable to tell the truth,' said he.
'Your _rôle_ will nevertheless remain praiseworthy.'

At this she seemed to feel somewhat reassured. 'Really,' she replied,
'you think so? Of course I ask nothing better than that the truth
should become known if we do not have to suffer from it.'

Marc had complaisantly taken the copybook and the slip from his pocket
in order to show her exactly what he was carrying away. And she was
telling him that she fully recognised both book and slip when, all at
once, her son Victor came in from some escapade, accompanied by his
friend Polydor Souquet. While twisting about and laughing over some
prank known to themselves alone, the two young fellows glanced at the
copy-slip, and Polydor at once expressed the liveliest surprise.

'Hallo!' he exclaimed, 'the paper!'

But when Marc quickly raised his head, struck as he was by that
exclamation, and divining that a little more of the truth lurked behind
it, the youth reassumed his usual sleepy, hypocritical expression and
tried to recall his words.

'What paper? Do you know it, then?' Marc asked him.

'I? No.... I said the paper because--because it is a paper.'

Marc could draw nothing further from him. As for Victor, he continued
to sneer as if he were amused to find that old affair cropping up once
more. Ah! yes, the copy-slip which he had brought home from school one
day long ago, and which that little fool Sébastien had made such a fuss
about! But Madame Edouard still felt ashamed, and when Marc withdrew
she accompanied him outside to beg him to do all he could to spare
them worry. She had just thought of General Jarousse, their cousin,
who would certainly not be pleased if the affair were revived. He had
formerly done them the great honour to call on them and explain that
when one's country might suffer from the truth being made known it
was infinitely preferable and far more glorious to tell a lie. And if
General Jarousse should be angered, whatever would she do with her son
Victor, who relied on his relative's protection to become a general in
his turn?

That evening Marc was to dine at Madame Duparque's, whither he still
repaired at times, as he was unwilling that Geneviève should always go
alone. Polydor's exclamation still haunted him, for he felt that the
truth lurked behind it; and it so happened that when he reached the
ladies' house, with Geneviève and Louise, he caught sight of the young
fellow whispering eagerly to his aunt Pélagie in the kitchen. Moreover,
the ladies' greeting was so frigid that Marc divined in it some threat.
During the last few years Madame Berthereau, Geneviève's mother, had
been declining visibly, ever in an ailing state, full also of a kind
of despairing sadness amid her resignation. But Madame Duparque, the
grandmother, though she was now seventy-one, remained combative,
terrible, implacable in her faith. In order that Marc might fully
understand for what exceptional reasons she thought it right to receive
him, she never invited anybody else when he dined at her house. By this
course she hoped also to make him understand that his position was that
of a pariah, and that it was impossible to ask honest folk to meet him.

That evening, then, as on previous occasions, silence and embarrassment
reigned during the meal, and by the hostile demeanour of the others,
and particularly by the brusqueness of Pélagie, who served at table,
Marc became fully convinced that some storm was about to burst on him.
Until the dessert was served, however, Madame Duparque restrained
herself like a _bourgeoise_ intent on playing her part as mistress of
the house correctly. At last, when Pélagie came in with some apples and
pears, she said to her: 'You may keep your nephew to dinner, I give you
permission.'

The old servant in her scolding, aggressive voice replied: 'Ah! the
poor boy needs to recruit himself after the violence that was done him
this afternoon.'

At this Marc suddenly understood everything. The ladies had been made
acquainted with his discovery of the copy-slip by Polydor, who, for
some reason which remained obscure, had hastened to tell everything to
his aunt.

'Oh, oh!' said Marc, who could not help laughing, 'who was it that
wanted to do violence to Polydor? Was it I, by chance, when the dear
boy ventured to bamboozle me so pleasantly by feigning stupidity at
Mesdames Milhommes' this afternoon?'

Madame Duparque, however, would not allow such a serious matter to be
treated in that ironical fashion. She proceeded to unbosom herself
without any show of anger, but in that rigid, cutting manner of hers
which suffered no reply. Was it possible that the husband of her dear
Geneviève still thought of reviving the abominable affair of that
man Simon, that vile assassin, who had been so justly condemned,
who deserved no pity whatever, and who ought indeed to have been
guillotined? True, there was a monstrous legend of his innocence which
evil-minded folk hoped to make use of in order to shake religion and
hand France over to the Jews. And now, after obstinately searching
among all that filth, Marc pretended that he had found the proof, the
famous new fact, which had been announced so many times already. A
fine proof indeed, a strip of paper, which had come nobody knew whence
nor how, the invention of a pack of children who either lied or were
mistaken!

'Grandmother,' Marc quietly answered, 'it was agreed that we should
not speak of those matters any more. I have not ventured to make the
slightest allusion to them; it is you who begin again. But what good
can a dispute do? My conviction is absolute.'

'And you know the real culprit, and you intend to denounce him to
justice?' asked the old lady, quite beside herself.

'Certainly.'

At this Pélagie, who was beginning to clear away, could not restrain
herself. 'In any case it isn't Brother Gorgias, I can answer for that!'
she suddenly cried.

Marc, enlightened by these words, turned towards her. 'Why do you say
that?' he asked.

'Because on the evening of the crime Brother Gorgias accompanied my
nephew Polydor to his father's, on the road to Jonville, and got back
to the school before eleven o'clock. Polydor and other witnesses
testified to that at the trial.'

Marc was still gazing fixedly at the old woman, but his mind was
busy at work. That which he had long suspected was becoming a moral
certainty. He could picture the Brother accompanying Polydor, then
returning homeward, pausing before Zéphirin's open window, and talking
to the boy. At last he climbed over the low window bar, the better
perhaps to see the pictures which the lad had set out on his table.
Then, however, came the horrid impulse, abominable madness... and,
the child strangled, the murderer fled by the window, which he still
left wide open. It was from his own pocket that he had taken that copy
of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ to use it as a gag, never noticing in his
perturbation that the copy-slip was with the newspaper. And on the
morrow, when the crime was discovered, it was Father Philibin, who,
finding himself unable to destroy the slip, as Mignot had seen it, had
been obliged to content himself with tearing away the corner on which
the stamp was impressed, thus at all events removing all positive proof
of the place whence the slip had come.

Slowly and gravely Marc answered Pélagie: 'Brother Gorgias is the
culprit, everything proves it, and I swear it is so!'

Indignant protests arose around the table. Madame Duparque was stifling
with indignation. Madame Berthereau, whose mournful eyes went from
her daughter to her son-in-law, whose rupture she sorely dreaded,
made a gesture of supreme despair. And while little Louise, who paid
great attention to her father's words, remained there quietly, never
stirring, Geneviève sprang to her feet and quitted the table, saying:

'You would do better to hold your tongue! It will soon be quite
impossible for me to remain near you: you will end by making me hate
you!'

Later that same evening, when Louise had gone to sleep and the husband
and the wife also lay in bed, there came a moment of profound silence
in their dark room. Since dinner neither had spoken to the other. But
Marc was always the first to try to make friends, for he could not bear
the suffering which their quarrels brought him. Now, however, when he
gently sought to embrace Geneviève, she nervously pushed him away,
quivering as if with repulsion.

'No: let me be!'

Hurt by her manner, he did not insist. And the silence fell heavily
again. At last she resumed: 'There is one thing I have not yet told
you.... I believe that I am _enceinte_.'

At this, full of happy emotion, her husband drew near to her again,
anxious to press her to his heart. 'Oh! my dear, dear wife, what good
news! Now we shall indeed belong to each other once more.'

But she freed herself from his clasp with even more impatience than
before, as if his presence near her brought her real suffering. 'No,
no, let me be,' she repeated; 'I am not well. I sha'n't be able to
sleep; it fidgets me to feel you stirring near me.... It will be better
to have two beds if things go on like this.'

Not another word passed between them. They lapsed into silence,
speaking neither of the Simon affair nor of the tidings which Geneviève
had so abruptly announced. Only the sound of their heavy breathing was
to be heard in the dark and lifeless room. Neither was asleep, but
neither could penetrate the other's anxious, painful thoughts; it was
as if they inhabited two different worlds, parted by a distance of many
thousand leagues. And vague sobs seemed to come from far away, from the
very depths of the black and dolorous night, bewailing the death of
their love.




IV


After a few days' reflection Marc made up his mind and requested David
to meet him one evening at the Lehmanns' in the Rue du Trou.

For nearly ten years the Lehmanns had been living in their dim and damp
little house, amid public execration. When, as sometimes happened,
bands of clericals and anti-Semites came down and threatened the
shop, they hastily put up the shutters and continued working by the
smoky light of two lamps. All their Maillebois customers, even their
co-religionists, having forsaken them, they were dependent on the
piece-work they did for Paris clothiers dealing in ready-made goods.
And that hard and ill-paid work kept old Lehmann and his mournful wife
bent on their board for fourteen hours a day, and yielded scarcely
enough money to provide food for themselves, Rachel, and her children,
all of whom were huddled there in dismal distress, without a joy or
a hope in life. Even now, after so many years, passing pedestrians
spat on their doorstep to show how fully they loathed and hated that
filthy den, whither, so the legend ran, Simon the murderer had brought
Zéphirin's blood, while it was still warm, to use it in some vile deed
of witchcraft. And nowadays to that abode of intense wretchedness
and deep, cloistered grief came Simon's letters, briefer and more
infrequent than formerly, yet still and ever telling the tale of the
innocent man's long agony.

Those letters alone had the power of stirring Rachel into life, of
drawing her from the torpor and resignation in which she spent most of
her days. Her once beautiful countenance was now but a ruin, ravaged by
her tears. She lived only for her children: Sarah, whom she still kept
beside her, fearing to expose her to the insults of the malicious, and
Joseph, whom Marc defended at the school. The dreadful story of their
father's fate had long been hidden from them, but it had been necessary
to tell them the truth at last, partly in order to spare them much
painful doubt and cogitation. Nowadays, whenever a letter arrived from
the penal settlement yonder, it was read in their presence; and those
bitter trials inculcated virility of nature in them, and helped to
ripen their budding minds. After each perusal their mother took them
in her arms, repeating that nowhere under the skies was there a more
honest, a more noble, a loftier-minded man than their father. She swore
to them that he was innocent, she told them of the awful martyrdom
he endured, she prophesied to them that he would some day be freed,
rehabilitated, and acclaimed; and she asked them to love and revere
him when that day should dawn, to encompass him with a worship whose
sweetness might enable him to forget his many years of torture.

And yet would the unhappy man live until that day of truth and justice?
It was a miracle that he had not succumbed already, among the brutes
who crucified him. To survive, he had needed an extraordinary amount of
moral energy, the frigid power of resistance, the well-balanced logical
temperament with which nature had fortunately endowed him. Still, his
last letters gave cause for increasing anxiety, he was evidently at
the end of his strength, quite overcome. And Rachel's fears reached
such a point that, without pausing to consult anybody, she, usually
so languid, repaired one morning to La Désirade to see Baron Nathan,
who was then staying there with the Sanglebœufs. She took with her
the last letter she had received from her husband in order to show it
to the Baron, meaning to beg him--triumphant Jew that he was, one of
the gold-kings of the world--to exert his great influence in order to
obtain a little pity for the poor, wretched, crucified Jew who was
suffering yonder. And she came home in tears, shuddering, as if she had
just left some dazzling and fearsome place. She could hardly remember
what had happened. The Baron, the bloated renegade, had received her
with a stern countenance, as if angered by her audacity. Perhaps it
was his daughter, a white-faced, frigid lady, whom she had found with
him. She could not tell exactly how they had got rid of her, but it was
with words of refusal, such as might have been addressed to a beggar.
Then she had found herself outside again, half-blinded by the wealth
accumulated at that splendid abode of La Désirade, with its sumptuous
reception-rooms, its running waters, and its white statues. And since
that fruitless attempt she had relapsed into the mournful, waiting
attitude of former days, ever garbed in black, like a living statue of
mutely protesting grief in the midst of persecution.

The only person on whom Marc relied in that home of wretchedness and
suffering was David, whose mind was so clear, whose heart was so
upright and so firm. Ever since the condemnation of Simon Marc had
seen him striving, evincing neither impatience, nor weakness, nor
despair, despite all the difficulties of his task. Indeed, David's
faith remained entire; he was convinced of his brother's innocence,
and felt certain that he would some day prove it. He had understood
at the outset that he would need some money to achieve his task,
and he had arranged his life accordingly. He outwardly resumed the
direction of the sand and gravel pits, which he had leased from Baron
Nathan, in such wise that everybody believed that he conducted the
business personally; but in reality the chief responsibility fell
upon his foreman, who was devoted to him. And the profits, being
handled prudently, sufficed for David's other work, his real mission,
the investigations which he carried on so discreetly. Some people,
who believed him to be a miser, accused him of earning large sums of
money, and yet giving no help to his sister-in-law, who shared the
wretched home of the Lehmanns, where incessant toil led only to a life
of privations. At one moment also an attempt was made to dispossess
David of his sand and gravel pits, the Sanglebœufs threatening him with
an action-at-law, which was evidently prompted by Father Crabot. The
Jesuit, indeed, was conscious of the stealthy, underhand efforts which
that silent but active man was making, and would have liked to drive
him from the district, or at least to cripple his resources. But David
fortunately held a thirty years' lease from Baron Nathan, and thus he
was still able to carry on the business which ensured him the money he
needed.

His principal efforts had been long concentrated on the illegal
communication which President Gragnon was said to have made to the
jurors in their retiring room, when the proceedings in Simon's trial
were over. After interminable inquiries David had collected enough
information to picture the scene in its broad lines: the jurors,
assailed by certain scruples, had sent for the presiding judge in
order to question him about the penalties their verdict might entail;
and the judge, in order to silence their scruples, had shown them an
old letter of Simon's, which had been placed in his hands a moment
previously. This letter, an insignificant note to a friend, acquired
importance from the fact that it was followed by a postscript, signed
with a paraph identical with the one which figured on the incriminating
copy-slip. This singular document, produced at the last moment without
the knowledge of the prisoner or his counsel, had assuredly led to
the verdict of 'Guilty.' But how was David to establish all this?
How could he induce one of the jurors to testify to the facts, the
revelation of which would have brought about an immediate revision
of the proceedings, particularly if--as David felt convinced--the
postscriptum of the letter and its initialling were forgeries? He had
long endeavoured to act, through others, on the foreman of the jury,
Architect Jacquin, a devout and very upright Catholic; and he believed
that he had lately disturbed that man's conscience by acquainting
him with the illegality of the judge's communication under the
circumstances. If, in addition, he could prove that the postscriptum
and the paraph had been forged, Jacquin would speak out.

When Marc repaired to the Rue du Trou to keep the appointment he
had made with David, he found the little shop shut, the house quite
dark and lifeless. The family had prudently taken refuge in the back
parlour, where Lehmann and his wife were working by lamplight; and it
was there that the stirring scene took place in the presence of the
quivering Rachel and her children, whose eyes were all ablaze.

Before speaking out, however, Marc wished to ascertain what point David
had now reached in his investigations.

'Oh! things are moving, but still very, very slowly,' the other
answered. 'Jacquin is one of those fair-minded Christians who worship
a Deity of love and equity. At one moment I felt alarmed, for I
discovered that Father Crabot was bringing the greatest pressure to
bear on him through every possible intermediary. But I am now easy on
that point--Jacquin will act only as his conscience may direct.... The
difficulty is to get at the document in order that it may be examined
by experts.'

'But did not Gragnon destroy it?' Marc inquired.

'It seems not. Having shown it to the jurors he did not dare to do so,
but simply placed it with the papers in the case, among which it must
still be. At least, such is the conviction of Delbos, based on certain
information he has obtained. Thus the question is to exhume it from
among the records, and it is not easy to devise a plausible motive for
doing so.... Nevertheless, we are making progress.' And after a pause
David added: 'And you, my friend, have you any good news?'

'Yes, good and great news.'

Then Marc slowly recounted all that had happened: Sébastien's illness,
Madame Alexandre's despair, followed by her remorse and terror,
which had prompted her to hand him the long-sought duplicate of the
copy-slip, on which duplicate one found both the stamp of the Brothers'
school and a paraph which undoubtedly represented Brother Gorgias's
initials. 'Here it is,' said Marc. 'There, you see, is the stamp, in
the very corner which was torn away from the copy found near little
Zéphirin's body. We fancied that it might have been bitten off by the
victim, but Father Philibin at least had time to tear it off; on that
point the recollections of Mignot, my assistant, are precise.... Now,
look at the paraph. It is identical with the other which figured at the
trial, but it is more legible, and one can fully distinguish Brother
Gorgias's initials,[1] that is an F and a G interlaced, which the
experts, Masters Badoche and Trabut, with extraordinary aberration,
persisted in declaring to be an L and an S, otherwise your brother's
initials.... My conviction is now absolute: the culprit is Brother
Gorgias, and none other.'

[Footnote 1: Brother Gorgias = Frère Gorgias.]

With passionate eagerness they all stared at the narrow yellow strip of
paper produced by Marc, and scrutinised it in the pale lamplight. The
old Lehmanns quitted their sewing and thrust their faces forward as if
reviving to life. Rachel had emerged from her torpor, and stood there
quivering, while the two children, Joseph and Sarah, their eyes aflame,
pushed one another in order that they might see the better. Finally
David, amid the deep silence of that mourning home, took the paper from
Marc and examined it.

'Yes, yes,' he said, 'my conviction is the same as yours. What was
suspected has now become certain. Brother Gorgias is the guilty man!'

A long discussion followed; all the facts were recalled in succession,
and united in one sheaf. They threw light on each other, and all tended
to the same conclusion. Apart from the material proofs which were
beginning to come in, there was a moral certainty, the demonstration as
it were of a mathematical problem, which reasoning sufficed to solve.
No doubt obscurity still hung around a few points, such as the presence
of the copy-slip in the Brother's pocket, and the fate of the corner on
which the stamp had been impressed. But all the rest seemed certain:
Gorgias returning home on the night of the crime, chance bringing him
before Zéphirin's open and lighted window, temptation, and afterwards
murder; then, on the morrow, chance likewise bringing Father Philibin
and Brother Fulgence on the scene in such wise that they became mixed
up in the tragedy and were forced to act in order to save one of their
fellows. And how plainly did the mutilation of the copy-slip designate
the culprit, whose name was virtually proclaimed also by the fierce
campaign which had ensued, the great efforts which the Church had made
in order to shield him, and cause an innocent man to be sentenced in
his stead. Moreover, each day now brought fresh light, and before long
the whole huge edifice of falsehood would crumble.

'So that is the end of our wretchedness!' exclaimed old Lehmann,
becoming quite gay. 'It will only be necessary to show that paper and
Simon will be restored to us.'

The two children were already dancing with delight, repeating in
blissful accents: 'Oh! papa will come back! papa will come back!'

But David and Marc remained grave. They knew how difficult and
dangerous the situation still was. Questions of the greatest weight
and gravity had to be settled: how were they to make use of that
newly-discovered document, what course was to be followed in applying
for a revision of the trial? Thus Marc answered softly: 'One must think
it over, one must wait a little longer.'

At this Rachel, relapsing into tears, stammered amid her sobs: 'Wait!
wait for what? For the poor man to die yonder, amid the torture of
which he complains?'

Once more the dark little house sank into mourning. All felt that their
unhappiness was not yet over. After their keen momentary delight came
frightful anxiety as to what the morrow might bring forth.

'Delbos alone can guide us,' said David by way of conclusion. 'If you
are willing, Marc, we will go to see him on Thursday.'

'Quite so: call for me on Thursday.'

In ten years Advocate Delbos had risen to a remarkable position at
Maillebois. The Simon affair, that compromising case, the brief in
which had been prudently declined by all his colleagues and bravely
accepted by himself, had decided his future. At that time he had been
merely a peasant's son, imbued with some democratic instincts and
gifted with eloquence. But, while studying the affair and gradually
becoming the impassioned defender of the truth, he had found himself
in presence of all the _bourgeois_ forces coalescing in favour of
falsehood and the maintenance of every social iniquity. And this had
ended by making him a militant Socialist, one who felt convinced that
the salvation of the country could come solely from the masses. By
degrees the whole revolutionary party of the town had grouped itself
around him, and at the last elections he had forced a second ballot on
the radical Lemarrois, who had been deputy for twenty years. And if
Delbos still suffered in his immediate interests from the circumstance
that he had defended a Jew charged with every crime, he was gradually
rising to a lofty position by the firmness of his faith and the quiet
valour of his actions, going forward to victory with gay and virile
confidence.

As soon as Marc had shown him the copy-slip obtained from Madame
Alexandre, the advocate raised a loud cry of delight: 'At last we hold
them!' And turning towards David he added: 'This gives us a second new
fact. The first is the letter--a forgery, no doubt--which was illegally
communicated to the jury.... We must try to find it among the papers
of the case.... And the second is this copy-slip, bearing the stamp of
the Brothers' school, and a paraph which is evidently that of Brother
Gorgias. It will, I think, be easier and more effective to use this
second proof.'

'Then what do you advise me to do?' asked David. 'My idea is to write
a letter to the Minister of Justice on behalf of my sister-in-law, a
letter formally denouncing Brother Gorgias as the perpetrator of the
crime, and applying for the revision of my brother's case.'

Delbos had become thoughtful again. 'That would undoubtedly be the
correct course,' said he, 'but it is a delicate matter, and we must
not act too hastily.... Let us return for a moment to the illegal
communication of that letter, which it will be so difficult for us
to prove as long as we cannot induce Architect Jacquin to relieve
his conscience. You remember Father Philibin's evidence--his vague
allusion to a paper signed by your brother with a flourish, similar
to that on the incriminating copy-slip--a paper about which he would
give no precise information--being bound, said he, by confessional
secrecy? Well, I am convinced that he was then alluding to the very
letter which was placed in Judge Gragnon's hands at the last moment,
for which reason, like you, I suspect it to be forged. But these are
only suppositions, theories; and we need proofs. Now, if we drop that
matter, and, for the time at all events, content ourselves with this
duplicate copy of the writing slip, on which the school stamp appears,
and on which the initialling is much plainer, we still find ourselves
face to face with some puzzling, obscure points. Without lingering too
much over the question how it happened that such a slip was in the
Brother's pocket at the moment of the crime--a point which it is rather
difficult to explain--I am very worried by the disappearance of the
corner on which the school stamp must have been impressed; and I should
like to find that corner before acting, for I can foresee all sorts of
objections which will be raised in opposition to us, in order to throw
the affair into a muddle.'

Marc looked at him in astonishment. 'What! find that corner? It would
be a wonderful chance if we should do so! We even admitted that it
might have been torn away by the victim's teeth.'

'Oh! that is not credible,' Delbos answered. 'Besides, in that case
the fragment would have been found on the floor. Nothing was found,
so the corner was intentionally torn off. Besides, we here detect
the intervention of Father Philibin, for, as you have told me, your
assistant Mignot remembers that at his first glance the copy-slip
appeared to him to be intact, and that he felt surprised when, after
losing sight of it for a moment, he saw it still in Father Philibin's
hands and mutilated. So there is no doubt on the point; the corner was
torn away by Father Philibin. Throughout the campaign it was he, always
he who turned up at decisive moments to save the culprit! And this is
why I should like to have complete proof--that is to say, the little
fragment of paper which he carried away with him.'

At this David in his turn expressed his surprise: 'You think that he
kept it?'

'Certainly I think so. At all events he may have kept it. Philibin is
a taciturn man, extremely dexterous, however coarse and heavy he may
look. He must have preserved that fragment as a weapon for his own
defence, as a means of keeping a hold over his accomplices. I nowadays
suspect that, influenced by some motive which remains obscure, he was
the great artisan of the iniquity. Perhaps he was merely guided by a
spirit of fidelity towards his chief, Father Crabot; perhaps there
has been some skeleton between them since that suspicious affair of
the donation of Valmarie; perhaps too Philibin was actuated simply by
militant faith and a desire to promote the triumph of the Church. At
all events he's a terrible fellow, a man of determination and action,
by the side of whom that noisy, empty Brother Fulgence is merely a vain
fool.'

Marc had begun to ponder. 'Father Philibin, Father Philibin.... Yes,
I was altogether mistaken about him. Even after the trial I still
thought him a worthy man, a man of upright nature, even if warped by
his surroundings.... Yes, yes, he was the great culprit, the artisan of
forgery and falsehood.'

But David again turned to Delbos: 'Suppose,' said he, 'that Philibin
should have kept the corner which he tore from the slip, you surely
don't expect that he will give it to you, if you ask him for it--do
you?'

'Oh! no,' the advocate answered with a laugh. 'But before attempting
anything decisive I should like to reflect, and ascertain if there is
no means of securing the irrefutable proof. Moreover, a demand for the
revision of a case is a very serious matter, and nothing ought to be
left to chance.... Let me complete our case if I can; give me a few
days--two or three weeks if necessary--and then we will act.'

On the morrow Marc understood by his wife's manner that her grandmother
had spoken out and that the Congregations, from Father Crabot to the
humblest of the Ignorantines, were duly warned. The affair suddenly
burst into life again, there came increasing agitation and alarm.
Informed as they were of the discovery of the duplicate copy-slip,
conscious that the innocent man's family were now on the road to the
truth, hourly expecting to see Brother Gorgias denounced, the guilty
ones, Brother Fulgence, Father Philibin, and Father Crabot, returned
to the fray, striving to hide their former crime by committing fresh
ones. They divined that the masterpiece of iniquity which they had
reared so laboriously, and defended so fiercely, was now in great
peril, and, yielding to that fatality whereby one lie inevitably leads
to endless others, they were ready for the worst deeds in order to
save their work from destruction. Besides, it was no mere question of
protecting themselves, the salvation of the Church would depend on the
battle. If the infamous structure of falsehood should collapse, would
not the Congregations be buried beneath it? The Brothers' school would
be ruined, closed, while the secular school triumphed; the Capuchins'
business would be seriously damaged, customers would desert them, their
shrine of St. Antony of Padua would be reduced to paltry profits; the
college of Valmarie likewise would be threatened, the Jesuits would
be forced to quit the region which they now educated under various
disguises; and all religious influence would decline, the breach in the
flanks of the Church would be enlarged, and free thought would clear
the highway to the future. How desperate therefore was the resistance,
how fiercely did the whole clerical army arise in order that it might
not be compelled to cede aught of the wretched region of error and
dolour, which, for ages, it had steeped in night!

Before Brother Gorgias was even denounced, his superiors felt it
necessary to defend him, to cover him at all costs, to forestall
the threatened attack, by concocting a story which might prove his
innocence. At the first moment, however, there was terrible confusion;
the Brother was seen hurrying wildly, on his long thin legs, along
the streets of Maillebois and the roads of the neighbourhood. With
his eagle beak set between his projecting cheek-bones, his deep black
eyes, with their thick brows, and his grimacing mouth, he resembled a
fierce, scoffing bird of prey. In the course of one day he was seen
on the road to Valmarie, then quitting the residence of Philis, the
Mayor of Maillebois, then alighting from a train which had brought him
from Beaumont. Moreover, both in the town and the surrounding country
many cassocks and frocks were encountered hurrying hither and thither,
thus testifying to a perfect panic. It was only on the morrow that the
meaning of the agitation was made evident by an article in _Le Petit
Beaumontais_, announcing in violent language that the whole Simon
affair was to be revived by the friends of the ignoble Jew, who were
about to agitate the region by denouncing a worthy member of one of the
religious Orders, the holiest of men.

Brother Gorgias was not yet named, but from that moment a fresh
article appeared every day, and by degrees the version of the affair
which the Brother's superiors had concocted was set out in opposition
to the version which, it was foreseen, would be given by David, though
the latter had revealed it to nobody. However, the desire of the
clericals was to wreck it beforehand. Everything was flatly denied. It
was impossible that Brother Gorgias could have paused before Zéphirin's
window on the night of the crime, for witnesses had proved that he
had already returned to the school at half-past ten o'clock. Besides,
the initialling on the copy-slip was not his, for the experts had
fully recognised Simon's handwriting. And everything could be easily
explained. Simon, having procured a writing slip, had imitated the
Brother's paraph, which he had found in one of Zéphirin's copybooks.
Then, as he knew that the slips were stamped at the Brothers' school,
he had torn off one corner with diabolical cunning, in order to create
a belief in some precaution taken by the murderer; his infernal object
being to cast the responsibility of his own crime on some servant of
God, and thereby gratify the hatred of the Church which possessed
him---Jew that he was, fated to everlasting damnation. And this
extravagant story, repeated every day, soon became the _credo_ of the
readers whom the newspaper debased and poisoned with its falsehoods.

It should be mentioned, however, that at the first moment there was
a little uncertainty and hesitation, for other explanations had
been circulated, and Brother Gorgias himself appeared to have made
some curious statements. Formerly hidden away in the background,
now suddenly thrust into full light, this Brother Gorgias was an
extraordinary character. The Countess de Quédeville, the former owner
of Valmarie, had endeavoured to transform his father, Jean Plumet, a
poacher, into a kind of gamekeeper. He, the son, had never known his
mother, a hussy who rambled about the woods, for she had disappeared
soon after his birth. Then his father had been shot one night by an
old fellow poacher, and the boy, at that time twelve years old, had
remained at Valmarie, protected by the Countess, and becoming the
playfellow of her grandson Gaston, with the exact circumstances of
whose death, while walking out with Father Philibin, he was doubtless
well acquainted, as well as with all that had ensued when the last of
the Quédevilles died and bequeathed the estate to Father Crabot. The
two Jesuits had never ceased to take an interest in him, and it was
thanks to them that he had become an Ignorantine, in spite, it was
said, of serious circumstances which tended to prevent it. For these
reasons certain evil-minded folk suspected the existence of some corpse
between the two Jesuit fathers and their compromising inferior.

At the same time Brother Gorgias was cited as an admirable member of
his cloth, one truly imbued with the Holy Spirit. He possessed faith,
that sombre, savage faith which pictures man as a weakling, a prey
to perpetual sin, ruled by an absolute master, a Deity of wrath and
punishment. That Deity alone reigned; it was for the Church to visit
His wrath upon the masses, whose duty it became to bow their heads
in servile submission until the day of resurrection dawned amid the
delights of the heavenly kingdom. He, Brother Gorgias, often sinned
himself, but he invariably confessed his transgression with a vehement
show of repentance, striking his breast with both fists, and humbling
himself in the mud. Then he rose again, absolved, at rest, displaying
the provoking serenity of a pure conscience. He had paid his debt,
and he would owe nothing more until the weakness of his flesh should
cast him into sin again. As a lad he had roamed the woods, growing up
amid poaching and thieving, and hiding himself away with the little
hussies of the district. Later, after joining the Ignorantines, he had
displayed the keenest appetites, showing himself a big eater, a hard
drinker, with inclinations towards lubricity and violence. But, as he
said in that strangely-compounded, humble, scoffing, threatening way of
his to Fathers Philibin and Crabot, whenever they reproached him for
some too serious prank: did not everybody sin? did not everybody need
forgiveness? Half amusing, half alarming them, he won their pardon, so
sincere and stupendous did his remorse appear--remorse which sometimes
impelled him to fast for a week at a stretch, and to wear hair-cloths,
studded with small sharp nails, next to his skin. It was indeed on
this account that he had been always well noted by his superiors, who
recognised that he possessed the genuine religious spirit--the spirit
which, when his monkish vices ran riot, atoned for them with the
avenging flagellation of penitence.

Now, on the revival of the Simon case, Brother Gorgias made the mistake
of saying too much in the course of his first confidential chats with
the writers of _Le Petit Beaumontais_. No doubt his superiors had
not yet expressly imposed their own version on him, and he was too
intelligent to be blind to its exceeding absurdity. As another copy of
the writing slip, one bearing his paraph, had been discovered, it must
have seemed to him ridiculous to deny that this paraph was his writing.
All the experts in the world would never prevent full light from being
thrown on that point. Thus he gave some inkling of a version of his
own, one which was more reasonable than that of his superiors, and in
which a part of the truth appeared. For instance, he allowed it to be
supposed that he had indeed halted for a moment outside Zéphirin's open
window on the night of the crime, that he had engaged in a friendly
chat with the little hunchback, and that he had scolded him on seeing
on his table a copy-slip which he had taken from the school without
permission. Next, however, had come falsehood. He, Gorgias, had gone
off, the child had closed his window, then Simon must have come and
have committed the horrid crime, Satan suddenly inspiring him to make
use of the copy-slip, after which he had opened the window afresh, in
order to let it appear that the murderer had fled that way.

But, although this version of the affair was at the first moment given
by the newspaper, which declared that it emanated from a most reliable
source, it was on the morrow contradicted energetically, even by
Brother Gorgias himself, who repaired expressly to the newspaper office
to enter his protest. He then swore on the gospel that he had gone
straight home on the evening of the crime, and that the initialling
on the copy-slip was a forgery in Simon's handwriting, even as the
experts had demonstrated. As a matter of fact he was compelled to
accept the concoction of his superiors in order that he might be backed
up and saved by them. He grumbled over it, and shrugged his shoulders
impatiently, for it seemed to him an extremely stupid version; but at
the same time he bowed to the decision of the others, even though he
foresaw that their system of defence must eventually crumble to pieces.

At this moment Brother Gorgias, with his scoffing impudence and his
heroic mendacity, was really superb. But, then, was not the Deity
behind him? Was he not lying in order to save Holy Church, knowing too
that absolution would wash away his sin? He even dreamt of the palms of
martyrdom; each pious act of infamy that he perpetrated would entitle
him to another joy in heaven! From that moment, then, he became
merely a docile instrument in the hands of Brother Fulgence, behind
whom Father Philibin was secretly acting under the discreet orders of
Father Crabot. Their tactics were to deny everything, even what was
self-evident, for fear lest the smallest breach in the sacred wall
of the Congregations should prove the beginning of inevitable ruin;
and although their absurd version of the affair might seem idiotic to
people possessed of logical minds, it would none the less long remain
the only truth accepted by the mass of the faithful, with whom they
could presume to do anything, knowing as they did their boundless,
fathomless credulity.

The clericals, then, having assumed the offensive without waiting for
Gorgias to be denounced, Brother Fulgence in particular displayed the
most intemperate zeal. At times of great emotion, his father, the mad
doctor who had died in an asylum, seemed to revive in him. With his
brain all fogged, unhinged by vanity and ambition, he yielded to the
first impulse that came to him, ever dreaming of doing some mighty
service to the Church, which would raise him to the head of his Order.
Thus, in the earlier stages of the Simon affair, he had lost the little
common-sense which he had previously shown, for he had hoped that
the case would yield him the glory he coveted; and now that it was
revived he once more became delirious. He was constantly to be seen
hurrying along the streets of Maillebois, little, dark, and lean, with
the folds of his gown flying about him as if a gale were carrying him
away. Whenever he entered into conversation he defended his school
with passionate eagerness, calling on heaven to witness the angelic
purity of his assistants. As for the abominable rumours which had been
circulated long ago respecting some Brothers who had been so horribly
compromised that it had been necessary to conjure them away with the
greatest speed--all those infamous tales were inventions of the devil.

In this respect, perhaps, however contrary to the truth his vehement
declarations might be, Brother Fulgence, in the first instance, made
them in all good faith, for he lived very much in another world,
far from mere reason. But he soon found himself caught beneath the
millstone of falsehood; it became necessary that he should lie
knowingly and deliberately, and he did so at last with a kind of devout
rage, for the very love of God. Was he not, himself, chaste? Had he
not always wrestled against temptation? That was so; and he therefore
made it his duty to guarantee the absolute chastity of his entire
Order; he answered for the Brothers who stumbled by the way, he denied
to laymen the right of judging them, for the laymen belonged merely to
the flock, they knew nought of the temple. If, then, Brother Gorgias
had sinned, he owed account of it to God only, not to man. As a member
of a religious Order he had ceased to be liable to human justice. In
this way, consumed by his craving to thrust himself forward, Brother
Fulgence went on and on, impelled by skilful and discreet hands which
piled all responsibilities upon his shoulders.

It was not difficult to divine that Father Philibin stood behind him
in the gloom--Father Philibin, who, in his turn, was the instrument of
Father Crabot. But how supple and how powerful a one, retaining his
personality even amidst his obedience! He willingly exaggerated the
characteristics of his peasant origin, affecting the heavy _bon-homie_
of some rough-hewed son of the soil; yet he was full of the shrewdest
craft, endowed with the patience needed for long enterprises, which he
conducted with wonderful dexterity. He was always striving to attain
some mysterious object, but he made no stir, he showed no personal
ambition; the only joy he coveted was that of seeing his work prosper.
Supposing him to be possessed of faith, it must have been a desire to
serve his superiors and the Church that impelled him to fight on like
an unknown unscrupulous soldier. As Prefect of the Studies at Valmarie
he there kept a watch over everything, busied himself with everything;
for, however massive his build, he was very active. Mingling with the
pupils of the college, playing with them, watching them, studying them,
diving to the very depths of their souls, ascertaining everything
he could about their relatives and their friends, he possessed the
master's all-seeing eye, the mind which stripped the brains and hearts
of others.

At times, it was said, he shut himself up with Father Crabot, the
Rector, who affected to direct the establishment from on high, never
attending personally to the education of the boys; and to him Father
Philibin communicated his notes, his reports, his many documents
containing the most complete and secret particulars about each pupil.
It was asserted that Father Crabot, who prudently made it a principle
to keep no papers whatever, did not approve of Philibin's practice
of collecting and cataloguing documents. Yet, in recognition of his
great services, he let him do so, regarding himself meantime as the
directing hand, the superior mind which made use of the other. Indeed,
did he not reign from his austere little cell over all the fine folk
of the department? Did not the ladies whom he confessed, the families
whose children were educated at Valmarie, belong to him by virtue of
the might of his sacred ministry? He flattered himself that it was he
who wove and disposed the huge net in which he hoped to capture one
and all, when in reality it was more frequently Father Philibin who
covertly prepared the various campaigns and ensured victory. In the
Simon case, in particular, the latter seemed to have been the hidden
artisan who recoiled from no task, however dark and base it might be,
the politic man whom nothing could disgust, who had remained the friend
of that vicious but well-informed youth, Georges Plumet,--nowadays the
terrible Brother Gorgias,--following him through life, protecting him
because he was as dangerous as useful, and doing all that could be
done to extricate him from that frightful affair, the murder of little
Zéphirin, in order no doubt that he, Philibin himself, might not come
to grief in it, in the company of his superior, Father Crabot, that
glory of the Church.

Now, once again, Maillebois became impassioned, though as yet there
were only rumours of the criminal devices which the Jews were preparing
in order to set the devoted Brother Gorgias, that holy man, revered by
the entire district, in the place of that infamous scoundrel Simon.
Extraordinary efforts were made to induce the school children's
parents--even those whose children attended the secular school--to
condemn the revival of the affair. People talked as if the streets
had been mined by some hidden band of scoundrels, the enemies of God
and France, who had resolved to blow up the town as soon as a certain
signal should reach them from abroad. At a sitting of the Municipal
Council, Mayor Philis ventured to allude to a vague danger threatening
the locality, and denounced the Jews who were secretly piling up
millions for the diabolical work. Then, becoming more precise, he
condemned the impious doings of the schoolmaster, that Marc Froment, of
whom he had hitherto failed to rid the town. But he was still watching
him, and this time he hoped that he would compel the Academy Inspector
to show exemplary severity.

The successive versions which _Le Petit Beaumontais_ had given of
Marc's share in the revival of the affair had cast confusion into
the minds of many folk. There was certainly a question of a document
found at the house of Mesdames Milhomme, the stationers; but some
people spoke also of another abominable forgery perpetrated by Simon,
and others of a crushing document which proved the complicity of
Father Crabot. The only certain thing was that General Jarousse had
paid another visit to his cousin, Madame Edouard, that poor relation
whose existence he so willingly forgot. One morning he had been seen
arriving and rushing into the little shop, whence he had emerged half
an hour later, looking extremely red. And the result of his tempestuous
intervention was that Madame Alexandre, and her son Sébastien,
now convalescent, started on the morrow for the South of France,
while Madame Edouard continued to manage the shop to the complete
satisfaction of the clerical customers. She ascribed the absence of her
sister-in-law to the latter's maternal anxiety, for only a sojourn in
a warm climate would restore Sébastien to health; but as a matter of
fact she was quite ready to recall Madame Alexandre in the interests
of their business, should the secular school prove victorious in the
coming contest.

Amid the rumbling of the great storm which was rising, Marc endeavoured
to discharge his duties as schoolmaster with all correctitude. The
affair was now in David's hands, and in that respect he, Marc, merely
had to wait until he could assist him with his evidence. Thus never had
he devoted himself more entirely to his pupils, striving to inspire
them with reason and kindliness, for his active share in the reparation
of one of the most monstrous iniquities of the age had filled him with
greater fervour than ever for the cause of human solidarity. With
Geneviève he showed himself very affectionate, endeavouring to avoid
all subjects on which they disagreed, attentive only, it seemed, to
those little trifles which are yet of great importance in one's daily
life. But whenever his wife returned from a visit to her relations he
divined that she was nervous, impatient, more and more exasperated
with him, her mind being full of stories which she had heard from his
enemies. Thus he could not always avoid quarrels, which gradually
became more and more venomous and deadly.

One evening hostilities broke out on the subject of that unhappy man
Férou. Tragic tidings had reached Marc during the day: a sergeant,
to whom Férou had behaved rebelliously, had shot him dead with a
revolver. Marc, on going to see the widow, had found her in her
wretched home, weeping and begging death to take her also, together
with her younger daughters, even as it had compassionately taken the
eldest one already. Marc felt that Férou's frightful fate was the
logical _dénouement_ of his career: the poor schoolmaster, scorned,
embittered to the point of rebellion, driven from his post, deserting
in order that he might not have to pay to the barracks the debt which
he had already paid in part to the school, then conquered by hunger,
forcibly incorporated in the army when he returned to succour his
despairing wife and children, and ending like a mad dog, yonder, under
the flaming sky, amid the torturing life of a disciplinary company.
At the same time, in presence of the sobbing wife and her stupefied
daughters, in presence of those poor ragged waifs whom the iniquity of
the social system cast into the last agony, Marc's brotherly and humane
nature was stirred to furious protest. Even in the evening he had
not calmed down, and forgot himself so far as to speak of the affair
to Geneviève, while she was still moving about their bedroom before
withdrawing to a small adjoining chamber, where, of recent times, she
had slept by herself.

'Do you know the news?' said he. 'A sergeant has blown poor Férou's
brains out, in some mutiny, in Algeria.'

'Ah!'

'Yes, I saw Madame Férou this afternoon; she is quite out of her
mind.... It was really deliberate, premeditated murder. I don't know
if General Jarousse, who showed himself so harsh in Férou's case, will
sleep at ease to-night. In any case some of the blood of that poor
madman, who was turned into a wild beast, will cling to his hands.'

'It would be very foolish of the general not to sleep!' Geneviève
quickly retorted, interpreting Marc's words as an attack on her
principles.

He made a gesture of mingled sorrow and indignation. But, recollecting
the position, he regretted that he had named the general, for the
latter was one of Father Crabot's dearest penitents, and at one moment
there had been some thought of using him for a military _coup d'état_.
A Bonapartist by repute, with a decorative, corpulent figure, he was
very severe with his men, though jovial at bottom, and fond of the
table and wenches. Of course there was no harm in that; but, after
some negotiations, the clericals found that he was decidedly too big a
fool for their purpose; and so he remained a mere possible makeshift
for their party, though they still treated him with some consideration.

'When we first knew the Férou family at Le Moreux,' Marc gently
resumed, 'they were already so poor, so burdened with work and worries
in their wretched school, that I cannot think of that unhappy man, that
master, tracked and destroyed like a wolf, without a feeling of anguish
and compassion.'

At this Geneviève, thoroughly upset, her earlier displeasure turning
into a kind of nervous exasperation, burst into tears. 'Yes, yes! I
understand you perfectly--I am a heartless creature, eh? You began by
thinking me a fool, and now you believe I have an evil heart. How is
it possible for us to continue loving one another if you treat me as
though I were a stupid and malicious woman?'

Astonished and grieved at having provoked such an outburst Marc wished
to pacify his wife. But she became quite wild. 'No, no! it is all over
between us. As you hate me more and more each day, it is best that we
should separate at once, without waiting till unworthy things happen!'

Then she rushed into the little room where she now slept, and locked
the door with no gentle hand. He, when he saw it thus shut upon him,
remained in despair, with tears welling to his eyes. Hitherto that
door had always been left open, and, though the husband and wife had
no longer shared the same bed, they had remained in a degree together,
able to converse with one another. But now came total separation:
henceforth they would live as strangers.

On the following evenings Geneviève in the same manner locked herself
in her room. Then, having acquired that habit, she never showed herself
to Marc until she was fully dressed. As the time approached for the
birth of the child she expected, she displayed increasing repugnance
for the slightest caress, the merest touch, even, on the part of her
husband. He had ascribed this at first to her state of health; but he
became surprised as her repulsion developed more and more into hatred,
for it seemed to him that the advent of another child ought to have
drawn them more closely together. And his anxiety augmented; for if,
on the one hand, he was aware that as long as man and woman are united
by love no rupture is possible, for the bitterest quarrels evaporate
amid their kisses, on the other he knew that, as soon as virtual
divorce is agreed upon, the slightest conflict may prove deadly, beyond
possibility of reconciliation; indeed, it often happens when homes are
seen collapsing in a seemingly inexplicable manner, that everything can
be traced back to the severance of the carnal bond, the tie of passion.
As long as Geneviève had hung about his neck Marc had not feared the
attempts which were made to take her from him. He knew that she was
his, he knew that no power in the world could conquer love. But if
she ceased to regard him with love and passion, would not the fierce
efforts of his enemies at last wrest her from him? And, as day by day
he saw her become colder and colder, his heart was wrung by increasing,
intolerable anxiety.

At one moment some little enlightenment came to him with respect to
the change in his wife's manner. He learnt that she had quitted Abbé
Quandieu to take as her confessor Father Théodose, the Superior of the
Capuchins, who stage-managed so cleverly the miracles of St. Antony
of Padua. The reason given for this change was the discomfort, the
unappeased hungry state in which she was left by the ministrations of
the priest of St. Martin's. He was now too lukewarm for her ardent
faith; whereas handsome Father Théodose, whose fervour was so lofty,
would nourish her with the wholemeal bread of mysticism, which she
needed to satisfy her. In reality, it was Father Crabot, now sovereign
lord at Madame Duparque's house, who had decided on this change,
doubtless in order to hasten victory after proceeding with such artful
slowness.

It never occurred to Marc to suspect Geneviève of any base intrigue
with the Capuchin, that superbly-built man, Christlike in features but
of dark complexion, whose large glowing eyes and frizzy beard sent his
penitents into raptures. Marc knew his wife to be possessed of too
much loyalty and too much dignity, both of mind and body--a dignity
that had never forsaken her even in moments of the most passionate
rapture. But without carrying matters as far as that, was it not
admissible that the growing influence of Father Théodose was in part
the domination of a handsome man over a woman who was still young--a
man, too, godlike in appearance, and godlike claiming obedience? After
her pious conversations with Father Théodose, after the long hours she
spent in the confessional, Geneviève returned to her husband quivering,
distracted, such as he had never seen her when she retuned from her
visits to Abbé Quandieu. In her intercourse with her new confessor she
was certainly forming some mystical passion, finding some new food
for her craving nature. Perhaps, too, the monk availed himself of her
perturbed state of health to terrorise her. Indeed, was not the father
of the child she bore one of the damned? She repeatedly spoke of that
child in a despairing way, as if seized with a kind of terror, like one
of those mothers who dread lest they should give birth to a monster.
And if that happily should not come to pass, how would she protect the
child from surrounding sin, whither might she carry her babe to save
it from the contamination of its father's sacrilegious home? All this
threw a little light on Geneviève's rupture with Marc--a rupture in
which there might well be remorse at the thought that her child was
also the child of an unbeliever; then a vow that she would never more
be the mother of that unbeliever's children; and, finally, a perversion
and exasperation of love, which dreamt of finding satisfaction
henceforth in the _au-delà_ of desire. Yet how much still remained
obscure, and how cruelly did Marc suffer as he saw himself forsaken by
that adored wife, whom the Church was wrenching from his arms, in order
that by torturing him it might annihilate him and his work of human
liberation!

One day, on returning home after one of her long conferences with
Father Théodose, Geneviève, who looked both excited and exhausted, said
to Louise, who at that moment came in from school: 'To-morrow at five
o'clock you will have to go to confession at the Capuchins'. If you do
not confess, you will no longer be received at the Catechism class.'

But Marc resolutely intervened. While allowing Louise to follow the
Catechism class, he had hitherto strongly opposed her attendance at
confession. 'Louise will not go to the Capuchins',' he said, firmly.
'You know, my dear, that I have given way on every other point, but I
will not allow the child to go to confession.'

'Why not?' exclaimed Geneviève, still restraining herself.

'I cannot repeat my reasons before the child. But you know them, and I
will not allow my daughter's mind to be soiled, under the pretext of
absolving her of trivial faults, which her parents alone need know and
correct.'

An explanation, indeed, had taken place between Marc and Geneviève on
this subject. In his opinion it was most loathsome and abominable that
a little girl should be initiated to the passions of the flesh by a man
who, by his very vow of chastity, might be led to every curiosity and
every sexual aberration. For ten priests who might be prudent, it was
sufficient there should be one of unbalanced mind, and then confession
became filth, to which risk Marc refused to expose his daughter Louise.
Besides, in that disturbing promiscuity, that secret colloquy amid the
mystical, enervating atmosphere and gloom of a chapel, there was not
merely the possibility of demoralisation for a girl only twelve years
old,--an anxious age, when the senses begin to quicken,--there was
also a seizure of her mind and person; for whatever she might become
later, girl, wife, and mother, she would always remain the initiate of
that minister, who by his very questions had violated her modesty, and
thereby affianced her to his jealous Deity. From that time forward,
indeed, woman, by her avowals, belonged to her confessor, became his
trembling, obedient thing, ever ready to do his behests, to serve, in
his hands, as an instrument of investigation and enthralment.

'If our daughter should be guilty of any fault,' Marc resumed, 'she
shall confess it to you or me, whenever she feels a need to do so. That
will be more logical and cleaner.'

Geneviève shrugged her shoulders, like one who deemed that solution
to be both blasphemous and grotesque. 'I won't discuss the matter any
further with you,' she said. 'But just tell me this--if you prevent
Louise from going to confession, how will she be able to go to her
first Communion?'

'Her first Communion? But is it not settled that she will wait till her
twentieth birthday in order to decide that question herself? I have
let her go to the Catechism class, even as she goes to her _cours_ of
history and sciences--that is, in order that she may form an opinion
and decide later on.'

At this Geneviève's anger mastered her. She turned towards her
daughter: 'And you, Louise, what do you think; what do you desire?'

The child, whose usually gay face had become quite grave, had listened
to her father and mother in silence. Whenever such quarrels arose, she
endeavoured to remain neutral from a fear of embittering matters. Her
intelligent eyes glanced from one to the other of her parents as if
begging that they would not make themselves unhappy on her account,
for she was grieved indeed to find that she was so constantly the cause
of their disputes. But, though she showed great deference and affection
for her mother, the latter felt that she inclined towards her father,
whom indeed she worshipped, and whose firm sense and passion for truth
and equity she had inherited.

For a moment Louise remained as if undecided, looking at her parents
in her usual affectionate way. Then she gently said: 'What I think,
what I wish, mamma? Why, I should much like it to be whatever you and
papa might agree upon. But does papa's desire seem to you so very
unreasonable? Why not wait a little?'

The mother, quite beside herself, refused to listen any further. 'That
is not an answer, my girl,' she cried. 'Remain with your father since
you can no longer show me either respect or obedience! You will end,
between you, by driving me from the house!'

Then she rushed away and shut herself up in her little room, as she
always did nowadays whenever she encountered the slightest opposition.
This was her method of ending their quarrels, and on each occasion she
seemed to draw farther and farther away from her husband and her child,
to set more and more space between herself and the dearly-loved family
fireside of other days.

Her belief that attempts were being made to influence her daughter in
order that the child might cast off her authority was strengthened
by a fresh incident. After long and skilful manœuvring, Mademoiselle
Rouzaire had at last secured the post of first assistant teacher at
Beaumont, which post she had coveted for years. Inspector Le Barazer
had yielded in the matter to the pressing applications of the clerical
deputies and senators, at the head of whom Count Hector de Sanglebœuf
marched with the noisy bustling gait of a great captain. But to
compensate politically for this step, Le Barazer, with his usual
maliciousness, had caused the vacant post at Maillebois to be assigned
to Mademoiselle Mazeline, the schoolmistress at Jonville, whose good
sense Marc so greatly admired. Perhaps, also, the Academy Inspector,
who still covertly supported Marc, had desired to place a friend beside
him, one whose object would be the same as his own, who would not try
to thwart him at every step, as Mademoiselle Rouzaire had done. At
all events, when Mayor Philis, in the name of the Municipal Council,
complained to Le Barazer of this appointment, which, said he, would
place the little girls of Maillebois in the hands of an unbelieving
woman, the Academy Inspector affected great astonishment. What! had
he not acted in accordance with Count Hector de Sanglebœuf's pressing
application? Was it his fault if, owing to promotions among the
school staff, a most meritorious person, of whom no parents had ever
complained, had become entitled in due order to the post at Maillebois?

As a matter of fact, Mademoiselle Mazeline's _début_ in the town proved
very successful. People were struck by her gay serenity, the maternal
manner in which from the very first day she gained the affection of
her pupils. All gentleness and zeal, she directed her efforts in such
wise that her daughters, as she called them, might become worthy
women, wives, and mothers. But she did not take them to Mass, and she
suppressed processions, prayers, and Catechism lessons. Before long,
therefore, a few other mothers, who belonged to the clerical faction,
like Geneviève, began to protest. Indeed, though she had no cause to
congratulate herself on her intercourse with Mademoiselle Rouzaire,
whose intrigues had disturbed her home, she now seemed to regret her,
and spoke of the new schoolmistress as a most suspicious character, who
was capable of the blackest enterprises.

'You hear me, Louise,' she said one day; 'if Mademoiselle Mazeline
should say anything wrong to you, you must tell me. I won't allow my
daughter's soul to be stolen from me!'

Marc could not refrain from intervening. 'Mademoiselle Mazeline
stealing souls!' said he; 'that's foolish! When we were at Jonville you
used to admire her, as I did. No woman has a loftier mind or a more
tender heart.'

'Oh! naturally you back her up,' Geneviève replied; 'you are well
fitted to understand each other. Go and join her, hand our daughter
over to her, since I am no longer of any account!'

Then, once again, Geneviève hastened to her room, where little Louise
had to join her, weep with her, and entreat her for hours before she
could be induced to attend to the home again.

All at once some almost incredible news reached Maillebois, throwing
the town into no little emotion. Advocate Delbos, who had gone to Paris
and addressed himself to some of the Government departments, laying
before the officials the famous duplicate copy-slip furnished by
Madame Alexandre, had prevailed on them--by what high influence nobody
knew--to order a perquisition in Father Philibin's rooms at Valmarie.
The extraordinary part of the affair was the lightning-like speed with
which this perquisition was made, the Commissary of Police arriving at
the College quite unexpectedly, then at once examining the collection
of documents formed by the Prefect of the Studies, and, in the second
portfolio he opened, discovering an envelope, already yellow with age,
which contained the fragment of the copy-slip torn off so long ago.
There was no question of denying its authenticity, for when placed in
position at the corner of the mutilated slip it fitted exactly.

It was added that Father Philibin, whom Father Crabot--utterly upset
by the affair--immediately interrogated, had made a frank confession,
explaining his conduct by a kind of instinctive impulse, his hand
having acted before his mind had time to think, so great had been
his anxiety on seeing the stamp of the Brother's school upon the
copy-slip, when he found the latter in Zéphirin's room. If he had
remained silent afterwards, this was because a careful study of the
affair had convinced him that Simon was indeed the culprit, and had
intentionally made use of what was evidently a gross forgery in order
to injure religion. Thus Father Philibin gloried in his act, for by
tearing off that corner and afterwards preserving silence, he had
behaved like a hero who set Holy Church high above the justice of men.
Would not a vulgar accomplice have destroyed the fragment? As the
reverend Father had preserved it, could one not understand that it had
been his intention to re-establish all the facts whenever it might
become advisable to do so? Such was the language held by some of his
partisans, but there were folk who attributed the preservation of the
fragment to his mania for keeping even the smallest scraps of paper,
and who thought also that he had wished to remain in possession of a
weapon which might prove useful against others.

It was said that Father Crabot, who for his part destroyed even the
cards which visitors left for him, was exasperated with his colleague,
and that in his surprise and fury at the first moment he had cried:
'What! I gave him orders to burn everything, and he kept that!' In
any case, on the evening of the day when the discovery was made by
the Commissary, Father Philibin, against whom as yet no warrant had
been issued, disappeared. When pious souls anxiously inquired what had
become of him, they were told that Father Poirier, the Provincial of
Beaumont, had decided to send him to a convent in Italy to observe a
retreat; and there, as if engulfed, he was at once buried in eternal
silence.

The revision of Simon's case now appeared to be inevitable. Delbos
sent for David and Marc, in order to decide in what form the necessary
application to the Minister of Justice should be made. The discovery of
the long-missing corner of the copy-slip would alone suffice for the
sentence of the Court of Beaumont to be quashed, and the advocate was
of opinion that they ought to content themselves with this discovery,
and, for the time at all events, leave on one side the illegal
communication which Judge Gragnon had made to the jurors. Moreover,
the circumstances of that communication, now difficult of proof, would
be brought to light during the new investigations which must ensue.
Meantime, as the truth in the matter of the copy-slip was manifest,
as the report of the handwriting experts was entirely upset, the
origin of the stamped and initialled slip constituting such a damaging
element in the case that Father Philibin had practised dissimulation
and falsehood to conceal it, the advocate considered it best to assail
Brother Gorgias without more ado. When Marc and David quitted Delbos
that decision had been adopted; and on the morrow David addressed to
the Minister a letter in which he formally accused Brother Gorgias of
having committed a heinous offence on little Zéphirin, and murdered
him, for which crimes his, David's, brother Simon had been in penal
servitude for ten years.

Emotion then reached a climax. On the day after the discovery of the
corner of the copy-slip among Father Philibin's papers, there had come
an hour of lassitude and discomfiture among the most ardent supporters
of the Church. This time the battle really seemed to be lost, and _Le
Petit Beaumontais_ even printed an article in which the conduct of the
reverend Jesuit was roundly blamed. But two days later the faction had
recovered its self-possession, and the very same newspaper proceeded
to canonise theft and falsehood. St. Philibin, hero and martyr, was
portrayed amid a setting of palms, and with a halo about his head. A
legend likewise arose, showing the reverend Father in a remote convent
of the Apennines, surrounded by wild forests. There, wearing a
hair-cloth next his skin, he prayed devoutly both by day and by night,
and offered himself in sacrifice for the sins of the world. And on the
back of the pious little pictures which circulated, showing him on his
knees, there was a prayer by repeating which the faithful might gain
indulgences.

The resounding accusation launched against Brother Gorgias fully
restored to the clericals their rageful determination to attack and
conquer, convinced as they were that the victory of the Jew would shake
the Congregations in a terrible fashion and leave a gaping breach in
the very heart of the Church. All the anti-Simonists of former days
rose up again, more uncompromising than ever, eager to conquer or to
die. And the old battle began afresh on every side; on one hand all
the free-minded men who believed in truth and equity and looked to the
future, on the other all the reactionaries, the believers in authority,
who clung to the past with its God of wrath, and based salvation
on priests and soldiers. The Municipal Council of Maillebois again
quarrelled about schoolmaster Froment, families were rent asunder,
the Brothers' pupils and Marc's stoned one another on the Place de
la République after lessons. Then, too, the fine society of Beaumont
was utterly upset, such was the feverish anxiety of all who had
participated in any way in Simon's trial.

For one man, such as Salvan, who rejoiced with Marc at each successive
interview, how many there were who no longer slept o' nights at the
thought that all the iniquity which had been buried was about to be
exhumed! Fresh elections were impending, and the politicians feared
lest they should be unseated. Lemarrois, the Radical, the ex-Mayor
of Beaumont, once the town's indispensable man, was terrified by the
rise of Delbos's popularity; Marcilly, the amiable _arriviste_, ever
anxious to be on the winning side, floundered in uncertainty, no longer
knowing which party to support; the reactionary senators and deputies,
headed by the fierce Hector de Sanglebœuf, resisted desperately as
they saw the storm, which might sweep them away, rising all round. In
the government world and the university world the anxiety was no less
keen; Prefect Hennebise lamented that he could not stifle the affair;
Rector Forbes, losing his depth, cast everything upon the shoulders of
Academy Inspector Le Barazer, who alone remained calm and smiling amid
the tempest, while Depinvilliers, the Director of the Lycée, took his
daughters to Mass despairingly, even as one may throw oneself into a
river, and Inspector Mauraisin, in anguish and astonishment at the turn
which things were taking, wondered if the time had not come to go over
to the Freemasons.[2]

[Footnote 2: The French Freemasons are largely identified with
Republican and anti-Catholic views.--_Trans._]

But the emotion was particularly keen in the judicial world, for did
not a revision of the former trial mean a new trial directed against
the judges who had conducted the first proceedings? and if the
papers in the case should be exhumed and examined would not terrible
revelations ensue? Investigating Magistrate Daix, that unlucky honest
man, who was haunted by remorse for having yielded to his wife's
covetous ambition, looked livid when he repaired in silence each
morning to his office at the Palace of Justice. And if Raoul de La
Bissonnière, the dapper Public Prosecutor, made, on the contrary, an
excessive show of good humour and ease of mind, one could divine that
he did so from a torturing desire to prevent his fears from being
seen. As for Presiding Judge Gragnon, who was the most compromised
of all, he seemed to have aged quite suddenly; his face had become
heavy, his shoulders bent beneath some invisible weight, and he
dragged his big body about with shuffling steps, unless he noticed
that he was being watched, when, with a suspicious glance, he made
an effort to draw himself erect. Meantime the gentlemen's ladies had
once more transformed their _salons_ into hotbeds of intrigue, barter,
and propaganda. And from the _bourgeois_ to their servants, from the
servants to the tradespeople, from the tradespeople to the working
classes, the whole population followed on, becoming more and more
crazed amid the tempest which cast men and things into general dementia.

The sudden self-effacement of Father Crabot, whose tall and elegant
figure and whose handsome gowns of fine cloth were so well known at the
reception hour in the Avenue des Jaffres, was much remarked. He ceased
to show himself there, and a proof of excellent taste and profound
piety was detected in his desire for retreat and meditation, of which
his friends spoke with devout emotion. As Father Philibin also had
disappeared, the only one of the superior ecclesiastics who remained
in the front rank was Brother Fulgence, who somehow always contrived
to act in a compromising way, bestirring himself too much, showing
indeed such clumsiness at each step he took that nasty rumours began to
circulate among the clericals, in accordance, no doubt, with some order
from Valmarie to sacrifice the Brother.

But the hero, the extraordinary figure of the time, one that became
more and more amazing every day, was Brother Gorgias, who met the
accusation brought against him with prodigious audacity. On the very
evening of the day when David's letter denouncing him was made public,
he hastened to the office of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ to answer it,
insulting the Jews, inventing extraordinary stories, clothing true
facts with falsehoods of genius, fit to disturb the soundest minds.
He scoffed, too, asking if schoolmasters were in the habit of walking
about with copy-slips in their pockets; and he denied everything,
both paraph and stamp, explaining that Simon, who had imitated his
handwriting, might very well have procured a stamp from the Brothers'
school, or even have had one made. It was idiotic; but he nevertheless
proclaimed this version in such a thundering voice and with such
violent gestures that it was accepted, and became official truth. From
that moment _Le Petit Beaumontais_ showed no hesitation; it adopted the
story of the forged stamp as it had adopted that of the forged paraph,
the whole theory of abominable premeditation on the part of Simon,
who, in committing his crime, had sought with infernal cunning to cast
it upon a holy man, in order to soil the Church! And this imbecile
invention impassioned all the folk who were brutified by centuries
of Catechism and bondage. Brother Gorgias rose to be a martyr of the
Faith, like Father Philibin.

He could no longer show himself without being acclaimed, women kissed
the hem of his frock, children asked him to bless them, while he,
impudent and triumphant, harangued the crowds, and indulged in the
most extravagant mummery, like a popular idol, a mountebank before a
booth, certain of applause. Yet, behind all that assurance, those who
were warned, who knew the truth, detected the anxious distress of that
wretched man who was forced to play a part, the folly and fragility of
which he was the first to recognise. And it was evident that in him
one simply had an actor on the stage, a tragic puppet whose strings
were pulled by invisible hands. Though Father Crabot had hidden himself
away, humbly cloistered himself in his bare, cold cell at Valmarie,
his black shadow still passed across the scene, and one could divine
that his were the dexterous hands which pulled the strings, pushed the
puppets forward, and toiled for the triumph of the Congregations.

Amid the greatest commotion, and despite the opposition of all the
coalesced reactionary forces, the Minister of Justice was obliged
to lay the application for revision, drawn up by David on behalf of
Madame Simon and her children, before the Court of Cassation. This was
truth's first victory, and for a moment the clerical faction seemed
to be overwhelmed. But on the morrow the struggle began afresh. Even
the Court of Cassation was cast into the mud, insulted every morning,
accused of having sold itself to the Jews. _Le Petit Beaumontais_
enumerated the amounts which had been paid, libelled the presiding
judge, the general prosecutor, and the counsellors by relating all
sorts of abominable stories about their private lives, which stories
were inventions from beginning to end. During the two months occupied
by the preparation of the case the river of filth never ceased to
flow; no manœuvre, however iniquitous, no lie, even no crime, was
left untried to stay the march of inexorable justice. At last, after
memorable discussions, during which several judges gave a high example
of healthy common-sense and courageous equity, superior to all passion,
the Court gave its decision, which, although foreseen, burst on its
slanderers like a thunderclap. It retained the cause, declared that
there was ground for revision, and recognised the necessity of an
investigation, which it decided to conduct itself.

That evening Marc, when afternoon lessons were over, found himself
alone in his little garden, in the warm twilight of springtime.
Louise had not yet come in from school, for Mademoiselle Mazeline,
whose favourite pupil she had become, sometimes kept her with her.
As for Geneviève, ever since _déjeuner_, she had been absent at her
grandmother's, where, indeed, she now spent nearly all her time. And,
despite the fresh perfume which the lilacs shed in the warm air,
Marc, as he paced the garden paths, was pursued by bitter, torturing
thoughts of his devastated home. He had not given way on the subject
of Confession--indeed, his daughter had lately quitted the Catechism
class, the priest having refused to receive her any longer if she did
not come to him by way of the Confessional. But, morning and evening
alike, Marc had to contend against the attacks of his wife, who was
exasperated, maddened, by the idea that Louise would be damned, and
that she herself would be virtually an accomplice in it as she could
not find the strength to take the girl in her arms and carry her to the
tribunal of penitence. She remembered her own adorable first Communion,
the loveliest day of her life, with her white gown, the incense, the
candles, the gentle Jesus to whom she had so sweetly affianced herself,
and who had remained her only real spouse, the spouse of a divine love,
the delights of which--she vowed it--were the only ones which she would
taste henceforth. But was her daughter to be robbed of such felicity,
degraded, reduced to the level of the beasts of the field, which knew
no religion? She could not bear such a thought, but sought every
possible opportunity to wring a consent from her husband, changing the
family hearth into a battlefield, where the most futile incidents gave
rise to endless bickering.

The night was falling, slowly and peacefully; and Marc, on whom for
the moment a feeling of great lassitude had come, felt astonished that
he should be able to resist his wife with a courage which was cruel
for her, himself, and their daughter. All his old spirit of tolerance
came back; he had allowed his daughter to be baptised, so might he
not also allow her to make her first Communion? The reasons which his
wife urged, reasons to which he had long bowed--respect of individual
liberty, the rights of a mother, the rights of conscience--were
not without weight. In a home the mother necessarily became the
educator and initiator, particularly when girls were in question. To
take no account of her ideas, to oppose the desires of her mind and
heart, meant surely the wrecking of the home. Nought was left of the
bond of agreement which a home requires to flourish, all happiness
was destroyed, the parents and their child lapsed into horrible
warfare--that warfare from which Marc's own home, once so united and
so sweet, now suffered. And thus, while pacing the narrow paths of his
little garden, across which the shadows were spreading, Marc asked
himself whether and in what manner he might give way again in order to
restore a little peace and happiness.

A feeling of remorse tortured him; for was not his misfortune due to
himself? His share of responsibility had become manifest to him more
than once, and he had asked himself why, on the morrow of his marriage,
he had not endeavoured to win Geneviève over to his own belief. At that
time, amid the first revelation of love, she had indeed belonged to
him, she had cast herself into his arms with all confidence, ready to
mingle with him, in such wise that they might be of one flesh and one
mind. He alone, at that unique hour of life, might have had the power
to wrest the woman from the priest, and turn the child of the ages,
bending beneath the dread of hell, into the conscious companion of his
own existence, a companion whose mind would be freed, opened to truth
and equity.

At the time of their earliest quarrels Geneviève herself had cried it
to him: 'If you suffer because we do not think the same, it is your
own fault! You should have taught me. I am such as I was made, and the
misfortune is that you did not know how to make me anew!'

She had got far beyond that point now; she did not allow that he could
possibly influence her, such had become the unshakable pride of her
faith. Nevertheless, he bitterly recalled his lost opportunity, and
deplored his egotistical adoration during the delightful springtime
of their married life, when he had never ceased to admire her beauty,
without a thought of diving into her conscience and enlightening her.
True, he had not then imagined that he would become an artisan of truth
such as he was to-day; he had accepted certain compromises, imagining
that he was strong enough to remain the master. Indeed, all his present
torture arose from his whilom masculine vanity, the blind weakness of
his early love.

He knew that now, and as he paused before a lilac bush, whose flowers,
open since the previous day, were shedding a penetrating perfume
around, a sudden flame, a renewed desire to fight and conquer, arose
within him. Even if he had formerly failed in his duty, was that a
reason for him to fail in it now, by allowing his daughter to wreck her
life in the same way as her mother had wrecked hers? Such remissness
on his part would be the more unpardonable as he had taken on himself
the task of saving the children of others from the falsehoods of the
centuries. Perhaps it might be allowable for some obscurely situated
man to put up with the doings of a bigot wife, who was intent on
crazing her daughter with foolish and dangerous practices; but how
could he accept such a position--he who had removed the crucifix
from his classroom, he whose teaching was strictly secular, he who
openly proclaimed the necessity of saving woman from the Church if one
desired to build the Happy City? Would not his acceptance of such a
position be the fullest possible confession of impotence? It would
be the denial and the annihilation of his mission. He would lose all
power, all authority to ask others to do that which he could or would
not do himself in his own home. And what an example of hypocrisy
and egotistical weakness would he not give to his daughter, who was
acquainted with his ideas, and knew him to be opposed to Confession and
Communion. Would she not wonder why he tolerated at home the actions
which he condemned when their neighbours were in question? Would it
not seem to her that he thought one way and acted another? Ah! no, no,
tolerance had become impossible; he could no longer give way unless
he desired to see his work of deliverance crumble beneath universal
contempt.

Once more Marc began to walk to and fro under the paling sky, where
the first stars were beginning to twinkle. One of the triumphs of the
Church was that freethinking parents did not remove their children
from its control, bound as they were by social usages, and fearful of
scandal. There was an apprehension among them that they might fail to
start their sons in life, or find husbands for their daughters, if
the children did not at least pass through the formal routine of the
sacraments. So who would begin, who would set the example? No doubt
it would be necessary to wait a very long time for a general change,
the time which science might require to destroy dogma as a matter of
usage, even as it had already destroyed it as a matter of sense. Yet it
was the duty of brave minds to set the first examples, examples which
the Church dreaded, and which nowadays impelled it to make so many
efforts to retain the support and favour of women, whom it had so long
brutalised, treated as daughters of the devil, responsible for all the
sins of the world.

It seemed to Marc that the Jesuits, who by a stroke of genius had
resolved to adapt the Deity to the requirements of human passions,
were the real artisans of the great movement which had placed women
as instruments of political and social conquest in the hands of the
priests. The Church had cursed human love, and now it employed it.
It had treated woman as a monster of lewdness, from whom it was the
duty of the Saints to flee; yet now it caressed her, loaded her with
flattery, made her the ornament and mainstay of the sanctuary, having
resolved to exploit her power over man.

Indeed sexuality flames among the candles of the altars, the priests
nowadays accept it as a means of grace, use it as a trap in which
they hope to recapture and master man. Does not all the disunion,
the painful quarrel of contemporary society, spring from the divorce
existing between man and woman, the former half freed, the latter still
a serf, a petted, hallucinated slave of expiring Catholicism? The
problem lies in that; we men should not leave the Church to profit by
the mystical rapture in which it steeps our daughters and our wives, we
should wrest from it the merit of the spurious deliverance it brings to
them, we should deliver them really from all their fancies, and take
them from the Church to ourselves, since indeed they are ours, even as
we are theirs.

Marc reflected that there were three forces in presence: man, woman,
and the Church, and instead of woman and the Church being arrayed
against man, it was necessary that man and woman should be arrayed
against the Church. Besides, were not man and wife one? Neither could
act without the other, whereas united in flesh and in mind they became
invincible, the very force of life, the very embodiment of happiness
in the midst of conquered nature. And the one, sole, true solution
suddenly became manifest to Marc: woman must be taught, enlightened,
she must be set in her rightful place as our equal and our companion,
for only the freed woman can free man.

At the moment when, calmed and comforted, Marc was regaining the
courage he needed to continue fighting, he heard Geneviève come in,
and went to join her in the classroom where a little vague light
still lingered. He found her standing there, and though the birth of
the child she expected was now near at hand, she carried herself so
upright, in such an aggressive posture, with such brilliant eyes, that
he felt a supreme storm to be imminent.

'Well, are you pleased?' she asked him curtly.

'Pleased with what, my darling?'

'Ah! you don't know then.... So I shall have the pleasure of being
the first to give you the great news.... Your heroic efforts have
been successful, the news has just arrived by telegraph. The Court of
Cassation has decided in favour of the revision of the affair.'

Marc raised a cry of intense joy, unwilling to notice the tone of
furious irony in which Geneviève had announced the triumph: 'At last!
So there are some real judges after all! The innocent man will suffer
no longer.... But is the news quite certain?'

'Yes, yes, quite certain, I had it from honourable people to whom it
was telegraphed. Yes, the abomination is complete and you may well
rejoice.'

In Geneviève's quivering bitterness there was an echo of the violent
scene which, doubtless, she had just witnessed at her grandmother's
house, whither some priest or monk, some friend of Father Crabot's,
had hastened to impart the tidings of the catastrophe which imperilled
religion.

But Marc, as if determined not to understand, opened his arms to
his wife, saying: 'Thank you; I could not have had a better-loved
messenger. Kiss me!'

Geneviève brushed him aside with a gesture of hatred. 'Kiss you!' she
cried. 'Why? Because you have been the artisan of an infamous deed;
because this criminal victory over religion rejoices you? It is your
country, your family, yourself, that you cast into the mire in order to
save that filthy Jew, the greatest scoundrel in all the world!'

'Do not say such things,' replied Marc in a gentle, entreating way,
seeking to pacify her. 'How can you repeat such monstrous words, you
who used to be so intelligent and so kind-hearted? Is it true, then,
that error is so contagious that it may obscure the soundest minds?
Just think a little. You know all; Simon is innocent; and to leave
him still in penal servitude would be frightful iniquity--a source of
social rottenness which would end by destroying the nation.'

'No, no!' she cried, with a kind of mystical exaltation; 'Simon is
guilty--men of recognised holiness accused him, and accuse him still;
and to regard him as innocent it would be necessary to discard all
faith in religion, to believe God Himself capable of error! No, no! he
must stay at the galleys, for on the day of his release nothing divine,
nothing that one may revere, would be left on earth!'

Marc was becoming impatient. 'I cannot understand,' said he, 'how we
can disagree on so clear a question of truth and justice. Heaven has
nothing to do with this.'

'It has. There is no truth or justice outside heaven!'

'Ah! that is the gist of it all--that explains our disagreement and
torture! You would still think as I do if you had not set heaven
between us! And you will come back to me on the day when you consent
to live on earth and show a healthy mind and a sisterly heart. There
is only one truth, one justice, such as science establishes under the
control of human certainty and solidarity!'

Geneviève was becoming exasperated: 'Let us come to the point once and
for all,' she retorted. 'It is my religion that you wish to destroy!'

'Yes,' he cried; 'it is against your Roman Catholicism that I
fight--against the imbecility of its teaching, the hypocrisy of
its practices, the perversion of its worship, its deadly action on
children and women, and its social injuriousness. The Roman Catholic
Church--that is the enemy of whom we must first clear the path. Before
the social question, before the political question, comes the religious
question, which bars everything. We shall never be able to take a
single forward step unless we begin by striking down that Church, which
corrupts, and poisons, and murders. And, understand me fully, that is
the reason why I am resolved not to allow our Louise to confess and
communicate. I should feel that I was not doing my duty, that I was
placing myself in contradiction with all my principles and lessons, if
I were to allow such things. And on the morrow I should have to leave
this school and cease to teach the children of others, for lack of
having both the loyalty and the strength to guide my own child towards
truth, the only real and only good truth. Thus I shall not yield on
the matter; our daughter herself will come to a decision when she is
twenty!'

Geneviève, now quite beside herself, was on the point of replying, when
Louise came in, followed by Mademoiselle Mazeline, who, having detained
her after lessons, wished to explain that she had been teaching her a
difficult crochet stitch. Short and slight, possessed of no beauty, but
extremely charming with her broad face, her large, loving mouth, and
her fine black eyes glowing with ardent sympathy, the schoolmistress
called from the threshold: 'Why, have you no light? I want to show you
the clever work of a good little girl.'

But Geneviève, without listening, sternly called the child to her. 'Ah!
so it's you, Louise. Come here a moment. Your father is again torturing
me about you. He is now positively opposed to your making your first
Communion. Well, I insist on your doing so this year. You are twelve
years old, you can delay the matter no longer without causing a
scandal. But before deciding on my course, I wish to know what your own
views are.'

Tall as she was already, Louise looked almost a little woman, showing
a very intelligent face, in which her mother's refined features seemed
to mingle in an expression of quiet good sense, which she had inherited
from her father. With an air of affectionate deference she answered:
'My views! Oh, mamma, I can have none. Only I thought it was all
settled, as papa's only desire is that I should wait till my majority.
Then I will tell you my views!'

'Is that how you answer me, unhappy child?' cried her mother, whose
irritation was increasing. 'Wait! still wait! when your father's
horrible lessons are evidently corrupting you, and robbing me more and
more of your heart!'

At this moment Mademoiselle Mazeline made the mistake of intervening,
but she did so like a good soul who was grieved by this quarrel in a
home whose happiness in former days had greatly touched her. 'Oh, my
dear Madame Froment!' she said, 'your Louise is very fond of you, and
what she said just now was very reasonable.'

Geneviève turned violently towards the schoolmistress: 'Attend to your
own affairs, mademoiselle. I won't inquire into your share in all this;
but you would do well to teach your pupils to respect God and their
parents!... This is not your home, remember!'

Then, as the schoolmistress withdrew, heavy at heart and saying nothing
for fear lest she might embitter the quarrel, the mother again turned
to the girl:

'Listen to me, Louise ... and you, Marc, listen to me also.... I have
had enough of it, I swear to you that I have had enough of it, that
what has occurred this evening, what has just been said, has filled
the cup to overflowing.... You no longer have any love for me, you
torture me in my faith, and you try to drive me from the house.'

Her daughter, full of distress and agitation, was weeping in a corner
of the large, dim room, and the heart of her husband, who stood there
motionless, bled as he heard those supreme, rending words. Both he and
the child raised the same protest: 'Drive you from the house!'

'Yes, you do all you can to render it unbearable!... Indeed, it is
impossible for me to remain longer in a spot where all is scandal,
error, and impiety, where every word and every gesture wound and shock
me. I have been told twenty times that it was not a fit place for me,
and I will not damn myself with you, so I am going away, returning
whence I came!'

She cried those last words aloud with extraordinary vehemence.

'To your grandmother's, eh?' exclaimed Marc.

'To my grandmother's, yes! That is an asylum, a refuge full of
sovereign peace. They at least know how to understand and love me
there! I ought never to have quitted that pious home of my youth.
Good-bye! There is nothing here to detain either my body or my soul!'

She went towards the door, with a fierce, set face, but, owing to her
condition, with somewhat unsteady steps. Louise was still sobbing
violently. But Marc, making a last effort, resolutely strove to bar the
way.

'In my turn,' he said, 'I beg you to listen to me. You wish to return
whence you came, and I am not surprised at it, for I know that every
effort has been made there to wrest you from me. It is a house of
mourning and vengeance.... But you are not alone, remember; there is
the child you bear, and you cannot take it from me in that way to hand
it over to others.'

Geneviève was standing before her husband, who, on his side, leant
against the door. She seemed to increase in stature, to become yet
more resolute and stubborn as she cast in his face these words: 'I am
going away expressly in order to take that child from you, and place it
beyond the reach of your abominable influence. I will not have you make
a pagan of that child and ruin it in mind and heart as you have ruined
this unhappy girl here. It is my child, I suppose, and you surely don't
mean to beat me under pretence of keeping it? Come, get away from that
door, and let me go!'

He did not answer, he was making a superhuman effort to abstain from
force, such as anger suggested. For a moment they looked at one another
in the last faint gleam of the expiring light.

'Get away from that door!' she repeated harshly. Understand that I
have quite made up my mind. You do not desire a scandal, do you? You
would have nothing to gain by it; you would be dismissed and prevented
from continuing what you call your great work--the teaching of those
children, whom you have preferred to me, and whom you will turn into
brigands with your fine lessons.... Yes, be prudent, take care of
yourself for the sake of your school, a school of the damned, and let
me return to my God, who, some day, will chastise you!'

'Ah! my poor wife,' he murmured in a faint voice, for her words had
wounded him to the heart. 'Fortunately it is not you yourself who
speak; it is those wretched people who are making use of you as a
deadly weapon against me. I recognise their words, the hope of a drama,
the desire to see me dismissed, my school closed, my work destroyed. It
is still because I am a witness, a friend of Simon, whose innocence I
shall soon help to establish, that they wish to strike me down, is it
not? And you are right, I do not desire a scandal which would please so
many people.'

'Then let me go,' she repeated stubbornly.

'Yes, by and by. Before then I wish you to know that I still love
you, love you even more than ever, because you are a poor sick child,
attacked by one of those contagious fevers, which it takes so much time
to cure. But I do not despair, for at bottom you are a good and healthy
creature, sensible and loving when you choose, and some day you will
awaken from your nightmare.... Besides, we have lived together for
nearly fourteen years, I made you wife and mother, and even though I
neglected to re-mould you entirely, the many things which have come to
you from me will continue to assert themselves.... You will come back
to me, Geneviève.'

She laughed with an air of bravado. 'I do not think so,' she said.

'You will come back to me,' he repeated, in a voice instinct with
conviction. 'When you know and understand the truth, the love you have
borne me will do the rest; and you have a tender heart, you are not
capable of long injustice.... I have never done you violence, I have
constantly respected your wishes, and now, as you wish it, go to your
folly, follow it till it is exhausted, as there is no other means of
curing you of it.'

He drew aside from the door to make way for her, and she for a moment
seemed to hesitate amid the quivering gloom which was enshrouding that
dear and grief-stricken home. It had become so dark that Marc could no
longer see her face, which had contracted while she listened to him.
But all at once she made up her mind, exclaiming in a choking voice:
'Good-bye!'

Then Louise, lost amid the darkness, sprang forward in her turn,
wishing to prevent her mother's departure: 'Oh! mamma, mamma, you
cannot go away like this! We, who love you so well--we, who only want
you to be happy----'

But the door had closed, and the only response was a last, distant cry,
half stifled by a sound of rapid footsteps: 'Good-bye! good-bye!'

Then, sobbing and staggering, Louise fell into her father's arms; and,
sinking together upon one of the forms of the classroom, they long
remained there, weeping together. Night had completely fallen now,
nothing but the faint sound of their sobs was to be heard in the large
dark room. The deep silence of abandonment and mourning filled the
empty house. The wife, the mother, had gone, stolen from the husband
and the child, in order that they might be tortured, cast into despair.
Before Marc's tearful eyes there rose the whole machination, the
hypocritical, underhand efforts of years, which now wrenched from him
the wife whom he adored, in order to weaken him and goad him into some
sudden rebellion which would sweep both his work and himself away. His
heart bled, but he had found the strength to accept his torture, and
none would ever know his distress, for none could see him sobbing with
his daughter in the darkness of his deserted home, like a poor man who
had nought left him save that child, and who was seized with terror at
the thought that she likewise might be wrested from him, some day.

A little later that same evening, as Marc had to conduct a course
of evening lessons for adults, the four gas jets of the classroom
were lighted, and students flocked in. Several of his former pupils,
artisans and young men of modest commercial pursuits, assiduously
followed these courses of history, geography, physical and natural
science. And for an hour and a half Marc, installed at his desk, spoke
on very clearly, contending with error and conveying a little truth to
the minds of the humble. But all the time frightful grief was consuming
him, his home was pillaged, destroyed, his love bewailed the lost wife
whom he would find no longer overhead, in the room once warm with
tender love, and now so cold.

Nevertheless, like the obscure hero he was, he bravely pursued his
work.




BOOK III




I


Directly the Court of Cassation started on its inquiry, David and
Marc, meeting one evening in the Lehmanns' dark little shop, decided
that it would be best to abstain from all agitation, and remain in the
background. Now that the idea of a revision of the case was accepted,
the family's great joy and hope had restored its courage. If the
inquiry should be loyally conducted by the Court, Simon's innocence
would surely be recognised, and acquittal would become certain. So
it would suffice to remain wakeful and watchful of the march of the
affair, without exhibiting any doubt of the conscientiousness and
equity of the highest judges in the land.

There was only one thing which prevented the joy of those poor people
from becoming perfect. The news of Simon's health was still far from
good; and might he not succumb over yonder before the triumph? The
Court had declared that there were no grounds for bringing him back
to France before its final judgment, and it seemed likely that the
inquiry might last several months. In spite of all this, however, David
remained full of superb confidence, relying on the wonderful strength
of resistance which his brother had hitherto displayed. He knew him,
and he tranquillised the others, even made them laugh, by telling
stories of Simon's youth, anecdotes which showed him retiring within
himself with singular force of will, thoughtful both of his dignity and
of the happiness of those near to him. So the interview between Marc,
David, and the Lehmanns ended, and they separated, resolved to show
neither anxiety nor impatience, but to behave as if the victory were
already won.

From that time, then, Marc shut himself up in his school, attending
to his pupils from morn till night, giving himself to them with an
abnegation, a devotion, which seemed to increase in the midst of
obstacles and suffering. While he was busy with them in the classroom,
while he acted as their big brother, striving to apportion the bread of
knowledge among them, he forgot some of his torture, he suffered less
from the ever-bleeding wound in his heart. But in the evenings, when he
found himself alone in the home whence love had fled, he relapsed into
frightful despair, and wondered how it would be possible for him to
continue living in dark and chilly widowerhood. Some little relief came
to him on the return of Louise from Mademoiselle Mazeline's; and yet,
when the lamp had been lighted for the evening meal, what long spells
of silence fell between the father and the daughter, each plunged into
inconsolable wretchedness by the departure of the wife, the mother,
whose desertion haunted them! They tried to escape from their pursuing
thoughts by talking of the petty incidents of the day. But everything
brought them back to her; they ended by talking of her alone, drawing
their chairs together, and taking each other's hands, as if to warm
each other in their solitude. And all their evenings ended in that
fashion, the daughter seated on her father's lap with one arm around
his neck, and both sobbing and quivering beside the smoky lamp. The
home was dead; the absent one had carried away its life, its warmth,
its light.

Yet Marc did nothing to compel Geneviève to return to him. Indeed, he
did not wish to be indebted in any way to such rights as it might be
possible for him to enforce. The idea of a scandal, a public dispute,
was odious to him; and not only had he resolved that he would not fall
into the trap set by those who had induced Geneviève to forsake him,
relying in this connection on some conjugal drama which would bring
about his revocation, but he also set all his hope in the sole force of
love. Geneviève would surely reflect and return home. In particular, it
seemed impossible that she would keep her expected child for herself
alone. As soon as possible after its birth she would bring it to him,
since it belonged to both of them. Even if the Church had succeeded in
perverting her as a loving woman, surely it would be unable to kill her
motherly feelings. And as a mother she would come back, and remain with
the child. The latter's birth was near at hand, so there would not be
more than a month to wait.

By degrees, after hoping for this _dénouement_, by way of consoling
himself, Marc began to regard it as a certainty. And, like a good
fellow, who did not wish to part mother and daughter, he sent Louise
to spend Thursday and Sunday afternoons with Geneviève at Madame
Duparque's, although that dark, dank, pious house had already brought
him so much suffering. Perhaps he unknowingly found some last,
melancholy satisfaction in this indirect intercourse, as well as a
means of maintaining a tie between himself and the absent one. Whenever
Louise came home after spending several hours with her mother, she
brought a little of Geneviève with her; and on those evenings her
father kept her longer than usual on his knees, and questioned her
eagerly, longing for tidings, even though they might make him suffer.

'How did you find her to-day, my dear?' he would ask. 'Does she laugh a
little? Does she seem pleased? Did she play with you?'

'No, no, father.... You know very well that she has long ceased to
play. But she still had a little gaiety when she was here, and now she
looks sad and ill.'

'Ill!'

'Oh! not ill enough to remain in bed. On the contrary, she cannot keep
from moving about, and her hands are burning hot, as if she had the
fever.'

'And what did you do, my dear?'

'We went to Vespers, as we do every Sunday. Then we returned to
grandmamma's for some refreshment. There was a monk there, whom I did
not know, some missionary, who told us stories of savages.'

Then Marc remained silent for a moment, full of great bitterness of
spirit, but unwilling to judge the mother in the daughter's presence,
or to give the latter an order to disobey her by refusing to accompany
her to church. At last he resumed gently: 'And did she speak to you of
me, my dear?'

'No, no, father.... Nobody there speaks to me of you, and as you told
me never to speak first about you, it is just as if you did not exist.'

'All the same, grandmother is not angry with you?'

'Grandmamma Duparque hardly looks at me, and I prefer that; for she
has such eyes that she frightens me when she scolds.... But Grandmamma
Berthereau is very kind, especially when there is nobody there to see
her. She gives me sweets, and takes me in her arms and kisses me ever
so much.'

'Grandmamma Berthereau!'

'Why, yes. One day even she told me that I ought to love you very much.
She is the only one who has ever spoken to me of you.'

Marc again relapsed into silence, for he did not wish his daughter to
be initiated too soon into the wretchedness of life. He had always
suspected that the doleful, silent Madame Berthereau, once so well
loved by her husband, now led a life of agony beneath the bigoted rule
of her mother, that harsh Madame Duparque. And he felt that he might
possibly have an ally in the younger woman, though, unfortunately, one
whose spirit was so broken that she might never find the courage to
speak or act.

'You must be very affectionate with Grandmamma Berthereau,' said Marc
to Louise, by way of conclusion. 'Though she may not say it, I think
she is grieved as we are.... And mind you kiss your mother for both of
us, she will feel that I have joined in your caress.'

'Yes, father.'

Thus did the long evening pass away, bitter but quiet, in the wrecked
home. Whenever, on a Sunday, the daughter returned with some bad
tidings--speaking, for instance, of a sick headache or some affection
of the nerves from which the mother now suffered--the father remained
full of anxiety until the ensuing Thursday. That nervous affection did
not surprise him, he trembled lest his poor wife should be consumed in
the perverse and imbecile flames of mysticism. But if on the following
Thursday his daughter told him that mamma had smiled, and inquired
about the little cat she had left at home, he revived to hope, and
laughed with satisfaction and relief. Then, once again, he composed
himself to await the return of the dear absent one, who would surely
come back with her new-born babe at her breast.

Since Geneviève's departure Mademoiselle Mazeline, by the force of
things, had become a _confidente_, an intimate for Marc and Louise.
She brought the child home almost every evening, after lessons, and
rendered little services in that disorganised home where there was
no longer any housewife. The dwellings of the schoolmaster and the
schoolmistress almost touched one another; there was only a little
yard to be crossed, while in the rear a gate facilitated communication
between the two gardens. Thus the intercourse became closer,
particularly as Marc felt great sympathy for Mademoiselle Mazeline,
whom he regarded as a most courageous and excellent woman. He had
learnt to esteem her at Jonville in former times on finding that she
was quite free from superstition, and strove to endow her pupils with
solid minds and loving hearts. And now at Maillebois he felt intense
friendship for her, so well did she realise his ideal of the educating,
initiating woman, the only one capable of liberating future society.
Marc was now thoroughly convinced that no serious progress would ever
be effected if woman did not accompany man, and even precede him,
on the road to the Happy City. And how comforting it was to meet at
least one of those pioneers, one who was both very intelligent and
very kind-hearted, all simplicity too, accomplishing her work of
salvation as if it were one of the natural functions of her being!
Thus Mademoiselle Mazeline became for Marc, amid his torture, a friend
prized for her serenity and gaiety, one who imparted consolation and
hope.

He was profoundly touched by the schoolmistress's sympathy and
obligingness. She frequently spoke of Geneviève with anxious affection,
devising excuses for her, explaining her case like a sensible woman
who regarded lack of sense in others with sympathetic compassion. And
she particularly begged of Marc that he would not be violent, that he
would not behave like an egotistical and jealous master, one of those
for whom a wife is a slave, a thing handed over to them by the laws.
Without doubt Mademoiselle Mazeline had much to do with the prudence
which Marc evinced in striving to remain patient and relying on sense
and love to convince Geneviève and bring her back to him. Finally, the
schoolmistress endeavoured with so much delicacy to replace the absent
mother with Louise that she became, as it were, the light of that
mournful home, where father and daughter shivered at the thought of
their abandonment.

During those first fine days of the year Mademoiselle Mazeline
frequently found herself of an evening with Marc and Louise in their
little garden behind the school. The schoolmistress had merely to open
the gate of communication, whose bolts were drawn back on either side,
and neighbourly intercourse followed. Indeed she somewhat neglected her
own garden for the schoolmaster's, where a table and a few chairs were
set out under some lilac bushes. They jestingly called this spot 'the
wood,' as if they had sought shelter under some large oaks on a patch
of forest land. Then the scanty lawn was likened to a great meadow,
the two flower borders became royal _parterres_; and after the day's
hard work it was pleasant indeed to chat there, amid the quietude of
twilight.

One evening, Louise, who had been reflecting with all a big girl's
gravity, suddenly inquired: 'Mademoiselle, why have you never married?'

At this the schoolmistress laughed good naturedly. 'Oh, my darling,
have you never looked at me!' she answered. 'A husband is not easily
found when one has such a big nose as mine, and no figure.'

The girl looked at her mistress with astonishment, for never had she
thought her ugly. True enough, Mademoiselle Mazeline did not possess
a fine figure, and her nose was too large, her face a broad one, with
a bumpy forehead and projecting cheek bones. But her admirable eyes
smiled so tenderly that her whole countenance became resplendent with
charm.

'You are very pretty,' declared Louise in a tone of conviction. 'If I
were a man I should like to marry you.'

Marc felt very much amused, while Mademoiselle Mazeline gave signs of
restrained emotion, tinged somewhat with melancholy. 'It would seem
that the men haven't the same taste as you, my dear,' said she, as she
recovered her quiet gaiety. 'When I was between twenty and twenty-five
I would willingly have married, but I met nobody who wished for me. And
I should not think of marrying now, when I am six and thirty.'

'Why not?' Marc inquired.

'Oh! because the time has passed.... An humble elementary teacher, born
of poor parents, hardly tempts the marrying men. Where can one be found
willing to burden himself with a wife who earns little, who is tied to
heavy duties, and compelled to live in the depths of some out of the
way region? If she is not lucky enough to marry a schoolmaster, and
share her poverty with his, she inevitably becomes an old maid.... I
long since gave up all idea of marriage, and I am happy all the same.'

But she quickly added: 'Of course marriage is necessary; a woman ought
to marry, for she does not live, she does not fulfil her natural
destiny, unless she becomes wife and mother. No real health or
happiness exists for any human creature apart from his or her complete
florescence. And in teaching my girls I never forget that they are
destined to have husbands and children some day.... Only, when one is
forgotten, sacrificed as it were, one has to arrange for oneself some
little corner of content. Thus, I have cut out for myself my share of
work, and I don't complain so much, for, in spite of everything, I have
succeeded in becoming a mother. All the children of others, all the
dear little girls with whom I busy myself from morning till evening,
belong to me. I am not alone, I have a very large family.'

She laughed as she thus referred to her admirable devotion in the
simple way of one who seemed to feel that she was under obligations to
all the pupils who consented to become the children of her mind and
heart.

'Yes,' said Marc by way of conclusion, 'when life shows itself harsh to
any of us the disinherited one must behave kindly to life. That is the
only way to prevent misfortune.'

On most occasions when Marc and Mademoiselle Mazeline met in the little
garden, over which the twilight stole, their talk was of Geneviève.
This was particularly the case on those evenings when Louise, after
spending the afternoon at Madame Duparque's, returned with news of
her mother. One day she came back in a state of much emotion, for her
mother, whom she had accompanied to the Capuchin Chapel to witness
some great ceremony in honour of St. Antony of Padua, had fainted away
there, and had been carried to Madame Duparque's in a disquieting
condition.

'They will end by killing her!' cried Marc despairingly.

But Mademoiselle Mazeline, wishing to comfort him, evinced stubborn
optimism.

'No, no, when all is said your Geneviève has only an ailing mind, she
is physically healthy and strong. Some day, you'll see, my friend, her
intelligence, helped by her heart, will win the victory.... And what
could you expect? She is paying for her mystical education and training
in one of those convents whence, as long as they remain unclosed, the
evils which assail women, and the disasters of married life, will
always come. You must forgive her, she is not the real culprit. She
suffers from the long heredity bequeathed to her by her forerunners,
possessed, terrorised, and stupefied by the Church.'

Overcome by sadness, Marc, though his daughter was present, could not
restrain a low plaint, a spontaneous avowal: 'Ah, for her sake and mine
it would have been better if we had never married! She could not become
my helpmate, my other self!'

'But whom would you have married, then?' the schoolmistress inquired.
'Where would you have found a girl of the middle class who had not been
brought up under Catholic rule, possessed with error and falsehoods?
The wife you needed, my poor friend, with your free mind--an artisan
of the future as you are--still remains to be created. Perhaps just a
few specimens exist, but even they are tainted by atavism and faulty
education.'

Then, with a laugh, she added in her gentle yet resolute way: 'But you
know that I am trying to form such companions as may be needed by the
men who have freed themselves from dogmas, and who thirst for truth and
equity. Yes, I am trying to provide wives for the young fellows whom
you, on your side, are training.... As for yourself, my friend, you
were merely born too soon.'

Thus conversing, the schoolmaster and the schoolmistress, those humble
pioneers of the future social system, forgot in some measure the
presence of the big girl of thirteen who listened to them in silence,
but with her ears wide open. Marc had discreetly refrained from giving
any direct lessons to his daughter. He contented himself with setting
her an example, and she loved him dearly because he showed so much
goodness of heart, sincerity, and equity. The mind of that big girl was
slowly awakening to reason, but she did not dare to intervene as yet in
the conversation of her father and mademoiselle; though assuredly she
derived profit from it, even if, like other children, when their elders
forget themselves so far as to speak before them of things regarded
as being above their intelligence, she appeared neither to hear nor
to understand. With her glance wandering away into the falling night,
her lips scarcely stirred by a faint quiver, she was always learning,
classifying in her little head all the ideas that emanated from those
two persons whom, with her mother, were the ones she loved best in the
world. And one day, after a conversation of the kind, a remark, which
escaped her as she emerged from one of her deep reveries, showed that
she had perfectly understood.

'When I marry,' said she, 'I shall want a husband whose ideas are like
papa's, so that we may discuss things and come to an agreement. And if
we both think alike, it will all go well.'

This manner of resolving the problem greatly amused Mademoiselle
Mazeline. Marc on his side was moved, for he felt that some of his
own passion for truth, his clear firm mind, was appearing in his
daughter. Doubtless, while a child's brain is yet dimly developing, it
is difficult to foretell what will be the woman's mature intellect.
Yet Marc thought he had grounds for believing that Louise would prove
sensible and healthy, free from many errors. And this probability was
very sweet to him, as if indeed he awaited from his daughter the help,
the loving mediation, which by bringing the absent one back to the home
would re-establish all the ties so tragically severed.

However, the news which Louise brought from the Place des Capucins grew
worse and worse. As the time for her child's birth drew near, Geneviève
became more and more gloomy, more and more capricious and bad tempered,
in such wise that at times she even rejected her daughter's caresses.
She had had several more fainting fits, and was giving way, it seemed,
to increasing religious exaltation, after the fashion of those patients
who, disappointed by the inefficacy of certain drugs, double and double
the dose until at last they poison themselves. Thus, one delightful
evening, while Mademoiselle Mazeline sat with the others in the flowery
garden, the news which Louise communicated rendered the schoolmistress
so anxious that she made a proposal to Marc.

'Shall I go to see your wife, my friend?' she asked. 'She showed some
affection for me in former times, and perhaps she might listen to me if
I were to talk sense to her.'

'But what would you say to her?' Marc replied.

'Why, that her place is beside you, that she still loves you though
she knows it not; that her sufferings are all due to a frightful
misunderstanding; and that she will only be cured when she returns to
you with that dear child, the thought of whom is stifling her like
remorse.'

Tears had risen to the eyes of Marc, who felt quite upset by the
schoolmistress's words. But Louise quickly intervened: 'Oh, no,
mademoiselle,' she said, 'don't go to see mamma; I advise you not to.'

'Why not, my darling?'

The girl blushed, and became greatly embarrassed. She knew not how
to explain in what contemptuous and hateful terms the schoolmistress
was spoken of at the little house on the Place des Capucins. But
Mademoiselle Mazeline understood, and, like a woman accustomed to
misrepresentation, she gently asked: 'Does your mamma no longer like
me, then? Do you fear she might receive me badly?'

'Oh! mamma does not say much,' Louise ended by confessing; 'it is the
others.'

Then Marc, overcoming his emotion, resumed, 'The child is right, my
friend. Your visit might become painful, and it would probably have no
effect. None the less, I thank you for your kindness; I know how warm
your heart is.'

A long spell of silence ensued. The sky overhead was beautifully clear,
and quietude descended from the vast vault of azure, where the sun was
expiring in a roseate flush. A few carnations, a few wallflowers, in
the little garden borders perfumed the mild air. And nothing more was
said that evening by Marc and his friend as they lingered, steeped in
melancholy, amid the delightful close of a fine day.

The inevitable had duly come to pass. A week had not elapsed after
Geneviève's departure from her home before all Maillebois was talking
of a scandalous intrigue carried on publicly by the schoolmaster and
the schoolmistress. In the daytime, it was said, they constantly left
their classrooms to join one another, and they spent their evenings
together in the garden of the boys' school, where they could be plainly
distinguished from certain neighbouring windows. And the abominable
thing was the constant presence of little Louise, who mingled with
it all. The vilest reports speedily began to circulate. Passers-by
pretended that they had heard Marc and Mademoiselle Mazeline singing,
and laughing over, filthy songs. Then a legend sprang up, it being
plainly established that if Geneviève had quitted her home it was
in a spirit of legitimate revolt and disgust, and in order to avoid
association with that other woman, that godless creature who depraved
the little girls confided to her care. Thus there was not merely a
question of restoring Louise to her mother; in order to save the
children of Maillebois from perdition, the schoolmaster and the
schoolmistress must be stoned and driven away.

Some of these rumours reached Marc's ears; but he, realising by their
imbecile violence whence they emanated, merely shrugged his shoulders.
As the Congregations had not managed to secure a scandal in connection
with Geneviève's departure, they were resuming their underhand work
of slander, striving to embitter the new state of things. They had
failed to bring about Marc's revocation by taking his wife from him,
but perhaps they might succeed by accusing him of keeping a mistress.
Moreover, this would cast a slur on the secular schools, and was dirty
work well suited to clerics who do not shrink from any lies to ensure
the triumph of religion. Since the revival of the Simon case, Father
Crabot, no doubt, had been leading a cloistered life, and, besides,
he seemed to occupy too high a position to stoop to such abominable
inventions; but all the cassocks and frocks of Maillebois were astir,
Brothers and Capuchins ever winging their flight, like a covey of black
gowns, over the road to Valmarie. They returned, looking very busy; and
then, in all the confessional boxes of the region, in quiet corners
of the chapels, and in the parlours of the convents, came endless
whispering with excited female devotees, who grew terribly indignant at
all the horrors they heard. Thence those horrors spread in undertones
and hints to families, tradespeople, and dependents. Yet if Marc felt
angry, it was only at the thought that ignoble tales were surely being
whispered to Geneviève herself, in order to make their separation
irrevocable.

A month elapsed, and it seemed to Marc that the birth of the expected
child must be imminent. After counting the days with feverish longing
he felt astonished at receiving no news, when one Thursday morning
Pélagie presented herself at the school and drily requested that
Mademoiselle Louise might not be sent to see her mamma that afternoon.
Then, as Marc, recognising her voice, hastened to the door and demanded
an explanation, the servant ended by informing him that Madame's
accouchement had taken place on the Monday evening, and that she was
not at all in a favourable state of health. That said, Pélagie took
to her heels, feeling worried that she had spoken, for she had been
told to say nothing. Marc, on his side, remained confounded. What! his
wife's relations acted as if he did not exist. A child was born to
him, and nobody informed him of it! And such rebellion, such a need of
protest, arose within him that he at once put on his hat and repaired
to the ladies' house.

When Pélagie opened the door she almost choked, thunderstruck, as she
was, by his audacity. But with a wave of the arm he brushed her aside,
and without a word walked into the little drawing-room where, according
to their wont, Madame Duparque was knitting beside the window, while
Madame Berthereau, seated a little in the rear, slowly continued some
embroidery. The little room, which smelt as usual of dampness and
mouldiness, seemed to be slumbering amid the deep silence and the
dismal light coming from the square.

But the grandmother, amazed and indignant at the sight of Marc, sprang
abruptly to her feet: 'What! you take such a liberty as this, sir! What
do you want? Why have you come here?' she cried.

The incredible violence of this greeting, when Marc himself was swayed
by such legitimate anger, restored his calmness.

'I have come to see my child,' he answered; 'why was I not warned?'

The old lady, who had remained rigidly erect, seemed to understand on
her side also that passion might place her in a position of inferiority.

'I had no reason to warn you,' she replied; 'I was waiting for
Geneviève to request me to do so.'

'And she did not ask you?'

'No.'

All at once Marc fancied that he understood the position. In the person
of his wife the Church had not only striven to kill the loving woman,
it had wished to kill the mother also. If Geneviève, on the eve of her
delivery, had not returned to him in accordance with his hopes, if she
had hidden herself away as if she were ashamed, the reason must be
that her child had been imputed to her as a crime. In order to keep
her in that house they must have filled her mind with fear and horror,
as if she were guilty of some sin, for which she would never obtain
absolution unless she severed every tie that had united her to Satan.

'Is the baby a boy?' Marc asked.

'Yes, a boy.'

'Where is he? I wish to see and kiss him.'

'He is no longer here.'

'No longer here!'

'No, he was baptised yesterday under the name of the blessed Saint
Clément, and has gone away to be nursed.'

'But that is a crime!' Marc cried, with a pang of grief. 'It is not
right to baptise a child without its father's consent, or to send it
away, abduct it in that fashion! What! Geneviève, Geneviève, who nursed
Louise with such motherly delight, is not to nurse her little Clément!'

Madame Duparque, still fully retaining her composure, gave a little
grunt of satisfaction, pleased as she was in her rancour to see him
suffer. 'A Catholic mother,' she answered, 'always has the right to
have her child baptised, particularly when she has reason to suspect
that its salvation may be imperilled by its father's atheism. And as
for keeping the child here, there could be no thought of such a thing;
it would have done neither the child itself, nor anybody, any good.'

Things were indeed such as Marc had fancied. The child had been
regarded as the progeny of the devil, its birth had been awaited like
that of Antichrist, and it had been necessary to baptise it, and send
it away with all speed in order to avert the greatest misfortunes.
Later, it might be taken back, an attempt might be made to consecrate
it to the Deity and make a priest of it, in order to appease the divine
anger. In this wise the pious little home of the Place des Capucins
would not undergo the shame of sheltering that child, its father
would not soil the house by coming to kiss it, and as it would not be
constantly before its mother's eyes the latter would be delivered from
remorseful thoughts.

Marc, however, having by an effort calmed himself, exclaimed firmly: 'I
wish to see Geneviève.'

With equal decision Madame Duparque replied: 'You cannot see her.'

'I wish to see Geneviève,' he repeated. 'Where is she? Upstairs in her
old room? I shall know how to find her.'

He was already walking towards the door when the grandmother barred
his passage. 'You cannot see her, it is impossible,' said she. 'You
do not wish to kill her, do you? The sight of you would give her the
most terrible shock. She nearly died during her accouchement. For two
days past she has been pale as death, unable to speak. At the least
feverishness she loses her senses, the child had to be taken away
without letting her see it. Ah! you may be proud of your work; Heaven
chastises all whom you have contaminated!'

Then Marc, no longer restraining himself, relieved his heart in low
and quivering words: 'You evil woman! you have grown old in practising
the dark cruelty of your Deity, and now you seek to annihilate your
posterity.... You will pursue the work of withering your race as long
as it retains in its flesh one drop of blood, one spark of human
kindness. Ever since her widowhood you have banished your daughter
here from life and its sweetness, you have deprived her of even the
strength to speak and complain. And if your granddaughter is dying
upstairs, as the result of having been wrenched from her husband and
her child, it is also because you agreed to it, for you alone served as
the instrument of the abominable authors of this crime.... Ah! yes, my
poor, my adored Geneviève, how many lies, how many frightful impostures
were needed to take her from me! And here she has been so stupefied,
so perverted by black bigotry and senseless practices that she is no
longer woman, nor wife, nor mother. Her husband is the devil, whom she
may never see again lest she should fall into hell; her babe is the
offspring of sin, and she would be in peril of damnation should she
give it her breast.... Well, listen, such crimes will not be carried
out to the very end. Life always regains the upper hand, it drives away
the darkness and its delirious nightmares at each fresh dawn. You will
be vanquished, I am convinced of it, and I even feel less horror than
pity for you, wretched old woman that you are, without either mind or
heart!'

Madame Duparque had listened, preserving her usual expression of
haughty severity, and not even attempting to interrupt. 'Is that all!'
she now inquired. 'I am aware that you have no feelings of respect.
As you deny God, how could one expect you to show any deference for
a grandmother's white hair? Nevertheless, in order to show you how
mistaken you are in accusing me of cloistering Geneviève, I will let
you pass.... Go upstairs to her, kill her at your ease, you alone will
be responsible for the fearful agony into which the sight of you will
cast her.'

As she finished the old lady moved away from the door, and, returning
to her seat near the window, resumed her knitting without the slightest
sign of emotion, such as might have made another's hands tremble.

Marc on his side for a moment remained motionless, bewildered, at a
loss what to do. Was it possible for him to see Geneviève, talk to
her, strive to convince her and win her back at such a time as this?
He realised how inopportune, how perilous even, such an effort would
be. So without a word of adieu he slowly went towards the door. But a
sudden thought made him turn.

'Since the child is no longer here, give me the address of the nurse,'
he said.

Madame Duparque returned no answer, but continued to manipulate her
knitting needles with her long, withered fingers in the same regular
fashion as before.

'You won't give me the nurse's address?' Marc repeated.

There came a fresh pause, and at last the old woman ended by saying:
'It is not my business to give it you. Go and ask Geneviève for it,
since your idea is to kill the poor child.'

Fury then overcame Marc. He sprang to the window and shouted in the
grandmother's impassive face: 'You must give me the nurse's address
this moment, at once!'

She, however, was still silently braving him with her clear eyes
fixed upon his face when Madame Berthereau, now utterly distracted,
intervened. At the outset of the dispute she had stubbornly kept her
head bent over her embroidery, like one who was resigned to everything,
who had become cowardly, and wished to avoid compromising herself for
fear of great personal worries. But when Marc, while reproaching Madame
Duparque with her harsh and fanatical tyranny, had alluded to all that
she herself had suffered since her widowhood in that bigoted home, she
had yielded to increasing emotion, to the tears which, long forced
back, again rose from her heart and almost choked her. She forgot some
of her silent timidity; after long years she raised her head once more,
and became impassioned. And when she heard her mother refuse to give
that poor, robbed, tortured man the address of his child's nurse, she
at last rebelled, and cried the address aloud:

'The nurse is a Madame Delorme, at Dherbecourt, near Valmarie!'

At this, suddenly roused from her rigidity, Madame Duparque sprang to
her feet with the nimbleness of a young woman, waving her arm the while
as if to strike down the audacious creature whom she still treated as a
child, though she was more than fifty years old.

'Who allowed you to speak, my girl? Are you going to relapse into your
past weakness?' she cried. 'Are years of penitence powerless to efface
the fault of a wicked marriage? Take care! Sin is still within you, I
feel it is so, in spite of all your apparent resignation. Why did you
speak without my orders?'

For a moment Madame Berthereau, who still quivered with love and pity,
was able to resist. 'I spoke,' said she, 'because my heart bleeds and
protests. We have no right to refuse Marc the nurse's address.... Yes,
yes, what we have done is abominable!'

'Be quiet!' cried her mother furiously.

'I say that it was abominable to separate the wife from the husband,
and then to separate the child from both.... Never would Berthereau, my
poor dead husband, who loved me so much, never would he have allowed
love to be slain like that, had he been alive.'

'Be quiet! Be quiet!'

Erect, looking taller than ever in the vigorous leanness of her three
and seventy years, the old woman repeated that cry in such an imperious
voice that her white-haired daughter, seized with terror, surrendered,
and again bent her head over her embroidery. And heavy silence fell
while she shook with a slight convulsive tremor, and tears coursed
slowly down her withered cheeks, which so many other tears, shed
secretly, had ravaged.

Marc had been thunderstruck by the sudden outburst of that poignant
family drama, the existence of which he hitherto had merely suspected.
He felt intense sympathy for that sad widow who, for more than ten
years past, had been hebetated, crushed down by maternal despotism,
exercised in the name of a jealous and revengeful God. And if the poor
woman had not defended his Geneviève, if she had abandoned her and him
to the dark fury of the terrible grandmother, he forgave her for her
shuddering cowardice on seeing how greatly she suffered herself.

But Madame Duparque had again recovered her quiet composure. 'You
see, sir,' she said, 'your presence here brings scandal and violence.
Everything you touch becomes corrupt, your breath suffices to taint
the atmosphere of the spot where you are. Here is my daughter, who had
never ventured to raise her voice against me, but as soon as you enter
the house she lapses into disobedience and insult.... Go, sir, go to
your dirty work! Leave honest folk alone, and work for your filthy Jew,
though he will end by rotting where he is, it is I who predict it, for
God will never suffer his venerable servants to be defeated.'

In spite of the emotion which made him quiver, Marc could not refrain
from smiling as he heard those last words. 'Ah! you have come to the
point,' he said, gently. 'The affair, alone, is at the bottom of all
this, is it not so? And it is the friend, the defender of Simon who
must be annihilated by dint of persecution and moral torture. Well,
take heed of this, make no mistake; sooner or later truth and justice
will win the victory, Simon will some day leave his prison, and the
real culprits, the liars, the workers of darkness and death, will some
day be swept away with their temples whence for ages past they have
terrorised and stupefied mankind!'

Then, turning towards Madame Berthereau, who had sunk once more into
silent prostration, he added yet more gently: 'And I shall wait for
Geneviève. Tell her when she is able to understand you that I am
waiting for her. I shall wait as long as she is not restored to me.
Even if it be only after years, she will come back to me, I know it....
Suffering does not count; it is necessary to suffer a great deal to win
the day, and to enjoy, at last, a little happiness.'

Then, with his heart lacerated, swollen with bitterness, yet retaining
its courage, he withdrew. Madame Duparque had resumed her everlasting
knitting, and it seemed to Marc that the little house he quitted sank
once more into the cold gloom which came to it from the neighbouring
church.

A month slipped away. Mark learnt that Geneviève was slowly recovering.
One Sunday Pélagie came for Louise, who in the evening told her father
that she had found her mother looking very thin and broken, but able
to go downstairs and seat herself at table, with the others, in the
little dining-room. Fresh hope then came to Marc, the hope of seeing
Geneviève return to him as soon as she should be able to walk from the
Place des Capucins to the school. Assuredly she must have reflected,
her heart must have awakened during her sufferings. Thus he started at
the slightest sound he heard, imagining it was she. But the weeks went
by, and the invisible hands which had taken her from him were doubtless
barricading the doors and windows in order to detain her yonder. He
then sank into deep sadness, though without losing his invincible
faith, his conviction that he would yet conquer by force of truth and
love. He found consolation during those dark days in going, as often as
possible, to see his little son Clément, at the nurse's, in that pretty
village of Dherbecourt, which looked so fresh and bright amid the
meadows of the Verpille, among the poplar and willow trees. He there
spent a delightfully comforting hour, hoping perhaps that some happy
chance would lead to a meeting with Geneviève beside the dear baby's
cradle. But she was said to be still too weak to go to see her son,
whom the nurse took to her on appointed days.

From that time Marc remained waiting. Nearly a year had elapsed
since the Court of Cassation had begun its inquiry, which had been
retarded by all sorts of complications, impeded by many obstacles,
which were incessantly arising, thanks to the subterranean craft of
the evil powers. At the Lehmanns' house, after the keen delight which
had welcomed the first judgment ordering the inquiry, despair was
reappearing now that things moved so slowly and the news of Simon
was so bad. The Court, while deeming it useless to have him brought
back to France immediately, had caused him to be informed that it
was considering the revision of his case. But in what state would
he return? Would he not succumb to his long sufferings before that
constantly adjourned return could be effected? Even David, who was so
firm and brave, now felt frightened. And the whole region suffered
from that long wait full of anguish; it ravaged Maillebois like an
exhausting crisis, the prolongation of which kept all social life in
suspense. And it began to turn to the advantage of the anti-Simonists,
who had recovered from the effects of the terrible discovery made at
Father Philibin's. By degrees, availing themselves of the slowness of
the proceedings and the false news prompted by the very secrecy of
the inquiry, they again made a show of triumphing, and prophesied the
certain and crushing overthrow of the Simonists. The lies and insults
of great occasions again found place in the infamous articles of _Le
Petit Beaumontais_. Then, at a ceremony in honour of St. Antony of
Padua, Father Théodose, speaking from the pulpit, ventured to allude
to God's approaching triumph over the accursed race of Judas. Brother
Fulgence, also, was again seen rushing like a whirlwind along the
streets and across the squares, seemingly very busy and exultant, as if
indeed he were dragging the chariot of the Church behind him in some
triumphal procession.

As for Brother Gorgias, whom the Congregations began to consider a
very compromising personage, attempts were made to cloister him as
much as possible, though his friends did not yet dare to conjure him
away into some safe retreat, like Father Philibin. In this matter, as
it happened, Brother Gorgias was not an easy customer to deal with,
he delighted to show himself and astonish people by playing the part
of a holy man who negotiated his salvation direct with Heaven. On two
occasions he created a scandal by boxing the ears of some children who
did not preserve a sufficiently sanctimonious demeanour on quitting
the Brothers' school. Thus Mayor Philis, who, being a punctilious
formalist, was scared by the other's extraordinary and violent piety,
thought it his duty to intervene in the very interests of religion.
The question came before the Municipal Council, where, by the way,
Darras, still in a minority, was now evincing the more prudence as he
did not despair of becoming Mayor again, with a larger majority than
formerly, should the Simon case only turn out well. Meantime he avoided
all occasions of speaking of it, keeping his lips sealed, feeling very
anxious whenever he saw the monks and the priests again taking the
side of the wall in Maillebois, as if it were for ever their conquered
possession.

But bad though the news might be, Marc forced himself to remain
hopeful. He was very much encouraged by the brave fidelity of his
assistant, Mignot, who each day took a larger share in his life of
devotion and battle. A singular moral phenomenon had manifested itself
in this transformation in which one observed the slowly increasing
influence of a master over a disciple, who at first had rebelled,
then had been won back and gradually absorbed. In former times nobody
would have suspected there was such heroic stuff in Mignot as now
began to appear. In the affair he had behaved in a most equivocal
manner, helping on the charges against Simon, and particularly
endeavouring to avoid everything compromising. It had seemed as if
his only thoughts were of his own advancement. Neither good nor bad,
he had been liable at that time to turn out well or ill, according to
circumstances and associates. And Marc had come, and had proved to
be the man of intellect and will who was to decide the fate of that
conscience, embellish it, and raise it to a perception of truth and
justice. The lesson shone forth, luminous and positive; example, the
teaching of a hero, sufficed to make other heroes arise from among the
vague dim masses of average folk. On two occasions during the last ten
years there had been a desire to appoint Mignot as head-master in a
neighbouring little village, but he had declined the offer, preferring
to remain by the side of Marc, whose influence over him had become
so great that he spoke of never leaving him, of remaining to the end
his faithful disciple, resolutely sharing his victory or defeat. In
the same way, after postponing in a spirit of expectant prudence the
question whether he would marry or not, he had decided to remain a
bachelor, saying that it was too late for him to seek a wife, and that
his pupils had now become his family. Besides, did he not take his
meals at Marc's, where he was greeted as a brother, making that home
his own, and enjoying all the delights of the nearest ties, those which
are drawn closer and closer as, by degrees, one thinks and feels the
same as one's fellow?

Thus the slow sundering of Marc and Geneviève had proved extremely
painful to Mignot, and since Geneviève's departure he was in despair.
He now again took his meals at a neighbouring eating house in order not
to increase the embarrassment of that stricken home where no housewife
was left. But he gave proof of respectful affection for his principal,
and endeavoured to console him. If he did not join him and keep him
company every evening after dinner, it was from a delicate feeling
of discretion, an unwillingness to obtrude himself when Marc was
alone with his daughter. He held back also when Mademoiselle Mazeline
was there, feeling that she would prove more useful to the forsaken
husband, more expert, with her sisterly hands, in assuaging the pain of
his wounds. And when he saw Marc plunging into the deepest melancholy,
ready to surrender to his sufferings, he as yet knew of only one way of
bringing joy and hope to his face again, which was to reproach himself
with his testimony at Simon's former trial, and vow that at the coming
one he would publicly relieve his conscience and cry the truth aloud!
Ah! yes, he would swear that Simon was innocent, he was convinced of it
now that a stream of light had illumined his memory.

However, the slow progress made by the Court of Cassation continued
to encourage the anti-Simonists in their desperate campaign, and
the onslaught of slander directed against Marc became fiercer than
ever. One morning a rumour spread through Maillebois that he and
Mademoiselle Mazeline had been seen under circumstances which left no
doubt whatever of their guilt. And ignoble particulars were given, the
inventions, evidently, of overheated pious minds. At the same time
the story remained unreal, for it was impossible to find a single
witness, and different versions began to circulate, contradictory in
character though tending to make the affair appear yet more horrible.
It was Mignot who, feeling very anxious, ventured to warn Marc of the
gravity of the scandal; and this time it was not sufficient for the
schoolmaster to meet the ignominious charges of his enemies with the
haughty silence of disdain. He spent a frightful day, wrestling with
his feelings, his heart rent by the fresh sacrifice which his work
demanded of him. When twilight came, however, he had made up his mind;
and, according to habit, he repaired to the little garden where he
spent such a pleasant and comforting hour every evening in the company
of Mademoiselle Mazeline. And as she was already there, also looking
very thoughtful and sad as she sat under the lilac bushes, he took a
seat in front of her. For a moment he looked at her without speaking;
then he said:

'My dear friend, something has happened which grieves me very much,
and I wish to relieve my heart before Louise joins us.... We cannot
continue meeting every day, as we have done. I even think we should
do well if we abstained in future from all intercourse.... It is a
question of real farewell; it is necessary we should part, my friend.'

She had listened without giving any sign of surprise; it was as if
she had known beforehand what he wished to say. Indeed, in a sad
but courageous voice she answered: 'Yes, my friend, it was for that
very farewell that I came here this evening. There is no necessity
for you to urge me to it, for, like you, I feel that it is a painful
necessity.... Somebody has told me everything. In presence of such
infamy our only weapons are abnegation and renouncement.'

A long interval of silence fell under the broad, calm sky, where
the daylight was slowly dying. A penetrating odour came from the
wallflowers, while a little freshness returned to the grass,
warmed by the sunshine. And Marc resumed, in an undertone: 'Those
unfortunate men who live outside the pale of simple nature and good
sense can in no wise deal with man and woman without imputing to them
the filth harboured by their own minds, which the idea of sin has
perverted. For them woman is but a she-devil, whose contact corrupts
everything--tenderness, affection, friendship.... I had foreseen what
has happened, but I turned a deaf ear to it all, unwilling as I was to
give them the satisfaction of seeing that I heeded their slanders. But
if I myself can afford to shrug my shoulders, there is the question of
you, my friend, and that of Louise, who, so I heard to-day, is likewise
being assailed with this mud.... Thus they are again victorious, and
will rejoice at having added another great grief to all the others.'

'For me it will be the hardest of all,' Mademoiselle Mazeline answered,
with much emotion. 'I shall not merely lose the pleasure of our evening
conversations; I shall have the sorrow of feeling that I am of no
further use to you, and have left you yet more lonely and unhappy.
Forgive me for that vain thought, my friend; but it made me so happy
to help you in your work, and to fancy I gave you some comfort and
support! And now I shall never think of you without picturing you
forsaken, alone--even friendless.... Ah! there are certainly some very
detestable people in the world.'

Marc made a trembling gesture, which betrayed his grief. 'It was what
they wished to do,' said he; 'yes, they wished to isolate me and reduce
me by turning every affection around me into a void. And I will admit
to you that this is the only wound which really makes me suffer. All
the rest, the attacks, the insults, the threats, spur me on, intoxicate
me with a desire to become heroic. But to be struck in the person of
those who belong to me, to see them soiled, poisoned, cast as victims
among the cruelty and shame of the struggle--that is a frightful thing,
which tortures me and makes me cowardly.... They have taken my poor
wife, now they are separating you from me, and--I quite expect it--they
will end by carrying off my daughter.'

Mademoiselle Mazeline, whose eyes were filling with tears, endeavoured
to silence him. 'Take care, my friend,' she said; 'here is Louise
coming.'

But he quickly retorted: 'I need not take care. I was waiting for her.
She must be told what has been decided.' And as the smiling girl came
forward and seated herself between them, he added: 'My darling, in a
moment you must make a little nosegay for Mademoiselle. I want her
to have a few of our flowers before I bolt the door between the two
gardens.'

'Bolt the door--why, father?'

'Because Mademoiselle must not come here again. Our friend is being
taken from us, as your mother was taken.'

Louise remained thoughtful and grave during the deep silence which
followed. After looking at her father, she looked at Mademoiselle
Mazeline. But she asked for no explanations; she seemed to understand,
all sorts of precocious thoughts passed like faint shadows over the
pure and lofty brow which she had inherited from her father, while
loving distress softened her eyes.

'I will go and make the nosegay,' she said at last, 'and you shall give
it to Mademoiselle, father.'

Then, while the girl went seeking the freshest flowers along the
borders, the others spent a few sad yet sweet minutes together. They
no longer spoke, but their thoughts mingled in brotherly, sisterly
fashion, thoughts which dwelt only on the happiness of others, the
reconciliation of the sexes, the education and liberation of woman, who
in her turn would liberate man. And this was human solidarity in all
its broadness, with all the binding and absolute ties which friendship
can set between two creatures, man and woman, apart from love. He was
her brother, she was his sister. Thus did they ponder; and the night,
which was falling more and more swiftly over the balmy garden, brought
them a restful freshness amid their sorrow.

'Here is the nosegay, father,' said Louise, approaching; 'I have tied
it with a bit of grass.'

Then Mademoiselle Mazeline stood up, and Marc gave her the nosegay. All
three next went towards the door. When they reached it, they remained
standing there, still saying nothing, but simply feeling happy at
delaying their parting for a moment. At last Marc set the door wide
open, and Mademoiselle Mazeline, after passing into her own garden,
turned round and, for the last time, looked at Marc, whose daughter had
cast her arms about him while resting her head against his shoulder.

'Good-bye, my friend.'

'Good-bye, my friend.'

That was all, the door was slowly closed; and on either side the bolts
were gently pushed forward. But they had become rusty, and raised a
little plaintive cry, which seemed very sad. Everything was over, blind
hatred had slain something that was good and consoling.

Another month elapsed. Marc now had only his daughter beside him,
and he felt his abandonment and solitude increasing. Louise, of
course, still attended Mademoiselle Mazeline's school, and under
the inquisitive eyes of the girls the mistress tried to evince no
preference for her, but to treat her exactly as she treated the others.
The child no longer lingered behind after class-time, but hastened home
to prepare her lessons beside her father. And if the schoolmaster and
the schoolmistress happened to meet, they merely bowed to each other,
refraining from any exchange of words, apart from such as might be
necessitated by their duties.

This attitude was very much remarked and discussed in Maillebois.
Reasonable people were pleased to see they did their best to put an
end to the horrid reports which had been circulated: but the others
sneered, saying that it was all very well to save appearances, but
this did not prevent the lovers from meeting secretly. Thus infamous
reports again began to circulate. When Marc heard of them from Mignot
he sank into bitter discouragement. There came hours when, his courage
failing, he asked of what use it was for him to wreck his life and
renounce every happiness, if no sacrifice was to be held in account by
the malicious. Never had his solitude been so bitter, so hard to bear.
As soon as at nightfall he found himself alone with Louise in the cold,
deserted house, despair came over him at the thought that if he should
some day lose his child nobody would be left to love him and warm his
heart.

The girl lighted the lamp and seated herself at her little table,
saying: 'Papa, I am going to write my history exercise, before I go to
bed.'

'That's right, my darling, work,' he answered.

Then, amid the deep silence of the empty house, anguish came upon him.
He could no longer continue correcting his pupils' exercises, but rose
and walked heavily up and down the room. In this wise he long went on
tramping to and fro in the gloom beyond the circle of light which fell
from the lamp-shade. And, at times, as he passed behind his daughter
he leant over her, and brusquely kissed her hair, tears gathering the
while in his eyes.

'Oh! what is the matter, papa?' asked Louise. 'You are distressing
yourself again.'

A hot tear had fallen on her brow. Then, turning round, she took hold
of her father with her caressing arms and compelled him to sit down
near her. 'It is not reasonable of you, papa, to distress yourself like
that when we are alone,' she said. 'You are so brave in the daytime,
but one would think you felt frightened in the evening, just as I used
to do when I did not like to remain without a light.... But as you have
work to do, you ought to work.'

He tried to laugh. 'So it is you who are now the sensible grown-up
person, my darling,' said he. 'But you are right, certainly; I will get
to work again.'

Then, however, as he continued looking at her, his eyes again clouded,
and he once more began to kiss her hair, wildly, distractedly.

'What is the matter? What is the matter?' she stammered, deeply
stirred, and, in her turn, shedding tears. 'Why do you kiss me like
that, papa?'

In quivering accents he then confessed his terror, acknowledged how
menacing he found all the surrounding gloom: 'Ah, if at least you
remain with me, my child, if at least they do not rob me of you as
well.'

She could find no answer to that plaint, but she caressed him, and they
wept together. At last, having succeeded in inducing him to turn to his
pupils' exercises, she herself reverted to her history lesson. But when
a few minutes had elapsed anxiety came on Marc again, he was compelled
to rise from his chair, and walk, walk, without a pause. One might have
thought he was pursuing his lost happiness athwart all the silence and
darkness of his wrecked home.

Louise had lately completed her thirteenth year, so that the time
when the first Communion is usually made had quite come; and all the
devotees of Maillebois were indignant to see such a big girl remaining
religionless, refusing to go to confession, and no longer even
attending Mass. And naturally she was compassionately called a victim,
crushed down beneath the brutal authority of her father, who by way of
sacrilege, it was said, made her spit on the crucifix every morning and
evening. Moreover, Mademoiselle Mazeline assuredly gave her lessons
of diabolical depravity. But was it not a crime to leave that poor
girl's soul in a state of perdition, in the power of two of the damned,
whose notorious misconduct horrified every conscience? Thus, there was
talk of energetic action, of organising demonstrations to compel that
unnatural father to restore the daughter to her mother, the pious woman
whom he had driven away by the loathsome baseness of his life.

Accustomed as Marc was to insults, he only felt anxious when he thought
of the violent scenes to which Louise must be subjected at the ladies'
house. Her mother, still in an ailing state, was content to treat her
coldly, with silent sadness, leaving Madame Duparque to thunder in
the name of her angry Deity, and quicken the infernal flames under
Satan's cauldrons. Ought not a big girl, already in her fourteenth
year, to feel ashamed of living like a savage, like one of those dogs,
who know nothing of religion and are driven from the churches? Was she
not frightened by the thought of the eternal chastisement which would
fall on her, the boiling oil, the iron forks, the red hot hooks, the
prospect of being lacerated, boiled, and roasted during thousands after
thousands of centuries? When Louise, on returning home in the evening,
told Marc of those threats, he shuddered to think that such attempts
should be made to capture her conscience by fright, and tried to read
her eyes in order to ascertain if she were shaken.

She at times seemed moved, but then things which were really too
abominable were told her. And in her quiet, sensible way she would
remark: 'It is really droll, papa, that the good God should be so
spiteful! Grandmamma said to-day that if I once missed going to Mass
the devil would cut my feet into little pieces through all eternity....
It would be very unjust; besides, it seems to me hardly possible.'

After such remarks her father felt a little easier in mind. Unwilling
as he was to do any violence to his daughter's growing intelligence,
he entered into no direct discussion of the strange lessons which
she received at the ladies' house; he contented himself with some
general teaching, based on reason, and appealing to the child's sense
of truth, justice, and kindness. He was delighted by the precocious
wakening of good sense which he noticed in her, a craving for logic and
certainty which she must have inherited from him. It was with joy that
he saw a woman with a clear, strong mind and a tender heart already
emerging from the weak girl, who still retained in many respects the
childishness of her years. And if he felt anxious, it was from a fear
lest the promise of a beautiful harvest should be destroyed. He only
recovered his calmness when the girl astonished him by reasoning things
as if she were already a grown woman full of sense.

'Oh! I am very polite, you know, with grandmamma,' she said one day. 'I
tell her that if I do not go to confession or make my first Communion,
it is because I am waiting till I am twenty years old, as you asked me
to do.... That seems to me very reasonable. And, by keeping to that,
I am very strong; for when one has reason on one's side one is always
very strong, is it not so?'

At times, too, in spite of her affection and deference for her mother,
she said with a smile, in a gentle, jesting way: 'You remember, papa,
that mamma said she would explain the Catechism to me, and I answered
her, "Yes, mamma, you shall hear me my lessons. You know that I try
my best to understand." Well, as I never understood anything at
the Catechism class, mamma wished to explain matters to me. But,
unfortunately, I still understand nothing whatever of it.... It puts
me into great embarrassment. I feel afraid I may grieve her, and all I
can do is to pretend that I suddenly understand something. But I must
look very stupid, for she always interrupts the lesson as if she were
angry, and calls me foolish.... The other day, when she was talking of
the mystery of the Incarnation, she repeated that it was not a question
of understanding but of believing; and as I unluckily told her that
I could not believe without understanding, she said that was one of
your phrases, papa, and that the devil would take both of us.... Oh, I
cried, I cried!'

She smiled, however, as she spoke of it, and added in a lower tone:
'Instead of making me think more as mamma does, the Catechism has
rather taken me away from her ideas. There are too many things in it
that worry my mind. It is wrong of mamma to try to force them into my
head.'

Her father could have kissed her. Was he to have the joy of finding
in his daughter an exception, one of those well-balanced little minds
that ripen early, in which sense seems to grow as in some propitious
soil? Other girls, at that troublous hour of maidenhood, are still so
childish and so greatly disturbed by the quiver which comes upon them
that they easily fall a prey to fairy tales and mystical reveries.
How rare would be his luck if his own girl should escape the fate of
her companions, whom the Church seized and conquered at a disturbing
hour of life. Tall, strong, and very healthy, she was already a young
woman, though there were days when she became quite childish once more,
amusing herself with trifles, saying silly things, returning to her
doll, with which she held extraordinary conversations. And on those
days anxiety came back to her father; he trembled as he observed that
there was still so much puerility in her nature, and wondered if the
others might not yet steal her from him, and end by obscuring her mind,
whose dawn was so limpid and so fresh.

'Ah, yes, papa, what my doll said just now was very silly! But what can
you expect? She's not very sensible yet.'

'And do you hope to make her sensible, my darling?'

'I scarcely know. Her head is so hard. With Bible history she does
fairly well; she can recite that by heart. But with grammar and
arithmetic she is a real blockhead.'

Then she laughed. That sorry home might be empty and icy cold, she
none the less filled it with childish gaiety, as sonorous as April's
trumpet-wind. But the days went by, and with the lapse of time Louise
became more serious and thoughtful. On returning from her Thursday and
Sunday visits to her mother she sank into long, silent reveries. Of an
evening, while she was working beside the lamp, she paused at times to
give her father a long look, full of sorrowful affection. And at last
came that which was bound to come.

It was a warm evening, and a storm was threatening, the heavens
were heavy with a mass of inky clouds. The father and the daughter,
according to their habit, sat working in the little circular patch of
light which fell from the lamp-shade; and through the window, set wide
open upon the dark and slumbering town, some moths flew in, they alone
disturbing the profound silence with the slight quiver of their wings.
Louise, who had spent the afternoon at the house on the Place des
Capucins, seemed very tired. It was as if her brow was laden with some
weighty thought. Leaning over her exercise paper, she ceased writing
and reflected. And, at last, making up her mind to set down her pen,
she spoke out amid the deep, mournful quietude of the house.

'Papa, I want to tell you something which grieves me very much. I shall
certainly cause you very great, great sorrow; and that is why I did not
have the courage to tell you of it before. But I have made up my mind
now not to go to bed before telling you of what I want to do--for it
seems to me so reasonable and necessary.'

Marc had immediately looked up, a pang, a feeling of terror coming
to his heart, for by the girl's tremulous voice he guessed that the
supreme disaster was at hand. 'What is it, my darling?' he asked.

'Well, papa, I have been turning the matter over in my head all day,
and it seems to me that, if you think as I do, I ought to go and live
with mamma at grandmother's.'

Marc, thoroughly upset, began by protesting violently: 'What, think
as you do! No, no, I won't allow it! I mean to keep you here, I will
prevent you from forsaking me.'

'Oh! papa,' she murmured distressfully, 'think it over, only just a
little, and you will see that I am right.'

But he did not listen, he had risen and was walking wildly about the
dim room. 'I have only you left me, and you think of going away! My
wife has been taken from me, and now my daughter is to be taken, and
I am to remain alone, stripped, forsaken, without an affection left!
Ah! I felt that this _coup de grâce_ was coming, I foresaw that those
abominable hands, working in the darkness, would tear away the last
shred of my heart.... But no! no! this is too much, never will I
consent to such a separation!'

And stopping short before his daughter, he continued roughly: 'Have you
also had your mind and heart spoilt that you no longer love me?... At
each of your visits to your grandmother's I am put on trial--is it not
so?--and infamous things are said about me in order to detach you from
me. It is a question--eh?--of saving you from the damned and restoring
you to the good friends of those ladies, who will turn you into a
hypocrite and a lunatic.... And you listen to my enemies, and yield to
their constant obsession by forsaking me.'

Louise, in despair, her eyes full of tears, raised her hands
entreatingly. 'Papa, papa, calm yourself!' she cried. 'I assure you
that you are mistaken, mamma has never allowed anything evil to be said
about you before me. Grandmother, no doubt, does not like you, and she
would often do well to keep quiet when I am there. It would be telling
a falsehood to say that she does not do all she can to get me to join
mamma and live with her. But I swear to you that neither she nor any
of the others has anything to do with what I propose.... You know very
well that I never tell you stories. It is I myself who have thought it
all over, and come to the conclusion that our separation would be a
good and sensible thing.'

'A good thing--that you should forsake me! Why, it would kill me!'

'No, you will understand--and you are so brave!... Sit down and listen
to me.'

She gently compelled him to seat himself again in front of her. And,
taking his hands in hers caressingly, she reasoned with him like a
shrewd little woman.

'Everybody at grandmother's,' said she, 'is convinced that you alone
turn me away from religion. You weigh on me, it is said, you impose
your ideas on me, and if I could only escape from you I should go to
confession to-morrow and make my first Communion.... So why should I
not prove to them that they are mistaken? To-morrow I will go and live
at grandmother's, and then they will see for themselves, they will
have to admit how mistaken they have been, for nothing will prevent
me from giving them always the same answer: "I have promised not to
make my first Communion before I am twenty, in order that the full
responsibility of such an action may be mine only, and I shall keep my
promise, I shall wait."'

Marc made a gesture of doubt. 'My poor child,' said he, 'you don't know
them, they will have broken down your resistance and have conquered you
in a few weeks' time. You are still only a little girl.'

In her turn Louise rebelled. 'Ah! it is not nice of you, papa, to think
there is so little seriousness in me! I am a little girl, it is true,
but your little girl, and proud of it!'

She spoke those words with such childish bravery that he could not
help smiling. That darling daughter, in whom he every now and again
recognised himself, in whom he found thoughtfulness and logic blended
with passionate earnestness, warmed his heart. He looked at her, and
found her very pretty and very sensible, with a face which was both
firm and proud, and bright eyes, whose frankness was admirable. And he
continued listening while she, keeping his hands in her own, set forth
the reasons which prompted her to join her mother in the devout little
house of the Place des Capucins. Without any reference to the frightful
slanders which were current, she let him understand that it would
be well for them not to brave public opinion. As people said on all
sides that her right place was at the ladies' house, she was willing
to repair thither; and though she was only thirteen years of age, she
would certainly be its most sensible inmate, folk would see if the work
she did there did not prove the best.

'No matter, my child,' Marc said at last with an air of great
lassitude, 'you will never convince me of the necessity of a rupture
between you and me.'

She felt that he was weakening. 'But it is not a rupture papa,' she
exclaimed; 'I have gone to see mamma twice a week, and I shall come to
see you, more often than that, too.... Besides, don't you understand?
Perhaps mamma will listen to me a little when I am beside her. I shall
speak to her of you, I shall tell her how much you still love her, how
you weep for her. And--who knows?--she will reflect, and perhaps I
shall bring her back to you.'

Then the tears of both began to flow. They gave way to their emotion
in each other's arms. The father was upset by the deep charm of that
daughter in whom so much puerility still mingled with so much sense,
goodness, and hopefulness. And the girl yielded to her heart, like one
ripened before her time by things of which she was vaguely conscious,
but which she would have been unable to explain.

'Do, then, as you please,' Marc ended by stammering amid his tears.
'But if I yield, don't think that I approve, for my whole being rebels
and protests.'

That was the last evening they spent together. The warm night remained
of an inky blackness. There seemed to be not a breath of air. And
not a sound came through the open window from the resting town. Only
the silent moths flew in, scorching themselves by contact with the
lamp. The storm did not burst, and until very late the father and the
daughter, speaking no further, remained, one in front of the other,
seated at their table, as if busy with their work, but simply happy at
being together yet a little longer, amid the far-spreading peaceful
quietude.

How frightful, however, did the following evening prove for Marc! His
daughter had left him, and he was absolutely alone in that empty and
dismal dwelling. After the wife, the child--he had nobody to love him
now, all his heart had been torn from him, bit by bit. Moreover, in
order that he might not even have the consolation of friendship, he
had been compelled, by base slanders, to cease all intercourse with
the one woman whose lofty sisterly mind might have sustained him. The
complete wrecking of his life, of the approach of which he had long
been conscious, was now effected; the stealthy work of destruction,
performed by hateful, invisible hands bent on undermining him and
throwing him down on the ruins of his own work, was accomplished.
And now, no doubt, the others believed they held him, bleeding from
a hundred wounds, tortured and forsaken, strengthless in his blasted
dwelling, that soiled and deserted home, where he was left in agony.
And, indeed, on that first evening of solitude he was really a beaten
man, and his enemies might well have thought him at their mercy had
they been able to see him coming and going in the pale twilight with a
staggering gait, like some wretched stricken beast seeking a shadowy
nook there to lie down and die.

The times were, in truth, frightful. The worst possible news was
current respecting the inquiry of the Court of Cassation, whose
slowness seemed to hide a desire to bury the affair. In vain had Marc
hitherto compelled himself to hope: each day his dread increased
lest he should hear of Simon's death before the revision of the case
should be an accomplished fact. During that mournful time he pictured
everything as lost, revision rejected, his long efforts proving
useless, truth and justice finally slain--an execrable social crime, a
shameful catastrophe, which would engulf the whole country. The thought
of it filled him with a kind of pious horror, sent a chilling shudder
of dread through his veins. And, besides that public disaster, there
was the disaster of his own life, which weighed upon him more and more.
Now that Louise was no longer there, moving his heart with her charming
ways, inspiriting him with her precocious sense and courage, he asked
himself how he could have been mad enough to let her go to the ladies'
house. She was but a child, she would be conquered in a few weeks by
the all-powerful Church, which for ages past had been victorious over
woman. She had been taken from him; she would never be restored to him,
indeed he would never see her more. And it was he who had sent that
still defenceless victim to error. His work, he himself, and those who
belonged to him, were all annihilated; and at the thought of it he sank
into heartrending despair.

Eight o'clock struck, and Marc had not yet found the strength to seat
himself and dine alone in that room, which now had become quite dim,
when he heard a timid knock at the door. And great was his astonishment
when in came Mignot, who at first found it difficult to explain himself.

'You see, Monsieur Froment,' he began, 'as you announced to me this
morning the departure of your little Louise, an idea came to me, and
I've been turning it over in my mind all day.... So, this evening,
before going to dine at the eating house----'

He paused, seeking his words.

'What, haven't you dined yet, Mignot!' Marc exclaimed.

'Why, no, Monsieur Froment.... You see, my idea was to come and dine
with you, to keep you company a little. But I hesitated and lost
time.... If it would please you, however, now that you are alone, I
might board with you again. Two men can always agree. We could do
the cooking, and surely get through the housework together. Are you
agreeable? It would please me very much.'

A little joy had returned to Marc's heart; and, with a smile tinged
with emotion, he replied: 'I am quite willing.... You are a good
fellow, Mignot.... There, sit down, we will begin by dining together.'

And they dined, face to face, the master relapsing the while into his
bitterness of spirit, the assistant rising every now and then very
quietly to fetch a plate or a piece of bread, amid the melancholy calm
of evening.




II


Then, during the months and months that the inquiry of the Court of
Cassation lasted, Marc again had to shut himself up in his school, and
devote himself, body and soul, to his task of instructing the humble,
and rendering them more capable of truth and justice.

Among the hopes and the despairs which continued to enfever him,
according as the news he heard proved good or bad, there was one
thought that haunted him more and more. Long previously, at the very
outset of the affair, he had wondered why France, all France, did not
rise to exact the release of the innocent prisoner. One of his dearest
illusions had been his belief in a generous France, a magnanimous and
just France, which many times already had passionately espoused the
cause of equity, and which would surely prove its goodness of heart
yet once again by striving its utmost to repair the most execrable of
judicial errors. And the painful surprise he had experienced on finding
the country so stolid and indifferent after the trial at Beaumont now
increased daily, became more and more torturing; for in the earlier
stages of the affair he had been able to excuse it, realising that
people were ignorant of the true facts and poisoned with lies. But now,
when so much light had been cast on the affair, so much truth made
manifest, he could find no possible explanation for such prolonged and
such shameful slumber in iniquity. Had France been changed, then? Was
it no longer the liberator? Since it now knew the truth, why did it
not rise _en masse_, instead of remaining an obstacle, a blind, deaf
multitude barring the road?

And Marc always returned in thought to his starting-point, when the
necessity of his humble work as a schoolmaster had become apparent to
him. If France still slept the heavy sleep of conscienceless matter, it
was because France did not yet know enough. A shudder came upon him:
how many generations, how many centuries would be needed for a people,
nourished with truth, to become capable of equity? For nearly fifteen
years he had been endeavouring to train up just men, a generation
had already passed through his hands, and he asked himself what was
really the progress that had been effected. Whenever he met any of his
old pupils he chatted with them, and compared them both with their
parents, who were less freed from the original clay, and with the boys
who nowadays attended his school, and whom he hoped to free yet more
than their forerunners. Therein lay his great task, the mission he had
undertaken at a decisive hour of his life, and prosecuted throughout
all his sufferings, doubting its efficacy in occasional moments of
weariness, but on the morrow always taking it up again with renewed
faith.

One bright August evening, having strolled along the road to Valmarie
as far as Bongard's farm, Marc perceived Fernand, his former pupil,
who was returning home with a scythe on his shoulder. Fernand had
lately married Lucile, the daughter of Doloir, the mason; he now being
five-and-twenty, and she nineteen years of age. They had long been
friends, having played together in the old days on leaving school; and
that evening the young wife, a little blonde, with a gentle, smiling
demeanour, was also there, seated in the yard and mending some linen.

'Well, Fernand, are you satisfied? Is there a good crop of wheat this
year?' Marc inquired.

Fernand still had a heavy face with a hard and narrow brow, and his
words came slowly as in his childish days. 'Oh! Monsieur Froment,' he
replied, 'one can never be satisfied; there's too much worry with this
wretched land, it takes more than it gives.'

As his father, though barely fifty years of age, was already heavy
of limb, tortured by rheumatic pains, Fernand, on finishing his term
of military service, had resolved to help him, instead of seeking
employment elsewhere. And the struggle at the farm was the same bitter
one as of old, the family living from father to son on the fields
whence it seemed to have sprung, and toiling and moiling blindly in its
stubborn ignorance and neglect of progress.

'Ah! no, one is never satisfied,' Fernand slowly resumed; 'even you are
not over-pleased with things, Monsieur Froment, in spite of all you
know.'

Marc detected in those words some of the jeering contempt for knowledge
which was to be expected from a hard-headed, sleepy dunce who in his
school-days had found it difficult to remember a single lesson.
Moreover, Fernand's remark embodied a prudent allusion to the events
which were upsetting the whole region, and Marc availed himself of this
circumstance to inquire into his former pupil's views.

'Oh! I am always pleased when my boys learn their lessons fairly well,
and don't tell too many stories,' he said gaily. 'You know that very
well; just remember.... Besides, I received to-day some good news about
the affair to which I have been attending so long. Yes, the innocence
of my poor friend Simon is about to be recognised for good.'

At this Fernand manifested great embarrassment, his countenance became
heavier, and the light in his eyes died away. 'But that's not what some
folk say,' he remarked.

'What do they say, then?'

'They say that the judges have found out more things about the old
schoolmaster.'

'What things are those?'

'Oh, all sorts, it seems.'

At last Fernand consented to explain himself, and started on a
ridiculous yarn. The Jews, said he, had given a big sum of money, five
millions of francs, to their co-religionist Simon in order that he
might get a Brother of the Christian Doctrine guillotined. Simon having
failed in his plan, the five millions were lying in a hiding-place,
and the Jews were now striving to get Brother Gorgias sent to the
galleys--even if in doing so they should drown France in blood--in
order that Simon might return and dig up the treasure, the hiding-place
of which was known only to himself.

'Come, my lad,' Marc answered, quite aghast, 'surely you don't believe
such absurdity!'

'Well, why not?' rejoined the young peasant, who looked only half awake.

'Why, because your good sense ought to rebel against it. You know how
to read, you know how to write, and I flattered myself also that I had
in some degree awakened your mind and taught you how to distinguish
between truth and falsehood.... Come, come, haven't you remembered
anything of what you learnt when you were with me?'

Fernand waved his hand in a tired, careless way. 'If one had to
remember everything, Monsieur Froment, one would have one's head
too full,' he said. 'I have only told you what I hear people saying
everywhere. Folks who are far cleverer than I am give their word of
honour that it's true.... Besides, I read something like it in _Le
Petit Beaumontais_ the day before yesterday. And since it's in print
there must surely be some truth in it.'

Marc made a gesture of despair. What! he had not overcome ignorance
more than that after all his years of striving! That young fellow
remained the easiest prey for error and falsehood, he blindly accepted
the most stupid inventions, he possessed neither the freedom of mind
nor the sense of logic necessary to enable him to weigh the fables
which he read in his newspaper. So great indeed was his credulity that
it seemed to disturb even his wife, the blonde Lucile.

'Oh!' said she, raising her eyes from her work, 'a treasure of five
millions, that is a great deal of money.'

Though Lucile had failed to secure a certificate, she had been
one of Mademoiselle Rouzaire's passable pupils, and her mind now
seemed to have awakened. It was said she was pious. In former days
the schoolmistress had somewhat proudly cited her as an example,
on account of the glib manner in which she recited the long Gospel
narrative of the Passion without making a single mistake. But since
her marriage, though one still found in her the sly submissiveness and
the hypocritical restrictions of a woman on whom the Church had set
its mark, she had ceased to follow the usual observances. And she even
discussed things a little.

'Five millions in a hiding-place,' Marc repeated, 'five millions
slumbering there, pending the return of my poor Simon--it's madness!
But what of all the new documents that have been discovered, all the
proofs against Brother Gorgias?'

Lucile was becoming bolder. With a pretty laugh she exclaimed: 'Oh!
Brother Gorgias isn't worth much. He may well have a weight on his
conscience, though all the same it would be as well to leave him quiet
on account of religion.... But I've also read the newspapers, and
they've made me reflect.'

'Ah! well,' concluded Fernand, 'one would never finish if one had to
reflect after reading. It's far better to remain quiet in one's corner.'

Marc was again about to protest when a sound of footsteps made him
turn his head, and he perceived old Bongard and his wife, who also had
just returned from the fields, with their daughter, Angèle. Bongard,
who had heard his son's last words, at once addressed himself to the
schoolmaster.

'What the lad says is quite true, Monsieur Froment. It's best not to
worry one's mind with reading so much stuff.... In my time we did not
read the papers at all, and we were no worse off. Isn't that so, wife?'

'Sure it is!' declared La Bongard energetically.

But Angèle, who, in spite of her hard nut, had won a certificate
at Mademoiselle Rouzaire's by force of stubbornness, smiled in a
knowing manner. An inner light, fighting its way through dense matter,
occasionally illumined the whole of her face, which with its short
nose and large mouth remained at other moments so dull and heavy. In a
few weeks' time Angèle was to marry Auguste Doloir, her sister-in-law
Lucile's brother, a big strapping fellow, following, like his father,
the calling of a mason, and the girl already indulged in ambitious
dreams for him, some start in business on his own account when she
should be beside him to guide his steps.

In response to her father's words she quietly remarked: 'Well, for my
part I much prefer to know things. One can never succeed unless one
does. Everybody deceives and robs one.... You yourself, mamma, would
have given three _sous_ too many to the tinker yesterday if I had not
run through his bill.'

They all jogged their heads; and then Marc, in a thoughtful mood,
resumed his walk. That farmyard, where he had just lingered for a few
minutes, had not changed since the now far-distant day of Simon's
arrest, when he had entered it seeking for favourable evidence. The
Bongards had remained the same, full of crass, suspicious, silent
ignorance, like poor beings scarce raised from the soil, who ever
trembled lest they should be devoured by others bigger and stronger
than themselves. And the only new element was that supplied by the
children, whose progress, however, was of the slightest; for if
they knew a little more than their parents they had been weakened
by the incompleteness of their education, and had fallen into other
imbecilities. Yet, after all, they had taken a step forward, and the
slightest step forward on mankind's long road must tend to hope.

A few days later Marc repaired to Doloir's, in order to speak to him of
an idea which he had at heart. Auguste and Charles, the mason's elder
sons, had formerly belonged to his school, and their younger brother,
Léon,[1] had lately achieved great success there, having won his
certificate already in his twelfth year. For that very reason, however,
he was about to quit the school, and his departure worried Marc, for,
desirous as the latter was of securing good recruits for the elementary
education staff, of which Salvan spoke to him at times so anxiously, he
dreamt of making the lad a schoolmaster.

On reaching the flat over the wineshop in the Rue Plaisir, where the
mason still dwelt, Marc found Madame Doloir alone for the moment
with Léon, though the men would soon be home from work. She listened
to the schoolmaster very attentively in her serious and somewhat
narrow-minded way, like a good housewife who only thought of the family
interests; and then she answered: 'Oh, Monsieur Froment, I don't think
it possible. We shall have need of Léon: we mean to apprentice him
at once. Where could we find the money to enable him to continue his
studies? Things like that cost too much even when they cost nothing.'
And turning to the boy she added: 'Isn't that so? A carpenter's trade
suits you best. My own father was a carpenter.'

But Léon, whose eyes glittered, was bold enough to declare his
preference. 'Oh no, mamma,' said he, 'I should be so pleased if I could
continue learning.'

Marc was backing up the boy when Doloir came in, accompanied by his
elder sons. Auguste worked for the same master as his father, and on
their way home they had called for Charles, who was employed by a
neighbouring locksmith. On learning what was afoot Doloir quickly sided
with his wife, who was regarded as the clever one of the home, the
maintainer of sound traditions. True, she was an honest and a worthy
woman, but one who clung stubbornly to routine and who showed much
narrow egotism. And her husband, though he put on airs of bravado,
like an old soldier whose ideas had been broadened by regimental life,
invariably bowed to her decisions.

[Footnote 1: In the author's proofs of the earlier part of _Vérité_
Doloir the mason is said to have a young son named Léon; Savin, the
clerk, having one called Jules (see _ante_, p. 60). Some confusion
seems to have arisen subsequently in M. Zola's mind with respect to
these boys, for in later passages of the French original the name of
Jules is given to Doloir's child, and that of Léon to Savin's. This
error would undoubtedly have been rectified but for M. Zola's sudden
death. In the present translation Jules has been changed to Léon, and
Léon to Jules, wherever necessary.--_Trans._]

'No, no, Monsieur Froment,' he said, 'I don't think it possible.'

'Come, let us reason a little,' Marc answered patiently; 'I will
undertake to prepare Léon for the Training School. There we shall
obtain a scholarship for him; so it will cost you absolutely nothing.'

'But what of his food all that time?' the mother asked.

'Well, just one more when there are several at table does not mean a
great expense.... One may well risk a little for a child when he gives
one such bright hopes.'

At this the two elder brothers began to laugh, like good-natured
fellows who felt amused by the proud yet anxious bearing of their
junior.

'I say, youngster, so you are to be the great man of the family, eh?'
exclaimed Auguste. 'But don't put on too much side, for we won our
certificates also. That sufficed for us; we had enough and to spare
of all the things that one finds in books.... For my own part I much
prefer to temper my mortar.' And, addressing the schoolmaster, Auguste
continued gaily: 'Ah! didn't I worry you, Monsieur Froment! I could
never keep still; there were days, I remember, when I revolutionised
the whole class. Fortunately Charles was a little more reasonable.'

'No doubt,' said Charles, smiling in his turn, 'only I always ended by
following you, for I didn't wish to be thought timid or stupid.'

'Stupid! no, no,' responded Auguste by way of conclusion: 'we were only
wrong-headed and idle.... And nowadays we offer you every apology,
Monsieur Froment. And I agree with you: I think that if Léon has a
taste that way he ought to be helped on. Dash it all! one must be on
the side of progress!'

Those words gave much pleasure to Marc, who thought it as well to
rest content with them that day, and to postpone the task of finally
prevailing over the parents. However, continuing his conversation
with Auguste for a moment, he told him that he had lately seen his
betrothed, Angèle Bongard, a shrewd little person who seemed determined
to make her way in life. Then, seeing the young man laugh again and
look very much flattered, Marc thought of pursuing his investigations
and ascertaining what might be the views of his former pupil on the
question which interested him so deeply.

'I also saw Fernand Bongard, your brother-in-law,' he said; 'you
remember when he was at school with you----'

The brothers again became hilarious. 'Fernand? Oh! he had a hard nut
and no mistake,' said Auguste.

'Yes, and do you know, in that unfortunate Simon affair, Fernand
believes that a treasure of five millions of francs, given by the Jews,
is hidden away somewhere in readiness for the unhappy prisoner whenever
one may succeed in bringing him back from the galleys, and setting a
Brother of the Christian Doctrine in his place.'

As these words fell from Marc's lips Madame Doloir became very grave,
drawing her little figure together, and then remaining motionless;
while her husband on his side made a gesture of annoyance, and muttered
between his teeth: 'That's another matter which my wife rightly enough
does not wish us to meddle with.'

But Auguste, who seemed very much amused, exclaimed: 'Yes, I know, the
story of the treasure which appeared in _Le Petit Beaumontais_. I'm not
surprised at Fernand swallowing that yarn.... Five millions hidden in
the ground--it's nonsense!'

At this his father looked vexed, and emerged from his reserve. 'A
treasure,' said he, 'why not? You are not so clever as you fancy,
youngster. You don't know what the Jews are capable of. I knew a
corporal in my regiment, who had been a servant to a Jewish banker.
Well, every Saturday he saw that banker send casks full of gold to
Germany--all the gold of France, as he used to say.... We are sold,
that's quite certain.'

But Auguste, who never showed any great respect for anybody, retorted:
'Ah! no, father, you must not dish up the old stories of your regiment.
I've just come back from barracks, you know; and it's all too
stupid.... You'll soon see that for yourself, my poor Charles.'

Auguste, indeed, had lately finished his term of military service, and
Charles in his turn would have to join the colours in October.

'And for my part,' Auguste continued, 'I can't swallow that absurd yarn
of five millions buried at the foot of a tree, and waiting to be dug up
on some moonlight night.... At the same time that does not prevent me
from thinking that one would do well to leave that man Simon yonder,
without troubling one's brains any more about his innocence.'

Marc, who had felt pleased by the intelligent things said by his former
pupil, was painfully surprised by that sudden conclusion. 'How is
that?' he inquired. 'If Simon is innocent, just think of the torture
he has undergone! We should never be able to offer him sufficient
reparation.'

'Oh! innocent--that remains to be proved. Though I often read what is
printed, my mind only gets the more fogged by it.'

'That is because you only read falsehoods,' said Marc. 'Remember, it
is now known that the copy-slip came from the Brothers' school. The
corner which was torn off, and which was found at Father Philibin's, is
the proof of it; and the ridiculous blunder which the experts made is
demonstrated, for the paraph is certainly in the handwriting of Brother
Gorgias.'

'Ah! I don't know all that,' Auguste answered. 'How can I read
everything that is printed? As I said just now, the more people try to
explain the affair to me, the less I understand of it. But, after all,
as the experts and the Court formerly ascribed the copy-slip to the
prisoner, the simplest thing is to believe that it was really his.'

From that opinion Auguste would not retreat in spite of all the efforts
of Marc, who, after imagining for a moment that the young fellow
possessed a free mind, was pained to discover that he had such narrow
views, and such a faint perception of truth.

'Well, that is sufficient,' at last said Madame Doloir, in the
authoritative manner of a prudent woman. 'You must excuse me, Monsieur
Froment, if I ask you to talk no more of that affair here. You do as
you please on your side, and I have nothing to say against it. Only,
for poor folk like ourselves it is best that we should not meddle with
what does not concern us.'

'But it would concern you, madame, if one of your sons should be taken
and sent to the galleys in spite of his innocence. And we are fighting,
remember, to prevent such monstrous injustice from ever being repeated.'

'Perhaps so, Monsieur Froment; but one of my sons won't be taken, for,
as it happens, I try to get on well with everybody, even the priests.
The priests are very strong, you see, and I would rather not have them
after me.'

Thereupon Doloir was moved to intervene in a patriotic way: 'Oh! I
don't care a curse about the priests,' he exclaimed. 'It's a question
of defending the country, and the Government allows us to be
humiliated by the English!'

'You also will please to keep quiet,' his wife immediately retorted.
'It is best to leave both the Government and the priests alone. Let's
try to get bread to eat--that will be far better.'

Then Doloir had to bend his head in spite of the circumstance that
among his mates he posed as being a Socialist, though he hardly knew
the meaning of the word. As for Auguste and Charles, though they
belonged to a better-taught generation, they sided with their mother,
almost spoilt as they were by their ill-digested semi-education, too
ignorant as yet to recognise the law of human solidarity which demands
that the happiness of each should be compounded of the happiness of
all. Only little Léon, with his ardent thirst for knowledge, remained
impassioned, full of anxiety also as to the turn which things were
taking.

Marc, who was sorely grieved, felt that further discussion would
be useless. So, taking his departure, he contented himself with
saying: 'Well, madame, I will see you again, and I hope to persuade
you to allow Léon to continue his studies so that he may become a
schoolmaster.'

'Quite so, Monsieur Froment,' the mother answered; 'but remember it
must not cost us a _sou_, for in any case we shall be sadly out of
pocket.'

Some bitter thoughts came over Marc as he returned home. As in the case
of the Bongards he was reminded of the visit he had made to the Doloirs
on the day of Simon's arrest. Those sorry folk, who were condemned to
a life of excessive toil and who imagined they defended themselves by
remaining in darkness and taking no interest in what went on around
them, had in no way changed. They were determined that they would
know nothing, for fear lest knowledge should bring them increase of
wretchedness. The sons, no doubt, were rather more enlightened than the
parents, but not enough to engage in any work of truth. And if they had
begun to reason, and no longer believed in idiotic fables, how much
ground there still remained for their children to cover before their
minds should be freed completely from error! It was grievous indeed
that the march of progress should be so slow; and yet it was necessary
to remain content, if one desired to retain enough courage to pursue
the arduous task of teaching and delivering the humble.

On another occasion, a little later, Marc happened to meet Savin the
clerk, with whom he had had some unpleasant quarrels at the time when
that embittered man's twin sons, Achille and Philippe, had attended
the school. Savin had then thought it good policy to serve the Church,
although he publicly pretended to have nothing to do with it, for he
was continually dreading lest he should offend his superiors. However,
two catastrophes, which fell upon him in rapid succession, steeped him
in irremediable bitterness. First of all, things took a very bad turn
with his pretty daughter, Hortense--that model pupil, in whose ardent
fervour at her first Communion Mademoiselle Rouzaire had gloried, but
who in reality was full of precocious hypocrisy. Savin, recognising
the girl's beauty, had dreamt of marrying her to the son of one of
his superiors, but, instead of that, he was compelled to marry her
to a milkman's assistant, who led her astray. Then, to complete the
clerk's mortification and despair, he discovered that his wife, the
refined and tender-hearted Marguerite, had become unfaithful to him. In
spite of her repugnance he had long compelled her to go to confession
and Communion, holding that religion was a needful curb for feminine
depravity; but, as it happened, her frequent attendance at the chapel
of the Capuchins, whose superior, Father Théodose, was her confessor,
led to her downfall, for that same holy man became her lover. The
facts were never exactly known, for no scandal was raised by Savin,
who, however great his rage, was overcome by the irony of things. It
was he himself, indeed, who, by his imbecile jealousy, had turned his
previously faithful wife into the path of infidelity. But if he raised
no great outcry, people declared that he revenged himself terribly
on the unhappy woman in the abominable hell which their home had now
become.

Having cause to hate the priests and the monks, Savin had drawn a
trifle nearer to Marc. On the day when they met in the street the
clerk had just quitted his office, and was walking along with a sour
and sleepy face, like some old circus horse half stupefied by his
never-varying round of duties. On perceiving the schoolmaster he seemed
to wake up: 'Ah! I am pleased to meet you, Monsieur Froment,' he said.
'It would be very kind of you to come as far as my rooms, for my son
Philippe is causing me great anxiety by his idleness, and you are the
only person who knows how to lecture him.'

'Willingly,' replied Marc, who was always desirous of seeing and
judging things.

On reaching the dismal little lodging in the Rue Fauche they found
Madame Savin--who still looked charming in spite of her four-and-forty
years--engaged on some bead flowers which had to be delivered that
same evening. Since his misfortune the clerk was no longer ashamed
of letting people see his wife toil as if she were a mere workwoman.
Perhaps, indeed, he hoped it would be thought that she was expiating
her transgression. In former times he had evinced much pride in her
when she went out wearing a lady's bonnet, but now she might well put
on an apron and contribute to the support of the family. He himself
also neglected his appearance, and had given up wearing frock coats.

No sooner did he enter the flat than he became brutal: 'You've taken
possession of the whole room as usual!' he shouted. 'Where can I ask
Monsieur Froment to sit down?'

Gentle, timid, and somewhat red of face, his wife hastened to gather up
her reels and boxes. 'But when I work, my friend,' she said, 'I need
some room. Besides, I did not expect you home so soon.'

'Yes, yes, I know, you never expect _me_!'

Those words, in which, perhaps, there was some cruel allusion to what
had happened, quite upset the unfortunate woman. One thing which her
husband did not forgive her was her lover's handsomeness, particularly
as he knew that he himself was so puny and sickly; and nothing enraged
himself more than to read his wife's excuse in her clear eyes. However,
she now bent her head, and made herself as small as possible, while she
resumed her work.

'Sit down, Monsieur Froment,' said Savin. 'As I was telling you just
now, that big fellow yonder drives me to despair. He is now nearly
two-and-twenty, he has already tried two or three trades, and all he
seems to be good for is to watch his mother work and pass her the beads
she may require.'

Young Philippe, indeed, was sitting in a corner of the room, silent
and motionless, like one who strove to keep in the background. Madame
Savin, amidst her humiliation, had given him a tender glance, to which
he had responded by a slight smile as if by way of consolation. One
could detect that he and his mother were linked together by some
bond of suffering. Pale, and of poor health, the sly, cowardly,
and mendacious schoolboy of former times had become a sorry young
fellow, quite destitute, it seemed, of energy, who sought a refuge in
his mother's kindness of heart; she, still so young in appearance,
looking like an elder sister, one who also suffered, and who therefore
sympathised with him.

'Why did you not listen to me?' Marc exclaimed in answer to the clerk;
'we would have made a schoolmaster of him.'

But Savin protested: 'Ah! no, indeed. Rather than that I prefer to
have him on my hands. To cram one's brains at school till one is over
twenty, then start at a paltry salary of sixty francs a month, and
work for more than ten years before earning a hundred--do you call
that a profession? A schoolmaster, indeed! Nobody cares to become one
nowadays; even the poorest peasants would rather break stones on the
highways!'

'But I thought I had persuaded you to let your son Jules enter the
Training College?' Marc rejoined. 'Don't you intend to make him an
elementary teacher?'

'Oh, dear, no. I've put him with an artificial-manure merchant. He's
barely sixteen, and he is already earning twenty francs a month. He
will thank me for it later on.'

Marc made a gesture expressive of his regret. He remembered having seen
Jules as a babe in swaddling clothes in his mother's arms. Later, the
lad, from his seventh to his fourteenth year, had become one of his
pupils--a pupil who evinced much higher intelligence than his elder
brothers, and who inspired great hopes. Like the master, Madame Savin,
no doubt, was worried that her youngest boy's studies had been cut
short by his father; for, again raising her beautiful eyes, she glanced
at Marc furtively and sadly.

'Come,' said her husband to the latter, 'what advice can you give me?
And first of all can't you make that big idler feel ashamed of his
sloth? As you were his master, perhaps he will listen to you.'

At that moment, however, Achille, the other son, came in, returning
from the process-server's office where he was now employed. He had made
a start there as an errand boy when he was fifteen, and though nearly
seven years had elapsed he did not yet earn enough to keep himself.
Paler and of even poorer blood than his brother Philippe, he had
remained a beardless stripling, sly, pusillanimous, and distrustful as
in his school-days, ever ready to denounce a comrade in order to escape
personal punishment. He seemed surprised on seeing his former master,
and, after bowing to him, he said, doubtless in a spirit of malice:
'I don't know what there can be in _Le Petit Beaumontais_ to-day, but
people are almost fighting for copies at Mesdames Milhomme's. It must
certainly be something more about that beastly affair.'

Marc already knew that the paper contained a fresh rectification,
brimful of extraordinary mendacious impudence, on the part of Brother
Gorgias; and he decided to avail himself of this opportunity to sound
the young men. 'Oh!' said he, 'whatever _Le Petit Beaumontais_ may
attempt with its stories of buried millions, and its superb denials of
well-established facts, everybody is beginning to admit that Simon is
innocent.'

At this the twins shrugged their shoulders, and Achille in his drawling
way replied: 'Oh! only imbeciles believe in those buried millions, and
it's true that they are lying too much: one can see it. But what does
it all matter to us?'

'Eh? what does it matter to you?' the schoolmaster exclaimed, surprised
and failing to understand.

'Yes, what interest is there for us in that affair with which we have
been plagued so long?'

Then Marc gradually became impassioned.

'My poor lads, I feel sorry for you,' he said; 'you admit Simon's
innocence, do you not?'

'Well--yes. It is by no means clear, as yet; but when one has read
things attentively it does seem that he may be innocent.'

'In that case, do not your feelings rebel at the idea that he is in
prison?'

'Oh! it certainly isn't amusing for him,' Achille admitted; 'but there
are so many other innocent people in prison. Besides, the officials may
release him for all I care.... One has quite enough worries of one's
own, so why should one spoil one's life by meddling with the troubles
of others?'

Then Philippe, in a more gentle voice, expressed his opinion, saying:
'I don't bother about that affair, for it would worry me too much.
I can understand that it would be one's duty to act if one were the
master. But when one can do nothing whatever, the best way is to ignore
it all and keep quiet.'

In vain did Marc censure the indifference, the cowardly egotism, and
desertion which those words implied. The great voice, the irresistible
will of the people, said he, was compounded of individual protests, the
protests of the humblest and the weakest. Nobody could claim exemption
from his duty, the action of one single isolated individual might
suffice to modify destiny. Besides, it was not true to say that only
one person's fate was at stake in the struggle, all the members of the
nation were jointly and severally interested, for each defended his
own liberty by protecting that of his fellow. And then what a splendid
opportunity it was to accomplish at one stroke the work of a century
of slow political and social progress. On one side all the forces of
reaction were leagued against an unhappy, innocent man for the sole
purpose of keeping the old Catholic and monarchical scaffoldings erect;
and on the other, all who were bent on ensuring the triumph of the
future, all who believed in reason and liberty, had gathered together
from the four points of the compass, and united in the name of truth
and justice. And an effort on the part of the latter ought to suffice
to throw the former beneath the remnants of those old, worm-eaten
scaffoldings which were cracking on all sides. The scope of the affair
had expanded: it was no longer merely the case of a poor innocent man
who had been wrongly convicted; for that man had become the incarnation
of the martyrdom of all mankind, which must be wrested from the prison
of the ages. The release of Simon indeed would mean increase of freedom
for the people of France and an acceleration of its march towards more
dignity and happiness.

But Marc suddenly lapsed into silence, for he saw that Achille and
Philippe were looking at him in bewilderment, their weak eyes blinking
in their pale and sickly faces.

'Oh! Monsieur Froment, what's all that? When you put so many things
into the affair we can't follow you, that's certain. We know nothing of
those things, we can do nothing.'

Savin for his part had listened, sneering and fidgeting, though
unwilling to interrupt. Now, however, turning to the schoolmaster,
he exploded. 'All that is humbug--excuse me for saying so, Monsieur
Froment. Simon innocent--well, that's a matter on which I have my
doubts. I don't conceal it; I'm of the same opinion as formerly, and
I read nothing; I would rather let myself be killed than consent to
swallow a line of all the trash that is published. And, mind, I don't
say that because I like the priests. The dirty beasts--why, I wish a
pestilence would sweep them all away! Only, when there is a religion,
there is one. It's the same with the army. The army is the blood of
France. I am a Republican, I am now a Freemason, I will go so far as to
say that I am a Socialist, in the good sense of the word; but, before
everything else, I am a Frenchman, and I won't have people setting
their hands on what constitutes the grandeur of my country. Simon then
is guilty; everything proves it: public sentiment, the proofs submitted
to the Court, his condemnation, and the ignoble trafficking carried on
by the Jews in order to save him. And if, by a miracle, he should not
be guilty, the misfortune for the country would be too great; it would
be absolutely necessary that he should be guilty all the same.'

Confronted by so much blindness, blended with so much folly, Marc could
only bow. And he was about to withdraw when Savin's daughter Hortense
made her appearance with her little girl Charlotte, now nearly seven
years of age. Hortense was no longer the good-looking young person of
former days; compelled to marry her seducer, the milkman's assistant,
and lead with him a hard and toilsome life of poverty, she appeared
faded and careworn. Savin, moreover, received her without cordiality,
full of spite as he was, ashamed of that marriage which had mortified
his pride. Only the grace and keen intelligence of little Charlotte
assuaged, in some slight degree, his intensely bitter feelings.

'Good-morning, grandpapa; good-morning, grandmamma,' said the child.
'You know, I have been first in reading again, and Mademoiselle
Mazeline has given me the medal.'[1]

She was a charming little girl, and Madame Savin, dropping her beads at
once, took her on her lap, kissing her and feeling consoled and happy.
But the child, turning towards Marc, with whom she was well acquainted,
resumed: 'You know, I was the first, Monsieur Froment. It's fine--isn't
it?--to be the first!'

[Footnote 1: In French elementary schools the child who becomes first
in his or her class is given a medal which is worn pinned to jacket or
frock. Should the position be lost the medal has to be restored to the
teacher, who then transfers it to the more successful pupil.--_Trans._]

'Yes, my dear,' said the master, 'it is very nice to be first. And I
know that you are always very good. Mind, you must always listen to
Mademoiselle Mazeline, because she will make a very clever and sensible
little woman of you--one who will be very happy and who will give a
deal of happiness to all her family around her.'

At this Savin again began to growl: Happiness to all her family,
indeed! Well, that would be something new, for neither the grandmother
nor the mother had given any happiness to him. And if Mademoiselle
Mazeline should perform such a miracle as to turn a girl into something
decent and useful, he would go to tell Mademoiselle Rouzaire of
it. Then, annoyed at seeing his wife laugh, brightened as she was,
rejuvenated, so to say, by the companionship of the child, he bade her
get on with her work, speaking in so rough a voice that, as the unhappy
woman again lowered her head over her bead flowers, her eyes filled
with tears.

But Marc had now risen, and the clerk thereupon reverted to the matter
he had at heart: 'So you can give me no advice about my big idler,
Philippe?... Don't you think that, through Monsieur Salvan, who is the
friend of Monsieur Le Barazer, you might get him some petty situation
at the Préfecture?'

'Yes, certainly, I might try. I will speak to Monsieur Salvan about it,
I promise you.'

Marc then withdrew, and, on reaching the street, walked slowly, his
head bent, while he summed up the results of his visits to the parents
of his former pupils. No doubt he had found Achille and Philippe
possessed of riper and broader minds than Auguste and Charles, the
sons of Doloir the mason, even as he had found the latter freed from
the low credulity of Fernand, the son of the peasant Bongard. But at
the Savins' he had once again observed the blind obstinacy of the
father, who had learnt nothing, forgotten nothing, but still lingered
in the same old rut of error; whilst even the evolution of the sons
towards more reason and logic remained a very slight one. Just a
little step had been taken, no more, and with that Marc had to remain
content. He felt sad indeed when he compared all his efforts during a
period of nearly fifteen years with the little amelioration which had
resulted from them. And he shuddered as he thought of the vast amount
of labour, devotion, and faith which would be required throughout the
humble world of the elementary teachers, before they would succeed
in transforming the brutified, soiled, enthralled, lowly ones and
suffering ones into free and conscious men. Generations indeed would be
necessary for that to be effected.

The thought of poor Simon haunted Marc amid the grief he felt at having
failed to raise a people of truth and justice, such as would have the
strength of mind to rebel against the old iniquity and repair it. The
nation still refused to be the noble, generous, and equitable nation,
in which he had believed so long; and both his mind and his heart were
pained, for he could not accustom himself to the idea of a France
steeped in idiotic fanaticism. Then, however, a bright vision flitted
before his eyes; he again saw little Charlotte, so wide-awake and so
delighted at being the first of her class, and he began to hope once
more. The future belonged to the children; and might not some of those
charming little ones take giant steps when firm and upright minds
should direct them towards the light?

However, as Marc drew near to the school, another meeting brought a
pang to his heart. He encountered Madame Férou carrying a bundle--some
work which she was taking home with her. Having lost her eldest
children, who had succumbed more to want than to disease, she now
lived with her remaining girl in a frightful hovel, where they worked
themselves almost to death, without ever earning enough to satisfy
their hunger. As she glided along the street with downcast eyes,
as if ashamed of her poverty, Marc stopped her. She was no longer
the plump and pleasant-looking blonde, with fleshy lips and large,
bright, prominent eyes, whom he had known in past years, but a poor,
squat, careworn woman, aged before her time. 'Well, Madame Férou,' he
inquired, 'does the sewing prosper a little?'

She began to stammer, then at last regained some confidence: 'Oh!
things never prosper, Monsieur Froment,' she said; 'we may tire our
eyes out, but we are lucky when we manage to earn twenty-five _sous_ a
day between us.'

'And what about the application for relief which you sent to the
Préfecture, as a schoolmaster's widow?'

'Oh, they never answered me, and when I ventured to call there in
person, I really thought I should be arrested. A big dark man with
a fine beard asked me what I meant by daring to recall the memory
of my husband, the deserter and Anarchist, who was condemned by
court-martial, and then shot like a mad dog. And he frightened me so
much that I still tremble when I think of it.'

Then, as Marc, who was quivering, remained silent, the unhappy woman,
growing bolder and bolder, resumed: 'Good heavens! My poor Férou a mad
dog! You knew him when we were at Le Moreux. At first he only dreamt
of devotion, fraternity, truth, and justice; and it was by dint of
wretchedness, persecution, and iniquity that they ended by maddening
him. When he left me, never to return, he said to me: "France is done
for; it has been completely rotted by the priests, poisoned by a filthy
press, plunged into such a morass of ignorance and credulity that one
will never be able to extricate it!" ... And you see, Monsieur Froment,
he was right!'

'No, no! He wasn't right, Madame Férou; one must never despair of one's
country.'

But her blood was now up, and she retorted: 'I tell you that he _was_
right! Haven't you any eyes to see? Are not affairs shameful at Le
Moreux, where that man Chagnat, the creature of the priests, does
nothing but debase and stupefy the children--to such a point, indeed,
that for years past not a single one of them has been able to obtain
a certificate of elementary studies? And then Monsieur Jauffre, your
successor, does some fine work at Jonville in order to please Abbé
Cognasse. At the rate they are all going, France will have forgotten
how to read and write before ten years are over!'

She drew herself up as she spoke, and, consumed by hatred and rancour,
the rancour of a poor downtrodden woman overcome by social injustice,
she went on to prophesy: 'You hear me, Monsieur Froment. I tell you
that France is done for! Nothing good nor just will ever come from her
again; she will sink to the level of all those dead nations on whom
Catholicism has preyed like vermin and rottenness!'

Then, still quivering with the excitement which had prompted that
outburst, and trembling at having dared to say so much, she glided away
with humble and anxious mien, returning to the den of suffering where
her pale and silent daughter awaited her.

Marc remained confounded; it was as if he had heard Férou himself
calling from his grave, crying aloud the bitter pessimism, the savage
protest, dictated by the cruel sufferings of his life. And, making all
allowance for rancorous exaggeration, there was great truth in the
widow's words. Chagnat, indeed, was still brutifying Le Moreux, and
Jauffre, under the stubborn and narrow-minded sway of Abbé Cognasse,
was completing his deadly work at Jonville, in spite of the covert
rage he experienced at finding that his services remained so long
unrecognised, when, by rights, he ought to have been appointed at once
to the headmastership of a school at Beaumont. And the great work of
elementary education scarcely made more progress in any part of the
region. Nearly all the schools of Beaumont were still in the power
of timid masters and mistresses who, thinking of their advancement,
wished to remain on good terms with the Church. Mademoiselle Rouzaire
achieved great success by her devout zeal, while Doutrequin, that
Republican of the early days, whom patriotic alarm had gradually cast
into reaction, remained, though he was now on the retired list, a
personage of great influence, one whose lofty character was cited to
newcomers by way of example. How could young teachers believe in the
innocence of Simon, and fight against the Congregational schools,
when such a man, a combatant of 1870, a friend of the founder of the
Republic, set himself on the side of the Congregations in the name of
the country threatened by the Jews? For one Mademoiselle Mazeline, who
ever firmly inculcated sense and kindliness, for one Mignot, won by
example to the good cause, how many cowards and traitors there were,
and how very slowly did the teaching staff progress in breadth of mind,
generosity, and devotion, in spite of the reinforcements which came to
it every year from the training schools! Yet Salvan persevered in his
work of regeneration, full of ardent faith, convinced that the humble
schoolmaster alone would save the country from being annihilated by
the Clericals, when he himself should at last possess a free mind and
the capacity to teach truth and justice. As Salvan ever repeated, the
worth of the nation depended on the worth of the schoolmasters. And if
the march of progress was so slow, it was because the work of evolution
by which good masters might be produced had to be spread over several
generations, even as several generations of pupils would be needed
before a just nation, freed from error and falsehood, could spring into
being.

Having reached that conclusion as the result of his inquiries and the
despairing call which seemed to have come to him from Férou's grave,
Marc only retained a feverish eagerness to continue the battle and
increase his efforts. For some time past he had been busying himself
with what were called 'after-school' enterprises, established in order
to maintain a link between the masters and their former pupils, whom
the laws took from them at thirteen years of age. Friendly societies
were being founded on all sides, and some of the organisers dreamt of
federating all those of the same _arrondissement_, then those of the
same department, and finally all similar societies in France. Moreover,
there were patronage societies, mutual relief and pension funds; but
Marc, with the object he had in view, attached most importance to
the classes for adults which he held of an evening at his school.
Mademoiselle Mazeline, on her side also, had set an excellent example
and won very great success by giving occasional evening lessons in
cookery, family hygiene, and home nursing to those of her former pupils
who were now big girls. And such numbers of young people applied to
her that she ended by sacrificing her Sunday afternoons in order to
instruct those who could not conveniently attend of an evening. It
made her so happy, she said, to help her girls to become good wives
and mothers, able to keep house and shed gaiety, health, and happiness
around them.

Marc, in the same way, opened his school on three evenings every week,
summoned back the boys who had left him, and endeavoured to complete
their education with respect to all the practical questions of life. He
sowed good seed in those young brains unsparingly, saying to himself
that he would be well rewarded for his pains if but one grain out
of every hundred should germinate and bear fruit. And he interested
himself particularly in the few pupils whom he induced to enter the
teaching profession, keeping them near him, and preparing them right
zealously for the preliminary examinations at the Training College. On
his side, indeed, he devoted his Sunday afternoons to those private
lessons, and when evening came he was as delighted as if he had been
indulging in the greatest amusement.

One of Marc's victories at this juncture was to prevail on Madame
Doloir to allow him to continue educating little Léon, in order that
the boy might enter the Training College in due course. The dearest
of all Marc's former pupils, Sébastien Milhomme, was there already;
and Sébastien's mother, Madame Alexandre, had on her side returned to
the stationery shop, though she discreetly remained in the background,
for fear lest she might scare away the clerical customers. And Salvan,
like Marc, had now become very much attached to Sébastien, regarding
him as one of those future missionaries of good tidings, whom he
desired to disseminate through the country districts. Recently also,
at the beginning of a new term, Marc had experienced the satisfaction
of confiding to his old friend yet another pupil, none other than
Joseph Simon, the innocent man's son, who, in spite of every painful
obstacle, had resolved to become a schoolmaster like his father, hoping
to conquer on the very field where the dear stricken prisoner had
fought with so tragical a result. Thus Sébastien and Joseph had met
again, each inspired with the same zeal, the same faith, their old bond
of friendship tightened by yet closer sympathy than before. And what
pleasant hours they spent whenever an afternoon's holiday enabled them
to go to Maillebois, together, to shake hands with their former master!

While things were thus slowly moving, Marc, with respect to his home
troubles, remained in suspense, one day despairing and the morrow
reviving to hope. In vain had he relied on Geneviève returning to him,
enlightened at last and saved from the poison; at present he set his
only consolation in the quiet firmness of his daughter Louise. She,
as she had promised to do, came to see him every Thursday and Sunday,
invariably gay and full of gentle resolution. He dared not question
her about her mother, respecting whom she seldom volunteered any
information, for having no good news to give she doubtless regarded
the subject as painful. Louise would now soon be sixteen, and with
increase of age she became the better able to understand the cause of
their sufferings. She would have been pleased indeed could she have
become the mediator, the healer, the one to place the parents she
loved so well in each other's arms once more. On the days when she
detected extreme impatient anguish in her father's glance, she referred
discreetly to the frightful situation which haunted them.

'Mamma is still very poorly,' she would say; 'it is necessary to be
very careful, and I dare not as yet talk to her as to a friend. But
I have hopes. There are times when she takes me in her arms, and
presses me to her so tightly that I nearly suffocate, while her eyes
fill with tears. At other times, it is true, she becomes harsh and
unjust--accuses me of not loving her--complains, indeed, that nobody
has ever loved her.... You see, father, one must be very kind to her,
for she must suffer frightfully, thinking as she does that she will
never more be able to content her heart.'

Then Marc, in his excitement, cried: 'But why does she not come back
here? I still love her to distraction, and if she still loved me, we
might be so happy.'

But Louise, in a sorrowful, gentle, caressing way, placed her hand over
his mouth: 'No, no, papa, do not let us talk of that! I did wrong to
begin--it can only make us grieve the more. We must wait.... I am now
beside mamma; and some day she will surely see that only we two love
her. She will listen to me and follow me.'

At other times the girl arrived at her father's with glittering eyes
and a determined bearing, as if she had just emerged from some contest.
Marc noticed it, and said to her: 'You have been disputing with your
grandmother again!'

'Ah! you can see it? Well, it's true, she kept me for a good hour this
morning trying to shame and terrify me about my first Communion. She
speaks to me as if I were the vilest of creatures, describes to me
all the abominable tortures of hell, and seems quite stupefied and
scandalised by what she calls my inconceivable obstinacy.'

At this Marc brightened up, feeling somewhat reassured. He had so
greatly feared that his daughter might prove as weak as other girls,
and was happy to find that she remained so firm and strong-minded even
when he was no longer present to support her. But emotion came upon him
when he pictured her in the midst of persistent attacks, scoldings, and
scenes, which left her no peace.

'My poor child!' said he, 'how much courage you need! Those constant
quarrels must be very painful to you.'

But she, having now quite recovered her composure, answered, smiling:
'Quarrels? Oh! no, papa. I am too respectful with grandmamma to quarrel
with her. It is she who is always getting angry and threatening me. I
listen to her very deferentially, without ever making the slightest
interruption. And when she has quite finished, after beginning two or
three times afresh, I content myself with saying very gently: "But how
can I help it, grandmamma? I promised papa that I would wait until I
was twenty before deciding whether I would make my first Communion or
not; and as I swore it, I will keep my word." You see, I never depart
from that answer. I know it by heart, and repeat it without changing
a word. That makes me invincible. And I sometimes begin to pity poor
grandmamma, for she flies into such a temper, banging the door in my
face as soon as ever I begin that phrase!'

In the depths of her heart Louise suffered from that perpetual warfare;
but on observing her father's delight, she prettily cast her arms
around his neck, and added, 'You see, you may be quite easy, I am
really your daughter. Nobody will ever make me do anything when I have
decided that I won't do it!'

The girl also had to carry on a battle with her grandmother in order
to continue her studies, resolved as she was to devote herself to the
teaching profession. In this respect she fortunately had the support of
her mother, who regarded the future as being very uncertain by reason
of the increasing avarice which Madame Duparque displayed towards her
family. The old lady preferred to devote her little fortune to pious
works; and since giving an asylum to Geneviève and her daughter she had
insisted upon their paying for their board, in this respect wishing
to annoy Marc, who consequently had to make his wife a considerable
allowance out of his meagre salary. Perhaps Madame Duparque--advised
in this matter as in others by her good friends, those masters of
intrigue, whose unseen hands pulled every string--had hoped that
Marc would respond by a refusal, and that a scandal would ensue. But
he could live on very little, and he consented immediately, as if
indeed he were well pleased to remain the paterfamilias, the worker,
and supporter of those who belonged to him. And although straitened
circumstances aggravated his solitude, the meals he shared with Mignot
becoming extremely frugal, he did not suffer, for it was sufficient
for him to know that Geneviève had appeared moved by his willingness
to provide for her, and that she found in this pecuniary question a
motive to approve of Louise's resolution to pursue her studies in order
to ensure her future. Thus the girl, who had already obtained her
elementary certificate, continued to take lessons from Mademoiselle
Mazeline, preparing herself for the superior certificate examination,
which circumstance gave rise to further disputes with Madame Duparque,
who was exasperated by all the science which it had become the fashion
to impart to young girls, when, in her opinion, the catechism ought to
have sufficed them. And as Louise always answered every protest in her
extremely deferential manner: 'Yes, grandmamma; certainly, grandmamma,'
the old lady grew more exasperated than ever, and ended by picking
quarrels with Geneviève, who, losing patience, occasionally answered
back.

One day while Marc was listening to the news his daughter gave him, he
became quite astonished. 'Does mamma quarrel with grandmother then?' he
inquired.

'Oh, yes, papa. This was even the second or third time. And mamma,
you know, does not beat about the bush. She loses her temper at once,
answers back in a loud voice, and then goes to sulk in her room as she
used to do here before she left.'

Marc listened, unwilling to give utterance to the secret delight, the
hope, which was rising within him.

'And does Madame Berthereau take part in these discussions?' he resumed.

'Oh, grandmamma Berthereau never says anything. She sides with mamma
and me, I think; but she does not dare to support us openly for fear of
worries.... She looks very sad and very ailing.'

However, months went by, and Marc saw none of his hopes fulfilled.
It must be said that he observed great discretion in questioning his
daughter, for it was repugnant to him to turn her into a kind of spy
for the purpose of keeping himself informed of everything that occurred
in the dismal little house on the Place des Capucins. For weeks at a
time when Louise ceased to speak of her own accord, Marc relapsed into
anxious ignorance, again losing all hope of Geneviève's return. His
only consolation then lay in his daughter's presence beside him for a
few hours on Thursdays and Sundays. On those days also it occasionally
happened that the two chums of the Beaumont Training College, Joseph
Simon and Sébastien Milhomme, arrived at the Maillebois school about
three o'clock, and remained there until six, happy to meet their friend
Louise, who like themselves was all aglow with youth and courage and
faith. Their long chats were enlivened by merry laughter, which left
some gaiety in the mournful home throughout the ensuing week. Marc, who
felt comforted by these meetings, at times requested Joseph to bring
his sister Sarah from the Lehmanns', and likewise told Sébastien that
he would be happy to see his mother, Madame Alexandre, accompany him.
The schoolmaster would have been delighted to gather a number of worthy
folk, all the forces of the future, around him. At those affectionate
meetings the sympathies of former times revived, acquiring a strength
full of gentleness and gaiety, drawing Sébastien and Sarah, Joseph and
Louise together; while the master, smiling and content to await victory
at the hands of those who represented to-morrow, allowed good Mother
Nature, beneficent love, to do their work.

All at once, amidst the disheartening delays of the Court of Cassation,
at a moment when courage was forsaking David and Marc, they received a
letter from Delbos acquainting them with some great news and requesting
them to call on him. They did so in all haste. The great news--destined
to burst on Beaumont like a thunderclap--was that, after a long and
cruel struggle, Jacquin, the diocesan architect and foreman of the jury
which had convicted Simon, had at last felt it absolutely necessary to
relieve his conscience. Very pious, attending confession and Communion,
strict in his faith, and in all respects an upright man, Jacquin had
ended by feeling anxious with respect to his salvation, asking himself
whether, as he was in possession of the truth, it was possible for him
to keep silent any longer without incurring the risk of damnation. It
was said that his confessor, feeling extremely perplexed, not daring
to decide the question himself, had advised him to consult Father
Crabot, and that if the architect had remained silent several months
longer it was on account of the great pressure brought to bear on him
by the Jesuit, who, in the name of the Church's political interests,
had prevented him from speaking out. If, however, Jacquin was unable to
keep his terrible secret any longer, it was precisely by reason of the
anguish he felt as a Christian, one who believed that the Christ had
descended upon earth to ensure the triumph of truth and justice. And
the knowledge which consumed him was that of Judge Gragnon's illegal
communication to the jury in the Simon case of a document unknown
either to the prisoner or to his counsel. Summoned to the retiring room
to enlighten the jurymen respecting the penalty which might attach
to their verdict, the judge had shown them a letter received by him
a moment previously, a letter from Simon to a friend, followed by a
postscript and a paraph, which last was similar to the one on the
copy-slip tendered as evidence. It was to this same letter and this
paraph that Father Philibin had alluded in his sensational evidence;
and now it had been established that if the body of the letter was
indeed in Simon's handwriting, the postscript and the paraph were
assuredly impudent forgeries, in fact gross ones, by which a child even
would hardly have been deceived.

Thus David and Marc found Delbos triumphant: 'Ah! didn't I tell you
so?' he exclaimed. 'That illegal communication is now proved! Jacquin
has written to the President of the Court of Cassation, confessing the
truth, and asking to be heard.... I knew that the letter was among the
papers of the case, for Gragnon had not dared to destroy it. But how
difficult it was to have it produced and submitted to the examination
of experts! I scented a forgery; I felt that we were confronted by
some more of the handiwork of that terrible Father Philibin! Ah! that
man, how heavy and common he looked! But the more I fathom the affair
the greater do his talents, his suppleness, artfulness, and audacity
appear. He was not content with tearing off the stamped corner of the
copy-slip, he also falsified one of Simon's letters, so arranging
matters that this letter might prevail over the jury at the last
moment. Yes, assuredly that forgery was his work!'

However, David, who had met with so many deceptions, retained some
fears. 'But are you sure,' he asked, 'that Jacquin, who is the diocesan
architect and at the mercy of the priests, will remain firm to the end?'

'Quite sure. You don't know Jacquin. He is not at the mercy of the
priests; he is one of the few Christians who are governed solely
by their consciences. Some extraordinary things have been told me
respecting his interviews with Father Crabot. At first the Jesuit
spoke in a domineering way, in the name of his imperative Deity, who
forgives and even glorifies the worst deeds when the salvation of the
Church is in question. But Jacquin answered back in the name of a good
and equitable God, the God of the innocent and the just, who tolerates
neither error, nor falsehood, nor crime. I wish I had been present;
that battle between the mere believer and the political agent of a
crumbling religion must have been a fine spectacle. However, I have
been told that it was the Jesuit who ended by humbling himself, and
entreating Jacquin, though he failed to prevent him from doing his
duty----'

'All the same,' Marc interrupted, 'it took Jacquin a very long time to
relieve his conscience.'

'Oh! no doubt; I don't say that his duty became manifest to him at
once. For years, however, he did not know that President Gragnon's
communication was illegal. Almost all jurors are similarly situated;
they know nothing of the law, and take as correct whatever the chief
magistrates may say to them. When Jacquin learnt the truth he hesitated
evidently, and for years and years went about with a burden on his
conscience, saying nothing, however, for fear of scandal. We shall
never know the sufferings and the struggles of that man, who went
regularly to confession and Communion, ever terrified by the thought
that he was perhaps damning himself for all eternity. However, I can
assure you that when he became certain that the document was a forgery,
he no longer hesitated; he resolved to speak out, even if by doing
so he should cause the cathedral of Saint Maxence to fall, for on no
account was he disposed to disregard what he deemed to be his duty
towards God.'

Then Delbos, like a man who, after long efforts, was at last reaching
his goal, gaily summed up the situation, and David and Marc went off
radiant with hope.

But how great was the commotion in Beaumont when Jacquin's letter to
the Court of Cassation, his confession and his offer of evidence became
known. Judge Gragnon hastily closed his doors, refusing to answer
the journalists who applied to him, wrapping himself, as it were, in
haughty silence. He was no longer a jovial, sarcastic sportsman and
pursuer of pretty girls. People said that he was quite overwhelmed by
the blow which had thus fallen on him on the eve of his retirement from
the bench, at the moment when he was expecting to receive the collar of
a Commandership in the Legion of Honour. Of recent years his wife, the
once beautiful Madame Gragnon, having passed the age for reading poetry
with General Jarousse's young officers, had decided to occupy herself
in converting him, pointing out to him no doubt all the advantages of a
pious old age; and he followed her to confession and Communion, giving
a lofty example of fervent Catholicism, which explained the passionate
zeal with which Father Crabot had tried to prevent Jacquin from
relieving his conscience. The Jesuit, indeed, wished to save Gragnon, a
believer of great importance and influence, of whom the Church was very
proud.

Moreover, the whole judicial world of Beaumont sided with the presiding
judge, defending the conviction and condemnation of Simon as its own
work, its masterpiece, which none might touch without committing
high treason against the country. Behind that fine assumption of
indignation, however, there was base, shivering dread--dread of the
galleys, dread lest the gendarmes should set their heavy hands some
evening on the black or red robes, furred with ermine, whose wearers
had imagined themselves to be above the laws. The handsome Raoul de La
Bissonnière was no longer public prosecutor at Beaumont, he had been
transferred to the neighbouring Appeal Court of Mornay, where he was
growing embittered by his failure to secure a post in Paris, in spite
of all his suppleness and skill under every succeeding government.
On the other hand, Investigating Magistrate Daix had not quitted the
town, where he had been promoted to the rank of counsellor; but he
was still tortured by his terrible wife, whose ambition and craving
for luxury made his home a hell. It was said that Daix, seized with
remorse like Jacquin, was on the point of throwing off his wife's
acrimonious authority, and relating how he had cowardly yielded to her
representations, and sent Simon for trial, at the very moment when,
from lack of proof, he was about to stay further proceedings. Thus
the Palais de Justice was all agog, swept by gusts of fear and anger,
pending the advent of the cataclysm which would at last annihilate the
ancient worm-eaten framework of so-called human justice.

The political world of Beaumont was no less shaken, no less distracted.
Lemarrois, the Deputy and Mayor, felt that the Radical Republican views
he had long professed were losing their hold on the electorate, and
that he might be swept away in this supreme crisis which was bringing
the living strength of the people forward. Thus, in the much-frequented
_salon_ of his intelligent wife, the evolution towards reactionary
courses became more pronounced. Among those now often seen there was
Marcilly, once the representative of the intellectual young men,
the hope of the French mind, but now reduced to a kind of political
paralysis, bewildered by his inability to detect in which direction lay
his personal interests, and forced to inaction by the haunting fear
that if he should act in any particular way he might not be re-elected.
Then another visitor was General Jarousse, who, though a mere cipher,
now showed himself aggressive, spurred on, it seemed, by the perpetual
nagging of his little, dusky, withered wife. And Prefect Hennebise
also called at times, accompanied by the placid Madame Hennebise, each
desiring to live at peace with everybody, such being indeed the wish of
the government, whose motto was: 'No difficulties, only handshakes and
smiles.' There was great fear of 'bad' elections, as the department was
so enfevered by the revival of the Simon affair; and Marcilly and even
Lemarrois, though they did not own it, had resolved to ally themselves
secretly with Hector de Sanglebœuf and their other reactionary
colleagues in order to overcome the Socialist candidates, particularly
Delbos, whose success would become certain should he succeed in his
efforts on behalf of the innocent prisoner.

All this tended to the confusion which broke out directly people
heard of the intervention of Jacquin, by which the revision of the
case was rendered inevitable. The Simonists triumphed, and for a few
days the anti-Simonists seemed crushed. Nothing else was talked about
on the aristocratic promenade of Les Jaffres; and though _Le Petit
Beaumontais_, in order to inspirit its readers, declared every morning
that the revision of the case would be refused by a majority of two
to one, the friends of the Church remained plunged in desolation, for
private estimates indicated quite a different result.

Meantime the delight shown among the University men was very temperate.
Nearly all of them were Simonists, but they had hoped in vain so often
that they now scarcely dared to rejoice. Rector Forbes was relieved
to think that he would soon be rid of the case of that Maillebois
schoolmaster, Marc Froment, about whom he was so frequently assailed
by the reactionary forces. In spite of his desire to meddle with
nothing, Forbes had been obliged to confer with Le Barazer respecting
the necessity of an execution; and Le Barazer, whose own powers of
resistance were exhausted, foresaw the moment when policy would compel
him to sacrifice Marc. He had even mentioned it to Salvan, who had
shown deep grief at the announcement. When, however, Marc came to him
with the great news that made revision certain, the kind-hearted man
revived to gaiety and gave his friend quite a triumphal greeting. He
embraced him and then told him of the threatening danger from which the
favourable decision of the Court of Cassation alone would save him.

'If revision should not be granted, my dear fellow,' he said, 'you
would certainly be revoked, for this time you are deeply involved in
the affair, and all the reactionaries demand your head.... However,
the news you bring pleases me, for you are at last victorious, and our
secular schools triumph.'

'They need to do so,' Marc replied; 'our conquests over error and
ignorance are still so slight in spite of all your efforts to endow the
region with good masters.'

'Certainly a good many lives will be needed; but, no matter, we are
marching on, and we shall reach the goal,' Salvan responded with his
usual gesture expressive of unshakable hope.

Perhaps the best proof that Marc was really victorious was found by
him in the eager manner with which handsome Mauraisin, the Elementary
Inspector, rushed towards him, that same day, just as he had quitted
Salvan.

'Ah! my dear Monsieur Froment, I am very pleased to meet you,' the
Inspector exclaimed. 'We see each other so seldom apart from the
requirements of our duties.'

Since the revival of the affair, mortal anxiety had taken possession
of Mauraisin, who at an earlier stage had openly sided with the
anti-Simonists, convinced as he then was that the priests never allowed
themselves to be beaten. But now, if they should lose the game, how
would he be able to save himself? The idea of not being on the winning
side distressed him greatly.

Though nobody was passing in the street, he leant towards Marc to
whisper in his ear: 'For my part, you know, my dear Froment, I never
doubted Simon's innocence. I was convinced of it at bottom. Only it is
so necessary for public men like ourselves to remain prudent--is that
not so?'

For a long time past Mauraisin had been keeping his eye on Salvan's
post, hoping to secure it in due course; and in view of a possible
triumph of the Simonists he felt it would be as well to side with them
on the eve of victory. But as that victory was not yet quite certain he
did not wish to exhibit himself in their company. So he speedily took
leave of Marc, whispering, as he pressed his hand for the last time,
'Simon's triumph will be a triumph for all of us.'

On returning to Maillebois Marc perceived a change there also. Darras,
the ex-Mayor, whom he chanced to meet, did not rest content with bowing
to him discreetly, according to his wont, but stopped him in the middle
of the high street, and talked and laughed with him for more than ten
minutes. He, Darras, had been a Simonist at the outset, but since he
had lost his position as Mayor he had put his flag in his pocket, and
made it a habit to bolt his door before divulging what he thought.
If, therefore, he now openly chatted with Marc, it must have been
because Simon's acquittal seemed to him a certainty. As it happened,
Philis, the new Mayor, went by at that moment, gliding swiftly over the
pavement with his head bent and his eyes darting furtive glances around
him. This amused Darras, who with a knowing look at Marc exclaimed:
'What pleases some displeases others, is it not so, Monsieur Froment?
We all have our turns!'

Indeed a great change in public opinion gradually became manifest. Day
by day for several weeks Marc observed the increasing favour of the
cause he defended. However, the decisive importance of the success
already achieved became most manifest to him when he received a letter
from Baron Nathan, who was again staying at La Désirade, and who asked
him to call there with respect to a prize for the Communal School,
which he, the Baron, desired to found. Although Nathan, on two or
three occasions previously, had given a hundred francs or so to be
distributed in savings-bank deposits among the best pupils, Marc felt
that the offer of a prize at that juncture was only a pretext. So he
repaired to La Désirade full of wonder and curiosity.

He had not returned thither since the now distant day when he had
accompanied David on his attempt to interest the all-powerful Baron
in the cause of his accused and imprisoned brother. Marc remembered
the most trifling details of that visit, the skilful manner in which
the triumphant Jew, a king of finance and the father-in-law of a
Sanglebœuf, had shaken off the poor Jew, on whom public execration
had fallen. And now, on returning to La Désirade, Marc found that
its majesty and beauty had increased. Recently a million of francs
had been spent on new terraces and new fountains, which imparted an
aspect of sovereign grandeur to the parterres in front of the château.
Encompassed by plashing waters and a galaxy of marble nymphs, he ended
by reaching the steps, where two tall lackeys, in liveries of green
and gold, were waiting. On one of them conducting him to a little
drawing-room, where he was requested to wait, he remained alone for
a moment, and heard a confused murmur of voices in some neighbouring
room. Then two doors were shut, all became quiet, and finally Baron
Nathan entered with outstretched hand.

'Excuse me for having disturbed you, my dear Monsieur Froment,' he
said, 'but I know how devoted you are to your pupils, and I wish to
double the sum which I have been giving you of recent years. You are
aware that my ideas are broad, that I desire to reward merit wherever
it may be found, apart from all political and religious questions....
Yes, I make no difference between the congregational and the secular
schools; I am for all France.'

Short and somewhat bent, with a yellow face, a bald cranium, and a
large nose resembling the beak of a bird of prey, Nathan went on
talking, while Marc gazed at him. The schoolmaster knew that of recent
times the Baron had still further enriched himself by stealing a
hundred millions of francs in a colonial affair, a deed of rapine, the
huge booty of which he had been obliged to share with a Catholic bank.
And he had now plunged into fierce reaction, for as new millions were
added to his former ones he became more and more convinced that priests
and soldiers were needed to enable him to retain his ill-gotten wealth.
He was no longer content with having wormed his way, through his
daughter, into the ancient family of the Sanglebœufs: he now absolutely
denied his race, openly displaying a ferocious anti-Semitism, showing
himself a monarchist, a militarist, a respectful friend of those who
in olden time had burnt the Jews. Nevertheless--and this astonished
Marc--Nathan, whatever his wealth, still retained much of his racial
humility. A dread of the persecutions which had fallen on his ancestors
appeared in his anxious eyes as they glanced at the doors as if he
wished to be ready to slip under a table at the slightest sign of
danger.

'So it is settled,' he said, after all sorts of involved explanations,
'and you will dispose of these two hundred francs yourself, as you
please, for I have perfect confidence in your sagacity.'

Marc thanked him, but still failed to understand the meaning of it all.
Even a politic desire to remain on good terms with everybody, a wish to
be among the Simonists if they should win the battle, did not explain
that flattering and useless appointment, that over-cordial reception at
La Désirade. However, just as the schoolmaster was retiring, there came
an explanation.

Baron Nathan, having accompanied him to the drawing-room door, detained
him there, and with a keen smile, which seemed prompted by a sudden
inspiration, exclaimed: 'My dear Monsieur Froment, I am going to be
very indiscreet.... When I was informed of your arrival just now, I
happened to be with somebody, an important personage, who exclaimed,
"Monsieur Froment! Oh! I should be so pleased to have a moment's
conversation with him!" A cry from the heart in fact.'

The Baron paused, waiting a few seconds in the hope that he would be
questioned. Then, as Marc remained silent, he laughed and said in a
jesting way: 'You would be greatly surprised if I told you who the
personage was.' And as the schoolmaster still looked grave, remaining
on the defensive, Nathan blurted out everything: 'It was Father Crabot.
You did not expect that, eh?... But he came to lunch here this morning.
As you may know, he honours my daughter with his affection, and is a
frequent visitor here. Well, he expressed to me a desire to have some
conversation with you. Setting aside all matters of opinion, he is a
man of the rarest merit. Why should you refuse to see him?'

To this Marc, who at last understood the object of the appointment
given him, and whose curiosity was more and more aroused, quietly
responded: 'But I don't refuse to see Father Crabot. If he has anything
to say to me I will listen to him willingly.'

'Very good, very good!' exclaimed the Baron, delighted with the success
of his diplomacy. 'I will go to tell him.'

Again the two doors opened, one after the other, and a confused murmur
of voices once more reached the little drawing-room. Then all relapsed
into silence, and Marc was left waiting for some time. Having at last
drawn near to the window he saw the persons, whose voices he had
heard, step on to the adjoining terrace. And he recognised Hector de
Sanglebœuf and his wife, the still beautiful Léa, accompanied by their
good friend, the Marchioness de Boise, who, though her fifty-seventh
birthday was now past, remained a buxom blonde, the ruins of whose
beauty were magnificent. Nathan likewise appeared, and one could also
divine that Father Crabot was standing at the glass door of the grand
drawing-room, still talking to his hosts, who left him in possession of
the apartment in order that he might receive the visitor as if he were
at home.

The Marchioness de Boise seemed particularly amused by the incident.
Though she had originally resolved to disappear as soon as she should
be fifty, unwilling as she was to impose too old a mistress on Hector,
she had ended by making the château her permanent home. Besides, people
said that she was still adorable, so why should she not continue to
ensure the happiness of the husband whose marriage she had so wisely
negotiated, and of the wife whose tender friend she was? Thus age might
come but happiness still reigned at La Désirade, amid its luxurious
appointments and Father Crabot's discreet smiles and pious benisons.

As Marc looked out of the window and observed the terrible Sanglebœuf
waving his arms and shaking his carroty head, it seemed to him that
this clerical champion with the heavy face and the narrow, stubborn
brow was deploring the practice of so much diplomacy, the honour which
Father Crabot accorded to a petty anarchical schoolmaster by thus
receiving him. Sanglebœuf had never once fought in his cuirassier days,
but he always talked of sabring people. Although the Marchioness,
after securing his election as a deputy, had made him rally to the
Republic--in accordance with the Pope's express commands--he still and
ever prated about his regiment, and flew into a passion whenever there
was any question of the flag. Indeed, he would have committed blunder
upon blunder had it not been for that intelligent Marchioness, and this
was one of the reasons she gave for remaining near him, Again, on this
occasion, she had to intervene and lead him and his wife away, walking
slowly between them, in the direction of the park, and showing the
while much gaiety of mien, and motherliness of manner towards both.

Baron Nathan, however, had quickly returned to the grand drawing-room,
the glass door of which he closed; and almost immediately afterwards
Marc heard himself called:

'Kindly follow me, my dear Monsieur Froment.'

The Baron led him through a billiard-room; then, having opened the
drawing-room door, drew back and ushered him in, delighted, it seemed,
with the strange part he was playing, his body bowed in a posture which
again showed racial humility reviving in the triumphant king of finance.

'Please enter--you are awaited.'

Nathan himself did not enter, but discreetly closed the door and
disappeared; while Marc, amazed, found himself in the presence of
Father Crabot, who stood, in his long black gown, in the centre of the
spacious and sumptuous room, hung with crimson and gold. A moment's
silence followed.

The Jesuit, whose noble mien, whose lofty and elegant carriage Marc
well remembered, seemed to him to have greatly aged. His hair had
whitened, and his countenance was ravaged by all the terrible anxiety
he had experienced for some time past. But the caressing charm of his
voice, its grave and captivating modulations, had remained.

'As circumstances have brought us both to this friendly house,
monsieur,' said he, 'you will perhaps excuse me for having prompted an
interview which I have long desired. I am aware of your merits, I can
render homage to all convictions, when they are sincere, loyal, and
courageous.'

He went on speaking in this strain for some minutes, heaping praises
on his adversary as if to daze him and win him over. But the device
was too familiar and too childish to influence Marc, who, after bowing
politely, quietly awaited the rest, striving even to conceal his
curiosity, for only some very grave reason could have induced such a
man as Father Crabot to run the risk of such an interview.

'How deplorable it is,' the Jesuit at last exclaimed, 'that the
misfortunes of the times should separate minds so fit to understand
each other! Some of the victims of our dissensions are really to be
pitied. For instance, there is President Gragnon----'

Then, as a hasty gesture escaped the schoolmaster, he broke off in
order to interpolate a brief explanation. 'I name him,' he said,
'because I know him well. He is a penitent of mine--a friend. A loftier
soul, a more upright and loyal heart could be found nowhere. You are
aware of the frightful position in which he finds himself--that charge
of prevarication,[2] which means the collapse of his entire judicial
career. He no longer sleeps; you would pity him if you were to witness
his sufferings.'

[Footnote 2: The word 'Prevarication' is used in a legal sense,
as signifying the betrayal of the interests of one party in a
lawsuit by collusion with the other party. The French call this
_forfaiture_.--_Trans._]

At last Marc understood everything. They wished to save Gragnon, who
only yesterday had been an all-powerful son of the Church, which felt
it would be grievously maimed if he should be struck down.

'I can understand his torment,' Marc finally answered, 'but he is
paying the penalty of his transgression. A judge must know the laws,
and the illegal communication of which he was guilty had frightful
consequences.'

'No, no, I assure you, he acted in all simplicity,' the Jesuit
exclaimed. 'That letter which he received at the last moment seemed
to him without importance. He still had it in his hand when he was
summoned to the jurymen's retiring room, and he no longer remembers how
it happened that he showed it to them.'

Marc gave a little shrug of the shoulders. 'Well,' he responded, 'he
will only have to tell that to the new judges, if there should be a new
trial.... In any case I hardly understand your intervention with me. I
can do nothing.'

'Oh! do not say that, monsieur! We know how great your power is,
however modest your position may seem to be. And that is why I thought
of applying to you. Throughout this affair all thought and action and
willpower have been centred in you. You are the friend of the Simon
family, which will do whatever you advise. So, come, will you not spare
an unfortunate man, whose ruin is by no means indispensable for your
cause?'

Father Crabot joined his hands and entreated his adversary so fervently
that the latter, again all astonishment, wondered what could be the
real reason of such a desperate appeal, such clumsy and impolitic
insistence. Did the Jesuit feel that the cause he defended was lost?
Did he possess private information which made him regard revision as a
certainty? In any case, matters had come to such a pass, that he was
now ready to leave something to the fire in order to save the rest. He
abandoned his former creatures, who were now too deeply compromised.
That poor Brother Fulgence had a befogged, unbalanced mind, spoilt by
excessive pride; disastrous consequences had attended his actions.
That unfortunate Father Philibin had always been full of faith, no
doubt; but then there were many gaps in his nature. He was deplorably
deficient in moral sense. As for the disastrous Brother Gorgias, Father
Crabot cast him off entirely; he was one of those adventurous, erring
sons of the Church, who become its curse. And if the Jesuit did not go
so far as to admit the possible innocence of Simon, he was, at least,
not far from believing Brother Gorgias capable of every crime.

'You see, my dear sir,' he said, 'I do not deceive myself; but there
are other men whom it would be really cruel to visit too severely for
mere errors. Help us to save them, and we will requite the service by
ceasing to contend with you in other matters.'

Never had Marc so plainly realised his strength, the very strength of
truth. He answered, engaging in quite a long discussion, desirous as
he was of forming a final opinion with respect to the merits of Father
Crabot. And his stupefaction increased as he fathomed the extraordinary
poverty of argument, the arrant clumsiness too, which accompanied
the vanity of this man, accustomed never to be contradicted. Was
this, then, the profound diplomatist whose crafty genius was feared
by everybody, and the presence of whose hand was suspected in every
incident, as if, indeed, he ruled the world? In this interview, which
had been prepared so clumsily, he showed himself a poor bewildered
individual, committing himself far more than was necessary, even
incompetent to defend his faith against one who was merely possessed of
sense and logic. A mediocrity--that was what he was--a mediocrity, with
a _façade_ of social gifts, which imposed on the man in the street. His
real strength lay in the stupidity of his flock, the submissiveness
with which the faithful bent low before his statements, which they
regarded as being beyond discussion. And Marc ended by understanding
that he was confronted by a mere show Jesuit, one of those who for
decorative purposes were allowed by their Order to thrust themselves
forward, shine, and charm, while, in the rear, other Jesuits--such, for
instance, as Father Poirier, the Provincial installed at Rozan, whose
name was never mentioned--directed everything like unknown sovereign
rulers hidden away in distant places of retreat.

Father Crabot, however, was shrewd enough to understand at last that
he was taking the wrong course with Marc, and he thereupon did what he
could to recover his lost ground. The whole ended by an exchange of
frigid courtesies. Then Baron Nathan, who must have remained listening
outside the door, reappeared, looking also very discomfited, with only
one remaining anxiety, which was to rid La Désirade as soon as possible
of the presence of that petty schoolmaster, who was such a fool that
he could not even understand his own interests. He escorted him to the
terrace and watched his departure. And Marc, as he went his way among
the parterres, the plashing waters, and the marble nymphs, again caught
a glimpse of the Marchioness de Boise, laughing affectionately with
her good friends Hector and Léa, as all three strolled slowly under the
far-spreading foliage.

On the evening of that same day Marc repaired to the Rue du Trou,
having given David an appointment at the Lehmanns'. He found them
all in a state of delirious joy, for a telegram from a friend in
Paris had just informed them that the Court of Cassation had at last
pronounced an unanimous judgment, quashing the proceedings of Beaumont,
and sending Simon before the Assize Court of Rozan. For Marc this
news was like a flash of light, and what he had regarded as Father
Crabot's folly seemed to him more excusable than before. The Jesuit
had evidently been well informed; that judgment had been known to
him; and, revision becoming a certainty, he had simply wished to save
those whom he thought might still be saved. And now, at the Lehmanns',
all were weeping with joy, for the long calamity was over. Wildly did
Joseph and Sarah kiss Rachel, their poor, aged, and exhausted mother.
Both children and wife were intoxicated by the thought of the return of
the father, the husband, for whom they had mourned and longed so much.
Outrage and torture were all forgotten, for acquittal was now certain;
nobody doubted it either at Maillebois or at Beaumont. And David and
Marc, those two brave workers in the cause of justice, also embraced
each other, drawn together by a great impulse of affection and hope.

But, as the days went by, anxiety arose once more. At the penal
settlement yonder Simon had fallen so dangerously ill that for a long
time yet it would be impossible to bring him back to France. Months and
months might elapse before the new trial would begin at Rozan. And thus
all necessary time was given to the spirit of injustice to revive and
spread once more in the midst of mendacity and the multitude's cowardly
ignorance.




III


During the year which followed, a year full of anxiety, uneasiness,
and contention, the Church made a supreme effort to regain her power.
Never had her position been more critical, more threatened, than during
that desperate battle, by which the duration of her empire might be
prolonged for a century, or perhaps two centuries, should she win it.
In order to do so it was necessary she should continue to educate and
train the youth of France, retain her sway over children and women,
and avail herself of the ignorance of the humble in such wise as to
mould them and make them all error, credulity, and submissiveness,
even as she needed them to be in order to reign. The day when she
might be forbidden to teach, when her schools would be closed, and
disappear, would prove for her the beginning of the end, when she would
be annihilated amidst a new and free people, which would have grown up
outside the pale of her falsehoods, cultivating an ideal of reason and
humanity. And the hour was a grave one. That Simon affair, with the
expected return and triumph of the innocent prisoner, might deal a most
terrible blow to the Congregational schools by glorifying the secular
ones. Meantime Father Crabot, who wished to save Judge Gragnon, was so
compromised himself that he had disappeared from society and hidden
himself, pale and trembling, in his lonely cell. Father Philibin, who
had been consigned to an Italian convent, was spending the remainder
of his days in penitence, unless indeed he were already dead. Brother
Fulgence, removed by his superiors in punishment for the discredit
which had fallen on his school, a third of whose pupils had already
quitted it, was said to have fallen dangerously ill in the distant
department whither he had been sent. Finally, Brother Gorgias had fled,
fearing that he might be arrested, and feeling that his principals were
forsaking him, willing to sacrifice him as an expiatory victim. And
this flight had increased the anxiety of the defenders of the Church,
who lived only with the thought of fighting a last and merciless battle
when the Simon affair should come before the Rozan Assize Court.

Marc also, while lamenting Simon's ill health, which delayed his
return to France, was preparing for that same battle, fully realising
its decisive importance. Almost every Thursday, sometimes with David,
sometimes alone, he repaired to Beaumont, calling first on Delbos, to
whom he made suggestions, and whom he questioned about the slightest
incidents of the week. And afterwards he went to see Salvan, who kept
him informed of the state of public opinion, every fluctuation of which
set all classes in the town agog. In this wise, then, one Thursday,
Marc paid a visit to the Training College, and on quitting it went down
the Avenue des Jaffres, where, close to the cathedral of St. Maxence,
he was upset by a most unexpected meeting.

On one of the deserted sidewalks of the avenue, at a spot where
scarcely anybody was ever seen after four o'clock, he perceived
Geneviève seated on a bench, and looking very downcast, weary, and
lonely in the cold shadow falling from the cathedral, whose proximity
encouraged the moss to grow on the trunks of the old elms.

For a moment Marc remained motionless, quite thunderstruck. He had
met his wife in Maillebois at long intervals, but invariably in the
company of Madame Duparque; and on those occasions she had passed
through the streets with absent-minded eyes, on her way, no doubt, to
some devotional exercise. This time, however, they found themselves
face to face, in perfect solitude, parted by none. Geneviève had seen
him, and was looking at him with an expression in which he fancied he
could detect great suffering, and an unacknowledged craving for help.
Thus he went forward, and even ventured to seat himself on the same
bench, though at some little distance from her, for fear lest he should
frighten her and drive her away.

Deep silence reigned. It was June, and the sun, descending towards the
horizon in a vast stretch of limpid sky, transpierced the surrounding
foliage with slender golden darts; while little wandering zephyrs
already began to cool the warm afternoon atmosphere. And Marc still
looked at his wife, saying nothing, but feeling deeply moved as he
noticed that she had grown thinner and paler, as if after a serious
illness. Her face, crowned by splendid fair hair, and with large eyes
which once had been all passion and gaiety, had not only become
emaciated, but had acquired an expression of ardent anxiety, the
torment of a parching thirst, which nothing could assuage. Her eyelids
quivered, and two tears, which she vainly tried to force back, coursed
down her cheeks. Then Marc began to speak--in such a way that it seemed
as if he had quitted her only the previous day, such indeed was his
desire to reassure her.

'Is our little Clément well?' he asked.

She did not answer immediately, for she feared, no doubt, that she
might reveal the emotion which was choking her. The little boy, who had
lately completed his fourth year, was no longer at Dherbecourt. Having
removed him from his nurse, Geneviève now kept him with her in spite of
all her grandmother's scoldings.

'He is quite well,' she said at last in a slightly tremulous voice,
though on her side also she strove to affect a kind of indifferent
quietude.

'And our Louise,' Marc resumed, 'are you satisfied with her?'

'Yes: she does not comply with my desires; you have remained the
master of her mind; but she is well behaved, she studies, and I do not
complain of her.'

Silence fell again, embarrassment once more stayed their tongues. That
allusion to their daughter's first Communion, and the terrible quarrel
which had parted them, had been sufficient. Yet the virulence of that
quarrel was necessarily abating day by day, the girl herself having
assumed all responsibility by her quiet resolve to await her twentieth
year before making any formal confession of religious faith. In her
gentle way she had exhausted her mother's resolution; and indeed a
gesture of lassitude had escaped the latter when speaking of her, as
if she had referred to some long-desired happiness, all hope of which
had fled. A few moments went by, and then Marc gently ventured to put
another question to her: 'And you, my friend, you have been so ill: how
are you now?'

She shrugged her shoulders in a hopeless way, and was again obliged to
force back her tears. 'I? Oh, I have long ceased to know how I am! But
no matter, I resign myself to live since God gives me the strength to
do so.'

So great was Marc's distress, so deeply was his whole being stirred by
a quiver of loving compassion at the sight of such great suffering,
that a cry of intense anxiety sprang from his lips: 'Geneviève, my
Geneviève, what ails you? what is your torment? Tell me! Ah, if I
could only console you, and cure you!'

Thus speaking, he came nearer to her on the bench, near enough indeed
to touch the folds of her gown, but she hastily drew back. 'No, no,
we have nothing more in common,' she exclaimed. 'You can no longer
do anything for me, my friend, for we belong to different worlds....
Ah! if I were to tell you! But of what use would it be? You would not
understand me!'

Nevertheless, she went on speaking; and in short and feverish
sentences, never noticing that she was confessing herself, she told
him of her torture, her daily increasing anguish, for she had reached
one of those distressful hours when the heart instinctively opens
and overflows. She related how, unknown to Madame Duparque, she had
escaped that afternoon from Maillebois, in order to speak with a famous
missionary, Father Athanase, whose pious counsels were at that time
revolutionising the pious folk of Beaumont. The missionary was merely
sojourning there for a short time, but it was said that he had already
worked some marvellous cures--a blessing, a prayer, from his lips
having restored angelic calmness to the unappeasable souls of women who
were racked by their yearning for Jesus. And Geneviève had just left
the neighbouring cathedral, where for two hours she had remained in
prayer, after confessing to that holy man her unquenchable thirst for
divine happiness. But he had merely absolved her for what he called
excess of pride and human passion, and by way of penitence had told her
to occupy her mind with humble duties, such as the care of the poor
and the sick. In vain afterwards had she striven to humble, annihilate
herself, in the darkest, the loneliest chapel of St. Maxence; she had
not found peace, she had not satisfied her hunger; she still glowed
with the same craving--a return for the gift of her whole being to the
Deity, that gift which she had tendered again and again, though never
once had it brought real peace and happiness to her flesh and her heart.

As Marc listened to what she said, he began to suspect the truth, and
whatever might be his sadness at seeing his Geneviève so wretched, a
quiver of hope arose within him. Plainly enough, neither Abbé Quandieu
nor even Father Théodose had satisfied the intense need of love that
existed in her nature. She had known love, and she must still love
the man, the husband, whom she had quitted, and who adored her. Mere
mystical delights had left her unsatisfied and irritated. She was now
but the proud, stubborn daughter of Catholicism, who turns desperately
to harsher and more frantic religious practices, as to stronger
stupefacients, in order to numb the bitterness and rebellion induced
by increasing disillusion. Everything pointed to it: the revival of
motherliness in her nature, for she had taken little Clément back, and
busied herself with him, and she even found some consolation in Louise,
who exercised a gentle healing influence over her, leading her back a
little more each day towards the father, the husband. Then, also, there
were her dissensions with her terrible grandmother, and her dawning
dislike for the little house on the Place des Capucins, where she at
last felt she could no longer live, for its coldness, silence, and
gloom were deathly. And, after failing with Abbé Quandieu and Father
Théodose, her sufferings had led her to make a supreme attempt with
that powerful missionary, to whom she had transferred her faith, that
miracle-working confessor, whom she had hastened to consult in secret
for fear lest she might be prevented, and who, by way of relief, had
only been able to prescribe practices which, in the circumstances, were
childish.

'But, my Geneviève,' Marc cried again, carried away, losing all thought
of prudence, 'if you are thus beset, thus tortured, it is because you
lack our home! You are too unhappy: come back, come back, I entreat
you!'

Her pride bristled up, however, and she answered: 'No, no, I shall
never go back to you. I am not unhappy: it is untrue. I am punished for
having loved you, for having been part of you, for having had a share
in your crime. Grandmother does right to remind me of it when I am so
weak as to complain. I expiate your sin, God strikes me to punish you,
and it is your poison which burns me beyond hope of relief.'

'But, my poor wife, all that is monstrous. They are driving you mad!
If it is true that I set a new harvest in you, it is precisely on that
harvest that I rely to ensure our happiness some day. Yes, we became
so blended one with the other that we can never be wholly parted. And
you will end by returning to me: our children will bring you back. The
pretended poison which your foolish grandmother talks about is our love
itself; it is working in your heart, and it will bring you back.'

'Never!... God would strike us down, both of us,' she retorted. 'You
drove me from our home by your blasphemy. If you had really loved me,
you would not have taken my daughter from me, by refusing to let her
make her first Communion. How can I return to a home of impiety where
it would not even be allowable for me to pray? Ah! how wretched I am;
nobody, nobody loves me, and heaven itself will not open!'

She burst into sobs. Filled with despair by that frightful cry of
distress Marc felt that it would be useless and cruel to torture her
further. The hour for reunion had not yet come. Silence fell between
them once more, while in the distance, on the Avenue des Jaffres, the
cries of some children at play rose into the limpid evening atmosphere.

During their impassioned converse they had at last drawn nearer to each
other on the lonely bench; and now, seated side by side, they seemed to
be reflecting, their glances wandering away amid the golden dust of the
sunset. At last Marc spoke again, as if finishing his thoughts aloud:
'I do not think, my friend, that you gave for a moment any credit to
the abominable charges with which certain people wished to besmirch me
_à propos_ of my brotherly intercourse with Mademoiselle Mazeline.'

'Oh! no,' Geneviève answered quickly, 'I know you, and I know her. Do
not imagine that I have become so foolish as to believe all that has
been said to me.'

Then with some slight embarrassment she continued: 'It is the same with
me. Some people, I know it, have set me among the flock which Father
Théodose is said to have turned into a kind of _cour galante_. In the
first place I do not admit that anything of the kind exists. Father
Théodose is, perhaps, rather too proud of his person, but I believe
his faith to be sincere. Besides, I should have known how to defend
myself--you do not doubt it, I hope?'

In spite of his sorrow Marc could not help smiling slightly.
Geneviève's evident embarrassment indicated that there had been some
audacity on the part of the Capuchin, and that she had checked it.
Assuming this to be the case Marc felt the better able to understand
why she was so perturbed and embittered.

'I certainly do not doubt it,' he responded. 'I know you, as you know
me, and I am aware that you are incapable of wrong-doing. I have no
anxiety respecting Father Théodose on your account, whatever another
husband of my acquaintance may have to say.... Yet all the same I
regret that you were so badly advised as to quit worthy Abbé Quandieu
for that handsome monk.'

A fugitive blush which appeared on Geneviève's cheeks while her husband
was speaking told him that he had guessed aright. It was not without
a profound knowledge of woman in her earlier years, when an _amorosa_
may exist within the penitent, that Father Crabot had advised Madame
Duparque to remove her daughter from the charge of old Abbé Quandieu
and place her in that of handsome Father Théodose. The Catholic doctors
are well aware that love alone can kill love, and that a woman who
loves apart from Christ never wholly belongs to Christ. The return
of Geneviève to her husband and her sin was fatal unless she should
cease to love, or rather unless she should love elsewhere. But, as it
happened, Father Théodose was not expert in analysing human nature,
he had blundered with respect to the passionate yet loyal penitent
confided to his hands, and had thus precipitated the crisis, provoking
repugnance and rebellion in that distracted, suffering woman, who,
without as yet returning to sober reason, saw the glorious, mystical
stage-scenery of the religion of her childhood collapse around her.

Well pleased with the symptoms which he fancied he could detect, Marc
asked somewhat maliciously: 'And so Father Théodose is no longer your
confessor?'

Geneviève turned her clear eyes upon him, and answered plainly:
'No, Father Théodose does not suit me, and I have gone back to Abbé
Quandieu, who, as grandmother rightly says, lacks warmth, but who
quiets me at times, for he is very kind.'

For a moment she seemed to ponder. Then, in an undertone, she allowed
another avowal to cross her lips: 'All the same, the dear man does not
know how greatly he has increased the torment in which I live by what
he said to me about that abominable affair----'

She stopped short, and Marc, guessing the truth, becoming quite
impassioned now that this subject was broached, continued: 'The Simon
affair, eh? Abbé Quandieu believes Simon to be innocent, does he not?'

Geneviève had cast her eyes towards the ground. For a moment she
remained silent; then said, very faintly: 'Yes, he believes in his
innocence; he told me so with great mystery in the choir of his church,
at the foot of the altar, before our Lord who heard him.'

'And you yourself, Geneviève, tell me, do you now believe in Simon's
innocence?'

'No, I do not, I cannot. You must remember that I should never have
left you had I believed him innocent, for his innocence would have
meant the guilt of the defenders of God. You, by defending him, charged
God with error and falsehood.'

Marc well remembered the circumstances. He again saw his wife bring
him the news of the revision, growing exasperated at the sight of his
delight, exclaiming that there was no truth or justice outside heaven,
and at last fleeing from the house where her faith was outraged. And
now that she seemed to him to be shaken he desired more ardently than
ever to convince her of the truth, for he felt that he would win her
back as soon as with the triumph of truth her mind should awaken to the
necessity of justice.

'But once more, Geneviève, my Geneviève, it is impossible that you,
who are so upright and so sincere, whose mind is so clear when the
superstitions of your childhood do not cloud it--it is impossible that
you should believe such gross falsehoods. Inform yourself, read the
documents.'

'But I am fully informed, I assure you, my friend; I have read
everything.'

'You have read all the documents which have been published? All the
inquiry of the Court of Cassation?'

'Why, yes! I have read everything that has appeared in _Le Petit
Beaumontais_. You know very well that grandmother takes that paper
every morning.'

With a violent gesture Marc gave expression to his disgust and
indignation. 'Ah well, my darling, you are, indeed, fully informed!
The vile print you speak of is a sewer of poison, which disseminates
only filth and falsehood. Documents are falsified in it, texts are
mutilated, and the poor credulous minds of the poor and the lowly are
gorged with stupid fables.[1]... You are simply poisoned like many
other worthy folk.'

[Footnote 1: This is exactly what happened in the Dreyfus case. If,
apart from all those who, hating Dreyfus as a Jew, were resolved
_a priori_ to regard him as guilty whatever might be the evidence,
there are still millions of Frenchmen who honestly retain a belief in
his culpability, this is because scores of French newspapers--those
owned or patronised by the Nationalist party and the Roman Catholic
Church--deliberately falsified and mutilated documents and evidence,
serving to their readers only such particulars as tended to indicate
the prisoner's guilt. It is hardly too much to say that half of France
is still ignorant of the real facts of the Dreyfus case. We are often
told that the press has much power for good: never was its power for
evil more strikingly exemplified than in that lamentable affair, from
the effects of which France is still suffering.--_Trans._]

She herself, no doubt, was conscious that the folly and impudence of
_Le Petit Beaumontais_ were excessive, for again she cast down her
eyes, and looked distressed.

'Listen!' Marc resumed. 'Let me send you the complete verbatim report
of the Court's inquiry, with the documents annexed to it; and promise
me that you will read everything attentively and straightforwardly.'

But at this suggestion she vivaciously raised her head: 'No, no; send
me nothing. I do not wish it.'

'Why?'

'Because it is useless. There is no need for me to read anything.'

He looked at her, again feeling discouraged and grieved.

'Say rather that you won't read.'

'Well, yes, if you prefer it that way, I won't read anything. As
grandmother says: "What is the use of it?" Ought one not always to
distrust one's reason?'

'You won't read anything because you fear you might be convinced,
because you already doubt the things which, only yesterday, you
regarded as certainties.'

She interrupted him with a gesture of fatigue and unconcern, but he
continued: 'And the words of Abbé Quandieu pursue you; you ask yourself
with terror how a holy priest can believe in an innocence which, if
recognised, would compel you to curse all the years of error with which
you have tortured our poor home.'

This time she did not even make a gesture, but it was apparent that she
had resolved to listen no further. For a moment her glance remained
fixed on the ground. Then she slowly said: 'Do not amuse yourself by
increasing my sorrow. Our life has been shattered. It is all over. I
should deem myself still more guilty than now if I were to go back to
you. And what personal relief could it give you to imagine that I made
a mistake, and that I have not found my grandmother's house to be the
home of peace and faith in which I thought I was taking refuge? My
sufferings would not cure yours.'

This, as Marc felt, was almost a confession--an acknowledgment of her
secret regret at having quitted him, and of the anxious doubts into
which she had sunk. Once more, therefore, he exclaimed: 'But if you are
unhappy, say it! And come back; bring the children with you; the house
still awaits you! It would be great joy, great happiness.'

But she stood up and repeated, like one who obstinately remains blind
and deaf: 'I am not unhappy. I am being punished, and I will endure my
punishment to the end. And if you have any pity for me, remain here;
do not try to follow me. Should you meet me again, too, turn your head
away, for all is ended, all must be ended, between us.'

Then she went off along the deserted avenue, amid the paling gold of
the sunset, her figure quite sombre, tall, and slim; and all that Marc
could still see of her beauty was her splendid fair hair, which a last
sunbeam irradiated. He obediently refrained from moving, but, hoping
for a last glance of farewell, he watched her as she walked away. She
did not turn, however; she disappeared from view among the trees, while
the evening wind, now rising, passed with a chilling quiver beneath the
foliage.

When Marc painfully rose to his feet, he was amazed to see his good
friend Salvan standing before him, with a happy smile on his lips. 'Ah!
my fine lover, so this is how I catch you giving assignations in lonely
corners! I saw you already some time ago, but remained watching, for
I did not wish to disturb you.... So this is why you remained with me
such a short time when you called at the college this afternoon, Master
Slyboots!'

Sadly shaking his head, Marc walked away beside his old friend.
'No, no,' he said, 'we merely met by chance, and my heart is quite
lacerated.'

Then he recounted the meeting, and the long conversation from which he
had just emerged feeling more convinced than ever that the rupture was
definitive. Salvan, who had never consoled himself for having promoted
a marriage which, however happy at the outset, was ending so badly,
and who recognised that he had acted with great imprudence in wedding
free thought to the Church, listened attentively, ceasing to smile, yet
looking fairly satisfied.

'But that is not so bad,' he said at last. 'You surely did not expect
that our poor Geneviève would throw herself at your head, and entreat
you to take her back? When a woman leaves her husband to give herself
to God, as your wife did, her pride prevents her from acknowledging
in that way the distress she now feels at having failed to find the
contentment she anticipated. None the less, in my opinion, Geneviève is
passing through a frightful crisis, which may bring her back to you at
any moment.... If truth should enlighten her, she will act at once. She
has retained too much sense to be unjust.'

And again becoming gay and animated, Salvan went on: 'I never told you,
my friend, of the attempts I made with Madame Duparque of recent years.
As they resulted in nothing, there was no occasion for me to vaunt them
to you. However, when your wife acted so inconsiderately, when she
left you, I thought of giving her a little lecture, for I was an old
friend of her father's, and, besides, I had been her own guardian. That
circumstance naturally gave me admittance to the dismal little house
on the Place des Capucins. But you can have no idea of the ferocious
manner in which the terrible old grandmother received me. She would not
leave me alone with Geneviève for a moment, and she interrupted every
conciliatory phrase of mine with imprecations intended to fall on you.
Nevertheless, I think I managed to say what I wished to say. True, the
poor child was in no fit state to listen to me. When Catholic training
revives, the ravages which religious exaltation may cause in a woman's
brain are frightful. Geneviève, for her part, appeared well-balanced
and healthy when you married her; but that unfortunate Simon affair
sufficed to shatter all equilibrium. She would not even listen to me;
her answers were so wild and foolish as to make one's reason stagger.
Briefly, I was beaten. I was not exactly turned out of doors, but,
after two subsequent attempts made at long intervals, I lost all hope
of introducing a little reasonableness into that abode of insanity,
where poor Madame Berthereau, in spite of her sufferings, seemed the
only person who retained a little good sense.'

'You see very well that there is no hope,' responded Marc, who remained
very gloomy. 'One cannot reclaim people when they so stubbornly persist
in refusing to make themselves acquainted with the truth.'

'Why not?' asked Salvan. 'I'm done for, that's true. It would be
useless for me to make any fresh attempt; they would stop up their eyes
and ears beforehand in order to see and hear nothing. But remember
that you have the most powerful of helpers, the best of advocates, the
shrewdest of diplomatists, the most skilful of captains, and in fact
the most triumphant of conquerors at work in that house!'

He laughed, and, growing quite excited, resumed: 'Yes, yes, your
charming Louise, whom I'm very fond of, and whom I regard as a prodigy
of good sense and grace. The firm and yet gentle behaviour of that
young girl, ever since her twelfth year, has been that of a heroine.
I know of no loftier or more touching example. Seldom does one meet
with such precocious sense and courage. And she is all deference and
affection, even when she refuses to do what her mother desires, by
reason of her promise to you respecting her first Communion. Now that
she has acquired the right to keep that promise, you should see how
prettily, how sedately, she manœuvres to effect the conquest of that
house where everybody is against her. Even her grandmother becomes
tired of scolding. But her dexterity is most marvellous with her
mother, whom she encompasses with an active worship, with all sorts of
attentions, as if dealing with some convalescent patient whose physical
and moral strength must first of all be restored, in order that she may
afterwards return to ordinary life. She seldom speaks to her mother
of you, but she accustoms her to live in an atmosphere which is full
of you, full of your thoughts and your love. She is there like your
other self, never pausing in her endeavours to bring about the return
of the wife and mother, by reconnecting the severed bond with her own
caressing hands. And if your wife returns to you, my friend, it will
be the child who will bring her back, the all-powerful child, whose
presence ensures health and peace in one's home.'

Marc listened, feeling deeply moved, and reviving to hope. 'Ah! may it
be true,' said he; 'nevertheless my poor Geneviève is still very ill.'

'Let your little healer do her work,' Salvan responded: 'the kiss she
gives her mother every morning brings life with it.... If Geneviève
suffers such torture it is because life is struggling within her, and
wresting her a little more each day from the deadly crisis in which you
nearly lost her. As soon as good Mother Nature triumphs over mystical
imbecility, she and your children will be in your arms.... Come, my
friend, be brave. It would be hard indeed if, after restoring poor
Simon to his family, your own domestic happiness should not be assured
by the triumph of truth and justice.'

They shook hands in brotherly fashion, and Marc, who returned to
Maillebois somewhat comforted, found himself on the morrow in the thick
of the fight again. The flight of Brother Gorgias had had a disastrous
effect in the little town, and the great days of the affair were now
beginning afresh. There was not a house whose inmates did not quarrel
and fight over the possible guilt of that terrible Christian Brother,
who, in disappearing from the scene, had impudently written to _Le
Petit Beaumontais_ to explain that, as his cowardly superiors had
decided to abandon him to his enemies, he was about to place himself in
safety, in order that he might be free to defend himself when and how
he pleased.

A much more important feature of this letter was, however, a revised
statement which Gorgias made in it to account for the presence of the
famous copy-slip in the paper gag found near Zéphirin's body. No doubt
the complicated story of a forgery, invented by his leaders, who were
unwilling even to admit that the copy-slip had come from the Brothers'
school, had always been regarded by Gorgias as idiotic. He must have
thought it stupid to deny the origin of the slip and the authenticity
of the initialling. Although every expert in the world might ascribe
that initialling to Simon, it would remain his, Gorgias's, handiwork
in the estimation of all honest and sensible folk. However, as his
superiors had threatened to abandon him to his own resources if he
did not accept their version of the affair, he had resigned himself
and relinquished his own. It was to the latter that he now reverted,
for since the missing corner bearing the school stamp had been found
at Father Philibin's, he regarded his superiors' version as utterly
ridiculous. It seemed to him absurd to pretend, as the Congregations
did, that Simon had procured a stamp, or had caused one to be made,
with the deliberate intention of ruining the Brothers' school. Now,
therefore, realising that his supporters were on the point of forsaking
and sacrificing him, Gorgias left them of his own accord, and by way
of intimidation revealed a part of the truth. His new version, which
upset all the credulous readers of _Le Petit Beaumontais_, was that the
copy-slip had really come from the Brothers', and had been initialled
by himself, but that Zéphirin had assuredly taken it home with him from
the school, even as Victor Milhomme had taken a similar slip, in spite
of all prohibitions; and that Simon had thus found it on the table in
his victim's room on the night of the abominable crime.

A fortnight after the appearance of this version the newspaper
published a fresh letter from Brother Gorgias. He had taken refuge in
Italy, he said; but he abstained from supplying his exact address,
though he offered to return and give evidence at the approaching trial
at Rozan if he received a formal guarantee that his liberty would not
be interfered with. In this second letter he still called Simon a
loathsome Jew, and declared that he possessed overwhelming proof of
his guilt, which proof, however, he would only divulge to the jury
at the Assize Court. At the same time this did not prevent him from
referring to his superiors, notably Father Crabot, in aggressive and
outrageous terms fraught with all the bitter violence of an accomplice
once willingly accepted but now cast off and sacrificed. How idiotic,
said he, was their story of a forged school stamp! What a wretched
falsehood, when the truth might well be told! They were fools and
cowards, cowards especially, for had they not acted with the vilest
cowardice in abandoning him, Gorgias, the faithful servant of God,
after sacrificing both the heroic Father Philibin and the unhappy
Brother Fulgence? Of the latter he only spoke in terms of indulgent
contempt; Fulgence, said he, had been a sorry individual, unhinged,
and full of vanity; and the others, after allowing him all freedom to
compromise himself, had got rid of him by sending him to some distant
spot under the pretext that he was ill. As for Father Philibin, Gorgias
set him on a pinnacle, called him his friend, a hero of dutifulness,
one who displayed passive obedience to his chiefs, who on their side
employed him for the dirtiest work, and struck him down as soon as it
was to their interest to close his mouth. And this hero, who was now
suffering untold agony in a convent among the Apennines, was depicted
by Gorgias as a martyr of the faith, even as he had been depicted in
print, with a palm and a halo, by some of the ardent anti-Simonists.

From this point Gorgias proceeded to glorify himself with extraordinary
vehemence, wild and splendid impudence. He became superb; he displayed
such a mixture of frankness and falsehood, energy and duplicity, that,
if the fates had been propitious, this base rascal might assuredly have
become a great man. Even as his superiors were still pleased to admit,
he remained a model cleric, full of admirable, exclusive, militant
faith, one who assigned to the Church the royalty both of heaven and of
earth, and who regarded himself as the Church's soldier, privileged to
do everything in her defence. At the head of the Church was the Deity,
then came his superiors and himself, and when he had given an account
of his actions to his superiors and the Deity, the only thing left for
the rest of the world was submission. Moreover, his superiors were of
no account when he deemed them to be unworthy. In that case he remained
alone in the presence of heaven. Thus, on days of confession, when
God had absolved him, he regarded himself as the unique, the one pure
man, who owed no account of his actions to anybody, and who was above
all human laws. Was not this indeed the essential Catholic doctrine,
according to which the ministers of the faith are rightly amenable to
the divine authority alone? And was it not only a Father Crabot, full
of social cowardice, who could trouble himself about imbecile human
justice, and the stupid opinions of the multitude?

In this second letter, moreover, Brother Gorgias admitted, with a
serene lack of shame, that he himself occasionally sinned. He then
beat his breast, cried aloud that he was but a wolf and a hog, and
humbly cast himself in the dust at the feet of God. Having thus made
atonement, he became tranquil and continued to serve the Church in all
holiness until the clay of creation cast him into sin again, whereupon
fresh absolution became necessary. But in any case he was at least a
loyal Catholic, he had the courage to confess, and the strength to
endure penitence, whereas all those dignitaries of the Church, those
Superiors of the Religious Orders, of whom he complained so bitterly,
were liars and poltroons, who trembled before the consequences of their
transgressions--who, like base hypocrites, concealed them or else cast
them upon others in their terror of the judgment of men.

At the outset Brother Gorgias's passionate recriminations had seemed to
be prompted merely by his anger at being so brutally abandoned after
serving as a docile instrument; but at present veiled threats began
to mingle with his reproaches. If he himself had always paid for his
transgressions like a good Christian, there were others, he said, who
had not done so. Yet some day assuredly they would be forced to make
atonement, should they continue to try the patience of heaven, which
would well know how to set up an avenger, a justiciary to proclaim the
unconfessed, unpunished crimes. In saying this Gorgias was evidently
alluding to Father Crabot and the mysterious story of the acquisition
of the Countess de Quédeville's immense fortune--that splendid domain
of Valmarie, where the Jesuit College had been subsequently established.

Several confused versions of that story had been current, and certain
particulars were now recalled: The old but still beautiful Countess
becoming extremely pious, and engaging Father Philibin, then a young
man, as tutor to her grandson, Gaston, the last of the Quédevilles,
who was barely nine years old. Next, Father Crabot arriving at the
château and becoming the confessor, the friend, and some even said the
lover, of the still beautiful Countess. Finally, the accident, the
death of little Gaston, who had been drowned while walking out with
his tutor, his death allowing his grandmother to bequeath the family
estate and fortune to Father Crabot, through the medium of a clerical
banker of Beaumont. And it was also remembered that among little
Gaston's playmates there had been a gamekeeper's son, a lad named
Georges Plumet, whom the Jesuits of Valmarie subsequently protected and
assisted, and who was none other than the present Brother Gorgias.

The latter's violent language and threatening manner recalled all
those half-forgotten incidents, and revived the old suspicion that
some dark deed might link the gamekeeper's humble son to the powerful
clerics who ruled the region. Would that not explain the protection
which they had so long given him, the audacious manner in which they
had shielded him, and at last even made his cause their own? Doubtless
their first impulse had been to save the Church, but a little later
they had done their utmost to make that terrible Ignorantine appear
innocent; and if they had now sacrificed him, it must be because they
deemed it impossible to defend him any longer. Perhaps, too, Brother
Gorgias only wished to alarm them in order to wring from them as much
money as possible. That he did alarm them was certain; one could detect
that they were greatly disturbed by the letters and articles of that
dreadful chatterer, who was ever ready to beat his breast and cry his
sinfulness and that of others aloud. Moreover, in spite of the seeming
abandonment in which he was left, one could divine that he was still
protected, powerfully even if secretly; while his sudden intervals
of silence, which lasted at times for weeks, plainly indicated that
friendly messages and money had been sent to him.

His admissions and his threats quite upset the rank and file of
the clerical faction. It was horrible! He profaned the temple, he
exposed the secrets of the tabernacle to the unhealthy curiosity of
unbelievers! Nevertheless, a good many devout folk remained attached to
him, impressed by the uncompromising faith with which he bowed to God
alone, and refused to recognise any of the so-called rights of human
society. Besides, why should one not accept his version of the affair,
his admission that he had really initialled the copy-slip, that it had
been carried away by Zéphirin, and utilised by Simon for a diabolical
purpose? This version was less ridiculous than that of his superiors:
it even supplied an excuse for what Father Philibin had done, for one
could picture the latter losing his head, and tearing off the stamped
corner of the slip, in a moment of blind zeal for the safety of his
holy mother, the Church.

To tell the truth, however, a far greater number of laymen, those who
were faithful to Father Crabot, as well as nearly all the priests and
other clerics clung stubbornly to the Jesuits' revised version of the
incident--that of Simon forging the paraph, and using a false stamp. It
was an absurd idea, but the readers of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ became
all the more impassioned over it, for the invention of a false stamp
added yet another glaring improbability to the affair. Every morning
the newspaper repeated imperturbably that material proofs existed of
the making of that false stamp, and that the recondemnation of Simon by
the Rozan Assize Court could no longer be a matter of doubt for anybody.

The rallying word had been passed round, and all 'right-minded' people
made a show of believing that the Brothers' school would triumph as
soon as the impious adversaries of the unfortunate Brother Gorgias
should be confounded. The school greatly needed such a victory,
for, discredited as it was by the semi-confessions and unpleasant
discoveries of recent times, it had just lost two more of its pupils.
Only the final overthrow of Simon and his return to the galleys could
restore its lustre. Until then it was fit that Brother Fulgence's
successor should remain patiently in the background, while Father
Théodose, the Superior of the Capuchins,--who also triumphed, even when
others were being ruined,--skilfully exploited the situation by urging
his devotees to make little periodical offerings, such for instance
as two francs a month, to St. Antony of Padua, in order that the
saint might exert his influence to keep the good Brothers' school at
Maillebois.

However, the most serious incident of the turmoil in the town was
supplied by Abbé Quandieu, who had long been regarded as a prudent
Simonist. At that time it had been said that Monseigneur Bergerot, the
Bishop, was behind him, even as Father Crabot was behind the Capuchins
and the Brothers of the Christian Doctrine. As usual, indeed, the
Seculars and the Regulars confronted each other, the priests resenting
the efforts which were made by the monks to divert all worship and
revenue to their own profit. And in this instance, as in fact in all
others, the better cause was that of the priests, whose conception of
the religion of Christ was more equitable and human than that of the
monks. Nevertheless, Monseigneur Bergerot had been defeated, and by his
advice Abbé Quandieu had submitted and had done penance by attending an
idolatrous ceremony at the Capuchin Chapel.

But all the disastrous disclosures and occurrences of recent
times--first Father Philibin shown guilty of perjury and forgery,
then Brother Fulgence spirited away after compromising himself, then,
too, Brother Gorgias absconding and almost confessing his guilt--had
stirred the parish priest of Maillebois to rebellion, and revived his
former belief in Simon's innocence. Nevertheless he would probably
have remained silent, in a spirit of discipline, if Abbé Cognasse,
the priest of Jonville, had not gone out of his way to allude to him
in a sermon, saying that an apostate priest, a hireling of the Jews,
a traitor to his God and his country, was unhappily at the head of a
neighbouring parish. On hearing this, Abbé Quandieu's Christian ardour
asserted itself; he could no longer control the grief he felt at seeing
'the dealers of the Temple,' as he called them, betraying the Saviour
who was all truth and justice. Thus, in his sermon on the following
Sunday, he spoke of certain baleful men who were slaying the Church by
their abominable complicity with the perpetrators of the vilest crimes.
One may picture the scandal, the agitation, that ensued in the clerical
world, particularly as it was asserted that Monseigneur Bergerot was
again behind Abbé Quandieu, and was determined this time that fanatical
and malignant sectarians should not be allowed to compromise religion
any further.

At last, while passion was thus running riot, the new trial began
before the Rozan Assize Court. It had been possible to bring Simon back
to France, though he was still ailing, imperfectly cured as yet of
the exhausting fevers which had delayed his return for nearly a year.
During the voyage it had been feared that he would not be put ashore
alive. Moreover, for fear of disorder, violence, and outrage, it had
been necessary to practise dissimulation with respect to the spot where
he would land, and bring him to Rozan at night time by roundabout ways
which none suspected. At present he was in prison near the Palace of
Justice, having only a street to cross in order to appear before his
judges. And pending that event he was closely watched and guarded,
defended also, like the important and disquieting personage he had
become, one with whose fate that of the whole nation was bound up.

The first person privileged to see him was Rachel his wife, whom
that reunion, after so many frightful years, cast into wild emotion.
Ah! what an embrace they exchanged! And how great was the grief she
displayed after that visit, so thin, so weak had she found him, so
aged, too, with his white hair! And he had showed himself so strange,
ignorant as he still was of the facts, for the brief communication
by which the Court of Cassation had informed him of the approaching
revision of his case had given no particulars. It had not surprised
him to hear of the revision, he had always felt that it would some day
take place; and this conviction, in spite of all his tortures, had
lent him the strength to live in order that he might once more see
his children and give them back a spotless name. But how dark was the
anguish in which he had remained plunged, his mind ever dwelling on the
frightful enigma of his condemnation, which he could not unravel! His
brother David and Advocate Delbos, who hastened to the prison, ended by
acquainting him with the whole monstrous affair, the terrible war which
had been waged for years respecting his case, between those perpetual
foes, the men of authoritarian views who defended the rotten edifice of
the past, and the men of free thought who went towards the future. Then
only did Simon understand the truth and come to regard his personal
sufferings as mere incidents, whose only importance arose from the fact
that they had led to a splendid uprising in the name of justice, which
would benefit all mankind. Moreover, he did not willingly speak of his
torments; he had suffered less from his companions, the thieves and
murderers around him, than from his keepers, those ferocious brutes who
were left free to act as they pleased, and who, like disciples of the
Marquis de Sade, took a voluptuous delight in torturing and killing
with impunity. Had it not been for the strength of resistance which
Simon owed to racial heredity, and his cold logical temperament, he
would twenty times have provoked his custodians to shoot him dead. And
at present he talked of all those things in a quiet way, and evinced a
naïve astonishment on being told of the extraordinary complications of
the drama of which he was the victim.

Having secured a citation as a witness, Marc obtained leave of absence,
and, a few days before the trial began, he took up his abode at Rozan,
where he found David and Delbos already in the thick of the supreme
battle. He was surprised by the nervousness and anxious thoughtfulness
of David, who was usually so brave and calm. And it seemed to him
that Delbos, as a rule so gaily valiant, was likewise uneasy. As a
matter of fact it was for the latter a very big affair, in which he
risked both his position as an advocate and his increasing popularity
as a Socialist leader. If he should win the case he would doubtless
end by beating Lemarrois at Beaumont; but unfortunately all sorts of
disquieting symptoms were becoming manifest. Indeed Marc himself, after
reaching Rozan full of hope, soon began to feel alarmed amid his new
surroundings.

Elsewhere, even at Maillebois, the acquittal of Simon appeared certain
to everybody possessed of any sense. Father Crabot's clients, in their
private converse, did not conceal the fact that they felt their cause
to be greatly endangered. The best news also came from Paris, where
the Ministers regarded a just _dénouement_ as certain, lulled into
confidence as they were by their agents' reports respecting the Court
and the jury. But the atmosphere was very different at Rozan, where
an odour of falsehood and treachery pervaded the streets, and found
its way into the depths of men's souls. This town, once the capital
of a province, and now greatly fallen from its former importance, had
retained all its monarchical and religious faith, all the antiquated
fanaticism of a past age, which elsewhere had disappeared.[2] Thus
it supplied an excellent battle-ground for the Congregations, which
absolutely needed a decisive victory if they were to retain their
teaching privileges and control the future. And never had Marc more
fully realised how deeply Rome was interested in winning that battle;
never had he more plainly detected that behind the slightest incidents
of that interminable and monstrous affair there was papal Rome,
clinging stubbornly to its dream of universal domination--Rome which,
at every step over the paving-stones of Rozan, he found at work there,
whispering, striving, and conquering.

[Footnote 2: If proof were wanted to show that by Rozan M. Zola means
Rennes, the fanatical ex-capital of Brittany, it would be found in the
passage given above.--_Trans._]

Delbos and David advised him to observe extreme prudence. They
themselves were guarded by detectives for fear of some ambush; and he,
on the very morrow of his arrival, found shadowy forms hovering around
him. Was he not Simon's successor, the secular schoolmaster, the enemy
of which the Church must rid itself if it desired to triumph? And the
stealthy hatred by which Marc felt himself to be encompassed, the
menace of an evil blow in some dark corner, sufficed to show him that
the battle had sunk to the very lowest level, and that his adversaries
were indeed those men of blind, bigoted violence, who through the ages
had tortured, burnt, and murdered their fellow-beings in their mad
dream of staying the march of mankind!

That much established, Marc understood the terror weighing on the town,
the dismal aspect of its houses, whose shutters remained closed, as
if an epidemic were raging. As a rule, there is little animation in
Rozan during the summer, and at that moment the town seemed emptier
than ever. Pedestrians hastened their steps, glancing anxiously around
them as they went their way in the broad sunshine; shopkeepers stood at
their windows, inspecting the streets as if they feared some massacre.
The selection of the jury particularly upset those trembling folk;
there was much melancholy jogging of heads when the names of the chosen
jurors were made public. It was evidently considered a disaster to have
one among one's relatives.

Churchgoers abounded among the petty _rentiers_, manufacturers, and
tradespeople of that clerical centre, where lack of religion was
regarded as a shameful blot, and proved extremely prejudicial to one's
pecuniary interests. Frantic was the pressure exercised by mothers
and wives, led by all the priests, abbés, and monks of the six parish
churches and the thirty convents, whose bells were always ringing. At
Beaumont, in former times, the Church had been obliged to work with
some discretion, for it had found itself in the presence of both an
old Voltairean _bourgeoisie_ and of revolutionary _faubourgs_. But
there was no need for it to beat about the bush in that sleepy city of
Rozan, whose traditions were entirely pious. The workmen's wives went
to Mass, the women of the middle class formed all sorts of religious
associations; and thus a holy crusade began; none refused to help in
defeating Simon. A week before the trial the whole town had become a
battlefield; there was not a house that did not witness some combat
waged for the good cause. The wretched jurors shut themselves up, no
longer daring to go out, for strangers accosted them in the streets,
terrified them with evil glances or passing words, in which there
lurked a threat to punish them in their pockets or their persons if
they did not behave as good Catholics, and re-condemn the dirty Jew.

Marc was rendered yet more anxious by some information he received
respecting Counsellor Guybaraud, who was to preside over the Assize
Court, and Procureur Pacart, who was to conduct the prosecution.
The first had been a pupil of the Valmarie Jesuits, to whom he owed
his rapid promotion, and had married a very wealthy and very pious
hunchbacked girl, whom he had received from their hands. The latter,
an ex-demagogue, had been vaguely compromised in some gambling affair,
and, becoming a frantic anti-semite, had rallied to the Church, from
which he expected a post in Paris. Marc felt particularly distrustful
of Pacart on observing how insidiously the anti-Simonists affected
anxiety respecting his attitude, as if indeed they feared some revival
of his revolutionary past. While they never ceased praising the lofty
conscientiousness of Guybaraud, they spoke of Pacart with all sorts
of reservations, in order, no doubt, to enable him to play the heroic
part of an honest man, overcome by the force of truth, on the day when
he would have to ask the jury for Simon's head. The very circumstance
that the clericals went about Rozan dolefully repeating that Pacart was
not on their side made Marc distrustful, for information from a good
source had acquainted him with the undoubted venality of this man, who
was ready for the vilest bargaining in his eager desire to regain a
semblance of honour in some high position.

However, the desperate and deadly battle became at Rozan a subterranean
one. The affair was not lightly prosecuted in drawing-rooms among
the smiles of ladies, as at Beaumont. Nor was there any question of a
liberal prelate like Monseigneur Bergerot resisting the Congregations
from a dread lest the Church should be submerged and swept away by the
rising tide of base superstition. This time the contest was carried
on in the darkness in which great social crimes take their course;
all that appeared on the surface was some turbid ebullition, a kind
of terror sweeping through the streets as through a city stricken
with a pestilence. And Marc's anguish arose particularly from that
circumstance. Instead of again witnessing the resounding clash of
Simonists and anti-Simonists, as at Beaumont, he was confronted by the
stealthy preparations for a dark crime, for which a Guybaraud and a
Pacart were doubtless the necessary chosen instruments.

Every evening David and Delbos repaired to the large room which Marc
had rented in a lonely street, and ardent friends of all classes
surrounded them. These formed the little sacred phalanx; each visitor
brought some news, contributed suggestions and courage. They were
determined that they would not despair. Indeed, after an evening spent
together they felt inspirited, ready for fresh encounters. And they
were aware that their enemies met in a neighbouring street, at the
house of a brother-in-law of Judge Gragnon, who, having been summoned
as a witness by the defence, was staying there, receiving all the
militant anti-Simonists of the town--a procession of frocks and gowns
that slipped into the house as soon as night had fallen. Father Crabot
had slept there twice, it was said, and had then returned to Valmarie,
where with a great display of humility he had cloistered himself in
penitence.

Suspicious characters prowled about that sparsely populated district;
the streets were not safe; and, accordingly, when David and Delbos
quitted Marc at night, their friends accompanied them home in a band.
One night a shot was fired; but the detectives, though always on the
watch, could find nobody to arrest. But the favourite weapon of the
priests is venomous slander, moral murder, perpetrated in a cowardly
fashion in the dark. And Delbos became the chosen victim. On the very
day when the trial was to begin, the number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_
which reached Rozan contained an abominable disclosure, full of
mendacity, a shamefully travestied story, half a century old, about
the advocate's father. The elder Delbos, though of peasant stock,
had become a goldsmith, in a small way, in the neighbourhood of the
Bishop's residence at Beaumont; and the newspaper charged him with
having made away with certain sacred vessels which had been entrusted
to him for repair. The truth was that the goldsmith, robbed by a woman
whom he was unwilling to denounce, had found himself obliged to pay the
value of the stolen goods. There had been no prosecution; the affair
had remained obscure; but one had to read that filthy print to realise
to what depths of malevolence and ignominy certain men could descend.
That painful, forgotten, buried misfortune of the father's was cast in
the face of the son with an abundance of spurious particulars, vile
imaginings, set forth in language which was all outrage and mire. And
the desecrator of the grave, the murderously-minded libeller who wrote
those things, had plainly obtained the documents he published from the
very hands of Father Crabot, to whom they had been communicated, no
doubt, by some priestly archivist. It was hoped that this unexpected
bludgeon-blow would strike Delbos full in the heart, assassinate him
morally, discredit him as an advocate, annihilate him to such a point
that he would have neither the strength to speak nor the authority to
gain a hearing in the defence of Simon.

However, the trial began one Monday, a hot day in July. Apart from
Gragnon, whom it was intended to confront with Jacquin, the foreman
of the first jury, several witnesses had been cited for the defence.
Mignot, Mlle. Rouzaire, Daix, Mauraisin, Salvan, Sébastien and
Victor Milhomme, Polydor Souquet, the younger Bongards, Doloirs, and
Savins were all on the list. Fathers Crabot and Philibin, Brothers
Fulgence and Gorgias had also been cited, though it was known that the
last three would not appear. On the other side the Procureur de la
République had contented himself with recalling the witnesses for the
prosecution who had given evidence at the first trial. And the streets
of Rozan had at last become animated with witnesses, journalists, and
inquisitive folk, arriving in fresh batches by each succeeding train.
Already at six o'clock in the morning a crowd assembled near the Palace
of Justice eager to catch a glimpse of Simon. But a considerable
military force had been set on foot, the street was cleared, and Simon
crossed it between two rows of soldiers, set so closely together that
none of the onlookers could distinguish his features. It was then
eight o'clock. That early hour had been chosen in order to avoid the
oppressive heat of the afterpart of the day when one would have stifled
in the court-room.

The scene was very different from that presented by the brand new
assize-hall of Beaumont, where a profusion of gilding had glittered in
the crude light that streamed in by the lofty windows. At Rozan the
assizes were held in an ancient feudal castle; the hall was small and
low, panelled with old oak, and scarcely lighted by the windows of a
few deep bays. One might have thought the place to be one of those dark
chapels where the Inquisition pronounced sentence. Only a few ladies
could possibly be admitted, and all of them, moreover, wore sombre
garb. Most of the seats were occupied by the witnesses, and even the
little standing-room usually allowed to the public had to be curtailed.
The audience, packed since seven o'clock in that stern and mournful
room, preserved a relative silence, through which swept a stealthy
quiver. If the eyes of the onlookers remained ardent their gestures
were restrained; they had come there for a subterranean execution, a
work of suppression which had to be accomplished far from the light,
with the least noise possible.

As soon as Marc was seated beside David, who went in with the
witnesses, he experienced a feeling of anguish, a stifling sensation,
as if the walls were about to crumble and bury them. He had seen all
eyes turn in their direction. David, particularly, aroused great
curiosity. Then Marc felt moved, for Delbos had just come in, looking
pale but resolute amid the evil glances of most of the spectators, who
were eager to ascertain if he had been upset by the infamous article
which had appeared that morning. However, the advocate, as if arrayed
in an armour of valour and contempt, remained for some time standing
there, displaying only smiling strength and indifference.

Marc then interested himself in the jurors, scrutinising them as they
entered, one by one, anxious as he was to ascertain to what kind of
men the great task of reparation was confided. And he perceived the
insignificant faces of various petty tradespeople, petty _bourgeois_,
with a chemist, a veterinary surgeon, and two retired captains. On
all those faces one found an expression of mournful disquietude, the
signs of a desire to hide internal perturbation. The worries which
had assailed those men since their names had become known had pursued
them to that hall. Several had the wan countenances of devotees, of
shaven, canting beadles, while others, red and corpulent, looked
as if they had doubled their usual ration of brandy that morning in
order to instil a little courage into their paunches. Behind them one
could divine the entirety of that old priestly and military city with
its convents and its barracks; and one shuddered to think that those
men, whose minds and consciences had been deformed, stifled, by their
surroundings, should be entrusted with such a work of justice.

But a buzzing spread through the hall, and all at once Marc experienced
the most poignant thrill of emotion he had ever known. He had not seen
Simon since his return, and now he suddenly perceived him, standing
behind Delbos. And terrible was the apparition of that bent and
emaciated little man, with ravaged features and bald cranium, on which
only a few scanty white locks remained. What! that wreck, that puny
remnant of a man was his old comrade, whom he had known so vivacious
and refined! If Simon had never possessed any great physical gifts, if
his voice had been weak, his gestures inelegant, at least a brazier of
youth and faith had glowed within him. And the galleys had only given
back that poor, broken, crushed being, a mere shred of humanity, in
whom nought of the past subsisted save two flaming eyes, which alone
proclaimed the invincible will and courage he preserved. One recognised
him only by those eyes; and they, too, explained how he had been able
for so many years to resist suffering, for their expression told of
the world of fancy, of pure ideality, in which he had always lived.
Every glance was turned upon him, but he did not seem conscious of it,
such was the power he possessed of isolating himself. He gazed at the
assembly in an absent-minded way until at last a smile of infinite
tenderness came over his face as he perceived his brother David. Marc,
who sat beside the latter, then felt him tremble in every limb.

It was a quarter past eight o'clock when the usher's call rang out,
and the Court entered. The assembly arose and then sat down again.
Marc, who remembered the violence of the spectators at Beaumont, who
from growls had passed to vociferations, was astonished by the heavy
quietude preserved by the present onlookers, though he divined that
they were swayed by the same passions, and remained mutely eager for
slaughter, as if they were lying in ambush in some sombre nook. The
sight of the prisoner had scarcely wrung a low murmur from them; and
now while the judges took their seats, they relapsed into their
attitude of dark expectancy. Again, compared with the rough and jovial
Gragnon, the new presiding judge, Guybaraud, surprised one by his
perfect courtesy, his unctuous gestures, his insinuating speech. He
was a little man, whose manner was all smiles and gentleness, but an
odour of the sacristies seemed to emanate from his person, and his
grey eyes were as cold and as cutting as steel. Nor was the difference
less remarkable between the former Procureur de la République, the
brilliant Raoul de La Bissonnière, and Pacart, the present one, who
was very long, slender, and lean, with a yellow, baked face, as if he
were consumed by a desire to efface his equivocal past and make a rapid
fortune.

After the first formalities, when the jury had been empanelled, an
usher called the names of the witnesses, who, one by one, withdrew.
Marc, like the others, had to leave the hall. Then, in a leisurely
way, President Guybaraud began to interrogate Simon, putting his
questions in a tone of voice that suggested the coldness of a blade,
handled with deadly skill and precision. That interminable examination,
which lingered over the slightest incidents of the old affair, and
insisted on the charge which the inquiry of the Court of Cassation
had destroyed, proved quite a surprise. Some clearing of the ground,
an examination on the questions set by the supreme jurisdiction,
was all that had been expected; but it at once became evident that
the Assize Court of Rozan did not intend to take any account of the
facts established by that jurisdiction, and that the presiding judge
meant to avail himself of his discretionary powers to deal with the
entire case from the very beginning. Soon, indeed, by the questions
which he asked, one understood that nothing of the old indictment had
been relinquished. It was again alleged that Simon had returned from
Beaumont by rail, that he had reached Maillebois at twenty minutes to
eleven o'clock, and that soon afterwards he had committed the crime. At
this point, however, the new version of the Jesuits--necessitated by
the discovery at Father Philibin's--was interpolated, and the prisoner
was accused of having procured a copy-slip, of having caused a false
stamp to be made, and of having forged on the slip the initials of
Brother Gorgias. Thus that childish story, which Gorgias himself had
deemed so idiotic that he had admitted the authenticity of the slip and
the paraph, was retained. While nothing was abandoned of the original
charges, a gross invention was brought forward in support of them;
and everything was again based on the famous report of the experts,
Masters Badoche and Trabut, who clung to their original statements in
spite of Brother Gorgias's formal admissions. And the Procureur de la
République, as if to leave no doubt of his own views, intervened in
order to extract precise statements from the prisoner with respect to
his denials on the question of the false stamp.

Simon's demeanour during that long examination was regarded as pitiful.
Many of his partisans had dreamt of him as a justiciar, armed with
the thunderbolts of heaven, and rising like an avenger from the
grave into which he had been thrust by iniquitous hands. And as he
answered politely in a voice which still quivered feverishly, and with
none of the outbursts that had been anticipated, the disappointment
was extreme. His enemies once more began to say that he virtually
confessed his crime, the ignominy of which they found stamped upon his
unprepossessing countenance. Only at one moment did he become excited,
display any passionate fervour. This was when the judge spoke to him
of the false stamp of which he heard for the first time. It should be
added that no proof was supplied respecting that stamp; the prosecution
contented itself with relating that an unknown workman had confided to
a woman that he had secretly done a curious job for the schoolmaster of
Maillebois. Confronted, however, by the sudden violence of Simon, the
judge did not insist on the point, particularly as Delbos had risen,
prepared to raise an 'incident.' And the public prosecutor merely added
that, though they had failed to find the unknown workman, he reserved
to himself the right of insisting on the serious probability of the
alleged occurrence.

In the evening, when David related what had occurred at that first
sitting, Marc, who divined some fresh iniquity, felt a pang at the
heart. Assuredly the greatest crime of all was now in preparation. He
was not astonished by the calm and unobtrusive bearing of Simon, who
was confident in the strength of his innocence, and incapable of an
outward show of emotion.[3] But he perfectly understood the bad effect
which had been produced; while, from the aggressive coldness of the
presiding judge, and the importance the latter gave to the most trivial
matters, already elucidated, he derived a disastrous impression, a
quasi-certainty that a fresh conviction was impending. On hearing him,
David, from whom he thought it wrong to hide his anxiety, could only
with difficulty restrain his tears, for he also had quitted the Palace
of Justice in despair, full of a dreadful presentiment.

[Footnote 3: This was a marked characteristic of the unfortunate
Captain Dreyfus, whose demeanour at the trial at Rennes produced
such an unfavourable impression on sundry foolish English 'special
correspondents,' that they veered round and began to regard the
prisoner as guilty, quite irrespective of the evidence. As one who has
witnessed many criminal trials, who has been a juror and the foreman of
a jury, I feel that everything that has been written to my knowledge in
English literature respecting the 'proper' demeanour of an innocent man
is nonsense and nothing else.--_Trans._.]


However, the following days, which were entirely devoted to the hearing
of evidence, brought back some courage and illusion. The former
witnesses for the prosecution were first examined, and one again
beheld a procession of railway employés and _octroi_ officials, who
contradicted one another on the question whether Simon, on the night
of the crime, had returned to Maillebois by train or on foot. Marc,
who wished to follow the case, had asked Delbos to have him called as
soon as possible, and this being done he gave evidence respecting the
discovery of poor little Zéphirin's body. He was then able to seat
himself once more beside David, who still occupied a corner of the
small space allotted to the witnesses. And thus Marc was present at
the first 'incident' raised by the counsel for the defence, who had
retained all his bravery and self-possession in spite of the cruel blow
which had lately struck him in the heart.

He rose to demand the attendance of Father Philibin and Brothers
Fulgence and Gorgias, who, said he, had been duly cited. But the
presiding judge briefly explained that the citations had reached
neither Father Philibin nor Brother Gorgias, both of whom, no doubt,
were abroad, though their exact whereabouts was not known. As for
Brother Fulgence, he was seriously ill, and had sent a medical
certificate to that effect. Delbos insisted, however, with respect to
Brother Fulgence, and ended by obtaining a promise that he should be
visited by a sworn medical man. Then, also, the advocate was unwilling
to content himself with a letter in which Father Crabot, while urging
his occupations, his confessional duties, as an excuse for absence,
declared that he knew nothing whatever of the affair; and, in spite of
the acrimonious intervention of the Procureur de la République, Delbos
again carried his point--that the Court should insist on the attendance
of the Rector of Valmarie. However, this first collision fomented
anger, and from that moment conflicts continually arose between the
judge and the advocate.

The day's sitting ended amidst an outburst of emotion, occasioned by
the unexpected character of the evidence given by assistant-teacher
Mignot. Mademoiselle Rouzaire, as bitter and as positive as ever, had
just reaffirmed that, at about twenty minutes to eleven o'clock, she
had heard the footsteps and the voice of Simon coming in and speaking
with Zéphirin--which evidence had weighed so heavily on the prisoner at
the previous trial--when Mignot, following her at the bar, retracted
the whole of his former statements in a tone of wondrous frankness
and emotion. He had heard nothing; he was now convinced of Simon's
innocence, and adduced the weightiest reasons. Mademoiselle Rouzaire
was then recalled, and there came a dramatic confrontation, in which
the schoolmistress ended by losing ground, becoming embarrassed in
her estimate of the hour, and finding nothing to answer when Mignot
pointed out that it was impossible to hear from her room anything that
took place in little Zéphirin's. Marc was recalled to confirm Mignot's
demonstration, and at the bar he found himself for a moment beside
Inspector Mauraisin, who, being asked for his opinion respecting the
prisoner and the witnesses, endeavoured to get out of his difficulty
by indulging in extravagant praise of Mademoiselle Rouzaire's merits,
while saying nothing particular against Mignot or Marc, or even Simon,
at a loss as he was to tell what turn the case might take.

The next two sittings of the Court proved even better for the defence.
The question of hearing a part of the evidence _in camera_, which
had impassioned people at the first trial, was not even put, for the
presiding judge did not dare to raise it. It was in public that he
interrogated Simon's former pupils, boys at the time of the crime but
now grown men, for the most part married. Fernand Bongard, Auguste
and Charles Doloir, Achille and Philippe Savin came in succession to
relate the little they remembered, and their statements were favourable
to the prisoner rather than the reverse. Thus ended the abominable
legend built up by the help of the former proceedings _in camera_, the
legend of horrible charges with which, it had been said, one could not
possibly soil the ears of an audience composed partially of women.

However, the sensational evidence of the sitting was that given by
Sébastien and Victor Milhomme. In accents of emotion Sébastien, now two
and twenty years of age, explained the falsehood of his childhood, the
alarm of his mother, the suppression of the truth, which he and she had
expiated after prolonged torture. And he stated the facts such as they
really were, how he had seen a copy-slip in the hands of his cousin
Victor, how that slip had disappeared, how it had been found again, and
given up when his mother, grief-stricken beside his bed of sickness,
had deemed herself punished for her bad action. As for Victor, when his
turn came to testify, in order to please his mother, who did not wish
to compromise the stationery business any further, he feigned total
forgetfulness, the obtuseness of a big fellow who had no memory. No
doubt he must have brought the copy-slip from the Brothers' school, as
it had been found, but he knew nothing, he could say nothing further.

Finally, another of the Brothers' former pupils, Polydor Souquet,
now a servant in a Beaumont convent, appeared at the bar, and was
questioned very pressingly by Delbos respecting the manner in which
Brother Gorgias had escorted him home on the night of the crime, the
incidents which had occurred on the road, the words that had been
exchanged, and the hour. But all that Delbos could extract from Polydor
were some evasive answers, and malicious glances promptly tempered
by an affectation of stupidity. How could one remember after so many
years? the witness asked. The excuse was too convenient, and the
Procureur de la République began to show signs of anxious impatience,
while the onlookers, though they failed to understand why the advocate
insisted so much with an apparently insignificant witness, felt as it
were a quiver of the truth passing through the atmosphere--the truth
suspected, but once more taking flight.

People were stirred again at the next sitting of the Court, though it
began with the interminable demonstrations of the experts, Masters
Badoche and Trabut, who, disregarding even the admissions of Brother
Gorgias himself, obstinately refused to recognise his initials, an F
and a G, in the incriminated paraph, in which they alone recognised
those of Simon, an E and an S interlaced, but, it was true, illegible.
For more than three hours these men piled argument upon argument,
demonstration on demonstration, calmly persevering in their lunacy.
And the marvel was that the presiding judge allowed them to go on, and
listened to them with manifest complacency, while the Procureur made
a show of taking notes, and asked the experts for precise information
on certain points, as if the prosecution still adopted their system.
In presence of this _mise-en-scène_, even reasonable people in the
hall began to hesitate. And, after all, why not? For in matters of
handwriting one could never tell.

But at the close of the sitting an incident, which did not last
ten minutes, upset everybody. Clad in black from head to foot,
ex-investigating Magistrate Daix, who had been cited by the defence,
appeared at the bar. He was scarcely fifty-six years old, but he looked
seventy; thin and bent, his hair quite white, his face so emaciated
that little of it, save the slender, blade-like nose, seemed to remain.
He had lately lost his wife, and people talked of the torturing life
which that ugly, coquettish, ambitious woman had led him in her despair
that nothing ever raised them from their narrow circumstances, not
even the condemnation of that Jew Simon, on which she had insisted
and from which she had hoped to derive so much. And now that his wife
was no longer beside him, Daix, timid and anxious, painstaking in his
profession, an honest man at heart, had come there to relieve his
conscience, distracted as he was by the deeds which had been wrung
from his weakness, his craving to have peace at home. He did not
positively speak of all those things, he did not even admit that after
his investigations he had felt that the only possible decision was an
order to stay further proceedings. But he allowed Delbos to question
him, and when his present opinion was asked, he replied plainly that
the inquiry of the Court of Cassation had destroyed his work, the
original indictment, and that for his own part he now regarded Simon
as innocent. Then he withdrew amidst the silent stupefaction of the
onlookers. The apparition of that man in mourning garb, the admissions
made by him in slow and sorrowful accents, had stirred every heart.

That evening, in Marc's large room, where Simon's friends met after
every sitting of the Court in order to discuss matters, Delbos
and David expressed keen satisfaction, a conviction that success
was almost certain now, so great, apparently, was the impression
which Daix's evidence had produced on the jury. Nevertheless, Marc
remained anxious. He told the others of certain rumours which were
circulating concerning the stealthy doings of ex-President Gragnon,
who had been carrying on a subterranean campaign ever since his
arrival at Rozan. Marc was aware that, even as the friends of the
defence met in his own room, in like way mysterious meetings took
place every night at Gragnon's in an adjoining street. And there the
partisans of the prosecution certainly decided on the line they would
pursue on the morrow, invented the answers which it would be best to
give, planned the incidents which they felt ought to be raised, in
particular preparing the evidence in accordance with the result of the
day's sitting. For instance, whenever that sitting was regarded as
unfavourable to the prosecution, one might be sure that there would
be some surprise detrimental to the prisoner, at the outset of the
sitting on the morrow. Moreover, Father Crabot had been again seen
slipping into Gragnon's house. Several people also declared that they
had seen young Polydor Souquet leaving it. And others alleged that at
a very late hour they had met in the street a lady and a gentleman who
looked extremely like Mademoiselle Rouzaire and Inspector Mauraisin.
But the worst was some mysterious work, which centred round those
jurors who were notoriously on the side of the Church, and of which
Marc obtained an inkling, though his informant could not give him full
particulars. Gragnon did not commit such a blunder as to ask those
men to call at his house, nor did he, indeed, address himself to them
personally; but he made others call on them, and show them, so it was
said, an irrefutable proof of Simon's guilt, a terrible document, which
the most serious reasons prevented him from making public, though he
was resolved to employ it, all the same, should the defence drive him
to extremities. And this information made Marc feel anxious, for he
scented some fresh abomination in it. Thus, on the evening of the day
when Daix had dealt the prosecution such a severe blow, he predicted to
his friends some deed of retaliation on the enemy's part, some sample
of the thunder which Gragnon, according to his own account, had in his
pocket.

The following sitting of the Court was, indeed, one of the gravest and
most exciting. Jacquin, the foreman of the first jury, in his turn came
forward to relieve his conscience. In simple language he related how
President Gragnon, on being summoned by the jurors, who had wished
to consult him respecting the penalty attaching to their verdict, had
entered their room carrying a letter, and looking very much disturbed.
And he had shown them that letter, which bore Simon's signature,
followed by a postscriptum and a paraph, which last was identical with
the one on the copy-slip tendered as evidence. Several jurymen, who
had hesitated previously, then declared themselves convinced of the
prisoner's guilt. He, Jacquin, had retained no further doubts; and for
the peace of his conscience he had been well pleased at thus acquiring
certainty. At that time he had not known that such a communication
was illegal. It was only later that he had discovered such to be the
case, and had experienced great distress of mind until, at last, the
postscriptum and the paraph being recognised as forgeries, he had
resolved, like a good Christian, to make amends for his involuntary
error. A shudder of awe sped through those who heard him, when in his
quiet way he added a last detail: He had heard the very voice of Jesus
telling him to speak out, one evening when, tortured by remorse, he was
kneeling in a dim chapel of St. Maxence.

Then Gragnon was summoned to the bar, and at first tried the effect of
the rough frankness which he had so often assumed in his browbeating
judicial days. He was still fat, though his fears had made him pale;
and, striving to hide his prolonged anguish beneath the impudence of a
_bon vivant_, he pretended that he no longer remembered petty details.
And well--yes, he believed he had gone into the jurors' room carrying
the letter which he had just received. He had been upset by it, and
had shown it to the others in a moment of emotion, scarcely realising
the nature of his action, and being only desirous of establishing the
truth. He had never regretted that communication, so fully was he
convinced of the authenticity of the postscript and the paraph. In his
opinion the assertion that they were forgeries remained to be proved.
Then, as he formally charged Jacquin with having read the letter aloud
to the other jurors, and of having commented on it, the ex-foreman was
recalled, and a sharp dispute ensued. At last Gragnon convicted the
architect of some error or forgetfulness respecting the perusal of the
letter; and thereupon he triumphed while the spectators began to hiss
the honest witness, who from that moment was suspected of having sold
himself to the Jews.

In vain did Delbos repeatedly intervene, striving to exasperate Gragnon
and unmask him, by forcing him to an explosion, the production of
the famous document which it was said would clench everything. The
ex-judge, who retained all his self-possession, and who was satisfied
with having escaped immediate danger by casting a doubt on his
adversary's veracity, relapsed into evasive answers. It was noticed,
however, that one of the jurors caused a question to be put to him--a
question which nobody understood, but which was whether he did not
possess some knowledge of another document bearing on the authenticity
of the copy-slip. Gragnon answered enigmatically, that he abided by his
previous declarations, and was unwilling to enter into other matters,
however certain they might be. And thus that sitting of the Court,
which, at the outset, had seemed likely to ruin the prosecution, ended
to its advantage. In Marc's room in the evening, Simon's friends again
began to despair.

The examination of the witnesses dragged on during a few more sittings.
The doctor appointed to visit Brother Fulgence had returned with a
report that the Brother's condition was very serious, and that it was
impossible to bring him to Rozan. In like manner Father Crabot avoided
the embarrassment of attendance by feigning a sudden accident--a severe
sprain. In vain did Delbos make an application for his evidence to be
taken by commission. President Guybaraud, who at the outset had shown
himself so phlegmatic, now sabred everybody and everything in his
eagerness to bring the case to an end. He treated Simon harshly, as
if, indeed, he were already a condemned man; being emboldened to this
course by the singular calmness of the prisoner, who still listened to
the witnesses with curiosity and stupefaction, as if the extraordinary
adventures of somebody else were being recounted to him. Only on two or
three occasions did some extremely mendacious testimony prompt him to a
little rebellion; for the most part he contented himself with smiling
and shrugging his shoulders.

At last Pacart, the Procureur de la République, addressed the Court.
Tall and thin, he was addicted to long, nervous gestures, and affected
an unadorned, mathematically precise kind of eloquence. In presence of
the plainly-worded judgment of the Court of Cassation, his task was not
easy. But his tactics were very simple, he took no account of that
judgment, he did not once allude to the long inquiry which had ended
in a decision to send the affair for trial by another Assize Court. He
quietly reverted to the old indictment, based himself on the report of
the experts, and accepted the revised account of the copy-slip, holding
that the school-stamp as well as the initialling had been forged. He
even spoke of that stamp in a positive way, as if he held a proof that
it had been forged but could not produce it. As for Brother Gorgias, he
regarded him simply as an unfortunate man, perhaps mentally unhinged,
assuredly in need, and of a passionate nature--one who, after proving
an undisciplined and compromising son of the Church, had quitted it and
sold himself to the Jews. And Pacart concluded by asking the jurors
to put an end to this affair, which was so disastrous for the peace
of the country, by saying once more on which side the culprit really
was, whether among the Anarchists and the Cosmopolites--who sought
to destroy all belief in God and country--or among the men upholding
faith, respect, and tradition, to whom, for ages past, France had owed
her grandeur.

Then Delbos spoke during two sittings. Eager and nervous, endowed
with passionate eloquence, he also dealt with the affair from the
very beginning. But he did so in order to destroy the allegations
in the old indictment, with the help of the arguments supplied by
the Court of Cassation's inquiry. Not one of those allegations was
worth anything. It was proved that Simon had returned home on foot
on the night of the crime; that he had reached Maillebois at twenty
minutes to twelve o'clock, an hour after the crime had been committed.
Again, there was proof that the copy-slip had been stamped at the
Brothers' school and initialled by Brother Gorgias, whose admissions
on the subject were not even necessary, for counter experts, in a
memorable report addressed to the Court of Cassation, had destroyed
the extraordinary farrago of Masters Badoche and Trabut. Then Delbos
turned to the new story of the forged stamp. No proof of this had been
supplied. Nevertheless, he insisted on the subject; for he divined that
some supreme abomination lurked beneath all that stealthy manœuvring
compounded of mere allegation and reticence. A sick workman, it was
said, had told a woman a vague story about a stamp which he had made
for the Maillebois schoolmaster. Where was that woman? Who was she?
What was her calling? As nobody would or could reply, he (Delbos)
had a right to conclude that this story was one of those absurd lies
such as _Le Petit Beaumontais_ was in the habit of retailing. However,
if he was able to picture the whole crime as it must have taken
place--Brother Gorgias returning after he had escorted Polydor home,
pausing before Zéphirin's open window, finally entering the room, and
at last succumbing to his ungovernable passions--he admitted that there
was a gap in his narrative. Where had Gorgias found the copy-slip?
For the rascal was right when he jeeringly inquired if schoolmasters
usually walked about in the evening with copy-slips in their pockets.
Undoubtedly the number of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ had been in the pocket
of his own cassock, whence he had taken it in order to gag his victim.
And the slip must have been there also. But how had that happened?
Delbos suspected the truth, and if he had questioned Polydor Souquet
so pressingly it was in order to extract it from him. He had failed
in that endeavour, the witness having met him with an assumption of
hypocritical stupidity. But, after all, what did that obscure point
matter? Was not Gorgias's guilt absolutely manifest? His alleged alibi
was based solely on a series of false statements. Everything proved his
guilt--his flight, his semi-confessions, the criminal efforts made to
save him, and the dispersal of his accomplices--Father Philibin hiding
himself in some Italian convent; Brother Fulgence seeking refuge at a
distance, and shielding himself with a diplomatic illness; and Father
Crabot withdrawing to his cell, where Providence had visited him with
a very salutary sprain. Was it not also in order to save Gorgias that
President Gragnon had illegally communicated a forgery to the first
jurors, as had been proved by the evidence of architect Jacquin? Amidst
the accumulation of crimes, that one alone ought to have sufficed to
open the eyes of the most prejudiced. And Delbos ended by depicting
the frightful sufferings experienced by Simon, the fifteen years of
transportation which he had endured amidst the most cruel physical and
moral tortures, while ever stubbornly raising his cry of innocence.
The advocate added that, like the Procureur de la République, he also
desired to have the affair ended, but ended by an act of justice which
would redound to the honour of France; for if the innocent man should
be struck down again, the shame of France would be indescribable, and a
future full of incalculable evils would lie before her.

There was no reply from the prosecution, the case was closed, and the
jury at once withdrew to its retiring-room.[4] It was about eleven
o'clock in the morning, and for more than an hour the spectators
remained waiting, silent and anxious, in no wise resembling the
audience at Beaumont, which had been so tumultuous and violent.
The hall was very hot, and the atmosphere seemed as heavy as lead.
There was little conversation, though occasionally the Simonists
and the anti-Simonists glanced askance at one another. One might
have fancied oneself in some funeral chamber where the life or death
of a nation, the whole dolorous question of its future, was being
decided. At last the jury reappeared, the judges came in, and amidst
lugubrious silence the foreman arose: He was a little grey, lean man,
a goldsmith, enjoying the custom of the local clergy. His shrill voice
was distinctly heard. On the question of guilt the verdict was 'Yes,'
by a majority; while 'extenuating circumstances' were unanimously
granted. At Beaumont the jury had been unanimous with respect to guilt,
and only a small majority had favoured the admission of extenuating
circumstances. And now, after expediting the formalities, President
Guybaraud hastily pronounced a sentence of ten years' solitary
confinement. That done, he withdrew, and Pacart, the Procureur de la
République, followed him, after bowing to the jury as if to thank them.

[Footnote 4: At French criminal trials the judges no longer sum up
the evidence before the verdict is given. That privilege was taken
from them by a special law several years ago, in consequence of their
scandalous abuse of it.--_Trans._]

Marc, meantime, had glanced at Simon, on whose face he only detected a
kind of faint smile, a painful contraction of the lips. Delbos, beside
himself, was clenching his fists. David, whose emotion was too intense,
had not returned into Court, but was awaiting the decision outside. The
thunderbolt had fallen, and Marc felt a deadly chill in every vein.
It was a frigid horror: the supreme iniquity, in which just minds had
refused to believe, the crime of crimes, which had seemed impossible
a few hours earlier, which reason had rejected, had suddenly become
a monstrous reality. And there were no ferocious cries of joy, there
was no onslaught like that of cannibals rushing to a feast of blood,
as at Beaumont. Though the hall was full of rabid anti-Simonists, the
frightful silence continued, such was the horror which froze one and
all to their very bones. Only a long shudder, a stifled groan, sped
through the throng. And they went out without a word, without a push,
in a dark stream like some funeral assembly choking with emotion,
stricken with fear. And outside Marc found David sobbing.

So the Church was victorious--the Brothers' school would revive to
life, while the secular school would again become the ante-room of
hell, the satanic den where children were corrupted both in mind and
body. The desperate and gigantic effort made by the Congregations
and by almost all the clergy had again retarded their defeat, which
was certain in the future. For years, however, one would again
see the young generations stupefied by error, rotted by lies. The
forward march of mankind would be hampered afresh until the day when
free thought--invincible and still pursuing its course in spite of
everything--should at last deliver the people by science, which alone
could render it capable of truth and equity.

On the following evening, when Marc returned to Maillebois, exhausted
by fatigue and quite heart-broken, he found a letter of three lines
awaiting him: 'I have read the whole of the inquiry, I have followed
the trial. The most monstrous of crimes has been committed. Simon is
innocent.--_Geneviève.'_




IV


On the morrow, a Thursday, Marc, who had scarcely slept that night, had
just risen when he received an early visit from his daughter Louise.
She, having heard of his return, had escaped for a moment from her
grandmother's house. And, throwing her arms wildly about her father's
neck, she exclaimed: 'Oh! father, father, what a deal of sorrow you
must have had, and how pleased I am to be able to kiss you!'

A big girl nowadays, Louise was fully acquainted with the Simon affair,
and shared all the faith, all the passion for justice displayed by that
dearly-loved father, the master whose lofty mind was her guide. Thus
her cry was instinct with the revolt and despair into which she had
been cast by the monstrous proceedings at Rozan.

But, on thus seeing her before him and feeling her embrace, Marc
thought of Geneviève's letter, to which his sleeplessness that night
had been largely due. 'And your mother,' he asked, 'do you know that
she has written to me, and that she is now on our side?'

'Yes, yes, father, I know it. She spoke of it to me.... Ah! if I were
to tell you of all the quarrels there were when grandmother saw mamma
beginning to read everything, procuring documents which had never been
in the house before, and going out every morning to buy the full report
of the new trial. Grandmother wanted to burn everything, so mamma shut
herself up in her own room and spent all her time there.... And I also
read everything; mamma allowed me to do so. Oh! papa, what a dreadful
affair--that poor man, that poor innocent, overwhelmed by so many cruel
people! If I could, I should love you all the more for having loved and
defended him!'

She again threw her arms about her father's neck and kissed him
with heartfelt fervour. And he, in spite of his sufferings, began
to smile as if some delicious balm had somewhat calmed the smarting
of his wounds. And while he smiled he pictured his wife and his
daughter reading together, learning the truth, and at last returning
to him. 'Her letter, her dear letter,' he said in an undertone, 'what
consolation and hope it gave me! Will not joy return after so many
misfortunes?'

Then he anxiously questioned Louise: 'So your mother spoke to you of
me? Does she understand, does she regret our torments? I always felt
that she would come back to me when she knew the truth.'

But the girl prettily raised a finger to her lips. She, in her turn,
was smiling. 'Oh! papa,' she said, 'don't try to make me say what I
can't say yet. I should be telling a falsehood if I spoke positively.
Our affairs are in a good way, that is all.... Remain patient a
little longer, remain confident in your daughter, who tries to be as
reasonable and affectionate as you are.'

Then she gave him some bad news about Madame Berthereau. For several
years the latter had been suffering from a heart complaint, which
recent events seemed to have suddenly aggravated. Madame Duparque's
fits of anger, the outbursts with which she made the dark, dismal
little house shake at all hours of the day, proved very prejudicial
to the sick woman, for they brought on shuddering and stifling fits,
which she could hardly overcome. At present, in order to escape those
nervous frights, she no longer went down into the little sitting-room,
but remained on a couch in her bed-chamber, gazing from morn till night
at the deserted Place des Capucins, with those poor, melancholy eyes of
hers, in which one read such keen regret for the joys she had lost so
long ago.

'Oh! we don't amuse ourselves at all now,' Louise continued. 'Mamma
remains in her room, grandmamma Berthereau in hers, and grandmamma
Duparque goes up and down, bangs the doors, and quarrels with Pélagie
when she finds nobody to scold.... But I don't complain, for I shut
myself up as well, and work. Mamma has agreed to it, you know; I shall
go up for admission to the training school in six months' time, and I
hope to get in.'

Just at that moment, Sébastien Milhomme, who was free that day,
arrived from Beaumont, all anxiety to embrace his former master, of
whose return he had heard. And almost immediately afterwards came
Joseph and Sarah, who, on behalf of their mother and the Lehmanns,
whom the reconviction of Simon had overwhelmed, wished to thank Marc
for his heroic if vain efforts. The brother and sister related what a
thunderbolt had fallen on the wretched shop in the Rue du Trou on the
previous evening, when David had telegraphed the frightful tidings.
Madame Simon had preferred to await them there with her parents and her
children, such great hostility had she encountered in that clerical
town of Rozan, where, moreover, her modest means did not allow her
to live. And the mournful house was again in tears, acquainted only
with the iniquitous verdict and ignorant of what might now happen, all
decision as to the future being postponed until the return of David,
who, for the time, had remained near his brother.

The eyes of Joseph and Sarah were still red and swollen, for they had
spent a tearful, feverish night without a moment's quiet rest; and as,
while speaking of their father, they again began to sob, Sébastien,
carried away by his feelings, kissed his good friend Sarah, while
Louise, taking hold of Joseph's hands, and likewise shedding tears,
naïvely sought to console him somewhat by speaking of her great
affection for him. She was seventeen and he twenty. Sébastien was a
year or two older, and Sarah was eighteen. Marc felt moved as he saw
those young folk there before him, quivering with youth, intelligence,
and kindliness. And a thought, which had occurred to him and brought
him a delightful hope already in the days when he had seen them playing
as children, now returned. Might they not, indeed, be predestined
consorts, such as would produce the happy harvest of the future, who
would bring broader hearts and more liberal minds to the great work of
to-morrow?

But although his daughter's visit gave Marc no little comfort for the
time, he became very downcast on the ensuing days, so distressful was
the spectacle which his poor poisoned and dishonoured country now
presented. The crime of crimes had been committed, and France did not
rise against it! During the long struggle for revision Marc had already
failed to recognise in her the generous, magnanimous, liberating,
and justice-dealing country to which he had dedicated such lofty and
passionate love. But never had he thought it possible that she would
sink to that base level, and become a deaf, harsh, sleepy, and cowardly
France, making her bed in shame and iniquity!

How many years and generations would be needed to arouse her from that
abominable somnolence? For a moment Marc despaired; he deemed his
country lost; it was as if he could hear Férou's maledictions arising
from the grave: 'France doomed, completely rotted by the priests,
poisoned by a filthy press, sunk in such a morass of ignorance and
credulity that never would one be able to extricate her.' On the morrow
of the monstrous verdict of Rozan he had still imagined an awakening to
be possible, he had awaited a rising of upright consciences and healthy
minds; but none had stirred, the bravest seemed to hide themselves away
in their corners, and the supreme ignominy took its course, thanks to
the universal imbecility and cowardice.

As he went about Maillebois, Marc caught sight of Darras, who now
pulled a very long face, though he was simply in despair at the
mayoralty again escaping him, owing to the triumph of the clerical
party. Then, on meeting Fernand Bongard, the Doloirs and the Savins,
his former pupils, Marc felt greatly distressed, for he now realised,
decisively, that he had been able to impart to them little if any
social equity and civic courage. Fernand shrugged his shoulders, bent
on knowing nothing. The Doloirs had again begun to doubt Simon's
innocence; while as for the twin Savins, if they remained convinced of
it, they argued that they could not effect a revolution by themselves,
and that, after all, one Jew more or less was a matter of no
importance. Terror reigned, people hurried home, resolved to compromise
themselves no further. Things were even worse at Beaumont, whither Marc
repaired to see if he could not arouse some influential people and
persuade them to attempt a last effort to have the infamous verdict set
aside. Lemarrois, to whom he thus ventured to apply, seemed to take
him for a madman; and discarding his usual courteous kindliness, he
plainly, almost roughly, told him that the affair was ended, and that
any attempt to revise it would be insane, for the country was utterly
sick and weary of the whole business. It had become most hurtful as
a basis for political action, and if the clerical reactionaries were
allowed an opportunity to exploit it any further, the Republic would
certainly be undone at the approaching elections. The elections indeed!
That was again the great argument. The only policy was to bury the
supreme iniquity in even deeper silence than after the first trial.
There was no need of any understanding to that effect. The deputies,
the senators, the prefect, the officials, all sank instinctively into
perfect silence, in the dread they felt at the thought of the twice
condemned but innocent man. And once again former Republicans and
Voltaireans like Lemarrois drew yet nearer to the Church, whose help
they thought they might require to resist the rising tide of Socialism.
Lemarrois, personally, had been pleased to see his adversary Delbos
defeated at Rozan, and in resorting to a cowardly policy of silence
he was largely influenced by a desire to let Simon's compromised
champions drown themselves. Amid that general _débâcle_ only Marcilly
retained his amiable smile. He had already held the portfolio of
Public Instruction in a Radical ministry, and felt certain of securing
it again, some day, in a Moderate one. And so convinced was he now
of the irresistible power of his suppleness and his freely-bestowed
hand-shakes that, alone amongst those to whom Marc applied, he gave him
a cordial greeting; and, without making any express promise, allowed
him to hope for everything should he (Marcilly) return to power.

For the moment the Congregations became triumphant. What a relief it
was to think that Father Crabot, his accomplices and his creatures,
were saved! Ex-presiding Judge Gragnon gave a grand dinner, followed by
a reception, to which flocked all the members of the judicial world,
with many functionaries and even university men. They smiled and shook
hands, well pleased at finding themselves alive after incurring such
serious danger. Every morning _Le Petit Beaumontais_ celebrated the
victory of the valiant soldiers of God and the country. Then, all at
once, it became silent, in compliance no doubt with some hint received
from exalted spheres. The fact was that amid all the stir of victory
everybody began to detect moral defeat. Fear of the morrow revived, and
it was deemed prudent to divert people's minds.

Moreover, the Rozan jurors had now made revelations; it was known that
they had convicted Simon merely by a majority of seven to five, and
that on quitting the court they had unanimously signed a recommendation
for pardon. They could not have confessed more plainly the mortal
embarrassment in which they had been placed, the cruel necessity of
confirming the former verdict of Beaumont, even though they retained
little doubt of the prisoner's innocence. And the extraordinary course
taken by that jury, which, in the most contradictory way, at one
moment condemned Simon and at another absolved him, tended to make his
innocence manifest to everybody. A pardon was felt to be so necessary
and so inevitable that nobody was surprised when one was signed a few
days later. _Le Petit Beaumontais_ thought fit to insult the dirty Jew
a last time, but even the managers of that unprincipled rag heaved a
sigh of relief, glad to be at last delivered from the abominable part
they had played for so many years.

David was beset by a final anguish, a frightful struggle of conscience,
in connection with that pardon. His brother's strength was quite spent,
fever consumed him, he was so exhausted, both physically and morally,
that, doubtless, he would merely return to prison to die there. And,
on the other hand, a weeping wife and children awaited him, still
hoping that they might save him by dint of care and love. Nevertheless,
David at first rejected the idea of a pardon, and, before everything
else, wished to consult Marc, Delbos, and the other valiant defenders
of the innocent prisoner; for he well understood that, even if the
pardon would not deprive Simon of the right of some day establishing
his innocence, it would rob the others of their most powerful means
of prosecuting that cause of justice to which they had given their
lives. But, however grieved they might be, all bowed to the suggestion
of a pardon, and David then accepted it. At the same time it was
felt by Marc and Delbos that the Congregations had good reason to be
triumphant, for, humanly, the Simon affair was ended by that pardon, in
consequence of which it would no longer stir the multitude to a sense
of equity and generosity.

The question of Simon's future was speedily settled. It was impossible
to take him back to Maillebois, where Madame Simon had decided to
remain a little longer with her children, Joseph and Sarah, who were
awaiting the reopening of the neighbouring training schools. David once
more took everything on himself. He had long previously formed his
plans, which were to dispose of his sand and gravel pits, and acquire a
marble quarry in a lonely valley of the Pyrenees--an excellent affair,
which a friend had recommended to him and which he had carefully
studied. He meant to remove Simon thither, taking him as a partner,
and assuredly the mountain air and the delight of active life would
restore his health within six months' time. As soon as the installation
should be effected Madame Simon might rejoin her husband, and even the
children might end the vacation in their father's company. All this was
carried into effect with remarkable precision and despatch. Simon was
conjured away from Rozan, which was still in an agitated state, and for
a time nobody even suspected that he had been removed. He travelled
unrecognised, vanishing with David into that lonely valley, embosomed
amid lofty peaks. It only became known by a newspaper article that his
family had joined him. From that moment he altogether disappeared, and
people even began to forget his existence.

On the very day when the Simon family found itself reunited in that
Pyrenean solitude, Marc repaired to the Training College of Beaumont,
whither an urgent letter from Salvan had summoned him. And as soon as
they had shaken hands they began to talk of the Simons, evoking the
sweet and touching scene which was being enacted far away--indeed at
the other end of France.

'We must all take it as our reward,' said Salvan. 'If we have not
yet managed to make the affair yield the great social lesson and the
penalties that attach to it, we have at least brought this happiness to
pass, we have restored the poor martyr to his wife and his children.'

'Yes,' said Marc, 'I have been thinking of it ever since this morning.
I can picture them all together, smiling, in peace, under the broad
blue sky. And, for that poor man so long fastened to his chain, what
a delight it must be to be able to walk about freely, inhaling the
freshness of the mountain springs, the pure odours of the plants and
trees! The dear children, too, and the dear wife, how happy they must
feel to see their dream realised, to have him beside them again, to
take him about like a big child just recovering from a severe illness,
and watch him reviving to health and strength!... You are right, it is
our reward--the only one.'

He paused, then added in a lower voice with some of the bitterness of
a combatant who laments that his weapon should have been broken in his
hand: 'Our _rôle_ is quite over. A pardon was inevitable, no doubt, but
it has deprived us of all power of action. We can only wait for the
crop of good grain we have sown--that is, if ever it will sprout up in
the hard ground where we have scattered it.'

'Oh! it will rise, never fear, my friend,' Salvan exclaimed. 'We must
never despair of our poor, great country. It may be deceived, it may
deceive itself, but it always returns to truth and reason. Let us rest
satisfied with our work, it will bear fruit in the future.' Then, after
a pause, he continued in a thoughtful way: 'But I agree with you that
our victory will not be immediate. The times are really execrable;
never have we passed through a more troublous and threatening period.
And, indeed, if I asked you to call to-day, it was in order to talk to
you of the present disquieting situation.'

Then he acquainted Marc with what he had learnt. Since the trial
at Rozan, all the recognised Simonists, all the brave men who had
become compromised in the affair, had found themselves exposed to the
vengeance of the Congregations, the hatred of the egotistical and
cowardly multitude. Undoubtedly they would be made to pay heavily in
their interests and their persons for the crime they had committed by
supporting the cause of truth and justice.

'Have you heard that nobody now bows to Delbos at the Palace of
Justice?' said Salvan. 'Half the cases confided to him have been
withdrawn. Clients regard him as being altogether too compromising.
He has to begin his career afresh; and at the next elections he will
certainly be defeated again, for the affair has led to disruption
even in the Socialist ranks.... For my own part, I shall probably be
dismissed----'

'Dismissed? You!' interrupted Marc in accents of surprise and grief.

'Why, yes, my friend. You are not ignorant of the fact that Mauraisin
has long coveted my post. He never manœuvred otherwise than in order to
dislodge me. His prolonged flirtation with the Church party has been
simply a matter of tactics in order to secure its support in the hour
of victory. After the inquiry of the Court of Cassation he certainly
felt frightened, and began to say that he had always regarded Simon as
innocent. But, since Simon was reconvicted, Mauraisin has again been
barking with the clerical pack, feeling convinced that Le Barazer will
be compelled to dismiss me by the pressure brought to bear on him by
all the victorious reactionary forces. It will astonish me very much if
I am still here when the new term begins in October.'

Marc again began to express his grief; and, moreover, he refused to
believe Salvan. He recalled all the services which the latter had
rendered, and set forth the necessity of persevering with the great
work of saving France from falsehood and credulity. 'You cannot leave
before your task is accomplished,' he added; 'there remains so much
for you to do. Although Le Barazer has never spoken out plainly, he has
been at heart on our side, and I am sure that he will never be guilty
of such a bad action as to dismiss you.'

Salvan smiled somewhat sadly. 'In the first place,' he answered,
'nobody is indispensable; I may disappear, but others will rise to
continue the good work we have begun. Mauraisin may take my place, but
I am convinced that he will do no great harm, for he will not retain it
long, and he will be forced to follow in my footsteps. Some work, you
see, when once it has been begun, is accomplished by the very force of
human evolution, and remains independent of any particular, individual
men.... But one might think by the way you talk that you did not know
Le Barazer. We are, personally, of little account in his intricate
republican diplomacy. He was on our side, that is certain; he would be
with us still if we had won the battle. But our defeat has placed him
into the greatest possible embarrassment. He really has but one desire,
to save his work, the system of secular and compulsory education of
which he was one of the creators. Thus, as the Church has regained
power for the moment and threatens his work, he will resign himself
to necessary sacrifices and temporise until he is able to speak as a
master in his turn. Such is his nature, and we cannot alter him.'

Salvan continued in this strain, enumerating all the influences which
were being brought to bear on Le Barazer. Rector Forbes, who was
so desirous of quietude and who so greatly feared worries with the
minister, had plainly told him that he must satisfy the demands of
the opposition deputies. These, at the head of whom Count Hector de
Sanglebœuf distinguished himself by his violence, were making every
effort to secure the dismissal of all the notorious Simonists belonging
to the civil and the educational services. And none of the Republican
deputies, not even the radical Lemarrois, moved; indeed, they consented
to that hecatomb in order to pacify public opinion, anxious as they
were to lose as few electors as possible. At present, also, professors
and masters followed the example of Principal Depinvilliers, attending
Mass with their wives and daughters every Sunday. Then, at the Lycée
of Beaumont, the chaplain reigned supreme; religious exercises were
becoming compulsory; all pupils who refused attendance were badly
noted, harassed and ill-treated until no resource was left them but to
comply or quit. Father Crabot made his hand felt at that Lycée with the
same reactionary authority that he displayed in the management of the
College of Valmarie. And the increasing audacity of the Congregations
was demonstrated by the fact that the Jesuit professors of Valmarie now
openly acknowledged their standing, whereas previously, in order to
defeat the laws, they had outwardly passed themselves off as secular
priests.

'That is how we stand,' Salvan concluded. 'Thanks to the reconviction
of Simon, they speak as masters, and wring whatever they please from
the universal cowardice and imbecility.... It is already said that
Mademoiselle Rouzaire is to be appointed head-mistress of the chief
girls' school in Beaumont. Jauffre, now at Jonville, is also to be
appointed here, it seems; for he has threatened to turn against
Abbé Cognasse if there should be any further delay in rewarding his
services. Finally, Doutrequin, once a Republican, who has rallied to
the Church from a deplorable aberration of patriotism, has secured
two suburban schools for his sons, who have made Nationalism and
Anti-Semitism their chief dogmas, so that we are now once more in a
period of acute reaction--the last we shall witness, I hope, pending
the day when the country will spit out the poison which is killing
it.... And if I am dismissed, my friend--you suspect it, do you
not?--you will be dismissed also.'

Marc smiled. He now understood why Salvan had sent for him in all
haste. 'So I am condemned?' he said.

'Yes, I am afraid so; and I wished to warn you of it immediately....
Oh! the thing is not settled yet; Le Barazer remains silent, biding
his time, as it were, and saying nothing of his intentions. But you
can have no idea of the assaults he has to withstand, particularly
with respect to yourself. Naturally enough, it is your dismissal that
is most urgently demanded. I was talking to you just now of that big
simpleton Sanglebœuf, that puppet whose strings are pulled by the old
Marchioness de Boise, whom he drives to despair, I hear, so clumsily
does he execute the movements which she directs. Well, three times
already Sanglebœuf has bounced up to the Préfecture to threaten Le
Barazer with an interpellation in the Chamber of Deputies if he does
not come to an understanding with Prefect Hennebise to annihilate
you. You would be already dead, I think, if it had not been for the
arrogance of that ultimatum. But it isn't possible for Le Barazer
to resist much longer, my poor friend. And you mustn't bear him any
malice. Remember all the quiet obstinacy and diplomatic skill with
which for many years he supported you. He always found some means of
saving you by granting compensations to your adversaries. But now it
is all over, I have not even spoken to him about you. All efforts on
your behalf would be useless. You must let him act as he pleases.
Doubtless he is only delaying his decision in order to devise something
ingenious; for he himself does not like to be defeated, and he will
never relinquish his efforts on behalf of his work, that system of
secular and compulsory education which alone can give us a new France.'

Marc smiled no longer; indeed, he had become very sad. 'It will be a
great blow,' he answered. 'I shall leave the best of myself behind
me in that school of Maillebois, among those dear lads whom I regard
almost as my own children.... Besides, what shall I do if my career is
thus brought to an end? I am not competent to take up any other useful
work, and how painful it will be to see the work I have been doing
interrupted, left unfinished at the very moment when, more than ever,
truth has need of sturdy workers.'

But Salvan in his turn bravely smiled, and, taking hold of Marc's
hands, said to him: 'Come, don't lose your courage. We shall surely
find something to do; we sha'n't remain with our arms crossed.'

Then Marc, feeling comforted, replied: 'You are right! When a man like
you is struck, one can follow him into disgrace without thought of
shame. The future, at all events, belongs to us.'

A few more days went by. At Maillebois the victorious Congregations
were endeavouring to turn the situation to pecuniary account. Great
efforts were made to restore the former prosperity of the Brothers'
school, several families were won over, and it seemed likely that at
the new term the school would gain a dozen fresh pupils. Meantime the
Capuchins showed extraordinary audacity. Was it not, after all, the
glorious St. Antony of Padua who had managed everything, obtained
everything from the benevolence of heaven? Indeed, it could not be
denied. It was to him that one owed the reconviction of Simon, thanks
to the franc and two-franc pieces which so many pious souls had
dropped into the saint's collection-boxes while asking him to bring
about the annihilation of the Jew. Thus a fresh miracle had been
performed. Never before had the saint's power been manifested in so
lofty a manner, and as a natural result offerings poured in from all
sides. Moreover, Father Théodose, encouraged, inspired by this success,
conceived a masterly plan to reap another large harvest of money by
the saint's aid. He launched an extraordinary financial affair with
mortgage bonds on Paradise, each bond being of five francs' value. The
district was flooded with circulars and prospectuses explaining the
ingenious working of these investments in celestial felicity. Each
bond comprised ten coupons of half a franc, representing good works,
prayers, and masses payable as interest here below, and redeemable
in heaven at the cashier's office of the miracle-working St. Antony.
Premiums were also offered in order to attract subscribers. Twenty
bonds gave one a right to a coloured statuette of the saint, and a
hundred ensured one an annual Mass. Finally, the prospectus explained
that the name of St. Antony's Bonds was given to this scrip, because it
was the saint who would redeem it a hundredfold in the next world. And
the announcement ended with these words: 'Such supernatural guarantees
make these bonds absolutely safe. No financial catastrophe can threaten
them. Even the destruction of the world, at the end of time, would
leave them in force, or rather would at once place the holders in the
enjoyment of the full capitalised interest.'[1]

[Footnote 1: As some readers might think this an invention on M. Zola's
part, it is as well to mention that the prospectus referred to was
actually issued by a French religious community.--_Trans._]

The success was enormous. In a few weeks' time thousands of bonds had
been sold. Those devotees who were too poor to buy a whole one clubbed
together, and then divided the coupons. Credulous and suffering souls
eagerly risked their money in this new lottery, whose great prize
was to be the realisation of a fondly dreamt-of eternity of happy
life. It was certainly rumoured that Monseigneur Bergerot intended
to prohibit this impudent speculation which scandalised the more
reasonable Catholics; but in the unpleasant position in which the
prelate had been placed by the defeat of the Simonists, whom he was
accused of having stealthily supported, he was doubtless afraid to do
so. Though it greatly distressed him to abandon the Church to the
rising tide of superstition, he had found that he could place little
reliance on his clergy, and thus he had never had the courage to resist
the all-powerful Congregations. Aged as he now was, he had become
weaker still, only retaining enough strength to kneel and beg God's
forgiveness for thus suffering the merchants to invade the temple.
But Abbé Quandieu, the priest of St. Martin's, could not bear that
desecration any longer. All his Christian resignation forsook him
when the so-called Bonds of St. Antony made their appearance. Such
trafficking was too outrageous, and he gave expression in the pulpit
to his revolt as a minister of Christ, his grief at beholding the
base downfall of that great Christianity which had renewed the world,
and which so many illustrious minds had raised to the purest summits
of ideality. Then he paid a last visit to his Bishop and friend,
Monseigneur Bergerot, and finding him unable to continue the struggle,
feeling too that he himself was vanquished and paralysed, he resigned
his cure and withdrew to a little house in the outskirts of Maillebois,
intending to dwell there on a scanty income, outside that Church whose
policy of hatred and whose basely superstitious worship he could no
longer serve.

The Capuchins deemed the opportunity favourable for a fresh triumph
in celebration of what Father Théodose styled the flight of their
former adversary. By careful manœuvring the Bishop had been induced
to appoint a young curate of the _arriviste_ school, a creature of
Father Crabot's, to the parish of Maillebois, and the idea was to
bear a superb statue of St. Antony, all red and gold, in solemn
procession from the Capuchin Chapel to St. Martin's, where it would
be set up in great pomp. This would be the crowning consecration of
the victory which had been achieved, the conquest of the parish by
the Congregation, the monks becoming its sovereign masters, able to
disseminate on every side the idolatrous worship, by which they hoped
to bleed and abase the community, and turn it into the ignorant flock
of the days of servitude. The procession, which took place one warm day
in September, with the co-operation of all the clergy of the district,
proved magnificent, and was attended by a great concourse of people
who repaired to Maillebois from all points of the department. Only the
Place des Capucins and a short lane really separated the chapel from
the church, but a roundabout line of route was selected; they crossed
the Place de la République and marched along the whole high street, in
this wise promenading St. Antony from one to the other end of the town.
Mayor Philis, surrounded by the clerical majority of the Municipal
Council, followed the painted statue, which was borne on a platform
draped with red velvet. Although it was holiday time, the whole of the
Brothers' school had been mobilised, boys had been specially recruited,
dressed, and provided with candles. Behind them came the Daughters
of Mary and numerous pious brotherhoods, sisterhoods, and other
associations, an interminable string of devotees, to say nothing of all
the nuns brought expressly from the Beaumont convents. Only Monseigneur
Bergerot was wanting. As it happened he had sent a letter of regret,
having fallen ill two days previously.

Never before had Maillebois been possessed by such religious fever.
People knelt on the foot pavements, men shed tears, three girls fell
to the ground in hysterical fits, and had to be carried to a chemist's
shop. In the evening the benediction at St. Martin's amid the pealing
of the bells was quite dazzling. And not a doubt remained; surely
the town was now redeemed and forgiven; by that grandiose ceremony
Providence signified its willingness to wipe out for ever the vile
memory of Simon the Jew.

It so happened that Salvan came to Maillebois that day in order to
see Madame Berthereau, respecting whom he had received some extremely
disquieting news. And he had just quitted the little house in the
Place des Capucins when he caught sight of Marc, who, on his way home
after a visit to the Lehmanns, had found his progress barred by the
interminable procession. They shook hands in silence; then for some
time were compelled to remain waiting. When the last of the monks had
gone by behind the idol all ablaze with gilding and red paint, they
just exchanged a glance and took a few steps in silence.

'I was going to call on you,' said Salvan at last.

Marc fancied that he had brought him news of his dismissal. 'Is it
signed then?' he inquired. 'Am I to pack my trunks?'

'No, no, my friend; Le Barazer has given no signs of life as yet. He
is preparing something.... But our dismissal is certain, you must take
a little patience.' Then, ceasing to jest, he added with an expression
of grief: 'The fact is, I heard that Madame Berthereau was at the last
stage and I desired to see her.... I have just left her, and her end is
certainly very near.'

'Louise came to warn me of it yesterday evening,' Marc replied. 'I
should have liked to call at once, as you have done. But Madame
Duparque has signified that she will immediately quit the house if
I should dare to set foot in it on any pretext. And though Madame
Berthereau, as I know, would like to see me, she is afraid to give
expression to her desire, for fear of some scandal beside her
death-bed.... Ah! my friend, one can never overcome the hatred of a
bigot.'

They walked on, again preserving silence. At last Salvan resumed: 'Yes,
Madame Duparque keeps good guard, and for a moment I thought that
she would not let me go upstairs. At all events she did not quit me;
she kept a watch on everything I said, either to the patient or your
wife.... She is certainly afraid that something may result from the
blow which is about to fall on the house. Yes, Madame Berthereau, her
daughter, is about to escape from her by death, and she fears, perhaps,
that Geneviève, her granddaughter, may also free herself.'

Marc halted, and, giving his friend a keen glance, inquired: 'Did you
notice any sign of that?'

'Well, yes; but I did not wish to mention it to you, for it would
distress me to give you any false hope.... But it was in connection
with that procession, that barefaced idolatry which we witnessed just
now. It appears that your wife absolutely refused to attend it. And
that is why I found Madame Duparque at home. She, of course, was very
desirous of displaying her piety in the front rank of all the devotees,
but she feared that if she should absent herself for a single moment,
you or some other soul-snatcher might get into the house and rob her of
her daughter and granddaughter. So she remained at home, and you can
imagine with what cold fury she received me, trying to transpierce me
with those eyes of hers, which are like rapiers.'

Marc was becoming excited: 'Ah! so Geneviève refused to attend that
procession! She understood its hurtfulness, its baseness and folly,
then; and she is returning in some degree to the healthy common-sense
she used to show?'

'No doubt,' Salvan answered. 'I believe that she felt particularly
hurt by those ridiculous mortgage bonds on Paradise.... Ah! what a
master-stroke, my friend! Never before was human imbecility exploited
to such a degree by religious impudence.'

While conversing the friends had slowly directed their steps towards
the railway station, where Salvan intended to take the train in order
to return to Beaumont. He did so, and Marc, on quitting him, felt once
again full of hope.

As Salvan had indeed suggested, Geneviève--in that little house of the
Place des Capucins, which had become yet more mournful and frigid now
that death hovered over it so threateningly--was assailed by another
crisis which was gradually transforming her. At first she had been
thunderstruck by the revelation of the truth, the certainty of Simon's
innocence, which the perusal of all the documents had brought her--that
terrible light whose blaze had revealed to her the infamy of the holy
men whom she had hitherto accepted as the directors of her conscience
and her heart. All came from that, doubt penetrated into her mind,
faith took flight, she could not do otherwise than reflect, examine
and judge everything. A feeling of disquietude had already come upon
her at the time when she quitted Father Théodose; and the latter's
Bonds of St. Antony, that base attempt to exploit the credulity of
the public, had suddenly shown her his venality and disgusted her
with him. Moreover, not only did the monk's character decline in her
estimation to the lowest level, but the worship he represented--that
religion which had cast her into transports of mystical desire likewise
lost its semblance of holiness. What! must she accept that unworthy
trafficking, that idolatrous superstition, if she desired to remain
a practising Catholic, steadfast in her faith? She had long bowed to
beliefs and mysteries, even when her natural good sense had covertly
protested against them; but there were limits to everything. She could
not countenance that flotation of shares in heaven; she refused to
walk behind that St. Antony, bedaubed with red and gold and carried
about like a guy or an advertisement, to increase the multitude of
subscribers. And the revolt of her reason gathered additional strength
when she thought of the retirement of Abbé Quandieu, the gentle and
paternal confessor, to whom she had returned when the suspicious ardour
of Father Théodose had alarmed her. If such a man as the Abbé felt
unable to abide in the Church, such as it had been made by the clerical
policy of hatred and domination, was it not certain that all upright
souls would henceforth find it difficult to remain in it?

Doubtless, however, Geneviève's evolution would not have been so
rapid if certain preparatory work had not been already effected in
her, slowly and without her knowledge. In order that one might fully
understand those first causes, it was necessary to recall the whole
of her story. Inheriting much of her father's nature--tender, gay,
and amorous--she had fallen in love with Marc, carried away by such
ardent passion that, in order to have that modest schoolmaster as her
husband, she was willing to dwell with him almost in poverty, in the
depths of a lonely village. Weary, too, in her eighteenth year, of the
mournful life she had led beside Madame Duparque, the idea of liberty
had attracted her; and for a moment it had seemed as if she had cast
aside all her pious training, for with her husband she had displayed
such youthful enchantment that he had been able to think she was wholly
his. Moreover, if any fears lurked within him, he had dismissed them,
setting himself to worship her, imagining he would be powerful enough
to recast her in his own image, and so carried away by the happiness of
the hour that he deferred that moral conquest till some other time.

But her past had revived, and again he had shown weakness, delaying
action under the pretext of respecting the freedom of her conscience,
and allowing her to return to religious observances. All her childhood
then came back, the mystical poison which had not been eliminated from
her system asserted itself, and the crisis which fatally assails the
souls of women nourished on errors and falsehoods arrived, her case
being aggravated by her frequentation of that bigoted and domineering
woman, her grandmother. Then a whole series of incidents--the Simon
case, the postponement of Louise's first Communion--had precipitated
the rupture between husband and wife. In Geneviève there glowed a
desire for the _au-delà_ of passion, a hope of finding in heaven the
divine and boundless bliss promised to her formerly in her girlish
days; and her love for Marc had simply become dimmed amid her dream
of the ecstasies which the canticles celebrate, an ever loftier and
ever deceptive delight. But in vain had others excited her, lied to
her, set her against her husband, by promising to raise her to the
highest truth, the most perfect felicity. The failure, the defeat she
ever encountered, sprang from her abandonment of the only natural
and possible human happiness; for never since that time had she been
able to content her longings. She had lived, indeed, amid increasing
distress without either repose or joy, however stubbornly she might
declare that she had found felicity in her deceptive and empty chimeras.

Even now she did not confess in what a void she had ever remained
after her long prayers on the old flagstones of chapels, her useless
Communions, when she had vainly hoped to feel the flesh and blood of
Jesus mingling with her own in a union of eternal rapture. But good
Mother Nature each day was winning her back, restoring her a little
more to health and human love; while the old poison of mysticism
became in an increasing degree eliminated at each successive defeat
of religious imposture. Cast for a time into great perturbation,
she strove to divert her thoughts, to stupefy herself, by stern and
painful religious practices in order that she might not be compelled to
understand that her love for Marc had reawakened, that she craved for
rest in his embrace, in the one, sole, eternal certainty which makes of
husband and wife the emblems of health and happiness.

But quarrels had broken out between Madame Duparque and Geneviève,
and had grown more and more frequent and bitter. The grandmother felt
that her granddaughter was escaping from her. She watched her closely,
made her almost a prisoner; but, whenever a dispute arose, Geneviève
always had the resource of shutting herself up in her own room. There
she could dwell upon her thoughts, and she did not answer even when the
terrible old woman came up and hammered at the door. In this way she
secluded herself on two successive Sundays, refusing to accompany her
grandmother to vespers, in spite of both entreaties and threats.

Madame Duparque, now seventy-eight years old, had become a most
uncompromising bigot, fashioned in that sense by a long life of
absolute servitude to the Church. Reared by a rigid mother, she had
found no affection in her husband, whose mind had been set on his
business. For nearly five and twenty years they had kept a draper's
shop in front of the Cathedral of St. Maxence at Beaumont, a shop
whose custom came chiefly from the convents and the parsonages. And it
was towards her thirtieth year that Madame Duparque, neglected by her
husband and too upright to take a lover, had begun to devote herself
more and more to religious observances. She checked her passions, she
quieted them amid the ceremonies of the ritual, the smell of the
incense, the fervour of the prayers, the mystical assignations she made
with the fair-haired Jesus depicted in pious prints. Having never known
the transports of love, she found sufficient consolation in the society
of priests. And not only did she derive happiness from the unctuous
gestures and caressing words of her confessor, but even his occasional
rigour, his threats of hell and all its torments, sent a delightful
quiver coursing through her veins. In blind belief and strict adherence
to the most rigid practices, she found, too, not only satisfaction
for her deadened senses, but the support and governance she needed in
her weakness as a daughter of the ages. The Church knows it well; it
does not conquer woman only by the sensuality of its worship, it makes
her its own by brutalising and terrorising her. It treats her as a
slave habituated to harsh treatment for centuries, a slave who ends by
feeling a bitter delight in her very servitude.

Thus Madame Duparque, broken to obedience from her cradle days,
was one of the subjugated daughters of the Church, one of those
creatures whom it distrusts, strikes, and disciplines, turning them
into docile instruments, which enable it to attack men and conquer
them in their turn. When, after losing her husband and liquidating
her business, Madame Duparque had installed herself at Maillebois,
her one occupation, her one passion had become the practice of that
authoritarian piety, by which she strove to remedy the spoiling of
her life, and obtain compensation for all the natural joys, all the
human forms of happiness, which she had never known. And the roughness
with which she tried to impose her narrow, chilling faith upon her
granddaughter Geneviève was due, in some degree certainly, to the
regret she felt at having never experienced the felicity of love, which
she would have liked to forbid her grandchild, as if it were indeed
some unknown and perchance delightful hell, where she herself would
never set foot.

But between the grandmother and the granddaughter there was the
doleful Madame Berthereau. She likewise seemed to be only a devotee
bent beneath the rule of the Church, which had taken possession of her
from the moment of her birth. Never for a single day had she ceased to
follow its observances. With loving weakness her husband, Berthereau
the freethinker, had accompanied her to Mass. But she had also known
his love, the ardent passion with which he had always encompassed
her, and the recollection of it possessed her for ever. Though many
years had elapsed since his death, she still belonged to him; she lived
on that one memory, ending her days in solitude, in the arms of that
dear shade. This explained her long spells of silence, the resigned,
retiring manner she preserved in the mournful little house to which,
as to a convent, she had withdrawn with her daughter Geneviève. She
had never thought of marrying again; she had become a second Madame
Duparque, rigidly and meticulously pious, clad invariably in black, and
showing a waxen countenance, a cowed and crushed demeanour under the
rough hand which weighed so heavily on the house. At the utmost a faint
twinge of bitterness appeared on her tired lips, and a fugitive gleam
of rebellion shone in her submissive eyes when at times the memory of
her dead husband, awakening within her, filled her amid the frigid
empty life of religious observances in which she agonised with bitter
regret for all the old happiness of love. And of recent times only the
sight of her daughter Geneviève's frightful torment, that struggle of
a woman for whom priest and husband were contending, had been able
to draw her from the shrinking self-surrender of a recluse taking no
interest in the cares of worldly life, and lend her enough courage to
face her terrible mother.

And now Madame Berthereau was near her death, well pleased, personally,
by the prospect of that deliverance. Nevertheless, as her strength
ebbed away, day by day, she felt more and more grieved at having to
leave Geneviève struggling in torture, and at the mercy of Madame
Duparque. When she herself was gone, what would become of her poor
daughter in that abode of agony, where she had suffered so dreadfully
already? To the poor dying woman the thought of going off like
that, without doing anything, saying anything that might save her
daughter, and help her to recover a little health and happiness,
became intolerable. It haunted her, and one evening, when it was
still possible for her to speak gently and very slowly, she mustered
sufficient courage to satisfy her heart.

It was an evening in September--a mild and rainy one. Night was at
hand, and the little room, which, with its few old pieces of walnut
furniture, had an aspect of conventual simplicity, was gradually
growing dim. As the sick woman could not lie down, for she then at
once began to stifle, she remained in a sitting posture, propped up
by pillows, on a couch. Although she was only fifty-six, her long sad
face, crowned by snowy hair, looked very aged indeed, worn and blanched
by the emptiness of her life. Geneviève sat near her in an armchair,
and Louise had just come upstairs with a cup of milk, the only
nourishment which the ailing woman could still take. A heavy silence
was lulling the house to sleep, the last clang of the bells of the
Capuchin Chapel having just died away in the lifeless atmosphere of the
little deserted square.

'My daughter,' at last said Madame Berthereau in accents which came
from her lips very faintly and slowly, 'as we are alone, I beg you to
listen to me, for I have various things to tell you, and it is quite
time I should do so.'

Geneviève, surprised, and anxious as to the effect which this supreme
effort might have on her mother, wished her to remain silent. But
Madame Berthereau made such a resolute gesture that the young woman
merely inquired: 'Do you wish to speak to me alone, mother? Would you
like Louise to go away?'

For a moment Madame Berthereau preserved silence. She had turned her
face towards the girl, who, tall and charming, with a lofty brow and
frank eyes, gazed at her in affectionate distress. And the old lady
ended by murmuring: 'I prefer Louise to remain. She is seventeen, she
also ought to know.... Come and sit here, close beside me, my darling.'

Then, the girl having seated herself on a chair by the side of the
couch, Madame Berthereau took hold of her hands. 'I know how sensible
and brave you are,' she said, 'and if I have sometimes blamed you, I
none the less acknowledge how frank you are.... To-day, do you know,
now that I am near my last hour, I believe in nothing save kindness.'

Again she paused for a moment, reflecting, and turning her eyes towards
the open window, towards the paling sky, as if she were seeking her
long life of dejection and resignation in the farewell gleam of the
sun. Then her eyes came back to her daughter, at whom for a while she
remained gazing with an expression of indescribable compassion.

'It grieves me extremely, my Geneviève, to leave you so unhappy,'
she said. 'Ah! do not say no. I sometimes hear you sobbing overhead,
at night, when you are unable to sleep. And I can picture your
wretchedness, the battle which rends your heart.... For years now you
have been suffering, and I have not had even enough bravery to succour
you.'

Hot tears gathered suddenly in Geneviève's eyes. The evocation of her
sufferings at that tragic hour quite upset her. 'Mother, I beg you, do
not think of me,' she stammered; 'my only grief will be that of losing
you.'

'No, no, my girl; each has to go in turn, satisfied or in despair,
according to the life which he or she has chosen. But those who remain
behind ought not to persevere obstinately in useless suffering when
they may still be happy.' And joining her hands, and raising them with
a gesture of ardent entreaty, Madame Berthereau added: 'Oh! my girl,
I beg you, do not remain a day longer in this house. Make haste, take
your children, and go back to your husband.'

Geneviève did not even have time to answer. A tall black form was
before her, for Madame Duparque had slipped noiselessly into the room.
Always prowling about the house, haunted by an everlasting suspicion
of sin, she began to worry herself directly she was at a loss to tell
where Geneviève and Louise might be. If they had hidden themselves did
it not follow that they must be doing something evil? Moreover, the old
woman never liked to leave them long with Madame Berthereau for fear
lest something forbidden should be said. That evening, therefore, she
had crept up the stairs as quietly as possible, with her ears on the
alert; and, hearing certain words, she had gently opened the door, thus
catching the others _in flagrante delicto_.

'What is that you say, my daughter?' she demanded, her rasping voice
ringing with angry imperiousness.

The sick woman, pale already, became quite ghastly at that sudden
intervention, while Geneviève and Louise remained thunderstruck,
alarmed also as to what might now happen.

'What is that you say, my daughter?' Madame Duparque repeated. 'Are you
not aware that God can hear you?'

Madame Berthereau had sunk back on her pillows, closing her eyes as if
to collect her courage. She had so greatly hoped that she might be able
to speak to Geneviève alone, and avoid a battle with her redoubtable
mother. All her life long she had avoided any such collision, any such
struggle, feeling that she would be beaten in it. But now she had only
a few hours left her to be good and brave; and so she opened her eyes,
and dared--at last--to speak out.

'May God indeed hear me, mother! I am doing my duty,' she said. 'I
have told my daughter to take her children and return to her husband,
for she will only find real health and happiness in the home which she
quitted so imprudently.'

Madame Duparque, who waved her arms violently, had been minded to
interrupt her at the first word she spoke. But awed, perhaps, by the
majesty of death, which was already gathering in the room, embarrassed
too by the heartfelt cry of that poor enslaved creature, whose reason
and whose love were at last freeing themselves from their shackles, the
terrible old lady allowed her daughter to finish her sentence. A pause,
fraught with infinite anguish, then followed between those four women
who were thus gathered together, and who represented four generations
of their line.

There was a certain family resemblance between them; they were all
tall, they had long faces and somewhat prominent noses. But Madame
Duparque, now eight and seventy, and displaying a harsh jaw and rigidly
wrinkled cheeks, had grown lean and sallow in the practice of narrow
piety; whereas Madame Berthereau, who had reached her fifty-sixth year,
showed more flesh and suppleness, in spite of her malady, and still
retained on her livid face the gentleness bequeathed by the brief love
which she had tasted, and which she had ever mourned. From those two
solemn women, dark-haired in their younger days, had sprung Geneviève,
fair and gay, refined by paternal heredity, loving and lovable, and
still very charming at seven and thirty years of age. And Louise, the
last, who would soon be in her eighteenth year, was in her turn a
brunette, with hair of a deep gilded brown, inherited from her father,
Marc, who had also bestowed on her his broad forehead, and his large
bright eyes, glowing with passion for truth.

In like way one detected among those four women the progress of moral
evolution. First there was the great-grandmother, a serf of the Church,
one whose flesh and mind had been absolutely subjugated, who had become
a passive instrument of error and domination; next there was the
daughter, who had remained a practising and conquered Catholic, but who
was disturbed, tortured by her brief experience of human happiness;
then came the struggling granddaughter, in whose poor heart and mind
Catholicism was fighting its last battle, who was almost rent atwain
between the mendacious nothingness of her mystical education, and the
living reality of her wifely love and motherly tenderness, who needed,
too, all her strength to free herself; and finally there was the
great-granddaughter, who was at last freed, who had escaped the clutch
which the priest sets upon women and children, and who, all youth and
health, had reverted to happy nature, to the glorious beneficence of
the sunlight.

But in faint, slow accents Madame Berthereau was repeating: 'Listen,
my Geneviève! Do not remain here any longer. As soon as I am gone,
go away--go as speedily as you can.... My misfortunes began on the
day when I lost your father. He adored me. The only hours that I ever
really lived were those that I spent beside him; and I have often
reproached myself for not having then appreciated them more, for in
my stupidity I was ignorant of their value, and I only understood
how delightful, how unique they had been, when I came here, a widow,
loveless, for ever cut off from the world.... Ah! the icy cold of this
house, how often has it made me shiver! Ah! the silence and the gloom
in which I have gone on dying for years, not even daring to open a
window to inhale a little life, so foolish and so cowardly I was!'

Erect and motionless, Madame Duparque still refrained from interrupting
her daughter; but on hearing that cry of dolorous rebellion she could
not restrain a gesture of protest. 'I will not prevent you from
speaking, my daughter,' she said when the other paused, 'though if
you have a confession to make it would be better to send for Father
Théodose.... But since you were not wholly God's, why did you seek
refuge in this house? You knew very well that here you would find none
but God.'

'I have confessed,' the dying woman answered gently. 'I shall not go
off without receiving extreme unction, for I belong to God entirely,
I can only belong to Him now.... And even if I suffered so much from
the loss of my husband, I never regretted having come here. Where else
could I have gone? I had no other refuge. I was too closely linked to
religion to attempt to seek other happiness, even for an instant. Thus
I have lived the life I was bound to live.... But my daughter, in her
turn, is suffering too cruelly, and I will not have her begin my sorry
story over again, and fade away in the void in which I have agonised
for so many years, for she is free, and she still has a husband who
adores her.... You hear me, you hear me, do you not, my daughter?'

With a gesture of tender entreaty, she held out her poor waxen hands,
and Geneviève fell upon her knees beside her, with big tears rolling
down her cheeks, so deeply was she stirred by that extraordinary scene,
that poignant awakening of love at the very hour of death.

'Mother, I beg you, mother,' she said, 'do not continue to grieve about
my sufferings. You rend my heart by thinking only of me when we are all
here, with the one desire to give you a little comfort, whereas you, it
seems, wish to go off in despair.'

Increasing excitement had now gained possession of Madame Berthereau.
Taking Geneviève's head between her hands, she gazed into her eyes and
answered, 'No, no, listen to me. There is only one thing that can make
me happy before I leave you, and that is a certainty that you will
not lead a life of sacrifice and torture as I have done. Give me that
last consolation, do not let me go without your promise.... I shall
repeat what I have said as long as I have strength to do so. Leave this
house of error and death, return to your home, your husband. Give him
back his children, love each other with all your strength. Life lies
in that, and truth, aye, and happiness also.... I beg you, my girl,
promise me, swear to me that you will comply with my last desire.'

Then, as Geneviève, utterly upset, choking with sobs, gave her no
answer, Madame Berthereau turned towards Louise, who, likewise
distracted, was now kneeling at the other side of the couch. 'Help
me, my dear granddaughter,' she said, 'I know what your views are. I
have noticed your efforts to lead your mother home. You are a little
fairy, a very sensible little person, and you have done a great deal
to give a little quietness to all four of us.... Your mother must make
me a promise, is it not so? Tell her that she will make me very joyful
indeed by promising me to be happy.'

Louise had caught hold of the poor woman's hands, and kissing them she
stammered: 'Oh! grandmother, grandmother, how good you are, and how I
love you!... Mother will remember your last wishes, she will reflect,
and act as her heart bids her, you may be sure of it.'

Madame Duparque meanwhile had not for a moment departed from her
rigidity. Her eyes alone seemed to be alive in her frigid, wrinkled
face. And furious anger blazed in them while she strove to restrain
herself from any brutal action. At last she growled huskily: 'Be quiet,
all three of you! You are unhappy infidels, rebelling against God,
who will punish you with the flames of hell.... Be quiet, I tell you,
don't let me hear another word! Am I no longer mistress here? You, my
daughter, your illness has impaired your mind, I am willing to grant
it. You, my granddaughter, have Satan in you, and I excuse you for
having failed as yet to drive him out, in spite of your penitence.
And you, my great-granddaughter, I still hope that when I am free to
correct you I shall prevent you from going to damnation.... Be quiet,
my children, I tell you. If it were not for me you would not exist! It
is I who command here, and you would be guilty of yet another mortal
sin if you should not obey me!'

Her stature seemed to have increased, and her voice had risen while,
with fierce gestures, she thus spoke in the name of her Deity of anger
and vengeance. But, in spite of her commands, her daughter, who already
felt freed from her domination by the approach of death, was bold
enough to continue: 'I have been obeying for more than twenty years,
mother, I have preserved silence for more than twenty years; and if
my last hour were not at hand, perhaps I should be so cowardly as to
obey and keep silent now.... But I have gone through too much. All
that has tortured me, all that I have left unsaid would choke me in my
grave, and even there the cry I have stifled so long would rise from my
lips.... Oh! my daughter, promise me, promise me what I ask!'

Then Madame Duparque, beside herself, exclaimed in a rougher voice:
'Geneviève, I, your grandmother, forbid you to speak!'

It was Louise who, seeing that her mother was still sobbing, waging
a most frightful battle, with her face close pressed to the blanket
spread over the couch, took upon herself to answer in her resolute yet
deferential way: 'Grandmother, one must be kind to grandmother who is
so ill. Mother also is very ailing, and it is cruel to upset her like
this. Is it not right that each should act according to her conscience?'

Thereupon, without giving Madame Duparque time to intervene again,
Geneviève, whose heart melted, touched as it was by her daughter's
courageous gentleness, raised her head, and kissed the dying woman
with intense emotion: 'Mother, mother, you may sleep in peace, I will
not let you carry away any bitter thought on my account.... Yes, I
promise you I will remember your desire, I promise you I will do all
that my love for you may advise me to do.... Yes, yes, there is only
kindness, there is only love: therein lies the only truth.'

Then, as Madame Berthereau, exhausted, but with a divine smile
brightening her face, pressed her daughter to her bosom, Madame
Duparque made a last threatening gesture. The twilight had now fallen,
and only the pale gleam of the broad, cloudless sky, where the first
stars were shining, lighted up the room; while the open window admitted
the deep silence that rose from the deserted square, broken only by
the laugh of a child. And as everything thus sank into a quiescence
through which swept the august breath of coming death, the old woman,
who in her obstinacy would neither see nor hear, added these words:
'You belong to me no more, neither daughter, nor granddaughter, nor
great-granddaughter. One impelling the other, you are, all three of
you, on the road to eternal damnation! Go, go! God casts you off, and I
cast you off also!'

Then she departed, shutting the door roughly behind her. In the dim
quiet room the mother remained agonising between her daughter and her
granddaughter, all three united in the same embrace. And for a long,
long while they continued weeping, their tears full of delightful
comfort as well as bitter grief.

Two days later Madame Berthereau died, in a very Catholic spirit, after
receiving extreme unction, as she had desired. At the church the stern
demeanour of Madame Duparque, clad in the deepest mourning, was much
remarked. Only Louise accompanied her. Geneviève had been obliged to
take to her bed again, overcome by such a nervous shock that she seemed
no longer able to see or hear. For three days longer she thus remained
in bed with her face turned to the wall, unwilling to answer anybody,
even her daughter. She must have suffered terribly; distressful moans
escaped her, fits of weeping shook her from head to foot. When the
grandmother went up to her, obstinately remaining there, lecturing
her, and pointing out the necessity of appeasing the divine anger, the
attacks became yet more violent, there were convulsions and shrieks.
And Louise, who wished her mother to be spared any such aggravation
of her torment, in the supreme struggle which was almost rending her
asunder, ended by bolting the door, and remaining there as a sentinel,
forbidding access to everybody.

On the fourth day came the _dénouement_. Pélagie alone managed to force
an occasional entry in order to attend to certain work. Sixty years of
age, with a sullen face, a large nose, and thin lips, the servant had
become not only very thin, almost withered, but also insufferable in
manner. Ever mumbling sour words, she actually overruled her terrible
mistress, and often turned the work-girls, whom the latter engaged
to help her, into the street. Madame Duparque kept her, however, for
she was an old retainer, an old instrument who had always been ready
at hand. Indeed, her mistress could hardly have lived if she had
not had that underling, that serf beside her to extend, as it were,
her domination over all around. She employed her as a spy, as the
executor of base designs, and in return she herself belonged to her,
having to put up with all the bad temper, all the additional worry and
dolefulness with which the other filled the house.

On the morning of the fourth day, after the first breakfast, Pélagie,
having gone upstairs to fetch the cups and plates, hastened down again,
quite scared, and said to her mistress: 'Does madame know what is going
on up there? They are packing their trunks!'

'The mother and daughter?'

'Yes, madame. Oh! they are making no secret of it. The girl goes from
one room to the other, carrying armfuls of linen.... If madame cares to
go up, the door is wide open.'

Frigidly, without answering, Madame Duparque went up. And she indeed
found Geneviève and Louise actively engaged in packing two trunks, as
if for immediate departure, while little Clément, who was scarcely six
years old, sat very quietly on a chair, watching the preparations. The
mother and daughter just raised their heads when the old lady entered,
then went on with their work again.

A moment of silence followed; finally, Madame Duparque, not a muscle of
whose face stirred, but who seemed to become yet more frigid and stern,
inquired: 'Do you feel better, then, Geneviève?'

'Yes, grandmother. I have still some fever, but I shall never get well
if I remain shut up here.'

'So you have decided to go elsewhere, I see. Where are you going?'

A quiver came over Geneviève, who once more raised her head, showing
her eyes, which were still red with weeping: 'I am going where I
promised my mother I would go. For four days past the struggle has been
killing me.'

Another pause ensued. 'Your promise did not seem to me a formal one; I
regarded your words as mere words of consolation,' said Madame Duparque
at last. 'So you are going back to that man? You can have very little
pride!'

'Pride! Ah, yes, I know, it is by pride that you have kept me here so
long.... But I have had plenty of pride. Many a time, though I have
wept all night long, I have refused to admit my error.... But now I
understand the stupidity of my pride, the wretchedness into which I
have sunk is too great.'

'You unhappy creature! Has neither prayer nor penitence been able to
rid you of the poison, then? That poison is mastering you again, and it
will end by casting you into eternal punishment should you relapse into
your abominable sin.'

'What poison are you talking of, grandmother? My husband loves me,
and, in spite of everything, I love him still. Is that poison? I have
struggled for five years; I wished to give myself entirely to God;
why did not God fill the aching void of my being, in which I desired
to receive Him alone? Religion has satisfied me neither as to wifely
happiness nor as to motherly tenderness, and if I am now going back to
that happiness and tenderness, it is because of the downfall of that
heaven in which I have found only deception and falsehood.'

'You are blaspheming, my girl, and you will be punished for it by the
most cruel sufferings.... If the poison which has tortured you did not
come from Satan, it follows that it must have come from God. Faith
is forsaking you; you are on the high road to negation, to absolute
perdition.'

'That is true; for months now I have believed a little less each day.
I did not dare to confess it to myself, but amid all my bitterness of
feeling something was slowly destroying the beliefs of my childhood
and youth.... How strange it was! All my childhood full of chimeras,
all my pious youth had revived within me, with all the fine mysteries
and ceremonies of worship, when I first sought refuge here. But when
I again endeavoured to plunge into the _au delà_ of the mysteries,
when I strove to give myself to Jesus amid the chants and the flowers,
those dreams gradually faded, became mere deceptive fancies, in which
nought of my being found contentment.... Yes, the poison must have been
my training, the errors in which I grew up, which brought me so much
suffering when they revived, and of which I shall only be cured when
the evil ferment is completely eliminated.... Shall I ever be cured? I
hardly know. There is still such strife within me!'

Madame Duparque was restraining herself, for she well understood that
violence on her part would seal her rupture with the young woman and
the girl, who, with the little boy, seated on his chair, listening
attentively without understanding, were all that remained of her race.
Thus she was minded to make a last effort, and addressing herself to
Louise, she said: 'You, my poor child, are the most to be pitied, and
I shudder when I think of the pit of abomination into which you are
casting yourself.... If you had made your first Communion all these
sorrows would have been spared us. God is punishing us for having
failed to overcome your impious resistance. Yet there is still time,
and what favours would you not obtain from His infinite mercy if you
would only submit, and approach the Holy Table as a humble handmaiden
of Jesus!'

But the girl responded gently: 'Why revert to that, grandmother? You
know very well what promise I gave my father. I cannot vary in my
answer; I will come to a decision when I am twenty; I shall then see if
I have faith.'

'But, you unhappy, obstinate child, if you go back to that man, who has
wrecked both your mother's life and your own, your decision can be told
in advance! You will remain without any belief, any religion at all,
like a mere beast of the fields!'

Then, as the daughter and mother deferentially preserved silence, and
even resumed their packing in order to curtail a useless and painful
discussion, the old lady gave expression to a last desire: 'Well, if
you have both resolved to go, at least leave me the little boy--leave
me Clément. He will redeem your folly, I will bring him up in the love
of God, I will make a holy priest of him, and at least I shall not be
alone; there will be two of us to pray that the divine anger may not
fall upon you on the terrible Day of Judgment.'

But Geneviève had sprung to her feet. 'Leave Clément!' she exclaimed;
'why, it is largely on his account that I am going. I no longer know
how to bring him up; I wish to restore him to his father, in order that
we may come to an understanding and endeavour to make a man of him....
No, no, I am taking him with me!'

Then Louise, who also stepped forward, added very gently and
respectfully: 'Why do you say that you will remain alone, grandmother?
We do not wish to forsake you, we will often come to see you, every day
if you will allow us. And we will love you well, and try to show you
how much we desire to make you happy.'

Madame Duparque could restrain herself no longer. The flood of anger
which she had found it so difficult to check flowed over and carried
her away with a rush of furious words: 'That's enough! Keep quiet! I
will listen to you no longer! But you are quite right, pack your boxes
and be off! Be off, all three of you, I cast you out! Go and join that
cursed man, that bandit who spat on God and His ministers to endeavour
to save that filthy Jew, who has been twice condemned!'

'Simon is innocent!' cried Geneviève, in her turn losing all restraint;
'and those who caused him to be condemned are liars and forgers!'

'Yes, yes, I know; it is that affair which has ruined you and is
separating us. You imagine the Jew to be innocent; you can no longer
believe in God. But your imbecile justice is the negation of divine
authority. And for that reason all is quite over between us.... Go, go
as quickly as possible with your children! Don't soil this house any
longer, don't bring any more thunderbolts upon it! You are the sole
cause of its misfortunes.... And, mind, don't set foot here again; I
cast you off, I cast you off for ever! When once you have crossed the
threshold you need never knock at the door, it will not be opened to
you. I have no children left, I am alone in the world, and I will live
and die alone!'

As she spoke, the old woman, nearly in her eightieth year, drew up
her lofty figure with a fierce energy. Her voice was still strong,
her gestures were commanding ones. She cursed, she punished, she
exterminated after the fashion of her Deity of wrath and death. And
afterwards she descended the stairs with a pitiless tread, and shut
herself in her room, waiting there till the last children of her flesh
should be gone for ever.

It so happened that Marc, that very same day, received a visit from
Salvan, who found him in the large classroom, which was quite bright
with the glow of the September sunshine. The vacation would come to
an end in another ten days, and, though Marc hourly expected to be
informed of his dismissal, he was consulting his books and notes as
if preparing for the new school year. However, by Salvan's grave if
smiling demeanour, he at once understood the truth.

'This time it's done, is it not?' he exclaimed.

_'Mon Dieu_, yes, it's done, my friend. Quite a long list of changes,
appointments, and promotions, prepared by Le Barazer, has been
signed.... Jauffre will leave Jonville and come to Beaumont, which is
fine advancement for him. That clerical Chagnat goes from Le Moreux to
Dherbecourt, which is scandalous when one remembers what a brute the
fellow is.... For my part, I am simply pensioned off to make room for
Mauraisin, who triumphs.... And you, my friend----'

'I am dismissed, eh?'

'No, no, you have simply fallen into disgrace. You are sent back to
Jonville in the place of Jauffre, and Mignot, your assistant, who is
compromised with you, is to take Chagnat's post at Le Moreux.'

Marc raised a cry of happy surprise: 'But I am delighted!'

Salvan, who had come expressly to acquaint him with the news, indulged
in a hearty laugh. 'That is Le Barazer's diplomacy, you see! That is
what he was preparing, when, according to his habit, he endeavoured
to gain time. He has ended by satisfying that terrible Sanglebœuf and
all the other reactionaries by appointing Mauraisin to succeed me,
and promoting Jauffre and Chagnat. And this has enabled him to retain
your services and those of Mignot. Outwardly he seems to blame you,
but he does not intend to disown you entirely. Besides, he is leaving
Mademoiselle Mazeline here, and in your place is appointing Joulic, one
of my best pupils, a man of free and healthy mind. Thus Maillebois,
Jonville, and Le Moreux will be henceforth provided with excellent
masters, ardent missionaries of the future.... That is the position,
and, I tell you once again, nobody can alter Le Barazer; one must take
him as he is and feel pleased, even when what he does is only half of
what one would like to see.'

'I am delighted,' Marc repeated. 'It was more particularly the prospect
of having to quit the profession altogether that grieved me. Thinking
of the new term I felt sorrowful all this morning. Where could I have
gone, what could I have done? It will certainly pain me to leave the
boys here, for I am very fond of them. But my consolation will be to
find others yonder, to whom I shall also become attached. And as for
the humbleness of the school, what does that matter if I am able to
continue my life-work and still sow the seed which alone can yield the
harvest of truth and equity? Ah! yes, I shall go back to Jonville right
willingly, and with fresh hope.'

Then he strode gaily about the bright, sunshiny classroom as if again
taking on himself that teaching mission, the relinquishment of which
would have been so hard to bear. And at last, with juvenile ardour
and delight, he flung his arms about Salvan and embraced him. At that
same moment Mignot, who, also expecting dismissal, had been seeking a
situation for some days past, came in, worried at having encountered
another refusal on the part of the manager of a neighbouring factory.
But when he learnt that he was appointed to Le Moreux, he likewise gave
expression to his joy. 'Le Moreux! Le Moreux! a real land of savages!'
said he. 'No matter, one will try to civilise them a little. And we
sha'n't be separated, the distance is less than three miles. That, you
know, is what pleases me most of all!'

But Marc had now calmed down, and, indeed, sorrow was reviving in him,
dimming his eyes once more. Silence fell, and the others could feel a
quiver pass--the quiver of hope deferred, of a heart-pang which was
ever keen. How hard would be the battle that Marc still had before him,
how many more tears must he shed before he regained his lost happiness!
At that thought he, and the others also, preserved silence; and Salvan,
unable to give his friends any further comfort, sank into a sorrowful
reverie as he stood gazing through the large sunlit window which faced
the square outside.

But all at once he exclaimed: 'Why, are you expecting somebody?'

'Expecting somebody?' rejoined Marc, at a loss to understand.

'Yes, here comes a little hand-cart with some trunks on it.'

At that same moment the door opened, and they turned round. It was
Geneviève who came in, holding little Clément by the hand, and having
Louise also beside her. The surprise and the emotion were so great that
at first nobody spoke. Marc was trembling. But Geneviève, in a halting
voice, began at last: 'My dear Marc, I have brought you back your son.
Yes, I give him back to you--he belongs to you--he belongs to us both.
Let us try to make a man of him.'

The boy had stretched out his little arms, and the father caught him
up wildly, and pressed him to his heart, while the mother, the wife,
continued: 'And I have come back to you with him, my good Marc. You
told me that I should bring him back, and come back myself.... It
was truth that first conquered me; then all that you had set in me
germinated, no doubt, and I have no pride left.... And here I am, for
I still love you.... I vainly sought other happiness, but only your
love exists. Apart from us and our children there is only unreason and
wretchedness.... Take me back, my good Marc! I give myself to you as
you give yourself to me.'

Thus speaking, she had slowly drawn near to her husband, and she was
about to cast her arms around his neck when Louise's gay voice was
heard: 'And I, and I, father! I must share in it too, you know. You
must not forget me.'

'Yes, indeed, she must share in it, the dear girl!' said Geneviève.
'She strove so much to bring about this happiness, she showed such
gentleness and skill.'

Then she caught Louise also in her embrace, and kissed both her and
Marc, who was already holding Clément to his heart. All four were at
last reunited, held in the same bond of flesh and love, having but one
heart, one breath between them. And what a quiver of deep humanity, of
fruitful and healthy joy now filled that large classroom, which looked
so bare and empty, pending the return of the boys for the new term! Big
tears welled into the eyes of Salvan and Mignot, whom emotion quite
upset.

At last Marc was able to speak, and his whole heart rose to his lips:
'Ah! my dear wife, as you return to me you must at last be cured.
I knew it would be so. You turned to more and more rigid religious
practices as to stronger and stronger stupefacients for the purpose of
sending your nature to sleep; but, in spite of everything, nature was
bound to eliminate the poison when at last you again felt that you were
a wife and a mother.... Yes, yes, you are right: love has delivered
you; you are won from that religion of error and death, from which
human society has suffered for eighteen centuries past.'

But Geneviève quivered again, becoming anxious and disturbed. 'Ah! no,
no, my good Marc, do not say that! Who can tell if I am really cured?
Never, perhaps, shall I be cured completely.... Our Louise will be
entirely free, but the mark set on me is ineffaceable, I shall always
be afraid of relapsing into those mystical dreams.... And if I have
come back, it is to seek a refuge in your embrace, and to enable you to
complete the work that has begun. Keep me, perfect me, try to prevent
anything from ever separating us again!'

They caught each other in a tighter clasp: it was as if they were but
one. Even as Geneviève had said, was not that the great work which
needed to be accomplished--the work of taking woman from the Church,
and setting her in her true place as companion and mother, by the side
of man? For only the freed woman can free man: her slavery is ours.

But all at once Louise, who a moment previously had disappeared, opened
the door again, bringing with her Mademoiselle Mazeline, who entered
breathless and smiling. 'Mamma,' said the girl, 'mademoiselle must have
a share in our happiness. If you only knew how she has loved me, and
how kind and useful she was here!'

Geneviève stepped forward and embraced the schoolmistress
affectionately. 'I knew it,' she said. 'Thank you, my friend, for all
you did for us during our long worries.'

The good woman laughed, with tears in her eyes. 'Oh! don't thank me, my
dear. It is I who am grateful to you for all the happiness you give me
to-day.'

Salvan and Mignot were also laughing now. More handshakes were
exchanged. And as Salvan, amid the babel of voices which burst forth,
informed the schoolmistress of the appointments signed the previous
day, Geneviève raised a cry of joy.

'What! we are going back to Jonville? Is it really true?... Ah!
Jonville, that charming, lonely village where we loved each other so
well, where we first lived together so happily! What a good omen it is
that we are going back there, to begin our life afresh in affection and
quietude! Maillebois made me feel nervous, but Jonville is hope and
certainty.'

Renewed courage and infinite confidence in the future were now
upbuoying Marc, filling him with superb enthusiasm. 'Love has returned
to us,' said he; 'henceforth we are all-powerful. And even though
falsehood, iniquity, and crime triumphed to-day, eternal victory will
to-morrow be ours.'




BOOK IV




I


When October arrived, Marc with joyous serenity repaired to Jonville,
to take the modest post of village schoolmaster which he had formerly
occupied there. Great quietude had now fallen on him, new courage
and hope had followed the despair and weariness by which he had been
prostrated after the monstrous trial of Rozan.

The whole of one's ideal is never realised, and Marc almost reproached
himself for having relied on a splendid triumph. Human affairs do not
progress by superb leaps and bounds, glorious _coups-de-théâtre_. It
was chimerical to imagine that justice would be acclaimed by millions
of lips, that the innocent prisoner would return amid a great national
festival, transforming the country into a nation of brothers. All
progress, the very slightest, the most legitimate, has been won by
centuries of battling. Each forward step taken by mankind has demanded
torrents of blood and tears, hecatombs of victims, sacrificing
themselves for the good of future generations. Thus, in the eternal
battle with the evil powers, it was unreasonable to expect a decisive
victory, a supreme triumph, such as would fulfil all one's hopes, all
one's dream of fraternity and equity among mankind.

Besides, Marc had ended by perceiving what a considerable step had
been taken, after all, along that road of progress, which is so rough
and deadly. While one is still in the thick of the fight, exposed to
taunts and wounds, one does not always notice what ground one gains.
One may even think oneself defeated when one has really made much
progress and drawn very near to the goal. In this way, if the second
condemnation of Simon had at first sight seemed a frightful defeat, it
soon became apparent that the moral victory of his defenders was a
great one. And there were all sorts of gains, a grouping of free minds
and generous hearts, a broadening of human solidarity from one to the
other end of the world, a sowing of truth and justice, which would
end by sprouting up, even if the good grain should require many long
winters to germinate in the furrows. And, again, it was only with the
greatest difficulty that the reactionary castes, by dint of falsehoods
and crimes, had for a time saved the rotten fabric of the past from
utter collapse. It was none the less cracking on all sides; the blow
dealt to it had rent it from top to bottom, and the blows of the future
would complete its destruction and cast it down in a litter of wretched
remnants.

Thus the only regret which Marc now experienced was that he had not
been able to utilise that prodigious Simon affair as an admirable
lesson of things which would have instructed the masses, enlightened
them like a blaze of lightning. Never again, perhaps, would there
be so complete and decisive a case. There was the complicity of all
the powerful and all the oppressors banding themselves together to
crush a poor innocent man, whose innocence imperilled the compact
of human exploitation which the great ones of the world had signed
together. There were all the averred crimes of the priests, soldiers,
magistrates, and ministers, who, to continue deceiving the people, had
piled the most extraordinary infamies one on another, and who had all
been caught lying and assassinating, with no resource left them but
to sink in an ocean of mud; and finally there had been the division
of the country into two camps--on one hand the old authoritarian,
antiquated, and condemned social order, on the other the young society
of the future, free in mind already and ever tending towards increase
of truth, equity, and peace. If Simon's innocence had been recognised,
the reactionary past would have been struck down at one blow, and the
joyous future would have appeared to the simplest, whose eyes, at last,
would have been opened. Never before would the revolutionary axe have
sunk so deeply into the old worm-eaten social edifice. Irresistible
enthusiasm would have carried the nation towards the future city. In a
few months the Simon affair would have done more for the emancipation
of the masses and the reign of justice than a hundred years of ardent
politics. And grief that things should have become so spoilt, and
should have shattered the admirable work in their hands, was destined
to abide in the hearts of the combatants as long as they might live.

But life continued, and it was necessary to fight again, fight on for
ever. A step had been taken forward, and other steps remained to be
taken. Duty demanded that, day by day, whatever the bitterness and
often the obscurity of life, one should again give one's blood and
one's tears, satisfied with gaining ground inch by inch, without even
the reward of ever beholding the victory. Marc accepted that sacrifice,
no longer hoping to see Simon's innocence recognised legally,
definitively, and triumphantly by the whole people. He felt it was
impossible to revive the affair amid the passions of the moment, for
the innocent man's enemies would begin their atrocious campaign again,
helped on by the cowardice of the multitude. It would be necessary,
no doubt, to wait for the death of the personages involved in the
case, for some transformation of parties, some new phase of politics,
before the Government would be bold enough to apply once more to the
Court of Cassation and ask it to efface that abominable page from the
history of France. Such seemed to be the conviction of even David and
Simon, who, while leading a sequestered life, busy with their Pyrenean
enterprise, watched for favourable incidents and circumstances, but
felt that the situation tied their hands, and that it was necessary to
remain waiting, unless indeed they wished to stir up another useless
and dangerous onslaught.

Marc, being thus compelled to live in patience, reverted to his
mission, to the one work on which he set his hopes--the instruction of
the humble, the dissemination of truth by knowledge which alone could
render a nation capable of equity. Great serenity had come to him, and
he accepted the fact that generations of pupils would be necessary to
rouse France from her numbness, deliver her from the poisons with which
she had been gorged, and fill her with new blood which would transform
her into the France of his old dreams--a generous, freedom-giving, and
justice-dealing nation.

Never had Marc loved truth so passionately as he did now. In former
times he had needed it, even as one needs the air one breathes; he
had felt unable to live without it, sinking into intolerable anguish
whenever it escaped him. At present, after seeing it attacked so
furiously, denied, and hidden away in the depths of lies, like a corpse
which would never revive, he believed in it still more; he felt that
it was irresistible, possessed of sufficient power to blow up the
world should men again try to bury it underground. It followed its
road without ever taking an hour's rest; it marched on to its goal of
light, and nothing would ever stop it. Marc shrugged his shoulders with
ironical contempt when he beheld guilty men imagining that they had
annihilated truth, that it lay beneath their feet as if it had ceased
to exist. When the right moment came, truth would explode, scatter
them like dust, and shine forth serenely and radiantly. And it was the
certainty that truth, ever victorious, even after the lapse of ages,
was upon his side, that lent Marc all necessary strength and composure
to return to his work, and wait cheerfully for truth's triumph, even
though it might only come after his own lifetime.

Moreover, the Simon case had imparted solidity to his convictions,
breadth to his faith. He had previously passed condemnation on the
_bourgeoisie_, which was exhausted by the abuse of its usurped power,
which, from being a liberal class, had become a reactionary one,
passing from free thought to the basest clericalism as it had felt the
Church to be its natural ally in its career of rapine and enjoyment.
And now he had seen the French _bourgeoisie_ at work, he had seen it
full of cowardice and falsehood, weak but tyrannical, denying all
justice to the innocent, ready for every crime in order that it might
not have to part with any of its millions, terrified as it was by the
gradual awakening of the masses who claimed their due. And finding
that _bourgeoisie_ to be even more rotten, more stricken, than he had
imagined, he held that it must promptly disappear if the nation did
not desire to perish of incurable infection. Henceforth salvation was
only to be found in the masses, in that new force--that inexhaustible
reservoir of men, work, and energy. Marc felt that the masses were ever
rising, like a new, rejuvenated race, bringing to social life more
power for truth, justice, and happiness. And this confirmed him in the
mission he had assumed, that seemingly modest mission of a village
schoolmaster, which was in reality the apostolate of modern times,
the only important work that could fashion the society of to-morrow.
There was no loftier duty than that of striking down the errors and
impostures of the Church and setting in their place truth as proclaimed
by science, and human peace, based upon knowledge and solidarity. The
France of the future was growing up in the rural districts, in the
humblest, loneliest hamlets, and it was there that one must work and
conquer.

Marc speedily set to work. He had to repair all the harm which Jauffre
had caused by abandoning Jonville to Abbé Cognasse. But during the
earlier days, while Marc and Geneviève were settling down, how
delightful it was for them--reconciled as they were and renewing the
love of youthful times--to find themselves again in the poor little
nest of long ago! Sixteen years had passed, yet nothing seemed to be
changed; the little school was just the same, with its tiny lodging and
its strip of garden. The walls had merely been whitewashed, but the
place seemed fairly clean, thanks to a good scouring which Geneviève
superintended. She was never weary of summoning Marc to remind him of
one thing and another, laughing happily at all that recalled the past.

'Oh! come and look at the picture of Useful Insects which you hung up
in the classroom! It is still there.... I myself put up those pegs for
the boys' hats.... In the cupboard yonder, you'll find the collection
of solid bodies, which you cut out of beech wood.'

Marc hastened to her and joined in her laughter. And in his turn he
summoned her to him: 'Come upstairs--make haste! Do you see that date
cut with a knife in the wall of the alcove? Don't you remember that I
did that the day Louise was born?... And just recollect, when we were
in bed, we used to look at that crack in the ceiling, and jest about
it, saying that the stars were watching and smiling at us.'

Then, as they went through the little garden, they burst into
exclamations: 'Why, look at the old fig tree! It hasn't changed a
bit; we might have left it only yesterday.... Ah! we had a border of
strawberries in the place of that sorrel; we shall have to plant one
again.... The pump has been changed--that's a blessing! Perhaps we
shall be able to get water with this one.... Why, there's our seat, our
seat under the creeper! We must sit down and kiss each other--all the
young kisses of long ago in a good kiss of to-day.'

They felt moved to tears, and for an instant they lingered embracing,
amid that delightful renewal of their happiness. Great courage came
to them from the sight of those friendly surroundings, where they had
never shed a tear. Everything they saw drew them more closely together,
and seemed to promise them victory.

With respect to their daughter Louise, a separation had become
necessary at the very outset. She had been obliged to leave them for
the Training School of Fontenay, to which she had secured admission.
Her tastes and her love for her father had made her desirous of
becoming a mere schoolmistress, even as he was a mere village
schoolmaster. And Marc and Geneviève, remaining alone with little
Clément, saddened by their daughter's departure, though they knew it to
be necessary, drew yet closer together, in order to deaden their sense
of that sudden void. True, Clément remained with them, and gave them
occupation. He was now becoming quite a little man, and it was with
affectionate solicitude that they watched over the awakening of his
faculties.

Besides, Marc prevailed on Geneviève to undertake the management of the
adjoining girls' school--that is after requesting Salvan to intervene
with Le Barazer with a view to her appointment to the post. It will be
remembered that immediately after her convent days she had obtained
the necessary certificates, and that if she had not taken charge of
the girls' school when her husband was first appointed to Jonville,
it had been because Mademoiselle Mazeline had then held the post. But
the advancement now given to Jauffre and his wife had left both posts
vacant, and it seemed best that the two schools should be confided
to Marc and Geneviève, the husband taking the boys and the wife the
girls--this indeed being an arrangement which the authorities always
preferred.

Marc, for his part, perceived all sorts of advantages in it: the
teaching would proceed on the same lines in both schools; he would
have a devoted collaborator who would help instead of trying to thwart
him in his advance towards the future. And, again, though Geneviève
had given him no cause for anxiety since her return, she would find
occupation for her mind; she would be compelled to recover and exert
her reason in acting as a teacher, a guardian of the little maids who
would be the wives and mothers of to-morrow. Besides, would not their
union be perfected? would they not be blended for ever, if, with all
faith and all affection, they should share the same blessed work of
teaching the poor and lowly, from whom the felicity of the future would
spring? When a notification of the appointment arrived, fresh joy came
to them; it was as if they now had but one heart and one brain.

But in what a ruinous and uneasy state did Marc now find that village
of Jonville which he had loved so well! He remembered his first
struggles with the terrible Abbé Cognasse, and how he had triumphed by
securing the support of Mayor Martineau, that well-to-do, illiterate
but sensible peasant, who retained all a peasant's racial antipathy
for the priests--those lazy fellows, who lived well and did nothing.
Between them, Marc and Martineau had begun to secularise the parish;
the schoolmaster no longer sang in the choir, no longer rang the bell
for Mass, no longer conducted his pupils to the Catechism classes;
while the Mayor and the parish council escaped from routine and
favoured the evolution which gave the school precedence over the
Church. Thanks to the action Marc brought to bear on his boys and their
parents, and the influence he exercised at the parish offices, where he
held the post of secretary, he had seen great prosperity set in around
him. But as soon as he had been transferred to Maillebois, Martineau,
falling into the hands of Jauffre, the man of the Congregations, had
speedily weakened. Indeed, he was incapable of action when he did not
feel himself supported by a resolute will. Racial prudence deterred
him from expressing an opinion of his own; he sided with the priest or
with the schoolmaster according as one or the other proved to be the
stronger. Thus, while Jauffre, thinking merely of his own advancement,
chanted the litanies, rang the bell, and attended the Communion, Abbé
Cognasse gradually became master of the parish, setting the Mayor and
the council beneath his heel, to the secret delight of the beautiful
Madame Martineau, who, though not piously inclined, was very fond of
displaying new gowns at High Mass on days of festival. Never had there
been a plainer demonstration of the axiom, 'According to the worth of
the schoolmaster, such is the worth of the school; and according to
the worth of the school, such is the worth of the parish.' In very few
years, indeed, the prosperity which had declared itself in Jonville,
the ground which had been gained, thanks to Marc, was lost. The village
retrograded, its life died away in increasing torpor after Jauffre had
delivered Martineau and his fellow-parishioners into the hands of the
triumphant Cognasse.

In this way sixteen years elapsed, bringing disaster. All moral and
intellectual decline leads inevitably to material misery. There is no
country where the Roman Church has reigned as absolute sovereign that
is not now a dead country. Ignorance, error, and base credulity render
men powerless. And what can be the use of exercising one's will, acting
and progressing, if one be a mere toy in the hands of a Deity who
plays with one according to his fancy? That Deity suffices, supplies
the place of everything. At the end of such a religion of terrestrial
and human nothingness, there is but stupidity, inertia, surrender
into the hands of Providence, mere routine in the avocations of life,
idleness, and want. Jauffre let his boys gorge themselves with Bible
history and Catechism, while in their peasant families all ideas of any
improved system of cultivating the land were regarded with increasing
suspicion. They knew nothing of those matters, they would not learn.
Fields remained unproductive, crops were lost for want of intelligent
care. Then effort seemed excessive and useless, and the countryside
became impoverished, deserted, though above it there still shone the
all-powerful and fructifying sun--that ignored, insulted god of life.

The decline of Jonville had become yet more marked after Abbé Cognasse
had prevailed on the weak Martineau to allow the parish to be dedicated
to the Sacred Heart in a pompous and well-remembered ceremony. The
peasants were still waiting for that Sacred Heart to bring them the
wondrous promised harvests by dispelling the hailstorms and granting
rain and fine weather in due season. By way of result one only found
more imbecility weighing on the parish, a sleepy waiting for divine
intervention, the slow agony of fanatical believers, in whom all power
of initiative has been destroyed, and who, if their Deity did not
nourish them, would let themselves starve rather than raise an arm.

During the first days that followed his return, Marc, on taking a
few country walks with Geneviève, felt quite distressed by all the
incompetency and neglect he beheld. The fields were ill-kept, the
roads scarcely passable. One morning they went as far as Le Moreux,
where they found Mignot installing himself in his wretched school, and
feeling as grieved as they were that the district should have fallen
into such a deplorable state.

'You have no idea, my friends,' said he, 'of the ravages of that
terrible Cognasse. He exercises some little restraint at Jonville;
but here, in this lonely village, whose inhabitants are too miserly
to pay for a priest of their own, he terrorises and sabres everybody.
Of late years, he and his creature Chagnat, while reigning here,
virtually suppressed the Mayor, Saleur, who felt flattered at being
re-elected every time, but who turned all the worries of his office
over to his secretary, Chagnat, and by way of exhibiting his person,
let himself be taken to Mass, though at heart he scarcely cared for the
priests.... Ah! how well I now understand the torments of poor Férou,
his exasperation, and the fit of lunacy which led to his martyrdom.'

With a quivering gesture Marc indicated that he was haunted by the
thought of that unhappy man, struck down by a revolver-shot yonder,
under the burning sun. 'When I came in just now, he seemed to rise
before me. Famished, having only his scanty pay to provide for himself,
his wife, and his children, he endured untold agony at feeling that
he was the only intelligent, the only educated, man among all those
ignorant dolts living at their ease, who disdained him for his poverty
and feared him for his attainments, which humiliated them.... That
explains, too, the power acquired by Chagnat over the Mayor, the
latter's one desire being to live in peace on his income, in the
somnolent state of a man whose appetite is satisfied.'

'But the whole parish is like that,' Mignot replied. 'There are no
poor, and each peasant remains content with what he harvests, not in a
spirit of wisdom, but from a kind of egotism, ignorance, and laziness.
If they are perpetually quarrelling with the priest, it is because
they accuse him of slighting them, of not giving them the Masses and
other ceremonies to which they consider themselves entitled. Thanks to
Chagnat, in his time something like an understanding was arrived at,
and, indeed, all that was said and done here in honour of St. Antony of
Padua can hardly be pictured.... But the result of Chagnat's _régime_
is deplorable; I found the school as dirty as a cowshed; one might have
thought that the Chagnats had lodged all the cattle of the district
in it, and I had to engage a woman to help me to scour and scrape
everything.'

Geneviève, meantime, had become dreamy; her glance seemed to wander
away to far-off memories. 'Ah! poor Férou!' she murmured, 'I was not
always kind to him and his family. That is one of my regrets. But how
can one remedy so much suffering and disaster? We have so little power,
we are still so few. There are times when I despair.' Then, suddenly
waking up, as it were, and smiling, she nestled close to her husband
and resumed: 'There, there, don't scold me, my dear, I did wrong to
speak like that. But you must allow me enough time to become fearless
and reproachless as you yourself are.... Come, it's understood, we are
going to set to work, and we shall conquer.'

Thereupon they all became merry, and Mignot, who wished to escort his
friends a little way, ended by accompanying them almost to Jonville.
There, at the roadside, stood a large square building, a kind of
factory, the branch establishment of the Good Shepherd of Beaumont,
which had been promised at the time of the consecration of the parish
to the Sacred Heart, and which had now been working for several years.
The fine clerical folk had made a great noise about the prosperity
which such an establishment would bring with it: all the daughters of
the peasants would find employment and become skilful workwomen, there
would be a great improvement in their morality, drones and gadabouts
would be duly corrected, and the business might end by endowing the
district with quite an industry.

The specialty of the Good Shepherd establishments was to provide the
big drapery shops of Paris with petticoats, knickers, and chemises--the
finest, most ornamental, and most delicate feminine body linen. At
Jonville, under the superintendence of some ten sisters, two hundred
girls worked from morning till night, trying their eyes over all that
rich and fashionable underwear, which was often destined for strange
festivities. And those two hundred little _lingères_ constituted but
a tiny fraction of all the poor hirelings who were thus exploited,
for the Order had establishments from one to the other end of France;
nearly fifty thousand girls toiled in its workshops, scantily paid,
ill-treated, and ill-fed, while they earned for it millions of francs.
At Jonville, there had been speedy disenchantment, none of the fine
promises had been fulfilled, the establishment seemed a gulf which
swallowed up the last energies of the region. The farms were raided and
their women folk carried off, the peasants could no longer keep their
daughters with them,--the girls all dreamt of becoming young ladies,
of spending their days on chairs, engaged in light work. But they soon
repented of their folly, for what with the long hours of enforced
immobility, the exhausting strain of unremitting application, never was
there more frightful drudgery; the stomach remained empty, the head
became heavy, there was no time for sleep in summer, and there was no
fire in winter. The place was a prison-house, where, under the pretext
of practising charity, of promoting morality, woman was exploited in
the most frightful manner, sweated in her flesh, stupefied in her
intelligence, turned into a beast of burden, from whom the greatest
gain possible was extracted. And scandals burst forth at Jonville; one
girl nearly perished of cold and starvation, another became half mad,
while another, turned out of doors penniless after years of crushing
toil, rebelled, and threatened the good sisters with a sensational
lawsuit.[1]

[Footnote 1: In the above account of the Good Shepherd establishments,
M. Zola has made use of numerous incidents brought to light by
proceedings in the French law courts, and also by the action
of the Bishop of Nancy, who, in attempting to put a stop to
abominable practices, incurred the odium of all the money-grubbing
Congregations.--_Trans._]

Marc, stopping short on the road, looked at the big factory, silent
like a prison, deathly like a cloister, where so many young lives were
wearing themselves away, nothing carolling, meanwhile, the happiness of
fruitful work.

'One source of the Church's strength,' said he, 'a very simple matter
in practice, is that she stoops to present-day requirements and borrows
our own weapons to fight us. She manufactures and she trades; there is
no object or article of daily consumption that she does not produce or
sell, from clothes to _liqueurs_. Several Orders are merely industrial
associations, which undersell other people, as they secure labour
for next to nothing, and thus compete disloyally with our smaller
producers. The millions of francs they gain go into the cash-boxes
of the Black Band, supplying sinews for the war of extermination
which is waged against us, swelling the thousands of millions which
the Congregations possess already, and which may render them so
redoubtable.'

Geneviève and Mignot had listened thoughtfully. And a moment of anxious
silence now followed amid the evening quietude, while the sunset cast a
great pink glow on the closed and mournful factory of the Good Shepherd.

'Why, I myself seem to be despairing now!' Marc resumed gaily. 'They
are still very powerful, it is certain. But we have a book on our
side, the little book of elementary knowledge, which brings truth with
it, and which will end by for ever overcoming the falsehoods they
have circulated for so many centuries. All our strength is in that,
Mignot. They may accumulate ruins here, they may lead poor ignorant
folk backward, and destroy the little good done by us formerly; but
it will suffice for us to resume our efforts to bring about progress
by knowledge, and we shall regain the lost ground, and continue to
advance until we at last reach the City of solidarity and peace.
Their prison-house of the Good Shepherd will crumble like all others,
their Sacred Heart will go whither all the gross fetiches of the dead
religions have gone. You hear me, Mignot; each pupil in whom you instil
a little truth will be another helper in the cause of justice. So to
work, to work! Victory is certain, whatever difficulties and sufferings
may be encountered on the road!'

That cry of faith and everlasting hope rang out across the quiet
countryside amid the calm setting of the planet which foretold a bright
to-morrow. And Mignot bravely returned to his task at Le Moreux, while
Marc and Geneviève went homeward to begin their work at Jonville.

Arduous work it was, requiring much will and patience, for it was
necessary to free Mayor Martineau, the parish council, and indeed the
whole village from the hands of the priest, who was determined not
to relax his hold. On hearing of Marc's appointment, Abbé Cognasse,
instead of evincing any anger or fear of the redoubtable adversary who
was being sent to face him, had contented himself with shrugging his
shoulders and affecting extreme contempt. He said on all sides that
this beaten man, this disgraced mediocrity, who had lost all honour
by his complicity in the Simon case, would not remain six months at
Jonville. His superiors had merely sent him there in order to finish
him off, not wishing to execute him at one blow. In reality, no doubt,
Abbé Cognasse scarcely felt at ease, for he knew the man he had to
deal with--a man all calmness and strength, derived from his reliance
on truth. And that the priest plainly scented danger was shown by the
prudence and _sangfroid_ which he himself strove to preserve, for fear
of spoiling everything if he should yield to some of his customary fits
of passion. Thus the unexpected spectacle of a superbly diplomatic
Abbé Cognasse, who left to Providence the duty of striking down the
enemy, was presented to the village. As his servant Palmyre, who with
increasing age had become quite terrible, did not possess sufficient
self-restraint to imitate his silent contempt, he scolded her in public
when she ventured to declare that the new schoolmaster had stolen some
consecrated wafers from the church at Maillebois for the purpose of
profaning them in the presence of his pupils. That was not proved, said
the Abbé, nor was there any proof of the story that hell had lent Marc
a devil, who, on being summoned, stepped out of the wall and helped
him with his class-work. Indoors, however, all was agreement between
the priest and the servant, who both displayed extraordinary greed and
avarice, the former picking up as many Masses as possible, the latter
keeping the accounts, and growling angrily when money did not come
in. With reference to Marc, then, there ensued, on the Abbé's part, a
stealthy and venomous campaign, with the object of destroying both the
master and his school, in order that he, Cognasse, might continue to
reign over the parish.

Marc, on his side, behaved as if the Church and the priest did not
exist. To win back Martineau, the council, and the inhabitants, he
contented himself with teaching the truth, with promoting the triumph
of reason over ridiculous dogmas, limiting himself strictly to his
duties as a master, convinced as he was that the true and the good
would prove victorious when he should have fashioned hearts and minds
capable of will and understanding. He had necessarily resumed the
duties of secretary at the parish office, but he there contented
himself with discreetly advising Martineau, who at heart was well
pleased by his return. The Mayor had already had a quarrel with his
wife respecting the chanting of Mass, which chanting Abbé Cognasse had
done away with now that Jauffre was no longer there. And there was also
the ancient and everlasting quarrel about the church clock, which would
not work. The first thing which showed that a change had taken place at
Jonville was the vote of a sum of three hundred francs by the council
for the purchase of a new clock which was fixed to the pediment of the
parish offices. This seemed a very bold step to take, but it met with
the approval of the villagers. They would at last know the correct
time, which the rusty, old, worn-out clock of the church no longer
gave. However, Marc avoided any semblance of triumph; he knew that
years would be needed to regain all the lost ground. Each day would
bring a little progress, and he patiently sowed the future, convinced
that those peasants would come over to his side when they found in
truth the one sole source of health, prosperity, and peace.

And now, for Marc and Geneviève, came fruitful years of work and
happiness. He, in particular, had never felt so courageous and strong.
The loving return of his wife, and the complete union which had
followed it, brought him fresh power, for his life now accorded with
his work. In former times he had greatly suffered at finding that,
while he claimed to teach truth to others, he could not convince the
companion of his life, the wife he loved, the mother of his children;
and he had felt hampered in his task of wresting others from error
when, from weakness or powerlessness, he tolerated error in his own
home. But now he possessed irresistible strength, all the authority
which comes to one from example, from the realisation of happiness at
the family hearth through perfect agreement and a common faith. And
what healthy delight there was in the prosecution of the same work by
the husband and the wife, acting in conjunction one with the other, and
yet freely, each retaining the exercise of his or her individuality!
Moments of weakness still came occasionally to Geneviève, but Marc
scarcely intervened; he preferred to let her regret and repair the
errors arising from the past, of her own accord.

Every evening, when the boys and girls had gone home, the master and
the mistress found themselves together in their little lodging, and
talked of the children confided to them, taking account of the day's
work, and coming to an understanding respecting the work of the morrow,
though without binding themselves to identical programmes. Geneviève,
being sentimentally inclined, endeavoured the more particularly to make
sincere and happy creatures of her girls, trying to free them from the
ancient slavery less by knowledge than by sense and love, for fear
of casting them into pride and solitude. Marc, perhaps, would have
gone further, and have fed both boys and girls on the same knowledge,
leaving life to indicate the social _rôle_ of each sex. Before long
the great regret experienced by himself and his wife was that they
did not direct a mixed school, like Mignot's at Le Moreux, whose
population of little more than two hundred souls supplied scarcely a
dozen boys and as many girls. At Jonville, which numbered nearly eight
hundred inhabitants, the master had some thirty boys under him, and the
mistress some thirty girls. Had they been united, what a fine class
there would have been--Marc acting as director, and Geneviève as his
assistant! Such indeed was their idea; had they been in authority they
would no longer have separated the girls from the boys; they would
have entrusted all those little folk to a married couple, a father
and a mother, who would have educated and reared them one with the
other as if they all belonged to their own family. They held that all
sorts of advantages would result from such a course, a more logical
apprenticeship of life, excellent emulation, more frank and gentle
manners. In particular, the adjunction of the wife to the husband as
an assistant seemed likely to prove fruitful in good results. Briefly,
they would have liked to pull down the wall which separated their
pupils from one another, in such wise as to have had but one school, a
little miniature world in which he would have set his virility, she her
tenderness, and what good work would they not then have accomplished,
devoting themselves entirely to those little couples of the future!

But the regulations had to be observed, and Marc, on resuming his work,
pursued the methods that he had followed at Maillebois for fifteen
years. His class was smaller than it had been there, and his resources
were more limited; but he had the satisfaction of being almost _en
famille_, and his action became more direct and efficacious. After
all, what did it matter if the number of pupils whom he fashioned into
men was only a score or so? Had each schoolmaster in all the little
villages followed Marc's example, so as to endow the nation with
twenty just and sensible men, the result would have sufficed to make
France the emancipator of the world. Another source of contentment
for Marc was that he secured almost complete liberty of action from
Mauraisin's successor, the new Elementary Inspector, M. Mauroy, to
whom Le Barazer, whose friend he was, had discreetly given special
instructions. The village was so small that Marc's doings could not
attract much attention, and thus he was able to pursue his methods
without any great interference. As a first step, he again got rid of
all religious emblems, all pictures, copybooks, and books in which
the supernatural was shown triumphant, and in which war, massacre,
and rapine appeared as ideals of power and beauty. He considered that
it was a crime to poison a lad's brain with a belief in miracles,
and to set brute force, assassination, and theft in the front rank
as manly and patriotic duties. Such teaching could only produce
imbecile inertia, sudden criminal frenzy, iniquity, and wretchedness.
Marc's dream, on the contrary, was to set pictures of work and peace
before his pupils, to show sovereign reason ruling the world, justice
establishing brotherliness among men, the ancient violence of warlike
ages being condemned, and giving place to agreement among all nations,
in order that they might arrive at the greatest possible happiness.
And having rid his class of the poisonous ferments of the past, Marc
particularly instructed his pupils in civic morality, striving to make
each a citizen well informed about his country, and able to serve
and love it, without setting it apart from the rest of mankind. Marc
held that France ought no longer to dream of conquering the world by
arms, but rather by the irresistible force of ideas, and by setting an
example of so much freedom, truth, and equity, that she would deliver
all other countries and enjoy the glory of founding with them the great
confederation of free and brotherly nations.

For the rest, Marc tried to conform to the school programmes, though,
as they were very heavy, he occasionally set them aside. Experience had
taught him that learning was nothing if one did not understand what
one learnt and if one could not put it to use. Accordingly, without
excluding books, he gave great development to oral lessons, and, once
again, he strove to rejuvenate himself, to share the pastimes of his
pupils, and descend, as it were, to their mental level, in such wise
that, like them, he seemed to be learning, seeking truth, and making
discoveries. It was in the fields also that he explained to them how
the soil ought to be cultivated, and he took them to carpenters,
locksmiths, and masons in order that they might acquire correct ideas
of manual work. In his opinion, moreover, it was fit that gymnastics
should partake of the character of amusement, and thus playtime was
largely devoted to bodily exercise. Again, Marc took on himself the
office of a judge; he requested his boys to lay all their little
differences before him, and he strove to make his decisions acceptable
to all parties; for not only did he possess absolute faith in the
beneficent power of truth upon young minds, but he was also convinced
of the necessity of equity to content and ripen them. By truth and
justice towards love: such was his motto. A boy to whom one never
tells a falsehood, whom one treats invariably with justice, becomes
a friendly, sensible, intelligent, and healthy man. And this was why
Marc kept such a careful watch over the books which the curriculum
compelled him to place in the hands of his pupils; for he well knew
that the best of them, written with the most excellent intentions, were
still full of ancient falsehoods, the great iniquities consecrated by
history. If he distrusted phrases and words, the sense of which seemed
likely to escape his little peasants, and endeavoured to interpret
them in clear and simple language, he feared yet more the dangerous
legends, the errors of articles of faith, the abominable notions set
forth in the name of a mendacious religion and a false patriotism.
There was often no difference between the books written by clerics
for the Brothers' schools and those which university men prepared for
the secular ones. The intentional errors contained in the former were
reproduced in the latter, and it was impossible for Marc to refrain
from intervening and refuting those errors by verbal explanations,
since it was essentially his task to fight the Congregational system of
teaching, that source of all falsehood and all misery.

For four years Marc and Geneviève worked on, modestly but
efficaciously, silently accomplishing as much good as was possible in
their little sphere. Generations of children followed one another; and
to the master and the mistress it seemed that fifty years would have
sufficed to rejuvenate the world, if each child, on reaching maturity,
had contributed to it a little more truth and justice. Four years
of effort had certainly not yielded a marked result, but many good
symptoms were manifest; the future was already rising from the fruitful
soil, sown so perseveringly.

Salvan, after being pensioned off, had ended by taking up his abode at
Jonville, in a little house left him by a cousin. He lived there like
a sage, with just enough money to provide for his wants and indulge
in the cultivation of a few flowers. In his garden, under an arbour
of roses and clematis, there was a large stone table, round which
on Sundays he liked to assemble a few friends, former pupils of the
Training College, who chatted, fraternised, and indulged together in
fine dreams. Salvan was the patriarch of the gathering, which Marc
joined every Sunday, his satisfaction being complete whenever he
there met Joulic, his successor at Maillebois, from whom he obtained
information about his old school. Joulic was a tall, slim, fair young
man, gentle yet energetic, who had taken to the teaching profession by
taste, and in order to escape the brutifying office life from which
his father, a petty clerk, had suffered. One of Salvan's best pupils,
he brought to his work a mind liberated from all absurd dogmas, won
over entirely to experimental methods. And thanks to a great deal of
shrewdness and quiet firmness, which had enabled him to avoid the
traps set for him by the Congregations, he proved very successful at
Maillebois. He had lately married a schoolmaster's daughter, a fair
little creature, gentle like himself, and this had helped to make his
school an abode of gaiety and peace.

One Sunday, when Marc reached Salvan's, he found Joulic already
chatting with the master of the house at the stone table in the flowery
arbour, and they, at the sight of him, at once made merry.

'Come on, my friend!' cried Salvan; 'here's Joulic telling me that some
more boys have left the Brothers' school at Maillebois. People say
that we are beaten, but we work on quietly, and our action spreads and
triumphs more and more each year!'

'Yes,' Joulic added, 'everything is progressing at Maillebois, which
once seemed to be the rotten borough of clericalism.... Brother
Joachim, Fulgence's successor, is certainly a very clever man, as
artful and as prudent as the other was wild and rough, but he cannot
overcome the distrust of the families of the town--the turn which
public opinion has taken against the Congregational schools, where
the studies are indifferent and the morals doubtful. Simon may have
been reconvicted, but, all the same, the ghost of Gorgias returns to
the spot which he polluted, and his very defenders are haunted by
the memory of his crime. And thus I recruit each boy who leaves the
Ignorantines.'

Marc, who had now seated himself, laughed and thanked his young
colleague. 'You don't know how much your news pleases me, my dear
Joulic,' he replied. 'When I quitted Maillebois I left a part of my
heart there, and I felt worried as to what might become of the work
which I had been pursuing for fifteen years; but I have long ceased to
feel any anxiety, knowing my old school to be in such capable hands as
yours. Yes, if some of the poison which infected Maillebois has been
eliminated, it is because the pupils who quit you, year by year, become
men of sense and equity.... Ask your old master, Salvan, what he thinks
of you.'

But Joulic with a gesture curtailed Marc's praises. 'No, no,' said he,
'I am only a pawn in the great battle. If I am worth anything I owe
it to my training, so that the chief merit belongs to our master.
Besides, I am not alone at Maillebois; I derive the most precious help,
I will even say the greatest support, from Mademoiselle Mazeline. She
has often consoled and encouraged me. You cannot imagine how much
moral energy that gentle and sensible woman possesses. A large part
of our success is due to her, for it is she who has gradually won
family people over to our cause by turning out so many good wives and
mothers.... When a woman personifies truth, justice, and love, she
becomes the greatest power in the world----'

Joulic paused, for at that moment Mignot made his appearance. Those
Sunday meetings brought delightful relaxation to Marc's former
assistant, who cheerfully walked the two and a half miles which
separated Le Moreux from Jonville. Having caught Joulic's last words,
he at once exclaimed: 'Ah! Mademoiselle Mazeline--do you know that I
wanted to marry her? I never mentioned it, but I may admit it now....
It is all very well to say that she is plain; but at Maillebois, on
seeing how good and sensible, how admirable she was, I dreamt of her.
And one day I told her of my idea. You should have seen how moved she
was--grave, yet smiling, quite sisterly! She explained her position to
me, saying that she was too old--already five and thirty, just my own
age. Besides, she added, her girls had become her family, and she had
long renounced all idea of living for herself.... Yet I fancy that my
proposal stirred up some old regrets.... Briefly, we continued good
friends, and I decided to remain a bachelor, though this occasionally
embarrasses me at Le Moreux, on account of my girl pupils, who would be
better cared for by a woman.'

Then he, also, gave some good news of the state of feeling in
his parish. All the crass ignorance and error, which Chagnat had
voluntarily allowed to accumulate there, were beginning to disappear.
Saleur, the Mayor, had experienced great trouble with his son, Honoré,
whom he had sent to the Lycée of Beaumont, where he had been stuffed
by the chaplain with as much religious knowledge as he would have
acquired in a seminary--in such wise that, after being appointed to
the management of a little Catholic bank in Paris, he had come to
grief there by practices which had nearly landed him in a criminal
court. Since then his father, the ex-grazier, who at heart had never
liked the priests, never wearied of denouncing what he called the
Black Band, exasperated as he was by the downfall of his son, which
had quite upset his comfortable life as an enriched peasant. And thus,
at each fresh quarrel with Abbé Cognasse, he sided with schoolmaster
Mignot, carrying the parish council with him, and threatening to have
nothing more to do with the Church if the priest should still treat
the inhabitants as a subjugated flock. Indeed, never before had that
lonely sluggish village of Le Moreux so freely granted admittance to
the new ideas. In part this was due to the better position which the
schoolmasters had secured of recent years. Various laws had been passed
improving their circumstances, and the lowest annual salaries were now
fixed at twelve hundred francs without any deductions.[2] It had not
been necessary to wait long for the result of this change. If Férou,
ill-paid, ragged, and wretched, had formerly incurred the contempt
of the peasantry on being compared by them with Abbé Cognasse, who
waxed fat on surplice-fees and presents, and was therefore honoured
and feared, Mignot, on the contrary, being able to live in a dignified
way, had risen to his proper position--that is the first. Indeed, in
that century-old struggle between the Church and the school, the whole
region was now favouring the latter, whose victory appeared to be
certain.

[Footnote 2: It is true that such laws have been passed, but in
various respects they are merely of a permissive character, and
the financial circumstances of the French Government have hitherto
prevented the realisation of provisions favoured by the Legislature.
Several publications issued in the autumn of 1902, since M. Zola's
death, have shown this to be the case. M. Zola, however, in this last
section of 'Truth,' anticipates rather than follows events, as will
plainly appear in the final chapters; and, as a strong movement in
favour of the secular schoolmasters is now following the suppression of
the Congregational schools, considerable improvement in the former's
position will probably take place before long.--_Trans._]

'My peasants are still very ignorant,' Mignot continued. 'You cannot
imagine what a sluggish spot Le Moreux is, all numbness and routine.
The peasants have lands of their own, they have never lacked bread,
and they would submit to be fleeced as in former times rather than
turn to anything novel and strange.... But there is some change all
the same; I can see it by the way they take off their hats to me, and
the more and more preponderating position which the school assumes in
their estimation. And, by the way, this morning, when Abbé Cognasse
came over to say Mass, there were just three women and a boy in the
church. When the Abbé went off he banged the vestry door behind him,
threatening that he wouldn't come back any more, as it was useless for
him to walk all that distance for nobody.'

Marc began to laugh. 'Yes,' said he, 'I've heard that the Abbé is
getting surly again at Le Moreux. Here he still restrains himself, and
strives to win the battle by diplomatic artfulness, particularly with
the women, for his superiors have taught him, no doubt, that one is
never beaten so long as one has the women on one's side. I have been
told that he frequently goes to Valmarie to see Father Crabot, and it
is surely there that he acquires that unctuous, caressing way with the
ladies which surprises one so much in a rough, brutal man of his stamp.
When he again loses his temper, as he will some day, it will be all
over.... Besides, things are quite satisfactory at Jonville. We gain
a little ground every year; the parish is regaining prosperity and
health. In consequence of the recent scandals the peasants no longer
allow their daughters to work at the factory of the Good Shepherd. And
it seems that the parish council--Martineau at the head of it--greatly
regrets its imbecility in having allowed Abbé Cognasse and Jauffre
to dedicate Jonville to the Sacred Heart. I am on the lookout for an
opportunity to efface that remembrance, and I shall end by finding one.'

There came a short pause. Then Salvan, who had listened complacently,
said, by way of conclusion, in his quiet, cheerful manner: 'All that
is very encouraging. Maillebois, Jonville, and Le Moreux are advancing
towards those better times for which we have battled. The others
thought they would conquer us, exterminate us for ever, and indeed, for
months, it seemed as if we were dead; but now comes the slow awakening,
the seed has germinated in the ground; it was sufficient for us to
resume our work in silence, and the good grain grows and flowers once
more. And now nothing will hinder the future harvest. The fact is that
we have been on the side of truth, which nothing can destroy, nothing
arrest in its splendour.... No doubt, things are not quite satisfactory
at Beaumont. The sons of Doutrequin, that old Republican of the heroic
times who lapsed into clericalism, have obtained advancement, and
Mademoiselle Rouzaire still gorges her girls with Bible history and
Catechism. But even public feeling at Beaumont is beginning to change.
Moreover, Mauraisin has not succeeded at the Training College. Some
of the students have told me jocularly that my ghost appears to him
there, and paralyses him with fear. The fact is that the impulse had
been given, and he has found it impossible to stop the emancipation
of the schoolmaster. I even hope that we shall soon be rid of him....
And a very hopeful symptom is that, behind Maillebois, Jonville, and
Le Moreux, there are other small towns and villages, nearly all in
fact, where the schoolmaster is defeating the priest, and setting the
secular school erect on the ruins of the Congregational school. Reason
is triumphing, and justice and truth are slowly increasing their sphere
of conquest at Dherbecourt, Juilleroy, Rouville, and Les Bordes. It is
a general awakening, an irresistible movement, carrying France towards
her liberating mission.'

'But it is your work!' cried Marc with sudden enthusiasm. 'There is
a pupil of yours in each of the localities you have named. They are
the children of your heart and mind; it was you who sent them as
missionaries into lonely country districts to diffuse the new gospel of
truth and justice. If people are at last awaking, returning to manly
dignity, becoming an equitable, free, and healthy democracy, it is
because a generation of your pupils is now installed in our classrooms,
instructing the young, and making true citizens of them. You are the
good workman; you realised that no progress is possible save by reason
and knowledge.'

Then Joulic and Mignot seconded Marc with similar enthusiasm: 'Yes,
yes, you have been the father, we are your children! The country will
only be worth what the schoolmasters may make it, and the schoolmasters
themselves can only be worth what the training colleges have made them.'

Salvan, who seemed very moved, protested with modest _bonhomie_. 'Men
like me, my friends? Why, there are some everywhere; there will be
plenty when they are allowed to act. Le Barazer helped me a great
deal by keeping me at my post, and not tying me down too much. What
I did? Why, Mauraisin himself is almost obliged to do the same, for
the evolution carries him on; the work, once begun, never stops. And
you'll see, Mauraisin's successor will turn out even better masters
than those who passed through my hands.... One thing which delights
me, and which you have not mentioned, is that nowadays students are
recruited much more easily for the training colleges. What made me most
anxious in former times was the distrust, the contempt into which the
teaching profession had fallen, ill-paid, unhonoured as it was. But
since the salaries have been increased, now that real honour attaches
to the humblest members of the profession, candidates arrive from all
quarters, so that one is able to pick and choose, and form an excellent
staff.... And if I have rendered any services you may be sure that,
on seeing my work continued and fulfilled, I feel rewarded beyond all
my hopes. At present I desire to remain a mere spectator of things; I
applaud your efforts, and live happily in my little garden, delighted
to be forgotten by everybody--excepting you, my lads.'

He ceased speaking, and a thrill of feeling passed through the others
as they sat there at the large stone table in the arbour, balmy with
the perfume of the roses, while from the verdant garden, from the whole
stretch of country around them, infinite serenity was wafted.

Every year since her parents had removed to Jonville, Louise had spent
the vacation with them. Her brother Clément would now soon be ten years
old, and Marc still kept him in his school, giving him that elementary
education which he would have liked to have seen generalised, applied
to all the children of the nation to whatever class they might belong,
in order that one might have based upon it, in accordance with the
tastes and talents of the pupils, a system of general and gratuitous
secondary education. If his own tastes should be shared by his son,
he intended to prepare him for the Training College of Beaumont, for
the great national work of salvation would lie in the humble village
schools for many years longer. Louise also had disinterestedly set her
ambition upon becoming an elementary teacher. And, indeed, on quitting
the school of Fontenay with the necessary certificates, she was, to
her great delight, appointed assistant to her former and well-loved
mistress, Mademoiselle Mazeline, at Maillebois.

At that time Louise was nineteen years of age. Salvan had intervened
with Le Barazer to secure her appointment, which passed virtually
unnoticed. The times were changing more and more; the period of
delirium--when the mere names of Simon and Froment had sufficed to
raise a tempest--was quite over. And this emboldened Le Barazer, six
months later, to appoint Simon's son Joseph as assistant to Joulic.
Joseph, it should be said, had made his _début_ at Dherbecourt after
quitting the Training College two years previously with an excellent
record. As advancement his transfer to Maillebois was of little
account, but it was a somewhat bold action to place him in a school
where his presence implied at least some preliminary rehabilitation of
his father. For a moment there was a slight outcry, the Congregations
tried to stir up the parents of the town; but the new assistant soon
won their favour, for he behaved very discreetly, gently, yet firmly,
in all his intercourse with the children.

One incident which at that time plainly indicated the change in public
opinion was the little revolution that took place at the Milhommes'
stationery shop. One day Madame Edouard, so long the absolute mistress
of the establishment, disappeared into the back shop, where Madame
Alexandre had remained so many years. And Madame Alexandre took her
place at the counter and served the customers. Nobody mistook the
meaning of that revolution,--the customers were changing, the secular
school was triumphing over its Congregational rival, and thus, in the
interests of the business, Madame Edouard, like a good trader, made
way for her sister-in-law. It must be said, too, that Madame Edouard
now had some great worries with her son Victor, who, entering the
army after his departure from the Brothers' school, and reaching the
rank of sergeant, had lately been compromised in a very unpleasant
affair; whereas Madame Alexandre had every right to be proud of her son
Sébastien, who had been one of Simon's and Marc's best pupils, then
Joseph's companion at the Training College, and was now, for three
years past, assistant-master at Rouville. Indeed, all those young folk,
Sébastien, Joseph, and Louise, after growing up together, had at last
reached active life, bringing with them broad minds, ripened early in
the midst of tears, to continue the bitterly-contested work of their
elders.

A year went by. Louise was now twenty, and, repairing to Jonville every
Sunday, spent the day with her parents. She then often met Joseph
and Sébastien, who had remained great friends and were very fond of
visiting their former masters, Marc and Salvan. It also frequently
happened that Joseph was accompanied by his sister Sarah, who was
well pleased to spend a day in the open air among her best friends.
For three years past she had been residing with her grandparents,
the Lehmanns, displaying so much activity and skill that a little
prosperity had returned to the dismal shop in the Rue du Trou.
Customers had returned to it, and Sarah, retaining the connection
formed with some of the large Paris clothiers, had recruited several
work girls and banded them together in a kind of co-operative group.
Madame Lehmann had lately died, however, and her husband, now
seventy-five years old, lingered on with only one regret, which was
that his age deprived him of all hope of ever witnessing Simon's
rehabilitation. Every year he spent a week or two with Simon, David,
and Rachel among the Pyrenees, and returned home well pleased to have
found them working quietly in their lonely retreat, but also very
sad when he realized that they would know no real happiness as long
as the monstrous proceedings of Rozan should remain unrevised. Sarah
had tried to induce the old man to stay with the others in the south,
but he obstinately returned to the Rue du Trou, under the pretence of
making himself useful there by superintending the workroom. And, as
it happened, this circumstance enabled the girl to take an occasional
holiday when, on accompanying her brother Joseph to Jonville, she
chanced to feel somewhat tired.

The reunion of the young people at Jonville, the days they spent there
so gaily, brought about the long-foreseen marriages. At first it was a
question of Sébastien marrying Sarah, which surprised nobody; though
it was regarded as an indication of the changing times that young
Milhomme should marry Simon's daughter not only with the consent of his
mother but also with the approval of Madame Edouard, his aunt. A little
later, when the wedding was postponed for a few months in order that
it might coincide with that of Louise and Joseph, a little excitement
arose at Maillebois, for this time the proposed union was one between
the condemned man's son and the daughter of his most valiant defender.
But the idyl of their love, which was the outcome of the old bitter
battle and all the heroism that had been displayed in it, touched
many a heart, and even tended to pacify the onlookers, though all
were curious to learn how Louise's marriage would be regarded by her
great-grandmother, Madame Duparque, who, for three years past, had not
quitted her little house on the Place des Capucins. And, indeed, the
marriage was postponed for another month in order that Madame Duparque
might come to some decision respecting it.

Though Louise was now twenty years old, she had not made her first
Communion, and it had been settled that only the civil ceremony should
be performed at her wedding with Joseph, as at that of Sébastien with
Sarah. Anxious as she was for an interview with Madame Duparque, the
girl wrote her an entreating letter; but all in vain, for she did not
even receive an answer. The old lady's door had not been opened to
Geneviève and her children since they had returned to Marc. For nearly
five years now the great-grandmother had clung to her fierce oath that
she would cast off all her relatives and live cloistered, alone with
God. Geneviève, touched by the thought of that woman of fourscore
years leading in solitude a life of gloom and silence, had made a few
attempts at a _rapprochement_, but they had been savagely, obstinately
repulsed. Nevertheless, Louise desired to make a last attempt,
distressed as she was at not having the approval of all her kinsfolk in
her happiness.

One evening, then, at sunset, she repaired to the little house,
which was already steeped in the dimness of twilight. But, to her
astonishment, on pulling the bell-knob, she heard no sound; it seemed
as if somebody had cut the wire. Gathering courage, she then ventured
to knock, at first lightly, and then loudly; and at last she heard a
slight noise, the board of a little judas cut in the door, as in the
door of a convent, having been pulled aside.

'Is it you, Pélagie?' Louise inquired. 'Is it you? Answer me!'

It was only with difficulty, after placing her ear close to the judas,
that she at last heard the servant's deadened and almost unrecognisable
voice: 'Go away, go away,' Pélagie answered; 'madame says that you are
to go away at once!'

'Well, no, Pélagie, I won't go away,' Louise promptly retorted. 'Go
back and tell grandmother that I shall not leave the door until she has
come and answered me herself.'

The girl remained waiting for ten minutes, or perhaps a quarter of
an hour. From time to time she knocked again--not angrily, but with
respectful, solicitous persistence. And all at once the judas was
re-opened, but this time in a tempestuous fashion, and a rough,
subterranean voice called to her: 'What have you come here for? You
wrote to me about a fresh abomination, a marriage, the very shame of
which might well suffice to kill me! What is the use of speaking of it?
Are you even fit to marry? Have you made your first Communion? No, eh?
You amused yourself with me, you were to have made it when you were
twenty years old; but to-day, no doubt, you have decided that you will
never do so.... So it is useless for you to come here. Be off, I tell
you, I am dead to you!'

Louise, quite upset, shuddering as if she had felt an icy breath
from the grave sweeping across her cheek, had barely time to cry:
'Grandmother, I will wait a little longer; I will come back in a
month's time!' Then the judas was shut violently, and the little dim
and silent house became quite deathly in the darkness, which had now
gathered all around.

During the previous five years Madame Duparque had gradually
relinquished all intercourse with the world. At first, on the morrow of
Madame Berthereau's death and Geneviève's departure, she had contented
herself with ceasing to receive her relations, restricting herself to
the society of a few pious friends of her own sex, and of the priests
and other clerics whom she had made her familiars. Among these was
Abbé Coquard, who had succeeded Abbé Quandieu at St. Martin's. He was
a rigid man, full of a sombre faith, and it delighted Madame Duparque
to hear the threats which he addressed to the wicked--threats of hell
with its consuming flames, its red forks, and its boiling oil. Thus,
morning and evening she was seen repairing now to the parish church,
now to the Capuchin Chapel, in order to attend the various offices and
ceremonies. But as time went by she went out less and less, and at last
a day came when she ceased to cross her threshold. It was as if she
were gradually sinking into gloom and silence, burying herself by slow
degrees. One day even the shutters of her house, which had still been
opened every morning and closed at night, remained closed, the façade
becoming blind, as it were, the house dead, neither a glimmer nor a
breath of life emanating from it any more. One might have thought that
it was abandoned, uninhabited, if sundry frocks and gowns had not been
seen slipping through the doorway at nightfall. They were the gowns of
Abbé Coquard, Father Théodose, and at times--so people said--Father
Crabot, who thus paid the old lady friendly visits. Her little fortune,
now a matter of two or three thousand francs a year, which she had
arranged to leave, one half to the College of Valmarie, the other to
the Capuchin Chapel, hardly sufficed to explain the fidelity of her
clerical friends. Their visits must also have been due in part to her
exacting and despotic nature, which overcame the most powerful, and in
part to their apprehensions of some deed of mystical madness, of which
they knew her to be capable. It was said, too, that she had obtained an
authorisation to hear Mass and take the Communion at home; and this, no
doubt, explained why she no longer set foot out of doors. By the force
of her piety she had compelled even the Deity to come to her house, in
order that she might be spared the affliction of going to His; for the
idea of seeing the streets and the people in them, of again setting
her eyes on that abominable age in which Holy Church was agonising,
had become such torture to her that she had caused her shutters to be
nailed in position, and every chink in the woodwork to be stopped up,
in order that no sound or gleam of the world might again reach her.

This was the supreme crisis. She spent her days in prayer. She was
not content with having broken off all intercourse with her impious
and accursed relations, she asked herself if her own salvation were
not in danger through having incurred, perhaps, some responsibility
in the damnation of her kinsfolk. She was haunted by a recollection
of Madame Berthereau's sacrilegious revolt on her death-bed, and
believed that unhappy woman to be not merely in purgatory, but in
hell. Then, too, came the thought of Geneviève, whom the demon had
assailed so terribly, and who had gone back to her errors like a dog
to his vomit. And, finally, there was Louise, the pagan, the godless
creature, who had rejected even the gift of the Divine Body of Jesus.
Those two--Geneviève and Louise--belonged, both in body and in spirit,
to the devil; and if Madame Duparque caused Masses to be said and
candles burnt for the repose of her dead daughter's soul, she had
abandoned those who still lived to the just wrath of her God of anger
and punishment. But, at the same time, her anguish remained extreme;
she wondered why Heaven had thus stricken her in her posterity, and
strove to interpret this visitation as a terrible trial, whence her own
holiness would emerge dazzling and triumphant. The confined, claustral
life she led, entirely devoted to religious practices, seemed to her
to be necessary reparation, for which she would be rewarded by an
eternity of delight. In this wise she expiated the monstrous sinfulness
of her descendants, those women guilty of free thought, who, in three
generations, had escaped from the Church and ended madly by putting
their belief in a religion of human solidarity. Thus, wishing to
redeem the apostasy of her grandchildren, Madame Duparque set all her
pride in humbling herself, in living for God alone, in seeking to slay
what little womanliness still lingered in her; for it was from that
womanliness that her condemned descendants had sprung.

So stern and sombre was her ardour that she wearied the few clerics who
alone now linked her to the world. She was conscious of the decline
of the Church; she could detect the collapse of Catholicism under the
efforts of those diabolical times from which she had withdrawn by way
of protest against Satan's victory--as if, indeed, she denied that
victory by not beholding it. And in her opinion her renunciation, her
fancied martyrdom, might perhaps impart new vigour to the soldiers
of religion. She would have liked to have seen them as ardent, as
resolute, as fierce as she herself was, encasing themselves in the
rigidity of dogmas, carrying fire and sword into the midst of the
unbelievers, and aiding the great Exterminator to conquer His people
by dint of thunderbolts. She never felt satisfied; she found Father
Crabot, Father Théodose, even the sombre Abbé Coquard, altogether too
lukewarm. She accused them of compounding with the hateful worldly
spirit of the times, and of completing the ruin of the Church with
their own hands by adapting religion to the tastes of the day. She
dictated their duty to them, preached a campaign of frankness and
violence, unhinged as she was, thrown into extreme exaltation by her
lonely life, and ever athirst with some supreme longings in spite of
all the penitence heaped upon her.

Father Crabot was the first to grow tired of that strange penitent,
who, at eighty-three years of age, treated herself so harshly, and bore
herself like a despairing prophetess, whose uncompromising Catholicism
was really a condemnation of the long efforts made by his own Order to
humanise the terrible Deity of the stakes and the massacres. Thus the
Jesuit allowed long intervals to elapse between his discreet visits,
and, finally, he altogether ceased to call, being of opinion, no doubt,
that the legacy he had hoped to receive for Valmarie would not be
sufficient compensation for the dangers he might incur with a woman
whose soul was ever in a tempest. A few months later Abbé Coquard
likewise withdrew, not because he had any cowardly fears of being
compromised, but because each of his discussions with the old lady
degenerated into a horrible battle. Eager and despotic like herself,
the Abbé was bent on retaining all his power and authority as a priest;
and one day, when Madame Duparque began to thunder in the name of God,
reproaching him with inaction, in such wise that he appeared to be a
mere transgressing sinner, he became quite angry, for he declined to
accept such a reversal of their respective positions. Then, for nearly
another year, only Father Théodose's frock was to be seen slipping into
the little, silent, closed house of the Place des Capucins.

Father Théodose, no doubt, regarded Madame Duparque's little fortune as
worth taking, for the times were hard with poor St. Antony of Padua. In
vain did the Capuchin scatter prospectuses broadcast; money did not now
flow into the collection boxes as it had done in the happy days when,
by a stroke of genius, he had induced Monseigneur Bergerot to bless one
of the saint's bones. In those days the miracle lottery had put people
into quite a fever; the sick, the idle, and the poor had all dreamt of
winning happiness from heaven in return for an investment of twenty
sous; whereas, now that a little sense and truth were spreading through
the district, thanks to the secular schools, the base commerce of the
Capuchin Chapel stood revealed in all its shameful imbecility.

For a time, it is true, another stroke of genius on the part of Father
Théodose, the creation of some wonderful mortgage bonds on heaven,
had again stirred the souls of the humble and the suffering, who, as
life below proved so cruel to them, hungered for felicity beyond the
grave. Then, during several months, the money of dupes had flowed
in; all the savings hidden in old stockings had been brought forth
by believers anxious to secure the chance of a little peace in the
Unknown. But finally, being confronted by growing incredulity, Father
Théodose had found it difficult to place his remaining bonds, and had
thereupon planned a third stroke of genius--this time the invention
of some private, reserved gardens in the ever-flowery Fields of the
Blessed. According to him there were to be some delightful little
nooks in Eternity, garnished with roses and lilies of the very best
varieties, under foliage set out to please the eyes, and near springs
which would be particularly pure and fresh. And thanks once more to
the decisive intervention of St. Antony of Padua, one might book
those little nooks in advance, thereby ensuring to oneself the eternal
enjoyment of them. Naturally, the booking was very expensive if one
desired something spacious and comfortable, though there were indeed
gardens at all prices, which varied in accordance with site, charm, and
proximity to the abodes of the angels. Two old ladies, it appeared, had
already bequeathed their fortunes to the Capuchins in order that the
miracle-working saint might reserve for them two of the best gardens
that were still vacant, one being in the style of an old French park,
whereas the other was more of the 'romantic' type, with a maze and a
waterfall. And it was also said that Madame Duparque had in a like way
made her choice, this being a golden grotto on the slope of an azure
mount, among clumps of myrtle bushes and oleanders.

Father Théodose, then, alone continued to visit the old lady, putting
up with her fits of temper, and returning to the house even after she
had driven him from it in exasperation at finding him so lukewarm and
resigned to the triumph of the Church's enemies. And the Capuchin had
actually ended by securing a latch-key in order that he might enter the
house whenever he pleased, instead of having to ring the bell again
and again, for poor Pélagie had become extremely deaf. It was also
at this same moment that the two women, the two recluses as they may
be called, cut the bell wire; for of what use was it to retain that
connecting link with the outer world? The only living being whom they
now received had a key to admit himself, and by cutting the wire they
were spared the nervous starts that came upon them whenever they heard
that jangling bell which they did not wish to answer. Pélagie, indeed,
had become as fierce and as maniacal as her mistress. She had begun by
curtailing her chats in the tradespeople's shops, scarcely speaking to
anybody when she went out, but gliding swiftly past the houses like a
shadow. Next, she had decided to go shopping twice a week only, in this
wise condemning her mistress and herself to live on stale bread and a
few vegetables--such fare as might have suited a pair of hermits in the
desert. And now the few tradespeople came themselves to the house at
nightfall on Saturday evenings, and left their goods at the doorway in
a basket, which they found waiting for them on the ensuing Saturday,
with the money due to them wrapped in a scrap of newspaper.

At the same time Pélagie had one great worry--her nephew Polydor, who
had entered a Beaumont monastery in a menial capacity, and who came
and made frightful scenes with her whenever he wished to extort money.
He alarmed the old woman to such a degree that she did not even dare
to leave him at the door, for she felt sure that on some pretext or
other he would collect a crowd and force his way in. And when she had
admitted him, she trembled still more; for she knew that he was a man
to deal her a nasty blow should she refuse to give him a ten-franc
piece. For many long years she had caressed the dream of employing
all her savings--some ten thousand francs, scraped together copper by
copper--to procure some happiness in the other world; and if the little
treasure was still carefully hidden away inside her palliasse, this
was because she hesitated as to the best, the most efficacious mode of
investment. Should she found a perpetual Mass for the repose of her
soul, or should she book one of Father Théodose's reserved gardens,
a modest little nook in heaven, by the side of her mistress's lordly
grotto? And she was still hesitating in this respect when misfortune
fell upon her.

One night, when she had been obliged to admit Polydor, the rascal did
not murder her, but rushed in turn upon every article of furniture in
her garret, finally ripping up the palliasse and fleeing with the ten
thousand francs, while Pélagie, whom he had thrust aside and who had
fallen beside the bed, groaned with despair at seeing that bandit--who
was of her own flesh and blood--make off with the blessed money which
St. Antony of Padua was to have given her back in eternal delight.
Would she be damned, then, as she no longer possessed the wherewithal
to speculate in the miraculous lottery? Such was the shock the old
woman experienced that two days later she died; and it was Father
Théodose who found her, already stark and cold, in her bare and dirty
garret, to which he climbed in his surprise and anxiety at discovering
her nowhere else. He was obliged to attend to everything--declare the
death, make arrangements for the funeral, and busy himself as to how
the last remaining inmate of the little house would live now that she
had nobody left to serve her.

For several weeks past Madame Duparque, whose legs had become too
feeble to support her weight, had taken to her bed, in which, however,
she remained in a sitting posture, erect and tall, though withered.
Little breath was left her, yet she still seemed to reign despotically
over that silent, dark, and empty house, whence she had driven all her
kith and kin, and where the only creature, the domestic animal, whom
she had been willing to tolerate, had just died. When Father Théodose,
on returning from Pélagie's funeral, tried to ascertain Madame
Duparque's intentions with respect to her future mode of life, he could
not even extract an answer from her. Greatly embarrassed, he insisted,
and offered to send her a sister, pointing out that it was impossible
for her to attend to any household duties as she could not even leave
her bed. But she at once flew into a temper, growled like some mighty
animal stricken unto death and unwilling to be disturbed in its final
hour. Vague charges gurgled in her throat; they were all cowards, all
traitors to their God, all egotists who abandoned the Church in order
that the vaults might not fall upon their heads! Thereupon Father
Théodose, in his turn growing exasperated, left her, deciding that
he would return the following morning to see if she had become more
reasonable.

A night and a day elapsed, for the Superior of the Capuchins was only
able to return at dusk, four and twenty hours later. During that night
and day, then, Madame Duparque remained alone, absolutely alone, behind
the nailed shutters, the carefully closed doors and windows of her
dark room, where neither a sound nor a ray of light from the outer
world penetrated. She herself had willed it thus, severing all carnal
ties with her relations, withdrawing from the world in protest against
the hateful society of the times in which sin had proved triumphant.
And, after giving herself wholly to the Church, she had gradually
become disgusted with its ministers--those priests who lacked all
militant faith, those monks who had no heroic bravery, but who were all
worldly men bent on personal enjoyment. Thus she had dismissed them
also, and now she remained alone with her Deity--an implacable and
stubborn Deity, who ruled with absolute, exterminating, and vengeful
power. All light and all life had departed from that cold, dismal,
fast-closed, and tomb-like house, where there only remained a feeble
octogenarian woman, sitting up in bed, gazing into the black darkness,
and waiting for her jealous God to carry her away, in order that
lukewarm souls might have an example of a really pious end. And when
Father Théodose presented himself at the house at dusk he found, to
his intense surprise, that the door would not open, that it resisted
all his efforts. The key turned readily enough in the lock, and it
seemed, therefore, that the door must have been bolted. But who could
have bolted it? There was nobody inside except the ailing woman, who
could not leave her bed. The Capuchin then made fresh attempts, but in
vain; and at last, feeling frightened, unwilling to incur any further
responsibility, he hastened to the Town Hall to explain the matter
to the authorities. A messenger was at once sent to Mademoiselle
Mazeline's for Louise; and, as it happened, Marc and Geneviève were
there, having come over from Jonville as the news of Pélagie's death
had made them feel anxious.

A tragical business followed. The whole family repaired to the Place
des Capucins. As the door would not yield, a locksmith was sent for,
but he declared he could do nothing, for assuredly the bolts were
fastened. It therefore became necessary to send for a mason, who, with
his pick, unsealed the door hinges set in the stone work. At each blow
the silent house re-echoed like a closed vault. And when the door had
been torn down it was with a quiver that Marc and Geneviève, followed
by Louise, re-entered that family abode whence they had been banished.
An icy dampness reigned there; it was only with difficulty that they
managed to light a candle. And upstairs, in the bed, they found Madame
Duparque, still in a sitting posture, propped up by pillows, but quite
dead, with a large crucifix between her long, thin, shrivelled hands.

In a superhuman effort she had assuredly found the supreme energy to
leave her bed, crawl down the stairs, and shoot the bolts in order
that no living soul, not even a priest, might disturb her in her last
communion with God. And then she had crawled upstairs again, and
had died there. When Father Théodose saw her he fell on his knees,
shuddering, and stammering a prayer. He was distraught, for he detected
in that death not merely the end of a terrible old woman, raised to a
fierce grandeur, as it were, by her uncompromising faith, but also the
end of all superstitious and mendacious religion. And Marc, in whose
arms Geneviève and Louise had sought a refuge, seemed to feel a great
gust sweeping by, as though eternal life were springing from that death.

When the family, after leaving the funeral arrangements to Abbé
Coquard, made a search in the old lady's drawers, they found
nothing--neither will nor securities of any kind. It could not be
said that Father Théodose had purloined any property, for he had not
returned to the house. Was it to be assumed, then, that the old lady
had previously handed her securities to him or to another? Or had she
destroyed them, unwilling that her relatives should benefit by her
fortune? The mystery was never solved, not a copper was ever found.
Only the little house remained, and it was sold, the proceeds being
given to the poor at the request of Geneviève, who said that in taking
that course she was certainly doing what her grandmother would have
desired.

In the evening, after returning from the funeral, Geneviève cast her
arms round her husband's neck, and made him a frank confession: 'If you
only knew!' said she. 'I was beset again when I heard that grandmother
was all alone, so bravely and loftily adhering to her stubborn
faith.... Yes, I asked myself if my place were not beside her, and if
I had done right in leaving her.... But what can you expect, dear? I
shall never be quite cured. In the depths of my being I shall always
retain a little of my old belief.... Yet, what a frightful death that
was! And how right you are in asking that people should live as they
ought to; that women should be liberated, set in their right position
as the equals and companions of men, and that life should partake of
all that is good and true and just!'

A month later the two long-deferred weddings at last took place. Louise
was married to Joseph, Sarah to Sébastien; and in those espousals Marc
perceived a beginning of victory. The good crop, sown with so much
difficulty in the midst of persecution and outrage, was germinating and
growing already.




II


Years went by, and Marc continued his work, sturdy yet at sixty years
of age, and as passionately attached to truth and justice as he had
been at the outset of the great struggle. And one day, when he happened
to go to Beaumont to call on Delbos, the latter suddenly said to him:
'By the way, my dear fellow, I have had a strange encounter.... The
other evening, at dusk, while I was returning home I noticed a man of
about your age, looking wretched and ravaged, walking ahead of me along
the Avenue des Jaffres.... And, all at once, in the blaze of light
coming from the confectioner's shop at the corner of the Rue Gambetta,
it seemed to me that I recognised our Gorgias.'

'Eh, our Gorgias?'

'Why, yes, Brother Gorgias, not wearing an Ignorantine's cassock,
but a greasy frock-coat, and slipping alongside the walls, with the
suspicious gait of an emaciated old wolf.... He must have come back
secretly, and must be living in some dark nook or other, still trying
to frighten and exploit his old accomplices.'

Marc, whom the announcement had greatly surprised, remained full of
doubt. 'You must have been mistaken,' said he; 'Gorgias attaches too
much value to his skin to return to Beaumont and run the risk of being
sent to the galleys--that is whenever the discovery of a new fact may
enable us to apply for the quashing of the Rozan judgment.'

'It is you who are mistaken, my friend,' Delbos answered. 'Our man has
nothing more to fear. According to our law of limitation there can
be no public action in a criminal matter after the expiration of ten
years, and so, even nowadays, little Zéphirin's murderer can walk the
streets in the daylight without any fear of arrest.... However, I may
have been deceived by a mere resemblance; and in any case the return of
Gorgias can have no interest for us, for you agree with me, do you not,
that we can derive nothing useful from him?'

'No, nothing whatever. He lied so much at the time of the affair that
if he should say anything now he would certainly lie again.... The
long-sought truth can never come to us from him.'

In this wise, at long intervals, Marc called upon Delbos in order to
chat with him about that everlasting Simon case, which, after the
lapse of so many years, still remained like a cancer gnawing at the
heart of the country. People might deny its existence, believe it to
be dead, cease to speak of it, but nevertheless it still stealthily
prosecuted its ravages, like some secret venom poisoning life. Twice
a year David quitted his lonely retreat in the Pyrenees and came to
Beaumont in order to confer with Delbos and Marc; for, in spite of the
pardon granted to his brother, he had not for an hour relinquished his
hope of eventual acquittal and rehabilitation. They, David, Delbos, and
Marc, were convinced that the monstrous verdict would be some day set
aside, and that the affair would end by the victory of the innocent.
But, even as in previous years, after the judgment of the Court of
Cassation, they found themselves struggling amidst an intricate network
of falsehoods. After hesitating for a time as to which scent they might
best follow, they had decided to investigate a second crime committed
by ex-President Gragnon, a crime which they had already suspected at
Rozan, and of which they were now convinced.

Gragnon, at the time of the Rozan proceedings, had repeated his illegal
communication trick. On this second occasion, however, he had availed
himself, not of one of Simon's letters with a forged postscript and
paraph, but of a confession alleged to have been written by the
workman who was said to have made a false stamp for the Maillebois
schoolmaster--this confession having been handed, it was alleged, to
one of the nuns of the Beaumont hospital by the workman in question
when he was near his death. Assuredly Gragnon had walked about Beaumont
with that confession in his pocket, speaking of it as a thunderbolt
which he would hurl at the Simonists if they drove him to extremities,
showing it also, or causing it to be shown, to certain members of
the jury, those who were pious and weak-minded, but at the same time
affecting a keen desire to save the holy nun to whom the confession
had been given from being publicly mixed up in such a scandal. And
this explained everything. The abominable behaviour of the jury in
reconvicting the innocent prisoner became excusable. Those men of
average intelligence and honesty had been deceived like the jurors
of Beaumont, and had yielded to motives which had remained secret.
Marc and David well remembered that they had heard some juryman ask
certain questions which had then seemed to them ridiculous. But they
now understood that this juryman had referred to the terrible document
which Gragnon had stealthily hawked about, and of which it was not
prudent to speak plainly. Delbos therefore busied himself with that
new fact, that second criminal communication, which, if proved,
would entail the immediate annulment of the proceedings at Rozan.
But, unfortunately, nothing could be more difficult to prove, and
for years Delbos and his friends had striven vainly. Only one hope
remained to them: a juror, a retired medical man, named Beauchamp, had
acquired a certainty that the workman's alleged confession was simply
a gross forgery. In a measure things repeated themselves, as is not
infrequently the case in real life, Beauchamp being assailed by remorse
like his predecessor, architect Jacquin. He himself, it is true, was
not a clerical, but he had an extremely devout wife and did not wish
to plunge her into desolation by relieving his conscience. Thus it was
necessary to wait.[1]

[Footnote 1: It may be held that M. Zola has perpetrated an artistic
blunder by introducing into his narrative a repetition, so to say, of
the Jacquin episode; but it should be remembered that the Simon affair
is based on the Dreyfus case, in which there were several repetitions
of that character. Among those who sat in judgment on Dreyfus,
Esterhazy, and Picquart, there were repeated instances of belated
conscientious scruples, some indeed known to the initiated but never
made public. Thus, if M. Zola is inartistic in making two characters
of his story adopt virtually the same course, he is at least true to
life.--_Trans._]

However, as the years went by, circumstances became more favourable.
Thanks to the spread of secular education the social evolution was
being hastened and giving great results. All France was being renewed,
a new nation was coming from its thousands of parish schools, whose
influence was to be found beneath each fresh reform that was effected,
each fresh step that was taken toward solidarity and peace. Things
which had seemed impossible in former times were easily accomplished
now that the nation was delivered from error and falsehood, endowed
with knowledge and force of will.

Thus, at the general elections which took place in May that year,
Delbos at last defeated Lemarrois, who had been Mayor of Beaumont for
so long a period. At one time it had seemed as if the latter would
never lose his seat, personifying as he did the great mass of average
public opinion. But the _bourgeoisie_ had denied its revolutionary
past, and allied itself with the Church in order that it might not
have to abandon any of its usurped power. It clung to the privileges
it had acquired, and, rather than share its royalty or its wealth
with the masses, it preferred to make use of all the old reactionary
forces in order to thrust the now awakened and enlightened people into
servitude once more. Lemarrois was a typical example of the _bourgeois_
Republican, who, wishing to defend his class, sank into a kind of
involuntary reaction, and was therefore condemned and swept away in
the inevitable _débâcle_ of that _bourgeoisie_ which a hundred years
of trafficking and enjoyment had sufficed to rot. It was inevitable
that the people should ascend to power as soon as it became conscious
of its strength, of the inexhaustible reserve of energy, intelligence,
and will slumbering within it; and it was sufficient that it should be
emancipated, roused from the heavy sleep of ignorance by the schools
in order that it might take its due place and rejuvenate the nation.
The _bourgeoisie_ was now at the point of death, and the people would
necessarily become the great liberating, justice-dealing France of
to-morrow. And there was, so to say, an annunciation of all those
things in the victory achieved at Beaumont by Delbos, the man who had
been Simon's counsel, who had been denied and insulted so long, at
first securing only a few Socialist votes, which by degrees had become
an overwhelming majority.

Another proof of the people's accession to power was to be found in
the complete change which had come over Marcilly. He had formerly
figured in a Radical ministry; then, after the reconviction of Simon,
he had entered a Moderate administration; and now he affected extreme
Socialist principles; and, by harnessing himself to Delbos's triumphal
car, had managed to get re-elected. It is true that the popular
victory was not complete throughout the department, for Count Hector
de Sanglebœuf had also been re-elected, this time as an uncompromising
reactionary; for the usual phenomenon of troublous times had appeared,
only plain, frank, extreme opinions finding support. The party
vanquished for ever was the old Liberal _bourgeoisie_, which had become
Conservative from egotism and fright, and which, lacking all strength
and logic, was ripe for its fall. And the ascending class, the great
mass of those who only the day before had been called the disinherited,
would naturally take the place of the _bourgeoisie_ after sweeping away
the few stubborn defenders that remained to the Church.

But the election of Delbos was particularly notable as being the first
great success achieved by one of those rascals without God or country,
one of those traitors who had publicly declared Simon to be innocent.
After the monstrous proceedings of Rozan all the notable Simonists
had suffered in their persons or their pockets for having dared to
desire truth and justice. Insult, persecution, summary dismissal had
been heaped upon them. There was Delbos, to whom no client had dared
to confide his interests; there was Salvan dismissed, compulsorily
retired; there was Marc disgraced, sent to a little village; and behind
the leaders how many others there were, relations and friends, who for
merely behaving in an upright manner were assailed with worries, and at
times even ruined!

Full of mute grief at the sight of such aberration, well understanding
that all rebellion was useless, the friends of truth had simply turned
to their work, awaiting the inevitable hour when reason and equity
would triumph. And that hour seemed to be approaching; for now Delbos,
one of the most deeply involved in the affair, had defeated Lemarrois,
who had long pursued a pusillanimous policy, refusing to take sides
either for or against Simon. Was not this a proof that opinion had
changed, that a great advance had been effected? Moreover, Salvan
secured consolation, for one of his old pupils was appointed to the
directorship of the Training College after Mauraisin had been virtually
dismissed for incapacity. Great was the delight of the sage when those
tidings reached him, not because it pleased him to crow over his
vanquished adversary, but because he at last saw the continuation of
his work entrusted to one who was brave and faithful. And, finally,
a day came when Le Barazer, who now felt strong enough to repair
former injustice, sent for Marc and offered him the head mastership
of a school at Beaumont. Such an offer, on the part of that prudent
diplomatist, the Academy Inspector, was extremely significant, and Marc
was pleased indeed; nevertheless he declined it, for he did not wish to
leave Jonville, where his task was not yet finished.

There were also other precursory signs of the great impending change
in the country. Prefect Hennebise had been replaced by a very energetic
and sensible functionary who had immediately demanded the revocation
of Depinvilliers, under whose management the Lycée of Beaumont had
become a kind of seminary. Rector Forbes had been compelled to rouse
himself from the study of ancient history, in order to dismiss the
chaplains, rid the classrooms of the religious emblems placed in them,
and secularise secondary as well as elementary education. Then General
Jarousse, having been placed on the retired list, had decided to quit
Beaumont; for, though his wife owned a house there, he was exasperated
with the new spirit which reigned in the town, and did not wish to come
into contact with his successor, a Republican general, whom some people
even declared to be a Socialist. Moreover, ex-investigating Magistrate
Daix had met a wretched death, haunted as he was by spectres, in spite
of his belated confession at Rozan; while the former Procureur de la
République, Raoul de La Bissonnière, after having a fine career in
Paris, seemed likely to come to grief there amidst the collapse of a
colossal swindle[2] which he had in some way befriended. And, as a last
and excellent symptom of the times, nobody now saluted Gragnon, the
ex-presiding judge, when, thin and yellow, he anxiously threaded the
Avenue des Jaffres, hanging his head but glancing nervously to right
and left as if he feared that somebody might spit upon him as he passed.

[Footnote 2: All newspaper readers know that various judicial
personages have been compromised in recent French swindles.--_Trans._]

The happy effects of free and secular education, which brought light
and health in its train, were also manifest at Maillebois, whither
Marc often repaired to see his daughter Louise, who, with Joseph
her husband, lived in the little lodging which Mignot had so long
occupied at the Communal school. Maillebois, indeed, was no longer
that intensely clerical little town, where the Congregations had
succeeded in raising their creature Philis to the mayoralty. In
former times the eight hundred working men of the _faubourg_, being
divided among themselves, could return only a few Republicans to the
Municipal Council, in which they were reduced to inaction. But at the
recent elections the whole Republican and Socialist list had passed,
by a large majority, in such wise that Darras, defeating his rival
Philis, had now again become Mayor. And his delight at returning to
that office, whence the priests had driven him, was the keener as he
was now supported by a compact majority which would enable him to act
frankly instead of being continually reduced to compromises.

Marc met Darras one day and found him quite radiant. 'Yes, I remember,'
said he, 'you did not think me very brave in former times. That poor
Simon! I was convinced of his innocence, yet I refused to act when you
came to me at the municipal offices. But how could I help it? I had a
bare majority of two, the council constantly escaped my control, and
the proof is that it ended by overthrowing me.... Ah! if I had then
only had the majority we now possess! We are the masters at last, and
things will move quickly, I promise you.'

Marc smiled and asked him what had become of Philis, his defeated
adversary.

'Philis--oh! he has been greatly tried. A certain person--you know whom
I mean--died recently, and so he has had to resign himself to living
alone with his daughter Octavie, a very pious young woman who does not
care to marry. His son Raymond, being a naval officer, is always far
away, and the house cannot be very cheerful, unless indeed Philis is
already seeking consolation, which may be the case, for I saw a new
servant there the other day--yes, quite a sturdy, fresh-looking girl!'

Darras burst into a loud laugh. For his own part, having retired from
business with a handsome fortune, he was living his last years in
perfect union with his wife, their only regret being that they had no
children.

'Well,' Marc resumed, 'Joulic may now feel certain that he will not
be worried any more.... It is he, you know, who, in spite of all
difficulties, transformed the town with his school, and made your
election possible.'

'Oh! you were the first great worker,' Darras exclaimed. 'I don't
forget the immense services which you rendered.... But you may be
quite easy, Joulic is now safe from all vexations, and I will help
him as much as I can in his efforts to make Maillebois free and
intelligent.... Besides, your daughter Louise and Simon's son Joseph
are now, in their turn, continuing the work of liberation. You are
a knot of brave but modest workers, to whom we shall all feel very
grateful hereafter.'

Then, for a moment, they chatted about the now distant times when Marc
had been first appointed to the Maillebois school. More than thirty
years had elapsed! And how many were the events that had occurred,
and how many were the children who had passed through the schoolroom
and carried some of the new spirit into the district around them!
Marc recalled some of his old, his first, pupils. Fernand Bongard,
the little peasant with the hard nut, who had married Lucille Doloir,
an intelligent girl, whom Mademoiselle Rouzaire had tried to rear in
sanctimonious fashion, was now the father of a girl eleven years of
age, named Claire, whom Mademoiselle Mazeline was freeing somewhat from
clerical servitude. Then Auguste Doloir, the mason's undisciplined son,
who had married Angèle Bongard, an obstinate young woman of narrow
ambition, had a son of fifteen, Adrien, a remarkably intelligent
youth whom Joulic, his master, greatly praised. Charles Doloir, the
locksmith, who had been as bad a pupil as his brother, but who had
improved somewhat since his marriage with his master's daughter, Marthe
Dupuis, also had a son, Marcel, who was now thirteen, and had left
the school with excellent certificates. There was also Léon Doloir,
who, thanks to Marc, had taken to the teaching profession, and after
becoming one of Salvan's best students, now directed the school at Les
Bordes, assisted by his wife, Juliette Hochard, who had quitted the
Training School at Fontenay with 'No. I' against her name. That young
couple was all health and good sense, and their life was brightened by
the presence of a little four-year-old urchin, Edmond, who was sharp
for his age, already knowing his letters thoroughly. Then came the twin
Savins: first Achille, so sly, so addicted to falsehoods as a boy, then
placed with a process-server, dulled like his father by years of office
work, and married to a colleague's sister, Virginie Deschamps, a lean
and insignificant _blonde_, by whom he had a charming little girl,
Léontine, who at eleven years of age had just secured her certificate,
and was one of Mademoiselle Mazeline's favourite pupils. Then came
Philippe Savin, who, long remaining without employment, had been
rendered better by a life of hardship, and was now still a bachelor,
and manager of a model farm, being associated in that enterprise
with his younger brother Jules, the most intelligent of the two, who
had given himself to the soil and married a peasant girl, Rosalie
Bonin--their firstborn, Pierre, now six years old, having lately
entered Joulic's school. Thus generation followed generation, each
going towards increase of knowledge, reason, truth, and justice, and it
was assuredly from that constant evolution which education produced,
that the happiness of the communities of the future would spring.

But Marc was more particularly interested in the home of Louise and
Joseph, and in that of his dearest pupil, Sébastien Milhomme, who
had married Sarah. That day, on quitting Darras, he repaired to the
Communal school in order to see his daughter. Mademoiselle Mazeline,
now more than sixty years of age, with a record of forty years spent
in elementary teaching, had, like Salvan, lately retired to Jonville,
where she now dwelt in a very modest little house near his beautiful
garden. She might still have rendered some services in her profession
had not her eyesight failed her. Indeed, she was nearly blind. In
retiring, however, she at least had the consolation of handing her
duties over to her well-loved assistant Louise, who was appointed head
mistress in her stead. Moreover, a headmastership at Beaumont was now
being spoken of for Joulic, in such wise that his assistant Joseph
might succeed him at Maillebois; and thus the young couple would share
the school which still re-echoed the names of Simon and Marc, whose
good work they would continue. Louise, who was now two and thirty, had
presented her husband with a son, François, who at twelve years of age
was already wonderfully like his grandfather Marc. And the ambition
of that big bright-eyed boy with the lofty brow was to enter the
Training College like his forerunners, for he also wished to become an
elementary teacher.

It was a Thursday--half-holiday day--and Marc found Louise just
quitting a housework class which she held once a week outside the
regulation hours. Joseph, with his son and some other boys, had gone on
a geological and botanical ramble along the banks of the Verpille. But
Sarah happened to be with Louise, for she was very much attached to her
sister-in-law, and always visited her when she came over from Rouville,
where her husband Sébastien was now head-master.

They had a charming little girl, Thérèse, in whom all the beauty of her
grandmother Rachel had reappeared. And three times a week Sarah came
from Rouville to Maillebois--the journey by rail lasting barely ten
minutes--in order to superintend the tailoring business which was still
carried on at old Lehmann's in the Rue du Trou. He was now very old
indeed, more than eighty, and as it had become difficult for Sarah to
superintend the establishment she thought of disposing of it.

As soon as Marc had kissed Louise he pressed both of Sarah's hands.
'And how is my faithful Sébastien?' he asked. 'How is your big girl
Thérèse, and how are you yourself, my dear?'

'Everybody is in the best of health,' Sarah answered gaily. 'Even
grandfather Lehmann is as strong as an oak-tree in spite of his
advanced years.... And I have had good news from yonder, you know.
Uncle David has written to say that my father has got over the attacks
of fever which have been troubling him occasionally.'

Marc jogged his head gently. 'Yes, yes, his wound is not altogether
healed. To restore him completely to health one needs that long-desired
rehabilitation which it is so difficult to obtain. We are advancing
towards it, however; I am still full of hope, for glorious times are
coming.... Remind Sébastien that each boy he makes a man of will be
another worker in the cause of truth and justice.'

Then Marc chatted a while with Louise, giving her news of Mademoiselle
Mazeline, who lived a very retired life at Jonville in the company of
birds and flowers. And he made his daughter promise to send her son
François to spend the Sunday there, for it was a great delight for his
grandmother to have the boy with her occasionally. 'And why not come
yourself?' he added. 'Tell Joseph to come as well; we will all call on
Salvan, who will be well pleased to see such a gathering of teachers,
whose father in a measure he is.... And you, Sarah, you ought to come
with Sébastien and your daughter Thérèse. Let it be a general outing
and our pleasure will be complete.... Come, it is understood, eh? Till
Sunday, then!'

He kissed the two young women and hurried away, for he wished to catch
the six-o'clock train. But he nearly missed it by reason of a strange
encounter which for a moment delayed him. He was turning out of the
High Street into the avenue leading to the railway station, when he
espied two individuals who were disputing violently behind a clump of
spindle trees. One of them, who seemed to be a man of forty, attracted
Marc's attention by his long, livid, and doltish face. Where was it
that he had previously seen that stupid, vicious countenance? All at
once he remembered: that man was certainly Polydor, Pélagie's nephew.
For more than twenty years Marc had not met him, but he was aware
that he had been dismissed, long ago, from the Beaumont convent which
he had entered as a servant, and that he led a chance existence among
the knaves of disreputable neighbourhoods. However, Polydor, noticing
and probably recognising the bystander who was looking at him so
attentively, hastened to lead his companion away. And then, as Marc
glanced at the other man, he started with surprise. Clad in a dirty
frock-coat, looking both wretched and fierce, Polydor's companion
had the haggard countenance of an old bird of prey. Surely he was
Brother Gorgias! Marc at once remembered what Delbos had told him; and
thereupon, wishing to arrive at a certainty, he started after the two
men, who had already turned into a little side street. But though he
gave the street a good look, he could see nobody. Polydor and the other
had disappeared into one of the houses of suspicious aspect which lined
it. Then Marc again began to doubt. Was it really Gorgias whom he had
seen? He was not prepared to swear it; he feared that he had perhaps
yielded to some fancy.

At present Marc triumphed at Jonville. By degrees, as healthy and
reasonable men had emerged from his school, the mentality of the
region had improved, and not only was there increase of knowledge,
logic, frankness, and brotherliness, but great material prosperity
was appearing, for a land's fortune and happiness depend solely upon
the mental culture and the civic morality of its inhabitants. Again,
then, was abundance returning to clean and well-kept homes; the fields,
thanks to newly adopted methods of culture, displayed magnificent
crops; the countryside was once more becoming a joy for the eyes in the
bright summer sunshine. And thus a happy stretch of land was at last
advancing towards that perpetual peace which for centuries had been so
ardently desired.

Martineau the Mayor, followed by the whole parish council, now acted
in agreement with Marc. A series of incidents had hastened that good
understanding by which all desirable reforms were accelerated. Abbé
Cognasse, after for some time restraining himself, in accordance
with the advice given him at Valmarie, which was to retain his
influence over the women,--for whoever possesses their support proves
invincible,--had relapsed into his wonted violence, incapable as he
was of long remaining patient, and enraged, too, at seeing the women
gradually escape from him, owing to the ill grace with which he sought
to detain them. At last, like the vengeful minister of a ravaging
and exterminating Deity, he became absolutely brutal, distributing
outrageous punishment in his wrath at the slightest offences. One day,
for instance, he rubbed little Moulin's ears till they positively bled,
merely because the lad had playfully pulled the skirts of the terrible
Palmyre, who, in her time, had administered smacks and whippings so
freely. Another day the Abbé boxed young Catherine's ears in church
because she laughed during Mass on seeing him blow his nose at the
altar. And finally, one Sunday, quite beside himself at finding that
the district was escaping from his control, he actually launched a
kick at Madame Martineau the mayoress, imagining that she defied him
because she did not make room for him to pass as quickly as he desired.
This time it was held that his behaviour exceeded all bounds, and
Martineau, quite enraged, cited him before the Tribunal of Correctional
Police, with the result that the battle became a furious one, Cognasse
retaliating with fresh acts of violence, and gathering quite a quantity
of lawsuits around him.

Marc meanwhile, anxious to complete his work in the village, had been
nursing an idea, which he was at last able to carry into effect. In
consequence of some new laws enacted by the Legislature, the Sisters
of the Good Shepherd, who carried on the factory in which two hundred
work-girls were sweated and starved, had been obliged to quit Jonville.
And it was a good riddance for the district, a plague-spot, a shame
the less. Marc, however, persuaded the parish council to purchase the
large factory buildings, when they were offered for sale by auction;
his idea being to modify and turn them into a Common House, in which
recreation and dancing rooms, a library, a museum, and even some free
baths might be gradually installed as by degrees the resources of the
parish increased. In this wise he dreamt of setting, in full view of
the church, a kind of civic palace, which would become a meeting and
recreation place for the hard-working community. If the women for
years past had only continued to go to Mass in order to show their
new gowns and see those of their acquaintances, they would yet more
willingly repair to that cheerful palace of solidarity, where a little
healthy amusement would await them. Thus, the recreation rooms were
the first inaugurated, and the ceremony gave rise to a great popular
demonstration.

The desire of the inhabitants was to efface and redeem that former
consecration of the parish to the Sacred Heart, which had filled the
mayor and the council with keen remorse ever since they had recovered
their senses. Martineau, for his part, accounted for that proceeding
by accusing Jauffre of having abandoned him to Abbé Cognasse, after
disturbing his mind by threatening both the parish and himself with all
sorts of misfortunes if he did not submit to the Church, which would
always be the most powerful of the social forces. Martineau, who now
perceived that this was not correct, for the Church was already being
beaten, and the more the district drew away from it the more prosperous
it became, was very desirous of setting himself on the winning side,
like a practical peasant, one who talked little but who always kept his
eye fixed on the main chance. He would therefore have liked some kind
of abjuration, some ceremony such as might allow him to come forward
at the head of the council, and restore the parish to the worship of
reason and truth, in order to wipe out that former ceremony when it
had dedicated itself to dementia and falsehood. And it was this desire
which Marc thought of fulfilling by arranging that the mayor and the
council should in a fitting manner inaugurate the recreation rooms of
the new Common House, in which it was proposed that the inhabitants of
the district should meet every Sunday to take part in suitable civic
festivities.

Great preparations were made. It was arranged that the pupils of Marc
and Geneviève should act a little play, dance, and sing. An orchestra
was soon recruited among the young men of the region. Maidens clad in
white were also to sing and dance in honour of the work of the fields
and the joys of life. Indeed it was particularly life, lived healthily
and fully, overflowing with duties and felicities, that was to be
celebrated as the universal source of strength and certainty. And the
various games and recreations which had been provided, games of skill
and energy, gymnastic appliances, with running tracks and lawns set
out in the adjoining grounds, were to be handed over to the young folk
who would meet there every week, while shady nooks would be reserved
for wives and mothers, who would be drawn together and enlivened by
having a _salon_, a meeting place, assigned to them. For the inaugural
ceremony, the rooms were decorated with flowers and foliage, and
already at an early hour the inhabitants of Jonville, clad in their
Sunday best, filled the village streets with their mirth.

By Marc's desire, and with the consent of the parents, Mignot, that
Sunday, brought his pupils over from Le Moreux in order that they might
participate in the festivity. He was met by Marc near the church just
as old Palmyre double-locked the door of the edifice in a violent,
wrathful fashion. That morning Abbé Cognasse had said Mass to empty
benches, and it was he who, in a fit of furious anger, had ordered his
servant to close the church. Nobody should enter it again, said he,
as those impious people were bent on offering sacrifices to the idols
of human bestiality. He himself had disappeared, hiding away in the
parsonage whose garden wall bordered the road leading to the new Common
House.

'This is the second Sunday that he has not gone to Le Moreux,' Mignot
said to Marc. 'He declares with some truth that it is not worth his
while to trudge so many miles to say Mass in the presence of two old
women and three little girls. The whole village has rebelled against
him, you know, since he brutally spanked little Eugénie Louvard for
having put out her tongue to him; though that is only one of the acts
of violence in which he has indulged since he has felt himself to be
defeated. Curiously enough, it is I who am obliged to defend him now
for fear lest the indignant villagers should do him an injury.'

Mignot laughed and, on being questioned, gave further particulars.
'Yes, Saleur, our mayor, has talked of bringing an action against him
and writing to his bishop. As a matter of fact, if I at first had some
difficulty in extricating Le Moreux from the ignorance and credulity
in which it was steeped by my predecessor Chagnat, at present I simply
have to let events follow their course. The whole population is
rallying around me, the school will soon reign without a rival, for, as
the church is being shut up, the battle is virtually over.'

'Oh! we have not got to that point yet,' Marc answered. 'Here, at
Jonville, Cognasse will resist till the last moment--that is, as long
as he is paid by the State and imposed on us by Rome. But I have often
thought that the lonely little hamlets like Le Moreux, particularly
when life is easy there, would be the first to free themselves from
the priests, because the latter's departure would make virtually no
alteration in their social life. When people don't like their priest,
when they go to church less and less, the disappearance of the priest
is witnessed without regret.'

However, Marc and Mignot could not linger chatting any longer, for
the ceremony would soon begin. So they repaired to the Common House,
where their pupils had now assembled. They there found Geneviève with
Salvan and Mademoiselle Mazeline, both the latter having emerged
from their retirement to attend that festival which was, so to say,
their work, the celebration of their teaching. And everything passed
off in a very simple, fraternal, and joyous manner. The authorities,
Martineau wearing his scarf of office at the head of the council, took
possession of that little Palace of the People in the name of the
parish. Then the schoolchildren acted, played, and sang, inaugurating,
as it were, the future of happy peace and beneficent work with their
healthy and innocent hands. It was, indeed, ever-reviving youth, it
was the children, who would overcome the last obstacles on the road to
the future city of perfect solidarity. That which the child of to-day
had been unable to do would be done by the child of to-morrow. And
when the little ones had raised their cry of hope, the youths and the
maidens came forward, displaying the promise of early fruitfulness.
One found, too, maturity and harvest in all the assembled fathers and
mothers, behind whom were the old folk typifying the happy evening
which attends life when it has been lived as it should be lived. And
all were now acquiring a true consciousness of things, setting their
ideal no longer in any mysticism, but in the proper regulation of human
life, which needed to be all reason, truth, and justice in order that
mankind might dwell together in peace, brotherliness, and happiness.
Henceforth Jonville would have a meeting hall in that fraternal house
where joy and health would take the place of threat and punishment,
where enlightenment would gladden the hearts of one and all. No heart
nor mind would be disturbed there by mystical impostures, no shares in
any false paradise would be offered for sale. Those who came forth from
that building would be cheerful citizens, happy to live for the sake of
the joy of life. And all the cruel and grotesque absurdity of dogmas
would crumble in the presence of that simple gaiety, that beneficent
light.

The dancing lasted until the evening. Never had the comely peasant
women of Jonville participated in such a festival. Everybody noticed
the radiant countenance of Madame Martineau, who had remained one of
Abbé Cognasse's last worshippers, though, in reality, she had only gone
to church in order to show off her new gowns. She wore a new gown that
day, and was delighted at being able to display it without any fear
that it might become soiled by trailing over damp and dirty flagstones.
Again, she knew that she ran no risk of being kicked if she did not
get soon enough out of somebody's way. Briefly, in that Common House
Jonville would at last have a fitting _salon_ where one and all might
freely meet and chat, and even indulge in a little harmless coquetry.

But it so happened that an extraordinary incident marked the close
of that great day. Marc and Geneviève were escorting their pupils
homeward, with Mignot, who also had marshalled his children together;
and Salvan and Mademoiselle Mazeline likewise figured in the party,
which was all gaiety, jest, and laughter. Near by, too, there was
Madame Martineau, accompanied by a group of women, to whom she
recounted the result of the legal proceedings which her husband had
brought against the priest for kicking her. Fifteen witnesses had
given evidence before the Court, and after some uproarious proceedings
Abbé Cognasse had been sentenced to a fine of five and twenty francs,
this being the chief cause of the fury which he had displayed for
several days past. And, all at once, as Madame Martineau--finishing her
narrative as she passed the parsonage garden--remarked that the fine
was no more than the priest deserved, Abbé Cognasse in person popped
his head over the garden wall and began to vociferate insults.

'Ah! you vain hussy!' he cried, 'you lying thing! how dare you spit on
God? I'll force your serpent tongue back into your throat!'

How was it that the priest happened to be there at that particular
moment? Nobody could tell. Perhaps he had been waiting behind the
wall for the return of the villagers. Perhaps he had set a ladder in
readiness in order that he might climb and look over. At all events,
when he perceived La Martineau in her new gown, surrounded by a number
of other sprucely dressed women, who had deserted the church to attend
an impious ceremony in the devil's house, he completely lost his head.

'You shameless creatures, you make the very angels weep!' he shouted.
'You cursed creatures, you poison the whole district with your filth!
But wait, wait a moment, I will settle your accounts for you without
waiting for Satan to come and take you!'

And forthwith, exasperated as he was at no longer having even the women
with him,--those unhappy, feared, and execrated women whom the Church
captures and employs as its instruments,--he tore some stones from the
ruined coping of the wall and flung them with his lean dark hands at
Madame Martineau and her companions.

'That's one for you, La Mathurine!' he shouted. 'I know of your goings
on with your husband's farm hands!... That's one for you, La Durande!
You robbed your sister of her share of your father's property.... And
here's for you, La Désirée! You haven't yet paid for the three Masses
which I said for the repose of your child's soul!... And as for you,
you, La Martineau, who got the judges to condemn God and me, here's one
stone, and two, and three! Yes, wait a moment, you shall have a stone
for every one of those five and twenty francs!'

The scandal was tremendous; two women were struck, and the rural guard,
who had now come up, at once began to scribble an official report.
Amidst the shouting and hooting Abbé Cognasse suddenly recovered his
senses. Like some deity threatening the world with destruction he made
a last fierce gesture, then sprang down his ladder, and disappeared
like a Jack into his box. He had just set another fine lawsuit on his
shoulders, which bent already beneath a pile of citations.

On the following Thursday Marc repaired to Maillebois, and a fancy
which had been haunting him for some time past was then suddenly
changed into certainty. While crossing the little Place des Capucins,
his attention was attracted by a wretched-looking man, who stood in
front of the Brothers' school gazing fixedly at the dilapidated walls.
And Marc immediately recognised this man to be the one whom he had
perceived with Polydor, in the avenue leading to the railway station, a
month previously. This time he had no cause for hesitation. He was able
to examine the man at his ease, in the broad sunlight, and he saw that
he was, indeed, Brother Gorgias--Gorgias, in old and greasy clothing,
with hollow cheeks and bent limbs, but still easily recognisable by
the large, fierce beak which jutted out from between his projecting
cheek-bones. Thus Delbos had not been mistaken; Gorgias had really
returned, and, doubtless, had been prowling about the region for a
good many months already.

The Ignorantine, amid the reverie into which he had sunk as he stood
on that sleepy and almost invariably deserted little square, must have
become conscious of the scrutinising gaze which was being directed upon
him. He slowly turned round, and his eyes then met those of the man who
stood only a few steps away. And he, on his side, assuredly recognised
Marc. Instead, however, of evincing any alarm, instead of taking to his
heels as he had done on the first occasion, he lingered there, and his
old sneer, that involuntary twitching of the lips which disclosed some
of his wolfish teeth in a manner suggesting both contempt and cruelty,
appeared upon his face. Then, pointing to the tumble-down walls of the
Brothers' school, he said quietly: 'That sight must please you every
time you pass this way--eh, Monsieur Froment?... It angers me; I'd like
to set fire to the shanty, and burn the last of those cowards in it!'

Then, as Marc shuddered without replying, thunderstruck as he was by
the bandit's audacity in addressing him, Gorgias again grinned in his
silent, evil way, and added: 'Are you astonished that I should confess
myself to you? You, no doubt, were my worst enemy. But, after all, why
should I bear you malice? You owed me nothing, you were fighting for
your own opinions.... The men I hate and whom I mean to pursue until my
last breath are my superiors, my brothers in Jesus Christ, all those
whose duty it was to cover and save me, but who flung me into the
streets, hoping I should die of shame and starvation.... I myself, it
may be allowed, am but a poor and erring creature, but it was God whom
those wretched cowards betrayed and sold, for it is their fault, the
fault of their imbecile weakness if the Church is now near to defeat,
and if that poor school yonder is already falling to pieces.... Ah!
when one remembers what a position it held in my time! We were the
victors then; we had reduced your secular schools to next to nothing.
But now they are triumphing, and will soon be the only ones left. The
thought of it fills me with regret and anger!'

Then, as two old women crossed the square and a Capuchin came out of
the neighbouring chapel, Gorgias, after glancing anxiously about him,
added swiftly in an undertone: 'Listen to me, Monsieur Froment; for
a long time past I have wished to have a chat with you. If you are
willing I will call on you at Jonville some day, after nightfall.'

Then he hurried off, disappearing before Marc could say a word. The
schoolmaster, who was quite upset by that meeting, spoke of it to
nobody excepting his wife, who felt alarmed when she heard of it. They
agreed that they would not admit that man if he should venture to
call on them, for the visit he announced might well prove to be some
machination of treachery and falsehood. Gorgias had always lied, and
he would lie again; so it was absurd to expect from him any useful new
fact such as had been sought so long. However, some months elapsed and
the other made no sign; in such wise that Marc who, at the outset, had
remained watchful with a view of keeping his door shut, gradually grew
astonished and impatient. He wondered what might be the things which
Gorgias had wished to tell him; and a desire to know them worried him
more and more. After all, why should he not receive the scamp? Even
if he learnt nothing useful from him, he would have an opportunity of
fathoming his nature. And having come to that conclusion, Marc lived on
in suspense, waiting for the visit which was so long deferred.

At last, one winter evening, when the rain was pouring in torrents,
Brother Gorgias presented himself, clad in an old cloak, streaming
with mud and water. As soon as he had rid himself of that rag, Marc
showed him into his classroom, which was still warm, for the fire in
the faïence stove was only just dying out. A little oil lamp alone
cast some light over a portion of that large and silent room around
which big shadows had gathered. And Geneviève, trembling slightly
with a vague fear of some possible attempt upon her husband, remained
listening behind a door.

As for Brother Gorgias, he, without any ado, resumed the conversation
interrupted on the Place des Capucins, as if it had taken place that
very afternoon.

'You know, Monsieur Froment,' he began, 'the Church is dying because
she no longer possesses any priests resolute enough to support her by
fire and steel, if need be. Not one of the poor fools, the whimpering
clowns of the present day, loves or even knows the real God--He who
at once exterminated the nations that dared to disobey Him, and who
reigned over the bodies and souls of men like an absolute master, ever
armed with resistless thunderbolts.... How can you expect the world to
be different from what it is, if the Deity now merely has poltroons
and fools to speak in His name?'

Then Gorgias enumerated his superiors, his brothers in Christ, as he
called them, one by one, and a perfect massacre ensued. Monseigneur
Bergerot, who had lately died at the advanced age of eighty-seven, had
never been aught than a poor, timid, incoherent creature, lacking the
necessary courage to secede from Rome and establish that famous liberal
and rationalist Church of France which he had dreamt of, and which
would have been little else than a new Protestant sect. Those lettered
Bishops gifted with inquiring minds, but destitute of all sturdiness
of faith, suffered the incredulous masses to desert the altars instead
of flagellating them mercilessly with the dread of hell. But Gorgias's
most intense hatred was directed against Abbé Quandieu, who still
survived though his eightieth year was past. For the Ignorantine the
ex-priest of St. Martin's was a perjurer, an apostate, a bad priest who
had spat upon his own religion by openly upholding God's enemies at the
time of the Simon case. Moreover, he had abandoned his ministry, and
gone to dwell in a little house in a lonely neighbourhood, impudently
saying that he was disgusted with the base superstition of the last
believers, and carrying his audacity so far as to pretend that the
monks, whom he called the traders of the Temple, were demolishers
who unconsciously hastened the downfall of the Church. But if there
was a demolisher it was he himself, for his desertion had served as
an argument to the enemies of Catholicism. Surely indeed it was an
abominable example that he had set--forswearing all his past life,
breaking his vows, and preferring a sleek and shameful old age to
martyrdom. As for that big, lean, stern Abbé Coquart, his successor
at St. Martin's, however imposing the newcomer might look he was in
reality only a fool.

Marc had, for a while, listened in silence, determined to offer no
interruption. But his feelings rebelled when he heard Gorgias's violent
attack upon Abbé Quandieu. 'You do not know that priest,' he said
quietly. 'Your judgment is that of an enemy, blinded by spite.... As
a matter of fact, Abbé Quandieu was the only priest of this region
who, at the outset, understood what frightful harm the Church would
do herself by openly and passionately defying truth and justice. She
claims to represent a Deity of certainty and equity, kindness and
innocence; she was founded to exalt the suffering and the meek, and
yet, all at once, in order to retain temporal authority, she makes
common cause with oppressors and liars and forgers! It was certain that
the consequences would be terrible for her as soon as Simon's innocence
should become manifest. Such conduct was suicide on the Church's
part. With her own hands she prepared her condemnation, showing the
world that she was no longer the abode of the true and the just,
of everlasting purity and goodness! And her expiation is only just
beginning; she will slowly die of that denial of justice which she took
upon herself and which has become a devouring sore.... Abbé Quandieu
foresaw it and said it. It is not true that he fled from the Church in
any spirit of cowardice; he quitted his ministry bleeding and weeping,
and it is in grief that he is ending a life of misery and bitterness.'

By a rough gesture Gorgias signified that he did not intend to argue.
With his glowing eyes gazing far away into the galling memories of his
personal experiences, he scarcely listened to Marc, impatient as he was
to continue his own rageful diatribe.

'Good, good, I say what I think,' he resumed, 'but I don't prevent you
from thinking whatever you please.... There are, at all events, other
imbeciles and cowards whom you won't defend, for instance, that rascal
Father Théodose, the mirror of the devotees, the thieving cashier of
heaven!'

Thereupon Gorgias assailed the superior of the Capuchins with murderous
fury. He did not blame the worship of St. Antony of Padua. On the
contrary he praised it; he set all his hopes in miracles, he would
have liked to have seen the whole world bringing money to the shrine
of the Saint in order that the latter might persuade the Deity to
hurl His thunderbolts upon the cities of sin. But Father Théodose
was a mere conscienceless mountebank, who amassed money for himself
alone, and gave no assistance whatever to the afflicted servants of
God. Though hundreds of thousands of francs had formerly overflowed
from his collection boxes, he had not devoted even an occasional
five-franc piece to render life a little less hard than it was to the
poor Brothers of the Christian Doctrine, his neighbours. And now that
the gifts he received were dwindling year by year his avarice was even
greater. He had refused the smallest alms to him, Brother Gorgias, at a
time when he was in the most desperate circumstances, when, indeed, a
ten-franc piece might have saved his life.

They all abandoned him, yes, all--not only that lecherous
money-mongering Father Théodose, but even the other, the great chief,
the great culprit, who was as big a fool as he was a rascal. Then
Gorgias blurted out the name of Father Crabot which had been burning
his lips. Ah! Father Crabot, Father Crabot, he had worshipped him in
former times, he had served him on his knees in respectful silence,
ready to carry his devotion to the point of crime. He had then regarded
him as an all-powerful, able, and valiant master, favoured by Jesus,
who had promised him eternal victory in this world. By Father Crabot's
side he, Gorgias, had thought himself protected from the wicked,
assured of success in every enterprise, even the most dangerous. And
yet that venerated master to whom he had dedicated his life, that
glorious Father Crabot, now denied him and left him without shelter and
without a crust. He did worse indeed; he cast him upon the waters as
if he were a troublesome accomplice, whose disappearance was desired.
Besides, had he not always displayed the most monstrous egotism? Had
he not previously sacrificed poor Father Philibin, who had lately died
in the Italian convent where he had lingered, virtually dead, for many
years already? Father Philibin had been a hero, a victim, who had
invariably obeyed his superior, who had carried devotion so far as to
take upon his shoulders all the punishment for the deeds which had been
commanded of him and which he had done in silence. Yet another victim
was that hallucinated Brother Fulgence, a perfect nincompoop with his
excitable sparrow's brain, but who, none the less, had not deserved
to be swept away into the nothingness in which, somewhere or other,
he was dying. What good purpose had been served by all that villainy
and ingratitude? Had it not been as stupid as it was cruel on Father
Crabot's part to abandon in that fashion all his old friends, all the
instruments of his fortune? Had not his own position been shaken by
his conduct in allowing the others to be struck down? And had he never
thought that one of them might at last grow weary of it all, and rise
up and cast terrible truths in his face?

'Beneath all Crabot's grand manners,' cried Brother Gorgias excitedly,
'beneath all his reputation for cleverness and diplomatic skill, there
is rank stupidity. He must be quite a fool to treat me in the way he
does. But let him take care, let him take care, or else one of these
days, before long, I shall speak out!'

At this, Marc, who had been listening with passionate interest, made an
effort to hasten the other's revelations: 'Speak out? What have you to
say then?' he inquired.

'Nothing, nothing, there are only some matters between him and me--I
shall tell them to God alone, in a confession.' Then, reverting to his
bitter catalogue of accusations, Gorgias exclaimed: 'And, to finish,
there's that Brother Joachim, whom they have set at the head of our
school at Maillebois in Brother Fulgence's place. Joachim is another
of Father Crabot's creatures, a hypocrite, chosen on account of his
supposed skill and artfulness--one who imagines himself to be a great
man because he does not pull the ears of the little vermin entrusted to
him. You know the result--the school will soon have to be closed for
lack of pupils! If the wretched offspring of men are to grow up fairly
well, they must be trained by kicks and blows, as God requires....
And--if you want my opinion--there is only one priest imbued with the
right spirit in the whole region, and that is your Abbé Cognasse. He,
too, went to seek advice at Valmarie, and they nearly rotted him as
they rotted the others, by advising him to be supple and crafty. But he
fortunately regained possession of himself; it is with stones that he
now pursues the enemies of the Church! That is the right course for the
real saints to follow, that is the way in which God, when He chooses to
interfere, will end by reconquering the world!'

Thus speaking, Gorgias raised his clenched fists and brandished them
wildly, vehemently, in that usually quiet classroom where the little
lamp shed but a faint glimmer of light. Then, for a moment, came deep
silence, amid which one only heard the pouring rain pattering on the
window-panes.

'Well, at all events,' said Marc with a touch of irony, 'God seems to
have forsaken and sacrificed you even as your superiors have done.'

Brother Gorgias glanced at his wretched clothes and emaciated hands
which testified to his sufferings. 'It is true,' he answered, 'God has
chastised me severely for my transgressions and for those of others.
I bow to His will, He is working my salvation. But I do not forget, I
do not forgive the others for having aggravated my misery. Ah, the
bandits! Have they not condemned me to the most frightful existence
ever since they compelled me to quit Maillebois? It is in misery that I
have had to come back here to endeavour to wring from them the crust of
bread which is my due!'

He was unwilling to say more on that subject, but his tragic story
could be well divined by the shudder that came over him--the shudder of
a wild beast driven from the woods by hunger. The Order, no doubt, had
sent him from community to community, the poorest, the most obscure,
until at last it had finally cast him out altogether as being by far
too compromising. And then he had quitted his gown and rolled along
the roads, carrying with him the stigma attaching to a disfrocked
cleric. One would never know through what distant lands he had roamed,
what a life of privation and chance he had led, what unacknowledgeable
adventures he had met with, what shameful vices he had indulged in: one
could only read a little of all that on the tanned skin of his eager
face, in the depths of his eyes which glowed with suffering and hatred.
The greater part of his resources must certainly have come from his
former confederates, who had wished to purchase his silence and keep
him at a distance. Every now and again, when he had written letter upon
letter, when he had furiously threatened crushing revelations, some
small sum had been sent to him, and then for a few months he had been
able to prolong the wretched life he led as a waif whom all rejected.

But at last a time had come when he had no longer received any answer
to his applications, when his letters and his threats had remained
without any effect; for his former superiors had grown weary of his
voracious demands, and regarded him, perhaps, as being no longer
dangerous after the lapse of so many years. He himself was intelligent
enough to understand that his confessions could no longer have any very
serious consequences for his accomplices, but might even deprive him
of his last chance of extracting money from them. Nevertheless he had
resolved to return and prowl around Maillebois. He knew the Code, he
was aware that the law of limitation covered him. And thus for long
months he had been living, in some dark nook, on the five-franc pieces
which he wrung from the fears of Simon's accusers, who still trembled
at the thought of their shameful victory at Rozan. Yet they must again
have been growing weary of his persecution, for his bitterness was too
great; he would never have heaped so many insults upon them if they
had let him dip his hands in their purses, the previous day, by way of
once more purchasing his silence.

Marc readily understood the position. Brother Gorgias only sprang out
of the suspicious darkness in which he concealed himself when he had
spent his money in crapulous debauchery. And if he had come to Jonville
that winter night, in the pouring rain, it was assuredly because his
pockets were empty and because he expected to derive some profit from
that visit. But what profit could it be? What motive lurked beneath his
long and furious denunciation of the men of whom, according to his own
account, he had only been a docile instrument?

'So you are living at Maillebois?' inquired Marc, whose curiosity was
fully awakened.

'No, no, not at Maillebois.... I live where I can.'

'But I thought I had already seen you there before meeting you
on the Place des Capucins.... You were with one of your former
pupils--Polydor, I fancy.'

A faint smile appeared on Brother Gorgias's ravaged face. 'Polydor,'
said he, 'yes, yes, I was always very fond of him. He was a pious and
discreet lad. Like myself he has suffered from the maliciousness of
men. He has been accused of all sorts of crimes, cast out unjustly by
people who did not understand his nature. And I was glad to meet him
when I returned here; we set our wretchedness together, and consoled
each other, abandoning ourselves to the divine arms of our Lord.... But
Polydor is young, and he will end by treating me as the others have
done. For a month past I have been looking for him: he has disappeared.
Ah! everything is going wrong, there must be an end to it all!'

A raucous sigh escaped him, and Marc shuddered, for Gorgias's manner
and tone as he referred to Polydor afforded a glimpse of yet another
hell. But there was no time for reflection. Drawing nearer to the
schoolmaster the disfrocked brother resumed: 'Now, listen to me,
Monsieur Froment; I have had enough of it, I have come to tell you
everything.... Yes, if you will promise to listen to me as a priest
would listen, I will tell you the truth, the real truth. You are the
only man to whom I can make such a confession without doing violence
to my dignity or pride, for you alone have always been a disinterested
and loyal enemy.... So receive my confession, on the one understanding
that you will keep it secret until I authorise you to divulge it.'

But Marc hastily interrupted him: 'No, no, I will not enter into such a
compact. I have done nothing to provoke any revelations on your part;
you have come here of your own accord, and you say what you please.
Should you really place the truth in my hands, I mean to remain at
liberty to make use of it according as my conscience may bid me.'

Brother Gorgias scarcely hesitated. 'Well, let it be so; it is in your
conscience that I will confide,' said he.

Nevertheless he did not immediately speak out. Silence fell once more.
The rain was still streaming down the window panes, and gusts of wind
howled along the deserted streets, while the flame of the little
lamp began to flare amid the vague shadows which hovered about the
quiet room. Marc, gradually growing uncomfortable, suffering from all
the abominable memories which that man's presence aroused, glanced
anxiously at the door behind which Geneviève must have remained. Had
she heard what had been said? If so how uncomfortable must the stirring
up of all that old mud have made her feel also!

At last, after long remaining silent as if to impart yet more solemnity
to his confession, Brother Gorgias raised his hand towards the ceiling
in a dramatic manner, and after a fresh interval said slowly, in a
rough voice: 'It is true, I confess it before God, I entered little
Zéphirin's room on the night of the crime!'

At this, although Marc awaited the promised confession with a good deal
of scepticism, expecting to hear merely some more falsehoods, he was
unable to overcome a great shudder, a feeling of horror, which made him
spring to his feet. But Gorgias quietly motioned him to his chair again.

'I entered the room,' said he, 'or rather I leant from outside on
the window-bar at about twenty minutes past ten o'clock, before the
crime. And that is what I wished to tell you, in order to relieve my
conscience.... On leaving the Capuchin Chapel that night I undertook to
escort little Polydor to the cottage of his father, the road-mender,
on the way to Jonville, for fear of any mishap befalling the lad. We
left the chapel at ten o'clock, and if I took ten minutes to escort
Polydor home and ten minutes to return, it must, you see, have been
about twenty minutes past ten when I again passed before the school. As
I crossed the little deserted square I was surprised to see Zéphirin's
window lighted up and wide open. I drew near, and I saw the dear child
in his nightdress, setting out some religious prints, which some of
his companions at the first Communion had given him. And I scolded
him for not having closed his window, for the first passer-by might
easily have sprung into his room. But he laughed in his pretty way,
and complained of feeling very hot. It was, as you must remember, a
close and stormy night.... Well, I was making him promise that he would
do as I told him, and go to bed as soon as possible, when, among the
religious pictures set out on his table, I saw a copy-slip which had
come from my class, and which was stamped and initialled by me. It made
me angry to see it there, and I reminded Zéphirin that the boys were
forbidden to take away anything belonging to the school. He turned very
red, and tried to excuse himself, saying that he had taken the slip
home in order to finish an exercise. And he asked me to leave the slip
with him, promising to bring it back the next morning, and restore it
to me.... Then he closed his window, and I went off. That is the truth,
the whole truth, I swear it before God!'

Marc, who had how recovered his calmness, gazed at Gorgias fixedly,
endeavouring to conceal his impressions. 'You are quite sure that the
boy shut his window when you went away?' he asked.

'He shut it, and I heard him putting up the shutter-bar.'

'Then you still assert that Simon was guilty, for nobody could have got
in from outside; and you hold that Simon, after the crime, opened the
shutters again in order to cast suspicion on some unknown prowler?'

'Yes, it is still my opinion that Simon was the culprit. But there is
also this chance, that Zéphirin, oppressed by the heat, may have opened
the window again after I had gone.'

Marc was not deceived by that supposition, which was offered him as a
guide that might lead to a new fact. He even shrugged his shoulders,
feeling that as Gorgias still accused another of his crime, his
pretended confession had little value. At the same time, however, that
medley of fact and fiction cast just a little more light on the affair,
and this Marc desired to establish.

'Why did you not relate at the Assizes what you have now stated?' he
inquired. 'A great act of injustice might then have been avoided.'

'Why I did not relate it?' Gorgias replied. 'Why, because I should have
compromised myself to no good purpose! My own innocence would have been
doubted, and besides, I was then already convinced of Simon's guilt
even as I am now; and thus my silence was quite natural.... Moreover, I
repeat it, I had seen the copy-slip lying on the table.'

'Yes, only you now admit that it came from your school and that you
had stamped and initialled it yourself. You did not always say that,
remember.'

'Oh! those fools, Father Crabot and the others, imposed a ridiculous
story on me; and to prop up their senseless theory with the help of
their grotesque experts they afterwards invented the still more foolish
idea of a forged stamp.... For my part, I at once desired to admit the
authenticity of the copy-slip, which was self-evident. But I had to bow
to their authority, accept their ridiculous inventions, under penalty
of being abandoned and sacrificed.... You saw how furious they became
before the trial at Rozan, when I ended by acknowledging that the
paraph was mine. They wanted to save that unfortunate Philibin; they
fancied they were clever enough to spare the Church even the shadow of
a suspicion, and for that very reason they do not even now forgive me
for having ceased to repeat their lies!'

Then Marc, noticing that Gorgias was gradually becoming exasperated,
said, as if thinking aloud and by way of spurring him on: 'All the
same, it is very strange that the copy-slip should have been on the
child's table.'

'Strange! why? It often happened that one of the boys took a slip away
with him. Little Victor Milhomme had taken one, and it was that very
circumstance that made you suspect the truth as to the origin of the
slip.... But do you still accuse me of being the murderer? Do you still
believe that I walked about with that slip in my pocket? Come, is it
reasonable--eh?'

Gorgias spoke with such jeering, aggressive violence, his lips
twitching the while with that rictus which disclosed his wolfish teeth,
that Marc slightly lost countenance. In spite of his conviction of the
brother's guilt, that slip, which had come nobody knew whence, had
always seemed to him a very obscure feature of the affair. Even as the
Ignorantine constantly repeated, it was scarcely likely that he had
carried the paper in his pocket that evening on quitting the ceremony
at the Capuchin Chapel. Whence had it come then? How was it that
Gorgias had found it mingled with a copy of _Le Petit Beaumontais_?
Marc felt that if he had been able to penetrate that mystery the whole
affair would have been perfectly clear. To conceal his perplexity he
tried an argument: 'It wasn't necessary for you to have the slip in
your pocket,' said he, 'for you have said that you saw it lying on the
table.'

But Brother Gorgias had now risen, either yielding to his usual
vehemence or playing some comedy in order to end the interview, which
was not taking the course he desired. Black and bent, he walked up and
down the shadowy room, gesticulating wildly.

'On the table, yes, of course I saw it on the table! If I say that, it
is because I have nothing to fear from such an admission. You suppose
me to be guilty, but in that case do you imagine I should give you a
weapon by telling you where I took the slip!... We say it was on the
table, eh? So it would follow that I took it up, and took a newspaper
also out of my pocket, and crumpled it up with the slip, in order to
turn both into a gag. What an operation--eh?--at such a moment, how
logical and simple it would have been!... But no, no! If the newspaper
was in my pocket the slip must have been there also. Prove that it was;
for otherwise you have nothing substantial and decisive to go upon. And
it wasn't in my pocket, for I saw it on the table, I swear it again
before God!'

Wildly, savagely, he drew near to Marc and cast in his face those words
in which one detected a kind of audacious provocation, compounded of
scraps of truth, impudently set forth in the shape of suppositions,
falsehoods that barely masked the frightful scene which he must have
lived afresh with a frightful, demoniacal delight.

But Marc, cast into disturbing perplexity, feeling that he would
learn nothing useful from his visitor, had also decided to end the
interview. 'Listen,' said he, 'why should I believe you? You come here
and you tell me a tale which is the third version you have given of the
affair.... At the outset you agreed with the prosecution; the slip, you
said, belonged to the secular school; you did not initial it; it was
Simon who had done so in order to cast his crime on you. Then, on the
discovery of the stamped corner torn off by Father Philibin, you felt
it impossible to shelter yourself any longer behind the stupid report
of the experts; you admitted that the initialling was your work, and
that the slip had come from you. At present, with what motive I do not
know, you make a fresh confession to me; you assert that you saw little
Zéphirin in his room a few minutes before the crime, that the copy-slip
was then lying on his table, that you scolded him, and that he closed
his shutters.... Well, think it over; there is no reason why I should
regard this version as final. I shall wait to hear the plain truth, if
indeed it ever pleases you to tell it.'

Pausing in his stormy perambulations, Brother Gorgias drew up his gaunt
and tragic figure. His eyes were blazing, an evil laugh distorted his
face once more. For a moment he remained silent. Then in a jeering way
he said: 'As you choose, Monsieur Froment! I came here in a friendly
spirit to give you some particulars about the affair, which still
interests you as you have not renounced the hope of getting Simon
rehabilitated. You can make use of those particulars; I authorise you
to make them known. And I ask you for no thanks, for I no longer expect
any gratitude from men.'

Then he wrapped himself in his ragged cloak, and went off as he had
come, opening the doors himself, and giving never a glance behind.
Outside the icy rain was coming down in furious squalls, the wind
filled the street with its howls, and Gorgias vanished like a ghost
into the depths of the lugubrious darkness.

Geneviève had now opened the door behind which she had remained
listening. Stupefied by all she had heard she let her arms drop,
and for a moment remained gazing at Marc, who likewise stood there
motionless, at a loss whether to laugh or to feel angry.

'He is mad, my friend,' said Geneviève. 'If I had been in your place
I should not have had the patience to listen to him so long; he lies
as he has always lied!' Then, as Marc seemed inclined to take things
gaily, she continued: 'No, no, it is not at all amusing. The revival of
all those horrid things has made me feel quite ill and anxious also,
for I do not understand what can have been his purpose in coming here.
Why did he make that pretended confession? Why did he select you to
hear it?'

'Oh! I think I know, my dear,' Marc answered. 'In all probability
Father Crabot and the others no longer give him a copper, that is,
apart from some petty monthly allowance which they may have arranged to
make him. And as the rascal has a huge appetite he tries to terrify
them from time to time, in order to extract some big sum from them.
I have had information; they have done their utmost to induce him to
leave the region. Twice already, by filling his pockets they have
prevailed on him to do so; but as soon as his pockets were empty he
came back. They dare not employ the police in the affair, otherwise the
gendarmes would have rid them of him long ago. And so, once again, as
they have refused to let him have more money, he wishes to give them a
good fright by threatening to tell me everything. And he has told me
just a little truth mixed with a great deal of falsehood, in the hope
that I may speak of it, and that the others in their fright may pay him
well to prevent him from telling me all the rest.'

This logical explanation restored the calmness of Geneviève, who merely
added: 'The rest--the full, plain truth--he will never tell it!'

'Who knows?' Marc retorted. 'His craving for money is great, but
there is yet more hatred in his heart. And he is courageous; he would
willingly risk his skin to revenge himself on those old accomplices who
have cowardly forsaken him. Moreover, in spite of all his crimes, he
really belongs to his Deity of extermination; he glows with a sombre,
devouring faith, which would prompt him to martyrdom if he only thought
that he might thereby win salvation and cast his enemies into the
torments of hell.'

'Shall you try to make any use of what he told you?' Geneviève inquired.

'No, I think not. I shall talk it over with Delbos; but he, I know, has
resolved that he will only move when he has a certainty to act upon....
Ah! poor Simon, I despair of ever seeing him rehabilitated; I have
become so old!'

All at once, however, the new fact, awaited for so many years, became
manifest, and Marc then beheld the realisation of the most ardent
desire of his life. Delbos, who placed no faith in any help from
Brother Gorgias, had set all his hopes on the Rozan medical man, that
Dr. Beauchamp, a juror at the second trial, to whom Judge Gragnon
was said to have made his second illegal communication, and who was
reported to be tortured by remorse. This scent Delbos followed with
infinite patience, having a watch kept upon the doctor, who preserved
silence in compliance with the entreaties of his wife, a very pious
and also sickly woman, whose death would probably have been hastened
by any scandal. All at once indeed she died, and Delbos then no
longer doubted the success of his enterprise. It took him another six
months to perfect his arrangements; he managed to enter into direct
relations with Beauchamp, whom he found all anxiety and indecision,
assailed by a variety of scruples. But at last the doctor made up
his mind to hand the advocate a signed statement in which he related
how one day a friend, acting on behalf of Gragnon, had shown him the
pretended confession which a workman, dying at the Beaumont hospital,
was said to have made to one of the sisters--a confession in which
this man acknowledged that he had engraved a false stamp for Simon,
the Maillebois schoolmaster. And Beauchamp added that this secret
communication alone had convinced him of the guilt of Simon, whom
previously he had been disposed to acquit for lack of all serious proof.

Having secured this decisive statement Delbos did not act
precipitately. He waited a little longer. He gathered together other
documents, which showed that Gragnon had communicated his extravagant
forgery to other jurors, men of the most amazing credulity. Equally
extraordinary was it to find that the ex-presiding judge had dared to
repeat the trick of Beaumont, carrying a gross forgery in his pocket,
circulating it secretly through Rozan, exploiting human imbecility
with the most sovereign contempt. And twice had the trick succeeded,
Gragnon on the second occasion saving himself from the galleys by sheer
criminal audacity. He was now beyond the reach of punishment, for he
had lately died, perishing miserably, quite withered away, his features
furrowed, it seemed, by invisible claws. And it was certainly his death
which had induced Dr. Beauchamp to speak out.

Marc and David had long thought that the Simon affair would be quite
settled when the personages compromised in it should have disappeared.
At present ex-investigating Magistrate Daix was also dead, while the
former Procureur de la République, Raoul de La Bissonnière, had lately
been retired with the grant of a Commandership of the Legion of Honour.
Then Counsellor Guybaraud, who had presided at the Assizes at Rozan,
having been stricken with hemiplegia, was passing away between his
confessor and a servant-mistress; whereas Pacard, the ex-demagogue
who in spite of a nasty story of cheating at cards had managed to
become a public prosecutor, had quitted the magistracy to take up
somewhat mysterious duties at Rome as legal adviser to some of the
congregations. Again, at Beaumont there were great changes in the
political, administrative, clerical, and teaching worlds. Other men
had succeeded Lemarrois, Marcilly, Hennebise, Bergerot, Forbes, and
Mauraisin. Of the direct accomplices in the crime, Father Philibin
had died far away, Brother Fulgence had disappeared, being also dead
perhaps, in such wise that there only remained Father Crabot, the great
chief. But even he had withdrawn from among the living, cloistered, it
was alleged, in some lonely cell, where he was spending his last years
in great penitence.

And thus there was quite a new social atmosphere; politics had
altogether changed, men's passions were no longer the same when Delbos,
having at last collected the weapons he desired, brought the affair
forward once more with masterly energy. Of recent years he had risen
to a position of influence in the Chamber of Deputies, so he took his
documents straight to the Minister of Justice and speedily prevailed
on him to lay the new fact before the Court of Cassation. It is true
that a debate on the subject ensued the very next day, but the Minister
contented himself with stating that the matter was purely and simply a
legal one, and that the Government could not allow it to be turned once
more into a political question. And then, amid the indifference with
which this old Simon affair was now regarded, a vote of confidence in
the Government was passed by a considerable majority. As for the Court
of Cassation, which still smarted from the smack it had received at
Rozan, it tried the case with extraordinary despatch, purely and simply
annulling the Rozan verdict without sending Simon before any other
tribunal. It was all, so to say, a mere formality; in three phrases
everything was effaced, and justice was done at last.

Thus, then, in all simplicity, the innocence of Simon was recognised
and proclaimed amid the pure glow of truth triumphant after so many
years of falsehood and of crime.




III


On the morrow of the court's judgment there came an extraordinary
revival of emotion at Maillebois. There was no surprise, for those who
now believed in Simon's innocence were very numerous; but the material
fact of that decisive legal rehabilitation upset everybody. And the
same thought came to men of the most varied views. They approached one
another, and they said:

'What! can no possible reparation be offered to that unfortunate man
who suffered so dreadfully? Doubtless neither money nor honours of any
kind could indemnify him for his horrible martyrdom. But when a whole
people has been guilty of such an abominable error, when it has turned
a fellow-being into such a pitiable, suffering creature, it would be
good that it should acknowledge its fault, and confer some triumph on
that man by a great act of frankness, in which truth and justice would
find recognition.'

From that moment, indeed, the idea that reparation was necessary
gained ground, spreading by degrees through the entire region. One
circumstance touched every heart. While the Court of Cassation was
examining the documents respecting the illegal communication made at
Rozan, old Lehmann, the tailor, who had reached his ninetieth year, lay
dying in that wretched house of the Rue du Trou which had been saddened
by so many tears and so much mourning. His daughter Rachel had hastened
from her Pyrenean retreat in order that she might be beside him at
the last hour. But every morning, by some effort of will, the old man
seemed to revive; being unwilling to die, said he, so long as justice
should not have been done to the honour of his son-in-law and his
grandchildren. And, indeed, it was only on the night of the day when
the news of the acquittal reached him that he at last expired, radiant
with supreme joy.

After the funeral Rachel immediately rejoined Simon and David in their
solitude, where they intended to remain for another four or five
years, when perhaps they might sell their marble quarry and liquidate
their little fortune. And it so happened that the old house of the Rue
du Trou was now demolished, a happy inspiration coming to the Municipal
Council of Maillebois to purify that sordid district of the town by
carrying a broad thoroughfare through it, and laying out a small
recreation-ground for the working-class children. Sarah, whose husband
Sébastien had now been appointed head-master of one of the Beaumont
schools, had sold the tailoring business to a Madame Savin, a relative
of those Savins who in former times had pelted her brother Joseph and
herself with stones; and thus no trace remained of the spot where the
Simon family had wept so bitterly in the distant days, when each letter
arriving from the innocent prisoner in the penal settlement yonder
had brought them fresh torture. Trees now grew there in the sunshine,
flowers shed their perfume beside the lawns, and it seemed as if it
were from that health-bringing spot that spread the covert remorse of
Maillebois, its desire to repair the frightful iniquity of the past.

Nevertheless, things slumbered for a long time yet. A period of four
years went by, during which only individual suggestions were made,
no general agreement being arrived at. But generation was following
generation; after the children had come the grandchildren, and then the
great-grandchildren of those who had persecuted Simon, in such wise
that quite a new population ended by dwelling in Maillebois. Yet it was
necessary for the great evolution towards other social conditions to
be entirely accomplished, in order that the seed which had been sown
should yield a harvest of citizens freed from error and falsehood, to
whom one might look for a great manifestation of equity.

Meantime life continued, and the valiant workers whose task was
completed made way for their children. Marc and Geneviève, now nearly
seventy years old, retired, and the Jonville schools were entrusted to
their son Clément and his wife Charlotte, Hortense Savin's daughter,
who, like himself, had adopted the teaching profession. Mignot, on
his side, had quitted Le Moreux and retired to Jonville, in order to
be near Marc and Geneviève, who dwelt in a small house near their
old school. Thus the village held quite a little colony of the first
participators in the great enterprise, for Salvan and Mademoiselle
Mazeline were still alive, enjoying a smiling and kindly old age.
Then, at Maillebois, the boys' school was in the hands of Joseph, and
the girls' school in those of his wife Louise. He was now forty-four,
she two years younger; and they had a big son, François, who, in his
twenty-second year, had married his cousin Thérèse, the daughter of
Sébastien and Sarah, by whom he had a beautiful baby-girl named Rose,
now barely a twelvemonth old. Joseph and Louise were bent on never
quitting Maillebois, and they gently chaffed Sébastien and Sarah
respecting the honours which awaited them; for there was now a question
of appointing Sébastien to the directorship of the Training College
where Salvan had worked so well. As for François and Thérèse, who by
hereditary vocation had also adopted the scholastic profession, they
now dwelt at Dherbecourt, where both had become assistant teachers. And
what a swarming of the sowers of truth there was on certain Sundays
when the whole family assembled at Jonville round the grandparents,
Marc and Geneviève! And what fine, bright health was brought from
Beaumont by Sébastien and Sarah, from Maillebois by Joseph and Louise,
from Dherbecourt by François and Thérèse, who came carrying their
little Rose; while at Jonville they were met by Clément and Charlotte,
who also had a daughter, Lucienne, now a big girl, nearly seven years
of age! And, again, what a table had to be laid for that gathering of
the four generations, particularly when their good friends Salvan,
Mignot, and Mademoiselle Mazeline were willing to join them to drink
to the defeat of Ignorance, the parent of every evil and every form of
servitude!

The times of human liberation, which had been so long in coming,
which had been awaited so feverishly, were now being brought to pass
by sudden evolutions. A terrible blow had been dealt to the Church,
for the last Legislature had voted the complete separation of Church
and State,[1] and the millions formerly given to the priests, who
had employed them to perpetuate among the people both hatred of the
Republic and such abasement as was suited to a flock kept merely to
be sheared, would now be better employed in doubling the salaries of
the elementary schoolmasters. Thus the situation was entirely changed:
the schoolmaster ceased to be the poor devil, the ill-paid varlet,
whom the peasant regarded with so much contempt when he thought of
the well-paid priest, who waxed fat on surplice fees and the presents
of the devout. The priest ceased to be a functionary, drawing pay
from the State revenue, supported both by the prefect and by the
bishop; and thus he lost the respect of the country-folk. They no
longer feared him; he was but a kind of chance sacristan, dependent
on a few remaining believers, who from time to time paid him for a
Mass. Again, the churches ceased to be State institutions, and became
theatres run on commercial lines, subsisting on the payments made
by the spectators, the last admirers of the ceremonies performed in
them. It was certain, too, that before long many would have to close
their doors, business already being so bad with some that they were
threatened with bankruptcy. And nothing could be more typical than the
position of that terrible Abbé Cognasse, whose outbursts of passion
had so long upset Le Moreux and Jonville. His numerous lawsuits had
remained famous; one could no longer count the number of times he
had been fined for pulling boys' ears, kicking women, and flinging
stones from his garden wall upon those passers who declined to make
the sign of the Cross. Nevertheless, he had retained his office amid
all the worries brought upon him by the citations he received, for he
was virtually irremovable and exercised a paid State function. When,
however, in consequence of the separation of Church and State, he
suddenly became merely the representative of an opinion, a belief,
when he ceased to receive State pay to impose that belief on others,
he lapsed into such nothingness that people no longer bowed to him. In
a few months' time he found himself almost alone in his church with
his old servant Palmyre, for, however much the latter might pull the
bell-rope with her shrivelled arms, only some five or six women still
came to Mass. A little later there were but three, and finally only one
came. She, fortunately, persevered, and the Abbé was pleased to be able
to celebrate the offices in her presence, for he feared lest he should
have the same deplorable experience at Jonville as he had encountered
at Le Moreux. During a period of three months he had gone every Sunday
to the latter village in order to say Mass without even being able to
get a child as server, so that he had been obliged to take his little
clerk with him from Jonville. And during those three months nobody had
come to worship; he had officiated in solitude in the dank, dark,
empty church. Naturally, he had ended by no longer returning thither,
and at present the closed church was rotting away and falling into
ruins. When, indeed, one of the functions of social life disappears,
the building and the man associated with it become useless and likewise
disappear. And in spite of the violent demeanour which Abbé Cognasse
still preserved, his great dread was that he might see his last
parishioner forsake him and his church closed, crumbling away amidst an
invading growth of brambles.

[Footnote 1: It will be understood that in the above passage M. Zola
anticipates events; but it may be remarked that the separation of
Church and State in France within a few years has never appeared more
likely than it does now (1902-3).--_Trans._]

At Maillebois the separation of Church and State had dealt a last blow
to the once prosperous School of the Christian Brothers. Victorious
over the secular school at the time of the Simon case, it had fallen
into increasing disfavour as the truth had gradually become manifest.
But with true clerical obstinacy it had been kept in existence even
when only four and five pupils could be recruited for it; and the new
laws and the dispersion of the community had been needed to close its
doors. The Church was now driven from the national educational service.
Henceforth to the sixteen hundred thousand children whom year by year
the Congregations had poisoned, a system of purely secular instruction
was to be applied. And the reform had spread from the primary to the
secondary establishments. Even the celebrated College of Valmarie,
already weakened by the expulsion of the Jesuits, was stricken unto
death by the great work of renovation which was in progress. The
principle of integral and gratuitous instruction for all citizens was
beginning to prevail. Why should there be two Frances? Why should
there be a lower class doomed to ignorance, and an upper class alone
endowed with instruction and culture? Was not this nonsense? Was it
not a fault, a danger in a democracy, all of whose children should be
called upon to increase the nation's sum of intelligence and strength?
In the near future all the children of France, united in a bond of
brotherliness, would begin their education in the primary schools,
and would thence pass into the secondary and the superior schools,
according to their aptitudes, their choice, and their tastes. This was
an urgent reform, a great work of salvation and glory, the necessity of
which was plainly indicated by the great contemporary social movement,
that downfall of the exhausted _bourgeoisie_ and the irresistible rise
of the masses, in whom quivered the energies of to-morrow. Henceforth
it was on them one would have to draw; and among them, as in some huge
reservoir of accumulated force, one would find the men of sense, truth,
and equity, who, in the name of happiness and peace, would build the
city of the future. But, as a first step, the bestowal of gratuitous
national education on all the children would finish killing off those
pretended free and voluntary schools, those hotbeds of clerical
infection, where the only work accomplished was a work of servitude
and death. And after the Brothers' school of Maillebois, now empty
and long since virtually dead, after the College of Valmarie, whose
buildings and grounds were shortly to be sold, the last religious
communities would soon disappear, together with all their teaching
establishments, their factories of divers kinds, and their princely
domains, which represented millions of money filched from human
imbecility and expended to maintain the human flock in subjection under
the slaughterer's knife.

Nevertheless, near the dismal Brothers' school of Maillebois, where the
shutters were closed and where spiders spun their webs in the deserted
classrooms, the Capuchin community maintained its chapel dedicated to
St. Antony, whose painted and gilded statue still stood there erect
in a place of honour. But in vain did Father Théodose, now very aged,
exert himself to invent some more extraordinary financial devices.
The zeal of the masses was exhausted, and only a few old devotees
occasionally slipped half-franc pieces into the dusty collection-boxes.
It was rumoured, indeed, that the saint had lost his power. He could
no longer even find lost things. One day, too, an old woman actually
climbed upon a chair in the chapel and slapped the cheeks of his statue
because, instead of healing her sick goat, he had allowed the animal
to die. Briefly, thanks to public good sense, aroused at last by the
acquirement of a little knowledge, one of the basest of superstitions
was dying.

Meantime, at the ancient and venerable parish church of St. Martin's,
Abbé Coquard, encountering much the same experience as Abbé Cognasse
at Jonville, found himself more and more forsaken, in such wise that
it seemed as if he would soon officiate in the solitude and darkness
of a necropolis. Unlike Cognasse, however, he evinced no violence.
Rigid, gloomy, and silent, he seemed to be leading religion to the
grave, preserving the while a sombre stubbornness, refusing to concede
anything whatever to the impious men of the age. In his distress he
more particularly sought refuge in the worship of the Sacred Heart,
decorating his church with all the flags which the neighbouring
parishes refused to keep--large red, white, and blue flags, on which
huge gory hearts were embroidered in silk and gold. One of his altars,
too, was covered with other hearts--of metal, porcelain, goffered
leather, and painted mill-board. Of all sizes were these, and one
might have thought them just plucked from some bosom, for they seemed
to be still warm, to palpitate and shed tears of blood, in such wise
that the altar looked like some butcher's gory stall. But that gross
re-incarnation no longer touched the masses, which had learnt that a
people stricken by disaster raises itself afresh by work and reason,
and not by penitence at the feet of monstrous idols. As religions grow
old and sink into carnal and base idolatries they seem to rot and
fritter away in mouldiness. If the Roman Church, however, was thus
at the last gasp, it was, as Abbé Quandieu had said, because it had
virtually committed suicide on the day when it had become an upholder
of iniquity and falsehood. How was it that it had not foreseen that by
siding with liars and forgers it must disappear with them, and share
the shame of their infamy on the inevitable day when the innocent and
the just would triumph in the full sunlight? Its real master was no
longer the Jesus of innocence, of gentleness and charity; it had openly
denied Him, driven Him from His temple; and all it retained was that
heart of flesh, that barbarous fetish with which it hoped to influence
the sick nerves of the poor in spirit. Laden with years and bitterness,
Abbé Quandieu had lately passed away repeating: 'They have for the
second time condemned and crucified the Lord--the Church will die of
it.' And dying it was.

Moreover, it was not passing away alone; the aristocratic and
_bourgeois_ classes, on which it had vainly sought to lean, were
collapsing also. All the ancient noble and military forces, even the
financial powers, were collapsing, stricken with madness and impotence,
since the reorganisation of the conditions of work had been leading to
an equitable distribution of the national wealth. Some characteristic
incidents which occurred at La Désirade showed what a wretched fate
fell on the whilom rich and powerful, whose millions flowed away like
water. Hector de Sanglebœuf lost his seat in the Chamber when the
electorate, enlightened and moralised by the new schools, at last rid
itself of all reactionary and violent representatives. But a greater
misfortune was the death of the Marchioness de Boise, that intelligent
and broad-minded woman who had so long promoted prosperity and peace
at La Désirade. When she was gone the vain and foolish Sanglebœuf
went altogether wrong, becoming a gambler, losing huge sums at play,
and descending to ignoble amours; with the result that he was one day
brought home beaten unmercifully--so battered, indeed, that three
days later he died; no complaint, however, being lodged with the
authorities, for fear of all the mud which would soil his memory if the
real facts of his death were brought to light.

His wife, the once beautiful and indolent Léa, the pious and ever
sleepy Marie of later times, then remained alone amid the splendours
of that large estate. When her father, Baron Nathan, the millionaire
Jew banker, suddenly died after being confined by paralysis to his
sumptuous mansion in the Champs Élysées, he had long ceased to see
her; and he left her as little as possible of his fortune, slices
of which had already gone to all sorts of aristocratic charitable
enterprises, and even to certain ladies of society who, during the
final years of his life, had procured him the illusion of imagining
that he had become really one of their set, and was quite cleansed of
all his Jewry. However, his supine and indolent daughter, who had never
known a passion in her life, not even one for money, paid due honour
to his memory, even ordering Masses to be said for his soul, by way
of compelling heaven to admit him within its precincts; for, as she
often repeated, he had rendered quite enough services to Catholicism to
be entitled to a place on the Deity's right hand. And now, having no
children, Léa led a lonely life at La Désirade, which remained empty
and deathly, enclosed on every side by walls and railings, which shut
out the public as if it were some forbidden paradise. Yet there were
rumours to the effect that, on the closing of the College of Valmarie,
the Countess had granted an asylum to her old friend Father Crabot, who
had now reached a very great age. His removal to La Désirade was said
by some to be a mere change of cell, for in an ascetic spirit he was
content to occupy a little garret formerly assigned to a servant, and
furnished with merely an iron bedstead, a deal table, and a rush-seated
chair. But he none the less reigned over the estate, as if he were
its sovereign master; the only visitors being a few priests and other
clerics, who came to take counsel of him, and whose gowns might be
seen occasionally gliding between the clumps of verdure or past the
marble basins and their plashing waters. Though his ninetieth year
was past, Crabot, ever a conqueror of women, a bewitcher of pious
souls, repeated the triumphant stroke of his earlier days. He had
lost Valmarie, that royal gift, which he had owed to the love of the
Countess de Quédeville, but he won La Désirade from the good grace
of that ever-beautiful Léa, whom he so fervently called 'my sister
Marie in Jesus Christ.' As manager and almoner he set his hands on her
fortune, financing all sorts of religious enterprises, and subscribing
lavishly to the funds which the reactionary parties established for the
purpose of carrying on their desperate campaign against the Republic
and its institutions. And thus, when the Countess was found dead on her
couch one evening, looking as if in her indolence she had just fallen
asleep, she was ruined; her millions had all passed into the cash-boxes
of the Black Band, and there only remained the estate of La Désirade,
which was willed to Father Crabot on the one condition that he should
there establish some such Christian enterprise as he might choose to
select.

But these were merely the last convulsions of an expiring world. All
Maillebois was now passing into the hands of those Socialists whom the
pious dames of other times had pictured as bandits, cut-throats, and
footpads. That whilom clerical centre had now gone so completely over
to the cause of reason that not a single reactionary member remained
in its Municipal Council. Both Philis, once the priests' mayor, and
Darras, the so-called traitors' mayor, were dead, and the latter,
who was remembered as a man of weak, timorous, hesitating mind, had
been replaced by a mayor of great good sense and industrious energy;
this being Jules Savin, the younger brother of the twins, those
mediocrities, Achille and Philippe. Jules, after marrying a peasant
girl named Rosalie Bonin, had worked most courageously, in fifteen
years establishing an admirable model farm, which had revolutionised
the agricultural methods of the region and greatly increased its
wealth. He was now barely more than forty years old, and rather
stubborn by nature, for he only yielded to substantial arguments which
tended to the general good. And it was under his presidency that the
Municipal Council at last found itself called upon to examine a scheme
for offering some public reparation to Simon--that idea which had
slumbered for a few years, and which now awoke once more.

The subject had frequently been mentioned to Marc, who, indeed, could
never come to Maillebois without encountering somebody who spoke to him
about it. In this respect he was particularly moved one day when he
happened to meet Adrien Doloir, a son of his former pupil Auguste by
his wife Angèle. Adrien, after studying successfully under Joulic, had
become an architect of great merit, and though barely eight and twenty
years of age, had been lately elected to the Municipal Council; of
which, indeed, he was the youngest member, one whose schemes were said
to be somewhat bold, though none the less practical.

'Ah! my dear Monsieur Froment, how pleased I am to meet you!' he
exclaimed as he accosted Marc. 'It so happens that I wished to go over
to Jonville to speak to you.'

Like all the young men of the new generation, who loved and venerated
Marc as a patriarch, as one of the great workers of the heroic times,
Adrien addressed him most deferentially, standing uncovered, with his
hat in his hand. Personally, he had only been a pupil of Marc for a
very brief period, when he was very young indeed; but his brother and
his uncles had all grown up in the old master's class.

'What do you desire of me, my dear lad?' inquired Marc, who felt both
brightened and moved whenever he met any of his former boys or their
children.

'Well, it is like this. Can you tell me if it is true that the Simon
family will soon return to Maillebois? It is said that Simon and
his brother David have decided to quit the Pyrenees and settle here
again.... Is it true? You must be well acquainted with their views.'

'Such is certainly their intention,' Marc responded with his pleasant
smile. 'But I do not think one can expect them till next year; for,
though they have found a purchaser for their marble quarry, they are to
carry it on for another twelvemonth. Besides, a variety of matters will
have to be settled, and they themselves cannot yet tell exactly how and
when they will install themselves here.'

'But if we have only a year before us,' exclaimed Adrien with
sudden excitement, 'we shall barely have the necessary time for the
realisation of a plan I have formed.... I wish to submit it to you
before doing anything decisive. What day would be convenient for me to
call on you at Jonville?'

Marc, who intended to spend the day at Maillebois with his daughter
Louise, pointed out that it would be preferable to profit by this
opportunity, and Adrien assenting, it was eventually arranged that he
should call at the latter's house in the afternoon. This house was a
pleasant dwelling, built by Adrien himself on one of the fields of
the farm which had belonged to the old Bongards, in the outskirts of
Maillebois. They had long been dead, and the property had remained
in the hands of Fernand, the father of Claire, to whom Adrien was
married. Thus many memories arose in Marc's mind when, with a still
firm and brave step, he walked past the old farm-buildings on his way
to the architect's little house. Had he not repaired to that same
spot forty years previously--on the very day, indeed, of Simon's
arrest--with the object of collecting information in his friend's
favour? In imagination Marc again accosted Bongard, the stoutly built
and narrow-minded peasant, and his bony and suspicious wife, and found
them both stubbornly determined to say nothing, for fear lest they
might compromise themselves. He well remembered that he had been unable
to extract anything from them, incapable as they were of any act of
justice, since they knew nothing and would learn nothing, being, so to
say, only so much brute matter steeped in a thick layer of ignorance.

With a sigh, Marc passed on and rang at the gate of Adrien's house. The
young architect was awaiting him under an old apple tree, whose strong
branches, laden with fruit, sheltered a few garden chairs and a table.
'Ah, master!' Adrien exclaimed, 'what an honour you do me by coming to
sit here for a little while! But I have another favour to ask of you.
You must kiss my little Georgette, for it will bring her good luck!'

Beside Adrien was Claire, his wife, a smiling blonde, scarcely in her
twenty-fourth year, with a limpid face and eyes all intelligence and
kindness. It was she who presented the little girl, a pretty child,
fair like her mother, and already very knowing for her five years.

'You must remember, my treasure, that Monsieur Froment has kissed you,
for it will make you glorious all your life!'

'Oh, I know, mamma! I often hear you talk of him,' said Georgette. 'It
is as if a little of the sun came down to see me.'

At this the others began to laugh; but all at once Claire's father and
mother, Fernand Bongard and his wife Lucille, made their appearance,
having heard that the old schoolmaster intended to call, and wishing to
show him some politeness. Although Fernand, with his hard nut, had been
anything but a satisfactory pupil in bygone years, Marc was pleased to
see him once more. The farmer, now near his fiftieth year, still looked
very dull and heavy, as if he were scarcely awake, and his manner
remained an uneasy one.

'Well, Fernand,' Marc said to him, 'you ought to be pleased; this has
been a good year for the grain crops.'

'Yes, Monsieur Froment, there's some truth in that. But the year's
never a really good one. When things go well in one respect they go
badly in another. And, besides, I never had any luck, you know.'

His wife, whose mind was sharper than his, thereupon ventured to
intervene. 'He says that, Monsieur Froment, because he always used to
be the last of his class, and because he imagines that a spell was cast
on him by some gipsy when he was quite a little child. A spell, indeed!
As if there were any sense in such an idea! It would be different if he
believed in the devil, for there is a devil sure enough. Mademoiselle
Rouzaire, whose best pupil I was, showed him to me one day, a short
time before my first Communion.'

Then, as Claire made merry over this statement, and even little
Georgette laughed very irreverently at the idea of there being any
such thing as a devil, Lucille continued: 'Oh! I know that you believe
in nothing. None of the young folks of nowadays have any religious
principles left. Mademoiselle Mazeline made strong-minded women of
you all. Nevertheless, one evening, as I well remember, Mademoiselle
Rouzaire showed us a shadow passing over the wall, and told us it was
the devil. And it was, indeed!'

Adrien, somewhat embarrassed by his mother-in-law's chatter, now
interrupted her, and addressed Marc on the subject of his visit. They
had all seated themselves, Claire taking Georgette on her lap, while
her father and mother kept a little apart from the others, the former
smoking his pipe and the latter knitting a stocking.

'Well, master, this is the question,' said Adrien. 'Many young people
of the district feel that great dishonour will rest on the name of
Maillebois as long as the town has not repaired, as well as it can, the
frightful iniquity which it allowed, and in which, indeed, it became
an accomplice, when Simon was condemned. His legal acquittal does not
suffice; for us--the children and grandchildren of the persecutors--it
is a duty to confess and efface the transgression of our forerunners.
Yesterday evening, at my father's house, on seeing my grandfather and
my uncles there, I again asked them: "How was it that you ever allowed
such stupid and monstrous iniquity, when the exercise of a little
reason ought to have sufficed to prevent it?" And, as usual, they made
vague gestures and answered that they did not know, that they could not
know.'

Silence fell, and all eyes turned towards Fernand, who belonged to the
incriminated generations. But he likewise rid himself of the question
by taking his pipe from his mouth and gesticulating in an embarrassed
way, while he remarked: 'Well, to be sure, we didn't know--how could we
have known? My father and mother could scarcely sign their names, and
they were not so imprudent as to meddle in their neighbours' affairs,
for they might have got punished for it. And though I had learnt rather
more than they had, I wasn't learned by any means; and so I distrusted
the whole business, for a man does not care to risk his skin and his
money when he feels he is ignorant.... To you young men nowadays it
seems very easy to be brave and wise, because you've been well taught.
But I should have liked to have seen you as we were--with no means of
telling right from wrong, with our minds at sea amid a lot of affairs
in which nobody could distinguish anything certain.'

'That's true,' said Lucille. 'I never thought myself a fool, but all
the same I could not understand much of that business, and I tried not
to think of it, for my mother was always repeating that poor folk ought
not to meddle with the affairs of the rich, unless they wanted to get
poorer still.'

Marc had listened with silent gravity. All the past came back: he heard
old Bongard and his wife refuse to answer him, like the illiterate
peasants they were, whose one desire was to continue toiling and
moiling in quietude; and he also remembered Fernand's demeanour on the
morrow of the trial at Rozan, when he had still shrugged his shoulders,
still persisted in his desire to know nothing. How many years and what
prolonged teaching of human reason and civic courage had been needed
before a new generation had at last opened its eyes to truth, dared to
recognise and admit it! And as Marc looked at Fernand he began to nod,
as if to say that he thought the farmer's excuses good ones; for he was
already inclined to forgive those persecutors whose ignorance had been
the chief cause of their crime. And he ended by smiling at Georgette,
in whom, on the other hand, the future seemed to be flowering, as she
sat there with her beautiful eyes wide open and her keen ears on the
alert, waiting, one might have thought, for some fine story.

'And so, master,' Adrien resumed, 'my plan is a very simple one. As you
are aware, some great improvements have been effected at Maillebois
lately, with the view of rendering the old quarter of the town more
salubrious. An avenue has replaced those sewers, the Rue Plaisir and
the Rue Fauche, while on the site of the filthy Rue du Trou is a
recreation-ground, which the children of the neighbourhood fill with
their play and their laughter. Well, among the building land in front
of that square is the very spot on which stood old Lehmann's wretched
house, that house of mourning, which our forerunners used to stone. It
is my idea, then, to propose to the Municipal Council the erection of
a new house on that site--not a palace, but a modest, bright, cheerful
dwelling, which might be offered to Simon, so that he might end his
days in it encompassed by the respect and affection of everybody. The
gift would have no great pecuniary value--it would simply represent
delicate and brotherly homage.'

Tears had risen to the eyes of Marc, who was greatly touched by the
kind thought thus bestowed on his old friend, the persecuted, innocent
man.

'Do you approve of my idea?' inquired Adrien, who on his side was
stirred by the sight of Marc's emotion.

The old schoolmaster rose and embraced him: 'Yes, my lad, I approve of
it, and I owe you one of the greatest joys of my life.'

'Thank you, master. But that is not everything. Wait a moment. I wish
to show you a plan of the house, which I have already prepared, for I
should like to direct the work gratuitously, and I feel certain that I
should find contractors and men prepared to undertake the building at
very low rates.'

He withdrew for a moment, and on returning with the plan he spread it
out upon the garden-table, under the old apple tree. And everybody
approached and leant over to examine it. The house, such as it had been
depicted, was, indeed, a very simple but also a very pleasant one, two
storeys high, with a white frontage, and a garden enclosed by some iron
railings. Above the entrance a marble slab was figured.

'Is there to be an inscription, then?' Marc inquired.

'Certainly; the house is intended for one. This is what I shall suggest
to the Council: "Presented by the Town of Maillebois to Schoolmaster
Simon, in the name of Truth and Justice, and in reparation for
the torture inflicted on him." And the whole will be signed: "The
Grandchildren of his Persecutors."'

With gestures of protest and anxiety Fernand and Lucille glanced at
their daughter Claire. Surely that was going too far! She must not let
her husband compromise himself to such a point! But Claire, who was
leaning lovingly against Adrien's shoulder, smiled, and responded to
the consternation of her parents by saying: 'I helped to prepare the
inscription, Monsieur Froment; I should like that to be known.'

'Oh! I will make it known, you may depend on it,' Marc answered gaily.
'But the inscription must be accepted, and, first of all, there is the
question of the house.'

'Quite so,' replied Adrien. 'I wished to show you my plan with the view
of securing your approval and help. The question of the expense will
hardly affect the Council. I am more apprehensive of certain scruples,
some last attempts at resistance, inspired by the old spirit. Though
the members of the Council are nowadays all convinced of Simon's
innocence, some of them are timid men, who will only yield to the force
of public opinion. And our Mayor, Jules Savin, has said to me, truly
enough, that it is essential the scheme should be voted unanimously on
the day it is brought forward.'

Then, as a fresh idea occurred to him, Adrien added: 'Do you know,
master, as you have been good enough to come so far, you ought to cap
your kindness by accompanying me to Jules Savin's at once. He was a
pupil of yours, and I feel certain that our cause would make great
progress if you would only have a short chat with him.'

'I will do so willingly,' Marc answered. 'Let us start; I will go
wherever you like.'

Fernand and Lucille protested no longer. She had returned to her
knitting, while he, pulling at his pipe, relapsed into the indifference
of a dullard unable to understand the new times. Claire, however,
suddenly had to defend the plan from the enterprising hands of little
Georgette, who wished to appropriate 'the pretty picture.' Then, as
Marc and Adrien made ready to go, there came more embraces, handshakes,
and laughter.

The farm of Les Amettes, where Jules Savin resided, was on the other
side of Maillebois, and in order to reach it Marc and the young
architect had to pass the new recreation-ground. For a moment,
therefore, they paused before the plot of land on which the architect
proposed to build the projected house.

'You see,' said he, 'all the requirements for a house will be found
united here----'

But he broke off on seeing a stout and smiling man approach him. 'Why,
here's uncle Charles!' he exclaimed. 'I say, uncle, when we build the
house for Simon the martyr, which I have told you about, you will
undertake to provide all the locksmith's work at cost price, will you
not?'

'Well, I don't mind, my boy, if it pleases you,' said Charles Doloir.
'And I'll do it also for your sake, Monsieur Froment, for it pains me
at times to think of how I used to worry you.'

Charles, after marrying Marthe Dupuis, his employer's daughter, had for
a long time been managing the business. He had a son named Marcel, who
was about the same age as Adrien, and who, having married a carpenter's
daughter, Laure Dumont, had become a contractor for house carpentry.

'I am going to your father's,' Charles resumed, addressing his nephew;
'I have an appointment with Marcel about some work. Come with me,
for if you build this house you will have some work to give them as
well.... And you will come also, Monsieur Froment? It will please you,
perhaps, to meet some more of your old pupils.'

'Yes, indeed it will,' Marc answered gaily. 'Besides, we shall be able
to settle the specifications.'

'The specifications! Oh! we have not got to that point yet,' Adrien
retorted. 'Moreover, my father isn't an enthusiast.... But no matter;
I'll go to see him.'

Auguste Doloir, thanks to the friendly protection of Darras; the former
mayor, had become a building contractor in a small way. After his
father's death he had taken his mother to live with him, and since the
demolition of the Rue Plaisir he had been residing in the new avenue,
where he occupied a ground floor flanked by a large yard, in which he
stored some of his materials. The lodging was very clean, very healthy,
and full of sunlight.

When Marc found himself in the bright dining-room, face to face with
Madame Doloir the elder, some more memories of the past returned
to him. The old woman, now sixty-nine years old, had retained the
demeanour of a good and prudent housewife, one who was instinctively
conservative, and allowed neither her husband nor her children to
compromise themselves by dabbling in politics. Marc also recalled
her husband, Doloir the mason, that big, fair, ignorant fellow,
good-natured in his way, but spoilt by barrack-life, haunted as he was
by idiotic notions of the army being disorganised by those who knew no
country, and of France being sold to the foreigners by the Jews. One
day, unfortunately, he had been brought home dead on a stretcher, after
falling from a scaffolding; and it seemed as if he had been drinking
previously, though Madame Doloir would not acknowledge it, for she was
one of those who never admit the existence of family failings.

On perceiving Marc she at once said to him: 'Ah! monsieur, we are no
longer young; we are very old acquaintances indeed. Auguste and Charles
were not more than eight and six years old when I first saw you.'

'Quite so, madame; I well remember it. I called on you, on behalf of
my colleague Simon, to ask you to let your boys tell the truth if they
should be questioned.'

At this, though the case was now such a very old one, Madame Doloir
became grave and suspicious. 'That affair was no concern of ours,' she
answered, 'and I acted rightly in refusing to let it enter our home,
for it did great harm to many people.'

Charles, however, perceiving his brother Auguste in the yard with
Marcel, ready for the appointment, now called him into the room: 'Come
here a moment; I've brought somebody to see you. Besides, your son
Adrien is here, and wants to give us an order.'

Auguste, who was as tall and sturdy as his father had been, pressed
Marc's hand vigorously. 'Ah, Monsieur Froment,' said he, 'we often
talk about you--Charles and I--when we remember our school-days! I was
a very bad pupil, and I've regretted it at times. Yet I hope I haven't
disgraced you too much; and, in any case, my son Adrien is becoming
a man after your own heart.' Then he added, laughing: 'I know what
Adrien's order is! Yes, indeed, the house which he wants to build for
your friend Simon!... All the same, a house is perhaps a good deal to
give to an ex-convict.'

In spite of the bantering _bonhomie_ of Auguste's tone, Marc felt
grieved by that last remark. 'Do you still think Simon guilty?' he
inquired. 'At one time you became convinced of his innocence. But you
began to doubt it again after that monstrous trial at Rozan.'

'Well, of course, Monsieur Froment, one feels impressed when a man is
found guilty by two juries in succession.... But no! I no longer say
that he was the culprit. And besides, at bottom it is all one to us. We
are even quite willing that a present should be made to him, if by that
means the affair can be brought to an end once and for all, so that we
shall never have it dinned into our ears again. Isn't that so, brother?'

'That's correct,' responded Charles. 'If those big fellows were
listened to, we ourselves should be the only real criminals, on the
ground that we tolerated the injustice. It vexes me. There must be an
end to it all!'

The two cousins, Adrien and Marcel, who took an equally passionate
interest in the affair, laughed triumphantly. 'So it is settled!'
exclaimed Marcel, as he tapped his father on the shoulder. 'You will
take charge of the locksmith's work, uncle Auguste of the masonry,
and I of the timber work. In that way your share in the crime, as you
put it, will be repaired. And we will never mention the matter to you
again, we swear it!'

Adrien was laughing and nodding his approval when old Madame Doloir,
who had remained standing there, stiff and silent, intervened in her
obstinate way. 'Auguste and Charles,' said she, 'have nothing to
repair. It will never be known whether Schoolmaster Simon was guilty
or not. We little folk ought never to poke our noses into affairs
which only concern the Government. And I pity you boys--yes, both of
you, Adrien and Marcel--if you imagine that you are strong enough to
change things. You fancy that you now know everything, whereas you
know nothing at all.... For instance, my poor dead husband, your
grandfather, knew that a general meeting of all the Jew millionaires
was held in Paris, in a subterranean gallery near the fortifications,
every Saturday, when it was decided what sums should be paid to the
traitors who betrayed France to Germany. And he knew the story to be a
true one, for it had been told him by his own captain, who vouched for
it on his honour.'

Marc gazed at the old woman in wonderment, for it was as if he had
been carried forty years back. He recognised in her tale one of those
extraordinary stories which Doloir the mason had picked up while he was
soldiering. For their part, Auguste and Charles had listened to the
anecdote in quite a serious way, without any sign of embarrassment, for
it was amid similar imbecilities that they had spent their childhood.
But neither Adrien nor Marcel could refrain from smiling, however great
might be their affectionate deference for their grandmother.

'The Jew syndicate in a cellar! Ah, what an idea, grandmother!' said
Adrien softly. 'There are no more Jews, for there will soon be no more
Catholics... The disappearance of the Churches means the end of all
religious warfare.'

Then, as his mother now came into the room, he went to kiss her. Angèle
Bongard, who had married Auguste Doloir when a shrewd young peasant
girl, had largely contributed to her husband's success, though she
had no very exceptional gifts. She now at once asked for news of her
brother Fernand, her sister-in-law Lucille, and their daughter Claire,
Who had married her son. Then the whole family became interested in the
latest addition to its number, this being a baby-boy named Célestin, to
whom Marcel's wife had given birth a fortnight previously.

'You see, Monsieur Froment,' remarked old Madame Doloir, 'I have become
a great-grandmother for the second time; after Georgette has come this
little fellow, Célestin. My younger son, Léon, also has a big boy,
Edmond, now twelve years old; but he is only my grandson, so with him I
don't seem to be quite so old.'

The old woman was becoming amiable--anxious, it seemed, to efface the
recollection of her former stiffness, for she continued: 'And, by the
way, Monsieur Froment, we never seem to agree; but there is one thing
for which I really have to thank you, and that is for having almost
compelled me to make Léon a schoolmaster. I didn't care for that
profession, for it seemed to me hardly a tempting one; but you took all
sorts of pains; you gave lessons to Léon, and now, though he's not yet
forty, he already has a good position.'

She had become, indeed, very proud of her youngest son, Léon, who had
lately succeeded Sébastien Milhomme in the headmastership of a school
at Beaumont, Sébastien having been appointed director of the Training
College. The schoolmistress whom Léon had married, Juliette Hochard,
had also been transferred to Beaumont, there taking the former post of
Mademoiselle Rouzaire; and their eldest son, Edmond, now a pupil at the
Lycée, was studying brilliantly.

Well pleased at seeing his grandmother so amiable with Marc, Adrien
kissed her, and then said jestingly: 'That's very nice of you,
grandmother; you are now on Monsieur Froment's side. And, do you know,
on the day when Simon returns we will choose you to offer him a bouquet
at the railway station.'

But she again became grave and suspicious. 'Ah, no; not that; certainly
not! I don't want to get myself into trouble. You young men are mad
with your new ideas!'

After a merry leave-taking, Adrien and Marc at last retired in order
to make their way to Jules Savin's. The model farm of Les Amettes
spread over some two hundred and fifty acres in the outskirts of
Maillebois, just beyond the new district. Jules, after his mother's
death, had given a home to his father, the former petty clerk, who was
now seventy-one years old; and he had been obliged to do the same for
his elder brother, Achille, one of the twins, who, after being for
many years a clerk like his father, had been suddenly stricken with
paralysis. Philippe, the other twin, and at one time the partner of
Jules, was now dead.

It so happened that Marc had become a connection of this family by
reason of the marriage of his son Clément with Charlotte, the daughter
of Hortense Savin, who had died some years previously. But the marriage
had taken place somewhat against Marc's desires, and thus, while
allowing Clément all latitude to follow the dictates of his heart, he
had preferred personally to hold aloof. He was too broad-minded to make
Charlotte responsible for the flighty conduct of her mother, who, after
being led astray in her sixteenth year and marrying her seducer, had
ended by eloping with another lover, meeting at last with a wretched
death in some other part of France. And thus, while imputing nothing
to her daughter, Marc harboured certain prejudices against the Savin
family generally, and, whatever alacrity he had professed, it had been
necessary for him to do violence to his feelings when Adrien had begged
him to go to Les Amettes.

As it happened Jules was not at home, but his return was expected every
moment. In the meantime the visitors found themselves in the presence
of Savin senior, who was watching over his son Achille in a little
sitting-room, where the paralysed man now spent his life in an armchair
placed near the window. Directly Savin senior caught sight of Marc he
raised a cry of surprise: 'Ah! Monsieur Froment,' said he, 'I thought
you were angry with me. Well, it is kind of you to call.'

He was still as thin and as puny as ever, still racked, too, by a
dreadful cough, yet he had contrived to survive his fresh, pretty, and
plump wife, whom, indeed, he had killed by dint of daily vexations
inspired by his bitter jealousy.

'Angry?' Marc quietly responded. 'Why should I be angry with you,
Monsieur Savin?'

'Oh! because our ideas have never been the same,' said the ex-clerk.
'Your son may have married my granddaughter, but that does not suffice
to reconcile our opinions.... For instance, you and your friends are
now driving away all the priests and monks, which I regard as very
unfortunate, for it will only lead to an increase of immorality. Heaven
knows that I don't like those gentry, for I am an old Republican, a
Socialist--yes, a Socialist, Monsieur Froment! But then, women and
children need the threats of religion to check them from evil courses,
as I have never grown tired of saying.'

An involuntary smile escaped Marc as he listened. Religion a police
service!' said he; 'I know your theory. But how can religion exercise
any power when people no longer believe, and there is no longer any
reason to fear the priests?'

'No longer a reason to fear them!' cried Savin. 'Good Heavens! you are
much mistaken. I myself have always been one of their victims. If I
had sided with them, do you think that I should have vegetated all my
life in a little office, and now be a charge on my son Jules, after
losing my wife, who was killed by all sorts of privations? And my son
Achille, whom you see here, so grievously afflicted--he again is a
victim of the priests. I ought to have sent him to a seminary, and he
would now be a prefect or a judge, instead of having contracted all
sorts of aches and pains in a horrible office, which he left unable
to use either his legs or his arms, so that now he cannot even take a
basin of soup unassisted.... The priests are dirty scamps; is it not
so, Achille? But all the same, it is better to have them on one's side
than against one.'

The cripple, who had greeted his old master with a friendly nod, now
remarked slowly, his speech being already impeded by paralysis: 'The
priests long controlled the weather, no doubt; nevertheless, one is
beginning to do without them very well.' Then, with something like a
sneer, he added: 'And so it has become easy enough to settle their
account, and play the judge.'

As he spoke he looked at Adrien, for whom that uncomplimentary allusion
was doubtless intended. Achille's unfortunate position, the death of
his wife, and a quarrel which had arisen between him and his daughter
Léontine, who was married to a Beaumont ironmonger, had embittered
his nature. And deeming his allusion insufficient, wishing to be more
precise, he continued: 'You will remember, Monsieur Froment, that I
told you I was still convinced of Simon's innocence at the time when
he was recondemned at Rozan. But what could I do? Could I have made
a revolution by myself? No, of course not; so it was best to remain
silent.... Nevertheless, I now see a number of young gentlemen calling
us cowards, and trying to give us a lesson by raising triumphal arches
to the martyr. It is brave work indeed!'

On being challenged in this fashion Adrien immediately understood
that Jules Savin must have spoken of the great plan. And instead of
losing his temper he strove to be very amiable and conciliatory: 'Oh!
everybody is brave on becoming just,' he replied. 'I know very well,
monsieur, that you were always among the reasonable folk, and I confess
that some members of my own family showed even greater blindness and
obstinacy than others. But to-day the general desire ought to be to
unite, so that all may mingle in the same flame of solidarity and
justice.'

Savin senior, who had been listening with an air of stupefaction,
now suddenly understood why Marc and Adrien were there, awaiting the
return of his son Jules. At the outset he had attributed their visit
to politeness only. 'Ah! of course, you have come about that stupid
scheme for offering reparation,' said he. 'Well, like those relatives
you speak of, I have nothing to do with that business! No, indeed! My
son Jules will act as he pleases, of course; but that will not prevent
me from keeping my own opinion.... The Jews, monsieur, the Jews, always
the Jews!'

Adrien looked at him, in his turn full of stupefaction. The Jews,
indeed! Why did he speak of the Jews! Anti-Semitism was dead--to such
a degree, indeed, that the new generation failed to understand what
was meant when people accused the Jews of every crime. As Adrien had
said to his grandmother, Madame Doloir, there were no Jews left, since
only citizens, freed from the tyranny of dogmas, remained. It was
essentially the Roman Church which had exploited anti-Semitism, in the
hope of thereby winning back the incredulous masses; and anti-Semitism
had disappeared when that Church sank into the darkness of expiring
religions.

Marc had followed the scene with great interest, comparing the past
with the present, recalling the incidents and the words of forty years
ago, the better to discern the moral of those of to-day. However, Jules
Savin at last came in, accompanied by his son Robert, a tall youth of
sixteen, whom he was already initiating into the farmwork. And directly
he learnt the purpose of his visitors he appeared to be much touched,
and addressing Marc with great deference, exclaimed:

'Monsieur Froment, you cannot doubt my desire to be agreeable to you.
We all regard you nowadays as a just and venerable master. Besides,
as my friend Adrien must have told you, I am in no sense opposed to
his plan. On the contrary, I will employ all the authority I possess
to second it, for I am entirely of his opinion. Maillebois will only
regain its honour when it has offered reparation for its fault....
Only, I repeat it, there must be absolute unanimity in the Municipal
Council. I am working in that sense, and I beg you to do the same.'

Then, as his father began to sneer, Jules said to him, smiling: 'Come,
don't pretend to be so hard-headed; you admitted Simon's innocence to
me the other day.'

'His innocence? Oh! I don't dispute that. I also am innocent, but
nobody builds me a house.'

'You have mine,' Jules retorted somewhat roughly.

At bottom it was precisely that circumstance which hurt Savin's
feelings. The hospitality he received at his son's house, the fate that
had befallen him of ending his days peacefully, in the home of one who
had succeeded by dint of great personal efforts, gave the lie to his
everlasting recriminations, the regret he was always expressing at not
having sided with the priests in spite of the hatred with which he
regarded them. Thus, losing his temper, he cried: 'Well, if you choose
you can build a cathedral for your Simon! It won't matter to me, for I
shall stay at home.'

Then Achille, who, tortured by the pains in his legs, had just raised a
pitiful moan, exclaimed: 'Alas! I shall stay at home as well. But if I
were not nailed to this armchair I would willingly go with you, my dear
Jules, for I belong to the generation which did not, perhaps, do all
its duty, but which was not ignorant of it, and is ready to do it now.'

After those words Marc and Adrien withdrew, delighted, feeling certain
of success. And when Marc found himself alone again, returning to his
daughter Louise by way of the broad thoroughfares of the new district,
he summed up all he had just seen and heard; the far-off memories,
which at the same time returned to him, enabling him to gauge the
distance which had been travelled during the last forty years. The
whole story of his life, his efforts and his triumph, was spread out,
and he felt that he had been right in former days, when he had said
that if France did not protest and rise to do justice in the Simon
case, it was because she was steeped in too much ignorance, because she
was debased and poisoned by religious imbecility and malice, because
she was kept in childish superstitions and notions by a Press given
over to lucre, scandal, and blackmailing. And, in the same way, a clear
intuition had come to him of the only possible remedy--instruction,
education, which would liberate one and all, endow them with solidarity
and the intelligent bravery of life, by killing falsehood, destroying
error, sweeping away the senseless dogmas of the Church, with its
hell, its heaven, and its doctrines of social death. That was what
Marc had desired, and that, indeed, was the work which was being
accomplished--the liberation of the people by the primary schools, the
rescue of all citizens from the state of iniquity in which they had
been plunged, in order that they might at last become capable of truth
and justice.

But it was particularly a feeling of appeasement which now came over
Marc. Only forgiveness, tolerance, and kindliness surged from his
heart. In former times he had greatly suffered, and he had often felt
passionately angry with men on seeing with what stupid cruelty they
behaved, and how obstinately they persisted in evil. At present,
however, he could not forget the words spoken by Fernand Bongard and
Achille Savin. They had tolerated injustice, no doubt; but as they
now said, this was because they had not known, and because they had
not felt strong enough to contend with that injustice. The slumber of
their intelligence could not be imputed to the disinherited scions
of ignorance as a crime. And Marc willingly forgave one and all; he
no longer harboured any rancour even against the obstinate ones, who
refused to open their minds to facts; he would simply have liked the
festival planned for Simon's return to become a festival of general
reconciliation, one in which the whole of Maillebois would embrace
and mingle in brotherly concord, resolving to work henceforth for the
happiness of all.

On reaching Louise's quarters at the school, where Geneviève had
awaited him, and where they were to dine in company with Clément,
Charlotte, and Lucienne, Marc was pleased to find that Sébastien and
Sarah were also there, having just arrived from Beaumont to share the
meal. Indeed, it was a general family gathering, and several leaves had
to be added to the table. There were Marc and Geneviève; then Clément
and Charlotte, with their daughter Lucienne, who was already seven
years old; then Joseph Simon and Louise; then Sébastien Milhomme and
Sarah; then François Simon, Joseph's son, and Thérèse Milhomme, Sarah's
daughter, two cousins who had married, and who were already the parents
of a little two-year-old named Rose. Altogether they made a dozen, full
of health and appetite.

Acclamations arose when Marc recounted his afternoon, describing
Adrien's plan and expressing his belief in its success. Joseph alone
felt doubtful, for he was not convinced, he said, of the Mayor's
favourable disposition. But Charlotte immediately intervened. 'You are
mistaken,' she exclaimed; 'my uncle Jules is altogether on our side....
We can rely on him. He is the only one of the family who ever showed me
any kindness.'

Charlotte, it should be said, had become dependent on her grandfather,
Savin senior, at the time when her mother had eloped, for it had
become necessary to place her father in an asylum on account of the
alcoholism to which he had given way. The girl had then experienced
much suffering, being often cuffed and sparsely fed. Savin, who seemed
oblivious of the deplorable result of the pious hypocrisy in which his
daughter Hortense had been reared by Mademoiselle Rouzaire, accused
his grandchild of being an atheist, a rebel, full of deplorable ways,
which were due to the teaching of Mademoiselle Mazeline. As a matter of
fact, however, Charlotte was delightful, free from all false prudery,
and gifted with healthy uprightness, sense, and tenderness. And Clément
having married her in spite of all obstacles, they had since lived
together in the happiest and the closest of unions.

'Charlotte is right,' said Marc, who also desired to defend Jules
Savin; 'the Mayor is on our side. But the best of all is that, among
the contractors for the house which it is proposed to present to Simon,
there will be the two Doloirs, Auguste the mason and Charles the
locksmith; besides which, by their ties of relationship, even Fernand
Bongard and Achille Savin will be indirectly concerned in it.... Ah!
Sébastien, my friend, who would have thought that would come to pass in
the days when you and those fine fellows attended my school?'

At this sally Sébastien Milhomme began to laugh; though his mood was
scarcely a cheerful one, for a recent family loss, a very tragical
affair, had affected him painfully. During the previous spring his
aunt, Madame Edouard, had died, leaving the stationery business to her
sister-in-law, Madame Alexandre. Her son Victor having disappeared,
she had of recent years seemed to waste away, no longer attending to
the business, in which she had once taken such a passionate interest,
and feeling, indeed, quite at sea amidst those new times, which
she altogether failed to understand. Madame Alexandre on remaining
alone had continued carrying on the business, for she did not wish
to inconvenience her son Sébastien, though the latter's position
was becoming extremely good. One evening, however, Victor suddenly
reappeared, emerging hungry and sordid from the depths in which he had
been leading a crapulous life. He had heard of his mother's death, and
he instantly demanded that the business should be put up for sale and
the old partnership liquidated, in order that he might carry off his
share of the proceeds. Such, then, was the end of the little shop in
the Rue Courte, where many generations of schoolboys had purchased
their copybooks and their pens. For a short time Victor showed himself
here and there in Maillebois, leading a merry life, almost invariably
in the company of his old chum, Polydor Souquet, who had fallen to
the gutter. One evening Marc, having to cross a street of ill-repute,
caught sight of them with another man, whose black figure strikingly
resembled that of Brother Gorgias. And finally, barely a week before
the family dinner given by Louise, the police had found a man lying
dead, with his skull split, outside a haunt of debauchery. The dead man
was Victor. There had evidently been some dim, ignoble tragedy, which
the interested parties endeavoured to hush up.

'Yes, yes,' said Sébastien in reply to Marc, 'I remember my
schoolfellows. With a few unfortunate exceptions they have not turned
out so badly. But in life one is at times exposed to certain poisons,
which prove pitiless.'

The others did not insist. They preferred to inquire after his mother,
whom he had now taken to live with him at the Beaumont Training
College, and who still enjoyed good health in spite of her great
age. Sébastien's new position gave him a great deal of occupation,
particularly as he desired to perfect the work of his venerated master,
Salvan. 'Ah!' he exclaimed, 'that public reparation offered to Simon,
that glorification of a schoolmaster, will be a great joy for all of
us. I want my pupils to participate in it, and for that purpose I shall
endeavour to obtain a day's holiday for them.'

Marc, who had rejoiced at Sébastien's appointment as if it were a
personal triumph, at once signified his approval. 'Quite so,' said he,
'and we will bring the old ones as well--Salvan, Mademoiselle Mazeline,
and Mignot. Besides, speaking of school-teachers, there is already a
fine battalion here present.'

The others began to laugh. With the exception of the two children
they were, indeed, all teachers. Clément and Charlotte still carried
on the Jonville schools, Joseph and Louise had decided that they
would never quit Maillebois, Sébastien and Sarah relied on remaining
at the Beaumont Training College until the former reached the age
limit; while as for the younger couple, François and Thérèse, they
had not long been appointed to the Dherbecourt schools, where their
parents had previously made their _débuts_. François, in whom one
traced a likeness to his parents, Joseph and Louise, also resembled
his grandfather Marc, for he had much the same lofty brow and bright
eyes, though the latter in his case glowed with what seemed to be a
flame of insatiable desire. In Thérèse, on the other hand, one found
the great beauty of her mother Sarah softened, quieted, as it were, by
the intellectual refinement which she had inherited from her father,
Sébastien. And Rose, the young couple's little girl, the last born of
the family, and as such worshipped by one and all, seemed to personify
the budding future.

The dinner proved delightfully gay. How joyful for Joseph and Sarah,
the children of the innocent martyr, tortured for so many years,
was the thought of the festival of reparation which was now being
planned! Their own children and their grandchild--all that had come
from their blood mingled with that of Marc, the martyr's most heroic
defender--would participate in that glorification. Four generations,
indeed, would be present to celebrate the truth, and the _cortège_
would be formed of all the good workers who, having suffered for its
sake, were entitled to share its triumph.

Laughter, and again laughter, arose. They all drank to the return of
Simon, and even when ten o'clock struck the happy family continued to
give expression to its delight, quite forgetful of the trains by which
some of its members were to return to Beaumont and others to Jonville.

From that day forward things moved with unexpected rapidity.
Adrien's scheme on being laid before the Municipal Council was voted
unanimously, as Jules Savin, the Mayor, had desired. Nobody even
thought of opposing the suggested inscription. None of the applications
and pleadings, which the promoters of the scheme had imagined
necessary, were required, for the idea to which they gave expression
already existed, in embryo, in the minds of all. There was remorse
for the past, uneasiness at the thought of the unhealed iniquity, and
a craving to repair it for the sake of the town's honour. Everybody
now felt that it was impossible to be happy outside the pale of civic
solidarity, for durable happiness can only come to a people when it is
just. And so in a few weeks' time the subscription lists were filled.
As the amount required was a comparatively small one, being no more
than thirty thousand francs,[2]--for the site of the house was given
by the municipality,--people contented themselves with subscribing two,
three, or at the utmost five francs, in order that a larger number
of subscribers might participate. The workmen of the _faubourg_ and
the peasants of the environs contributed their half-francs and their
francs; and at the end of March the building was put in hand, for it
was desired that everything should be in readiness, the last woodwork
in position, and the last paint dry, by mid-September, the date which
Simon had ended by fixing for his return.

[Footnote 2: $6000.]

In September, then, the simple but cheerful house stood completed in
its pleasant garden, which was faced by a railing on the side of the
square. Its affectionately-awaited owner might come to take possession
of it when he pleased, for nothing was lacking. True, a drapery hung
before the marble slab bearing an inscription over the doorway; but
this inscription, so far as Simon was concerned, was to be the great
surprise, and would only be uncovered at the last moment. Adrien
repaired to the Pyrenees to plan the final arrangements with Simon and
David, and it was then decided that the former's wife, who was in a
very weak state of health, should in the first instance install herself
in the house, with the help of her children, Joseph and Sarah. Then,
on the appointed day, Simon would arrive with his brother David. There
would be an official reception at the railway station, and afterwards
he would be conducted in triumph to his new home, the gift of his
fellow-townsmen, where his wife and children would await him.

At last, on the Twentieth of September, a Sunday, the solemnity was
enacted amid radiant sunshine and a warm and pure atmosphere. The
streets of Maillebois were decorated with flags, the last flowers
of the season were scattered along the procession's line of route.
And early in the morning--although the train would only arrive at
three o'clock in the afternoon--the population assembled out of
doors, gathering together in a happy, singing, laughing multitude,
whose numbers were swollen by all the visitors who flocked in from
neighbouring parishes. At noon one could no longer circulate outside
the house on the large new square, whose recreation-ground was invaded
by the working-class families of the neighbourhood. There were people,
too, at all the windows, and the very roadways were blocked by waves of
spectators eager to see and to cry their passion for justice. Nothing
could have been grander or more inspiring.

Marc and Geneviève had arrived from Jonville, with Clément, Charlotte,
and little Lucienne, early in the day. It was arranged that they
should await Simon in the garden of the house, grouped around Madame
Simon, her children, Joseph and Sarah, her grandchildren, François and
Thérèse, and her great-granddaughter, little Rose. Louise, of course,
was there, beside her husband Joseph, and Sébastien beside his wife
Sarah. These constituted the three generations which had sprung from
the blood of the innocent man mingled with that of his champions. Then,
also, places had been reserved for the first defenders, the survivors
of the heroic days,--Salvan, Mademoiselle Mazeline, and Mignot,--as
well as for the fervent artisans of the work of reparation, the now
conquered and enthusiastic members of the Bongard, Doloir, and Savin
families. It was rumoured that Delbos, the ex-advocate, the hero of
the two trials, who for four years recently had held the office of
Minister of the Interior, had gone to join Simon and David, in order
to reach the town in their company. Only the Mayor and a deputation of
the Municipal Council were to meet the brothers at the railway station
and conduct them to the house, decked with banners and garlands, where
the ceremony of presentation would take place. And there, in accordance
with this programme, Marc remained waiting with the rest of the family,
in spite of all his joyous eagerness to embrace the triumpher.

Two o'clock struck; there was still an hour to be spent patiently.
Meanwhile the crowd steadily increased. Marc, having left the garden
to mingle with the groups and hear what was being said, found that
the one subject of conversation was that extraordinary story emerging
from the past, that condemnation of an innocent man, which had become
both abominable and inexplicable in the eyes of the new generations.
From the younger folk a long cry of indignant amazement arose; while
the old people, those who had witnessed the iniquity, tried to defend
themselves with vague gestures and shamefaced explanations. Now that
the truth had become manifest in the full sunlight, endowed with all
the force of invincible certainty, the children and the grandchildren
could not understand how their parents and grandparents had carried
blindness and egotism so far as to fail to fathom so simple an affair.
And doubtless many of the older folk shared the astonishment of the
younger ones, and were at a loss to account for the credulity into
which they had fallen. That, indeed, was their best answer to the
reproaches they heard; it was necessary to have lived in those times
to understand the power of falsehood over ignorance. One old man
penitently confessed his error; another related how he had hissed Simon
on the day of his arrest, and how he had now been waiting two hours in
order to acclaim him, anxious as he was not to die with his bad action
upon his conscience. And a youth, his grandson, thereupon threw himself
on the old man's neck and kissed him, laughing, with tears in his eyes.
Marc was delightfully touched by the scene, and continued to walk
about, looking and listening.

But all at once he stopped short. He had just recognised Polydor
Souquet, clad in rags, with a ravaged countenance, as if still under
the effects of a night of intoxication. And Marc was thunderstruck when
by the side of Polydor he perceived Brother Gorgias, clad as usual in
black, without a sign of linen, his greasy old frock-coat clinging fast
to his dark hide. He, Gorgias, was not drunk. Silent and fierce of
aspect, erect in all his tragic leanness, he darted fiery glances at
the crowd. And Marc could hear that Polydor, with a drunkard's stupid
obstinacy, was deriding him respecting the affair, of which everybody
was talking around them. Slabbering and stammering, the scamp went on:

'I say, old man, the copy-slip--you remember, eh? The copy-slip! It
was I who sneaked it. I had it in my pocket, and I was stupid enough
to give it you back while you were seeing me home.... Ah, yes! that
wretched copy-slip.'

A sudden flash of light illumined Marc's mind. He now knew the
whole truth. The one gap in the affair, which had still worried him
occasionally, was now filled. Polydor had given the slip to Gorgias,
and that explained how it had chanced to be in his pocket, and how
it had become mingled with a copy of _Le Petit Beaumontais_ when,
terrified by his victim's cries, he had hastily sought a handkerchief,
a stopper of any kind, to use as a gag.

'But you know, old man,' stammered Polydor, 'we liked each other very
much, and we didn't tell our business to other folk. And yet, if I
_had_ chattered, what a rumpus there would have been! Ah! what a face
my Aunt Pélagie would have pulled!'

Half-fuddled, in an ignoble state, the rascal went on jeering,
unconscious, it seemed, of the presence of the people around him. And
Gorgias, who from time to time gave him a contemptuous glance, must
suddenly have understood that Marc had heard the drunkard's involuntary
confession, for in a low voice he growled: 'Be quiet, you wine-bag! Be
quiet, you rotten cur! You stink of your sin and mine; you have damned
me again by your ignominy! Be quiet, you filthy thing; it is I who will
speak! Yes, I will confess my fault, in order that God may pardon me!'

Then, addressing himself to Marc, who was still lost in silent
amazement, he went on: 'You heard him, Monsieur Froment, didn't you?
Well, it's necessary that all should hear. I have been consumed long
enough by a desire to confess myself to men, even as I have confessed
to God, in order that my salvation may be the more glorious. And,
besides, all these people exasperate me! They know absolutely nothing;
they keep on repeating my name with execration, as if I were the only
culprit! But wait a moment; they will see it is not so, for I will tell
them everything!'

Then, though he was over seventy years old, he contrived to spring upon
the low wall supporting the garden railing of the house where Simon,
the innocent man, was soon to be received in triumph. And clinging with
one hand to that railing, he turned and faced his mighty audience.
During the hour he had spent roaming through the groups, he had heard
his name fall from every tongue as a name of infamy. And he had
gradually been fired by a sombre fever, the bravery of a fine bandit,
who denies none of his actions, but is ready to cast them in the teeth
of men, full of a mad pride that he should have dared to commit them.
What caused him most suffering, however, was that he alone should be
named, that all the weight of the general execration should be cast
upon his shoulders, for the others, his accomplices, seemed to be quite
forgotten. Only the previous day, his resources again being exhausted,
he had attempted to force himself upon Father Crabot, who was shut up
at the estate of La Désirade, and he had been flung out with the alms
of a twenty-franc piece, the very last that would be given him, so he
had been told. And now, amid all the insulting words that were levelled
at him, nobody shouted the name of Father Crabot. Why, as he was ready
to expiate his transgression, why should not Father Crabot expiate
his also? No doubt he, Gorgias, would extract no more twenty-franc
pieces from that coward if he were to reveal everything; but his hatred
was now dearer to him than money, and it would be blissful to cast
his enemy into the flames of hell, while he himself ascended to the
delights of paradise by virtue of the penance of a public confession,
the idea of which had long haunted him.

Thus an unexpected, an extraordinary scene began. With a violent,
sweeping gesture, Gorgias sought to gather the crowd together and
attract its attention. And in a shrill but still powerful voice he
called: 'Listen to me! listen to me! I will tell you everything!'

But at first he was not heard, and he had to raise the same cry twice,
thrice, a dozen times, with increasing, unwearying energy. By degrees
he was noticed and people became attentive; and when some of the old
folk had recognised him, when his name had flown from mouth to mouth
amid a quiver of horror, a death-like silence at last fell from one to
the other end of the great square.

'Listen to me! listen to me! I will tell you everything!'

Raised above the heads of all the others, with the broad sunlight
streaming on him, he clung with one hand to the iron railing, while
with the other he went on making vehement gesticulations as if he
were sabring the air. His threadbare frock-coat hung closely to his
withered, knotty frame, and with his dusky face, from which jutted the
big beak of a bird of prey, he looked quite terrible, like some phantom
of the past, whose eyes glowed with the flames of all the abominable
passions of long ago.

'You speak of truth and justice,' he cried. 'But you know nothing,
and you are not just!... You all fall upon me, you treat me as if I
were the only culprit, whereas others sinned more even than I did. I
may have been a criminal, but others accepted my crime, hid it, and
continued it.... Wait a little while; you will see by-and-by that I
don't lack the courage to confess my sin. But why am I the only one
ready to confess? Why isn't my master, my chief, the all-powerful
Father Crabot, here also, ready to humiliate himself and tell
everything? Let him come! Go and fetch him from his hiding-place,
and let him confess his sins before you and do penitence beside me.
Otherwise I shall speak out; I shall proclaim his crime with mine, for
though I be the most humble, the most miserable of sinners, God is in
me, and it is God who demands expiation of him as of me.'

Then, in the bitterest language, he declared that all his superiors,
Father Crabot at the head of them, were but degenerate Catholics,
poltroons, and enjoyers of life. The Church was dying by reason
of their cowardice, their compromises with the weaknesses and the
vanities of the world. It was, indeed, his favourite theory that all
true religious spirit had departed from those monks, those priests,
and those bishops, who ought to have ensured the reign of Jesus by
fire and sword. Earth and mankind belonged to God alone, and God had
given them to His Church, the sovereign delegate of His power. The
Church therefore possessed everything, and held absolute dominion over
everybody and everything. To her belonged the disposal of wealth;
none could be wealthy save by her permission. To her belonged even
the disposal of life, for every living man was her subject, whom she
allowed to live or suppressed according to the interests of Heaven.
Such was the doctrine from which the true saints had never departed.
He, a mere humble Ignorantine, had always practised and exalted that
doctrine, and his superiors, though they had wronged him in other
respects, had always recognised in him the rare merit of possessing
the true, absolute religious spirit; whereas they themselves--the
Crabots, the Philibins, and the Fulgences--had ruined religion by
their compromises, their trickery with the Freethinkers, the Jews, the
Protestants, and the Freemasons. Like opportunists, anxious to please,
they had gradually abandoned dogmas and concealed the asperity of
doctrines, whereas they ought to have fought openly against impiety,
and have slaughtered and burnt all heretics. He himself dreamt of
seeing a huge sacrificial pyre set up in the midst of Paris, on which
he would have cast the whole guilty nation, in order that the flames
and the stench from all those millions of bodies might have ascended to
the glowing skies to rejoice and appease the Deity.

And he next exclaimed: 'As soon as a sinner confesses and does penance,
he is no longer guilty, he again recovers the grace of his Sovereign
Master. What man is there who never sins? All who are made of flesh
are liable to err. Even like the layman, he who is in holy orders and
whom the beast, which is in all men, precipitates into crime has but
one obligation cast upon him--that of confession; and if he receives
absolution, if he expiates his sin with firm repentance, he redeems
himself, he becomes again as white as snow, worthy to enter into
Heaven, among the roses and lilies of Mary.... I confessed my sin to
Father Théodose, who absolved me, and I owed nothing more to anybody,
since God, who ordains and knows all things, had pardoned me by the
sacrament of one of His ministers. And in the same way, from that day
forward, each time that I lied, each time that my superiors compelled
me to lie, I went back to the confessional, and I washed my soul clean
of all the impurities with which human fragility had soiled it. Alas! I
have often and I have greatly sinned, for God, in order no doubt to try
me, has allowed the devil to assail me with all the fires of hell. But
I have battered my chest with my fists, I have made my knees bleed by
dragging them over the flagstones of chapels--I have paid, and I repeat
that I owe nothing whatever. A flight of archangels would bear me
straight to Paradise if I should die by-and-by, ere lapsing again into
the original mire, whence in common with all men I have sprung. And in
particular I owe nothing to men; I have never owed them anything; my
crime lies between God and me, His servant. But He has forgiven me, and
so, if I speak here to-day, it is because I choose to do so, because
I desire to couple with the Divine mercy the martyrdom of a last
humiliation, in order that I may enter Paradise in triumph--a celestial
joy which, whatever my abjection, I shall assuredly taste, thanks to
my penitence; whereas you will never taste it--race of unbelievers and
blasphemers that you are, destined, one and all, to the flames of hell!'

Amid his sombre fury, that transport of savage faith which had raised
him there, alone and impudent, face to face with the multitude, Gorgias
again began to jeer. And there came to him that habitual twitching of
the lips, which disclosed some of his teeth in a grimace suggestive
of both scorn and cruelty. Polydor, who for a moment had seemed
quite scared, and had gazed at him with dilated eyes, blurred by his
drunkenness, had now fallen beside the railing, overcome by sleepiness
and already snoring. The crowd, in horrified expectancy of the promised
confession, had hitherto preserved death-like silence. But it was
now growing weary of that long oration, in which it found all the
unconquerable pride and insolence of the Churchman who deems himself
all-powerful and inviolate. What did the scamp mean by that speech?
Why did he not content himself with stating the facts? What was the use
of such a long preamble when a dozen words would have sufficed? Thus a
growl arose, and a rush would have swept Gorgias away if Marc, now very
attentive and fully master of himself, had not stepped forward and with
a gesture calmed the growing impatience and anger. Moreover, Gorgias
remained imperturbable. Despite all interruptions, he went on repeating
in the same shrill voice that he alone was brave, that he alone was
really upon God's side, and that the other sinners, the cowards, would
after all have to pay for their transgressions, since God had set him
there to make public confession on their behalf as well as his own,
this being a supreme expiation, whence the Church, compromised by her
unworthy leaders, would emerge rejuvenated and for ever victorious.

Then all at once, as if he were a prey to the wildest remorse, he beat
his chest violently with both fists, and cried in distressful, tearful
accents: 'I have sinned, O God! O God, do Thou forgive me! Release
me from the claws of the devil, O God, that I may yet bless Thy holy
name!... Yes, God wills it! Listen to me, listen to me; I will tell you
everything!'

Then he laid himself bare, as it were, before the assembled throng. He
spoke plainly of his gross appetites; he set forth that he had been
a big eater, a deep drinker, and that vice had dogged him from his
childhood. In spite of all his intelligence he had then refused to
study; he had preferred to play the truant, to roam the fields, and
hide in the woods with little hussies. His father, Jean Plumet, after
being a poacher, had been turned into a gamekeeper by the Countess
de Quédeville. His mother, a hussy, had disappeared after giving him
birth. He could still picture his father as he had appeared to him
lying on a stretcher in the courtyard at Valmarie, whither he had been
brought dead, after two bullets had been lodged in his chest by one of
his former companions, a poacher. And subsequently he, Gorgias, had
been brought up with the Countess's grandson, Gaston, an unmanageable
lad, who also refused to study, preferring to hide himself away with
little hussies, climb poplar trees for magpies' nests, and wade the
rivers in search of crawfish. At that time he, Gorgias, had become
acquainted with Father Philibin, Gaston's tutor, and Father Crabot,
who was then in all his manly prime, adored by the old Countess, and
already the real master of Valmarie. Then, with sudden abruptness,
plainly and brutally, Gorgias related how Gaston, the grandson and
heir, had come by his death--a death which he had witnessed from a
distance, and of which he had kept the terrible secret for so many
years. The boy had been deliberately pushed into the river and drowned
there, the misfortune being attributed to an accident, in such wise
that a few months later the old Countess finally bestowed her property
upon Father Crabot.

Striking his breast with increasing fury, beside himself with
contrition, Gorgias continued amid his sobs: 'I have sinned, I have
sinned, O God! And my superiors have sinned still more frightfully than
I, for it was they, O God! who ever set me an evil example!... But
since I am here to expiate their sins as well as mine by confessing
everything, O God, perchance Thou wilt pardon them in Thine infinite
mercy, even as Thou wilt assuredly pardon me also!'

But a quiver of indignant revolt now sped through the crowd. Fists
were raised and voices demanded vengeance; while Gorgias, resuming
his narrative, related that from that time forward Fathers Crabot and
Philibin had never abandoned him, linked to him as they were by a bond
of blood, relying on him as he relied on them. This was the old pact
which Marc had long suspected--Gorgias being admitted to the Church and
becoming an Ignorantine, an _enfant terrible_ of the Deity, one who
both alarmed and enraptured his superiors by the wonderful religious
spirit which glowed in his guilty flesh. Again the wretched man sobbed
aloud, and all at once he passed to the horrid crime of which Simon had
been accused.

'The little angel was there, O God!... It is the truth. I had just
taken the other boy home, and I was passing across the dark square,
when I saw the little angel in his room, which was lighted up.... Thou
God knowest that I approached him without evil intention, simply out of
curiosity, and in a fatherly spirit, in order to scold him for leaving
his window open. And Thou knowest also that for a while I talked to him
as a friend, asking him to show me the pictures on his table, sweet and
pious pictures, which were still perfumed by the incense of the first
Communion. But why, O God, why didst Thou then allow the devil to tempt
me? Why didst Thou abandon me to the tempter, who impelled me to spring
over the window-bar under the pretence of taking a closer look at the
pictures, though, alas! the flames of hell were already burning within
me? Ah! why didst Thou suffer it, O God? Ah! verily, my God, Thy ways
are mysterious and terrible!'

The throng had now again relapsed into deathly silence amid the
frightful anguish which wrung every breast as the ignoble confession at
last took its course. Not a breath was heard; horror spread over all
those motionless folk, terrified by the thought of what was coming. And
Marc, who was very white, quite scared at seeing the truth rise before
him at last, after so many lies, gazed fixedly at the wretched culprit,
who was gesticulating frantically amid the sobs which choked him.

'The little child--he was so pretty. Thou hadst given him, O God!
the fair and curly head of a little angel. Like the cherubs of pious
paintings, he seemed, indeed, to have but that angelic head with two
wings.... Kill him, O God! Did I have any such horrible thought?
Speak! Thou canst read my heart! I was so fond of him, I would not
have plucked a hair from his head.... But it is true the fire of hell
had come upon me; Satan transported me, blinded me, and the boy became
alarmed; he began to call out, to call out, to call out.... O God,
those calls, those calls! I hear them always, always, and they madden
me!'

It seemed, indeed, as if Gorgias were now a prey to some supreme
paroxysm; his eyes glowed like coals of fire in his convulsed
countenance, a little foam appeared upon his twisted lips, while his
lean, bent frame quivered from head to foot with spasmodic shocks.
And at last a great access of rage transported him. Like one of the
damned whom the devil turns with his fork over the infernal brazier, he
howled: 'No, no, that's not the plain truth; that again is arranged and
embellished.... I must tell all, I will tell all; it is at that price
only that I shall taste the eternal delights of Paradise!'

What followed was full of horror. He related everything in plain,
crude, abominable language, and when he again came to his victim's
cries he recounted his cowardly terror, his eager desire to conceal his
crime, for his buzzing ears already seemed to re-echo the gallop of the
gendarmes pursuing him. In wild despair he had sought for something;
he had searched his pocket, and finding some papers in it, he had
stuffed them without foresight or method into his victim's mouth, all
eagerness as he was to hear those terrible cries no more. But they had
begun again, and he told how he had then murdered, strangled, the boy,
pressing his strong, bony, hairy fingers, like iron bands, around the
child's delicate neck, and marking it with deep, dark furrows.

'O God!' he cried, 'I am a hog, I am a murderous brute, my limbs are
stained with mire and blood!... And I fled like a wretched coward,
without an idea in my head, quite brutified and senseless, leaving
the window open, and thereby showing my stupidity and the innocence
in which I should have remained but for the devil's unforeseen and
victorious assault upon me.... And now that I have confessed everything
to men, O God, I beg Thee, in reward for my penitence, open to me the
doors of Heaven!'

But the horror-fraught patience of the crowd was now exhausted. After
the stupor which had kept it chilled and mute there came an outburst of
extraordinary violence. A loud roar of imprecations rolled from one to
the other end of the square, a huge wave gathered and bounded towards
the railings, towards the impudent wretch, the monstrous penitent, who
in his religious dementia had thus dared to proclaim his crime in the
full sunlight. Shouts arose: 'To death with the scoundrel! To death
with the murderer! To death with the polluter and killer of children!'
And Marc then understood the terrible danger; he pictured the crowd
lynching that wretched man in its craving for immediate justice; he
beheld that festival of kindness and solidarity, that triumph of
truth and equity, soiled, blackened by the summary execution of the
culprit, whose limbs would be torn from him and cast to the four
winds of heaven. So in all haste he strove to remove Gorgias from the
railings. But he had to contend with his resistance, for the obstinate,
frantic scoundrel desired to say something more. At last, helped by the
vigorous arms of some of the bystanders, Marc managed to carry him into
the garden, the gate of which was at once shut. The rescue was effected
none too soon, for the huge wave of the indignant crowd rolled up and
burst against the railings, which fortunately checked its further
progress, as they were new and strong. Thus Gorgias was for the moment
out of reach, sheltered by the very house which had been built for the
innocent man, for whose tortures he, was responsible. And such was his
obstinacy, that when those who had seized him released their hold,
thinking him conquered, he picked himself up, and, rushing back to the
railings, hung to them from inside. And there, protected by the iron
bars, against which the furious, surging throng was sweeping, he began
once more:

'Thou didst witness, O God! my first expiation, when my superiors, as
foolish as they were cruel, abandoned me on the road to exile! Thou
knowest to what unacknowledgeable callings they reduced me, what fresh
and hateful transgressions they caused me to commit! Thou knowest
their base avarice--how they refused me even a crust of bread, how
they refuse it still, after being my counsellors and accomplices all
my life long.... For thou wert always present, O God! Thou didst hear
them bind themselves to me. Thou knowest that after my crime I did but
obey them, and that if I aggravated it by other crimes it was only
by and for them. Doubtless the desire was to save Thy Holy Church
from scandal--and I, indeed, would have given my blood, my life. But
they thought only of saving their own skins, and it is that which has
enraged me and stirred me to tell everything.... And now, O God! that
I have been Thy justiciary, that I have spoken the words of violence
ordained by Thee, and have cried aloud their unknown and unpunished
sins, it is for Thee to decide if Thou wilt pardon them or strike them
down in Thy wrath, even before these swinish people, who pretend to
forget Thy name, and for the roasting of whose sacrilegious limbs there
will never be room enough in hell!'

Threatening hoots interrupted him at every word; stones, passing from
hand to hand, began to fly around his head. The railings would not have
resisted much longer; in fact, a last great onrush was about to throw
them down when Marc and his assistants again managed to seize Gorgias
and carry him to the end of the garden, behind the house. On that
side there was a little gate conducting to a deserted lane, and the
miscreant was soon led forth, and then driven away.

If, however, the growling, threatening crowd suddenly became calm,
it was because cries of joy and glorification arose above the shouts
of anger, drawing nearer every moment in sonorous waves along the
sunlit avenue. Simon, having been received at the railway station
by a deputation of the Municipal Council, was arriving in a large
landau, he and David occupying the back seat, while in front of them
were Advocate Delbos and Jules Savin, the Mayor. As the carriage
slowly advanced between the serried crowd there came an extraordinary
ovation. Spurred to it by the abominable scene which had left everybody
quivering, they acclaimed Simon with the wildest enthusiasm, for
his innocence and his heroism seemed to have been rendered yet more
glorious by the public confession now made by the real culprit, the
savage and bestial Gorgias. Women wept and raised their children to let
them see the hero. Men rushed to unharness the horses; and indeed they
did unharness them, in such wise that the landau was dragged to the
house by a hundred brave arms. And all along the flower-strewn line of
route other flowers were flung from the windows, where handkerchiefs as
well as banners waved. A very beautiful girl mounted the carriage step,
and remained there like a living statue of youth, contributing the
splendour of her beauty to the martyr's triumph. Kisses were wafted,
words of affection and glorification fell into the carriage with the
bouquets which rained from every side. Never had people been stirred
by such intense emotion--emotion wrung from their very vitals by the
thought of such a great iniquity--emotion which, seeking to bestow
some supreme compensation on the victim, found it in the gift without
reserve of the hearts and love of all. Glory to the innocent man who
had well-nigh perished by the people's fault, and on whom the people
would never be able to bestow sufficient happiness! Glory to the martyr
who had suffered so greatly for unrecognised and strangled truth, and
whose victory was that of human reason freeing itself from the bonds of
error and falsehood! And glory to the schoolmaster struck down in his
functions, a victim of his efforts to promote enlightenment, and now
exalted the more as he had suffered untold pain and grief for each and
every particle of truth that he had imparted to the ignorant and the
humble!

Marc, who stood on the threshold of the house, dizzy with happiness,
watching that triumph approach amid an explosion of fraternity and
affection, bethought himself of the far-off day of Simon's arrest,
the hateful day when a vehicle had carried him away from Maillebois
at the moment of little Zéphirin's funeral. A furious crowd had
rushed to seize him, roll him in the mud, and tear him to pieces. A
horrible clamour had arisen: 'To death, to death with the assassin
and sacrilegist! To death, to death with the Jew!' And the crowd
had pursued the rolling wheels, unwilling to relinquish its prey,
while Simon, pale and frozen, responded with his ceaseless cry: 'I am
innocent! I am innocent! I am innocent!' And now that after long years
that innocence was manifest, how striking was the transformation! The
crowd was rejuvenated, transfigured; the children and the grandchildren
of the blind insulters of former days had grown up in knowledge
of truth, and become enthusiastic applauders, striving by dint of
sincerity and affection to redeem the crime of their forerunners!

But the landau drew up before the garden gate, and the emotion
increased when Simon was seen to alight with the help of his brother
David, who had remained more nimble and vigorous. Emaciated, reduced
to a shadow, Simon had white hair and a gentle countenance, softened
by extreme age. He smiled his thanks to David, and again there were
frantic acclamations at the sight of those two brothers, bound together
by long years of heroism. The cheers continued when, after the Mayor,
Jules Savin, Delbos also alighted--the great Delbos, as the crowd
called him, the hero of Beaumont and Rozan, who had not feared to speak
the truth aloud in the terrible days when it was perilous to do so,
and who ever since had worked for the advent of a just society. Then,
as Marc went forward to meet Simon and David, whom Delbos had just
joined, the four men found themselves together for a moment on the very
threshold of the house. And at that sight there came an increase of
enthusiasm. Cries were raised and arms were waved deliriously as the
three heroic defenders and the innocent man, whom they had rescued from
the worst of tortures, were seen thus standing side by side.

Then Simon impulsively cast himself on the neck of Marc, who
returned his embrace. Both sobbed, and were only able to stammer a
few words--almost the same as they had stammered long ago, on the
abominable day when they had been parted.

'Thank you, thank you, comrade. Like David, you have been to me a
brother--a second brother; you saved my own and my children's honour.'

'Oh! I merely helped David, comrade; the victory was won by truth
alone.... And there are your children--of their own accord they have
grown up in strength and reason.'

The whole family, indeed, was assembled amid the garden greenery;
four generations awaited the venerable old man, who triumphed after
so many years of suffering. Rachel, his wife, stood beside Geneviève,
the wife of his dear, good friend. Then came those whose blood had
mingled--Joseph and Louise, Sarah and Sébastien, accompanied by their
children, François and Thérèse, who were followed by little Rose, the
last born of the line. Clément and Charlotte were also present with
Lucienne. And tears started from all eyes, and endless kisses were
exchanged.

But a very fresh, sweet song arose. The children of the boys' and
girls' schools, the pupils of Joseph and Louise, were singing a welcome
to the former schoolmaster of Maillebois. Nothing could have been more
simple and more touching than that childish strophe, instinct with
tenderness and suggestive of the happy future. Then a lad stepped
forward and offered Simon a bouquet in the name of the boys' school.

'Thank you, my little friend. How fine you look.... Who are you?'

'I am Edmond Doloir; my father is Léon Doloir, a schoolmaster; he is
yonder, beside Monsieur Salvan.'

Then came the turn of a little girl, who, in like fashion, carried a
bouquet offered by the girls' school.

'Oh! what a pretty little darling! Thank you, thank you.... And what is
your name?'

'I am Georgette Doloir; I am the daughter of Adrien Doloir and Claire
Bongard. You can see them there with my grandpapa and grandmamma, and
my uncles and aunts.'

But there was yet another bouquet, and this was presented by Lucienne
Froment on behalf of Rose Simon, the last-born of the family, whom she
carried in her arms. And Lucienne recited: 'I am Lucienne Froment, the
daughter of Clément Froment and Charlotte Savin.... And this is Rose
Simon, the little daughter of your grandson François, and your own
great-granddaughter, as she is also the great-granddaughter of your
friend Marc Froment through her grandmother, Louise.'

With trembling hands Simon took the dear and bonnie babe in his arms.
'Ah! you dear little treasure, flesh of my flesh, you are like the ark
of alliance.... Ah, how good and vigorous has life proved! how bravely
it has worked in giving us so many strong, healthy, and handsome
offspring! And how everything broadens at each fresh generation; what
an increase of truth and justice and peace does life bring as it
pursues its eternal task!'

They were now all pressing around him, introducing themselves,
embracing him, and shaking his hands. There were the Savins, Jules and
his son Robert, the former the Mayor who had so actively helped on the
work of reparation, and who had received him at the railway station
on behalf of the whole town. There were the Doloirs also--Auguste,
who had built the house, Adrien, who had planned it, Charles, who had
undertaken the locksmith's work, and Marcel, who had attended to the
carpentry. There were likewise the Bongards--Fernand and his wife
Lucille, and Claire their daughter. And all were mingled, connected
by marriages, forming, as it were, but one great family, in such
wise that Simon could hardly tell who was who. But his old pupils
gave their names, and he traced on their aged faces some likeness
to the boyish features of long ago, while embrace followed embrace
amid ever-increasing emotion. And all at once, finding himself in
presence of Salvan, now very old indeed, but still showing a smiling
countenance, Simon fell into his arms, saying, 'Ah! my master, I owe
everything to you; it is your work which now triumphs, thanks to the
valiant artisans of truth whom you formed and sent out into the world!'

Then came the turn of Mademoiselle Mazeline, whom he kissed gaily on
both cheeks, and next that of Mignot, who shed tears when Simon had
embraced him.

'Have you forgiven me, Monsieur Simon?' he asked.

'Forgiven you, my old friend Mignot! You have shown a valiant and noble
heart! Ah! how delightful it is to meet again like this!'

The ceremony, so simple, yet so grand, was at last drawing to a
close. The house offered to the innocent man, that bright-looking
house standing on the site of the old den of the Rue du Trou, smiled
right gaily in the sunlight with its decorative garlands of flowers
and foliage. And all at once the drapery which still hung before the
inscription above the door was pulled aside, and the marble slab
appeared with its inscription in vivid letters of gold: 'Presented by
the town of Maillebois to Schoolmaster Simon in the name of Truth and
Justice, and as Reparation for the Torture inflicted on him.' Then came
the signature, which seemed to show forth in a yet brighter blaze:
'The Grandchildren of his Persecutors.' And at that sight, from all
the great square, and from the neighbouring avenue, from every window
and from every roof, there arose a last mighty acclamation, which
rolled on like thunder--an acclamation in which all at last united,
none henceforth daring to deny that truth and justice had triumphed.

On the morrow _Le Petit Beaumontais_ published an enthusiastic account
of the ceremony. That once filthy print had been quite transformed
by the new spirit, which had raised its readers both morally and
intellectually. Its offices, so long infected by poison, had been
swept and purged. The Press will, indeed, become a most admirable
instrument of education when it is no longer, as now, in the hands of
political and financial bandits, bent on debasing and plundering their
readers. And thus _Le Petit Beaumontais_, cleansed and rejuvenated, was
beginning to render great services, contributing day by day to increase
of enlightenment, reason, and brotherliness.

A few days later a terrible storm, one of those September storms which
consume everything, destroyed the Capuchin chapel at Maillebois. That
chapel was the last religious edifice of the district remaining open,
and several bigots still attended it. At Jonville, Abbé Cognasse had
lately been found dead in his sacristy, carried off by an apoplectic
stroke, which had followed one of his violent fits of anger; and
his church, long empty, was now definitively closed. At Maillebois,
Abbé Coquard no longer even opened the doors of St. Martin's, but
officiated alone at the altar, unable as he was to find a server for
the Mass. Thus the little chapel of the Capuchins, which, with its
big gilded and painted statue of St. Antony of Padua, standing amid
candles and artificial flowers, retained to the end its reputation
as a miracle-shop, sufficed for the few folk who still followed the
observances of the Church.

That day, as it happened, they were celebrating there some festival
connected with the saint,[3] a ceremony which had attracted about
a hundred of the faithful. Yielding to the solicitations of Father
Théodose, Father Crabot, who nowadays remained shut up at La Désirade,
where he intended to install some pious enterprise, had decided to
honour the solemnity with his presence. Thus both were there, one
officiating, the other seated in a velvet arm-chair before the statue
of the great saint, who was implored to show his miraculous power and
obtain from God the grace of some dreadful cataclysm, such as would at
once sweep away the infamous and sacrilegious society of the new times.
And it was then that the storm burst forth. A great inky, terrifying
cloud spread over Maillebois; there came flashes of lightning, which
seemed to show the furnaces of hell blazing in the empyrean, and
thunderclaps which suggested salvoes of some giant artillery bombarding
the earth. Father Théodose had ordered the bells to be rung, and a
loud and prolonged pealing arose from the chapel, as if to indicate
to the Deity that this was His house and should be protected by Him.
But in lieu thereof extermination came. A frightful clap resounded,
the lightning struck the bells, descended by the rope, and burst forth
in the nave with a detonation as if the very heavens were crumbling.
Father Théodose, fired as he stood at the altar, flamed there like a
torch. The sacerdotal vestments, the sacred vases, the very tabernacle,
were melted, reduced to ashes. And the great St. Antony, shivered to
pieces, fell upon the stricken Father Crabot, of whom only a bent and
blackened skeleton remained beneath all the dust. And as if those two
ministers of the Church were not sufficient sacrifice, five of the
devotees present were also killed, while the others fled, howling
with terror, eager to escape being crushed by the vaulted roof, which
cracked, then crumbled in a pile of remnants, leaving nought of the
cult intact.

[Footnote 3: The real festival of St. Antony of Padua falls on June
13th.--_Trans._]

The stupefaction was universal throughout Maillebois. How could the
Deity of the Holy Roman and Apostolic Church have made such a mistake?
The same question had often been asked in former times--each time,
indeed, that a church had been struck and its steeple had fallen on the
priest and the kneeling worshippers. Had God desired, then, the end of
the religion which had taken His name? Or, more reasonably, was it that
no Divine hand whatever guided the lightning, and that it was but a
natural force, which would prove a source of happiness whenever mankind
should have domesticated it? In any case, after the calamity, Brother
Gorgias suddenly reappeared and was seen hurrying along the streets of
Maillebois, crying aloud that God had made no mistake. It was to him,
he said, that God had hearkened, resolving to strike down his imbecile
and cowardly superiors, and thus give a lesson to the whole Church,
which could only flourish anew by the power of fire and steel. And a
month later Gorgias himself was found, his skull split, his body soiled
with filth, outside the same suspicious house before which, some time
previously, a passer had already found the body of Victor Milhomme.




IV


Years, and again years, elapsed, and, thanks to the generosity of
life,--which, as Marc had lived and served it so well, wished, it
seemed, to reward him by keeping him and his adored Geneviève erect
like triumphant spectators,--he, now over eighty, still tasted the
supreme joy of seeing his dreams fulfilled yet more and more.

Generations continued to arise, each more freed, more purified, more
endowed with knowledge than its forerunners. In former days there had
been two Frances, each receiving a different education, remaining
ignorant of the other, hating it, and contending with it. For the
multitude of the nation, for the immense majority of the country folk,
there had only been what was called elementary instruction--reading,
writing, a little arithmetic, the rudiments which raised man just a
span above the level of the brute beast. To the _bourgeoisie_, the
petty minority of the elect, who had seized all wealth and power,
secondary education and superior education, every means of learning
and reigning, lay open. Thus was perpetuated the most frightful of all
social iniquities. The poor and the humble were kept down in their
ignorance beneath a heavy tombstone. To them it was forbidden to learn,
to become men of knowledge, power, and mastery. At rare intervals
one of them escaped and raised himself to the highest rank. But that
was the exception, tolerated, and cited with canting hypocrisy as an
example. All men were equal, it was said, and might raise themselves
by their own merits. But as a first step, by way of preventing it, the
necessary instruction, the enlightenment due to each and every child of
the nation, was withheld from the great majority, so intense, indeed,
was the terror of the great movement of truth and justice which would
accrue from the diffusion of knowledge--a movement which would sweep
away the _bourgeoisie_ and its monstrous errors and compel disgorgement
of the national fortune, in order that by just labour the city of
solidarity and peace might be at last established.

And now a France which soon would be all one was being constituted;
there would soon be no upper class, no lower class; those who knew
would cease to crush and exploit those who did not know in a stealthy,
fratricidal warfare, whose paroxysms had often reddened the paving
of the streets with blood. A system of integral education for one
and all was already at work; all the children of France had to pass
through the gratuitous, secular, compulsory primary schools, where
experimental facts, in lieu of grammatical rules, were now the bases of
all education. Moreover, the acquirement of knowledge did not suffice;
it was necessary one should learn to love, for it was only by love
that truth could prove fruitful. And a process of natural selection
ensued according to the tastes, aptitudes, and faculties of the pupils,
who from the primary schools passed to special schools, arranged in
accordance with requirements, embracing all practical applications of
knowledge and extending to the highest speculations of the human mind.
The law was that no member of a nation was privileged; that each being
born into the world was to be welcomed as a possible force, whose
culture was demanded by the national interests. And in this there was
not only equality and equity, but a wise employment of the common
treasure, a practical desire to lose nought that might contribute to
the power and grandeur of the country. And, indeed, what a mighty
awakening there was of all the accumulated energy which had lain
slumbering in the country districts and the industrial towns! Quite
an intellectual florescence sprang up, a new generation, able to act
and think, supplying the sap which had long been exhausted in the old
governing classes, worn out by the abuse of power. Genius arose daily
from the fertile popular soil; a great epoch, a renascence of mankind,
was impending. Integral instruction, which the ruling _bourgeoisie_
had so long opposed, because it felt that it would destroy the old
social order, was, indeed, destroying it, but at the same time it was
setting in its place the fresh and magnificent blossoming of all the
intellectual and moral power which would make France the liberator, the
emancipator of the world.

Thus disappeared the divided France of former times, the France in
which there had been two classes, two hostile, ever-warring races,
reared, it might have been thought, in different planets, as if
they were destined never to meet, never to come to an agreement. The
schoolmasters, also, were no longer herded in two unfriendly groups,
the one full of humiliation, the other full of contempt--on one side
the poor, imperfectly educated elementary teachers, scarcely cleansed
of the loam of their native fields, and on the other the professors of
the Lycées and the special schools, redolent of science and literature.
The masters who now taught the pupils of the primary schools followed
them through all the stages of their education. It was held that a man
needed as much intelligence and training to be able to awaken a boy's
mind, impart first principles, and set him on the right road, as to
maintain him in it and develop his faculties subsequently. A rotatory
service was organised, teachers were easily recruited, and worked right
zealously now that the profession had become one of the first of the
land, well paid, honoured, and glorified.

The nation had also understood it to be necessary that the integral
instruction it imparted should be gratuitous at all stages, however
great might be the cost, for its millions were not cast stupidly to
the winds, to foster falsehood and slaughter--they helped to rear
good artisans of prosperity and peace. No other harvest could be
compared with that: each _sou_ that was expended helped to give more
intelligence and strength to the people, helped it to master to-morrow.
And the inanity of the great reproach levelled at the general
diffusion of knowledge, that of casting _déclassés_, rebels, across
the narrow limits of old-time society, became plainly manifest now
that those limits had crumbled as the new society came into being. The
_bourgeoisie_, even as it feared, was bound to be swept away as soon
as it no longer possessed a monopoly of knowledge. But if in former
years each penniless and hungry peasant's or artisan's son who rose up
by the acquirement of knowledge had become a source of embarrassment
and danger by reason of his eagerness to carve for himself a share of
enjoyment among that of those who enjoyed already, that danger had now
disappeared. There could be no more _déclassés_, since the classes
themselves had ceased to exist, and no more rebels either, since the
normal condition of life was the ascent of one and all towards more and
more culture, in order that the most useful civic action might ensue.
Thus education had accomplished its revolutionary work, and it was now
the very strength of the community, the power which had both broadened
and tightened the bond of brotherliness, all being called upon to work
for the happiness of all, the energy of none remaining ignored and lost.

That complete education, the culture of the whole community, which
now yielded such a magnificent harvest, had only become possible on
the day when the Church had been deprived of her teaching privileges.
The separation of Church and State, and the suppression of the budget
of Public Worship, had freed the country and enabled it to dower its
schools more liberally. The priest ceased to be a functionary, the
Catholic faith no longer possessed the force of a law; those who chose
remained free to go to church, even as to the theatre, by paying for
their seats, but, in the result, the churches gradually emptied. And if
this occurred it was because they no longer manufactured worshippers,
poor stupefied beings, such as they needed to fill their naves. Long
and terrible years had elapsed before it had become possible to wrest
the children from the teachers of the Church, those who had poisoned
mankind through the ages, who had reigned over it by falsehood and
terrorism. From the very first day the Church had realised that she
must kill truth if she did not wish it to kill her; and what furious
battles had followed, what a desperate resistance she had offered
in order to delay her inevitable defeat, the resplendent outpouring
of Light, freed at last from every hindrance! Society would soon be
reduced to treating her as one treated those malodorous fishwives
whose shops were closed by the police. Yet she, the dogmatic and
authoritarian ruler--she who, imitating her Deity, strove to impose
her will on the world by thunderbolts, impudently dared to invoke and
claim liberty, in order that she might perpetuate her abominable work
of debasement and servitude. Laws of social protection then proved
necessary; it became imperative to deprive her legally of her power,
by refusing to her members, the monks and the priests, the right of
teaching. And then again what an uproar followed, what frantic attempts
to plunge France into civil war, credulous parents being banded
together, while the religious orders, thrust out by the doorways once
more, slipped into their dens by the windows, with the obstinacy of
folk who relied on the eternal credulity which they fancied they had
sown in the minds of men! Did they not represent error, superstition,
and wretched human cowardice, and did it not follow, therefore, that
eternity was theirs? But, for this to be, they had to retain their
hold upon the children, and, by them, obscure the morrow; and it
happened that the morrow and the children gradually escaped them, and
that the time came when the Holy Roman Catholic Church lay agonising
beneath the crumbling of her idiotic dogmas, pierced and destroyed by
science. Truth had conquered, the schools given to all had formed men
who knew, and who could exercise their will.

Thus hardly a day elapsed without Marc observing some fresh fortunate
conquest, some increase of reason and comfort. He and his wife
Geneviève alone remained erect of all the valiant generation which had
fought and suffered so much. Good old Salvan had been the first to
depart, then Mademoiselle Mazeline and Mignot had followed him. But
of all the deaths the most painful for Marc had been those of Simon
and David, the two brothers, carried off one after the other at an
interval of only a few days, as if they had been still linked together
by their heroic fraternity. Madame Simon had preceded them; all who
had participated in the monstrous affair were now beneath the peaceful
soil, lying there side by side, the good and the wicked, the heroes and
the criminals, all plunged in eternal silence. Many of the children and
grandchildren, moreover, had departed before their parents, for death
never paused in his mysterious work, mowing down men as he listed in
order to fertilise one or another field, whence other men would spring.

At last, quitting their retreat of Jonville, Marc and Geneviève had
come to reside again at Maillebois, where they occupied the first floor
of the house presented to Simon, and now belonging to his children,
Joseph and Sarah. She and her husband Sébastien still resided at
Beaumont, where the latter remained director of the Training College.
But Joseph, afflicted in the legs, almost infirm, had been obliged
to retire; and as his wife Louise had at the same time quitted the
Maillebois school, they were now installed on the second floor of the
paternal house, which the family shared in this fashion, well pleased
to be together during the last gentle, declining days of life. And if
they themselves had given up teaching, they at least had the joy of
seeing the good work carried on by their descendants, for François and
Thérèse had now been appointed to the Maillebois schools, in which,
therefore, three generations of the family had succeeded one another.

The delight of living side by side, in close affection, had lasted two
years, when quite a drama plunged the family into grief. One of those
insensate passions which devastate a man came upon François, then in
all the strength of his two and thirty years, and hitherto so tenderly
attached to his wife Thérèse. He became enamoured of a young woman of
eight and twenty years named Colette Roudille, whose mother, a very
pious widow, had lately died. Colette's father was said to have been
Théodose, the Capuchin, at one time her mother's confessor; and she
certainly resembled him, having a splendid head, with blood-red lips
and eyes of fire. The widow had lived on a little income, upon which,
however, her son Faustin, twelve years older than his sister, had
encroached to such a degree that the old woman had remained at last
with barely enough money to buy bread. However, the little clerical
group, all that remained of the once powerful faction which had ruled
the district, took an interest in Faustin, and ended by obtaining a
situation for him. For some months, then, he had been keeper of the
estate of La Désirade, which since Father Crabot's death had become the
subject of a number of lawsuits, and which some of the neighbouring
localities proposed to purchase and turn into a people's palace and
convalescent home, even as Valmarie had been turned into an asylum
where young mothers recovered their strength. Thus Colette lived alone
and in all freedom at Maillebois, almost in front of the school; and
it was certain that the glow of her fine eyes and the smile of her red
lips had largely helped on the passion which was maddening François.

But it happened that one day Thérèse surprised them, and dolorous
anger came upon her, the more particularly as she was not the only
one who might suffer from her husband's folly. Might it not, indeed,
prove a disaster for their daughter Rose, who was now near her twelfth
birthday? At one moment Thérèse appealed to her parents, Sébastien and
Sarah, wishing to have their views respecting the course she ought
to take. She spoke of a separation, offering to restore freedom to
the husband who had ceased to love her and who told her lies. But
she remained very calm, firm, and sensible in her trouble, and she
soon understood that on this occasion it was wise and fit to forgive.
Moreover, Marc and Geneviève, afflicted by the rupture, lectured their
grandson François severely, and he evinced great sorrow, recognising
that he was in the wrong, and accepting the most violent reproaches.
But even while he confessed his fault, he unhappily remained disturbed,
full of anguish, with an evident fear that his passion might again
overcome him. Never had Marc so cruelly realised the fragility of
human happiness. It was not sufficient, then, that one should instruct
men and lead them towards justice by the paths of truth; it was also
necessary that passion should not rend them and cast them one against
the other like madmen. Marc had spent his life fighting in order that
a little light might extricate the children from the dim gaol in which
their fathers had groaned; and, in giving more happiness to others, he
thought he had given it to his own family. Yet now, at the hearth of
his grandson, who had seemed quite freed from error and very sensible,
another form of suffering displayed itself--the suffering of love,
with its eternal felicity and eternal torture! It was evident that one
must not be proud of one's knowledge, that one must not set all one's
strength in it. It was necessary that one should also be prepared to
suffer in one's heart, and strive to make it valiant in order that it
might bear up against a rending which always remained possible. And,
again, it was wrong to think that it was sufficient to do good in order
to be sheltered from the blows of evil. But though Marc said all those
things to himself, placing a very modest estimate on the work he had
accomplished, he still felt very sad as he saw mankind voluntarily
leaving some of its flesh on all the briars of its path, and lingering
there, as if unwilling to reach the happy city.

The holidays arrived, and all at once François disappeared. It seemed
as if he had waited to be rid of his pupils in order to go off with
Colette, the shutters of whose windows facing the High street remained
closed. Wishing to stifle the scandal, the family related that, as
François was in poor health, he had gone with a friend to take an
air cure abroad during the holidays. A tacit understanding ensued
in Maillebois--everybody pretended to accept that explanation out
of regard for Thérèse, the forsaken wife, who was much liked and
respected; but nobody really remained ignorant of the true cause of her
husband's flight. She behaved admirably in those painful circumstances,
hiding her tears, preserving perfect dignity in her home. In particular
she bestowed increased tenderness on her daughter Rose, from whom,
unfortunately, she could not hide the facts, but in whom she
inculcated a continuance of respect for her father in spite of his bad
conduct.

A month went by, and Marc, who was deeply grieved, still visited
Thérèse every day, when one evening there came a dramatic, a horrible,
occurrence. Rose having gone to spend the afternoon with a little
friend in the neighbourhood, Marc had found Thérèse alone, sobbing in
silence, far away from all prying eyes. For a long while he strove
to comfort her and restore her to some hope. Then, at nightfall, he
was obliged to leave her without having seen Rose, who had remained
apparently with her little friend. The evening was dark, the atmosphere
heavy with a threatening storm, and as Marc, eager to get home, was
crossing the small, dim square behind the school, into which looked the
window of the room once occupied by little Zéphirin, he suddenly heard
a confused noise of footsteps and calls.

'What is the matter? What is the matter?' he exclaimed as he went
forward.

He felt a chill in his veins, though why it was he could not tell.
Apparently some gust of terror, coming from afar, was sweeping by. And
at last in the faint light Marc perceived a man whom he recognised as a
certain Marsouillier, a poor nephew of the deceased Philis, at one time
mayor of Maillebois. Marsouillier now acted as beadle at St. Martin's,
where, since the destruction of the Capuchin Chapel, a small party of
believers still supported a priest.

'What is the matter?' Marc repeated, surprised to see that the other
was gesticulating and mumbling to himself.

Marsouillier in his turn now recognised Marc. 'I don't know, Monsieur
Froment,' he stammered with a terrified air. 'I was passing; I had come
from the Place des Capucins, when, all at once, I heard the cries of
a child, choking, it seemed, with fright. And as I hastened up I just
caught sight of a man running away, while yonder on the ground lay that
little body.... Then I also began to call.'

Marc himself now distinguished a pale and motionless form lying on the
ground. And a suspicion came to him, Was it this man Marsouillier who
had ill-used the child? Perhaps so, for curiously enough he was holding
something white--a handkerchief.

'And that handkerchief?' Marc asked.

'Oh! I picked it up here just now.... Perhaps the man wanted to stifle
the child's cries with it, and dropped it as he ran away.'

But Marc no longer listened; he was leaning over the little form upon
the ground, and an exclamation of frantic grief suddenly escaped his
lips: 'Rose! our little Rose!'

The victim was indeed the pretty little girl, who, as a babe, in the
arms of her cousin Lucienne, had offered a bouquet to Simon on the
occasion of his triumph ten years previously. She had grown up full
of beauty and charm, with a bright, dimpled, smiling face amid a mass
of fair and wavy tresses. And the scene could be easily pictured: the
child returning home across that deserted square in the falling night,
some bandit surprising her, ill-using her, and flinging her there upon
the ground, whereupon, hearing a sound of footsteps, he had been seized
with terror and had fled. The child did not stir; she lay there as if
lifeless, in her little white frock figured with pink flowerets, a
holiday frock which her mother had allowed her to wear for her visit to
her friend.

'Rose! Rose!' called Marc, who was beside himself. 'Why do you not
answer me, my darling? Speak, say only one word to me, only one word.'

He touched her gently, not daring as yet to raise her from the ground.
And, talking to himself, he said, 'She has only fainted; I can tell
that she is breathing. But I fear that something is broken.... Ah!
misfortune dogs us; here again is grief indeed!'

Indescribable terror came upon him as all the frightful past suddenly
arose before his mind's eye. There, under that tragic window, close to
that room where the wretched Gorgias had killed little Zéphirin, he had
now found his own great-granddaughter, his well-loved little Rose, who
was assuredly hurt, and who in all probability only owed her salvation
to the accidental arrival of a stranger. Who was it that had brought
about that awful renewal of the past? What new and prolonged anguish
was foreboded by that crime? As if by the glow of a great lightning
flash, Marc, at that horrible moment, saw all his past life spread out,
and lived all his battles and all his sufferings anew.

Marsouillier, however, had remained there with the handkerchief in his
hand. He ended by slipping it into his pocket in an embarrassed way,
like a man who had not said all he knew, and who devoutly wished that
he had not crossed the square that evening.

'One ought not to leave her there, Monsieur Froment,' he said at last.
'You are not strong enough to pick her up; if you like I will take her
in my arms and carry her to her mamma's, as it is close by.'

Marc was compelled to accept the offer, and followed the sturdy
beadle, who took the child up very gently, without rousing her from
her fainting fit. In this wise they reached the mother's door, and for
her what a shock it was when she beheld her well-loved child, now her
only joy and comfort, brought back to her insensible, as pale as death
in her bright frock, and with her beautiful hair streaming loosely
about her! The frock was in shreds, a lock of hair which had been torn
off was caught in the lace collar. And the struggle must have been
terrible, for the child's wrenched hands were all bruised, and her
right arm hung down so limply that it was certainly broken.

Thérèse, distracted, beside herself, repeated amid her choking sobs:
'Rose, my little Rose! They have killed my Rose!'

In vain did Marc point out to her that the child was still breathing,
and that not a drop of blood was to be seen; the mother still repeated
that her child was dead. But Marsouillier carried the girl upstairs and
laid her on a bed, where all at once she suddenly opened her eyes and
gazed around her with indescribable terror. Then, shivering the while,
she began to stammer: 'Oh, mamma, mamma, hide me, I am frightened!'

Thunderstruck by her revival to consciousness, Thérèse sank on the
bed beside her, caught her in her arms and pressed her to her bosom,
so overcome by emotion that she could no longer speak. Marc, however,
begged the assistant teacher, who happened to be present, to go for a
doctor; and then, quite upset by the mystery, endeavoured to fathom it
at once.

'What happened to you, my darling?' he inquired; 'can you tell us?'

Rose looked at him for a moment as if to make sure who was speaking to
her, and then, with haggard, wandering eyes, peered into all the dim
corners of the room. I'm afraid, I'm afraid, grandfather,' she said.

He endeavoured to reassure her and inquired gently: 'Did nobody
accompany you when you left your little friend's?'

'I didn't want anybody to come. The house is so near. And we had
played so long, I was afraid I would get home still later.'

'And so you came back running, my darling, eh? And somebody sprang on
you; that is what happened, is it not?'

But the terrified child again began to tremble, and did not answer.
Marc had to repeat his question. 'Yes, yes, somebody,' she stammered at
last.

Marc waited till she became calmer, caressing her hair the while,
and kissing her on the forehead. 'You see, you ought to tell us,' he
resumed. 'You cried out, naturally, you struggled. The man wanted to
close your mouth, did he not?'

'Oh, grandfather, it was all so quick! He took hold of my arms, and he
twisted them round. He wanted to drive me out of my senses and carry me
off on his back. It hurt me so dreadfully, I thought I should die, and
I fell to the ground: that is all I remember.'

Marc felt greatly relieved; he was now convinced that nothing worse had
happened, particularly as Marsouillier, on hearing the girl's cries,
had hastened to the spot. And so he asked but one question more: 'And
would you be able to recognise the man, my dear?'

Again Rose quivered, and her eyes became quite wild as if some terrible
vision was rising before her. Then, covering her face with her hand,
she relapsed into stubborn silence. As her glance had already fallen
on Marsouillier and she had raised no exclamation on seeing him, Marc
realised that he had been mistaken when he had suspected the beadle
of the crime. Nevertheless he wished to question him also; for, even
allowing that he had spoken the truth, it might be that he had not told
the whole of it.

'You saw the man run away?' said Marc. 'Would you be able to recognise
him?'

'Oh! I don't think so, Monsieur Froment. He passed me, but it was
already dark. Besides, I was so disturbed.' And the beadle, who had not
yet fully recovered his composure, let a further detail escape him: 'He
said something as he passed, I fancy ... he called "Imbecile!"'

'What! Imbecile?' retorted Marc, who was greatly surprised. 'Why should
he have said that to you?'

But Marsouillier, deeply regretting that he had added that particular,
for he understood the possible gravity of any admission on his part,
endeavoured to recall his words. 'I can't be sure of anything,' he
said, 'it was like a growl.... And no, no, I should not be able to
recognise him.'

Then, as Marc asked him for the handkerchief, he drew it from his
pocket with some appearance of _ennui_, and laid it on a table. It was
a very common kind of handkerchief, one of those which are embroidered
by the gross with initials in red thread. This one was marked with
the letter F, and the clue was a slight one, for dozens of similar
handkerchiefs were sold in the shops.

Meantime Thérèse, who had again caught Rose in a gentle embrace,
caressed her lovingly. 'The doctor is coming, my treasure,' she said.
'I won't touch you any more till he is here. It won't be anything. You
are not in great pain, are you?'

'No, mother,' Rose replied, 'but my arm burns me and seems very heavy.'

Then, in an undertone, Thérèse, in her turn, tried to confess the girl,
for the mysteriousness of the assault had left her very anxious. But
at each fresh question Rose evinced yet greater alarm, and at last she
closed her eyes and buried her head in the pillow, so as to see and
hear nothing more. Every time her mother made a fresh attempt, begging
her to say if she knew the man and would be able to recognise him, the
child quivered dreadfully. But all at once, bursting into loud sobs,
quite beside herself, almost delirious, she told everything in a loud,
distressful voice, fancying, perhaps, that she was simply whispering
her words in her mother's ear.

'Oh! mother, mother, I am so grieved! I recognised him--it was father
who was waiting there, and who threw himself upon me!'

Thérèse sprang to her feet in stupefaction. 'Your father? What is it
you say, you unhappy child?'

Marc and Marsouillier also had heard the girl. And the former drew
near to her with a violent gesture of incredulity: 'Your father? It is
impossible!... Come, come, my darling, you must have dreamt that.'

'No, no, father was waiting for me behind the school, and I recognised
him by his beard and his hat. He tried to carry me away, and as I would
not let him he twisted my arms and made me fall.'

She clung stubbornly to that account of the affair, though she could
supply little proof of what she asserted, for the man had not spoken a
word to her, and she had only noticed his beard and hat, remembering
nothing else, not even his features, which had been hidden by the
darkness. Nevertheless, that man was her father, she was sure of it;
nothing could efface that impression, which, if incorrect, might be
some haunting idea which had sprung from the grief in which she had
seen her mother plunged since the departure of the unfaithful François.

'It is impossible; it is madness!' Marc repeated, for his reason
rebelled and protested against such a notion. 'If François had wished
to take Rose away he would not have hurt her--killed her almost!'

Thérèse also quietly displayed a feeling of perfect certainty.
'François is incapable of such an action,' said she. 'He has caused
me a great deal of grief, but I know him, and will defend him if need
be.... You were mistaken, my poor Rose.'

Nevertheless the unhappy woman went to look at the handkerchief which
had remained on the table. And she could not restrain a nervous start,
for it appeared to be one of a dozen marked with a similar letter F,
which she had purchased for her husband of the sisters Landois, who
kept a drapery shop in the High Street. On going to a chest of drawers
Thérèse found ten similar handkerchiefs, and it was quite possible
that François had taken two away with him at the time of his flight.
However, the unhappy wife strove to overcome her uneasiness, and as
firmly and as positively as before, she said: 'The handkerchief may
belong to him.... But it was not he; never shall I think him guilty.'

The strange scene seemed to have stupefied Marsouillier. He had
remained on one side, at a loss apparently as to how he might quit
those sorrowing folk, and since he had heard the child's story his eyes
had been all astonishment. The recognition of the handkerchief brought
his dismay to a climax, and at last, profiting by the arrival of the
doctor fetched by the assistant teacher, he managed to slip away. Marc,
on his side, went into the dining-room to await the result of the
medical examination. Rose's right arm was indeed broken, but there was
nothing of a disquieting character about the fracture, and the wrenched
wrists and a few bruises were the only other marks of violence which
the doctor found. He, indeed, was most concerned respecting the result
of the nervous shock which the girl had experienced, for it had been a
violent one. And he only left her an hour later, when he had reduced
the fracture and saw her overcome, as it were, plunged in a heavy
sleep.

Marc, however, had meantime sent a message to his wife and Louise,
for he feared that they might be alarmed by his failure to return
home. And they hastened to the school, terrified by this frightful
business, which reminded them also of the old and abominable affair.
Thérèse having joined them, a kind of family council was held, the
door of the bedroom remaining open in order that they might at once
hear the injured girl if she should wake up. Marc, who was quite
feverish, expressed his views at length. What possible reason could
there have been for François to commit such a deed? He might have
yielded to a transport of passion by running away with Colette, but he
had invariably shown himself to be a loving father, and his wife did
not even complain of his manner towards herself, for it had remained
outwardly dignified, almost deferential. Thus, what motive could have
prompted him if he were guilty? Hidden away with his mistress in some
unknown retreat, it could hardly be that he had experienced a sudden
craving to have his daughter with him. What could he have done with
the child? She would have been a burden on him in the life he must
be leading. And even supposing that he had wished to strike a cruel
blow at his wife, and reduce her to solitude, without a consolation
remaining to her, it was incredible that he should have ill-used and
injured his daughter, have left her upon the ground senseless! He
would simply have taken her away with him. Thus, in spite of Rose's
statements, in spite of the handkerchief, François could not be guilty,
the impossibilities were too great. Nevertheless, faced as he was by
this mysterious problem, and the task of again seeking the truth, Marc
felt disturbed and anxious, for he was convinced that Marsouillier
would relate what he had seen and heard, and that all Maillebois would
be discussing the drama on the morrow. And as all the appearances were
against François, would public opinion denounce him, even as in former
days it had denounced his grandfather, Simon the Jew? In that case, how
could he be defended? what ought to be done to prevent a renewal of the
monstrous iniquity of long ago?

'The one thing that tends to tranquillise me,' said Marc at last, 'is
that the times have changed. We now have to deal with people who have
been freed and educated, and it will greatly surprise me if they do not
help us to unravel the truth.'

Silence fell. At last, in spite of the little quiver which she was
unable to master, Thérèse exclaimed energetically, 'You are right,
grandfather. Before everything else we must establish the innocence
of François, which I cannot possibly doubt, whatever may be the
accusations.... He has made me suffer dreadfully, but I will forget it,
and you may rely on me, I will help you with all my strength.'

Geneviève and Louise nodded their assent. 'Ah!' muttered the latter,
'the unhappy lad! When he was seven years old he used to throw his
arms round me and say, "Little mother, I love you very dearly!" He has
a tender and passionate nature, and thus one must forgive him a great
deal.'

'There is always some resource when one has to deal with loving
natures,' remarked Geneviève in her turn. 'Even if they become guilty
of great transgressions, love helps them to repair them.'

On the morrow, even as Marc had foreseen, all Maillebois was in a
hubbub. People talked of nothing but that assault, of the charge
which the injured girl had brought against her own father, of the
handkerchief picked up by a passer, and recognised by the wife.
Marsouillier told the story to all who were willing to listen to him,
and he even embellished it somewhat, making out that he had seen and
done everything in connection with the rescue. He was not a malicious
man, he was simply vain and inclined to poltroonery in such wise that
while it flattered his feelings to become a personage he remained
secretly apprehensive of great personal worries if the affair should
turn out badly. He was, as already mentioned, a nephew of the pious
Philis, and he lived on his pay as a beadle, which pay was extremely
small now that only a few believers provided for the expenses at St.
Martin's. And it was said that he himself was not a believer at all,
that his views were really very free ones, and that if he thus ate the
bread of hypocrisy it was simply because he was unable to earn any
other. However that might be, the few remaining worshippers who paid
his salary, the last Catholics of the district, who were enraged by
their defeat and the abandonment into which the Church was sinking, at
once seized upon his adventure and resolved to exploit that scandal
which had assuredly been vouchsafed to them by Heaven. Never had they
dared to hope for such an opportunity to resume hostilities, and they
must profit by the divine favour to make a supreme effort. Thus black
skirts were again seen gliding along the streets of Maillebois, old
ladies were again heard telling the most extraordinary stories. Some
unknown person had related that she had seen François on the night
of the crime in the company of two masked men, who were Freemasons
undoubtedly. And, as everybody knew that the Freemasons needed the
blood of a young girl for their Black Mass, it followed that François,
after some drawing of lots, had been chosen to provide the blood of
his daughter. Did that not explain everything--the sectarian's savage
violence, his unnatural ferocity? But it happened that the inventors
of that idiotic fable could not find a single newspaper to print it,
and thus they had to spread it by word of mouth among the poorer folk.
When evening came it had already gone all round the town, and had even
reached Jonville, Le Moreux, and other neighbouring villages. And the
seed of falsehood being sown, the plotters only had to wait for the
poisonous crop which they hoped to see arise from the popular ignorance.

But, as Marc had said, the times had changed. On all sides people
shrugged their shoulders when they heard that foolish story. Such
inventions had been all very well in former times, when men were
children and fell eagerly on improbabilities. But nowadays people
knew too much, and a story of that kind was not accepted without due
examination. In the first place, it was immediately ascertained that
François did not happen to be a Freemason. Moreover, nobody had seen
him in the town; and it seemed certain that he was hidden away at a
distance with that girl Colette, who had disappeared from Maillebois
at the same time as himself. Again, there were all sorts of reasons
for thinking him innocent. Indeed the whole district pronounced the
same opinion on him as his relatives had done. He was a man of an
amorous nature, who might yield to a passionate transport, but he was
also a loving father, and as such incapable of ill-treating his own
child. Excellent testimony came in from all sides. His pupils and
their parents praised his gentleness; several neighbours related that
in spite of his errors he had remained affectionately attached to
his wife. Nevertheless, people were confronted by the accusations of
Rose, the disquieting clue of the handkerchief, the scene repeatedly
recounted by Marsouillier--the whole constituting an irritating
mystery, a distressing problem for all who were competent to weigh
and judge facts. If, indeed, François were not guilty, however much
appearances might be against him, somebody else must be the culprit,
and who could that be, and how was he to be discovered?

Then, while the judicial authorities were inquiring into the matter,
something quite new was seen--mere ordinary townsfolk came forward,
quite voluntarily, to relate whatever they knew, whatever they had
witnessed, felt, or surmised. Now that men's minds were cultivated
there was a general desire for justice, a dread of any possible error.
A Bongard came to say that on the evening of the assault, while he
was passing the town hall, he had seen a man who looked somewhat
scared, and who seemed to have run up from the direction of the Place
des Capucins. And that man was not François. Then a Doloir brought
a smoker's tinder-box, which he had found between two paving-stones
behind the schools. And he pointed out that this box might have fallen
from the culprit's pocket, and that François did not smoke. A Savin
also recounted that he had overheard a conversation between two old
ladies, from which he had drawn the conclusion that the culprit was to
be sought among the acquaintances of Marsouillier, the latter having
let his tongue wag while he was in the company of certain friendly
devotees. But the most intelligent and active helpers were the sisters
Landois, who kept the drapery shop in the High Street. They had been
pupils of Mademoiselle Mazeline; and, indeed, all the workers in the
cause of truth, all the voluntary witnesses, had passed through the
hands of the secular teachers, Marc, Joulic, or Joseph. As for the
sisters Landois, it had occurred to them to consult their books to
ascertain the names of the persons to whom they had sold handkerchiefs
similar to the one which the culprit had wished to employ as a gag.
They readily found François' name; and below it, two days later, they
perceived that of Faustin Roudille, the brother of the young woman
Colette, with whom François had fled. That was the first clue, the
first gleam of the light which was to spread and become decisive.

As it happened, this man Faustin had been without a situation for the
last fortnight. After coming to an agreement with the surrounding
localities, the town of Maillebois had at last purchased the
magnificent estate of La Désirade, which it intended to transform into
a People's Palace, a convalescent home, a public park, open to all the
workers of the region. Instead of some congregation of black frocks
being installed in that delightful spot, under that royal verdure,
among those plashing waters and those gleaming marbles, swains and
their lassies, young mothers and their babes, old folk desirous of
repose, would flock thither to enjoy the sweetness and splendour
of the scene. Thus Faustin, the ex-keeper, a creature of the last
remaining clericalists, had quitted the estate, and was to be seen
prowling about Maillebois, showing himself very bitter and aggressive,
especially with respect to his sister Colette, whose escapade, said
he, had dishonoured him. People were somewhat surprised by this sudden
severity on his part, for nobody was ignorant of the good understanding
which had previously reigned between the brother and the sister, and
the frequency with which the former had borrowed money from the young
woman when he knew her to be in funds. Had there been a rupture, then?
Was Faustin exasperated with Colette because she had taken herself
off just as he lost his situation? Or was he playing some comedy,
still remaining in agreement with his sister, acquainted with her
hiding-place, and secretly working on her behalf? These points remained
obscure, but the discovery made by the sisters Landois directed general
attention to Faustin, his actions, and his words. A week, then,
sufficed for the inquiry to make considerable progress.

First of all, Bongard's evidence was confirmed; several people now
remembered that on the evening of the assault they had met Faustin in
the High Street, looking agitated, and turning round as if he wished to
ascertain what might be taking place in the direction of the schools.
And it was certainly he whom they had seen; they had positively
recognised him. Then, too, the tinder-box found by Doloir seemed to
belong to him--at least, folk asserted that they had seen a similar one
in his hands. Finally, the conversation which Savin had overheard, and
the hypothesis of an acquaintance between Marsouillier and the culprit
received striking confirmation, for the beadle and the ex-keeper of
La Désirade had been quite intimate. That seemed to be the decisive
fact, the clue which would lead to full enlightenment, as Marc, who
was following the inquiry with impassioned attention, immediately
understood. Thus he took it upon himself to extract a confession from
Marsouillier. He recalled the beadle's strange manner when he had
found him near Rose after the culprit's flight. He remembered that he
had seemed embarrassed and anxious, disturbed at having to give up
the handkerchief; and he particularly recalled his stupefaction when
Rose had accused her father, and Thérèse had produced some similar
handkerchiefs from her chest of drawers. And he was greatly struck
by that word 'Imbecile!' which the culprit had cast in the beadle's
face, and which the latter in his perturbation had repeated. It was
a significant word, it was like a reproach hurled by a man at a
blundering friend whose inopportune arrival on the scene had spoilt
everything.

Thus Marc called upon Marsouillier. 'You know, my man,' he said to
him, 'the gravest charges are being accumulated against Faustin; he
will certainly be arrested this evening. Are you not afraid of being
compromised?'

Silent, with hanging head, the beadle listened to an enumeration of the
proofs.

'Come, own that you recognised him!' Marc added.

'But how could I have recognised him, Monsieur Froment?' said
Marsouillier. 'Faustin has no beard, and he wears a cap; whereas the
man I saw had a full beard and a felt hat.'

Those were points which Rose herself confirmed, and which as yet
remained unelucidated.

'Oh! he might have got a hat somewhere, and have put on a false
beard,' Marc suggested. 'But in any case he spoke; you yourself told
me so. Surely you must have recognised his voice when he called you an
imbecile!'

Marsouillier was already raising his hand to contradict himself, and
swear that the man had not pronounced a single word. But Marc's bright
eyes were fixed upon him, and as he met their gaze his strength failed
him. And then, good-hearted man as he was at bottom, he grew disturbed,
no longer having the courage to do a bad action in some stupid spirit
of vanity.

'Naturally I have inquired into your connection with Faustin,' Marc
resumed. 'I know that you and he often met, and that he readily
cast that expression "imbecile" in your face when he found you more
scrupulous than he liked.'

'That's true,' Marsouillier admitted; 'he called me an imbecile, and it
ended by being hardly pleasant.'

Then, on being pressed, exhorted to relieve his conscience in his own
interest, for the authorities might believe him to be an accomplice,
he ended by yielding to his fears as much as to his respect for truth.
'Well, yes, Monsieur Froment, I did recognise him.... Only he could
have called me an imbecile in that voice. I can't be mistaken, he has
given me that name too many times. And he must merely have worn a false
beard, as you surmise, and have pulled it off as he ran away, for when
some people saw him at the corner of the High Street he was wearing a
hat, but he was shaven as usual, with no beard at all.'

Marc felt delighted, for this testimony would certainly prove decisive.
Shaking hands with Marsouillier, he said to him: 'Ah! I knew it very
well; you are a good fellow.'

'A good fellow, no doubt.... You see, Monsieur Froment, I am an old
pupil of Monsieur Joulic, and when a master has taught one to love
truth it never goes away. One may wish to tell a falsehood, but the
whole of one's being rises up in protest. Besides, when one knows how
to use one's reason a little, it becomes impossible to credit the
foolish things which are put into circulation. I was very worried
at heart about this unhappy affair. But then I'm a very poor man; I
have only my post as beadle as a means of livelihood, and my position
compelled me to say the same as the old friends of my uncle Philis.'

Then Marsouillier paused, and, with a gesture of despair, big tears
gathering the while in his eyes, he added: 'Ah! I'm done for now. I
shall be turned out of doors, and left to starve in the streets.'

But Marc reassured him by a positive promise to find him some
employment. And then he hastened away, eager as he was to acquaint
Thérèse with the result of the interview, that conclusive testimony by
which François was completely cleared.

For a fortnight past Thérèse had remained nursing Rose, still feeling
firmly convinced of her husband's innocence, but intensely hurt at
receiving no news of him in spite of the stir occasioned by the affair,
which all the newspapers had recounted. And since her daughter had been
recovering, already able to get up, her arm healing in a satisfactory
manner, Thérèse, mastered by increasing sorrow, had remained mute,
quite overcome, in her deserted home. But that very evening, while Marc
was gaily completing his account of his conversation with Marsouillier,
she experienced a great shock, for François suddenly entered the room.
And the scene was a poignant one, however simple might be the words
that were exchanged.

'You did not think me guilty, Thérèse?'

'No, François, I assure you.'

'This morning, in the sad solitude in which I found myself, I was
still ignorant of everything.... But I happened to glance at an old
newspaper, and then I hastened here. How is Rose?'

'She is much better. She is there, in the bedroom.'

François had not dared to kiss his wife. She stood before him, erect
and severe amid her emotion. But Marc, who had risen, caught hold of
his grandson's hands, guessing by his pallor, his ravaged face, which
still bore traces of his tears, that he had been involved in some
tragic drama.

'Come, tell me everything, my poor lad.'

Then François, in a few quivering words and with all sincerity,
recounted his folly--his sudden flight from Maillebois on the arm
of that Colette who had maddened him; their life of seclusion in a
lonely district of Beaumont, where they had scarcely quitted their
room; a fortnight's cloistered life, interspersed with furious storms,
extravagant caprices on the part of that passionate gipsy, reproaches,
tears, and even blows; then, all at once, her flight nobody knew
whither, after a last scene when she had flung the furniture at her
lover's head. That had happened three weeks previously, and at first
he had awaited her return, then buried himself, as it were, in the
seclusion of that lonely room, full of despair and remorse, no longer
knowing how to return to Maillebois to his wife, whom he declared he
had never ceased to love in spite of all his folly.

While he spoke, Thérèse, who was still standing there, had turned her
head aside. And when he had finished she said, 'There is no occasion
for me to know those things.... I merely understand that you have come
back to answer the charges brought against you.'

'Oh!' Marc gently observed, 'those charges have now ceased to exist.'

'I have come back to see Rose,' François on his side declared, 'and
I repeat that I would have been here the very next day if I had not
remained ignorant of everything.'

'Very good,' Thérèse rejoined; 'I do not prevent you from seeing your
daughter; she is there--you may go in.'

There ensued a very singular scene which Marc watched with impassioned
interest. Rose was seated in an armchair, reading, her injured arm
hanging in a sling. As the door opened she looked up and raised a
quivering cry, instinct, it seemed, both with fear and with joy.

'Oh! papa!'

Then she rose, and all at once seemed stupefied. 'But it wasn't you,
papa--was it--the other evening?' she cried. 'The man was shorter and
his beard was different!'

And she continued to scrutinise her father as if she found him
otherwise than she had pictured him since his flight--since she had
watched her forsaken mother weeping. Had she pictured him as a wicked
man, then, squat of build and with an ogre's face? She now recognised
the father with the pleasant smile, whom she adored; and if he had come
back it was surely in order that no more tears might be shed in their
dear home. But all at once she began to tremble at the thought of the
dreadful consequences of her error.

'And to think I accused you, papa--that I kept on saying that the man
was you! No, no, it wasn't you, I told a story; I will explain it to
the gendarmes if they come to take you!'

She sank back in the arm-chair, weeping bitterly, and her father had to
take her on his lap, kiss her, and vow to her that their sorrows were
all over. He himself stammered with emotion as he spoke. Had he behaved
so vilely, then, that he had appeared a very monster in the eyes of
his daughter, and that she had thought him capable of ill-using her so
dreadfully?

Thérèse, meantime, while listening, had striven to remain impassive,
saying never a word. François glanced at her anxiously, as if to
ascertain whether she would again tolerate his presence in that home
which he had ravaged. And Marc, noticing the severity of her demeanour,
her unwillingness to forgive, preferred to take his grandson away with
him and provide him with a lodging pending the advent of a calmer hour.

That very evening the officers of the law presented themselves at
Faustin's dwelling, but they did not find the rascal there. The place
was closed, the man had fled, and the search for him failed: he was
never taken. People ended by believing that he had escaped to America.
His sister Colette had perhaps accompanied him thither, for although
she was sought she was never seen again, either at Maillebois or at
Beaumont. And the whole affair remained very obscure; one was reduced
to conjectures. Had the brother and sister been accomplices? Had
Colette co-operated in some plot when she had induced François to
carry her off, or had Faustin merely wished to avail himself in some
mysterious manner of the situation which the elopement had created? But
the chief point of all was whether there had been some superior behind
him, some man of intelligence and will, who had planned and prepared
everything in view of a supreme assault on the new order of things, by
renewing, as it were, the old Simon affair. All those suppositions were
allowable, given the facts; and in the end nobody doubted that there
had really been some mysterious agreement and ambush.

Thus, how great was Marc's relief when the authorities, being convinced
of Faustin's guilt and flight, set the affair aside. At the first
moment that renewal of the old abominations, that last supreme attempt
to besmirch the secular schools, had greatly disquieted Marc. But he
was astonished at the rapidity with which the truth had been made
manifest by public good sense. The appearances against François had
been far greater than those against Simon in the old days. His own
daughter had accused him; and, even if she had retracted her words, it
would simply have been said that she had yielded to family pressure.
In former times no witnesses, neither a Bongard, nor a Doloir, nor a
Savin, would have dared to come forward and say what they had heard or
seen, for fear of compromising themselves. In former times Marsouillier
would not have relieved his conscience; firstly, because he would have
felt no need of doing so, and secondly because a powerful faction would
have immediately risen to support and glorify his original falsehood.
The Congregations had then been ready at hand, poisoning everything,
making a dogma, a cult, of error. Rome in her battle against free
thought had made a savage use of political parties, maddening them,
hurling them one upon the other, in the hope of some civil war which,
by cutting the nation in halves, might render her mistress of the
majority, the poor and ignorant. And now that Rome was vanquished, that
the Congregations were disappearing, that not a Jesuit would soon be
left to obscure men's thoughts and pervert their actions, human reason
was working freely. The explanation of all the good sense and logic
which Marc had lately observed was not to be sought elsewhere. The
simple fact was that the people, being now educated and freed from the
errors of centuries, were becoming capable of truth and justice.

But amid the delight of victory some anxiety lingered in Marc's
heart, anxiety at the rupture which had occurred between François
and Thérèse, that question of the happiness of man and woman, which
happiness can only spring from their perfect agreement. Marc did not
entertain any wild hope of being able to kill the passions and prevent
our poor humanity from bleeding beneath the spur of desire. There
would always be broken hearts, tortured and jealous flesh. Only, might
one not hope that woman, being freed and raised to equality with man,
would render the sexual struggle less bitter, impart to it some calm
dignity? Already during the recent scandal women had shown themselves
the friends of truth, employing all their energy to discover it. They
were emancipated from the Church; they were no longer possessed by
base superstition and the fear of hell; they no longer feigned a false
humility before the priests; they were no longer the servants who
prostrated themselves before men, the sex which seems to acknowledge
its abjection and which revenges itself for its enforced humility by
rotting and disorganising everything. They had ceased to act as snares
of voluptuousness in accordance with the discreet advice of their
confessors, seeking to entrap men in order to promote the triumph of
religion. They had become normal wives and mothers since they had been
wrested from that morbid falsehood of the divine spouse, which had
unhinged so many poor minds. And now was it not their duty to complete
the great work by exercising the rights they had regained with great
wisdom and kindness?

At last it occurred to Marc to assemble the whole family at the school,
in that large classroom where he himself had taught, and where Joseph
and François had taught after him. And there was a certain solemnity
about that meeting, held one afternoon at the close of September,
amid the sunshine which cast gentle beams on the master's desk, the
boys' forms, the blackboards, and the pictures hanging from the
walls. Sébastien and Sarah came from Beaumont; Clément and Charlotte
arrived with their daughter Lucienne from Jonville. And Joseph, warned
some days previously, had returned from a holiday tour feeling very
much affected by all that had occurred in his absence. Finally, Marc
himself and Geneviève, accompanied by Louise and Joseph, repaired to
the rendezvous, taking François with them--Thérèse and Rose awaiting
their arrival in the classroom. Altogether twelve members of the family
attended the gathering, and at first deep silence prevailed.

'My dear Thérèse,' said Marc at last, 'we have no wish to do violence
to your feelings, we have only come here for a family chat.... You have
no doubt suffered in your heart, but you have never known such a great
rending as when husband and wife have seemed to come from two different
worlds, and have suddenly found themselves parted by such an abyss as
to suggest no likelihood of ever being united again. In former times
woman, in the hands of the Church, had become an instrument of torture
for man, who was already freed. Ah! how many tears were shed in those
days, how many homes were broken up!'

Silence fell again; then Geneviève, who was deeply moved, in her
turn said: 'Yes, my dear Marc, I often regarded you wrongly, I often
tortured you in the old days, and you do right to recall those evil
years; your words cannot wound me now, since I have had strength enough
to overcome the poison. But how many women remained agonising in the
old dungeon, how many homes perished in grief? I myself have never been
entirely cured; I have always trembled with the dread of being mastered
once more by long heredity and the perverting influence of early
education. And if I have managed to remain erect, it is thanks to you,
your sturdy good sense and active affection, for all which I thank you,
my good Marc.'

Happy tears had come into her eyes, and she continued with increasing
emotion: 'Ah! my poor grandmother, my poor mother! Yes, they were to be
pitied! They were so wretched, assailed by destructive ferments, cast
out of their sex, as it were, by their voluntary martyrdom. My poor
grandmother was a terrible woman; but then she had never known a joy
in life, she lived in perpetual nothingness--and thus why should she
not have dreamt of reducing others to the same painful renunciation
of everything which she had imposed upon herself? And my poor mother,
too, what a long agony did she undergo from having tasted the delight
of being loved, and afterwards from having lapsed for ever into that
religion of falsehood and death which denies all the powers and joys of
life!'

While Geneviève spoke two shadowy forms seemed to flit by--the vanished
forms of Madame Duparque and Madame Berthereau--those pitiable,
disquieting devotees of another age, one of whom had belonged entirely
to the ferocious, exterminating Church, while the other, of a gentler
nature, had died in despair at the thought that she had never
attempted to sever her chain. Geneviève's eyes seemed to wander away
after them both. She herself had known the great battle, for it had
been waged around her and within her; and it was happiness for her to
think that she had one day felt free again, and had returned to life
and to health. But her eyes at last fell upon her daughter Louise, who
smiled at her very lovingly, and then leant forward to kiss her.

'Mother,' said Louise, 'you were the bravest and the most deserving,
for it was you who fought and suffered. It is to you we owe the
victory, paid for with so many tears. I remember. Coming as I did after
you, it was no great merit for me to free myself from the past; and if
never a quiver of error disturbed me, it was because I profited by the
terrible lesson which at one time made all our hearts bleed in our poor
mourning home.'

'Be quiet, you flatterer,' replied Geneviève, laughing and returning
her kiss. 'You were the child who saved us, whose strong and skilful
little mind intervened so lovingly and triumphed over every obstacle.
We owe our peace to you; you were the first free little woman with
enough intelligence, will, and resolution to set happiness on earth.

Then Marc, turning towards Thérèse, explained: 'You were not born, my
dear, at the time of all those things, and you are ignorant of them.
Having come after Louise, having never had anything to do with baptism
or confession or communion, you find it easy and simple to live freely
beyond the pale of religious imposture and social prejudice, with no
other bonds about you than those of your own reason and conscience.
But, for things to be as they are, mothers and grandmothers passed
through frightful crises, the worst follies, the worst torments....
As is the case with all the social questions, the one solution lay
in education. It was necessary to impart knowledge to woman before
setting her in her legitimate place as the equal and companion of man.
That was the first thing necessary, the essential condition of human
happiness, for woman could only free man after being freed herself. As
long as she remained the priest's servant and accomplice, an instrument
of reaction, espionage, and warfare in the home, man himself remained
in chains, incapable of all virile and decisive action. The strength
of the future will lie in the absolute agreement of man and wife....
And so, my dear, you see how sad it makes us that misfortune should
again have come into your home. There is no abyss created by different
beliefs between you and François. You are of the same spheres, the same
education. He is not your master by law and custom, as he would have
been in the old days; you are not his servant, seeking an opportunity
to revenge yourself on him for his mastery. You have the same rights as
he has. You can dispose of your life as you choose. Your joint peace
and agreement are based solely on reason, logic, and the dictates of
life itself, which, to be lived in health and all fulness, requires
the mating of man and woman. But, alas! we see your peace destroyed by
the eternal fragility of human nature, unless indeed kindness of heart
should help you to win it back.'

Thérèse had listened, calm, dignified, and with an expression of great
deference: 'I know all those things, grandfather; you must not think
I have forgotten them,' said she. 'But why has François been living
with you for some days past? He might have remained here. There are two
lodgings, the schoolmaster's and the schoolmistress's, and I do not
prevent him from taking possession of the former while I occupy the
other. In that fashion he can resume his duties when the boys come back
in a few days' time. We are free, as you say, and I desire to remain
free.'

Her father and her mother, Sébastien and Sarah, then tried to intervene
affectionately; and Geneviève, Louise, and Charlotte, indeed all the
women present, smiled at her, entreated her with their glances; but she
would listen to nothing, she rejected their suggestions resolutely,
though without any anger.

'François has wounded me cruelly,' she said. 'I thought I had quite
ceased to love him, and I should be telling you a falsehood if I said
that I am now certain I love him still.... You cannot wish me to tell
an untruth, you cannot wish me to resume life in common with him, when
it would be cowardice and shame.'

At this a cry escaped François, who hitherto had remained silent, and
visibly anxious. 'But I, Thérèse, I still love you!' he exclaimed. 'I
love you as I never loved you before, and if you have suffered, I think
that I now suffer even more than you have done!'

She turned towards him, and said very gently:' You speak the truth, I
am willing to believe it.... It is quite possible that you still love,
in spite of your folly, for amid all our craving for reason, our poor
human hearts will ever remain a source of dementia. And as you suffer
so much, there are two of us who suffer ... dreadfully. But I cannot be
your wife again if I no longer love you, if I no longer wish you for my
husband. It would be unworthy of us both, our ill, in lieu of healing,
would be poisoned by it. The best course for us to follow is to live
as good neighbours, good friends, and attending to our work, each free
once more.'

'But I, mamma!' cried Rose, whose eyes were full of tears.

'You, my darling? You will love us both to-morrow as you loved us
yesterday.... And don't be anxious, these are questions which one only
understands when one is older than you are.'

With a caressing gesture Marc summoned the girl to him, and, having
seated her on his knees, he was about to plead the cause of François
once more when Thérèse hastily forestalled him.

'No, no, grandfather, do not insist, I beg you. It is your tender
heart, not your reason, that now wishes to speak. If you prevailed over
me you might have cause to repent it. Let me be wise and strong.... I
know very well that you wish to spare us suffering. Ah! let us confess
that suffering will be eternal. It is in us, no doubt, for one of the
unknown purposes of life. Our poor hearts will always bleed, we shall
always rend them in hours of exasperated passion, in spite of all the
health and all the good sense that we may succeed in acquiring. And,
perhaps, that is the necessary good for happiness!'

A slight chilling quiver seemed to dim the bright sunlight; through
all there passed a consciousness of the sorrowful grandeur of that
recognition of suffering.

'But what does it matter?' Thérèse continued. 'Have no fears,
grandfather, we will be worthy and brave. It is nothing to suffer, it
is only necessary that suffering should not make us blind and wicked.
Nobody will know that we suffer, and we will even try to be the better
for it, more gentle to others, more desirous of assuaging the causes of
grief which exist in the world.... And, besides, grandfather, do not
regret anything; say to yourself that you have done all you possibly
could do, that you have carried out an admirable task which will give
us all the happiness that reason can yield. As for the rest, as for
sentimental life, each with his or her love will settle that according
to personal circumstances, even if it be in tears. Leave us, François
and me, leave us to live and suffer even, as we choose, for it only
concerns ourselves. It is sufficient that you should have freed our
minds, and made us conscious of a world of truth and justice.... And
as you have brought us together here, grandfather, it shall not be for
the purpose of preventing a rupture, of which only François and myself
can be the judges, but it shall be to give us an opportunity to acclaim
you, to express to you our adoration, and our gratitude for your work!'

At this they all clapped hands, transported with delight, and the
splendour of the sun seemed to have returned and to stream in a sheet
of gold through the lofty windows. Yes, yes, this was the grandfather's
triumph in that very classroom where he had fought so bravely, where he
had given the best of his heart and his mind to those who would become
the people of the morrow. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren,
all were his pupils, and all surrounded him as if he were a very
venerable and powerful patriarch, from whom the happy future had
sprung. He had kept Rose, who represented the last generation in its
flower, on his lap; and she had twined her arms about his neck, and was
covering his face with kisses. His daughter Louise, his son Clément,
had set themselves beside him with Joseph and Charlotte. And Sébastien
and Sarah smiled at him and stretched out their clasped hands, while
Thérèse and François, drawn nearer together, it seemed, by their
affection for the august old man, seated themselves at his feet. At
last Marc, deeply moved, almost stifled by the caresses heaped on him,
said jestingly, with a pleasant laugh, 'My children, my children, you
must not make a god of me! You know very well that the churches are
being shut up.... I am only a hard worker who has finished his day.
Besides, I don't want to triumph without my dear Geneviève beside me.'

He drew her near, taking her by the arm, and they all kissed her as
they had kissed him, in such wise that the husband and wife, once
parted, then reconciled and from that time commanding all possible
happiness, were conjointly glorified in that elementary classroom,
among those humble forms on which, again and again, the children's
children, all the generations going towards the happy city, would take
their seats.

And that was Marc's reward for all his years of courage and effort. He
saw his work before him. Rome had lost the battle, France was saved
from death, from the dust and ruin in which Catholic nations disappear,
one after the other. She had been rid of the clerical faction which had
chosen her territory as its battlefield, ravaging her fields, poisoning
her people, striving to create darkness in order to dominate the world
once more. She was no longer threatened with burial beneath the ashes
of a dead religion; she had again become her own mistress; she could
go forward to her destiny as a liberating and justice-dealing power.
And if she had conquered it was solely by the means of that primary
education which had extracted the humble, the lowly ones of her country
districts, from the ignorance of slaves, from the deadly imbecility in
which Roman Catholicism had maintained them for centuries. Some had
dared to say, 'Happy the poor in spirit!' and from that mortal error
had sprung the misery of two thousand years. The legend of the benefits
of ignorance now appeared like a prolonged social crime. Poverty, dirt,
superstition, falsehood, tyranny, woman exploited and held in contempt,
man stupefied and mastered, every physical and every moral ill, were
the fruits of that ignorance which had been fostered intentionally,
which had served as a system of state politics and religious police.
Knowledge alone would slay mendacious dogmas, disperse those who traded
and lived on them, and become the source of wealth, whether in respect
to the harvests of the soil or the general florescence of the human
mind. No! happiness had never had its abode in ignorance; it lay in
knowledge, which will change the frightful field of material and moral
wretchedness into a vast and fruitful expanse, whose wealth from year
to year culture will increase tenfold.

Thus Marc, laden with years and glory, had enjoyed the great reward
of living long enough to see his work's result. Justice resides in
truth alone, and there is no happiness apart from justice. And after
the creation of families, after the foundation of the cities of just
work, the nation itself was constituted on the day when, by decreeing
integral education for all its citizens, it showed itself capable of
practising truth and equity.


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