The Three Cities Trilogy: Chapter 5

Chapter 5

V

SACRIFICE

THE days which followed Salvat's trial seemed gloomy ones up yonder in
Guillaume's workroom, which was usually so bright and gay. Sadness and
silence filled the place. The three young men were no longer there.
Thomas betook himself to the Grandidier works early every morning in
order to perfect his little motor; Francois was so busy preparing for his
examination that he scarcely left the Ecole Normale; while Antoine was
doing some work at Jahan's, where he delighted to linger and watch his
little friend Lise awakening to life. Thus Guillaume's sole companion was
Mere-Grand, who sat near the window busy with her needlework; for Marie
was ever going about the house, and only stayed in the workroom for any
length of time when Pierre happened to be there.

Guillaume's gloom was generally attributed to the feelings of anger and
revolt into which the condemnation of Salvat had thrown him. He had flown
into a passion on his return from the Palace of Justice, declaring that
the execution of the unhappy man would simply be social murder,
deliberate provocation of class warfare. And the others had bowed on
hearing that pain-fraught violent cry, without attempting to discuss the
point. Guillaume's sons respectfully left him to the thoughts which kept
him silent for hours, with his face pale and a dreamy expression in his
eyes. His chemical furnace remained unlighted, and his only occupation
from morn till night was to examine the plans and documents connected
with his invention, that new explosive and that terrible engine of war,
which he had so long dreamt of presenting to France in order that she
might impose the reign of truth and justice upon all the nations.
However, during the long hours which he spent before the papers scattered
over his table, often without seeing them, for his eyes wandered far
away, a multitude of vague thoughts came to him--doubts respecting the
wisdom of his project, and fears lest his desire to pacify the nations
should simply throw them into an endless war of extermination. Although
he really believed that great city of Paris to be the world's brain,
entrusted with the task of preparing the future, he could not disguise
from himself that with all its folly and shame and injustice it still
presented a shocking spectacle. Was it really ripe enough for the work of
human salvation which he thought of entrusting to it? Then, on trying to
re-peruse his notes and verify his formulas, he only recovered his former
energetic determination on thinking of his marriage, whereupon the idea
came to him that it was now too late for him to upset his life by
changing such long-settled plans.

His marriage! Was it not the thought of this which haunted Guillaume and
disturbed him far more powerfully than his scientific work or his
humanitarian passion? Beneath all the worries that he acknowledged, there
was another which he did not confess even to himself, and which filled
him with anguish. He repeated day by day that he would reveal his
invention to the Minister of War as soon as he should be married to
Marie, whom he wished to associate with his glory. Married to Marie! Each
time he thought of it, burning fever and secret disquietude came over
him. If he now remained so silent and had lost his quiet cheerfulness, it
was because he had felt new life, as it were, emanating from her. She was
certainly no longer the same woman as formerly; she was becoming more and
more changed and distant. He had watched her and Pierre when the latter
happened to be there, which was now but seldom. He, too, appeared
embarrassed, and different from what he had been. On the days when he
came, however, Marie seemed transformed; it was as if new life animated
the house. Certainly the intercourse between her and Pierre was quite
innocent, sisterly on the one hand, brotherly on the other. They simply
seemed to be a pair of good friends. And yet a radiance, a vibration,
emanated from them, something more subtle even than a sun-ray or a
perfume. After the lapse of a few days Guillaume found himself unable to
doubt the truth any longer. And his heart bled, he was utterly upset by
it. He had not found them in fault in any way, but he was convinced that
these two children, as he so paternally called them, really adored one
another.

One lovely morning when he happened to be alone with Mere-Grand, face to
face with sunlit Paris, he fell into a yet more dolorous reverie than
usual. He seemed to be gazing fixedly at the old lady, as, seated in her
usual place, she continued sewing with an air of queenly serenity.
Perhaps, however, he did not see her. For her part she occasionally
raised her eyes and glanced at him, as if expecting a confession which
did not come. At last, finding such silence unbearable, she made up her
mind to address him: "What has been the matter with you, Guillaume, for
some time past? Why don't you tell me what you have to tell me?"

He descended from the clouds, as it were, and answered in astonishment:
"What I have to tell you?"

"Yes, I know it as well as you do, and I thought you would speak to me of
it, since it pleases you to do nothing here without consulting me."

At this he turned very pale and shuddered. So he had not been mistaken in
the matter, even Mere-Grand knew all about it. To talk of it, however,
was to give shape to his suspicions, to transform what, hitherto, might
merely have been a fancy on his part into something real and definite.

"It was inevitable, my dear son," said Mere-Grand. "I foresaw it from the
outset. And if I did not warn you of it, it was because I believed in
some deep design on your part. Since I have seen you suffering, however,
I have realised that I was mistaken." Then, as he still looked at her
quivering and distracted, she continued: "Yes, I fancied that you might
have wished it, that in bringing your brother here you wished to know if
Marie loved you otherwise than as a father. There was good reason for
testing her--for instance, the great difference between your ages, for
your life is drawing to a close, whilst hers is only beginning. And I
need not mention the question of your work, the mission which I have
always dreamt of for you."

Thereupon, with his hands raised in prayerful fashion, Guillaume drew
near to the old lady and exclaimed: "Oh! speak out clearly, tell me what
you think. I don't understand, my poor heart is so lacerated; and yet I
should so much like to know everything, so as to be able to act and take
a decision. To think that you whom I love, you whom I venerate as much as
if you were my real mother, you whose profound good sense I know so well
that I have always followed your advice--to think that you should have
foreseen this frightful thing and have allowed it to happen at the risk
of its killing me! . . . Why have you done so, tell me, why?"

Mere-Grand was not fond of talking. Absolute mistress of the house as she
was, managing everything, accountable to nobody for her actions, she
never gave expression to all that she thought or all that she desired.
Indeed, there was no occasion for it, as Guillaume, like the children,
relied upon her completely, with full confidence in her wisdom. And her
somewhat enigmatical ways even helped to raise her in their estimation.

"What is the use of words, when things themselves speak?" she now gently
answered, while still plying her needle. "It is quite true that I
approved of the plan of a marriage between you and Marie, for I saw that
it was necessary that she should be married if she was to stay here. And
then, too, there were many other reasons which I needn't speak of.
However, Pierre's arrival here has changed everything, and placed things
in their natural order. Is not that preferable?"

He still lacked the courage to understand her. "Preferable! When I'm in
agony? When my life is wrecked?"

Thereupon she rose and came to him, tall and rigid in her thin black
gown, and with an expression of austerity and energy on her pale face.
"My son," she said, "you know that I love you, and that I wish you to be
very noble and lofty. Only the other morning, you had an attack of
fright, the house narrowly escaped being blown up. Then, for some days
now you have been sitting over those documents and plans in an
absent-minded, distracted state, like a man who feels weak, and doubts,
and no longer knows his way. Believe me, you are following a dangerous
path; it is better that Pierre should marry Marie, both for their sakes
and for your own."

"For my sake? No, no! What will become of me!"

"You will calm yourself and reflect, my son. You have such serious duties
before you. You are on the eve of making your invention known. It seems
to me that something has bedimmed your sight, and that you will perhaps
act wrongly in this respect, through failing to take due account of the
problem before you. Perhaps there is something better to be done. . . .
At all events, suffer if it be necessary, but remain faithful to your
ideal."

Then, quitting him with a maternal smile, she sought to soften her
somewhat stern words by adding: "You have compelled me to speak
unnecessarily, for I am quite at ease; with your superior mind, whatever
be in question, you can but do the one right thing that none other would
do."

On finding himself alone Guillaume fell into feverish uncertainty. What
was the meaning of Mere-Grand's enigmatical words? He knew that she was
on the side of whatever might be good, natural, and necessary. But she
seemed to be urging him to some lofty heroism; and indeed what she had
said threw a ray of light upon the unrest which had come to him in
connection with his old plan of going to confide his secret to some
Minister of War or other, whatever one might happen to be in office at
the time. Growing hesitation and repugnance stirred him as he fancied he
could again hear her saying that perhaps there might be some better
course, that would require search and reflection. But all at once a
vision of Marie rose before him, and his heart was rent by the thought
that he was asked to renounce her. To lose her, to give her to another!
No, no, that was beyond his strength. He would never have the frightful
courage that was needed to pass by the last promised raptures of love
with disdain!

For a couple of days Guillaume struggled on. He seemed to be again living
the six years which the young woman had already spent beside him in that
happy little house. She had been at first like an adopted daughter there;
and later on, when the idea of their marriage had sprung up, he had
viewed it with quiet delight in the hope that it would ensure the
happiness of all around him. If he had previously abstained from marrying
again it was from the fear of placing a strange mother over his children;
and if he yielded to the charm of loving yet once more, and no longer
leading a solitary life, it was because he had found at his very hearth
one of such sensible views, who, in the flower of youth, was willing to
become his wife despite the difference in their ages. Then months had
gone by, and serious occurrences had compelled them to postpone the
wedding, though without undue suffering on his part. Indeed, the
certainty that she was waiting for him had sufficed him, for his life of
hard work had rendered him patient. Now, however, all at once, at the
threat of losing her, his hitherto tranquil heart ached and bled. He
would never have thought the tie so close a one. But he was now almost
fifty, and it was as if love and woman were being wrenched away from him,
the last woman that he could love and desire, one too who was the more
desirable, as she was the incarnation of youth from which he must ever be
severed, should he indeed lose her. Passionate desire, mingled with rage,
flared up within him at the thought that someone should have come to take
her from him.

One night, alone in his room, he suffered perfect martyrdom. In order
that he might not rouse the house he buried his face in his pillow so as
to stifle his sobs. After all, it was a simple matter; Marie had given
him her promise, and he would compel her to keep it. She would be his,
and his alone, and none would be able to steal her from him. Then,
however, there rose before him a vision of his brother, the
long-forgotten one, whom, from feelings of affection, he had compelled to
join his family. But his sufferings were now so acute that he would have
driven that brother away had he been before him. He was enraged,
maddened, by the thought of him. His brother--his little brother! So all
their love was over; hatred and violence were about to poison their
lives. For hours Guillaume continued complaining deliriously, and seeking
how he might so rid himself of Pierre that what had happened should be
blotted out. Now and again, when he recovered self-control, he marvelled
at the tempest within him; for was he not a /savant/ guided by lofty
reason, a toiler to whom long experience had brought serenity? But the
truth was that this tempest had not sprung up in his mind, it was raging
in the child-like soul that he had retained, the nook of affection and
dreaminess which remained within him side by side with his principles of
pitiless logic and his belief in proven phenomena only. His very genius
came from the duality of his nature: behind the chemist was a social
dreamer, hungering for justice and capable of the greatest love. And now
passion was transporting him, and he was weeping for the loss of Marie as
he would have wept over the downfall of that dream of his, the
destruction of war /by/ war, that scheme for the salvation of mankind at
which he had been working for ten years past.

At last, amidst his weariness, a sudden resolution calmed him. He began
to feel ashamed of despairing in this wise when he had no certain grounds
to go upon. He must know everything, he would question the young woman;
she was loyal enough to answer him frankly. Was not this a solution
worthy of them both? An explanation in all sincerity, after which they
would be able to take a decision. Then he fell asleep; and, tired though
he felt when he rose in the morning, he was calmer. It was as if some
secret work had gone on in his heart during his few hours of repose after
that terrible storm.

As it happened Marie was very gay that morning. On the previous day she
had gone with Pierre and Antoine on a cycling excursion over frightful
roads in the direction of Montmorency, whence they had returned in a
state of mingled anger and delight. When Guillaume stopped her in the
little garden, he found her humming a song while returning bare-armed
from the scullery, where some washing was going on.

"Do you want to speak to me?" she asked.

"Yes, my dear child, it's necessary for us to talk of some serious
matters."

She at once understood that their marriage was in question, and became
grave. She had formerly consented to that marriage because she regarded
it as the only sensible course she could take, and this with full
knowledge of the duties which she would assume. No doubt her husband
would be some twenty years older than herself, but this circumstance was
one of somewhat frequent occurrence, and as a rule such marriages turned
out well, rather than otherwise. Moreover, she was in love with nobody,
and was free to consent. And she had consented with an impulse of
gratitude and affection which seemed so sweet that she thought it the
sweetness of love itself. Everybody around her, too, appeared so pleased
at the prospect of this marriage, which would draw the family yet more
closely together. And, on her side, she had been as it were intoxicated
by the idea of making others happy.

"What is the matter?" she now asked Guillaume in a somewhat anxious
voice. "No bad news, I hope?"

"No, no," he answered. "I've simply something to say to you."

Then he led her under the plum-trees to the only green nook left in the
garden. An old worm-eaten bench still stood there against the
lilac-bushes. And in front of them Paris spread out its sea of roofs,
looking light and fresh in the morning sunlight.

They both sat down. But at the moment of speaking and questioning Marie,
Guillaume experienced sudden embarrassment, while his heart beat
violently at seeing her beside him, so young and adorable with her bare
arms.

"Our wedding-day is drawing near," he ended by saying. And then as she
turned somewhat pale, perhaps unconsciously, he himself suddenly felt
cold. Had not her lips twitched as if with pain? Had not a shadow passed
over her fresh, clear eyes?

"Oh! we still have some time before us," she replied.

Then, slowly and very affectionately, he resumed: "No doubt; still it is
necessary to attend to the formalities. And it is as well, perhaps, that
I should speak of those worries to-day, so that I may not have to bother
you about them again."

Then he gently went on telling her all that would have to be done,
keeping his eyes on her whilst he spoke, watching for such signs of
emotion as the thought of her promise's early fulfilment might bring to
her face. She sat there in silence, with her hands on her lap, and her
features quite still, thus giving no certain sign of any regret or
trouble. Still she seemed rather dejected, compliant, as it were, but in
no wise joyous.

"You say nothing, my dear Marie," Guillaume at last exclaimed. "Does
anything of all this displease you?"

"Displease me? Oh, no!"

"You must speak out frankly, if it does, you know. We will wait a little
longer if you have any personal reasons for wishing to postpone the date
again."

"But I've no reasons, my friend. What reasons could I have? I leave you
quite free to settle everything as you yourself may desire."

Silence fell. While answering, she had looked him frankly in the face;
but a little quiver stirred her lips, and gloom, for which she could not
account, seemed to rise and darken her face, usually as bright and gay as
spring water. In former times would she not have laughed and sung at the
mere announcement of that coming wedding?

Then Guillaume, with an effort which made his voice tremble, dared to
speak out: "You must forgive me for asking you a question, my dear Marie.
There is still time for you to cancel your promise. Are you quite certain
that you love me?"

At this she looked at him in genuine stupefaction, utterly failing to
understand what he could be aiming at. And--as she seemed to be deferring
her reply, he added: "Consult your heart. Is it really your old friend or
is it another that you love?"

"I? I, Guillaume? Why do you say that to me? What can I have done to give
you occasion to say such a thing!"

All her frank nature revolted as she spoke, and her beautiful eyes,
glowing with sincerity, gazed fixedly on his.

"I love Pierre! I do, I? . . . Well, yes, I love him, as I love you all;
I love him because he has become one of us, because he shares our life
and our joys! I'm happy when he's here, certainly; and I should like him
to be always here. I'm always pleased to see him and hear him and go out
with him. I was very much grieved recently when he seemed to be relapsing
into his gloomy ideas. But all that is natural, is it not? And I think
that I have only done what you desired I should do, and I cannot
understand how my affection for Pierre can in any way exercise an
influence respecting our marriage."

These words, in her estimation, ought to have convinced Guillaume that
she was not in love with his brother; but in lieu thereof they brought
him painful enlightenment by the very ardour with which she denied the
love imputed to her.

"But you unfortunate girl!" he cried. "You are betraying yourself without
knowing it. . . . It is quite certain you do not love me, you love my
brother!"

He had caught hold of her wrists and was pressing them with despairing
affection as if to compel her to read her heart. And she continued
struggling. A most loving and tragic contest went on between them, he
seeking to convince her by the evidence of facts, and she resisting him,
stubbornly refusing to open her eyes. In vain did he recount what had
happened since the first day, explaining the feelings which had followed
one upon another in her heart and mind: first covert hostility, next
curiosity regarding that extraordinary young priest, and then sympathy
and affection when she had found him so wretched and had gradually cured
him of his sufferings. They were both young and mother Nature had done
the rest. However, at each fresh proof and certainty which he put before
her, Marie only experienced growing emotion, trembling at last from head
to foot, but still unwilling to question herself.

"No, no," said she, "I do not love him. If I loved him I should know it
and would acknowledge it to you; for you are well aware that I cannot
tell an untruth."

Guillaume, however, had the cruelty to insist on the point, like some
heroic surgeon cutting into his own flesh even more than into that of
others, in order that the truth might appear and everyone be saved.
"Marie," said he, "it is not I whom you love. All that you feel for me is
respect and gratitude and daughterly affection. Remember what your
feelings were at the time when our marriage was decided upon. You were
then in love with nobody, and you accepted the offer like a sensible
girl, feeling certain that I should render you happy, and that the union
was a right and satisfactory one. . . . But since then my brother has
come here; love has sprung up in your heart in quite a natural way; and
it is Pierre, Pierre alone, whom you love as a lover and a husband should
be loved."

Exhausted though she was, utterly distracted, too, by the light which,
despite herself, was dawning within her, Marie still stubbornly and
desperately protested.

"But why do you struggle like this against the truth, my child?" said
Guillaume; "I do not reproach you. It was I who chose that this should
happen, like the old madman I am. What was bound to come has come, and
doubtless it is for the best. I only wanted to learn the truth from you
in order that I might take a decision and act uprightly."

These words vanquished her, and her tears gushed forth. It seemed as
though something had been rent asunder within her; and she felt quite
overcome, as if by the weight of a new truth of which she had hitherto
been ignorant. "Ah! it was cruel of you," she said, "to do me such
violence so as to make me read my heart. I swear to you again that I did
not know I loved Pierre in the way you say. But you have opened my heart,
and roused what was quietly slumbering in it. . . . And it is true, I do
love Pierre, I love him now as you have said. And so here we are, all
three of us supremely wretched through your doing!"

She sobbed, and with a sudden feeling of modesty freed her wrists from
his grasp. He noticed, however, that no blush rose to her face. Truth to
tell, her virginal loyalty was not in question; she had no cause to
reproach herself with any betrayal; it was he alone, perforce, who had
awakened her to love. For a moment they looked at one another through
their tears: she so strong and healthy, her bosom heaving at each
heart-beat, and her white arms--arms that could both charm and
sustain--bare almost to her shoulders; and he still vigorous, with his
thick fleece of white hair and his black moustaches, which gave his
countenance such an expression of energetic youth. But it was all over,
the irreparable had swept by, and utterly changed their lives.

"Marie," he nobly said, "you do not love me, I give you back your
promise."

But with equal nobility she refused to take it back. "Never will I do
so," she replied. "I gave it to you frankly, freely and joyfully, and my
affection and admiration for you have never changed."

Nevertheless, with more firmness in his hitherto broken voice, Guillaume
retorted: "You love Pierre, and it is Pierre whom you ought to marry."

"No," she again insisted, "I belong to you. A tie which years have
tightened cannot be undone in an hour. Once again, if I love Pierre I
swear to you that I was ignorant of it this morning. And let us leave the
matter as it is; do not torture me any more, it would be too cruel of
you."

Then, quivering like a woman who suddenly perceives that she is bare, in
a stranger's presence, she hastily pulled down her sleeves, and even drew
them over her hands as if to leave naught of her person visible. And
afterwards she rose and walked away without adding a single word.

Guillaume remained alone on the bench in that leafy corner, in front of
Paris, to which the light morning sunshine lent the aspect of some
quivering, soaring city of dreamland. A great weight oppressed him, and
it seemed to him as if he would never be able to rise from the seat. That
which brought him most suffering was Marie's assurance that she had till
that morning been ignorant of the fact that she was in love with Pierre.
She had been ignorant of it, and it was he, Guillaume, who had brought it
to her knowledge, compelled her to confess it! He had now firmly planted
it in her heart, and perhaps increased it by revealing it to her. Ah! how
cruel the thought--to be the artisan of one's own torment! Of one thing
he was now quite certain: there would be no more love in his life. At the
idea of this, his poor, loving heart sank and bled. And yet amidst the
disaster, amidst his grief at realising that he was an old man, and that
renunciation was imperative, he experienced a bitter joy at having
brought the truth to light. This was very harsh consolation, fit only for
one of heroic soul, yet he found lofty satisfaction in it, and from that
moment the thought of sacrifice imposed itself upon him with
extraordinary force. He must marry his children; there lay the path of
duty, the only wise and just course, the only certain means of ensuring
the happiness of the household. And when his revolting heart yet leapt
and shrieked with anguish, he carried his vigorous hands to his chest in
order to still it.

On the morrow came the supreme explanation between Guillaume and Pierre,
not in the little garden, however, but in the spacious workroom. And here
again one beheld the vast panorama of Paris, a nation as it were at work,
a huge vat in which the wine of the future was fermenting. Guillaume had
arranged things so that he might be alone with his brother; and no sooner
had the latter entered than he attacked him, going straight to the point
without any of the precautions which he had previously taken with Marie.

"Haven't you something to say to me, Pierre?" he inquired. "Why won't you
confide in me?"

The other immediately understood him, and began to tremble, unable to
find a word, but confessing everything by the distracted, entreating
expression of his face.

"You love Marie," continued Guillaume, "why did you not loyally come and
tell me of your love?"

At this Pierre recovered self-possession and defended himself vehemently:
"I love Marie, it's true, and I felt that I could not conceal it, that
you yourself would notice it at last. But there was no occasion for me to
tell you of it, for I was sure of myself, and would have fled rather than
have allowed a single word to cross my lips. I suffered in silence and
alone, and you cannot know how great my torture was! It is even cruel on
your part to speak to me of it; for now I am absolutely compelled to
leave you. . . . I have already, on several occasions, thought of doing
so. If I have come back here, it was doubtless through weakness, but also
on account of my affection for you all. And what mattered my presence
here? Marie ran no risk. She does not love me."

"She does love you!" Guillaume answered. "I questioned her yesterday, and
she had to confess that she loved you."

At this Pierre, utterly distracted, caught Guillaume by the shoulders and
gazed into his eyes. "Oh! brother, brother! what is this you say? Why say
a thing which would mean terrible misfortune for us all? Even if it were
true, my grief would far exceed my joy, for I will not have you suffer.
Marie belongs to you. To me she is as sacred as a sister. And if there be
only my madness to part you, it will pass by, I shall know how to conquer
it."

"Marie loves you," repeated Guillaume in his gentle, obstinate way. "I
don't reproach you with anything. I well know that you have struggled,
and have never betrayed yourself to her either by word or glance.
Yesterday she herself was still ignorant that she loved you, and I had to
open her eyes. . . . What would you have? I simply state a fact: she
loves you."

This time Pierre, still quivering, made a gesture of mingled rapture and
terror, as if some divine and long-desired blessing were falling upon him
from heaven and crushing him beneath its weight.

"Well, then," he said, after a brief pause, "it is all over. . . . Let us
kiss one another for the last time, and then I'll go."

"Go? Why? You must stay with us. Nothing could be more simple: you love
Marie and she loves you. I give her to you."

A loud cry came from Pierre, who wildly raised his hands again with a
gesture of fright and rapture. "You give me Marie?" he replied. "You, who
adore her, who have been waiting for her for months? No, no, it would
overcome me, it would terrify me, as if you gave me your very heart after
tearing it from your breast. No, no! I will not accept your sacrifice!"

"But as it is only gratitude and affection that Marie feels for me," said
Guillaume, "as it is you whom she really loves, am I to take a mean
advantage of the engagements which she entered into unconsciously, and
force her to a marriage when I know that she would never be wholly mine?
Besides, I have made a mistake, it isn't I who give her to you, she has
already given herself, and I do not consider that I have any right to
prevent her from doing so."

"No, no! I will never accept, I will never bring such grief upon you. . .
Kiss me, brother, and let me go."

Thereupon Guillaume caught hold of Pierre and compelled him to sit down
by his side on an old sofa near the window. And he began to scold him
almost angrily while still retaining a smile, in which suffering and
kindliness were blended. "Come," said he, "we are surely not going to
fight over it. You won't force me to tie you up so as to keep you here? I
know what I'm about. I thought it all over before I spoke to you. No
doubt, I can't tell you that it gladdens me. I thought at first that I
was going to die; I should have liked to hide myself in the very depths
of the earth. And then, well, it was necessary to be reasonable, and I
understood that things had arranged themselves for the best, in their
natural order."

Pierre, unable to resist any further, had begun to weep with both hands
raised to his face.

"Don't grieve, brother, either for yourself or for me," said Guillaume.
"Do you remember the happy days we lately spent together at Neuilly after
we had found one another again? All our old affection revived within us,
and we remained for hours, hand in hand, recalling the past and loving
one another. And what a terrible confession you made to me one night, the
confession of your loss of faith, your torture, the void in which you
were rolling! When I heard of it my one great wish was to cure you. I
advised you to work, love, and believe in life, convinced as I was that
life alone could restore you to peace and health. . . . And for that
reason I afterwards brought you here. You fought against it, and it was I
who forced you to come. I was so happy when I found that you again took
an interest in life, and had once more become a man and a worker! I would
have given some of my blood if necessary to complete your cure. . . .
Well, it's done now, I have given you all I had, since Marie herself has
become necessary to you, and she alone can save you."

Then as Pierre again attempted to protest, he resumed: "Don't deny it. It
is so true indeed, that if she does not complete the work I have begun,
all my efforts will have been vain, you will fall back into your misery
and negation, into all the torments of a spoilt life. She is necessary to
you, I say. And do you think that I no longer know how to love you? Would
you have me refuse you the very breath of life that will truly make you a
man, after all my fervent wishes for your return to life? I have enough
affection for you both to consent to your loving one another. . . .
Besides, I repeat it, nature knows what she does. Instinct is a sure
guide, it always tends to what is useful and trite. I should have been a
sorry husband, and it is best that I should keep to my work as an old
/savant/; whereas you are young and represent the future, all fruitful
and happy life."

Pierre shuddered as he heard this, for his old fears returned to him. Had
not the priesthood for ever cut him off from life, had not his long years
of chaste celibacy robbed him of his manhood? "Fruitful and happy life!"
he muttered, "ah! if you only knew how distressed I feel at the idea that
I do not perhaps deserve the gift you so lovingly offer me! You are worth
more than I am; you would have given her a larger heart, a firmer brain,
and perhaps, too, you are really a younger man than myself. . . . There
is still time, brother, keep her, if with you she is likely to be happier
and more truly and completely loved. For my part I am full of doubts. Her
happiness is the only thing of consequence. Let her belong to the one who
will love her best!"

Indescribable emotion had now come over both men. As Guillaume heard his
brother's broken words, the cry of a love that trembled at the thought of
possible weakness, he did for a moment waver. With a dreadful heart-pang
he stammered despairingly: "Ah! Marie, whom I love so much! Marie, whom I
would have rendered so happy!"

At this Pierre could not restrain himself; he rose and cried: "Ah! you
see that you love her still and cannot renounce her. . . . So let me go!
let me go!"

But Guillaume had already caught him around the body, clasping him with
an intensity of brotherly love which was increased by the renunciation he
was resolved upon: "Stay!" said he. "It wasn't I that spoke, it was the
other man that was in me, he who is about to die, who is already dead! By
the memory of our mother and our father I swear to you that the sacrifice
is consummated, and that if you two refuse to accept happiness from me
you will but make me suffer."

For a moment the weeping men remained in one another's arms. They had
often embraced before, but never had their hearts met and mingled as they
did now. It was a delightful moment, which seemed an eternity. All the
grief and misery of the world had disappeared from before them; there
remained naught save their glowing love, whence sprang an eternity of
love even as light comes from the sun. And that moment was compensation
for all their past and future tears, whilst yonder, on the horizon before
them, Paris still spread and rumbled, ever preparing the unknown future.

Just then Marie herself came in. And the rest proved very simple.
Guillaume freed himself from his brother's clasp, led him forward and
compelled him and Marie to take each other by the hand. At first she made
yet another gesture of refusal in her stubborn resolve that she would not
take her promise back. But what could she say face to face with those two
tearful men, whom she had found in one another's arms, mingling together
in such close brotherliness? Did not those tears and that embrace sweep
away all ordinary reasons, all such arguments as she held in reserve?
Even the embarrassment of the situation disappeared, it seemed as if she
had already had a long explanation with Pierre, and that he and she were
of one mind to accept that gift of love which Guillaume offered them with
so much heroism. A gust of the sublime passed through the room, and
nothing could have appeared more natural to them than this extraordinary
scene. Nevertheless, Marie remained silent, she dared not give her
answer, but looked at them both with her big soft eyes, which, like their
own, were full of tears.

And it was Guillaume who, with sudden inspiration, ran to the little
staircase conducting to the rooms overhead, and called: "Mere-Grand!
Mere-Grand! Come down at once, you are wanted."

Then, as soon as she was there, looking slim and pale in her black gown,
and showing the wise air of a queen-mother whom all obeyed, he said:
"Tell these two children that they can do nothing better than marry one
another. Tell them that we have talked it over, you and I, and that it is
your desire, your will that they should do so."

She quietly nodded her assent, and then said: "That is true, it will be
by far the most sensible course."

Thereupon Marie flung herself into her arms, consenting, yielding to the
superior forces, the powers of life, that had thus changed the course of
her existence. Guillaume immediately desired that the date of the wedding
should be fixed, and accommodation provided for the young couple in the
rooms overhead. And as Pierre glanced at him with some remaining anxiety
and spoke of travelling, for he feared that his wound was not yet healed,
and that their presence might bring him suffering, Guillaume responded:
"No, no, I mean to keep you. If I'm marrying you, it is to have you both
here. Don't worry about me. I have so much work to do, I shall work."

In the evening when Thomas and Francois came home and learnt the news,
they did not seem particularly surprised by it. They had doubtless felt
that things would end like this. And they bowed to the /denouement/, not
venturing to say a word, since it was their father himself who announced
the decision which had been taken, with his usual air of composure. As
for Antoine, who on his own side quivered with love for Lise, he gazed
with doubting, anxious eyes at his father, who had thus had the courage
to pluck out his heart. Could he really survive such a sacrifice, must it
not kill him? Then Antoine kissed his father passionately, and the elder
brothers in their turn embraced him with all their hearts. Guillaume
smiled and his eyes became moist. After his victory over his horrible
torments nothing could have been sweeter to him than the embraces of his
three big sons.

There was, however, further emotion in store for him that evening. Just
as the daylight was departing, and he was sitting at his large table near
the window, again checking and classifying the documents and plans
connected with his invention, he was surprised to see his old master and
friend Bertheroy enter the workroom. The illustrious chemist called on
him in this fashion at long intervals, and Guillaume felt the honour thus
conferred on him by this old man to whom eminence and fame had brought so
many titles, offices and decorations. Moreover, Bertheroy, with his
position as an official /savant/ and member of the Institute, showed some
courage in thus venturing to call on one whom so-called respectable folks
regarded with contumely. And on this occasion, Guillaume at once
understood that it was some feeling of curiosity that had brought him.
And so he was greatly embarrassed, for he hardly dared to remove the
papers and plans which were lying on the table.

"Oh, don't be frightened," gaily exclaimed Bertheroy, who, despite his
careless and abrupt ways, was really very shrewd. "I haven't come to pry
into your secrets. . . . Leave your papers there, I promise you that I
won't read anything."

Then, in all frankness, he turned the conversation on the subject of
explosives, which he was still studying, he said, with passionate
interest. He had made some new discoveries which he did not conceal.
Incidentally, too, he spoke of the opinion he had given in Salvat's
affair. His dream was to discover some explosive of great power, which
one might attempt to domesticate and reduce to complete obedience. And
with a smile he pointedly concluded: "I don't know where that madman
found the formula of his powder. But if you should ever discover it,
remember that the future perhaps lies in the employment of explosives as
motive power."

Then, all at once, he added: "By the way, that fellow Salvat will be
executed on the day after to-morrow. A friend of mine at the Ministry of
Justice has just told me so."

Guillaume had hitherto listened to him with an air of mingled distrust
and amusement. But this announcement of Salvat's execution stirred him to
anger and revolt, though for some days past he had known it to be
inevitable, in spite of the sympathy which the condemned man was now
rousing in many quarters.

"It will be a murder!" he cried vehemently.

Bertheroy waved his hand: "What would you have?" he answered: "there's a
social system and it defends itself when it is attacked. Besides, those
Anarchists are really too foolish in imagining that they will transform
the world with their squibs and crackers! In my opinion, you know,
science is the only revolutionist. Science will not only bring us truth
but justice also, if indeed justice ever be possible on this earth. And
that is why I lead so calm a life and am so tolerant."

Once again Bertheroy appeared to Guillaume as a revolutionist, one who
was convinced that he helped on the ruin of the ancient abominable
society of today, with its dogmas and laws, even whilst he was working in
the depths of his laboratory. He was, however, too desirous of repose,
and had too great a contempt for futilities to mingle with the events of
the day, and he preferred to live in quietude, liberally paid and
rewarded, and at peace with the government whatever it might be, whilst
at the same time foreseeing and preparing for the formidable parturition
of the future.

He waved his hand towards Paris, over which a sun of victory was setting,
and then again spoke: "Do you hear the rumble? It is we who are the
stokers, we who are ever flinging fresh fuel under the boiler. Science
does not pause in her work for a single hour, and she is the artisan of
Paris, which--let us hope it--will be the artisan of the future. All the
rest is of no account."

But Guillaume was no longer listening to him. He was thinking of Salvat
and the terrible engine of war he had invented, that engine which before
long would shatter cities. And a new idea was dawning and growing in his
mind. He had just freed himself of his last tie, he had created all the
happiness he could create around him. Ah! to recover his courage, to be
master of himself once more, and, at any rate, derive from the sacrifice
of his heart the lofty delight of being free, of being able to lay down
even his life, should he some day deem it necessary!

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