The Three Cities Trilogy: Chapter 3

Chapter 3

III

THE GOAL OF LABOUR

EVER since the execution of Salvat, Guillaume had become extremely
taciturn. He seemed worried and absent-minded. He would work for hours at
the manufacture of that dangerous powder of which he alone knew the
formula, and the preparation of which was such a delicate matter that he
would allow none to assist him. Then, at other times he would go off, and
return tired out by some long solitary ramble. He remained very gentle at
home, and strove to smile there. But whenever anybody spoke to him he
started as if suddenly called back from dreamland.

Pierre imagined his brother had relied too much upon his powers of
renunciation, and found the loss of Marie unbearable. Was it not some
thought of her that haunted him now that the date fixed for the marriage
drew nearer and nearer? One evening, therefore, Pierre ventured to speak
out, again offering to leave the house and disappear.

But at the first words he uttered Guillaume stopped him, and
affectionately replied: "Marie? Oh! I love her, I love her too well to
regret what I have done. No, no! you only bring me happiness, I derive
all my strength and courage from you now that I know you are both happy.
. . . And I assure you that you are mistaken, there is nothing at all the
matter with me; my work absorbs me, perhaps, but that is all."

That same evening he managed to cast his gloom aside, and displayed
delightful gaiety. During dinner he inquired if the upholsterer would
soon call to arrange the two little rooms which Marie was to occupy with
her husband over the workroom. The young woman, who since her marriage
with Pierre had been decided had remained waiting with smiling patience,
thereupon told Guillaume what it was she desired--first some hangings of
red cotton stuff, then some polished pine furniture which would enable
her to imagine she was in the country, and finally a carpet on the floor,
because a carpet seemed to her the height of luxury. She laughed as she
spoke, and Guillaume laughed with her in a gay and fatherly way. His good
spirits brought much relief to Pierre, who concluded that he must have
been mistaken in his surmises.

On the very morrow, however, Guillaume relapsed into a dreamy state. And
so disquietude again came upon Pierre, particularly when he noticed that
Mere-Grand also seemed to be unusually grave and silent. Not daring to
address her, he tried to extract some information from his nephews, but
neither Thomas nor Francois nor Antoine knew anything. Each of them
quietly devoted his time to his work, respecting and worshipping his
father, but never questioning him about his plans or enterprises.
Whatever he might choose to do could only be right and good; and they,
his sons, were ready to do the same and help him at the very first call,
without pausing to inquire into his purpose. It was plain, however, that
he kept them apart from anything at all perilous, that he retained all
responsibility for himself, and that Mere-Grand alone was his
/confidante/, the one whom he consulted and to whom he perhaps listened.
Pierre therefore renounced his hope of learning anything from the sons,
and directed his attention to the old lady, whose rigid gravity worried
him the more as she and Guillaume frequently had private chats in the
room she occupied upstairs. They shut themselves up there all alone, and
remained together for hours without the faintest sound coming from the
seemingly lifeless chamber.

One day, however, Pierre caught sight of Guillaume as he came out of it,
carrying a little valise which appeared to be very heavy. And Pierre
thereupon remembered both his brother's powder, one pound weight of which
would have sufficed to destroy a cathedral, and the destructive engine
which he had purposed bestowing upon France in order that she might be
victorious over all other nations, and become the one great initiatory
and liberative power. Pierre remembered too that the only person besides
himself who knew his brother's secret was Mere-Grand, who, at the time
when Guillaume was fearing some perquisition on the part of the police,
had long slept upon the cartridges of the terrible explosive. But now why
was Guillaume removing all the powder which he had been preparing for
some time past? As this question occurred to Pierre, a sudden suspicion,
a vague dread, came upon him, and gave him strength to ask his brother:
"Have you reason to fear anything, since you won't keep things here? If
they embarrass you, they can all be deposited at my house, nobody will
make a search there."

Guillaume, whom these words astonished, gazed at Pierre fixedly, and then
replied: "Yes, I have learnt that the arrests and perquisitions have
begun afresh since that poor devil was guillotined; for they are in
terror at the thought that some despairing fellow may avenge him.
Moreover, it is hardly prudent to keep destructive agents of such great
power here. I prefer to deposit them in a safe place. But not at
Neuilly--oh! no indeed! they are not a present for you, brother."
Guillaume spoke with outward calmness; and if he had started with
surprise at the first moment, it had been scarcely perceptible.

"So everything is ready?" Pierre resumed. "You will soon be handing your
engine of destruction over to the Minister of War, I presume?"

A gleam of hesitation appeared in the depths of Guillaume's eyes, and he
was for a moment about to tell a falsehood. However, he ended by replying
"No, I have renounced that intention. I have another idea."

He spoke these last words with so much energy and decision that Pierre
did not dare to question him further, to ask him, for instance, what that
other idea might be. From that moment, however, he quivered with anxious
expectancy. From hour to hour Mere-Grand's lofty silence and Guillaume's
rapt, energetic face seemed to tell him that some huge and terrifying
scheme had come into being, and was growing and threatening the whole of
Paris.

One afternoon, just as Thomas was about to repair to the Grandidier
works, some one came to Guillaume's with the news that old Toussaint, the
workman, had been stricken with a fresh attack of paralysis. Thomas
thereupon decided that he would call upon the poor fellow on his way, for
he held him in esteem and wished to ascertain if he could render him any
help. Pierre expressed a desire to accompany his nephew, and they started
off together about four o'clock.

On entering the one room which the Toussaints occupied, the room where
they ate and slept, the visitors found the mechanician seated on a low
chair near the table. He looked half dead, as if struck by lightning. It
was a case of hemiplegia, which had paralysed the whole of his right
side, his right leg and right arm, and had also spread to his face in
such wise that he could no longer speak. The only sound he could raise
was an incomprehensible guttural grunt. His mouth was drawn to the right,
and his once round, good-natured-looking face, with tanned skin and
bright eyes, had been twisted into a frightful mask of anguish. At fifty
years of age, the unhappy man was utterly done for. His unkempt beard was
as white as that of an octogenarian, and his knotty limbs, preyed upon by
toil, were henceforth dead. Only his eyes remained alive, and they
travelled around the room, going from one to another. By his side, eager
to do what she could for him, was his wife, who remained stout even when
she had little to eat, and still showed herself active and clear-headed,
however great her misfortunes.

"It's a friendly visit, Toussaint," said she. "It's Monsieur Thomas who
has come to see you with Monsieur l'Abbe." Then quietly correcting
herself she added: "With Monsieur Pierre, his uncle. You see that you are
not yet forsaken."

Toussaint wished to speak, but his fruitless efforts only brought two big
tears to his eyes. Then he gazed at his visitors with an expression of
indescribable woe, his jaws trembling convulsively.

"Don't put yourself out," repeated his wife. "The doctor told you that it
would do you no good."

At the moment of entering the room, Pierre had already noticed two
persons who had risen from their chairs and drawn somewhat on one side.
And now to his great surprise he recognised that they were Madame
Theodore and Celine, who were both decently clad, and looked as if they
led a life of comfort. On hearing of Toussaint's misfortune they had come
to see him, like good-hearted creatures, who, on their own side, had
experienced the most cruel suffering. Pierre, on noticing that they now
seemed to be beyond dire want, remembered what he had heard of the
wonderful sympathy lavished on the child after her father's execution,
the many presents and donations offered her, and the generous proposals
that had been made to adopt her. These last had ended in her being
adopted by a former friend of Salvat, who had sent her to school again,
pending the time when she might be apprenticed to some trade, while, on
the other hand, Madame Theodore had been placed as a nurse in a
convalescent home. In such wise both had been saved.

When Pierre drew near to little Celine in order to kiss her, Madame
Theodore told her to thank Monsieur l'Abbe--for so she still respectfully
called him--for all that he had previously done for her. "It was you who
brought us happiness, Monsieur l'Abbe," said she. "And that's a thing one
can never forget. I'm always telling Celine to remember you in her
prayers."

"And so, my child, you are now going to school again," said Pierre.

"Oh yes, Monsieur l'Abbe, and I'm well pleased at it. Besides, we no
longer lack anything." Then, however, sudden emotion came over the girl,
and she stammered with a sob: "Ah! if poor papa could only see us!"

Madame Theodore, meanwhile, had begun to take leave of Madame Toussaint.
"Well, good by, we must go," said she. "What has happened to you is very
sad, and we wanted to tell you how much it grieved us. The worry is that
when misfortune falls on one, courage isn't enough to set things right. .
. . Celine, come and kiss your uncle. . . . My poor brother, I hope
you'll get back the use of your legs as soon as possible."

They kissed the paralysed man on the cheeks, and then went off. Toussaint
had looked at them with his keen and still intelligent eyes, as if he
longed to participate in the life and activity into which they were
returning. And a jealous thought came to his wife, who usually was so
placid and good-natured. "Ah! my poor old man!" said she, after propping
him up with a pillow, "those two are luckier than we are. Everything
succeeds with them since that madman, Salvat, had his head cut off.
They're provided for. They've plenty of bread on the shelf."

Then, turning towards Pierre and Thomas, she continued: "We others are
done for, you know, we're down in the mud, with no hope of getting out of
it. But what would you have? My poor husband hasn't been guillotined,
he's done nothing but work his whole life long; and now, you see, that's
the end of him, he's like some old animal, no longer good for anything."

Having made her visitors sit down she next answered their compassionate
questions. The doctor had called twice already, and had promised to
restore the unhappy man's power of speech, and perhaps enable him to
crawl round the room with the help of a stick. But as for ever being able
to resume real work that must not be expected. And so what was the use of
living on? Toussaint's eyes plainly declared that he would much rather
die at once. When a workman can no longer work and no longer provide for
his wife he is ripe for the grave.

"Savings indeed!" Madame Toussaint resumed. "There are folks who ask if
we have any savings. . . . Well, we had nearly a thousand francs in the
Savings Bank when Toussaint had his first attack. And some people don't
know what a lot of prudence one needs to put by such a sum; for, after
all, we're not savages, we have to allow ourselves a little enjoyment now
and then, a good dish and a good bottle of wine. . . . Well, what with
five months of enforced idleness, and the medicines, and the underdone
meat that was ordered, we got to the end of our thousand francs; and now
that it's all begun again we're not likely to taste any more bottled wine
or roast mutton."

Fond of good cheer as she had always been, this cry, far more than the
tears she was forcing back, revealed how much the future terrified her.
She was there erect and brave in spite of everything; but what a downfall
if she were no longer able to keep her room tidy, stew a piece of veal on
Sundays, and gossip with the neighbours while awaiting her husband's
return from work! Why, they might just as well be thrown into the gutter
and carried off in the scavenger's cart.

However, Thomas intervened: "Isn't there an Asylum for the Invalids of
Labour, and couldn't your husband get admitted to it?" he asked. "It
seems to me that is just the place for him."

"Oh dear, no," the woman answered. "People spoke to me of that place
before, and I got particulars of it. They don't take sick people there.
When you call they tell you that there are hospitals for those who are
ill."

With a wave of his hand Pierre confirmed her statement: it was useless to
apply in that direction. He could again see himself scouring Paris,
hurrying from the Lady President, Baroness Duvillard, to Fonsegue, the
General Manager, and only securing a bed for Laveuve when the unhappy man
was dead.

However, at that moment an infant was heard wailing, and to the amazement
of both visitors Madame Toussaint entered the little closet where her son
Charles had so long slept, and came out of it carrying a child, who
looked scarcely twenty months old. "Well, yes," she explained, "this is
Charles's boy. He was sleeping there in his father's old bed, and now you
hear him, he's woke up. . . . You see, only last Wednesday, the day
before Toussaint had his stroke, I went to fetch the little one at the
nurse's at St. Denis, because she had threatened to cast him adrift since
Charles had got into bad habits, and no longer paid her. I said to myself
at the time that work was looking up, and that my husband and I would
always be able to provide for a little mouth like that. . . . But just
afterwards everything collapsed! At the same time, as the child's here
now I can't go and leave him in the street."

While speaking in this fashion she walked to and fro, rocking the baby in
her arms. And naturally enough she reverted to Charles's folly with the
girl, who had run away, leaving that infant behind her. Things might not
have been so very bad if Charles had still worked as steadily as he had
done before he went soldiering. In those days he had never lost an hour,
and had always brought all his pay home! But he had come back from the
army with much less taste for work. He argued, and had ideas of his own.
He certainly hadn't yet come to bomb-throwing like that madman Salvat,
but he spent half his time with Socialists and Anarchists, who put his
brain in a muddle. It was a real pity to see such a strong, good-hearted
young fellow turning out badly like that. But it was said in the
neighbourhood that many another was inclined the same way; that the best
and most intelligent of the younger men felt tired of want and
unremunerative labour, and would end by knocking everything to pieces
rather than go on toiling with no certainty of food in their old age.

"Ah! yes," continued Madame Toussaint, "the sons are not like the fathers
were. These fine fellows won't be as patient as my poor husband has been,
letting hard work wear him away till he's become the sorry thing you see
there. . . . Do you know what Charles said the other evening when he
found his father on that chair, crippled like that, and unable to speak?
Why, he shouted to him that he'd been a stupid jackass all his life,
working himself to death for those /bourgeois/, who now wouldn't bring
him so much as a glass of water. Then, as he none the less has a good
heart, he began to cry his eyes out."

The baby was no longer wailing, still the good woman continued walking to
and fro, rocking it in her arms and pressing it to her affectionate
heart. Her son Charles could do no more for them, she said; perhaps he
might be able to give them a five-franc piece now and again, but even
that wasn't certain. It was of no use for her to go back to her old
calling as a seamstress, she had lost all practice of it. And it would
even be difficult for her to earn anything as charwoman, for she had that
infant on her hands as well as her infirm husband--a big child, whom she
would have to wash and feed. And so what would become of the three of
them? She couldn't tell; but it made her shudder, however brave and
motherly she tried to be.

For their part, Pierre and Thomas quivered with compassion, particularly
when they saw big tears coursing down the cheeks of the wretched,
stricken Toussaint, as he sat quite motionless in that little and still
cleanly home of toil and want. The poor man had listened to his wife, and
he looked at her and at the infant now sleeping in her arms. Voiceless,
unable to cry his woe aloud, he experienced the most awful anguish. What
dupery his long life of labour had been! how frightfully unjust it was
that all his efforts should end in such sufferings! how exasperating it
was to feel himself powerless, and to see those whom he loved and who
were as innocent as himself suffer and die by reason of his own suffering
and death! Ah! poor old man, cripple that he was, ending like some beast
of burden that has foundered by the roadside--that goal of labour! And it
was all so revolting and so monstrous that he tried to put it into words,
and his desperate grief ended in a frightful, raucous grunt.

"Be quiet, don't do yourself harm!" concluded Madame Toussaint. "Things
are like that, and there's no mending them."

Then she went to put the child to bed again, and on her return, just as
Thomas and Pierre were about to speak to her of Toussaint's employer, M.
Grandidier, a fresh visitor arrived. Thereupon the others decided to
wait.

The new comer was Madame Chretiennot, Toussaint's other sister, eighteen
years younger than himself. Her husband, the little clerk, had compelled
her to break off almost all intercourse with her relatives, as he felt
ashamed of them; nevertheless, having heard of her brother's misfortune,
she had very properly come to condole with him. She wore a gown of cheap
flimsy silk, and a hat trimmed with red poppies, which she had freshened
up three times already; but in spite of this display her appearance
bespoke penury, and she did her best to hide her feet on account of the
shabbiness of her boots. Moreover, she was no longer the beautiful
Hortense. Since a recent miscarriage, all trace of her good looks had
disappeared.

The lamentable appearance of her brother and the bareness of that home of
suffering chilled her directly she crossed the threshold. And as soon as
she had kissed Toussaint, and said how sorry she was to find him in such
a condition, she began to lament her own fate, and recount her troubles,
for fear lest she should be asked for any help.

"Ah! my dear," she said to her sister-in-law, "you are certainly much to
be pitied! But if you only knew! We all have our troubles. Thus in my
case, obliged as I am to dress fairly well on account of my husband's
position, I have more trouble than you can imagine in making both ends
meet. One can't go far on a salary of three thousand francs a year, when
one has to pay seven hundred francs' rent out of it. You will perhaps say
that we might lodge ourselves in a more modest way; but we can't, my
dear, I must have a /salon/ on account of the visits I receive. So just
count! . . . Then there are my two girls. I've had to send them to
school; Lucienne has begun to learn the piano and Marcelle has some taste
for drawing. . . . By the way, I would have brought them with me, but I
feared it would upset them too much. You will excuse me, won't you?"

Then she spoke of all the worries which she had had with her husband on
account of Salvat's ignominious death. Chretiennot, vain, quarrelsome
little fellow that he was, felt exasperated at now having a /guillotine/
in his wife's family. And he had lately begun to treat the unfortunate
woman most harshly, charging her with having brought about all their
troubles, and even rendering her responsible for his own mediocrity,
embittered as he was more and more each day by a confined life of office
work. On some evenings they had downright quarrels; she stood up for
herself, and related that when she was at the confectionery shop in the
Rue des Martyrs she could have married a doctor had she only chosen, for
the doctor found her quite pretty enough. Now, however, she was becoming
plainer and plainer, and her husband felt that he was condemned to
everlasting penury; so that their life was becoming more and more dismal
and quarrelsome, and as unbearable--despite the pride of being
"gentleman" and "lady"--as was the destitution of the working classes.

"All the same, my dear," at last said Madame Toussaint, weary of her
sister-in-law's endless narrative of worries, "you have had one piece of
luck. You won't have the trouble of bringing up a third child, now."

"That's true," replied Hortense, with a sigh of relief. "How we should
have managed, I don't know. . . . Still, I was very ill, and I'm far from
being in good health now. The doctor says that I don't eat enough, and
that I ought to have good food."

Then she rose for the purpose of giving her brother another kiss and
taking her departure; for she feared a scene on her husband's part should
he happen to come home and find her absent. Once on her feet, however,
she lingered there a moment longer, saying that she also had just seen
her sister, Madame Theodore, and little Celine, both of them comfortably
clad and looking happy. And with a touch of jealousy she added: "Well, my
husband contents himself with slaving away at his office every day. He'll
never do anything to get his head cut off; and it's quite certain that
nobody will think of leaving an income to Marcelle and Lucienne. . . .
Well, good by, my dear, you must be brave, one must always hope that
things will turn out for the best."

When she had gone off, Pierre and Thomas inquired if M. Grandidier had
heard of Toussaint's misfortune and agreed to do anything for him. Madame
Toussaint answered that he had so far made only a vague promise; and on
learning this they resolved to speak to him as warmly as they could on
behalf of the old mechanician, who had spent as many as five and twenty
years at the works. The misfortune was that a scheme for establishing a
friendly society, and even a pension fund, which had been launched before
the crisis from which the works were now recovering, had collapsed
through a number of obstacles and complications. Had things turned out
otherwise, Thomas might have had a pittance assured him, even though he
was unable to work. But under the circumstances the only hope for the
poor stricken fellow lay in his employer's compassion, if not his sense
of justice.

As the baby again began to cry, Madame Toussaint went to fetch it, and
she was once more carrying it to and fro, when Thomas pressed her
husband's sound hand between both his own. "We will come back," said the
young man; "we won't forsake you, Toussaint. You know very well that
people like you, for you've always been a good and steady workman. So
rely on us, we will do all we can."

Then they left him tearful and overpowered, in that dismal room, while,
up and down beside him, his wife rocked the squealing infant--that other
luckless creature, who was now so heavy on the old folks' hands, and like
them was fated to die of want and unjust toil.

Toil, manual toil, panting at every effort, this was what Pierre and
Thomas once more found at the works. From the slender pipes above the
roofs spurted rhythmical puffs of steam, which seemed like the very
breath of all that labour. And in the work-shops one found a continuous
rumbling, a whole army of men in motion, forging, filing, and piercing,
amidst the spinning of leather gearing and the trembling of machinery.
The day was ending with a final feverish effort to complete some task or
other before the bell should ring for departure.

On inquiring for the master Thomas learnt that he had not been seen since
/dejeuner/, which was such an unusual occurrence that the young man at
once feared some terrible scene in the silent pavilion, whose shutters
were ever closed upon Grandidier's unhappy wife--that mad but beautiful
creature, whom he loved so passionately that he had never been willing to
part from her. The pavilion could be seen from the little glazed
work-shop which Thomas usually occupied, and as he and Pierre stood
waiting there, it looked very peaceful and pleasant amidst the big
lilac-bushes planted round about it. Surely, they thought, it ought to
have been brightened by the gay gown of a young woman and the laughter of
playful children. But all at once a loud, piercing shriek reached their
ears, followed by howls and moans, like those of an animal that is being
beaten or possibly slaughtered. Ah! those howls ringing out amidst all
the stir of the toiling works, punctuated it seemed by the rhythmical
puffing of the steam, accompanied too by the dull rumbling of the
machinery! The receipts of the business had been doubling and doubling
since the last stock-taking; there was increase of prosperity every
month, the bad times were over, far behind. Grandidier was realising a
large fortune with his famous bicycle for the million, the "Lisette"; and
the approaching vogue of motor-cars also promised huge gains, should he
again start making little motor-engines, as he meant to do, as soon as
Thomas's long-projected motor should be perfected. But what was wealth
when in that dismal pavilion, whose shutters were ever closed, those
frightful shrieks continued, proclaiming some terrible drama, which all
the stir and bustle of the prosperous works were unable to stifle?

Pierre and Thomas looked at one another, pale and quivering. And all at
once, as the cries ceased and the pavilion sank into death-like silence
once more, the latter said in an undertone: "She is usually very gentle,
she will sometimes spend whole days sitting on a carpet like a little
child. He is fond of her when she is like that; he lays her down and
picks her up, caresses her and makes her laugh as if she were a baby. Ah!
how dreadfully sad it is! When an attack comes upon her she gets frantic,
tries to bite herself, and kill herself by throwing herself against the
walls. And then he has to struggle with her, for no one else is allowed
to touch her. He tries to restrain her, and holds her in his arms to calm
her. . . . But how terrible it was just now! Did you hear? I do not think
she has ever had such a frightful attack before."

For a quarter of an hour longer profound silence prevailed. Then
Grandidier came out of the pavilion, bareheaded and still ghastly pale.
Passing the little glazed work-shop on his way, he perceived Thomas and
Pierre there, and at once came in. But he was obliged to lean against a
bench like a man who is dazed, haunted by a nightmare. His good-natured,
energetic face retained an expression of acute anguish; and his left ear
was scratched and bleeding. However, he at once wished to talk, overcome
his feelings, and return to his life of activity. "I am very pleased to
see you, my dear Thomas," said he, "I have been thinking over what you
told me about our little motor. We must go into the matter again."

Seeing how distracted he was, it occurred to the young man that some
sudden diversion, such as the story of another's misfortunes, might
perhaps draw him from his haunting thoughts. "Of course I am at your
disposal," he replied; "but before talking of that matter I should like
to tell you that we have just seen Toussaint, that poor old fellow who
has been stricken with paralysis. His awful fate has quite distressed us.
He is in the greatest destitution, forsaken as it were by the roadside,
after all his years of labour."

Thomas dwelt upon the quarter of a century which the old workman had
spent at the factory, and suggested that it would be only just to take
some account of his long efforts, the years of his life which he had
devoted to the establishment. And he asked that he might be assisted in
the name both of equity and compassion.

"Ah! monsieur," Pierre in his turn ventured to say. "I should like to
take you for an instant into that bare room, and show you that poor,
aged, worn-out, stricken man, who no longer has even the power of speech
left him to tell people his sufferings. There can be no greater
wretchedness than to die in this fashion, despairing of all kindliness
and justice."

Grandidier had listened to them in silence. But big tears had
irresistibly filled his eyes, and when he spoke it was in a very low and
tremulous voice: "The greatest wretchedness, who can tell what it is? Who
can speak of it if he has not known the wretchedness of others? Yes, yes,
it's sad undoubtedly that poor Toussaint should be reduced to that state
at his age, not knowing even if he will have food to eat on the morrow.
But I know sorrows that are just as crushing, abominations which poison
one's life in a still greater degree. . . . Ah! yes, food indeed! To
think that happiness will reign in the world when everybody has food to
eat! What an idiotic hope!"

The whole grievous tragedy of his life was in the shudder which had come
over him. To be the employer, the master, the man who is making money,
who disposes of capital and is envied by his workmen, to own an
establishment to which prosperity has returned, whose machinery coins
gold, apparently leaving one no other trouble than that of pocketing
one's profits; and yet at the same time to be the most wretched of men,
to know no day exempt from anguish, to find each evening at one's hearth
no other reward or prop than the most atrocious torture of the heart!
Everything, even success, has to be paid for. And thus that triumpher,
that money-maker, whose pile was growing larger at each successive
inventory, was sobbing with bitter grief.

However, he showed himself kindly disposed towards Toussaint, and
promised to assist him. As for a pension that was an idea which he could
not entertain, as it was the negation of the wage-system such as it
existed. He energetically defended his rights as an employer, repeating
that the strain of competition would compel him to avail himself of them
so long as the present system should endure. His part in it was to do
good business in an honest way. However, he regretted that his men had
never carried out the scheme of establishing a relief fund, and he said
that he would do his best to induce them to take it in hand again.

Some colour had now come back to his checks; for on returning to the
interests of his life of battle he felt his energy restored. He again
reverted to the question of the little motor, and spoke of it for some
time with Thomas, while Pierre waited, feeling quite upset. Ah! he
thought, how universal was the thirst for happiness! Then, in spite of
the many technical terms that were used he caught a little of what the
others were saying. Small steam motors had been made at the works in
former times; but they had not proved successes. In point of fact a new
propelling force was needed. Electricity, though everyone foresaw its
future triumph, was so far out of the question on account of the weight
of the apparatus which its employment necessitated. So only petroleum
remained, and the inconvenience attaching to its use was so great that
victory and fortune would certainly rest with the manufacturer who should
be able to replace it by some other hitherto unknown agent. In the
discovery and adaptation of the latter lay the whole problem.

"Yes, I am eager about it now," at last exclaimed Grandidier in an
animated way. "I allowed you to prosecute your experiments without
troubling you with any inquisitive questions. But a solution is becoming
imperative."

Thomas smiled: "Well, you must remain patient just a little longer," said
he; "I believe that I am on the right road."

Then Grandidier shook hands with him and Pierre, and went off to make his
usual round through his busy, bustling works, whilst near at hand,
awaiting his return, stood the closed pavilion, where every evening he
was fated to relapse into endless, incurable anguish.

The daylight was already waning when Pierre and Thomas, after
re-ascending the height of Montmartre, walked towards the large work-shop
which Jahan, the sculptor, had set up among the many sheds whose erection
had been necessitated by the building of the Sacred Heart. There was here
a stretch of ground littered with materials, an extraordinary chaos of
building stone, beams and machinery; and pending the time when an army of
navvies would come to set the whole place in order, one could see gaping
trenches, rough flights of descending steps and fences, imperfectly
closing doorways which conducted to the substructures of the basilica.

Halting in front of Jahan's work-shop, Thomas pointed to one of these
doorways by which one could reach the foundation works. "Have you never
had an idea of visiting the foundations?" he inquired of Pierre. "There's
quite a city down there on which millions of money have been spent. They
could only find firm soil at the very base of the height, and they had to
excavate more than eighty shafts, fill them with concrete, and then rear
their church on all those subterranean columns. . . . Yes, that is so. Of
course the columns cannot be seen, but it is they who hold that insulting
edifice aloft, right over Paris!"

Having drawn near to the fence, Pierre was looking at an open doorway
beyond it, a sort of dark landing whence steps descended as if into the
bowels of the earth. And he thought of those invisible columns of
concrete, and of all the stubborn energy and desire for domination which
had set and kept the edifice erect.

Thomas was at last obliged to call him. "Let us make haste," said he,
"the twilight will soon be here. We shan't be able to see much."

They had arranged to meet Antoine at Jahan's, as the sculptor wished to
show them a new model he had prepared. When they entered the work-shop
they found the two assistants still working at the colossal angel which
had been ordered for the basilica. Standing on a scaffolding they were
rough-hewing its symmetrical wings, whilst Jahan, seated on a low chair,
with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his hands soiled with clay,
was contemplating a figure some three feet high on which he had just been
working.

"Ah! it's you," he exclaimed. "Antoine has been waiting more than half an
hour for you. He's gone outside with Lise to see the sun set over Paris,
I think. But they will soon be back."

Then he relapsed into silence, with his eyes fixed on his work.

This was a bare, erect, lofty female figure, of such august majesty, so
simple were its lines, that it suggested something gigantic. The figure's
abundant, outspread hair suggested rays around its face, which beamed
with sovereign beauty like the sun. And its only gesture was one of offer
and of greeting; its arms were thrown slightly forward, and its hands
were open for the grasp of all mankind.

Still lingering in his dream Jahan began to speak slowly: "You remember
that I wanted a pendant for my figure of Fecundity. I had modelled a
Charity, but it pleased me so little and seemed so commonplace that I let
the clay dry and spoil. . . . And then the idea of a figure of Justice
came to me. But not a gowned figure with the sword and the scales! That
wasn't the Justice that inspired me. What haunted my mind was the other
Justice, the one that the lowly and the sufferers await, the one who
alone can some day set a little order and happiness among us. And I
pictured her like that, quite bare, quite simple, and very lofty. She is
the sun as it were, a sun all beauty, harmony and strength; for justice
is only to be found in the sun which shines in the heavens for one and
all, and bestows on poor and rich alike its magnificence and light and
warmth, which are the source of all life. And so my figure, you see, has
her hands outstretched as if she were offering herself to all mankind,
greeting it and granting it the gift of eternal life in eternal beauty.
Ah! to be beautiful and strong and just, one's whole dream lies in that."

Jahan relighted his pipe and burst into a merry laugh. "Well, I think the
good woman carries herself upright. . . . What do you fellows say?"

His visitors highly praised his work. Pierre for his part was much
affected at finding in this artistic conception the very idea that he had
so long been revolving in his mind--the idea of an era of Justice rising
from the ruins of the world, which Charity after centuries of trial had
failed to save.

Then the sculptor gaily explained that he had prepared his model there
instead of at home, in order to console himself a little for his big
dummy of an angel, the prescribed triteness of which disgusted him. Some
fresh objections had been raised with respect to the folds of the robe,
which gave some prominence to the thighs, and in the end he had been
compelled to modify all of the drapery.

"Oh! it's just as they like!" he cried; "it's no work of mine, you know;
it's simply an order which I'm executing just as a mason builds a wall.
There's no religious art left, it has been killed by stupidity and
disbelief. Ah! if social or human art could only revive, how glorious to
be one of the first to bear the tidings!"

Then he paused. Where could the youngsters, Antoine and Lise, have got
to, he wondered. He threw the door wide open, and, a little distance
away, among the materials littering the waste ground, one could see
Antoine's tall figure and Lise's short slender form standing out against
the immensity of Paris, which was all golden amidst the sun's farewell.
The young man's strong arm supported Lise, who with this help walked
beside him without feeling any fatigue. Slender and graceful, like a girl
blossoming into womanhood, she raised her eyes to his with a smile of
infinite gratitude, which proclaimed that she belonged to him for
evermore.

"Ah! they are coming back," said Jahan. "The miracle is now complete, you
know. I'm delighted at it. I did not know what to do with her; I had even
renounced all attempts to teach her to read; I left her for days together
in a corner, infirm and tongue-tied like a lack-wit. . . . But your
brother came and took her in hand somehow or other. She listened to him
and understood him, and began to read and write with him, and grow
intelligent and gay. Then, as her limbs still gained no suppleness, and
she remained infirm, ailing and puny, he began by carrying her here, and
then helped her to walk in such wise that she can now do so by herself.
In a few weeks' time she has positively grown and become quite charming.
Yes, I assure you, it is second birth, real creation. Just look at them!"

Antoine and Lise were still slowly approaching. The evening breeze which
rose from the great city, where all was yet heat and sunshine, brought
them a bath of life. If the young man had chosen that spot, with its
splendid horizon, open to the full air which wafted all the germs of
life, it was doubtless because he felt that nowhere else could he instil
more vitality, more soul, more strength into her. And love had been
created by love. He had found her asleep, benumbed, without power of
motion or intellect, and he had awakened her, kindled life in her, loved
her, that he might be loved by her in return. She was his work, she was
part of himself.

"So you no longer feel tired, little one?" said Jahan.

She smiled divinely. "Oh! no, it's so pleasant, so beautiful, to walk
straight on like this. . . . All I desire is to go on for ever and ever
with Antoine."

The others laughed, and Jahan exclaimed in his good-natured way: "Let us
hope that he won't take you so far. You've reached your destination now,
and I shan't be the one to prevent you from being happy."

Antoine was already standing before the figure of Justice, to which the
falling twilight seemed to impart a quiver of life. "Oh! how divinely
simple, how divinely beautiful!" said he.

For his own part he had lately finished a new wood engraving, which
depicted Lise holding a book in her hand, an engraving instinct with
truth and emotion, showing her awakened to intelligence and love. And
this time he had achieved his desire, making no preliminary drawing, but
tackling the block with his graver, straight away, in presence of his
model. And infinite hopefulness had come upon him, he was dreaming of
great original works in which the whole period that he belonged to would
live anew and for ever.

Thomas now wished to return home. So they shook hands with Jahan, who, as
his day's work was over, put on his coat to take his sister back to the
Rue du Calvaire.

"Till to-morrow, Lise," said Antoine, inclining his head to kiss her.

She raised herself on tip-toes, and offered him her eyes, which he had
opened to life. "Till to-morrow, Antoine," said she.

Outside, the twilight was falling. Pierre was the first to cross the
threshold, and as he did so, he saw so extraordinary a sight that for an
instant he felt stupefied. But it was certain enough: he could plainly
distinguish his brother Guillaume emerging from the gaping doorway which
conducted to the foundations of the basilica. And he saw him hastily
climb over the palings, and then pretend to be there by pure chance, as
though he had come up from the Rue Lamarck. When he accosted his two
sons, as if he were delighted to meet them, and began to say that he had
just come from Paris, Pierre asked himself if he had been dreaming.
However, an anxious glance which his brother cast at him convinced him
that he had been right. And then he not only felt ill at ease in presence
of that man whom he had never previously known to lie, but it seemed to
him that he was at last on the track of all he had feared, the formidable
mystery that he had for some time past felt brewing around him in the
little peaceful house.

When Guillaume, his sons and his brother reached home and entered the
large workroom overlooking Paris, it was so dark that they fancied nobody
was there.

"What! nobody in?" said Guillaume.

But in a somewhat low, quiet voice Francois answered out of the gloom:
"Why, yes, I'm here."

He had remained at his table, where he had worked the whole afternoon,
and as he could no longer read, he now sat in a dreamy mood with his head
resting on his hands, his eyes wandering over Paris, where night was
gradually falling. As his examination was now near at hand, he was living
in a state of severe mental strain.

"What, you are still working there!" said his father. "Why didn't you ask
for a lamp?"

"No, I wasn't working, I was looking at Paris," Francois slowly answered.
"It's singular how the night falls over it by degrees. The last district
that remained visible was the Montague Ste. Genevieve, the plateau of the
Pantheon, where all our knowledge and science have grown up. A sun-ray
still gilds the schools and libraries and laboratories, when the
low-lying districts of trade are already steeped in darkness. I won't say
that the planet has a particular partiality for us at the Ecole Normale,
but it's certain that its beams still linger on our roofs, when they are
to be seen nowhere else."

He began to laugh at his jest. Still one could see how ardent was his
faith in mental effort, how entirely he gave himself to mental labour,
which, in his opinion, could alone bring truth, establish justice and
create happiness.

Then came a short spell of silence. Paris sank more and more deeply into
the night, growing black and mysterious, till all at once sparks of light
began to appear.

"The lamps are being lighted," resumed Francois; "work is being resumed on
all sides."

Then Guillaume, who likewise had been dreaming, immersed in his fixed
idea, exclaimed: "Work, yes, no doubt! But for work to give a full
harvest it must be fertilised by will. There is something which is
superior to work."

Thomas and Antoine had drawn near. And Francois, as much for them as for
himself, inquired: "What is that, father?"

"Action."

For a moment the three young men remained silent, impressed by the
solemnity of the hour, quivering too beneath the great waves of darkness
which rose from the vague ocean of the city. Then a young voice remarked,
though whose it was one could not tell: "Action is but work."

And Pierre, who lacked the respectful quietude, the silent faith, of his
nephews, now felt his nervousness increasing. That huge and terrifying
mystery of which he was dimly conscious rose before him, while a great
quiver sped by in the darkness, over that black city where the lamps were
now being lighted for a whole passionate night of work.

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