The Three Cities Trilogy: Chapter 3

Chapter 3

III

PENURY AND TOIL

THREE days went by, and every morning Guillaume, confined to his bed and
consumed by fever and impatience, experienced fresh anxiety directly the
newspapers arrived. Pierre had tried to keep them from him, but Guillaume
then worried himself the more, and so the priest had to read him column
by column all the extraordinary articles that were published respecting
the crime.

Never before had so many rumours inundated the press. Even the "Globe,"
usually so grave and circumspect, yielded to the general /furore/, and
printed whatever statements reached it. But the more unscrupulous papers
were the ones to read. The "Voix du Peuple" in particular made use of the
public feverishness to increase its sales. Each morning it employed some
fresh device, and printed some frightful story of a nature to drive
people mad with terror. It related that not a day passed without Baron
Duvillard receiving threatening letters of the coarsest description,
announcing that his wife, his son and his daughter would all be killed,
that he himself would be butchered in turn, and that do what he might his
house would none the less be blown up. And as a measure of precaution the
house was guarded day and night alike by a perfect army of plain-clothes
officers. Then another article contained an amazing piece of invention.
Some anarchists, after carrying barrels of powder into a sewer near the
Madeleine, were said to have undermined the whole district, planning a
perfect volcano there, into which one half of Paris would sink. And at
another time it was alleged that the police were on the track of a
terrible plot which embraced all Europe, from the depths of Russia to the
shores of Spain. The signal for putting it into execution was to be given
in France, and there would be a three days' massacre, with grape shot
sweeping everyone off the Boulevards, and the Seine running red, swollen
by a torrent of blood. Thanks to these able and intelligent devices of
the Press, terror now reigned in the city; frightened foreigners fled
from the hotels /en masse/; and Paris had become a mere mad-house, where
the most idiotic delusions at once found credit.

It was not all this, however, that worried Guillaume. He was only anxious
about Salvat and the various new "scents" which the newspaper reporters
attempted to follow up. The engineer was not yet arrested, and, so far
indeed, there had been no statement in print to indicate that the police
were on his track. At last, however, Pierre one morning read a paragraph
which made the injured man turn pale.

"Dear me! It seems that a tool has been found among the rubbish at the
entrance of the Duvillard mansion. It is a bradawl, and its handle bears
the name of Grandidier, which is that of a man who keeps some well-known
metal works. He is to appear before the investigating magistrate to-day."

Guillaume made a gesture of despair. "Ah!" said he, "they are on the
right track at last. That tool must certainly have been dropped by
Salvat. He worked at Grandidier's before he came to me for a few days.
And from Grandidier they will learn all that they need to know in order
to follow the scent."

Pierre then remembered that he had heard the Grandidier factory mentioned
at Montmartre. Guillaume's eldest son, Thomas, had served his
apprenticeship there, and even worked there occasionally nowadays.

"You told me," resumed Guillaume, "that during my absence Thomas intended
to go back to the factory. It's in connection with a new motor which he's
planning, and has almost hit upon. If there should be a perquisition
there, he may be questioned, and may refuse to answer, in order to guard
his secret. So he ought to be warned of this, warned at once!"

Without trying to extract any more precise statement from his brother,
Pierre obligingly offered his services. "If you like," said he, "I will
go to see Thomas this afternoon. Perhaps I may come across Monsieur
Grandidier himself and learn how far the affair has gone, and what was
said at the investigating magistrate's."

With a moist glance and an affectionate grasp of the hand, Guillaume at
once thanked Pierre: "Yes, yes, brother, go there, it will be good and
brave of you."

"Besides," continued the priest, "I really wanted to go to Montmartre
to-day. I haven't told you so, but something has been worrying me. If
Salvat has fled, he must have left the woman and the child all alone up
yonder. On the morning of the day when the explosion took place I saw the
poor creatures in such a state of destitution, such misery, that I can't
think of them without a heart-pang. Women and children so often die of
hunger when the man is no longer there."

At this, Guillaume, who had kept Pierre's hand in his own, pressed it
more tightly, and in a trembling voice exclaimed: "Yes, yes, and that
will be good and brave too. Go there, brother, go there."

That house of the Rue des Saules, that horrible home of want and agony,
had lingered in Pierre's memory. To him it was like an embodiment of the
whole filthy /cloaca/, in which the poor of Paris suffer unto death. And
on returning thither that afternoon, he found the same slimy mud around
it; its yard littered with the same filth, its dark, damp stairways
redolent of the same stench of neglect and poverty, as before. In winter
time, while the fine central districts of Paris are dried and cleansed,
the far-away districts of the poor remain gloomy and miry, beneath the
everlasting tramp of the wretched ones who dwell in them.

Remembering the staircase which conducted to Salvat's lodging, Pierre
began to climb it amidst a loud screaming of little children, who
suddenly became quiet, letting the house sink into death-like silence
once more. Then the thought of Laveuve, who had perished up there like a
stray dog, came back to Pierre. And he shuddered when, on the top
landing, he knocked at Salvat's door, and profound silence alone answered
him. Not a breath was to be heard.

However, he knocked again, and as nothing stirred he began to think that
nobody could be there. Perhaps Salvat had returned to fetch the woman and
the child, and perhaps they had followed him to some humble nook abroad.
Still this would have astonished him; for the poor seldom quit their
homes, but die where they have suffered. So he gave another gentle knock.

And at last a faint sound, the light tread of little feet, was heard
amidst the silence. Then a weak, childish voice ventured to inquire: "Who
is there?"

"Monsieur l'Abbe."

The silence fell again, nothing more stirred. There was evidently
hesitation on the other side.

"Monsieur l'Abbe who came the other day," said Pierre again.

This evidently put an end to all uncertainty, for the door was set ajar
and little Celine admitted the priest. "I beg your pardon, Monsieur
l'Abbe," said she, "but Mamma Theodore has gone out, and she told me not
to open the door to anyone."

Pierre had, for a moment, imagined that Salvat himself was hiding there.
But with a glance he took in the whole of the small bare room, where man,
woman and child dwelt together. At the same time, Madame Theodore
doubtless feared a visit from the police. Had she seen Salvat since the
crime? Did she know where he was hiding? Had he come back there to
embrace and tranquillise them both?

"And your papa, my dear," said Pierre to Celine, "isn't he here either?"

"Oh! no, monsieur, he has gone away."

"What, gone away?"

"Yes, he hasn't been home to sleep, and we don't know where he is."

"Perhaps he's working."

"Oh, no! he'd send us some money if he was."

"Then he's gone on a journey, perhaps?"

"I don't know."

"He wrote to Mamma Theodore, no doubt?"

"I don't know."

Pierre asked no further questions. In fact, he felt somewhat ashamed of
his attempt to extract information from this child of eleven, whom he
thus found alone. It was quite possible that she knew nothing, that
Salvat, in a spirit of prudence, had even refrained from sending any
tidings of himself. Indeed, there was an expression of truthfulness on
the child's fair, gentle and intelligent face, which was grave with the
gravity that extreme misery imparts to the young.

"I am sorry that Mamma Theodore isn't here," said Pierre, "I wanted to
speak to her."

"But perhaps you would like to wait for her, Monsieur l'Abbe. She has
gone to my Uncle Toussaint's in the Rue Marcadet; and she can't stop much
longer, for she's been away more than an hour."

Thereupon Celine cleared one of the chairs on which lay a handful of
scraps of wood, picked up on some waste ground.

The bare and fireless room was assuredly also a breadless one. Pierre
could divine the absence of the bread-winner, the disappearance of the
man who represents will and strength in the home, and on whom one still
relies even when weeks have gone by without work. He goes out and scours
the city, and often ends by bringing back the indispensable crust which
keeps death at bay. But with his disappearance comes complete
abandonment, the wife and child in danger, destitute of all prop and
help.

Pierre, who had sat down and was looking at that poor, little, blue-eyed
girl, to whose lips a smile returned in spite of everything, could not
keep from questioning her on another point. "So you don't go to school,
my child?" said he.

She faintly blushed and answered: "I've no shoes to go in."

He glanced at her feet, and saw that she was wearing a pair of ragged old
list-slippers, from which her little toes protruded, red with cold.

"Besides," she continued, "Mamma Theodore says that one doesn't go to
school when one's got nothing to eat. Mamma Theodore wanted to work but
she couldn't, because her eyes got burning hot and full of water. And so
we don't know what to do, for we've had nothing left since yesterday, and
if Uncle Toussaint can't lend us twenty sous it'll be all over."

She was still smiling in her unconscious way, but two big tears had
gathered in her eyes. And the sight of the child shut up in that bare
room, apart from all the happy ones of earth, so upset the priest that he
again felt his anger with want and misery awakening. Then, another ten
minutes having elapsed, he became impatient, for he had to go to the
Grandidier works before returning home.

"I don't know why Mamma Theodore doesn't come back," repeated Celine.
"Perhaps she's chatting." Then, an idea occurring to her she continued:
"I'll take you to my Uncle Toussaint's, Monsieur l'Abbe, if you like.
It's close by, just round the corner."

"But you have no shoes, my child."

"Oh! that don't matter, I walk all the same."

Thereupon he rose from the chair and said simply: "Well, yes, that will
be better, take me there. And I'll buy you some shoes."

Celine turned quite pink, and then made haste to follow him after
carefully locking the door of the room like a good little housewife,
though, truth to tell, there was nothing worth stealing in the place.

In the meantime it had occurred to Madame Theodore that before calling on
her brother Toussaint to try to borrow a franc from him, she might first
essay her luck with her younger sister, Hortense, who had married little
Chretiennot, the clerk, and occupied a flat of four rooms on the
Boulevard de Rochechouart. This was quite an affair, however, and the
poor woman only made the venture because Celine had been fasting since
the previous day.

Eugene Toussaint, the mechanician, a man of fifty, was her stepbrother,
by the first marriage contracted by her father. A young dressmaker whom
the latter had subsequently wedded, had borne him three daughters,
Pauline, Leonie and Hortense. And on his death, his son Eugene, who
already had a wife and child of his own, had found himself for a short
time with his stepmother and sisters on his hands. The stepmother,
fortunately, was an active and intelligent woman, and knew how to get out
of difficulties. She returned to her former workroom where her daughter
Pauline was already apprenticed, and she next placed Leonie there; so
that Hortense, the youngest girl, who was a spoilt child, prettier and
more delicate than her sisters, was alone left at school. And, later
on,--after Pauline had married Labitte the stonemason, and Leonie, Salvat
the journeyman-engineer,--Hortense, while serving as assistant at a
confectioner's in the Rue des Martyrs, there became acquainted with
Chretiennot, a clerk, who married her. Leonie had died young, only a few
weeks after her mother; Pauline, forsaken by her husband, lived with her
brother-in-law Salvat, and Hortense alone wore a light silk gown on
Sundays, resided in a new house, and ranked as a /bourgeoise/, at the
price, however, of interminable worries and great privation.

Madame Theodore knew that her sister was generally short of money towards
the month's end, and therefore felt rather ill at ease in thus venturing
to apply for a loan. Chretiennot, moreover, embittered by his own
mediocrity, had of late years accused his wife of being the cause of
their spoilt life, and had ceased all intercourse with her relatives.
Toussaint, no doubt, was a decent workman; but that Madame Theodore who
lived in misery with her brother-in-law, and that Salvat who wandered
from workshop to workshop like an incorrigible ranter whom no employer
would keep; those two, with their want and dirt and rebellion, had ended
by incensing the vain little clerk, who was not only a great stickler for
the proprieties, but was soured by all the difficulties he encountered in
his own life. And thus he had forbidden Hortense to receive her sister.

All the same, as Madame Theodore climbed the carpeted staircase of the
house on the Boulevard Rochechouart, she experienced a certain feeling of
pride at the thought that she had a relation living in such luxury. The
Chretiennot's rooms were on the third floor, and overlooked the
courtyard. Their /femme-de-menage/--a woman who goes out by the day or
hour charring, cleaning and cooking--came back every afternoon about four
o'clock to see to the dinner, and that day she was already there. She
admitted the visitor, though she could not conceal her anxious surprise
at her boldness in calling in such slatternly garb. However, on the very
threshold of the little salon, Madame Theodore stopped short in
wonderment herself, for her sister Hortense was sobbing and crouching on
one of the armchairs, upholstered in blue repp, of which she was so
proud.

"What is the matter? What has happened to you?" asked Madame Theodore.

Her sister, though scarcely two and thirty, was no longer "the beautiful
Hortense" of former days. She retained a doll-like appearance, with a
tall slim figure, pretty eyes and fine, fair hair. But she who had once
taken so much care of herself, had now come down to dressing-gowns of
doubtful cleanliness. Her eyelids, too, were reddening, and blotches were
appearing on her skin. She had begun to fade after giving birth to two
daughters, one of whom was now nine and the other seven years of age.
Very proud and egotistical, she herself had begun to regret her marriage,
for she had formerly considered herself a real beauty, worthy of the
palaces and equipages of some Prince Charming. And at this moment she was
plunged in such despair, that her sister's sudden appearance on the scene
did not even astonish her: "Ah! it's you," she gasped. "Ah! if you only
knew what a blow's fallen on me in the middle of all our worries!"

Madame Theodore at once thought of the children, Lucienne and Marcelle.
"Are your daughters ill?" she asked.

"No, no, our neighbour has taken them for a walk on the Boulevard. But
the fact is, my dear, I'm /enceinte/, and when I told Chretiennot of it
after /dejeuner/, he flew into a most fearful passion, saying the most
dreadful, the most cruel things!"

Then she again sobbed. Gentle and indolent by nature, desirous of peace
and quietness before anything else, she was incapable of deceiving her
husband, as he well knew. But the trouble was that an addition to the
family would upset the whole economy of the household.

"/Mon Dieu/!" said Madame Theodore at last, "you brought up the others,
and you'll bring up this one too."

At this an explosion of anger dried the other's eyes; and she rose,
exclaiming: "You are good, you are! One can see that our purse isn't
yours. How are we to bring up another child when we can scarcely make
both ends meet as it is?"

And thereupon, forgetting the /bourgeois/ pride which usually prompted
her to silence or falsehood, she freely explained their embarrassment,
the horrid pecuniary worries which made their life a perpetual misery.
Their rent amounted to 700 francs,* so that out of the 3000 francs**
which the husband earned at his office, barely a couple of hundred were
left them every month. And how were they to manage with that little sum,
provide food and clothes, keep up their rank and so forth? There was the
indispensable black coat for monsieur, the new dress which madame must
have at regular intervals, under penalty of losing caste, the new boots
which the children required almost every month, in fact, all sorts of
things that could not possibly be dispensed with. One might strike a dish
or two out of the daily menu, and even go without wine; but evenings came
when it was absolutely necessary to take a cab. And, apart from all this,
one had to reckon with the wastefulness of the children, the disorder in
which the discouraged wife left the house, and the despair of the
husband, who was convinced that he would never extricate himself from his
difficulties, even should his salary some day be raised to as high a
figure as 4000 francs. Briefly, one here found the unbearable penury of
the petty clerk, with consequences as disastrous as the black want of the
artisan: the mock facade and lying luxury; all the disorder and suffering
which lie behind intellectual pride at not earning one's living at a
bench or on a scaffolding.

* $140.

** $600.

"Well, well," repeated Madame Theodore, "you can't kill the child."

"No, of course not; but it's the end of everything," answered Hortense,
sinking into the armchair again. "What will become of us, /mon Dieu/!
What will become of us!" Then she collapsed in her unbuttoned dressing
gown, tears once more gushing from her red and swollen eyes.

Much vexed that circumstances should be so unpropitious, Madame Theodore
nevertheless ventured to ask for the loan of twenty sons; and this
brought her sister's despair and confusion to a climax. "I really haven't
a centime in the house," said she, "just now I borrowed ten sous for the
children from the servant. I had to get ten francs from the Mont de Piete
on a little ring the other day. And it's always the same at the end of
the month. However, Chretiennot will be paid to-day, and he's coming back
early with the money for dinner. So if I can I will send you something
to-morrow."

At this same moment the servant hastened in with a distracted air, being
well aware that monsieur was in no wise partial to madame's relatives.
"Oh madame, madame!" said she; "here's monsieur coming up the stairs."

"Quick then, quick, go away!" cried Hortense, "I should only have another
scene if he met you here. To-morrow, if I can, I promise you."

To avoid Chretiennot who was coming in, Madame Theodore had to hide
herself in the kitchen. As he passed, she just caught sight of him, well
dressed as usual in a tight-fitting frock-coat. Short and lean, with a
thin face and long and carefully tended beard, he had the bearing of one
who is both vain and quarrelsome. Fourteen years of office life had
withered him, and now the long evening hours which he spent at a
neighbouring cafe were finishing him off.

When Madame Theodore had quitted the house she turned with dragging steps
towards the Rue Marcadet where the Toussaints resided. Here, again, she
had no great expectations, for she well knew what ill-luck and worry had
fallen upon her brother's home. During the previous autumn Toussaint,
though he was but fifty, had experienced an attack of paralysis which had
laid him up for nearly five months. Prior to this mishap he had borne
himself bravely, working steadily, abstaining from drink, and bringing up
his three children in true fatherly fashion. One of them, a girl, was now
married to a carpenter, with whom she had gone to Le Havre, while of the
others, both boys--one a soldier, had been killed in Tonquin, and the
other Charles, after serving his time in the army, had become a working
mechanician. Still, Toussaint's long illness had exhausted the little
money which he had in the Savings Bank, and now that he had been set on
his legs again, he had to begin life once more without a copper before
him.

Madame Theodore found her sister-in-law alone in the cleanly kept room
which she and her husband occupied. Madame Toussaint was a portly woman,
whose corpulence increased in spite of everything, whether it were worry
or fasting. She had a round puffy face with bright little eyes; and was a
very worthy woman, whose only faults were an inclination for gossiping
and a fondness for good cheer. Before Madame Theodore even opened her
mouth she understood the object of her visit. "You've come on us at a bad
moment, my dear," she said, "we're stumped. Toussaint wasn't able to go
back to the works till the day before yesterday, and he'll have to ask
for an advance this evening."

As she spoke, she looked at the other with no great sympathy, hurt as she
felt by her slovenly appearance. "And Salvat," she added, "is he still
doing nothing?"

Madame Theodore doubtless foresaw the question, for she quietly lied: "He
isn't in Paris, a friend has taken him off for some work over Belgium
way, and I'm waiting for him to send us something."

Madame Toussaint still remained distrustful, however: "Ah!" she said,
"it's just as well that he shouldn't be in Paris; for with all these bomb
affairs we couldn't help thinking of him, and saying that he was quite
mad enough to mix himself up in them."

The other did not even blink. If she knew anything she kept it to
herself.

"But you, my dear, can't you find any work?" continued Madame Toussaint.

"Well, what would you have me do with my poor eyes? It's no longer
possible for me to sew."

"That's true. A seamstress gets done for. When Toussaint was laid up here
I myself wanted to go back to my old calling as a needlewoman. But there!
I spoilt everything and did no good. Charring's about the only thing that
one can always do. Why don't you get some jobs of that kind?"

"I'm trying, but I can't find any."

Little by little Madame Toussaint was softening at sight of the other's
miserable appearance. She made her sit down, and told her that she would
give her something if Toussaint should come home with money. Then,
yielding to her partiality for gossiping, since there was somebody to
listen to her, she started telling stories. The one affair, however, on
which she invariably harped was the sorry business of her son Charles and
the servant girl at a wine shop over the way. Before going into the army
Charles had been a most hard-working and affectionate son, invariably
bringing his pay home to his mother. And certainly he still worked and
showed himself good-natured; but military service, while sharpening his
wits, had taken away some of his liking for ordinary manual toil. It
wasn't that he regretted army life, for he spoke of his barracks as a
prison. Only his tools had seemed to him rather heavy when, on quitting
the service, he had been obliged to take them in hand once more.

"And so, my dear," continued Madame Toussaint, "it's all very well for
Charles to be kind-hearted, he can do no more for us. I knew that he
wasn't in a hurry to get married, as it costs money to keep a wife. And
he was always very prudent, too, with girls. But what would you have?
There was that moment of folly with that Eugenie over the road, a regular
baggage who's already gone off with another man, and left her baby
behind. Charles has put it out to nurse, and pays for it every month. And
a lot of expense it is too, perfect ruination. Yes, indeed, every
possible misfortune has fallen on us."

In this wise Madame Toussaint rattled on for a full half hour. Then
seeing that waiting and anxiety had made her sister-in-law turn quite
pale, she suddenly stopped short. "You're losing patience, eh?" she
exclaimed. "The fact is, that Toussaint won't be back for some time.
Shall we go to the works together? I'll easily find out if he's likely to
bring any money home."

They then decided to go down, but at the bottom of the stairs they
lingered for another quarter of an hour chatting with a neighbour who had
lately lost a child. And just as they were at last leaving the house they
heard a call: "Mamma! mamma!"

It came from little Celine, whose face was beaming with delight. She was
wearing a pair of new shoes and devouring a cake. "Mamma," she resumed,
"Monsieur l'Abbe who came the other day wants to see you. Just look! he
bought me all this!"

On seeing the shoes and the cake, Madame Theodore understood matters. And
when Pierre, who was behind the child, accosted her she began to tremble
and stammer thanks. Madame Toussaint on her side had quickly drawn near,
not indeed to ask for anything herself, but because she was well pleased
at such a God-send for her sister-in-law, whose circumstances were worse
than her own. And when she saw the priest slip ten francs into Madame
Theodore's hand she explained to him that she herself would willingly
have lent something had she been able. Then she promptly started on the
stories of Toussaint's attack and her son Charles's ill-luck.

But Celine broke in: "I say, mamma, the factory where papa used to work
is here in this street, isn't it? Monsieur l'Abbe has some business
there."*

* Although the children of the French peasantry almost
invariably address their parents as "father" and "mother,"
those of the working classes of Paris, and some other large
cities, usually employ the terms "papa" and "mamma."--Trans.

"The Grandidier factory," resumed Madame Toussaint; "well, we were just
going there, and we can show Monsieur l'Abbe the way."

It was only a hundred steps off. Escorted by the two women and the child,
Pierre slackened his steps and tried to extract some information about
Salvat from Madame Theodore. But she at once became very prudent. She had
not seen him again, she declared; he must have gone with a mate to
Belgium, where there was a prospect of some work. From what she said, it
appeared to the priest that Salvat had not dared to return to the Rue des
Saules since his crime, in which all had collapsed, both his past life of
toil and hope, and his recent existence with its duties towards the woman
and the child.

"There's the factory, Monsieur l'Abbe," suddenly said Madame Toussaint,
"my sister-in-law won't have to wait now, since you've been kind enough
to help her. Thank you for her and for us."

Madame Theodore and Celine likewise poured forth their thanks, standing
beside Madame Toussaint in the everlasting mud of that populous district,
amidst the jostling of the passers-by. And lingering there as if to see
Pierre enter, they again chatted together and repeated that, after all,
some priests were very kind.

The Grandidier works covered an extensive plot of ground. Facing the
street there was only a brick building with narrow windows and a great
archway, through which one espied a long courtyard. But, in the rear,
came a suite of habitations, workshops, and sheds, above whose never
ending roofs arose the two lofty chimneys of the generators. From the
very threshold one detected the rumbling and quivering of machinery, all
the noise and bustle of work. Black water flowed by at one's feet, and up
above white vapour spurted from a slender pipe with a regular strident
puff, as if it were the very breath of that huge, toiling hive.

Bicycles were now the principal output of the works. When Grandidier had
taken them on leaving the Dijon Arts and Trades School, they were
declining under bad management, slowly building some little motive
engines by the aid of antiquated machinery. Foreseeing the future,
however, he had induced his elder brother, one of the managers of the Bon
Marche, to finance him, on the promise that he would supply that great
emporium with excellent bicycles at 150 francs apiece. And now quite a
big venture was in progress, for the Bon Marche was already bringing out
the new popular machine "La Lisette," the "Bicycle for the Multitude," as
the advertisements asserted. Nevertheless, Grandidier was still in all
the throes of a great struggle, for his new machinery had cast a heavy
burden of debt on him. At the same time each month brought its effort,
the perfecting or simplifying of some part of the manufacture, which
meant a saving in the future. He was ever on the watch; and even now was
thinking of reverting to the construction of little motors, for he
thought he could divine in the near future the triumph of the motor-car.

On asking if M. Thomas Froment were there, Pierre was led by an old
workman to a little shed, where he found the young fellow in the linen
jacket of a mechanician, his hands black with filings. He was adjusting
some piece of mechanism, and nobody would have suspected him to be a
former pupil of the Lycee Condorcet, one of the three clever Froments who
had there rendered the name famous. But his only desire had been to act
as his father's faithful servant, the arm that forges, the embodiment of
the manual toil by which conceptions are realised. And, a giant of three
and twenty, ever attentive and courageous, he was likewise a man of
patient, silent and sober nature.

On catching sight of Pierre he quivered with anxiety and sprang forward.
"Father is no worse?" he asked.

"No, no. But he read in the papers that story of a bradawl found in the
Rue Godot-de-Mauroy, and it made him anxious, because the police may make
a perquisition here."

Thomas, his own anxiety allayed, began to smile. "Tell him he may sleep
quietly," he responded. "To begin with, I've unfortunately not yet hit on
our little motor such as I want it to be. In fact, I haven't yet put it
together. I'm keeping the pieces at our house, and nobody here knows
exactly what I come to do at the factory. So the police may search, it
will find nothing. Our secret runs no risk."

Pierre promised to repeat these words to Guillaume, so as to dissipate
his fears. However, when he tried to sound Thomas, and ascertain the
position of affairs, what the factory people thought of the discovery of
the bradawl, and whether there was as yet any suspicion of Salvat, he
once more found the young man taciturn, and elicited merely a "yes" or a
"no" in answer to his inquiries. The police had not been there as yet?
No. But the men must surely have mentioned Salvat? Yes, of course, on
account of his Anarchist opinions. But what had Grandidier, the master,
said, on returning from the investigating magistrate's? As for that
Thomas knew nothing. He had not seen Grandidier that day.

"But here he comes!" the young man added. "Ah! poor fellow, his wife, I
fancy, had another attack this morning."

He alluded to a frightful story which Guillaume had already recounted to
Pierre. Grandidier, falling in love with a very beautiful girl, had
married her; but for five years now she had been insane: the result of
puerperal fever and the death of an infant son. Her husband, with his
ardent affection for her, had been unwilling to place her in an asylum,
and had accordingly kept her with him in a little pavilion, whose
windows, overlooking the courtyard of the factory, always remained
closed. She was never seen; and never did he speak of her to anybody. It
was said that she was usually like a child, very gentle and very sad, and
still beautiful, with regal golden hair. At times, however, attacks of
frantic madness came upon her, and he then had to struggle with her, and
often hold her for hours in his arms to prevent her from splitting her
head against the walls. Fearful shrieks would ring out for a time, and
then deathlike silence would fall once more.

Grandidier came into the shed where Thomas was working. A handsome man of
forty, with an energetic face, he had a dark and heavy moustache,
brush-like hair and clear eyes. He was very partial to Thomas, and during
the young fellow's apprenticeship there, had treated him like a son. And
he now let him return thither whenever it pleased him, and placed his
appliances at his disposal. He knew that he was trying to devise a new
motor, a question in which he himself was extremely interested; still he
evinced the greatest discretion, never questioning Thomas, but awaiting
the result of his endeavours.

"This is my uncle, Abbe Froment, who looked in to wish me good day," said
the young man, introducing Pierre.

An exchange of polite remarks ensued. Then Grandidier sought to cast off
the sadness which made people think him stern and harsh, and in a
bantering tone exclaimed: "I didn't tell you, Thomas, of my business with
the investigating magistrate. If I hadn't enjoyed a good reputation we
should have had all the spies of the Prefecture here. The magistrate
wanted me to explain the presence of that bradawl in the Rue
Godot-de-Mauroy, and I at once realised that, in his opinion, the culprit
must have worked here. For my part I immediately thought of Salvat. But I
don't denounce people. The magistrate has my hiring-book, and as for
Salvat I simply answered that he worked here for nearly three months last
autumn, and then disappeared. They can look for him themselves! Ah! that
magistrate! you can picture him a little fellow with fair hair and
cat-like eyes, very careful of his appearance, a society man evidently,
but quite frisky at being mixed up in this affair."

"Isn't he Monsieur Amadieu?" asked Pierre.

"Yes, that's his name. Ah! he's certainly delighted with the present
which those Anarchists have made him, with that crime of theirs."

The priest listened in deep anxiety. As his brother had feared, the true
scent, the first conducting wire, had now been found. And he looked at
Thomas to see if he also were disturbed. But the young man was either
ignorant of the ties which linked Salvat to his father, or else he
possessed great power of self-control, for he merely smiled at
Grandidier's sketch of the magistrate.

Then, as Grandidier went to look at the piece of mechanism which Thomas
was finishing, and they began to speak about it, Pierre drew near to an
open doorway which communicated with a long workshop where engine lathes
were rumbling, and the beams of press-drills falling quickly and
rhythmically. Leather gearing spun along with a continuous gliding, and
there was ceaseless bustle and activity amidst the odoriferous dampness
of all the steam. Scores of perspiring workmen, grimy with dust and
filings, were still toiling. Still this was the final effort of the day.
And as three men approached a water-tap near Pierre to wash their hands,
he listened to their talk, and became particularly interested in it when
he heard one of them, a tall, ginger-haired fellow, call another
Toussaint, and the third Charles.

Toussaint, a big, square-shouldered man with knotty arms, only showed his
fifty years on his round, scorched face, which besides being roughened
and wrinkled by labour, bristled with grey hairs, which nowadays he was
content to shave off once a week. It was only his right arm that was
affected by paralysis, and moved rather sluggishly. As for Charles, a
living portrait of his father, he was now in all the strength of his six
and twentieth year, with splendid muscles distending his white skin, and
a full face barred by a heavy black moustache. The three men, like their
employer, were speaking of the explosion at the Duvillard mansion, of the
bradawl found there, and of Salvat, whom they all now suspected.

"Why, only a brigand would do such a thing!" said Toussaint. "That
Anarchism disgusts me. I'll have none of it. But all the same it's for
the /bourgeois/ to settle matters. If the others want to blow them up,
it's their concern. It's they who brought it about."

This indifference was undoubtedly the outcome of a life of want and
social injustice; it was the indifference of an old toiler, who, weary of
struggling and hoping for improvements, was now quite ready to tolerate
the crumbling of a social system, which threatened him with hunger in his
impotent old age.

"Well, you know," rejoined Charles, "I've heard the Anarchists talking,
and they really say some very true and sensible things. And just take
yourself, father; you've been working for thirty years, and isn't it
abominable that you should have had to pass through all that you did pass
through recently, liable to go off like some old horse that's slaughtered
at the first sign of illness? And, of course, it makes me think of
myself, and I can't help feeling that it won't be at all amusing to end
like that. And may the thunder of God kill me if I'm wrong, but one feels
half inclined to join in their great flare-up if it's really to make
everybody happy!"

He certainly lacked the flame of enthusiasm, and if he had come to these
views it was solely from impatience to lead a less toilsome life, for
obligatory military service had given him ideas of equality among all
men--a desire to struggle, raise himself and obtain his legitimate share
of life's enjoyments. It was, in fact, the inevitable step which carries
each generation a little more forward. There was the father, who,
deceived in his hope of a fraternal republic, had grown sceptical and
contemptuous; and there was the son advancing towards a new faith, and
gradually yielding to ideas of violence, since political liberty had
failed to keep its promises.

Nevertheless, as the big, ginger-haired fellow grew angry, and shouted
that if Salvat were guilty, he ought to be caught and guillotined at
once, without waiting for judges, Toussaint ended by endorsing his
opinion. "Yes, yes, he may have married one of my sisters, but I renounce
him. . . . And yet, you know, it would astonish me to find him guilty,
for he isn't wicked at heart. I'm sure he wouldn't kill a fly."

"But what would you have?" put in Charles. "When a man's driven to
extremities he goes mad."

They had now washed themselves; but Toussaint, on perceiving his
employer, lingered there in order to ask him for an advance. As it
happened, Grandidier, after cordially shaking hands with Pierre,
approached the old workman of his own accord, for he held him in esteem.
And, after listening to him, he gave him a line for the cashier on a
card. As a rule, he was altogether against the practice of advancing
money, and his men disliked him, and said he was over rigid, though in
point of fact he had a good heart. But he had his position as an employer
to defend, and to him concessions meant ruin. With such keen competition
on all sides, with the capitalist system entailing a terrible and
incessant struggle, how could one grant the demands of the workers, even
when they were legitimate?

Sudden compassion came upon Pierre when, after quitting Thomas, he saw
Grandidier, who had finished his round, crossing the courtyard in the
direction of the closed pavilion, where all the grief of his
heart-tragedy awaited him. Here was that man waging the battle of life,
defending his fortune with the risk that his business might melt away
amidst the furious warfare between capital and labour; and at the same
time, in lieu of evening repose, finding naught but anguish it his
hearth: a mad wife, an adored wife, who had sunk back into infancy, and
was for ever dead to love! How incurable was his secret despair! Even on
the days when he triumphed in his workshops, disaster awaited him at
home. And could any more unhappy man, any man more deserving of pity, be
found even among the poor who died of hunger, among those gloomy workers,
those vanquished sons of labour who hated and who envied him?

When Pierre found himself in the street again he was astonished to see
Madame Toussaint and Madame Theodore still there with little Celine. With
their feet in the mud, like bits of wreckage against which beat the
ceaseless flow of wayfarers, they had lingered there, still and ever
chatting, loquacious and doleful, lulling their wretchedness to rest
beneath a deluge of tittle-tattle. And when Toussaint, followed by his
son, came out, delighted with the advance he had secured, he also found
them on the same spot. Then he told Madame Theodore the story of the
bradawl, and the idea which had occurred to him and all his mates that
Salvat might well be the culprit. She, however, though turning very pale,
began to protest, concealing both what she knew and what she really
thought.

"I tell you I haven't seen him for several days," said she. "He must
certainly be in Belgium. And as for a bomb, that's humbug. You say
yourself that he's very gentle and wouldn't harm a fly!"

A little later as Pierre journeyed back to Neuilly in a tramcar he fell
into a deep reverie. All the stir and bustle of that working-class
district, the buzzing of the factory, the overflowing activity of that
hive of labour, seemed to have lingered within him. And for the first
time, amidst his worries, he realised the necessity of work. Yes, it was
fatal, but it also gave health and strength. In effort which sustains and
saves, he at last found a solid basis on which all might be reared. Was
this, then, the first gleam of a new faith? But ah! what mockery! Work an
uncertainty, work hopeless, work always ending in injustice! And then
want ever on the watch for the toiler, strangling him as soon as slack
times came round, and casting him into the streets like a dead dog
immediately old age set in.

On reaching Neuilly, Pierre found Bertheroy at Guillaume's bedside. The
old /savant/ had just dressed the injured wrist, and was not yet certain
that no complications would arise. "The fact is," he said to Guillaume,
"you don't keep quiet. I always find you in a state of feverish emotion
which is the worst possible thing for you. You must calm yourself, my
dear fellow, and not allow anything to worry you."

A few minutes later, though, just as he was going away, he said with his
pleasant smile: "Do you know that a newspaper writer came to interview me
about that explosion? Those reporters imagine that scientific men know
everything! I told the one who called on me that it would be very kind of
/him/ to enlighten /me/ as to what powder was employed. And, by the way,
I am giving a lesson on explosives at my laboratory to-morrow. There will
be just a few persons present. You might come as well, Pierre, so as to
give an account of it to Guillaume; it would interest him."

At a glance from his brother, Pierre accepted the invitation. Then,
Bertheroy having gone, he recounted all he had learnt during the
afternoon, how Salvat was suspected, and how the investigating magistrate
had been put on the right scent. And at this news, intense fever again
came over Guillaume, who, with his head buried in the pillow, and his
eyes closed, stammered as if in a kind of nightmare: "Ah! then, this is
the end! Salvat arrested, Salvat interrogated! Ah! that so much toil and
so much hope should crumble!"

Back to chapter list of: The Three Cities Trilogy