Title: Work
Author: Zola, Émile
Language: English
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WORK

[TRAVAIL]

BY

ÉMILE ZOLA


TRANSLATED BY

ERNEST ALFRED VIZETELLY


LONDON

CHATTO & WINDUS

1901



PREFACE


'Work' is the second book of the new series which M. Zola began with
'Fruitfulness,' and which he hopes to complete with 'Truth' and
'Justice.' I should much have liked to discuss here in some detail
several of the matters which M. Zola brings forward in this instalment
of his literary testament, but unfortunately the latter part of the
present translation has been made by me in the midst of great bodily
suffering, and I have not now the strength to do as I desired. I will
only say, therefore, that 'Work' embraces many features. It is, first,
an exposition of M. Zola's gospel of work, as the duty of every man
born into the world and the sovereign cure for many ills--a gospel
which he has set forth more than once in the course of his numerous
writings, and which will be found synthetised, so to say, in a paper
called 'Life and Labour' translated by me for the 'New Review' some
years ago.[1] Secondly, 'Work' deals with the present-day conditions
of society so far as those conditions are affected by Capital and
Labour. And, thirdly and particularly, it embraces a scheme of social
reorganisation and regeneration in which the ideas of Charles Fourier,
the eminent philosopher, are taken as a basis and broadened and adapted
to the needs of a new century. Some may regard this scheme as being
merely the splendid dream of a poet (the book certainly abounds
in symbolism), but all must admit that it is a scheme of _pacific_
evolution, and therefore one to be preferred to the violent remedies
proposed by most Socialist schools.

In this respect the book has a peculiar significance. Though the
English press pays very little attention to the matter, things are
moving apace in France. The quiet of that country is only surface-deep.
The Socialist schools are each day making more and more progress.
The very peasants are fast becoming Socialists, and, as I wrote
comparatively recently in my preface to the new English version of M.
Zola's 'Germinal,' the most serious troubles may almost at any moment
convulse the Republic. Thus it is well that M. Zola, who has always
been a fervent partisan of peace and human brotherliness, should be
found at such a juncture pointing out pacific courses to those who
believe that a bath of blood must necessarily precede all social
regeneration.

Incidentally, in the course of his statements and arguments, M. Zola
brings forward some very interesting points. I would particularly refer
the reader to what he writes on the subject of education. Again, his
sketch of the unhappy French peasant of nowadays may be scanned with
advantage by those who foolishly believe that peasant to be one of the
most contented beings in the world. The contrary is unhappily the case,
the subdivision of the soil having reached such a point that the land
cannot be properly or profitably cultivated. After lasting a hundred
years, the order of things established in the French provinces by the
Great Revolution has utterly broken down. The economic conditions of
the world have changed, and the only hope for French agriculture rests
in farming on a huge scale. This the peasant, amidst his hard struggle
with pauperism, is now realising, and this it is which is fast making
him a Socialist.

All that M. Zola writes in 'Work' on the subject of iron and steel
factories, and the progressive changes in processes and so forth,
will doubtless be read with interest at the present time, when
so much is being said and written about a certain large American
'trust.' The reliance which he places in Science--the great pacific
revolutionary--to effect the most advantageous changes in present-day
conditions of labour, is assuredly justified by facts. Personally, I
rely far more on science than on any innate spirit of brotherliness
between men, to bring about comparative happiness for the human race.

In conclusion, I may point out that the tendency of M. Zola's book in
one respect is shown by the title chosen for the present translation.
The original is called 'Travail,' which might have been rendered in
English as either 'Labour' or 'Work.' We read every day about the
'labour world,' the 'conditions of labour,' the 'labour party,' and so
forth, and as these matters are largely dealt with by M. Zola, some may
think that 'Labour' would have been the better title for the English
version of his book. But then it is M. Zola's desire that man should
_labour_ no more; he does not wish him to groan beneath excessive
toil--he simply desires that he should _work_, in health and in gaiety,
with the help of science to lighten his task, and a just apportionment
of wealth and happiness to gild his days until he takes his rest.


E. A. V.


MERTON, SURREY:

_April_ 1901.



[1] _New Review_, No. 50, July, 1893.



WORK



BOOK I



I


As Luc Froment walked on at random after emerging from Beauclair, he
went up the Brias road, following the gorge in which the Mionne torrent
flows between the two promontories of the Bleuse Mountains. And when he
found himself before the Abyss, as the Qurignon steel-works are called
in the region, he perceived two dark and puny creatures shrinking
timidly against the parapet at the corner of the wooden bridge. His
heart contracted. One was a woman looking very young, poorly clad, her
head half hidden by some ragged woollen stuff; and the other, nestling
amidst her skirts, was a white-faced child, about six years old, and
scarcely clothed at all. Both had their eyes fixed on the door of the
works, and were waiting, motionless, with the mournful patience of
despairing beings.

Luc paused and also looked. It would soon be six o'clock, and the light
of that wretched, muggy, mid-September evening was already waning.
It was a Saturday, and since Thursday the rain had scarcely ceased
to fall. It was no longer coming down at present, but across the sky
an impetuous wind was still driving a number of clouds, sooty ragged
clouds, athwart which filtered a dirty, yellowish twilight, full of
mortal sadness. Along the road over which stretched lines of rails,
and where big paving-stones were disjointed by continuous traffic,
there flowed a river of black mud, all the gathered moistened dust of
the neighbouring coal-works of Brias, whose tumbrels were for ever
going by. And that coal-dust had cast a blackness as of mourning over
the entire gorge; it fell in patches over the leprous pile of factory
buildings, and seemed even to besmirch those dark clouds which passed
on interminably like smoke. An ominous melancholy swept by with the
wind; one might have thought that the murky quivering twilight was
bringing the end of the world in its train.

Luc had stopped short at a few paces from the young woman and the boy,
and he heard the latter saying with a shrewd decisive air, like one who
was already a little man: 'I say, _ma grande_,[1] would you like me to
speak to him? P'r'aps he wouldn't get so angry with me.'

But the young woman replied: 'No, no, _frérot_, those are not matters
for little boys.'

Then again they continued waiting in silence, with an air of anxious
resignation.

Luc was now looking at the Abyss. From professional curiosity he
had visited it when first passing through Beauclair the previous
spring. And during the few hours that he had again found himself in
the district, suddenly summoned thither by his friend Jordan, he had
heard through what a frightful crisis the region had just passed.
There had been a terrible strike of two months' duration, and ruin was
piled up on either side. The establishment had greatly suffered from
the stoppage of work, and the workmen, their rage increased by their
powerlessness, had almost starved. It was only two days previously, on
the Thursday, that work had been resumed after reciprocal concessions,
wrung from either party with the greatest difficulty after the most
furious wrangling. And the men had gone back like joyless, vanquished
beings enraged by defeat, retaining in their hearts only a recollection
of their sufferings and a keen desire for revenge.

Under the wild flight of the mourning clouds the Abyss spread its
sombre piles of buildings and sheds. It was like a monster which had
sprung up there, extending by degrees the roofs of its little town.
One could guess the ages of the various structures by the colour
of those roofs which arose and spread out in every direction. The
establishment now occupied a surface of many acres and employed a
thousand hands. The lofty, bluish, slated roofs of the great halls with
coupled windows, overtopped the old blackened tiles of the earlier
buildings, which were far more humble. Up above one perceived from the
road the gigantic hives of the cementing-furnaces, ranged in a row,
as well as the tempering tower, seventy-eight feet high, where big
cannon were plunged on end into baths of petroleum. And higher still
ascended smoking chimneys, chimneys of all sizes, a very forest, whose
sooty breath mingled with the flying soot of the clouds, whilst at
regular intervals narrow blast-pipes, with strident respiration, threw
out white plumes of steam. All this seemed like the breathing of the
monster. The dust, the vapour that it incessantly exhaled, enveloped
it as in an everlasting cloud of the perspiration of toil. And there
was also the beating of its organs, the impact, the noise of its every
effort: the vibration of machinery, the clear cadence of helve-hammers,
the great rhythmical blows of steam-hammers resounding like huge bells
and making the soil shake. And at the edge of the road, in the depths
of a little building, where the first Qurignon had first forged iron,
one could hear the violent, desperate dance of two tilt-hammers which
were beating there like the very pulse of the colossus, every one of
whose life-devouring furnaces flamed afresh.

In the ruddy and dismal crepuscular mist which was gradually submerging
the Abyss, not a single electric lamp as yet lighted up the yards. Nor
was there any light gleaming through the dusty windows. Alone, through
the gaping doorway of one of the large halls, there burst a vivid flame
which transpierced the gloom with a long jet of light, like that of
some fusing star. A master puddler had doubtless opened the door of
his furnace. And nothing else, not even a stray spark, proclaimed the
presence of the empire of fire, the fire roaring within that darkened
city of toil, the internal fire which heated the whole of it, the
trained, subjected fire which bent and fashioned iron like soft wax,
and which had given man royalty over the earth ever since the first
Vulcans had conquered it.

At last the clock in the little belfry surmounting the offices struck
six o'clock. And Luc then again heard the poor child saying: 'Listen,
_ma grande_, they will be coming out now.'

'Yes, yes, I know well enough,' the young woman answered. 'Just you
keep quiet.'

As she moved forward to restrain the child, her ragged wrapper fell
back slightly from before her face, and Luc remarked the delicacy of
her features with surprise. She was surely less than twenty. She had
fair hair all in disorder, a poor, thin little face which to him seemed
ugly, blue eyes blurred by tears, and a pale mouth that twitched
bitterly with suffering. And what a light, girlish frame there was
within her old threadbare dress! And with what a weak and trembling
arm did she press to her skirts the child, her little brother, who was
fair like herself and equally ill-combed, but stronger-looking and
more resolute! Luc felt his compassion increasing, whilst the two poor
creatures on their side grew distrustfully anxious about that gentleman
who had stopped so near, and was examining them so persistently. She,
in particular, seemed embarrassed by the scrutiny of that young fellow
of five-and-twenty, so tall and handsome, with square-set shoulders,
broad hands and a face all health and joy, whose firmly-marked features
were o'ertopped by a straight and towering brow, the towering brow of
the Froment family. She had averted her gaze as it met the young man's
brown eyes, which looked her frankly in the face. Then she once more
stole a furtive glance, and seeing that he was smiling at her in a
kindly way, she drew back a little more, in the disquietude born of her
great distress.

The clang of a bell was heard, there was a stir in the Abyss, and then
began the departure of the day-shifts which the night-shifts were about
to replace; for never is there a pause in the monster's devouring life;
it flames and forges both by day and night. Nevertheless there was some
delay in the departure of the day-hands. Although work had only been
resumed on the Thursday, most of them had applied for an advance, for
after that terrible strike of two months' duration great was the hunger
in every home. At last they began to appear, coming along one by one
or in little parties, all gloomy and in a hurry, with their heads bent
whilst in the depths of their pockets they stowed away their few dearly
earned silver coins which would procure a little bread for wife and
children. And in turn they disappeared along the black highway.

'There he is, _ma grande_,' the little boy muttered. 'Can't you see
him? He's with Bourron.'

'Yes, yes; keep quiet.'

Two men, two puddlers, had just left the works. The first, who was
accompanied by Bourron, had a cloth jacket thrown over his shoulders.
He was barely six-and-twenty; his hair and beard were ruddy, and he was
rather short, though his muscles were strong. Under a prominent brow he
showed a hook nose, massive jaws, and projecting cheek-bones, yet he
could laugh in a very agreeable way, which largely accounted for his
success with women. Bourron, five years the elder, and closely buttoned
in an old jacket of greenish velveteen, was a tall, dry, scraggy
fellow, whose equine face, with long cheeks, short chin, and eyes set
almost sideways, expressed the quiet nature of a man who takes life
easily, and is always under the influence of one or another mate.

Bourron had caught sight of the mournful woman and child standing
across the road at the corner of the wooden bridge, and, nudging his
companion with his elbow, he exclaimed: 'I say, Ragu, Josine and Nanet
are yonder. Be careful if you don't want them to pester you.'

Ragu ragefully clenched his fists. 'The ---- girl! I've had enough of
her, I've turned her out! Just let her try to come dangling after me
again and you'll see!'

He seemed to be slightly intoxicated, as always happened indeed on
those days when he exceeded the three quarts of wine which he declared
he needed to prevent the heat of the furnace from drying up his skin.
And in his semi-intoxication he yielded the more especially to a cruel
boastful impulse to show his mate how he treated girls when he no
longer cared for them.

'I shall send her packing,' said he, 'I've had enough of her.'

With Nanet still among her skirts Josine was now gently, timidly,
stepping forward. But she paused on seeing two other workmen approach
Ragu and Bourron. They belonged to a night-shift, and had just arrived
from Beauclair. Fauchard, the eldest, a man of thirty, looking quite
ten years older, was a drawer, and seemed already 'done for' by his
terrible work. His face had the appearance of boiled flesh, his eyes
were scorched, the whole of his big frame burnt and warped by the
ardent glow of the furnaces when he drew out the fusing metal. The
other, his brother-in-law Fortuné, was a lad of sixteen, though he
would hardly have been thought twelve, so puny was his frame. He had a
thin face and discoloured hair, and looked as if he had ceased growing,
as if, indeed, he were eaten into by the mechanical toil which he ever
performed, perched beside the lever of a helve-hammer amidst all the
bewilderment born of blinding steam and deafening noise.

On his arm Fauchard carried an old black osier basket, and he had
stopped to ask the others in a husky voice: 'Did you go?'

He wished to ascertain if they had gone to the cashier's office and
obtained an advance there. And when Ragu, without a word, slapped
his pocket in which some five-franc pieces jingled, the other made a
despairing gesture and exclaimed: 'Thunder! To think that I've got to
tighten my belt until to-morrow morning, and that I shall be dying of
thirst all night unless my wife by some miracle or other contrives to
bring me my ration by-and-by.'

His ration was four quarts of wine for each day or night-shift, and
he was wont to say that this quantity only just sufficed to moisten
his body, to such a degree did the furnaces drain all the blood and
water from his flesh. He cast a mournful glance at his basket, in which
nothing save a hunk of bread was jolting. The failure to secure his
usual four quarts of wine meant the end of everything, black agony
amidst overpowering unbearable toil.

'Bah!' said Bourron complacently, 'your wife won't leave you in the
lurch; she hasn't her equal for getting credit somewhere.'

Then, all at once, the four men standing in the sticky mud became
silent and touched their caps. Luc had seen a kind of bath-chair
approaching, propelled by a servant; and ensconced within it sat an
old gentleman with a broad face and regular features around which
fell an abundance of long white hair. In this old gentleman the young
fellow recognised Jérôme Qurignon, 'Monsieur Jérôme' as he was called
throughout the region, the son of Blaise Qurignon, the drawer, by whom
the Abyss had been founded. Very aged and paralysed, never speaking,
Monsieur Jérôme caused himself to be carted about in this fashion, no
matter what might be the weather.

That evening, as he passed the works on his way back to his daughter's
residence, La Guerdache, a neighbouring estate, he had signed to his
servant to go more slowly, and with his still bright, living eyes he
had then taken a long look at the ever-busy monster, at the day hands
departing homeward, and at the night hands arriving, whilst the vague
twilight fell from the livid sky besmirched by rushing clouds. And
his glance had afterwards rested on the manager's house, a square
building standing in a garden, which his father had erected forty years
previously, and where he himself had long reigned like a conquering
king, gaining million after million.

'Monsieur Jérôme isn't bothered as to how he will get any wine
to-night,' resumed Bourron in a sneering whisper.

Ragu shrugged his shoulders: 'My great-grandfather and Monsieur
Jérôme's father,' said he, 'were comrades. Yes, they were both workmen
and drew iron here together. The fortune might have come to a Ragu
just as well as to a Qurignon. It's all luck, you know, when it isn't
robbery.'

'Be quiet,' Bourron muttered, 'you'll be getting into trouble.'

Ragu's bounce deserted him, and when Monsieur Jérôme, passing the
group, looked at the four men with his large, fixed, limpid eyes, he
again touched his cap with all the timorous respect of a toiler who
is ready enough to cry out against employers behind their backs, but
has long years of slavery in his blood and trembles in the presence of
the sovereign god from whom he awaits the bread of life. The servant
meanwhile slowly pushed the bath-chair onward, and Monsieur Jérôme
disappeared at last down the black road descending towards Beauclair.

'Bah!' said Fauchard philosophically by way of conclusion, 'he's not
so happy after all, in that wheelbarrow of his. And besides, if he can
still understand things, that strike can't have been very pleasant to
him. We each have our troubles. But thunder! I only hope that Natalie
will bring me my wine.'

Then he went off into the works, taking with him little Fortuné, who
had not spoken a word, and looked as bewildered as ever. Already
feeling weary, they disappeared amidst the increasing darkness which
was enveloping the buildings; whilst Ragu and Bourron set out again,
the former bent on leading the latter astray, to some tavern in the
town. But then, dash it all, a man surely had a right to drink a glass
and laugh a bit after undergoing so much misery!

However, Luc, who, from compassionate curiosity had remained leaning
against the parapet of the bridge, saw Josine again advance with
short unsteady steps to bar the way to Ragu. For a moment she had
hoped that he would cross the bridge homeward bound, for that was the
direct road to Old Beauclair, a sordid mass of hovels in which most
of the workpeople of the Abyss lived. But when she understood that he
was going down to the new town, she foresaw what would happen: the
money he had obtained would be spent in some wine-shop, and she and
her little brother would have to spend another whole evening waiting,
dying of starvation, amidst the bitter wind in the streets. And her
sufferings and a fit of sudden anger lent her so much courage that,
puny and woeful though she was, she went and took her stand before the
man.

'Be reasonable, Auguste,' said she; 'you can't leave me out-of-doors.'

He did not answer, but stepped on in order to pass her.

'If you are not going home at once, give me the key, at any rate,' she
continued. 'We've been in the street ever since this morning, without
even a morsel of bread to eat.'

At this he burst forth: 'Just let me be! Haven't you done sticking to
me like a leech?'

'Why did you carry off the key this morning?' she answered. 'I only ask
you to give me the key, you can come in when you like. It is almost
night now, and you surely don't want us to sleep on the pavement.'

'The key! the key! I haven't got it, and even if I had I wouldn't give
it you. Just understand, once for all, that I've had enough of it, that
I don't want to have anything more to do with you, that it's quite
enough that we starved together for two months, and that now you can go
somewhere else, and see if I'm there!'

He shouted those words in her face, violently and savagely; and she,
poor little creature, quivered beneath his insults, whilst gently
persevering in her efforts with all the woeful desperation of a wretch
who feels the very ground giving way beneath her.

'Oh! you are cruel! you are cruel!' she gasped. 'We'll have a talk when
you come home to-night. I'll go away to-morrow if it's necessary. But
to-day, give me the key just for to-day.'

Then the man, infuriated, pushed her, thrust her aside with a brutal
gesture. 'Curse it all!' he cried, 'doesn't the road belong to me as
much as you? Go and croak wherever you like! I tell you that it's all
over.' And as little Nanet, seeing his sister sob, stepped forward
with his air of decision, his pink face and tangle of fair hair, Ragu
added: 'What! the brat as well! Am I to have the whole family on my
shoulders now? Wait a minute, you young rascal; I'll let you feel my
boot somewhere.'

Josine quickly drew Nanet towards her. And they both remained there,
standing in the black mud, shivering with woe, whilst the two workmen
went their way, disappearing amidst the gloom in the direction of
Beauclair, whose lights, one by one, were now beginning to shine.
Bourron, who at bottom was a good-natured fellow, had made a movement
as if to intervene; then, however, in a spirit of imitation, yielding
to the influence of his rakish companion, he had let things take
their course. And Josine, after momentarily hesitating, asking what
use it would be to follow, made up her mind to do so with despairing
stubbornness as soon as the others had disappeared. With slow steps she
descended the road in their wake, dragging her little brother by the
hand, and keeping very close to the walls, taking indeed all sorts of
precautions, as if she feared that on seeing her they might beat her to
prevent her from dogging their steps.

Luc, in his indignation, had almost rushed on Ragu to administer a
correction to him. Ah! the misery of labour!--man turned to a wolf
by overpowering and unjust toil, by the difficulty of earning the
bread for which hunger so wildly contends! During those two months of
the strike, crumbs had been fought for amidst all the voracity and
exasperation of daily quarrels. Then, on the very first pay-day, the
man rushed to Drink for forgetfulness, leaving his companion of woe,
whether she were his wife or a girl he had seduced, in the streets!
And Luc remembered the four years which he had lately spent in a
faubourg of Paris, in one of those huge, poison-reeking buildings where
the misery of the working classes sobs and fights upon every floor!
How many tragedies had he not witnessed, how many sorrows had he not
attempted to assuage! The frightful problem born of all the shame and
torture attending the wage system had often arisen before his mind;
he had fully sounded that system's atrocious iniquity, the horrible
sore which is eating away present-day society, and he had spent hours
of generous enthusiasm in dreaming of a remedy, ever encountering,
however, the iron wall of existing reality. And now, on the very
evening of his return to Beauclair, he came upon that savage scene,
that pale and mournful creature cast starving into the streets through
the fault of the all-devouring monster, whose internal fire he could
ever hear growling, whilst overhead it escaped in murky smoke rolling
away under the tragic sky.

A gust of wind passed, and a few rain-drops flew by in the moaning
wind. Luc had remained on the bridge, looking towards Beauclair
and trying to take his bearings by the last gleams of light that
fell athwart the sooty clouds. On his right was the Abyss, with its
buildings bordering the Brias road; beneath him rolled the Mionne,
whilst higher up, along an embankment on the left, passed the railway
line from Brias to Magnolles. These filled the depths of the gorge,
between the last spurs of the Bleuse Mountains, at the spot where
they parted to disclose the great plain of La Roumagne. And in a kind
of estuary, at the spot where the ravine debouched into the plain,
Beauclair reared its houses: a wretched collection of working-class
dwellings, prolonged over the flat by a little middle-class town, in
which were the sub-prefecture, the town-hall, the law-courts, and the
prison, whilst the ancient church, whose walls threatened to fall,
stood part in new and part in old Beauclair. This town, the chief one
of an arrondissement,[2] numbered barely six thousand souls, five
thousand of them being poor humble souls in suffering bodies, warped,
ground to death by iniquitous hard toil. And Luc took in everything
fully when, above the Abyss, half-way up the promontory of the Bleuse
Mountains, he distinguished the dark silhouette of the blast furnace of
La Crêcherie. Labour! labour! ah! who would redeem and reorganise it
according to the natural law of truth and equity so as to restore to it
its position as the most noble, all-regulating, all-powerful force of
the world, and so as to ensure a just division of the world's riches,
thereby at last bringing the happiness which is rightly due to every
man!

Although the rain had again ceased Luc also ended by going down towards
Beauclair. Workmen were still leaving the Abyss, and he walked among
them as they tramped on, thinking of that rageful resumption of work
after all the disasters of the strike. Such infinite sadness born
of rebellion and powerlessness pervaded the young man that he would
have gone away that evening, indeed that moment, had he not feared
to inconvenience his friend Jordan. The latter--the master of La
Crêcherie--had been placed in a position of great embarrassment by the
sudden death of the old engineer who had managed his smeltery, and he
had written to Luc, asking him to come, inquire into things, and give
him some good advice. Then, the young man, on hastening to Beauclair
in an affectionate spirit, had found another letter awaiting him, a
letter in which Jordan announced a family catastrophe, the sudden,
tragical death of a cousin at Cannes, which obliged him to leave at
once and remain absent with his sister for three days. He begged Luc
to wait for them until Monday evening, and to instal himself meanwhile
in a pavilion which he placed at his disposal, and where he might make
himself fully at home. Thus Luc still had another two days to waste,
and for lack of other occupation, cast as he was in that little town
which he scarcely knew, he had gone that evening for a ramble, telling
the servant who waited on him that he should not even return to dinner.
Passionately interested as he was in popular manners and customs, fond
of observing and learning, he felt that he could get something to eat
in any tavern of the town.

New thoughts came upon him, whilst under the wild tempestuous sky
he walked on through the black mud amidst the heavy tramping of the
harassed, silent workmen. He felt ashamed of his previous sentimental
weakness. Why should he go off, when here again he once more found, so
poignant and so keen, the problem by which he was ever haunted? He must
not flee the fight, he must gather facts together, and, perhaps, amidst
the dim confusion in which he was still seeking a solution, he might
at last discover the safe, sure path that led to it. A son of Pierre
and Marie Froment, he had learnt, like his brothers Mathieu, Marc and
Jean, a manual calling apart from the special study which he had made
of engineering. He was a stone-cutter, a house-builder, and having a
taste for that avocation, fond of working at times in the great Paris
building-yards, he was familiar with the tragedies of the present-day
labour-world, and dreamt, in a fraternal spirit, of helping on the
peaceful triumph of the labour-world of to-morrow. But what could he
do, in which direction should he make an effort, by what reform should
he begin, how was he to bring forth the solution which he felt to be
vaguely palpitating within him? Taller and stronger than his brother
Mathieu, with the open face of a man of action, a towering brow, a
lofty mind ever in travail, he had hitherto embraced but the void with
those big arms of his which were so impatient to create and build. But
again a sudden gust of wind sped by, a hurricane blast, which made
him quiver as with awe. Was it in some Messiah-like capacity that
an unknown force had cast him into that woeful region to fulfil the
long-dreamt-of mission of deliverance and happiness?

When Luc, raising his head, freed himself of those vague reflections,
he perceived that he had come back to Beauclair again. Four large
streets, meeting at a central square, the Place de la Mairie, divide
the town into four more or less equal portions; and each of these
streets bears the name of some neighbouring town towards which it
leads. On the north is the Rue de Brias, on the west the Rue de
Saint-Cron, on the east the Rue de Magnolles, and on the south the
Rue de Formerie. The most popular, the most bustling of all--with its
many shops stocked to overflowing--is the Rue de Brias, in which Luc
at present found himself. For in that direction lie all the factories,
from which a dark stream of toilers pours whenever leaving-off time
comes round. Just as Luc arrived, the great door of the Gourier
boot-works, belonging to the Mayor of Beauclair, opened, and away
rushed its five hundred hands, amongst whom were numbered more than two
hundred women and children. Then, in some of the neighbouring streets,
were Chodorge's works, where only nails were made; Hausser's works,
which turned out more than a hundred thousand scythes and sickles
every year, and Mirande's works, which more particularly supplied
agricultural machinery.

They had all suffered from the strike at the Abyss, where they supplied
themselves with raw material, iron and steel. Distress and hunger had
passed over every one of them, the wan, thin workers who poured from
them on to the muddy paving-stones had rancour in their eyes and mute
revolt upon their lips, although they showed the seeming resignation of
a hurrying, tramping flock. Under the few lamps, whose yellow flames
flickered in the wind, the street was black with toilers homeward
bound. And the block in the circulation was increased by a number of
housewives who, having at last secured a few coppers to spend, were
hastening to one or another shop to treat themselves to a big loaf or a
little meat.

It seemed to Luc as if he were in some town, the siege of which had
been raised that very evening. Hither and thither among the crowd
walked gendarmes, quite a number of armed men, who kept a close watch
on the inhabitants, as if from fear of a resumption of hostilities,
some sudden fury arising from galling sufferings, whence might come
the sack of the town in a supreme impulse of destructive exasperation.
No doubt the masters, the _bourgeois_ authorities, had overcome the
wage-earners, but the overpowered slaves still remained so threatening
in their passive silence that the atmosphere reeked of bitterness,
and one felt a dread of vengeance, of the possibility of some great
massacre, sweeping by. A vague growl came from that beaten, powerless
flock, filing along the street; and the glitter of a weapon, the silver
braid of a uniform shining here and there among the groups, testified
to the unacknowledged fear of the employers, who, despite their
victory, were bursting into perspiration behind the thick, carefully
drawn curtains of their pleasure houses; whilst the black crowd of
starveling toilers still and ever went by with lowered heads, hustling
one another in silence.

Whilst continuing his ramble Luc mingled with the groups, paused,
listened, and studied things. In this wise he halted before a large
butcher's shop open on the street, where several gas-jets were flaring
amidst ruddy meat. Dacheux, the master butcher, a fat apoplectical man,
with big goggle eyes set in a short red face, stood on the threshold
keeping watch over his viands, evincing the while much politeness
towards the servants of well-to-do customers, and becoming extremely
suspicious directly any poor housewife came in. For the last few
minutes he had kept his eyes upon a tall slim blonde, pale, sickly,
and wretched, whose youthful good looks had already faded, and who,
whilst dragging with her a fine child between four and five years old,
carried upon one arm a heavy basket, whence protruded the necks of
four quart-bottles of wine. In this woman Dacheux had recognised La
Fauchard, whose constant appeals for little credits he was tired of
discouraging. And as she made up her mind to go in, he all but barred
the way.

'What do you want again, you?' he asked.

'Monsieur Dacheux,' stammered Natalie, 'if you would only be so
kind--my husband has gone back to the works you know, and will receive
something on account to-morrow. And so Monsieur Caffiaux was good
enough to advance me the four quarts I have here, and would you be so
kind, Monsieur Dacheux, as to advance me a little meat, just a little
bit of meat?'

At this the butcher became furious, his blood rushed to his face, and
he bellowed: 'No, I've told you no before! That strike of yours nearly
ruined me! How can you think me fool enough to be on your side? There
will always be enough lazy workmen to prevent honest folk from doing
business. When people don't work enough to eat meat, they go without
it!'

He busied himself with politics, and like a narrow-minded hot-tempered
man, one who was greatly feared, he was on the side of the rich and
powerful. On his lips the word 'meat' assumed aristocratic importance:
meat was sacred, it was a luxury reserved to the happy ones of the
earth, when it ought to have belonged to all.

'You owe me four francs from last summer,' he resumed; 'I have to pay
people, I have!'

At this Natalie almost collapsed, then she again strove to touch him,
pleading in a low prayerful voice. But an incident which occurred
just then completed her discomfiture. Madame Dacheux, an ugly, dark,
insignificant-looking little woman, who none the less contrived to
make her husband the talk of the town, stepped forward with her little
daughter Julienne, a child of four, plump, healthy, fair, and full of
gaiety. And the two children having caught sight of one another, little
Louis Fauchard, despite all his wretchedness, began to laugh, whilst
the buxom Julienne, feeling amused, and doubtless as yet unconscious of
social inequalities, drew near and took hold of his hands. In such wise
that there was sudden play, fraught with childish delight, as at the
prospect of some future reconciliation of the classes.

'The little nuisance!' cried Dacheux, who had quite lost his temper.
'She's always getting between my legs. Go and sit down at once!'

Then, turning his wrath upon his wife, he roughly sent her back to the
cash desk, saying that the best thing she could do was to keep an eye
on the till, so that she might not be robbed again, as she had been
robbed only two days previously. And, haunted as he was by that theft,
of which he had never ceased to complain with the greatest indignation
during the last forty-eight hours, he went on, addressing himself to
all the people in the shop: 'Yes, indeed, some kind of beggar woman
crept in and took five francs out of the till whilst Madame Dacheux
was looking to see if the flies laughed. She wasn't able to deny it,
she still had the money in her hand. Oh! I had her taken into custody
at once. She's at the gaol. It is frightful, frightful; we shall be
utterly robbed and plundered soon if we don't keep our eyes open.'

Then with suspicious glances he again watched his meat to make sure
that no starving wretches, no workwomen out of work, should carry
any pieces away from the show outside, even as they might carry away
precious gold, divine gold, from the bowls in the windows of the
money-changers' shops.

Luc saw La Fauchard grow alarmed and retire; she feared, no doubt, that
the butcher might summon a gendarme. For a moment she and her little
Louis remained motionless in the middle of the street, amidst all the
jostling, their faces turned the while towards a fine baker's shop,
decorated with mirrors and gaily lighted up, which faced the butcher's
establishment. In one of its windows, which was open, numerous cakes
and large loaves with a crust of a golden hue were freely displayed
under the noses of the passers-by. Before those loaves and cakes
lingered the mother and the child, deep in contemplation. And Luc,
forgetting them, became interested in what was taking place inside the
shop.

A cart had just stopped at the door, and a peasant had alighted from
it with a little boy about eight years old and a girl of six. At
the counter stood the baker's wife, the beautiful Madame Mitaine, a
strongly-built blonde who at five-and-thirty had remained superb. The
whole district had been in love with her, but she had never ceased to
be faithful to her husband, a thin, silent, cadaverous-looking man who
was seldom seen, for he was almost always busy at his kneading trough
or his oven. On the bench near his wife sat their son, Évariste, a
lad of ten, who was already tall, fair, too, like his mother, with an
amiable face and soft eyes.

'What, is it you, Monsieur Lenfant!' said Madame Mitaine. 'How do you
do? And there's your Arsène, and your Olympe. I need not ask you if
they are in good health.'

The peasant was a man in the thirties, with a broad sedate face. He did
not hurry, but ended by answering in his thoughtful way, 'Yes, yes,
their health is good; one doesn't get along so badly at Les Combettes.
The soil's the most poorly. I shan't be able to let you have the bran I
promised you, Madame Mitaine. It all miscarried. And as I had to come
to Beauclair this evening with the cart, I thought I'd let you know.'

He went on giving expression to all his rancour against the ungrateful
earth, which no longer fed the toiler, nor even paid for sowing and
manuring. And the beautiful Madame Mitaine gently nodded her head.
It was quite true. One had to work a great deal nowadays to reap but
little satisfaction. Few were able to satisfy their hunger. She did not
busy herself with politics, but, _mon Dieu_, things were really taking
a very bad turn. During that strike, for instance, her heart had almost
burst at the thought that a great many poor people went to bed without
even a crust to eat when her shop was full of loaves. But trade was
trade, was it not? One could not give one's goods away for nothing,
particularly as in doing so one might seem to be encouraging rebellion.

And Lenfant approved her. 'Yes, yes,' said he, 'everyone his own. It's
only fair that one should get profit from things when one has taken
trouble with them. But all the same there are some who want to make too
much profit.'

Évariste, interested by the sight of Arsène and Olympe, had made up his
mind to quit the counter and do them the honours of the shop. And like
a big boy of ten he smiled complaisantly at the little girl of six,
whose big round head and gay expression probably amused him.

'Give them each a little cake,' said beautiful Madame Mitaine, who
greatly spoilt her son, and was bringing him up to kindly ways.

And then, as Évariste began by giving a cake to Arsène, she protested
jestingly: 'But you must be gallant, my dear. One ought to begin with
the ladies!'

At this Évariste and Olympe, all confusion, began to laugh, and
promptly became friends. Ah! the dear little ones, they constitute the
best part of life. If some day they were minded to be wise they would
not devour one another as do the folk of to-day. And Lenfant went off,
saying that he hoped to be able to bring some bran after all, but, of
course, later on.

Madame Mitaine, who had accompanied him to her door, watched him climb
into his cart and drive down the Rue de Brias. And at this moment
Luc noticed Madame Fauchard dragging her little Louis with her, and
suddenly making up her mind to approach the baker's wife. She spoke
some words which Luc did not catch, a request no doubt for further
credit, for beautiful Madame Mitaine, with a gesture of consent,
immediately went into her shop again, and gave her a large loaf, which
the poor creature hastened to carry away, close-pressed to her scraggy
bosom.

Dacheux, amidst his suspicious exasperation, had watched the scene from
the opposite foot pavement. 'You'll get yourself robbed!' he cried.
'Some boxes of sardines have just been stolen at Caffiaux's. They are
stealing everywhere!'

'Bah!' gaily answered Madame Mitaine, who had returned to the threshold
of her shop. 'They only steal from the rich!'

Luc slowly went down the Rue de Brias amidst the flocklike tramping
which ever and ever increased. It now seemed to him as if a Terror were
sweeping by, as if some gust of violence were about to transport that
gloomy, silent throng. Then, as he reached the Place de la Mairie, he
again saw Lenfant's cart, this time standing at the street corner, in
front of some large ironmongery stores, kept by the Laboques, husband
and wife. The doors of the establishment were wide open, and he heard
some violent bartering going on between the peasant and the ironmonger.

'Good heavens! why, you charge as much for your spades as if they were
made of gold! Why, for this one you ask two francs more than usual.'

'But, Monsieur Lenfant, there has been that cursed strike. It isn't our
fault if the factories haven't worked and if everything has gone up in
price. I pay more for all metal goods, and, of course, I have to make a
profit.'

'Make a profit, yes, but not double prices. Ah! you do drive a trade!
It will soon be impossible to buy a single tool.'

Laboque was a short, thin, wizened man, extremely active, with a
ferret's snout and eyes; and he had a wife of his own size, a quick,
dusky creature, whose keenness in money-earning was prodigious. They
had both begun life at the fairs, dragging with them a hand-cart full
of picks, rakes, and saws, which they hawked around. And having opened
a little shop at Beauclair ten years back, they had managed to enlarge
it each succeeding twelvemonth, and were now at the head of a very
important business as middle-men between the factories of the region
and the consuming classes. They retailed at great profit the iron of
the Abyss, the Chodorges' nails, the Haussers' scythes and sickles, the
Mirandes' agricultural appliances. They battened on a waste of wealth
and strength with the relative honesty of tradespeople who practised
robbery according to established usage, glowing with satisfaction
every evening when they emptied their till and counted up the money
that they had amassed, levied as tribute on the needs of others. They
were like useless cogwheels in that social machine, which was now fast
getting out of order; they made it grate, and they consumed much of its
remaining energy.

Whilst the peasant and the ironmonger were disputing furiously over
a reduction of a franc which the former demanded, Luc again began to
examine the children. There were two in the shop--Auguste, a big,
thoughtful-looking boy of twelve, who was learning a lesson, and
Eulalie, a little girl, who seemed to be scarcely five years old, and
who, grave and gentle, sat quietly on a little chair as if judging
all the folk who entered. She had shown an interest in Arsène Lenfant
from the moment he crossed the threshold. Finding him to her taste,
no doubt, she greeted him like the good-hearted little body she was.
And the meeting became complete when a woman entered, bringing a
fifth child with her. This woman was Babette, the wife of Bourron the
puddler, a plump, round, fresh-looking creature, whose gaiety nothing
would ever dim, and who held by the hand her daughter Marthe, a little
thing but four years old, who seemed as plump and as gay as herself.
The child, it should be said, at once quitted her mother and ran to
Auguste Laboque, whom she doubtless knew.

Babette meantime promptly put an end to the bartering between the
ironmonger and the peasant, who agreed to halve the franc over which
they had been disputing. Then the woman, who had brought back a
saucepan purchased the previous day, exclaimed: 'It leaks, Monsieur
Laboque. I noticed it directly I put it on the fire. I can't possibly
keep a saucepan that leaks, you know.'

Whilst Laboque, fuming, examined the utensil and decided to give
another in exchange, Madame Laboque began to speak of her children.
They were perfect pests, said she, they never stirred, one from her
chair, the other from his books. It was quite necessary to earn money
for them, for they were not a bit like their parents, nobody would
ever find them up and doing to earn a pile. Meantime Auguste Laboque,
listening to nothing, stood smiling at Marthe Bourron, and Eulalie
Laboque offered her little hand to Arsène Lenfant, whilst the other
Lenfant, Olympe, thoughtfully finished eating the cake which little
Mitaine had given her. And it was altogether a very pleasant and moving
scene, instinct with good fresh hope for to-morrow amidst the burning
atmosphere of battle and hatred which heated the streets.

'If you think one can gain money with such affairs as this, you are
mistaken,' resumed Laboque, handing another saucepan to Babette. 'There
are no good workmen left, they all scamp their work nowadays. And what
a lot of waste and loss there is in a place like ours! Whoever chooses
comes in, and what with having to set some of our goods outside, in the
street, it's just like the Fair of Take-what-you-like. We were robbed
again this afternoon.'

Lenfant, who was slowly paying for his spade, expressed his
astonishment at this. 'So all those robberies one hears about really
take place then?' said he.

'Really take place! Of course they do. It isn't we who rob, it's others
who rob us. They remained out on strike for two months, you know, and
as they haven't the money to buy anything they steal whatever they can.
Only a couple of hours ago some clasp-knives and paring-knives were
stolen out of that case yonder. It isn't tranquillising by any means.'

And he made a gesture of sudden disquietude, turning pale and quivering
as he pointed to the threatening street, crowded with the gloomy
throng, as if he feared some hasty onrush, some invasion which might
sweep him, the owner and tradesman, away and despoil him of everything.

'Clasp-knives and paring-knives!' repeated Babette with her sempiternal
laugh. 'They're not good to eat. What could people do with them? It's
just like Caffiaux over the way--he complains that a box of sardines
has been stolen from him. Some urchin just wanted to taste them, no
doubt.'

She was ever content, ever convinced that things would turn out well.
As for that Caffiaux, he was surely a man whom all the housewives ought
to have cursed. She had just seen her man Bourron go into his place
with Ragu, and Bourron would certainly break up a five-franc piece
there. But when all was said it was only natural that a man should
amuse himself a bit after toiling so hard. And having given expression
to this philosophical view she took her little girl Marthe by the hand
again and went off, well pleased with her beautiful new saucepan.

'We ought to have some troops here, you know,' resumed Laboque,
explaining his views to the peasant. 'I'm in favour of giving a good
lesson to all those revolutionaries. We need a strong government with a
heavy fist to ensure respect for respectable things.'

Lenfant jogged his head. With his distrustful common sense he hesitated
to express his opinions. At last he too went off, leading Arsène and
Olympe away and saying: 'Well, I hope that all these affairs between
the _bourgeois_ and the workmen won't end badly!'

For the last minute or two Luc had been examining Caffiaux's
establishment over the road, at the other corner of the Rue de Brias
and the Place de la Mairie. At first the Caffiaux, man and wife, had
simply kept a grocery, which now had a very flourishing appearance
with its display of open sacks, its piles of tinned provisions and all
sorts of comestible goods protected by netting from the nimble fingers
of marauders. Then the idea had come to them of going into the wine
business, and they had rented an adjoining shop and had fitted it up
as a wine-shop and eating-house, where nowadays they literally coined
gold. The hands employed at all the neighbouring works, notably the
Abyss, consumed a terrible amount of alcohol. There was an endless
procession of them going in and coming out of Caffiaux's establishment,
particularly on the Saturdays when they were paid. Many lingered and
ate there, and many came away dead drunk. The place was a den of
poison, where the strongest lost the use of both their heads and their
arms. Thus the idea at once occurred to Luc to enter it to see what
might be going on inside. It was a very simple matter; as he was to
dine out, he might as well dine there. How many times in Paris had not
his passion to learn everything about the 'people,' to dive to the
depths of their misery and suffering, impelled him to enter the very
worst dens and spend hours in them?

He quietly installed himself at one of the little tables near the
huge zinc bar. The room was large, a dozen workmen stood up drinking,
whilst others, seated at table, drank, shouted, and played cards,
amidst the thick smoke from their pipes, a smoke in which the gas-jets
merely looked like red spots. And at the very first glance around him
Luc recognised Ragu and Bourron seated face to face at a neighbouring
table, and shouting violently at one another. They had doubtless begun
by drinking a quart of wine, then they had ordered an omelet, some
sausages and some cheese; and the quart bottles having followed one
after another, they were now very drunk. What particularly interested
Luc, however, was the presence of Caffiaux, who stood near their table
talking. For his part the young man had ordered a slice of roast beef,
and whilst eating it he listened.

Caffiaux was a fat, podgy, smiling man with a paternal face. 'But I
tell you,' said he, 'that if you had held out only three days longer
you would have had the masters bound hand and foot at your mercy! Curse
it all! you're surely not unaware that I'm on the side of you fellows!
Yes, indeed, you won't upset all those blackguardly exploiters a bit
too soon.'

Ragu and Bourron, who were both greatly excited, clapped him on the
arm. Yes, yes, they knew him, they were well aware that he was a good,
a true friend. But all the same a strike was too hard to bear, and it
always had to come somehow to an end.

'The masters will always be the masters,' stammered Ragu. 'So you see
we have got to put up with them, whilst giving them the least we can
for their money. Another quart, Caffiaux--you'll help us to drink it,
eh?'

Caffiaux did not decline. He sat down. He favoured violent views
because he had noticed that his establishment expanded after each
successive strike. Nothing made one so thirsty as quarrelling, the
worker who was exasperated rushed upon Drink, rageful idleness
accustomed toilers to tavern life. Besides, in times of crisis, he,
Caffiaux, knew how to be amiable. Feeling certain that he would be
repaid, he opened little credit accounts for needy housewives, and
did not refuse the men a glass of wine on 'tick,' thus winning the
reputation of being good-hearted, and at the same time helping on the
consumption of all the poison he retailed. Some folks said, however,
that this Caffiaux, with his jesuitical ways, was a traitor, a spy of
the masters of the Abyss, who had helped him financially to set up
in business, in order that he might make the men chatter whilst he
was poisoning them. And it all meant fatal perdition; the wretched,
pleasureless, joyless, wage-earning life necessitated the existence
of taverns, and taverns finished by rotting the wage-earning class.
Briefly, here was a bad man and a bad place, a misery-breeding shop
which ought to have been razed to the ground and swept clear away.

Luc's attention was for a moment drawn from the conversation near him
by the opening of an inner door communicating with the grocery shop,
and the appearance on the threshold of a pretty girl about fifteen
years of age. This was Honorine, the Caffiaux's daughter, a short,
slim brunette, with fine black eyes. She never stayed any time in the
tavern, but confined herself to serving grocery. And on now entering
she merely called her mother, a stout, smiling woman, as unctuous as
her husband, who stood behind the large zinc bar. All those tradesfolk,
so eager for gain, all those hard egotistical shopkeepers seemed to
have very fine children, thought Luc. And would those children for
ever and ever remain as grasping, as hard, and as egotistical as their
forerunners?

But all at once a charming and mournful vision appeared before
the young man. Amidst the pestilential odours, the thickening
tobacco-smoke, the noise of a scuffle which had just broken out before
the bar, he saw Josine standing, so vague and blurred, however, that
at the first moment he did not recognise her. She must have slipped in
furtively, leaving Nanet at the door. Trembling, and still hesitating,
she stood behind Ragu, who did not see her; and for a moment Luc was
able to scrutinise her, so slim in her wretched gown, and with so
gentle and shadowy a face under her ragged _fichu_. But he was struck
by something which he had not observed over yonder near the Abyss: her
right hand was no longer pressed against her skirt, and he could see
that it was strongly bandaged, wrapped round to the wrist with linen,
doubtless a bandage for some injury which she had received.

At last Josine mustered up all her courage. She must have followed
as far as Caffiaux's shop, have glanced through the windows and have
seen Ragu at table. She drew near with her little, faltering step, and
laid her girlish hand upon his shoulder. But he, in the glow of his
intoxication, did not even feel her touch, and she ended by shaking him
until he at last turned round.

'Thunder!' he cried. 'What! is it you again? What to the--do you want
here?'

As he spoke he dealt the table such a thump with his fist that the
glasses and the quart-bottles fairly danced.

'I have to come, since you don't come home,' she answered, looking very
pale and half closing her large frightened eyes in anticipation of some
act of brutality.

But Ragu was not listening to her, he was working himself into a
frantic passion, shouting by way of showing off before all the mates
who were present.

'I do what I choose!' he cried, 'and I won't have a woman spying on
me! I'm my own master, do you hear? And I shall stop here as long as I
please!'

'Then give me the key,' she said despairingly, 'so that at any rate I
may not have to spend the night in the street.'

'The key! the key!' shrieked the man, 'you ask me for the key!' And
with furious savagery he rose up, caught hold of her by her injured
hand and dragged her down the room to throw her into the street.

'Haven't I told you that it's all over, that I don't mean to have
anything more to do with you?' he shouted. 'The key, indeed! just go
and see if it isn't in the street!'

Josine, bewildered and stumbling, raised a piercing cry of pain. 'Oh!
you have hurt me!'

Ragu's violence had torn the bandage from her right hand, and the linen
was at once reddened by a large bloodstain. But none the less the man,
blinded, maddened by drink, threw the door wide open and pushed the
woman into the street. Then returning and falling heavily upon his
chair before his glass, he stammered with a husky laugh: 'A fine time
of it we should have, and no mistake, if we listened to them!'

Beside himself this time, quite enraged, Luc clenched his fists with
the intention of falling upon Ragu. But he foresaw an affray, a useless
battle with all those brutes. And feeling suffocated in that vile
den he hastened to pay his score, whilst Caffiaux, who had taken his
wife's place at the bar, tried to arrange matters by saying in his
paternal way that some women were very clumsy. How could one hope to
get anything out of a man who had been tippling? Luc, however, without
answering, hurried out and inhaled with relief the fresh air of the
street, whilst searching among the crowd on all sides, for in leaving
the tavern so hastily his one idea had been to rejoin Josine and offer
her some help, so that she might not remain perishing of hunger,
breadless and homeless, on that black and stormy night. But in vain
did he run up the Rue de Brias, return to the Place de la Mairie, dart
hither and thither among the groups: Josine and Nanet had disappeared.
Terrified perchance by the thought of some pursuit, they had gone to
earth somewhere; and the rainy, windy darkness wrapped them round once
more.

How frightful was the misery, how hateful were the sufferings to be
found in spoilt, corrupted labour, which had become the vile ferment
whence every degradation sprang! With his heart bleeding, his mind
clouded by the blackest apprehensions, Luc again wandered through the
threatening crowd whose numbers still increased in the Rue de Brias.
He once more found there that vague atmosphere of terror which had
come from the recent struggle between the classes, a struggle which
never finished, whose near return one could scent in the very air. That
resumption of work was but a deceptive peace, there was low growling
amidst all the resignation of the toilers, a silent craving for
revenge; their eyes still retained a gleam of ferocity, and were ready
to flash once more. On both sides of the way were taverns full of men;
drink was consuming their pay, poisonous exhalations were pouring into
the very street, whilst the shops never emptied, but still and ever
levied on the meagre resources of the housewives that iniquitous and
monstrous tribute called 'commercial gain.' Everywhere, upon every side
the toilers, the starvelings, were exploited, preyed upon, caught and
crushed in the works of the ever-grating social machine, whose teeth
proved all the harder now that it was falling to pieces. And in the
mud, under the wildly flickering gaslights, as on the eve of some great
catastrophe, all Beauclair came and went, tramping about like a lost
flock, going blindly towards the pit of destruction.

Among the crowd Luc recognised several persons whom he had seen on the
occasion of his first visit to Beauclair during the previous spring.
The authorities were there, for fear no doubt of something being amiss.
He saw Mayor Gourier and Sub-Prefect Châtelard pass on together. The
first, a nervous man of large property, would have liked to have troops
in the town; but the second, an amiable waif of Parisian life whose
intellect was sharper, had wisely contented himself with the services
of the gendarmes. Gaume, the presiding judge of the local court, also
went by, accompanied by Captain Jollivet, an officer on the retired
list, who was about to marry his daughter. And as they passed Laboque's
shop they paused to exchange greetings with the Mazelles, some former
tradespeople who, thanks to a rapidly acquired income, had finally
been received into the high society of the town. All these folks spoke
in low voices, with scarcely confident expressions on their faces,
as they glanced sideways at the heavily tramping toilers who were
still keeping up Saturday evening. As Luc passed near the Mazelles
he heard them also speaking of the robberies, as if questioning the
Judge and the Captain on the subject. Tittle-tattle was indeed flying
from mouth to mouth. A five-franc piece had been taken from Dacheux's
till; a box of sardines had been abstracted from Caffiaux's shop; but
the gravest commentaries were those to which the theft of Laboque's
paring-knives gave rise. The terror which was in the air gained upon
sensible people. Was it true then that the revolutionaries were
arming themselves, and purposed carrying out some massacre that very
night, that stormy night which hung so heavily over Beauclair? That
disastrous strike had put everything out of gear, hunger was impelling
wretches hither and thither, the poisonous alcohol of the taverns was
breeding destructive and murderous madness. Truly enough, right along
the filthy, muddy roadway, along the sticky foot-pavements one found
all the poisononsness and degradation that come from iniquitous toil,
the toil of the greater number for the enjoyment of the few--labour,
dishonoured, hated, and cursed, the frightful misery that results
therefrom, together with theft and prostitution which are its monstrous
parasitic growths. Pale girls passed by, factory girls whom some
unprincipled men had led astray and who had afterwards sunk to the
gutter; and drunken men went off with them through all the puddles and
the darkness.

Increasing compassion, rebellion compounded of grief and anger, took
possession of Luc. Where could Josine be? In what horrid dark nook had
she sought refuge with little Nanet? But all at once a clamour arose,
a hurricane seemed to sweep over the crowd first, making it whirl and
then carrying it away. One might have thought that an attack was being
made upon the shops, that the provisions exposed for sale on either
side of the street were being pillaged.

Gendarmes rushed forward, there was scampering hither and thither, a
loud clatter of boots and of sabres. What was the matter? What was the
matter? Questions pressed one upon the other, flew about in stammering
accents amidst the growing terror, whilst answers came back wildly from
every side.

At last Luc heard the Mazelles saying, as they retraced their steps,
'It's a child who has stolen a loaf of bread.'

The snarling, excited crowd was now rushing up the street. The affair
must have taken place at Mitaine's shop. Women shrieked, an old man
fell down and had to be picked up. One fat gendarme ran so impetuously
through the groups that he upset two persons.

Luc himself began to run, carried away by the general panic. And as he
passed near Judge Gaume he heard him saying slowly to Captain Jollivet:
'It's a child who has stolen a loaf of bread.'

That answer came back again, punctuated as it were by the rush of the
crowd. But there was a great deal of scrambling and nothing could yet
be seen. The tradespeople standing on the thresholds of their shops
turned pale, and thought of putting up their shutters. A jeweller was
already removing the watches from his window. Meantime, a general
eddying took place around the fat gendarme, who was busy exerting his
elbows.

Then Luc, beside whom Mayor Gourier and Sub-Prefect Châtelard were also
running, again detected the words, the pitiful murmur rising amidst a
little shudder: 'It's a child who has stolen a loaf of bread.'

At last, as the young man was just reaching Mitaine's shop in the wake
of the fat gendarme, he saw him rush forward to assist a comrade, a
long, lanky gendarme, who was roughly holding a boy, between five and
six years old, by the wrist. And in this boy Luc at once recognised
Nanet, with his fair tumbled head, which he still carried erect with
the resolute air of a little man. He had just stolen a loaf of bread
from beautiful Madame Mitaine's open window. The theft could not be
denied, for the lad was still holding the big loaf, which was nearly
as tall as himself. And so it was really this childish act of larceny
which had upset and excited the whole Rue de Brias. Some passers-by
having noticed it had denounced it to the gendarme, who had set off at
a run. But the lad on his side had slipped away very fast, disappearing
among the groups, and the gendarme, raising a perfect hullabaloo in
his desperation, had nearly turned all Beauclair topsy-turvy. He was
triumphant now, for he had captured the culprit, and had brought him
back to the scene of the theft to confound him.

'It's a child who has stolen a loaf of bread,' the people repeated.

Madame Mitaine, astonished at such an uproar, had come once more to the
door of her shop. And she was quite thunder-struck when the gendarme,
addressing her, exclaimed: 'This is the young vagabond who just stole a
loaf of yours, madame.'

Then he gave Nanet a shake in order to frighten him. 'You'll go to
gaol, you know,' he said. 'Why did you steal that loaf, eh?'

But the little fellow was not put out. He answered clearly, in his
flute-like voice: 'I've had nothing to eat since yesterday, nor my
sister either.'

Meantime Madame Mitaine had recovered her self-possession. She was
looking at the little lad with her beautiful eyes so full of indulgent
kindness. Poor little devil! And his sister, where had he left her? For
a moment the baker's wife hesitated, whilst a slight flush rose to her
cheeks. Then, with the amiable laugh of a handsome woman accustomed to
be courted by all her customers, she said in her gay quiet way: 'You
are mistaken, gendarme--that child didn't steal the loaf, I gave it
him.'

Without relaxing his hold on Nanet, the gendarme stood before her,
gaping. Ten people had seen the boy take the loaf and run off with
it. And all at once butcher Dacheux, who had crossed the street,
intervened, in a furious passion. 'But I saw him myself. I was looking
this way at the very moment. He threw himself on the biggest of the
loaves, and then took to his heels. That's how it happened. As true
as I was robbed of five francs the day before yesterday, as true as
Laboque and Caffiaux have been robbed to-day, that little vermin has
just robbed you, Madame Mitaine, and you can't deny it.'

Quite pink from having told a fib, the baker's wife none the less
repeated gently: 'You are mistaken, neighbour, it was I who gave the
child that loaf. He did not steal it.'

Then, as Dacheux flew into a temper with her, predicting that by her
foolish indulgence she would end by having them all pillaged and
massacred, Sub-Prefect Châtelard, who had judged the scene at a glance
like a shrewd man, approached the gendarme and made him release Nanet,
to whom, in a loud, ogre-like whisper, he said: 'Off with you quick,'
youngster.'

The crowd was already growling. Why, the baker's wife herself declared
that she had given the boy the loaf! A poor little beggar, no higher
than a jack-boot, who had been fasting since the previous day!
Exclamations and hisses arose, and suddenly a thunderous voice made
itself heard above every other.

'Ah! curse it! so little urchins six years old have to set us the
example now? The child did right. When one's hungry one may take
whatever one wants! Yes, everything in the shops is ours, and if you
are all starving it's simply because you are cowards!'

The throng swayed about and eddied back, as when a paving-stone is
flung into a pond. 'Who is it?' people asked. And at once came back
replies, 'It's Lange, the potter.' Amidst the groups which drew aside,
Luc then saw the man who had spoken, a short, thick-set man, barely
five-and-twenty, with a square-shaped head, bushy with black hair and
beard. Of a rustic appearance but with a glow of intelligence in his
eyes, he went on speaking, proclaiming the dream of his life aloud, in
soaring but unpolished language, like a poet yet in the rough. And he
made no gestures, but quietly kept his hands in his pockets.

'Provisions and money and houses and clothes,' said he; 'they have
all been stolen from us, and we have a right to take them all back!
And not to-morrow, but this very evening, if we were men, we ought to
resume possession of the soil, the mines, the factories, all Beauclair
indeed! There are no two ways of doing it, there is only one--to throw
the whole edifice on the ground at one blow, to poleaxe and destroy
authority everywhere, so that the people, to whom everything belongs,
may at last build up the world anew!'

Women took fright on hearing this. Even the men, in presence of the
aggressive vehemence of Lange's words, became silent and retreated,
anxious as to the consequences. Few of them really understood, the
greater number, beneath the century-old grinding bondage of the
wage-earning system, had not as yet reached such a degree of embittered
rebellion. What was the good of it? They would none the less die of
starvation and go to prison, they thought.

'Oh! you don't dare, I know it!' continued Lange, with terrible
sarcasm. 'But there are others who will dare some day. Your Beauclair
will be blown up unless it falls to pieces from sheer rottenness. Your
noses can't be worth much if you are unable to smell this evening that
everything's rotten, and stinks of putrefaction! There is only so much
dung left; and one doesn't need to be a great prophet to predict that
the wind which blows will some day sweep away the town and all the
thieves and all the murderers, our masters! Ah! may everything tumble
down and break to pieces! To death, to death with all of it!'

The scandal was becoming so great that Sub-Prefect Châtelard, though
he would have preferred to treat the matter with indifference, found
himself obliged to exercise his authority. Somebody had to be arrested,
so three gendarmes sprang upon Lange, and led him off down a gloomy,
deserted side street, where their heavy footfalls died away. The crowd
itself had shown but vague, contradictory impulses, which were promptly
quieted. And the gathering was broken up and the tramping began afresh,
slow and silent through the black mud from one to the other end of the
street.

But Luc had shuddered. That prophetic threat had burst forth like
the frightful fated outcome of all that he had seen, all that he had
heard, since the fall of daylight. Such an abundance of iniquity
and wretchedness called for a final catastrophe, which he himself
felt approaching from the depths beyond the horizon, in the form
perchance of some avenging cloud of fire which would consume and
raze Beauclair to the ground. And with his horror of all violence
Luc suffered at the thought of it. What! could the potter be right?
Would force, would theft and murder, be necessary for mankind to find
itself once more within the pale of justice? In his distracted state
it had seemed to Luc that, amidst all the harsh, sombre faces of the
toilers, he had seen the pale countenances of Mayor Gourier, Judge
Gaume, and Captain Jollivet flit past him. Then, too, the faces of the
Mazelles, perspiring with terror, darted by in the flickering light
of a gas-lamp. The street horrified him, and only one compassionate
consolatory thought remained, that of overtaking Nanet, following him,
and ascertaining into what dark nook the unhappy Josine had fallen.

The lad was walking on and on with all the courage of his little legs.
Luc, who had seen him go off up the Rue de Brias in the direction of
the Abyss, overtook him fairly rapidly, for the dear little fellow
had great difficulty in carrying his big loaf. He pressed it to his
chest with both his hands, from fear of dropping it, and from fear too
lest some evil-hearted man or some big dog might tear it from him. On
hearing Luc's hasty footsteps in the rear, he no doubt felt extremely
frightened, for he attempted to run. But on glancing round he
recognised by the light of one of the last gas-lamps the gentleman who
had smiled at him and his big sister, and thereupon he felt reassured,
and allowed himself to be overtaken.

'Shall I carry your loaf for you?' the young man asked.

'Oh, no! I want to keep it. It pleases me,' said the boy.

They were now on the high road beyond Beauclair, in the darkness
falling from the low and stormy sky. The lights of the Abyss alone
gleamed forth some distance off. And one could hear the child splashing
through the mud, whilst he raised his loaf as high as possible, so that
it might not get dirty.

'You know where you are going?' asked Luc.

'Of course.'

'Is it very far?'

'No--it's somewhere.'

A vague fear must have been stealing over Nanet again, for his steps
slackened. Why did the gentleman want to know? Feeling that he was his
big sister's only protector, the little man sought to devise some ruse.
But Luc, who guessed his feelings, and wished to show him that he was a
friend, began to play with him, catching him in his arms at the moment
when he narrowly missed stumbling in a puddle.

'Look out, my boy! You mustn't get any mud-jam on your bread.'

Conquered, having felt the affectionate warmth of those big brotherly
arms, Nanet burst into the careless laugh of childhood and said to his
new friend: 'Oh! you are strong and kind, you are!'

Then he went trotting on, without showing further disquietude. But
where could Josine have hidden herself? The road stretched out, and in
the motionless shadow of each successive tree Luc fancied he could see
her waiting. He was drawing near the Abyss, the ground already shook
with the heavy blows of the steam-hammer, whilst the surroundings were
illumined by a fiery cloud of vapour traversed by the broad rays of the
electric lights. Nanet, without going past the Abyss, turned towards
the bridge and crossed the Mionne. Thus Luc found himself brought back
to the very spot where he had first met the boy and his sister earlier
in the evening. But all at once the lad rushed off, and the young
man lost sight of him and heard him call, whilst once more laughing
playfully:

'Here, big sister, here big sister! look at this, see how fine it is.'

Beyond the bridge the river bank became lower, and a bench stood there
in the shadow cast by some palings facing the Abyss, which smoked and
panted on the other side of the water. Luc had just knocked against the
palings when he heard the urchin's laughter turn into cries and tears.
He took his bearings, and understood everything when he perceived
Josine lying exhausted, in a swoon, upon the bench. She had fallen
there overcome by hunger and suffering, letting her little brother go
off, and scarcely understanding what he, with the boldness of a lad of
the streets, had intended to do. And now the child, finding her cold,
as if lifeless, sobbed loudly and despairingly.

'Oh! big sister, wake up, wake up! You must eat, do eat, there's bread
now.'

Tears had come to Luc's eyes also. To think that so much misery, such
a frightful destiny of privation and suffering, should fall upon such
weak yet courageous creatures! He quickly descended to the Mionne,
dipped his handkerchief in the water, and came back and applied it to
Josine's temples. Fortunately that tragic night was not a very cold
one. At last he took hold of the young woman's hands, rubbed them,
and warmed them with his own; and finally she sighed and seemed to
awaken from some black dream. But in her prostrate condition, due to
lack of food, nothing astonished her; it appeared to her quite natural
that her brother should be there with that loaf, accompanied too by
that tall and handsome gentleman, whom she recognised. Perhaps she
imagined that it was the gentleman who had brought the bread. Her poor
weak fingers could not break the crust. He had to help her break the
bread into little pieces, which he passed her slowly, one by one, so
that she might not choke herself in her haste to quiet the atrocious
hunger which griped her. And then the whole of her poor, thin, spare
figure began to tremble, and she wept, wept on unceasingly whilst
still eating, thus moistening each mouthful with her tears ere she
devoured it voraciously, evincing the while the shivering clumsiness
of some eager beaten animal which no longer knows how to swallow. Luc,
distracted, with a pang at his heart, gently restrained her hands
whilst still giving her the little pieces which he broke off the
loaf. Never could he afterwards forget that communion of suffering
and kindliness, that bread of life thus given to the most woeful and
sweetest of human creatures.

Nanet, meantime, broke off his own share, and ate like a little
glutton, proud of his exploit. His sister's tears astonished him--why
did she still weep when they were feasting? Then, having finished,
quite oppressed by his ravenous feast, he nestled close beside her and
was overpowered by sudden somnolence, the happy sleep of childhood,
which beholds the angels in its dreams. And Josine pressed him to
her with her right arm, leaning back against the bench and feeling a
trifle stronger, whilst Luc remained seated by her side, unable to
leave her like that alone in the night with that sleeping child. He had
understood at last that some of the clumsiness that she had shown in
eating had been due to her injured hand, around which, as well as she
could manage, she had again wound her bloodstained bandage.

'You have injured yourself?' he said.

'Yes, monsieur, a boot-stitching machine broke one of my fingers and
I had to have it cut off. But it was my fault, so the foreman said,
though Monsieur Gourier gave me fifty francs.'

She spoke in a somewhat low and very gentle voice, which trembled at
moments as with a kind of shame.

'So you worked at the boot-factory belonging to Monsieur Gourier, the
Mayor?'

'Yes, monsieur, I first went there when I was fifteen--I'm eighteen
now. My mother worked there more than twenty years, but she is dead.
I'm all alone, I've only my little brother, Nanet, who is just six. My
name's Josine.'

And she went on telling her story, in such wise that Luc only had to
ask a few more questions to learn everything. It was the commonplace,
distressful story of so many poor girls; a father who goes off with
another woman, a mother who remains stranded with four children, for
whom she is unable to earn sufficient food. Although she luckily
loses two of them, she dies at last from the effect of over-work, and
then the daughter, just sixteen years of age, has to become a mother
to her little brother, in her turn killing herself with hard work,
though at times she is unable to earn bread enough for herself and the
boy. Then comes the inevitable tragedy which dogs the footsteps of a
good-looking workgirl--a seducer passes, the rakish Ragu, on whose
arm she imprudently strolls each Sunday after the dance. He makes her
such fine promises, she already pictures herself married, with a pretty
home, in which she brings up her brother together with the children
that may come to her. Her only fault is that one evening in springtime
she stumbles; how it was she hardly remembers. And six months later
she is guilty of a second fault, that of going to live with Ragu, who
speaks no more to her of marriage. Then her accident befalls her at the
boot-works, and she finds herself unable to continue working at the
very moment when the strike has rendered Ragu so rageful and spiteful
that he has begun to beat her, accusing her of being the cause of his
own misery. And from that moment things go from bad to worse, and now
he has turned her into the street, and will not even give her the key
so that she may go home to bed with Nanet.

Whilst the girl went on talking it seemed to Luc that if she should
have a child by Ragu he might become attached to her and make up his
mind to marry her. However, when the young man hinted this to Josine
she speedily undeceived him. No, nothing of that was at all likely.
Then silence fell, they no longer spoke. The certainty that Josine was
not a mother, that she would never bear children to that man Ragu,
brought Luc, amidst his dolorous compassion, a singular feeling of
relief, for which he was unable to account. Vague ideas arose in his
mind, whilst his eyes wandered far away over the dim scene before him,
and he again discerned that gorge of Brias which he had viewed in the
twilight before it was steeped in shadows. On either side where the
Bleuse Mountains reared their flights of rocks the darkness became more
dense. Midway up the height behind him the young man now and again
heard the passing rumble of a train which whistled and slowed down as
it approached the station. At his feet he distinguished the glaucous
Mionne, rippling against the stockade whose beams upheld the bridge.
And then, on his left, came the sudden widening of the gorge, the two
promontories of the Bleuse Mountains drawing aside on the verge of the
vast Roumagne plain, where the tempestuous night rolled on like a black
and endless sea beyond the vague eyot of Beauclair, where constellated
hundreds of little lights, suggesting sparks.

But Luc's eyes ever came back to the Abyss in front of him. It showed
forth like some weird apparition under clouds of white smoke, fired,
so it seemed, by the electric lamps in the yards. Through open doorways
and other apertures one at times perceived the blazing mouths of
the furnaces, with now a blinding flow of fusing metal, now a huge
ruddy glare; all the internal, hellish flames indeed of the monster's
devouring, tumultuous work. The ground quaked all around, whilst
the ringing dance of the tilt-hammers never ceased to sound above
the dull rumbling of the machinery, and the deep blows of the great
steam-hammers, which suggested a far-away cannonade.

And Luc, with his eyes full of that vision, his heart lacerated by
the thought of the fate that had befallen that hapless Josine, now
reclining in utter abandonment and wretchedness on that bench beside
him, said to himself that in this poor creature resounded the whole
collapse of labour, evilly organised, dishonoured, and accursed.
In that supreme suffering, in that human sacrifice ended all his
experiences of the evening, the disasters of the strike, the hatred
poisoning men's hearts and minds, the egotistical harshness of
trade, the triumph of drink which had become necessary to stimulate
forgetfulness, the legitimation of theft by hunger, the cracking
and rending of old-time society beneath the very weight of its own
iniquities. And he fancied that he could again hear Lange predicting
the final catastrophe which would sweep away that Beauclair, which
was rotten itself and which rotted everything that came in contact
with it. And he saw once more also the pale girls wandering over the
pavement, those sorry offspring of manufacturing towns, where the vile
wage-system invariably brings about the ruin of the better-looking
factory hands. Was it not to a similar fate that Josine herself was
drifting? He could divine that she was a submissive, a loving creature,
one of those tender natures that give courage to the strong and prove
their reward. And the thought of abandoning her on that bench, of doing
nothing to save her from accursed fate, filled him with such revolt,
that he would have for ever reproached himself had he not offered her a
helping and a brotherly hand.

'Come, you cannot sleep here with that child,' he said. 'That man must
take you back. For the rest we'll see afterwards. Where do you live?'

'Near by, in the Rue des Trois Lunes, in Old Beauclair,' she replied.

Then she explained things to him. Ragu occupied a little lodging of
three rooms in the same house as one of his sisters, Adèle, nicknamed
La Toupe. And she suspected that if Ragu really had not got the key
with him, he must have handed it to La Toupe, who was a terrible
creature. When the young man spoke of quietly going to her and asking
her for the key, Josine shuddered.

'Oh, no! you must not ask her. She hates me. If one could only come
upon her husband, who's a good-natured man, but I know that he works at
the Abyss to-night. He's a master puddler, named Bonnaire.'

'Bonnaire!' Luc repeated, a recollection awakening within him; 'why I
saw him when I visited the Abyss last spring. I even had a long talk
with him--he explained the work to me. He's an intelligent fellow,
and, as you say, he seemed to me to be good-natured. Well, it's quite
simple, I will go and speak to him about you.'

Josine raised a cry of heartfelt gratitude; she was trembling from head
to foot, and she clasped her hands as her whole being went out towards
the young man. 'Oh! monsieur, how good you are!--how can I ever thank
you!'

A sombre glow was now rising from the Abyss, and Luc, as he glanced at
her, saw her, this time bare-headed, for her ragged wrapper had fallen
over her shoulders. She was no longer weeping, her blue eyes gleamed
with tenderness, and her little mouth had found once more its youthful
smile. With her supple graceful slimness she had retained quite a
childish air, she looked like one who was still playful, simple, and
gay. Her long fair hair, of the hue of ripe oats, had fallen, half
unbound, over the nape of her neck, and lent her quite a girlish and
candid appearance in her abandonment. He, infinitely charmed, by
degrees quite captivated, felt moved and astonished at the sight of the
winning creature that seemed to emerge from the poor beggarly being
whom he had met badly clad, frightened, and weeping. And, besides,
she looked at him with so much adoration, she surrendered to him so
candidly her soul, like one who at last felt herself succoured and
loved. Handsome and kind as he was, he seemed to her a very god after
all the brutality of Ragu. She would have kissed his very footprints;
and she stood before him with her hands still clasped, the left
pressing the right, the mutilated hand round which was wrapped the
bloodstained bandage. And something very sweet and very strong seemed
to bind her and him together, a link of infinite tenderness, infinite
affection.

'Nanet will take you to the works, monsieur,' she said; 'he knows every
corner of them.'

'No, no, I know my way. Don't awake him, he will keep you warm. Wait
here for me quietly, both of you.'

He left her on the bench, in the black night, with the sleeping child.
And as he stepped away a great glow illumined the promontory of the
Bleuse Mountains on the right above the park of La Crêcherie, where
stood Jordan's house. The sombre silhouette of the blast furnace could
be seen on the mountain side. A 'run' of metal flowed forth, and all
the neighbouring rocks, even all the roofs of Beauclair, were illumined
by it as by some bright red dawn.


[1] Literally 'my big one,' _i.e._ 'big sister.' We have no exact
equivalent for this expression as a form of endearment, nor for the
ensuing one, _frérot_, little brother.--_Trans._

[2] Each French 'department' or county is for administrative
purposes divided into two, three, or four 'arrondissements'; and the
arrondissements in their turn are subdivided into 'cantons.'--_Trans._



II


Bonnaire, the master puddler, one of the best hands of the works, had
played an important part in the recent strike. A man of just mind,
indignant with the iniquity of the wage-earning system, he read the
Paris newspapers and derived from them a revolutionary education in
which there were many gaps, but which had made him a fairly frank
partisan of Collectivist doctrines. As he himself, with the fine
equilibrium of a hard-working healthy man, very reasonably said,
Collectivism was the dream whose realisation they would some day seek;
and meantime it was necessary to secure as much justice as might be
immediately obtained in order to reduce the sufferings of the workers
to a minimum.

The strike had been for some time inevitable. Three years previously,
the Abyss having nearly come to grief in the hands of Monsieur Jérôme's
son, Michel Qurignon, the latter's son-in-law, Boisgelin, an idler,
a fine Paris gentleman, had purchased the works, investing in them
all that remained of his jeopardised fortune on the advice of a poor
cousin, a certain Delaveau, who had positively undertaken to make
the capital invested yield a profit of thirty per cent, per annum.
And for three years Delaveau, a skilful engineer and a determined
hard worker, had kept his promise, thanks to energetic management and
organisation, strict attention to the minutest details, and absolute
discipline on all sides. Michel Qurignon's ill success in business had
been partly due to the difficulties which had beset the metal market
of the region ever since the manufacture of iron rails and girders had
there ceased to be remunerative, owing to the discovery of certain
chemical processes which in Northern and Eastern France had enabled
ironmasters to make use very cheaply of large quantities of ore which
previously had been regarded as too defective. The Beauclair works
could not possibly turn out the same class of goods so cheaply as
their competitors; ruin therefore seemed inevitable, and Delaveau's
stroke of talent consisted in changing the character of the output,
in giving up the manufacture of rails and girders which Northern and
Eastern France could supply at twenty centimes the kilogramme,[1] and
confining himself to the manufacture of high-class things, such indeed
as projectiles and ordnance, shells and cannon, which brought in from
two to three francs per kilogramme. Prosperity had then returned, and
Boisgelin's investment brought him in a considerable income. Only it
had been necessary to obtain a quantity of new plant, and to secure
the services of more careful and attentive workmen, who necessarily
required to be better paid than others.

In principle the strike had been brought about by that very question
of better pay. The men were paid by the hundred kilogrammes,[2] and
Delaveau himself admitted the necessity of a new wage tariff. But he
wished to remain absolute master of the situation, desiring above
all things to avoid anything which might seem like surrender on his
part to the pressure of his workpeople. With a specialist mind, very
authoritative in disposition, and stubborn with respect to his rights,
whilst striving to be just and loyal, he regarded Collectivism as a
destructive dream, and declared that any such utopian doctrine would
lead one direct to the most awful catastrophes. The quarrel on this
point between him and the little world of workers over whom he reigned
became a fierce one directly Bonnaire succeeded in setting a defensive
syndicate on foot. For if Delaveau admitted the desirability of relief
and pension funds, and even of co-operative societies supplying cheap
provisions and other necessaries, thus recognising that the workman was
not forbidden to improve his position, he at the same time violently
condemned all syndicates and class grouping designed for collective
action.

From that moment then the struggle began; Delaveau showed great
unwillingness to complete the revision of the tariffs, and thought
it necessary in his turn to arm himself, in some measure, decreeing
a 'state of siege' at the Abyss. Soon after he had begun to act thus
rigorously the men complained that no individual liberty was left to
them. A close watch was kept on them, on their thoughts and opinions
as well as on their actions, even outside the works. Those who put
on a humble flattering manner and perchance became spies, gained
the management's good graces, whilst the proud and independent were
treated as dangerous men. And as the manager was by instinct a staunch
conservative, a defender of the existing order of things, and openly
evinced the resolve to have none but men of his own views in the place,
all the underlings, the engineers, foremen, and inspectors strove to
surpass one another in energy, displaying implacable severity with
regard to obedience, and what they chose to call 'a proper spirit.'

Bonnaire, hurt in his opinions, his craving for liberty and justice,
naturally found himself at the head of the malcontents. It was he
who with a few mates waited on Delaveau to acquaint him with their
complaints. He spoke out very plainly, and, indeed, exasperated the
manager without obtaining the rise in wages that he asked for. Delaveau
did not believe in the possibility of a general strike among his hands,
for the metal workers do not readily lose their tempers, and for many
years there had been no strike at all at the Abyss, whereas among the
pitmen of the coal mines of Brias strikes broke out continually. When,
therefore, contrary to Delaveau's anticipations, a general strike did
occur among his own men, when one morning only two hundred out of a
thousand presented themselves at the works, which he had to close, his
resentment was so great that he stubbornly held to the course he had
chosen and refused to make the slightest concession. When Bonnaire and
a deputation of the syndicate ventured to go to him he began by turning
them out of doors. He was the master, the quarrel was between his
workmen and himself, and he intended to settle it with his workmen and
with nobody else. Bonnaire therefore returned to see him accompanied
only by three mates. But all that they could obtain from him were
arguments and calculations, tending to show that the prosperity of the
Abyss would be compromised if he should increase the men's wages. Funds
had been confided to him, a factory had been given him to manage,
and it was his duty to see that the factory paid its way and that the
funds yielded the promised rate of interest. He was certainly disposed
to be humane, but he considered that it was the duty of an honest man
to keep his engagements, and extract from the enterprise he directed
the largest amount of gain possible. All the rest, in his opinion, was
visionary, wild hope, dangerous utopia. And thus, each side becoming
more and more stubborn after several similar interviews, the strike
lasted for two long months, full of disasters for the wage-earners
as well as for the owner, increasing as it did the misery of the men
whilst the plant was damaged by neglect and idleness. At last the
contending parties consented to make certain mutual concessions, and
came to an agreement respecting a new tariff. But throughout another
week Delaveau refused to take back certain workmen, whom he called
the 'leaders,' and among whom, of course, was Bonnaire. The manager
harboured very rancorous feelings towards the latter, although he
recognised that he was one of the most skilful and most sober of his
hands. When he ultimately gave way, and took Bonnaire back with the
others, he declared that he was being compelled to act in this manner
against his inclinations, solely from a desire to restore peace.

From that moment Bonnaire felt that he was condemned. Under such
circumstances he was at first absolutely unwilling to go back to the
works at all. But he was a great favourite with his mates, and when
they declared that they would not return unless he resumed work at the
same time as themselves, he appeared to resign himself to their wishes,
in order that he might not prove the cause of some fresh rupture. In
his estimation, however, his mates had suffered quite enough; he had
fully made up his mind and intended to sacrifice himself in order that
none other might have to pay the penalty of the semi-victory which
had been gained. And thus, although he had ended by returning to work
on the Thursday, it had been with the intention of taking himself off
on the ensuing Sunday, for he was convinced that his presence at the
Abyss was no longer possible. He took none of his friends into his
confidence, but simply warned the management on Saturday morning of his
intention to leave. If he were still working at the Abyss that night
it was solely because he wished to finish a job which he had begun. He
desired to disappear in a quiet, honest way.

Luc having given his name to the door porter, inquired if he could
speak to master-puddler Bonnaire; and the porter in reply contented
himself with pointing out the hall where the puddling-furnaces and
rolling-machines were installed at the further end of the second yard
on the left. The yards, soaked by the recent rain, formed a perfect
cloaca, what with their uneven paving-stones and their tangle of
rails, amongst which passed a branch line connecting the works with
Beauclair railway station. Under the lunar-like brightness of a few
electric lamps, amongst the shadows cast by the sheds and the plunging
tower, and the vaguely outlined cementing furnaces, which suggested
the conical temples of some barbarous religion, a little engine was
slowly moving about and sending forth shrill whistles of warning
in order that nobody might be run over. But what more particularly
deafened the visitor from the moment he crossed the threshold was the
beating of a couple of tilt-hammers installed in a kind of cellar.
Their big heads--the heads, it seemed, of voracious beasts--could
be seen striking the iron with a furious rhythm; they bit it, as it
were, and stretched it into bars with all the force of their desperate
metal teeth. The workmen beside them led calm and silent lives,
communicating with one another by gestures only amidst the everlasting
uproar and trepidation. Luc, after skirting a low building where some
other tilt-hammers were also working ragefully, turned to the left and
crossed the second yard whose ravaged soil was littered with pieces
of scrap metal, slumbering in the mud until collected for re-casting.
A railway truck was being laden with a large piece of wrought work,
a shaft for a torpedo boat, which had been finished that very day,
and which the little engine was about to remove. As this engine came
up whistling, Luc, in order to avoid it, took a pathway between some
symmetrically disposed piles of pig-iron, and in this wise reached the
hall of the puddling-furnaces and the rolling-machines.

This hall or gallery, one of the largest of the works, resounded in
the daytime with the terrible rumbling of the rollers. But the latter
were now at rest, and more than half of the huge place was steeped in
darkness. Of the ten puddling-furnaces only four were at work, served
by two forge-hammers. Here and there a meagre gas-light flickered
in the draught; huge shadows filled the place; one could scarcely
distinguish the great smoked beams upholding the roof above. A sound
of dripping water emerged from the darkness; the beaten ground which
served as a flooring--all bumps and hollows--was in one part so much
fœtid mud, in another so much coal-dust, in another, again, a mass of
waste stuff. On every side one noticed the filth of joyless labour, a
labour hated and accursed, performed in a black, ruinous, ignoble den,
pestilential with smoke and grimy with the dirt of every kind that flew
through the air. From the nails driven into some little huts of rough
boards hung the workmen's town-clothes, mixed with linen vests and
leather aprons. And all that dense misery was only brightened when some
master puddler happened to open the door of his furnace, whence emerged
a blinding flow of light which, like the beaming of some planet,
transpierced the darkness of the entire gallery.

When Luc presented himself Bonnaire was for the last time stirring
some fusing metal--some four hundred and forty pounds' weight of cast
iron, which the furnace and human labour between them were to turn into
steel. The whole operation of steel puddling required four hours, and
this stirring at the expiration of the first hours of waiting was the
hardest part of the work. Grasping an iron rod of fifty pounds' weight
and standing in the broiling glare, the master puddler stirred the
incandescent metal on the sole of the furnace. With the help of the
hook at the end of his bar he raked the depths and kneaded the huge
sun-like ball or 'bloom,' at which he alone was able to gaze, with his
eyes hardened to the intense glow. And he had to gaze at it, since it
was by its colour that he ascertained what stage the work had reached.
When he withdrew his bar the latter was a bright red, and threw out
sparks on all sides.

With a motion of his hand Bonnaire now signed to his stoker to quicken
the fire, whilst another workman, the companion puddler, took up a bar
in order to do a stir in his turn.

'You are Monsieur Bonnaire, are you not?' asked Luc, drawing near.

The master puddler seemed surprised at being thus accosted, but nodded
affirmatively. He looked superb with his white neck and pink face full
of victorious strength amidst the glare of his work.

Scarcely five-and-thirty years of age, he was a giant of fair
complexion, with close-cropped hair and a broad, massive, placid face.
His large firm mouth and big peaceful eyes expressed great rectitude
and kindliness.

'I don't know if you recognise me,' Luc continued, 'but I saw you here
last summer and had a talk with you.'

'Quite so,' the master puddler at last replied; 'you are a friend of
Monsieur Jordan.'

When, however, the young man with some embarrassment explained the
motive of his visit, how he had seen the unhappy Josine cast into the
street, and how it seemed that he, Bonnaire, could alone do something
for her, the workman relapsed into silence, looking embarrassed on
his side also. Neither spoke for a time; there came an interval of
waiting, prolonged by the noise of the forge-hammer near them. And when
the master puddler was at last able to make himself heard he simply
said: 'All right, I'll do what I can--I'll go with you as soon as I've
finished, in about three-quarters of an hour.'

Although it was nearly eleven o'clock already, Luc resolved to wait;
and at first he began to take some interest in a cutting-machine, which
in a dark corner near at hand was cutting bar-steel with as much quiet
ease as if steel were butter. At each motion of the machine's jaws, a
little piece of metal fell, and a heap was soon formed, ready to be
carried in a barrow into the charging-chamber, where each charge of
sixty-six pounds' weight was made up in order to be removed to the
adjacent hall, where the crucible furnaces were installed. And with the
view of occupying his time, attracted as he was by the great pink glow
which filled that hall, Luc entered it.

It was a very large and lofty place, as badly kept, as grimy and as
much out of repair as the other. And on a level with the bossy ground,
littered with scrap, were the openings of six batteries of furnaces,
each divided into three compartments. Those narrow, long, glaring
pits whose brick walls occupied the whole basement, were heated by a
mixture of air and flaming gas, which the head caster himself regulated
by means of a mechanical fan. Thus, streaking the beaten ground of
the shadowy hall, there appeared six slits, open above the internal
hell, the ever-active volcano, whose subterranean brazier could be
heard rumbling loudly. Covers, shaped like long slabs, bricks bound
together by an iron armature, were laid across the furnaces. But these
covers did not join, and from each intervening space sprang an intense
pinkish light, so many sunrises as it were, broad rays starting from
the soil and darting in a sheaf to the dusty glass of the roofing. And
whenever a man, according to the requirements of the work, removed one
or another of the covers, one might have thought that some planet was
emerging from all obstacles, for the hall was then irradiated by a
brightness like that of aurora.

It so happened that Luc was able to see the operations. Some workmen
were loading a furnace, and he saw them lower the crucibles of
refractory clay, which had previously been heated till they were red,
and then by means of a funnel, pour in the charges, sixty-six pounds
of metal for each crucible. For some three or four hours fusion would
be in progress, and then the crucibles would have to be removed and
emptied, which was the terrible part of the work. As Luc drew near
to another furnace, where some men provided with long bars had just
assured themselves that the fusion was perfect, he recognised Fauchard
in the drawer whose duty it was to remove the crucibles. Livid and
withered, with a bony, scorched face, Fauchard had none the less
retained strong herculean arms and legs. Physically deformed by the
terrible labour--ever the same--which he had been performing for
fourteen years already, he had suffered yet more considerably in his
intelligence from the machine-like life to which he had been condemned:
perpetually repeating the same movements, without need of thought or
individuality of action, becoming as it were merely an element of the
struggle with fire. His physical defects, the rise of his shoulders,
the hypertrophy of his limbs, the scorching of his eyes, which had
paled from constant exposure to flaming light, were not his only
blemishes--he was also conscious of intellectual downfall; for caught
in the monster's grasp at sixteen years of age, after a rudimentary
education suddenly cut short, he remembered that he had once possessed
intelligence, an intelligence which was now flickering and departing
under the relentless burden of a labour which he performed like some
blinded beast crushed down by destructive baleful toil. And he now had
but one sole craving, one sole delight, which was to drink--to drink
his four quarts of wine at each shift, to drink so that the furnace
might not burn up his baked skin like so much old rind, to drink so
that he might escape crumbling into ashes, so that he might enjoy some
last felicity by finishing his life in the happy stupor of perpetual
intoxication.

That night Fauchard had greatly feared that the fire would boil some
more of his blood. But, already at eight o'clock he was agreeably
surprised to see Natalie, his wife, arrive with the four quarts of wine
which she had obtained on credit from Caffiaux, and which he had no
longer expected. She expressed regret that she had not a little meat
to give him also, but Dacheux, she said, had shown himself pitiless.
Ever in low spirits, and greatly given to complaining, she expressed
her anxiety as to how they would manage to get anything to eat on
the morrow. But her husband, who was well pleased at having secured
his wine, dismissed her saying that he should apply to the manager
for an advance as his mates had done. A crust of bread sufficed him
as food, he drank, and at once found himself full of confidence.
When the time to remove the crucibles arrived he tossed off another
half-quart at a gulp, and went to the water cistern to soak the large
linen apron that enveloped him. Then, with big wooden shoes on his
feet and wet gloves on his hands, armed too with long iron pincers, he
stood astride the furnace, resting his right foot on the cover, which
had just been pushed aside, his chest and stomach being exposed the
while to the frightful heat which arose from the open volcano. For a
moment he appeared quite red, blazing like a torch in the midst of a
brazier. His wooden shoes steamed, his apron and his gloves steamed,
the whole of his flesh seemed to melt away. But without evincing any
haste, he looked below him. His eyes, accustomed to the brightest
glare, sought the crucible in the depths of the burning pit. Then he
stooped slightly in order to seize it with his long pincers, and with
a sudden straightening of the loins, with three supple rhythmical
movements--one of his hands opening and gliding along the rod until
the other joined it--he drew up the crucible, raising easily, at
arm's length, that weight of one hundred and ten pounds--pincers and
crucible combined--and deposited it on the ground, where it looked
like some piece of the sun, at first of dazzling whiteness, which
speedily changed to pink. Then he began the operation afresh, drawing
the crucibles forth one by one amidst the increasing glow, with more
skill even than strength, coming and going amidst that incandescent
matter without ever burning himself, without seeming even to feel the
intolerable heat.

They were going to cast some little shells, of one hundred and
thirty-two pounds. The bottle-shaped moulds were ranged in two rows.
And when the assistants had skimmed the slag off the crucibles with
the aid of iron rods, which came away smoking and dropping purple
slaver, the head caster quickly seized the crucibles with his large,
round-jawed pincers, and emptied two into each mould. And the metal
flowed like white lava, with just a faint pinkish tinge here and there
amidst a shooting of fine blue sparks as delicate as flowers. It might
have been thought that the man was decanting some bright, gold-spangled
liqueur; all was done noiselessly, with precise and nimble movements,
amidst a blaze and a heat that changed the whole place into a devouring
brazier.

Luc, who was unaccustomed to it all, felt stifling, unable to remain
there any longer. At a distance of twelve and even fifteen feet from
the furnaces his face was scorched, and a burning perspiration streamed
from him. The shells had interested him, and he watched them cooling,
asking himself what men they would some day kill. And going on into
the next hall, he there found himself among the steam hammers and
the forging-press. This hall was now asleep, with all its monstrous
appliances. Its press of a force of two thousand tons and its hammers
of lesser power spread out, showing in the depths of the gloom their
black squat silhouettes, which suggested those of barbarian gods. And
here Luc found more projectiles, shells which that very day had been
forged under the smallest steam-hammer, on leaving the moulds after
annealing. Then he became interested in the tube of a large naval gun,
more than nineteen feet long, which was still warm from having passed
under the press. Billets totalling two thousand two hundred pounds of
steel had spread out and adapted themselves like rolls of paste to form
that tube, which was waiting chained, ready to be lifted by powerful
cranes and carried to the turning-lathes, which were farther off,
beyond the hall where the Martin furnace and some of the steel-casting
plant were installed.

Luc went on to the end, across that hall also, the most spacious of
them all, for there the largest pieces were cast. The Martin furnace
enabled one to pour large quantities of steel in a state of fusion into
the cast-iron moulds, whilst eight feet overhead two rolling bridges
worked by electricity gently and easily moved huge pieces weighing many
tons to every requisite point. Then Luc entered the lathe workshop, a
huge closed shed which was rather better kept than the others, and
where on either hand he found a series of admirable appliances in which
incomparable delicacy and power were blended. There were planes for
naval armour-plates which finished off metal-work even as a carpenter's
plane gives a finish to wood. And there were the lathes of precise if
intricate mechanism, as pretty as jewels, and as amusing as toys. Only
some of them worked at night-time, each lighted by a single electric
lamp, and giving forth but a faint sound in the deep silence. Again did
Luc come upon projectiles. There was one shell which had been fixed to
a lathe, to be calibrated externally. It turned round and round with
a prodigious speed, and steel shavings which suggested silver curls
flew away from under the narrow motionless blade. Afterwards it would
only have to be hollowed internally, tempered, and finished. But where
were the men that would be killed by it, after it had been charged?
As the outcome of all that heroic human labour, the subjugation of
iron bringing royalty to man and victory over the forces of nature,
Luc beheld a vision of massacre, all the bloodthirsty madness of a
battle-field! He walked on, and at a little distance came upon a large
lathe, where a cannon similar to the one whose forged tube he had
just seen was revolving. This one, however, was already calibrated
externally, and shone like new money. Under the supervision of a
youth who leant forward, attentively watching the mechanism, like a
clock-maker that of a watch, it turned and turned interminably with
a gentle humming, whilst the blade inside drilled it with marvellous
precision. And when that gun also should have been tempered, cast
from the summit of the tower into a bath of petroleum oil, to what
battle-field would it journey to kill men--how many lives would it mow
down, that gun made of steel which men in a spirit of brotherliness
should have fashioned only into rails and ploughshares!

Luc pushed a door open, and made his escape into the open air. The
night was damply warm, and he drew a long breath, feeling refreshed
by the wind which was blowing. When he raised his eyes he was unable
to distinguish a single star beyond the wild rush of the clouds. But
the lamp globes shining here and there in the yard replaced the hidden
moon, and again he saw the chimneys rising amidst lurid smoke, and a
coal-smirched sky, across which upon every side, forming as it were
some gigantic cobweb, flew all the wires which transmitted electric
power. The machines which produced it, two machines of great beauty,
were working close by in some new buildings. There were also some
works for making bricks and crucibles of refractory clay; there was a
carpenter's shop for model-making and packing, and numerous warehouses
for commercial steel and iron. And Luc, after losing himself for a time
in that little town, well pleased when he came upon deserted stretches,
black peaceful nooks where he seemed to revive to life, suddenly
found himself once more inside the inferno. On looking around him he
perceived that he was again in the gallery containing the furnaces for
the crucibles.

Another operation was now being executed there. Seventy crucibles were
being removed at the same moment for some big piece of casting which
was to weigh over three thousand nine hundred pounds. The mould with
its funnel was waiting in readiness in the pit, in the neighbouring
hall. And the procession was swiftly organised, all the helpers of
the various squads took part in it, two men for each crucible, which
they raised with pincers and carried off with long and easy strides.
Another, then another, then another, the whole seventy crucibles
passed along in a dazzling procession. One might have thought it some
ballet scene, in which vague dancers with light and shadowy feet
passed two-by-two carrying huge Venetian lanterns, orange-red in hue.
And the marvellous part of it all was the extraordinary rapidity, the
perfect assurance of the well-regulated movements in which the bearers
were seen gambolling, as it were, in the midst of fire, hastening
up, elbowing one another, marching off and coming back, juggling all
the while with fusing stars. In less than three minutes the seventy
crucibles were emptied into the mould, whence arose a sheaf of gold, a
great spreading bouquet of sparks.

When Luc at last returned to the hall containing the puddling furnaces
and the rollers, after a good half-hour's promenade, he found Bonnaire
finishing his work.

'I will be with you in a moment, monsieur,' said the puddler.

On the glaring sole of the furnace, whose open door was blazing, he had
already on three occasions isolated one quarter of the incandescent
metal, that is a hundredweight of it, which he had rolled and fashioned
into a kind of ball with the aid of his bar; and those three quarters
had gone one after the other to the hammer. He was now dealing with
the fourth and last portion. For twenty minutes he had been standing
before that voracious maw, his chest almost crackling from the heat of
the furnace, his hands manipulating his heavy hooked bar, and his eyes
clearly seeing how to do the work aright in spite of all the dazzling
flames. He gazed fixedly at the fiery ball of steel which he rolled
over and over continuously in the centre of the brazier; and in the
fierce reverberation which gilded his tall pinkish form against the
black background of darkness, he looked like some maker of planets,
busily creating new worlds. But at last he finished, withdrew his
flaming bar, and handed over to his mate the last hundredweight of the
charge.

The stoker was in readiness with a little iron chariot. Armed with
his pincers the assistant puddler seized hold of the ball, which
suggested some huge fiery sponge that had sprouted on the side of a
volcanic cavern, and with an effort he brought it out and threw it
into the chariot, which the stoker quickly wheeled to the hammer. A
smith at once caught it with his own pincers and placed and turned it
over under the hammer, which all at once began working. Then came a
deafening noise and a perfect dazzlement. The ground quaked, a pealing
of bells seemed to ring out, whilst the smith, gloved and bound round
with leather, disappeared amidst a perfect tornado of sparks. At some
moments the expectorations were so large that they burst, here and
there, like canister shot. Impassive amidst that fusillade, the smith
turned the sponge over and over in order that it might be struck on
every side and converted into a 'lump,' a loaf of steel, ready for
the rollers. And the hammer obeyed him, struck here, struck there,
slackening or hastening its blows without a word even coming from
his lips, without anyone even detecting the signs which he made to
the hammer-lad who sat aloft in his little box with his hand on the
starting-lever.

Luc, who had drawn near whilst Bonnaire was changing his clothes,
recognised little Fortuné, Fauchard's brother-in-law, in the hammer-lad
thus perched on high, motionless for hours together, giving no other
sign of life than a little mechanical gesture of the hand amidst the
deafening uproar which he raised. A touch on the right-hand lever so
that the hammer might fall, a touch on the left-hand lever so that it
might rise, that was all; the little lad's mind was confined to that
narrow space. By the bright gleams of the sparks one could for a
moment perceive him, slim and frail, with an ashen face, discoloured
hair, and the blurred eyes of a poor little being whose growth, both
physically and mentally, had been arrested by brutish work, in which
there was nothing to attract one, in which there was never a chance of
any initiative.

'If monsieur's willing, I'm ready now,' said Bonnaire, just as the
hammer at last became silent.

Luc quickly turned round, and found the master puddler before him,
wearing a jersey and a coarse woollen jacket, whilst under one of his
arms was a bundle made up of his working-clothes and certain small
articles belonging to him--all his baggage in fact, since he was
leaving the works to return to them no more.

'Quite so--let us be off,' said Luc.

But Bonnaire paused for another moment. As if he fancied that he might
have forgotten something he gave a last glance inside the plank hut
which served as a cloakroom. Then he looked at his furnace, the furnace
which he had made his own by more than ten years of hard toil, turning
out there thousands of pounds of steel fit for the rollers. He was
leaving the establishment of his own free will, in the idea that such
was his duty towards both his mates and himself, but for that very
reason the severance was the more heroic. However, he forced back the
emotion which was clutching him at the throat, and passed out the first
in advance of Luc.

'Take care, monsieur,' he said; 'that piece is still warm--it would
burn your boot.'

Neither spoke any further. They crossed the two dim yards under the
lunar lights, and passed before the low building where the tilt-hammers
were beating ragefully. And as soon as they were outside the Abyss
the black night seized hold of them again, and the glow and growl of
the monster died away behind them. The wind was still blowing, a wind
carrying the ragged flight of clouds skyward; and across the bridge the
bank of the Mionne was deserted, not a soul was visible.

When Luc had found Josine reclining on the bench where he had left
her, motionless and staring into the darkness, with Nanet asleep and
pressing his head against her, he wished to withdraw, for he considered
his mission ended, since Bonnaire would now find the poor creature some
place of shelter. But the puddler suddenly became embarrassed and
anxious at the idea of the scene which would follow his homecoming when
his wife, that terrible Toupe, should see him accompanying that hussy.
The scene was bound to be the more frightful since he had not told his
wife of his intention to quit the works. He foresaw, indeed, that a
tremendous quarrel would break out when she learnt that he was without
work, through throwing himself voluntarily out of employment.

'Shall I accompany you?' Luc suggested; 'I might be able to explain
things.'

'Upon my word, monsieur,' replied the other, feeling relieved, 'it
would perhaps be the better if you did.'

No words passed between Bonnaire and Josine. She seemed ashamed in
presence of the master puddler, and if he, with his good nature,
knowing too all that she suffered with Ragu, evinced a kind of
fatherly pity towards her, he none the less blamed her for having
yielded to that bad fellow. Josine had awakened Nanet on seeing the
two men arrive, and after an encouraging sign from Luc, she and the
boy followed them in silence. All four turned to the right, skirting
the railway embankment, and thus entering Old Beauclair, whose hovels
spread like some horrid stagnant pool over the flat ground just at the
opening of the gorge. There was an intricate maze of narrow streets
and lanes lacking both air and light, and infected by filthy gutters
which the more torrential rains alone cleansed. The overcrowding of
the wretched populace in so small a space was hard to understand, when
in front of it one perceived La Roumagne spreading its immense plain
where the breath of heaven blew freely as over the sea. The bitter
keenness of the battle for money and property alone accounted for the
niggardly fashion in which the right of the inhabitants to some little
portion of the soil, the few yards requisite for everyday life, had
been granted. Speculators had taken a hand in it all, and one or two
centuries of wretchedness had culminated in a cloaca of cheap lodgings,
whence people were frequently expelled by their landlords, low as might
be the rents demanded for certain of those dens, where well-to-do
people would not have allowed even their dogs to sleep. Chance-wise
over the ground had risen those little dark houses, those damp shanties
of plaster-work, those vermin and fever-breeding nests; and mournful
indeed at that night hour, under the lugubrious sky, appeared that
accursed city of labour, so dim, so closely-pent, filthy too, like
some horrid vegetation of social injustice.

Bonnaire, walking ahead, followed a lane, then turned into another,
and at last reached the Rue des Trois Lunes, one of the narrowest of
the so-called streets. It had no footways, and was paved with pointed
pebbles picked from the bed of the Mionne. The black and creviced house
of which he occupied the first floor had one day suddenly 'settled,'
lurching in such wise that it had been necessary to shore up the
frontage with four great beams; and Ragu, as it happened, occupied
the two rooms of the second story, whose sloping floor those beams
supported. Down below, there was no hall; the precipitous ladder-like
stairs started from the very threshold.

'And so, monsieur,' Bonnaire at last said to Luc, 'you will be kind
enough to come up with me.'

He had once more become embarrassed. Josine understood that he did
not dare take her to his rooms for fear of some affront, though he
suffered at having to leave her still in the street with the child. In
her gentle resigned way she therefore arranged matters. 'We need not go
in,' she said; 'we'll wait on the stairs up above.'

Bonnaire immediately fell in with the suggestion. 'That's best,' said
he. 'Have a little patience, sit down a moment, and if the key's in my
place, I'll bring it to you, and then you can go to bed.'

Josine and Nanet had already disappeared into the dense darkness
enveloping the stairs. One could no longer even hear them breathing,
they had ensconced themselves in some nook overhead. And Bonnaire in
his turn then went up, guiding Luc, warning him respecting the height
of the steps, and telling him to keep hold of the greasy rope which
served in lieu of a hand-rail.

'There, monsieur, that's it. Don't move,' he said at last. 'Ah! the
landings aren't large, and one would turn a fine somersault if one were
to fall.'

He opened a door and politely made Luc pass before him into a fairly
spacious room, where a little petroleum lamp shed a yellowish light.
In spite of the lateness of the hour La Toupe was still mending some
house linen beside this lamp; whilst her father, Daddy Lunot, as he was
called, had fallen asleep in a shadowy nook, with his pipe, which had
gone out, between his gums. In a bed, standing in one corner, slept the
two children, Lucien and Antoinette, one six, the other four years
old, and both of them fine, big children for their respective ages.
Apart from this common room, where the family cooked and ate their
meals, the lodging only comprised two others, the bed-room of the
husband and wife, and that of Daddy Lunot.

La Toupe, stupefied at seeing her husband return at that hour, for she
had been warned of nothing, raised her head, exclaiming: 'What, is it
you?'

He did not wish to start the great quarrel by immediately telling her
that he had left the Abyss. He preferred to settle the matter of Josine
and Nanet first of all. So he replied evasively: 'Yes, I've finished,
so I've come back.' Then, without leaving his wife time to ask any more
questions, he introduced Luc, saying: 'Here, this gentleman, who is a
friend of Monsieur Jordan's, came to ask me something--he'll explain it
to you.'

Her surprise and suspicion increasing, La Toupe turned towards the
young man, who thereby perceived her great likeness to her brother
Ragu. Short and choleric, she had his strongly marked face, with thick
ruddy hair, a low forehead, thin nose and massive jaws. Her bright
complexion, the freshness of which still rendered her attractive and
young-looking at eight-and-twenty years of age, alone explained the
reason which had induced Bonnaire to marry her, though he had been
well acquainted with her abominable temper. That which everybody had
then foreseen had come to pass. La Toupe made the home wretched by her
everlasting fits of anger. In order to secure some peace her husband
had to bow to her will in every little matter of their daily life. Very
coquettish, consumed by the ambition to be well-dressed and possess
jewellery, she only evinced a little gentleness when she was able to
deck herself in a new gown.

Luc, being thus called upon to speak, felt the necessity of gaining her
good will by a compliment. From the moment of crossing the threshold,
however bare might be the scanty furniture, he had remarked that
the room seemed very clean, thanks undoubtedly to the housewife's
carefulness. And drawing near to the bed he exclaimed: 'Ah! what fine
children, they are sleeping like little angels.'

La Toupe smiled, but looked at him fixedly and waited, feeling
thoroughly convinced that this gentleman would not have put himself out
to call there if he had not had something of importance to obtain from
her. And when he found himself obliged to come to the point, when he
related how he had found Josine starving on a bench, abandoned there
in the night, she made a passionate gesture, and her jaws tightened.
Without even answering the gentleman, she turned toward her husband in
a fury: 'What! What's this again? Is it any concern of mine?'

Bonnaire, thus compelled to intervene, strove to pacify her in his
kindly, conciliatory way.

'All the same,' said he, 'if Ragu left the key with you, one ought to
give it to the poor creature, because he's over yonder at Caffiaux's
place, and may well pass the night there. One can't leave a woman and a
child to sleep out of doors.'

At this La Toupe exploded: 'Yes, I've got the key!' said she. 'Yes,
Ragu gave it to me, and precisely because he wanted to prevent that
hussy from installing herself any more in his rooms, with her little
scamp of a brother! But I don't want to know anything about those
horrors! I only know one thing, it was Ragu who confided the key to me,
and it's to Ragu that I shall return it.'

Then, as her husband again attempted to move her to pity, she violently
silenced him. 'Do you want to make me take up with my brother's fancies
then?' she cried. 'Just let the girl go and kick the bucket elsewhere,
since she chose to listen to him. A nice state of things it's been,
and no mistake! No, no, each for himself or herself; and as for her,
let her remain in the gutter; a little sooner, a little later, it all
amounts to the same thing!'

Luc listened, feeling hurt and indignant. In her he found all the
harshness of the virtuous women of her class, who show themselves
pitiless towards the girls that stumble amidst their trying struggle
for life. And in La Toupe's case, ever since the day when she had
learnt that her brother had bought Josine a little silver ring, there
had been covert jealousy and hatred of that pretty girl whom she
pictured fascinating men and wheedling gold chains and silk gowns out
of them.

'One ought to be kind-hearted, madame,' was all that Luc could say, in
a voice that quivered with compassion.

But La Toupe did not have time to answer, for all at once an uproar of
heavy stumbling footsteps resounded on the stairs, and hands fumbled
at the knob of the door, which opened. It was Ragu with Bourron,
one following the other like a pair of good-humoured drunkards who,
having wetted their whistles in company, could no longer separate.
Nevertheless Ragu, who had some sense left him, had torn himself away
from Caffiaux's wine-shop, saying that, however pleasant it might be
there, he none the less had to go back to work on the morrow. And thus
he had looked in at his sister's with his mate, in order to get his key.

'Your key!' cried La Toupe sharply, 'there it is! And I won't keep it
again, mind. I've just had a lot of foolish things said to me in order
to make me give it to that gadabout. Another time when you want to turn
somebody out of the house just do it yourself.'

Ragu, whose heart had doubtless been softened by liquor, began to
laugh: 'She's so stupid, is Josine,' he said. 'If she had wanted to be
pleasant she would have drunk a glass with us instead of snivelling.
But women never know how to tackle men.'

He was unable to express himself more fully, for just then Bourron,
who had fallen on a chair, laughing at nothing with his everlasting
good humour, inquired of Bonnaire: 'I say, is it true then that you're
leaving the works?'

La Toupe turned round, starting as if a pistol had been fired off
behind her. 'What! He's leaving the works!' she cried.

Silence fell. Then Bonnaire courageously came to a decision. 'Yes, I'm
leaving the works; I can't do otherwise.'

'You're leaving the works! you're leaving the works!' bawled his wife,
quite furious and distracted as she took her stand before him. 'So
that two months' strike, which made us spend all our savings, wasn't
enough, eh? It's for you to pay the piper now, eh? So we shall die of
starvation, and I shall have to go about naked!'

He did not lose his temper, but gently answered: 'It's quite possible
that you won't have a new gown for New Year's Day, and perhaps too we
shall have to go on short commons. But I repeat to you that I'm doing
what I ought to do!'

She did not give up the battle as yet, but drew still nearer, shouting
in his face: 'Oh, bunkum! you needn't imagine that folks will be
grateful to you! Your mates don't scruple to say that if it hadn't been
for that strike of yours they'd never have starved during those two
months. Do you know what they'll say when they hear that you've left
the works? They'll say that it serves you right, and that you're only
an idiot! I'll never allow you to do such a foolish thing! You hear,
you'll go back to-morrow!'

Bonnaire looked at her fixedly with his bright and steady eyes. If as
a rule he gave way on points of domestic policy, if he allowed her
to reign despotically in ordinary household matters, he became like
iron whenever any case of conscience arose. And so, without raising
his voice, in a firm tone which she well knew, he answered: 'You will
please keep quiet. Those are matters for us men; women like you don't
understand anything about them, and so it's better that they shouldn't
meddle with them. You're very nice, but the best thing you can do is to
go on mending your linen again if you don't want a quarrel.'

He thereupon pushed her towards the chair near the lamp, and forced her
to sit down again. Conquered, trembling with wrath which she knew would
henceforth be futile, she took up her needle, and made a pretence of
feeling no further interest in the questions from which she had been so
decisively thrust aside. Awakened by the noise of voices, Daddy Lunot
her father, without evincing any astonishment at the sight of so many
people, lighted his pipe once more and listened to the talk with the
air of an old philosopher who had lost every illusion; whilst in their
little bed the children Lucien and Antoinette, likewise roused from
their slumber, opened their eyes widely, and seemed to be striving to
understand the serious things which the big folk were saying.

Bonnaire was now addressing himself to Luc, as if to invoke his
testimony.

'Each has his honour, is that not so, monsieur? The strike was
inevitable, and if it had to be begun over again, I should begin it
over again--that is, I should employ my influence in urging my mates to
try to secure justice. One can't let oneself be devoured--work ought
to be paid at its proper price, unless men are willing to become mere
slaves. And we were so much in the right that Monsieur Delaveau had to
give way on every point by accepting our new wage tariff. But I can now
see that he is furious, and that somebody, as my wife puts it, has got
to pay for the damage. If I were not to go off willingly to-day, he'd
find a pretext for turning me out to-morrow. So what? Am I to hang on
obstinately and become a pretext for everlasting disputes? No, no! It
would all fall on my mates, it would bring them all sorts of worries,
and it would be very wrong of me. I pretended to go back, because my
mates talked of continuing the strike if I didn't. But now that they
are all back at work and quite quiet I prefer to take myself off. That
will settle everything; none of them will stir, and I shall have done
what I ought to do. That's my view of honour, monsieur--each has his
own.'

He said all this with simple grandeur, with so easy and courageous
an air that Luc felt deeply touched. From that man whom he had seen
black and taciturn, toiling so painfully before his furnace, from that
man whom he had seen gentle and kindly, tolerant and conciliatory in
household matters, there now arose one of the heroes of labour, one
of those obscure strugglers who have given their whole being to the
cause of justice, and who carry their brotherliness to the point of
immolating themselves in silence for the sake of others.

Without ceasing to draw her needle La Toupe meanwhile repeated
violently: 'And we shall starve.'

'And we shall starve, it's quite possible,' said Bonnaire, 'but I shall
be able to sleep in peace.'

Ragu began to sneer. 'Oh! starve, that's useless, that's never done any
good. Not that I defend the masters--a pretty gang they are, all of
them! Only as we need them we always have come to an understanding with
them, and do pretty well as they want.'

He rattled on, jesting, and revealing his true nature. He was the
average workman, neither good nor bad, the spoilt product of the
present-day wage system. He cried out at times against capitalist rule,
he was enraged by the strain of the labour imposed on him, and was even
capable of a short rebellion. But prolonged atavism had bent him; he
really had the soul of a slave, respecting established traditions and
envying the employer--that sovereign master who possessed and enjoyed
everything; and the only covert ambition that he nourished was that of
taking the employer's place some fine morning in order to possess and
enjoy life in his turn. Briefly his ideal was to do nothing, to be the
master so that he might have nothing to do.

'Ah! that pig Delaveau!' he said, 'I should like to be just a week in
his skin and to see him in mine. It would amuse me to see him smoking
one of those big cigars of his while making a ball. But everything
happens, you know, and we may all become masters in the next shake-up!'

This idea amused Bourron vastly; he gaped with admiration before Ragu
whenever they had drunk together. 'That's true, ah! dash it, what a
spree it will be when we become the masters!'

But Bonnaire shrugged his shoulders, full of contempt for that base
conception of the future victory of the toilers over their exploiters.
He had read, reflected, and he thought he knew. Excited by all that had
just been said, wishing to show that he was right, he again spoke. In
his words Luc recognised the Collectivist idea such as it is formulated
by the irreconcilable ones of the party. First of all the nation had
to resume possession of the soil and all instruments of labour in
order to socialise and restore them to one and all. Then labour would
be reorganised, rendered general and compulsory, in such wise that
remuneration would be proportionate to the hours of toil which each man
supplied. The matter on which Bonnaire grew muddled was the practical
method to employ in order to establish this socialisation, and
particularly the working of it when it should be put into practice; for
such intricate machinery would need direction and control, a harsh and
vexatory State police system. And when Luc, who did not yet go so far
as Bonnaire did in his humanitarian cravings, offered some objections,
the other replied with the quiet faith of a believer: 'Everything
belongs to us; we shall take everything back, so that each may have
his just share of work and rest, trouble and joy. There is no other
reasonable solution, the injustice and the sufferings of the world have
become too great.'

Even Ragu and Bourron agreed with this. Had not the wage-system
corrupted and poisoned everything! It was that which disseminated
anger and hatred, gave rise to class warfare, the long war of
extermination which capital and labour were waging. It was by the
wage-system that man had become wolfish towards man amidst the
conflict of egotism, the monstrous tyranny of a social system based
on iniquity. Misery had no other cause. The wage-system was the evil
ferment which engendered hunger with all its disastrous consequences,
theft, murder, prostitution, the downfall and rebellion of men and
women cast beyond the pale of love, thrown like perverse, destructive
forces athwart society. And there was only one remedy, the abolition
of the wage-system, which must be replaced by the other, the new,
dreamt-of system, whose secret to-morrow would disclose. From that
point began the battle of the systems, each man thinking that in his
own system rested the happiness of the coming centuries; and a bitter
political _mêlée_ resulted from the clashing of the Socialist parties,
each of which sought to impose on the others its own plans for the
reorganisation of labour and the equitable distribution of wealth. But
none the less the wage-system in its present form was condemned by one
and all, and nothing could save it; it had served its time, and it
would disappear even as slavery, once so universal, had disappeared
when one of the periods of mankind's history had ended by reason of the
ever-constant onward march. That wage-system even now was but a dead
organ which threatened to poison the whole body, and which the life of
nations must necessarily eliminate under penalty of coming to a tragic
end.

'For instance,' Bonnaire continued, 'those Qurignons who founded the
Abyss were not bad-hearted people. The last one, Michel, who came to
so sad an end, tried to ameliorate the workman's lot. It is to him
one owes the creation of a pension fund, for which he gave the first
hundred thousand francs, engaging also to double every year such sums
as were paid in by the subscribers. He also established a free library,
a reading-room, a dispensary where one can see the doctor gratis twice
a week, a workshop, too, and a school for the children. And though
Monsieur Delaveau isn't at all so well disposed towards the men, he
has naturally been obliged to respect all that. It has been working
for years now, but when all is said it's of no good at all. It's mere
charity; it isn't justice! It may go on working for years and years
without starvation and misery being any the less. No, no, the people
who talk of "relieving" distress are simply good-natured fools; there's
no relief possible, the evil has to be cut off at the root.'

At this moment old Lunot, whom the others thought asleep again, spoke
from out of the shadows: 'I knew the Qurignons,' said he.

Luc turned and perceived him on his chair, vainly pulling at his
extinguished pipe. He was fifty years old, and had remained nearly
thirty years a drawer at the Abyss. Short and stout as he was, with a
pale, puffy face, one might have thought that the furnaces had swollen
instead of withering him. Perhaps it was the water with which he had
been obliged to drench himself in the performance of his work that had
first given him the rheumatics. At all events he had been attacked
in the legs at an early age, and now he could only walk with great
difficulty. And as he had not fulfilled the necessary conditions to
obtain even the ridiculous pension of three hundred francs a year[3]
to which the new workmen would be entitled later on, he would have
perished of starvation in the streets, like some old stricken beast
of burden, if his daughter, La Toupe, on the advice of Bonnaire, had
not taken him in, making him pay for her generosity in this respect by
subjecting him to continual reproaches and all sorts of privations.

'Ah, yes,' he slowly repeated, 'I knew the Qurignons. There was
Monsieur Michel, who's now dead and who was five years older than me.
And there's still Monsieur Jérôme, under whom I first went to the
works when I was eighteen years old. He was already forty-five at that
time, but that doesn't prevent him from still being alive. But before
Monsieur Jérôme, there was Monsieur Blaise, the founder, who first
installed himself at the Abyss with his tilt-hammers nigh on eighty
years ago. I didn't know him myself. But my father Jean Ragu, and my
grandfather, Pierre Ragu, worked with him; and one may even say that
Pierre Ragu was his mate, since they were both mere workmen with hardly
a copper in their pockets when they started on the job together, in
the gorge of the Bleuse Mountains, then deserted, near the bank of
the Mionne, where there was a waterfall. The Qurignons made a big
fortune, whereas here am I, Jacques Ragu, with my bad legs and never
a copper, and here's my son, Auguste, who'll never be any richer than
I am after thirty years' hard work, to say nothing of my daughter and
her children, who are all threatened with starvation, just as the Ragus
have always been for a hundred years or more.'

It was not angrily that he said these things, but rather with the
resignation of an old stricken animal. For a moment he looked at his
pipe, surprised at seeing no smoke ascend from it. Then, remarking that
Luc was listening to him with compassionate interest, he concluded with
a slight shrug of the shoulders: 'Bah! monsieur, that's the fate of
all of us poor devils! There will always be masters and workmen. My
grandfather and father were just as I am, and my son will be the same
too. What's the use of rebelling? Each of us draws his lot when he's
born. All the same, one thing that's desirable when a man gets old
is that he should at least have the means to buy himself sufficient
tobacco.'

'Tobacco!' cried La Toupe, 'why you've smoked two sous' worth to-day!
Do you imagine that I'm going to keep you in tobacco, now that we
sha'n't even be able to buy bread?'

To her father's great despair she rationed him with respect to tobacco.
It was in vain that he tried to get his pipe alight again; decidedly
only ashes were left in it. And Luc, with increasing compassion in
his heart, continued looking at him as he sat there, huddled up on
his chair. The wage-system ended in that lamentable wreck of a man,
the worker done for at fifty years of age, the drawer condemned to
be always a drawer, deformed, hebetated, reduced to imbecility and
paralysis by his mechanical toil. In that poor being there survived
nothing save the fatalist sentiment of slavery.

But Bonnaire protested superbly: 'No, no! It won't always be like that,
there won't always be masters and toilers; the day will come when one
and all will be free and joyful men! Our sons will perhaps see that
day, and it is really worth while that we the fathers should suffer a
little more if thereby we are to procure happiness for them to-morrow.'

'Dash it!' exclaimed Ragu, in a merry way. 'Hurry up, I should like to
see that. It would just suit me to have nothing more to do, and to eat
chicken at every meal!'

'And me too, and me too!' seconded Bourron in ecstasy. 'Keep me a
place!'

With a gesture expressive of utter disillusion, old Lunot silenced
them in order to resume: 'Let all that be, those are the things one
hopes for when one's young! A man's head is full of folly then, and
he imagines that he's going to change the world. But then the world
goes on, and he's swept away with the others. I bear no grudge against
anybody, I don't. At times, when I can drag myself about a bit, I meet
Monsieur Jérôme in his little conveyance, which a servant pushes along.
And I take off my cap to him, because it's only fit that one should
do so to a man who gave one work to do, and who's so rich. I fancy,
though, that he doesn't know me, for he contents himself with looking
at me with those eyes of his, which seem to be full of clear water. But
when all's said the Qurignons drew the big prize, so they are entitled
to be respected.'

Ragu thereupon related that Bourron and he, on leaving the works that
very evening, had seen Monsieur Jérôme pass in his little conveyance.
They had taken off their caps to him, and that was only natural. How
could they do otherwise without being impolite? All the same, that a
Ragu should be on foot in the mud, with his stomach empty, bowing to a
well-dressed Qurignon with a rug over him and a servant wheeling him
about like a baby who'd grown too fat, why that was enough to put one
in a rage. In fact it gave one the idea of throwing one's tools into
the water and compelling the rich to shell out, in order that one might
take one's turn in doing nothing.

'Doing nothing, no, no! That would be death,' resumed Bonnaire.
'Everybody ought to work, in that way happiness would be won, and
unjust misery would at last be vanquished. One must not envy those
Qurignons. When they are quoted as examples, when people say to us:
"You see very well that with intelligence, toil, and economy, a workman
may acquire a large fortune," I feel a little irritated, because I
understand very well that all that money can only have been gained by
exploiting our mates, by docking their food and their liberty; and
a horrid thing like that is always paid for some day! The excessive
prosperity of any one individual will never be in keeping with general
happiness. No doubt we have to wait if we want to know what the future
has in reserve for each of us. But I've told you what my idea is--that
those youngsters of mine in the bed yonder, who are listening to us,
may some day be happier than I shall ever be, and that later on their
children may in turn be happier than they. To bring that about we only
have to resolve on justice, to come to an understanding like brothers,
and secure it, even at the price of a good deal more wretchedness.'

As Bonnaire said, Lucien and Antoinette had not gone to sleep again.
Interested apparently by all those people who were talking so late,
they lay, plump and rosy, with their heads motionless on the bolster, a
thoughtful expression appearing in their large eyes, as if indeed they
could understand the conversation.

'Some day happier than us!' said La Toupe viciously. 'Yes, of course,
that is if they don't perish of want to-morrow, since you'll have no
more bread to give them.'

Those words fell on Bonnaire like a hatchet-stroke. He staggered,
quailing amidst his dream beneath the sudden icy chill of the misery
which he seemed to have sought by quitting the works. And Luc felt
the quiver of that misery pass through that large bare room where the
little petroleum lamp was smoking dismally. Was not the struggle an
impossible one? Would they not all--grandfather, father, mother, and
children--be condemned to an early death if the wage-earner should
persist in his impotent protest against capital? Heavy silence came,
a big black shadow seemed to fall chilling the room, and for a moment
darkening every face.

But a knock was heard, followed by laughter, and in came Babette,
Bourron's wife, with her dollish face which ever wore a merry look.
Plump and fresh, with a white skin and heavy tresses of a wheaten
hue, she seemed like eternal spring. Failing to find her husband at
Caffiaux's wine-shop, she had come to seek him at Bonnaire's, well
knowing that he had some trouble in getting home when she did not lead
him thither herself. Moreover, she showed no desire to scold; on the
contrary she seemed amused, as if she thought it only right that her
husband should have taken a little enjoyment.

'Ah! here you are, father Joy!' she gaily cried when she perceived him.
'I suspected that you were still with Ragu, and that I should find you
here. It's late, you know, old man. I've put Marthe and Sébastien to
bed, and now I've got to put you to bed too!'

Even as she never got angry with him, so Bourron never got angry with
her, for she showed so much good grace in carrying him off from his
mates.

'Ah! that's a good 'un!' he cried. 'Did you hear it? My wife puts me to
bed! Well, well, I'm agreeable since it always has to end like that!'

He rose, and Babette, realising by the gloominess of everybody's face,
that she had stumbled upon some serious worry, perhaps even a quarrel,
endeavoured to arrange matters. She, in her own household, sang from
morning till night, showing much affection for her husband, consoling
him and telling him triumphant stories of future prosperity whenever
he felt discouraged. The hateful want in which she had been living
ever since childhood had made no impression upon her good spirits. She
was quite convinced that things would turn out all right, and for ever
seemed to be on the road to Paradise.

'What is the matter with you all?' she asked. 'Are the children ill?'

Then, as La Toupe once more exploded, relating that Bonnaire was
leaving the works, that they would all be dead of starvation before a
week was over, and that all Beauclair, indeed, would follow suit, for
people were far too wretched and it was no longer possible to live,
Babette burst forth into protests, predicting no end of prosperous days
of sunshine, in her gay and confident manner.

'No, no, indeed!' she cried. 'Don't upset yourself like that, my dear.
Everything will settle down, you'll see. Everybody will work and
everybody will be happy.'

Then she led her husband away, diverting him as she did so, saying such
comical and affectionate things that he, likewise jesting, followed her
with docility, his inebriety being subjugated and rendered inoffensive.

Luc was making up his mind to follow them when La Toupe, in putting
her work together on the table, there perceived the key which she had
thrown down for her brother to pick up.

'Well, are you going to take it?' she exclaimed. 'Are you going to bed
or not? You've been told that your hussy's waiting for you somewhere.
Oh! you're free to take her back again if you choose, you know!'

For a moment Ragu, in a sneering way, let the key swing from one of his
thumbs. Throughout the evening he had been shouting in Bourron's face
that he did not mean to feed a lazybones who had stupidly lost a finger
in a boot-stitching machine, and had not known how to get sufficient
compensation for it. Since his return, however, he had become more
sober, and no longer felt so maliciously obstinate. Besides, his sister
exasperated him with her perpetual attempts to dictate a proper line of
conduct to him.

'Of course I can take her back if I choose,' he said. 'After all she's
as good as many another. One might kill her and she wouldn't say a bad
word to one.' Then turning to Bonnaire, who had remained silent: 'She's
stupid, is Josine, he said, 'to be always getting frightened like that.
Where has she got to now?'

'She's waiting on the stairs with Nanet,' said the master puddler.

Ragu thereupon threw the door wide open to shout: 'Josine! Josine!'

Nobody replied, however, not the faintest sound came from the dense
darkness enveloping the stairs. In the faint gleam of light which the
lamp cast in the direction of the landing one could see merely Nanet,
who stood there, seemingly watching and waiting.

'Ah! there you are, you little rascal!' cried Ragu. 'What on earth are
you doing there?'

The child was in no wise disconcerted, he did not so much as flinch.
Drawing up his little figure, no taller than a jackboot, he bravely
answered: 'I was listening so as to know.'

'And your sister, where's she? Why doesn't she answer when she's
called?'

'_Ma grande_? She was upstairs with me, sitting on the stairs. But when
she heard you come in here, she was afraid that you might go up to beat
her. So she thought it best to go down again, so that she could run
away if you were bad-tempered.'

This made Ragu laugh. Besides the lad's pluck amused him. 'And you,
aren't you frightened?' he asked.

'I? If you touch me, I'll shriek so loud that my sister will be warned
and able to run away.'

Quite softened, the man went to lean over the stairs, and call again:
'Josine! Josine! Here, come up, don't be stupid. You know very well
that I sha'n't kill you.'

But the same death-like silence continued, nothing stirred, nothing
ascended from the darkness. And Luc, whose presence was no longer
requisite, took leave, bowing to La Toupe, who with her lips compressed
stiffly bent her head. The children had gone off to sleep again. Old
Lunot, still with his extinguished pipe in his mouth, had managed to
reach the little chamber where he slept, hugging the walls on his way.
And Bonnaire, who in his turn had sunk upon a chair, silent amidst his
cheerless surroundings, his eyes gazing far away into the threatening
future, was waiting for an opportunity to follow his terrible wife to
bed.

'Keep up your courage, _au revoir_,' said Luc to him, whilst vigorously
shaking his hand.

On the landing Ragu was still calling, in tones which now became
entreating: 'Josine! come, Josine! I tell you that I'm no longer angry.'

And as no sign of life came from the darkness he turned towards Nanet,
who meddled with nothing, preferring that his sister should act as she
pleased: 'Perhaps she's run off,' said the man.

'Oh! no, where would you have her go? She must have sat down on the
stairs again.'

Luc was now descending, clinging the while to the greasy rope and
feeling the high and precipitous stairs with his feet for fear lest
he should fall, so dense was the darkness. It seemed to him as if he
were descending into a black abyss by means of a fragile ladder placed
between two damp walls. And as he went lower and lower he fancied that
he could hear some stifled sobs rising from the dolorous depths of the
gloom.

Overhead Ragu resumed resolutely: 'Josine! Josine! Why don't you
come--do you want me to go and fetch you?'

Then Luc paused, for he detected a faint breath approaching, something
warm and gentle, a light, living quiver, scarcely perceptible, which
became more and more tremulous as it drew nearer. And he stepped back
close to the wall, for he well understood that a human creature was
about to pass him, invisibly, recognisable only by the discreet touch
of her figure, as she went upward.

'It is I, Josine,' he whispered, in order that she might not be
frightened.

The little breath was still ascending, and no reply came. But that
creature, all distress and misery, passed, brushing lightly, almost
imperceptibly against him. And a feverish little hand caught hold of
his own, a burning mouth was pressed to that hand of his, and kissed it
ardently, in an impulse of infinite gratitude instinct with the gift
of a soul. She thanked him, she gave herself, like one unknown, veiled
from sight, full of the sweetest girlishness. Not a word was exchanged;
there was only that silent kiss, moistened by warm tears, in the dense
gloom.

The little breath had already passed, the light form was still
ascending. And Luc remained overcome, affected to the depths of his
being by that faint touch. The kiss of those invisible lips had gone
to his heart. A sweet and powerful charm had flowed into his veins.
He tried to think that he simply felt well pleased at having at last
helped Josine to secure a resting-place that night. But why had she
been weeping, seated on the step of the stairs on the very threshold of
the house? And why had she so long delayed returning an answer to the
man overhead, who offered her a lodging once more? Was it that she had
experienced mortal grief and regret, that she had sobbed at the thought
of some unrealisable dream, and that in going up at last she had simply
yielded to the necessity of resuming the life which fate condemned her
to lead?

For the last time Ragu's voice was heard up above. 'Ah! there you
are--it's none too soon. Come, you big stupid, let's go up. We sha'n't
kill one another to-night, at any rate.'

Then Luc fled, feeling such despair that he instinctively sought the
why and wherefore of that frightful bitterness. Whilst he found his
way with difficulty through the dim maze of the filthy lanes of Old
Beauclair he pondered over things and gave rein to his compassion. Poor
girl! She was the victim of her surroundings, never would she have led
such a life had it not been for the crushing weight and perverting
influence of misery and want. And, picturing mankind as plough land,
Luc thought how thoroughly it would have to be turned over in order
that work might become honour and delight, in order that strong and
healthy love might sprout and flower amidst a great harvest of truth
and justice! Meantime, it was evidently best that the poor girl should
remain with that man Ragu, provided that he did not ill-treat her too
much. Then Luc glanced upward at the sky. The tempest blast had ceased
blowing, and stars were appearing between the heavy and motionless
clouds. But how dark was the night, how great the melancholy in which
his heart was steeped!

All at once he came out on the bank of the Mionne near the wooden
bridge. In front of him was the Abyss ever at work, sending forth a
dull rumble amidst the clear dancing notes of its tilt-hammers which
the deeper thuds of the helve-hammers punctuated. Now and again a fiery
glow transpierced the gloom, and huge livid clouds of smoke passing
athwart the rays of the electric lamps showed like a stormy horizon
about the works. And the nocturnal life of that monster whose furnaces
were never extinguished brought back to Luc a vision of murderous
labour, imposed on men as in a convict prison, and remunerated, for
the most part, with mistrust and contempt. Then Bonnaire's handsome
face passed before the young fellow's eyes; he perceived him as he
had left him, in the dim room yonder, overcome like a vanquished man
in presence of the uncertain future. And without transition there came
another memory of his evening, the vague profile of Lange the potter,
pouring forth his curse with all the vehemence of a prophet, predicting
the destruction of Beauclair beneath the sum of its crimes. But at that
hour the terrorised town had fallen asleep, and all one could see of it
on the fringe of the plain was a confused dense mass where not a light
gleamed. Nothing indeed seemed to exist save the Abyss, whose hellish
life knew no respite; there a noise as of thunder continually rolled
by, and flames incessantly devoured the lives of men.

Suddenly a clock struck midnight in the distance. And Luc then crossed
the bridge and again went down the Brias road on his way back to La
Crêcherie, where his bed awaited him. As he was reaching it a mighty
glow suddenly illumined the whole district, the two promontories of
the Bleuse Mountains, the slumbering roofs of the town, and even the
far-away fields of La Roumagne. That glow came from the blast furnace
whose black silhouette appeared half way up the height as in the midst
of a conflagration. And as Luc raised his eyes it once more seemed to
him as if he beheld some red dawn, the sunrise promised to his dream of
the renovation of humanity.


[1] That is about 1_d_. per pound.

[2] 220 1/2 lbs.

[3] 12_l_.



III


On the morrow, Sunday, just as Luc had risen, he received a friendly
note from Madame Boisgelin, inviting him to lunch at La Guerdache.
Having learnt that he was at Beauclair, and that the Jordans would
only return home on the Monday, she told him how happy she would be
to see him again, in order that they might chat together about their
old friendship in Paris, where they had secretly conducted some big
charitable enterprises together in the needy district of the Faubourg
St. Antoine. And Luc, who regarded Madame Boisgelin with a kind of
affectionate reverence, at once accepted her invitation, writing word
that he would be at La Guerdache by eleven o'clock.

Superb weather had suddenly followed the week of heavy rain by which
Beauclair had almost been submerged. The sun had risen radiantly in
the sky, which was now of a pure blue, as if it had been cleansed
by all the showers. And the bright sun of September still diffused
so much warmth that the roads were already dry. Luc was, therefore,
well pleased to walk the couple of thousand yards which separated La
Guerdache from the town. When, about a quarter past ten, he passed
through the latter--that is, the new town, which stretched from the
Place de la Mairie to the fields fringing La Roumagne--he was surprised
by its brightness, cheerfulness, and trimness, and sorrowfully recalled
the dismal aspect of the poverty-stricken quarter which he had seen
the previous night. In the new town were assembled the sub-prefecture,
the law court, and the prison, the last being a handsome new building,
whose plaster-work was scarcely dry. As for the church of St. Vincent,
an elegant sixteenth-century church astride the old and the now towns,
it had lately been repaired, for its steeple had shown an inclination
to topple down upon the faithful. And as Luc went on he noticed that
the sunlight gilded the smart houses of the _bourgeois_, and brightened
even the Place de la Mairie, which spread out beyond the populous Rue
de Brias, displaying a huge and ancient building which served as both a
town hall and a school.

Luc, however, speedily reached the fields by way of the Rue de
Formerie, which stretched straight away beyond the square like a
continuation of the Rue de Brias. La Guerdache was on the Formerie
road, just outside Beauclair. Thus Luc had no occasion to hurry; and
indeed he strolled along like one in a dreamy mood. At times he even
turned round, and then, northward, beyond the town, whose houses
descended a slight slope, he perceived the huge bar of the Bleuse
Mountains parted by the precipitously enclosed gorge through which
the Mionne torrent flowed. In that kind of estuary opening into the
plain one could distinctly perceive the close-set buildings and lofty
chimneys of the Abyss as well as the blast-furnace of La Crêcherie--in
fact, quite an industrial city, which was visible from every side of La
Roumagne, leagues and leagues away. Luc remained gazing at the scene
for some little time, and when he slowly resumed his walk towards La
Guerdache, which he could already discern beyond some clusters of
magnificent trees, he recalled the typical history of the Qurignons,
which his friend Jordan had once told him.

It was in 1823 that Blaise Qurignon, the workman by whom the Abyss had
been founded, had installed himself there, on the bank of the torrent,
with his two tilt-hammers. He had never employed more than a score
of hands, and making but a small fortune, had contented himself with
building near the works a little brick pavilion in which Delaveau,
the present manager, now resided. It was Jérôme Qurignon, the second
of the line, born in the year when his father founded the Abyss, who
became a real king of industry. In him met all the creative power
derived from a long ancestry of workmen, all the incipient efforts,
the century-old growth and rise of 'the people.' Hundreds of years of
latent energy, a long line of ancestors obstinately seeking happiness,
wrathfully battling in the gloom, working themselves at times to
death, now at last yielded fruit, culminated in the advent of this
victor who could toil eighteen hours a day, and whose intelligence,
good sense, and will swept all obstacles aside. In less than twenty
years he caused a town to spring from the ground, gave employment to
twelve hundred workpeople, and gained millions of francs. And at last,
stifling in the humble little house erected by his father, he expended
eight hundred thousand francs[1] on the purchase of La Guerdache, a
large and sumptuous residence in which ten families might have found
accommodation, whilst around it stretched a park and a farm, the whole
forming in fact a large estate. Jérôme was convinced that La Guerdache
would become as it were the patriarchal home of his descendants, all
the bright and loving couples who would assuredly spring from his
wealth as from some blessed soil. For them he prepared a future of
domination based on his dream of subjugating labour and utilising it
for the enjoyment of an _élite_; for was not all the power that he felt
within him definitive and infinite, and would it not even increase
among his children, free from all danger of diminution and exhaustion
during long, long years? But all at once a first misfortune fell upon
this man, who seemed to be as vigorous as an oak-tree. Whilst he was
still young--in his very prime, indeed, only two and fifty years of
age--paralysis deprived him of the use of both his legs, and he had to
surrender the management of the Abyss to Michel, his eldest son.

Michel Qurignon, the third of the line, was then just thirty. He had a
younger brother, Philippe, who, much against his father's wishes, had
married in Paris a wonderfully beautiful but very flighty woman. And
between the two boys there was a girl, Laure, already five-and-twenty
years old, who greatly distressed her parents by the extreme
religiosity into which she had fallen.

Michel for his part had, when very young, married an extremely gentle,
loving, but delicate woman, by whom he had two children, Gustave and
Suzanne, the former being five and the latter three years old when
their father was suddenly obliged to assume the management of the
Abyss. It was understood that he should do so in the name and for the
benefit of the whole family, each member of which was to draw a share
of the profits, according to an agreement which had been arrived at.
Although Michel did not in the same high degree possess his father's
admirable qualities, his power of work, his quick intelligence, and
his methodical habits, he none the less at first proved an excellent
manager, and for ten years succeeded in preventing any decline in the
business, which, indeed, he at one moment increased by replacing the
old plant by new appliances. But sorrows and family losses fell upon
him like premonitory signs of a coming disaster. His mother died, his
father was not only paralysed and wheeled about by a servant, but sank
into absolute dumbness after experiencing a difficulty in uttering
certain words. Then Michel's sister, Laure, her brain quite turned
by mystical notions, took the veil, in spite of all the efforts made
to detain her at La Guerdache amidst the joys of the world. And from
Paris, too, Michel received deplorable tidings of the affairs of his
brother Philippe, whose wife was taking to scandalous adventures,
dragging him, moreover, into a wild life of gambling, extravagance,
and folly. Finally Michel lost his own delicate and gentle wife, which
proved, indeed, his supreme loss, for it threw him off his balance
and cast him into a life of disorder. He had already yielded to his
passions, but in a discreet way, for fear of saddening his wife, who
was always ill. But when death had carried her away, nothing was left
to restrain him, and he took freely to a life of pleasure, which
consumed the best part of his time and his energies.

Then came another period of ten years during which the Abyss declined,
since it was no longer directed by the victorious chief of the days of
conquest, but by a tired and satiated master who squandered all the
booty it yielded. A feverish passion for luxury now possessed Michel,
his existence became all festivity and pleasure, the spending of money
for the merely material joys of life. And the worst was that in
addition to this cause of ruin, in addition, moreover to bad management
and ever-increasing loss of energy, there came a commercial crisis, in
which the whole metallurgie industry of the region nearly perished. It
became impossible to manufacture steel rails and girders cheaply enough
in face of the victorious competition of the works of Northern and
Eastern France, which, thanks to a newly discovered chemical process,
were now able to employ defective ore which formerly it had been
impossible to utilise. Thus, after a struggle of two years' duration,
Michel felt the Abyss crumbling to pieces beneath him, and one day,
when he was already unhinged by having to borrow three hundred thousand
francs to meet some heavy bills then reaching maturity, a horrible
drama drove him to desperation.

He was then nearly fifty-four years old, and was madly in love with a
pretty girl whom he had brought from Paris and concealed in Beauclair.
At times he indulged in the wild dream of fleeing with her to some
land of the sun, far away from all financial worries. His son Gustave,
who after failing in his studies led an idle life at seven-and-twenty
years of age, resided with him on a footing of friendly equality, well
acquainted with the intrigue, about which indeed he often jested. He
made fun also of the Abyss, refusing to set foot amongst all that
grimy, evil-smelling old iron, for he greatly preferred to ride,
hunt, and shoot, and generally lead the empty life of an amiable
_fin-de-race_ young man, as if he could count several centuries of
illustrious ancestry. And thus it happened that one fine evening,
after 'lifting' out of a _secrétaire_ the single hundred thousand
francs which his father had as yet managed to get together for his
payments, Master Gustave carried off the pretty girl, who had flung her
arms around his neck at the sight of so much money. And on the morrow
Michel, struck both in heart and brain by this collapse of his passion
and his fortune, yielded to the vertigo of horror and shot himself dead
with a revolver.

Three years had already elapsed since that suicide. And the speedy
downfall of one Qurignon had been followed by that of another and
another, as if by way of example to show how great might prove the
severity of destiny. Shortly after Gustave's departure it was learnt
that he had been killed in a carriage accident at Nice, a pair of
runaway horses having carried him over a precipice. Then Michel's
younger brother Philippe likewise disappeared from the scene, being
killed in a duel, the outcome of a dirty affair into which he had been
drawn by his terrible wife, who was said to be now in Russia with a
tenor, whilst the only child born to them, André Qurignon, the last of
the line, had been sent perforce to a private asylum, since he suffered
from an affection of the spine complicated by mental disorder. Apart
from that sufferer and Laure, who still led a cloistral life, so that
she also seemed to be dead, there remained of all the Qurignons only
old Jérôme and Michel's daughter, Suzanne.

She, when twenty years of age--that is, five years before her father's
death--had married Boisgelin, who had met her whilst visiting at a
country house. Although the Abyss was then already in peril, Michel
in his ostentatious way had made arrangements which enabled him to
give his daughter a dowry of a million francs. Boisgelin on his side
was very wealthy, having inherited from his grandfather and father a
fortune of more than six millions, amassed in all sorts of suspicious
affairs, redolent of usury and theft--by which he, however, was not
personally besmirched, since he had lived in perfect idleness ever
since his entry into the world. He was held in great esteem and envy,
and people were always eager to bow to him, for he resided in a superb
mansion near the Parc Monceau in Paris, and led a life of wild display
and extravagance. After seeking distinction by remaining invariably the
last of his class at the Lycée Condorcet,[2] which he had astonished by
his elegance, he had never done anything, but imagined himself to be
a modern-style aristocrat, one who established his claim to nobility
by the magnificence he showed in spending the fortune acquired by
his forerunners without even lowering himself to earn a copper. The
misfortune was that Boisgelin's six millions no longer sufficed at last
to keep his establishment on the high footing which it had reached,
and that he allowed himself to be drawn into financial speculations of
which he understood nothing. The Bourse was just then going mad over
some new gold mines, and he was told that by venturing his fortune
he might treble it in two years' time. All at once, however, came
disaster and downfall, and for a moment he almost thought that he was
absolutely ruined, to such a point indeed as to retain not even a crust
of bread for the morrow. He wept like a child at the thought, and
looked at his hands, which had ever idled, wondering what he would now
be able to do, since he knew not how to work with them. It was then
that Suzanne his wife evinced admirable affection, good sense, and
courage, in such wise as to set him on his feet again. She reminded him
that her own million, her dowry, was intact. And she insisted on having
the situation retrieved by selling the Parc-Monceau mansion, which they
would now be unable to keep up. Another million was found in that way.
But how were they to live, particularly in Paris, on the proceeds of
two millions of francs, when six had not sufficed, for temptation would
assuredly come again at the sight of all the luxury consuming the great
city? A chance encounter at last decided the future.

Boisgelin had a poor cousin, a certain Delaveau, the son of one of his
father's sisters, whose husband, an unlucky inventor, had left her
miserably poor. Delaveau, a petty engineer, occupied a modest post at
a Brias coal-pit at the time when Michel Qurignon committed suicide.
Devoured by a craving to succeed, urged on too by his wife, and very
well acquainted with the situation of the Abyss, which he felt certain
he could restore to prosperity by a new system of organisation, he
went to Paris in search of capitalists, and there, one evening in
the street, he suddenly found himself face to face with his cousin
Boisgelin. Inspiration at once came to him. How was it that he had
not previously thought of that wealthy relative who, as it happened,
had married a Qurignon? On learning what was the present position of
the Boisgelins, now reduced to a couple of millions which they wished
to invest as advantageously as possible, Delaveau extended his plans,
and at several interviews which he had with his cousin displayed so
much assurance, intelligence, and energy, that he ended by convincing
him of success. There was really genius in the plan he had devised.
The Boisgelins must profit by the catastrophe which had fallen on
Michel Qurignon, buy the works for a million francs when they were
worth two millions, and start making steel of superior quality which
would rapidly bring in large profits. Moreover, why should not the
Boisgelins also buy La Guerdache? In the forced liquidation of the
Qurignon fortune they would easily secure it for five hundred thousand
francs, although it had cost eight hundred thousand; and Boisgelin
out of his two millions would then still have half a million left
to serve as working capital for the Abyss. He, Delaveau, absolutely
contracted to increase that capital tenfold and supply the Boisgelins
with a princely income. They would simply have to leave Paris, and live
happily and comfortably at La Guerdache, pending the accumulation of
the large fortune which they would assuredly possess some day, when
they might once more return to Parisian life to enjoy it amidst all the
magnificence they could dream of.

It was Suzanne who at last secured the compliance of her husband, who
felt anxious at the idea of leading a provincial life in which he would
probably be bored to death. She herself was delighted to return to La
Guerdache, where she had spent her childhood and youth. Thus matters
were settled as Delaveau had foreseen. The liquidation of the Qurignon
estate took place; and the fifteen hundred thousand francs which the
Boisgelins paid for the Abyss and La Guerdache proved barely sufficient
to meet the liabilities, in such wise that Suzanne and her husband
became absolute masters of everything, having no further accounts to
render to the other surviving heirs--that is, Aunt Laure the nun, and
André, the infirm and mentally afflicted young fellow who had been sent
to a private asylum. On the other hand Delaveau carried out all his
engagements, reorganised the works, renewed the plant, and proved so
successful in his management that at the end of the first twelve months
the profits were already superb. In three years the Abyss recovered its
position as one of the most prosperous steel works of the region; and
the money earned for Boisgelin by its twelve hundred workpeople enabled
him to instal himself at La Guerdache on a footing of great luxury:
he had six horses in his stables, five carriages in his coach-house,
and organised shooting-parties, dinner-parties, and all sorts of
festivities, to which the local authorities eagerly sought invitations.
Thus he who during the earlier months had gone about idle and dreary,
quite Paris-sick, now seemed to have accustomed himself to provincial
life, having discovered as it were a little empire, where his vanity
found every satisfaction. Moreover there was a secret cause behind
all other things, an element of victorious conceit in the quietly
condescending manner in which he reigned over Beauclair.

Delaveau had installed himself at the Abyss, where he occupied Blaise
Qurignon's former house with his wife Fernande and their little girl
Nise, who at that time was only a few months old. He had then completed
his thirty-seventh year, and his wife was ten years younger. Her
mother, a music teacher, had formerly resided on the same floor as
himself in a dark house of the Rue Saint-Jacques in Paris. Fernande was
of such dazzling, sovereign beauty that for more than a twelvemonth,
whenever Delaveau met her on the stairs, he drew back trembling against
the wall like one who felt ashamed of his ugliness and his poverty.
At last, however, salutes were exchanged, and an acquaintance having
sprung up, the girl's mother confided to him that she had lived for
twelve years in Russia as a governess, and that Fernande was her
daughter by a Russian prince by whom she had been deceived. This
prince, who was extremely attached to her, would certainly have dowered
her with a fortune, but one evening at the close of a day's hunt he
was accidentally shot dead, and she then had to return penniless to
Paris with her little girl, and once more give lessons there. Only by
the most desperate hard work did she manage to bring up the child, for
whom, in spite of everything, she dreamt of some prodigious destiny.

Fernande, reared amidst adulation from her cradle, convinced that her
beauty destined her for a throne, encountered in lieu thereof the
blackest wretchedness, unable to throw her worn-out boots aside since
she knew not how to replace them, and being for ever obliged to repair
and refurbish her old gowns and hats. Anger and such a craving for
victory soon took possession of her, that from her tenth year onward
she did not live a day without learning more and more hatred, envy,
and cruelty, in this wise amassing extraordinary force of perversity
and destructiveness. The climax came when, imagining that her beauty
was bound to conquer by virtue of its all-mightiness, she yielded to a
man of wealth and power who, on the morrow, refused to have anything
more to do with her. This adventure, which she sought to bury in the
bitterest depths of her being, taught her the arts of falsehood,
hypocrisy, and craftiness, which she had not previously mastered. She
vowed that she would not stumble in that way again, for she was far too
ambitious to lead a life of open shame. She realised that it was not
sufficient for a woman to be beautiful; that she must find the proper
opportunity to display her beauty, and must meet a man such as she
could bewitch and turn into her obedient slave. And her mother having
died after trudging for a quarter of a century through the mud of
Paris to give lessons which barely yielded enough money to buy bread,
she, Fernande, felt a first opportunity arise on finding herself in
presence of Delaveau, who, whilst neither handsome nor rich, offered
to marry her. She did not care a pin for him, but she perceived that
he was very much in love with her, and she decided to avail herself
of his arm to enter the world of respectable women in which he would
prove a support and a means towards the end that she had in view. He
had to buy her a trousseau, taking her just as he found her, with
all the faith of a devotee for whom she was a goddess. And from that
time forward destiny followed its course even as she, Fernande, had
desired. Within two months of being introduced at La Guerdache by her
husband, she designedly entered upon an intrigue with Boisgelin, who
had become passionately enamoured of her. In that handsome clubman
and horseman she found the ideal lover for whom she had sought, the
lover all vanity, folly and liberality, who was capable of the worst
things in order to retain his beautiful mistress beside him. And it
so happened, moreover, that she thus satisfied all sorts of spite and
rancour, the covert hatred which she bore her husband, whose toilsome
life and quiet blindness humiliated her, and the growing jealousy which
she felt towards the quiet Suzanne, whom she had detested from the very
first day; this, indeed, being one of the reasons why she had listened
to Boisgelin, for she hoped thereby to make Suzanne suffer. And now all
was festivity at La Guerdache: Fernande reigned there like a beautiful
guest, realising her dream of a life of display, in which she helped
Boisgelin to squander the money which Delaveau wrung in perspiration
from the twelve hundred toilers of the Abyss. And, indeed, she even
hoped that she would some fine day be able to return to Paris and
triumph there with all the promised millions.

Such were the stories which occupied Luc's thoughts as, sauntering
along, he repaired to La Guerdache in accordance with Suzanne's
invitation. If he did not know everything as yet, he at least already
suspected certain matters, which the near future was to enable him
to fathom completely. At last, as he raised his head, he perceived
that he was only a hundred yards or so from the fine park whose great
trees spread their greenery over a large expanse. Then he paused,
whilst before his mind's eye there arose above all other figures that
of Monsieur Jérôme, the second Qurignon, the founder of the family
fortune, the infirm paralysed man whom only the day before he had met
in his bath-chair, pushed along by a servant near the very entrance of
the Abyss. He pictured him with his lifeless, stricken legs, his silent
lips, and his clear eyes which for a quarter of a century had been
gazing at the disasters that overwhelmed his race. There was his son
Michel, hungering for pleasure and luxury, imperilling the works, and
killing himself as the result of a frightful family drama. There was
his grandson Gustave, carrying off his father's mistress and dashing
his brains out in the depths of a precipice, as beneath the vengeful
pursuit of the Furies. There was his daughter Laure, in a convent, cut
off from the world; and there was his younger son Philippe, marrying
an unworthy woman, gliding with her into the mire, and losing his
life in a duel after the most disgraceful adventures; and there was
his other grandson André, the last of the name, a cripple, shut up
amongst the insane. And yet even now the disaster was continuing; the
annihilation of the family was being completed by an evil ferment,
that Fernande who had appeared among them as if to consummate their
ruin with those terrible, sharp, white teeth of hers. Amidst his long
silence Jérôme had witnessed and was witnessing all those things. But
did he remark them, did he judge them? It was said that his mind had
become weak, and yet how deep and limpid were his eyes! And if he
could think, what thoughts were those that filled his long hours of
immobility? All his hopes had crumbled; the victorious strength amassed
through a long ancestry of toilers, the energy which he thought he was
bound to bequeath to a long line of descendants whose fortune would
ever and ever increase, had now blazed away like a heap of straw in
the fire of worldly enjoyment! In three generations the reserve of
creative power which had required so many centuries of wretchedness
and effort to accumulate had been gluttonously consumed. Amidst the
eager satisfaction of material cravings, the nerves of the race had
become unstrung, refinement had led to destructive degeneracy. Gorged
too quickly, unhinged by possession, the race had collapsed amidst all
the folly born of wealth. And that royal domain La Guerdache, which he
Jérôme had purchased, dreaming of some day peopling it with numerous
descendants, happy couples who would diffuse the blessed glory of his
name, how sad he must feel at seeing half its rooms empty, what anger
he must experience at seeing it virtually handed over to that strange
woman, who brought the final poisonous ferment in the folds of her
skirts! He himself lived there in solitude, keeping up an affectionate
intercourse solely with his granddaughter Suzanne, who was the only
person still admitted to the large room which he occupied on the ground
floor. She, when only ten years old, had already helped to nurse him
there, like a loving little girl touched by her poor grandpapa's
misfortune. And when she had returned to the spot, a married woman,
after the purchase of the family property, she had insisted on her
grandfather remaining there, although nothing belonged to him, for he
had divided his whole property among his children at the time when
paralysis had fallen on him like a thunderbolt.

Suzanne was not without scruples in this matter. It seemed to her
that in following Delaveau's advice she and her husband had despoiled
the two remaining members of the family, Aunt Laure and André, the
cripple. As a matter of fact they were provided for; and thus it was on
grandfather Jérôme that she lavished her affection, watching over him
like a good angel. But although a smile would appear in the depths of
his clear eyes when he fixed them upon her, there remained as it were
but two cavities seemingly full of spring water in his frigid, deeply
marked countenance, directly the wild life of La Guerdache flitted past
him. Was he conscious of it, and did he think about it, and if so were
not his thoughts compounded of despair?

Luc found himself at last before the monumental iron gate opening into
the Formerie highway at a point whence started a road leading to the
neighbouring village of Les Combettes, and he simply had to push a
little side gate open in order to reach the royal avenue of elm-trees.
Beyond them one saw the château, a huge seventeenth-century pile, quite
imposing in its simplicity, with its two upper stories each showing a
line of twelve windows, and its raised ground floor, which was reached
by a double flight of steps, decorated with some handsome vases. The
park, which was of great extent, all copses and lawns, was traversed
by the Mionne, which fed a large piece of ornamental water where swans
swam to and fro.

Luc was already going towards the steps when a light welcoming
laugh made him turn his head. Under an oak-tree, near a stone table
surrounded by some rustic chairs, he then perceived Suzanne, who sat
there with her son Paul playing near her.

'Why, yes, my friend!' said she, 'I have come down to await my guests,
like a countrywoman who is not afraid of the open air. How kind of you
to accept my abrupt invitation!'

She smiled at him while offering her hand. She was not pretty, but she
was charming, very fair and small, with a delicate round head, curly
hair, and eyes of a soft blue. Her husband had always considered her
to be somewhat insignificant, never suspecting, it seemed, all the
delightful kindness of heart and sterling good sense which lurked
beneath her great simplicity.

Luc had taken her hand, and retained it for a moment between both his
own.

'It was you who were kind to think of me! I am very, very pleased to
meet you again,' he said.

She was three years his elder, and had first met him in a wretched
house in the Rue de Bercy, where he had resided when beginning life
as an assistant engineer at some adjacent works. Very discreet, and
practising charity in person and by stealth, she had been in the habit
of calling at this house to see a mason who had been left a widower
with six children, two of them little girls. And the young man being
in the garret, with these little girls on his knees, one evening when
she had brought some food and linen, they had become acquainted. Luc
had afterwards had occasion to visit her at the mansion near the Parc
Monceau in connection with other charitable undertakings in which they
were both interested. A feeling of great sympathy had then gradually
drawn them together, and he had become her assistant and messenger in
matters known to them alone. Thus he had ended by visiting the mansion
regularly, being invited to most of the entertainments there during
two successive winters. And it was there too that he had first met the
Jordans.

'If you only knew how people regret you, how your departure was
lamented!' he added by way of allusion to their former benevolent
alliance.

Suzanne made a little gesture of emotion, and replied in a low, voice:
'Whenever I think of you, I am distressed that you are not here, for
there is so much to be done.'

Luc, however, had just noticed Paul, who ran up with some wild flowers
in his hand; and the young man burst into exclamations at seeing how
much the boy had grown. Very fair and slim, he had a gentle, smiling
face, and greatly resembled his mother.

'Well,' said the latter gaily, 'he will now soon be seven years old. He
is already a little man.'

Seated and talking together like brother and sister in the warm
radiance of that September day, Luc and Suzanne became so absorbed in
their happy recollections that they did not even perceive Boisgelin
descend the steps and advance towards them. Smart of mien, wearing
a well-cut country jacket, and a single eye-glass, the master of La
Guerdache was a brawny coxcomb with grey eyes, a large nose, and waxed
moustaches. He brought his dark brown hair in curls over his narrow
brow, which was already being denuded by baldness.

'Good day, my dear Froment,' he exclaimed, with a lisp which he
exaggerated so as to be the more in the fashion. 'A thousand thanks for
consenting to make one of us.'

Then, without more ado, after a vigorous hand-shake _à l'Anglaise_, he
turned to his wife: 'I say, my dear, I hope orders were given to send
the victoria to Delaveau's.'

There was no occasion for Suzanne to reply, for just then the victoria
came up the avenue of elms, and the Delaveaus alighted before the
stone table. Delaveau was a short, broad-shouldered man, possessing a
bull-dog's head, massive, low, and with projecting jaw-bones. With his
snub nose, big goggle eyes, and fresh-coloured cheeks half hidden by
a thick black beard, he carried himself in a military, authoritative
manner. A delightful contrast was presented by his wife Fernande, a
tall and supple brunette with blue eyes and superb shoulders. Never
had more sumptuous or blacker hair crowned a more pure or whiter
countenance, with large azure eyes of glowing tenderness, and a small
fresh mouth whose little teeth seemed to be of unchangeable brilliancy,
and strong enough to break pebbles. She herself, however, was proudest
of her delicately shaped feet, in which she found an incontestable
proof of her princely origin.

She immediately apologised to Suzanne, whilst making a maid alight with
her daughter Nise, who was now three years of age and as fair as her
mother was dark, having a curly tumbled head, eyes blue like the sky,
and a pink mouth which was ever laughing, dimpling the while both her
cheeks and her chin.

'You must excuse me, my dear,' said Fernande, 'but I profited by your
authorisation to bring Nise.'

'Oh, you have done quite right,' Suzanne responded; 'I told you there
would be a little table.'

The two women appeared to be on friendly terms. One could scarcely
detect a slight fluttering of Suzanne's eyelids when she saw Boisgelin
hasten to Fernande, who, however, must have been sulking with him,
for she received him in the icy manner which she was wont to assume
whenever he tried to escape one of her caprices. Looking somewhat
anxious, he came back to Luc and Delaveau, who had made one another's
acquaintance during the previous spring, and were now shaking hands
together. Nevertheless, the young man's presence at Beauclair seemed
somewhat to upset the manager of the Abyss.

'What! you arrived here yesterday? Of course then you did not find
Jordan at home, since he was so suddenly called to Cannes. Yes, yes, I
was aware of that, but I did not know that he had sent for you. He has
some trouble in hand with respect to his blast-furnace.'

Luc was surprised at the other's keen emotion, and divined that he
was about to ask him why Jordan had summoned him to La Crêcherie. He
did not understand the reason of such sudden disquietude, and so he
answered chancewise: 'Trouble, do you think so? Everything seems to be
going on all right.'

However, Delaveau prudently changed the subject, and gave Boisgelin
some good news. China, said he, had just purchased a stock of defective
shells which he had intended to recast. And a diversion came when Luc,
who was extremely fond of children, made merry on seeing Paul give his
flowers to Nise, who was his very particular friend. 'What a pretty
little girl!' exclaimed the young man, 'she is so golden that she looks
like a little sun. How is it possible when her papa and mamma are so
dark?'

Fernande, who had bowed to Luc, while giving him a keen glance to
ascertain if he were likely to prove a friend or an enemy, was fond of
having such questions put to her; for, putting on a glorious air, she
invariably replied by some allusions to the child's grandfather, the
famous Russian prince.

'Oh! a superbly built man, very fair and fresh-coloured. I am sure that
Nise will be the very image of him.'

By this time Boisgelin had apparently come to the conclusion that it
was not the correct thing to await one's guests under an oak tree--only
commonplace _bourgeois_ after retiring from business into the country
could venture to do so--and accordingly he led the whole party towards
the drawing-room. At that moment Monsieur Jérôme made his appearance,
in his little conveyance propelled by a servant. The old man had
insisted on living quite apart from the other inmates of La Guerdache;
he had his own hours for rising, going to bed, and going out; and he
invariably took his meals by himself. He would not let the others
occupy themselves with him, and indeed it was an established rule in
the house that he should not even be spoken to. Thus, when he suddenly
appeared before them they contented themselves with bowing in silence,
Suzanne alone smiling and giving him a long and affectionate glance.
On his side Monsieur Jérôme, who was starting on one of those long
promenades which at times kept him out of doors the whole afternoon,
gazed at the others fixedly like some forgotten onlooker who has
ceased to belong to the world and no longer responds to salutations.
And beneath the cold keenness of the old man's stare Luc felt his
uneasiness, his torturing doubts return.

The drawing-room was a rich and extremely large apartment, hung with
red brocatelle and furnished sumptuously in the Louis-Quatorze style.
The party had scarcely entered it when some other guests arrived,
Sub-Prefect Châtelard, followed by Mayor Gourier, the latter's wife
Léonore, and their son Achille. Châtelard, who at forty could still
claim to be a good-looking man, was bald, with an aquiline nose, a
discreet mouth, and large eyes which shone keenly behind the glasses
he wore. He was a piece of Parisian wreckage, who, after losing his
hair and his digestion in the capital, had secured the sub-prefecture
of Beauclair as an asylum, thanks to an intimate friend who had been
pitchforked into office as a minister of state. Deficient in ambition,
suffering from a liver complaint, and realising the necessity of rest,
he had fallen upon pleasant lines there through making the acquaintance
of the beautiful Madame Gourier, with whom he carried on an unclouded
_liaison_, which was favourably viewed by those he governed, and even
accepted, it was said, by the lady's husband, the latter's thoughts
being given elsewhere. Léonore was still a fine-looking woman at
eight-and-thirty, fair, with large regular features, and she outwardly
displayed extreme piety, prudishness, and coldness; though according
to some accounts an everlasting brazier of passions blazed within her.
Gourier, a fat, common-looking man, ruddy, with a swollen neck and a
moon-like face, spoke of his wife with an indulgent smile. He paid far
more attention to the girls of his boot factory, which he had inherited
from his father, and in which he had personally made a fortune. The
only remaining tie between his wife and himself was their son Achille,
a youth of eighteen, who, although he was very dark, had his mother's
regular features and fine eyes, and evinced an amount of intelligence
and independence which confounded and annoyed both his parents. On
whatever terms they themselves lived together, they at all events
showed perfect agreement in the presence of strangers; and, indeed,
since Châtelard had made their acquaintance the happiness of their
household was cited as an example. Moreover, the administration of the
town was greatly facilitated by the close intercourse that prevailed
between the sub-prefect and the mayor.

But other guests were now arriving; for instance, Judge Gaume,
accompanied by his daughter Lucile, and followed by the latter's
betrothed, Jollivet, a captain on the retired list. Gaume, a man with a
long head, a lofty brow, and a fleshy chin, was barely five-and-forty,
but seemed desirous of remaining forgotten in that out-of-the-way nook
Beauclair on account of the terrible tragedy which had wrecked his
life. His wife, forsaken by a lover, had one evening killed herself
before him, after confessing her fault. And however frigid and severe
the judge might seem to be, he had really remained inconsolable,
tortured by that terrible catastrophe, and at the present time full
of fears for the future of his daughter, to whom he was extremely
attached, and who, as she grew up, had become more and more like her
mother. Short, and slight, and refined, and of an amorous disposition,
with melting eyes set in a bright face crowned with hair of a
golden-chestnut hue, Lucile ever reminded her father of her mother's
transgression, and for fear lest something similar should happen
to her, he had betrothed her as soon as she was twenty to Captain
Jollivet, though he realised in doing so that it would be painful for
him to part with her and that he would afterwards sink into bitter
solitude.

Captain Jollivet, though he looked rather worn for a man only
five-and-thirty years old, was none the less a handsome fellow with a
stubborn brow and victorious moustaches. Fever contracted in Madagascar
had compelled him to send in his papers; and having just then inherited
an income of twelve thousand francs a year, he had decided to establish
himself at Beauclair, his native place, and marry Lucile, whose cooing
turtle-dove ways had quite upset him. Gaume, who had no fortune of
his own, and lived poorly on his pay as a presiding judge, could not
decline the proposals of such a suitor. Yet his secret despair seemed
to increase, for never had he evinced more severity in applying the
law, rigorously following the strict, stern wording of the Code. People
said, however, that implacable as he might seem to be, he was really a
disheartened man, a disconsolate pessimist who doubted everything, and
particularly human justice. If that were true, what must have been his
sufferings, the sufferings of a judge who, while asking himself if he
has any right to do so, passes sentences on unhappy wretches who are
really the victims of everybody's crime?

Soon after the Gaumes came the Mazelles with their daughter Louise, a
child three years of age, another guest for the little table. These
Mazelles were a perfectly happy couple, two stout folks of the same
age--that is, little more than forty--and they had grown so much
alike in course of time that each now had the same rosy smiling face,
the same gentle parental way as the other. They had spent a hundred
thousand francs to install themselves in true _bourgeois_ fashion in
a fine substantial house surrounded by a fairly large garden near the
sub-prefecture; and they lived therein on an income of some fifteen
thousand francs a year derived from investments in Rentes, which to
their fancy alone seemed safe. Their happiness, the beatitude of their
life, which was now spent in doing nothing, had become proverbial.
Often were people heard to say: 'Ah! if one could only be like Monsieur
Mazelle who does nothing! He's lucky and no mistake!'

To this he answered that he had worked hard during ten years, and was
fully entitled to his fortune. The fact was that, after beginning life
as a petty commission agent in the coal trade, he had found a bride
with a dowry of fifty thousand francs, and had been skilful or perhaps
simply lucky enough to foresee the strikes, whose frequent recurrence
over a period of nearly ten years were destined to bring about a
considerable rise in the prices of French coal. His great stroke had
consisted in making sure at the lowest possible prices of some very
large stocks of coal abroad and in re-selling them at a huge profit
to French manufacturers when a sudden failure in their own supplies
was forcing them to close their works. At the same time Mazelle had
shown himself a perfect sage, retiring from business when he was nearly
forty--that is, as soon as he found himself in possession of the six
hundred thousand francs which, according to his calculation, would
ensure his wife and himself a life of perfect felicity. He had not
even yielded to the temptation of trying to make a million, for he was
far too much afraid that fortune might play him false. And never had
egotism triumphed more serenely, never had optimism a greater right to
say that everything was for the best in the best of worlds, than in
the case of these perfectly worthy people, who were very fond of one
another and of that tardy arrival, their little girl. Fully satisfied,
free from all feverishness, having no further ambition to satisfy,
they presented a perfect picture of happiness--the happiness which
shuts itself up and does not even glance at the unhappiness of others.
The only little flaw in this happiness lay in the circumstance that
Madame Mazelle, a very plump and blooming dame, imagined that she was
afflicted with some serious, nameless, undefinable complaint, on which
account she was all the more coddled by her ever-smiling husband, who
spoke with a kind of tender vanity about 'my wife's illness' in the
same way as he might have spoken of 'my wife's wonderful golden hair.'
Withal, this supposed illness gave rise to no sadness or fear. And it
was simply with astonishment that the worthy couple contemplated their
little girl, Louise, who was growing up so unlike either of them--that
is, dark, thin, and quick, with an amusing little head, which, with
its obliquely set eyes and slender nose, suggested that of a young
goat. This astonishment of theirs was rapturous, as if the child had
fallen from heaven as a present, to bring a little life into their
sunshiny house, which fell asleep so easily during their long hours of
placid digestion. Beauclair society willingly made fun of the Mazelles,
comparing them to pullets in a fattening pen, but it none the less
respected them, bowed to them, and invited them to its entertainments;
for with their fortune, which was so safe and substantial, they reigned
over the workers, the poorly, paid officials, and even the millionaire
capitalists, since the latter were always liable to some catastrophe.

At last the only other guest expected at La Guerdache that day, Abbé
Marle, the rector of St. Vincent, the rich parish of Beauclair,
arrived, none too soon, however, for the others were about to enter
the dining-room. He apologised for being late, saying that his duties
had detained him. He was a tall, strong man, with a square-shaped
face, a beak-like nose, and a large firm mouth. Still young, only
six-and-thirty, he would willingly have battled for the Faith had it
not been for a slight impediment of speech which rendered preaching
difficult. This explained why he was resigned to burying himself
alive at Beauclair. The expression of his dark stubborn eyes alone
testified to his past dream of a militant career. He was not without
intelligence, he perfectly understood the crisis through which
Catholicism was passing, and whilst preserving silence with respect
to the fears which he sometimes experienced when he saw his church
deserted by the masses, he clung strictly to the letter of the Church's
dogmas, feeling certain that the whole of the ancient edifice would
be swept away should science and the spirit of free examination
ever effect a breach in it. Moreover, he accepted the invitations
to La Guerdache without any illusions concerning the virtues of the
_bourgeoisie_. Indeed, he lunched and dined there in some measure from
a spirit of duty, in order to hide the sores whose existence he divined
there under the cloak of religion.

Luc was delighted with the gay brightness and pleasant luxuriousness of
the spacious dining-room which occupied one end of the ground floor,
and had a number of large windows overlooking the lawns and trees
of the park. All that verdure seemed to belong to the room, which,
with its pearl-grey woodwork and hangings of a soft sea-green, became
like the banqueting-hall of some idyllic _féerie champêtre_. And the
richness of the table, the whiteness of the napery, the blaze of the
silver and crystal, the flowers, too, spread over the board, were a
festival for the eyes amidst a wondrous setting of light and perfume.
So keenly was Luc impressed by it all, that his experiences on the
previous evening suddenly arose before his mind's eyes, and he pictured
the black and hungry toilers tramping through the mud of the Rue de
Brias, the puddlers and drawers roasting themselves before the hellish
flames of the furnaces, and particularly Bonnaire in his wretched home,
and the woeful Josine seated on the stairs, saved from starving that
night, thanks to the loaf which her little brother had stolen. How
much unjust misery there was! And on what accursed toil, what hateful
suffering was based the luxury of the idle and the happy!

At table, where covers were laid for fifteen, Luc found himself placed
between Fernande and Delaveau. Contrary to proper usage, Boisgelin,
who had Madame Mazelle on his right, had placed Fernande on his left.
He ought to have assigned that seat to Madame Gourier, but in friendly
houses it was understood that Léonore ought always to be placed near
her friend Sub-Prefect Châtelard. The latter naturally occupied the
place of honour on Suzanne's right hand, Judge Gaume being on her
left. As for Abbé Marle, he had been placed next to Léonore, his most
assiduous and preferred penitent. Then the betrothed couple, Captain
Jollivet and Lucile, sat at one end of the table facing young Achille
Gourier, who, at the other end, remained silent between Delaveau and
the abbé. And Suzanne, full of foresight, had given orders for the
little table to be set behind her, so that she might be near to watch
it. Seven-year-old Paul presided over it between three-year-old Nise
and three-year-old Louise, who both behaved in a somewhat disquieting
fashion, for their little paws were continually straying over the
plates and into the glasses. Luckily a maid remained beside them, while
at the larger table the waiting was done by the two valets, whom the
coachman assisted.

As soon as the scrambled eggs, accompanied by sauterne, had been
served, a general conversation was started. Reference was made to the
bread supplied by the Beauclair bakers.

'It was impossible for me to get used to it,' said Boisgelin. 'Their
fancy bread is uneatable, so I get mine from Paris.'

He said this in the simplest manner possible, but they all glanced with
vague respect at their rolls. However, the unpleasant occurrences of
the previous evening still haunted every mind, and Fernande exclaimed:
'By the way, do you know that they pillaged a baker's shop in the Rue
de Brias last night?'

Luc could not help laughing. 'Oh, madame, pillaged!' said he, 'I was
there. It was simply a wretched child who stole a loaf.'

'We were there too,' declared Captain Jollivet, ruffled by the
compassionate, excusing tone of the young man's voice. 'It is much to
be regretted that the child was not arrested, at least for example's
sake.'

'No doubt, no doubt,' Boisgelin resumed. 'It seems that there has been
a lot of thievery since that wretched strike. I have been told of a
woman who broke open a butcher's till. All the tradespeople complain
that prowlers fill their pockets with things set out for sale.... And
so our beautiful new prison is now receiving tenants--is that not so,
Monsieur le Président?'

Gaume was about to answer when the Captain violently resumed: 'Yes,
theft unpunished begets pillage and murder. The spirit predominating
among the working-class population is becoming something frightful.
Some of you were out in the town yesterday evening like I was. Didn't
you notice that spirit of revolt, of passing menace--a kind of terror
that made the town tremble? Besides, that Anarchist, Lange, did not
hesitate to tell you what he intended doing. He shouted that he would
blow up Beauclair and sweep away the ruins. As he, at any rate, is
under lock and key, I hope that he will be sharply looked after.'

Jollivet's outspokenness astonished everybody. What was the use of
recalling that gust of terror of which he spoke, and which the others
like himself had felt passing--why revive it, as it were, at that
pleasant table laden with such nice and beautiful things? A chill
spread round; the threat of what the morrow might bring forth resounded
in the ears of all those nervous _bourgeois_ amidst the deep silence,
whilst the valets came and went, offering trout.

Realising that the silence was embarrassing everybody, Delaveau at last
exclaimed: 'Lange shows a detestable spirit. The Captain's right; as
the rascal is under lock and key he should be kept there.'

But Judge Gaume was wagging his head. At last, in his severe way, his
countenance quite rigid, in such wise that one could not tell what
might lurk behind his professional stiffness, he retorted, 'I must
inform you that this morning the investigating magistrate, acting on my
advice, after subjecting the man to a simple interrogatory, made up his
mind to release him.'

Protests arose, concealing real fear beneath humorous exaggeration:
'Oh, do you want us all to be murdered then, Monsieur le Président?'

Gaume replied by slowly waving his hand, a gesture which might mean
many things. After all, the wise course was certainly to refrain from
imparting, by some uproarious trial at law, any excessive importance
to the words which Lange had cast to the winds, for the more those
words were spread, the more would they bear fruit.

Jollivet, who had calmed down, sat gnawing his moustaches, for he did
not wish to contradict his future father-in-law openly. But Sub-Prefect
Châtelard, who had hitherto contented himself with smiling, in the
affable way of a man who puts faith in nothing, exclaimed: 'Ah! I quite
understand your views, Monsieur le Président. What you have done is,
in my opinion, excellent policy. The spirit of the masses is not worse
at Beauclair than it is elsewhere. That spirit is everywhere the same;
one must strive to accustom oneself to it; and the proper course is to
prolong the present state of things as much as possible, for it seems
certain that when a change comes it will be for the worse.'

Luc fancied that he could detect some jeering irony in the words and
manner of that ex-reveller of Paris, who was doubtless amused by the
covert terror of the provincial _bourgeois_ around him. Moreover,
Châtelard's practical policy was summed up entirely in what he had
said; apart from that he evinced superb indifference, no matter what
minister might be in office. The old Government machine continued
working from force of acquired motion; there was grating and there were
jolts, and things would fall to pieces and crumble into dust as soon as
the new social system might appear. There would be a nasty tumble at
the end of the journey, as Châtelard, laughing, was wont to say among
his intimates. The machine rolled on because it was wound up, but at
the first really serious jolt it would go to the deuce. Even the vain
efforts that were attempted to strengthen the crazy old coach, the
timid reforms which were essayed, the useless new laws which men voted
without even daring to put the old ones into force, the furious surging
of ambitions and personalities, the wild, rageful battling of parties,
were only calculated to aggravate and hasten the supreme agony. Such
a _régime_ must feel astonished every morning at finding itself still
erect, and must say to itself that the downfall would surely occur on
the morrow. He, Châtelard, being in no wise a fool, arranged matters
so as to last as long as the _régime_ did. A prudent Republican, as
it was needful to be, he represented the Government just sufficiently
to retain his post, doing only what was necessary, and desiring above
all things to live in peace with those under his jurisdiction. And if
everything should topple over, he at all events would try not to be
under the ruins!

'You see very well,' he concluded, 'that the unfortunate strike which
rendered us all so anxious has ended in the best manner possible.'

Mayor Gourier was not endowed with the sub-prefect's caustic
philosophy, although as a rule they agreed together in such wise as to
facilitate the administration of the town. He now protested: 'Allow
me, allow me, my dear friend, too many concessions might carry us a
long way. I know the working classes, I am fond of them, I am an old
Republican, a democrat of the early days. But if I grant the workers
the right to improve their lot, I will never accept the subversive
theories, those ideas of the Collectivists, which would bring all
civilised society to an end.'

In his loud but trembling voice rang out the fears which he had lately
experienced, the ferocity of a threatened _bourgeois_, the innate
desire for repression which had at one moment displayed itself in a
desire to summon the military, in order that the strikers might be
forced to resume work under the penalty of being shot.

'Well, for my part, I've done everything for the workpeople at my
factory,' he continued; 'they've got relief funds, pension funds, cheap
dwellings, every advantage imaginable. So what more can they want? It
seems as if the world were coming to an end--is that not so, Monsieur
Delaveau?'

The manager of the Abyss had so far continued eating ravenously, and
listening, scarcely taking part in the conversation.

'Oh, coming to an end,' said he, in his quiet energetic manner; 'I
certainly hope that we sha'n't allow the world to end without fighting
a little to make it last. I am of the same opinion as Monsieur le
Sous-Préfet, the strike has ended very well. And I have even had some
good news. Bonnaire, the Collectivist, the leader whom I was compelled
to take back, has done justice to himself--he quitted the works last
night. He is an excellent workman, no doubt; but he's wrong-headed--a
dangerous dreamer. And it is dreaming that leads one to precipices.'

He went on talking, striving to appear very loyal and just. Each had a
right to defend his own interests. By going out on strike the workmen
fancied that they were serving their interests. He, as manager of the
works, defended the capital, the plant, the property entrusted to
him. And he was willing to show some indulgence, since he felt himself
to be the stronger. His one duty was simply to maintain what existed,
the working of the wage-system such as it had been organised by the
wisdom born of experience. All practical truth centred in that; apart
from it there were but criminal dreams, such as that Collectivism,
the enforcement of which would have brought about the most frightful
catastrophes. He also spoke of workmen's unions and syndicates, which
he resisted energetically, for he divined that they might prove a
powerful engine of war. At the same time he triumphed like an active
hard-working manager, who was well pleased that the strike had not
caused greater ravages or become a positive disaster, in such wise as
to prevent him from carrying out his engagements with his cousin that
year.

Just then the two valets were handing round some roast partridges,
whilst the coachman, acting as butler, offered some St. Émilion.

'And so,' said Boisgelin, in a bantering way, 'you promise me that we
sha'n't be reduced to potatoes, and that we may eat those partridges
without any twinges of remorse?'

A loud burst of laughter greeted this jest, which was deemed extremely
witty.

'I promise it,' gaily said Delaveau, who laughed like the others. 'You
may eat and sleep in peace--the revolution which is to carry away your
income won't take place to-morrow.'

Luc, who remained silent, could feel his heart beating. That was indeed
the position, the wage system, the capitalist exploiting the labour of
the others. He advanced five francs, made them produce seven francs,
by making the workmen toil, and spent the two francs profit. At least,
however, that man Delaveau worked, exerted his brain and his muscles;
but by what right did Boisgelin, who had never done anything, live and
eat in such luxury? Luc was struck, too, by the demeanour of Fernande,
who sat beside him. She appeared to be greatly interested in that
conversation, though it seemed little suited to women. She grew both
excited and delighted over the defeat of the toilers and the victory
of that wealth which she devoured like the young wolf she was. Her red
lips curved over, displaying her sharp teeth while she laughed the
laugh of cruelty, as if indeed she were at last satisfying her rancour
and her cravings, in front of the gentle woman whom she was deceiving,
between her foppish lover, whom she dominated, and her blind husband,
who was gaining future millions for her. She seemed to be already
intoxicated by the flowers, the wines, and the viands, intoxicated
especially by perverse delight at employing her radiant beauty to bring
disorder and destruction into that home.

'Isn't there some question of a charity bazaar at the sub-prefecture?'
asked Suzanne of Châtelard in a soft voice. 'Suppose we talk of
something else besides politics?'

The gallant sub-prefect immediately adhered to her views: 'Yes,
certainly, it is unpardonable on our part. I will give every _fête_ you
may desire, dear madame.'

From that moment the general conversation ceased; each reverted to
his or her favourite subject. Abbé Marle had contented himself with
nodding approvingly in response to certain declarations made by
Delaveau. The priest behaved with great prudence in that circle, for he
was distressed by the misconduct of Boisgelin, the scepticism of the
sub-prefect, and the open hostility of the mayor, who made a parade of
anti-clerical ideas. Ah! how the abbé's gorge rose at the thought of
that social system which he was called upon to support, and which ended
in such a _débâcle_! His only consolation was the devout sympathy of
Léonore, who sat beside him, muttering pretty phrases whilst the others
argued. She likewise transgressed, but at least she confessed her
faults, and he could already picture her at the tribunal of penitence,
accusing herself of having derived too much pleasure at that lunch from
the attentions of Sub-Prefect Châtelard, who sat on her other hand.

Like the priest, worthy Monsieur Mazelle, who remained almost forgotten
between Judge Gaume and Captain Jollivet, had only opened his mouth
to take in quantities of food, which he chewed very slowly, owing to
his fears of indigestion. Political matters no longer interested him,
since, thanks to his income, he had placed himself beyond the reach
of storms. Nevertheless he was compelled to lend ear to the theories
of the captain, who was eager to pour forth his feelings on such a
quiet listener. The army, so the captain said, was the school of the
country. France, in accordance with her immutable traditions, could
only be a warlike nation, and would only recover equilibrium when she
reconquered Europe and reigned by force of arms. It was stupid of
people to accuse military service of disorganising labour. What labour,
whose labour, indeed? Did anything of that exist? Socialism! why it
was a stupendous farce! There would always be soldiers, and down below
there must be people to do the fatigue duties. A sabre could at any
rate be seen, but who had ever seen the Idea, that famous Idea, the
pretended Queen of the Earth. The captain laughed at his own wit; and
worthy Mazelle, who felt profound respect for the army, complacently
laughed with him; whilst Lucile, his betrothed, examined him in silence
with the side-long glances of an enigmatical _amorosa_, smiling faintly
and strangely the while, as if amused to think what a husband he would
make. Meantime, at the other end of the table, young Achille Gourier
immured himself in the silence of a witness and a judge, his eyes
gleaming with all the contempt which he felt for his parents and the
friends with whom they compelled him to take lunch.

However, at the moment when a _pâté_ of ducks' liver, a perfect marvel,
was being served, another voice arose, and was heard by everybody--it
was that of Madame Mazelle, hitherto silent, busy with her plate and
her mysterious complaint which required ample nourishment. Finding
herself neglected by Boisgelin, whose attention was given entirely
to Fernande, she had ultimately fallen on Gourier, to whom she gave
particulars about her home, her perfect agreement with her husband, and
her ideas of the manner in which she meant to have her daughter Louise
educated.

'I won't let them worry her brain, ah! no, indeed! why should she
worry? She's an only child, she will inherit all our Rentes.'

All at once, without reflecting, Luc yielded to his desire to protest:
'But don't you know, madame,' said he, 'that they are going to suppress
the right of inheritance? Oh yes, very soon, directly the new social
system is organised.'

All round the table it was thought that he was jesting, and Madame
Mazelle's stupefaction was so comical to behold that everybody helped
on the joke. The right of inheritance suppressed! How infamous! What!
the money earned by the father would be taken from the children, and
they in their turn would have to earn their own bread? Why, yes, of
course, that was the logical outcome of Collectivism. Mazelle, quite
scared by it all, came to his wife's help, saying that he did not feel
anxious, for his whole fortune was invested in State Rentes, and nobody
would ever dare to touch the national ledgers.

'That's just where you make a mistake, monsieur,' Luc quietly resumed;
'the national ledgers will be burnt and Rentes will be abolished. It is
already resolved upon.'

At this the Mazelles nearly suffocated. Rentes abolished! It seemed
to them that this was as impossible as the fall of the sky upon their
heads. And they were so distracted, so terrified by the threat of
such an inversion of the laws of nature that Châtelard good-naturedly
decided to reassure them. Turning slightly towards the little table,
where, in spite of Paul's fine example, the little girls Nise and
Louise had not behaved particularly well, he said in a bantering
fashion: 'No, no, all that won't happen to-morrow; your little girl
will have time to grow up and have children of her own--only it will be
as well to clean her, for I fancy that she has been dipping her face in
the whipped cream.'

They went on jesting and laughing. Yet one and all had felt the great
breath of To-morrow passing, the breeze of the Future blowing across
the table, whence it swept away iniquitous luxury and poisonous
enjoyment. And they all rushed to the help of Rentes and capital, the
_bourgeois_ and capitalist society based upon the wage system.

'The Republic will kill itself on the day it touches property,' said
Mayor Gourier.

'There are laws, and everything would crumble to pieces on the day they
might cease to be enforced,' said Judge Gaume.

'Dash it! the army's there at all events, and the army won't allow the
rogues to triumph,' said Captain Jollivet.

'Let God act, He is all kindness and justice,' said Abbé Marle.

Boisgelin and Delaveau contented themselves with approving, for it was
to their help that all the social forces hastened. And Luc understood
the position clearly: it was the Government, the administration, the
magistracy, the army, the clergy which sustained the decaying social
system, the monstrous structure of iniquity in which the murderous toil
of the greater number fed the corrupting sloth of the few. This was
another phase of the terrible vision which he had beheld the previous
day. After gazing upon the rear he now saw the front of that rotting
social edifice which was collapsing upon every side. And even here,
amidst all that luxury and those triumphal surroundings, he had again
heard it cracking. He could detect that those people were all anxious
but strove to forget and to divert their minds whilst rushing on
towards the precipice.

The dessert was now being served, and the table was covered with pastry
and magnificent fruit. The better to bring back the good spirits of
the Mazelles, the others, as soon as the champagne was poured out,
began to sing the praises of idleness, divine idleness, which belongs
not to this world. And then Luc, as he continued reflecting, suddenly
understood what it was that weighed upon his mind: it was the problem
of how the future might be freed, in presence of those folks who
represented the unjust and tyrannical authority of the past.

After coffee, which was served in the drawing-room, Boisgelin suggested
a stroll through the park as far as the farm. Throughout the repast he
had been prodigal in his attentions to Fernande, but she still gave him
the cold shoulder, refraining even from answering him, and reserving
her bright smiles for the sub-prefect seated in front of her. Matters
had been like this for a week past, and were always so when he did
not immediately satisfy one of her caprices. The real cause of their
present quarrel was that she had insisted on his giving a stag-hunt
for the sole delight of showing herself at it in a new and appropriate
costume. He had taken the liberty to refuse, as the expenses would be
very great; and, moreover, Suzanne, having been warned of the matter,
had begged him to be a little reasonable. Thus a struggle had ended by
breaking out between the two women, and it was a question which of them
would win the victory, the wife or the other.

During lunch Suzanne's sad and gentle eyes had missed nothing of
Fernande's affected coldness and her husband's anxious attentions. And
so when the latter proposed a stroll she understood that he was simply
seeking an opportunity to be alone with her sulky rival, in order to
defend himself and win her back. Greatly hurt by this, but incapable
of battling, Suzanne sought refuge in her suffering dignity, saying
that she should remain indoors in order to keep the Mazelles company.
For they, from considerations of health, never bestirred themselves on
leaving table. Judge Gaume, his daughter Lucile, and Captain Jollivet
also declared that they should not go out; and this led to Abbé Marle
proposing to play the judge a game of chess. Young Achille Gourier
had already taken leave, under pretext that he was preparing for
an examination, but in reality to indulge freely in his favourite
reveries as he strolled about the country. And so only Boisgelin, the
sub-prefect, the Delaveaus, the Gouriers, and Luc repaired to the farm,
walking slowly towards it under the lofty trees.

On the way thither things passed off very correctly; the five men
walked on together, whilst Fernande and Léonore brought up the rear,
deep apparently in some confidential chat. Among the men Boisgelin
had now begun to bewail the misfortunes of agriculture: the soil was
becoming bankrupt, said he, and all who tilled it were hastening to
ruin. Châtelard and Gourier agreed that the terrible problem for
which no solution had hitherto been found lay in the direction of
agriculture: for in order that the industrial workman might produce,
it was necessary that bread should be cheap, and if corn fetched only
a low price, the peasant, reduced to beggary, could no longer purchase
the products of industry. Delaveau, for his part, believed that a
solution might be found in an intelligent system of protection. As for
Luc, who took a passionate interest in the matter, he did his utmost to
make the others talk, and Boisgelin ended by confessing that his own
despair came largely from the continual difficulties that he had with
his farmer Feuillat, whose demands increased year by year. He would
doubtless have to part with the man when the renewal of the lease was
discussed, for the farmer had asked for a reduction of terms amounting
to no less than ten per cent. The worst was that, fearing his lease
might not be renewed, he had ceased to take proper care of the land,
which he no longer manured, since it was not for him, he said, to work
for his successor's benefit. This, of course, meant the sterilisation
of the property, whose value would thus be annihilated.

'And it's everywhere the same,' continued Boisgelin; 'people don't
agree; the workers want to take the places of the owners, and
agriculture suffers from the quarrel. At Les Combettes now, that
village yonder, whose land is only separated from mine by the Formerie
road, you can't imagine what little agreement there is among the
peasants, what efforts each of them makes to harm his neighbour,
paralysing himself the while! Ah, there was something good in feudality
after all! Those fine fellows would walk straight enough if they had
nothing of their own, and were convinced that they would never have
anything!'

This abrupt conclusion made Luc smile. Nevertheless, he was struck by
the unconscious confession that the pretended bankruptcy of the soil
came from a lack of agreement among those who tilled it. The party
was now quitting the park, and the young man's glance ranged over the
great plain of La Roumagne, formerly so famous for its fruitfulness,
but now accused of growing cold and sterile, and of no longer yielding
sustenance for its inhabitants. On the left spread the extensive lands
of Boisgelin's farm, whilst on the right Luc perceived the humble roofs
of Les Combettes, around which were grouped many small fields, cut
up into little morsels by repeated partition amongst numerous heirs,
in such wise that the whole resembled a stretch of patchwork. And
Luc asked himself what could possibly be done in order that cordial
agreement might return, in order that from so many contradictory
and barren efforts a great impulse of solidarity might spring, with
universal happiness for its object.

It so happened that as the promenaders were approaching the farmhouse,
a large and fairly well-kept building, they heard some loud swearing
and thumping of fists upon a table--in fact, all the uproar of a
violent quarrel. Then they saw two peasants, one stout and heavy,
and the other thin and nervous, come out of the house, and after
threatening one another for a last time, go off, each by a different
path, through the fields towards Les Combettes.

'What's the matter, Feuillat?' Boisgelin inquired of the farmer who had
come to his threshold.

'Oh! it's nothing, monsieur; only two more fellows of Les Combettes who
had a dispute about a boundary, and wanted me to umpire between them.
The Lenfants and the Yvonnots have been disputing together from father
to son for years and years past, and it maddens them nowadays merely to
catch sight of one another. It's of no use my talking reason to them.
You heard them just now! They'd like to devour one another. And, _mon
Dieu_, what fools they are! they'd be so happy and well off if they
would only reflect and agree together a little bit.'

Then, sorry, perhaps, that he had allowed this remark to escape him,
for it was not one which the master should have heard, Feuillat let his
eyelids fall, and with an expressionless, impenetrable face, resumed in
a husky voice: 'Would the ladies and gentlemen like to come in and rest
a moment?'

Luc, however, had previously seen the man's eyes glittering. He was
surprised to find him so wan and dry, as if his tall slim figure were
already grilled by the sunlight, although he was but forty years of
age. At the same time Feuillat was possessed of quick intelligence, as
the young man soon discovered on listening to his conversation with
Boisgelin. When the latter, in a laughing way, inquired if he had
thought over the matter of the lease, the farmer wagged his head and
answered briefly, like a careful diplomatist desirous of gaining his
point. He evidently kept back his real thoughts--the thought that the
land ought to belong to those who tilled it, to one and all of them, in
order that they might once more love and fertilise it. 'Love the soil!'
said he, with a shrug of the shoulders. His father and his grandfather
had loved it passionately, but what good had that done to them? For
his part, his love could wait until he was able to fertilise the soil
for himself and his kindred, and not for a landlord, whose one thought
would be to raise the rent as soon as the crops should increase. And
there was something else beneath the man's reticence, something that
he pictured whenever he tried to peer into the future: a reasonable
agreement among the peasantry, the reunion of all the subdivided
fields so that they might be worked in common, so that tillage might
be carried on upon a vast scale with the help of machinery. Such,
indeed, were the few ideas which had gradually come to his mind, ideas
which were best kept from the _bourgeoisie_, but which, all the same,
occasionally escaped him.

The promenaders had ended by entering the farmhouse to sit down there
and rest a moment; and Luc there again found the coldness and bareness,
the odour of toil and poverty with which he had been struck so much on
the previous evening at Bonnaire's home in the Rue des Trois Lunes.
Dry and ashen, like her man, La Feuillat stood there in an attitude of
silent resignation beside her one child, Léon, a big boy of twelve, who
already helped his father in the fields. And it was evident to Luc that
on all sides, among the peasants as among the industrial workmen, one
found labour accursed, dishonoured, regarded as a stain, a disgrace,
since it did not even provide food for the slave, who was riveted to
his toil as to a chain. In the neighbouring village of Les Combettes
the sufferings were certainly greater than at that farm; the dwellings
there were sordid dens, the life was that of domestic animals fed
upon sops; the Lenfants, with their son Arsène and their daughter
Olympe, the Yvonnots, who also had two children, Eugénie and Nicolas,
all found themselves in filthy abject wretchedness, and added to their
woes by their rageful passion to prey on one another. Luc, listening
and glancing around him, pictured all the horrors of that social hell,
telling himself the while, however, that the solution of the problem
lay in that direction, for as soon as a new social system should be
perfected one would necessarily have to come back to the earth, the
eternal nurse, the common mother who alone could provide men with daily
bread.

At last, on leaving the farm, Boisgelin said to Feuillat: 'Well you
must think it over, my good fellow. The land has gained in value, and
it's only just that I should profit by it.'

'Oh! it's all thought over now, monsieur,' the farmer answered. 'It
will suit me just as well to starve on the road as in your farm.' That
was his last word.

On the way back to La Guerdache, by another more solitary and shady
road of the park, the party of ladies and gentlemen broke up. The
sub-prefect and Léonore lingered in the rear, and soon found themselves
far behind the others, whilst Boisgelin and Fernande gradually drew
upon one side, and disappeared as if mistaking their way, straying
into lonely paths amidst their animated conversation. Meantime the
two husbands, Gourier and Delaveau, placidly continued following the
avenue, talking as they went about an article on the end of the strike
that had appeared in the 'Journal de Beauclair,' a little print with
a circulation of five hundred copies which was published by a certain
Lebleu, a petty clerical-minded bookseller, and which counted among
its contributors both Abbé Marle and Captain Jollivet. The mayor
deplored that the Deity should have been introduced into the affair,
though, like the manager of the Abyss, he approved of the general tone
of the article, which was a perfect chant of triumph celebrating the
victory of capital over the wage-earners in the most lyric style. Luc,
walking near the others, grew weary of hearing their comments on this
article; and at last, after manœuvring so as to let them distance him,
he plunged among the trees, confident that he would find La Guerdache
again as soon as was necessary.

How charming was the solitude amidst those dense thickets through which
the warm September sun sent a rain of golden sparks! For a time the
young man wandered at random, well pleased at finding himself alone,
at being able to breathe freely in the midst of nature, relieved of
the load that had oppressed him in the presence of all those folks who
weighed upon his mind and heart. Yet he was thinking of joining them
once more, when all at once near the Formerie road he came out into
some extensive meadows through which a little branch of the Mionne
coursed, feeding a large pond. And the scene which he there encountered
greatly amused him, fraught as it was with charm and hope.

Paul Boisgelin had obtained permission to take his two little guests,
Nise Delaveau and Louise Mazelle, to this spot. The maids in charge of
them were lying down under a willow and gossiping, paying no further
attention to the children. But the great feature of the adventure was
that the heir of La Guerdache and the young ladies in bibs had found
the pond in the possession of some working-class invaders, three
youngsters who had either climbed a wall or slipped through a hedge.
To his surprise Luc found that the leader and soul of the trespassing
expedition was Nanet, behind whom were Lucien and Antoinette Bonnaire.
Evidently enough it was Nanet who, profiting by the freedom of Sunday,
had led the others astray far from the Rue des Trois Lunes. And the
explanation of it all was simple enough. Lucien had fitted a little
boat with a mechanism that carried it over the water; and Nanet having
offered to take him to a fine pond he knew, one where nobody was ever
met, the little boat was now sailing unaided over the clear unrippled
pool. To the children it seemed quite a prodigy.

Lucien's stroke of genius had simply consisted in adapting the wheels
and clockwork springs of a little toy cart to a boat which he had
fashioned out of a piece of deal. This boat travelled quite thirty feet
through the water without the spring requiring to be wound afresh; but
unfortunately, in order to bring the boat back again it was necessary
to use a long pole, which on each occasion almost made the little
vessel sink.

Speechless with admiration, Paul and his young lady friends stood on
the bank of the pond, watching the wonderful boat. But Louise, with her
eyes glittering in her slender face, which suggested that of a playful
little goat, was soon carried away by a boundless desire to possess the
toy, and thrusting out her little fists she cried repeatedly: 'Want it!
Want it!'

Then, as Lucien, with the aid of his pole, brought the boat back to
shore, in order to wind up the spring afresh, she eagerly ran towards
him. Good nature and the pleasure of play brought them together.

'I made it, you know,' said the lad.

'Oh! let me see! give it me!' replied the damsel.

But that was asking him too much, and he energetically defended the
boat from the approach of her pillaging hands.

'No, no,' said he, 'it gave me too much trouble. Leave go or you'll
break it.'

However, finding her very pretty and gay, he became more cordial, and
said to her: 'I'll make you another one if you like.'

Then he put the boat in the water again, and the wheels once more
began to revolve, whilst Louise accepted his offer, clapping her hands
and sitting down on the grass by his side, in her turn won over, and
treating him as if he were an habitual playfellow.

Meantime it vaguely occurred to Paul, who was the oldest of the whole
party, quite a little man of seven, that he ought to find out who the
others were. Noticing Antoinette, he felt emboldened by her amiable
demeanour, her healthy, pretty face, so he inquired: 'How old are you?'

'I'm four years old, but papa says I look as if I was six.'

'Who's your papa?'

'Who is papa? why, papa, of course, silly!'

The little minx laughed in such a pretty way that Paul regarded her
answer as decisive, and questioned her no further, but sat down by her
side, in such wise that they at once became the best friends in the
world. She looked so pleasant with her good health and pert expression
that he doubtless failed to notice that she wore a very simple woollen
frock devoid of all pretensions to elegance.

'And your papa,' said she. 'Do all these trees belong to him? What a
lot of room you have to play in! We got in through the hole in the
hedge over there, you know.'

'It isn't allowed,' said Paul. 'And I'm not often allowed to come here,
since I might fall into the water. But it's so amusing! You mustn't say
anything, because we should get punished if you did.'

But all at once a dramatic incident occurred. Master Nanet, who was
so fair and wavy-haired, had been standing in admiration before Nise,
who was yet fairer and more wavy-haired than himself. They looked like
two toys, and they speedily ran towards one another, as if indeed it
were needful that they should pair off, and had been awaiting that
meeting. Catching hold of each other's hands they laughed face to face,
and played at pushing. Then Nanet, in a spirit of bravado, exclaimed:
'There's no need of a pole to get his boat. I'd go and fetch it in the
water, I would!'

Stirred to enthusiasm, Nise, who likewise favoured extraordinary
diversions, seconded the proposal: 'Yes, yes, we all ought to get into
the water! Let's all take our shoes off!'

Then, however, as she leant over the pond she almost fell into it. At
this, all her girlish boastfulness abandoned her, and she raised a
piercing shriek when she saw the water wetting her boots. But the lad
bravely rushed forward, caught hold of her with his little arms, which
were already strong, and carried her like a trophy to the grass, where
she again began to laugh and play with him, the pair of them rolling
about like a couple of romping kids. Unfortunately the shrill cry which
Nise had raised in her fright had roused the maids from their forgetful
gossiping under the willow. They rose, and were stupefied at the sight
of the invaders, those youngsters who had sprung they knew not whence,
and who had the impudence to romp with the children of well-to-do
_bourgeois_. The servants hurried up with such angry mien that Lucien
hastened to take possession of his boat, for fear lest it should be
confiscated, and ran off as fast as his little legs would carry him,
followed by Antoinette and even Nanet, who was likewise panic-stricken.
They rushed to the hedge, fell flat upon their stomachs, slipped out
and disappeared, whilst the servants returned to La Guerdache with
their three charges, agreeing between themselves that they would say
nothing of what had occurred, in order that nobody might be scolded.

Luc remained alone, laughing, amused by the scene that he had thus come
upon, under the paternal sun, in the midst of friendly nature. Ah!
the dear little ones, how soon they agreed together, how easily they
overcame all difficulties, ignorant as they were of all fratricidal
struggles; and what hope of a triumphant future they brought with them!

In five minutes the young man reached La Guerdache again, and there
he once more fell into the horrible present, reeking of egotism, the
hateful battle-field un which all evil passions contended. It was now
four o'clock, and the Boisgelins' guests were taking leave.

Luc was most struck, however, on perceiving Monsieur Jérôme reclining
in his bath-chair on the left of the flight of steps. The old gentleman
had just returned from his long promenade, and had signed to his
servant to leave him there a little while in the warmth of the sun, as
if indeed he desired to witness the departure of the guests invited
to the house that day. On the steps, amongst the ladies and gentlemen
all ready to depart, stood Suzanne, waiting for her husband, who had
lingered in the park with Fernande. Some minutes had elapsed after
the return of the others when she at last saw Boisgelin appear with
the young woman. They were walking quietly side by side, and chatting
together as if their long stroll were the most natural thing in the
world. Suzanne asked no explanations, but Luc plainly saw that her
hands trembled, and that an expression of dolorous bitterness passed
over her face between her smiles, for she had to play the part of a
good hostess and affect amiability. And she felt keenly wounded, and
could not help starting when Boisgelin, addressing Captain Jollivet,
declared that he should soon go to see him, in order that they might
consult together and organise that stag-hunt which hitherto he had but
vaguely thought of. Thus the die was cast, the wife was defeated, the
other had won the day, had imposed her foolish and wasteful whim upon
her lover during that long stroll which for impudence was tantamount
to a publicly given assignation. Suzanne's heart rose rebelliously at
the thought of it all. Why should she not take her son and go away
with him? Then by a visible effort she calmed herself, becoming very
dignified and lofty, bent on shielding the honour of her name and her
house with all the abnegation of a virtuous woman, relapsing into the
silence of heroic affection, that silence in which she had resolved to
live, since it would protect her from all the mire around her. Luc, who
could divine everything, now only detected her torment in the quiver of
her feverish hand when he pressed it on bidding her good-bye.

Monsieur Jérôme, meanwhile, had watched the scene with those eyes of
his, clear like spring water, in which one wondered whether there
yet lingered intelligence to understand and judge things. And he
afterwards witnessed the departure of the guests--that departure which
suggested a _défilé_ of all the elements of human power, all the
social authorities, the masters who served as examples to the masses.
Châtelard went off in his carriage with Gourier and Léonore, the
latter of whom offered a seat to Abbé Marle, in such wise that she and
the priest sat face to face with the sub-prefect and the mayor. Then
Captain Jollivet, who drove a hired tilbury, carried off Judge Gaume
and his betrothed Lucile, the former anxiously watching his daughter's
languishing turtle-dove airs. Next the Mazelles, who had arrived in a
huge landau, climbed into it again as into a soft bed, where they lay
back, completing their digestion. And Monsieur Jérôme, to whom they all
bowed in silence, according to the custom of the house, watched them
all go, like a child may watch passing shadows, without the faintest
expression of any feeling appearing on his cold face.

Only the Delaveaus remained, and the manager of the Abyss insisted on
giving Luc a lift in Boisgelin's victoria, in order to spare him the
necessity of walking. It would be easy enough to set the young man down
at his door, since they would pass La Crêcherie on their way. As there
was only a folding bracket seat Fernande would take Nise on her lap,
and the maid would sit beside the coachman.

'Come, Monsieur Froment, it will be a real pleasure for me to drive you
home,' Delaveau insisted in his most obliging way.

Luc ended by accepting the offer. Then Boisgelin clumsily referred to
the hunt again, inquiring if the young man would still be at Beauclair
in order to attend it. Luc answered that he could not tell how long he
might be in the district, but at all events they must not rely on him.
Suzanne listened with a smile. Then, her eyes moistening at the thought
of his brotherly sympathy, she again pressed his hand, saying: '_Au
revoir_, my friend.'

When the victoria eventually started, Luc's eyes for the last time met
those of Monsieur Jérôme, which, it seemed to him, were travelling from
Fernande to Suzanne, slowly taking note of the supreme destruction with
which his race was threatened. But was not that an illusion on Luc's
part, was there not in the depths of those eyes merely the emotion, the
vague smile which always gleamed therein whenever the old man looked at
his dear granddaughter, the only one whom he still loved, and whom he
was still willing to recognise?

Whilst the victoria was rolling towards Beauclair Luc promptly learnt
why Delaveau had been so anxious to drive him home, for the manager
again began to question him about his sudden journey--what its purpose
might be, and what Jordan would do with reference to the management
of his blast-furnace now that the old engineer Laroche was dead.
One of Delaveau's secret projects had been to buy the blast-furnace
as well as the extensive tract of land which separated it from the
steel-works, in such wise as to double the value of the Abyss. But the
whole constituted a big mouthful, and as he did not expect to have
the necessary money for such a purchase for a long time to come, he
had only thought of slow, progressive extension. On the other hand,
the sudden death of Laroche had now quickened his desires, and he
had fancied that he might perhaps be able to come to arrangements
with Jordan, whom he knew to be immersed in his favourite scientific
studies, and desirous of ridding himself of a business which brought
him a deal of worry. This was why the sudden arrival of Luc in response
to a summons from Jordan had greatly disturbed Delaveau, who feared
that the young man might upset the plans of which he had hitherto only
spoken indirectly. At the first questions which the manager put to him
in a good-natured way, Luc, although unable to understand everything,
became suspicious, and he therefore replied evasively:

'I know nothing, I have not seen Jordan for more than six months,'
said he. 'As for his blast-furnace, why, I suppose that he will simply
confide the management to some clever young engineer.'

Whilst he spoke, he noticed that Fernande's eyes never left him. Nise
had fallen asleep on the young woman's lap, and she kept silence,
seemingly greatly interested in the conversation of the others, as if
she could divine that her future was at stake, for she had already
detected that this young man was an enemy. Had he not sided with
Suzanne in the matter of the hunt; had not she, Fernande, seen them in
cordial agreement, with their hands clasped like brother and sister?
Then, feeling that war was virtually declared between them, she smiled
a keen, cruel smile, like one determined on victory.

'Oh! I merely mention the matter,' repeated Delaveau, beating a
retreat, 'because I was told that Jordan thought of confining himself
to his studies and discoveries. Some of the latter are admirable!'

'Yes, admirable!' repeated Luc, with the conviction of an enthusiast.

At last the carriage stopped before La Crêcherie, and the young man
alighted, thanked Delaveau, and found himself alone. He again felt
the great quiver that had come upon him during those two days which
beneficent destiny had granted him since his arrival at Beauclair. He
had there seen both sides of the hateful world whose framework was
falling to pieces from sheer rottenness: the iniquitous misery of
some, the pestilential wealth of others. Work, badly remunerated, held
in contempt, unjustly apportioned, had become mere torture and shame
when it should have been the very nobility, health, and happiness of
mankind. Luc's heart was bursting at the thought of it all, and his
brain seemed to open as if to give birth to the ideas which he had felt
within him for months past. And a cry for justice sprang from his whole
being. Ay, there was no other possible mission nowadays than that of
hastening to the succour of the wretched, and setting a little justice
once more upon the earth.


[1] £32,000.

[2] The Lycée Condorcet (formerly Bonaparte) has always been both the
most elegant and the most literary of all the Paris State colleges. Th.
de Banville, Dumas fils, the brothers de Goncourt, the younger Guizots,
Eugène Sue, Taine, Alphonse Karr, Prévost-Paradol, &c., were educated
there; and among those who sat on the forms in my time there--during
the Second Empire--were many who have since become distinguished French
journalists, authors, and statesmen.--_Trans._



IV


The Jordans were to return to Beauclair on the Monday by a train
arriving in the evening. And Luc spent the morning of that day in
strolling through the park of La Crêcherie, which was not more
than fifty acres in extent, though its exceptional situation, its
watercourses and superb greenery, made it quite a paradise, famous
throughout the whole region.

The house, a by no means large building of brick, of no particular
style, had been erected by Jordan's grandfather in the time of Louis
XVIII. on the site of an old château destroyed during the Revolution.
Close behind it rose the range of the Bleuse Mountains, that steep
gigantic wall which jutted out like a promontory at the point where the
Brias gorge opened into the great plain of La Roumagne. Protected in
this wise from the north winds, and looking towards the south, the park
was like a natural hot-house where eternal springtide reigned.

Thanks to a number of springs gushing forth in crystalline cascades
the rocky wall was covered with vigorous vegetation, and goat-paths,
flights of steps cut in the stone, ascended to the summit amidst
climbing plants and evergreen shrubs. Down below, the springs united,
and flowing on in a slow river, watered the whole park, the great
lawns, and the clumps of lofty trees, which were of the finest and
most vigorous kinds. Jordan had virtually left that luxuriant corner
of nature to look after itself, for he only employed one gardener and
two lads, who, apart from attending to the kitchen garden and a few
flower-beds below the house-terrace, simply had to keep things somewhat
tidy.

Jordan's grandfather, Aurélien Jordan de Beauvisage, was born in 1790
on the eve of the Reign of Terror. The Beauvisages, one of the most
ancient and illustrious families of the district, had then already
fallen from their high estate, and of their formerly vast territorial
possessions they only retained two farms--now annexed to Les
Combettes--and between two and three thousand acres of bare rock and
barren moor, a broad strip indeed of the lofty plateau of the Bleuse
Mountains. Aurélien was less than three years old when his parents were
compelled to emigrate, abandoning their flaming château one terrible
winter's night. And until 1816 Aurélien had his home in Austria, where
his mother and then his father died in swift succession, leaving him in
a fearful state of penury, reared in the hard school of manual toil,
with no other bread to eat than that which he earned as a worker in
an iron mine. He had just completed his twenty-sixth year when, under
Louis XVIII., he returned to Beauclair and found the ancestral property
still further diminished, for the two farms were lost, and there now
only remained the little park and the two or three thousand acres of
stones which nobody cared for. Misfortune had democratised Aurélien,
who felt that he could no longer be a Beauvisage. Henceforth then he
simply signed himself Jordan, and he married the daughter of a very
rich farmer of Saint-Cron, his wife's dowry enabling him to build on
the site of the old château the _bourgeoise_ brick residence in which
his grandson now dwelt. But he had become a worker, his hands were
still grimy, and he remembered the iron mine and blast-furnace where
he had toiled in Austria. Already in 1818 he began to look around him,
and, at last, among the desolate rocks of his domain, he discovered
a similar mine, the existence of which he had been led to suspect by
certain old stories told him by his parents. And then, half-way up the
ridge on a kind of natural landing or platform, above La Crêcherie, he
installed his own blast-furnace, the first established in the region.
From that moment he became absorbed in industrial toil, though without
ever realising any very large profits, for he lacked capital, and
his life proved one continual battle from that cause. His only title
to the gratitude of the district was that by the presence of his
blast-furnace he brought thither the iron-workers who had created all
the great establishments of the present time, among others being Blaise
Qurignon, the drawer by whom the Abyss had been founded in 1823.

Aurélien Jordan had but one son, Séverin, born to him when he was more
than five-and-thirty, and it was only when this son replaced him after
his death in 1852 that the blast-furnace of La Crêcherie became really
important. Séverin had married a Demoiselle Françoise Michon, daughter
of a doctor of Magnolles, and his wife proved a woman of exquisite
kindliness and very superior intelligence. In her were personified
the activity, wisdom, and wealth of the household. Guided, loved, and
sustained by her, her husband excavated fresh galleries in his mine,
increased the output of ore tenfold, and almost rebuilt the furnace in
order to endow it with the most perfect plant then known. And thus,
amidst the great fortune which they acquired, the only grief of the
Jordans was to remain for many years childless. They had been married
ten years, and Séverin was already forty, when a son, Martial, was at
last born to them; and ten years later they finally had a daughter,
Sœurette. This belated fruitfulness crowned their lives; Françoise,
who had been so good a wife, proved also a most admirable mother,
one who battled victoriously against death on behalf of her son, a
weakling, and endowed him with her own intelligence and kindliness.
Doctor Michon, her father, a humanitarian dreamer, full of divine
charitableness, a Fourierist and Saint-Simonian of the first days,
withdrew in his old age to La Crêcherie, where his daughter built him
a pavilion, the one indeed which Luc had lately occupied. There it was
that the doctor died among his books, amidst all the gaiety of sunshine
and flowers. And until the death of Françoise, the fondly loved mother,
which occurred five years after that of the grandfather and father, La
Crêcherie lived on amidst all the joy of never-failing prosperity and
felicity.

Martial Jordan was thirty years of age, and Sœurette was twenty, when
they first found themselves alone; and five years had now elapsed
since that time. He, in spite of his indifferent health, the frequent
illnesses of which his mother had cured him by force of love, had
passed through the Polytechnic School. But on his return to La
Crêcherie, finding himself master of his destiny, thanks to the large
fortune he inherited, he had relinquished all thoughts of official
appointments, and had taken passionately to the investigations which
the application of electricity offered to studious scientists. On one
side of the house he built a very spacious laboratory, installed the
necessary machinery for powerful motive force in an adjacent shed, and
then gradually took to special studies, surrendering himself almost
completely to the dream of smelting ore in electrical furnaces in a
practical way adapted to the requirements of industry. And from that
time he virtually cloistered himself, lived like a monk, absorbed in
his experiments, his great work, which became as it were his very
life. Beside him, his sister had now taken his dead mother's place;
and indeed, before long Sœurette was like his faithful guardian,
his good angel, one who took every care of him, and set round him
all the warm affection that he needed. Moreover she managed the
household, spared him many material worries, served him as a secretary
and assistant-preparator, rendered all sorts of help ever gently
and quietly with a placid smile upon her face. The blast-furnace
luckily gave no trouble, for the old engineer Laroche, a bequest of
Aurélien Jordan, the founder, had been there more than thirty years,
in such wise that the present owner, deeply immersed in his studies
and experiments, was able to detach himself entirely from business
matters. He left the worthy Laroche free to manage the blast-furnace
in accordance with the routine of years; for he himself had ceased to
bother about possible ameliorations, since he cared nothing for mere
relative, transitory improvements now that he had begun to seek the
radical change, the art of smelting by electrical means, which would
revolutionise the whole world of metallurgical industry. Indeed, it was
often Sœurette who had to intervene and come to a decision on certain
matters with Laroche, particularly when she knew that her brother's
mind was busy with some important investigation, and she did not wish
him to be disturbed by any outside matters. Now, however, Laroche's
sudden death had so thoroughly upset the usual well-regulated order
of things, that Jordan, who deemed himself sufficiently rich, and had
no ambition apart from his studies, would willingly have rid himself
of the blast-furnace by at once opening negotiations with Delaveau,
whose desires were known to him, had not Sœurette more prudently
obtained from him a promise that he would in the first place consult
Luc, in whom she placed great confidence. Thence had come the pressing
call addressed to the young man which had brought him so suddenly to
Beauclair.

Luc had first met the Jordans, brother and sister, at the Boisgelins'
residence in Paris, in which city they had established themselves
one winter in order to prosecute certain studies successfully. Great
sympathy had arisen between them, based, on Luc's side, upon his
great admiration for the brother, whose scientific talent transported
him, and upon deep affection mingled with respect for the sister,
who seemed to him like some divine personification of goodness. He
himself was then working with the celebrated chemist Bourdin, studying
some iron ores overcharged with sulphur and phosphates which it was
desired to turn to commercial use. And Sœurette recalled certain
particulars that he had given her brother on this subject one evening
which she well remembered. Now, for more than ten years the mine
discovered by Aurélien Jordan on the plateau of the Bleuse Mountains
had been abandoned, as in the veins reached by the workers sulphur and
phosphorus prevailed to such a point that the ore no longer yielded
enough metal to pay the cost of extraction. Thus the working of the
galleries had ceased, and the smeltery of La Crêcherie was now fed
by the Granval mines near Brias; a little railway line bringing the
ore, which was of fairly good quality, as well as the coal of the
neighbouring pits, to the charging platform of the furnace. But all
this was very costly, and Sœurette often thought of those chemical
methods, the employment of which, according to what Luc had said, might
perhaps enable them to work their own mine afresh. And in her desire to
consult the young man before her brother came to a positive decision,
she felt too that she ought to know the real value of what would be
ceded to Delaveau should a deed of sale indeed be arranged between La
Crêcherie and the Abyss.

The Jordans were to arrive at six o'clock, after twelve hours'
travelling, and Luc went to wait for them at the railway station,
driving thither in the carriage which was to bring them home. Jordan,
short and puny, had a somewhat vague, long, and gentle face, with hair
and beard of a faded brown. He alighted from the train wrapped in a
long fur overcoat, although that fine September day was a warm one.
With his keen, penetrating black eyes, in which all his vitality seemed
to have taken refuge, he was the first to perceive his friend Luc.

'Ah, my dear fellow!' said he, 'how kind of you to have waited for us!
You can't have an idea of the catastrophe that took us away, that poor
cousin of ours, dying like that, all alone, yonder, and we having to go
and bury him, when there's nothing we hate so much as travelling....
Well, it's all over now, and here we are.'

'And the health's good and you are not over-tired?' asked Luc.

'No, not too much. I was fortunately able to sleep.'

But Sœurette was in her turn coming up, after making sure that none
of the travelling-rugs had been left inside the carriage. She was not
pretty: like her brother she had a very slight figure, and was pale,
complexionless, indeed insignificant after the fashion of a woman who
is resigned to being a good housewife and nurse. And yet her tender
smiles lent infinite charm to her face, whose only beauty dwelt in
its passionate eyes, in the depths of which glowed all the craving
for love which lurked within her, but of which she herself was as yet
ignorant. Hitherto she had loved none excepting her brother, and him
she loved after the fashion of some cloistered maid, who for the sake
of her Deity renounces the whole world. Before even speaking to Luc she
called: 'Be careful, Martial--you ought to put on your scarf.'

Then, turning towards the young man, she showed herself charming, at
once giving proof of the keen sympathy she felt for him: 'How many
apologies we owe you, Monsieur Froment! What can you have thought of us
when you found us gone on your arrival! Have you been comfortable at
all events, have you been properly cared for?'

'Admirably--I've lived like a prince.'

'Oh! you are jesting. Before I started I took good care to give all
necessary orders so that you might lack nothing. But all the same I was
absent and unable to watch; and you cannot imagine how vexed I felt at
the idea of abandoning you like that in our poor empty house.'

They had got into the carriage, and the conversation continued as they
drove away. Luc fully reassured them at last by telling them that he
had spent two very interesting days, of which he would give them full
particulars later on. When they reached La Crêcherie, although the
night was falling, Jordan looked eagerly around him, so delighted at
returning to his wonted life that he gave vent to cries of joy. It
seemed to him as if he were coming back after an absence of several
weeks. How could one find any pleasure in roaming, said he, when
all human happiness lay in the little nook where one thought, where
one worked, freed by habit of the cares of life? Whilst waiting for
Sœurette to have the dinner served, Jordan washed himself in some warm
water, and then insisted on taking Luc into his laboratory, for he
himself was eager to return thither, saying with a light laugh that he
should have no appetite for dinner if he did not first of all breathe
the air of the room in which his life was spent.

The laboratory was a very large and lofty place, built of brick and
iron, with broad bay-windows facing the greenery of the park. An
immense table laden with apparatus was set in the centre, and all round
the walls were appliances, machine tools, with models, rough drafts
of plans, and electrical furnaces on a reduced scale in the corners.
A system of cables and wires hanging overhead from end to end of the
room brought the electrical motive force from the neighbouring shed and
distributed it among the appliances, tools, and furnaces, in order that
the necessary experiments might be made. And beside all this scientific
severity was a warm and cosy retreat in front of one of the windows, a
retreat with low bookcases and deep armchairs, the couch on which the
brother dozed at appointed hours, and the little table at which the
sister sat while watching over him or assisting him like a faithful
secretary.

Jordan touched a switch, and the whole room became radiant with a rush
of electric light.

'So here I am!' said he. 'Really now, I only feel all right when I'm
at home. By the way, that misfortune which compelled me to absent
myself happened just as I was becoming passionately interested in a new
experiment--I shall have to begin it again. But, _mon Dieu_! how well I
feel!'

He continued laughing; colour had come to his cheeks, and he showed far
more animation than usual. Leaning back on the couch in the attitude he
usually assumed when yielding to thought, he compelled Luc also to sit
down.

'I say, my good friend,' he continued, 'we have plenty of time--have we
not?--to talk of the matters which made me so desirous to see you that
I ventured to summon you here. Besides, it is necessary that Sœurette
should be present, for she is an excellent counsellor. So if you are
agreeable we will wait till after dinner, we will have our chat at
dessert. And meantime, how happy I feel at having you there in front
of me to tell you how I am getting on with my studies! They don't
progress very fast, but I work at them, and that's the great thing, you
know. It's enough if one works two hours a day.'

Then, this usually taciturn man went on chatting, recounting his
experiments, which as a rule he confided to nobody, excepting the trees
of his park, as he sometimes jestingly exclaimed. An electrical furnace
being already devised, he had at first simply sought how it might be
practically employed for the smelting of iron ore. In Switzerland,
where the motive power derived from the torrents enabled one to perform
certain work inexpensively, he had inspected furnaces which melted
aluminium under excellent conditions. Why should it not be possible to
treat iron in the same way? To solve the problem it was only necessary
to apply the same principles to a given case. The blast-furnaces in
use gave scarcely more than 1,600 degrees of heat,[1] whereas 2,000
were obtained with the electrical furnaces, a temperature which would
produce immediate fusion of perfect regularity. And Jordan had without
any difficulty planned such a furnace as he thought advisable, a simple
cube of brickwork, some six feet long on each side, the bottom and
crucible being of magnesia, the most refractory substance known. He had
also calculated and determined the volume of the electrodes, two large
cylinders of carbon, and his first real find consisted in discovering
that he might borrow from them the carbon necessary to disoxygenate
the ore, in such wise that the operation of smelting would be greatly
simplified, for there would be but little slag. If the furnace were
built, however, or at least roughed out, how was one to set it working
and keep it working in a practical, constant manner, in accordance with
industrial requirements?

'There!' said he, pointing to a model in a corner of the laboratory.
'There is my electrical furnace. Doubtless it needs to be perfected;
it is defective in various respects, there are little difficulties
which are not yet solved. Nevertheless, such as it is, it has given
me some pigs of excellent cast iron, and I estimate that a battery
of ten similar furnaces working for ten hours would do the work of
three establishments like mine kept alight both by day and night.
And what easy work it would be, without any cause for anxiety, work
which children might direct by simply turning on switches. But I must
confess that my pigs cost me as much money as if they were silver
ingots. And so the problem is plain enough: my furnace, so far, is
only a laboratory toy, and will only exist with respect to industrial
enterprise when I am able to feed it with an abundance of electricity
at a sufficiently low cost to render the smelting of iron ore
remunerative.'

Then he explained that for the last six months he had left his furnace
on one side to devote himself entirely to studying the transport of
electrical force. Might not economy already be realised by burning coal
at the mouth of the pit it came from, and by transmitting electrical
force by cables to the distant factories requiring it? That again was
a problem which many scientists had been endeavouring to solve for
several years, and unfortunately they all found themselves confronted
by a considerable loss of force during transit.

'Some more experiments have just been made,' said Luc with an
incredulous air. 'I really think that there is no means of preventing
loss.'

Jordan smiled with that gentle obstinacy, that invincible faith which
he brought into his investigations during the months and months which
he at times expended over them before arriving at the slightest grain
of truth.

'One must think nothing before one is quite certain,' said he. 'I
have already secured some good results; and some day electrical force
will be stored up, canalised, and directed hither and thither without
any loss at all. If twenty years' searching is necessary, well I'll
give twenty years. It's all very simple: one sets to work anew every
morning, one begins afresh until one finds--whatever should I myself do
if I did not begin again and again?'

He said this with such naïve grandeur that Luc felt moved as by a deed
of heroism. And he looked at Jordan, so slight, so puny of build, ever
in poor health, coughing, pain-racked under his scarves and shawls,
in that vast laboratory littered with gigantic appliances, traversed
by wires charged with lightning, and filled more and more each day by
colossal labour--the labour of a little insignificant being who went
to and fro, striving, battling to desperation, like an insect lost
amidst the dust of the ground. Where was it that he found not only
intellectual energy but also sufficient physical vigour to undertake
and carry through so many mighty tasks, for the accomplishment of which
the lives of several strong, healthy men seemed to be necessary? He
could hardly trot about, he could scarcely breathe, and yet he raised a
very world with his little hands, weak though they were, like those of
a sickly child.

However, Sœurette now made her appearance, and gaily exclaimed: 'What!
aren't you coming to dinner? I shall lock up the laboratory, my dear
Martial, if you won't be reasonable.'

The dining-room, like the _salon_--two rather small apartments as warm
and as cosy as nests, in which one detected the watchful care of a
woman's heart--overlooked a vast stretch of greenery, a panorama of
meadows and ploughed fields spreading to the dim distant horizon of La
Roumagne. But at that hour of night, although the weather was so mild,
the curtains were drawn. Luc now again noticed what minute attentions
the sister lavished on the brother. He, Martial, followed quite an
intricate regimen, having his special dishes, his special bread, and
even his special water, which was slightly warmed in order to 'take
the chill off it.' He ate like a bird, rose and went to bed early,
like the chickens, who are sensible creatures; then during the day
came short walks and rests between the hours that he gave to work. To
those who expressed astonishment at the prodigious amount of work that
he accomplished, and who thought him a terrible labourer, toiling from
morning till night and showing himself no mercy, he replied that he
worked scarcely three hours a day, two in the morning and one in the
afternoon. And even in the morning a spell of recreation came between
the two hours that he gave to work; for he could not fix his attention
upon a subject for more than one hour at a stretch without experiencing
vertigo, without feeling as if his brain were emptying. Never had he
been able to toil for a longer time, and his value rested solely in his
will-power, his tenacity, the passion that he imported into the work
which he undertook, and with which he persevered, on and on, in all
intellectual bravery, even if years went by before he brought it to a
head.

Luc now at last discovered an answer to that question which he had so
often asked himself; wherever did Jordan, who was so slight and weak,
find the strength requisite for his mighty tasks? He found it solely
in method, in the careful, well-reasoned employment of all his means,
however slight they might be. He even made use of his weakness, using
it as a weapon which prevented him from being disturbed by outsiders.
But above all else, he was ever intent on one and the same thing, the
work he had in hand. To that work he gave every minute at his disposal,
without ever yielding to discouragement or lassitude, but sustained by
the unfailing desperate faith which raises mountains. Is it known what
a mass of work one may pile up when one works only two hours a day on
some useful and decisive task, which is never interrupted by idleness
or fancy? Such work is like the grain of wheat which, accumulating,
fills the sack, or like the ever-falling drop of water which causes
the river to overflow. Stone by stone, the edifice rises, the monument
grows, until it o'ertops the mountains. And it was thus, by a prodigy
of method and personal adaptation, that this sickly little man, wrapped
in rugs and drinking his water warm for fear lest he should catch cold,
accomplished work of the mightiest kind, and this although he gave
to it only the few hours of intellectual health that he succeeded in
wresting from his physical weakness.

The dinner proved a very friendly and cheerful repast. The household
service was entirely in the hands of women, for Sœurette found men too
noisy and rough for her brother. The coachman and groom simply procured
assistants on certain occasions when some very heavy work had to be
done. And the servant-girls, all carefully selected, pleasant-looking,
gentle and skilful, contributed to the happy quiescence of that cosy
dwelling, where only a few intimates were received. That evening, for
the return of the master and mistress, the dinner consisted of some
clear soup, a barbel from the Mionne with melted butter, a roast fowl
and some salad--all very simple dishes.

'So you have really not felt over-bored since Saturday?' Sœurette
inquired of Luc when they were all three seated at the table.

'No, I assure you,' the young man answered, 'And besides, you have no
notion how fully my time has been occupied.'

Then he first of all recounted his Saturday evening, the covert state
of rebellion in which he had found Beauclair, the theft of a loaf by
Nanet, the arrest of Lange, and his visit to Bonnaire, the victim of
the strike. But by a strange scruple, at which he afterwards felt
astonished, he virtually skipped his meeting with Josine, and did not
mention her by name.

'Poor folks!' exclaimed Sœurette compassionately. 'That frightful
strike reduced them to bread and water, and even those who had bread
were lucky. What can one do? How can one help them? Alms give but the
slightest relief, and you don't know how distressed I have been during
the last two months, at feeling that we, the rich and happy, are so
utterly powerless.'

She was a humanitarian, a pupil of her grandfather Dr. Michon, the old
Fourierist and Saint-Simonian, who when she was quite little had taken
her on his knees to tell her some fine stories of his own invention,
stories of phalansteries established on blissful islands, of cities
where men had found the fulfilment of all their dreams of happiness
amidst eternal springtide.

'What can be done? What can be done?' she repeated dolorously, with her
beautiful, soft, compassionate eyes fixed upon Luc. 'Something ought to
be done, surely.'

Then Luc, emotion gaining on him, raised a heartfelt cry. 'Ah! yes,
it's high time, one must act.'

But Jordan wagged his head; he, immersed in the cloistered life of
a scientist, never occupied himself with politics. He held them in
contempt, and unjustly--for after all it is necessary that men should
watch over the manner in which they are governed. He, however, living
amidst the absolute, regarded passing events, the accidents of the day,
as mere jolts on the road, and consequently of no account. According to
him it was science alone which led mankind to truth, justice, and final
happiness, that perfect city of the future towards which the nations
plod on so slowly, and with so much anguish. Of what use, therefore,
was it to worry about all the rest? Was it not sufficient that science
should advance? For it advanced in spite of everything--each of its
conquests was definitive. And whatever might be the catastrophes of the
journey, at the end there rose the victory of life, the accomplishment
of the destiny of mankind. Thus, though he was very gentle and
tender-hearted like his sister, he closed his ears to the contemporary
battle, and shut himself up in his laboratory, where, as he expressed
it, he manufactured happiness for to-morrow.

'Act?' he declared in his turn. 'Thought is an act, and the most
fruitful of all acts in influence upon the world. Do we even know what
seeds are germinating now? The sufferings of all those poor wretches
are very distressing, but I do not allow myself to be disturbed by
them, for the harvest will come in its due season.'

Luc, feverish and disturbed as he himself felt, did not insist on
the point, but went on to relate how he had spent his Sunday, his
invitation to La Guerdache, the lunch there, the people he had met at
table, and what had been done and what had been said. But whilst he
spoke he could see that the brother and sister were becoming cold, as
if they took no interest in all those folks.

'We seldom see the Boisgelins now that they are living at Beauclair,'
Jordan exclaimed, with his quiet frankness. 'They showed themselves
very amiable in Paris, but here we lead such a retired life that all
intercourse has gradually ceased. Besides, it must be acknowledged
that our ideas and our habits are very different from theirs. As for
Delaveau, he is an intelligent and active fellow, absorbed in his
business as I am in mine. And I must add that the fine society of
Beauclair terrifies me to such a point that I keep my door closed to
it, delighted at its indignation and at remaining alone like some
dangerous madman.'

Sœurette began to laugh. 'Martial exaggerates a little,' said she. 'I
receive Abbé Marle, who is a worthy man, as well as Doctor Novarre
and Hermeline the schoolmaster, whose conversation interests me. And
if it is true that we remain simply on a footing of courtesy with
La Guerdache, I none the less retain sincere friendship for Madame
Boisgelin, who is so good, so charming.'

Jordan, who liked to tease his sister at times, thereupon exclaimed:
'Why don't you say at once that it is I who compel you to flee the
world, and that if I were not here you would throw the doors wide open!'

'Why, of course!' she answered gaily, 'the house is such as you desire
it to be. But if you wish it I am quite willing to give a great ball,
and invite Sub-Prefect Châtelard, Mayor Gourier, Judge Gaume, Captain
Jollivet, and the Mazelles and the Boisgelins and the Delaveaus. You
shall open the ball with Madame Mazelle!'

They went on jesting, for they felt very happy that evening, both on
account of their return to their nest and of Luc's presence beside
them. At last, when the dessert was served, they proceeded to deal with
the great question. The two silent servant-girls had gone off in their
light felt slippers, which rendered their footsteps inaudible; and the
quiet dining-room seemed full of the charm of affectionate intimacy,
when hearts and minds can be opened in all freedom.

'So this, my friend,' said Jordan, 'is what I ask of your friendship. I
wish you to study the question, and tell me what you yourself would do
if you were in my place.'

He recapitulated the whole business, and explained how he himself
regarded it. He would long since have rid himself of the blast-furnace
if it had not, so to say, continued working of its own accord in the
jog-trot manner regulated by routine. The profits remained sufficient,
but holding himself to be rich enough he did not take them into
account. And on the other hand, had he been minded to increase them,
double or treble them as ambition might dictate, it would have been
necessary to renew a part of the plant, improve the systems employed,
and in a word devote oneself to them entirely. That was a thing
which he could not and would not do, the more particularly as those
ancient blast-furnaces, whose methods to him seemed so childish and
barbarous, possessed no interest for him, and could be of no help in
the experiments of electrical smelting in which he was now passionately
absorbed. So he let the furnace go, occupied himself with it as little
as possible, whilst awaiting an opportunity to get rid of it altogether.

'You understand, my friend, don't you?' he said to Luc. 'And now, you
see, all at once old Laroche dies, and the whole management and all its
worries fall on my shoulders again. You can't imagine what a lot of
things ought to be done--a man's lifetime would scarcely suffice if one
wished to deal with the matter seriously. For my part nothing in the
world would induce me to relinquish my studies, my investigations. The
best course, therefore, is to sell, and I am virtually ready to do so;
still, first of all, I should much like to have your opinion.'

Luc understood Jordan's views, and thought them reasonable.

'No doubt,' he answered, 'you cannot change your work and habits, your
whole life. You yourself and the world would both lose too much by it.
But at the same time I think you might give the matter a little more
thought, for perhaps there are other solutions possible. Besides, in
order to sell you must find a purchaser.'

'Oh! I have a purchaser,' Jordan resumed. 'Delaveau has long desired
to annex the blast-furnace of La Crêcherie to the steel-works of the
Abyss. He has sounded me already, and I have only to make a sign.'

Luc had started on hearing Delaveau's name, for he now at last
understood why the latter had shown himself so anxious and so pressing
in his inquiries. And as his host, who had noticed his gesture,
inquired if he had anything to say against the manager of the Abyss, he
responded, 'No, no, I think as you yourself do, that he is an active
and intelligent man.'

'That is the very point,' continued Jordan; 'the business would be in
the hands of an expert. It would be necessary, I think, to come to
certain arrangements, such as agreeing to payments at long intervals,
for Boisgelin has no capital at liberty. But that doesn't matter. I can
wait, a guarantee on the Abyss would suffice me.' Then looking Luc full
in the face, he concluded: 'Come, do you advise me to finish with the
matter, and treat with Delaveau?'

The young man did not immediately reply. A feeling of uneasiness
and repugnance was rising within him. What could it be? Why should
he experience such indignation, such anger with himself, as if,
by advising his friend to hand the blast-furnace over to that man
Delaveau, he would be committing some bad action which would for ever
leave him full of remorse? He could find no good reason for advising
any other course. Thus he at last replied: 'All that you have said to
me is certainly very reasonable, and I cannot do otherwise than approve
of your views. And yet you might do well in giving the matter a little
more thought.'

Sœurette had hitherto listened very attentively, without intervening.
She seemed to share Luc's covert uneasiness, and now and again glanced
at him anxiously, whilst waiting for his decision.

'The smeltery is not alone in question,' she at last exclaimed; 'there
is also the mine, all that rocky land which cannot be separated from
the furnace, so it seems to me.'

But her brother, eager to get rid of the whole affair, made an
impatient gesture, saying: 'Delaveau shall take the land as well, if he
desires it. What can we do with it? A mass of peeling calcined rock,
amongst which the very nettles refuse to grow! It has no value whatever
nowadays, since the mine can no longer be worked.'

'Is it quite certain that it can no longer be worked?' insisted
Sœurette. 'I remember, Monsieur Froment, that you told us one evening
in Paris that the ironmasters in Eastern France had managed to make
use of most defective ore by subjecting it to some chemical treatment.
Why has that process never been tried here?'

Jordan raised his arms towards the ceiling in a fit of despair.
'Why? why, my dear?' he cried. 'Because Laroche was deficient in all
initiative; because I myself have never had time to attend to the
matter; because things worked in a certain way and could not be got to
work otherwise. If I'm selling the property it's precisely because I
don't want to hear it mentioned again, for it is radically impossible
for me to direct the business, and the mere thought of it makes me ill.'

He had risen, and his sister seeing him so agitated, remained silent
for fear lest in provoking a dispute she might throw him into a fever.

'There are moments,' he continued, 'when I think of sending for
Delaveau so that he may take everything whether he pays or not. I am
not hard up for money. It's like those electrical furnaces which so
greatly impassion me; I have never once thought of employing them
myself and of coining money with them, for as soon as I solve all the
difficulties in my way, I shall give my invention to everybody, so as
to help on universal prosperity and happiness.... Well then, it is
understood. As our friend considers my plan to be a reasonable one, we
will study the conditions of sale together to-morrow, and then I'll
finish everything.'

Luc made no response; a feeling of repugnance still possessed him, and
he did not wish to pledge himself too far. But Jordan became yet more
excited, and ended by suggesting that they should go up to see the
furnace, the more especially as he wished to ascertain how things had
gone there during his three days' absence.

'I am not without anxiety,' said he. 'Although Laroche has been dead a
week I have not replaced him--I have let my master-smelter, Morfain,
direct the work. He is a capital fellow! He was born up yonder, and
grew up amidst the fires! Nevertheless the responsibility is heavy for
a mere workman such as he is.'

Sœurette, alarmed by her brother's suggestion, intervened entreatingly.
'Oh, Martial!' she cried, 'you have only just come back from a long
journey, and yet, tired as you must be, you want to go out again at ten
o'clock at night.'

Jordan thereupon became very gentle again, and kissed her. 'Don't
worry, little one,' said he; 'you know that I never attempt more than
I feel I can do. I assure you that I shall sleep the better after
making certain that things are all right. It is not a cold night, and,
besides, I will put on my fur coat.'

Sœurette herself fastened a thick scarf about his neck, and accompanied
him and Luc down the steps in order to make sure that the night was
really mild. It was indeed a delightful one, the trees, the rivulets,
and the fields all slumbered beneath the heavens, which spread out like
a canopy of dark velvet spangled with stars.

'I am confiding him to your care, Monsieur Froment,' said Sœurette,
referring to her brother. 'Do not let him remain out late.'

The two men at once began to climb a narrow stairway which was cut
out in the rocks behind the house, and ascended to the stony landing
whereon the furnace stood, half-way up the huge ridge of the Bleuse
Mountains. It was a labyrinthine stairway of infinite charm, winding
between pines and climbing plants. At each bend, on raising one's head,
one perceived the black pile of the smeltery standing forth more and
more plainly against the blue night-sky, the strange silhouettes of
various mechanical adjuncts showing forth fantastically around the
central pile.

Jordan went up the first with light short steps, and as he was at last
reaching the landing he paused before a pile of rocks among which a
little light gleamed like a star.

'Wait a minute,' he said, 'I want to make sure whether Morfain is at
home or not.'

'Where, at home?' asked Luc in astonishment.

'Why here, in these old grottoes, which he has turned into a kind of
dwelling-place, to which he clings most obstinately with his son and
daughter, in spite of all the offers that I have made of providing him
with a little house.'

All along the gorge of Brias quite a number of poor people dwelt in
similar cavities. Morfain for his part remained there from taste,
for there forty years previously he had first seen the light; and,
moreover, he was thus close beside his work, that furnace which was at
once his life, his prison, and his empire. Moreover, if he had chosen a
prehistoric dwelling, he had behaved like a civilised man of the caves,
closing both sides of his grotto with a substantial wall and providing
a stout door and some windows fitted with little panes of glass.
Inside, there were three rooms, the bedroom shared by the father and
the son, the daughter's bedroom, and the common room, which served at
once as kitchen, dining-room, and workshop. And all three chambers were
very clean, with their walls and their vaulted roof of stone, and their
substantial, if roughly hewn, furniture.

As Jordan had said, the Morfains from father to son had been
master-smelters at La Crêcherie. The grandfather had helped to found
the establishment, and after an uninterrupted family reign of more
than eighty years the grandson now kept watch over the tappings. Like
some indisputable title of nobility the hereditary character of his
calling filled Morfain with pride. His wife had now been dead four
years, leaving him a son then sixteen, and a daughter then fourteen
years of age. The lad had immediately begun to work at the furnace, and
the girl had taken care of the two men, cooking their meals, sweeping
and cleaning the dwelling-place like a good housewife. In this wise
had the days gone by; the girl was now eighteen and the lad twenty,
and the father quietly watched his race continuing pending the time
when he might hand over the furnace to his son, even as his father had
transmitted it to him.

'Ah! so you are here, Morfain,' said Jordan, when he had pushed open
the door, which was merely closed by a latch. 'I have just returned
home, and I wanted to know how things were getting on.'

Within the rocky cavity, lighted by a small and smoky lamp, the
father and son sat at table eating some soup--a mess of broth and
vegetables--before starting on their night's work, whilst the daughter
stood in the rear, serving them. And their huge shadows seemed to fill
the place, which was very solemn and silent. At last in a gruff voice
Morfain slowly answered, 'We've had a bad business, Monsieur Jordan,
but I hope that things will be quiet now.'

He rose to his feet, as did his son, and stood there between the lad
and the girl, all three of them strongly built and of such lofty
stature that their heads almost touched the rough smoky stone vault,
which served as a ceiling to the room. One might have taken them for
three apparitions of the vanished ages, some family of mighty toilers
whose long efforts throughout the centuries had subjugated nature.

Luc gazed with amazement at Morfain, a veritable colossus, one of the
Vulcans of old by whom fire was first conquered. He had an enormous
head, with a broad face, ravined and scorched by the flames. His brow
was a bossy one, his eyes glowed like live coals, his nose showed like
an eagle's beak between his cheeks, which looked as if they had been
ravaged by some flow of lava. And his swollen, twisted mouth was of a
tawny redness like that of a burn; while his hands had the colour and
the strength of pincers of old steel.

Then Luc glanced at the son, Petit-Da,[2] as he was called, this
nickname having been given him because in childhood he had been
accustomed to pronounce certain words badly, and, further, had one
day narrowly missed losing his little fingers in some 'pig' which was
scarcely cold. He again was a colossus, almost as huge as his father,
whose square face, imperious nose, and flaming eyes he had inherited.
But he had been less hardened, less marked by fire; and, besides, he
could read, and his features were softened and brightened by dawning
powers of thought.

Finally Luc gazed at the daughter, Ma-Bleue, as her father had ever
lovingly called her, so blue indeed were her great eyes, the eyes of
a fair-haired goddess, lightly and infinitely blue, and so large that
in all her face one was conscious of nothing else save that celestial
blueness. She was a goddess of lofty stature, of simple yet magnificent
comeliness, the most beautiful, the most taciturn, the wildest creature
of the region, yet one who in her wildness dreamt, read books, and saw
from afar off the approach of things that her father had never seen,
and the unconfessed expectation of which made her quiver. Luc marvelled
at the sight of those three creatures of heroic build, that family in
which he detected all the long overpowering labour of mankind on its
onward march, all the pride begotten of painful effort incessantly
renewed, all the ancient nobility that springs from deadly toil.

But Jordan had become anxious. 'A bad business, Morfain!' said he, 'how
was that?'

'Yes, Monsieur Jordan, one of the twyers got stopped up. For two days
I fancied that we were going to have a misfortune, and I didn't sleep
for thought of it. It grieved me so much that a thing like that should
happen to me just when you were away. It's best to go and see if you've
the time. We shall be "running" by-and-by.'

The two men finished their soup standing, hastily swallowing large
spoonfuls of it whilst the girl already began to wipe the table.
They rarely spoke together, a gesture or a glance sufficed for them
to understand each other. Nevertheless the father, affectionately
softening his gruff voice, said to Ma-Bleue: 'You can put out the
light, you need not wait for us, we shall have a rest up above.'

Then whilst Morfain and Petit-Da went off in front, accompanying
Jordan, Luc, who was in the rear, glanced round, and on the threshold
of that barbarian home he perceived Ma-Bleue, standing erect, tall and
superb, like some _amorosa_ of the ancient days, whilst her large azure
eyes wandered dreamily far away into the clear night.

The black pile of the furnace soon arose before the young man's view.
It was of a very ancient pattern, heavy and squat, not more than fifty
feet in height. But by degrees various improvements had been added, new
organs, as it were, which had ended by forming a little village around
it. The running hall, floored with fine sand, looked light and elegant
with its iron framework roofed with tiles. Then on the left, inside
a large glazed shed, was the blast apparatus with its steam engine;
whilst on the right rose the two groups of lofty cylinders, those in
which the combustible gases became purified, and those in which they
served to warm the blast from the engine, in order that it might reach
the furnace burning hot, and in this wise hasten combustion. And there
were also a number of water-tanks and a whole system of piping, which
kept moisture ever trickling down the sides of the brick walls in order
to cool them and diminish the wear and tear of the awful fire raging
within. Thus the monster virtually disappeared beneath the intricate
medley of its adjuncts, a conglomeration of buildings, a bristling
of iron tanks, an entanglement of big metal pipes, the whole forming
an extraordinary jumble which, at night-time especially, displayed
the most barbarous, fantastic silhouettes. Above, beside the rock one
perceived the bridge which brought the trucks laden with ore and fuel
to the level of the mouth of the furnace. Below, the kieve reared its
black cone, and then from the belly downward a powerful metal armature
sustained the brickwork which supported the water conduits and the
four twyers. Finally, at the bottom there was but the crucible, with
its taphole closed with a bung of refractory clay. But what a gigantic
beast the whole made, a beast of disquieting, bewildering shape, which
devoured stones and gave out metal in fusion.

Moreover, was there scarcely a sound, scarcely a light. That mighty
digestion apparently preferred silence and gloom. One could only hear
the faint trickling of the water running down the sides of the bricks,
and the ceaseless distant rumbling of the blast apparatus in the
engine-shed. And the only lights were those of three or four lanterns
gleaming amidst the darkness, which the shadows of the huge buildings
rendered the more dense. Moreover, only a few pale figures were seen
flitting about, the eight smelters of the night-shift, who wandered
hither and thither whilst waiting for the next 'run.' On the platform
of the mouth of the furnace up above one could not even discern the men
who, silently obeying the signals sent them from below, poured into the
furnace the requisite charges of ore and fuel. And there was not a cry,
not a flash of light; it was all dim, mute labour, something mighty and
savage accomplished in the gloom.

Jordan, however, moved by the bad news given him, had reverted to
his dream; and pointing to the pile of buildings, he said to Luc,
who had now joined him: 'You see it, my friend; now am I not right
in wishing to do away with all that, in wishing to replace such a
cumbersome monster, which entails such painful toil, by my battery of
electrical furnaces, which would be so clean, so simple, so easily
managed? Since the day when the first men dug a hole in the ground to
melt ore by mingling it with branches which they set alight, there
has really been little change in the methods employed. They are still
childish and primitive. Our blast-furnaces are mere adaptations of the
prehistoric pits, changed into hollow columns and enlarged according to
requirements. And one continues throwing in the ore and the combustible
pell mell, and burning them together. One might take such a furnace
to be some infernal animal, down whose throat one is for ever pouring
food compounded of coal and oxide of iron, which the beast digests
amidst a hurricane of fire, and which it gives out down below in the
form of fused metal, whilst the gases, the dust, the slag of every
kind goes off elsewhere. And observe that the whole operation rests
in the slow descent of the digested substances, in total absolute
digestion, for the object of all the improvements hitherto effected
has been to facilitate it. Formerly there was no blast, no blowing
apparatus, and fusion was therefore slower and more defective. Then
cold air was employed, and next it was perceived that a better result
was obtained by heating the air. At last came the idea of heating
that air by borrowing from the furnace itself the gases which had
formerly burnt at its mouth in a plume of flames. And in this wise
many external organs have been added to our blast-furnaces, but in
spite of every improvement, in spite of their huge proportions, they
have remained childish, and have even grown more and more delicate,
liable to frequent accidents. Ah! you can't imagine the illnesses
which fall upon such a monster. There is no puny, sickly little child
in the whole world whose daily digestion gives as much anxiety to his
parents as a monster like this gives to those in charge of it. Day and
night incessantly two shifts, each of six loaders up above and eight
smelters down below, with foremen, an engineer, and so forth, are on
the spot, busy with the food supplied to the beast, and the output it
yields; and at the slightest disturbance, if the metal run out should
not be satisfactory, everybody is in a state of alarm. For five years
now this furnace has been alight; never for a single minute has the
internal fire ceased to perform its work; and it may burn another five
years in the same way before it is extinguished to allow of repairs
being made. And if those in charge tremble and watch so carefully over
the work, it is because there is the everlasting possibility that the
fire may go out of itself, through some accident of unforeseen gravity
in the monster's bowels. And to go out, to become extinguished, means
death. Ah! those little electrical furnaces of mine, which lads might
work, they won't disturb anybody's rest at nights, and they will be so
healthy, and so active and so docile!'

Luc could not help laughing, amused by the loving passion which entered
into Jordan's scientific researches. However, they had now been joined
by Morfain and Petit-Da, and the former, under the pale gleam of a
lantern, pointed to one of the four pipes which, at a height of nine or
ten feet, penetrated the monster's flanks.

'There! it was that twyer which got stopped up, Monsieur Jordan,' he
said, 'and unfortunately I had gone home to bed, so that I only noticed
what was the matter the next day. As the blast did not penetrate a
chill occurred, and a quantity of matter got together and hardened.
Nothing more went down, but I only became aware of the trouble at the
moment of tapping, on seeing the slag come out in a thick pulp which
was already black. And you can understand my fright; for I remembered
our misfortune ten years ago, when one had to demolish a part of the
furnace after a similar occurrence.'

Never before had Morfain spoken so many words at a stretch. His voice
trembled as he recalled the former accident, for no more terrible
illness can fall on the monster than one of those chills which solidify
the ore and convert it into so much rock. The result is deadly when one
is unable to relight the brasier. By degrees the whole mass becomes
chilled and adheres to the furnace; and then there is nothing else to
be done but to demolish the pile, raze it to the ground, like some old
tower chokeful of stones.

'And what did you do?' Jordan inquired.

Morfain did not immediately answer. He had ended by loving that monster
whose flow of glowing lava had scorched his face for more than thirty
years. It was like a giant, a master, a god of fire which he adored,
bending beneath the rude tyranny of the worship that had been forced
upon him the moment he reached man's estate as his sole means of
procuring daily bread. He scarcely knew how to read, he had not been
touched by the new spirit which was abroad, he experienced no feelings
of rebellion, but cheerfully accepted his life of hard servitude, vain
of his strong arms, his hourly battles with the flames, his fidelity to
that crouching colossus over whose digestion he watched without ever
a thought of going out on strike. And his barbarous and terrible god
had become his passion; his faith in that divinity was instinct with
secret tenderness, and he still quivered with anxiety at the thought
of the dangerous attack from which he had saved his idol, thanks to
extraordinary efforts of devotion.

'What I did!' he at last responded. 'Well, I began by trebling the
charges of coal, and then I tried to clear the twyer by working the
blast apparatus as I had sometimes seen Monsieur Laroche do. But the
attack was already too serious, and we had to disjoint the twyer and
attack the stoppage with bars. Ah! it wasn't an easy job, and we lost
some of our strength in doing it. All the same, we at last got the air
to pass, and I was better pleased when, among the slag this morning, I
found some remnants of ore, for I realised that the matter which had
set had got broken up again and carried away. Everything is once more
well alight now, and we shall be doing good work again. Besides it
will soon be easy to see how things are; the next run will tell us.'

Although he was well-nigh exhausted by such a long discourse, he added
in a lower voice: 'I really believe, Monsieur Jordan, that I should
have gone up above and flung myself into the mouth if I had not had
better news to give you this evening. I'm only a workman, a smelter, in
whom you've had confidence, giving me a gentleman's post, an engineer's
post. And just fancy me letting the furnace go out and telling you on
your return home that it was dead! Ah! no, indeed, I'd have died too!
I haven't been to bed for two nights now; I've kept watch here, like I
did beside my poor wife when I lost her. And at present, I may admit
it, the soup which you found me eating was the first food I had tasted
for forty-eight hours, for I couldn't eat before, my own stomach seemed
to be stopped up like the furnace's. I don't want to apologise, but
simply to let you know how happy I feel at not having failed in the
confidence you put in me.'

That big fellow, hardened by perpetual fire, whose limbs were like
steel, almost wept as he spoke those words, and Jordan pressed his
hands affectionately, saying: 'I know how valiant you are, my good
Morfain; I know that if a disaster had happened you would have fought
on to the very end.'

Meantime Petit-Da had stood listening in the gloom, intervening neither
by word nor gesture. He only moved when his father gave him an order
respecting the tapping. Every four-and-twenty hours the metal was run
out five times, at intervals of nearly five hours. The charge, which
might be eighty tons a day, was at that moment reduced to about fifty,
which would give runs of ten tons each. By the faint light of the
lanterns the needful arrangements were made in silence; channels and
panels for casting were prepared in the fine sand of the large hall;
and then before running out the metal the only thing remaining to be
done was to get rid of the slag. Thus the shadowy forms of workmen were
seen passing slowly, busily engaged in operations which could be only
dimly distinguished, whilst amidst the heavy silence which prevailed
within the squatting idol, one still heard nothing save the trickling
of the drops of water which were coursing down its sides.

'Monsieur Jordan,' Morfain inquired, 'would you like to see the slag
run out?'

Jordan and Luc followed him, and a few steps brought them to a hillock
formed of an accumulation of waste. The aperture was on the right-hand
side of the furnace, and the slag was already pouring out in a flood of
sparkling dross, as if the cauldron of fusing metal were being skimmed.
The matter was like thick pulp, sun-hued lava, flowing slowly along and
falling into waggonets of sheet iron, where it at once became dim.

'The colour's good, you see, Monsieur Jordan,' resumed Morfain gaily.
'Oh! we are out of trouble, that's sure. You'll see, you'll see.'

Then he brought them back to the running-hall in front of the furnace,
whose vague dimness was so faintly illumined by the lanterns. Petit-Da,
with one lunge of his strong young arms, had just thrust a bar into the
bung of refractory clay which closed the tap-hole, and now the eight
men of the night shift wore rhythmically ramming the bar in further.
Their black figures could scarcely be discerned, and one only heard
the dull blows of the rammer. Then, all at once, a dazzling star, as
it were, appeared, a small peep-hole through which showed the inner
fire. But as yet there was only a faint trickling of the liquid metal,
and Petit-Da had to take another bar, thrust it in, and turn it round
and round with herculean efforts in order to enlarge the aperture.
Then came the _débácle_, the flood rushed out tumultuously, a river
of fusing metal rolled along the channel in the sand, and then spread
out, filling the moulds, and forming blazing pools, whose glow and heat
quite scorched the eyes of the beholders. And from that channel and
those sheets of fire rose a crop of sparks, blue sparks, of delicate
ethereality, and fusees of gold, delightfully refined, a florescence
of cornflowers, as it were, amidst a growth of wheat-ears. Whenever
any obstacle of damp sand was encountered both the sparks and the
fusees increased in number, and rose to a great height in a bouquet
of splendour. And all at once, as if some miraculous sun had risen,
an intense dawn burst over everything, casting a great glare upon the
furnace, and throwing a glow as of sunshine upward to the roof of
the hall, whose every girder and joist showed forth distinctly. The
neighbouring buildings, the monster's various organs, sprang out of
the darkness, together with the men of the night-shift, hitherto so
phantom-like and now so real, outlined with an energy and splendour
never to be forgotten, as if, obscure heroes of toil that they were,
they suddenly found themselves enveloped by a nimbus of glory. And the
great glow spread to all the surroundings, conjured the huge ridge of
the Bleuse Mountains out of the darkness, threw reflections even upon
the sleeping roofs of Beauclair, and died away at last in the distance
far over the great plain of La Roumagne.

'It is superb,' said Jordan, studying the quality of the metal by the
colour and limpidity of the flow.

Morfain took his triumph modestly. 'Yes, yes, Monsieur Jordan,' said
he, 'it's good work, such as we ought to turn out. All the same, I'm
glad you came to have a look. You won't feel anxious now.'

Luc also was taking an interest in the proceedings. So great was the
heat that he felt his skin tingling through his clothes. Little by
little all the moulds had been filled, and the sandy hall was now
changed into an incandescent sea. And when the ten tons of liquid
metal had all poured forth, a final tempest, a huge rush of flames
and sparks, came from the cavity. The blowing-apparatus was emptying
the crucible, the blast sweeping through it in all freedom like some
hurricane of hell. But the pigs were now growing cold, their blinding
white light became pink, next red, and then brown. The sparks, too,
ceased to rise, the field of azure cornflowers and golden wheat-ears
was reaped. Then gloom swiftly fell once more, blotting out the hall
and the furnace and all the adjoining buildings, whilst it seemed as
if the lanterns had been lighted up afresh. And of the workmen one
could again only distinguish some vague figures actively bestirring
themselves--they were those of Petit-Da and two of his mates, who were
again plugging the tap-hole with refractory clay, amidst the silence
which was now deeper than ever, for the blast machinery had been
stopped to permit of this work being performed.

'I say, Morfain, my good fellow,' Jordan suddenly resumed, 'you will go
home to bed, won't you?'

'Oh! no, I must spend the night here,' the man answered.

'What! you mean to stay, and pass a third sleepless night here?'

'Oh! there's a camp bedstead in the watch-house, Monsieur Jordan, and
one sleeps very well on it. We'll relieve each other, my son and I;
we'll each do two hours' sentry duty in turn.'

'But that's useless, since things are now all right again,' Jordan
retorted. 'Come, be reasonable, Morfain, and go and sleep at home.'

'No, no, Monsieur Jordan, let me do as I wish. There's no more danger,
but I want to make sure how things go until to-morrow. It will please
me to do so.'

Thus Jordan and Luc, after shaking hands with him, had to leave him
there. And Luc felt extremely moved, for Morfain had left on him an
impression of great loftiness in which met long years of painful and
docile labour, all the nobility of the crushing toil which mankind had
undertaken in the hope of attaining to rest and happiness. It had all
begun with the ancient Vulcans, who had subjugated fire in those heroic
times which Jordan had recalled, when the first smelters had reduced
their ore in a pit dug in the earth, in which they lighted wood. It
was on that day, the day when man first conquered iron and fashioned
it, that he became the master of the world, and that the era of
civilisation first began. Morfain, dwelling in his rocky cave, and for
whom nothing existed apart from the difficulties and the glory of his
calling, seemed to Luc like some direct descendant of those primitive
toilers, whose far-off characteristics still lived by force of heredity
in him, silent and resigned as he was, giving all the strength of his
muscles without ever a murmur, even as his predecessors had done at the
dawn of human society. Ah! how much perspiration had streamed forth and
how many arms had toiled to the point of exhaustion during thousands
and thousands of years! And yet nothing changed--fire, if conquered,
still made its victims, still had its slaves, those who fed it, those
who scorched their blood in subjugating it, whilst the privileged ones
of the earth lived in idleness, in homes which were fresh and cool!
Morfain, like some legendary hero, did not seem even to suspect the
existence of all the monstrous iniquity around him; he was ignorant of
rebellion, of the storm growling afar; he remained quite impassive at
his deadly post, there where his sires had died and where he himself
would die. And Luc also conjured up another figure, that of Bonnaire,
another hero of labour, one who struggled against the oppressors, the
exploiters, in order that justice might at last reign; and who devoted
himself to his comrades' cause even to the point of giving up his daily
bread. Had not all those suffering men groaned long enough beneath
their burdens, and, however admirable might be their toil, had not the
hour struck for the deliverance of the slaves in order that they might
at last become free citizens in a fraternal community, amidst which
peace would spring from a just apportionment of labour and wealth?

However, as Jordan, whilst descending the steps cut in the rock,
stopped before a night-watchman's hut to give an order, an unexpected
sight met Luc's eyes and brought his emotion to a climax. Behind some
bushes, amidst some scattered rocks, he distinctly saw two shadowy
forms passing. Their arms encircled each other's waist and their lips
were meeting in a kiss. Luc readily recognised the girl, so tall she
was, so fair and so superb. She was none other than Ma-Bleue, the
maid whose great blue eyes seemed to fill her face. And the lad must
assuredly be Achille Gourier, the mayor's son, that proud and handsome
youth whose demeanour he, Luc, had noticed at La Guerdache--that
demeanour so expressive of contempt for the rotting _bourgeoisie_ of
which he was one of the revolting sons. Ever shooting, fishing, and
roaming, he spent his holidays among the steep paths of the Bleuse
Mountains, beside the torrents or deep in the pine woods. And doubtless
he had fallen in love with that beautiful, shy, wild girl, around
whom so many admirers prowled in vain. She, on her side, must have
been conquered by the advent of that Prince Charming, who brought her
something that was beyond her sphere, who set all the delightful dreams
of to-morrow amidst the sternness of that desert. To-morrow! to-morrow!
Was it not that which dawned in Ma-Bleue's blue eyes, when, with her
gaze wandering far away, she stood so thoughtful on the threshold of
her mountain cave? Her father and her brother were watching over their
work up yonder, and she had escaped down the precipitous paths. And for
her to-morrow meant that tall, loving lad, that _bourgeois_ stripling,
who spoke to her so prettily as if she had been a lady, and vowed that
he would love her for ever.

At first, amidst his amazement, Luc felt a heart-pang at the thought of
how grieved the father would be should he hear of that sweethearting.
Then a tender feeling took possession of the young man's heart, a
caressing breath of hope came to him at the sight of that free and
gentle love. Were not those children, who belonged to such different
classes, preparing amidst their play, their kisses, the advent of the
happier morrow, the great reconciliation which would at last lead to
the reign of justice?

Down below, when Luc and Jordan reached the park, they exchanged a few
more words.

'You haven't caught cold, I hope?' said the young man to his friend.
'Your sister would never forgive me, you know.'

'No, no, I feel quite well. And I am going to bed in the best of
spirits, for I've quite made up my mind. I intend to rid myself of that
enterprise, since it does not interest me, and proves such a constant
source of worry.'

For a moment Luc remained silent, for uneasiness had returned to him,
as if, indeed, he were frightened by Jordan's decision. However, as he
left his friend he said, shaking his hand for the last time, 'No, wait,
give me to-morrow to think the matter over. We will have another talk
in the evening, and afterwards you shall come to a decision.'

Then they parted for the night. Luc did not go to bed immediately. He
occupied--in the pavilion formerly erected for Dr. Michon, Jordan's
maternal grandfather--the spacious room where the doctor had spent
his last years among his books; and during the three days that he had
occupied this chamber the young man had grown fond of the pleasantness,
peacefulness, and odour of work that filled it. That evening, however,
the fever of doubt, by which he was possessed, oppressed him, and
throwing one of the windows wide open he leant out, hoping in this wise
to calm himself a little before he went to bed. The window overlooked
the road leading from La Crêcherie to Beauclair. In front spread some
uncultivated fields strewn with rocks, and beyond them one could
distinguish the jumbled roofs of the sleeping town.

For a few minutes Luc remained inhaling the gusts of air which arose
from the great plain of La Roumagne. The night was warm and moist, and
athwart a slight haze a bluish light descended from the starry sky.
Luc listened to the distant sounds with which the night quivered; and
before long he recognised the dull, rhythmical blows of the hammers
of the Abyss, that Cyclopean forge whence day and night alike there
came a clang of steel. Then he raised his eyes and sought the black,
silent smeltery of La Crêcherie, but it was now mingled with the inky
bar which the promontory of the Bleuse Mountains set against the sky.
Lowering his eyes he at last directed them upon the close-set roofs
of the town, whose heavy slumber seemed to be cradled by the rhythmic
blows of the hammers--those blows which suggested the quick and
difficult breathing of some giant worker, some pain-racked Prometheus,
chained to eternal toil. And Luc's feeling of uneasiness was increased
by it all; he could not quiet his fever; the people and the things
that he had beheld during those last three days crowded upon his mind,
passed before him in a tragic scramble, the sense of which he strove
to divine. And the problem which possessed his spirit now tortured him
more than ever. Assuredly he would be unable to sleep until he found a
means of solving it.

But down below his window, across the road, amongst the bushes and the
rocks, he suddenly heard a fresh sound, something so light, so faint,
that he could not tell what it might be. Was it the beating of a bird's
wings, the rustle of an insect among some leaves? Luc gazed down, and
could see nothing save the swelling darkness that spread far, far away.
No doubt he had been mistaken. But the sounds reached his ears again,
and even seemed to come nearer. Interested by them, seized with a
strange emotion which astonished him, he again strove to penetrate the
darkness, and at last he distinguished a vague, light, delicate form
which seemed to float over the grass. And still he was unable to tell
what that form might be, and was willing to believe himself the victim
of some delusion, when, with a nimble spring like that of some wild
goat, a woman crossed the road and lightly threw him a little nosegay,
which brushed against his face like a caress. It was a little bunch of
mountain pansies, just gathered among the rocks, and of such powerful
aroma, that he was quite perfumed by it.

Josine!--he divined that it was she, he recognised her by that fresh
sign of her heart's thankfulness, by that adorable gesture of infinite
gratitude! And it all seemed to him exquisite in that dimness, at that
late hour, though he could not tell how she had happened to be there,
whether she had been watching for his return, and how she could have
contrived to come, unless indeed Ragu were working at a night-shift.
Without a word, having had no other desire than that of expressing her
feelings by the gift of those flowers, which she had so lightly thrown
him, she was already fleeing, disappearing into the darkness spread
over the uncultivated moor; and only then did Luc distinguish another
and a smaller form, that assuredly of Nanet, bounding along near her.
They both vanished, and then he again heard nought save the hammers
of the Abyss, ever rhythmically beating in the distance. His torment
was not passed, but his heart had been warmed by a glow which seemed
to bring him invincible strength. It was with rapture that he inhaled
the little nosegay. Ah! the power of kindness, which is the bond of
brotherhood, the power of tenderness, by which alone happiness is
created, the power of love, which will save and make the world anew!


[1] It may be presumed that M. Zola means centigrade degrees.--_Trans._

[2] The meaning is 'Little Dolt,' 'Da' being a contraction of
'Dadais.'--_Trans._



V


Luc went to bed and put out the light, hoping that his weariness of
mind and body would bring him sound and refreshing sleep, in which his
fever would at last be dispelled. But when the large room sank into
silence and obscurity around him he found himself quite unable to close
his eyes--they stared into the darkness, and terrible insomnia kept him
burning hot, still a prey to his one obstinate, all-consuming idea.

Josine was ever rising before him, coming back again and again with
her childish face and doleful charm. He once more saw her in tears,
standing, full of terror, as she waited near the gate of the Abyss; he
again saw her standing in the wine-shop, then thrown into the street by
Ragu in so brutal a fashion that blood gushed from her maimed hand; and
he saw her too on the bench near the Mionne, forsaken amidst the tragic
night, satisfying her hunger like some poor wandering animal, and
having no prospect before her save a final tumble into the gutter. And
now, after those three days of unexpected, almost unconscious inquiry,
to which destiny had led him, all that he, Luc, had beheld of unjustly
apportioned toil--toil derided as if it were shame, toil conducting to
the most atrocious misery for the vast majority of mankind, became in
his eyes synthetised in the distressing case of that sorry girl whose
misfortunes wrung his heart.

Visions arose, thronging around him, pressing forward, haunting him
to the point of torture. He beheld terror careering through the
black streets of Beauclair, along which tramped all the disinherited
wretches, secretly dreaming of vengeance. He saw reasoned, organised,
and fatal revolution dawning in such homes as the Bonnaires' cold,
bare, sorry rooms, where even the mere necessaries of life were
wanting, where lack of work compelled the toiler to tighten his
waistband, and left the family starving. And, on the other hand, he
beheld at La Guerdache all the insolence of corrupting luxury, all the
poisonous enjoyment which was finishing off the privileged plutocrats,
that handful of _bourgeois_ satiated with idleness, gorged to stifling
point with all the iniquitous wealth which they stole from the labour
and the tears of the immense majority of the workers. And even at
La Crêcherie, that wildly lofty blast-furnace, where not one worker
complained, the long efforts of mankind were stricken, so to say, by
a curse, immobilised in eternal dolour, without hope of any complete
freeing of the race, of its final deliverance from slavery, and the
entry of one and all into the city of justice and peace. And Luc had
seen and heard Beauclair cracking upon all sides, for the fratricidal
warfare was not waged only between classes, its destructive ferment
was perverting families, a blast of folly and hatred was sweeping by,
filling every heart with bitterness. Monstrous dramas soiled homes that
should have been cleanly, fathers, mothers, and children alike rolled
into the sewers. Folk lied unceasingly, they stole, they killed. And at
the end of wretchedness and hunger came crime perforce: woman selling
herself, man sinking to drink, all human kind becoming a rageful beast
that rushed along intent solely upon satisfying its vices. Many were
the frightful signs that announced the inevitable catastrophe; the old
social framework was about to topple down amidst blood and mire.

Horror-stricken by those visions of shame and chastisement, weeping
with all the human tenderness within him, Luc then again saw the
pale phantom of Josine returning from the depths of the darkness and
stretching out arms of entreaty. And then, in his fancy, none but her
remained; it was upon her that the worm-eaten, leprous edifice would
fall. She became, as it were, the one victim, she, the puny little
workgirl with the maimed hand, who was starving and who would roll into
the gutter, a pitiable yet charming creature, in whom seemed to be
embodied all the misery that arose from the accursed wage-system. He
now suffered as she must suffer, and, above all else, in his wild dream
of saving Beauclair there was a craving to save her. If some superhuman
power had made him almighty he would have transformed that town, now
rotted by egotism, into a happy abode of solidarity, in order that she
might be happy. He realised at present that this dream of his was an
old one, that it had always possessed him since the days when he had
lived in one of the poor quarters of Paris, among the obscure heroes
and the dolorous victims of labour. It was a dream into which entered
secret disquietude respecting the future, that future which he dared
not predict, and an idea that some mysterious mission had been confided
to him. And all at once, amidst the confusion in which he still
struggled, it seemed to him that the decisive hour had come. Josine was
starving, Josine was sobbing, and that could be allowed no longer. He
must act, he must at once relieve all the misery and all the suffering,
in order that things so iniquitous might cease.

Weary as he was, however, he at last fell into a doze, in the midst
of which it seemed as if voices were calling him. Thus before long he
awoke with a start, and then the voices seemed to gather strength, as
if wildly summoning him to that urgent work for which the hour had
struck, and the imperious need of which he fully recognised, though how
to accomplish it he could not tell. And above all other appeals, he
finally heard the call of a very gentle voice, which he recognised--the
voice of Josine, lamenting and entreating. From that moment again she
alone seemed to be present, he could feel the warm caress of the kiss
which she had set upon his hand, and could smell the little bunch of
pansies which she had thrown him as he stood at the window. Indeed,
the wild fragrance of the flowers now seemed to fill the whole room.
Then he struggled no longer. He lighted his candle, rose, and for a
few minutes walked about the room. In order to rid his brain of the
fixed idea which oppressed it he strove to think of nothing. He looked
at the few old engravings hanging from the walls, he looked at the
old-fashioned articles of furniture which spoke of Doctor Michon's
simple and studious habits, he gazed around the whole room, in which
a deal of kindliness, good sense, and wisdom seemed to have lingered.
At last his attention became riveted on the bookcase. It was a rather
large one, with glass doors, and therein the former Saint-Simonian
and Fourierist had gathered together the humanitarian writings
which had fired his mind in youth. All the social philosophers, all
the precursors, all the apostles of the new Gospel figured there:
Saint-Simon, Fourier, Auguste Comte, Proudhon, Cabet, Pierre Leroux,
with others and others--indeed, a complete collection, down to the most
obscure disciples. And Luc, candle in hand, read the names and titles
on the backs of the volumes, counted them, and grew astonished at their
number, at the fact that so much good seed should have been cast to the
winds, that so many good words should be slumbering there, waiting for
the harvest.

He himself had read widely, he was well acquainted with the chief
passages of most of those books. The philosophical, economical, and
social systems of their authors were familiar to him. But never as now,
on finding these authors all united there in a serried phalanx, had
he been so clearly conscious of their force, their value, the human
evolution which they typified. They formed, so to say, the advance
guard of the future century, an advance guard soon to be followed by
the huge army of the nations. And on seeing them thus, side by side,
peaceably mingling together, endowed by union with sovereign strength,
Luc was particularly struck by their intense brotherliness. He was
not ignorant of the contradictory views which had formerly parted
them, of the desperate battles even which they had waged together, but
they now seemed to have become all brothers, reconciled in a common
Gospel, in the unique and final truths which all of them had brought.
And that which arose from their words like a dawning promise was that
religion of humanity in which they had all believed, their love for the
disinherited ones of the world, their hatred of all social injustice,
their faith in Work as the true saviour of mankind.

Opening the bookcase, Luc wished to select one of the volumes. Since he
was unable to sleep, he would read a few pages, and thus take patience
until slumber should come to him. He hesitated for a moment, and at
last selected a very little volume, in which one of Fourier's disciples
had summed up the whole of his master's work. The title 'Solidarité'
had moved the young man. Would he not find in that book a few pages
brimful of strength and hope such as he needed? Thus, he slipped into
bed again, and began to read. And soon he became as passionately
interested in his reading as if he had before him some poignant drama
in which the fate of the whole human race was decided. The author's
doctrines thus condensed, reduced to the very essence of the truths
they contained, acquired extraordinary power. Fourier's genius had in
the first place asserted itself in turning the passions of man into
the very forces of life. The long and disastrous error of Catholicism
had lain in ever seeking to muzzle the passions, in striving to kill
the man within man, to fling him like a slave at the foot of a deity
of tyranny and nothingness. In the free future society conceived by
Fourier the passions were to produce as much good as they had produced
evil in the chained and terrorised society of the dead centuries.
They constituted immortal desire, the energy which raises worlds, the
internal furnace of will and strength which imparts to each being the
power to act. Man deprived of a single passion would be mutilated, as
if he were deprived of one of his senses. Instincts, hitherto thrust
back and crushed, as if they were evil beasts, would when once they
were freed become only the various needs of universal attraction, all
tending towards unity, striving amidst obstacles to meet and mingle in
final harmony, that ultimate expression of universal happiness. And
there were really no egotists, no idlers; there were only men hungering
for unity and harmony, who would march on in all brotherliness as soon
as they should see that the road was wide enough for all to pass along
it at ease and happily. As for the victims of the heavy servitude that
oppressed the manual toilers who were angered by unjust, excessive,
and often inappropriate tasks, they would all be ready to work right
joyfully as soon as simply their logical chosen share of the great
common labour should be allotted to them.

Then another stroke of genius on Fourier's part was the restoration
of work to a position of honour, by making it the public function,
the pride, health, gaiety, and very law of life. It would suffice to
reorganise work in order to reorganise the whole of society, of which
work would be the one civic obligation, the vital rule. There would
be no further question of brutally imposing work on vanquished men,
mercenaries crushed down and treated like famished beasts of burden; on
the contrary, work would be freely accepted by all, allotted according
to tastes and natures, performed during the few hours that might be
indispensable, and constantly varied according to the choice of the
voluntary toilers. A town would become an immense hive in which there
would not be one idler, and in which each citizen would contribute his
share towards the general sum of labour which might be necessary for
the town to live. The tendency towards unity and final harmony would
draw the inhabitants together and compel them to group themselves
among the various series of workers. And the whole mechanism would
rest in that: the workman choosing the task which he could perform
most joyously, not riveted for ever to one and the same calling, but
passing from one form of work to another. Moreover, the world would
not be revolutionised all of a sudden, the beginnings would be small,
the system being tried first of all in some township of a few thousand
souls. The dream would then approach fulfilment, the phalange, the unit
at the base of the great human army would be created; the phalanstery,
the common house, would be built. At first, too, one would simply
appeal to willing men, and link them together in such wise as to form
an association of capital, work, and talent. Those who now possessed
money, those whose arms were strong, and those who had brains would be
asked to come to an understanding and combine, putting their various
means together. They would produce with an energy and an abundance
far greater than now, and they would divide the profits they reaped
as equitably as possible, until the day came when capital, work, and
talent might be blended together and form the common patrimony of a
free brotherhood, in which everything would belong to everybody amidst
general harmony.

At each page of the little book which Luc was reading the loving
splendour of its title 'Solidarité' became more and more apparent.
Certain phrases shone forth like beacon-fires. Man's reason was
infallible; truth was absolute; a truth demonstrated by science became
irrevocable, eternal. Work was to be a festival. Each man's happiness
would some day rest in the happiness of others. Neither envy nor
hatred would be left when room was at last found in the world for the
happiness of one and all. In the social machine, all intermediaries
that were useless and led to a waste of strength would be suppressed;
thus commerce, as it is now understood, would be condemned, and the
consumer would deal with the producer. All parasitic growths, the
innumerable vegetations living upon social corruption, upon the
permanent state of war in which men now languish, would be mown down.
There would be no more armies, no more courts of law, no more prisons!
And, above all, amidst the great Dawn which would thus have risen,
there would appear Justice flaming like the sun, driving away misery,
giving to each being that was born the right to live and partake of
daily bread, and allotting to one and all his or her due share of
happiness.

Luc had ceased reading: he was reflecting now. The whole great,
heroic Nineteenth Century spread out before his mind's eye, with its
continuous battling, its dolorous, valiant efforts to attain to truth
and justice. The irresistible democratic advance, the rise of the
masses filled that century from end to end. The Revolution at the end
of the previous one had brought only the middle classes to power;
another century was needed for the evolution to become complete, for
the people to obtain its share of influence. Seeds germinated, however,
in the old and often ploughed monarchical soil; and already during
the days of '48 the question of the wage-system was plainly brought
forward, the claims of the workers becoming more and more precise,
and shaking the new _régime_ of the _bourgeois_, whom egotistical
and tyrannical possession was in their turn rotting. And now, on the
threshold of the new century, as soon as the spreading onrush of
the masses should have carried the old social framework away, the
reoganisation of labour would prove the very foundation-stone of future
society, which would only be able to exist by a just apportionment of
wealth. The violent crisis which had overthrown empires when the old
world passed from servitude to the wage-system was as nothing compared
with the terrible crisis which for the last hundred years had shaken
and ravaged nations, that crisis of the wage-system passing through
successive evolutions and transformations, and tending to become
something else. And from that something else would be born the happy
and brotherly social system of to-morrow.

Luc gently put down the little book and blew out his light. He had
grown calmer now, and could feel that peaceful, restoring sleep was
approaching. True, no precise answers had come to the urgent appeals
which had previously upset him; but he heard those appeals no more.
It was as if the disinherited beings who had raised them were now
conscious that they had been heard, and were taking patience. Seed was
sown and the harvest would rise. Luc himself was troubled with no more
feverishness, he felt that his mind was pregnant with ideas, to which
indeed it might give birth on the very morrow if his night's slumber
should be good. And he ended by yielding to his great need of repose,
and fell with delight into a deep sleep, visited by genius, faith, and
will.

When he awoke at seven o'clock on the following morning his first
thought on seeing the sun rise in the broad clear sky was to go out
without warning the Jordans and climb the rocky stairway leading to
the smeltery. He wished to see Morfain again, and obtain certain
information from him. In this respect he was yielding to a sudden
inspiration. With reference to the advice which Jordan had asked of
him, he desired above all to arrive at some precise opinion respecting
the old abandoned mine. The master-smelter, a son of the mountains,
must know, he thought, every stone of it. And indeed Morfain, whom he
found up and about, after his night spent beside the furnace, which
decidedly had now recovered from its ailment, became quite impassioned
directly the mine was mentioned to him. He had always had an idea
of his own, which nobody would heed, although he had often given
expression to it. To his thinking, old Laroche, the engineer, had done
wrong in despairing and forsaking the mine directly the working of it
had failed to prove remunerative. The vein which had been followed
had certainly become an abominable one, charged with sulphur and
phosphates to such a degree that nothing good came out in the smelting.
But Morfain was convinced that they were simply crossing a bad vein,
and that it would be sufficient to carry the galleries further, or to
open fresh ones at a point of the gorge which he designated, in order
to find once more the same excellent ore as formerly. And he based
his opinion upon observation, upon knowledge of all the rocks of the
region, which he had scaled and explored for forty years. As he put it,
he was not a man of science, he was only a poor toiler, and did not
presume to compete with those gentlemen the engineers. Nevertheless
he was astonished that no confidence was shown in his keen scent, and
that his superiors should have simply shrugged their shoulders without
consenting to test his predictions by a few borings.

The man's quiet confidence impressed Luc the more especially since he
was inclined to pass a severe judgment on the inertia of old Laroche,
who had left the mine in an abandoned state even after the discovery
of the chemical process which would have allowed the defective ore to
be profitably utilised. That alone showed into what slumberous routine
the working of the furnace had fallen. The mine ought to be worked
again immediately, even if they had to rest content with treating the
ore chemically. But what would it be if Morfain's convictions should
be realised, and they should again come upon rich and pure lodes! Thus
Luc immediately accepted the master-smelter's proposal to take a stroll
in the direction of the abandoned galleries, in order that the other
might explain his ideas on the spot. That clear and fresh September
morning, the walk among the rocks, through the lonely wilds fragrant
with lavender, was delightful. During three hours the two men climbed
up and down the sides of the gorges, visiting the grottoes, following
the pine-covered ridges where the rocks jutted up through the soil like
portions of the skeleton of some huge buried monster. And by degrees
Morfain's conviction gained upon Luc, bringing him at least a hope
that there in that spot lay a treasure which man in his sloth had
passed by, and which earth, the inexhaustible mother, was prepared to
yield to those who might seek it.

As it was more than noon when the explorations terminated Luc accepted
a proposal to lunch off eggs and milk up in the Bleuse Mountains. When
about two o'clock he came down again, delighted, his lungs inflated by
the free mountain air, the Jordans received him with exclamations, for
not knowing what had become of him they had begun to grow anxious. He
apologised for not having warned them, and related that he had lost his
way among the tablelands, and had lunched with some peasants there. He
ventured to tell this fib because the Jordans, whom he found still at
table, were not alone. As was their custom every second Tuesday of the
month, they had with them three guests, Abbé Marle, Doctor Novarre,
and Hermeline, the schoolmaster, whom Sœurette delighted to gather
together, laughingly calling them her privy councillors, because they
all three helped her in her charitable works. The doors of La Crêcherie
which were usually kept closed, Jordan living there in solitude like
some cloistered scientist, were thrown open for those three visitors,
who were treated as intimates. It could not be said, however, that they
owed this favour to their cordial agreement, for they were perpetually
disputing together. But, on the other hand, their discussions amused
Sœurette, and indeed rendered her yet more partial to them, since they
proved a distraction for Jordan, who listened to them smiling.

'So you have lunched?' said Sœurette, addressing Luc. 'Still, that
won't prevent you from taking a cup of coffee with us, will it?'

'Oh! I'll accept the cup of coffee,' he answered gaily. 'You are too
amiable--I deserve the bitterest reproaches.'

They then passed into the drawing-room. Its windows were open, the
lawns of the park spread out, and all the exquisite aroma of the great
trees came into the house. In a horn-shaped porcelain vase bloomed
a splendid bouquet of roses--roses which Doctor Novarre lovingly
cultivated, and a bunch of which he brought for Sœurette each time that
he lunched at La Crêcherie.

Whilst the coffee was being served a discussion on educational matters
began afresh between the priest and the schoolmaster, who had not
ceased battling on this subject since the beginning of the lunch.

'If you can do nothing with your pupils,' declared Abbé Marle, 'it is
because you have driven religion out of your schools. God is the master
of human intelligence; one knows nothing excepting through Him.'

Tall and sturdy, with his eagle beak set in a broad, full, regular
face, the priest spoke with all the authoritative stubbornness born of
his narrow doctrines, placing the only chance of the world's salvation
in Catholicism, and the rigid observance of its dogmas. And, in front
of him, Hermeline, the schoolmaster, slim of build and angular of face,
with a bony forehead and pointed chin, evinced similar stubbornness,
being quite as formalist and authoritative as the other in the practice
of his own mechanical religion of progress, which last was to be
arrived at by dint of laws and military discipline.

'Don't bother me,' said he, 'with your religion, which has never led
men to aught but error and ruin. If I get nothing out of my pupils it
is because, in the first place, they are taken from me too early, to
be placed in the factories. And secondly, and more particularly, it
is because there is less and less discipline, because the master is
left without any authority. If a child is whipped nowadays the parents
shriek like a pack of fools. But if I were only allowed to give those
youngsters a few good canings I think I should open their minds a
little.'

Then, as Sœurette, quite affected by this theory, began to protest, he
explained his views. For him, given the general corruption, there was
only one means of saving society, which was to subject the children
to the discipline of liberty, insert belief in republican principles
in them by force, if necessary, and in such a manner that they should
never lose it. His dream was to make each pupil a servant of the State,
a slave of the State, one who sacrificed to the State his entire
personality. And he could picture nothing beyond one and the same
lesson, learnt by all in one and the same manner, with the one object
of serving the community. Such was his harsh and doleful religion, a
religion in which the democracy was delivered from the past by dint of
punishments, and then again condemned to forced labour, happiness being
decreed under penalty of being caned.

But Abbé Marle obstinately repeated: 'Outside the pale of Catholicism
there is only darkness.'

'Why, Catholicism is toppling over!' exclaimed Hermeline. 'It's for
that very reason that we have to raise another social framework.'

The priest, no doubt, was conscious of the supreme battle which
Catholicism was waging against the spirit of science, whose victory
spread day by day. But he would not acknowledge it; he did not even
admit that his church was gradually emptying. 'Catholicism!' he
resumed, 'its framework is still so solid, so eternal, so divine, that
you copy it when you talk of raising I know not what atheistical State
in which you would replace the Deity by some mechanical contrivance
appointed to instruct and govern men!'

'Some mechanical contrivance, why not!' retorted Hermeline, exasperated
by the touch of truth contained in the priest's attack. 'Rome has never
been aught but a wine-press, pressing out the blood of the world!'

When their discussions reached this violent stage Doctor Novarre
usually intervened in his smiling and conciliatory way. 'Come, come,
don't get heated!' said he. 'You are on the point of agreeing, since
you have got so far as to accuse one another of copying your religions
one from the other.'

Short and spare, with a slender nose and keen eyes, the doctor was a
man of a tolerant, gentle, but slightly sarcastic turn of mind, one
who, having given himself to science, refused to let himself be excited
by political and social questions. Like Jordan, whose great friend
he was, he often said that he only adopted truths when they had been
scientifically demonstrated. Modest, timid, too, as he was, without any
ambition, he contented himself with healing his patients to the best
of his ability, and his only passion was for the rosebushes which he
cultivated between the four walls of the garden of the little dwelling
where he lived in happy peacefulness.

Luc had hitherto contented himself with listening. But at last he
recalled what he had read the previous night, and he then spoke out:
'The terrible part of it,' said he, 'is that in our schools the
starting-point is invariably the idea that man is an evil being, who
brings into the world with him a spirit of rebellion and sloth, and
that a perfect system of punishments and rewards is necessary if one
is to get anything out of him. Thus education has been turned into
torture, and study has become as repulsive to our brains as manual
labour is to our limbs. Our professors have been turned into so many
gaolers ruling a scholastic penitentiary, and the mission given to them
is that of kneading the minds of children in accordance with certain
fixed programmes, and running them all through one and the same mould,
without taking any account of varying individualities. Thus the masters
are no longer aught but the slayers of initiative; they crush all
critical spirit, all free examination, all personal awakening of talent
beneath a pile of ready-made ideas and official-truths, and the worst
is that the characters of the children are affected quite as badly as
their minds, and that the system of teaching employed produces in the
long run little else but dolts and hypocrites.'

Hermeline must have fancied that he was being personally attacked, for
he now broke in rather sharply: 'But how would you have one proceed
then, monsieur? Come and take my place, and you will soon see how
little you will get out of the pupils if you don't subject them one
and all to the same discipline, like a master who for them is the
embodiment of authority.'

'The master,' continued Luc with his dreamy air, 'should have no other
duty than that of awakening energy and encouraging the child's aptitude
in one or another respect by provoking questions from him and enabling
him to develop his personality. Deep in the human race there is an
immense insatiable craving to learn and know, and this should be the
one incentive to study without need of any rewards or punishments. It
would evidently be sufficient if one contented oneself with giving each
pupil facilities for prosecuting the particular studies that pleased
him, and with rendering those studies attractive to him, allowing him
to engage in them by himself, then progress in them by the force of his
own understanding, with the continually recurring delight of making
fresh discoveries. For men to make their offspring men by treating them
as such, is not that the whole educational problem which has to be
solved?'

Abbé Marle, who was finishing his coffee, shrugged his broad shoulders;
and, like a priest whom dogma endowed with infallibility, he remarked:
'Sin is in man, and he can only be saved by penitence. Idleness,
which is one of the capital sins, can only be redeemed by labour, the
punishment which God imposed on the first man after the fall.'

'But that's an error, Abbé,' quietly said Doctor Novarre. 'Idleness is
simply a malady when it really exists, that is, when the body refuses
to work, shrinks from all fatigue. You may be certain then that this
invincible languor is a sign of grave internal disorder. And apart
from that, where have you ever seen idle people? Take those who are
so-called idle people by race, habit, and taste. Does not a society
lady, who dances all night at a ball, do greater harm to her eyesight
and expend far more muscular energy than a workwoman who sits at her
little table embroidering till daylight? Do not the men of pleasure,
who are for ever figuring in public, taking part in exhausting
festivities, work in their own way quite as hard as the men who toil
at their benches and anvils? And remember how lightly and joyfully,
on emerging from some repulsive task, we all rush into some violent
amusement or exercise which tires out our limbs. The meaning of it
all is that work is only oppressive when it does not please us. And
if one could succeed in imposing on people only such work as would be
agreeable to them, as they might freely choose, there would certainly
be no idlers left.'

But Hermeline in his turn shrugged his shoulders, saying: 'Ask a child
which he prefers, his grammar or his arithmetic. He will tell you that
he prefers neither. The whole question has been threshed out; a child
is a sapling which needs to be trained straight and corrected.'

'And one can only correct,' said the priest, this time in full
agreement with the schoolmaster, 'by crushing everything in any way
shameful or diabolic that original sin has left in man.'

Silence fell. Sœurette had been listening intently, whilst Jordan,
looking out through one of the windows, let his glance stray
thoughtfully under the big trees. In the words of the priest and the
schoolmaster Luc recognised the pessimist conceptions of Catholicism
adopted by the sectarian followers of progress, which the State was to
decree by exercise of authority. Man was regarded as a child ever in
fault. His passions were hunted down: for centuries efforts had been
made to crush them, to kill the man which was within man. And then
again, Luc recalled Fourier, who had preached quite another doctrine:
the passions, utilised and ennobled, becoming necessary creative
energies, whilst man was at last delivered from the deadly weight of
the religions of nothingness, which are merely so many hateful social
police systems devised to maintain the usurpation of the powerful and
the rich.

And Luc, as though reflecting aloud, thereupon resumed, 'It would be
sufficient to convince people of this truth, that the greater the
happiness realised for all, the greater will be the happiness of the
individual.'

But Hermeline and Abbé Marle began to laugh.

'That's no use!' said the schoolmaster. 'To awaken energy, you begin
by destroying personal interest. Pray explain to me what motive will
prompt man to action when he no longer works for himself? Personal
interest is like the fire under the boiler, it will be found at the
outset of all work. But you would crush it, and although you desire man
to retain all his instincts you begin by depriving him of his egotism.
Perhaps you rely on conscience, on the idea of honour and duty?'

'I don't need to rely on that,' Luc answered in the same quiet way.
'Truth to tell, egotism, such as we have hitherto understood it, has
given us such a frightful social system, instinct with so much hatred
and suffering, that it would really be allowable to try some other
factor. But I repeat that I accept egotism if by such you mean the
very legitimate desire, the invincible craving, which each man has for
happiness. Far from destroying personal interest, I would strengthen
it by making it what it ought to be in order to bring about the happy
community in which the happiness of each will be the outcome of the
happiness of all. Besides, it is sufficient that we should be convinced
that in working for others we are working for ourselves. Social
injustice sows eternal hatred, and universal suffering is the crop. For
those reasons an agreement must be arrived at for the reorganisation of
work based upon the certainty that our own highest felicity will some
day be the result of felicity in the homes of our neighbours.'

Hermeline sneered, and Abbé Marle again broke in: '"Love one another,"
that is the teaching of our Divine Master. Only He also said that
happiness was not of this world, and it is assuredly guilty madness to
attempt to set the Kingdom of God upon this earth when it is in heaven.'

'Yet that will some day be done,' Luc retorted. 'The whole effort of
mankind upon its march, all progress and all science, tend to that
future city of happiness.'

But the schoolmaster, who was no longer listening, eagerly assailed
the priest: 'Ah! no, Abbé, don't begin again with your promises of a
celestial paradise; they are only fit to dupe the poor. And besides,
Jesus of Nazareth really belongs to us; you stole Him from us, and
arranged His sayings and everything else in order to suit the purposes
of your domination. As a matter of fact, He was simply a revolutionary
and a free-thinker!'

Thus the battle began anew, and Doctor Novarre had to calm them once
more by showing that one was right in certain respects and the other
in others. As usual, however, the various questions which had been
debated remained in suspense, for no final solution was ever arrived
at. The coffee had been drunk long since, and it was Jordan who, in his
thoughtful manner, put in the last word.

'The one sole truth,' said he, 'lies in Work; the world will some day
become such as Work will make it.'

Then Sœurette, who, without intervening, had listened to Luc
with passionate interest, spoke of a refuge which she thought of
establishing for the infant children of factory women. From that moment
the doctor, schoolmaster, and priest engaged in quiet and friendly
conversation as to how this asylum might best be organised, and the
abuses of similar establishments avoided. And, meantime, the shadows
of the great trees lengthened over the lawns of the park, and the
wood-pigeons flew down to the grass in the golden September sunshine.

It was already four o'clock when the three guests quitted La Crêcherie.
Jordan and Luc, for the sake of a little exercise, accompanied them as
far as the first houses of the town. Then, on their way back across
some stony fields which Jordan left uncultivated, the latter suggested
that they should extend their stroll a little in order to call upon
Lange the potter. Jordan had allowed him to instal himself in a wild
nook of his estate below the smeltery, asking no rent or other payment
from him. And Lange, like Morfain, had made himself a dwelling in a
rocky cavity which some of the old torrents rushing past the lower part
of the Bleuse Mountains had excavated in the gigantic wall formed by
the promontory. Moreover, he had ended by constructing three kilns near
the slope whence he took his clay; and he lived there without God or
master amidst all the free independence of his work.

'No doubt he's a man of extreme views,' added Jordan, in answer to a
question from Luc, who felt greatly interested in Lange. 'What you told
me about his violent outburst in the Rue de Brias the other evening
did not surprise me. He was lucky in getting released, for the affair
might have turned out very badly for him. But you have no notion how
intelligent he is, and what art he puts into his simple earthen pots,
although he has virtually had no education. He was born hereabouts, and
his parents were poor workpeople. Left an orphan at ten years of age,
he worked as a mason's help, then as an apprentice potter, and now,
since I've allowed him to settle on my land, he is his own employer, as
he laughingly puts it.... I am the more particularly interested in some
attempts he is making with refractory clay, for, as you know, I want
to find the clay best suited to resist the terrible temperature of my
electrical furnaces.'

At last, on looking up, Luc perceived Lange's dwelling-place among
the bushes. Faced by a little parapet of dry stones, it suggested
a barbarian camp. And as the young man saw a tall, shapely,
dark-oomplexioned girl erect upon the threshold he inquired: 'Is Lange
married, then?'

'No,' replied Jordan, 'but he lives with that girl, who is both his
slave and his wife. It is quite a romance. Five years ago, when she
was barely fifteen, he found her lying in a ditch, very ill, half dead
in fact, abandoned there by some band of gypsies. Nobody has ever
known exactly where she came from; she herself won't answer when she's
questioned. Well, Lange carried her home upon his shoulders, nursed
her and cured her, and you can't imagine the ardent gratitude that she
has always shown him since. She lacked even shoes for her feet when
he found her. Even to-day she seldom puts any on, unless indeed she
is going down into the town; in such wise that the whole district and
even Lange himself call her 'Barefeet.' She is the only person that he
employs, she helps him with his work and even in dragging his barrow
when he goes about the fairs to sell his pottery, for that is his way
of disposing of his goods, which are well known throughout the region.'

Erect on the threshold of the little enclosure, which had a gate of
open fencing, Barefeet watched the gentlemen approach, and thus Luc on
his side was well able to examine her with her dark regular-featured
face, her hair black as ink, and her large wild eyes, which became full
of ineffable tenderness whenever they turned upon Lange. The young man
also remarked her bare feet, childish feet, of a light bronze hue,
resting in the clayey soil, which was always damp. And she stood there
in working costume, that is, barely clad in garments of grey linen,
and showing her shapely legs and muscular arms. When she had come to
the conclusion that the gentleman accompanying the owner of the estate
was a friend, she quitted her post of observation, and, after warning
Lange, returned to the kiln which she had previously been watching.

'Ah! it's you, Monsieur Jordan,' exclaimed Lange, in his turn
presenting himself. 'Do you know that since that affair the other
evening Barefeet is for ever imagining that people are coming to
arrest me. I fancy that if any policeman should present himself here
he would not escape whole from her clutches.... You have come to see
my last refractory bricks, eh? Well, here they are--I'll tell you the
composition.'

Luc readily recognised the knotty little man, of whom he had caught a
glimpse amidst the gloom of the Rue de Brias whilst he was announcing
the inevitable catastrophe, and cursing that corrupt town of Beauclair,
whose crimes had condemned it. Only, as he now scrutinised him in
detail, he was surprised by the loftiness of his brow, over which fell
a dark tangle of hair, and the keenness of his eyes, which glittered
with intelligence, and at times flared up with anger. Most of all,
however, the young fellow was surprised at divining beneath a rugged
exterior and apparent violence a man of contemplative nature, a gentle
dreamer, a simple rustic poet, who, urged on by his absolute ideas of
justice, had finally come to the point of desiring to annihilate the
old and guilty world.

After introducing Luc as an engineer, a friend of his, Jordan asked
Lange with a laugh to show the young man what he called his museum.

'Oh! if it can interest the gentleman, willingly,' said Lange; 'they
are merely things which I fire for amusement's sake--there, all that
pottery under the shed. You may give it all a glance, monsieur, while I
explain my bricks to Monsieur Jordan.'

Luc's astonishment increased. Under the shed he found a number of
faïence figures, vases, pots, and dishes of the strangest shapes and
colours, which, whilst denoting great ignorance on the maker's part,
were yet delightful in their original _naïveté_. The firings had at
times yielded some superb results; much of the enamel displayed a
wondrous richness of tone. But what particularly struck the young man
among the current pottery which Lange prepared for his usual customers
at the markets and fairs, the crockery, the stock-pots, the pitchers
and basins, was the elegance of shape and charm of colour which
showed forth like some florescence of the popular genius. It seemed
indeed as if the potter had derived his talent from his race, that
those creations of his, instinct with the soul of the masses, sprang
naturally from his big fingers, as though in fact he had intuitively
rediscovered the primitive models, so full of practical beauty.

When Lange came back with Jordan, who had ordered of him a few hundred
bricks with which it was intended to try a new electrical furnace, he
received with a smile the congratulations tendered him by Luc, who
marvelled at the gaiety of the faïences, which looked so bright, so
flowery with purple and azure, in the broad sunlight.

'Yes, yes,' said the potter, 'they set a few poppies and cornflowers,
as it were, in people's houses. I've always thought that roofs and
house-fronts ought to be decorated in that style. It would not cost
very much, if the tradesmen would only leave off thieving; and you'd
see, too, how pleasant a town would look--quite like a nosegay set in
greenery. But there's nothing to be done with the dirty _bourgeois_ of
nowadays!'

Then he at once lapsed into his sectarian passion, plunged into the
ideas of Anarchy which he had derived from a few pamphlets that by
some chance had fallen into his hands. First of all one had to destroy
everything, seize everything in revolutionary style. Salvation would
only be obtained by the annihilation of all authority, for if any, even
the most insignificant, remained standing, it would suffice for the
reconstruction of the whole edifice of iniquity and tyranny. Next the
free commune, without any government whatever, might be established by
means of agreement between different groups, which would incessantly
be varied and modified, according to the desires and needs of each.
Luc was struck at finding in this theory much that had been devised by
Fourier, and indeed the ultimate dream was the same, even if the roads
to be followed were different. Thus the Anarchist was but a Fourierist,
a disabused and exasperated Collectivist, who no longer believed in
political means, but was resolved to use force and extermination as his
instrument to reach social happiness, since centuries of slow evolution
seemed unlikely to achieve it. And thus, when Luc mentioned Bonnaire,
Lange became quite ferocious in his irony, showing more bitter disdain
for the master-puddler than he would have shown for a _bourgeois_. Ah,
yes, indeed! Bonnaire's barracks, that famous Collectivism in which one
would be numbered, disciplined, imprisoned as in a penitentiary! And
stretching out his fist towards Beauclair, whose roofs he overlooked,
the potter once more poured his lamentation, his prophetic curse, upon
that corrupt town which fire would destroy, and which would be razed to
the very ground in order that the city of truth and justice might at
last rise from its ashes.

Astonished by this violence, Jordan looked at him curiously, saying:
'But, Lange, my good fellow, you are not so badly off.'

'I, Monsieur Jordan, I'm very happy, as happy as one can be. I live in
freedom here, and it's almost the realisation of anarchy. You have let
me take this little bit of earth, the earth which belongs to us all,
and I'm my own master; I pay rent to nobody. Then, too, I work as I
fancy; I've no employer to crush me, and no workman for me to crush; I
myself sell my pots and pitchers to good folk who need them, without
being robbed by tradesmen or allowing them to rob customers. And when
I'm so inclined I've still time to amuse myself by firing those faïence
figures and ornamental pots and plates, whose bright colours please my
eyes. Ah! no, indeed, we don't complain, we feel happy in living when
the sun comes to cheer us. Isn't that so, Barefeet?'

The girl had drawn near, with her hands quite pink from removing a pot
from the wheel. And she smiled divinely as she looked at the man, the
god whose servant she had made herself, and to whom she wholly belonged.

'But all the same,' resumed Lange, 'there are too many poor devils
suffering, and so we shall have to blow up Beauclair one of these fine
mornings in order that it may be built again properly. Propaganda by
deeds is the only thing that is of any good; only bombs can rouse the
people. And do you know that I've everything here that's necessary
to prepare two or three dozen bombs which would prove wonderfully
powerful. Some fine day, perhaps, I shall start off with the barrow,
which I pull in front, you know, while Barefeet pushes it behind. It's
fairly heavy when it is laden with pottery, and one has to drag it
along the bad village roads from market to market. So we take a rest
now and again under the trees, at spots where there are springs handy.
Only, that day, we sha'n't quit Beauclair, we shall go along all the
streets, and there'll be a bomb hidden in each stock-pot. We shall
deposit one at the sub-prefecture, another at the town-hall, another
at the law courts, then another at the church, at all the places in
fact where there's anything in the shape of authority to be destroyed.
The matches will burn, each will last the necessary time. Then all at
once Beauclair will go up! A frightful eruption will burn it and carry
it away. Eh? What do you think of that, of my little promenade, with
my barrow, and my little distribution of the stock-pots I'm making to
bring about the happiness of mankind?'

He laughed a laugh of ecstasy, his face all aglow with excitement, and
as the beautiful dark girl began to laugh with him he turned and said
to her: 'Isn't that so, Barefeet? I'll pull and you shall push, and
it will be even a finer walk than the one we take under the willows
alongside the Mionne when we go to the fair at Magnolles!'

Jordan did not argue the point, but made a gesture as much as to say
that he, as a scientist, regarded such a conception as imbecility.
But when they had taken leave and were returning to La Crêcherie Luc
quivered at the thought of that black poem, that dream of ensuring
happiness by destruction, which thus haunted the minds of a few
primitive poets among the disinherited classes. And thus, each deep in
his own meditations, the two men went homeward in silence.

On repairing direct to the laboratory they there found Sœurette quietly
seated at a little table, where she was making a clean copy of one of
her brother's manuscripts. She just raised her head and smiled at him
and his companion, then turned to her task once more.

'Ah!' said Jordan, throwing himself back in an arm-chair, 'it is quite
certain that my only good time is that which I spend here among my
appliances and papers. As soon as I come back to this laboratory, hope
and peace seem to rise to my heart once more.'

He glanced affectionately around the spacious room, whose large windows
were open, the glow of the setting sun entering warmly and caressingly,
whilst between the trees one saw the roofs and casements of Beauclair
shining in the distance.

'How wretched and futile all those disputes are!' Jordan resumed,
whilst Luc softly paced up and down. 'As I listened to the priest and
the schoolmaster after lunch I felt astonished that people could
lose their time in striving to convince one another when they viewed
questions from opposite standpoints, and could not even speak the same
language. Please observe, that they never come here without beginning
precisely the same discussions afresh, and reaching absolutely the
same point as on the previous occasion. And besides, how silly it is
to confine oneself to the absolute, to take no account of experience,
and to fight on simply with contradictory arguments! I am entirely of
the opinion of the doctor, who amuses himself with annihilating both
priest and schoolmaster by merely opposing one to the other! And then,
as regards that fellow Lange, can one imagine a man dreaming of more
ridiculous things--losing himself in more manifest, dangerous errors,
all through bestirring himself chancewise, and disdaining certainties?
No, decidedly, political passions do not suit me; the things which
those people say to one another seem to me devoid of sense, and the
biggest questions which they broach are in my eyes mere pastimes for
amusement on the road. I cannot understand why such vain battles should
be fought over petty incidents, when the discovery of the smallest
scientific truth does more for progress than fifty years of social
struggling!'

Luc began to laugh. 'You are falling into the absolute yourself,' said
he. 'Man ought to struggle, politics simply represent the necessity
in which he finds himself to defend his needs and ensure himself the
greatest sum of happiness possible.'

'You are right,' acknowledged Jordan, with his simple good faith.
'Perhaps my disdain for politics merely comes from some covert remorse,
some desire to live in ignorance of the country's political affairs in
order to avoid being disturbed by them. But, sincerely now, I think
that I am still a good citizen in shutting myself up in my laboratory,
for each serves the nation according to his lights. And assuredly
the real revolutionaries, the real men of action, those who do the
most to ensure the advent of truth and justice in the future, are the
scientists. A government passes and falls; a people grows, triumphs,
and then declines; but the truths of science are transmitted from
generation to generation, ever spreading, ever giving increase of light
and certainty. A pause of a century does not count, the forward march
is always resumed at last, and in spite of every obstacle mankind
goes on towards knowledge. The objection that one will never know
everything is ridiculous; the question is to learn as much as we can
in order that we may attain to the greatest happiness possible. And
so, I repeat it, how unimportant are those political jolts on the road
in which nations take such passionate interest. Whilst people set the
salvation of progress in the maintenance or fall of a ministry, it
is really the scientist who determines what the morrow shall be by
illumining the darkness of the multitude with a fresh spark of truth.
All injustice will cease when all truth has been acquired.'

Silence fell. Sœurette, who had put down her pen, was now listening.
After pondering for a few moments, Jordan, without transition, resumed:
'Work, ah! work, I owe my life to it. You see what a poor, puny little
being I am. I remember that my mother used to wrap me in thick rugs
whenever the wind was at all violent; yet it was she who set me to
work, as to a _régime_, which was certain to bring good health. She
did not condemn me to crushing studies, forms of punishment with which
growing minds are so often tortured. But she instilled into me a habit
of regular, varied, and attractive work. And it was thus that I learnt
to work as one learns to breathe and to walk. Work has become like
the function of my being, the necessary natural play of my limbs and
organs, the object of my life, and the very means that enables me to
live. I have lived because I have worked; some sort of equilibrium has
been arrived at between the world and me; I have given it back in work
what it has brought me in the form of sensations, and I believe that
all health lies therein, that is in well-regulated exchanges, a perfect
adaptation of the organism to its surroundings. And, however slight of
build I may be, I shall live to a good old age, that's certain, since
like a little machine I have been carefully put together and wound up,
and work logically.'

Luc had paused in his slow perambulation. Like Sœurette he was now
listening with passionate interest.

'But that is only a question of the life of beings, of the necessity
of good hygiene, if one is to have good life,' continued Jordan. 'Work
is life itself; life is the continual work of chemical and mechanical
forces. Since the first atom stirred to join the atoms near it, the
great creative work has never ceased; and this creative work, which
continues and will always continue, is like the very task of eternity,
the universal task to which we all contribute our store. Is not the
universe an immense workshop, where there is never an 'off day,'
where matter from the simplest ferments to the most perfect creatures
acts, makes, brings forth unceasingly. The fields which become
covered with crops work; the slowly growing forests work; the rivers
streaming through the valleys work; the seas rolling their waves from
one to another continent work; the worlds, carried by the rhythm of
gravitation through the infinite, work. There is not a being, not a
thing that can remain still, in idleness; all find themselves carried
along, set to work, forced to contribute to the common task. Who or
whatever does not work, disappears from that very cause, is thrust
aside as something useless and cumbersome, and has to yield place to
the necessary, indispensable worker. Such is the one law of life,
which, upon the whole, is simply matter working, a force in perpetual
activity tending towards that final work of happiness, an imperious
craving for which we all have within us.'

For another moment Jordan reflected, his eyes wandering far away. Then
he resumed: 'And what an admirable regulator is work, what orderliness
it brings with it whomever it reigns! It is peace, it is joy, even
as it is health. I am confounded when I see it disdained, vilified,
regarded as chastisement and shame. Whilst saving me from certain
death, it also gave me all that is good in me. And what an admirable
organiser it is, how well it regulates the faculties of the mind,
the play of the muscles, the rôle of each group in a collectivity of
workers. It would of itself suffice as a political constitution, a
human police, a social _raison d'être_. We are born solely for the
sake of the hive: we none of us bring into the world more than our
individual, momentary effort. All other explanations would be vain and
false. Our individual lives appear to be sacrificed to the universal
life of future worlds. No happiness is possible unless we set it in
the solidary happiness of eternal and general toil. And this is why I
should like to see the foundation of the Religion of Work--a hosannah
to work which saves, work in which is to be found the one truth, and
sovereign health, joy, and peace!'

He ceased speaking and Sœurette raised a cry of loving enthusiasm: 'How
right you are, brother, and how true! how beautiful it is!'

But Luc seemed more moved even than she. He had remained standing
there, motionless, his eyes gradually filling with light, as if he were
some apostle illumined by a suddenly descending ray. And all at once he
spoke: 'Listen, Jordan, you must not sell your property to Delaveau,
you must keep everything, both the blast-furnace and the mine. That's
my answer, I give it you now because I have quite made up my mind upon
the subject.'

Surprised by those words, the connection of which with what he had
just said escaped him, the master of La Crêcherie started slightly and
blinked. 'Why so, my dear Luc?' he asked. 'Why do you say that? Explain
yourself.'

The young man, however, remained silent for a moment, overcome as
he was by emotion. That hymn, that glorification of pacifying and
reorganising work had suddenly raised him, carried him away in spirit,
at last showing him the great horizon, which hitherto had been clouded
in mist. To his eyes everything now acquired precision, grew animated,
assumed absolute certainty. Faith also glowed within him, and his words
came from his lips with extraordinary power of persuasion.

'You must not sell the property to Delaveau,' he repeated. 'I visited
the abandoned mine to-day. Such as the ore is in the present veins,
one can still derive good profit from it by subjecting it to the new
chemical processes. And Morfain has convinced me that one will find
excellent lodes on the other side of the gorge. There is incalculable
wealth there. The blast-furnace will yield cast iron cheaply, and if it
be completed by a forge, some puddling furnaces, rolling mills, steam
hammers and so forth, one may again begin making rails and girders
in such a way as to compete victoriously with the most prosperous
steel-works of the north and the east.'

Jordan's surprise was increasing, becoming sheer consternation. 'But
I don't want to get any richer,' he protested; 'I've too much money
already; and if I desire to sell the place it is precisely in order to
escape from all the cares of gain.'

With a fine, passionate gesture Luc broke in: 'Let me finish, my
friend. It isn't you that I desire to enrich, it is the disinherited
ones, the workers whom we were speaking of just now, the victims of
iniquitous and vilified labour! As you have said, work ought of itself
alone to be a social _raison d'être_. At the moment I heard you,
the path to salvation became manifest to me. The happy community of
to-morrow can only be brought about by such a reorganisation of work as
will lead to an equitable apportionment of wealth, the only solution
by which our misery and sufferings may be dispelled lies in that. If
the old social fabric, now cracking and rotting, is to be replaced by
another it must be upon the basis of work, shared by all and benefiting
all, accepted, indeed, as the universal law. Well, that is what I
should like to attempt here, a reorganisation of work on a small scale,
a brotherly enterprise, a rough draft, as it were, of the social system
of to-morrow, which I should contrast with the other enterprises, those
based upon the wage system, the ancient prisons where workmen are
regarded as slaves and tortured and dishonoured.'

He went on speaking in quivering accents, outlining his dream, all
that had germinated in his mind since his recent perusal of Fourier's
theories. There ought to be an association between capital, work, and
talent. Jordan would provide the money required, Bonnaire and his mates
would give their arms, and his, Luc's, would be the brain that plans
and directs. Whilst speaking, the young man again began to walk up and
down, pointing vehemently the while towards the neighbouring roofs of
Beauclair. It was Beauclair that he would save, extricate from the
shame and crime in which he had seen it sinking for three days past.
As he gradually unfolded his plan of action he marvelled at himself,
for he had not thought that he had all this in him. But he at last saw
things clearly, he had found his road. And he now replied to all the
distressing questions which he had put to himself during his insomnia
without then finding any answer to them. In particular he now responded
to those appeals from the wretched which had come to him from out of
the darkness. At present he distinctly heard those cries, and he went
forward to succour the poor beings who raised them; he would save
them by regenerated work, by work which would no longer divide men
into inimical, all-devouring castes, but would Unite them in one sole
brotherly family, wherein the efforts of each would be directed to
obtaining the happiness of all.

'But the application of Fourier's formula,' said Jordan, 'does not
destroy the wage-system. Even among the Collectivists little of that
system is changed excepting the name. To annihilate it, one would have
to go as far as anarchy.'

Luc was obliged to admit the truth of this objection; and in doing
so he passed his feelings and opinions in review. The theories of
Bonnaire, the Collectivist, and the dreams of Lange, the Anarchist,
still lingered in his ears. The discussions between Abbé Marle,
schoolmaster Hermeline, and Doctor Novarre, also seemed to begin afresh
and continue endlessly. The whole made up a chaos of contrary opinions,
particularly as Luc likewise recalled the objections exchanged by the
precursors of Socialism, Saint-Simon, Auguste Comte, and Proudhon. Why
was it then that amongst so many formulas he himself should choose
those of Fourier? No doubt he was acquainted with a few fortunate
applications of them, but he also knew how slowly attempts progressed,
and what difficulties stood in the way of any decisive result. Perhaps
his choice was due to the fact that revolutionary violence was quite
repugnant to him personally, since he had set his scientific faith in
ceaseless evolution, which has all eternity before it to achieve its
ends. Moreover, a complete and sudden expropriation of present-day
possessors could not be effected without terrible catastrophes which
would increase the present sum of misery and sorrow. Would it not
be best therefore to profit by the opportunity of such a practical
experiment as lay before him, an attempt in which he would find
contentment for his whole being: his own native goodness of heart and
his faith in man's goodness also? He was upbuoyed by some exalted
heroic feeling, a faith, a kind of prescience, which seemed to make
success a certainty. And, besides, even if the application of Fourier's
formulas should not bring about the immediate end of the wage-system,
it would at least be a forward step, it would tend towards the final
victory, the destruction of capital, the disappearance of mere traders,
commercial middle-men, and the annihilation of the power of money,
that source of all evils whose uselessness would be proved. The great
quarrel of the socialist schools is one as to the means which should be
employed. The schools are all agreed as to the object in view, and they
will all be reconciled when some day the happy community is at last
established. It was the first foundations of that community which Luc
desired to lay, by collecting scattered forces, associating men of good
will together, and he was convinced that, given the frightful massacre
now going on, there could be no better point of departure.

Jordan remained sceptical, however. 'Fourier had flashes of genius,'
said he, 'that is certain. Only he has now been dead more than sixty
years, and if he still retains a few stubborn disciples I see no sign
of his religion conquering the world.'

'Catholicism took four centuries to conquer a small part of it,' Luc
quickly retorted. 'Besides, I don't adopt the whole of Fourier's views;
I regard him simply as a wise man, to whom one day a vision of the
truth appeared. Moreover, he is not the only one; others helped to
prepare the formula and others will perfect it. One thing which you
cannot deny is that the evolution now proceeding so rapidly dates from
far back. The whole of our century has been given to the laborious
engendering of the new social system which will arise to-morrow. Each
day for a hundred years past the workers have been born a little more
to social life, and to-morrow they will be masters of their destinies
by virtue of that scientific law which ensures life to the strongest,
healthiest, and worthiest. It is all that which we nowadays behold,
the final struggle between the privileged few by whom wealth has been
stolen, and the great toiling masses who wish to recover the possession
of wealth of which they have been despoiled for long centuries. History
teaches us how a few seized on the greatest happiness possible--to
the detriment of all the others; and how since then all the wretched
despoiled ones have never ceased to struggle furiously, eager to
reconquer as much happiness as they could. For the last fifty years
the contest has become merciless, and one now sees the privileged folk
seized with fear, and slowly relinquishing of their own accord certain
of their privileges. The times are approaching, one can feel it by
all the concessions which the holders of land and wealth make to the
people. In the political sphere much has been given it already, and
it will also be necessary to give it much in the economic sphere. One
sees nothing but new laws favouring the workers, humanitarian measures
of all kinds, the triumphs too of associations and unions, and all
announce the coming era. The battle between labour and capital has
reached such an acute crisis that one can already predict the defeat of
the latter. In time, the disappearance of the wage-system is certain.
And this is why I feel convinced that I shall conquer by helping on the
advent of that something else which will replace the wage-system, that
reorganisation of work, which will give us more justice and a loftier
civilisation.'

He was radiant with benevolence, faith, and hope. And continuing he
went back to history, to the robberies perpetrated by the stronger in
the earliest days of the world, the wretched multitude being reduced
to slavery and the possessors piling crime upon crime in order that
they might not be obliged to restore anything to those who were
despoiled, and who perished by starvation or violence. And he showed
the accumulation of wealth increased by time, and still now in the
hands of a few, who held the country estates, the houses in the towns,
the factories of the industrial centres, the mines where coal and metal
slumber, the means of transport by road, canal, and rail, and then the
Rentes, the gold and the silver, the millions which circulate through
the banks, briefly the whole wealth of earth, all that constitutes the
incalculable fortune of mankind. And was it not abominable that so
much wealth should only lead to the frightful indigence of the greater
number? Did not such a state of things demand justice? Could one not
see the inevitable necessity of proceeding to a fresh apportionment of
wealth? Such iniquity, in which on the one hand one beheld idleness
gorged with possession, and on the other pain-racked labour, agonising
in misery, had made man wolfish towards man.

Instead of uniting to conquer and domesticate the forces of nature,
men wolfishly devoured one another. Their barbarous social system cast
them to hatred and error and madness; infants and aged beings were
abandoned, and woman was crushed down, to become a beast of burden
for some, and a mere instrument of pleasure for others. The workers
themselves, corrupted by example, accepted their servitude, bending
their heads amidst the universal cowardice. And how frightful, too, was
the waste of human fortune, the colossal sums spent on warfare, and all
the money given to useless functionaries, to judges and to gendarmes!
And then there was all the money winch without necessity remained in
the hands of the traders, those parasite intermediaries, whose gains
were levied on the consumers! But, after all, this was only the daily
loss of an illogical, badly constructed social system. Apart from it
there was downright crime, famine deliberately organised by those who
detained the instruments of labour, in order to protect their profits.
They reduced the output of a factory, they imposed off-days upon
miners, they created misery for purposes of economic warfare, in order
to keep up high prices. And yet people were astonished that the machine
should be cracking and collapsing beneath such a pile of suffering,
injustice, and shame!

'No, no!' cried Luc, 'that cannot last, unless mankind is to disappear
in a final attack of madness. The social compact must be changed, each
man that is born has a right to life, and the earth is the common
fortune of us all. The instruments of work must be restored to all,
each must do his own share of the general labour. If history, with
its hatreds, its wars, its crimes, has hitherto been nothing but the
abominable outcome of original theft, of the tyranny of a few thieves
who had to urge men on to murder one another, and institute law courts
and prisons to defend their deeds of rapine, it is time to begin
history afresh, and to set, at the dawn of the new era, a great act of
equity, the restoration of the wealth of the earth to all men, work
once again becoming the universal law of human society, even as it is
that of the universe, in order that peace may be made among us and
happy brotherliness at last prevail. And that shall be! I will work for
it, and I will succeed!'

He seemed so passionate, so lofty, so victorious in his prophetic
exaltation, that Jordan, marvelling, turned towards Sœurette to say,
'Just look at him, is he not handsome?'

Sœurette herself, quivering, pale with admiration, had not taken her
eyes from Luc. It seemed as if a kind of religious fervour possessed
her. 'Oh! he is handsome,' she murmured faintly, 'and he is good as
well.'

'Only, my dear friend,' resumed Jordan, smiling, 'you are really an
Anarchist, however much you may deem yourself to be an evolutionist.
But you are right in holding that one begins by Fourier's formula, and
ends by the free man in the free commune.'

Luc himself had begun to laugh. 'At all events,' said he, 'let's make a
start; we shall see whither logic will lead us.'

Jordan had become thoughtful, however, and no longer seemed to hear
him. He, the cloistered scientist, had been profoundly stirred, and if
he still doubted the possibility of hastening mankind's advance, he no
longer denied the utility of experiment.

'Individual initiative is no doubt in some respects all-powerful,' he
said. 'To determine facts, one simply needs a man of will and action,
some rebel of genius and free mind who brings the new truth with him.
In cases of accident, when salvation depends on cutting a cable or
splitting a beam, only a man and a hatchet are necessary. Will is
everything, the saviour is he who wields the hatchet. Nothing resists,
mountains collapse and seas retire before an individuality that acts.'

'Twas that indeed; in those words Luc found an expression of the will
and conviction glowing within him. He knew not yet what genius he
brought with him, but he was pervaded by a strength that seemed to have
been long accumulating, a strength compounded of revolt against all the
injustice of centuries, and an ardent craving to bring justice into
the world at last. His also was the freed mind, he only accepted such
facts as were scientifically proved. He was alone too, he wished to act
alone, he set all his faith in action. He was the man who dares, and
that would be sufficient, his mission would be fulfilled.

Silence reigned for a moment, and then Jordan, with a friendly gesture
of surrender, said: 'As I have already told you, there are hours of
lassitude when I would give Delaveau the whole property, both the
smeltery and the mine and the land, so as to rid myself of them and
to be able to devote myself in peace to my studies and experiments.
So take them, you--I prefer to give them to you, since you think you
can turn them to good use. All that I ask of you is to deliver me
completely from the burden, to leave me in my corner to work and finish
my task, without ever speaking to me of these affairs again.'

Luc gazed at him with sparkling eyes, in which all his gratitude,
all his affection, glittered. Then, without any hesitation, like one
certain of the reply he would receive, he said: 'That is not all,
my friend. Your great heart must do something more. I can undertake
nothing without money, I need five hundred thousand francs[1] to
establish the works I dream of, which will be like the foundation of
the future city ... I am convinced that I offer you a good investment,
since your capital will enter into the association, and ensure you a
large part of the profits.'

And as Jordan wished to interpose, he went on: 'Yes, I know that you
do not desire to become any richer. Nevertheless you must live; and if
you give me your money I shall strive to provide for all your material
wants in such a manner that your peace as a worker shall never be
disturbed.'

Once more did silence, grave, full of emotion, fall in that spacious
room, where so much work was already germinating for the harvests of
the days to come. The decision that had to be taken was fraught with
such great importance for the future that it set something like a
religious quiver there during that august interval of suspense.

'Yours is a soul of renunciation and benevolence,' said Luc again. 'Did
you not apprise me of it yesterday when you told me that you would not
trade upon the discoveries you pursue, those electrical furnaces which
will some day reduce human labour and enrich mankind with new wealth?
For my part it is not a gift that I ask of you, it is brotherly help,
help to enable me to lessen the injustice of the times and create some
happiness in the world.'

Then, in very simple fashion, Jordan consented. 'I'm willing, my
friend,' he said. 'You shall have the money to realise your dream.
Only, as one never ought to tell a falsehood, I will add that, in my
eyes, that dream is still only so much generous utopia, for you have
not fully convinced me. Excuse the doubts of a scientist.... But no
matter, you are a good fellow; make your attempt--I will be with you!'

Luc, whom enthusiasm seemed to raise from the ground, gave a cry of
triumph: 'Thanks! I tell you that the work is as good as done, and that
we shall know the divine joy of having accomplished it!

Sœurette hitherto had not intervened--she had not even stirred. But
all the kindliness of her heart had made itself manifest in her face,
big tears of tender emotion filled her eyes. All at once, under some
irresistible impulse, she rose, drew near to Luc, silent, distracted,
and kissed him on the face, her tears gushing forth as she did so.
Then, in her wondrous emotion, she flung herself into her brother's
arms, and long remained sobbing there.

Slightly surprised by the kiss she had given the young man, Jordan
anxiously inquired: 'What is the matter, little sister? At least you
don't disapprove of what is proposed, do you? It is true that we ought
to have consulted you. But there is still time--are you with us?'

'Oh, yes! oh, yes!' she stammered, smiling, suddenly radiant amidst her
tears; 'you are two heroes, and I will serve you--dispose of me.'

Late on the evening of that same day, towards eleven o'clock, Luc
leant out of the window of the little pavilion, as on the previous
night, in order to inhale for a moment the calm fresh air. In front
of him, beyond the uncultivated fields strewn with rocks, Beauclair
was falling asleep, extinguishing its lights one by one; whilst on the
left the Abyss resounded with all the noise of its hammers. Never had
the breathing of the pain-racked giant seemed to Luc more hoarse, more
oppressed. But again, as on the previous night, a sound arose from
across the road, so light a sound that he fancied it was caused by
the beating wings of some night-bird. His heart suddenly palpitated,
however, when he heard the sound afresh, for he recognised a gentle
quiver of approach. And again he saw a vague, delicate, and slender
form which seemed to float over the grass. Then, with the spring of a
wild goat, a woman crossed the road, and threw him a little bouquet so
skilfully that he once more received it on his lips like a caress. As
on the previous night, too, it was a little bunch of mountain pansies,
gathered just then among the rocks, and of such powerful aroma that he
was quite perfumed by it.

'Oh, Josine, Josine!' he exclaimed, penetrated by infinite tenderness.

She it was who had returned, and who, naïve, simple like those very
flowers, once again gave him her whole soul, ever with the same gesture
of passionate gratitude. And he felt refreshed, revived, amidst all
the physical and mental fatigue following upon so decisive a day. Were
not those flowers already a reward for his first efforts, for his
resolution to proceed to action? And it was in her, Josine, that he
loved the suffering toilers, it was she whom he wished to save from
monstrous fate. He had found her the most wretched, the most insulted
and derided, so near to debasement that she was on the point of falling
into the gutter. With her poor hand mutilated by work, she typified
the whole race of the victims, the slaves, who gave their flesh for
work or for pleasure. When he should have redeemed her, he would have
redeemed the entire race. And she, too, was love, love that is needful
for harmony, for the happiness of the city of the future.

He gently called her: 'Josine! Josine! It is you, Josine!' But without
a word she was already fleeing, disappearing into the darkness of the
uncultivated moor. Then he again called her: 'Josine! Josine! It is
you, I know it, Josine; I want to speak to you!'

Thereupon, trembling but happy, she came back with the same light step,
and paused on the road below the window. 'Yes, it is I, Monsieur Luc,'
she murmured.

He did not hasten to speak, however--he was trying to see her better,
so slim, so vague she was, like some vision which a wave of darkness
would soon carry away. At last he spoke: 'Will you do me a service?
Tell Bonnaire to come to speak with me to-morrow morning. I have some
good news for him--I have found him some work.'

She showed her pleasure by a laugh, tinged with emotion, and so faint
and musical that it recalled the warbling of a bird. 'Ah! you are kind!
you are kind!' she murmured.

'And,' continued he in a lower voice, for he, likewise, was feeling
moved, 'I shall have work for all who wish to work. Yes, I am going to
try to provide a little justice and happiness for everybody.'

She must have understood him, for her laugh became yet more gentle,
more expressive of passionate gratitude. 'Thank you, thank you,
Monsieur Luc!' Then the vision began to fade, and Luc again saw the
light shadow fleeing through the bushes, accompanied by another and
smaller one, Nanet, whom he had not previously seen, but who was now
bounding along beside his big sister.

'Josine! Josine! _Au revoir_, Josine!'

'Thank you, Monsieur Luc!'

He could no longer distinguish her, she had disappeared, but he still
heard her expressions of gratitude and joy, that bird-like warble which
the night breeze wafted to him; and it was instinct with an infinite
charm which penetrated and enchanted his heart.

For a long time did he linger at the window, full of rapture and
boundless hope. Between the Abyss, where accursed toil was panting,
and La Guerdache, whose park formed a great black patch upon the
low plain of La Roumagne, he perceived Old Beauclair, the workers'
dwelling-place, with its shaky rotting hovels slumbering beneath the
crushing weight of misery and suffering. There lay the cloaca which
he wished to purify, the antique gaol of the wage-system, which must
be razed to the ground with all its hateful iniquity and cruelty, in
order that mankind might be cured of the effects of the long efforts to
poison it. And on the same spot he was, in imagination, already raising
the future city, the abode of truth, justice, and happiness, whose
white houses he could already picture smiling freely and fraternally
amongst delicate verdure, under a mighty sun of joy.

But, all at once, the whole horizon was illumined, a great pink
glow lighted up the roofs of Beauclair, the promontory of the Bleuse
Mountains, the entire stretch of country. It was the glow of liquid
metal running from the furnace of La Crêcherie, and Luc had, at first,
taken it for the dawn. But it was not dawn, it symbolised rather the
setting of a planet--old Vulcan, tortured at his anvil, throwing forth
his final flames. Work, hereafter, would no longer be aught than health
and joy, to-morrow was coming fast.


[1] 20,000_l_.



BOOK II



I


There years went by, and Luc established his new factory, which gave
birth to a whole town of workers. The land which lay below the ridge
of the Bleuse Mountains extended over a space of some twelve hundred
square yards, a great moor, which, sloping slightly, stretched from
the park of La Crêcherie to the jumbled buildings of the Abyss. And
the beginnings were necessarily modest, only a part of the moor was at
first utilised, the rest being reserved for the extensions which it was
hoped the future would justify.

The works stood against the rocky promontory, just below the
blast-furnace, with which they communicated by two lifts. Pending
the revolution which Jordan's electrical furnaces would effect, Luc
had done little to the smeltery; he had improved it in a few matters
of detail, and then left it in Morfain's hands to continue working
according to old-time routine. But in the new works, both as regards
the buildings and the plant, he had availed himself of all possible
improvements in order to increase the output and diminish the labour
of the workers. In a like spirit he desired that the houses of the
workers, each of which stood in a garden, should be homes of comfort
where family life might flourish. Some fifty were already built on the
land near La Crêcherie, forming quite a little town advancing towards
Beauclair. The building of each new house, indeed, was like a fresh
step taken by the future city towards the conquest of the old, guilty
and condemned one. Then, in the centre of the land, Luc had erected the
common-house, a large building containing schools, a library, a hall
for meetings and festivities, baths and so forth. This was all that he
had retained of Fourier's phalanstery, leaving everybody free to build
as he pleased, and only deeming collective action to be necessary for
certain public services. Finally, in the rear of the property some
general stores had been established, and grew daily in importance.
There was a bakery, a butcher's, a grocery department, not to mention
others for clothes, utensils, all sorts of small indispensable
articles, the whole being conducted on the principles of a cooperative
society of consumers corresponding with the cooperative society of
producers which controlled the works. All this, no doubt, was simply
a beginning, but there was no dearth of life, and one could already
see and judge the work. Luc would not have succeeded in making such
rapid progress had not the happy thought occurred to him of interesting
workmen of the building trades in the enterprise. One thing, too, which
particularly delighted him was that he had managed to capture all the
springs scattered among the higher rocks, for they yielded an abundance
of fresh and pure water, which cleansed the works and the common-house,
gave moisture to the gardens, where thick greenery arose, and brought
health and delight to every home.

Now, one morning, Fauchard, the drawer at the Abyss, came strolling up
to La Crêcherie to see some of his old mates. He, ever undecided and
doleful, had remained under Delaveau, whereas Bonnaire had repaired
to the new works, taking with him his brother-in-law Ragu, who in his
turn had induced Bourron to follow. Those three then worked with Luc,
and Fauchard wished to question them. In the state of hebetude to which
fifteen years of labour, ever the same, ever a repetition of similar
gestures amidst a similar glare, had reduced him, he felt incapable
of arriving at any decision by himself. Such, indeed, had become his
indolence of mind, that for long months he had been thinking of this
visit without finding sufficient strength of will to make it. From the
moment of entering the works of La Crêcherie he felt astonished.

Coming as he did from the grimy, dusty Abyss, into whose heavy,
tumbledown halls the light scarcely entered, he marvelled, in the first
instance, at the sight of the light airy halls of La Crêcherie, all
brick and iron, through whose broad windows the sunshine streamed.
All the workshops were paved with slabs of cement, in such wise that
there was little dust; and the abundance of water facilitated frequent
washings. Moreover, the place remained clean and was easily kept in
such a condition, by reason of the new smoke-consuming apparatus with
which all the fires were provided. Thus, in lieu of an infernal,
cyclopean den there were bright, shiny, spacious workshops in which
toil seemed to lose much of its harshness. No doubt the employment of
electricity was still very limited; there was still a deafening roar
of machinery, and but little relief had been found for human efforts.
Only among some of the furnaces had there been trials of mechanical
appliances, which, although hitherto defective, encouraged the hope
that man would some day be freed from excessive labour. At La Crêcherie
they were feeling their way, so to say; and yet how great was the
improvement which already resulted from cleanliness, air, and sunlight!

Fauchard had expected to find Bonnaire, the master-puddler, at his
furnace, and was surprised to come upon him watching over a large
rolling-machine for the making of rails.

'Hallo!' exclaimed the visitor, 'have you given up puddling then?'

'No,' Bonnaire replied, 'but we do a little bit of everything here.
That's the rule of the place: two hours on one thing, two hours on
another; and really, it's quite true that it rests one.'

As a matter of fact Luc did not easily induce the men whom he took on
to quit whatever might be their specialty. Later, however, reforms
would be realised, for the children were already passing through
several apprenticeships, since work could only be made attractive by
varying it, and giving but a few hours to any one particular form.

'Ah!' sighed Fauchard, 'wouldn't it just amuse me to do something else
than draw crucibles out of my furnace! But then I can't, I don't know
how!'

The noise made by the rolling-machinery was so violent that he had
to raise his voice to its highest pitch. At last he profited by a
brief interval to shake hands with Ragu and Bourron, who were busily
engaged in receiving the rails. All this again was quite a sight for
Fauchard. The rails were not made in the same way as at the Abyss. He
looked at them with confused thoughts, which he could not have put
into words. That which more particularly made him suffer amidst his
downfall, reduced as he was to the status of a mere tool, was the dim
consciousness that he might have been a man of intelligence and will.
It was indeed so sad to think what a free, healthy, joyful man he might
have become if slavery had not cast him into that brutifying gaol, the
Abyss! The rails, which ever grew longer before his eyes, seemed to
him like an endless railroad over which his thoughts glided away into
the future, of which he had neither hope nor clear conception.

Under the hall adjacent to the great foundry the steel was melted in a
special furnace, and the fusing metal was received in a large cast-iron
pocket lined with refractory clay, which afterwards discharged it
into moulds. Electrical rolling bridges, powerful cranes, raised and
transported the heavy masses, brought them to the rolling-machines, and
conveyed them to the riveting and bolting workshops. There were various
sorts of rolling-presses, some of them gigantic, one for large pieces
of steel required for bridges, for the frameworks of buildings and so
forth; and others for such simple things as girders and rails whose
dimensions did not vary. These were made with extraordinary speed and
regularity. The steel billet, as dazzling as the sun, but short, and
as thick as a man's trunk, was caught in the first cage between two
rollers revolving inversely, and when it came forth from the throat
it was already more slender. But it entered a second cage and came
forth more slender still, and thus from cage to cage it was gradually
shaped, till it at last assumed the correct outline and the regulation
length of ten mètres. All this, however, was not accomplished without a
deafening uproar, a terrible noise of jaws between the cages, something
akin to the mastication of a colossus, whom one could imagine munching
all that steel. And rails succeeded rails with extraordinary rapidity;
you could scarcely follow the billet as it grew thinner and longer, and
sprang out at last as a rail, to be added to others and others, as if
indeed railways were extending endlessly, penetrating into the depths
of the least known lands, and girdling the whole earth.

'Who's all that for?' asked Fauchard in his bewilderment.

'For the Chinese!' answered Ragu by way of a joke.

But Luc was now passing the rolling-mills. He generally spent his
mornings in the works, glancing into each hall and chatting like a
mate with the men. He had been compelled to retain part of the old
hierarchy, master workmen, foremen, engineers, and an office staff for
account-keeping and commercial management. Nevertheless, he already
effected considerable economy by constant care in reducing the number
of managers and clerks. On the other hand, his immediate hopes had been
realised. Although high-class lodes like those of former times had not
yet been found in the mine, the ore now extracted yielded by chemical
treatment cheap iron of fair quality; in such wise that the manufacture
of girders and rails, being sufficiently remunerative, ensured the
prosperity of the works. They paid their way, the amount of business
increased each year, and this was the important point for Luc, whose
efforts were directed towards the future of the enterprise, convinced
as he was that he should conquer if, at each division of profits, the
workmen saw their comfort and happiness increase. None the less his
daily life was full of alarms amidst that complicated creation of his;
there were considerable advances to make, an entire little army to
lead, and worries assailed him both as a reformer, as an engineer, and
as a financier. Success seemed certain, yet he fully understood that
the enterprise was still in a precarious stage, at the mercy of events.

Amidst the uproar, he only paused for a moment to smile at Bonnaire,
Ragu, and Bourron, and he did not even notice Fauchard. He liked that
hall where the rolling-machinery was installed, he was cheered by
the sight of all the girders and rails made there; it was the good
forge of peace, he sometimes exclaimed gaily. And he contrasted it
with the evil forge of war--that neighbouring forge, the Abyss, where
guns and projectiles were made at such great cost, and with so much
care. To think of it! Such perfect appliances, metal worked with so
much delicacy and skill, and all that simply to produce monstrous
engines of warfare which cost nations millions upon millions, and
ruined them whilst they waited for war, when indeed war did not arise
to exterminate them. Ah! might the steel girders and frameworks be
multiplied, might they build up useful edifices and happy cities,
bridges to cross rivers and valleys, might rails for ever gush from
the presses and form endless lines to abolish frontiers, bring nations
together, and win the whole world over to the brotherly civilisation of
to-morrow!

However, just as Luc passed into the large foundry where the great
steam-hammer began to pound away, forging the armature of a gigantic
bridge, the rolling-machinery was suddenly stopped, and an interval
ensued pending the starting of another section. Fauchard then drew
nearer to his old mates, and some conversation ensued between them.

'So things are going all right here; you are satisfied, eh?' he
inquired.

'Satisfied, no doubt,' Bonnaire replied. 'The working day is only one
of eight hours, and as what one does is diversified, one doesn't get so
tired as formerly, and the work seems pleasanter.'

He, so tall and strong, with his broad, good-natured, healthy face, was
one of the chief mainstays of the new works. He belonged to the council
of management, and felt very grateful to Luc for having taken him on
at the moment when he had been obliged to quit the Abyss, and could
not think of the morrow without apprehension. With his uncompromising
Collectivist principles, however, he suffered at seeing La Crêcherie
governed by a _régime_ of mere association, in which capital retained
its great influence. The revolutionary within him, the dreamer of the
absolute, protested against such a thing. But at the same time he was
sensible, he worked, and urged his mates to work with all devotion,
until they should be able to judge the result of the experiment.

'And so,' resumed Fauchard, 'you earn a lot of money, double what you
used to, eh?'

Ragu, with that evil laugh of his, began to jest: 'Oh! the double,
indeed! Say a hundred francs a day, without counting the champagne and
the cigars!'

He had simply followed Bonnaire's example in taking work at La
Crêcherie. And though he did not find himself badly off, thanks to the
relative comfort he enjoyed there, on the other hand the orderliness
and preciseness of everything could scarcely be to his taste, for he
was again becoming a railer, turning his happiness into derision.

'A hundred francs!' cried Fauchard in stupefaction. 'You earn a hundred
francs, you do?'

Bourron, who still remained Ragu's shadow, then tried to improve on
what his mate had said: 'Oh! a hundred francs just to begin with!' said
he. 'And one is treated to the roundabouts on Sundays.'

But whilst the others sneered, Bonnaire shrugged his shoulders with
disdainful gravity. 'Can't you see,' he exclaimed, 'that they are
talking folly and making fun of you? Everything considered, after the
division of the profits our daily earnings do not amount to much more
than they did formerly. Only at each settlement they increase a little,
and it's certain that they will some day become superb. Then, too, we
have all sorts of advantages, our future is assured, and living costs
us much less than formerly, thanks to our co-operative stores and the
gay little houses which are let to us almost for nothing. Certainly
this isn't yet real justice, but all the same we are on the road to it.'

Ragu continued sneering, and a desire came to him to satisfy another
hatred, for if he jested about La Crêcherie, he never spoke of the
Abyss otherwise than with ferocious rancour.

'And what kind of face does that animal Delaveau pull nowadays?' he
inquired. 'It amuses me to think that he must be quite wild at having
another show erected close to his own, and one too that seems likely to
do good business. He's in a rage, isn't he?'

Fauchard waved his arm vaguely and replied: 'Of course he must be in a
rage, only he doesn't show it over much. And yet I really don't know,
because I've enough worries of my own without troubling about those
of other people. I've heard say that he doesn't care a fig about your
works and the competition. He says, it seems, that cannons and shells
will always be wanted, because men are fools and will always go on
murdering one another.'

Luc, who was just then returning from the foundry, heard those last
words. For three years past, since the day when he had prevailed on
Jordan to keep the blast-furnace and establish forges and steel-works,
he had known that he had an enemy in Delaveau. The blow had been a
severe one for the latter, who had hoped to acquire La Crêcherie for
a comparatively small sum payable over a term of years, and who in
lieu thereof saw it pass into the hands of an audacious young man,
full of intelligence and activity, possessed of such creative vigour
that at the very outset of his operations he raised the nucleus of a
town. Nevertheless after the anger born of his first shock of surprise,
Delaveau had felt full of confidence. He would confine himself to the
manufacture of ordnance and projectiles, in which line the profits were
large ones, and in which he feared no competition. The announcement
that the neighbouring works would resume the making of rails and
girders had at first filled him with merriment, ignorant as he was that
the mine would be worked afresh. Then, on understanding the situation,
realising that large profits might be made by treating the defective
ore chemically, he did not lose his temper, but declared to everybody
that there was room for all enterprises, and that he would willingly
leave the making of rails and girders to his fortunate neighbour if
the latter left him that of guns and shells. In appearance, then, peace
was not disturbed, cold but polite intercourse was kept up. But in
the depths of Delaveau's mind lurked covert anxiety, a fear of that
centre of just and free work, so near to him, for in time its spirit
might gain upon his own workshops and men. And there was yet other
uneasiness on his part, an unacknowledged feeling that old scaffoldings
were gradually cracking under him, that there were causes of rottenness
which he could not control, and that on the day when the power of
capital might fail him, his arms, however stubborn and vigorous they
might be, would prove powerless to keep up the edifice, which would
fall in its entirety to the ground.

In the inevitable and ever fiercer warfare which had begun between La
Crêcherie and the Abyss, and which could only end by the downfall of
one or the other of the works, Luc felt no pity for the Delaveaus. If
he had some esteem for the man on seeing how energetically he worked,
and how bravely he defended his opinions, he despised the woman,
Fernande, though with his contempt there was mingled a kind of terror
on divining in her a terrible force of corruption and destruction. That
evil intrigue which he had detected at La Guerdache, the imperious
subjugation of Boisgelin, that dull-witted coxcomb whose fortune was
melting away in the hands of a devouring creature, filled him with
growing anxiety, as if he foresaw in it some future tragedy. All his
affection went out towards the good-hearted and gentle Suzanne, for
she was the real victim, the only one worthy of his pity. He had been
compelled to break off all intercourse with La Guerdache, and his
only knowledge of what went on there was derived from chance reports.
These indicated, however, that things were going from bad to worse,
Fernande's wild demands increasing, whilst Suzanne only found energy to
remain silent, closing her eyes for fear of some scandal. One day when
Luc met her, holding her little boy Paul by the hand, in one of the
streets of Beauclair, she gave him a long look in which he could read
all her distress, and the friendship that she still retained for him in
spite of the deadly struggle which now parted their lives.

As soon as Luc recognised Fauchard, he put himself on the defensive,
for it was part of his plan to avoid all unnecessary conflicts with
the Abyss. He was willing that men should come from the neighbouring
works to offer their services, but he did not wish it to be said that
he tried to attract them. As a matter of fact, it was the workers of
La Crêcherie who decided whether a new hand should be admitted or not.
Accordingly, as Bonnaire had on various previous occasions spoken to
him of Fauchard, Luc feigned a belief that the latter was trying to
gain admittance from his former comrades. 'Ah! it's you, my friend,'
said he; 'you've come to see if your old mates will make room for you,
eh?'

The other, once more full of doubt, incapable of prompt resolution,
began to stammer disjointed words. All novelty frightened him,
accustomed as he was to blind routine. Those new works, those large,
light, clean halls, filled him with emotion as if they formed part of
some awesome place where it would be impossible for him to live. He
was already eager to return to his black and pain-fraught _inferno_.
Ragu had derided him. What was the good of changing, when nothing was
certain? Besides, he dimly realised, perhaps, that it was too late for
him to make a change.

'No, no, monsieur, not yet,' he stuttered; 'I should like to, but I
don't know. I'll see a little later--I'll consult my wife.'

Luc smiled. 'Quite so, quite so--one has to please the women. _Au
revoir_, my friend.'

Then Fauchard went off in an awkward way, astonished at the turn that
his visit had taken, for he had certainly made it with the intention
of asking for work, if he found the place to his liking, and one could
earn more money there than at the Abyss.

For a moment Luc remained speaking to Bonnaire about some improvements
which he wished to introduce into the rolling-machinery. But Ragu had
a complaint to make. 'Monsieur Luc,' said he, 'a gust of wind has
broken three more panes in the window of our bed-room. And I must warn
you that this time we really won't pay. It all comes from our house
being the first in the line of the wind that comes from the plain. One
freezes in it.'

He was always complaining, always finding reasons for discontent.
'Besides, it's very simple, Monsieur Luc,' he added, 'you've only got
to call at our house to see how it happens. Josine will show you.'

Since Ragu had been working at La Crêcherie Sœurette had prevailed on
him to marry Josine; and thus they lived together in one of the little
houses of the new town of workers, a house which stood between those
of Bonnaire and Bourron, As Ragu had considerably amended his ways,
thanks to his new surroundings, there did not as yet seem to be any
serious disagreement in his home. Only a few quarrels had broken out,
caused chiefly by the presence of Nanet, who also lived in the house.
Moreover, whenever Josine was sorrowful and inclined to shed tears, she
carefully closed the window in order that her neighbours might not hear
her weeping.

But a shadow had passed over Luc's brow. 'Very well, Ragu,' he simply
said, 'I will call at your house.'

Then the conversation ceased, the machinery had begun to work once
more, drowning the voices of one and all with a tremendous noise,
which suggested the mastication of a giant. For another moment Luc
watched the work, smiling at Bonnaire, encouraging Bourron and Ragu,
striving to promote brotherly love among each gang of workers, for
he was convinced that nothing can prove substantial and effective if
love be lacking. At last he quitted the workshops, and repaired to the
common-house, as he did each morning, in order to visit the schools.
If it pleased him to linger in the halls of work, dreaming of future
peace, he tasted the delight of a yet keener hope among the little
world of children, by whom the future was personified.

The common-house, naturally enough, was as yet only a large, clean, gay
building, in erecting which Luc had aimed at little beyond making the
place as commodious as possible at a small cost. The schools occupied
one wing of it, the library, recreation-hall, and baths being installed
in the other one, whilst the meeting and festival-hall, together with
various offices, occupied the central pile. The schools were divided
into three distinct sections, first a kind of infant asylum, where
mothers following various avocations could place their little ones,
even when these were mere babes in swaddling clothes; secondly a
school proper, comprising five divisions, in which a complete system
of education was in force; and thirdly a series of workshops for
apprentices. The pupils frequented the latter even whilst following
their studies, acquiring familiarity with manual callings as their
general knowledge developed. And the sexes were not separated, boys
and girls grew up side by side, from the cradle to the workshop of
apprenticeship, which they quitted in order to marry, passing meantime
through the five classes of the school, where they sat side by side
on the forms, mingling there as they were bound to mingle in after
life. To separate the sexes from infancy, to bring up boys and girls
and educate them differently, one in ignorance of the other, does not
this render them inimical, and does it not tend to pervert them by
heightening the mystery of the laws of natural attraction? Peace will
only be complete between the sexes on the common interest which ought
to unite them becoming apparent to both, reared as comrades, knowing
one another, deriving their knowledge of life from the same source, and
setting forth on its road in order to live it logically and healthily
even as it ought to be lived.

Sœurette had greatly aided Luc in organising the schools. Whilst
Jordan, after giving the money he had promised, had shut himself up
in his laboratory, refusing to examine accounts, or to discuss what
measures should be adopted, his sister had begun to take a passionate
interest in that new town which she saw germinating, rising before her
eyes. The feelings of a teacher and a nurse had always been latent
within her, and her benevolence, which hitherto had been unable to
go beyond a few poor folk pointed out to her by Abbé Marle, Doctor
Novarre, or Hermeline the schoolmaster, suddenly expanded in presence
of Luc's large family of workers, who needed to be taught and guided
and loved. She had at the outset chosen her special task; she did
not refuse to help in organising the classes and the workshops for
the apprentices, but she more particularly devoted herself to the
infant-asylum, where she spent her mornings, satisfying her love for
the little ones. One day, when it was suggested that she ought to marry
she replied with some slight confusion and a pretty laugh: 'But haven't
I all the children of others to look after?'

She had ended by finding an assistant in Josine, who, although now
married to Ragu, remained childless. Each morning Sœurette employed her
among the infants; and drawn together as they were by solicitude for
the little ones, they had become good friends, however different in
other respects might be the bent of their natures.

That morning, when Luc entered the white cool ward, he found Sœurette
alone there. 'Josine hasn't been,' she explained; 'she sent word that
she was not feeling well. Oh! it's merely a trifling indisposition, I
believe.'

To Luc, however, there came a vague suspicion, and a shadow again
darkened his glance. 'I have to call at her house--I will see if she
needs anything,' he simply replied.

Then came the delightful visit to the cradles. They stood all white
alongside the white walls. Little pink faces lay smiling or sleeping
in them. And there were some willing women with large dazzling aprons,
soft eyes, and motherly hands, who, speaking gentle words, watched over
all those little ones, those germs of humanity in whom the future was
rising. Some of the children, however, were growing fast--there were
little men and little women of three and four years of age, and these
were at liberty, toddling or running about on their little legs without
encountering too many falls. The ward opened on to a flowery verandah,
whence a garden extended, and the whole troop disported itself in
sunshine and warm air. Toys, such as jumping jacks, hung down from
strings to amuse the smallest, whilst the others had dolls, or horses,
or carts, which they dragged about noisily like future heroes in whom
the need of action was awaking. And it warmed the heart to see those
young folk growing thus gaily, and in comfort, for all the tasks of
to-morrow.

'Nobody ill?' asked Luc, who lingered with delight amidst all the
dawn-like whiteness.

'Oh no! they are all lively this morning,' Sœurette replied. 'We had
two children taken with the measles the day before yesterday. But I did
not receive them afterwards--they have been isolated.'

She and Luc had now gone out to the verandah, along which they went to
visit the adjoining school. The glazed doors of the five class-rooms
followed one after the other, allowing a view over the greenery of the
garden, and the weather being warm these doors were at that moment wide
open, in such wise that Luc and Sœurette were able to glance into each
room without entering.

Since the establishment of the school the masters had arranged quite
a new programme of education. From the first class, in which they
took the child before he could even read, to the fifth, in which they
parted from him, after teaching him the elements of general knowledge
necessary to life, they particularly strove to place him in presence
of things and facts, in order that he might derive his learning from
the realities of the world. They also sought to awaken a spirit of
orderliness and method in each child; for without method there can
be no useful work. It is method which classifies and enables one to
go on learning without losing aught of the knowledge one has already
acquired. The science of books was not condemned in the school at La
Crêcherie, but it was put back to its rightful secondary place, for a
child only learns well such things as he sees, touches, or understands
by himself. He was no longer bent like a slave over indisputable
dogmas; his masters appealed to his initiative to discover, penetrate,
and make the truth his own. By this system the individual energy of
each pupil was awakened and stimulated. In like manner punishments and
rewards had been abolished, no further recourse was had to threats or
caresses to force idle lads to work. As a matter of fact there are no
idlers, there are only ailing children, children who understand badly
what is badly explained to them, children into whose brains obstinate
attempts are made to force knowledge for which they are not prepared.
This being so, in order to have good pupils at La Crêcherie it was
found sufficient to utilise the immense craving for knowledge which
glows within each human being, that inextinguishable curiosity of the
child for all that surrounds him, a curiosity so great that he never
ceases to weary people with questions. Thus learning ceased to be
torture; it became a constant pleasure by being rendered attractive,
the master contenting himself with arousing the child's intelligence,
and then simply guiding it in its discoveries. Each has the right and
the duty to develop himself. And self-development is necessary if one
wishes a child to become a real man of active energy, with will-power
to decide and direct.

Thus the five classes spread out, offering from the very first notions
to the acquirement of all the scientific truths, a means for the
logical, graduated emancipation of the intelligence. In the garden
gymnastic appliances were installed, there were games, exercises of
all kinds, in order that the body might be fortified, provided with
health and strength whilst the brain developed and enriched itself
with learning. In the first classes especially, a great deal of time
was allowed for play and recreation. At the outset only short and
varied studies, proportionate to the child's powers of endurance, were
required. The rule was to confine the children within doors as little
as possible: lessons were frequently given in the open air; walks were
arranged and the pupils were taught amidst the things on which their
lessons turned, now in workshops, now in presence of the phenomena
of nature, among animals and plants, or beside watercourses and
mountains. Then, too, efforts were made to give the children a notion
of what mankind really was, and of the necessity for solidarity. They
were growing up side by side, they would always live side by side.
Love alone was the bond of union, justice and happiness. In love was
found the indispensable and all-sufficient social compact, for it was
sufficient for men to love one another to ensure the reign of peace.
That universal love which will spread in time from the family to the
nation, and from the nation to all mankind, will be the sole law of
the happy community of the future. It was developed among the children
at La Crêcherie by interesting them in one another, the strong being
taught to watch over the weak, and all giving rein to their studies,
diversions, and budding passions in common. From all this would arise
the awaited harvest--men fortified by bodily exercise, instructed in
experience amidst nature, drawn together by brain and heart, and in
this wise becoming true brothers.

However, some laughter and some shouts suddenly arose, and Luc felt a
little anxious, for at times things did not pass off without disorder.
In the middle of one of the class-rooms he perceived Nanet standing up.
It was he, no doubt, who had caused the tumult.

'Does Nanet still give you trouble?' he asked Sœurette. 'He's a little
demon, I fear.'

She smiled and made a gesture of indulgent excuse. 'Yes, he is not
always easily managed,' she said. 'And we have others too who are very
turbulent. They push and fight one another, and show little obedience.
But all the same they are dear little fellows. Nanet is very brave and
good-natured. Besides, when they keep over-quiet we feel anxious, we
imagine that they must be ill.'

After the class-rooms, beyond the garden, came the workshops for the
apprentices. Instruction was given there in the principal manual
callings, which the children practised less in order to acquire them
perfectly, than to form an acquaintance with their _ensemble_ and
determine their own vocations. This teaching went on concurrently with
the other studies. Whilst a child was acquiring the first notions
of reading and writing, a tool was already placed in his hand; and
if during the morning he studied grammar, arithmetic, and history,
thereby ripening his intelligence, in the afternoon he worked with his
little arms in order to impart vigour and skill to his muscles. This
was like useful recreation, rest for the brain, a joyous competition
in activity. The principle was adopted that every man ought to know a
manual calling, in such wise that each pupil on leaving the school
simply had to choose the calling he himself preferred, and perfect
himself in it in a real workshop. In like manner beauty flourished;
the children passed through courses of music, drawing, painting, and
sculpture, and in souls that were well awakened the joys of existence
were then born. Even for those who had to confine themselves to the
first elements such studies tended to an enlargement of the world,
the whole earth taking a voice, and splendour in one or another form
embellishing the humblest lives. And in the garden, at the close of
fine days, amidst radiant sunsets, the children were gathered together
to sing songs of peace and glory, or to be braced by spectacles of
truth and immortal beauty.

Luc was finishing his daily visit when he was informed that two
peasants of Les Combettes, Lenfant and Yvonnot, were waiting to speak
to him in the little office opening into the large meeting-hall.

'Have they come about the stream?' asked Sœurette.

'Yes,' he replied, 'they asked me to fix an appointment. And for my
part I greatly desired to see them, for I was talking again to Feuillat
only the other day, and I am convinced that an understanding is
necessary between La Crêcherie and Les Combettes if we desire to win
the day.'

She listened to him smiling, like one who knew all his plans; and after
pressing his hand she returned with her discreet, quiet step to her
white cradles, whence would arise the future people that he needed for
the fulfilment of his dream.

Feuillat, the farmer of La Guerdache, had ended by renewing his lease
with Boisgelin under disastrous conditions for both parties. But it was
necessary to live, as Feuillat said; and the farming system had become
so defective that it could no longer yield any good results. It was
leading, indeed, to the very bankruptcy of the soil. And so Feuillat,
like the stubborn man he was, haunted by an idea which he imparted to
nobody, covertly continued urging on certain experimental work which he
desired to see tried near his farm. That is, the reconciliation of the
peasants of Les Combettes, whom ancient hatreds parted, the gathering
together in a commonalty of all their patches of land, now cut up into
little strips, and the creation of one great estate, whence they would
derive real wealth by applying the principles of high cultivation on
a large scale. And the idea which Feuillat kept back in the depths
of his mind most have been that of persuading Boisgelin to let the
farm enter the new association, when the first experiments should have
succeeded. If Boisgelin should refuse, facts would end by compelling
him to consent. In Feuillat moreover, silent man that he was, bending
beneath such servitude as appeared inevitable, there was something
of the nature of a patient, crafty apostle, who was resolved to gain
ground by degrees, undeterred therefrom by any feeling of weariness.

He had just achieved a first success by reconciling Lenfant and
Yvonnot, whose families had been quarrelling for centuries. The former
having been chosen mayor of the village and the latter 'adjoint,'
or deputy mayor, he had given them to understand that they would
be the real masters if they could only agree together. Then he had
slowly won them to his idea of a general agreement, by which alone
the village could emerge from the wretchedness born of routine in
which it vegetated, and once more find in the earth an inexhaustible
source of fortune. As the works of La Crêcherie were at that time
being established, he cited them as an example, spoke of their growing
prosperity, and profiting by some water question which had to be
settled between La Crêcherie and Les Combettes, he even ended by
putting Lenfant and Yvonnot in communication with Luc. Thus it was that
the village mayor and his deputy happened, that morning, to be at the
works.

Luc immediately consented to what they came to ask him, and the good
nature he evinced in doing so in some degree dispelled their habitual
distrust.

'It's understood, messieurs,' said he, 'La Crêcherie will henceforth
canalise all the springs captured among the rocks, and turn those which
it does not employ into the Grand-Jean rivulet, which crosses the lands
of your village before joining the Mionne. At little cost, if you only
establish some reservoirs, you will have abundant means for watering
your land and increasing its bearing qualities three times over.'

Lenfant, who was short and stout, wagged his big head and reflected:
'It will certainly cost too much,' said he. Then Yvonnot, who was short
and slim, with a dark face and bad-tempered mouth, added: 'Besides,
monsieur, one thing that troubles us is that this water will lead to
a lot more disputes among us when we divide it. You act like a good
neighbour in giving it to us, and we are much obliged to you. Only,
how are we to manage so that each may have his proper share without
thinking that the others are robbing him?'

Luc smiled. The question pleased him, for it would enable him to broach
the subject which he had on his mind, and on account of which he had so
particularly desired to see the two men. 'But water which fertilises,'
said he, 'ought to belong to everybody, just like the sun which shines
and warms, and the land, too, which brings forth and nourishes. As for
the best way to divide the water, why, the best is not to divide it at
all. What Nature gives to all men should be left to all of them.'

The two peasants understood his meaning. For a moment they remained
silent, with their eyes fixed on the floor. It was Lenfant, the greater
thinker of the two, who at last replied. 'Yes, yes, we know. The farmer
of La Guerdache spoke to us of all that. No doubt it's a good idea for
folk to come to an agreement as you have done here, and put their money
and land and arms and tools in common, and then share the profits. It
seems certain that one would gain more and be happier in that fashion.
But, all the same, there would be some risk in it, and I think that
one will have to talk of it a good deal longer before all of us at Les
Combettes are convinced.'

'Ah! yes, that's certain,' put in Yvonnot with a sudden wave of his
arm. 'We two, you see, are now pretty well in agreement, and are not so
much opposed to such novelties. But all the others have to be gained
over, and that will take a lot of doing, I warn you.'

In those words lurked the peasant's distrust of all social changes
affecting the conditions under which property is now held. Luc
knew it well; he had expected resistance of this kind. However, he
continued smiling. How heart-rending to some was the idea of having
to give up one's strip of land, which from father to son one had
loved for centuries, and to see it merged into the strips of others!
Nevertheless all the many bitter disappointments due to that bankruptcy
of the over-divided soil, which ended by filling agriculturists with
despair and disgust, must help to convince them that the only possible
salvation lay in union and joint effort. Luc explained that success
would henceforth belong to associations, that it was necessary to
operate over large tracts of land with powerful machines for ploughing,
sowing, and reaping, with an abundance of manure too, chemically
prepared in neighbouring factories, and with continuous waterings by
which the crops would be greatly increased. The efforts of the peasant
who worked alone, in isolation, were leading to famine, but prodigious
plenty would ensue if the peasants of a village would only combine
together so as to work upon a large scale and procure the necessary
machinery, manure, and water. Extraordinary fertility would be created
thereby. Two or three acres would suffice to feed two or three
families. The population of France might be trebled, its soil would
amply suffice to nourish it if it were cultivated logically, all the
creative forces working harmoniously together. And that would also mean
happiness; the peasants' labour would not be one-third as painful as
now; he would be liberated from all sorts of ancient servitude, that of
the moneylender who preys upon him and that of the large landowner and
the State, who likewise do their best to crush him.

'Oh! it's too fine!' declared Lenfant in his thoughtful way.

But Yvonnot took fire more readily. 'Ah! dash it!' said he, 'if that be
true we should be fools not to try it.'

'You see how we are situated at La Crêcherie,' resumed Luc, who had
been keeping a final argument in reserve. 'We have hardly been three
years in existence, and our business prospers, all our hands who have
combined together eat meat and drink wine, and they have no debts left
and no fear for the future. Question them, and visit our workshops, our
homes, our common house, all that we have managed to create in so short
a time. It's all the fruit of union, and you yourselves will accomplish
prodigies as soon as you become united.'

'Yes, yes, we've seen, we know,' the two peasants answered in chorus.

This was true; before asking for Luc they had inquisitively visited
La Crêcherie, appraising the wealth already acquired, feeling amazed
at the sight of that happy town which was springing up so rapidly,
and wondering what gain there might be for themselves if they should
combine in the same manner. The force of example was gradually winning
them over.

'Well, since you know, it's all simple enough,' Luc gaily retorted.
'We need bread; our men can't live if you don't grow the corn that's
necessary. And you others need tools, spades, ploughs, machines made of
the steel which we manufacture. And so the solution of the problem is
simple enough--we have only to come to an understanding together--we
will give you steel, you will give us corn, and we shall all live very
happily. Since we are neighbours, since your land adjoins our works,
and we absolutely have need of one another, is it not best to live as
brothers, to combine together for the benefit of every one of us, so as
to form in future but one sole family?'

Luc's good-natured way of putting the proposal made Lenfant and Yvonnot
merry. Never had the desirability of reconciliation and agreement
between the peasant and the industrial worker been set forth more
plainly. Luc dreamt, indeed, of incorporating in his association all
the secondary factories and industries which lived on it or beside
it. It was sufficient that there should be a centre producing a raw
material--steel--for other manufactories to swarm around. There were
the Chodorge works which made nails, the Hausser works which made
scythes, the Mirande works which made agricultural machinery; and there
was even an old wire-drawer, one Hordoir, whose couple of hammers,
worked by water power derived from a torrent, were still active in one
of the gorges of the Bleuse Mountains. All of these, if they desired
to live, would some day be compelled to join their brothers of La
Crêcherie, apart from whom existence would prove impossible. Even
the men of the building trades and those of the clothing trades--as
for instance Mayor Gourier's boot-works--would be dragged into the
combination, and supply houses and garments and shoes even, if in
exchange they desired to have tools and bread. The future city would
only come about through some such universal agreement, a community of
labour.

'Well, Monsieur Luc,' at last said Lenfant in his wise way, 'all these
matters are too big to be decided in an offhand manner. But we promise
you that we will think them over and do our best to bring about a
cordial agreement at Les Combettes, such as you have here.'

'That is just it, Monsieur Luc,' said Yvonnot, seconding his companion.
'Since we have got so far as to be reconciled, Lenfant and I, we may
well do all we can to get the others reconciled in the same way.
Feuillat, who's a clever fellow, will help us.'

Then, before going off, they once more referred to the water which
Luc had promised to turn into the Grand-Jean rivulet. Everything was
settled; and the young man accompanied them as far as the garden,
where their children Arsène and Olympe, Eugénie and Nicolas, were
waiting. They had doubtless brought the little ones in order to show
them that famous Crêcherie, which the whole region was talking about.
And, as it happened, the pupils of the five classes had just come into
the garden to play, so that it was full of turbulent gaiety. The skirts
of the girls flew about in the bright sunshine, the boys bounded hither
and thither like young goats, there was laughter, and singing, and
shouting, a perfect florescence of childish happiness amidst the grass
and the foliage.

But Luc caught sight of Sœurette, who stood scolding somebody amidst
a cluster of little heads both fair and dark. In the front rank stood
Nanet, now nearly ten years old, with a gay, round, bold face under
a tumbled shock of hair of the hue of ripe oats, but suggesting the
fleece of a young sheep. Behind him were grouped other children from
five to ten years of age, the four Bonnaires--Lucien, Antoinette, Zoé,
and Séverin--and the two Bourrons--Sébastien and Marthe--all of whom,
no doubt, had been detected in fault. It seemed, indeed, as if Nanet
had been the leader of the guilty band, for it was he who was answering
Sœurette, arguing matters with her like an obstinate urchin who would
never admit himself to be in the wrong.

'What is the matter?' Luc inquired.

'Ah! it's Nanet,' Sœurette replied, 'he has again been to the Abyss,
though it is strictly forbidden. I have just learnt that he led these
others there yesterday evening; and this time they even climbed over
the wall.'

At the end of the Crêcherie lands, indeed, there stood a party-wall
separating them from those of the Abyss. And at one corner, where
Delaveau's garden was situated, there was an old door, which since all
intercourse had ceased was kept strongly bolted.

But Nanet raised his voice in protest. 'First of all,' said he, 'it
isn't true that we all got over the wall. I got over by myself, and
then I opened the door for the others.'

Luc, who felt greatly displeased, in his turn lost his temper. 'You
know very well,' he exclaimed, 'that you have been told more than a
dozen times that you are not to go there. You will end by bringing on
us some serious unpleasantness, and I repeat it to all of you that it
is very wrong and wicked to disobey in this fashion.'

Nanet stood listening and looking with his eyes wide open. A good
little fellow at bottom, but unable to appreciate the importance of
his transgression, he felt moved at seeing Luc so disturbed. If he
had climbed over the wall to let the others in, it was because Nise
Delaveau had some playmates with her that afternoon, Paul Boisgelin,
Louise Mazelle, and other amusing little _bourgeois_, and because they
all wanted to play together. She was very pleasant was Nise Delaveau,
according to Nanet.

'Why was it so wrong?' the boy repeated with an air of stupefaction.
'We didn't do harm to anybody, we all amused ourselves together.'

Then he named the children who had been present, and gave a truthful
account of what they had done. They had only played as was allowable;
they had not broken any plants, nor had they thrown the stones lying in
the paths on to the flower-beds.

'Nise gets on very well with us,' he said in conclusion. 'She likes me,
she told me so, and I like her since we've played together.'

Luc forced back a smile. But in his heart a vision was arising--he saw
the children of the two rival classes scaling walls to fraternise, and
play, and laugh together, in spite of all the hatred and warfare which
separated their fathers. Would the peacefulness of the future community
flower forth in them?

'It is quite possible,' said he, 'that Nise may be charming, and that
you may agree very well together; only it is understood that she is
to remain on her land and you on ours, in order that there may be no
complaints.'

Then Sœurette, won over by all the charm of that innocent childhood,
looked at him with eyes so suggestive of forgiveness that he added more
gently: 'Well, you must not do it again, little ones, because you might
bring some real worry on us.'

When Lenfant and Yvonnot had finally taken leave, carrying off their
children, who, after mingling in the play of the others, departed very
regretfully, Luc, whose daily visit was now finished, thought of going
home again. But he suddenly remembered that he had promised to see
Josine, and so he resolved to call on her. His morning had hitherto
been a good one, and by-and-by he would be able to return home with his
heart full of hope.

The house occupied by Ragu and Josine, one of the first that had been
built, stood near the park of La Crêcherie, between the houses occupied
by the Bonnaires and the Bourrons. Luc was crossing the road when, at
some distance, at a corner of the foot pavement, he saw a small group
of women, who appeared to be busily chattering. And he soon recognised
Madame Bonnaire and Madame Bourron, who were apparently giving some
information to Madame Fauchard, she having come that morning, like
her husband, to see if the new works were indeed such a Tom Tiddler's
ground as some folk asserted. Judging by the sharp voice and harsh
gestures of Madame Bonnaire--La Toupe as folks called her--it seemed
evident that she was not painting a very seductive picture of the new
concern. Cross-grained as she was, she could be happy nowhere, but
invariably spent her time in spoiling her own life and that of others.
At the very beginning she had seemed pleased to find her husband
obtaining work at La Crêcherie, but after dreaming of immediately
securing a big share of the profits, she was now enraged at having
to wait for it, perhaps for a considerable time to come. Her great
grievance, however, was that she could not even succeed in buying
herself a watch, an article of which she had coveted the possession for
several years already. Quite a contrast to her was Babette Bourron,
who was ever in a state of delight, and did not cease extolling the
advantages of her new home, her keenest satisfaction arising perhaps
from the fact that her husband no longer came home drunk with Ragu.
Between the two of them--La Toupe and La Bourron--Madame Fauchard,
looking more emaciated, unlucky, and mournful than ever, remained in a
state of some perplexity, but she was naturally inclined to favour the
pessimism of La Toupe, the more particularly as she was convinced that
there was no more joy for her in this life.

The sight of La Toupe and La Fauchard thus distressfully chattering was
very disagreeable to Luc. It robbed him of his good humour, the more
especially as he knew what a disturbance in the future organisation
of work, peace, and justice was threatened by women. He felt that
they were all-powerful, and it was by and for them that he would have
liked to found his city. Thus his courage often failed him when he met
such as were evil, hostile, or simply indifferent--women who, instead
of proving a help such as he awaited, might become an obstacle, a
destructive force indeed by which his labour might be annihilated.
However, he passed the gossips, lifting his hat as he did so, and they
suddenly became silent and anxious, as if he had caught them doing
wrong.

When he entered Ragu's house he perceived Josine seated beside a
window. She had been sewing, but her work had fallen in her lap and,
gazing far away, she was now plunged in so deep a reverie that she
did not even hear him enter. For a moment he paused and looked at
her. She was no longer the wretched girl that he had known scouring
the pavements, dying of starvation, badly clad, with a pinched and
woeful face under a wild tangle of hair. She was one-and-twenty now,
and looked charming in her simple gown of blue linen stuff, her figure
supple and slim but by no means thin. And her beautiful hair, light as
silk, seemed like a delicate florescence above her rather long face
with its laughing blue eyes and its little mouth as fresh as a rosebud.
She seemed also to be seated in a fitting frame-work, in that gay and
clean little parlour furnished with varnished deal--the room that she
most preferred in the little house which she had entered so happily,
and in tidying and embellishing which she had taken so much pride and
pleasure for three years past.

But of what could Josine now be dreaming, with so sorrowful an
expression on her pale face? When Bonnaire had prevailed on Ragu to
follow him and join the others at La Crêcherie she had deemed herself
saved from all future trials. Thenceforward she would have a nice
little home, her daily bread would be assured, and Ragu himself, having
no further worries with respect to work, would amend his ways. Luck
apparently had not failed her: Ragu had even married her at the express
desire of Sœurette; though truth to tell she, Josine, was by no means
so pleased with the idea of that marriage as she would have been at
the time when she had first met Ragu. Indeed, she had only consented
to it after consulting Luc, who for her remained both God and master.
And deep in her being there lurked a rapturous feeling born of the
momentary hesitation which she had divined in him before he signified
his approval. But after all was not that the best, and indeed the only
possible, solution? She could not do otherwise than marry Ragu since
he was willing. Luc had to appear pleased for her sake, retaining for
her the same affection after her marriage as before it, and looking at
her with a smile at each of their meetings, as if to ask her whether
she were happy. But at those times she often felt her poor heart
succumbing to despair, melting with an unsatisfied craving for true
affection.

As if some breath had warned her, Josine started and shivered slightly
amidst her dolorous reverie. Then turning round she recognised Luc
smiling at her in a gentle and anxious way.

'My dear child,' said he, 'I've come because Ragu asserts that you are
very badly lodged in this house, exposed to all the winds from the
plain, which, it seems, have broken three panes of your bedroom window.'

She listened, looking surprised and confused, at a loss indeed how to
contradict her husband and avoid telling a lie.

'Yes, there are some panes broken, Monsieur Luc,' said she, 'but I'm
not sure whether it was the wind that did it. True enough, when it
blows from the plain, we get our full share of it.'

Her voice trembled as she spoke, and she was unable to restrain two big
tears which rolled down her cheeks. As a matter of fact the windows had
been broken by Ragu the previous evening when, in a fit of passion, he
had wanted to throw everything out of doors.

'What, Josine! Are you crying? What is the matter? Come, tell me all
about it. You know that I am your friend,' said Luc eagerly.

He had seated himself beside her, full of emotion, sharing her
distress. But she had already wiped her tears away. 'No, no, it is
nothing,' said she; 'I beg your pardon, but you've come at a bad
moment, and found me unreasonable and worrying.'

Struggle as she might, however, he at last wrung a full confession
from her. Ragu did not become acclimatised to that sphere of order,
peacefulness, and slow and continuous effort towards a better life.
He seemed to suffer from nostalgia, to regret the misery and the
suffering of that wage-system amidst which he had lived, growling
against the masters yet habituated to slavery, and consoling himself
for it in the wine shops, where he intoxicated himself and poured
forth rebellious but powerless words. He regretted the black and dirty
workshops, the covert warfare waged with one's superiors, the noisy
freaks with comrades, all the abominable days fraught with hatred,
which one finished up by beating one's wife and children when one at
last returned home. And after beginning with jests he was ending with
accusations, calling La Crêcherie a big barracks, a prison where no
liberty was left one, not even that of drinking a glass too many if one
felt so inclined. Besides, so far, one earned there no more than one
had earned at the Abyss; and there were all sorts of worries, anxiety
as to whether things were going well, and whether there might be no
money for one to take when the time came round for profit-sharing.
For instance, during the last two months some very bad rumours had
been spreading; it was said that they would all have to tighten their
waistbands that year, as a great deal of money had been expended in
buying new machinery. Then again the co-operative stores often worked
very badly: at times potatoes were sent you when you had asked for
paraffin oil; or else you were forgotten and had to return three times
to the distribution office before you could get served. For these
various reasons Ragu had begun to deride the place, and grow wrathful
with it, calling it a dirty hole whence he hoped to 'sling his hook,'
as soon as might be possible.

Painful silence fell between Josine and Luc. The young man had become
gloomy, for there was some truth beneath all those recriminations. It
was the inevitable grating of new machinery at the first stage of its
work. The rumours which were afloat respecting the difficulties of the
current year affected Luc particularly, since he did indeed fear that
he might be obliged to ask the men to make a few sacrifices in order to
prevent the prosperity of the establishment from being compromised.

'And Bourron says "ditto" to Ragu, does he not?' Luc inquired of
Josine. 'But you have never heard Bonnaire complain, have you?'

Josine was shaking her head, by way of answering no, when, through the
open window, the breeze wafted the voices of the three women who had
remained on the foot-pavement. La Toupe was again forgetting herself,
carried away by her incessant desire to bark and bite. If Bonnaire
remained silent, like a thoughtful man whose sensible mind admitted the
necessity of an experiment of considerable duration, that wife of his
sufficed to gather together all the backbiters of the rising town. As
Luc glanced out of the window he saw her again frightening La Fauchard
by predicting the approaching ruin of La Crêcherie.

'And so, Josine,' he slowly resumed, 'you are not happy?'

She again tried to protest: 'Oh! Monsieur Luc, why should I not be
happy, when you have done so much for me?'

But her strength failed her, and again two big tears appeared in her
eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

'You see very well, Josine, you are not happy,' repeated the young man.

'I am not happy, it's true, Monsieur Luc,' she at last answered, 'only
you can do nothing in the matter. It is no fault of yours. You have
been a Providence for me, and what can one do if there's nothing that
can change Ragu's heart? He is becoming quite malicious again; he
can no longer abide Nanet; he nearly broke everything here yesterday
evening, and he struck me, because the child, so he said, answered him
improperly. But leave me, Monsieur Luc--those are things which only
concern me; at all events I promise you that I'll worry as little as I
can.'

Sobs broke upon her trembling voice, which was scarcely audible. And
he, powerless as he was, experienced increasing sadness. A shadow was
cast over the whole of his happy morning; he was chilled by doubt and
despair--he usually so brave, whose strength lay so much in joyous
hope. Although things obeyed him, although material success seemed
assured, was he to find himself powerless to change men and develop
divine love, the fruitful flower of kindliness and solidarity, in
their hearts? If men should remain in a state of hatred and violence
his work would never be accomplished. Yet how was he to awaken them
to affection, how was he to teach them happiness? That dear Josine,
whom he had sought in the very depths, whom he had saved from such
awful misery, she to him seemed the very image of his work. That work
would not really exist until she was happy. She was woman, wretched
woman, the slave, the beast of burden and the toy, that he had dreamt
of saving. And if she was still and ever unhappy, nothing substantial
could have been founded, everything still remained to be done. Amidst
his grief Luc foresaw many dolorous days; a keen perception came to him
of the fact that a terrible struggle was about to open between the past
and the future, and that he himself would shed in it both tears and
blood.

'Do not cry, Josine,' said he; 'be brave, and I promise you that you
shall be happy, for you must be happy in order that everybody may be
so.'

He spoke so gently that she smiled.

'Oh! I am brave, Monsieur Luc,' she answered; 'I know very well that
you won't forsake me, and that you will end by conquering, since you
are so full of kindness and courage. I will wait, I promise you, even
if I have to wait all my life.'

It was like an engagement, an exchange of promises instinct with hope
in coming happiness. Luc rose, and as he stood there clasping both her
hands he could feel the pressure of her own. And that was the only
token of affection between them, the union of their hands for a few
brief seconds. Ah! what a simple life of peacefulness and joy might
have been lived in that little parlour, so cheerful and so clean with
its furniture of varnished deal!

'_Au revoir_, Josine.'

'_Au revoir_, Monsieur Luc.'

Then Luc turned his steps homeward. And he was following the terrace,
below which ran the road to Les Combettes, when a final encounter
made him pause for a moment. He had just caught sight of Monsieur
Jérôme, who, in his bath-chair, propelled by a man-servant, was
skirting the Crêcherie lands. The sight of the old man recalled to
Luc other frequent chance meetings with him, now here, now there, and
particularly the first meeting of all, when he had seen him passing the
Abyss and gazing with his clear eyes at the smoky and noisy pile where
he had formerly founded the fortune of the Qurignons. In like fashion
he was now passing La Crêcherie and gazing at its new buildings, so gay
in the sunlight, with those same clear and seemingly empty eyes of his.
Why had he signed to his servant to bring him so far?--was he making a
complete round of the place in order to examine everything? What did he
think of it then, what comparisons did he wish to establish? Perhaps,
after all, this was merely some chance promenade, some mere caprice
on the part of a poor old man who had lapsed into second childhood.
However, whilst the servant slackened his pace, Monsieur Jérôme, grave
and impassive, raised his broad and regular countenance, on either
side of which fell his long white hair, and seemingly scrutinised
everything, letting neither a wall nor a chimney pass without giving it
a glance, as if indeed he wished to thoroughly understand that new town
now springing up beside the establishment which he had formerly created.

But a fresh incident occurred, and Luc's emotion increased. Another
old man, also infirm, but still able to drag himself about on his
swollen legs, was coming slowly along the road in the direction of the
bath-chair. It was Daddy Lunot, corpulent, pale, and flabby, whom the
Bonnaires had kept with them, and who in sunny weather took short walks
past the works. At first, no doubt, he failed to recognise Monsieur
Jérôme, for his sight was weak. Then, however, he started, and drew
back close to the wall as if the road were not wide enough for two,
and, raising his straw hat, he bent double, bowed profoundly. It was
to the Qurignons' ancestor, to the master and founder, that the eldest
of the Ragus, wage-earner and father of wage-earners, thus rendered
homage. Years--and behind him centuries--of toil, suffering, and
poverty, humbled themselves in that trembling salute. The master might
be stricken, but the former slave, in whose blood coursed the cowardice
of ancient servitude, became disturbed and bowed as he passed. And
Monsieur Jérôme did not even see him, but passed on, staring like a
stupefied idol, his gaze still and ever fixed on the new workshops of
La Crêcherie, which perhaps he likewise failed to see.

Luc shuddered. What a past there was to be destroyed, what evil, deadly
tares there were to pluck away! He looked at his town scarce rising
from the ground, and understood what trouble, what obstacles it would
encounter in growing and prospering. Love alone, and woman, and child
could end by achieving victory.



II


During the four years that La Crêcherie had been established covert
hatred of Luc had been rising from Beauclair. At first there had
only been so much hostile astonishment accompanied by malicious
pleasantries, but since folk had been affected in their interests anger
had arisen, with a furious desire to resist that public enemy by all
possible weapons.

It was more particularly among the petty traders, the retail
shopkeepers, that anxiety at first displayed itself. The co-operative
stores of La Crêcherie, which had been regarded with derision when
first inaugurated, were now proving successful, counting among their
customers not only the factory hands, but also all the inhabitants who
adhered to them. As may be imagined, the old purveyors were thrown
into great emotion by that terrible competition, that new tariff which
in many instances meant a reduction of one third on former prices.
Ruin would soon ensue if that wretched Luc were to prevail with those
disastrous ideas of his, tending to a more just apportionment of
wealth, and aiming in the first instance at enabling the humble ones
of the world to live more comfortably and cheaply. The butchers, the
grocers, the bakers, the wine dealers, would all have to put up their
shutters if people were to succeed in doing without them. Thus the
tradespeople shouted in chorus that it was abominable. To them society
did indeed seem to be cracking and collapsing now that they could no
longer levy the profits of parasites, and thereby increase the misery
of the poor.

The most affected of all, however, were the Laboques, those ironmongers
who, after beginning life as market hawkers, had ended by establishing
something like a huge bazaar at the corner of the Rue de Brias and
the Place de la Mairie. The prices for the iron of commerce had
fallen considerably throughout the district since La Crêcherie had
been turning out large quantities; and the worst was that with the
co-operative movement now gaining upon the smaller works of the
neighbourhood, a time seemed coming when consumers would procure direct
at the co-operative stores, without passing through the clutches of
the Laboques, such articles as Chodorge's nails, Hausser's scythes
and sickles, and Mirande's agricultural appliances and tools. Apart
from their output of raw iron and steel the Crêcherie stores were
already supplying several of those articles, and thus the amount of
business transacted by the Laboques became smaller every day. Their
rage therefore knew no end; they were exasperated by what they termed
that 'debasement of prices,' and regarded themselves as robbed, simply
because their useless cogwheels were no longer being allowed to consume
energy and wealth with profit for nobody save themselves. Their
house had thus naturally become a centre of hostility, opposition,
and hatred, in which Luc's name was never mentioned otherwise than
with execration. There met Dacheux the butcher, stammering forth
his reactionary rage, and Caffiaux the grocer and wine-seller, who,
although reeking of rancour, was of a colder temperament and weighed
his own interests carefully. Even the beautiful Madame Mitaine, the
baker's wife, though inclined to agreement, came at times and lamented
with the others the loss of a few of her customers.

'Do you know,' Laboque cried, 'that this Monsieur Luc, as people call
him, has at bottom only one idea, that of destroying trade? Yes, he
boasts of it, he shouts the monstrous words aloud: "Trade is robbery."
For him we are all robbers, and we've got to disappear! It was to sweep
us away that he established La Crêcherie.'

Dacheux listened with dilated eyes, and all his blood rushing to his
face. 'Then how will one manage to eat and clothe oneself, and all the
rest?' he asked.

'Well, he says that the consumer will apply direct to the producer.'

'And the money?' the butcher asked.

'Money? Why, he suppresses that too! There's to be no more money. Isn't
it stupid, eh? As if people could live without money!'

At this Dacheux almost choked with fury. 'No more trade! no more money!
Why, he wants to destroy everything. Isn't there a prison for such a
bandit? He'll ruin Beauclair if we don't put a stop to it!'

But Caffiaux was gravely wagging his head. 'He says a good many more
things. He says first of all that everybody ought to work--he wants
to turn the world into a perfect stone-yard, where there'll be guards
with staves to see that everybody does his task. He says, too, that
there ought to be neither rich nor poor; according to him one will be
no richer when one's born than when one dies; one will eat according to
what one earns, neither more nor less, too, than one's neighbour; and
one won't even have the right to save up money.'

'Well, but what about inheritances?' put in Dacheux.

'There will be no more inheritances.'

'What! no more inheritances? I shan't be able to leave my daughter my
own money? Thunder! that is coming it too strong!' And thereupon the
butcher banged his fist on the table with such violence that it shook.

'He says, too,' continued Caffiaux, 'that there will be no more
authorities of any kind, no government, no gendarmes, no judges, no
prisons. Each will live as he pleases, eat and sleep as he fancies. He
says also that machinery will end by doing all the work, and that the
workmen will simply have to drive it. It is to be the earthly paradise,
because there will be no more fighting, no more armies, and no more
wars. And he says, moreover, that when men and women love one another
they will remain together as long as they please and then bid each
other good-bye in a friendly fashion, to take up with others later on
if they are so inclined. And as for children, the community will take
charge of them, bring them up in a heap as chance may have it, without
any need of a mother's or a father's attentions.'

Beautiful Madame Mitaine, who hitherto had remained silent, now began
to protest: 'Oh, the poor little ones!' said she. 'I hope that each
mother will at least have the right to bring up her own. It's all very
well for the children who are forsaken by their parents to be brought
up pell-mell by strangers as in orphan asylums. But really it seems to
me that what you have been telling us is hardly proper.'

'Say at once that it's filthy!' roared Dacheux, who was beside himself.
'Why, their famous future society will simply be a house of ill-fame!'

Then Laboque, who did not lose sight of his threatened interests,
concluded: 'That Monsieur Luc is mad. We cannot let him ruin and
dishonour Beauclair in this fashion! We shall have to agree together
and take steps to stop it all.'

The anger increased, however, and there was a universal explosion
when Beauclair learnt that the infectious disease of La Crêcherie was
spreading to the neighbouring village of Les Combettes. Stupefaction
was manifested, condemnation was passed on all sides--that Monsieur Luc
was now debauching, poisoning the peasantry! After reconciling the four
hundred inhabitants of the village, Lenfant, the mayor, assisted by his
deputy, Yvonnot, had induced them to put their land in common by virtue
of a deed of association similar to that which linked capital, talent,
and work together at La Crêcherie. Henceforth there would be but one
large estate, in such wise that machinery might be used, that manure
might be applied on a large scale, and high cultivation practised with
a view to increasing the crops tenfold and reaping large profits, which
would be shared by one and all. Moreover, the two associations, that
of La Crêcherie and that of Les Combettes, would mutually consolidate
each other; the peasants would supply the workmen with bread, and the
workmen would supply the peasants with tools and manufactured articles
necessary for life, in such a way that there would be a conjunction
of two inimical classes, tending by degrees to fusion, and forming
the embryo of a brotherly people. Assuredly the old world would come
to an end if Socialism should win over the peasantry, the innumerable
toilers of the country districts, who had hitherto been regarded as the
ramparts of egotistical ownership, preferring to die of unremunerative
labour on their strips of land rather than part with them. The shock of
this change was felt throughout Beauclair, and a shudder passed like a
warning of the coming catastrophe.

Again the Laboques were the first to be affected. They lost the custom
of Les Combettes. They no longer saw Lenfant nor any of the others come
to buy spades, ploughs, tools, and utensils. On the last occasion when
Lenfant called he haggled and finally bought nothing, plainly declaring
to them that he would gain thirty per cent, by no longer dealing with
them, since they were compelled to levy such a profit on articles which
they themselves procured at neighbouring works. Henceforth all the folk
of Les Combettes addressed themselves direct to La Crêcherie, adhering
to the co-operative stores there, which grew and grew in importance.
And then terror set in among all the petty retailers of Beauclair.

'One must act, one must act!' Laboque repeated with growing violence
each time that Dacheux and Caffiaux came to see him. 'If we wait till
that madman has infected the whole region with his monstrous doctrines,
we shall be too late.'

'But what can be done?' Caffiaux prudently inquired.

Dacheux for his part favoured brutal slaughter. 'One might wait for him
one evening at a street corner and treat him to one of those hidings
which give a man food for reflection.'

But Laboque, puny and cunning, dreamt of some safer means of killing
his man. 'No, no, the whole town is rising against him, and we must
wait for an opportunity when we shall have the whole town on our side.'

Such an opportunity did indeed arise. For centuries past old Beauclair
had been traversed by a filthy rivulet, a kind of open drain, which was
called the Clouque. It was not known whence it came; it seemed to flow
up from under some antique hovels at the opening of the Brias gorges,
and according to the common opinion it was one of those mountain
torrents whose sources remain unknown. Some very old inhabitants
remembered having seen it in full flood at certain periods. But for
long years already it had supplied very little water, which various
industries contaminated. The housewives dwelling beside it had even
ended by using it as a natural sink into which they emptied all sorts
of slops, in such wise that it carried with it much of the filth of the
poor district, and in summer sent forth an abominable stench. At one
moment there had been serious fears of an epidemic, and the municipal
council, at the mayor's initiative, had debated whether it should not
be covered over. But the expense seemed too great, so the matter was
shelved and the Clouque quietly continued perfuming and contaminating
the neighbourhood. All at once, however, it quite ceased to flow, dried
up apparently, leaving only a hard rocky bed in which there was no
longer a single drop of water. As by the touch of some magician's wand
Beauclair was rid of that source of infection, to which all the bad
fevers of the district had been attributed. And all that remained was
a feeling of curiosity as to whither the torrent might have betaken
itself.

At first there were only some vague rumours on the subject. Then
more precise statements were made, and it became certain that it was
Monsieur Luc who had begun to divert the torrent from its usual course
by capturing the springs on the slopes of the Bleuse Mountains for
the needs of La Crêcherie, whose health and prosperity came largely
from its abundant supply of beautiful, clear water. But the climax had
come, all the water of the torrent being diverted by Luc, when it had
occurred to him to give the overplus of his reservoirs to the peasants
of Les Combettes, in that way founding their fortune, and bringing
about their happy association; for it was that beneficent water,
flowing on for one and all, that had first united them together. Before
long proofs became plentiful, the water which had disappeared from the
Clouque was streaming along the Grand-Jean, and turned to intelligent
use, was becoming wealth instead of filth and death. Then rancour and
rage arose and grew against that man Luc, who disposed so lightly of
what did not belong to him. Why had he stolen the torrent? Why did he
keep it and give it to his creatures? It was not right that people
should in that way take the water of a town, a stream which had always
flowed there, which people were accustomed to see, and which, whatever
might be said to the contrary, had rendered great services. The meagre
streamlet, transporting filthy detritus, exhaling pestilence and
killing people, was forgotten. Folk talked no more of burying it,
each recounted what great benefit he or she had derived from it, for
watering, for washing, and for the daily needs of life. Such a theft
could not be tolerated; it was absolutely necessary that La Crêcherie
should restore the Clouque, that filthy drain which had poisoned the
town.

Naturally enough it was Laboque who shouted the loudest. He paid
an official visit to Gourier, the mayor, to inquire what decision
he intended to propose to the Municipal Council under such grave
circumstances. He, Laboque, claimed to be particularly injured, for the
Clouque had flowed behind his house, at the end of his little garden;
and he alleged that he had derived considerable advantages therefrom.
If he had drawn up a protest and sought to collect signatures he would
undoubtedly have obtained those of all the inhabitants of his district.
But, in his opinion, the town itself ought to take the affair in hand,
and commence an action against La Crêcherie, claiming the restitution
of the torrent, and damages for the temporary loss of it. Gourier
listened, and in spite of his own hatred against Luc, contented himself
with nodding approval. Finally he declared that he must have a few
days to reflect, look into the matter, and consult those around him.
He fully understood that Laboque was urging the town to take up the
matter, in order that he might not have to do so himself. And no doubt
Sub-Prefect Châtelard, whom all complications terrified and with whom
Gourier shut himself up for a couple of hours, was able to convince him
that it was always wise to let others embark in law-suits; for when the
mayor sent for the ironmonger again, it was only to explain to him at
great length that an action started by the town would drag on and lead
to nothing serious, whereas one brought by a private individual would
prove far more disastrous for La Crêcherie, particularly if after a
first condemnation other private individuals followed suit, prolonging
matters indefinitely.

A few days later Laboque issued a writ and claimed five and twenty
thousand francs damages. Taking as a pretext a kind of treat offered
by his son and daughter, Auguste and Eulalie, to their young friends,
Honorine Caffiaux, Évariste Mitaine, and Julienne Dacheux, Laboque
held quite a meeting at his house. The young folk were now fast
growing up--Auguste was sixteen and Eulalie nine; Évariste, now in
his fourteenth year, was already becoming serious, and Honorine,
nineteen, and thus of an age to marry, showed herself quite motherly
towards little Julienne, who was but eight years old, and therefore the
youngest of the party. The young people, it should be said, at once
installed themselves in the strip of garden, where they played and
laughed merrily, for their consciences were clear and gay, and they
knew nothing of hatred and anger such as consumed their parents.

'We hold him at last!' said Laboque to his friends. 'Monsieur Gourier
told me that if we carried things to a finish we should ruin the works!
Let us admit that the court only awards me ten thousand francs. Well,
there are a hundred of you who can all bring similar actions, so he
would have to dip in his pockets for a million! And that is not all--he
will have to give us back the torrent and demolish the works he raised.
That will deprive him of that fine fresh water which he is so proud of.
Ah! my friends, what a good business!'

They all grew excited and triumphant at the idea of ruining the works
of La Crêcherie and lowering that fellow Luc, that madman who wished to
destroy trade, inheritances, money--in a word all the most venerable
foundations of human society. Caffiaux alone reflected.

'I should have preferred to see an action brought by the town,' said
he. 'Whenever it's a question of fighting the gentlefolk always want
others to do so. Where are the hundred people who will issue writs
against La Crêcherie?'

At this Dacheux exploded: 'Ah! I would willingly join in, if my house
were not on the other side of the street. And even as things stand I
shall see if I cannot do something, for the Clouque passes at the end
of my mother-in-law's yard. Yes, thunder! I must make one of you.'

'But to begin,' resumed Laboque, 'there is Madame Mitaine, who is
circumstanced exactly as I am, and whose house suffers like mine since
the stream has ceased to flow. You will issue a writ, won't you, Madame
Mitaine?'

He had craftily invited her that day with the express intention of
compelling her to enter into a formal agreement. He knew her to be
desirous of living in peace herself and of respecting the peace of
others. Nevertheless he hoped to win her over.

She at first began to laugh. 'Oh! as for any harm done to my house by
the disappearance of the Clouque, no, no, neighbour; the truth is that
I had given orders that not a drop of that bad water was ever to be
used, for I feared I might render my customers ill. It was so dirty
and it smelt so bad that whenever it is given back to us we shall
have to spend the necessary money to get rid of it by making it pass
underground as there was formerly a question of doing.'

Laboque pretended that he did not hear this. 'At all events, Madame
Mitaine,' said he, 'you are with us, your interests are the same as
ours, and if I win my suit you will act with all the other river-side
people, relying on the _chose jugée_, won't you?'

'We'll see, we'll see,' replied the baker's beautiful wife, becoming
grave. 'I'm willing enough to be on the side of justice, if it is just.'

Laboque had to rest content with that conditional promise. Besides, his
state of excitement and rancour deprived him of all sense; he thought
that victory was already won, and that he was about to crush all those
socialist follies which in four years had diminished his sales by one
half. It was society that he avenged by banging his fist on the table
in company with Dacheux, whilst the prudent Caffiaux, before definitely
committing himself, waited to see which side would triumph.

Beauclair was quite upset when it heard of Laboque's writ, and his
demand for an indemnity of twenty-five thousand francs. This was
indeed an ultimatum, a declaration of war. From that moment there
was a rallying-point around which all the scattered hatreds grouped
themselves into an army which pronounced itself vigorously against
Luc and his work, that diabolical factory, where the ruin of ancient
and respectable society was being forged. All Beauclair ended by
belonging to this army, the injured tradesmen drew their customers
together, and all the gentlefolk joined, since the new ideas quite
terrified them. Indeed, there was not a petty _rentier_ who did not
feel himself threatened by some frightful cataclysm, in which his own
narrow egotistical life would collapse. The women, too, were indignant
and disgusted now that La Crêcherie was depicted to them as a huge
disorderly house, the triumph of which, with its doctrine of free
love, would place them at any man's mercy. Even the workmen, even the
starving poor, became anxious, and began to curse the man who dreamt
of saving them, but whom they accused of aggravating their misery
by increasing the pitilessness of their employers and the wealthy.
What distracted Beauclair more than all else, however, was a violent
campaign which the local newspaper, the little sheet published by
Lebleu the printer, started against Luc. This journal now appeared
twice a week, and Captain Jollivet was suspected of being the author of
the articles whose virulence was creating such a sensation. The attack,
it should be said, reduced itself to a cannonade of lies and errors,
all the muddy trash which is cast at Socialism by way of caricaturing
its intentions and besmirching its ideal. It was, however, certain
that such tactics would prove successful with poor ignorant brains,
and it was curious to see how greatly the indignation spread, uniting
against the disturber of the public peace all the old inimical classes,
which were furious at being disturbed in their ancient cesspool by a
pretended desire to reconcile them and lead them to the just, happy,
and healthy city of the future.

Two days before Laboque's action was heard in the civil court of
Beauclair, the Delaveaus gave a grand lunch, with the secret object
of enabling their friends to meet and arrive at an agreement prior to
the battle. The Boisgelins naturally were invited, and so were Mayor
Gourier, Sub-Prefect Châtelard, Judge Gaume, with his son-in-law
Captain Jollivet, and finally Abbé Marle. The ladies of the various
families also attended, in order that the meeting might retain all the
semblance of a private pleasure party.

Châtelard that day, according to his wont, called on the mayor at
half-past eleven to fetch him and his wife, the ever-beautiful Léonore.
Ever since the success of La Crêcherie Gourier had been living in
anxiety. He had divined that a quiver was passing through the hundreds
of hands that he employed at his large boot-works in the Rue de Brias.
The men were evidently influenced by the new ideas, and inclined to
combine together. And he asked himself if it would not be better to
yield, to help on such combination himself, for he would be ruined by
it if he did not contrive to belong to it. This, however, was a worry
which he kept secret, for there was another which filled him with great
rancour, and made him Luc's personal enemy. His son, indeed, that tall
young fellow Achille, so independent in his ways, had broken off all
connection with his parents and sought employment at La Crêcherie,
where he found himself near Ma-Bleue, his sweetheart of the starry
nights. Gourier had forbidden any mention of that ungrateful son, who
had deserted the _bourgeoisie_ to join the enemies of social security.
But although the mayor was unwilling to say it, his son's departure had
aggravated his secret uncertainty, and brought him a covert fear that
he might some day be forced to imitate the youth's example.

'Well,' said he to Châtelard, as soon as he saw the latter enter,
'that lawsuit is at hand now. Laboque has been to see me again, as he
wanted some certificates. He is still of opinion that the town ought
to intervene, and it is really difficult to refuse him a helping hand
after egging him on as we did.'

The sub-prefect contented himself with smiling. 'No, no, my friend,' he
answered, 'believe me, don't involve the town in it. You were sensible
enough to yield to my reasoning, you refused to take proceedings,
and you allowed that terrible Laboque, who thirsts for vengeance
and massacre, to act by himself. That was fitting, and, I beg you,
persevere in that course, remain simply a spectator; there will always
be time to profit by Laboque's victory if he should be victorious. Ah!
my friend, if you only knew what advantages one derives by meddling in
nothing!'

Then by a gesture he expressed all that he had in his mind, the peace
that he enjoyed in that sub-prefecture of his since he allowed himself
to be forgotten there. Things were going from bad to worse in Paris,
the central authorities were collapsing a little more each day, and
the time was near when _bourgeoise_ society would either crumble
to pieces or be swept away by a revolution. He, like a sceptical
philosopher, only asked that he might endure till then, and finish his
life happily in the warm little nest which he had chosen. His whole
policy therefore consisted in letting things go, in meddling with them
as little as possible; and he was convinced that the Government, amidst
the difficulties of its last days, was extremely grateful to him for
abandoning the beast to its death without creating any further worries.
A sub-prefect whom one never heard of, who by his intelligence had
effaced Beauclair from the number of governmental cares, was indeed
a precious functionary. Thus Châtelard got on extremely well; his
superiors only remembered him to cover him with praises, whilst he
quietly finished burying the old social system, spending the autumn of
his own days at the feet of the beautiful Léonore.

'You hear, my friend,' he continued, 'don't compromise yourself, for
in such times as ours one never knows what may happen on the morrow.
One must be prepared for everything, and the best course therefore is
to include oneself with nothing. Let the others run on ahead and take
all the risk of getting their bones broken. You will see very well
afterwards what you ought to do.'

However, Léonore now came into the room, gowned in light silk. Since
she had passed her fortieth year she had been looking younger than
ever, with her blonde majestic beauty and her candid eyes. Châtelard,
as gallant now as on the very first day, took her hand and kissed
it, whilst the husband with an air of relief glanced at the pair
affectionately.

'Ah! you are ready,' said he. 'We will start then--eh, Châtelard? And
be easy, I am prudent, and have no desire to thrust myself into any
turmoil, which would destroy our peace and quietness. But by-and-by, at
Delaveau's, you know, it will be necessary to say like the others.'

At that same hour Judge Gaume was waiting at home for his daughter
Lucile and his son-in-law Jollivet, who were to fetch him in order that
they might all repair to the lunch together. During the last four years
the judge had greatly aged. He seemed to have become yet more severe,
and sadder; and he carried strict attention to the letter of the law
to the point of mania, drawing up the preambles of his judgments with
increasing minuteness of detail. It was said that he had been heard
sobbing on certain evenings, as if he felt everything connected with
his life giving way, even that human justice to which he clung so
despairingly as to a last piece of wreckage which might save him from
sinking. Amidst his dolorous remembrance of the tragedy which weighed
upon his life--his wife's betrayal and violent death--he must above all
else have suffered at seeing that drama begin afresh with his daughter
Lucile, of whom he was so fond, and who was so virginal of countenance,
and so strikingly like her mother. She in her turn was now deceiving
her husband. Indeed, she had not been married six months to Captain
Jollivet before she had taken a lover, a solicitor's petty clerk, a
tall fair youth with blue girlish eyes, younger than herself. The
judge having surprised the intrigue, suffered from it as if it were a
renewal of that betrayal which had left an ever-bleeding wound in his
heart. He recoiled from a painful explanation, which would have brought
him perchance a repetition of the awful day when his wife had killed
herself before his eyes after confessing her fault. But how abominable
was that world in which all that he had loved had betrayed and failed
him! And how could one believe in any human justice when it was the
most beautiful and the best who made one suffer so cruelly!

Thoughtful and morose, Judge Gaume was seated in his private room,
where he had just finished reading the 'Journal de Beauclair,' when the
Captain and Lucile made their appearance. The violent article against
La Crêcherie which he had just read seemed to him foolish, clumsy, and
vulgar. And he quietly expressed his opinion to that effect.

'It is not you, I hope, my good Jollivet, who write such articles, as
is rumoured. No good purpose is served by insulting one's adversaries,'
he said.

The Captain made a gesture of embarrassment: 'Oh, write!' he retorted,
'you know very well that I don't write, it is not to my taste. But it's
true that I give Lebleu some ideas, some notes, you know, on scraps of
paper, and he gets somebody or other to write articles based on them.'
Then, as the judge still pursed his lips disappprovingly, the captain
went on: 'What else can one do? One fights with such weapons as one
has. If those cursed Madagascar fevers had not compelled me to send
in my papers, I should have fallen sabre and not pen in hand on those
idealogues who are demolishing everything with their criminal utopian
schemes. Ah! yes indeed, it would relieve me to be able to bleed a
dozen of them!'

Lucile, short and _mignonne_, had hitherto remained silent, with her
usual keen enigmatical smile upon her lips. But now she turned so
plainly ironical a glance upon her husband, that great man with the
victorious moustaches, that the judge easily detected in it all the
merry disdain she felt for a swashbuckler whom her little hands toyed
with as a cat may toy with a mouse.

'Oh, Charles!' said she, 'don't be wicked, don't say things that
frighten me!'

But just then she met her father's glance, and feared lest her true
feelings should be divined; so putting on her candid, virginal air
again, she added: 'Isn't it wrong of Charles to get so heated, father
dear? We ought to live quietly in our little corner.'

But Gaume detected that she was still jeering. 'It is all very sad
and very cruel,' said he by way of conclusion, virtually speaking to
himself. 'What can one decide, what can one do when all deceive and
devour one another?'

He rose painfully, and took his hat and gloves in order to go to
Delaveau's. Then in spite of everything, when once he was in the
street, and Lucile--of whom he was so fond, whatever the sufferings she
caused him--took hold of his arm, he enjoyed a moment of delightful
forgetfulness as after a lovers' quarrel.

Meantime, when noon struck at the Abyss, Delaveau joined Fernande in
the little _salon_ opening into the dining-room of the pavilion built
by the Qurignons, which was now the home of the manager of the works.
It was a rather small dwelling; for, apart from the dining and drawing
rooms and the domestic offices, the ground floor only contained one
other apartment, which Delaveau had made his private room, and which
communicated by a wooden gallery with the general offices of the works.
Then on the first and second floors were some bed-rooms. Since a young
woman passionately fond of luxury had been living in the house, carpets
and hangings had imparted to the old floors and dark walls some little
of the splendour that she dreamt of.

Boisgelin was the first guest to arrive, and came unaccompanied.

'What!' exclaimed Fernande, as if greatly distressed, 'is not Suzanne
with you?'

'She begs you to excuse her,' Boisgelin replied in very correct
fashion. 'She woke up this morning with a sick headache, and has been
unable to leave her room.'

Each time that there was any question of going to the Abyss matters
took this course--Suzanne found some pretext for avoiding such an
aggravation of her grief, and only Delaveau, in his blindness, failed
to understand the truth.

Moreover, Boisgelin immediately changed the conversation. 'Ah! so here
we are on the eve of the famous law-suit,' said he. 'It is as good as
settled, eh? La Crêcherie will be condemned!'

Delaveau shrugged his broad shoulders. 'What does it matter to us
whether it be condemned or not?' he replied. 'It does us harm, no
doubt, by lowering the price of metal, but we don't compete in
manufactured articles, and there is nothing very serious as yet.'

Fernande, who looked wondrously beautiful that day, stood quivering,
gazing at her husband with flaming eyes. 'Oh! you don't know how to
hate!' she cried. 'What! that man set himself to thwart all your plans,
founded at your very door a rival enterprise, the success of which
would be the ruin of the one you manage--a man, too, who never ceases
to be an obstacle and a threat--and you don't even desire to see him
crushed! Ah! if he's flung naked into a ditch I shall be only too
pleased!'

From the very first day she had felt that Luc would be the enemy, and
she could not speak calmly of that man who threatened her enjoyment
of life. Therein for her lay his one great unique crime. With her
ever-increasing appetite for pleasure and luxury, she required ever
larger profits, an abundance of prosperity for the works, hundreds and
hundreds of workmen, kneading, fashioning steel at the flaming doors
of their furnaces. She was the devourer of men and money, the one
whose cravings the Abyss with its steam hammers and its huge machinery
no longer sufficed to satisfy. And what would become of her hopes of
future pomp and vanity, of millions amassed and devoured, if the Abyss
should fall into difficulties, and succumb to competition? With that
thought in her mind, she left neither her husband nor Boisgelin any
rest, but ever urged them on, worried them incessantly, seizing every
opportunity to give expression to her anger and her fears.

Boisgelin, who feigned a superior kind of way--never meddling with
business matters, but spending the profits of the works without
counting them, setting his only glory in being a handsome ladykiller,
an elegant horseman, and a great sportsman--was none the less
accustomed to shiver when he heard Fernande speak of possible ruin.
Thus, on the present occasion, turning towards Delaveau, in whom he
retained absolute confidence, he inquired, 'You have no anxiety, eh,
cousin? All is going on well here?'

The engineer again shrugged his shoulders. 'I repeat that the works are
in no wise affected as yet. Moreover, the whole town is rising against
that man--he is mad. We shall all see now how unpopular he is; and if
at bottom I am well pleased with that law-suit, it is because it will
finish him off in the opinion of Beauclair. Before three months have
elapsed all the workmen that he has taken from us will be coming with
hands clasped to beg me to take them back. You will see, you will see!
Authority is the only sound principle, the enfranchisement of labour is
arrant stupidity, for the workman no longer does anything properly when
once he becomes his own master.'

Silence fell, then he added more slowly, with a faint shade of anxiety
in his eyes, 'All the same, we ought to be prudent. La Crêcherie is not
a competitor that one can neglect, and what would alarm me would be any
lack of the necessary funds for a struggle in some sudden emergency. We
live too much from day to day, and it is becoming indispensable that
we should establish a substantial reserve fund, by setting apart, for
instance, one third of the annual profits.'

Fernande restrained a gesture of involuntary protest. That was indeed
her fear: that her lover might have to reduce his expenditure, and that
she, in her pride and pleasures, might suffer therefrom. She had to
content herself for the moment with looking at Boisgelin. But he, of
his own accord, plainly answered: 'No, no, cousin, not at the present
moment. I can't set anything aside, my expenses are too heavy. At the
same time I must thank you once more, for you make my money yield even
more than you promised. We will see about the rest later on--we will
talk it over.'

Nevertheless Fernande remained in a nervous state, and her covert anger
fell upon Nise, who had just lunched alone, under the supervision of a
maid, who now brought her into the _salon_ before taking her to spend
the afternoon with a little friend. Nise, who was now nearly seven
years old, was growing quite pretty, pink and fair, and ever merry,
with wild hair which made her resemble a little curly sheep.

'There, my dear Boisgelin,' said Fernande, 'there's a disobedient child
who will end by making me quite ill. Just ask her what she did the
other day at that treat which she offered to your son Paul and little
Louise Mazelle!'

Without evincing the slightest alarm, Nise, with her limpid blue eyes,
continued gaily smiling at those about her.

'Oh!' continued her mother, 'she won't admit any wrong-doing. But
do you know, although I had forbidden it a dozen times, she again
opened the old door in our garden wall to admit all the dirty urchins
of La Crêcherie into our grounds. There was that little Nanet, a
frightful little rascal for whom she has conceived an affection. And
your boy Paul was mixed up in it, and so was Louise Mazelle, all of
them fraternising with the children of that man Bonnaire, who left us
in such an insolent fashion. Yes, Paul with Antoinette, and Louise
with Lucien, and Mademoiselle Nise and her Nanet, leading them to the
assault of our flower-beds. Yet she has not even a blush of shame on
her cheeks, you see!'

'It isn't just,' Nise simply answered in her clear voice; 'we did not
break anything, we played together very nicely. He is funny, is Nanet.'

This answer made Fernande quite angry: 'Ah! you think him funny, do
you? Just listen to me. If ever I catch you with him, you shall have no
dessert for a week. I don't want you to get me into any unpleasantness
with those people near us. They would go about everywhere saying that
we attract their children here in order to render them ill. You hear
me? This time it is serious; you will have to deal with me if you see
Nanet again.'

'Yes, mamma,' said Nise in her quiet, smiling way. And when she had
gone off with the maid, after kissing everybody, the mother concluded:
'It is very simple--I shall have the door walled up. In that way I
shall be certain that the children won't communicate. There is nothing
worse than that--it corrupts them.'

Neither Delaveau nor Boisgelin had intervened; for on the one hand they
saw in this affair only so much childishness, and on the other they
approved of severe measures when good order was in question. But the
future was germinating. Stubborn Mademoiselle Nise had carried away
in her little heart the thought of Nanet, who was funny and played so
nicely.

At last the guests arrived, the Gouriers with Châtelard, then Judge
Gaume with the Jollivets. Abbé Marle was the last to appear, late
according to his wont. Though the Mazelles had expressly promised to
come and take coffee, some obstacle prevented them from sharing the
repast. Thus there were only ten at table; but then they had desired
to be few in number in order that they might be able to chat at their
ease. Besides, the dining-room, of which Fernande felt ashamed, was
such a small one that the old mahogany sideboard interfered with the
service whenever there were more than a dozen round the table.

From the serving of the fish, some delicious trout of the Mionne, the
conversation naturally fell on La Crêcherie and Luc. And what was said
by those educated _bourgeois_, in a position to know the truth about
what they called 'socialist utopia,' proved scarcely one whit more
sensible or intelligent than the extraordinary views expressed by such
people as Dacheux and Laboque. The only man who might have understood
the real position was Châtelard. But then he preferred to jest.

'You know,' said he, 'that the boys and girls there grow up all
together in the same class-rooms and workshops, so that we may expect
the little town to become a populous one, very rapidly. With their
loose theories, they will all be papas and mammas, and there will be
quite a tribe of children running about?'

'How horrible!' exclaimed Fernande, with an air of profound disgust,
for she affected extreme prudishness.

Then, for a few moments, the free love theories attributed to the
denizens of La Crêcherie formed the topic of conversation. But a matter
of that kind did not worry Delaveau. In his estimation the serious
point was the undermining of authority, the criminal dream of living
without a master.

'Such a conception as that is beyond me,' he exclaimed. 'How will their
future city be governed? To speak only of the works, they say that by
association they will suppress the wage system, and that there will be
a just division of wealth when only workers are left, each giving his
share of toil to the community. But I can conceive of no more dangerous
dream than that, for it is irrealisable, is it not, Monsieur Gourier?'

The mayor, who was eating with his face bent over his plate, spent some
time in wiping his mouth before he answered, for he noticed that the
sub-prefect was looking at him.

'Irrealisable, no doubt,' he said at last. 'Only one must not lightly
condemn the principle of association. There is great strength in
association, and we ourselves may be called upon to make use of it.'

This prudent reply incensed the captain, who retorted angrily, 'What!
wouldn't you condemn once and for all the execrable deeds which that
man--I speak of that Monsieur Luc--is planning against all that we
love, that old France of ours, such as the swords of our fathers made
it and bequeathed it to us?'

Some mutton cutlets served with asparagus heads were now being handed
round, and a general outcry against Luc arose. The mention of his
hated name sufficed to draw them all together, unite them closely, in
alarm for their threatened interests, and with an imperious craving
for resistance and revenge. Somebody, however, was cruel enough to
ask Gourier for news of his son, Achille the renegade, and the mayor
had to curse the lad once again. Châtelard alone tried to tack about
and keep the discussion on a jocular footing. But in this he failed,
for the captain continued prophesying the worst disasters if the
factious-minded were not immediately kicked into obedience and order.
And his words disseminated such a panic that Boisgelin, becoming
anxious again, appealed to Delaveau, from whom there happily came a
reassuring declaration.

'Our man is already hit,' declared the manager of the Abyss. 'The
prosperity of La Crêcherie is only on the surface, and an accident
would suffice to bring everything to the ground. Thus, for instance, my
wife was lately giving me some particulars----'

'Yes,' broke in Fernande, happy to have an opportunity of relieving her
feelings, 'the information came to me from my laundress. She knows one
of our former hands, a man named Ragu, who left us in order to go to
the new works. Well, it seems that Ragu is declaring everywhere that he
has had quite enough of that dirty den, that the men are bored to death
there, that he isn't the only one to complain, and that one of these
fine days they will all be coming back here. Ah! who will begin, who
will deal the blow necessary to make that man Luc totter and fall to
pieces?'

'But there's the Laboque lawsuit,' said Boisgelin, coming to the young
woman's help. 'I hope that will suffice for everything.'

Fresh silence ensued whilst some roast ducks made their appearance.
Although the Laboque lawsuit was the real motive of that friendly
gathering, nobody as yet had dared to speak of it in presence of the
silence which Judge Gaume preserved. He ate but little, his secret
sorrows having brought him a complaint of the digestive organs, and
he contented himself with listening to the others and gazing at them
with his cold grey eyes, whence he knew how to withdraw all expression.
Never had he been seen in a less communicative mood, and this ended by
embarrassing the others, who would have liked to know on what footing
to treat him, and at least have some certainty as to the judgment which
he would deliver. Although no thought of possible acquittal at his
hands entered anybody's mind, they all hoped that he would have the
good taste to pledge himself in a sufficiently clear fashion.

Again it was the captain who advanced to the assault. 'The law is
formal, is it not, Monsieur le Président?' he inquired. 'All damage
done to anybody must be repaired?'

'No doubt,' answered Gaume.

More was expected from him, but he relapsed into silence. And
thereupon, by way of compelling him to pledge himself more thoroughly,
the Clouque affair was noisily discussed. That filthy stream became one
of the former adornments of Beauclair; it was not right that people
should steal a town's water in such a fashion as that man Luc had done,
particularly to give it to peasants whose brains had been turned to
such a point that they had converted their village into a hotbed of
furious anarchy which threatened the whole region. All the terror of
the _bourgeoisie_ now became apparent, for assuredly the ancient and
holy principle of property was in sore distress if the sons of the
hard-fisted peasants of former times had reached such a point as to
place their strips of land in common. It was high time that justice
should interfere and put a stop to such a scandal.

'Oh! we may be quite easy,' Boisgelin ended by saying in a flattering
tone. 'The cause of society will be in good hands. There is nothing
above a just judgment, rendered in all liberty by an honest conscience.'

'Without doubt,' Gaume simply repeated.

And this time it was necessary to rest content with that vague remark,
in which they all strove to detect the certainty of Luc's conviction.
The meal was now virtually over, for after a Russian salad there were
only some strawberry ices and the dessert. But the guests' stomachs
were comforted, and they laughed a good deal, for they were convinced
of victory. When they had gone into the _salon_ to take coffee and the
Mazelles arrived, the latter were, as usual, greeted with somewhat
jocose friendliness. Those worthy folk, living on their income, and
personifying the delights of idleness, moved one's heart! Madame
Mazelle's complaint was no better, but she was delighted at having
obtained from Doctor Novarre some new wafers which enabled her to eat
anything with impunity. It was only such matters as the abominable
stories of La Crêcherie, the threat that Rentes would be done away
with, and that the right of inheritance would be abolished, that now
gave her a turn. But what was the use of talking about disagreeable
things? Mazelle, who watched over his wife with profound satisfaction,
winked at the others and begged them to raise those horrid subjects
no more, since they had such a bad effect on Madame Mazelle's failing
health. And then the gathering became delightful, they all hastened to
revert to the happiness of life, a life of wealth and enjoyment, of
which they plucked all the flowers.

At last, amidst growing anger and hatred, the day of the famous lawsuit
dawned. Never had Beauclair been so upset by furious passion. Luc in
the first instance had felt astonished at Laboque's writ, and had
simply laughed at it, particularly as it seemed to him impossible that
the claim for twenty-five thousand francs by way of damages could be
sustained. If the Clouque had dried up it would in the first place
be difficult for anybody to prove that this had been caused by the
capturing of hillside springs at La Crêcherie; and moreover those
springs belonged to the estate, to the Jordans, and were free from all
servitude, in such wise that the owner had a full right to dispose of
them as he pleased. On the other hand Laboque must assuredly base his
claim for damages on facts proving that he had really sustained injury
and loss, but he simply made such a feeble and clumsy attempt to do
so that no court of justice in the world could possibly decide in his
favour. As Luc jocularly put it, it was he who ought to have claimed a
public grant as a reward for having delivered the waterside landowners
from a source of infection, of which they had long complained. The town
now simply had to fill up the bed of the stream and sell the land for
building purposes, thereby putting a few hundred thousand francs into
its coffers. Thus Luc laughed, not imagining that such a lawsuit as
Laboque's could be at all serious. It was only afterwards, on finding
rancour and hostility rising against him on every side, that he began
to realise the gravity of the situation, and the peril in which his
work would be placed.

This was a first painful shock for him. He was not ignorant of the
maliciousness of man. In giving battle to the old world, he had fully
expected that the latter would not yield him place without anger and
resistance. He was prepared for the Calvary he foresaw, the stones
and mud with which the ungrateful multitude usually pelt precursors.
Yet his heart wavered as he realised the approach of folly, cruelty,
and betrayal. He understood that behind the Laboques and the other
petty traders there was the whole _bourgeoisie_, all who possess and
are unwilling to part with aught of their possessions. His attempts
at association and co-operation placed capitalist society, based on
the wage-earning system, in such peril that he became for it a public
enemy, of which it must rid itself at any cost. And it was the Abyss
and La Guerdache and the whole town and authority in every form that
were now bestirring themselves, joining in the struggle and striving
to crush him. If he fell that pack of wolves would rush upon him and
devour him. He knew the names of those enemies, functionaries, traders,
mere _rentiers_ with placid faces who would have eaten him alive had
they seen him fall at a street corner. And therefore, mastering his
distress of heart, he prepared for battle, full of the conviction that
one can found nothing without battling, and that all great human work
is sealed with human blood.

It was on a Tuesday, a market day, that Laboque's action was heard by
the civil court, over which Judge Gaume presided. Beauclair was in a
state of uproar, all the folk who had come in from the neighbouring
villages helped to increase the general feverishness on the Place de
la Mairie and in the Rue de Brias. Sœurette, who felt anxious, had
therefore begged Luc to ask a few strong friends to accompany him. But
he stubbornly refused to do so, he resolved to go to the court alone,
just as he had resolved to defend himself in person, having engaged an
advocate simply as a matter of form. When he entered the court-room,
which was small and already crowded with noisy people, silence suddenly
fell, and the eager curiosity which greets an isolated, unarmed victim
ready for sacrifice became manifest. Luc's quiet courage increased
the rage of his enemies, who pronounced his demeanour to be insolent.
He remained standing in front of the bench allotted to defendants,
and whilst quietly gazing at the closely packed people around him, he
recognised Laboque, Dacheux, Caffiaux, and other shopkeepers among all
the many furious enemies with ardent faces, whom he saw for the first
time. However, he felt a little relieved on finding that the intimates
of La Guerdache and the Abyss had at least had the good taste to
refrain from coming to see him delivered to the beasts.

Long and exciting proceedings were anticipated, but there was nothing
of the kind. Laboque has chosen one of those provincial advocates
with a reputation for maliciousness who are the terror of a region.
And, indeed, the best time which Luc's enemies spent was when this
man spoke. Knowing how flimsy were the legal grounds on which the
demand for damages was based, he contented himself with ridiculing
the reforms attempted at La Crêcherie. He made his hearers laugh a
good deal with the comical and distorted picture which he drew of
the proposed future society. And he raised general indignation when
he pictured the children of both sexes being corrupted, the holy
institution of marriage being abolished, and free love and all such
horrors taking its place. Nevertheless, the general opinion was that
he had not found the supreme insult or argument, the bludgeon blow
by which a suit is gained and a man for ever crushed. And so great,
therefore, became the anxiety that when Luc in his turn spoke, his
slightest words were greeted with murmurs. He spoke very simply,
refrained from replying to the attacks made upon his enterprise, and
contented himself with showing with decisive force that Laboque's
demands were ill-founded. Would he not rather have rendered a service
to Beauclair if he had, indeed, dried up that pestilential Clouque, and
presented the town with good building land? It was not even proved,
however, that the works carried out at La Crêcherie had caused the
disappearance of the torrent, and he was waiting for the other side
to give proof of it. When he concluded, some of his bitterness of
heart appeared, for he declared that if he desired nobody's thanks for
whatever useful work he might have done, he would be happy if people
would but allow him to pursue his enterprises in peace, without seeking
groundless quarrels with him. On several occasions Judge Gaume had to
enjoin silence on the audience; nevertheless when the public prosecutor
also had spoken, in a designedly confused manner, in turn praising and
condemning both parties, Laboque's advocate replied in so violent a
fashion, calling Luc an Anarchist bent on destroying the town, that
loud acclamations burst forth, and the judge had to threaten that
he would order the court to be cleared if such demonstrations were
renewed. Then he postponed judgment for a fortnight.

When that fortnight was past, the popular passions had become yet more
heated, and folk almost came to blows on the market-place in discussing
the probable terms of the judgment. Nearly everybody, however, was
convinced that it would be a severe one, fixing the damages at ten or
fifteen thousand francs, and ordering the defendant to restore the
Clouque to its former condition. At the same time some people wagged
their heads and felt sure of nothing, for they had not been satisfied
with Judge Gaume's demeanour in court. Anxiety was caused, too, by the
manner in which the judge had shut himself up at home on the morrow of
the hearing, under the pretence of suffering from some indisposition.
It was said that he was really in perfect health, and had simply
desired to place himself beyond any pressure, refusing to see people
lest they might try to influence his judicial conscience. What did
he do in that silent house of his, whose doors and windows were kept
strictly closed, and which his daughter even was not allowed to enter?
To what moral struggle, what internal drama had he fallen a prey amidst
his wrecked life, the collapse of all that he had loved and all that he
had believed in? Those were questions which occupied many people, but
which none could answer.

Judgment was to be delivered at noon at the outset of the court's
sitting. And the room was yet more crowded and excited than on the
former occasion. Laughter rang out, and words of hope and violence were
exchanged from one to the other end. All Luc's enemies had come to see
him annihilated. And he had again refused to let anybody accompany
him, preferring to present himself alone, the better to express the
peacefulness of his mission. He stood up smiling and looking around
him without even appearing to suspect that all that growling anger was
directed against himself. At last, punctual to the minute, Judge Gaume
came in, followed by his two assessors and the public prosecutor. There
was no need for the usher to command silence, the chatter suddenly
ceased, and the faces of one and all were stretched forward, aglow with
anxious curiosity. The judge had in the first instance seated himself,
then he rose holding the paper on which his judgment was written;
and for a moment he remained thus, motionless and silent, with his
eyes gazing far away beyond the crowd. At last, slowly and without
the faintest emphasis, he began to read his judgment. It was a long
business, for 'whereas' followed 'whereas' with monotonous regularity,
presenting the various questions submitted to the court in full detail
and under every possible aspect. The people present listened without
understanding much of what was read, and without managing to foresee
the conclusion, so incessantly and closely did arguments on either side
follow one another. It seemed, however, at each forward step that Luc's
contentions were adopted by the court, that no real damage had been
done to another, and that every landowner had a right to execute what
work he pleased on his own land when no servitude existed to restrain
him. And the decision at last burst forth--Luc was acquitted, the
action was dismissed.

At first a moment of stupefaction ensued in the court-room. Then,
everybody having understood the position, there came hooting and
violent threatening shouts. What! the excited crowd, maddened by lies
for months past, was robbed of its promised victim! It demanded that
victim, it claimed him that it might tear him to pieces, since an
attempt to rob it of him was made at the last moment by a judge who had
evidently sold himself. Was not Luc the public enemy, the stranger who
had come nobody knew whence to corrupt Beauclair, ruin its trade, and
foment civil war in its midst by banding the workmen together against
their masters? And had he not with diabolical wickedness stolen the
town's water, dried up a stream whose disappearance was a disaster for
all who had property near its banks? The 'Journal de Beauclair' had
repeated those accusations every week, all the authorities, all the
gentlefolk had spread them abroad, and now the humbler ones, blinded
and enraged, convinced that a pestilence would come from La Crêcherie,
'saw red' and demanded death. Fists were thrust forward, and the cries
increased:

'To death with the thief! To death with the poisoner, to death with
him!'

Very pale, with his features rigid, Judge Gaume remained standing
amidst the uproar. He wished to speak and give orders for the court to
be cleared, but he had to renounce all hope of making himself heard.
And for dignity's sake he had to rest content with suspending the
sitting by withdrawing from the court followed by his two assessors and
the public prosecutor.

Luc had remained calm and smiling beside his bench. He had been as
much surprised as his adversaries by the tenor of the judgment, for he
knew in what a vitiated atmosphere the judge lived. It was comforting
to meet a just man amid so much human baseness. When, however, the
cries of death burst forth, Luc's smile became a sad one, and his heart
filled with bitterness as he turned towards that howling throng. What
had he done to those petty _bourgeois_, those tradesmen, those workmen?
Had he not desired to benefit all, was he not working in order that
all might become happy, loving, and brotherly? But the fists still
threatened him, and the shouts lashed him more violently than ever:
'To death! to death with the thief! To death with the poisoner!'

To see those poor folk so wild, maddened by falsehoods, caused Luc
profound grief, for he loved them in spite of everything. He restrained
his tears, for he wished to remain erect, proud, and courageous beneath
those insults. The public thinking itself braved, would have ended,
however, by breaking down the oaken partitions in order to get at him,
if some guards had not at last succeeded in thrusting him out of the
court-room and securing the doors. Then, on behalf of Judge Gaume, the
clerk of the court came to beg Luc to refrain from leaving immediately,
for fear of some accident; and eventually the clerk prevailed on him
to wait a few minutes in the room of the doorkeeper of the Palace of
Justice, whilst the crowd was dispersing.[1]

But if Luc consented to do this he none the less experienced a feeling
of shame and revolt at being obliged to hide himself. He spent in that
doorkeeper's room the most painful fifteen minutes of his life, for
he thought it cowardly not to face the crowd, and was indignant that
the position of an apparent culprit should thus be forced upon him.
Directly the approaches of the Palace of Justice had been cleared, he
insisted on going home, on foot, and unaccompanied by anybody. He had
merely a light walking-stick with him, and was even sorry that he had
brought it, for fear lest anybody should imagine that he had done so
for purposes of defence. He had all Beauclair to cross, and he set out
slowly and quietly along the streets. Until he reached the Place de
la Mairie nobody seemed to notice him. The people who had quitted the
court had waited for him for a few minutes; then feeling certain that
he would not venture out for some hours, they had gone off to spread
the news of the acquittal through the town. But on the Place de la
Mairie, where the market was being held, Luc was recognised. He was
pointed out and a few persons even began to follow him, not as yet with
evil intentions, but solely to see what might happen. There were only
some peasants and their customers present, mere sightseers who were not
mixed up in the quarrel. Thus matters only took a serious turn when the
young man turned into the Rue de Brias, at the corner of which, in
front of his shop, Laboque, infuriated by his defeat, was venting his
anger amidst a small crowd of people.

All the tradespeople of the neighbourhood had hastened to Laboque's
establishment directly they had heard the disastrous tidings. What!
was it true then? La Crêcherie would be free to finish ruining them
with its co-operative stores, since the judges took its part? Caffiaux,
who looked overwhelmed, preserved silence, full of thoughts which he
would not express. But Dacheux the butcher, with all his blood rushing
to his face, showed himself one of the most violent, eager to defend
his meat, sacred meat, meat the privileged food of the wealthy! And he
even talked of killing people rather than reduce his prices by a single
centime. Madame Mitaine, for her part, had not come. She had never been
in favour of the lawsuit, and she simply declared that she should go
on selling bread as long as she found buyers, and that, for the rest,
she would see afterwards. Laboque, however, boiling over with fury, was
for the tenth time recounting the abominable treachery of Judge Gaume
when all at once he perceived Luc quietly walking past his shop--that
ironmongery shop whose ruin he was consummating. Such audacity brought
Laboque's rage to a climax; and he almost threw himself on the young
man as, half stifled by his rising bile, he growled, 'To death with the
thief! To death with the poisoner!'

Luc, without pausing, contented himself with turning his calm brave
eyes on the tumultuous throng whence came Laboque's husky invectives.
This was taken by all as an act of provocation, and a general clamour
arose, gathered force, and became like a tempest blast. 'To death with
the thief! To death with the poisoner! To death with him!'

Luc meantime, as if he himself were not in question, quietly went his
way, glancing to right and left, like one who is interested in the
sights of the streets. But almost the whole band had begun to follow
him with louder and louder hoots, and threats, and the outrageous
words, 'To death with the thief! To death with the poisoner! To death
with him!'

And those shouts never ceased, but grew and spread as he went at
a leisurely pace up the Rue de Brias. Out of each shop came fresh
tradespeople to join the demonstration. Women showed themselves in
the doorways and hooted the young man as he passed. Some in their
exasperation even rushed up and shouted with the men: 'To death with
the thief and poisoner!' Luc saw one of them, a fair young woman, a
fruiterer's wife, charmingly beautiful, showing her fine white teeth
as she shouted insults after him, and threatening him with her hands,
whose rosy finger-nails seemed eager to tear him to pieces. Children
also had begun to run after him, and there was one, some five or six
years old, no bigger than a jack-boot, who almost threw himself between
the young man's legs in order that he might be the better heard: 'To
death with the thief! To death with the poisoner!' Poor little urchin!
Who could have already taught him to raise that shout of hatred? But
matters became worse when Luc passed the factories situated in the
upper part of the street. The workgirls of Gourier's boot manufactory
appeared at their windows, clapped their hands and howled. Then there
were even the workmen of the Chodorge and Mirande factories, who stood
smoking on the foot-pavement waiting for the bells to ring the close of
the dinner-hour, and who, brutified by servitude, likewise joined in
the demonstration. One thin little fellow, with carroty hair and big
blurred eyes, seemed stricken with insanity, so furiously did he rush
about, shouting louder than all the others: 'To death with the thief!
To death with the poisoner! To death with him!'

Ah! that ascent of the Rue de Brias, with that growing band of enemies
at his heels, amidst that ignoble torrent of threats and insults!
Luc remembered the evening of his arrival at Beauclair four years
previously, when the black tramp, tramp of the disinherited starvelings
along that same street had filled him with such active compassion that
he had vowed to devote his life to the salvation of the wretched. What
had he done for four years past, that so much hatred should have sprung
up against him? He had made himself the apostle of the morrow, the
apostle of a community all solidarity and brotherliness, organised by
the ennoblement of work--work, the regulator of human wealth. He had
given an example of what he desired to establish, at that La Crêcherie
where the future city was germinating, and where such additional
justice and happiness as was for the time possible already reigned.
And that had sufficed--the whole town regarded him as a malefactor;
for he could feel that the whole of it was behind the band now barking
at his heels. How bitter was the suffering that accompanied that
Calvary-ascent, which all just men must make amidst the blows of the
very beings whose redemption they seek to hasten! Yet as for those
_bourgeois_ whose quiet digestions he troubled, Luc excused them for
hating him; for were they not terrified by the thought of having to
share their now egotistical enjoyment with others? He also excused
those shopkeepers who ascribed their ruin to his malice, when he simply
dreamt of a better employment of social forces, and of preventing
all useless waste of the public fortune. And he even excused those
workmen whom he had come to save from misery, and for whom he was so
laboriously raising a city of justice, yet who hooted and insulted him,
to such a degree, indeed, had their brains been fogged and their hearts
chilled. Only if he excused them all, in his sorrowful brotherliness,
he bled, indeed, at finding, amongst the most insulting, those very
toilers of factory and workshop whom he desired to make the nobles, the
free and happy men of to-morrow.

Luc was still ascending that endless Rue de Brias, and the pack of
wolves was still increasing in numbers, their shouts knowing no
cessation: 'To death with the thief! To death with the poisoner! To
death with him!'

For a moment he paused, turned, and looked at all those people in order
that they might not imagine that he was fleeing. And as there happened
to be some piles of stones thereabouts, one man stooped down, took up a
stone and flung it at him. Immediately afterwards others stooped, and
the stones began to rain upon him amidst ever-growing threats.

'To death with the thief! To death with the poisoner! To death with
him!'

So now he was being stoned. However, he made not a gesture even, but
resumed his walk, persevering in the ascent of his Calvary. His hands
were empty, he had with him no weapon save his light walking-stick, and
this he had slipped under his arm. But he remained very calm, full of
the idea that if he were destined to fulfil his mission it would render
him invulnerable. His grief-stricken heart alone suffered, cruelly rent
as it was by the sight of so much error and madness. Tears rose to his
eyes, and he had to make a great effort to prevent them from flowing
down his cheeks.

'To death with the thief! To death with the poisoner! To death with
him!' Still and ever did those cries resound.

A stone at last struck one of Luc's heels, then another grazed his
hip. It had become a game now--the very children took part in it. But
they were unskilful, and most of the stones rebounded over the ground.
Twice, however, did pebbles pass so near Luc's head, that one might
have thought him struck. He no longer turned round, but still and ever
ascended the Rue de Brias at the same leisurely pace as before, like
one who, after going for a stroll, is returning home. But at last a
stone did hit him, tearing his right ear; and then another, striking
his left hand, cut the palm of it open. At this his blood gushed out,
and fell in big red drops upon the ground.

'To death with the thief and poisoner! To death with him!' some of the
crowd still cried. But an eddy of panic momentarily stayed the advance.
Several people ran off, seized with cowardice, now that the moment to
kill the man seemed to have arrived. Some of the women, too, shrieked,
and carried the children away in their arms. Only the most furious
fanatics then kept up the pursuit. Luc, still continuing his painful
journey, just glanced at his hand; then, after wiping his ear with his
handkerchief, he wrapped the latter over his bleeding palm. But he had
slackened his pace, and could hear his pursuers drawing quite near to
him. When on the nape of his neck he detected the ardent panting of the
throng, he turned round for the last time. Rushing on frantically, in
the front rank, was the short and scraggy workman with carroty hair and
big dull eyes. He was a smith belonging to the Abyss, it was said. With
a final bound he reached the man whom he had been following from the
bottom of the street, and though there seemed to be no motive for his
frenzied hatred, he spat with the greatest violence in his face.

'To death with the thief! To death with the poisoner! To death with
him!'

Luc had at last ascended his Calvary--he was at the top of the Rue de
Brias now. But he staggered beneath that final abominable outrage.
His face became frightfully pale, and an involuntary impulse of his
whole being prompted him to raise his uninjured hand and clench it
vengefully. He looked like some superb giant beside a wretched dwarf,
for with one blow he could have felled the little workman to the
ground. But his consciousness of strength enabled him to restrain
himself. He did not bring down his fist. From his eyes, however, flowed
two big tears, tears of infinite grief which hitherto he had been able
to keep back, but which he could now no longer hide, such had become
the bitterness of his feelings. He wept to think that there should be
so much ignorance, so terrible a misunderstanding, that all those poor,
unhappy, well-loved toilers should refuse to be saved! And they, after
sneering at him, allowed him to return home, bleeding, and all alone.

In the evening Luc shut himself up in the little pavilion which he
still occupied at the end of the park, alongside the road to Les
Combettes. His acquittal did not leave him any illusions. The violence
displayed towards him that afternoon, the savage pursuit of the crowd,
told him what warfare would be waged against him now that the whole
town was rising. These were the supreme convulsions of an expiring
social system which was unwilling to die. It resisted and struggled
furiously, with the hope of staying the march of mankind. Some, the
partisans of authority, set salvation in pitiless repression; others,
the sentimentalists, appealed to the past and its poetry, to all indeed
that man weeps for when he is forced to quit it for ever; and others,
again, seized with exasperation, joined the revolutionaries as if eager
to finish matters at once. And thus Luc felt that he had virtually been
pursued by all Beauclair, which was like a miniature world amidst the
great one. And if he remained brave and still resolved for battle, he
was none the less bitterly distressed, and anxious to hide it. During
the hours, few and far between, when he felt weakness coming over
him, he preferred to shut himself up and drain his cup of sorrow to
the dregs in privacy, only showing himself once more when he was hale
and brave again. That evening therefore he barred both the doors and
windows of the pavilion, and gave orders that nobody was to be admitted
to see him.

About eleven o'clock, however, he fancied that he could hear some light
footsteps on the road. Then came a low call, scarce audible, which made
him shiver. He went to open the window, and on looking between the
laths of the shutters he perceived a slender form. Then a very gentle
voice ascended, saying: 'It is I, Monsieur Luc, I must speak to you at
once.'

It was the voice of Josine. Luc did not even pause to reflect, but at
once went to open the little door communicating with the road. And then
he led her into his closed room, where a lamp was burning peacefully.
But on looking at her he was seized with terrible anxiety, for her
garments were in disorder and her face was bruised.

'Good heavens! what is the matter, Josine? What has happened?' he cried.

Tears were falling from her eyes, her hair drooped about her delicate
white neck, and the collar of her gown was torn away.

'Ah, Monsieur Luc, I wanted to see you,' she began. 'It isn't because
he beat me again when he came home, but on account of the threats he
made. It's necessary you should know of them this very evening.'

Then she related that Ragu, on learning what had happened in the Rue
de Brias, the ignominious manner in which 'the governor,' as he called
Luc, had been escorted out of the town, had gone off to Caffiaux's
wine-shop, leading Bourron and others astray with him. And he had but
lately returned home, drunk, of course, and shouting that he had had
quite enough of La Crêcherie, and would not stop a day longer in a
dirty den where one was bored to death, and had not even the right to
drink a drop too much if one wanted to. At last, after jeering and
laughing and indulging in all sorts of foul language, he had wished to
compel her, Josine, to pack up their clothes at once in order that they
might go off in the morning to the Abyss, where all the hands leaving
La Crêcherie were readily taken on. And as she had desired him to pause
before coming to such a decision, he had ended by beating her and
turning her out of the house.

'Oh! I don't count, Monsieur Luc,' she continued. 'It's you who are
insulted and whom they want to injure. Ragu will certainly go off in
the morning--nothing can restrain him--and he will certainly carry off
Bourron as well as five or six others whom he didn't name to me. For
my part, I can't help it, but I shall have to follow him, and it all
grieves me so much that I felt I must tell it you at once, for fear
lest I might never see you again.'

Luc was still looking at her, and a wave of bitterness submerged his
heart. Was the disaster even greater then than he had supposed? His
workmen now were leaving him, returning to the hard toil and filthy
wretchedness of former times, seized with nostalgia for the hell whence
he had so laboriously striven to extricate them. In four years he
had won naught of their minds or their affection. And the worst was
that Josine was no happier; she now came back to him as on the first
day, insulted, beaten, cast into the street! Thus nothing was done,
and everything remained to be done; for did not Josine personify the
suffering people? It was only on that evening, when he had met her
grief-stricken and abandoned, a victim of accursed toil, imposed on
human kind like slavery, that he had yielded to his desires to act. She
was the most humble, the lowest, the nearest to the gutter, and she was
also the most beautiful, the gentlest, the saintliest. Ah! as long as
woman should suffer, the world would not be saved.

'Oh! Josine, Josine, how grieved I am for you--how I pity you!' he
murmured with infinite tenderness, whilst he also began to weep.

When she saw his tears thus falling, she suffered yet more grievously
than before. What! he was weeping thus bitterly, he, her god, he whom
she adored, like some superior power, in gratitude for all the help he
had brought her, the joy with which he had henceforth filled her life!
The thought, too, of the outrages that he had undergone, that awful
ascent of the Rue de Brias, increased her adoration, drew her near to
him as with a desire to dress his wounds. What could she do to comfort
him, how could she efface from his face the insult spat upon him,
enable him to feel himself respected, admired, and worshipped?

'Oh, Monsieur Luc,' said she, 'you do not know how grieved I am at
seeing you so unhappy, and how I should like to relieve your sorrows a
little.'

They were so near together that the warmth of their breath passed over
their faces. And their mutual compassion filled them with increasing
tenderness. How she suffered! how he suffered! And he only thought of
her, even as she only thought of him, with immensity of pity and a
craving for love and felicity.

'I am not to be pitied,' said Luc at last; 'there is only you, Josine,
whose suffering is a crime, and whom I must save.'

'No, no, Monsieur Luc, I do not count; it is you who ought not to
suffer, for you are the providence of us all.'

Then, as she let herself sink into his arms, he clasped her
passionately to his breast. It was a crisis not to be resisted--the
mingling of two flames in order that they might henceforth become
but one sole flame of affection and strength. Thus was their destiny
accomplished. All had led them to it; a sudden vision appeared to
them of their love born one stormy evening, then slowly growing in
intensity, in the depths of their hearts. Nothing henceforth could part
them. They were two beings meeting in a long-awaited kiss, attaining to
florescence. No remorse was possible; they loved even as they existed,
in order that they might be healthy and strong and fruitful. And as Luc
sat in that quiet chamber with Josine he became conscious that a great
help had suddenly come to him. Love alone could create harmony in the
city he dreamed of. Josine was his; and his union with the disinherited
was thereby sealed. Apostle that he was of a new creed, he felt that
he had need of a woman to help him to redeem mankind. The poor little
beaten workgirl whom he had met one evening dying of starvation had now
for him become a very queen. She had known the uttermost depths, and
she would help him to create a new world of splendour and joy. She was
the only one whose help he needed to complete his task.

'Give me your hand, your poor injured hand, Josine,' he gently said to
her.

She gave it him; it was the hand which had been caught in some
boot-stitching machinery, and the forefinger of which had been cut off.
'It is very ugly,' she murmured.

'Ugly, Josine? Oh no! it is so dear to me that I kiss it with devotion.'

He pressed his lips to the scar left by the injury, he covered the
poor, slender, maimed hand with caresses.

'Oh, Luc!' she cried, 'how you love me, and how I love you!'

As that cry of happiness and hope rang out they once more flung their
arms around each other's necks. Outside, over the heavy sleep of
Beauclair sped the thuds of hammer-strokes, the clang of steel coming
from La Crêcherie and the Abyss, both working, competing one with the
other through the night. And doubtless the war was not yet over, the
terrible battle between Yesterday and To-morrow was destined to become
fiercer still. But in the midst of all the torture there had come a
halt of happiness, and whatever sufferings might lie ahead, love at
least was sown for the harvest of the future.


[1] All who remember M. Zola's trial in Paris in connection with the
Dreyfus case will recognise that the above passages and others in this
chapter are in part founded on his personal experiences at the time
referred to.--_Trans._



III


From that time forward, at each fresh disaster which fell upon La
Crêcherie, when men refused to follow Luc or impeded him in his
endeavours to establish a community of work, justice, and peace, he
invariably exclaimed: 'But they don't love! If they only loved, all
would prove fruitful, all would grow and triumph in the sunlight.'

His work had reached the torturing all-deciding hour of regression,
that hour when, in every forward march, there comes a struggle, a
forced halt. One ceases to advance, one even recedes, the ground that
has been gained seems to crumble away, and it appears even as if one
would never reach one's goal. And this, too, is the hour when with
firmness of mind and unconquerable faith in final victory heroes make
themselves manifest.

Luc strove to restrain Ragu when he found him desirous of withdrawing
from the association and returning to the Abyss. But he was confronted
by an evilly disposed ranter, one who felt happy in doing wrong, since
defection on the part of the men might ruin the new works. Besides
there was something deeper in Ragu's case, a form of nostalgia, a
craving to return to slavish labour and black misery, all that horrid
past which he carried with him in his blood. In the warm sunlight,
amidst the gay cleanliness of his little home, girt round with
verdure, he had ever regretted the narrow evil-smelling streets of
Old Beauclair, the soiled hovels through which swept a pestilential
atmosphere. Whenever he spent an hour in the large clear hall of the
common-house, where alcohol was not allowed, he was haunted by the
acrid smells of Caffiaux's tavern. Even the orderly manner in which the
co-operative stores were now managed angered him, and prompted him to
spend his money after his own fashion with the dealers of the Rue de
Brias, whom he himself called thieves, but with whom he at least had
the pleasure of quarrelling. And the more Luc insisted, pointing out
how senseless was his departure, the more stubborn did Ragu become,
full of the idea that if such efforts were made to retain him, it must
be because his departure would deal the works a severe blow.

'No, no, Monsieur Luc,' said he, 'there's no arrangement possible.
Perhaps I am acting stupidly, though I don't think so. You promised us
all sorts of marvels--we were all to become rich men; but the truth is
that we don't earn more than elsewhere, and that we have additional
worries that are not at all to my taste.'

It was indeed a fact that the shares in the profits made at La
Crêcherie had, so far, amounted to little more than the salaries
earned at the Abyss. But Luc made haste to answer. 'We live, and is
it not everything to live when the future is certain? If I have asked
sacrifices of you, it has been in the conviction that everybody's
happiness lies at the end. But patience and courage are certainly
necessary, together with faith in the task and a great deal of work
also.'

Such language was not of a nature to influence Ragu. One expression
alone had struck him. 'Oh! everybody's happiness,' he said jeeringly,
'that's very pretty. Only I prefer to begin by my own.'

Luc then told him that he was free, that his account would be settled,
and that he might leave when he pleased. After all, he had no interest
in retaining a malicious man, whose evil disposition might prove
fatally contagious. But the thought of Josine's departure wrung Luc's
heart, and he felt slightly ashamed when he realised that he had only
shown so much warmth in seeking to retain Ragu at La Crêcherie because
he wished to retain her there. The thought that she would go back to
live amidst the filth of Old Beauclair, with that man who, relapsing
into his passion for drink, would assuredly treat her with violence,
was unbearable to Luc. He pictured her once more in the Rue des Trois
Lunes, in a filthy room, a prey to sordid, deadly misery; and he would
no longer be near to watch over her. Yet she was his now, and he would
have liked to have had her always with him in order to render her life
a happy one. On the following night she came back to see him, and
there was then a heart-rending scene between them: tears, vows, wild
suggestions and plans. But reason prevailed; it was needful that they
should accept facts as they were, if they did not wish to compromise
the success of the work which was now common to both of them. Josine
would follow Ragu, since she could not refuse to do so without raising
a dangerous scandal; whilst Luc at La Crêcherie would continue battling
for everybody's happiness in the conviction that victory would some
day unite them. They were strong, since love, the invincible, was with
them. She promised that she would come back to see him; nevertheless
how painful was the rending when she bade him good-bye, and when, on
the morrow, he saw her quit La Crêcherie, walking behind Ragu, who with
Bourron was pushing a little hand-cart containing their few chattels!

Three days later Bourron followed Ragu, whom he had met each evening
at Caffiaux's wine-shop. His mate had joked to such a degree about the
'syrups' of the common-house, that he fancied he was acting as became
a free man when in his turn he again went to live in the Rue des Trois
Lunes. His wife, Babette, after at first attempting to prevent such
foolish conduct, ended by resigning herself to it with all her usual
gaiety. _Bah!_ things would go on right enough, for her husband was a
good fellow at bottom, and sooner or later would see things clearly.
Thereupon she laughed, and moved her goods, simply saying _au revoir_
to her neighbours; for she could not believe that she would never
return to those pretty gardens which she had found so pleasant. She
particularly hoped to bring back her daughter, Marthe, and her son,
Sébastien, who were making so much progress at the schools. And,
Sœurette having spoken of keeping them there, she consented to it.

However, the situation at La Crêcherie became yet worse, for other
workmen yielded to the contagion of bad example by taking themselves
off in the same fashion as Bourron and Ragu had done. They lacked
faith quite as much as love, and Luc found himself battling with human
bad will, cowardice, defection in various forms, such as one always
encounters when one works for the happiness of others. He felt that
even Bonnaire, always so reasonable and loyal, was secretly shaken. His
home was troubled by the daily quarrels picked by his wife, La Toupe,
whose vanity remained unsatisfied, for she had not yet been able to
buy either the silk gown or the watch which she had been coveting ever
since her youth. Besides, she was one of those women who regret that
they have not been born princesses; and thus ideas of equality and of
a community of interests angered her. She kept a hurricane perpetually
blowing in the house, rationed out Daddy Lunot's tobacco more gingerly
than ever, and was for ever hustling her children, Lucien and
Antoinette. Two more had been born to her, Zoé and Séverin, and this
again she regarded as a disaster, for ever complaining of it to her
husband. Bonnaire, however, remained very calm; he was accustomed to
those storms, and they simply saddened him. He did not even answer when
she shouted to him that he was a poor beast, a mere dupe, who would end
by leaving his bones at La Crêcherie.

All the same Luc fully perceived that Bonnaire was scarcely with him.
The man never allowed himself to speak a word of censure, he remained
an active, punctual, conscientious worker, setting a good example to
all his mates. But, in spite of this, there was disapproval, almost
lassitude and discouragement, in his demeanour. Luc suffered greatly
from it; he felt something like despair on finding such a man, whose
heroism he knew and for whom he had so much esteem, drifting away so
soon. If he, Bonnaire, was losing faith, could it be that the work was
bad?

They had an explanation on the subject one evening, whilst seated on a
bench at the door of the workshops. They had met just as the sun was
setting in a quiet sky, and, sitting down, they talked together.

'It is quite true, monsieur,' said Bonnaire frankly, in reply to a
question from Luc, 'I have great doubts about your success. Besides,
you will remember that I never quite shared your ideas, and that your
attempt seemed to me regrettable on account of the concessions you
made. If I joined in it, it was, so to say, by way of experiment.
But the further things go the more I see that I wasn't wrong. The
experiment is made now, and something else, revolutionary action, will
have to be attempted.'

'What! the experiment made!' exclaimed Luc. 'Why, we are only beginning
it! It will require years--several lifetimes possibly; it may be a
century-long effort of will and courage. And it is you, my friend, you
a man of energy and bravery, who begin to doubt at this stage?'

As he spoke Luc gazed at Bonnaire, with his giant build, and broad,
peaceful face on which one read so much honest strength. But the man
gently shook his head. 'No, no,' said he, 'goodwill and courage will do
nothing. It's your method which is too gentle, which places too much
reliance on men's wisdom. Your association of capital, talent, and
work will go on always at a jog-trot, without establishing anything
substantial and final. The fact is the evil has reached such a degree
of abomination that one can only heal it by applying a red-hot iron.'

'Then what ought one to do, my friend?'

'It is necessary that the people should at once seize all the
implements of labour; it is necessary that it should dispossess the
_bourgeoise_ class and dispose of all the capital itself in order to
organise compulsory universal work.'

Once more did Bonnaire explain his ideas. He had remained entirely
on the side of Collectivism, and Luc, who listened sorrowfully, felt
astonished that he had in no wise won over that thoughtful but rather
obtuse mind. Even as he had heard him speaking in the Rue des Trois
Lunes on the night when he had quitted the Abyss, so did he find him
speaking now, still holding to the same revolutionary conceptions, his
faith in no degree modified by the five years which he had spent at
La Crêcherie. He held evolution to be too slow, saying that progress
merely by association would demand far too many years for realisation;
and he was weary of such an attempt, and only believed in immediate and
violent revolution.

'We shall never be given what we don't take,' said he by way of
conclusion. 'To have everything we must take everything.'

Silence fell. The sun had set, and the night shifts had started work
in the resounding galleries. Luc, whilst listening to those renewed
efforts of labour, could feel an indescribable sadness stealing over
him as he foresaw that his work would be compromised by the eager haste
of even the best to bring about their social ideal. Indeed, was it not
often the furious battling of ideas which hindered and retarded the
realisation of facts?

'I won't argue with you again, my friend,' he at last replied. 'I
don't think that any decisive revolution is possible or likely to give
good results in the circumstances in which we find ourselves. And I
am convinced that association and co-operation offer the preferable
road, one along which progress may be slow, but which will all the
same end by leading us to the promised city. We have often talked of
those matters without altogether agreeing. So what use would it be to
begin afresh and thereby sadden ourselves? One thing that I do hope of
you is, that in the difficulties through which we are passing you will
remain faithful to the enterprise we founded together.'

Bonnaire made a sudden gesture of annoyance. 'Oh, Monsieur Luc!' he
exclaimed, 'have you doubted me? You know very well that I am not a
traitor, and that since you one day saved me from starving, I'm ready
to eat my dry bread with you as long as may be necessary. Don't be
anxious; I never say to others what I've just said to you; those are
matters between you and me. Naturally, I'm not going to discourage our
men here by announcing that we shall soon be ruined. We are associated,
and we will remain associated until the walls fall down on our heads.'

Greatly moved, Luc pressed both his hands. And during the ensuing
week he witnessed a scene in the hall where the rolling-machinery was
installed, which touched him even more. He had been warned that two
or three wrong-headed fellows wished to follow Ragu's example and
carry off with them as many of their mates as possible. Just as he
was arriving to restore order, however, he saw Bonnaire intervening
vehemently in the midst of the mutineers. He thereupon stopped short
and listened. Bonnaire was saying precisely what it was requisite one
should say in such a difficulty, recalling the benefits that had come
from the works, and calming the anxiety of his mates by promises of
a better future, provided that they all worked bravely. He looked so
superb, so handsome, and spoke so well that the others speedily became
quiet. Influenced by the fact that one of themselves had used such
sensible arguments, none spoke any further of quitting the association;
and thus defection was stopped. Luc could never forget that spectacle
of Bonnaire pacifying his revolted comrades with the broad gestures of
a good giant, the courage of a hero of work, full of respect for freely
accepted toil. Since they were fighting for the happiness of all, he
would indeed have thought himself a coward had he deserted his post,
even though he was of opinion that they ought to have fought the battle
in another manner.

When Luc, however, expressed his thanks he was again distressed by
this quiet reply. 'It was simple enough,' said Bonnaire; 'I merely did
what it was my duty to do. All the same, Monsieur Luc, I shall have to
bring you round to my ideas, for otherwise we shall all end by dying of
starvation here.'

A few days later Luc's gloom was increased by another conversation. He
was coming down from the smeltery--with Bonnaire as it happened--when
the pair of them passed before the kilns of Lange the potter, who
obstinately clung to the narrow strip of land which had been left
him beside the rocky ridge of the Bleuse Mountains, and which he
had enclosed with a little wall of stones. In vain had Luc proposed
to take him on at La Crêcherie, offering him the management of
a crucible-making department which he had found it necessary to
establish. Lange's reply was that he wished to remain free 'without
either God or master.' So he continued dwelling in his wild den
and making common pottery, pans, stock-pots, and pitchers, which
he afterwards carted to the markets and fairs of the neighbouring
villages, he himself drawing the cart whilst Barefeet pushed it from
behind. That evening, as it happened, they were returning together from
one of their rounds when Luc and Bonnaire passed before their little
enclosure.

'Well, Lange, is business prospering?' the young man cordially inquired.

'Oh! always well enough to give us bread, Monsieur Luc. As you're
aware, that is all that I ask for,' answered Lange.

Indeed, he only carted his wares about when bread was lacking in his
home. Throughout his spare time he lingered over pottery which was not
intended for sale, remaining for hours in contemplation of the things
he thus made, his eyes having the dreamy expression of those of some
rustic poet full of a passion to impart life to things. Even the coarse
goods which he fashioned, his very pans and stock-pots, displayed
a _naïveté_ and purity of lines, a proud and simple gracefulness
which bespoke poetic fancy. A son of the people, as he was, he had
instinctively lighted upon the old primitive popular beauty, that
beauty of the humble domestic utensil which arises from perfection of
proportions and absolute adaptability to the uses to which the utensil
is intended to be put.

Luc was struck by that beauty on examining a few unsold pieces in
the little hand-cart. And the sight of Barefeet, that tall, dark,
comely girl, with the strong, slender limbs of a wrestler and the firm
bosom of an Amazon, likewise filled him with mingled admiration and
astonishment.

'It is hard to push that along all day, isn't it?' he said to her.

But she was a silent creature, and contented herself with smiling with
her big, wild eyes, whilst the potter answered in her stead: 'Oh! we
rest in the shade by the wayside when we come upon a spring,' said he.
'Things are all right, aren't they, Barefeet, and we are happy.'

The young woman had turned her eyes on him, and they glowed with
boundless adoration, as for some beloved, powerful, benign master, a
saviour, a god. Then without a word she pushed the little hand-cart
into the enclosure and set it in place under a shed.

Lange, on his side, had watched her with a glance of deep affection.
At times he feigned some roughness, as if he still regarded her as a
mere gipsy picked up by the wayside, But truth to tell she was now the
mistress. He loved her with a passion which he did not confess, which
he hid beneath the demeanour of an uncouth peasant. In point of fact
that thick-set little man with square-shaped head, bushy with a tangle
of hair and beard, was of a very gentle and amorous nature.

All at once, again turning towards Luc, whom he affected to treat as
a 'comrade,' he said to him in his rough, frank way: 'Well, isn't
everybody's happiness getting on, then? Aren't those idiots who consent
to shut themselves up in your barracks willing to be happy in the
fashion you want?'

Each time that he met Luc he thus jeered at the attempt at Fourierist
Communism which was being made at La Crêcherie. And as the young man
contented himself with smiling, he added: 'I'm hoping that before
another six months have gone by you'll be with us, the Anarchists. I
tell you once again that everything is rotten, and that the only thing
is to blow old society to pieces with bombs!'

At this Bonnaire, hitherto silent, abruptly intervened. 'Oh! with
bombs--that's idiotic!'

He, a pure Collectivist, was not in favour of crime, so called
'propaganda by deeds,' although he believed in the necessity of a
general and violent revolution.

'What, idiotic?' cried Lange, who felt hurt. 'Do you imagine that
if the _bourgeois_ are not properly prepared for it your famous
socialisation of the instruments of labour will ever take place? It's
your disguised Capitalism which is idiotic. Just begin by destroying
everything so as to have the ground clear for building up things
properly.'

They went on arguing, the Anarchism of one contending with the
Collectivism of the other, and Luc remained listening to them. The
distance between Lange and Bonnaire, he noticed, was as great as the
distance between Bonnaire and himself. By the extreme bitterness
of their dispute one might have taken them to be men of different
races, hereditary enemies, ready to devour one another, and beyond all
possibility of agreement. Yet they desired the very same happiness
for one and all, they met at the very same point: justice, peace, and
a reorganisation of work giving bread and joy to all. But what fury,
what aggressive, deadly hatred became manifest on either side as soon
as there was a question of agreeing on the means to be employed to
attain that end! All along the rough road of progress at each halt the
brothers on the march, one and all inflamed by the same desire for
enfranchisement, waged bloody battles together on the simple question
whether they would do best to turn to the right or to the left.

'After all each of us is his own master,' Lange ended by declaring. 'Go
to sleep in your _bourgeoise_ niche, if it amuses you, mate. I know
what I myself have got to do. They are getting on, they are getting on,
those little presents of mine, those little pots which we shall deposit
some fine morning at the sub-prefect's, the mayor's, the judge's, and
the parson's. Isn't that so, Barefeet? We shall have a fine round that
morning! Ah! shan't we push our cart on gaily?'

The tall and beautiful girl had now returned to the threshold, and
stood out sculpturally, in sovereign fashion amongst the ruddy clay of
the little enclosure. Her eyes again blazed, and she smiled like one
who is all submission, ready to follow her master to the point of crime.

'She belongs to it, mate,' added Lange in all simplicity. 'She helps
me.'

When Luc and Bonnaire had quitted him, without any show of animosity
on either side, though they agreed together so little, they walked on
for a few moments in silence. Then Bonnaire felt a desire to renew his
argument and demonstrate yet once again that no salvation was possible
outside of the Collectivist faith. He anathematised the Anarchists,
even as he anathematised the Fourierists--the latter because they did
not immediately possess themselves of the capital, now in the hands of
the _bourgeois_, the former because they suppressed it by violence; and
it again appeared to Luc that reconciliation would only be possible
when the future community should be founded, for then, in presence of
the realisation of the common dream, all sects would necessarily be
contented. But what a long road yet remained to be travelled, and how
grievously he feared lest his brothers should devour one another on the
way!

He returned home saddened by all that constant clashing which impeded
the progress of his work. No sooner, apparently, had two men resolved
to act than they began to disagree. Then, on finding himself alone, the
cry which ever inflated Luc's heart burst forth from him: 'But they do
not love! If they loved, all would prove fruitful and grow and triumph
in the sunlight!'

Morfain was also now causing the young man a deal of worry. In vain had
he tried to civilise the smelter by offering him one of the gay little
houses of La Crêcherie if he would only quit his cave in the rocks. The
other stubbornly refused, on the pretext that up yonder he was near his
work and able to watch over it unceasingly. Luc had now confided to him
the whole management of the smeltery, which worked on in the ancient
fashion, pending the invention of those electrical furnaces which
Jordan, never wearying, was still striving to devise.

However, the real cause of Morfain's obstinacy in refusing to come
down and dwell among the men peopling the new town was the disdain,
the hatred almost, with which he regarded them. He who personified
the Vulcan of the primitive days, a tamer of fire, later on crushed
down by prolonged slavery, toiling with heroic resignation, and ending
by loving the sombre grandeur of the inferno in which fate kept him,
felt irritated with those new works where toilers were to become
gentlemen, using their arms but sparingly, since they would be replaced
by machinery, which mere children would soon know how to drive. That
desire to toil as little as possible, to cease battling personally with
fire and iron, seemed to Morfain abject and wretched. He could not even
understand it, but simply shrugged his shoulders whenever he thought of
it during his long days of silence. And, alone and proud, he remained
on his mountain-ridge reigning over the smeltery and looking down upon
the new works, which the dazzling flow of liquid metal crowned as with
flames four times every four-and-twenty hours.

But there was yet another reason which angered Morfain with those new
times which he wished to ignore; and this was a reason which must have
made the heart of the taciturn smelter bleed frightfully. Ma-Bleue, his
daughter, whose blue eyes were to him like the blue of heaven, that
tall and beautiful creature, who since her mother's death had worked
as the well-loved housewife of the wild home, had become _enceinte_.
Morfain flew into a rage when he discovered it, and then forgave her,
saying to himself that she would assuredly some day have got married.
But forgiveness was suddenly recalled, and became impossible when his
daughter gave him her lover's name--that of Achille Gourier, the son
of the mayor of Beauclair. The intrigue had been going on for years
now, amidst the evening breezes, under the starry sky, along the paths
of the Bleuse Mountains, and over their rocks and patches of thyme and
lavender. Achille, breaking off all intercourse with his family, like
a young _bourgeois_ whom the _bourgeoisie_ bored and disgusted, had at
last begged Luc to take him on at La Crêcherie, where he had become
a designer. He thus severed every tie connecting him with his former
life; he lived as he listed, resolved to toil for her whom he had
chosen, like a scion of the old condemned social system whom evolution
led towards the new age. What angered Morfain to such a point that
he drove his daughter from home was precisely the fact that she had
suffered herself to be led astray by a _monsieur_, in such wise that
to him there seemed naught but rebellion and devilry in her conduct.
The whole antique edifice must be tumbling to pieces since so good
and beautiful a girl had shaken it by listening to, and perhaps even
angling for, the son of the mayor.

As Ma-Bleue, on being turned out of doors, naturally sought a refuge
with Achille, Luc was compelled to intervene. The young people did not
even speak of marriage. What was the use of any such ceremony since
they were quite sure that they loved one another, and would never part?
Besides, in order to get married Achille would have had to address
'judicial summonses' to his father; and this seemed to him useless and
vexatious trouble. In vain did Sœurette insist on the matter, in the
idea that morality and the good repute of La Crêcherie still required
that there should be a legal marriage. Luc ended by prevailing on her
to close her eyes, for he felt that with the new generations one would
be gradually compelled to accept the principle of free union.

Morfain, however, did not consent to the position so readily, and Luc
had to go up one evening to reason with him. Since he had driven his
daughter away the master-smelter lived alone with his son, Petit-Da,
and between them they cooked their meals, and attended to the various
household duties in their rocky cave. That evening, after partaking of
some soup, they had remained seated on their stools at the roughly-hewn
table which they had made themselves, while the little lamp which
lighted them threw the shadows of their burly figures upon the smoky
stone walls.

'Yet the world advances, father,' Petit-Da was saying. 'One can't
remain motionless.'

Morfain banged his fist on the table and made it shake. 'I lived as my
father lived,' said he, 'and your duty is to live as I do.'

As a rule the two men scarcely exchanged four words a day. But for some
time past a feeling of uneasiness had been growing up between them, and
although they did all they could to avert it, disputes sometimes arose.
The son, who could read and write, was being more and more affected
by the evolution of the times, which penetrated even to the depths
of the mountain gorges. And the father, in his proud and stubborn
determination to remain merely a strong toiler, able to subjugate fire
and conquer iron, indulged in sorrowful outbursts, as if his race were
degenerating through all the science and useless ideas of the new era.

'If your sister hadn't read books and hadn't busied herself about what
went on down below, she'd still be with us,' said he. 'Ah! it was that
new town, that cursed town, that took her from us!'

This time he did not strike the table, but thrust his fist through the
open doorway, into the dark night, towards La Crêcherie, whose lights
twinkled like stars below the rocky ridge.

Petit-Da did not answer, in part from a sense of respect, in part
because he felt embarrassed, for he knew that his father had been
displeased with him ever since meeting him one day with Honorine, the
daughter of Caffiaux, the tavern-keeper. Honorine, short, slender, and
dark, with a gay wide-awake face, had fallen passionately in love with
that gentle young giant; and he for his part thought her charming. In
the discussion which had broken out that evening between the father and
the son, the question at bottom was really one of Honorine. And thus
the direct attack which Petit-Da had all along anticipated ended by
coming.

'And you,' suddenly said his father, 'when are you going to leave me?'

This idea of a separation seemed to upset Petit-Da. 'Why, do you want
me to leave you, father?' he asked.

'Oh, when a girl's in question there can only be quarrels and ruin. And
besides, what girl have you chosen? Will her people even let you have
her? Is there any sense in such marriages, which mix one class with
another, and turn the world topsy-turvy? It's the end of everything.
I've lived too long.'

Gently and tenderly his son strove to pacify him. The young man did
not deny his love for Honorine. Only he spoke like a sensible lad, who
was resolved to remain patient as long as might be necessary. They
would see about the matter later on. Nevertheless, when he and the
girl chanced to meet what harm could there be in wishing one another a
friendly good day? Although folks might not be of the same position,
that did not always prevent them from caring for one another. And even
if different classes were to mingle a little, would that not have its
good side, since they would thus learn to know each other and esteem
each other more?

Morfain, however, full of wrath and bitterness, did not listen to those
arguments. He suddenly rose up, and with a great tragic wave of his
arm under the rocky ceiling which his head almost touched, he replied:
'Be off! be off as soon as you like! Do as your sister has done! Spit
on everything that's respectable, leap into shamelessness and madness.
You are no longer my children, I no longer recognise you; somebody has
changed you! So leave me here alone in this wild den, where I hope the
rocks will soon fall down on me and crush me to death!'

Luc, at that moment just arriving, paused on the threshold and heard
those last words. He was greatly affected by them, for he held Morfain
in much esteem. For a long time he reasoned with him. But the smelter,
on the arrival of the young man whom he regarded as a master, had
forced back his grief to become once more a mere workman, a submissive
subordinate with no thoughts beyond his duties. He did not even allow
himself to judge Luc, although the latter was the primary cause of the
abominations which were upsetting the region and causing him so much
pain. The masters after all had a right to act as they pleased, and it
was for the workmen to remain honest and do their work as their elders
had done it before them.

'Do not be alarmed, Monsieur Luc,' he said, 'if I happen to have some
ideas of my own, and get angry when I find them thwarted. It seldom
happens, for you know that I'm no talker. And you may be quite sure
that the work does not suffer from it; for I always keep one eye open,
and no metal is ever run out otherwise than in my presence. After all,
when one's heart is full one works all the harder. Isn't that so?'

Then, however, as Luc again strove to make peace in that unhappy
family, ravaged by the evolution of which he had made himself the
apostle, the master-smelter all but flew into a passion once more.

'No, no, that's enough, let me be! If you came up, Monsieur Luc, to
speak to me about Ma-Bleue you did wrong, because that's the very way
to make things worse. Let her stop where she is, while I stop where I
am!'

Then, desirous of changing the conversation, he brusquely gave Luc some
bad news, which indeed had largely brought about his fit of ill-temper.

'I should probably have gone down to you by-and-by,' he said, 'for I
wanted to tell you that I went to the mine again this morning, and that
we've again been disappointed in our hope of finding the rich vein.
Yet I could have sworn that it would certainly be met at the end of
the gallery I indicated. What would you have? An evil spell seems to
have been cast over all we have undertaken for some time past. Nothing
succeeds!'

Those words resounded in Luc's ears like the knell of his great hopes.
He lingered for a moment talking with the father and the son, and then
went down the hillside again, overcome by bitter sadness, and wondering
upon what ever-increasing mass of ruins he would have to found his city.

Even at La Crêcherie he encountered reasons for discouragement.
Sœurette still received Abbé Marle, Schoolmaster Hermeline, and
Doctor Novarre, and it apparently gave her so much pleasure to have
her friend Luc to lunch on those occasions that he dared not decline
her invitations, in spite of the secret discomfort into which he was
thrown by the everlasting disputes of the schoolmaster and the priest.
Sœurette, whose mind was at peace, did not suffer from them, and even
thought that they interested Luc; whilst Jordan, wrapped in his rugs
and dreaming of some experiment which he had begun, seemed to listen
with a vague smile.

One Tuesday, after they had risen from table, the dispute in the
little drawing-room became exceptionally violent. Hermeline had
tackled Luc with respect to the education which was being given to the
children at La Crêcherie; he spoke of the boys and girls mingling in
the five classes, of the long intervals of play that were allowed, and
of the numerous hours spent in the workshops. This new school, where
methods diametrically opposed to his own were pursued, had robbed him
of several of his own pupils, a thing which he could not forgive. And
his angular face, with its long brow and thin lips, turned pale with
suppressed rage at the idea that anybody could believe otherwise than
himself.

'I might consent to see those boys and girls brought up together,' said
he, 'though it seems to me scarcely proper, for they already evince
an abundance of evil instincts when the sexes are separated, and the
extraordinary idea of uniting them can only pervert them the more.
But what I hold to be inadmissible is that the master's authority is
destroyed and discipline reduced to nothingness. Did you not tell me
that each pupil followed his own bent, applied himself to those studies
which pleased him, and was free to argue about his lessons? You call
that raising energy, it seems. But what can those studies be when the
pupils are always at play, when books are held in contempt, when the
master's word ceases to be infallible, and when the time not spent
in the garden is spent in workshops, planing wood or filing iron? A
manual calling is a good thing to learn, no doubt; but there is a time
for everything, and the first thing is to force as much grammar and
arithmetic as possible into the brains of all those idlers!'

Luc had ceased arguing, weary as he was of coming into collision with
the stubborn uncompromising views of that sectarian, who having decreed
a dogma of progress according to his own lights refused to stir from
it. Thus the young man quietly contented himself with replying: 'Yes,
we think it necessary to render the pupils' work attractive, to change
classical studies into constant lessons of things, and our object above
all else is to create will, to create men!'

Hermeline thereupon exploded: 'Well, do you know what you will create?'
he cried. 'You will create so many _déclassés_, so many rebels! There
is only one way to give citizens to the State, and that is to make
them expressly for it, such as it needs them in order to be strong and
glorious. Thence comes the necessity for discipline and a system of
education preparing, according to the programmes which are recognised
as the best, the workmen, the professional men, and the functionaries
which the country needs. Outside the pale of authority there is
no certainty. For my part I am an old republican, a free-thinker,
an atheist. Nobody, I hope, will ever picture me as a man with a
retrograde mind; and yet your system of education sets me beside
myself, because in half a century, with such a system of work, there
would be no more citizens, no more soldiers, no more patriots. Yes,
indeed, I defy you to make soldiers of your so-called free men; and in
that case how could the country defend itself in the event of war?'

'No doubt, in the event of war, it would be necessary to defend it,'
answered Luc, unmoved. 'But of what use will soldiers be some day,
if men no longer fight? You talk like Captain Jollivet writes in the
"Journal de Beauclair," when he accuses us of being traitors--men
without a country.'

This touch of sarcasm, although slight, brought Hermeline's anger
to a climax. 'Captain Jollivet is an idiot for whom I feel nothing
but contempt,' said he. 'But it is none the less true that you are
preparing a disorderly generation, in rebellion against the State, and
one which would assuredly lead the Republic to the worst catastrophes.'

'All liberty, all truth, all justice are catastrophes,' said Luc, again
smiling.

But Hermeline went on drawing a frightful picture of to-morrow's social
system, if indeed the schools should cease to turn out citizens on a
given pattern for the needs of his authoritarian republic. There would
be no more political discipline, no more government possible, no more
sovereignty of the State, but in lieu thereof would come disorderly
license, leading to the worst forms of corruption and debauchery. And
all at once Abbé Marle, who had been listening and nodding his head
approvingly, could not resist an impulse to exclaim, 'Ah! yes, you are
quite right, and all that is put very well indeed!'

His broad, full face, with its regular features and aquiline nose,
was radiant with delight at that furious attack upon the new society,
in which he felt his Deity would be condemned, regarded simply as the
historical idol of a dead religion. He himself, each Sunday in the
pulpit, brought forward the same accusations, prophesied the same
disasters as Hermeline. But he was scarcely listened to, his church
became emptier every day, and he felt deep, unacknowledged grief
thereat, confining himself more and more, as his sole consolation,
within his narrow doctrines. Never had he shown himself more attached
to the letter of dogma, never had he inflicted severer penance on his
penitents, as if indeed he were desirous that the _bourgeois_ world,
over whose rottenness he threw the cloak of religion, might at least
show a brave demeanour when it was submerged. On the day when his
church would fall, he at any rate would be at his altar, and would
finish his last mass beneath the ruins.

'It is quite true,' said he to Hermeline, 'that the reign of Satan is
near at hand, what with all those lads and girls brought up together,
every evil passion let loose, authority destroyed, the kingdom of God
set, not in Heaven, but on earth as in the time of the pagans. The
picture that you have drawn of it all is so correct that I myself could
add nothing stronger.'

Embarrassed at being thus praised by the priest, with whom he never
agreed on anything, the schoolmaster suddenly became silent, and gazed
at the lawns of the park as if he did not hear.

'But,' resumed Abbé Marle, addressing himself this time to Luc, 'apart
from the demoralising education given in your schools, there is one
thing that I cannot pardon, which is that you have turned the Divinity
out of doors, and have voluntarily neglected to build a church in the
centre of your new town, among so many handsome and useful edifices.
Do you pretend then that you can live without God? No State hitherto
has been able to do so. A religion has always been necessary for the
government of men.'

'I pretend nothing,' Luc replied. 'Each man is free with respect to
his belief, and if no church has been built it is because none of us
has yet felt the need of one. But one can be built should there be
faithful to attend it. It will always be allowable for a group of
citizens to meet together for such satisfactions as may please them.
And with regard to the necessity of a religion, that is indeed a
real necessity when one desires to govern men. But we do not desire
to govern them at all; on the contrary, we wish them to live free in
the free city. Let me tell you, Monsieur l'Abbé, it is not we who are
destroying Catholicism, it is destroying itself, it is dying slowly of
old age, like all religions, after accomplishing their historical task,
necessarily die at the hour indicated by human evolution. Science
destroys all dogmas one by one; the religion of humanity is born and
will conquer the world. What is the use of a Catholic church at La
Crêcherie, since yours at Beauclair is already too large, growing more
and more deserted, and destined one of these days to topple over?'

The priest was very pale, but he would not understand. With the
stubbornness of a believer who places his strength in affirmation
without reason or proof, he contented himself with repeating: 'If God
is not with you, your defeat is certain. Believe me, build a church.'

Hermeline was unable to restrain himself any longer. The priest's words
of praise were still suffocating him, particularly as they had been
followed by that declaration of the necessity of a religion. 'Ah, no!
ah, no, Abbé!' he shouted, 'no church, please! I make no concealment
of the fact that matters are hardly organised in the new town in
accordance with my tastes. But if there is one thing that I approve,
it is certainly the relinquishment of any State religion. Govern men?
Why yes, only instead of the priests in their churches, it is we, the
citizens in our municipal buildings, who will govern them. As for the
churches, they will be turned into public granaries, barns for the
crops!'

Then as Abbé Marle, losing his temper, declared that he would not allow
sacrilegious language to be used in his presence, the dispute became
so bitter that Doctor Novarre, as usual, was forced to intervene. He
had hitherto listened to the others with his shrewd air, like a gentle
and somewhat sceptical man who was not put out by any words, however
violent, that might be exchanged. However, he fancied he could detect
that the dispute was beginning to pain Sœurette.

'Come, come!' said he, 'you almost agree, since both of you put the
churches to use. The Abbé will always be able to say mass provided he
leaves a little space in his church for the fruits of the earth, in
years of great abundance.' Then the doctor went on to speak of a new
rose that he had just raised, a superb flower, its outer petals very
white and pure, and its heart warmed by a pronounced flush of carmine.
He had brought a bunch of the flowers, which had been placed in a
vase on the table, and Sœurette looking at it smiled once more at the
sight of that florescence all charm and perfume, though she still felt
saddened and tired by the violence which nowadays marked the quarrels
attending her Tuesday lunches. If things went on in that fashion, it
would soon be impossible for them to see one another.

And it was only now that Jordan emerged from his reverie. He had
not ceased to appear attentive, as if indeed he were listening to
the others. But he made a remark which showed how far away his mind
had been. 'Do you know,' exclaimed he, 'that a learned electrician
in America has succeeded in storing enough solar heat to produce
electricity?'

When the priest, the schoolmaster, and the doctor had departed and Luc
found himself alone with the Jordans profound silence fell. The thought
of all the poor men who tore one another and crushed one another in
their blind struggle for happiness rent the young man's heart. As time
went by, seeing with what difficulty one worked for the common weal,
having to contend against the revolts even of those whom one worked to
save, Luc was sometimes seized with discouragement which he would not
as yet confess, but which left both his limbs and his mind strengthless
as after some great useless exertion. For a moment his will would
capsize and seem on the point of sinking. And again that day he raised
his cry of distress: 'But they don't love! If they loved all would
prove fruitful, all would grow and triumph in the sunlight!'

A few days later, one autumn morning, at a very early hour, Sœurette
experienced a terrible heart-blow which threw her into the greatest
anguish. She invariably rose betimes, and that morning she was going to
give some orders at a dairy which she had established for the infants
of her _créche_, when, as she went along the terrace which ended at
the pavilion occupied by Luc, it occurred to her to glance down at the
road which the terrace overlooked. And precisely at that moment the
door of the pavilion opening into the road was set ajar, and she saw a
woman steal out, a woman of slender form, who immediately afterwards
disappeared amidst the pinkish morning mist. Nevertheless Sœurette had
time to recognise her: it was Josine, leaving Luc at break of day.

Since Ragu's departure from La Crêcherie Josine, indeed, had returned
to see Luc every now and then. On this occasion she had come to tell
him that she should not again return, for she feared lest she might
be surprised when leaving her home or returning thither by some of
her inquisitive neighbours. Moreover, the idea of lying and hiding
herself in order to join the man whom she regarded as a god had become
so painful to her that she preferred to await the day when she might
proclaim her love aloud. Luc, understanding her, had resigned himself
to this separation; but how full of passion and despair was their hour
of farewell! They lingered there, exchanging vows, and the daylight
had already come when Josine was at last able to tear herself away.
Only the morning mist in some degree veiled her flitting, though not
sufficiently to prevent Jordan's sister from recognising her.

Sœurette, in the shock of her discovery, had stopped short, rooted to
the spot, as if she saw the earth opening before her. Such was her
agitation, such a buzzing filled her ears, that at first she could not
reason. She forgot that she was going to the dairy to give an order,
and all at once she fled, retracing her steps at a run, returning
to the house and climbing wildly to her room, the door of which she
locked behind her. And then she flung herself upon her bed, striving
to cover both her eyes and her ears with her hands, so that she might
see and hear nothing more. She did not weep, she had not recovered full
consciousness as yet, but a feeling of awful desolation, blended with
boundless fright, filled her being.

Why did she suffer thus, why did she feel such a rending within her?
She had hitherto thought herself to be simply Luc's affectionate
friend, his disciple and helper, one who was passionately devoted to
the work which he was striving to accomplish. Yet now she was all
aglow, shaken by burning fever, and this because her eyes could ever
picture that other woman quitting him at daybreak. Did she love Luc
then? And had she only become conscious of it on the day when it was
too late for her to win his love? That, indeed, was the disaster: to
learn in such a brutal fashion that she loved, and that another already
possessed the heart over which she might perchance have reigned like
some all-powerful, beloved queen. All the rest vanished: she recalled
neither how her love had sprung up, nor how it had grown, nor how
it was that she had remained ignorant of it, artless still in her
thirtieth year, happy simply in the enjoyment of affectionate intimacy,
untouched till now by passion's dart. Her tears gushed forth at last,
and she sobbed over her discovery, over the sudden obstacle which had
risen to part her from the man to whom unknowingly she had given both
heart and soul. And now naught but the knowledge of her love existed
for her; and she asked herself, What should she do--how should she
succeed in making herself loved? For it seemed impossible that she
should not be loved in return, since she herself loved and would never
cease to love. Now that her love was known to her, it began to consume
her heart, and she felt that she would no longer be able to live unless
it were shared. At the same time all remained confusion within her,
she struggled amidst vague and contradictory thoughts, obscure plans,
like a woman who, despite her years, has remained childish and suddenly
finds herself confronted by the torturing realities of life.

Long must she have remained striving to annihilate herself, with her
face close pressed to her pillow. The sun climbed the heavens, the
morning sped on; and yet in her increasing distress she could devise no
practical solution for the problem that tortured her. Ever and ever did
the haunting questions come back: how would she manage to say that she
loved, and how would she manage to secure love in return? All at once,
however, she bethought herself of her brother. It was in him that she
must confide, since he alone really knew her--knew that her heart had
never lied. He was a man, he would surely understand her, and he would
teach her what it is meet for one to do when a craving for happiness
possesses one. Accordingly, without reasoning any further, she sprang
off her bed and went downstairs to the laboratory, like a child who has
at last discovered a solution for its grief.

That morning Jordan himself had experienced a disastrous check. Of
recent months he had believed that he had devised a safe and cheap
system for the transport of electric force. He burnt coal beside the
pit it came from, and he carried electricity over long distances
without the slightest loss of power, in such wise as to lessen cost
price considerably. He had given four years of study to that problem
amidst all the recurring ailments to which his puny frame was subject.
He made the best use possible of his weak health, sleeping a great
deal, wrapped round with rugs, and then methodically employing the few
hours which he was able to wrest from his unkind mother Nature. For
fear of disturbing his studies, the crisis through which La Crêcherie
was passing had been hidden from him. He thought that things were
going on satisfactorily at the works, and, besides, it was out of the
question for him to take any interest in such matters, cloistered as he
was in his laboratory, absorbed in his work, apart from which nothing
seemed to exist in the whole world. That very morning at an early
hour he had resumed his studies, feeling his mind to be quite clear,
and wishing to profit by it, in order to make a last experiment. And
that experiment had absolutely failed; he found himself confronted by
an unforeseen obstacle, some error in his calculations, some detail
which he had neglected, and which suddenly became important and
all-destructive, indefinitely postponing the solution that he had long
sought with respect to his electrical furnaces.

It was the downfall of his hopes: so much hard work had yielded
nothing, so much more of it would be necessary! Yet he remained calm,
and had just wrapped himself in his rugs again, and ensconced himself
in the arm-chair in which he spent so many hours, when his sister came
into the laboratory. She looked so pale, so greatly distressed, that
he immediately felt anxious on her account, he who had witnessed the
failure of his experiment with unruffled brow, like a man whom nothing
can discourage.

'What is the matter, my dear?' he asked her; 'are you not well?'

Her confession in no wise embarrassed her. Without any hesitation, like
a poor creature whose heart opens with a sob, she said: 'The matter,
brother dear, is that I love Luc, and that he does not love me. Ah! I
am very unhappy!'

Then, simple and artless, she told her brother the whole story--how she
had seen Josine leaving the pavilion, and how she had then felt such
a heart-pang that she had come in search of consolation and cure: she
loved Luc, and Luc did not love her!

Jordan listened in a state of stupefaction, as if she had apprised him
of some unexpected, extraordinary cataclysm.

'You love Luc! you love Luc!' he repeated. 'Love, why love?' The
thought that love possessed that fondly treasured sister whom he had
always seen beside him like his second self, filled him with amazement.
He had never thought that she might some day love, and from that cause
become unhappy. Love was a craving of which he himself knew nothing, a
sphere into which he had never entered. And thus, artless and ignorant
as he himself was, his embarrassment became extreme.

'Oh! tell me, brother, why does Luc love that Josine, why does he not
love me?' Sœurette repeated. She was sobbing now. She had wound her
arms around her brother's neck, resting her head upon his shoulder, so
weighed down by distress that he was utterly distracted. And yet what
could he say to console her?

'I don't know, little sister; I don't know,' he answered. 'No doubt
he loves her because it is his nature to love. There can be no other
reason. He would love you if he had loved you the first.'

There was truth in this. Luc loved Josine because she was an _amorosa_,
a woman of charm and passion, whom he had found suffering, and who had
kindled into flame all the love of his heart. And besides, beauty was
hers, with the passion which peoples the world.

'But, brother,' said Sœurette, 'he knew me before he knew her, so why
did he not love me first?'

More and more embarrassed by these questions, Jordan anxiously sought
for delicate and kindly words: 'Perhaps,' he answered, 'it was because
he lived here like a friend, a brother. He has become a brother for you
and me.'

Whilst speaking thus, Jordan looked at his sister, and this time he
did not tell her all that he thought. He observed her resemblance to
himself. She was so slender, so frail, so insignificant. She did not
represent love; she was too pale and puny. Charming no doubt, very
gentle and very kind; but then, ever clad in black, sombre-looking and
sad, as are all the silent and devoted ones. For Luc she had never been
aught but an intelligent and a benevolent creature.

'You will understand, little sister,' Jordan presently resumed, 'that
if he has become as it were your brother and mine, he cannot love you
in the same way as he loves Josine. Such a thing would not have entered
his mind. But none the less I am sure that he loves you a great deal;
he loves you indeed all the more, as much in fact as I myself love you.'

But Sœœurette would not admit it. Her whole being protested dolorously,
and amidst a fresh explosion of sobs she cried her distress aloud: 'No,
no; he does not love me the more; he does not love me at all! To love
a woman as a brother! what is that when I suffer as I am suffering
now that I see him lost to me? If I knew naught of all those things a
little while ago, at least I divine them now, and I feel as if I should
die--yes, die!'

Like herself, Jordan was becoming more and more distressed, and only
with difficulty was he able to restrain his tears. 'Little sister,
little sister,' said he, 'you grieve me deeply. It is scarcely
reasonable of you to make yourself ill like this. I no longer recognise
you. You are usually so calm and sensible, and you are well aware what
firmness of spirit one ought to evince in order to resist the worries
of life.'

Then he wished to reason with her. 'Come,' he said, 'you have no
reproach to address to Luc?'

'Oh! none. I know that he has a great deal of affection for me. We are
very good friends,' she answered plaintively.

'Then you must not complain. He loves you as he is able to love, and
you do wrong in getting angry with him.'

'But I am not angry! I have no hate for anybody; I only suffer.'

Again did her sobs burst forth; again did distress master her, and
wring from her lips the cry: 'Why does he not love me? Why does he not
love me?'

'If he does not love you as you desire to be loved, little sister,'
said Jordan, 'it is because he does not know you well enough. No, he
does not know you as I do; he does not know that you are the best,
the gentlest, the most devoted and affectionate of women. You would
have been a fit companion and helper; the one that makes life's
pathway softer and easier. But the other came with her beauty, and
that assuredly was a powerful force, since he followed her without
perceiving you, and this although you already loved him. Come, my dear,
you must resign yourself.'

He had taken her in his arms, and he kissed her hair. But she still
went on struggling.

'No! no! I cannot.'

'Yes, you will resign yourself; you are too good, too intelligent to do
otherwise. Some day you will forget.'

'No! Never!'

'I did wrong to say that; I will not ask you to forget. Keep the
memory of it in your heart. But I do ask you to be resigned, because
I well know that you are capable of resignation, even to the point of
sacrifice. Think of all the disasters which would follow if you were
to rebel--to speak out! Our life would be broken up, our enterprises
shattered, and you would suffer a thousand times more than you do now.'

She interrupted him, quivering: 'Well, let our life be broken up! let
our enterprises be shattered! At least I shall have satisfied myself.
It is cruel of you, brother, to speak to me like that. You are an
egotist!'

'An egotist!' replied Jordan. 'When I am only thinking of you, my dear
little sister. At this moment grief is turning your wonted kindliness
to exasperation. But how bitter would be your remorse if I were to
allow you to destroy everything! You would no longer be able to live in
presence of the ruins that you would have piled up. Poor, dear girl!
you will resign yourself, and find happiness in abnegation and pure
affection.'

Tears were choking him, and their sobs mingled. That battle between
brother and sister, both so artless and so loving, was fraught with the
most exquisite fraternal affection. In a tone of intense compassion,
blended with boundless kindliness, Jordan repeated: 'You will resign
yourself; you will resign yourself.'

She still protested, but like one who is surrendering. Her moan now was
that of a poor, stricken creature whose hurt one strives to soothe:
'Oh, no! I cannot, I do not resign myself.'

       *       *       *       *       *

As it happened, Luc that very day was to take _déjeuner_ with the
Jordans, and when at half-past eleven he joined the brother and sister
in the laboratory, he found them still agitated, with red, blurred
eyes. But he himself was so distressed, so downcast, that he noticed
nothing. Josine's farewell, the necessity of that separation, filled
him with despair. The severance of the love which he deemed essential
for his mission seemed to deprive him of his last strength. If he did
not save Josine he would never save the unhappy multitude to whom he
had given his heart. And that day, from the moment of rising, all the
obstacles which hindered his advance had risen up before him like
insurmountable impediments. A black vision of La Crêcherie had appeared
to him. La Crêcherie on the path to ruin, wrecked already, to such a
point indeed that it was madness to hope to save it. Men devoured one
another there; it had been impossible to establish brotherly accord
between them; every human fatality weighed upon the enterprise. And
thus, bowed down by the most frightful discouragement he had ever
known, Luc lost his faith. The heroism within him wavered; he was
almost on the point of renouncing his task, fearing as he did that
defeat was near at hand.

Sœurette noticed his perturbation directly she saw him, and, with
divine solicitude, she expressed her anxiety: 'Are you not well, my
friend?' she asked him.

'No, I do not feel well,' he answered. 'I spent an awful morning. I
have heard of nothing but misfortunes since I rose.'

She did not insist, but gazed at him with increasing anxiety, wondering
what his sufferings could be, since he loved and was loved in return.
To hide in some slight degree her own intense emotion, she had seated
herself at her little table, and pretended to be writing out some notes
for her brother; whilst the latter, who now seemed overwhelmed, again
lay back in his arm-chair.

'In that case, my good Luc,' said he, 'none of us is any better off
than the others; for if I felt well enough when I got up this morning,
I have since had no end of worry.'

For a moment Luc walked about the room, silent, with a frown upon
his face. He came and went, pausing at times before one of the large
windows to glance over La Crêcherie, the budding town, whose roofs
spread out before him. At last, unable to restrain his despair any
longer, he exploded: 'I must speak out, my friend. I owe you the truth.
We did not wish to worry you in the midst of your researches, and we
have hitherto hidden from you the fact that things are going on very
badly at La Crêcherie. Our men are leaving us; disunion and revolt have
sprung up among them, the fruit of egotism and hatred. All Beauclair
is rising against us, the traders, and even the workmen themselves,
whose long-acquired habits we interfere with; and thus our position is
day by day becoming more and more disquieting. I don't know if I see
things in too gloomy a light this morning, but they appear to me to be
beyond cure. Everything seems to be lost, and I cannot hide from you
any longer that we are going towards a catastrophe.'

Jordan listened with an expression of astonishment, though he remained
very calm. He even smiled slightly: 'Are you not exaggerating things a
little, my friend?' said he.

'Suppose that I am exaggerating; suppose that ruin will not actually
fall on us to-morrow, none the less I should be acting wrongly if
I failed to tell you that I fear ruin is approaching. When I asked
you for your land and your money, to undertake that work of social
salvation which I dreamt of, did I not promise you not only the
accomplishment of something great and beautiful, worthy of a man like
you, but also a good investment? And now it appears that I did not
speak the truth, for your money is likely to be swallowed up in the
disaster. Is it not natural therefore that I should be haunted by
remorse?'

Jordan tried to interrupt him by waving his hand, as if to say that the
pecuniary question was of no importance. But Luc continued: 'It is not
merely a question of the large sums which have already been swallowed
up; more money is, each day, becoming necessary to continue the
struggle. And I no longer dare to ask it of you; for if I can sacrifice
myself entirely, I have no right to pull you and your sister down with
me.'

He sank upon a chair like one overcome, whilst Sœurette, still very
pale, and seated at her little table, looked both at him and at her
brother, awaiting developments in a state of deep emotion.

'Ah, really! so things are so very bad,' Jordan quietly resumed. 'Yet
your idea was a very good one; you ended by convincing me of that.
I did not hide from you that I took no personal interest in such
political and social enterprises, being convinced that science is
the only revolutionary, and will alone bring about the evolution of
to-morrow, leading man towards truth and justice in their entirety.
But your theory of solidarity was so beautiful. Sitting at this window
after my day's work, I often looked at your town, and it was with
interest that I saw it growing. It amused me; and I said to myself that
I was working for it, since electricity would one day prove its chief
helpmate. Must everything be abandoned, then?'

A cry of supreme renunciation came from Luc: 'My energy is exhausted,'
he exclaimed, 'I have no courage left, all my faith has departed. It
is all over, and I came to tell you that I am prepared to abandon
everything rather than impose a fresh sacrifice upon you. How could you
give me the money which we should need? How could I even have audacity
enough to ask you for it?'

Never had man raised a more despairing cry. This was the evil hour,
the black hour, well known to all heroes, all apostles, the hour when
grace departs, when the mission becomes obscured, and the task appears
impossible. Forsooth a passing defeat, a momentary spell of cowardice,
accompanied, however, by the most frightful suffering.

But Jordan again smiled quietly. He did not immediately answer the
remark which Luc with a shudder had addressed to him respecting the
large amount of money which would be needed if the work were to be
carried on. In a chilly way he pulled his rugs over his spare limbs,
then gently said: 'Do you know, my good friend, I'm not very well
pleased either. Yes, a perfect disaster befell me this morning. You
know how I thought that I had planned a perfect scheme for transmitting
electric force cheaply and without any loss over long distances. Well,
I was mistaken; I have discovered nothing of what I thought I had. An
experiment which I made this morning by way of checking everything
failed completely, and I have convinced myself that it is necessary to
begin all over again. That means a fresh labour of years, and you will
understand how worrying it is to encounter defeat when one imagines
victory to be certain.'

Sœurette had turned towards her brother, quite upset at hearing of that
defeat of which she had hitherto been ignorant. In like manner Luc,
prompted to compassion by his own despair, stretched out his hand in
order to grasp his friend's with brotherly sympathy. And Jordan alone
remained calm, apart from the slight feverish tremulousness which
always came over him when he had exerted himself unduly.

'In that case what do you intend to do?' Luc inquired.

'What do I intend to do, my good friend? Why, I shall set to work
again. I shall make a fresh start to-morrow; I shall begin my work
anew from the very beginning. There is evidently nothing else to be
done. It is simple enough. You hear me! One ought never to throw up a
task. If it needs twenty years, thirty years, a whole lifetime, one
still ought to persevere with it. If one makes a mistake, one must
retrace one's steps and go over the whole ground afresh as many times
as may be necessary. Obstacles and hindrances are inevitable on the
road, and must be anticipated. A task, an _œuvre_, however, is like
a sacred child, and it would be criminal not to persevere during the
period of gestation. There is some of our blood in it, we have no right
to refuse to perfect it, we owe it all our strength, soul, flesh, and
mind. Even as a mother dies at times through the dear little one whom
she hopes to bring into the world, so should we be ready to die if our
task exhaust us. And if it does not cost us life, we have but one thing
to do when it is accomplished, and that is to begin another, never
pausing, but taking up one task after another as long as we are erect,
full of intelligence and virility.'

As Jordan spoke he seemed to become tall and strong--shielded against
all discouragement by his belief in human effort, convinced of
conquering provided that he devoted to the fight the last drop of blood
in his veins. And to Luc, who was listening, it seemed as if a gust of
energy came to him from that weak and puny being.

'Work! work!' continued Jordan; 'there is no other force in the world.
When one has set one's faith in work one is invincible. Why should we
doubt of to-morrow since it is we ourselves who create to-morrow by
our work to-day? All that is now being sown by our work will prove
to-morrow's harvest. Ah! holy work, creative, all-saving work, thou art
my life, the one sole reason why I live!'

His eyes wandered afar as communing with himself he repeated those last
words--that hymn to work which ever returned to his lips in moments of
great emotion. And once again he related how work had ever consoled
and sustained him. If he were still alive it was because he had taken
into his life a task for which he had regulated all the functions of
his being. He was convinced that he would not die so long as his work
should remain unfinished. Bad as was his health, he had never entered
his laboratory without feeling relief. How many times had he not sat
down to his task with pain-racked limbs and tearful heart; yet on each
occasion work had healed him. His uncertainties, his infrequent moments
of discouragement had only come from his hours of idleness.

All at once he turned towards Luc with his kindly smile, and said by
way of conclusion: 'You see, my friend, if you let La Crêcherie die,
you yourself will die of it. That task is your very life, and you must
live it to the end.'

Luc had risen, upbuoyed once more, for his friend's faith in work, his
passionate love for his chosen task, filled him again with a spirit of
heroism and restored both his faith and his strength. In his hours of
lassitude and doubt there was nothing like the bath of energy which he
found beside Jordan, that weak and sickly friend of his from whom peace
and certainty seemed to radiate.

'Ah! you are right,' he cried; 'I am a coward, I feel ashamed that
I despaired. Human happiness only exists in the glorification and
reorganisation of all-saving work. It will found our city. But then, my
friend, that money--all that money which must again be risked!'

Jordan, exhausted by his own passionate outburst, was now drawing his
rugs more closely around his puny shoulders, and in a faint voice he
simply said, 'I will give you the money. We will economise; we shall
always be able to get on. Here we need very little, you know--milk,
eggs, and fruit. Provided that I am still able to pay the expenses of
my experiments, the rest will be all right.'

Luc had caught hold of his hands, and was pressing them with deep
emotion.

'But my friend, my friend,' said he; 'there is your sister. Are we to
ruin her also?'

'True,' replied Jordan, 'we have forgotten Sœurette.'

They turned towards her. She was silently weeping at her little table,
on which she had leant her elbows, whilst her chin rested between her
hands. Big tears were streaming down her cheeks. Her poor, tortured,
bleeding heart was venting all its woe. She, as well as Luc, had
been stirred to the depths of her being by all that she had heard.
Everything which her brother had said to his friend had resounded with
equal energy within her own heart. The necessity of work, of abnegation
in the presence of one's task, did that not also mean acceptance of
life, whatever it might be, and resolution to live it loyally in order
that all possible harmony might accrue therefrom? Like Luc, she now
would have thought herself evil-minded and cowardly had she sought
to hinder the great work, had she not devoted herself to it even to
renunciation of all else besides. The great courage of her simple,
kindly, sublime nature had returned to her once more.

She rose and pressed a long kiss upon her brother's brow; and whilst
she remained beside him, with her head resting on his shoulder, she
whispered to him gently, 'Thank you, brother. You have healed me; I
will sacrifice myself.'

Luc, however, once again eager for action, was now bestirring himself.
He had gone back towards the window, and was gazing at the glow which
fell upon the roofs of La Crêcherie from the broad blue heavens. And
as he came back towards the others he once more repeated his favourite
cry: 'Ah! they do not love! On the day they love all will prove
fruitful; all will spread, and grow, and triumph in the sunlight!'

Then, with a last quiver of her subjugated flesh, Sœurette, who had
affectionately drawn near to him, replied: 'And one must love even
without wishing to be loved in return, for it is only by loving others
that the great work can ever be.'

Those words, from one who gave herself unreservedly, for the sole
joy of doing so and without hope of reward, were followed by a deep,
quivering silence. They no longer spoke, but all three, united by close
brotherliness, gazed towards the greenery amidst which the rising city
of justice and happiness would gradually but ever spread its roofs, now
that so much love was sown.



IV


From that time forward Luc the builder, the founder of cities,
recovered his self-possession, spoke his will and acted; and men and
stones arose at his bidding. He became very gay, and carried on the
struggle of La Crêcherie against the Abyss with triumphant joyousness,
little by little winning over both folk and things, thanks to the
craving for love and happiness which he inspired all around him. He
himself felt that the secure establishment of his city would bring him
back Josine. With her all the woeful ones of the whole world would be
saved. In this he set his faith, and he worked by and for love, in the
conviction that he would ultimately conquer.

One bright day, when the sky was radiantly blue, he came upon a
scene which again heightened his spirits and filled his heart with
tenderness and hope. As he was going round the dependencies of the
works, desirous of giving an eye to everything, he was surprised to
hear some light, fresh voices and bursts of laughter rising from a
corner of the property at the foot of the mountain ridge, a spot where
a wall separated the land of La Crêcherie from that of the Abyss.
Approaching prudently, for he wished to see without being seen himself,
Luc perceived to his delight a party of children playing freely in the
sunshine, restored to all the fraternal innocence of nature.

On Luc's side of the wall, Nanet, who daily returned to La Crêcherie in
search of playmates, stood beside Lucien and Antoinette Bonnaire, whom
he had doubtless persuaded to accompany him on some terrible lizard
hunt. All three of them stood there with upturned faces, laughing and
calling, whilst on the other side of the wall, other children who could
not be seen were laughing and calling also. It was easy to understand
that Nise Delaveau had had some young friends to lunch, and that the
party on being dismissed to the garden had heard the calls of those
outside it, one and all becoming eager to see each other, join hands,
and amuse themselves together. Unfortunately, the former doorway had
been walled up, for their elders had grown tired of scolding them. At
Delaveau's the children were even forbidden to go to the bottom of the
garden, and were punished if they were found doing so; whilst at La
Crêcherie there were many efforts to make them understand that their
disobedience might bring about some unpleasant affair, complaints,
and even a lawsuit. But, like artless young creatures yielding to the
unknown forces of the future, they continued meeting and mingling,
fraternising together in total forgetfulness of all class rancour and
hostility.

Shrill, pure, and crystalline voices continued rising, almost
suggesting the notes of skylarks.

'Is that you, Nise? Good day, Nise!'

'Good day, Nanet! Are you by yourself, Nanet?'

'Oh, no! I'm with Lucien and Antoinette! And you, Nise, are you alone?'

'Oh! no, no, I'm with Louise and Paul! Good day, good day, Nanet!'

'Good day, good day, Nise!'

At each 'good day,' again and again repeated, came peals of laughter,
so amused did they feel at talking together without seeing one another.

'I say, Nise, are you still there?'

'Why, yes, Nanet, I'm still here.'

'Nise, Nise, listen! Are you coming?'

'Oh, Nanet, how can I, since the door's walled up?'

'Jump, jump, Nise, jump, my little Nise!'

'Nanet, my little Nanet, jump, jump!'

Then came perfect delirium, all six of them repeated 'jump, jump!'
whilst dancing before the wall, as if indeed they imagined that by
bounding higher and higher they would at last find themselves together.
They turned and waltzed, and bowed to the pitiless wall, and with that
childish power of imagination which suppresses all obstacles played as
if they could really see one another.

At last a flute-like voice again arose. 'Listen, Nise! do you know
what?'

'No, Nanet, I don't know.'

'Well, I'm going to get on the wall, and I'll pull you up by the
shoulders and get you over here.'

'Oh! that's it, Nanet, that's it! Climb up!'

In a trice Nanet, clinging to the stone wall with hands and feet, as
agile as a cat, found himself on the top of the wall. And as he sat
there, bestriding it, he looked quite comical, with his big round
head, his large blue eyes, and his tumbled fair hair. He was already
fourteen, but he remained little, though very strong and resolute.

'Lucien, Antoinette!' he cried, 'just you keep watch.'

Then bending over Delaveau's garden, quite proud of overlooking
everything on both sides of the wall, he added: 'Come on, Nise, let me
catch hold of you.'

'Oh, no! not me first, Nanet! I'll keep watch over here.'

'Then who's coming, Nise?'

'Wait a minute, Nanet, be careful. Paul's climbing up. There's a
trellis. He'll try it to see if it breaks.'

Silence followed. One only heard the cracking of some old woodwork,
mingled with stifled laughter. And Luc began to ask himself if he
ought not to restore order by scattering both bands of urchins even
as one scatters sparrows on surprising them in a barn. How many times
already had not he himself scolded those children, from fear lest their
playfulness should prove the cause of some annoying trouble. Yet there
was something very charming about the bravery and joyousness which they
displayed in seeking to join one another in spite of every prohibition
and every obstacle!

At last a cry of triumph arose. Paul's head appeared just above
the wall, and Nanet was seen hoisting him up, and then passing
him over in order that he might fall into the arms of Lucien and
Antoinette. Although Paul himself was more than fourteen, he was
not a heavy weight. He had remained slim and delicate, a handsome,
fair-complexioned lad, very good-natured and gentle, with quick and
intelligent eyes. Directly he had fallen into Antoinette's embrace he
kissed her, for he knew her well, and was fond of being near her, for
she was tall and pretty, and very graceful, although but twelve years
old.

'That's done, Nise!' cried Nanet. 'I've, passed one over. Whose turn
next?'

But Nise was heard replying in a loud anxious whisper: 'Hush, hush,
Nanet! There's something moving near the fowls' run. Lie down on the
wall. Quick, quick!' Then the danger being past, she added: 'Look out,
Nanet! It's Louise's turn now; I'll push her up!'

This time, indeed, it was Louise's head which appeared above the
wall: a comical, goatish head with black and somewhat obliquely-set
eyes, a slender nose and pointed chin. With her vivacity and gaiety
she was very amusing. At eleven years of age she had already become
a self-willed little woman, quite upsetting her parents, the worthy
Mazelles, who were stupefied to find that such a riotous, enthusiastic
wilding had sprung from their placid egotism. She did not even wait for
Nanet to pass her over, but jumped of her own accord into the arms of
Lucien, her favourite playmate, who was the oldest of all of them. A
tall, sturdy lad of fifteen, endowed with great ingenuity and inventive
talent, he made her some extraordinary playthings.

But Nanet was again calling. 'That makes two, Nise,' said he. 'There's
only you now. Come up, quick! There's something moving again over
yonder near the well.'

A sound of cracking wood was once more heard; a large piece of the
trellis-work must have fallen to the ground, for Nise burst out: 'Oh!
dear me, dear me, Nanet, I can't! Louise broke it with her feet, and
now it's all down.'

'Never mind--it doesn't matter! Give me your hands, Nise, and I'll pull
you up.'

'No, no, I can't! I'm too little; can't you see, Nanet?'

'But I tell you I'll pull you. Stretch out your arms--there! Now I'll
stoop and you must stand on tip-toes. There we are! You see very well
that I can pull you up.'

Evincing great dexterity, he had raised Nise with his strong young
arms and seated her on the wall in front of him. She looked even more
tumbled than usual, with her fair curly pate, her pink and ever-smiling
mouth, and her pretty blue eyes. She and her friend Nanet formed a
pair, both of them with locks of the same soft golden hue, curling and
waving hither and thither.

For a moment they remained astride the wall, face to face and delighted
at finding themselves so high up.

'Ah! all the same you're strong, Nanet, to have pulled me up as you
did,' said the girl.

'But then you've grown quite tall, Nise. I'm fourteen now; how old are
you?'

'I'm eleven, Nanet. But, I say, isn't this like being on a horse, a
very tall horse, made of stone?'

'Yes, but I say, Nise, shall I stand upright?'

'Yes, upright, Nanet! I'll do the same!'

But again a stir was heard down the garden, this time in the direction
of the kitchen, and the two children, full of anxiety, caught hold of
each other, and fell to the ground together, locked in a close embrace.
They might have killed themselves, but they laughed gaily, unhurt and
delighted with their tumble. Paul and Antoinette, Lucien and Louise on
their side, were already running wildly among the bushes and fallen
rocks which helped to form many a delightful nook at the feet of the
Bleuse Mountains.

Thinking it too late to intervene, Luc went off very softly. As the
children had not seen him, they would not know that he had closed his
eyes to their escapade. After all, was it not best that they should
yield to the glow of youth within them, and meet and play in spite of
all the prohibitions? They were like the very florescence of life,
which well knew for what future harvests it thus flowered in them. And
they brought with them, perchance, the reconciliation of classes, the
morrow full of justice and peace which was awaited. That which their
fathers could not accomplish would be accomplished by them, and yet
more completely by their children, thanks to the evolution which was
ever spreading. And thus Luc, as he quietly walked away, refraining
from alarming them, laughed to himself as he heard them laughing,
heedless of the difficulties that they would encounter when they might
wish to climb over the wall again. That glimpse of the kindly future
had inspired the young man with a hope, a courage to continue fighting,
and a determination to achieve victory such as he had never known
before.

For long months the desperate, pitiless struggle went on between
La Crêcherie and the Abyss. Luc, who had momentarily thought his
enterprise in jeopardy, toppling towards ruin, exerted every effort
to keep it on its legs. He did not expect to gain any more ground for
a long time to come, but he wished to lose none; and it was already
an achievement to remain stationary, to continue living amidst the
blows which were aimed at La Crêcherie from all sides. And how mighty
was the toil, and with what joyous bravery was it accomplished!
Luc was always here, there, and everywhere, encouraging the men in
the workshops, promoting brotherliness between one and all at the
common-house, and watching over the management of the co-operative
stores. He was constantly seen too in the sunlit avenues of the little
town, amidst the women and the children, with whom he liked to laugh
and play, as if he were the father of the young nation now springing
up around him. Thanks to his genius and creative fruitfulness, things
arose and grew methodically, as if in obedience to a wave of his hand.
But his greatest achievement was the conquest of his workmen, amidst
whom discord and rebellion had for a moment swept. Although his views
were not always shared by Bonnaire, he had won that brave and kindly
man's affection in such wise as to secure in him the most faithful,
the most devoted of lieutenants, one without whose help it would have
been impossible to carry on the enterprise. And indeed the affection
which radiated from Luc had influenced all the workers of La Crêcherie,
who, finding him so loving and brotherly, intent on securing happiness
for others, in the conviction that he would therein find happiness
himself, had gradually grouped themselves around him. Thus the staff
was becoming a large family linked more and more closely together,
each ending by understanding that he worked for his own delight when
he worked for that of all. Over a period of six months not a single
hand quitted the works, and if those who had previously left did not
as yet return, the others who remained devoted themselves entirely to
the enterprise, even leaving a part of their profits untouched in order
that a substantial reserve fund might be formed.

At that critical period it was assuredly the solidarity evinced by all
the associated workers that saved La Crêcherie from falling beneath the
blows with which egotistical and jealous hatred inspired Beauclair. The
reserve fund, prudently increased and managed, proved a decisive help.
It enabled the folk of La Crêcherie to face difficult moments, and to
avoid borrowing at heavy interest. Thanks to this fund, moreover, they
were twice able to purchase new machinery, which had been rendered
requisite by changes in various processes, and which largely diminished
the cost of manufacture. Then, too, there came a few strokes of luck.
About that time there were some important enterprises: the laying down
of railways, the building of bridges and other things in which metal
work was largely used, and thus considerable quantities of rails,
girders, and structural material were required. The long peace in which
Europe lived vastly developed metallurgical industry in its pacific and
civilising branches. Never before had iron entered so largely into the
dwellings of men. Thus the output of La Crêcherie increased, though the
profits did not become very large, for Luc particularly wished to sell
cheaply, in the belief that cheapness would control the future. At the
same time he strengthened the works by wise management and constant
economy, and by gathering together that reserve fund of ready money in
order that it might be brought into use at the first sign of danger;
whilst the workers' devotion to the common cause, their abnegation in
foregoing a portion of their due, did the rest, enabling one to wait
for the arrival of triumph without excessive hardship.

The Abyss, meantime, apparently remained in a flourishing situation;
there had been no falling-off in its turnover, and great success
seemed to attend its costly output of guns and projectiles. Still this
prosperity was only on the surface, and Delaveau, though he did not
confess it, experienced at times serious anxiety. He certainly had
on his side the whole of Beauclair--the whole of that _bourgeoise_,
capitalist society whose existence was threatened. And he remained
convinced that he represented truth, authority, and power, and that
ultimate victory was certain. Nevertheless, after a time secret doubts
began to assail him: he was disturbed at finding so much vitality in
La Crêcherie, whose prompt collapse he prophesied every three months
or so. He could no longer contend against the neighbouring works
with respect to commercial iron and steel--those rails, girders,
and structural materials which La Crêcherie turned out so well and
so cheaply. There only remained to him the manufacture of superfine
steel, of carefully made articles valued at three and four francs
per kilogramme, and as it happened these were also made at two very
important establishments in a neighbouring department. The competition
of those establishments was terrible, and Delaveau felt that of the
three--the Abyss and the two others--there was one too many. The
question was which two of them would devour the third. Weakened as it
was by the rivalry of La Crêcherie, would not the Abyss prove to be
the establishment fated to disappear? This question preyed upon the
manager, although he showed more activity than ever, and professed
serene confidence in the good cause, that religion of the wage system
of which he had constituted himself the defender. But another matter
worried him even more than the competition of rivals and the chances of
industrial warfare. This was the absence of any reserve fund, such as
might enable him to face some emergency, some unforeseen catastrophe.
If a crisis were to arise--some strike, or simply some falling-off
in trade--the result would be disastrous, for the works would not
possess the wherewithal to await a revival of business. The necessity
of purchasing some new plant had already compelled him to borrow three
hundred thousand francs, and the heavy interest on the loan now weighed
upon his annual budget. But what if he were compelled to borrow again
and again, until at last he should find himself swallowed up by an
abyss of indebtedness?

About this time Delaveau tried to make Boisgelin listen to reason.
When he had induced the latter to confide to him the remnants of his
fortune, he had certainly promised that if the Abyss were purchased
he would hand him heavy interest on his capital, and enable him to
continue leading a luxurious life. Now, however, that difficulties were
likely to arise, he wished Boisgelin to be reasonable enough to cut
down his style of living for a time. He assured him that fortune would
soon smile once more, and that he would then be able to live again on
his former footing, and indeed in finer style than ever. Delaveau's
desire was to induce Boisgelin to content himself for a while with
one half of the profits, the other half being employed to constitute
a reserve fund which would enable the Abyss to emerge victoriously
from such bad times as might present themselves. But Boisgelin would
not listen; he demanded every penny, refusing to forego any one of the
pleasures of the costly life which he was leading. Quarrels even broke
out between the two cousins. Now that it seemed as if the invested
capital might no longer yield the expected interest, that the toil
of more than a thousand human beings might no longer suffice to keep
an idler in luxury, the capitalist accused his manager of failing to
keep his promises. Delaveau, though irritated by the other's idiotic
thirst for perpetual enjoyment, still entertained no suspicion that
behind that coxcomb, his cousin, there stood his own wife Fernande,
the all-corrupting, devouring creature, for whom all the money was
squandered in caprices and folly. Life at La Guerdache was nought but
a round of festivities, amidst which Fernande enjoyed such pleasing
triumphs that any pause in her delights would have seemed to her to
be absolute downfall. She egged on Boisgelin, she told him that her
husband's powers were declining, that he did not extract from the
works nearly so large a revenue as he might have done; and, according
to her, the only way to spur him on was to overwhelm him with demands
for money. The demeanour preserved by Delaveau--who was one of those
authoritative men who never take women into their confidence, making no
exception even of his wife, although he was passionately attached to
her--had ended by convincing Fernande that her view was the right one,
and that if she wished to realise her dream of returning to Paris with
millions of francs to squander, she must harass him without cessation.

One night, however, Delaveau forgot himself in Fernande's presence. A
hunt had taken place at La Guerdache that day, and in the course of
it Fernande, whose delight it was to gallop about on horseback, had
for a time disappeared in the company of Boisgelin. A great dinner
had followed in the evening, and it was past midnight when a carriage
brought the Delaveaus back to the Abyss. The young woman, who seemed
overcome with fatigue, satiated as it were with the consuming enjoyment
of which her life was compounded, hastened to get to bed, whilst her
husband, after taking off his coat, went hither and thither about the
room, looking both angry and worried.

'I say,' he ended by inquiring, 'did not Boisgelin tell you anything
when you went off with him?'

At this Fernande, who was closing her eyes, opened them again in
surprise. 'No,' she answered, 'nothing interesting at all events. What
would you have him tell me?'

'Oh! the fact is that we had previously had a discussion together,'
Delaveau resumed. 'He asked me to let him have another ten thousand
francs for the end of the month. But this time I positively refused.
It's impossible, it's madness!'

Fernande raised her head, and her eyes glittered. 'Madness--how's
that?' said she, 'why don't you give him those ten thousand francs?'

As it happened it was she herself who had suggested the application
for this money in order that Boisgelin might purchase an electrical
motor car in which she ardently desired to travel about the country at
express speed.

'Why?' cried Delaveau forgetting himself. 'Because that idiot with his
extravagance will end by ruining the works. We shall have a smash up
if he doesn't cut down his style of living. There can be nothing more
idiotic than that life of festivity which he leads, that stupid vanity
of his which prompts him to let everybody despoil him.'

Startled by these words, Fernande sat up in bed looking rather pale,
whilst Delaveau, with the _naïveté_ of a husband blind to his wife's
misconduct, went on: 'There's only one sensible person left at La
Guerdache, the only one, too, who enjoys nothing there. I mean poor
Suzanne. It grieves me to see her always looking so sad. However, when
I begged her to-day to intervene with her husband she answered, forcing
back her tears, that she was resolved to meddle in nothing.'

The idea that her husband had appealed to her lover's wife, the poor
sacrificed creature, who showed such lofty dignity in her life of
renunciation, brought Fernande's exasperation to a climax. But she was
still more moved by the thought that the works--the very source of her
enjoyment--might be in peril.

'We shall have a smash up--why do you say that?' she asked, 'I thought
that the business was going on very well?'

She put this question in so anxious a tone that Delaveau, fearing that
if she knew everything she might amplify the fears which he strove to
hide from himself, became distrustful, and forced back the truth which
anger well nigh wrung from him.

'The business is going on all right, no doubt,' said he, 'only it would
go on a great deal better if Boisgelin did not perpetually empty the
safe in order to continue leading an idiotic life. The man's a fool, I
tell you; he has only the poor paltry brain of a coxcomb.'

Reassured by this reply, Fernande stretched herself out in bed once
more. Her husband was simply an individual with a gross mind, a miser,
whose desire was to part as little as possible with the large sums
which were received at the works. As for his denunciation of Boisgelin,
this was an indirect attack upon herself.

'My dear,' said she by way of conclusion, 'all people are not made to
brutify themselves with work from morning till night; and those who
have money do right to enjoy themselves and taste the pleasures of a
higher life.'

Delaveau was about to reply violently, but by an effort he managed to
calm himself. Why should he try to convert his wife to his views? He
treated her as a spoilt child, and let her act as she listed, never
complaining of any lapses on her part, such as he condemned when others
were in question. He did not even notice the folly of her life, for she
was his own folly, the prized jewel which he had longed to grasp with
his big, hard-working hands. She remained through all the object of his
admiration and adoration, the idol for whom one sets aside both dignity
and reason, and whom it is impossible to suspect.

A little later, when Delaveau in his turn had got into bed, his anxiety
with respect to the position of the works came back to him. His wife
lay fast asleep beside him, but he himself was unable to close his
eyes, and amidst his painful insomnia the difficulties by which he was
menaced seemed to become greater. Never yet, indeed, had he surveyed
the future with so much insight and seen it under darker colours. He
became fully conscious that the cause of the impending ruin was that
mad craving for enjoyment, that sickly impatience which Boisgelin
displayed to spend his money the moment it was earned. There was an
abyss somewhere into which all that money sank, some abominable sore
also by which exuded all the strength and gain which work should have
brought with it. Accustomed as he was to be very frank with himself,
Delaveau passed his life in review, and could find nothing to reproach
himself with. He rose early, and was the last to leave the workshops
at night, remaining on the watch throughout the day, directing the
labour of his large staff as he might have directed the movements of
a regiment. He incessantly brought all his remarkable faculties into
play, showing a great deal of rectitude amidst his roughness, together
with rare powers of logic and method and the loyalty of a fighter who
has vowed to conquer and is determined to do so or to perish. Thus he
suffered frightfully at feeling that in spite of all his heroism he
was gliding to disaster through the collapse of everything that he set
on foot, a kind of daily destruction which came he knew not whence and
which his energy was powerless to stay. What he called Boisgelin's
imbecile life, that gluttonous craving for pleasure, was doubtless the
evil that preyed upon the works. But who, then, was it that made the
wretched man so stupid? whence came that insanity of his, which he,
Delaveau, could not understand, sensible and sober worker that he was
himself, hating idleness and excessive enjoyment since he knew that
they destroyed all creative health?

And still he had no suspicion that the demolisher of Boisgelin's
fortune, the poisoner of his mind, was his own well-loved Fernande,
she who now lay beside him, looking so charming in her slumber. Whilst
he, amidst the black smoke of the Abyss and the burning glow of its
furnaces, exhausted himself in efforts to wring money from the toil
of pain-racked workmen, she on her side strolled in gay apparel under
the shady foliage of La Guerdache, flung money to the four winds of
fancy, and with her white teeth crunched the hundreds of thousands of
francs which more than a thousand wage-earners coined for her amidst
the resounding thuds of the great hammers. That night, too, whilst her
husband, with his eyes wide open in the darkness, remained tortured
by the thought of future payments, wondering by what fresh efforts he
might make the works produce the amounts promised to one and another,
she lying by his side slept off her intoxication of the day, so weary
with enjoyment that only the faintest breath came from her glutted
breast. At last Delaveau himself ended by falling asleep, and dreamt
that some weird, perverse, diabolical powers were at work beneath the
Abyss, eating away the soil in such wise that the whole establishment
would suddenly be engulfed on some fulgural, tempestuous night.

During the days which followed Fernande recalled the fears which
her husband had expressed to her that evening. Whilst making every
allowance for what she regarded as his passion for heaping up money,
and his hatred of the pleasures of luxury, she could not help
shuddering at the thought of a possibility of ruin. Boisgelin ruined
indeed! In such a case what would become of her? That ruin would not
simply mean an end to the delightful life which she had always desired
as compensation for the wretched poverty of her earlier years, but
it would imply their return to Paris like vanquished beings, with a
flat of a thousand francs annual rental in the depths of some suburban
district, and some petty employment for Delaveau in which he would
vegetate whilst she herself would relapse into all the loathsome
coarseness of a home of penurious toil. No! no! she would not consent
to that; she would not allow her golden prey to escape her; every
muscle of her covetous being hungered for triumph. Within her slender
form, instinct with such delicate charm, such light gracefulness,
there was the keen appetite of a she-wolf, the most furious predatory
instincts. She was resolved that she would in no wise check that
appetite, that she would take her pleasure to the very end, allowing
none to rob her of it. No doubt she was full of contempt for those
grimy, muddy works where day and night she heard the monstrous-looking
hammers forging pleasure for her; and as for the men, those toilers
who roasted amidst hellish flames in order that she might lead a life
of happy idleness, she regarded them as domestic animals that gave
her food and spared her all fatigue. She never risked her little feet
on the uneven soil of the workshops; she never evinced the faintest
interest in the human flock which passed to and fro before her door,
bowed down by accursed labour. Nevertheless those works and that
flock were hers, and the idea that fortune might be wrested from her
by the ruin of the business roused her to revolt, prompted her to
defend herself as energetically as if her life itself were threatened.
Whosoever harmed the works became her personal enemy, a dangerous
evil-doer, of whom she was resolved to rid herself by all imaginable
means. Thus her hatred of Luc had gone on increasing ever since the
Sunday when they had first met at lunch at La Guerdache, where, with
a woman's keen acumen, she had guessed that he was the man who would
strive to bar her path. Since that time, moreover, she had frequently
come into collision with him, and now it was he who threatened to
destroy the Abyss and to cast her back into all the loathsomeness of
mediocrity. If she should allow him a free hand her happiness would be
over; he would rob her of everything that she cared for in life. And
thus, beneath her seeming graciousness, she was consumed by murderous
fury. One thought alone possessed her--that of suppressing that man,
and she dreamt of devising some catastrophe in which he might perish.

Eight months had now gone by since Josine had bidden farewell to Luc,
and since that time she had become _enceinte_. Ragu had discovered
the truth one day, when in a fit of drunkenness he had wished to beat
her. He himself had reverted to his old life of debauchery, leading
astray all the factory girls who were foolish enough to listen to him,
and utterly neglecting his own wife. Thus his discovery both amazed
and exasperated him, and terrible scenes followed it. At first he had
recourse to brutality, and it was a wonder that Josine escaped alive.
Then he kept her shut up for days together, or else watched her every
movement. He had long spoken of casting her into the streets, he had
long neglected her for the most shameless of creatures, but at present
he quivered with jealous fury whenever he saw her speaking with any man
out of doors. He tried by every means he could devise to wring from
her her lover's name, but this she steadfastly refused to tell him,
whatever might be his threats, his violence, or his promises; for after
striking her he would sometimes exclaim: 'Tell me his name, tell me his
name! And I promise you that I'll leave you alone!'

No suspicion of Luc entered Ragu's mind, for nobody, apart from
Sœurette, was aware of Josine's visit to the pavilion. Thus Ragu sought
the culprit among his own mates; but however much he might watch,
however much he might question, he learnt nothing, and the efforts he
made in this respect only increased his fury.

Josine meantime hid herself as much as possible; she dreaded the result
for Luc should the truth be discovered. So far as she was personally
concerned, she was overjoyed by what had happened, and would have
gladly hastened to her lover to tell him of it. But fears for his
safety came upon her, and she thought that it was best to wait; in
such wise that a chance meeting alone apprised Luc of the truth. And
even then Josine was only able to acquaint him with her secret by a
gesture; for others were present, and it was impossible for the lovers
to exchange a word.

Filled with emotion by the tidings thus imparted to him, Luc sought for
further information, and soon heard of Ragu's wrath and violence, and
of the close watch which he kept upon Josine. Had he, Luc, retained any
doubts on the matter, the other's ferocious jealousy and exasperation
would have sufficed to destroy them. From that moment he regarded
Josine as his own wife. She was his, and his alone, since she was soon
to become a mother--and the father of the child, and not the other,
was the real and sole husband. Ragu had vowed that he would never be
burdened with children, and thus there was no bond whatever between
him and Josine. There can, indeed, be but one bond between man and
woman, one firm and eternal bond--the bond which comes from the birth
of a child. Apart from that, whatever human laws may say, there is no
real union, no real marriage. Thus Josine now for ever belonged to Luc
alone, and assuredly she would come back to him, and the child would be
the living florescence of their love.

All the same, Luc suffered terribly when he learnt that Josine was
constantly being reviled and ill-treated, ever in danger of receiving
some dastardly blow. It was unbearable to the young man that he should
have to leave that fondly loved woman in the clutches of Ragu, when
he longed to set her in a paradise of affection. But what could he do
since she so stubbornly cloistered herself in order to spare him all
embarrassment and worry? She even refused to see him, for fear of some
surprise that would have revealed the secret which she so tenderly
buried in the depths of her dolorous heart. Thus Luc had to watch for
her, in order to be able to say a few words. At last, one very dark
evening, while hiding in a dim corner of the wretched Rue des Trois
Lunes, he was able to stop her for a moment as she was passing.

'Oh, Luc! is it you? How imprudent!' she gasped. 'Kiss me and run off,
I beg you.'

But he, quivering, had clasped her round the waist, and was whispering
passionately, 'No, no, Josine, I want to tell you ... You are suffering
too much, and it is criminal of me to leave you, who are so dear, so
precious, in such suffering.... Listen, Josine, I have come to fetch
you, and you must come with me, so that I may place you in my home,
your home, like a well-loved happy woman.'

She was already yielding to his gentle and consoling embrace. But all
at once she freed herself. 'Oh! what are you saying, Luc? Have you no
more reason than that?' she asked. 'Follow you, good heavens! when that
would be confession, and would draw the greatest dangers down upon
you! It is I who would then be acting wrongly, criminally, creating
embarrassment for you in the work that you are accomplishing. Be off,
quick! He may try to kill me, but I will never, never give him your
name.'

At this Luc tried to convince her of the uselessness of such a
sacrifice to the hypocrisy of the world. 'You are my wife, since I am
the father of your child,' said he, 'and me it is that you ought to
follow. By-and by, when our city of justice is built, there will be no
other law save that of love, and our union will be respected by one and
all. Why should we trouble about the people whom we may scandalise
to-day?'

Then as she seemed stubbornly bent on sacrifice, saying that she took
only the present into account, for she wished him to be spared all
obstacles, in order that he might become powerful and triumphant, he
raised a cry of grief: 'What, will you never return to me then? Will
that child never be mine, in the presence of one and all?'

Again she clasped him with her delicate, endearing arms, and with her
lips near his she softly murmured: 'I will come back on the day when
you need me, when I shall be not a source of embarrassment but a help,
and then I will bring with me that dear child whose presence will endow
us both with increase of strength.'

Black Beauclair, the old, pestilential den of accursed toil, lay around
them, agonising in the darkness beneath the crushing weight of its
centuries of iniquity, whilst those words, instinct with hope in a
future of peace and happiness, were spoken.

'You are my husband,' resumed Josine; 'you alone will have formed part
of my life; and ah! if you only knew with what delight I refrain from
speaking your name, no matter how much I may be threatened. I keep it
secret like a hidden flower, like hidden armour, too. Oh! do not pity
me; I am strong and I am very happy.'

And Luc made answer: 'You are my wife; I loved you on the very first
evening when I met you, so wretched yet so divine. And if you keep
my name secret so will I keep yours; it shall be my worship and my
strength till you yourself deem it time to cry our love aloud.'

'Oh, Luc! how good, how reasonable you are, and how happy we shall be!'

'It is you, Josine, who have made me good and reasonable, and it is
because I succoured you one evening that we shall be so very happy
later on, amidst the happiness of all.'

Without again speaking they remained yet another moment linked in a
close embrace. Then Josine freed herself and returned, glorious and
invincible, to martyrdom, whilst Luc disappeared amidst the gloom,
strengthened by that interview and ready to resume the battle which
would lead to victory.

A few weeks later, however, chance placed Josine's secret in
Fernande's hands. Fernande knew Ragu, whose sudden return to the
Abyss had created quite a sensation there, in such wise that Delaveau
had made a pretence of esteeming him, and had even appointed him
master-puddler, and favoured him in other ways, although his conduct
was execrable. That Fernande should have heard of the drama which had
upset Ragu's home was not surprising. He made no attempt whatever
to conceal the facts, but openly denounced his wife as a shameless
creature, with the result that the affair became a common subject
of conversation in the workshops. It was even spoken about at the
manager's house, and one day in Fernande's presence Delaveau expressed
his great annoyance at it all; for Ragu, now that he was wild with
jealousy, worked like a madman, at times never touching a tool for
three days in succession, and at others rushing upon his task and
stirring the fusing metal with all the fury of a man who is seized with
a longing to strike and kill.

At last one winter morning, when Delaveau was absent in Paris, whither
he had gone the previous day, Fernande questioned her maid, who had
just brought her the tea and toast which composed her first breakfast.
Nise was seated there drinking her own milk and casting covetous eyes
at her mother's tea, for tea was a thing which she was not usually
allowed to drink, though she was very fond of it.

'Is it true, Félicie,' Fernande inquired, 'that the Ragus have been
quarrelling again? The laundress told me that Ragu had half killed his
wife.'

'I don't know if that's so, madame,' replied the maid, 'but I think she
must have exaggerated, for I saw Josine pass the house a little while
ago, and she looked no worse than she usually does.'

A pause followed, and then the maid, as she went off, added, 'All the
same, it's pretty certain that he will end by killing her one of these
days. He tells everybody that he means to do so.'

Silence fell again, and Fernande slowly ate her toast, absorbed the
while in a gloomy reverie. But all at once, amidst the heavy stillness,
Nise, letting her thoughts escape her unawares, began to hum in an
undertone: 'Ragu isn't Josine's real husband; her husband is Monsieur
Luc, Monsieur Luc, Monsieur Luc!'

At this her mother raised her eyes in stupefaction, and gazed at the
child fixedly. 'What is that you are saying, Nise?' she exclaimed. 'Why
are you saying it?'

Thunderstruck at having unwittingly hummed those words aloud, Nise
lowered her face over her cup, and strove to assume an innocent air.
'Oh, for nothing! I don't know.'

'You don't know, you little falsehood-teller! You certainly did not
make up those words yourself. If you repeat them somebody must have
told them you.'

Nise, although she was becoming more and more disturbed, feeling that
she had landed herself in a nasty scrape which might have far-reaching
consequences, nevertheless held out against all evidence. 'I assure
you, mamma,' said she, in the most artless manner that she could
assume, 'one sings things without knowing, just as they come into one's
head.'

Then Fernande, seeing her repeat her fib with all the demeanour of a
genuine _gamine_, suddenly felt enlightened: 'It was Nanet who told you
what you sang; it can only have been Nanet.'

Nise blinked; it was indeed Nanet who had told her. But she was afraid
of being again scolded and punished, as on the day when her mother had
caught her returning from La Crêcherie with Paul Boisgelin and Louise
Mazelle by climbing over the wall, so she persisted in her falsehood:
'Oh! Nanet, Nanet--but I haven't seen him at all since you forbade it.'

Feverishly desirous of ascertaining the truth, her mother suddenly
assumed great gentleness of manner. Such was her emotion that she
forgot all question of scolding--Nise's escapades with Nanet being of
little moment compared with the important matter on which she desired
full enlightenment. 'Listen, little girl,' she said, 'it is very wrong
to tell falsehoods. That day when I said that you should have no
dessert it was because you wanted to make me believe that you and the
others had climbed over the wall simply to fetch a ball. Well, to-day,
if you tell me the truth, I promise that you shall not be punished.
Come, be frank--it was Nanet?'

Nise, who at bottom was a good little girl, immediately replied: 'Yes,
mamma, it _was_ Nanet.'

'And he told you that Josine's real husband was Monsieur Luc?'

'Yes, mamma.'

'And, pray, what does he know about it? Why does he say that Monsieur
Luc is Josine's real husband?'

Thereupon Nise became perplexed, and innocently lowered her face over
her cup again. 'Oh! he knows--he knows--well, he says he knows it.'

Greatly as Fernande desired to obtain precise information on the
subject, she felt that she could not put any further questions to her
child. And by way of precaution she sought to destroy the effect of
the eager curiosity which she had hitherto displayed: 'Nanet knows
nothing,' she said; 'he talks foolishly, and you are a little stupid to
repeat what he says. Don't go singing such silly things again, or else
you shall never have any dessert at all.'

Then the meal was finished in silence, the mother absorbed in what she
had learnt, and the child well pleased at having escaped so lightly.

Fernande spent the day in her room, reflecting. She began by asking
herself if what Nanet had said could really be the truth. But how was
she to doubt it? The lad had certainly heard something--discovered
something--and he was too much attached to his sister to tell any
falsehood about her. Moreover, a number of little incidents which
Fernande now recalled rendered the story quite probable--in fact,
certain. But then how could she make use of the weapon which chance
had placed in her hand? In a confused way she dreamt of steeping that
weapon in poison, so as to render it deadly. Never had she hated Luc
so much as she hated him now. If Delaveau was at present in Paris, it
was solely for the purpose of trying to negotiate a fresh loan, for
the Abyss was sinking a little more each day. How great, then, would
be her victory if she could succeed in suppressing the hated master of
La Crêcherie, the man who threatened her life of luxury and pleasure!
The enemy killed, the competition would be killed as well. With such a
man as Ragu, a drunkard, full of jealousy and wrath, a prompt finish
might be expected. It would doubtless suffice to inflame him, to prompt
him to draw his knife. But then, again, how was she to bring this
about--how was she to act? The proper course was evidently to warn
Ragu, to acquaint him with the name of the man whom he had been trying
to discover for three months past. Then, however, came a difficulty:
how was she to warn him, where, and by whom? At first she thought of
sending him an anonymous letter, and decided that she would cut the
words she needed out of some old newspaper, paste them on a sheet of
paper, and post the letter in the evening. She had, indeed, already
begun to cut out such words as she desired, when it suddenly occurred
to her that her plan might not prove efficacious, for Ragu might pay
little heed to a letter, whereas it was necessary to exasperate him. If
he were not excited, fired to the point of madness, perhaps he would
never strike. The truth must be cast at him like a blow--a whip stroke
in the face, and under such circumstances as might madden him. But whom
could she send? Whom could she choose to poison the man's mind? When
night came and she went to bed, she had grown convinced that there was
nobody whom she could employ, and that she herself must speak the fatal
words. Chance favoured her in this design. Her husband was absent,
and, on awaking at an early hour, she was able to go down and waylay
Ragu as he quitted the night shift. She had an excuse quite ready; she
would tell him that she wanted a woman to do some needlework, and had
thought of employing his wife, if he were willing to let her come.
That proposal would enable her to raise the subject which she had at
heart. And, indeed, at the first words that Fernande addressed to him
with respect to his wife, Ragu burst into invectives; and when she,
in a seemingly innocent way, declared that she imagined he had become
reconciled to the position, for she had heard that the child was to
be provided for by its father, Monsieur Luc, the man's fury became
uncontrollable. The die was cast, and it was certain that he would
wreak summary vengeance, for there was murder in his glance as he
wildly rushed away.

It was nearly nine o'clock, and the pale morning light of winter was
rising, when Luc was stabbed by Ragu. The former was about to pay his
usual morning visit to the school--his greatest daily pleasure--when
Ragu, who had been watching for him, secreted the while behind a clump
of spindle trees, suddenly sprang forward and thrust his knife into his
back, between his shoulders. Luc, standing at that moment on the very
threshold of the school, laughing with some of the little girls who
had come forward to meet him, gave a loud cry and fell to the ground,
whilst his assailant fled up the Bleuse Mountains, where he disappeared
amidst the rocks and the bushes. As it happened Sœurette had not yet
arrived; she was busy at the dairy on the other side of the park. The
children present fled in their terror, calling for help, and shrieking
that Ragu had just killed Monsieur Luc. Some minutes elapsed, however,
before some of the men of the works heard these calls and were able
to pick up the stricken man, who had swooned away. The blood that had
gushed from him already formed quite a pool, and the steps of the right
wing of the common-house, which the school occupied, seemed to have
been baptized with gore. For the time being nobody thought of pursuing
Ragu, who must have been far away already. The attention of one and all
was given to Luc, who, just as the men were about to carry him into a
hall adjoining the class-rooms, emerged from his swoon and gasped in a
faint, entreating voice; 'No, no! to my home, my friends.'

They had to obey him, and carry him to the pavilion on a stretcher;
but it was only with difficulty that they were able to lay him on his
bed, and then such was the agony he experienced that he again lost
consciousness.

At that moment Sœurette arrived. One of the little girls, retaining her
presence of mind, had gone to warn her at the dairy, whilst, on the
other hand, one of the workmen ran down to Beauclair in order to fetch
Doctor Novarre. When Sœurette entered the pavilion and saw Luc lying
there, with his face quite white and his body covered with blood, she
believed him to be dead. Thus she at once fell upon her knees beside
the bedstead, a prey to such keen grief that the secret of her love
escaped her. She took hold of one of Luc's inert hands and kissed it,
and sobbed, and stammered forth all the passion against which she
had battled, and which she had buried deep within her. In losing him
she felt that she was losing her own heart; she would love no more,
she would be unable to live another day. And amidst her despair she
did not perceive that Luc, upon whom her tears were falling, had at
last recovered consciousness, and was listening to her with infinite
affection, infinite tenderness. At last he faintly breathed the words,
'You love me. Ah! poor, poor Sœurette!'

Full of blissful surprise at finding him yet alive, Sœurette regretted
nought of her confession; rather was she delighted at no longer having
to lie to him, for she felt that her love was so great and so lofty it
would never bring suffering on him.

'Yes, I love you, Luc!' she gasped, 'but do I count, I? You live, and
that is sufficient. I am not jealous of your happiness. Oh, Luc, you
must live! you must live! and I will be your servant.'

At that tragic moment, when death seemed so near at hand, the discovery
of Sœurette's mute and absolute love, which had long surrounded and
accompanied him like that of some guardian angel, filled Luc with
immense but dolorous rapture.

'Poor, poor Sœurette! Oh, my divine, sad friend!' he murmured in his
failing voice.

But the door opened and Doctor Novarre entered in a state of keen
emotion. He immediately wished to examine the wound, with the
assistance of Sœurette, with whose skill as a nurse he was well
acquainted. Deep silence fell. There came a moment of inexpressible
anguish; then followed unhoped-for relief, a glow of hope. The knife
had struck the shoulder-blade and had swerved, reaching no vital
organ, but simply gashing the flesh. At the same time the wound was a
frightful one, and it seemed as if the bone might be broken, in which
event complications might arise. Even if there were no immediate danger
convalescence would at all events be a long time coming. Yet how joyful
was the thought that death had been averted!

Luc was holding Sœurette's hand and smiling feebly at the sight of her
happiness. 'And my good Jordan, does he know of it?' he asked.

'No, he knows nothing as yet; for three days past he has shut himself
up in his laboratory. But I will bring him to you. Ah! my friend, how
happy the doctor's assurance makes me!'

In her rapture Sœurette still let her hand rest in Luc's, when once
again the door of the room opened. And this time it was Josine who
entered. At the first news of the crime she had hastened to the spot,
distracted, wild with grief. That which she had feared had happened!
Some scoundrel had surprised and revealed her secret, and Ragu had
killed Luc, her husband, the father of her child. Her life was over,
there was nothing more for her to hide, she would die there, in her
real home.

Luc raised a light cry at the sight of her. And quickly dropping
Sœurette's hand, he held out both his arms.

'Ah! Josine,' he gasped, 'it is you--you have come back to me!'

Then, as she, staggering forward, sank down beside him, he understood
her anguish, and sought to reassure her. 'Do not grieve,' he said, 'you
have come back to me with the dear little one, and I shall live--the
doctor tells me so--live for both of you.'

She listened and drew a long breath, as though recovering life. Had she
then reached the realisation of her hopes, that which she had awaited
from life, which seems so harsh whilst it accomplishes its needful
work? He would live! And it was that abominable knife-thrust which
brought them together once more--they who were already for ever linked
one to the other.

'Yes, yes, I have come back to you, Luc,' she said, 'and it is all
over; we shall never part again since now we have nothing more to hide.
Remember that I promised to return to you whenever you might have need
of me, whenever I should no longer be a source of embarrassment to you.
All other ties are severed: I am your wife before one and all, and my
place is here, at your bedside.'

Luc was so moved, so thrilled with rapture, that tears gathered in his
eyes. 'Ah! dear, dear Josine, love and happiness have come with you.'

But all at once he remembered Sœurette, and then he raised his eyes and
saw her standing erect once more, on the other side of the bed; and
although she looked very pale she was smiling. With an affectionate
gesture he took hold of her hand again.

'My good Sœurette,' he said, 'this was a secret which I was compelled
to hide from you.'

She shivered slightly, then simply answered: 'Oh! I knew it, I had seen
Josine leave the pavilion one morning.'

'What! you knew it!'

Then he divined everything, and the compassion, the admiration, the
affection he felt for her became infinite. Her renunciation of hope,
the love which she still retained for him, and which she manifested in
boundless affection, in a gift of her whole life, touched him like an
act of the loftiest heroism. Drawing quite close to him she whispered:
'Have no fear, Luc, I knew it; and I shall never be aught but the most
devoted and most sisterly of friends.'

'Ah, Sœurette!' he repeated, in so faint a breath that he could
scarcely be heard, 'ah! my divine, sad friend!'

Noticing his exhaustion, Doctor Novarre intervened, and forbade
any further talking. The doctor smiled discreetly at all that he
had learnt at that bedside. It was very nice that the injured man
should have a sister, a wife to nurse him. But it was necessary to be
reasonable and to refrain from encouraging fever by excess of emotion.
Luc promised, however, that he would be very good; he spoke no more,
but only turned soft glances upon Josine and Sœurette, his two good
angels, who stood one on the right, the other on the left of his bed.

A long pause followed. The blood of the reformer had flowed, and this
was the Calvary, the passion whence triumph would arise. As the two
women moved gently around him the injured man opened his eyes to smile
at them again. Then he fell asleep, murmuring: 'Love has come at last,
and now we shall be the conquerors.'



V


Before long complications arose, and Luc barely escaped the clutches of
death. For a couple of days it was thought that he was dying. Josine
and Sœurette never quitted him, and Jordan came to seat himself beside
the bed of anguish, thus forsaking his laboratory, a thing which he had
not done since his mother's last illness. And how great was the despair
of those loving hearts which from hour to hour expected to see their
dear one drawing his last breath!

The knife-thrust which Ragu had dealt Luc had quite upset La Crêcherie.
Work went on in the mourning workshops, but at every moment the men
desired tidings. There was great solidarity among them, and all felt
an anxious affection for the victim of that crime, which did more
to tighten the bonds of fraternity between them than many years of
experimental humanitarianism. Even in Beauclair sympathy became
apparent; a great many people there felt for that young, handsome, and
active man, whose one crime, apart from his work of justice, consisted
in having loved a very charming woman, who had been incessantly reviled
and beaten by her husband. Briefly, nobody seemed to be scandalised at
seeing Josine instal herself at Luc's bedside. It was indeed thought
quite natural, for was he not the father of the child? And had they
not purchased at the cost of many tears the right to live together? On
the other hand, the gendarmes despatched after Ragu had found no trace
of him; for a fortnight all the researches proved fruitless, but at
last, in the depths of a ravine of the Bleuse Mountains, the remains of
a man, half devoured by wolves, were discovered; and in these remains
the searchers asserted that they could recognise the body of Ragu. It
was impossible to draw up a death certificate on such evidence, but a
legend arose to the effect that Ragu had perished either accidentally
or by suicide amidst the furious madness born of his crime. In this
case, if Josine were a widow, why should she not live with Luc? And why
should not the Jordans accept the situation? The union of the young
couple seemed so natural, so firm, so indissoluble, that later on the
idea that they were not legally married occurred to nobody.

At last, one bright February morning, Doctor Novarre declared that he
thought he might answer for Luc; and, indeed, a few days later the
latter was quite convalescent. Then Josine, who had not spared herself
throughout his illness, in her turn required to be nursed, for she
gave birth to a vigorous boy, named by his parents Hilaire. During the
weeks which followed, Luc often spent an hour, seated in an arm-chair,
near Josine's bed. The early springtide filled the room with sunshine;
on the table there was always a fresh bunch of lovely roses which the
doctor brought from his garden, like a prescription of youth, health,
and beauty, as he was wont to say. Between the parents was the cradle
occupied by little Hilaire, whom Josine herself nursed. Yet greater
strength and hope than they had previously known now flowered from
their lives in the person of that child. As Luc constantly repeated,
amidst the many plans for the future in which he indulged pending the
time when he might set to work once more, he was now at ease, convinced
that he would found the city of justice and peace, since in Josine
and Hilaire he had love--fruitful love--upon his side. Nothing is
founded without a child. A child is living work, the broadening and
the propagation of life, the assurance that to-morrow will duly follow
to-day. The mated couple alone brings life, alone works for human
happiness, and will alone save poor men from iniquity and wretchedness.

On the first day when Josine, erect once more, was able to begin her
new life by the side of Luc, he caught her in his arms, exclaiming:
'Ah! you are mine alone! your child is mine also! And now we are
perfected, and fear nothing more from fate!'

As soon as Luc was able to resume the management of the works,
the sympathy which had gone out to him on all sides helped him to
accomplish prodigies. Moreover, it was not only the baptism of blood
which brought about the success of La Crêcherie, a success which now
ever increased, continuously and invincibly. There was also a lucky
discovery: the mine once more became a source of great wealth, for they
fell at last upon considerable lodes of excellent ore, thus proving
that Morfain had been right. From that time forward iron and steel were
turned out of such excellent quality, and at such a low cost, that the
Abyss was even threatened in its manufacture of superfine articles.
All competition became impossible. And then there was also the effect
of the great democratic movement which now tended on all sides to an
increase in the means of communication, to an endless extension of
railway lines, and to the erection of bridges, buildings, whole cities
indeed, in which iron and steel were employed to a prodigious and ever
larger and larger extent. Since the days of the first Vulcans who had
smelted ore in a pit for the purpose of forging weapons to defend
themselves and conquer dominion over beings and things, the employment
of iron had been steadily spreading, and when its conquest by science
should be perfect, when it would be possible to work it for next to
nothing and adapt it to all usages, iron itself would become a source
of justice and peace. That, however, which more particularly brought
about the prosperity and triumph of La Crêcherie was its improved
management, into which there entered increase of truth, equity, and
solidarity. Its success had been certain from the day when it had been
founded on the provisional system of an association between capital,
labour, and intelligence; and the difficult days through which it had
passed, the obstacles of all kinds, the various crises which had been
deemed deadly, were simply so many inevitable jolts upon the road
during the first trying days of the advance, when it is necessary that
one should brace oneself for resistance if one desires to attain one's
goal. All this was now clearly manifest; the enterprise had ever been
full of life, laden with sap whence the harvests of the future would
spring.

The works were now like a practical lesson, a decisive experiment which
would gradually convince everybody. How was it possible to deny the
strength of that association of capital, labour, and intelligence when
the profits became larger from year to year, and the workmen of La
Crêcherie earned twice as much as those of other establishments? How
could one do otherwise than admit that eight hours', six hours', three
hours' work--work rendered attractive by variety, and accomplished in
bright, gay workshops with the help of machinery which children might
have directed--was the fundamental principle necessary for future
society, when one saw the wretched wage-earners of yesterday born
anew, becoming healthy, intelligent, cheerful, and gentle men again
as things progressed towards complete liberty and justice? How also
could one do otherwise than conclude in favour of the necessity of
co-operation which would suppress all intermediary parasitic growths,
mere trading in which so much wealth and strength is swallowed up, when
the general stores of La Crêcherie worked so smoothly, ever increasing
the comfort of those who yesterday had been famished, and loading
them with enjoyments hitherto reserved for the rich alone? How again
could one do otherwise than believe in the prodigies accomplished by
solidarity, which renders life so pleasant and makes it a continual
festival for one and all, when one attended the happy meetings at the
common-house, destined to become the people's royal palace, with its
libraries, its museums, its concert-halls, its gardens, and its many
diversions? And how could one do otherwise than renew the whole system
of educating and rearing children in such wise that this system should
no longer be based on a theory of the innate idleness of man, but on
his inextinguishable craving for knowledge? And how refuse to render
study agreeable and leave each pupil in possession of his individual
energy, and allow the two sexes to mingle from infancy--since they are
destined to share life side by side--when one beheld the prosperity of
the schools of La Crêcherie, whence all excessive book-learning was
banished, where lessons were mingled with play and rudimentary notions
of professional apprenticeship, so as to help each fresh generation
to draw nearer to that ideal community towards which mankind has been
marching for so many centuries?

Thus the extraordinary example which La Crêcherie day by day displayed
in the broad sunlight became contagious. There was no longer any
question of theories, but one of facts evident to the eyes of all.
And naturally the association gained more and more support; crowds of
fresh workmen presented themselves for admission, attracted by the
larger earnings, the increase of comfort; and new buildings arose on
all sides, continually adding themselves to those which had been first
erected. In three years the population was doubled, and the pace of the
progress was increased till it became one of incredible rapidity. This
was the dreamt-of city, the city of reorganised work, restored to its
status of nobility, the city of happiness at last conquered, springing
naturally from the soil around the works, which likewise grew and
spread, becoming, as it were, a metropolis, a central heart, the source
of life, dispensing and regulating social existence. The workshops,
the great halls became larger and larger until they covered acres
of ground, whilst the little bright, gay dwelling-houses, standing
amidst the greenery of their gardens, multiplied incessantly even as
the number of workers increased. And this overflowing wave of new
buildings advanced towards the Abyss, which it threatened to destroy
and submerge. At first, between the two establishments there had been
a great bare space made up of all the uncultivated land which Jordan
owned below the ridge of the Bleuse Mountains. Now, beyond the few
houses first built near La Crêcherie, there had come others and ever
others, lines of houses invading everything like a rising tide, which
only some two or three hundred yards separated from the Abyss. And
whenever the waves might advance against it, would it not be covered,
carried away, to be replaced by a triumphant florescence of health and
joy? Even Old Beauclair was threatened, for one part of the new city
was marching thither, and would sweep off that black and evil-smelling
den of the old-time workers, that nest of pain and pestilence, where
the wage-system lay at its last gasp under the crumbling ceilings of
the hovels.

One evening, when Luc stood gazing at his new city, which he could
already picture covering the whole estuary of the Brias gorges,
Bonnaire brought Babette, Bourron's wife, to him. Said she, with her
everlasting expression of good humour, 'It's like this, Monsieur Luc.
My man would very much like to come back to work at La Crêcherie.
Only he wasn't bold enough to come and speak to you himself, for he
remembers that he took himself off in a very wrong fashion. So I've
come for him.'

Then Bonnaire added: 'One ought to forgive Bourron. That wretched Ragu
led him astray. There's no malice in Bourron; he's only weak, and
perhaps we can still save him.'

'Oh, let him come back!' Luc gaily exclaimed. 'I do not desire the
death of a sinner--rather the reverse! How many there are who only take
to bad courses because they are led to them by their mates, idlers and
revellers whom they cannot resist! Bourron will be a good recruit;
we'll make an example of him for the benefit of the others.'

Never had Luc felt so happy. Bourron's return seemed to him a decisive
symptom, albeit the man had become a mediocre worker. But, then,
as Bonnaire said, would not his redemption be a victory over the
wage-system? And besides, this would mean another household in the new
town, another little wave added to all the others which helped to swell
the tide by which the old world would be swept away.

Some days later Bonnaire again came to ask Luc to admit one of the
men of the Abyss. On this occasion, however, the recruit was such a
pitiable one that the former master-puddler was not disposed to insist
on the matter.

'It's that poor Fauchard,' said Bonnaire; 'he's made up his mind at
last. He prowled about La Crêcherie on several occasions, as you may
remember; but he could come to no resolution, he was afraid to choose,
to such a degree had he been brutified, exhausted by excessive labour,
ever the same. He's no longer a man, you know; he's simply an old
warped bit of mechanism. I fear that we shall never get anything good
out of him.'

Luc was reflecting, recalling the first days that he had spent at
Beauclair. 'Ah! yes,' he said, 'I know; he has a wife called Natalie,
isn't that so? A woman of complaining mind, full of care, who is
always in search of credit. And he has a brother-in-law, Fortuné, who
when I first met him was only sixteen years old, and looked so pale,
so bewildered, so shattered already by mechanical toil! Ah! the poor
creatures! Well, let all of them come; why shouldn't they? This will be
another example, even if we cannot make Fauchard a free and cheerful
man again.'

Then in a jocular, joyful manner he added: 'This will mean another
family, another house added to the others. La Crêcherie is becoming
populous, eh? Do you know, Bonnaire, we are now on the high road to
that beautiful great city of which I used to speak to you at the very
beginning, when you were so incredulous! Do you remember? You were
anxious as to the result of the experiment; and if you remained on my
side it was chiefly out of gratitude. But are you convinced now?'

Bonnaire, who seemed somewhat embarrassed, did not immediately reply.
At length, in his usual frank way, he said: 'Is one ever convinced?
It's necessary that one should be able to touch the result with
one's finger. The works are prosperous, no doubt; our association
is growing, the men live in more comfort; there is a little more
justice and happiness. But you know my ideas, Monsieur Luc; it is
still the accursed wage-system, and I don't yet see any realisation of
Collectivism.'

It was only as a theorist that Bonnaire now defended himself. If he
did not give up his ideas, as he expressed it, he at least showed
admirable activity and courage in helping on the work which was going
forward. He was the hero-worker, the real leader, whose brotherly
example of solidarity had decided the battle in favour of La Crêcherie.
When he appeared in the workshops, looking so tall, so strong, and so
good-natured, all hands were stretched towards him. And he was more won
over to the cause than he was willing to admit, for it delighted him to
see that his comrades suffered less, tasted all sorts of delights, and
dwelt in healthy homes with flowers around them. After all it seemed as
if he would not go off without seeing the fulfilment of his life dream,
that dream of a world in which there would be less wretchedness and
more equity.

'Yes, yes, Collectivist society,' said Luc, laughing, for he knew
Bonnaire well, 'we shall bring it about, even in a better way perhaps
than many of its partisans imagine; and if we don't, our children will.
Be confident, Bonnaire, and remember that the future henceforth belongs
to us, since our town is growing, always growing.'

Then, with a broad gesture Luc pointed to the houses which stood among
the young trees, and whose roofs of coloured faïence showed so gaily
in the light of the setting sun. Ever and ever did he return to those
living houses which seemed to rise from the ground at his command, and
which he really pictured on the march like some pacific army which had
set forth to sow the future on the ruins of Old Beauclair and the Abyss.

If, however, the industrial workers of La Crêcherie alone had
triumphed, the result would simply have been a happy one, with
consequences still open to discussion. But it was rendered decisive
by the fact that the peasant workers of Les Combettes triumphed on
their side also in the association which had been formed between the
village and the factory. Here again there was only a beginning, but
how great was the promise of prodigious fortune! Since the day when,
realising that agreement was necessary if they were to struggle on and
live, Mayor Lenfant and his assessor Yvonnot had become reconciled, and
had prevailed on all the petty landowners of the village to combine
together in order to constitute one large estate of several hundreds
of acres, the land had developed extraordinary fertility. Previously
it had seemed as if it were becoming bankrupt, even like the great
plain of La Roumagne which had once been so fruitful, and which now
presented such a sorry spectacle with its poor, stunted, meagre crops.
In point of fact this was simply the effect of man's stubborn laziness
and ignorance, his adherence to old-fashioned methods, and the lack
of proper manure, machinery, and agreement. Thus what a lesson was
given to others when the peasants of Les Combettes began to cultivate
their land in common. They purchased manure cheaply and procured tools
and machinery at La Crêcherie in exchange for the bread, wine, and
vegetables with which they supplied it. Strength came to them now that
they were no longer isolated, but had formed a solid and henceforth
indestructible bond between the village and the factory. And this was
the long-dreamt-of reconciliation between peasant and mechanic, which
for so many years had seemed impossible: the peasant supplying the corn
that nourishes, and the other supplying iron and steel in order that
the land might be sown with corn. If La Crêcherie needed Les Combettes,
Les Combettes on the other hand could not have thriven without La
Crêcherie. At all events union was at last effected, there was a
fruitful alliance whence the happy community of to-morrow would spring.
And what a miraculous spectacle was presented by that plain, now
reviving to life. A short time previously it had been almost abandoned,
and now it overflowed with crops! Amidst the other stretches of land
stricken by disunion and incompetence, Les Combettes formed as it
were a little sea of rich verdure which the whole region contemplated
at first with stupefaction and then with envy. Such dryness, such
sterility yesterday, and so much vigour and abundance to-day! Why not
follow, then, the example of the folk of Les Combettes? Neighbouring
villages were already making inquiries, and showing a desire to join
the movement. It was said that the mayors of Fleuranges, Lignerolles,
and Bonneheux were drawing up articles of association and collecting
signatures. Thus the little green sea would soon grow, join other seas,
and spread its waves of greenery afar until the whole expanse of La
Roumagne would form but one sole domain, one sole pacific ocean of
corn, vast enough to nourish the whole of a happy people.

For pleasure's sake, Luc often took long walks through those fertile
fields, and he occasionally met Feuillat, Boisgelin's farmer, who
likewise strolled about, with his hands in his pockets, whilst
contemplating in his silent enigmatical way the growth of the fine
crops which sprang from that well-tilled land. Luc knew what a large
part Feuillat had had in prompting Lenfant and Yvonnot to take the
initiative, and he was aware that the farmer still advised them
nowadays. Thus the young man remained full of surprise at seeing in
what a lamentable condition the other left the land which he himself
farmed--the land belonging to La Guerdache, whose sorry fields looked
like an uncultivated desert beside the rich domain of Les Combettes.

One morning, as Luc and Feuillat were chatting whilst they sauntered
along the road which separated the two estates, the former could not
help remarking: 'I say, Feuillat, don't you feel ashamed at keeping
your land in such poor condition, when over the way your neighbours'
land is so admirably cultivated? Surely your own interest ought to urge
you to active and intelligent work, such as I know you to be quite
capable of.'

At first the farmer simply smiled; then he fearlessly spoke out: 'Oh,
Monsieur Luc! shame is far too fine a sentiment for such poor devils
as we are. As for my interest, it is just to get a living, and no
more, out of this land which does not belong to me. That's what I do;
I cultivate it just sufficiently to procure bread. I should simply be
a dupe if I were to work it properly, manure it and improve it; for
all that would only enrich Monsieur Boisgelin, who each time my lease
expires is free to turn me out of doors. No, no! To make a field a good
field it ought to belong to oneself, better still to everybody.'

Then he began to jeer at the folk who shouted to the peasants: 'Love
the land! Love the land!' No doubt he was willing to love it: but all
the same he wished to be loved in return, or rather he did not desire
to love it for the sake of others. As he repeated, his father, his
grandfather, and his great-grandfather had loved it in all good faith,
bending beneath the rod of those who exploited them, and never drawing
from it aught save wretchedness and tears. For his own part he would
have none of the system by which landlords ferociously imposed upon
their tenants that farming system which meant that the farmer was to
love and caress and fructify the soil in order to increase the owner's
wealth.

A pause followed. Then in a lower voice, with an expression of
concentrated ardour, Feuillat added: 'Yes, yes, the land to everybody,
so that one may love it again and cultivate it properly. For my part,
I'm waiting.'

Greatly struck by these words, Luc again glanced at the farmer. Close
as he might keep, he was evidently a man of keen intelligence. Behind
the peasant, who simply seemed unobtrusive and somewhat shy, Luc now
divined a skilful diplomatist, a keen-eyed precursor, one who gazed
into the future and helped on the experiment at Les Combettes with
a distant object, known to him alone, in view. Luc suspected the
truth, and, wishing to make certain on the point, he said: 'So, if
you leave your land in that condition, it is in part to make people
compare it with the neighbouring land and understand the reasons of the
difference. But is it not all a dream? Surely Les Combettes will never
invade and swallow up La Guerdache.'

Again did Feuillat break into a silent laugh. Then he contented himself
with saying: 'Something big would have to happen between now and then.
But, after all, who knows? I'm waiting.'

They took a few steps, and then, with a sweeping gesture which embraced
the whole scene, the farmer resumed: 'All the same, things are moving.
Do you remember what a horrid view one had from here with all those
little patches of ground which yielded such poor crops? And now just
look! With everything united in one estate, and cultivation in common
with the help of machinery and science, the crops overflow on all
sides. Ah, it is indeed a splendid sight!'

The ardent love which he had secretly retained for the soil was
manifest at that moment in the fire of his glance and the enthusiasm
of his voice. And Luc himself was impressed by the great gust of
fruitfulness which passed, quivering, over that sea of corn. If he
felt so strong and competent at La Crêcherie, it was because he now had
his granary and was assured of bread, through having added a community
of peasants to his community of industrial workers. And the delight
he experienced when he saw his city marching on, its waves of houses
ever advancing to the conquest of the Abyss and Old Beauclair, was
no greater than that which he felt when he came to view the fertile
fields of Les Combettes, which on their side were likewise marching
on, stretching into the neighbouring fields, and gradually spreading
out into an ocean of crops which would cover La Roumagne from one
to the other end. Here as there the effort was identical; the same
civilisation was coming--mankind was marching towards truth, justice,
peace, and happiness.

The first effect of La Crêcherie's success was to make the petty
factories of the region understand the advantage they would reap by
following its example and combining with it. The Chodorge works--nail
works which purchased all their raw material from their powerful
neighbours--were the first to come to a decision, allowing themselves
to be absorbed by La Crêcherie in the interest of both sides. Then
the Hauser works, which after manufacturing sabres had made scythes
and sickles their specialty, likewise joined the association, forming
as it were a natural adjunct of the great forge. Some difficulties
arose with another establishment, that of Mirande & Co., who built
agricultural machinery, for one of the two partners was a reactionist,
and fought against all novelties. But the position of the firm became
so critical that, fearing a catastrophe, he withdrew from it, and the
other partner hastened to save his works by merging them into those of
La Crêcherie. All the establishments thus drawn into the movement of
association and solidarity accepted the same statutes--a division of
profits based upon an alliance between capital, work, and intelligence.
They ended by constituting one sole family made up of various groups,
ever ready to welcome fresh adherents, and in this wise capable of
spreading indefinitely. And in this there was a re-casting of society,
which reconstituted itself on the basis of a new organisation of work,
tending to the freedom and happiness of mankind.

Beauclair was astonished and disconcerted, and its anxiety soon reached
a climax. What! would La Crêcherie grow without cessation, absorb
every little factory it might meet, this one, that one, and then
that other? And would the town itself and the immense plain beside
it be swallowed up and become the dependencies, the domain, the very
flesh of La Crêcherie? Men's hearts were disturbed, and their brains
began to wonder in what direction might lie the true interest of one
and all, and the possibility of fortune. The perplexity of the petty
traders, particularly the usual household purveyors, increased and
increased as day by day their takings diminished. It became a question
whether they would not be soon obliged to put up their shutters. The
sensation was general when people learnt that Caffiaux, the grocer and
taverner, had come to an arrangement with La Crêcherie by which his
establishment would be turned into a simple _dépôt_, a kind of branch
of the factory's general stores. Caffiaux had long been regarded as the
hireling of the Abyss, more or less a spy, one who poisoned the worker
with alcohol and then sold his secrets to his masters, for taverns are
the strongest pillars of the wage-system. At all events the man was
a suspicious character, one who ever watched to see which side would
prove victorious, and who was always prepared to commit some act of
treachery, readily turning his coat with the ease of one who is by no
means partial to defeat.

Thus the circumstance that he had so jauntily set himself on the side
of La Crêcherie greatly increased the anxiety of his neighbours, who,
for their own parts, wished to take up the most profitable position
as soon as possible. A pronounced movement of adherence to the
association then set in, and was destined to proceed more and more
rapidly. Beautiful Madame Mitaine, the bakeress, had not waited for
Caffiaux's conversion to express approval of the developments at La
Crêcherie, and she was quite disposed to enter the association, though
her establishment remained prosperous, thanks to the reputation for
beauty and kindliness which she had imparted to it. Butcher Dacheux
alone persevered in obstinate resistance, full of fury at the downfall
of all his cherished notions. He declared that rather than yield to the
current he would prefer to die amongst his last quarters of beef on the
day when he should no longer find a _bourgeois_ disposed to buy them at
their proper price. And it seemed indeed as if this would come to pass,
for his customers were gradually deserting him, and such were his fits
of wrath that assuredly he was threatened with some sudden stroke of
apoplexy.

One day Dacheux betook himself to Laboque's establishment, whither
he had begged Madame Mitaine also to repair. It was a question, said
he, of seeing to the moral and commercial interests of the whole
district. A rumour was current that the Laboques, in order to avoid
bankruptcy, were on the point of making peace with Luc and joining La
Crêcherie, in such a way as to become mere depositaries of its goods.
Since the works had been directly exchanging their iron and steel,
their tools and machinery for the bread of Les Combettes and the other
syndicated villages, the Laboques had lost their best customers, the
peasants of the environs, without counting the housewives and even
the _bourgeoises_ of Beauclair, who effected great savings by making
their purchases at the stores of La Crêcherie, which Luc by a happy
inspiration had ended by throwing open to everybody. This meant the
death of trade, such as it had hitherto been understood, such as it
was personified by the middleman who intervened between producer and
consumer, increasing the cost of life, and living like a parasite on
the needs of others. And thus amidst their deserted bazaar the Laboques
poured forth their lamentations.

When Dacheux arrived, the woman, dark and scraggy, sat behind her
counter doing nothing, for she lacked even the courage to knit herself
some stockings; whilst the man, with the eyes and the snout of a
ferret, came and went like a soul in distress, before the pigeon-holes
full of unsold, dust-covered goods.

'What's that I hear?' cried the butcher, flushing purple. 'You've
turned traitor, Laboque, so people say, you are on the point of
surrendering! To think of it! You who lost that disastrous lawsuit,
you who swore that you'd kill the bandit even if it should cost you
your skin! Would you now set yourself against us, then, and add to the
disaster?'

But Laboque, whose hopes were all shattered, burst into a rage. 'I've
quite enough worry; just leave me in peace,' he answered. 'As for that
idiotic lawsuit, you all urged me to it. And now you don't spend enough
money with me to enable me to make my monthly payments. So you need not
come taunting me about saving my skin.' And pointing to his dusty goods
he went on: 'My skin's there, and if I don't come to an arrangement the
bailiffs will be here next Wednesday. Yes, it's quite true, since you
want me to say it; yes, I'm negotiating with La Crêcherie, I've come to
an understanding with them, and I shall sign the papers to-night. I was
still hesitating, but I'm being worried beyond endurance.'

He sank upon a chair, whilst Dacheux, quite thunderstruck, and almost
choking, was only able to stammer oaths. Then in her turn Madame
Laboque, huddled up behind her counter, poured forth her plaint in
a low and monotonous voice: 'To have worked so hard, _mon Dieu_, to
have taken so much trouble when we first started in business and
went selling ironmongery from village to village! And then too, all
the efforts that we had to make here in order to open this shop, and
enlarge it from year to year! We were rewarded, no doubt; the business
prospered, and we dreamt of buying a house right in the country and
of retiring to it and living on our income. But now everything is
crumbling away, Beauclair has gone mad, though I can't yet understand
why, _mon Dieu_!'

'Why, why?' growled Dacheux; 'why, because the Revolution has come, and
the _bourgeois_ are cowards and don't even dare to defend themselves.
For my part, if I'm hustled too much I'll take my knives one morning,
and then you'll see something.'

Laboque shrugged his shoulders. 'A lot of use that would be!' he
exclaimed. 'It's all very well when folk are with one, but when a man
feels that to-morrow he will be left quite alone, the best is to go
where the others are going, however much it may enrage one to do so.
Caffiaux understood it well enough.'

'Ah! that filthy Caffiaux!' shouted the butcher, full of fury once
more. 'There's a traitor for you--a man who sells himself! You know
that Monsieur Luc, that bandit, gave him a hundred thousand francs to
desert us.'

'A hundred thousand francs,' repeated the ironmonger, whose eyes
glowed, although he feigned ironical scepticism. 'I only wish he'd
offer them to me, I'd take them at once. But no, it's stupid to be
obstinate, and the sensible course is always to side with the stronger.'

'How awful! how awful!' resumed Madame Laboque in her whining voice.
'The world is certainly being turned upside down; it is coming to an
end.'

Beautiful Madame Mitaine, who was Just then entering the shop, heard
those last words. 'What! the end of the world,' said she gaily, 'why
there were two babies, two fine big boys, born yesterday. And your
children, Auguste and Eulalie, how are they? Aren't they here?'

No, they were not there, they were never there. Auguste, now nearly
two-and-twenty, had acquired a passion for mechanical arts, holding
trade in horror; whilst Eulalie, who was a very sensible girl, already
a little housewife at fifteen, lived for the most part with one of her
uncles, a farmer of Lignerolles, near Les Combettes.

'Oh! the children,' said Madame Laboque, again in a complaining voice,
'one can't rely on the children.'

'They are all so ungrateful,' declared Dacheux, who was indignant at
finding no trace of his own nature in his daughter Julienne, a plump,
good-looking girl of a compassionate disposition, who, although she
had passed her fourteenth birthday, still played with all the little
ragamuffins that infested the Rue de Brias. 'When one relies on one's
children one may be sure of dying of misery and grief.'

'Well, I certainly rely on my Évariste, I do,' resumed the baker's
wife. 'He's close on twenty now, but we shan't quarrel because he has
refused to learn his father's calling. These young people naturally
grow up with ideas different from ours, for they are born for times
when we shall no longer be here. All I ask of my Évariste is to love me
well, and that he does.'

She then plainly stated her position to Dacheux. If she had come
to Laboque's shop at his request it was in order that it might be
fully understood between them that each tradesman of Beauclair ought
to retain full freedom of action. She did not as yet belong to the
association of La Crêcherie, but she relied upon joining it when she
might be so pleased, that is to say, when she might feel convinced that
she would be acting in the general interest as well as in her own.

'It's evident that we ought to be free,' put in Laboque by way of
conclusion. 'As I can't do otherwise, I shall sign to-night.'

Then Madame Laboque's moan began once more: 'I told you so, the world
is topsy-turvy, this is the end of it.'

'No, no!' the beautiful Madame Mitaine again exclaimed. 'How can the
world be coming to an end when our children are just getting to an age
when they may marry and have children of their own, who in their turn
will marry and have children too? The young people are pushing the
others aside, the world is being renewed, that's what it is--the end of
_a_ world, if you like.'

Those last words fell from her so sharply and decisively that Dacheux,
banging the door behind him, went off exasperated, with bloodshot eyes
and a quiver of the apoplexy by which he was threatened. As Madame
Mitaine had said, it was indeed the end of _a_ world, the end of
iniquitous and rotting trade, that trade which only creates the wealth
of a few at the expense of the greater number.

But Beauclair was to be upset by another and greater blow. Hitherto the
success of La Crêcherie had reacted only on establishments of a similar
nature, and on the petty traders, those who lived from day to day on
passing customers. Thus the emotion became great indeed when one fine
morning it was learnt that Mayor Gourier himself had been won over to
the new ideas. He--firmly established, needing nobody, as he declared
in a spirit of vanity--did not intend to join the association of La
Crêcherie. But he founded another one of a similar character, dividing
his large boot-works of the Rue de Brias into shares, on the basis of
a partnership between capital, work, and intelligence, amongst which
the profits were to be apportioned in three parts. This was simply the
establishment of a new group, what may be called the clothing group,
by the side of that which dealt in iron and steel. And the resemblance
between the two became the more pronounced when Gourier succeeded in
syndicating all the branches of the clothing industry: the tailors,
hatters, hosiers, linendrapers, and mercers. Then, too, yet another
group was spoken of, one which a big building contractor proposed to
establish by associating all the workers of the building trade, masons,
stonecutters, carpenters, locksmiths, plumbers, tilers, and painters.
And this group would assuredly absorb the architects and artists,
as well as the workers of the furniture trade, the cabinetmakers,
upholsterers, and bronze-workers, and in time even the clockmakers and
the jewellers. All this was simply logical; the example of La Crêcherie
had sown that fruitful idea of so many associations forming natural
groups, which grew up by themselves, in an imitative spirit, through a
craving to reach the greatest possible sum of life and happiness. The
law of human creation was working, and it would certainly work with
increasing energy if such were necessary for the happy existence of the
species. It already became apparent that a general bond was in process
of formation above these groups, a common link which would some day
join them all together in a vast system of social reorganisation, which
would prove the one code of the future community.

However, the idea of escaping from La Crêcherie by imitating it seemed
too good a one to have emanated from a man of Gourier's intellect. Thus
the general opinion was that it must have been suggested to the mayor
by Sub-Prefect Prefect Châtelard, who kept himself more and more in the
background and displayed more and more quiet indifference as Beauclair
gradually transformed itself. The guess was a correct one, for the
matter had been settled at a little _déjeuner_, when the mayor and the
sub-prefect had sat face to face with only the ever-beautiful Léonore
beside them.

'My dear fellow,' had said the sub-prefect, with his amiable smile, 'I
believe that we are at the end of our tether. Everything is going from
worse to worse in Paris, and the Revolution is approaching to sweep
away whatever remains of the old, rotting, ruinous social edifice.
Here, our chief man, Boisgelin, is a poor, vain creature, who will be
drained of his last copper by little Madame Delaveau. Nobody excepting
her husband is ignorant of what becomes of the money that he still
makes at the Abyss in his heroic struggle against bankruptcy. And
you'll see what a disaster there will be presently. So it would really
be foolish if one did not think of oneself if one does not wish to be
dragged down with the others.'

At this Léonore showed some anxiety. 'Are you, yourself, threatened, my
friend?' she asked.

'I? Oh, no! Who thinks of me? No Government will trouble about my
paltry self, for I am clever enough to do as little as possible in
the way of administrative duties, and I am always of precisely the
same opinion as my superiors, whoever they may be. I shall die here,
forgotten and happy, when the last Ministry collapses. But it is of you
that I am thinking, my good friends.'

Thereupon he explained his ideas and enumerated all the advantages
that would accrue from anticipating the Revolution by making a
second Crêcherie of the Gourier boot-works. The profits would not be
diminished--on the contrary. Besides, he was convinced--he was too
intelligent, said he, to fail to understand the truth--the future lay
in that direction, reorganised labour would end by sweeping the old
iniquitous _bourgeoise_ society away. As Châtelard proceeded it became
manifest that in that peaceful, sceptical functionary who deliberately
preserved an attitude of absolute inactivity, there had sprung up a
genuine Anarchist, though in public he carefully kept this concealed
beneath a demeanour of diplomatic reserve.

'You know, my dear Gourier,' he concluded with a laugh, 'all this won't
prevent me from declaring myself openly against you when you have gone
over to the new community. I shall say that you are a traitor or that
you have lost your reason. But I shall embrace you whenever I come
here, for you will have played them all a fine trick, which will bring
you in a deal of money. You'll see what faces they'll pull!'

All the same, Gourier was quite scared by the other's suggestions. He
did not consent, but argued the matter at great length. The whole of
his past life rose up in protest. He rebelled at the idea of becoming
nothing more than the partner of hundreds of workers, of whom hitherto
he had been absolute master. Beneath his heavy exterior, however,
there was a very shrewd business mind; he fully understood that he
would risk nothing by the change, but, on the contrary, would assure
his establishment against all the dangers of the future should he
adopt the advice of Châtelard. Besides, he himself had been touched
by the passing gale, that exaltation, that passion for reform, whose
contagious fever at times of Revolution transports the very classes
which are about to be despoiled. Gourier, indeed, ended by believing
that the other's idea was his own, even as Léonore, by the advice of
her friend Châtelard, repeated to him every morning, and thus he at
last set to work.

The whole _bourgeoisie_ of Beauclair was scandalised. Deputations
called upon Judge Gaume to beg him to intervene with the mayor, since
the sub-prefect, anxious to avoid compromising the Government, had
formally declined to meddle in this sorry affair, which he proclaimed
to be scandalous. Judge Gaume now led a very retired life, seeing
virtually nobody since his daughter Lucile, compromised it seemed
beyond remedy by an intrigue with a notary's clerk, had been obliged
to seek a refuge with him. On being approached he followed the same
course as Châtelard, and showed great unwillingness to go to the mayor
with representations which the latter would doubtless take in very bad
part. It was then resolved to bring pressure to bear upon the judge.
Captain Jollivet, his son-in-law, after Lucile's flight from her home,
had, with growing wrath, thrown himself into reactionary courses. He
contributed such violent articles to the 'Journal de Beauclair' that
Lebleu, the printer and proprietor, becoming anxious at the turn which
things were taking, feeling that it was necessary to be on the side
of the stronger, and thus pass from the Abyss to the Crêcherie party,
one day closed his door to him. The captain, thus disarmed and reduced
to idleness, spent his time in airing his futile rancour abroad, when
the idea suddenly occurred to his fellow-townsmen that he alone might
compel the judge to range himself on their side. As a matter of fact
the captain had not broken off all intercourse with his father-in-law;
they exchanged salutes whenever they met. Accordingly, on being
entrusted with the delicate mission, Jollivet presented himself at
the judge's house in the most ceremonious fashion, and two long hours
elapsed before he came out of it again. It was then learnt that he had
only been able to extract some evasive replies from his father-in-law,
but that he had become reconciled with his wife. On the following day
she returned to the conjugal roof, the captain having forgiven her on
her solemn promise that she would never transgress again. All Beauclair
was stupefied by this _dénouement_ to a very scandalous business, and
the affair ended in a great outburst of laughter.

It was the Mazelles who ultimately succeeded in drawing from Gaume an
expression of his views, and this purely by chance, without having
been entrusted with any mission whatever. As a rule the judge went out
every morning and made his way to the Boulevard de Magnolles, a long,
deserted avenue, where he walked up and down in a gloomy reverie,
with his head bent and his hands clasped behind him. He stooped as if
beneath some final collapse, as if weighed down by the failure of his
whole life, the harm he had done, or the good which he had found he
could not do. And whenever he raised his eyes for a moment and gazed
far away, he seemed to be looking and waiting for something which did
not come, which perchance he would never see. Now one morning, on the
Boulevard de Magnolles, the Mazelles, who had risen early to go to
mass, mustered sufficient courage to approach the judge in order to ask
him his opinion on public affairs, so greatly did they fear that these
would lead to some disaster for themselves.

'Well, Monsieur le Président, and what do you think of all that is
happening?' asked Monsieur Mazelle.

The judge raised his head, and for a moment gazed into the distance.
Then, reverting to his torturing reverie, thinking aloud as though
nobody were listening to him, he said: 'I say that the hurricane is a
long time coming--yes, the hurricane of truth and justice which will
end by sweeping this abominable world away.'

'What! what!' stammered the Mazelles, thunderstruck, and imagining that
they had misunderstood him. 'You want to frighten us, eh, because you
think that we are not over-brave? That's in a measure true, and people
tease us about it.'

But Gaume had recovered his self-possession, and as soon as he
recognised the Mazelles, who stood before him scared, with pale faces,
perspiring with anxiety for their money and their idle lives, his lips
became curved into an expression of disdainful irony. 'What do you
fear?' he resumed; 'the world will well last another twenty years,
and if you are still alive then you will console yourselves for the
_ennuis_ of the Revolution by witnessing some very interesting things.
It is your daughter who ought to think of the future.'

At this Madame Mazelle sorrowfully exclaimed: 'Ah! that's the very
thing that Louise does not think about--ah! not at all. She is scarcely
thirteen as yet, and when she hears us talking of what goes on, as we
naturally do from morning till evening, she finds it very funny. While
we despair she simply laughs. Whenever I say to her, "You wretched
girl, why, you won't have a penny," she jumps about like a goat, and
answers: "Oh! I don't mind that--no, not a bit; I shall be all the
merrier!" But, all the same, she's a very dear girl, although she does
so little of what we desire.'

'Yes,' said Gaume; 'she dreams of mapping out her life for herself.
There _are_ girls like that.'

Mazelle remained perplexed, for he feared that the judge was again
poking fun at him. The idea that he had made a fortune in ten years,
that he had since been leading the delightful life of sloth of which he
had dreamt already in his youth, and that his felicity might now come
to an end, that he might, perhaps, be compelled to work again if work
should become the general rule, filled him with ceaseless, intolerable
anguish, which was like a first punishment for his sins.

'But the Rentes, Monsieur le Président, what would become of them,
in your opinion, if all those Anarchists should succeed in turning
the world topsy-turvy? As you may remember, that Monsieur Luc, who is
behaving so badly, used to make fun of us, saying that the Rentes would
be suppressed. In that case they may as well cut our throats.'

'Sleep in peace, I tell you,' Gaume repeated with quiet irony, 'the new
social fabric will feed you if you won't work.'

Then the Mazelles went off to church, where they now burnt tapers to
the Virgin in the hope of inducing her to cure Madame Mazelle; for
Doctor Novarre had one day been brute enough to tell the old lady that
she was not ill at all. Not ill, indeed! when she had been nursing her
illness so lovingly for so many years--that illness which was her very
life--to such a point had she made it her occupation, her joy, her
_raison d'être_! If the doctor forsook her it must be that he deemed
her incurable; at which thought, full of terror, she had addressed
herself to religion, in which she now found great relief.

There was another promenader on the Boulevard de Magnolles, that desert
whose quietude was so seldom disturbed by any passer-by. This was Abbé
Marle, who came thither to read his breviary. But he often let the
hand which held the book fall beside him, whilst still slowly walking
on, absorbed, like the judge, in a gloomy reverie. Since the last
events, those incidents of the evolution which was bearing the town
towards a new destiny, his church had become still emptier. By way of
congregation, there only remained some very old women of the people,
dull-witted, obstinate creatures, and a few _bourgeoises_ who supported
religion because they deemed it to be the last rampart of fine society
which was now crumbling to pieces. When the last of the faithful should
desert the Catholic churches, leaving them to brambles and nettles
like the ruins of a dead social system, another civilisation would
begin. And with this threat above his head, the presence of the few
_bourgeoises_ and old women of the people in no wise consoled Abbé
Marle, who felt that the void around him was ever increasing. Léonore,
the mayor's wife, looked very decorative, no doubt, at high mass on
Sundays, and opened her purse widely to contribute to the expenses of
public worship; but he knew her indignity, her life of sin, which the
whole town accepted, and over which he himself had been compelled to
cast the cloak of his holy office, though he regarded that life as one
leading to eternal perdition, for which he himself would be accounted
responsible. And still less did the support of the Mazelles content
him. They were so childish and so basely egotistical. If they came to
him, it was solely in the hope of extracting some personal felicity
from heaven. Even as they had invested their money, so did they invest
their prayers--that is, with the object of deriving Rentes from them on
high. And one and all were the same in that dying society, all lacked
the true faith which in the first centuries had given Christianity its
force, all lacked the spirit of renunciation and absolute obedience--a
spirit which was more than ever necessary nowadays if the power of the
Church was to be maintained. Thus the priest no longer hid it from
himself--the days were numbered, and if God in His mercy did not soon
call him hence, he would, perhaps, behold the awful catastrophe--the
steeple of his church falling, bursting through the roof of the nave,
and crushing the altar of the Divinity.

It was in such sombre reveries that he indulged for hours whilst he
walked about the Boulevard de Magnolles. He kept them well within him,
and affected to remain brave and haughty, full of disdain for passing
events, under the pretext that the Church was the mistress of eternity.
But whenever he met Hermeline the schoolmaster, who was in a continuous
rage over the successes of La Crêcherie, and ready to go over to the
reactionists in order to save the Republic, he no longer discussed
things with his former bitterness, but declared that he placed his
trust in the Divinity, who must certainly be allowing these Anarchist
saturnalia with the object of ultimately striking down the enemies of
religion, and thus making it triumphant. Doctor Novarre jestingly said
that the Abbé abandoned Sodom on the eve of the rain of fire. By Sodom
he meant Beauclair, that plague-spot, _bourgeois_ Beauclair, devoured
by egotism, the town condemned to be destroyed and of which the earth
must be purified, if on its site one desired to see the city of health
and delight, justice and peace arise. Every symptom pointed to the
approach of the final rending: the wage-system was at its last gasp,
the distracted _bourgeoisie_ was passing over to the revolutionists,
the despairing desire to save something of one's interests was bringing
all the living strength of the country over to the conquerors; and as
for what remained, the scattered, worn-out, unusable remnants of the
old system, they would be swept away by the wind. The radiant Beauclair
of to-morrow was already emerging from the ruins; and when Abbé Marle,
as he strolled under the trees of the Boulevard de Magnolles, let his
breviary fall, and slackening his pace, half-closed his eyes, it was
assuredly a vision of that coming city that arose before him and filled
him with such intense bitterness.

At times, Judge Gaume and Abbé Marle met in the course of those silent
solitary walks. At first they did not see one another, but walked on
with lowered heads, so absorbed in the contemplation of what they
pictured that nothing of their surroundings remained visible to them.
Each on his own side chewed the cud of his own despair--the one his
regret for the world which was disappearing, the other his appeal to
the world which was now rising from the ground. Exhausted religion was
unwilling to die; justice, awaiting birth, was in despair that its
advent should be so long delayed. However, the two men at last raised
their heads, and recognised one another. Then it became necessary for
them to exchange a few words.

'This is very gloomy weather, Monsieur le Président. We shall have some
rain,' the priest would say.

'I fear so, Monsieur l'Abbé,' replied the judge. 'It is quite cold for
the month of June.'

'Ah! how can it be otherwise? The seasons are all out of order now.
There is no equilibrium left.'

'True; yet life goes on. The good sun will perhaps set everything right
again.'

Then each resumed his solitary perambulations, sank into his
reflections, carrying hither and thither the eternal battle between the
past and the future.

It was, however, especially at the Abyss that one felt the effects
of the evolution of Beauclair which the reorganisation of labour was
gradually transforming. At each fresh success achieved by La Crêcherie
Delaveau had to display more activity, intelligence, and courage; and
naturally everything which contributed to the prosperity of the rival
works to him brought disaster. Thus the discovery of excellent lodes of
ore in the once-abandoned mine dealt him a terrible blow, since it so
greatly reduced the price of raw material. He could no longer continue
struggling so far as commercial iron and steel were concerned. And the
manufacture of guns and projectiles likewise suffered. There had been
a marked falling off in orders since the money of France had been more
particularly spent on manufactures that symbolised peace and social
solidarity--such as railways, bridges, structures of all kinds in which
iron and steel triumphed. The worst was that the orders for ordnance,
which went to only a few establishments, no longer sufficed to enable
all of them to pay their way, and, if the market was to be cleared,
one of them at least must be killed. The least firmly established of
all being at that moment the Abyss, it was the latter which the other
competing foundries savagely resolved to destroy.

The difficulties of the Abyss were becoming the greater since its
workmen no longer remained faithful to it. Ragu's attempt to kill Luc
had thrown the comrades that he left behind him into confusion. And
when Bourron, converted, brought round to reason, had returned to La
Crêcherie followed by Fauchard, a general movement set in, most of
the other men asking themselves why they should not follow Bourron's
example, since so many advantages awaited them yonder. The success of
Luc's experiment was now evident; the men employed at La Crêcherie
earned twice as much as at the Abyss, and yet they only worked eight
hours. And, besides, there were other attractions--the pleasant little
houses, the schools where the children learned things so well and so
merrily, the common-house which was ever _en fête_, and the general
stores, whose prices were fully a third lower than those of other
places, the whole tending to increase of health and increase of comfort.

Nothing is of any avail against figures. The men of the Abyss, wishing
to earn as much as those of La Crêcherie demanded a rise in wages. As
it was impossible to grant this demand, many of them naturally went
off. And, finally, Delaveau was paralysed by the lack of a reserve
fund. He did not yet confess himself conquered; he would have held
out for a long time, and would, in his own opinion, have ended by
triumphing if he had possessed a few hundred thousand francs to help
him to pass through this crisis, which he obstinately believed to be
a temporary one. Only how was he to continue fighting? how was he to
face pay-days when money failed him? Moreover, the money which he had
already borrowed was proving a crushing charge on the business. Yet he
struggled on heroically, ever erect, devoting all his intelligence,
his very life, to his work, in the hope that he might still save the
crumbling past which he supported, and that he might wring from the
capital entrusted to him the revenue that he had promised.

Delaveau's worst sufferings, indeed, arose from the fact that he
could no longer hand Boisgelin the profits which he had covenanted to
extract from the business, and his defeat became materialised in the
most cruel fashion on the days when he was compelled to refuse his
cousin money. Although on the last occasion when accounts had been
balanced the position had proved to be disastrous, Boisgelin would in
no respect curtail his expenditure at La Guerdache. In this matter
he was inflamed by Fernande, who treated her husband like an ox at
the plough, one that needed to be goaded till it bled in order to
discharge its work properly. Never had the young woman shown herself
more ardent, more insatiable than now. She was consumed by a passion
for excesses. There was something wild in her glance, something that
suggested a desire for the impossible. Her acquaintances felt anxious
about her, and Sub-Prefect Châtelard confidentially told Mayor Gourier
that the little woman would assuredly end by perpetrating some great
piece of folly, from which all of them would suffer. Hitherto she
had contented herself with changing her home into a hell by urging
Boisgelin upon her husband, pressing him with continual demands for
money, whereby Delaveau was thrown into such a state of exasperation
that he even continued growling at night when resting his head on the
conjugal pillow. Fernande, by her remarks, maliciously kept his wound
open. Nevertheless, he still adored her, set her upon one side like an
innocent, immaculate being whom it was impossible to suspect.

November came with intense early cold. The payments which fell due
that month were so large that Delaveau fancied he could feel the very
ground he walked upon trembling beneath him. He had not the necessary
amount of money in the safe. On the evening before the day on which
the payments had to be made he shut himself up in his private room
to reflect and write some letters, whilst Fernande went to dine at
La Guerdache, whither she had been invited. Though she was unaware
of it, he himself had gone thither in the morning, and had had a
decisive conversation with Boisgelin, in which, after plainly stating
the terrible position, he had at last prevailed on him to reduce his
expenditure. He meant to limit him to a proper allowance for several
years, and had even advised him to sell La Guerdache. And now, alone
in his private room, Delaveau walked about slowly, every now and
then mechanically stirring the large coke fire which was burning in
a kind of stove before the chimney-piece. The only possible means of
salvation was to secure time: he must write to the creditors, who
could not possibly desire to see the works closed. However, he did not
hurry about it; he would write his letters after dinner. Meantime, he
continued thinking whilst going from one window to the other, ever
returning to the one whence he could see the far-spreading lands of La
Crêcherie, even to the distant park and the pavilion where Luc resided.
The cold, frosty atmosphere was very clear, and the sun was setting in
a sky as pure as crystal, a pale golden glow bringing the growing town
into delicate relief against a purple background. Never had Delaveau
seen it so plainly. It seemed to palpitate with life; he could have
counted the light slender branches of the trees, and he was able to
distinguish the smallest details of the houses, down to the decorations
of faïence which rendered them so gay. There came a moment when, under
the oblique rays of the sun, all the windows began to flame and sparkle
like hundreds of bonfires. It was like a triumph, a glory. And Delaveau
remained there, drawing the cretonne curtains aside, and gazing at that
triumph with his face close to the window-pane.

Even as Luc over yonder, at the other end of the lands of La
Crêcherie, occasionally watched his town marching on, spreading out
and threatening the Abyss with invasion, so Delaveau on his side often
came to gaze at it, and found it ever growing, threatening him with
conquest. How many times of recent years had he not lingered at that
window, and on each occasion he had seen the rising tide of houses
growing larger and drawing nearer to the Abyss. It had started from a
remote point of a great stretch of uncultivated, deserted land; one
house had appeared there like a little wave, then another, and another.
And those waves had covered the whole space before them, and now they
were only a few hundred yards away, and were rolling in a sea of
incalculable power, ready to carry off everything which might oppose
them. To-morrow would witness an irresistible invasion; all the past
would be swept away, the Abyss and Beauclair, too, would be replaced by
the young and triumphant city. At one moment, when a very severe crisis
had fallen on La Crêcherie, Delaveau had hoped that the advance would
stop, but before long the new town had resumed its march so impulsively
that the old walls of the Abyss were now already shaking. Yet he would
not despair; he tried to stiffen himself against the evidence of facts,
and flattered himself that he would find the necessary dyke and rampart
in his own energy.

That particular evening, however, he was enervated by anxiety, and
began to feel some covert regrets. Had he not formerly made a mistake
in letting Bonnaire take himself off? He remembered certain prophetic
words spoken by that strong, yet simple, man at the time of the great
strike. And it was on the morrow of that strike that Bonnaire, like a
good worker, had helped to found La Crêcherie. Since then the Abyss had
scarcely ever ceased to decline: Ragu had besmirched it with attempted
murder; Bourron, Fauchard, and others were quitting it as they might
have quitted an accursed ruin-breeding spot. And afar off the new town
was still flaming in the sunlight. At the sight of it sudden anger
seized upon Delaveau--anger whose violence restored him to himself, to
the beliefs of his whole life. No, no! he had been right, the truth was
in the past; nothing could be extracted from men unless one bent them
beneath the authority of dogma; the wage-system remained the true law
of labour, and beyond its pale there could be naught save madness and
catastrophe. Then Delaveau, intent on seeing nothing more, drew the
large cretonne curtains together, lighted his little electric lamp, and
again began to reflect as he strolled about his well-closed room, which
the glowing stove rendered extremely warm.

At last, after dinner, Delaveau sat down at his writing table to attend
to his letters, in accordance with the plans which he had been maturing
for hours, plans whereby he hoped to save the business. Midnight
struck and he still sat there, completing that worrying and difficult
correspondence. And doubts had now come to him, he was again possessed
by fear. Did salvation really lie in the direction he was taking? What
would he be able to do, even if the delays he asked for should be
granted? Exhausted by the superhuman effort he was making to save the
Abyss, he at last bowed his head and let it rest upon his hands. And
thus he remained, deep in anguish. But at that same moment the rattle
of a carriage was heard, and words rang out. Fernande had just returned
from the dinner at La Guerdache, and was sending the servants to bed.

When she entered her husband's private room it was with hasty gestures
and excited speech, like a woman who is beside herself, one who has
been restraining and nursing her anger for hours.

'Good heavens, how hot it is here! How can one live with such a fire?'

Then sinking back in an armchair she unclasped and threw off the
magnificent furs which covered her shoulders, and appeared in all her
marvellous beauty, gowned in silk and white lace, with arms and bosom
bare. Her husband expressed no surprise at her luxurious ways--he did
not even notice them--he loved her solely for herself, her beauty; and
passion always rendered him obedient to her whims, deprived him of
both foresight and strength. Never, too, had a more intoxicating charm
emanated from her person than at this period.

That evening, however, when Delaveau, with his head still buzzing,
looked up at her, he became anxious: 'What is the matter with you, my
dear?' he asked.

It was evident that she was greatly upset. Her large dark blue eyes,
which as a rule had such a caressing expression, now glowed with a
sombre fire. Her little mouth, which usually smiled in such a tenderly
deceitful way, opened, showing her strong teeth, whose lustre nothing
could tarnish, and which seemed ready to bite. And the whole of her
face, which displayed such a charming oval under her black hair, was
swollen as by a craving for violence.

'What is the matter with me?' she ended by saying, whilst she still
quivered, 'Nothing.'

Silence fell again, and amidst the lifeless quietude of that winter
night one heard the growling of the busy Abyss, the blows of whose
hammers continuously shook the house. As a rule the Delaveaus remained
unconscious of it, but that night, in spite of the falling off in
business, the huge steam-hammer had been set to work to forge the tube
of a great gun in all haste; and the ground quaked, the vibrations of
each blow seemed to resound in that very room, coming thither along the
light wooden gallery which connected it with the works.

'Come, there is something the matter with you,' Delaveau resumed. 'Why
won't you tell me what it is?'

A gesture of wrathful impatience escaped Fernande, who replied: 'Let us
go to bed, that will be better.'

Nevertheless she did not stir; with feverish hands she continued
twisting her fan, whilst her breath came short and quick, and her bosom
heaved. At last she blurted out what was stifling her.

'So you went to La Guerdache this morning?'

'Yes, I went there,' answered Delaveau.

'And what Boisgelin has just told me is true, then? The works are in
danger of bankruptcy, we are on the eve of ruin--such ruin, indeed,
that I shall have to content myself with woollen gowns and dry bread!'

'I had to tell him the truth.'

Fernande was trembling, and had to restrain herself from bursting
forth into reproaches and insults at once. It was all over, her life
of enjoyment was threatened--nay, ended. No more festivities, neither
dinners, nor balls, nor hunts, would be given at La Guerdache. Its
doors would be closed to her, for had not Boisgelin confessed that
he would perhaps be compelled to sell the property? And her dream
of returning to Paris with millions to squander was ended also. All
that she had imagined she held within her grasp, fortune, luxury, and
pleasure, had crumbled to pieces. Nought but ruin encompassed her,
and that wretched Boisgelin had increased her exasperation by his
supineness, his cowardice in bending his head beneath the disaster.

'You never tell me anything about our affairs,' she continued bitterly.
'I'm treated as if I were a fool. That news fell on me as if the very
ceilings were coming down. But if things are like that what are we
going to do, just tell me?'

'We shall work,' Delaveau simply answered; 'there is no other means of
salvation possible.'

But she did not hear his last words, she had ceased to listen. 'Did you
for a moment imagine,' said she, 'that I should consent to remain with
nothing to wear, to trudge about in worn-out boots and begin afresh
that wretched life which I remember like a nightmare? Ah, no! I'm not
like you others, I won't have it, I won't. You will have to arrange
something, you and Boisgelin between you, for I won't be poor again.'

Then she went on pouring forth all that was distracting her mind.
There was her wretched youth, when living with her mother, the music
teacher, she had failed to capture the prize which her great beauty
had seemed to promise her--for after seduction she had been abandoned.
And following upon that odious adventure, the memory of which she hid
deep within her, had come her marriage, all calculation and diplomacy,
the acceptance of that ugly insignificant Delaveau whom she had taken
because she felt the need of some support, a husband whom she might
put to use. And then had come a lucky stroke, the acquisition of the
Abyss, the success of her plans, her husband procuring victory for her,
Boisgelin conquered, La Guerdache and every luxury and enjoyment at her
disposal. Twelve years had followed, replete with all the pleasures
that she had tasted there, like the enjoyer, the perverter she was,
satisfying her endless appetites and the dark rancour amassed within
her since childhood, happy in lying, betraying, bringing ruin and
disorder with her, and, in particular, exulting over the tears which
she drew from Suzanne's eyes. But now, to think that this was not to
last, that she was destined to relapse, vanquished, into the poverty of
her former days!

'You must arrange something--arrange something,' she repeated. 'I
won't go bare; I won't dispense with anything to which I have been
accustomed!'

Delaveau, growing impatient, shrugged his sturdy shoulders. He was
still resting his massive bulldog head, with projecting jaws, upon
his two fists, whilst looking at her with his big dark eyes, his face
reddened the while by the great heat of the fire.

'You were right, my dear,' said he, 'don't let us talk of these
matters, for you seem to me to be scarcely reasonable to-night. I am
very fond of you, as you know, and am ready to make any sacrifice to
spare you suffering. But I hope that you will resign yourself to doing
as I myself intend to do. I mean to fight as long as there is breath
in my body. If necessary I shall get up at five in the morning, live
on a crust of bread, give my whole day to work, and no doubt I shall
go to bed at night feeling quite content. Besides, what if you do have
to wear more simple gowns, and have to go out on foot! Only the other
evening you yourself were telling me how all these pleasures, ever the
same, wearied and disgusted you!'

This was true. Fernande's blue, caressing eyes darkened till they
almost became black as she thought of it. For some time past she had
failed to satisfy her passion for enjoyment. Though she was unwilling
to give up her present life, it palled upon her. She was full of
rancour against both her husband and her lover, who no longer amused
her, and she often wondered wrathfully whether she would ever feel
amused again. Thus, it was with insulting contempt that she had greeted
the lamentations of Boisgelin when the latter had told her of his
despair at being compelled to cut down his expenses. And this also
was why she had returned home in such a passion, eager to bite and to
destroy.

'Yes, yes,' she stammered, 'those pleasures which are always the same!
Ah! it isn't you who'll ever give me any new ones!'

In the works the heavy blows of the steam hammer still resounded,
making the ground tremble. Long had that hammer forged delight for her,
by wringing from steel the wealth she coveted, whilst the grimy flock
of toilers gave their lives in order that her own might be one of full
and free enjoyment. For a moment she listened to the dolorous commotion
of labour sounding amidst the heavy silence. Then, with her savage
hatred increasing, she turned upon her husband. 'It is all your fault
if this has happened!' she cried, 'I told Boisgelin so. If you had
begun by strangling that wretched Luc Froment, we should not now be on
the eve of ruin. But you have never known how to conduct business.'

At this Delaveau abruptly rose from his chair, and, resisting the anger
which was gaining on him, retorted, 'Let's go to bed. If we went on
discussing, you would end by making me say things which I should regret
afterwards.'

But she did not stir; she continued speaking so bitterly, so
aggressively, accusing her husband of having wrecked her life, that he,
on his side, waxing brutal, at last exclaimed: 'Why, when I married
you, my dear, you hadn't a halfpenny; it was I who had to buy you some
clothes. You were on the point of falling to the streets, and where
would you have been now?'

At this, thrusting her face and bosom forward, she answered, with a
murderous glance, 'What! do you imagine that, beautiful as I was, a
prince's daughter, I should have accepted such a man as you, ugly,
common, and without position, if I had only had bread? Just look at
yourself, my friend! I took you because you promised to win a fortune,
a royal position for me. And if I tell you this it is because you have
kept none of your engagements.'

Delaveau was now standing before her, letting her talk on, whilst
clenching his fists and striving to retain his _sangfroid_.

'You hear!' she repeated, with furious obstinacy, 'none of your
engagements--none! No more with Boisgelin than with me, for it's
certainly you who have ruined the poor fellow. You prevailed on him
to trust his money to you; you promised him a fabulous income, and
now he won't oven have enough money left him to buy a pair of shoes.
When a man isn't capable of managing a large business, my friend, he
remains a petty clerk, and lives in a hovel with a wife ugly enough
and stupid enough to wash a pack of children, and mend their socks.
Yes, bankruptcy has come, and it is your fault; you hear me, your
fault--yours! yours alone!'

Delaveau was unable to restrain himself any longer. Those savage words
tortured him as if a knife had been turned round and round in his heart
and conscience. To think that he had loved that woman so well, and to
hear her speak of their marriage as a base bargain, in which on her
side there had only been so much necessity and calculation! For nearly
fifteen years he had been striving so loyally and so heroically to
keep the promise he had made his cousin, and yet she accused him of
incapacity and lack of business knowledge! He caught hold of her bare
arms with both hands, and shook her, saying in a low tone, as if he
feared that the sound of his own voice might unhinge him, 'Be quiet,
you unhappy woman; do not madden me!'

But she in her turn arose and freed herself, stammering with anger and
pain at the sight of the red circles which his rough grasp had left
round her delicate white arms. 'You beat me now, you blackguard, you
brute!' she cried. 'Ah! you beat me, you beat me!'

And again she thrust forward her beautiful face, now convulsed by
wrath, and spat out all her contempt full in that man's countenance
which she longed to lacerate with her nails. Never had she hated him
so much; never had the sight of his massive bulldog figure irritated
her to such a degree as now. All the rancour amassed within her arose
once more, urged her on to some irreparable insult which should end
everything. With instinctive cruelty she sought a means of inflicting
some poisonous wound, something that should make him howl and suffer.

'You are only a brute!' she cried. 'You are not capable of directing a
gang of ten men!'

At this singular insult, which seemed to him stupid and childish,
Delaveau burst into convulsive laughter. And this laughter exasperated
Fernande to such a point that she became half delirious. What could she
say to him that would prove a mortal blow and bring his laughter to an
end?

'Yes, it was I who made you what you are!' she exclaimed. 'If it had
not been for me you would not have remained director of the Abyss a
single year!'

At this he laughed all the louder: 'You are mad, my dear; you say such
stupid things that they don't affect me!'

'I say foolish things, do I? So it was not thanks to me that you kept
your place?'

Confession had suddenly risen to her throat. Ah! to shout it full in
his dog's face, to shout that she had never loved him, and that she
was another's mistress. That was the knife-thrust which would make
his laughter cease. And how it would relieve her! what terrible and
ferocious and voluptuous enjoyment she would taste in that collapse
of her life which was already crumbling to pieces! She flung herself
into the pit with a cry of horrible delight: 'The things I say are not
stupid, for I've been Boisgelin's mistress for twelve years past.'

Delaveau did not immediately understand her. Those horrible words,
striking him full in the face, had almost stunned him.

'What is that you say?'

'I say that I've been Boisgelin's mistress for twelve years past, and
since there's nothing left, since all is falling to pieces, well,
there, that's the end of it!'

In his turn half delirious, stammering, with his teeth clenched,
Delaveau rushed upon her, caught hold of her arms, shook her, and threw
her into the arm-chair. He would have liked to pound and annihilate
all that provoking nudity which she displayed, her bare shoulders and
bare bosom, to prevent her from ever insulting and torturing him again.
The veil was at last torn away, and he saw and divined things clearly.
She had never loved him; her life beside him had never been aught
but hypocrisy, ruse, falsehood, and betrayal. From that beautiful,
polished, charming woman whom he had adored there suddenly emerged
a she-wolf, all sombre fury and brutal instinct. Many things of the
cause of which he had been ignorant had sprung from her; she was the
perverter, the poisoner, who had slowly corrupted all around her; hers
was the flesh of cruelty and treachery, whose enjoyment had been made
up of the tears and blood of others.

But whilst he was still struggling with his stupefaction she insulted
him again: 'With your fists, eh, you brute! Oh! go on, hit, hit, like
your workmen do when they are drunk!'

Then, amidst the frightful silence which fell between them, Delaveau
heard the rhythmic blows of the steam-hammer, the commotion of labour
which, without a pause, accompanied both his days and his nights.
The sound came to him like a well-known voice, whose clear language
acquainted him with the whole of the horrible adventure. Was it not
Fernande, with her little teeth of unchangeable lustre, who had
devoured all the wealth which yonder hammer had forged? That burning
thought possessed his brain: she was the devourer, the one cause of
the disaster, of the squandering of millions, of the inevitable,
approaching bankruptcy. Whilst he had been heroically striving to keep
his promises, working eighteen hours a day, endeavouring to save the
old and crumbling world, it was she who had gnawed at the edifice and
rotted it. She had lived there beside him, looking so quiet, with her
soft smiling face, and yet she herself was the poison, the destructive
agent who had paralysed his efforts and annihilated his work. Yes, ruin
had ever been present beside him, at his table, in his bed, and he had
not seen it. She had shaken everything with her little agile hands, and
pulverised everything with her little white teeth. He remembered nights
when she had returned from La Guerdache, intoxicated by the caresses of
her lover, by the wine she had drunk, by the waltzes she had danced,
by the money which she had flung around her, and, when she had slept
off that intoxication, lying by his side, whilst he, with his eyes wide
open, peering into the darkness, tortured his brain in striving to
devise some means for saving the Abyss, and did not even stir for fear
of disturbing her slumber. And this, which seemed to him the supreme
horror of all, inspired him with mad fury and made him shout: 'You
shall die!'

She sat up in the chair, her elbows resting on its arms, her bare bosom
and her charming face again thrust forward under her black casque of
splendid hair: 'Oh! as for that I'm agreeable. I've had enough of you
and the others, and myself, and life as well! I'd rather die than live
in wretchedness.'

'You shall die! you shall die!' he howled, growing wilder and wilder.

But he had no weapon, and vainly sought one whilst he turned around the
room. He had not even a knife, nothing save his two hands, with which
he might strangle her. But what use would that be? What could he do
afterwards--could he go on living? A knife would have sufficed for both.

She noticed his embarrassment, his momentary hesitation, and triumphed
over it, believing that he would not again find the strength to kill
her. And in her turn she began to laugh, with an insulting, taunting
laugh. 'What! are you not going to kill me, then? Kill me, kill me
then, if you dare!'

All at once, in the midst of his wild search for a weapon, Delaveau
perceived the sheet-iron stove in which such a brasier of coke was
glowing that the room seemed to be on fire already. And utter dementia
suddenly fell upon him, making him forget everything, even his
daughter, his fondly-loved Nise, who was sleeping quietly in her little
room on the second floor. Oh! to make an end of himself, annihilate
himself amidst the fury which transported him! Oh! to carry that
hateful woman to death, so that she might never more belong to another,
and to go with her, and cease to live, since life was now utterly
soiled and wrecked!

She was still urging him on with her lashing, contemptuous laugh. 'Kill
me! kill me then! You are far too big a coward to kill me!'

Yes, yes, thought Delaveau, to burn everything, to destroy everything
by a huge conflagration in which the house and the works alike would
disappear, a conflagration which would complete the work of ruin
carried on by that woman and her idiotic lover! Ay, a gigantic pyre
on which he himself would crumble into ashes with that malignant,
devouring, lying creature, amidst the smoking ruins of that old social
system which he had so foolishly striven to defend.

With a terrible kick, he overturned the stove, and projected it into
the middle of the room, ever repeating his shout: 'You shall die! you
shall die!'

The red-hot coke spread in a red sheet over the carpet. Some pieces
rolled as far as one of the windows. Then the cretonne curtains were
the first to flare, whilst the carpet began to burn. The furniture and
the walls flamed in their turn with overwhelming rapidity. The house,
which was but lightly built, caught fire and sparkled and smoked like a
mere wisp of hay.

The rest was frightful. Fernande had sprung up in her terror, gathering
the silk and lace of her skirts together, and seeking a passage where
the flames would not reach them. She darted towards the door opening
into the hall, feeling certain that she would have time to escape, that
she would reach the garden at a bound. But in front of the door she
found Delaveau, whose arms barred her passage. He looked so terrible
that she then sprang towards the other door, the one which opened into
the wooden gallery, connecting the room with the works. But it was too
late to flee in that direction--the gallery was burning, acting like a
chimney, in which the draught urged on the flames with such rapidity
that the adjacent business offices were already threatened. So she came
back to the centre of the room, stumbling, blinded, suffocating, full
of rage and terror at feeling that her dress was flaring, that her
uncoiled hair also was catching fire, covering her bare shoulders with
burns. And in a frightful voice she gasped:

'I will not die! I will not die! let me pass, murderer! murderer!'

Then again she threw herself towards the door opening into the hall,
and strove to force a passage, rushing upon her husband, who still
stood there, erect and motionless, full of fierce determination.
Without any violence he simply repeated: 'I tell you that you are going
to die.'

To force him to give way, she dug her nails into his flesh, and then
only did he catch hold of her again and bring her back into the centre
of the room, which had now become a perfect brasier. And here there
was a horrible battle. She struggled with all her strength, which was
increased tenfold by the dread of death; she sought the doors, the
windows with the instinctive eagerness of a wounded animal; whilst he
still kept her amidst the flames in which he wished to die, and in
which he wished her to perish with him, in order that the whole of
their abominable existence might be annihilated. And to accomplish
this he needed all the strength of his strong arms, for the walls were
cracking, and ten times in succession did he have to drag her from the
outlets by which she might have escaped. At last he imprisoned her in
a final savage embrace, and they fell together amidst the embers of
the flooring, whilst the last hangings burnt away like torches, and
ardent brands rained from the woodwork overhead. And although she bit
him, he did not release her, but held her fast, carrying her away into
nothingness, both of them burning together with the same avenging fire.
Soon all was over, the ceiling fell upon them with a great crumbling of
flaming beams.

       *       *       *       *       *

That night at La Crêcherie, as Nanet left the machinery gallery, where
he was now serving his apprenticeship as an electrician, he perceived
a red glow in the direction of the Abyss. At first he imagined that it
came from the cementing furnaces. But its brightness increased, and
all at once he understood the truth--the manager's house was on fire.
He experienced a sudden shock, for he thought of Nise, and then ran
off wildly and came into collision with the party-wall, over which, in
former times, they had both climbed so nimbly in order to be together.
And once again, with the help of hands and feet, he somehow got over
the wall and found himself in the garden, alone as yet, for no alarm
had been given. It was, indeed, the house that was burning, and the
frightful feature of the conflagration was that like a fire lighted
at the base of some huge pyre, it spread from ground-floor to roof,
without anybody within showing sign of life. The windows remained
closed, and the door was already burning, in such wise that one could
neither go in nor out. It merely seemed to Nanet that he could hear
some loud cries and a commotion like that of some horrible death
struggle. But at last the shutters of one of the second-floor windows
were flung back violently, and then, amidst the smoke, appeared Nise,
all in white, wearing only her chemise and a petticoat. She called for
help and leant out, terrified.

'Don't be frightened, don't be frightened,' cried Nanet in distraction,
'I'm going up.'

He had perceived a long ladder lying alongside a shed. But on going
to take it he found that it was chained. A moment of terrible anguish
ensued. The lad took up a large stone and struck the padlock with all
his strength in order to break it. Meantime the flames were roaring,
and the whole of the first floor took fire amidst such an outpouring
of smoke and sparks, that at certain moments Nise, up above, quite
disappeared from sight. Nanet still heard her cries, however, which
grew wilder and wilder, and he struck and struck the padlock, whilst
calling in response: 'Wait! wait! I'm coming!'

At last the padlock was crushed and he was able to take the ladder. He
never remembered afterwards how he had managed to set it erect. It was
a prodigious feat; but he was able to rear it under the window. Then,
however, he perceived that it was too short, and such was his despair
at the discovery that his courage wavered. Boy hero that he was, only
sixteen years of age, he was resolved to save that young girl of
thirteen, his friend and playmate; but he was losing his head, and no
longer knew how to act.

Nevertheless, he called again: 'Wait! wait! It doesn't matter, I'll
come somehow!'

At that moment one of the two servant girls, whose garret bedroom had
a window opening on to the roof, managed to get out, clutching hold of
the guttering. But, maddened by terror, imagining that the flames were
already reaching her, she suddenly leapt into space and fell, dead,
with her skull broken, beside the flight of steps.

Nanet, unhinged by Nise's cries, which had become more and more
frightful, fancied that she also was about to jump out. He pictured her
lying at his feet, covered with blood, and he raised a last terrible
call: 'Don't jump; I'm coming, I'm coming!'

Then, in spite of everything, the young fellow ascended the ladder, and
when he reached the burning first floor he entered the house by one of
the windows whose panes had been burst by the violence of the heat.
Help was now arriving; there were a number of people already on the
road and in the garden. And the throng spent some minutes of frightful
anxiety in watching one child save the other with such wild bravery.
The conflagration was still and ever spreading; the walls cracked, and
the very ladder seemed to ignite as it stood against the house front,
whilst neither the boy nor the girl reappeared. But at last Nanet came
back, carrying Nise on his shoulders as a shepherd may carry a lamb.
He had managed to climb through the furnace from one story to the
other, take her up, and come down again; but his hair was singed and
his clothes were burning, and when he had slipped, rather than stepped,
down the ladder with his well-loved burden, both he and she were
covered with burns and fell fainting in one another's arms, clasped in
so close an embrace that they had to be carried thus to La Crêcherie,
whither Sœurette, who had now been warned, repaired to nurse them.

Half an hour later the house fell; not a stone of it remained standing.
And the worst was that the fire, after reaching the general offices by
way of the wooden gallery, had now gained the neighbouring buildings,
and was devouring the great hall where the puddling-furnaces and the
rolling-machinery were installed. The entire works were in danger; the
fire blazed amidst those old buildings, almost all of which were of dry
woodwork. It was said that the Delaveaus' other servant, having managed
to escape by way of the kitchen, had been the first to give the alarm
to the night-shifts, who had hurried up from the works. But they had
no fire-engine, and nothing could be done till their comrades of La
Crêcherie, headed by Luc himself, came in brotherly fashion to the help
of the rival establishment with both engine and firemen. The Beauclair
fire brigade, whose organisation was very defective, only turned up
afterwards. And it was too late to save the Abyss; it was now blazing
from one to the other end of its sordid workshops over an expanse of
several acres, forming a huge brasier whence emerged only the lofty
chimneys and the tower in which great cannon were tempered.

When the dawn rose after that night of disaster numerous groups of
people still stood before the smouldering wreckage under the livid,
chilly November sky. The Beauclair authorities, Sub-Prefect Châtelard
and Mayor Gourier, had not quitted the scene of the catastrophe, and
Judge Gaume was with them, as well as his son-in-law, Captain Jollivet.
Abbé Marle, warned late, only arrived when it was light, and was soon
followed by a stream of inquisitive folk, _bourgeois_ and shopkeepers,
the Mazelles, the Laboques, the Caffiaux, and even Dacheux. A gust of
terror was sweeping by; one and all spoke with bated breath, their
great anxiety being to know how such a catastrophe could possibly
have taken place. Only one witness remained, the servant-girl who
had managed to escape. She related that Madame had returned from La
Guerdache about midnight, and that immediately afterwards there had
been some loud shouting, after which the flames had suddenly appeared.
People listened to her, and repeated her story in low tones; and
those who had been intimate with the Delaveaus divined the frightful
tragedy which had taken place. It was evident, as the servant said,
that Monsieur and Madame had perished in the fire. The horror, which
was spreading, increased still further on the arrival of Boisgelin,
who had to be helped out of his carriage, such was his faintness and
pallor. He ended by swooning, and Doctor Novarre had to attend to him
there, before that field of ruin where the remnants of his fortune were
smoking, and where the bones of Delaveau and Fernande were at last
crumbling into dust.

However, Luc continued directing the last efforts made by his men to
save the still burning gallery where the steam-hammer was installed.
Jordan, wrapped in a rug, obstinately remained in spite of the intense
cold. Bonnaire, who had arrived one of the first, had distinguished
himself by his courage in saving such machinery and appliances as was
possible. Bourron, Fauchard, and all the other former hands of the
Abyss who had gone to La Crêcherie, helped him, exerted themselves
devotedly on that ground which they knew so well, where they had
toiled for so many dolorous years. But destiny in its fury seemed to
have transformed itself into a hurricane. In spite of all the efforts,
everything was carried, swept away, and annihilated. Fire the avenger,
fire the purifier had fallen upon the walls like lightning, razed
everything, cleared the expanse of the ruins with which the downfall of
the old world had littered it. And now the work was done, the ground
stretched away clear and open, and the rising city of justice and peace
might carry its conquering waves of houses even to the end of the great
plains.

All at once Lange, the potter, the Anarchist, who stood in one of the
groups of people, was heard saying in his rough but jovial voice: 'No,
no, I haven't to pride myself on it, for I didn't light it. But, no
matter, it's fine work, and it's rather funny that the masters should
help us by roasting themselves.'

He was referring to the conflagration. And such was the shudder that
passed through all his listeners that none attempted to silence him.
The feelings of the throng impelled it towards the victorious forces;
the authorities of Beauclair congratulated Luc on his devotion; the
tradespeople and petty _bourgeois_ surrounded the workers of La
Crêcherie, at last openly ranging themselves upon their side. Lange
was right; there are tragic hours when decaying societies, stricken
with madness, fling themselves upon the pyre. And now, of all those
grimy works of the Abyss, where the wage-system had gasped in the last
hours of dishonouring, accursed toil, there only remained against the
grey sky a few crumbling walls supporting the frameworks of roofs,
above which the high chimneys and the tempering tower alone rose up,
useless and woebegone.

That morning, about eleven o'clock, when the sun at last made up its
mind to show itself, Monsieur Jérôme passed by in his bath-chair
propelled by a servant. He was making his usual promenade. He had just
followed the Combettes road, skirting the works and the growing town
of La Crêcherie, which looked so bright and gay in the dry, sunshiny
weather. And now he beheld the field of defeat, the Abyss sacked and
destroyed by the justice-dealing violence of the flames. For a long
time his clear and empty eyes, as transparent as spring water, gazed
upon the scene. He spoke no word, he made no gesture; he simply looked,
and then was wheeled away, nothing about him telling whether he had
really seen and understood.



BOOK III



I


The blow was a terrible one at La Guerdache. Ruin suddenly fell upon
that residence of luxury and pleasure, which had continually resounded
with festivities. A hunt had to be countermanded, and it was necessary
to stop the grand Tuesday dinners. The numerous domestics would have
to be discharged _en masse_, and there was already some talk of the
sale of the carriages, horses, and kennels. All the noisy life of the
gardens and park, the endless affluence of visitors, had ceased. In
the huge house itself the drawing-rooms, dining-room, billiard-room,
and smoking-room became so many deserts, quivering with the blast of
disaster. It was a stricken dwelling agonising in the sudden solitude
born of misfortune.

To and fro through that infinite sadness went Boisgelin like a woeful
shadow. Utterly overcome, with his mind almost unhinged, he spent the
most frightful days, at a loss what to do with himself, wandering about
like a soul in distress amidst the downfall of his life of enjoyment.
He was at bottom a sorry being, a horseman and clubman, an amiable
mediocrity whose fine presence and correct, proud mien--the mien of
the fool who wears a single eyeglass--collapsed entirely at the first
tragic gust of truth and justice. He had hitherto taken his pleasures
like one convinced that they were due to him; he had never done the
slightest work in his life; he imagined himself to be different from
others--a privileged being, one of the elect, born to be fed and amused
by the labour of others--and so how could he have understood the
catastrophe which had so logically fallen upon him? His egotistical
creed had received too severe a shock, and he remained in dismay
before the future, respecting which he had not previously felt any
disquietude. In the depths of his bewilderment there was particularly
the terror of the idler, the kept-man, one who was utterly upset by the
thought that he was incapable of earning his living. As Delaveau was
gone, from whom could he now demand the profits which had been promised
him on the day when he had invested his capital in the Abyss? The works
were burnt, the capital had vanished in the ruins, and where would
he now find the money to live? He roamed like a madman through the
deserted gardens and the lugubrious house without finding an answer to
that question.

At first, on the evening following the tragedy, Boisgelin was haunted
by thoughts of the frightful death of Delaveau and Fernande. He could
have no doubt on the matter, for he remembered in what a mood the young
woman had left him--full of wrath and pouring forth threats against her
husband. It was certainly Delaveau who, after some terrible scene, had
set fire to the house in order to destroy both the guilty woman and
himself. In that vengeance, for a mere enjoyer of life like Boisgelin,
there was a sombre ferocity, a monstrous violence, which inspired him
with unending fright. But the greatest blow was to understand that
he was deficient in strength of intellect, and that he lacked the
necessary energy to set his affairs in order. From morning till evening
he ruminated over various plans without knowing which to adopt. Would
it be best to try to resuscitate the works, seek money and an engineer,
endeavour to establish a company to carry on the business? He feared
that he might not succeed in such attempts, for the losses were very
great, and must in the first instance be made good. Ought he not rather
to wait for a purchaser who would take the land, and such plant and
materials as had been saved, at his risk and peril? But Boisgelin
greatly doubted whether such a purchaser would ever turn up, and in
particular he doubted whether he would obtain from him a sufficiently
large sum to liquidate the situation. Moreover, the question of
his future life still remained to be settled; for the estate of La
Guerdache was an expensive one to keep up, and perhaps at the end of
the month he would no longer have enough money to buy even bread.

In this emergency one sole creature took pity on the wretched,
trembling, forsaken man, who roamed about his empty house like a lost
child, and this was Suzanne, his wife, that woman full of heroic
gentleness whom he had so cruelly outraged. At the outset, when he had
imposed his _liaison_ with Fernande upon her, she had again and again
resolved upon asserting herself and driving the intruder, the strange
woman, from her house; but in the end she had invariably refrained from
taking that course, for she felt certain that if she were to drive
Fernande away, her infatuated husband would follow her. Then, their
relative positions being settled, Suzanne had taken a room for herself
and had become a wife in name only, keeping up appearances in the
presence of visitors, but devoting herself entirely to the education
of Paul, whom she wished to save from disaster. Had it not been for
that dear child, fair and gentle like herself, she would never have
become, resigned to the position. It was he who had brought about her
renunciation, her sacrifice. She had removed him as much as possible
from the influence of his unworthy father, anxious that his mind and
heart, in which by way of consolation she hoped to cultivate sense and
kindliness, should belong to herself alone. In this wise years went by,
amidst the delight of seeing him grow up reasonable and affectionate;
and it was only from a distance, so to say, that Suzanne had beheld
the slow ruin of the Abyss and the growing prosperity of La Crêcherie.
Like her husband, she had no doubt whatever that Delaveau, informed
of the truth, had personally fired that huge pyre in order to destroy
himself with that corrupting, devouring creature, his guilty wife.
Suzanne shuddered as she thought of it, and asked herself if she had
not in some small degree contributed to the catastrophe by her own
resignation, her weakness, in tolerating betrayal and shame in her own
home during so many years. If she had only rebelled at the outset,
perhaps the crime would never have reached that climax. And her qualms
of conscience quite upset her, and moved her to compassion for the
wretched man whom, since the days of the catastrophe, she had seen
roaming about like one demented, through the deserted garden and the
empty house.

One morning, as she herself was crossing the grand drawing-room where
Boisgelin had given so many _fêtes_, she perceived him there huddled up
on an arm-chair, and sobbing and weeping like a child. She was quite
stirred, filled with pity at the sight. And she, who for many years had
never spoken to him unless it were necessary to do so in the presence
of guests, drew near and said, 'It is not in despairing that you will
find the strength you need.'

Amazed at seeing her there, at hearing her speak to him, he looked at
her through the tears which blurred his eyes.

'Yes,' she continued, 'it is of no use roaming about from morning
till night--you must find courage in yourself, you will not find it
elsewhere.'

He made a gesture expressive of desolation, and answered in a faint
voice: 'I am so much alone.'

He was not by nature an evilly disposed man; he was simply a fool and
a weakling, one of those cowards whom egotistical pleasure turns into
brutes. And it was with such utter dejection that he complained of the
solitude in which she left him amidst his misfortune, that she again
felt very touched.

'You mean,' she said, 'that you wished to be alone. Since those
frightful occurrences why have you not come to me?'

'Good God!' he stammered, 'can you forgive me?'

Then he caught hold of her hands, which she left in his grasp, and,
overwhelmed and wildly repentant, confessed his fault. He acknowledged
nothing but what she knew already, his long betrayal, the mistress whom
he had brought into his home, that woman who had maddened him and urged
him on to ruin; but in accusing himself he displayed such passionate
frankness that Suzanne was touched as by some spontaneous confession
which he might have spared himself.

'It is true,' he ended by saying, 'I have wronged you so long, I have
behaved abominably. Ah! why did you abandon me, why did you try nothing
to win me back?'

His words awoke in her those qualms of conscience, the covert remorse
which she felt at the thought that she had perhaps not done all her
duty, that she had erred in not trying to stop him on his downward
course. And the reconciliation which pity had initiated was completed
by a feeling of indulgence. Are not the most pure, the most heroic
partially responsible at times, when the weak and the erring succumb
around them?

'Yes,' she said, 'I ought to have battled more, but I was too intent
on sparing my pride and procuring quietude. We both have need of
forgetfulness, we must regard all the past as dead.'

Then, as their son Paul happened to pass through the garden under the
windows, she called him indoors. He was now a big fellow of eighteen,
intelligent and refined, a son after her own image, very affectionate
and very sensible, free from all caste prejudices, and ready to live on
the fruit of his own exertions whenever circumstances might require it.
He had begun to take a passionate interest in the land, and spent whole
days at the farm, busy with questions of culture, the germination of
seed and harvesting of crops. As it happened, when his mother asked him
to come in for a moment, he was about to repair to Feuillat's to see a
new type of plough.

'Come in, my boy, your father is in great grief, and I wish you to kiss
him,' said Suzanne.

There had been a rupture between father and son as between husband
and wife. Won over entirely to his mother's side, Paul, in growing
up, had felt nothing but cold respect for his father, whose conduct,
he divined, must be the cause of his mother's frequent sorrow. Thus
he now came into the drawing-room, feeling both surprised and moved,
and for a few seconds remained gazing at his parents, whom he found so
pale, so upset by emotion. Then, understanding the position, he kissed
his father very affectionately, and flung his arms around his mother's
neck, anxious to embrace her also with all his heart. The family bond
was formed once more, and there came a happy moment, when one might
have believed that agreement would henceforth be complete between them.

When Suzanne in her turn had kissed her son, Boisgelin had to restrain
a fresh flow of tears. 'Good, good! now we all agree. Ah! that gives me
some courage again. We are in such a terrible position! We shall have
to come to some arrangement, take some decision.'

They went on talking for a little while, all three of them seated there
together; for Boisgelin felt a desire to unburden himself and confide
in that woman and that lad after roaming about alone so distressfully.
He reminded Suzanne how they had bought the Abyss for a million, and
La Guerdache for five hundred thousand francs, out of the two millions
which had remained to them, the one which had formed her dowry, and
the other which had been saved in the wreck of his own fortune. The
five hundred thousand francs left out of the two millions had been
handed to Delaveau, and had served as working capital for the Abyss.
All their money was thus invested in that enterprise, but unfortunately
during recent financial embarrassments it had been necessary to borrow
six hundred thousand francs, a debt which had weighed heavily upon
the business. It really seemed as if the works were quite dead since
they were burnt, and besides, before erecting them afresh it would be
necessary to pay the debt of six hundred thousand francs.

'Then what do you intend to do?' Suzanne inquired.

Boisgelin thereupon explained the two solutions between which he
hesitated, unable to adopt either, so great were the difficulties
which attended both. On the one hand they might rid themselves
of everything, sell what remained of the Abyss for what it would
fetch--that is, no doubt, barely enough to pay the outstanding debt of
six hundred thousand francs; or, on the other hand, they might try to
find fresh funds, and establish a company, to which he would belong by
contributing the land and the plant that had been saved. But here again
there seemed little hope of effecting such a combination. Meantime,
a solution was every day becoming more necessary, for their ruin was
growing more and more complete.

'We also have La Guerdache--we can sell it,' remarked Suzanne.

'Oh! sell La Guerdache!' he answered in a despairing way. 'Part with
this property to which we are so accustomed, so attached! And all to go
and hide ourselves in some wretched hovel! What a downfall it would be,
what a lot more grief it would bring!'

Suzanne became grave again, for she well perceived that he was not
resigned to the idea of leading a reasonable modest life. 'We shall
inevitably have to come to it, my friend,' said she. 'We cannot
continue living upon such a footing.'

'No doubt, no doubt, we shall sell La Guerdache, but later on, when an
opportunity presents itself. If we were to put it up for sale now we
should not obtain half its value, for in doing so we should confess
our ruin, and the whole district would league itself against us to
rejoice and speculate on our misfortunes.' Then he added more direct
arguments: 'Besides, my dear, La Guerdache belongs to you. As is stated
in the deeds, the five hundred thousand francs of the purchase money
were taken from your dowry, the remaining five hundred thousand francs
of which formed half of the million which the Abyss cost us. Whilst
we are co-proprietors of the works, La Guerdache is entirely your own
property, and I simply desire to keep it for you as long as possible.'

Suzanne did not wish to insist on the subject, but she made a gesture
as if to say that she had long since resigned herself to every
sacrifice. Her husband was looking at her, and all at once he seemed to
remember something.

'Oh, by the way,' he exclaimed, 'I've a question to ask you. Have you
ever seen your old friend, Monsieur Luc Froment, again?'

She remained for a moment stupefied. Following upon the foundation
of La Crêcherie and the acute rivalry which had ensued between that
enterprise and the Abyss, had come a rupture with Luc, a rupture which
had not been the slightest of her sorrows amongst her many bitter
experiences. She felt that she had lost in Luc a cordial, consoling,
brotherly friend who would have helped and sustained her. But once
again she had resigned herself, and whenever she had chanced to meet
him at long intervals, on one of the few occasions when she went
out, she had never spoken to him. He imitated her discretion and
renunciation, and it seemed as if their old intimacy were quite dead.
Still this did not prevent Suzanne from taking quite a passionate
interest in Luc's enterprise, an interest of which she spoke to nobody.
In secret she remained upon his side in the generous efforts which
he was making to set a little more justice and love upon the earth.
Thus she had suffered with him and triumphed with him, and when at one
moment she had imagined him to be dead, killed by Ragu's knife-thrust,
she had for forty-eight hours shut herself up alone, far away from
everybody.

In the depths of her grief she had then discovered an intolerable
anguish; that _liaison_ with Josine which Ragu's crime had revealed
to her left a torturing wound in her heart. Had she then been in love
with Luc without knowing it? Perhaps so, for had she not dreamt of
the joy, the pride that she would have felt at having such a husband
as he, one who would have turned fortune to such good and magnificent
use? Had she not thought, too, that she would have helped him, and that
between them they would have accomplished prodigies in the cause of
peace and kindness? But he grew well again, and was now the husband of
Josine; and Suzanne felt everything crumbling once more, leaving her
nought but the abnegation of a sacrificed wife, of a mother who only
continued living for her son's sake. From that moment Luc ceased to
exist for her, and the question which her husband had now put revived
what seemed to be such a distant past that she was unable to hide her
surprise.

'How can I have seen Monsieur Froment again?' she at last answered.
'You know that for more than ten years all intercourse between us has
been broken off.'

But Boisgelin quietly shrugged his shoulders. 'Oh! that doesn't prevent
it; you might have met him and have spoken to him. You agreed so well
together formerly. So you have kept up no relations with him at all?'

'No,' she answered, somewhat sharply. 'If I had, you would know it.'

Her astonishment was increasing; she felt hurt by her husband's
insistence; ashamed, too, at being questioned in that manner. What
could be his object? why did he wish that she had kept up relations
with Luc? In her turn she felt inquisitive, and inquired: 'Why do you
ask me that?'

'Oh! for nothing--only an idea which occurred to me just now.'

Finally, he reverted to the subject, and revealed what he had on his
mind. 'This is it. I was telling you a little while ago that we could
adopt one of two courses; either sell the Abyss, rid ourselves of
everything, or start a company to which I should belong. Well, there's
also a third course, a combination, as it were, of both the others,
and that would be to sell the Abyss to La Crêcherie, but in such a
way as to reserve to ourselves the larger part of the profits. Do you
understand?'

'No, not exactly.'

'But it is very simple. That fellow Luc must have a great desire to
acquire our land. Well, he has done us enough harm; is that not so?
And it is quite legitimate that we should get a large sum out of him.
And our salvation certainly lies in that direction, particularly if we
acquire an interest in the business which would enable us to keep La
Guerdache without need of retrenchment in our manner of life.'

Suzanne listened with sorrow and dismay. What! he was still the same
man as formerly; that frightful lesson had not corrected him! He only
dreamt of speculating on others, of deriving profit from the situation
in which they found themselves. And in particular he still had one
sole object, that of doing nothing, of remaining an idler, a kept-man,
otherwise a capitalist. In the wild despair amidst which he had been
struggling since the catastrophe there had been but terror, hatred of
work, and one haunting thought: how could he so arrange matters that he
might continue to live, doing nothing? His tears were already dry, and
now, all at once, he reappeared such as he really was--a man intent on
enjoyment.

However, Suzanne wished to know everything.

'But what have I to do with this matter?' she inquired; 'why did you
ask me if I had kept up any relations with Monsieur Froment?'

'Oh, _mon Dieu!_' he quietly replied; 'because that would have
facilitated the overtures which I think of making to him. As you can
understand, after years of rupture, it is not easy to approach a man to
discuss questions of interest, whereas things would be much easier if
he had remained your friend. In that case you yourself, perhaps, might
have seen him, spoken to him----'

With a sudden wave of her hand Suzanne stopped her husband: 'I would
never have spoken to Monsieur Froment under such circumstances. You
forget that I had a sisterly affection for him.'

Ah, the wretched being! So now he had sunk to so low a degree of
baseness that he was ready to speculate on such affection as Luc might
have retained for her, and it was she whom he thought of employing to
touch his adversary, in such wise that the latter might then be more
easily conquered.

Boisgelin must have understood that he had hurt Suzanne's feelings, for
he could see that she had become much paler and colder, as if she had
again withdrawn from him. He wished to efface that bad impression. 'You
are right,' said he, 'business is not a thing for women to attend to.
As you say, also, you could not have undertaken such a commission. But
all the same I am well pleased with my idea, for the more I think it
over, the more convinced I feel that our salvation lies in it. I shall
prepare my plan of attack, and find a means of opening up intercourse
with the director of La Crêcherie--unless, indeed, I allow him to take
the first steps, which would be a more skilful course.'

He was quite enlivened by the hope of duping another and deriving
sustenance and pleasure from him as he had hitherto done. There would
still be something good in life if one could live it with white and
idle hands, ignorant of work. He rose, gave a sigh of relief, and
looked on the great park. It seemed more extensive still on that
clear winter day, and he hoped to give fêtes in it again as soon as
the spring should come. Finally he exclaimed: 'It would really be too
stupid for us to distress ourselves. Can folk like ourselves ever
become paupers?'

Suzanne, who had remained seated, felt her painful sadness increase.
For a moment she had entertained the naïve hope of reforming that man,
and now she perceived that every tempest and revolution might pass over
him without bringing amendment, or even understanding of the new times.
The ancient system of the exploitation of man by man was in his blood,
he could only live on others. He would always remain a big bad child
who would fall to her charge later on should justice ever do its work.
And thus she could only regard him with great and bitter pity.

Throughout that long conversation Paul had remained motionless,
listening to his parents with his usual gentle, intelligent, and loving
expression. All the feelings which in turn agitated his mother were
reflected in his large pensive eyes. He was in constant communion with
her, and suffered like herself at seeing how unworthy his father was.
She at last perceived his painful embarrassment, and asked him: 'Where
were you going just now, my child?'

'I was going to the farm, mother; Feuillat must have received the new
plough for the winter ploughing.'

Boisgelin laughed: 'And that interests you?' he asked.

'Why yes, father. At Les Combettes they have steam ploughs which turn
up furrows several thousand yards long now that all the fields have
been joined together; and it is superb to see the land turned up like
that and fertilised.'

He was overflowing with youthful enthusiasm. His mother, who felt
touched by it, smiled at him. 'Go, go, my boy,' she said, 'go and see
the new plough, and work--your health will be all the better for it.'

During the ensuing days Suzanne noticed that her husband evinced no
haste in putting his project into execution. It seemed as if he deemed
it sufficient to have discovered a solution which in his opinion would
save them all. That done he relapsed into indolence, incapable of any
effort. However, there was another big child at La Guerdache, whose
manner suddenly caused Suzanne considerable disquietude. Monsieur
Jérôme, her grandfather, who had just reached the advanced age of
eighty-eight, in spite of the species of living death to which
paralysis had reduced him, still led a silent and retired existence,
having no intercourse with the outer world apart from his frequent
promenades in the bath-chair which a servant propelled. Suzanne alone
entered his room and ministered to his wants, evincing the same loving
attention as she had already shown when a mere girl, thirty years
previously, in that same large ground-floor room looking towards the
park. She was so accustomed to the old man's clear, fathomless eyes,
which seemed, as it were, full of spring water, that she was able
to detect the slightest shadow that passed over them. Now, since
the recent tragical events, those eyes had darkened somewhat after
the fashion of water when rising sand renders it turbid. For many
monotonous years Suzanne had seen nothing in them, and finding them so
limpid and so empty had imagined that power of thought had for ever
departed from her grandfather. But was it now returning? Did not those
shadows in Monsieur Jérôme's eyes, and his feverishness of manner,
indicate a possible awakening? Perhaps, indeed, he had always retained
his consciousness and intelligence; perhaps, too, by some kind of
miracle, now when he was drawing nigh to death, the hard physical bond
of paralysis was relaxing in some slight measure, releasing him from
the silence and immobility in which he had so long lived imprisoned.
It was with growing astonishment and anguish that Suzanne watched that
slow work of deliverance.

One night the servant who propelled Monsieur Jérôme's bath-chair
ventured to stop her just as she was coming from the old man's room,
quite stirred by the living glance with which he had watched her
depart. 'Madame,' said the servant, 'I made up my mind to tell you. It
seems to me that there is a change in Monsieur. To-day he spoke.'

'What! he spoke?' she answered, thunderstruck.

'Yes, even yesterday I fancied that I could hear him stammering words
in an undertone when we halted for a little while on the Brias road in
front of the Abyss. But to-day, when we passed before La Crêcherie, he
certainly spoke, I'm sure of it.'

'And what did he say?'

'Ah, madame, I did not understand, his words were disconnected, one
couldn't make sense of them.'

From that moment Suzanne, full of anxious solicitude, had a close watch
kept upon her grandfather. The servant received orders to report to
her every evening what had happened during the day. In this wise she
was able to follow the growing fever which seemed to have come upon
Monsieur Jérôme. He was possessed by a desire to see and hear, he made
it plain by signs that he wished to have his outings prolonged, as if
he were eager for the sights which he found upon the roads. But he
particularly insisted on being taken each day to the same spots, either
the Abyss or La Crêcherie, and he never wearied of contemplating the
former's sombre ruins and the latter's gay prosperity. He compelled his
servant to slacken his pace, made him go past the same spot several
times, and all the while he more and more distinctly stammered those
disjointed words, whose sense was not yet apparent. Suzanne, quite
upset by this awakening, at last sent for Doctor Novarre, whoso opinion
she was anxious to ascertain.

'Doctor,' said she, after explaining the case to him, 'you cannot
conceive how it frightens me. It is as if I were witnessing a
resurrection. My heart contracts, it all appears to me like some
prodigious sign announcing extraordinary events.'

Novarre smiled at her nervousness, and wished to see things himself.
But it was not easy to deal with Monsieur Jérôme; he had closed his
door to doctors as well as to others; and besides, as his ailment
admitted of no treatment, Novarre had for years abstained from making
any attempt to enter his room. In the present instance the doctor had
to wait for the old man in the park, where he bowed to him as he passed
in his bath-chair. Next he followed him along the road, and on drawing
near saw that his eyes began to gleam whilst his lips parted, and a
vague stammering came from them. In his turn Novarre felt astonished
and stirred.

'You were quite right, Madame,' he came to tell Suzanne, 'the case
is a very singular one. We are evidently in presence of some crisis
affecting the whole organism, and arising from some great internal
shock.'

'But what do you expect will happen, doctor?' Suzanne anxiously
inquired, 'and what can we do?'

'Oh, we can do nothing, that is unfortunately certain, and as for
foreseeing what such a condition may lead to, I won't attempt it. Yet I
ought to tell you that if such cases are very rare they do occasionally
occur. Thus I remember examining at the asylum of Saint-Cron an old
man who had been shut up there for nearly forty years, and whom the
keepers, to the best of their remembrance, had never once heard speak.
Quite suddenly, however, he appeared to awake, at first speaking in
a confused manner, and then very plainly, whereupon an interminable
flow of speech set in--whole hours of ceaseless chatter. But the
extraordinary part of it was that this old man, who was regarded as
an idiot, had seen, heard, and understood everything during his forty
years of apparent slumber. And when he recovered the power of speech
it was an endless narrative of his sensations and recollections stored
within him since his entry into the asylum that poured from his lips.'

Although Suzanne strove to hide the frightful emotion into which this
example threw her, she could not help shuddering. 'And what became of
that unhappy man?' she asked.

Novarre hesitated for a second, then replied: 'He died three days
afterwards. I must own it, madame, a crisis of that sort is almost
always a symptom of approaching dissolution. One finds in it the
eternal symbol of the lamp which throws up a last flame before going
out.'

Deep silence reigned. Suzanne had become very pale. The icy breath of
death swept by. But it was not so much the thought that her unhappy
grandfather would soon die that pained her--she had another poignant
fear. Had he seen, heard, and understood everything throughout his long
paralysis, even after the fashion of the old man of Saint-Cron?

At last she summoned sufficient bravery to ask another question: 'Do
you think, doctor,' she inquired, 'that intelligence has quite departed
from our dear patient? In your opinion does he understand, does he
think?'

Novarre made a vague gesture, the gesture of the scientist who does not
consider it right to venture on any pronouncement respecting matters
outside the pale of scientific certainty.

'Oh! you ask me too much, madame,' said he. 'Everything is possible in
that mystery, the human brain, into which we still penetrate with so
much difficulty. Intelligence can certainly remain intact after the
loss of speech; because one cannot speak it does not follow that one
is unable to think. However, I may say that I should formerly have
believed in a permanent weakening of all Monsieur Jérôme's mental
faculties, I should have thought him sunk in senile infancy for ever.'

'Still, it is possible that he may have retained his faculties intact.'

'Quite possible; I even begin to suspect that such is the case, as is
indicated by that awakening of his whole being, and that return of
speech which seems to be coming back to him gradually.'

This conversation left Suzanne in a state of dolorous horror. She
could no longer linger in her grandfather's room and witness his slow
resurrection without a secret feeling of alarm. If amidst the mute
rigidity in which he had been chained by paralysis he had indeed seen,
heard, and understood everything, what a terrible drama must have
filled his long silence! For more than thirty years he had remained
an impassive witness, as it were, of the decline of his race, those
clear eyes of his had beheld the rout of his descendants, a downfall
accelerated from father to son by the vertigo born of wealth. In the
devouring blaze of enjoyment two generations had sufficed to consume
the fortune which his father and he had built up, and which he had
deemed so firm. He had seen his son Michel ruin himself for worthless
women directly he became a widower, and blow his brains out with a
pistol-shot; whilst his daughter Laure, losing her head in mysticism,
entered a convent; and his second son, Philippe, married to a hussy,
perished in a duel after an imbecile career. He had also seen his
grandson Gustave impel his father Michel to suicide by robbing him of
his mistress and of the hundred thousand francs that he had collected
for his business payments; whilst at the same time his other grandson
André, Philippe's child, was relegated to a lunatic asylum. He had
further seen Boisgelin, the husband of his granddaughter Suzanne,
purchase the imperilled Abyss, and confide its management to a poor
cousin, Delaveau, who, after restoring it to prosperity for a brief
period, had reduced it to ashes on the night when he had discovered the
betrayal of his wife Fernande and that coxcomb Boisgelin--the pair of
them maddened by such a craving for luxury and pleasure that they had
destroyed all around them. And he had seen the Abyss, his well-loved
work, so small and modest when he had inherited it from his father, so
greatly enlarged by himself, he had seen that Abyss, which he had hoped
his race would make a city, the empire as it were of iron and steel,
decline so rapidly that with the second generation of his descendants
not a stone of it remained standing. Finally, he had seen his race, in
which creative power had accumulated so slowly through a long line of
wretched toilers, till it had burst forth at last in his father and
himself; he had seen his race spoilt, debased, and destroyed by the
abuse of wealth, as if nothing of the Qurignons' heroic passion for
work glowed among his grandchildren. And thus how frightful must be
the story amassed in the brain of that octogenarian, what a procession
of terrible occurrences, synthetising a whole century of effort, and
casting light on the past, the present, and the future of a family!
And what a terrifying thing, too, it was that the brain in which that
story had seemed to slumber should at last slowly awaken to life, and
that everything should threaten to come forth from it, in a great flood
of truth, if indeed the tongue that already stammered should end by
speaking plainly!

It was for that terrible awakening that Suzanne now waited with
growing anxiety. She and her son were the last of the race; Paul was
the sole heir of the Qurignons. Aunt Laure had lately died in the
Carmelite convent where she had lived for nearly forty years; and
Cousin André, cut off from the world since infancy, had been dead for
many years already. Thus nowadays, whenever Paul went with his mother
into Monsieur Jérôme's room, the old man's eyes, once more gleaming
with intelligence, rested on him for a long while. That lad was the
sole frail wattle of the oak from whose powerful trunk he had once
hoped to see a number of vigorous branches, a whole swarming family,
fork and grow. Was not that family tree full of new sap, health, and
vigour, derived from sturdy, toiling forerunners? Would not his line
blossom forth and spread around to conquer all the wealth and all the
joy of the world? But, behold the sap was already exhausted with the
coming of his grandchildren; in less than half a century a misspent
life of wealth had consumed the whole strength amassed through a long
ancestry! How bitter it was when that unhappy grandfather, the supreme
witness surviving amidst so much ruin, found himself confronted by one
sole heir, that gentle, delicate, refined Paul, who was like the last
gift vouchsafed by life, which perhaps had left him to the Qurignons
in order that they might grow afresh and flower in new soil! But what
dolorous irony there was in the fact that only that quiet, thoughtful
lad remained in that huge, royal residence of La Guerdache which
Monsieur Jérôme had originally purchased at such great cost, in the
hope of seeing it some day peopled by his numerous descendants. He had
pictured its spacious rooms occupied by ten households; he had imagined
that he could hear the laughter of an ever-increasing troop of boys
and girls; in his imagination the place became the happy, luxurious
family estate where the ever-fruitful dynasty of the Qurignons would
reign. But, on the contrary, the rooms had grown emptier day by day;
drunkenness, madness, and death had swept by, accomplishing their
destructive work; and then a final corrupting creature had come
to complete the ruin of the house; and since the last catastrophe
two-thirds of the rooms were kept closed, the whole of the second floor
was abandoned to the dust, and even the ground-floor reception-rooms
were only opened on Saturdays in order to admit a little sunshine. The
race would end if Paul did not raise it up afresh; the empire in which
it should have prospered was already naught but a large empty dwelling
which would crumble away in abandonment unless new life were imparted
to it.

Another week went by. The servant who attended Monsieur Jérôme could
now distinguish certain words amidst his stammering. At last a distinct
phrase was detected, and the man came to repeat it to Suzanne.

'Oh! he did not manage it without difficulty, madame, but I assure you
that this morning Monsieur repeated: "One must give back, one must give
back."'

Suzanne was incredulous. The words seemed to have no meaning. What was
to be given back?

'You must listen more attentively,' she said to the servant; 'try to
distinguish the words better.'

On the morrow, however, the man was still more positive. 'I assure
madame,' said he, 'that Monsieur really says: "One must give back, one
must give back." He says it twenty and thirty times in succession in a
low but persistent voice, as if putting all his strength into it.'

That same evening Suzanne determined to watch her grandfather herself,
in order that she might understand things better. On the following day
the old man was unable to get up. Whilst his brain seemed to be freeing
itself from its bonds, his legs and soon his trunk were attacked by
paralysis, and became quite lifeless. Suzanne was greatly alarmed by
this, and again sent for Novarre, who was unable to do anything, and
warned her that the end was approaching. From that moment she did not
quit the room.

It was a very large room, with very thick carpets and heavy hangings.
A deep ruddy hue and a substantial and rather sombre luxury prevailed
there. The furniture was of carved rosewood, the bed was a large
four-poster, and there was a tall mirror in which the park was
reflected. When the windows were open the view, beyond the lawns,
between the old trees, stretched over an immense panorama in which one
saw first the jumbled roofs of Beauclair, and then the Bleuse Mountains
with La Crêcherie and its smeltery, and the Abyss, whose gigantic
chimneys still rose erect.

One morning Suzanne sat down near the bed, after drawing back the
window curtains, in order to admit the winter sunshine; and all at once
she felt greatly moved on hearing Monsieur Jérôme speak. For a few
moments his face had been turned towards one of the windows through
which he had been looking at the distant horizon. And at first he only
uttered two words:

'Monsieur Luc.'

Suzanne, who had distinctly heard them, was quite overcome with
surprise. Why Monsieur Luc? Her grandfather had never had any
intercourse with Luc, he ought to have been ignorant of his existence,
unless indeed he was aware of what had lately occurred, had seen
everything, and understood everything, even as hitherto she had only
suspected and feared. Indeed, those words 'Monsieur Luc,' falling from
his lips which had been sealed so long, were like a first proof that he
had retained a lively intelligence amidst his silence, and could see
and understand. Suzanne felt her anguish increasing.

'Is it really Monsieur Luc that you say, grandfather?' she asked.

'Yes, yes, Monsieur Luc.'

He pronounced the name with increasing distinctness and energy, keeping
his ardent glance fixed upon her.

'But why do you speak to me of Monsieur Luc?' she said. 'Do you know
him then? Have you something to say to me about him?'

Monsieur Jérôme hesitated, doubtless because he could not find the
words he wished; then with childish impatience he repeated:

'Monsieur Luc!'

'He used to be my best friend,' resumed Suzanne, 'but for long years
now he has ceased coming here.'

Monsieur Jérôme quickly nodded his head, and then, as if his tongue
were gradually acquiring the power of speech, he said: 'I know, I
know--I wish him to come.'

'You wish Monsieur Luc to come to see you--you wish to speak to him,
grandfather?'

'Yes, yes, it is that. Let him come at once--I will speak to him.'

The surprise and the vague fright that possessed Suzanne were now
increasing. What could Monsieur Jérôme wish to say to Luc? There were
such painful possibilities, that for a moment she tried to avoid
granting the old man's request, as if indeed she imagined him to be
delirious. But he was in full possession of his senses, and entreated
her with increasing fervour, all the strength indeed remaining in his
poor infirm frame. And at this Suzanne felt profoundly disturbed,
asking herself if it would not be wrong of her to refuse the dying
man's request for that interview, although she shuddered at the thought
of the dimly threatening things which might result from it.

'Cannot you say what you wish to me, grandfather?' she ultimately asked.

'No, no--to Monsieur Luc. I will speak to him at once--oh, at once!'

'Very well, then, grandfather, I will write to him, and I hope that he
will come.'

When Suzanne sat down to write, however, her hand trembled. She
penned only two lines: 'My friend, I have need of you, come at once.'
Nevertheless she was twice compelled to pause, for she lacked strength
to trace even those few words, so painful were the memories that they
aroused within her--memories of her lost life and of the happiness
beside which she had passed, and which she would never know. At last,
however, the note was written, and it was scarcely ten in the morning
when one of the servants, a lad, set out to take it to La Crêcherie.

Luc, as it happened, was standing outside the common-house, finishing
his morning inspection, when the note was handed to him; and without
delay he followed the young messenger. But how great was the emotion
which he felt on reading those simple yet touching words: 'My friend,
I have need of you, come at once.' Events had parted him from Suzanne
for twelve long years, yet she wrote to him as if they had met only the
previous day--like one, too, who was certain that he would respond to
her appeal. She had not doubted his friendship for a moment, and he was
touched to tears at finding her ever the same, still full of sisterly
affection as in former times. The most frightful tragedies had burst
forth around them, every passion had run riot, sweeping away men and
things, yet after those years of separation they found themselves hand
in hand once more. Whilst walking on quickly, and drawing near to La
Guerdache, Luc began to wonder, however, why she had sent for him. He
was not ignorant of Boisgelin's desire to speculate on the situation
and sell the Abyss for as much money as possible; but he had resolved
that he would never buy it. The only acceptable solution of the matter
in his opinion was the entry of the Abyss into the association of La
Crêcherie, after the fashion of the other smaller factories. For a
moment it occurred to him that Boisgelin might have asked his wife to
make overtures to him, but he knew her, and felt that she was incapable
of playing such a part. It seemed to him that she must be exhausted
by some great anxiety, that she must need his help in some tragic
circumstance. And so he puzzled his mind no more--she herself would
soon tell him what service she required of his affection.

Suzanne was waiting for him in one of the little drawing-rooms, and
when Luc entered it she thought she was about to faint, so great became
her perturbation. He himself felt upset, and at first neither of them
could utter a word. They looked at one another in silence.

'Oh, my friend, my friend!' Suzanne murmured when she was at last able
to speak.

Those simple words were fraught with all the emotion she felt at the
thought of those last twelve years--their separation, broken only by a
few silent chance meetings, the cruel life which she herself had led in
her defiled home, and the work which he meantime had accomplished, and
which she had watched from afar, enthusiastically. He had become a hero
for her, she had worshipped him, and had longed to throw herself at his
knees, nurse his wounds, and become his consoling helpmate. But another
had stepped between them--Josine, who had caused her so much suffering
that now all passionate love seemed dead. Nevertheless, at the sight
of Luc standing once more before her all those hidden things rose from
the depths of her being, and the intensity of her emotion moistened
her eyes and made her hands quiver.

'Oh, my friend, my friend!' she repeated, 'so it was sufficient that I
should send for you!'

Luc quivered with a similar sympathy, and he also recalled the past. He
knew how unhappily she had lived beneath the horrible insult offered to
her, the presence of her husband's mistress in her home. He knew, too,
what dignity and heroism she had shown in remaining in that home with
head erect, for her son's sake and her own. Thus in spite of separation
she had never been absent from his mind and heart--he had pitied her
more and more at each fresh trial that fell upon her. He had often
wondered how he might help her. It would have greatly delighted him to
be able to prove that he had forgotten nothing, that he was still the
same good friend as formerly. And this was why he had now hastened to
respond to her first summons, full of an anxious affection which made
his heart swell and prevented him from speaking.

At last, however, he was able to reply: 'Yes, your friend, one who has
never ceased to be so, and who only awaited your summons to hasten
here.'

They were at that moment so keenly conscious of the bond that for ever
united them like brother and sister, that they embraced and kissed each
other on the cheeks, even as friends who fear nought of human folly or
suffering, but are certain that they will only impart peacefulness and
courage to one another. All the strength and tenderness with which the
friendship of man and woman may be instinct bloomed in their smiles.

'If you only knew, my friend,' said Luc, 'how great my fears were when
I realised that my competition would end by destroying the Abyss! Was
it not you whom I was ruining? And what faith in my work I needed
to prevent those thoughts from staying my hand! Great sorrow often
came upon me--I believed that you must curse me, that you would never
forgive me for being the cause of the worries in which you must be
struggling.'

'Curse you, my friend! But I was with you, I prayed for you--your
victories were my only joy. And living in a sphere that hated you,
it was very sweet for me to have a secret affection, to be able to
understand and love you, unknown to everybody.'

'None the less I have ruined you, my friend,' Luc retorted. 'What will
become of you now, accustomed as you have been since childhood to a
life of luxury?'

'Oh, ruined! That would have come about without you! It was the others
who ruined me. And you will see how brave I can be, no matter how
delicate you may think me.'

'But Paul, your son?'

'Paul! Why, nothing happier could have befallen him. He will work. You
know what wealth has done to my people.'

Then Suzanne at last told Luc why she had sent him such a pressing
summons. Monsieur Jérôme, the wondrous awakening of whose intelligence
she revealed, wished to speak to him. It was the desire of a dying man,
for Doctor Novarre believed in his imminent dissolution. Astonished
by these tidings even as she had been, seized too, like herself, with
vague alarm at the thought of this resurrection in which he was so
strangely desired to intervene, Luc none the less answered that he was
entirely at her disposal, and ready to do whatever she might request.

'Have you warned your husband of Monsieur Jérôme's desire and my
visit?' he inquired.

Suzanne looked at him and shrugged her shoulders. 'No, I did not think
of it--besides, it is useless,' said she; 'for a long time past it has
seemed as if my grandfather no longer knew that my husband existed. He
does not speak to him, he does not even seem to see him. Moreover, my
husband went out shooting early this morning, and he has not yet come
home.' Then she added, 'If you will follow me, I will take you to my
grandfather at once.'

When they entered Monsieur Jérôme's room, the old man, who was sitting
up in the large rosewood bed supported by several pillows, still had
his eyes turned towards the window whose curtains had been drawn back.
In all probability he had never ceased gazing over the park and the
spreading horizon, with the Abyss and La Crêcherie showing yonder,
beside the Bleuse Mountains, above the jumbled roofs of Beauclair.
It was a scene which seemed to attract him irresistibly, like some
symbolism of the past, the present, and the future, which he had had
before him during all his long silent years.

'Grandfather,' said Suzanne, 'I have had Monsieur Luc Froment fetched
for you. Here he is, he was kind enough to come at once.'

The old man slowly turned his head, and looked at Luc with his large
eyes, which had grown it seemed yet larger than formerly, and which
were now full of deep light. He said nothing, no word of greeting
or thanks came from his lips, and the heavy silence lasted several
minutes, whilst he kept his gaze fixed upon that stranger, the founder
of La Crêcherie, as if he were anxious to know him thoroughly, to dive
indeed into his very soul.

At last Suzanne, who felt slightly embarrassed, resumed, 'You do not
know Monsieur Froment, grandfather; but perhaps you may have noticed
him when you were out.'

Monsieur Jérôme did not appear to hear his granddaughter, for he still
returned no answer. After a moment, however, he once more turned his
head and looked round the room. And failing to find what he sought he
ended by speaking one word--a name--'Boisgelin.'

This caused Suzanne fresh astonishment as well as anxiety and
embarrassment. 'You are asking for my husband, grandfather--do you wish
him to come here?' she inquired.

'Yes, yes, Boisgelin.'

'But I am afraid that he has not come home yet. Meantime you ought to
tell Monsieur Froment why you wished to see him.'

'No, no, Boisgelin, Boisgelin.'

It was evident that he wished to speak in Boisgelin's presence. Suzanne
therefore apologised to Luc and left the room to seek her husband.
Meanwhile Luc remained face to face with Monsieur Jérôme, conscious
that the latter's bright glance was still and ever fixed upon him.
In his turn he then began to scrutinise the old man, and found him
looking wondrously handsome in his extreme old age, with his white
face and regular features, to which the approach of death seemed to
impart an expression of sovereign majesty. The wait was a long one,
and not a word was exchanged by those two men, whose eyes dived into
one another's. All around them the room with its heavy hangings and
massive furniture seemed to be slumbering. Not a sound arose--there
was naught but the quiver which came through the walls from the large
empty closed rooms, the stories and stories which had been abandoned
to dust. And nothing could have been more tragical or solemn than that
spell of silent waiting. At last Suzanne returned, bringing with her
Boisgelin, who had just come home. He still wore his shooting-jacket,
gloves, and gaiters, for she had not allowed him time to change his
clothes. And he came in with an anxious, bewildered air, astonished at
such an adventure. All that his wife had just rapidly told him of the
summoning of Luc, his presence in Monsieur Jérôme's room, the old man's
recovery of his intelligence, and the statement that he was awaiting
him--Boisgelin--before speaking, all those unforeseen occurrences quite
upset Suzanne's husband, who had not been allowed even a few minutes of
reflection.

'Well, grandfather,' said Suzanne, 'here is my husband. Speak if you
have something to tell us. We are listening.'

But again the old man looked round the room, and once more he asked,
'Paul, where is Paul?'

'Do you want Paul to be here too?'

'Yes, yes, I want him.'

'But the fact is that he must be at the farm. Fully a quarter of an
hour will be necessary to fetch him.'

'He must come--I want him, I want him!'

Suzanne yielded, and hastily despatched a servant for her son. And then
the waiting began afresh, and proved even more solemn and tragic than
before. Luc and Boisgelin had simply bowed to one another, finding
nothing to say on meeting after so many years in that room which an
august breath already seemed to fill. Nobody spoke, and amidst the
quiver of the air one only heard the somewhat heavy respiration of
Monsieur Jérôme. Once again his large eyes, full of light, were turned
towards the window, towards that horizon symbolical of the labour of
manhood, where the past had undergone accomplishment, and where the
future would be born. And the minutes went by, slowly, regularly, in
that anxious wait for what was to come, the act of sovereign grandeur
whose approach could be divined.

Some light footsteps were heard at last, and Paul came in, his face
glowing healthily from contact with the open air.

'My boy,' said Suzanne, 'it is your grandfather who has brought us all
together here. He wishes you to be present while he speaks.'

On the hitherto rigid lips of Monsieur Jérôme a smile of infinite
tenderness had at last appeared. He signed to Paul to approach, and
made him sit down as near as possible, on the edge of the bed. It was
particularly for him, the last heir of the Qurignons, through whom
the race might flower anew and yet yield excellent fruit, that he
desired to speak. And on seeing how moved the youth looked, full of
grief at the thought of a last farewell, he continued for a moment
trying to reassure him with his affectionate glances, like one to whom
death was sweet since he was about to bequeath as inheritance to his
great-grandson an act of goodness, justice, and pacification.

At last he began to speak, amidst the religious silence of one and
all. He had turned his face towards Boisgelin, and at first he merely
repeated the words which his servant had for two days past heard him
stammering in an undertone, amidst other confused utterances:

'One must give back, one must give back!'

Then, seeing that the others did not appear to understand what he
meant, he turned to Paul and repeated with growing energy:

'One must give back, my child, give back!'

Suzanne shuddered, and exchanged a glance with Luc, who also was
quivering; whilst Boisgelin, seized with uneasiness and alarm,
pretended to detect in all this some rambling on the old man's part.
But Suzanne inquired: 'What do you desire to tell us, grandfather--what
is it that we must give back?'

Monsieur Jérôme's speech was fast becoming easier and more distinct.
'Everything, my child--the Abyss yonder must be given back; La
Guerdache must be given back. One must give back the land of the farm.
Everything must be given, because nothing ought to belong to us,
because everything ought to belong to all.'

'But explain to us, grandfather--to whom are we to give these things?'

'I tell you, my girl, they must be given back to all. Nothing of what
we thought to be our property belongs to us. If that property has
poisoned and destroyed us, it is because it belonged to others. For our
happiness, and the happiness of all, it must be given back, given back!'

Then came a scene of sovereign beauty, incomparable grandeur. The
old man did not always find the words he desired, but his gestures
indicated his meaning. Amidst the silence of those who surrounded
him, he went on slowly, and in spite of all difficulties succeeded in
making himself understood. He had seen everything, heard everything,
understood everything, and even as Suzanne had divined with quivering
anguish, it was all the past which now came back, all the truth of the
terrible past, pouring forth in a flood from that hitherto silent,
impassive witness, so long imprisoned within his own body. It seemed as
if he had only survived the many disasters, a whole family of happy,
then stricken, beings, in order to draw from everything the great
lesson. On the day of awakening, before going to his death, he spread
out all the torture he had suffered as one who, after believing in the
triumphant reign of his race over an empire established by himself, had
lived long enough to see both race and empire swept away by the blast
of the future. And he told why all this had happened, he judged it, and
offered reparation.

At the outset came the first Qurignon, the drawer who with a few mates
had founded the Abyss, he being as poor as they were, but probably more
skilful and economical. Then came himself, the second Qurignon, the
one who had gained a fortune, and piled up millions in the course of
a stubborn struggle, in which he had displayed heroic determination,
ceaseless and ever-intelligent energy. But if he had accomplished
prodigies of activity and creative genius, if he had gained money,
thanks to his skill in adapting the conditions of production to those
of sale, he knew very well that he was simply the outcome of long
generations of toilers from whom he had derived all his strength and
triumph. How many peasants perspiring as they tilled the glebe, how
many workmen exhausted by the handling of tools had been required for
the advent of those two first Qurignons who had conquered fortune!
Among those forerunners there had been a keen passion to fight for
life, to make money, to rise from one class to another, to pursue all
the slow enfranchisement of the poor wretch who bends in servitude
over his appointed task. And at last one Qurignon had been strong
enough to conquer, to escape from the gaol of poverty, to acquire the
long-desired wealth, and become in his turn a rich man, a master! But
immediately afterwards, that is in two generations, his descendants
collapsed, fell once more into the dolorous struggle for existence,
exhausted already as they were by enjoyment, consumed by it as by a
flame.

'One must give back, one must give back, one must give back!' repeated
Monsieur Jérôme.

There was his son Michel, who after years of excesses had killed
himself on the eve of a pay-day; there was his other son Philippe,
who, having married a hussy, had been ruined by her, and had lost his
life in a foolish duel. There was his daughter Laure, who had died
in a convent, her mind weakened by mystical visions. There were his
two grandsons, André, a rachitic semi-maniac, who had passed away in
an asylum, and Gustave, who had met a tragic death in Italy after
impelling his father to suicide by robbing him of his mistress and
the money he needed for his business payments. Finally, there was
his granddaughter Suzanne, the tender-hearted, sensible, well-loved
creature, whose husband after repurchasing the Abyss and La Guerdache
had completed the work of destruction. The Abyss was now in ashes,
and La Guerdache, where he had hoped to see his race swarming, had
become a desert. And whilst his race had been collapsing, carrying off
both his father's work and his own, he had seen another work arise,
La Crêcherie, which was now full of prosperity, throbbing with the
future that it brought with it. He knew all those things because his
clear eyes had witnessed them in the course of his daily outings, those
hours of silent contemplation, when he had found himself outside the
Abyss at the moment when one or another shift was leaving, or outside
La Crêcherie where the men who had deserted his own foundation took
off their caps to him. And again he had passed before the Abyss on
the morning when of that well-loved creation he had found nought but
smoking ruins left.

'One must give back, one must give back, one must give back!'

That cry, which he constantly repeated amidst his slowly flowing words,
which he emphasised each time with more and more energy, ascended from
his heart like the natural consequence of all the disastrous events
which had caused him so much suffering. If everything around him had
crumbled away so soon, was it not because the fortune which he had
acquired by the labour of others was both poisoned and poisonous? The
enjoyment that such fortune brings is the most certain of destructive
ferments--it bastardises a race, disorganises a family, leads to
abominable tragedies. In less than half a century it had consumed the
strength, the intelligence, the genius which the Qurignons had amassed
during several centuries of rough toil. The mistake of those robust
workers had been their belief that to secure personal happiness they
ought to appropriate and enjoy the wealth created by the exertions of
their companions. And the wealth they had dreamt of, the wealth they
had acquired, had proved their chastisement. Nothing can be worse from
the moral point of view than to cite as an example the workman who
grows rich, who becomes an employer, the sovereign master of thousands
of his fellow-men who bend perspiring over their toil, producing
the wealth by which he triumphs! When a writer says: 'You see very
well that with order and intelligence a mere blacksmith may attain
to everything,' he simply contributes to the work of iniquity, and
aggravates social disequilibrium. The happiness of the elect is really
compounded of the unhappiness of others, for it is their happiness
which he cuts down and purloins. The comrade who makes his way, as the
saying goes, bars the road to thousands of other comrades, lives upon
their misery and their suffering. And it often happens that the happy
one is punished by success, by fortune itself, which coming too quickly
and disproportionately, proves murderous. This is why the only right
course is to revert to salutary work, work on the part of all--all
earning their livings and owing their happiness solely to the exertion
of their minds and their muscles.

'One must give back, one must give back, one must give back!' repeated
Monsieur Jérôme.

One must give back, indeed; one must restitute because one is liable
to die of that which one steals from another. One must give back,
because the sole cure, the only certainty of happiness lies in doing
so. One must give back in a spirit of justice, and even more in one's
own personal interest, since the happiness of each can only reside in
the happiness of all. One must give back in order that one may enjoy
better health and live a happy life in the midst of universal peace.
One must give back because if all the unjust victors of life, all the
egotistical holders of the public fortune, were to restore the wealth
that they squander for their personal pleasures--the great estates,
the great industrial enterprises, the roads, the towns--peace would be
restored to-morrow, love would flower once more among men, and there
would be such an abundance of possessions that not one single being
would be left in penury. One must give back because one must set the
example if one desires that other wealthy folk may understand, may
realise whence have come all the evils from which they suffer, and may
be inspired to endow their descendants with renewed vigour by plunging
them once more into active life, daily work. One must give back, too,
whilst there is yet time to do so, whilst there is still some nobility
in returning to one's comrades, in showing them that one was mistaken,
and that one returns to one's place in the ranks to participate in
the common effort, with the hope that the hour of justice and peace
will soon strike. And one must give back in order to die with a clear
conscience, a heart joyful at having accomplished one's duty, at
leaving a repairing and liberating lesson to the last of one's race,
so that he may restore it, save it from error, and perpetuate it in
strength, delight, and beauty.

'One must give back, one must give back!'

Tears had appeared in Suzanne's eyes as she perceived the exaltation
with which her son Paul was filled by her grandfather's words; whilst
Boisgelin expressed his irritation by impatient movements.

'But, grandfather,' said she, 'to whom and how are we to give back?'

The old man turned his bright eyes upon Luc. 'If I desired the founder
of La Crêcherie to be present,' said he, 'it was in order that he might
hear me and help you, my children. He has already done much for the
work of reparation, he alone can intervene and restore what remains of
our fortune to the sons and grandsons of those who were my own and my
father's comrades.'

Luc was filled with emotion by the wondrous nobility of the scene,
yet he hesitated, for he could divine Boisgelin's keen hostility. 'I
can only do one thing,' said he--'that is, if the owners of the Abyss
are willing I will procure them admission into our association at La
Crêcherie. In the same way as other factories have already done, the
Abyss will increase our family--double, in fact, the importance of our
growing town. If by 'giving back' you mean a return to increase of
justice, a step towards the absolute justice of the future, I will help
you, I will consent to what you say with all my heart.'

'I know you will,' Monsieur Jérôme slowly answered; 'I ask nothing
more.'

But Boisgelin, unable to restrain himself any longer, began to protest.
'Ah! that is not what I desire. However much it may distress me to do
so, I am willing to sell the Abyss to La Crêcherie. A price will have
to be agreed upon, and in addition to the amount which may be fixed I
desire to retain an interest in the enterprise, which also will have to
be arranged. I need money and I wish to sell.'

This was the plan which he had been maturing for some days past, in the
idea that Luc was eager to secure possession of the Abyss land, and
that he would be able to obtain a considerable sum from him at once,
as well as a future income. But this plan entirely collapsed when Luc
declared in a voice expressive of irrevocable determination: 'It is
impossible for us to buy. It is contrary to the spirit which guides us.
We are simply an association, a family open to all those brothers who
may wish to join us.'

Then Monsieur Jérôme, whose bright eyes had been fixed on Boisgelin,
resumed with sovereign tranquillity of manner: 'It is I who wish
it and who order it. My granddaughter, Suzanne, here present, is
co-proprietress of the Abyss, and she will refuse her consent to any
other arrangement than that which I desire. And, like myself, I am sure
that she will have but one regret, that of being unable to restore
everything, of having to accept interest on her capital, which she will
dispose of as her heart may dictate.'

And as Boisgelin remained silent, submitting to the others with the
weakness that had come with his ruin, the old man continued: 'But that
is not all, there remain La Guerdache and the farm--they must be given
back, given back.'

Then, though he was again experiencing a difficulty in speaking and
was well-nigh exhausted, he made his last desires known. As the Abyss
would be blended with La Crêcherie, he wished the farm to join the
association of Les Combettes, so as to enlarge the fields which had
been united by Lenfant, Yvonnot, and all the other peasants, who had
been living together like brothers since a proper understanding of
their interests had reconciled them. There would be but one stretch
of earth, one common mother, loved by all, tilled by all, and feeding
all. The whole plain of La Roumagne would end by yielding one vast
harvest to fill the granaries of regenerated Beauclair. And as for
La Guerdache, which entirely belonged to Suzanne, he charged her to
restore it to the poor and suffering, so that she might keep nothing of
the property which had poisoned the Qurignons. Then, reverting to Paul,
who still sat on the edge of the bed, and taking his hand in his own,
and looking at him earnestly with his eyes which were now growing dim,
Monsieur Jérôme said in a lower and lower voice: 'One must give back,
one must give back, my child. You will keep nothing, you will give
yonder park to the old comrades, so that they may rejoice there on high
days, and so that their wives and children may walk there and enjoy
hours of gaiety and good health under the fine trees. And you will also
give back this house, this huge residence which we did not know how to
fill in spite of all our money, for I wish it to belong to the wives
and the children of poor workmen. They will be welcomed here and nursed
when they are ailing or when they are weary. Keep nothing, give all,
all back, my child, if you wish to save yourself from poison. And work
and live solely on the fruits of your work, and seek out the daughter
of some old comrade who still works and marry her, so that she may
bring you handsome children, who also will work, who will be just and
happy beings, and in their turn have handsome children for the eternal
work of futurity. Keep nothing, my child, give everything back, for
therein alone lies salvation, peace, and joy.'

They were all weeping now--never had a more beautiful, a loftier, a
more heroic breath passed over human souls. The great room had become
august. And the eyes of the old man, which had filled it with light,
faded slowly, whilst his voice likewise became fainter, returning
to eternal silence. He had at last accomplished his sublime work of
reparation, truth, and justice, to help on the advent of the happiness
which is the primordial right of every man. And his duty done, that
same evening he died.

Before then, however, when Suzanne and Luc left Monsieur Jérôme's
room together, they found themselves alone for a moment in the little
_salon_. They were so overcome by emotion that their hearts rose to
their lips.

'Rely on me,' said Luc. 'I swear to you that I will watch over the
fulfilment of the supreme desires which have been committed to you. I
will attend to matters from this moment.'

She had taken hold of his hands. 'Oh! my friend,' she answered, 'I
place my faith in you. I know what miracles you have already performed,
and I do not doubt the prodigy which you will accomplish by reconciling
us all. Ah! there is nothing but love. Ah! if I had only been loved as
I myself loved!'

She was trembling. The secret of which she herself had been ignorant so
long, escaped her at that solemn moment. 'My friend, my friend,' she
repeated, 'what strength I should have had for doing good, what help
might I not have given had I felt beside me the arm of a just man, a
hero, one whom I should have made my god! But if it be too late for
that, will you at least accept what help I may be able to give as a
friend, a sister----'

He understood her. It was a repetition of Sœurette's sweet, sad case.
She had loved him without revealing it, without even owning it to
herself, like an honest woman eager for tenderness, who amidst the
torments of her household dreamt of happy love. And now that Josine was
chosen, now that all else was dead without possibility of resurrection,
she gave herself, even as Sœurette had done, as a sisterly companion, a
devoted friend, who longed to participate in his mission.

'If I will accept your help!' cried Luc, who was touched to tears. 'Ah!
yes indeed, there is never enough affection, enough help and active
tenderness. The work is vast, and you will have ample opportunities for
giving without stint your heart. Come with us, my friend, and stay with
us, and you will be part of my thoughts and my love.'

She was transported by his words, she threw herself into his arms,
and they kissed. An indissoluble bond was being formed between
them, a marriage of sentiment, of exquisite purity, in which there
was nought but a common passion for the poor and the suffering, an
inextinguishable desire to obliterate the misery of the world.

Months went by, and the liquidation of the affairs of the Abyss,
which were extremely involved, proved a most laborious matter. Before
everything else it was necessary to get rid of the debt of six hundred
thousand francs. Arrangements were at last entered into with the
creditors, who agreed to accept payment in annuities levied upon the
share of profits to which the Abyss would be entitled when it entered
the Crêcherie association. Then it was necessary to value the plant
and materials saved from the fire. These, with all the land stretching
along the Mionne as far as Old Beauclair, formed the share of capital
which the Boisgelins brought into the association; and a modest income,
levied on the profits before they were divided among the creditors, was
ensured them. Old Qurignon's desires were but half fulfilled during
that period of transition, when capital still held a position similar
to that of work and intelligence, pending the time when, with the
victory of sovereign work, it would altogether disappear.

At least, however, La Guerdache and the farm returned completely to the
commonalty, the heirs of the toilers, who had formerly paid for them
with the sweat of their brows, for as soon as the farm lands--entering
the Combettes association in accordance with the long-planned schemes
of Feuillat--began to prosper and yield gain, the whole of the money
was employed to transform La Guerdache into a convalescent home for
weak children and women who had recently become mothers. Free beds were
installed there, with gratuitous board, and the park now belonged to
the humble ones of the world, forming a huge garden, a paradise as of
dreamland, where children played, where mothers recovered their health,
where the multitude enjoyed recreation as in some palace of nature
which had become the palace of one and all.

Years went by. Luc had ceded one of the little houses of La Crêcherie,
near the pavilion which he still occupied, to the Boisgelins. And at
first that modest life proved very hard for Boisgelin, who did not
become resigned to it without violent fits of revolt. At one moment
he even wished to go to Paris to live there chancewise, as he listed.
But his innate sloth and the impossibility of earning his own living
rendered him as weak as a child, and placed him in the hands of whoever
cared to take him. Since his downfall Suzanne, so sensible, so gentle,
and yet so firm, had acquired absolute authority over him, and he
always ended by doing what she wished, like a poor rudderless creature
carried away by the stream of life. Soon, too, among that active world
of workers he felt idleness weighing upon him to such a degree that
he began to desire some occupation. He felt weary of dragging himself
about all day long, he suffered from a secret feeling of shame, a need
of action, for he could no longer tire himself with the management and
squandering of a large fortune. Shooting remained a resource for him
during the winter months, but as soon as the fine weather came there
was nothing for him to do except to ride out occasionally, and dismal
_ennui_ then crushed him down. And so when Suzanne prevailed on Luc to
confide an inspectorship to him, a kind of control over a department
of the general stores, which meant employment for three hours of his
time every day, he ended by accepting the offer. His health, which had
suffered, then improved; still he always displayed anxiety, wearing a
lost, unhappy air, such as one might find in a man who had fallen from
one planet to another.

And years again went by. Suzanne had become the friend and sister
of Josine and Sœurette, in whose work she participated. All
three surrounded Luc, sustaining him and completing him, like
personifications of kindness, love, and gentleness. He called them with
a smile his three virtues. They busied themselves with the _crèches_,
the schools, the infirmaries, and the convalescent homes, they went
wherever there might be weakness to protect, pain to assuage, joy to
initiate. Sœurette and Suzanne, in particular, took on themselves the
most ungrateful tasks, those which require personal abnegation, entire
renunciation; whilst Josine, having to attend to her children, her
ever-growing home, naturally bestowed less of her time upon others.
She, moreover, was the _amorosa_, the flower of beauty and desire,
whilst Sœurette and Suzanne were the friends, the consolers, and the
counsellors. At times some very bitter trials still fell on Luc, and
often, on quitting his wife's embrace, it was to his two friends that
he listened, charging them to dress the wounds they spoke of and devote
themselves to the common work of salvation. It was by and for women
that the future city had to be founded.

Eight years had already elapsed when Paul Boisgelin, who was
seven-and-twenty, married Bonnaire's eldest daughter, then twenty-four
years old. As soon as the lands of La Guerdache had entered the
Combettes association, Paul, with Feuillat, the former farmer, had
begun to take a passionate interest in promoting the fertility of
the vast expanse which those fields had enlarged. He had become an
agriculturist, and directed one of the sections of the domain, which
it had been necessary to divide into several groups. And it was at his
parents' little house at La Crêcherie, whither he returned to sleep
every night, that he had renewed his acquaintance with Antoinette,
who lived with her parents in a neighbouring house. Close intercourse
had sprung up between that simple family of workers and the former
heiress of the Qurignons, who now lived so modestly and welcomed every
one so kindly. And although Madame Bonnaire, the terrible La Toupe,
had remained a rather difficult customer to deal with, the simple
nobility of character displayed by Bonnaire, that hero of work, one of
the founders of the new city, had sufficed to render the intercourse
intimate. It was charming to see the children loving one another, and
drawing yet closer the links which had thus been formed between the
representatives of two classes which had formerly fought one against
the other. Antoinette, who resembled her father, being a good-looking,
sturdy brunette, possessed of no little natural gracefulness, had
passed through Sœurette's schools, and now helped her at the big dairy
which was installed at the end of the park beside the ridge of the
Bleuse Mountains. As she said with a laugh, she was simply a dairymaid,
expert with milk, and cheese, and butter. When the young people
married, he, Paul, a _bourgeois_ by birth, who had gone back to the
soil, and she, Antoinette, a daughter of the people working with her
hands, a great _fête_ was given, for there was a desire to celebrate as
gloriously as possible those symbolical nuptials, which proclaimed the
reconciliation, the union of repentant capitalism and triumphant work.

During the ensuing year, one warm June day, shortly after the birth
of Antoinette's first child, the Boisgelins, accompanied by Luc, once
more found themselves together at La Guerdache. Nearly ten years had
now elapsed since the death of Monsieur Jérôme and the restitution of
the estate to the people in accordance with his desire. Antoinette had
for some time been a _pensionnaire_ in the convalescent home which
had been installed in the château where the Qurignons had reigned;
and, leaning on the arm of her husband, she was now able to stroll
under the beautiful foliage of the park, whilst Suzanne, like a good
grandmother, carried the baby. A few paces in the rear walked Luc
and Boisgelin. And what memories arose at the sight of that princely
house, those copses, those lawns, those avenues where the uproar of
costly _fêtes_, the galloping of horses and the baying of hounds no
longer resounded, but where the humble of the world at last enjoyed
the health-giving open air, and the restful delight that came from
the great trees! All the luxury of that magnificent domain was now
theirs, the convalescent home opened its bright bed-rooms, its pleasant
_salons_, its well-stocked larders to them, the park reserved for them
its shady paths, its crystalline springs, its lawns where for their
delight gardeners cultivated beds of perfume-shedding flowers. They
found there their long-withheld share of beauty and grace. And it was
delightful to see infancy, youth, and motherhood--which for centuries
had been condemned to suffering, shut up in sunless hovels, dying of
filthy wretchedness--suddenly summoned to partake of the joy of life,
the share of happiness belonging by right to every human creature, that
luxury of happiness at which innumerable generations of starvelings had
gazed from afar without ever being able to touch it!

As the young married couple, followed by the others, at last reached a
pool of water glistening with mirror-like limpidity under the blue sky,
beyond a row of willows, Luc began to laugh softly.

'Ah, my friends!' said he, 'what a gay and pretty scene this recalls to
me! You know nothing about it, eh? Nevertheless it was at the edge of
this calm water that Paul and Antoinette were betrothed a score or so
of years ago.'

Then he spoke of the delightful scene which he had witnessed beside
that pond on the occasion of his first visit to La Guerdache--the
invasion of the park by three youngsters of the streets, Nanet bringing
his companions, Lucien and Antoinette Bonnaire, through a gap in the
hedge in order that they might play beside the pond; then Lucien's
ingenious invention, the little boat which travelled all alone over the
water; and the arrival of the three little _bourgeois_, Paul Boisgelin,
Nise Delaveau, and Louise Mazelle, who all marvelled at the boat, and
immediately made friends with the intruders. And couples had been
formed quite naturally, there had been betrothals at once, Paul with
Antoinette, Nise with Nanet, Louise with Lucien, amidst the smiling
complicity of kind-hearted Nature, the eternal mother.

'Don't you remember it?' asked Luc gaily.

The young couple, who joined in his laughter, declared that he went
back too far. 'If I was only four years old,' said Antoinette, who felt
highly amused, 'my memory could not have been a very strong one.'

But Paul, gazing fixedly into the past, was making an effort to recall
the scene. 'I was seven,' said he. 'Wait a moment! It seems to me that
I vaguely remember--the little boat had to be brought back with a pole
whenever its wheels ceased turning; and then one of the little girls
narrowly missed falling into the pond; and afterwards the intruders,
the little bandits, ran away on seeing some people approach.'

'That was it!' cried Luc. 'Ah! so you remember! Well, for my part, I
remember that day experiencing a quiver of hope in the future, for that
scene in some measure suggested the reconciliation which was to come.
Childhood in its naïve fraternity was at work here, taking a first
step towards justice and peace. And whatever fresh happiness you may
bring about, you know, will be yet increased by that little gentleman
yonder.'

He pointed to the baby, little Ludovic, now lying in the arms of
Suzanne, who felt so happy at being a grandmother. She, on her side,
jestingly retorted: 'For the time being he is very good, because he
is asleep. Later on, my dear Luc, we will marry him to one of your
granddaughters, and in that manner the reconciliation will be complete,
all the combatants of yesterday will be united and pacified in the
persons of their descendants. Are you willing? Shall we have the
betrothal to-day?'

'Am I willing? Certainly I am! Our great-grandchildren will push on our
work hand in hand.'

Paul and Antoinette felt moved, and kissed one another, whilst
Boisgelin, who was not listening, looked round the park, his former
estate, in a mournful manner, though without any bitterness, to such a
degree indeed had the new world upset and stupefied him. And then they
all resumed their walk along the shady paths, Luc and Suzanne silently
exchanging smiles which told their joy.

When they all came back to the house they paused for a moment before
it, to the left of the steps, under the windows of the very room where
Monsieur Jérôme had died. From that point one perceived--between the
crests of the great trees--the distant roofs of Beauclair, and then La
Crêcherie and the Abyss. They gazed upon that spreading panorama in
silence. They could plainly distinguish the Abyss, now built afresh on
the same plan as La Crêcherie, and forming with it one sole city of
work--work, reorganised and ennobled, transformed into man's pride,
health, and gaiety. More justice and more love were born there every
morning. And the waves of little smiling houses, set in greenery, those
waves which the anxious Delaveau had seen always advancing, had flowed
over the once black land without a halt, ever enlarging the future
city. They now occupied the whole expanse from the ridge of the Bleuse
Mountains to the Mionne, and they would soon cross the narrow torrent,
to sweep away Old Beauclair, that sordid agglomeration of the hovels
of servitude and agony. And as they advanced they built up stone by
stone--under the fraternal sun, even to the verge of the fertile fields
of La Roumagne--the city where all at last would be freedom, justice,
and happiness.



II


Whilst evolution was carrying Beauclair towards its new destiny,
love, young, gay, and victorious, asserted itself, and on all sides
there came frequent marriages, drawing various classes together and
hastening the advent of harmony and final peace. Love the victorious
overthrew all obstacles, triumphed over the greatest resistance with a
passion full of happy vitality, an explosion of joy which proclaimed
in the broad sunlight what happiness there was in being, in loving, in
creating yet more and more.

Luc and Josine had set the example. During the last ten years a family
of three boys and two girls had sprung up around them. Hilaire, the
eldest, born before the collapse of the Abyss, was already eleven.
Then, at intervals of two years, had come the others: Charles, who was
now nine years old; Thérèse, who was seven; Pauline, who was five; and
Jules, who was three. To the old pavilion another structure had been
added, and there these children romped, filling the place with gaiety
and hope, and growing up for future unions. As Luc, in delight, often
said to the smiling Josine, the constancy of their affection sprang
largely from that triumphant fruitfulness. In Josine, the _amorosa_ had
now largely given way to the mother; yet she and Luc were still lovers,
for love does not age, it remains the eternal flame, the immortal
brazier whence the life of the world derives its being. Never had a
home resounded with brighter gaiety than theirs, full as it was of
children and flowers. And they loved one another so well there, that
misfortune passed them by. Whenever any recollection of the dolorous
past returned, when Josine recalled her sufferings and the downfall in
which she would have perished had it not been for Luc's helping hand,
she flung her arms around his neck in a transport of inexhaustible
gratitude, whilst he, full of emotion, felt that the iniquitous
opprobrium from which he had saved her rendered her all the dearer to
him.

Nanet, little Nanet, who was now becoming a man, lodged with Luc,
beside his 'big sister,' as he still called Josine. Gifted with keen
intelligence and an enterprising bravery which was ever on the alert,
the young fellow captivated Luc, whose dearest pupil he became, a
youthful disciple full of the master's lessons. And meantime, at the
Jordans', whose house was so near to Luc's, Nise, little Nise, was
likewise growing up in the affectionate charge of Sœurette, who had
given her a home on the morrow of the destruction of the Abyss, happy
in being able to adopt the young girl, in whom she found a charming
companion and assistant. And it followed that Nanet and Nise, seeing
one another every day, ended by living solely one for the other. As a
matter of fact, did not their betrothal date from infancy, from the
distant days when child-love, divine ingenuousness, had filled them
with a craving to be together, impelling them to brave all punishments
and even to scale walls in order to meet? They had been fair and curly
like little lambs in those days, and how silvery had seemed their
laughter when at each meeting they embraced, knowing nothing of what
parted them socially, she the _bourgeoise_ by birth, the master's
daughter, and he the urchin of the streets, the penniless son of a
wretched manual worker. Then had come the frightful tempest of flames,
Nise saved by Nanet, to whose neck she had clung, both of them covered
with burns, and at one moment in danger of death. And to-day also they
were both fair and curly, they gave vent to the same light laughter as
in childhood, and displayed a similarity of demeanour as if one matched
the other. But Nise had now become a big girl, Nanet a big youth, and
they adored one another.

The idyll lasted for nearly seven years longer, whilst Luc was making
a man of Nanet, and Sœurette was helping Nise to grow up in kindliness
and beauty. Nise had been thirteen years of age at the time of the
terrible death of her father and mother, whose remains had been reduced
to ashes, in such wise that nothing of them was found under the
remnants of the burnt house. For long years the girl shuddered at the
recollection of that night. There was no reason to hurry her marriage;
so far as that was concerned, indeed, her friends wished to wait until
she should be twenty in order that she herself might come to a free and
sensible decision. Besides, Nanet himself was very young, her elder by
scarcely three years, and still an apprentice. With their gay playful
natures, moreover, simply intent as they were on making merry together,
they themselves were in no hurry. They met every evening, and found a
simple enjoyment in telling one another what they had done during the
day. They would often sit hand in hand, and when they parted for the
night they exchanged an affectionate kiss. But amidst their cordial
agreement there were at times some little quarrels. Nanet occasionally
found Nise too proud and wilful; she put on her princess's airs, as he
was wont to remark. Again, he sometimes thought her too coquettish, too
fond of fine attire and of the _fêtes_ at which she displayed it. Of
course it was not forbidden to appear beautiful--on the contrary; but
it was not right to spoil one's beauty by assuming an air of contempt
for others. At first Nise, in whom reappeared some little of her
mother's passion for enjoyment and her father's despotic disposition,
grew angry when she was reproved, and endeavoured to demonstrate that
she was perfection itself. But as she worshipped Nanet she ended by
confiding in him, listening to him, and striving to please him by
becoming the best and gentlest of little women. And when, as sometimes
happened, she did not succeed in this, she remarked with a laugh that
if she should ever have a daughter the latter would no doubt be much
better than herself, because it was necessary that the blood of the
princes of this world should have time to become democratised among a
more brotherly line of descendants.

The wedding at last took place, when Nise was twenty and Nanet
twenty-three years old. It had long been wished for, foreseen, and
awaited. For seven years not a day had elapsed without a step towards
this _dénouement_ of the long and happy idyll. And as this marriage
of Delaveau's daughter with the brother of Josine, who was now to all
intents and purposes Luc's wife, extinguished all hatred, and sealed a
pact of alliance, there was a desire that it should be made a festival
celebrating forgiveness of the past and the new community's radiant
entry into the future. With this object it was decided that there
should be singing and dancing on the very site of the Abyss, in one of
the halls now erected there as an adjunct to La Crêcherie, which at
present spread over acres and acres of ground, and ever and ever grew.

Luc and Sœurette were the organisers and masters of the ceremonies of
this marriage festival, as well as the witnesses of the bridal pair,
Luc being witness for Nanet, and Sœurette for Nise. They wished to
impart to the festival all the splendour of a triumph, to endow it
with the gaiety of hope's fulfilment, to make it like the very victory
of the city of work and peace, now founded and prosperous. It is good
that communities should indulge in great rejoicings; public life needs
frequent days of beauty, joy, and exultation. Thus Luc and Sœurette
chose the great foundry hall, where so many of the monster-like
hammers, the gigantic rolling bridges, the movable cranes of prodigious
strength were gathered together. The new buildings, all bricks and
steelwork, were clean and healthy, and full of joyous brightness with
their large windows through which streamed both air and sunlight.
And the plant was left in position, especially as, for a festival of
triumphant work, one could not have devised any better decorations
than were provided by those gigantic appliances, whose powerful forms
were instinct with a sovereign beauty compounded of logic, strength,
and certainty. However, they were decorated with foliage and crowned
with flowers, even as were altars in ancient times. The brick walls,
too, were ornamented with garlands of verdure, and the very pavement
was strewn with roses and broom flowers. The whole seemed like the
blossoming of man's effort to attain happiness, an effort which had
ended by flowering there, scattering perfume around the toil of the
worker, a toil once unjust and hard, but now attractive and leading
solely to happiness.

Two processions set forth, one from the home of the bridegroom, the
other from that of the bride. On his side Luc, followed by his wife
Josine and their children, brought the hero Nanet; on hers, Sœurette,
with her brother Jordan, brought their adopted daughter, the heroine
Nise. The whole population of the new city, where all work was stopped
in token of rejoicing, lined the road to acclaim the bridal pair.
The beautiful sun shone out, the gay houses were decked with bright
colours, the greenery was full of flowers and birds. And in the rear
of either _cortège_ followed the crowd of workers, a vast concourse of
joyous people who gradually invaded the great halls of the works, which
were as lofty and as broad as the naves of the old-time cathedrals.
The foundry hall, whither the bridal couple repaired, was soon crowded
to excess in spite of its immensity. In addition to Luc, his family,
and the Jordans, there were the Boisgelins with Paul, who at that time
had not yet married Antoinette, for their wedding was only to take
place four years later. Then came the Bonnaires, the Bourrons, even the
Fauchards, indeed, all those whose arms had contributed to the victory
of work. Those men of good will and faith, those workers of the first
days, had increased and multiplied. Was not the throng of comrades
around them an enlargement of their families, an assemblage of
brothers whose numbers still increased daily? There were five thousand
of them, and soon there would be ten. They would increase to a hundred
thousand, to a million, and would at last absorb all mankind.

The ceremony, in the midst of the powerful machinery decked with
flowers and garlands of verdure, was one of sovereign and touching
simplicity.

With smiling mien Luc and Sœurette placed Nanet's and Nise's hands one
in the other.

'Love one another with all your hearts,' they said to them, 'and have
handsome children who will love one another as you yourselves will be
loved.'

The crowd raised acclamations, and shouted the word 'Love!' For it was
King Love who alone could render work fruitful, by making the race
ever more and more numerous, and inflaming it with desire, the eternal
source of life.

But in all this there was already too much solemnity for Nanet and
Nise, who had loved one another so playfully ever since childhood.
Although those two little curly lambs had grown up, they remained
like toys in their festival raiment, both clad in white, charming and
delightful. And they were not content with a ceremonious hand-shake.
They fell upon each other's neck.

'Ah! my little Nise, how happy I am to have you for my wife at last,
after waiting for you for years and years!'

'Ah! my little Nanet, how happy I am to belong to you, for it is quite
true, you have earned it!'

'And little Nise, do you remember when I pulled you up by the arms to
help you over the walls, and when I carried you pick-a-back, and played
at being a rearing horse?'

'And little Nanet, do you remember when we played at hide-and-seek, and
you ended by finding me among the rosebushes, so well hidden there that
it was enough to make me die of laughing?'

'Little Nise, little Nise, we'll love each other as we played, very
heartily, with all, all the strength of health and gaiety.'

'Little Nanet, little Nanet, we played so much, and we will love one
another so much, that we shall love yet again in our children, and play
again even with our children's children.'

And they embraced, and laughed, and played together, raised to the
highest felicity. The throng, filled with enthusiasm by the sight,
traversed by a wave of sonorous gaiety, clapped hands and acclaimed
love, almighty love, which without cessation creates more and more
life and happiness. Then the singing began, chorus singing, in which
the aged sang their well-earned rest, the men the triumph of their
toil, the women the helpful sweetness of their love, the children the
confident cheerfulness of their hopes. Afterwards came the dances,
with a great final round and chain, which brought all that brotherly
little people hand in hand, stretching out and revolving for hours to
the strains of gay music, through the halls of the huge works. They
had formerly toiled so much and suffered so much in the dirty, grimy,
unhealthy inferno which had stood there, and which the flames had
swept away. The sunshine, the air, and life, now entered freely. And
the marriage _ronde_ still came and went around the huge appliances,
the colossal presses, the formidable steam hammers, the gigantic
planing-machines, which wore a smiling aspect beneath their adornments
of flowers and foliage, whilst the young married couple led the dance,
as if in them rested the soul of all those things, that morrow of
increase in equity and fraternity, which the victory of their long
affection had ensured.

Luc was preparing a surprise for Jordan, for he also wished to
celebrate the labour of the scientist whose endeavours would contribute
more than a hundred years of politics could have done to the happiness
of the city. When the night had fallen and it was quite dark, the whole
works suddenly glowed, thousands of lamps casting the gay light of
day-time over the place. Jordan's researches, it should be said, had at
last yielded fruit. After many defeats he had devised a system for the
transport of electrical force without loss, employing new appliances,
ingenious means of transmission. Henceforth the cost of conveying coal
was saved, it was burnt at the pit's mouth, and the machinery which
transformed calorical into electrical energy sent it to La Crêcherie by
special cables, which allowed of no loss on the way, in such wise that
the cost price was now only half of what it had formerly been. This
then was a first great victory, La Crêcherie profusely illumined, power
distributed abundantly among both the large and the small appliances,
comfort increased, work facilitated, and fortune augmented. And at the
same time it was virtually a fresh step towards happiness.

When Jordan, on beholding the festive illumination, understood Luc's
affectionate intention, he began to laugh like a child.

'Ah! my friend, so you give me a bouquet too! As a matter of fact, I
rather deserve it, for as you must remember I had been striving to
solve the problem for ten long years! What obstacles, what defeats did
I not encounter when I imagined success to be a certainty! But, no
matter, I set to work afresh on the morrow, on the ruins of all the
experiments that had failed. A man always ends by succeeding when he
works.'

Luc was laughing with his friend, whose courage and faith he shared.

'I know that very well,' said he in reply; 'you are the living proof
of it. I know no greater, loftier master of energy than you, and I
have tried to follow your example. Well, so night is now vanquished,
you have put darkness to flight, and as electricity at present costs
so little, we shall be able to light up a planet above La Crêcherie,
to replace the sun as soon as evening comes. And you have also wrought
economy in human toil, for, thanks to the abundance of mechanical power
yielded by your system, one man now suffices for work in which two had
to be employed. Thus we acclaim you as the master of light and warmth
and power.'

Jordan, wrapped in a rug which Sœurette, fearing the coolness of the
evening, had thrown over his shoulders, was still looking at the huge
pile around him, now sparkling like a palace of fairyland. Short
and puny, with a pale face and the feeble air of one who is on the
point of dying, he strolled about those glowing halls, examining them
curiously, for during the last ten years he had scarcely stirred from
his laboratory. Thus he marvelled at the results already obtained, the
success of a work of which he had been both the least known and the
most active artisan.

'Yes, yes,' he muttered, 'the result is very good already, no little
ground has been gained. We are advancing, the future we dreamt of is
nearer to us. And I owe you my apologies, my dear Luc, for I did not
hide from you at the outset that I scarcely believed in the success of
your mission. But you still have a great deal to accomplish, and for
my part, alas! I have done next to nothing by the side of all that I
should like to do.'

He became grave and thoughtful. 'Though we have reduced the cost of
electricity by one half, it still remains too high,' he said; 'and,
besides, all the intricate and expensive installations at the mouths
of the pits, the steam engines and the boilers, without mentioning
the miles of cables which have to be kept in repair, are barbarous,
and consume time and money. Something else is needed, something more
practical, simple, and direct. I know very well in what direction I
ought to look, but such a search seems madness, and I don't dare to
tell people what work I have undertaken, for I myself can't describe
it clearly. Yet yes, one ought to suppress the engine and the boiler,
which are cumbersome intermediaries between the coal extracted and
the electricity which is produced. In a word, one ought to be able to
transform the calorical energy contained in the coal into electrical
energy, without having to bring mechanical energy into play. I don't
yet know how that is to be done, but I have set to work, and I hope
to succeed. And if I do, you'll then see that electricity will cost
scarcely anything. We shall be able to give it to everybody, spread it
broadcast, and make it the victorious agent of universal comfort.'

He grew more and more enthusiastic, drawing himself up with passionate
gestures as he spoke, he who as a rule remained so silent and
thoughtful.

'The day must come,' he resumed, 'when electricity will belong to
everybody, like the water of the rivers and the breezes of the heavens.
It will be necessary to give it abundantly to one and all, and to allow
men to dispose of it as they choose. It must circulate in our towns
like the very blood of social life. In each house one must merely have
to turn on a switch or a tap to obtain a profusion of power, heat, and
light. At night-time, in the black sky, electricity will set another
sun, which will extinguish the stars. And it will suppress winter,
it will bring eternal summer into being, warming the old earth, and
ascending to melt the snow even among the clouds. This is why I am not
particularly proud of what I have done as yet, for it is very little by
the side of all that has to be accomplished.'

And with an air of quiet disdain he concluded: 'I can't even get a
practical result from my electrical furnaces. They are still mere
experimental furnaces. Electricity is still too costly--one must wait
till its employment proves remunerative, and for that to be it should
not cost us more than the waters of the rivers and the atmosphere of
the heavens. When I am able to give it in a flood without counting, my
furnaces will revolutionise metallurgy. Oh! I well know the only path
to follow, and I have already set to work!'

The night festival was a marvellous one. The dancing and singing
had begun afresh in the dazzling halls, where the throng continued
celebrating the marriage until the time came to escort Nanet and Nise
to their nuptial home, amidst acclamations in honour of the love which
had united them.

About this time love likewise revolutionised the _bourgeoisie_ of
Beauclair, and it was in the home of the Mazelles, those idlers living
on their income, that the tempest first burst forth. Their daughter
Louise had always surprised and upset them, so different was her nature
from their own. An extremely active and enterprising girl, she was
ever at work in the house, declaring that idleness would kill her. Her
parents, who placed their great delight in doing nothing, could not
understand how it was that she spoilt her days by useless agitation.
She was an only child, said they, and would have a very fine fortune
invested in State Rentes, and so was she not unreasonable in refusing
to shut herself up in her cosy nook, well sheltered from the worries of
life? They, her parents, were content with their egotistical happiness,
and why therefore did she trouble about the passing beggar, the ideas
which were changing the world, the incidents which disturbed the
streets? But whatever might be said, she remained all of a quiver, full
of life, taking a passionate interest in everything; and thus, amidst
her parents' deep love for her, there was a great deal of stupefaction
at having a daughter so utterly unlike themselves. At last she utterly
upset them by a _coup de passion_, at which they had at first simply
shrugged their shoulders, thinking it some mere fancy or whim. But
things soon came to such a climax that they almost believed the end of
the world to be at hand.

Louise Mazelle had remained a great friend of Nise Delaveau, whom she
had frequently met at the home of the Boisgelins, since the latter
had been installed at La Crêcherie. There also she had again met
Lucien Bonnaire, her former playmate, now a tall and handsome fellow
of twenty-three, whilst she herself was twenty. Lucien no longer
made little boats which travelled by themselves over the water, but
under Luc's guidance he had become a very intelligent and inventive
mechanician, destined to render great services to La Crêcherie, where
he already fitted up the machinery. He was not a 'monsieur,' he took
a sort of courageous pride in remaining a simple workman, like his
father, whom he revered. And no doubt, in the ardent love with which
Louise was inspired for him, there was some little of the natural
rebellion which urged her on to flout _bourgeois_ notions, and to
behave differently from the folk of her sphere. At all events her
old friendship for Lucien became a passionate love that chafed at
obstacles. He, touched by the keen attachment of that pretty, active,
smiling girl, ended by loving her quite as deeply; but he was certainly
the more reasonable of the two, and desired to hurt nobody's feelings.
He suffered at the idea that she was too refined and too rich for him,
and simply spoke of remaining a bachelor if he could not have her;
whereas she, at the mere thought of opposition to their marriage,
became wildly rebellious, and talked of throwing up position and
fortune to go and live with him.

During nearly six months the battle went on. Lucien's parents looked on
the proposed marriage with covert distrust. Bonnaire, with his common
sense, would much have preferred to see his son marry some mate's
daughter. Time had already done its work, and there was no reason to
be proud of seeing one's son rise to another class, on the arm of a
daughter of the expiring _bourgeoisie_. All the profit of such an
alliance would soon be on the side of the _bourgeoisie_ itself, which
would intermarry with the people in order to regain blood and health
and strength. Quarrels on the subject of the match at last broke out
in Bonnaire's household. His wife, the proud and terrible Toupe, would
doubtless have consented to it, on condition that she also became a
lady, with fine gowns and jewels to wear. Nought of the evolution now
in progress around her had lessened her craving for domination and
display. She retained her hateful disposition even in her present easy
circumstances, often reproaching her husband for not having made a big
fortune like Monsieur Mazelle, an artful fellow, who had done no work
for years past. However, when she heard Lucien declare that even if he
should marry Louise, not a copper of the Mazelles' money should ever
enter his home, she quite lost her head, and in her turn opposed the
match, since it would not bring her any profit.

One evening there was a stormy explanation between La Toupe, Bonnaire,
and Lucien, in the presence of Daddy Lunot, who was still alive,
and more than seventy years old. They had just finished dining in
the bright, clean dining-room, whose window opened on to the garden
greenery. There were even flowers on the table, where nowadays food
was always plentiful. Daddy Lunot, who at present had as much tobacco
as he cared for, had just lighted his pipe, when La Toupe, for the mere
pleasure of getting into a temper, according to her old habit, turned
to Lucien and said to him sourly: 'So it's decided, eh--you still mean
to marry that _demoiselle_? I saw you with her again this morning at
Boisgelin's door. It seems to me that if you cared anything for us you
might have ceased meeting her, since you know that both your father and
myself are by no means over-pleased with the idea of that marriage.'

Lucien, like a good son, avoided argument, particularly as he knew it
to be useless. Turning towards Bonnaire, he simply said: 'But I think
that my father is ready to consent.'

To La Toupe this was like a whip-stroke, which urged her upon her
husband: 'What!' she exclaimed. 'You give your consent without warning
me of it? You told me less than a fortnight ago that such a marriage
wasn't reasonable to your thinking, and that you would have fears for
our lad's happiness if he were so foolish as to make it! So you turn
about like a weather-cock, eh?'

Bonnaire quietly began to explain things: 'I should have preferred to
see the lad make another choice, but he's nearly four-and-twenty, and
I'm not going to force my will on him in a matter which concerns his
own heart. He knows what I think, and he'll do what he thinks best.'

'Ah!' shouted back La Toupe, 'you're easily got over; you fancy
yourself a free man, but you always end by saying the same as the
others. During the twenty years that you've been here with Monsieur
Luc you've repeated that his ideas and yours are not the same, and
that he ought to have begun by seizing the instruments of work without
accepting money from the _bourgeois_. But all the same, you give way
to Monsieur Luc's wishes, and to-day, perhaps, you begin to like what
you've done together.'

She rattled on, striving to hurt her husband's feelings and pride. She
had often exasperated him by trying to prove that his actions were
in contradiction with his principles. This time, however, he simply
shrugged his shoulders. 'There's no doubt that what we've done together
is very good,' said he. 'I may still regret that Monsieur Luc did not
follow my ideas; only you ought to be the last to complain of what
exists here, for we know nothing more of want, we are happy, happier
than any one of those _bourgeois_ whom you dream about.'

This reply irritated her the more. 'As for what exists here, it would
be kind of you to explain it to me, for I've never understood anything
of it, you know,' she said. 'If you are happy, so much the better for
you; but I'm not happy, no, I'm not. Happiness is when one has plenty
of money and can retire and do nothing afterwards. All your rigmarole,
your division of profits, your stores where one gets things cheaply,
your coupons and your cash-desks, will never put a hundred thousand
francs into my pocket so that I may spend them as I please, on things
which I like--I am an unhappy woman, a very unhappy woman!'

She was exaggerating things with the desire to make herself
disagreeable, yet there was truth in what she said. She had never grown
accustomed to La Crêcherie, she suffered there like a coquettish,
extravagant woman, whose instincts were wounded by Communistic
solidarity. A clean and active housewife, but of a quarrelsome,
stubborn, dull-witted nature, she continued making her home a hell,
when it should have been full of comfort.

Bonnaire at last lost his patience so far as to say to her: 'You are
mad; it is you who make yourself unhappy and us too!'

Thereupon she began to sob. Lucien, who felt very embarrassed whenever
such disputes arose between his parents, had to emerge from his silence
and kiss her and tell her that he loved and respected her. Nevertheless
she clung to her views, and shouted to her husband, 'Ah! just ask
my father what he thinks of your factory in which everybody has a
share, and that wonderful justice and happiness of yours, which are to
regenerate the world. He's an old workman, he is! You won't accuse him
of saying foolish things like a woman. And he's seventy years old, so
you can believe in his experience and sense!'

Turning to Daddy Lunot, who was sucking the stem of his pipe, with the
blissful expression of a child, she went on: 'Isn't that so, father?
Aren't they idiots with all their inventions to do without masters, and
won't they end by making their own fingers smart?'

The old man looked at her in his bewildered way before answering in a
husky voice: 'Of course--the Ragus and the Qurignons, ah! they were
comrades once upon a time. There was Monsieur Michel, who was five
years my senior. As for me, it was under Monsieur Jérôme that I entered
the works. But before the others there was Monsieur Blaise, with whom
my father, Jean Ragu, and my grandfather, Pierre Ragu worked. Pierre
Ragu and Blaise Qurignon were mates together, two wire-drawers, who
used the same anvil. And now you see the Qurignons are masters and
great millionaires, and the Ragus have remained poor devils as they
were before. Things can't change, and so one must believe that they are
well as they are.'

He rambled slightly in the somnolence that had come over him, as over
some very old, maimed, and forgotten beast of burden, who by a miracle
had escaped the universal slaughterhouse. There were often days when he
failed to remember what had happened on the previous one.

'But Daddy Lunot,' said Bonnaire, 'it so happens that things have
changed a good deal for some time past. Monsieur Jérôme, whom you speak
of, has long since been dead, and he gave back all that remained of his
fortune.'

'Gave back--how's that?'

'Yes, he gave back to his old comrades the wealth which he owed to
their toil and suffering. Don't you remember? it occurred a long time
ago already.'

The old man searched in his dim memory. 'Ah! Yes, yes, I recollect--a
funny business it was! Well, if he gave his money back he was a fool.'

The words were spoken sharply and contemptuously, for Daddy Lunot had
never dreamt of anything but making a big fortune like the Qurignons,
in order to enjoy life like a master, an idle gentleman, who amused
himself from morning till night. That had remained his ideal, even as
it was that of the whole generation of broken-down, exploited slaves,
whoso sole regret was that they had not been born among the exploiters.

La Toupe burst into an insulting laugh. 'You see!' she cried, 'Father
isn't such a fool as you others are; he's not the man to start on a
wild-goose chase! Money's money; and when a man's rich he's the master!'

Bonnaire shrugged his broad shoulders, whilst Lucien gazed in silence
through the window at the roses in the garden. What was the use of
arguing? She represented the stubborn past, she would pass away in the
Communist paradise, in the midst of fraternal happiness, denying its
very existence and regretting the days of wretchedness when she had
been obliged to save up ten sous one by one in order to buy herself a
strip of ribbon.

Just then, however, Babette Bourron came in. Unlike La Toupe, she was
ever gay, ever delighted with her new position. By her smiling and
comforting optimism she had helped to save her simpleton of a husband
from the pit into which Ragu had fallen. She had invariably shown
confidence in the future, feeling certain that things would eventually
turn out all right. And she often jestingly remarked that La Crêcherie,
where work had become light, cleanly, and pleasant, where one and all
lived amidst comforts formerly reserved to the _bourgeois_ alone,
was like a fulfilment of her dreams of Paradise. Her doll-like face
remained fresh-looking under her carelessly twisted hair, and radiant
with the delight she felt at finding her husband cured of his passion
for drink, and at living in a gay house of her own with two handsome
children whom she would soon be marrying off.

'Well, so it's decided, eh?' she exclaimed. 'Lucien is going to marry
Louise Mazelle, that charming little _bourgeoise_ who isn't ashamed of
us?'

'Who told you that?' roughly asked La Toupe.

'Why, Madame Luc, Josine, whom I met this morning.'

La Toupe turned white with restrained wrath. Amidst her ceaseless
irritation with La Crêcherie there was a great deal of hatred against
Josine, whom she had never forgiven for having become the wife and
helpmate of Luc, that hero whom all admired, and for having, moreover,
a number of handsome children, who were now growing up for lives of
happiness. Could she not remember the days when that wretched creature
had been turned starving into the streets by her brother? Yet now she
met her wearing a bonnet like a lady. That was a crushing blow. She
would never be able to stomach the idea of that creature being happy.

'Josine,' she roughly exclaimed, 'would do better to make people forget
what she calls her own marriage before meddling with marriages which
don't concern her. And as for me, you do nothing but aggravate me, so
just let me be!'

Then she rushed out of the room, banging the door behind her, and
leaving the others in silent embarrassment. Babette was the first to
laugh, accustomed as she was to the manners of her friend, whom she
indulgently pronounced to be a good woman, though a wrong-headed one.
Tears, however, had risen to the eyes of Lucien, for it was his future
life that was at stake amidst all that quarrelling. His father pressed
his hand in a friendly way, as if to promise that he would arrange
matters. None the less Bonnaire himself remained very sad, quite upset
at finding happiness at the mercy of family jars. Would a spiteful
temper always suffice then to spoil the fruits of brotherliness? he
wondered. Daddy Lunot alone retained his blissful unconsciousness,
sitting there half asleep, with his pipe in his mouth.

If Lucien entertained no doubt of the eventual consent of his parents,
Louise felt the resistance of hers increasing, and thus the battle
became fiercer every day. The Mazelles adored their daughter, and it
was in the name of this adoration that they refused to give way to her.
There were no violent explanations between them, but they persevered in
a kind of good-natured inertia, by which they fancied that the girl's
patience would be tired out. In vain did she fill the house with the
incessant rustling of her skirts, play feverishly on the piano, fling
flowers out of the window, though they were by no means faded, and give
many other signs of perturbation. They still peacefully smiled at her,
made a pretence of understanding nothing, and strove to glut her with
dainties and presents. She was enraged at being thus overwhelmed with
douceurs when she was denied the one thing which would have pleased
her; and at last she made up her mind to fall ill. She took to her bed,
turned her face to the wall, and refused to answer her parents when
they questioned her. Novarre, on being summoned, declared that such
ailments did not come within the scope of his profession. The only way
to cure girls who fell love-sick was to allow them to love as they
desired. Thereupon the Mazelles, quite distracted, realising that the
matter was becoming a serious one, held counsel together as to whether
they ought to give way. They spent a whole night talking it over, and
it seemed such a serious business, the consequences of which might be
so great, that they lacked the courage to come to a decision between
themselves. They resolved to bring their friends together in order to
submit the matter to them. In the revolutionary state of affairs with
which Beauclair was struggling, would it not be desertion on their part
to give their daughter to a workman? They felt that such a union would
be decisive, a final abdication on the part of the _bourgeoisie_,
the mercantile and propertied folk. And it was therefore natural that
the authorities, the leaders of the wealthy governing classes, should
be consulted. Thus, one fine afternoon, they invited Sub-Prefect
Châtelard, Mayor Gourier, Judge Gaume, and Abbé Marle to take tea with
them in their flowery garden, where they had spent so many idle days,
stretched face to face in large rocking chairs, and gazing at their
roses, without even tiring themselves by talking.

'You see,' said Mazelle to his wife, 'we will do what those gentlemen
advise. They know more about such matters than we do, and nobody will
be able to blame us for following their counsel. For my part I am quite
losing my head, for all this business tortures my brain from morning
till night.

'It's like me,' said Madame Mazelle. 'It isn't living to be obliged to
keep on thinking and thinking. Nothing could be worse for my complaint,
I'm sure of it.'

The tea was served in an arbour of greenery in the garden one
beautiful, sunshiny afternoon. Sub-Prefect Châtelard and Mayor Gourier
were the first to arrive. They had remained inseparable, linked it
seemed even more closely together since the death of Madame Gourier,
the beautiful Léonore, who, during her last five years had remained an
invalid in an arm-chair, afflicted with paralysis of the legs, but most
devotedly nursed, her lover taking her husband's place to watch over
her and read to her whenever the other was obliged to absent himself.
It was, indeed, in Châtelard's arms that Léonore had suddenly expired
one evening while he was helping her to drink a cupful of lime-water,
whilst Gourier was outside smoking a cigar. When he came in again, the
two men wept together for the dear departed. And nowadays they were
inseparable, their duties leaving them plenty of leisure, for it was
only in a theoretical kind of way that they now governed the town,
the sub-prefect having prevailed on the mayor to follow his example,
and let things take their own course, rather than spoil his life by
trying to oppose the evolution, the progress of which nobody in the
world could have prevented. Nevertheless, Gourier, who often felt
afraid of the future, had some difficulty in taking this philosophical
course. He had become reconciled to his son Achille, whom Ma-Bleue had
presented with a very charming daughter, Léonie, who had the eyes of
her beautiful mother, big blue eyes suggesting some large blue lake,
some vast stretch of blue sky. Nearly twenty years of age at present,
fit to be married, Léonie had captivated her grandfather. And he had
resigned himself to opening his door to her parents, that son who had
formerly rebelled against his authority, and that Ma-Bleue, of whom he
still occasionally spoke as a savage. As he himself expressed it, it
was hard for him, a mayor, the celebrant of lawful marriage, to receive
at his fireside a couple of revolutionaries, who had simply espoused
one another under the stars one warm summer's night. But the times
were so strange, such extraordinary things happened, that a charming
granddaughter become a very acceptable present, even although she were
the offspring of impenitent free love. Châtelard had gaily insisted
on reconciliation; and Gourier, since his son had been bringing
Léonie to see him, had been more and more won over to the cause of La
Crêcherie, though, to his thinking, it had hitherto remained a source
of catastrophes.

Judge Gaume and Abbé Marle were late in arriving that day at the
Mazelles', but the latter could not refrain from explaining their
position to the sub-prefect and the mayor. Ought they to resign
themselves to their daughter's unreasonable whim?

'As you will certainly understand, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet,' said
Mazelle in an anxious but pompous manner, 'apart from the grief which
such a marriage would cause us, we have to consider the deplorable
effect which it would have socially, and our heavy responsibility
towards distinguished persons of our class. We really seem to be going
towards some abyss.'

They were seated in the warm shade, perfumed by the climbing roses,
at a table with gay-coloured napery, on which stood several dishes
of little cakes; and Châtelard, still a well-groomed, fine-looking
man in spite of his years, smiled in a discreetly ironical manner.
'We are already in the abyss, dear Monsieur Mazelle,' he replied. 'It
would be very wrong of you to put yourself out about the Government,
the authorities, or even fine society, for only a semblance of these
things now exists. I am still sub-prefect and my friend Gourier is
still mayor, no doubt. Only we are scarcely more than shadows, and
there is no longer any real, substantial State behind us. And it is the
same with the powerful and the wealthy, a little of whose power and
wealth is carried off each succeeding day by the new organisation of
work. So don't take the trouble to defend them, particularly as they
themselves, yielding to vertigo, are now becoming active artisans of
the revolution. Don't resist then, yield to the current!'

He was fond of that style of jesting, which terrified the last
_bourgeois_ of Beauclair. Moreover, it was an amiable and jocular way
of telling the truth, for he indeed felt convinced that the old world
was done for, and that a new one was springing from the ruins. Most
serious events were taking place in Paris, the ancient edifice was
falling stone by stone, giving place to a provisional structure, in
which one could already plainly detect the outlines of the future city
of justice and peace.

But the Mazelles had turned pale. Whilst the wife sank back in
her armchair with her eyes fixed on the little cakes, the husband
exclaimed: 'Really! do you think us threatened to such a point as that?
I know very well that people think of reducing the interest on Rentes.'

'Rentes,' said Châtelard quietly, 'they will be suppressed before
another twenty years have gone by; or, rather, some plan will be found
for dispossessing the _rentiers_ by degrees. A scheme to that effect is
already being studied.'

Madame Mazelle heaved such a desperate sigh that one might have
imagined she was giving up the ghost. 'Oh, I hope we shall be dead by
then!' said she; 'I hope that we shan't have the grief of witnessing
such infamy! But our poor daughter will suffer by it, and that is an
additional reason for compelling her to make a good marriage.'

But Châtelard pitilessly went on: 'Why, good marriages are no longer
possible, since the right of inheritance is about to disappear. That
is virtually resolved upon. In future each married couple will have to
work out its own happiness. And whether your daughter Louise marries a
_bourgeois'_ son or a workman's son, the capital of the newly-wedded
pair will soon be identical--so much love, if they are lucky enough to
love one another, and so much activity if they are intelligent enough
not to be idlers.'

Deep silence fell, and one could hear the faint whirr of a warbler's
wings, as it flew about among the roses.

'And so,' Mazelle, who was overwhelmed, ended by asking, 'that is the
advice you give us, Monsieur le Sous-Préfet? According to you, we can
accept that Lucien Bonnaire as our son-in-law, eh?'

'Oh, _mon Dieu_, yes! The world will none the less continue peacefully
revolving. And as the two children are so fond of one another, it is
at least certain that you will make them happy.'

Gourier had hitherto said nothing. He felt ill at ease at being called
upon to decide such a question--he, whose son had gone off to live
with Ma-Bleue, that wild girl of the rocks, whom he now received in
his highly respectable middle-class home. At last an avowal of his
embarrassment escaped him: 'That's true; the best thing after all is to
marry them. When their parents don't marry them the young people take
themselves off and get married as they fancy. Ah! in what times are we
living!'

He raised his arms towards heaven, and Châtelard had to exercise all
his influence to prevent him from falling into black melancholy.
Gourier's old age--following on a somewhat dissolute life--was full
of stupor; he constantly fell asleep, at table, in the midst of
conversation, even whilst walking out of doors. With the resigned air
of a once terrible employer of labour, whom facts had vanquished, he
ended by saying: 'Well, what else can be expected? After us the deluge,
as many of our class now say. We are done for.'

It was at this moment that Judge Gaume arrived, much behind his time.
Nowadays his legs swelled, and it was only with difficulty that he
could walk, helping himself along with a stick. He was nearly seventy,
and was awaiting his pension, full of secret disgust for that human
justice which he had administered during so many years, contenting
himself the while with strictly applying the written law, like a priest
who no longer believes, but is sustained solely by dogma. In his home,
however, the drama of love and betrayal which had wrecked his life had
pursued its course, stubbornly and pitilessly. The disaster, which had
begun with the suicide of his wife, had been completed by his daughter
Lucile, who had caused her husband, Captain Jollivet, to be killed in
a murderous duel by one of her lovers, with whom she had afterwards
eloped. The police were seeking her, and Gaume now lived alone with her
one child, André, a delicate, affectionate youth of sixteen, over whom
he watched with anxious affection. Sufficient misfortune had fallen, he
felt; avenging destiny, punishing some old unknown crime, must go no
further. Yet he still wondered to what good power, what future of true
justice and faithful love he might guide that youth in order that his
race might be renewed and at last win happiness.

On being questioned by Mazelle respecting the advisability of a
marriage between Louise and Lucien Bonnaire, Judge Gaume immediately
exclaimed: 'Marry them, marry them--particularly if they feel for one
another such great love as to enter into contest with their parents and
to pass over all obstacles. Love alone decides happiness.'

Then he regretted, like an avowal, that cry which the bitterness of
his whole life had wrung from him, for he was intent on preserving
during his last days his wonted mendacious rigidity of demeanour, his
austerity and coldness of countenance. 'Do not wait for Abbé Marle,'
he resumed. 'I met him just now, and he begged me to apologise to you.
He was hastening to the church for the holy vessels, in order to take
extreme unction to old Madame Jollivet, an aunt of my son-in-law's, who
is in the last pangs. Poor Abbé, in her he is losing one of his last
penitents; he had his eyes full of tears.'

'Oh! the fact that the clergy is being swept away is the one good
feature of what is happening!' exclaimed Gourier, who had remained a
devourer of priests. 'The republic would still be ours if the clergy
had not tried to take it from us. It was they who urged the people on
to upset everything and become the masters.'

But Châtelard remarked compassionately: 'Poor Abbé Marle! it grieves me
to see him in his empty church. You do quite right, Madame Mazelle, in
still sending him some bouquets for the Virgin.'

Silence fell again, and the tragic shadow of the priest seemed to flit
by in the bright sunlight amidst the perfume of the roses. In Léonore
he had lost his dearest and most faithful parishioner. Madame Mazelle
doubtless remained to him, but she was not really a believer; all that
she sought in religion was something ornamental--a kind of certificate
that she was a right-minded _bourgeois_. And the Abbé was not ignorant
of his destiny--he would some day be found dead at his altar under the
remnants of his church, which threatened ruin, but which, for lack of
money, he could not repair. Neither at the sub-prefecture nor at the
town-hall was there any fund left for such work. He had appealed to the
faithful, and in response had with difficulty obtained a ridiculously
small sum of money. And now he was resigned to his fate; he awaited
the fall, still celebrating the offices as if he were unaware of the
threat of annihilation hanging above his head. His church was becoming
emptier and emptier, dying a little more each day, and he would die
also when the old structure cracked around him and fell crushing him
beneath the weight of the great crucifix, which still hung from the
wall. And they would have one and the same grave: the earth whither all
returns.

As it happened Madame Mazelle was far too much upset by her personal
worries to take any interest at that moment in the dolorous fate of
Abbé Marle. If there should not be a prompt solution with respect to
the marriage, she feared that she might fall seriously ill--she who had
derived so many hours of nursing and petting from the malady without
a name with which she had embellished her existence. All her guests
having now arrived, she quitted her armchair to serve the tea, which
steamed in the cups of bright porcelain, whilst a sunray gilded the
little cakes lying in the crystal dishes. And she went on shaking her
big, placid head, for she was not yet convinced: 'You may say what you
like, my friends, but that marriage would really be the last blow, and
I cannot make up my mind to it.'

'We will wait,' declared Mazelle; 'we will exhaust Louise's patience.'

But all at once both husband and wife were thunderstruck, for Louise
herself stood before them among the sunlit roses at the entrance of
the arbour. They had fancied her in her room, on her couch, suffering
from that love-sickness which, according to Doctor Novarre, contentment
alone could cure. No doubt she had guessed that the others were
deciding her fate, and with her beautiful black hair just caught up in
a knot, wearing a dressing-gown with a pattern of little red flowers,
she had come down in all haste. Quivering with the passion that
animated her, she looked charming with her somewhat obliquely-set eyes
gleaming in her slender face. Not even grief could entirely extinguish
their gay sparkle. She had heard the last words spoken by her parents.
'Ah, mamma! ah, papa! what was that you were saying?' she cried. 'Do
you imagine that some merely childish caprice is in question? I've told
you already, and I tell you again, I wish Lucien to be my husband, and
so he shall!'

Although half-conquered by the sudden apparition of his daughter,
Mazelle still tried to struggle against the inevitable. 'But just
think of it, you unhappy child! Our fortune, which you were to have
inherited, is already in jeopardy, so it is quite possible that one of
these days you will find yourself without a penny,' he said.

'Just understand the situation,' remarked Madame Mazelle in her turn.
'With our money, even though it is in danger, you might still make a
sensible marriage.'

Then Louise exploded with superb, joyous vehemence, 'Your money! I do
not care a pin for it I You can keep it! If you were to give it me
Lucien would no longer take me as his wife. Money, indeed! what should
I do with it? Money! of what use is it? It does not help one to love
and be happy. Lucien will earn my bread for me, and I'll earn it too if
necessary. It will be delightful.'

She cried these things aloud with such strength of youth and hope that
the Mazelles, fearing for her reason, were anxious to quiet her by at
last yielding to her desires. Besides, they were not people to continue
battling; they wished to end their days in peace. As for Sub-Prefect
Châtelard, Mayor Gourier, and Judge Gaume, whilst drinking their tea
they smiled with some embarrassment, for they felt the girl's free love
sweeping them away like bits of straw. One must needs consent to what
one cannot prevent.

It was Châtelard who summed up everything in his amiable, bantering
way, the irony of which was scarcely perceptible. 'Our friend Gourier
is right--we are done for, since it is our children who make the laws
now.'

The marriage of Lucien Bonnaire and Louise Mazelle took place a month
later. Châtelard for his personal amusement prevailed on his friend
Gourier to give a grand ball at the town-hall on the wedding night, as
if by way of honouring their friends the Mazelles. At heart he thought
it a good joke to make the _bourgeoisie_ of Beauclair dance at this
wedding, which became a symbol of the multitude's accession to power.
They would dance on the ruins of authority in that town-hall which
was gradually becoming the real common-house, where the mayor was no
longer anything but a link between the various social groups. The hall
was most luxuriously decorated, and there was music and singing as at
the wedding of Nanet and Nise. And acclamations once more arose at the
sight of the bridal pair, Lucien, so strong and sturdy, followed by all
his mates of La Crêcherie, and Louise, so slim and passionate, followed
by all the fine society of the town, whose presence had been desired
by her parents as a kind of supreme protest. Only it came to pass that
the fine folk were swamped by the multitude, won over to the rush of
delight, carried away and conquered to such a point that a great many
more marriages between the lads and girls of the different classes
ensued. Once more, then, love triumphed, all-powerful love which
inflames the living universe, and bears it onward to its happy destiny.

Youth flowered on all sides, other alliances were concluded, couples
which everything seemed to separate set out together for the future
city of happiness. The old trading class of Beauclair, now on the
point of disappearing, gave its daughters and sons to the artisans
of La Crêcherie and the peasants of Les Combettes. The Laboques set
the example by allowing their son Auguste to marry Marthe Bourron,
and their daughter Eulalie to marry Arsène Lenfant. They had ceased
struggling for some years already, for they realised that the trade
of old times, the useless cogwheel which had consumed so much energy
and wealth, was vanquished and dying. At the outset they had been
obliged to allow their shop of the Rue de Brias to be turned into a
mere _dépôt_ of the articles manufactured at La Crêcherie and the other
syndicated factories. Then, taking a further step, they had consented
to close the shop, which had been merged into the general stores,
where Luc's indulgence had procured them an inspectorship by way of
occupation. And now old age had come, and they lived in retirement,
full of bitterness, and scared by the sight of that new world which
evinced none of their own passion for lucre. The new generations had
grown up for other forms of activity and delight than moneymaking. And
thus their children, Auguste and Eulalie, yielding to love, the great
artisan of harmony and peace, married as they pleased, encountering
no obstacle on their parents' side save the covert disapproval of old
folk who regret the past. It was arranged that the two weddings should
be celebrated on the same day at Les Combettes, now a large township,
a very suburb of Beauclair, with large bright buildings redolent of
the inexhaustible wealth of the earth. And the weddings took place at
harvest-time--indeed, on the very last day of the harvesting, when huge
ricks already arose upon every side over the great golden plain.

Feuillat, the former farmer of La Guerdache, had already married his
son Léon to Eugénie, daughter of Yvonnot, the assessor, whom he had
formerly reconciled with Feuillat, the mayor--that reconciliation
whence had sprung the good agreement of all the inhabitants of
the place, and that impulse to combine together which had made the
wretched village, consumed by hatred, a fraternal and flourishing town.
Nowadays Feuillat, who was very aged, had become like the patriarch
of that agricultural society, for it was he who had dreamt of it,
secretly sought to establish it, in former days, when combating the
deadly tenant-farming system, and foreseeing what incalculable wealth
the tillers of the soil might draw from it when they should agree
together to love it like men of science and method. A true love for
that soil which for centuries had been exhausting his ancestors, seemed
to have sufficed to enlighten that simple farmer, who originally
had been a hard-headed and rapacious man like all of his class. He
had perceived in what direction lay salvation, peace among all the
peasants, a combination of efforts, the earth becoming once more
the sole mother, ploughed, sown, and cropped by one family. And he
had beheld the fulfilment of his dream, he had seen his neighbours'
fields joined together, the farm of La Guerdache merged into the
parish of Les Combettes, other smaller villages joined thereto, a vast
estate created, and set on the march for the conquest, by successive
annexation, of the whole of the vast plain of La Roumagne. Feuillat,
who had remained the soul of the association, formed with Lenfant
and Yvonnot, its founders, a kind of 'Conseil des Anciens,' who were
consulted on all things, and whose advice was always found profitable.

Thus, when the wedding of Lenfant's son Arsène with Eulalie Laboque was
decided upon, and the latter's brother Auguste determined to celebrate
his marriage with Marthe Bourron at the same time, it occurred to
Feuillat, whose idea was accepted and acclaimed by all, to organise
a great _fête_ which should be like the festival of the pacification
and triumph of Les Combettes. They would drink to fraternity between
the peasant and the industrial worker, formerly so bitterly opposed
to one another, but whose alliance alone could establish social
wealth and peace. They would drink also to the end of all antagonism,
to the disappearance of that barbarous thing called trade which had
perpetuated a hateful struggle between the dealer who sold a tool, the
peasant who made corn grow, and the baker who sold bread, at a price
increased by the thefts of a number of intermediaries. And what better
day could be chosen to celebrate the reconciliation than that when the
enemies of former days, the castes which had seemed bent on devouring
and destroying one another, ended by exchanging their lads and girls,
consenting to marriages which would hasten the advent of the future!
Thus it was decided that the _fête_ should take place in a large field
near the town, a field where lofty ricks, golden under the bright sun,
arose like the symmetrically disposed columns of some gigantic temple.
The colonnade stretched indeed to the very horizon; other ricks and
other ricks arose, proclaiming the inexhaustible fruitfulness of the
soil. And it was there that they sang, that they danced, amidst the
pleasant odour of the ripe corn, amidst the great fertile plain, whence
the work of man, now at last reconciled, drew bread enough for the
happiness of all.

The Laboques brought in their train all the former tradesmen of
Beauclair, whilst the Bourrons brought the whole of La Crêcherie. The
Lenfants were there, at home, and never yet had folk fraternised so
fully, the groups fast mingling and uniting in one sole family. The
Laboques, no doubt, remained grave and somewhat embarrassed, but the
Lenfants made merry with all their hearts, whilst the great sight of
all was Babette Bourron, whose everlasting good humour, her certainty,
even amidst the greatest worries, that things would turn out well at
last, now proved triumphant. She personified hope, marching radiant
behind the two bridal couples; and when these arrived--Marthe Bourron
on the arm of Auguste Laboque, Eulalie Laboque on the arm of Arsène
Lenfant--they brought with them such a blaze of youth and strength and
delight, that endless acclamations rolled from one to the other end of
the stubbles. The onlookers called to them affectionately, they were
loved, they were praised because they indeed personified sovereign
and victorious love, that love which had already drawn all those folk
together, by giving them those overflowing harvests amidst which they
would henceforth swarm like a free and united people, ignorant alike of
hatred and of want.

That same day other marriages were decided upon, as had already
happened at the wedding of Lucien Bonnaire and Louise Mazelle. Madame
Mitaine, the former bakeress, who had remained for everybody the
'beautiful Madame Mitaine,' in spite of her sixty-five years, kissed
Olympe Lenfant, sister to one of the bridegrooms, and told her that
she would be happy to call her 'daughter,' for her son Évariste had
confessed that he adored her. The beautiful bakeress's husband had
been dead for ten years, and her establishment had been merged into
the general stores of La Crêcherie, as was the case with most of the
retail businesses of the town. She lived like a retired worker with
her son Évariste, both very proud of the fact that Luc had given
them the charge of the electrical kneading appliances, which yielded
an abundance of white light bread. Whilst Évariste in his turn was
bestowing a betrothal kiss on Olympe, who had turned pink with
pleasure, Madame Mitaine suddenly recognised in a thin, dark little
woman seated beside a rick, her old neighbour, Madame Dacheux, the
butcher's wife. She thereupon went and sat down beside her. 'Must it
not all finish in weddings,' she asked gaily, 'since all these young
folk were ever playing together?'

Madame Dacheux, however, remained silent and gloomy. She also had
lost her husband, who had died from the effects of a badly aimed blow
with his chopper, which had struck off his right hand. According to
some folk, clumsiness had nothing to do with it, the butcher having
voluntarily cut off his hand in a fit of furious anger, rather than
sign a transfer of his shop to La Crêcherie. Decent occurrences, and
the idea that holy meat, the meat of the wealthy, was now being placed
within the reach of all and appearing at the tables of the poorest,
must have maddened that violent, reactionary, and tyrannical man. He
had died from the effects of gangrene improperly treated, leaving his
wife in a state of terror from the oaths which he had heaped upon her
during his final agony.

'And your Julienne, how is she?' Madame Mitaine inquired in her amiable
way. 'I met her the other day. She looked superb.'

The butcher's widow was at last obliged to answer. Pointing to a couple
figuring in one of the quadrille sets, she said: 'She's dancing yonder.
I'm watching her.'

Julienne indeed was dancing on the arm of a tall, good-looking fellow,
Louis Fauchard, the son of the former drawer. Sturdy of build, white of
skin, her whole face beaming with health, Julienne evidently enjoyed
the embrace of that vigorous yet gentle-looking youth, who was one of
the best smiths of La Crêcherie.

'Oh! does that mean another marriage, then?' asked Madame Mitaine,
laughing.

But Madame Dacheux shuddered and protested: 'Oh! no, no! How can you
say such a thing? You know what my husband's ideas were. He would rise
from his tomb if I let our daughter marry that workman, the son of that
wretched Mélanie, who was always trying to get a bit of soup-beef on
credit, and whom he drove out of our shop so often because she never
paid!'

In a low and tremulous voice the butcher's widow went on to relate what
a torturing life she led. Her husband appeared to her at night-time.
Although he was dead he still made her bow beneath his despotic
authority, tormenting her, upbraiding her, frightening her with
devilish threats in her dreams. The poor, scared, insignificant woman
was so unlucky that even widowhood had not brought her peace.

'If I were to let Julienne marry contrary to his wishes,' she
concluded, 'he would certainly come back every night to beat me!'

She was shedding tears now, and Madame Mitaine strove to comfort her,
assuring her that she would soon get rid of her nightmares if she would
only set a little happiness around her. Just then, as it happened,
Mélanie, the ever-complaining Madame Fauchard, whom for years one had
seen perpetually running about to procure the four quarts of wine
which her husband required for his shift, drew near with a hesitating
step. She no longer suffered from want. She occupied one of the
bright little houses of La Crêcherie with Fauchard, who, infirm and
stupefied, had now ceased all work. Lodging with her, moreover, was her
brother Fortuné, now forty-five years of age, and already an old man,
half-blind, and deaf, owing to the brutish, mechanical, uniform toil
to which he had been condemned at the Abyss from his fifteenth year
onward. Thus, in spite of the comforts which La Fauchard owed to the
new pension and mutual relief system, she had remained a complaining
creature, a wretched waif of the past, with two old children on her
hands. Therein lay a lesson, an example of the shame and grief which
the wage-system had brought with it.

'Have you seen my men?' she asked Madame Mitaine, referring to her
husband and brother. 'I lost them in the crowd. Oh! there they are!'

With halting gait, arm-in-arm, by way of propping up each other, the
brothers-in-law passed by--Fauchard, wrecked and done for, suggesting
some ghost of the painful toil of the past; and Fortuné, looking less
aged but quite as downcast, stricken seemingly with imbecility.
Through all the sturdy crowd, overflowing with new life and hope
amidst the sweet-smelling ricks, in which was piled the corn of a
whole community, the two unfortunate men strolled hither and thither,
freely displaying their decrepitude, understanding nothing of what
went on around them, and not even acknowledging the salutations of
acquaintances.

'Leave them in the sunshine--it does them good,' resumed Madame
Mitaine, addressing La Fauchard. 'Your son is sturdy and gay enough!'

'That's true; Louis has the best of health,' the other replied. 'The
sons are not much like the fathers, now that the times have changed.
Just see how he dances! He will never know cold and hunger.'

Thereupon Madame Mitaine, in her good-natured way, resolved to promote
the happiness of the young couple who were smiling at each other so
lovingly whilst they danced before her. She brought the two mothers,
Madame Fauchard and Madame Dacheux, together, and made them sit down
side by side, and then she moved the butcher's widow and convinced her
that she ought to consent to her daughter's marriage. It was solitude
that made the poor old creature suffer; she needed grandchildren to
climb up on her knees and put all troublesome phantoms to flight.

'Ah, _mon Dieu_!' she ended by exclaiming, 'I'm agreeable all the
same, on condition that I'm not left alone. I myself never said no to
anybody. It was _he_ who wouldn't have it. But if you all wish it, and
promise to defend me, then do, do as you like.'

When Louis and Julienne learnt that their mothers consented to their
wedding, they hastened to them and fell in their arms with tears and
laughter. And thus amidst the general joy fresh joy was born.

'How could you think of parting these young people?' Madame Mitaine
repeated; 'they seem to have grown up one for the other. I've given my
Évariste to Olympe Lenfant, whom I remember as quite a little girl,
when she used to come to my shop and my boy gave her cakes. It's the
same with Louis Fauchard. How many times have I not seen him prowling
near your shop, Madame Dacheux, and playing with your Julienne! The
Laboques, the Bourrons, the Lenfants and the Yvonnots, whose marriages
are now being celebrated, why, they all grew up together, at the very
time when their parents were attacking one another, and now you see
their harvest time has come.'

She laughed yet more loudly as she recalled the past, while an
expression of infinite kindness spread over her face. And joy was
rising around her. People came to say that other betrothals had just
taken place--that of Sébastien Bourron with Agathe Fauchard, and
that of Nicolas Yvonnot with Zoé Bonnaire. Love, sovereign love,
was incessantly perfecting the reconciliation, blending all classes
together. And the _fête_ lasted until night-time, until the stars came
out, whilst love thus triumphed, bringing heart nearer to heart and
merging one into another, amidst the dances and songs of those joyous
people marching towards future unity and harmony.

Amidst the growing fraternity, however, there was one man, one of the
old ones, Master-smelter Morfain, who remained apart from all the rest,
mute and wild, unable and unwilling to understand. He still dwelt, like
one of the prehistoric Vulcans, in the rocky cavity near the smeltery
under his charge, and now he was quite alone there, like a _solitaire_
who had broken off all intercourse with the rising generations. When
his daughter Ma-Bleue had gone off to realise her dream of love with
Achille Gourier, the Prince Charming of her blue nights, Morfain had
already felt that the new times were robbing him of the best part of
himself. Then another love affair had carried away his son Petit-Da,
that tall young fellow who had become so passionately enamoured of
Honorine, a quick, alert little brunette, daughter of Caffiaux, the
grocer and taverner. Morfain had at first peremptorily refused to
consent to their marriage, full of contempt as he was for that shady
family of poisoners, the Caffiaux, who on their side returned his
disdain with interest, and in their vanity were by no means inclined
to allow their daughter to marry a worker. Nevertheless, Caffiaux was
the first to give way, for he was of a supple and crafty nature. After
closing his tavern he had secured a very comfortable post as chief
guardian at the general stores of La Crêcherie, and the nasty stories
once told of him were being forgotten; whilst for his part he feigned
too much devotion to the principles of solidarity to cling obstinately
to a decision which might have harmed him. Thus Petit-Da, carried away
by his passion, took no further notice of his father's opposition, and
the result was that a terrible quarrel, a frightful rupture, between
the two men ensued. From that time forward the master-smelter no longer
spoke, save to direct the furnace work, but shut himself up in his
cavern like some fierce and motionless spectre of the dead ages.

Though years and years went by Morfain did not appear to age. He was
always the same old-time conqueror of fire, a colossus with a huge
head, a nose like an eagle's beak, and flaming eyes set between cheeks
which a flow of lava seemed to have ravaged. His twisted lips, now
seldom parted, retained their tawny redness suggestive of burns. And
it seemed as if no human considerations would again weigh with him in
the depths of the implacable solitude in which he had shut himself
on perceiving that his daughter and his son had joined the party of
to-morrow. Ma-Bleue had presented Achille with a sweet little girl,
Léonie, who was growing up all grace and tenderness. And Petit-Da's
wife, Honorine, had given birth to a strong and charming boy, Raymond,
now an intelligent young man who would soon be old enough to marry. But
the children's grandfather did not soften--he repulsed them, shrank
even from seeing them.

On the other hand, however, amidst the collapse of his affection for
his kin, the species of paternal passion which he had always evinced
for his furnace seemed to increase. That growling monster ever afire,
whose flaming digestion he controlled both day and night, was seemingly
regarded by him as some child. The slightest disturbance in its work
threw him into anguish; he spent sleepless nights in watching over the
working of the twyers, displaying all the devotion of a young lover
amidst the embers whose heat his skin no longer feared. Luc, rendered
anxious by Morfain's great age, had spoken of pensioning him off,
but renounced the idea at the sight of the quivering rebellion, the
inconsolable grief which was displayed by that hero of toil, who was
so proud of having exhausted, consumed his muscles in pursuing the
conquest of fire. However, the hour for retirement would come forcibly
from the inevitable march of progress, and Luc indulgently decided to
wait awhile.

Morfain had already felt that he was threatened. He was aware of the
researches which Jordan was making with the view of replacing the
old, slow, barbarous smeltery by batteries of electrical furnaces.
The idea that one might extinguish and demolish the giant pile which
flamed during seven and eight years at a stretch, quite distracted the
master-smelter, and he became seriously alarmed when Jordan effected
a first improvement by burning coal at the mouth of the pit from
which it was extracted, and bringing electricity without loss to La
Crêcherie by cable. However, as the cost price still remained too high
for electricity to be employed for smelting ore, Morfain was able to
rejoice over the futility of Jordan's victory. During the ensuing ten
years each fresh defeat which fell on Jordan delighted him. He indulged
in covert irony, feeling convinced that fire would never suffer itself
to be conquered by that strange new power, that mysterious thunder,
whose flashes were not even visible. He longed for his master's
defeat, the annihilation of the new appliances which were ever being
constructed and improved. But all at once the position became very
threatening, a rumour spread that Jordan had at last completed his
great work, having discovered a means of transforming calorical energy
direct into electrical energy, without the help of mechanical energy
being required. That is, the steam engine, that cumbersome and costly
intermediary, was suppressed. And in thiswise the problem was solved,
the cost of electricity would be lowered by one-half, and it would
be possible to employ it for the smelting of ore. A first battery of
electrical furnaces was indeed already being fitted up, and Morfain,
full of despair, prowled fiercely around his blast-furnace, as if
anxious to defend it.

Luc did not immediately give orders for its demolition. He wished first
of all to make some conclusive experiments with the battery. Thus,
during a period of six months, the work went on in both forms, and the
old smelter spent some abominable days, for he now realised that the
well-loved monster in his charge was condemned. He saw it forsaken now,
nobody came up the hill to see it, whereas the inquisitive thronged
around those electrical furnaces below, which occupied such little
space, and did their work, it was said, so well and so speedily.
Morfain, for his part, full of rancour, never went down to see them,
but spoke of them disdainfully as of toys for children. Was it possible
that the ancient method of smelting which had given man the empire
of the world could be dethroned? No, no, one would have to revert
to those giant furnaces which had burnt for centuries without ever
being extinguished! And, alone with the few men under his orders, who
remained silent like himself, Morfain looked down contemptuously on the
shed in which the electrical furnaces were working, and still felt
happy at night-time, when he was able to set the horizon all aglow with
a 'run' of dazzling metal.

But the day at last came when Luc passed sentence on the blast-furnace,
whose work was now shown to be both slower and more costly than the
other. Thus it was decided that following upon a final run it should
be allowed to go out, after which it might be demolished. Morfain,
on being warned of this, did not answer, but remained impassive, his
bronze countenance revealing nothing of the tempest in his soul. His
calmness frightened people; Ma-Bleue came up to see him, accompanied
by her daughter Léonie, and Petit-Da, moved by the same affectionate
impulse, brought his son Raymond. For a moment the family found itself
assembled, as in former days, in the rocky hillside cavern, and the old
man allowed himself to be kissed and caressed, without repulsing his
grandchildren as he had usually done. Still he did not return their
caresses, but seemed far away, like one who belonged to a past period,
one in whom no human feeling was left. It was a cold and gloomy autumn
day, and the crapelike veil of the early twilight was falling from a
livid sky over the dark earth. At last Morfain arose and broke the
silence, saying, 'Well, they are waiting for me, there is yet another
run.'

It was the last. They all followed him to the blast-furnace. The men
under his orders were present, already shadowy in the increasing gloom,
and once again, for the last time, the usual work was accomplished. A
bar was thrust into the plug of refractory clay, the hole was enlarged,
and finally the tumultuous flood of fusing metal poured forth, a stream
of flames rolling along the channels in the sand and filling the moulds
with blazing pools. And once again, too, from those tracks and fields
of fire arose a harvest of sparks, blue sparks of delicate ethereality,
and golden fusees delightfully refined, a florescence of cornflowers,
as it were, amidst golden ears of wheat. And a blinding glow burst
on the mournful twilight, illumining the furnace, the neighbouring
buildings, the distant roofs of Beauclair, and the whole of the great
horizon. Then everything disappeared, deep night reigned all around;
the end had come, the furnace's life was over.

Morfain, who without a word had stood looking at it all, remained there
in the gloom motionless like one of the neighbouring rocks which the
shades of night again enveloped.

'Father,' said Ma-Bleue gently, 'now that there is no more work to be
done here, you must come down to us. Your room has long been ready for
you.'

And Petit-Da in his turn exclaimed: 'Father, you've certainly got to
rest now. There is a room for you in my place too. You must let each
of us have you in turn, you must live sometimes with one and sometimes
with the other.'

But the old master-smelter did not immediately answer. A great sigh
made his breast heave dolorously. At last he said: 'That's it, I'll go
down, I'll have a look. But you can go away now.'

For another fifteen days it was impossible to induce Morfain to quit
the furnace. He watched it cooling, as one watches beside a death-bed.
Every evening he felt it in order to make sure that it was not quite
dead. And as long as he found a little warmth remaining, he lingered
obstinately beside it as if it were a friend whose remains it would
be wrong to abandon. But at last the demolishers arrived, and then
one morning the grand old vanquished man was seen to descend from his
cavern to La Crêcherie, where he repaired with a still firm step to
the large glazed shed in which the battery of electrical furnaces was
working.

As it happened, both Jordan and Luc were there with Petit-Da, whom
they had appointed to direct the smelting in conjunction with his son
Raymond, the latter already being a good electrician. The work was
being brought to greater precision day by day; and Jordan scarcely
quitted the shed, eager as he was to perfect the new method which had
cost him so many years of study and experiment.

'Ah! Morfain, my old friend!' he exclaimed joyously. 'So you've become
sensible!'

The other's face, the colour of old iron, remained impassive, and he
contented himself with replying: 'Yes, Monsieur Jordan, I wanted to see
your machine.'

Luc, however, scrutinised him rather anxiously. He had given orders
to have him watched, for he had learnt that he had been found leaning
over the mouth of the blast furnace, when the latter was still full
of glowing embers, like a man preparing to fling himself into that
frightful hell. One of the smelters under his orders, however, had
saved him from that death which he had contemplated, perchance as a
last gift of his scorched frame to the monster, as though indeed he set
his pride in dying by fire, after loving and serving it so faithfully
for more than half a century.

'It is pleasant to find you still inquisitive at your age, my good
Morfain,' said Luc, without taking his eyes from him. 'Now, just
examine these toys.'

The battery stretched out before them, showing ten furnaces, ten cubes
of red brick-work over six feet high and nearly five feet long. And
above them one only saw the powerful electrodes, thick cylinders of
carbon, to which the electric cables were attached. The operations
were very simple. An endless screw, worked by a switch, served the
ten furnaces, bringing the ore and discharging it into them. A second
switch set up the current, the arc whose extraordinary temperature of
two thousand degrees sufficed to melt almost four hundredweight of
metal in five minutes. And it was only necessary to turn a third switch
for the platinum door of each oven to rise up and for a kind of rolling
way, lined with fine sand, to start off on the march and receive the
ten pigs, each of four hundredweight, and carry them into the cool air
outside.

'Well, my good Morfain,' asked Jordan with the gaiety of a happy child,
'what do you think of it?'

Then he told him of the output. Those toys, each yielding four
hundredweight of metal every five minutes, could turn out altogether
a total of two hundred and forty tons daily, if they were allowed
to work ten hours at a stretch. This was a prodigious output when
one considered that the old blast-furnace, burning day and night
alike, could not supply one-third of the quantity. As a matter of
fact the electrical furnaces were seldom kept working more than three
or four hours, and the advantage was that they could be lighted and
extinguished as one pleased, in accordance with one's needs, whatever
quantity of raw material that was required being immediately obtained.
And how easily they worked, and what cleanliness and simplicity there
was! As the electrodes themselves supplied the carbon necessary for
the carburisation of the ore, there was little dust. The gases alone
escaped, and the quantity of slag was so small that a daily cleaning
sufficed to get rid of it. There was no longer any need of a barbarous
colossus whose digestion caused disquietude, nor of any of the numerous
and cumbersome appendages, the purifiers, the heaters, the blast
machinery, and the constant current of water, with which it had been
necessary to surround it. There was no longer any fear of stoppages
or cooling down, nor any talk of demolishing or emptying the monster
whilst still ablaze, because a twyer simply went wrong. Loaders
watching at the mouth, and smelters piercing the plug and broiling in
the flames of the 'runs' were no longer required to be on the alert,
following one another incessantly with day and night shifts. The
battery of the ten electrical furnaces, extending over a surface under
fifty feet in length and some sixteen feet in width, was at its ease in
the large, bright, glazed shed which sheltered it. And three children
would have sufficed to set everything going, one at the switch of the
endless screw, a second at the switch of the electrodes, and a third at
that of the rolling way.

'What do you think of it? What do you think of it, my good Morfain?'
repeated Jordan triumphantly.

The old master-smelter still looked at the furnaces without moving or
speaking. Night was already at hand, shadows were filling the shed, and
the working of the battery, with its gentle mechanical regularity, was
quite impressive. Cold and dim, the ten furnaces seemed to slumber,
whilst the little cars of ore, moved by the endless screw, were emptied
one by one. Then every five minutes the platinum doors opened, the ten
white jets of the ten 'runs' blazed upon the gloom, and the ten pigs,
flowery with cornflowers amidst ears of wheat, slowly and continuously
journeyed off on the rolling way.

However, Petit-Da, who hitherto had remained silent, wished to give
some explanations, and pointing to the thick cable which, descending
from the rafters, brought the current to the furnaces, he said, 'You
see, father, the electricity comes along that cable, and such is its
force that if the wires were severed everything would be blown up!'

Luc, whom Morfain's calmness had reassured, began to laugh. 'Don't say
that,' he exclaimed, 'you would frighten our young people. Nothing
would be blown up. Only the imprudent man who touched the wires would
be in danger. Besides, the cable is a strong one.'

'Yes, that's true,' Petit-Da resumed; 'a strong wrist would be needed
to break it.'

Morfain, still impassive, drew near. To reach the cable he simply had
to raise his hands. However, for a moment longer he remained there
motionless, nothing on his scorched face revealing what his thoughts
might be. But all at once such a flame shot from his eyes that Luc
again felt anxious, as if with a vague presentiment of a catastrophe.

'A strong wrist, you say?' Morfain at last exclaimed, making up his
mind to speak. 'Just let us see, my lad.'

And before the others had time to intervene he caught hold of the cable
with his hands, hardened by fire and as strong as iron pincers. And he
bent the cable and broke it, even as an irritated giant might break
the string of some child's toy. And lightning came, the wires met, and
a mighty dazzling flash burst forth. Then the whole shed was plunged
into darkness, amidst which one heard nought but the fall of that tall,
lightning-stricken old man, who dropped, all of a piece, like an oak
felled in the forest.

Lanterns had to be fetched. Jordan and Luc, utterly distracted, could
only pronounce Morfain to be dead, whilst Petit-Da shrieked aloud
and wept. Stretched upon his back, the old smelter did not appear to
have suffered. He lay there like some colossal figure of old iron.
However, his garments were smouldering, and the fire had to be put out.
Doubtless he had been unwilling to survive the well-loved monster,
that blast-furnace of which he had been the last fervent worshipper.
With him had finished the first battle: man, the subduer of fire, the
conqueror of metals, bending beneath the slavery of dolorous toil, and
so proud of that long and overwhelming labour--the labour of humanity
marching towards future happiness--as to make it a title of nobility.
He had even shrunk from knowing that new times were born, bringing to
each by the victory of a just apportionment of work, a little rest, a
little gaiety, a little happy enjoyment, such as hitherto only a few
privileged beings had tasted, deriving it from the iniquitous suffering
of the greater number. And he had fallen like some fierce, obstinate
hero of the ancient and terrible _corvée_, like a Vulcan chained to
his forge, a blind enemy of all that would have freed him, setting
his glory in his servitude, and regarding the possible diminution of
suffering and effort as mere downfall. And the force of the new age,
the lightning which he had come to deny and insult, had annihilated
him. And now he slept.

Three years later three more marriages took place, still further
blending the classes together and tightening the bonds of that
fraternal and peaceful people which was ever and ever spreading.
Hilaire Froment, the eldest son of Luc and Josine, a strong young man
already twenty-six, espoused Colette, the daughter of Nanet and Nise, a
delightful little blonde in all the flowery springtide of her eighteen
summers. And the blood of the Delaveaus became calmer on mingling with
that of the Froments and Josine, the erstwhile wretched wanderer, who
had been picked up, half dead of starvation, almost on the threshold of
the Abyss. Then yet another Froment, Thérèse, the third-born, a tall,
gay, good-looking girl, became when seventeen the wife of Raymond,
son of Petit-Da and Honorine Caffiaux, her senior by two years. And
this time the blood of the Froments was allied with that of those epic
toilers the Morfains and that of the Caffiaux, the representatives of
the old trade system, which the advent of La Crêcherie had swept away.
Finally Léonie, the amiable daughter of Achille Gourier and Ma-Bleue,
married one of Bonnaire's sons, who was twenty, like herself. This was
Séverin, Lucien's younger brother; and in this marriage the expiring
_bourgeoisie_ became united to the people, the resigned and mighty
toilers of the dead ages, and the revolutionary workers who were
attaining to freedom.

Great _fêtes_ were given, for the happy descendants of Luc and Josine
were about to increase and multiply, helping to people the new city
which Luc had founded in order that Josine and all others might be
saved from iniquitous want. The torrent of Love was flowing forth, life
was incessantly spreading, doubling the harvests, ever creating more
and more men for increase of truth and increase of justice. Love the
victorious, young and gay, bore couples, and families, and the whole
town towards final harmony and happiness. Each marriage led to the
building of another little house among the greenery; and the march of
those houses never ceased. Old Beauclair had long since been invaded
and swept away. The ancient leprous district, the filthy hovels where
labour had agonised for centuries, had been razed to the ground, over
which now stretched broad roads planted with trees and edged with
smiling dwellings. Even the _bourgeois_ quarter of Beauclair was
threatened; the piercing of new streets enabled one to enlarge and
turn to other uses the old public edifices such as the sub-prefecture,
the law courts, and the prison. The ancient church alone remained,
cracking and crumbling in the centre of a small deserted square, which
suggested a field of nettles and brambles. On all sides the old-time
houses where people had lived cooped up in flats, had given place to
healthier dwellings scattered through the huge garden, which Beauclair
was becoming, each of them gay with light and with streaming water. And
the city was founded, a very great and very glorious city, whose sunlit
avenues ever stretched away, overflowing already into the neighbouring
fields of the fertile Roumagne.



III.


Ten more years went by, and love which had united so many couples,
victorious and fruitful love, brought each household a florescence
of children, a new growth going towards the future. At each fresh
generation a little more truth, justice, and peace would spread and
reign throughout the world.

Luc, who was already sixty-five years old, evinced, with increasing
age, a livelier, a keener affection for children. Now that he saw
his long-dreamt-of city in being, his mind went out to the rising
generations. To them he gave all his time with the thought that the
future rested with them. Ripe men, who have long lived amidst certain
beliefs and habits, and who perchance are chained to the past by
atavism, cannot be altered; whereas children may be influenced, freed
from false ideas, helped to grow and progress, in accordance with the
natural inclination towards evolution which is within them.

Thus, during the visits which on two mornings every week Luc continued
to pay to his work, he devoted most of his attention and time to the
schools and the _crèches_ where the very little ones were kept. He
began by inspecting them before proceeding to the workshops and the
stores, and as he changed his visiting days every week, he generally
took all the turbulent young people by surprise.

One Tuesday, a delightful morning in spring, he set out for the schools
at about eight o'clock. The sunrays were scattering golden rain amidst
the young greenery, and as Luc walked slowly down one of the avenues
past the house where the Boisgelins resided, he heard a well-loved
voice calling him. It was that of Suzanne, who, having seen him
passing, had come to the garden-gate. 'Oh! pray come in for a moment,
my friend,' said she. 'The poor man has another attack, and I feel very
anxious.'

She was speaking of Boisgelin, her husband. As his idleness made him
feel ill at ease in that busy hive, he had at one time tried to work,
and Luc, at Suzanne's request, had given him a kind of inspectorship
at the general stores. But the man who has never done anything, who
has been an idler from birth, lacks will-power, and can no longer bend
to rule or method. Thus Boisgelin soon found that he was incapable of
following any continuous occupation. His mind fled, his limbs ceased to
obey him, he became sleepy, overwhelmed. He suffered from his impotence
and gradually relapsed into the emptiness of his former life, a
succession of idle days, all spent in the most futile fashion. As there
was no longer any round of pleasure and luxury to daze him he sank into
increasing boredom, from which he could not be roused. He was spending
his last years in a state of stupor, like a man who had fallen from
another planet, amazed at the unexpected, extraordinary things which
took place around him.

'Does he have any violent fits?' Luc inquired of Suzanne.

'Oh, no!' she replied. 'He simply remains very sombre and suspicious;
but my anxiety comes from his insane fancies having taken hold of him
again.'

It seemed indeed that Boisgelin's mind had been weakened by the idle
life he led in that city of activity and work. From dawn till dusk
he was to be seen wandering, like a pale, scared phantom, about the
bustling streets, the buzzing schools, and the resounding workshops.
He alone did nothing, whereas all the others busied themselves,
overflowing with the delight and health which come from action. And, by
degrees, as he found that he himself was the only one who did not work
amidst that nation of workers, the insane idea seized upon him that he
was the king, the master, and that this nation was a nation of slaves,
working solely for his benefit, amassing incalculable wealth, which he
would dispose of as he pleased for his sole enjoyment. Although olden
society was crumbling to pieces, the capitalist idea had survived in
him, and he remained the mad capitalist, the god-capitalist, who,
possessing all the capital of the earth, had made all other men his
slaves, the wretched artisans of his own egotistical happiness.

Luc found Boisgelin on the threshold of the house, dressed with all the
care that he still evinced as regards his personal appearance. Even at
seventy years of age he remained a vain-looking coxcomb, always well
groomed, freshly shaved, and wearing that distinctive mark of conceit,
a single eyeglass. His wavering glance and weak mouth alone revealed
the collapse of his mind. At that moment he was about to go out, and a
light cane was in his hand, and a shiny hat was tilted over his ear.

'What, already up! Already out and about!' exclaimed Luc, affecting a
good-natured manner.

'Oh, it's necessary, my dear fellow,' replied Boisgelin, after giving
him a suspicious glance. 'Everybody deceives me. How can I sleep in
peace with all those millions which my money brings me in, and which
this nation of workmen earns for me every day? I am obliged to see to
things, for otherwise there would be a leakage of hundreds of thousands
of francs every hour.'

Suzanne made a sign of despair, then addressing Luc she said: 'I was
advising him not to go out to-day. What is the use of worrying like
that.'

But her husband silenced her: 'It isn't merely to-day's money that
worries me, there are all the sums piled up already--those milliards
which fresh millions increase every evening. I quite lose myself among
them; I no longer know how to live in the midst of such a colossal
fortune. It is necessary that I should invest it, manage it, watch
over it, in order to save myself from being robbed--is that not so?
And, oh! it's hard work, terribly hard work, and makes me absolutely
wretched--more wretched even than the poor who have neither fire nor
bread.'

His voice had begun to tremble dolorously, and big tears rolled down
his cheeks. He looked a pitiable object, and, although he generally
annoyed Luc, who regarded him as an anomaly in that industrious city,
the other was now stirred to the depths of his heart. 'Oh!' said he,
'you can at least take a day's rest. I'm of your wife's opinion. If
I were you I shouldn't go out to-day, I should stop in my garden and
watch my flowers bloom.'

But Boisgelin again scrutinised him and, as if yielding to a desire
to confide in him, as in a safe friend, resumed: 'No, no, it is
indispensable that I should go out. What bothers me even more than
exercising supervision over my men and my fortune, is that I don't even
know where to put my money. Just think of it! there are milliards and
milliards! They end by becoming an encumbrance--no rooms are built big
enough to hold them. And so it has occurred to me to have a look round
and try to find some pit which might be deep enough. Only, don't say a
word of it; nobody ought even to suspect it.'

Then as Luc, shuddering and terrified, turned towards Suzanne, who was
very pale, and scarce able to restrain her tears, Boisgelin profited
by the opportunity to slip out of the garden and go off. He could
still walk rapidly, and, turning down the sunlit avenue, he speedily
disappeared. Luc's first impulse was to run after him and bring him
back by force.

'I assure you, my friend,' he said to Suzanne, 'that you act wrongly
in letting him wander about; I can never meet him prowling around
the schools or through the workshops and stores without fearing some
disaster.'

However, Suzanne strove to reassure him. 'He is inoffensive, I am
sure of it,' she said. 'True, I sometimes tremble for him, for he
becomes so gloomy beneath the burden of all that imaginary money of
his that a sudden impulse to have done with it all is to be feared.
But how can I shut him up? He is only happy out of doors, and to place
him in confinement would be useless cruelty, especially as he never
even speaks to anybody, but remains as wild and as timid as a truant
schoolboy.'

Then the tears, which she had been restraining, flowed forth. 'Ah! the
unhappy man, he has caused me much suffering; but never before did I
feel so grieved.'

On learning that Luc was going to the schools Suzanne resolved to
accompany him. She also had aged; she was sixty-eight already. But she
had remained healthy and active, ever desirous of showing her interest
in others, and helping on good work. And since she had been living at
La Crêcherie, and had had nothing more to do for her son Paul, who
was now married and the father of several children, she had created
a larger family for herself by becoming a teacher of _solfeggio_ and
singing for some of the youngest pupils in the schools. This helped
her to live happily. It delighted her to arouse the musical instinct
in those little children. She herself was a good musician, but after
all her ambition was not so much to impart exceptional science to
them, as to render their singing natural, like that of the warblers
of the woods. And she had obtained marvellous results--there was all
the sonorous gaiety of an aviary in her class, and the young ones who
left her hands afterwards filled the other classes, the workshops, and
indeed the whole town, with perpetual mirthful melody.

'But you don't give your lesson to-day, do you?' Luc inquired.

'No, I only want to profit by the play-hour to make my little cherubs
rehearse a chorus. But there are also some matters for me to consider
with Sœurette and Josine.'

The three women had become great, and indeed inseparable, friends.
Sœurette had retained the management of the central _crèche_, where
she watched over the very little ones--the children still in their
cradles and those who could scarcely walk. As for Josine, she directed
the needlework and household lessons, turning all the girls who passed
through the schools into good wives and mothers, well able to manage
their homes. In addition, the three friends formed together a kind of
council which looked into all important questions concerning women in
the new city.

Luc and Suzanne, following the avenue, at last reached the large square
where the common-house arose, surrounded by green lawns decked with
shrubs and flower-beds. The building was not the modest pile of earlier
years; in its stead there had been erected a perfect palace, with a
long polychromatic façade, in which decorated stoneware and painted
faïence were blended with ironwork. In the large halls erected for
meetings, theatrical performances, spectacular displays, and games,
the people found themselves at their ease, at home as it were. They
frequently fraternised at the festivities which were interspersed among
the days of work. If the little houses, where each lived as he listed,
were modest ones, the common-house, on the contrary, displayed dazzling
luxury and beauty, such as was appropriate for the sovereign abode
of the people-king. The common-house even tended to become a town in
the town, so frequently was it enlarged in accordance with increasing
needs. Other buildings, too, arose behind it--libraries, laboratories,
and lecture-halls, which facilitated free study, research, experiment,
and the diffusion of the acquired truths. There were also courts and
covered buildings for athletic exercises, without mentioning some
admirable free baths, flooded with the fresh and pure water captured on
the slopes of the Bleuse Mountains, that water to whose inexhaustible
abundance the city owed its cleanliness, health, and gaiety. But the
schools especially had become a little world by themselves, occupying
a number of buildings near the common-house, for several thousand
children now studied in them. To avoid all unhealthy crowding numerous
divisions had been arranged, each occupying its own pavilions, whose
large bay windows overlooked spacious gardens. Thus the whole formed,
as it were, a city of childhood and youth, in which one found children
of all ages, from infants still in their cradles to big lads and
lassies who were completing their apprenticeships after passing through
the five classes in which education proper was imparted to them.

'Oh!' said Luc, with his kindly smile, 'I always begin at the
beginning; I always go first to see those little friends of mine who
are still being suckled.'

'Well, of course,' replied Suzanne, smiling also. 'I will go in with
you.'

In the first pavilion on the right-hand, amidst a garden planted
with roses, Sœurette reigned over a hundred cradles and as many
rolling-chairs. She also watched over some of the adjacent pavilions,
but she invariably returned to this one, which sheltered three of Luc's
granddaughters and one of his grandsons, of whom she was very fond.
Luc and Josine, knowing how the city benefited by the rearing of the
children together, had set an example in this respect, desiring that
their own grandchildren should be brought up with those of others.

As it happened, Josine was in the pavilion with Sœurette that morning.
The former was now fifty-eight, and the latter sixty-five years of
age. But Josine retained her supple gracefulness and fair delicacy
beneath her beautiful hair, whose golden hue had simply paled; whilst
Sœurette, as often happens with plain, thin, dark women, did not appear
to age, but seemed to acquire with advancing years a particular charm,
derived from her active kindliness and persistent youth. Suzanne, now
sixty-eight, was the elder of both of them; and all three surrounded
Luc like a trio of faithful hearts, one the loving wife and the others
devoted friends.

When Luc went in with Suzanne, Josine was holding on her knees a little
boy scarcely two years old, whose right hand Sœurette was examining.

'Why, what is the matter with my little Olivier?' asked Luc, already
feeling anxious. 'Has he hurt himself?'

The little fellow was his last-born grandson, Olivier Froment, the
child of his eldest son Hilaire, and of Colette, the daughter of Nanet
and Nise.

'Oh!' replied Sœurette, 'it is merely a splinter which must have come
from the table of his chair. There, it's out now!'

The boy had raised a slight cry of pain and then had begun to laugh
again; while a little girl, a four-year-old, who ran about in all
freedom, hastened up with open arms as if to take hold of him and carry
him off.

'Will you let him be, Mariette?' exclaimed Josine, full of alarm. 'One
must not turn one's little brother into a doll.'

Mariette protested, declaring that she would be very good. And Josine,
like a kind grandmother, already calmed, glanced at Luc, and the pair
of them smiled, well pleased to see all those young folk who had sprung
from their love around them. However, Suzanne was bringing them two
other fair-headed little granddaughters, Hélène and Berthe, who were
twins, in their fourth year. Their mother was Pauline, Luc's second
daughter, now the wife of André Jollivet, who had been brought up by
his grandfather Judge Gaume, after the captain's tragical death and
Lucile's disappearance. Of their five children, Luc and Josine had
already married three, Hilaire, Thérèse, and Pauline, whilst the two
others, Charles and Jules, were as yet merely 'engaged.'

'And these darlings--you were forgetting them,' said Suzanne gaily.

Hélène and Berthe, the twins, threw their arms around the neck of their
grandfather, of whom they were extremely fond; Mariette also tried to
climb upon his knees, whilst little Olivier thrust out his hands, which
no longer hurt him, and frantically implored grandpapa to take him on
his shoulders. Luc, half stifled by caresses, began to jest:

'That's it, my friend, you have now only to fetch Maurice, your
nightingale as you call him. Then there would be five of them to devour
me. Good heavens! what shall I do when there are dozens?'

Then, setting the twins and Mariette on the floor, he took hold of
Olivier and threw him up into the air, at which the child raised cries
of rapturous delight.

'Come, be reasonable, all of you,' Luc resumed when he had set the boy
on his chair again, 'one can't be always playing, you know; I must
attend to the others.'

Guided by Sœurette and followed by Josine and Suzanne, he next went
round the rooms. Those nurseries of the little folk were very charming
with their white walls, their white cradles, their babes in white,
a universal whiteness which seemed so gay in the sunshine which
streamed through the lofty windows. Here also there was an abundance
of water--one could feel its crystalline freshness, hear its murmur,
as if indeed clear streams were flowing through the place, ensuring
all the extreme cleanliness which was apparent on every side. Cries
occasionally came from the cradles, but for the most part one only
heard the pretty prattle, the silvery laughter of those who could
already walk. Amongst them there was yet another little community, a
silent community of toys, dolls, jumping-jacks, horses, and carts, all
leading a naïve and comical existence. And these were the property of
one and all, of both the boys and the girls who mingled like members of
one sole family, growing up together from their cradles, and destined
hereafter to live side by side, now as brothers and sisters, now as
husbands and wives.

This practice of bringing up the children of both sexes together had
already yielded good results. Among the young married couples Suzanne
noticed a happy peacefulness, a closer blending of intelligence and
sentiment, something resembling fraternity in love. And in the schools
she observed that the presence of the sexes side by side aroused a new
spirit of emulation, imparting gentleness to the boys, decision to the
girls, and preparing both for a more perfect intermingling of natures,
in such wise that they would become one joint spirit at the family
hearth. Nothing of that which some had feared had taken place; on the
contrary the moral level was higher than formerly, and it was wonderful
to see those lads and girls seek the studies which might prove most
useful to them, in accordance with the liberty which was granted to
each pupil to work out his or her future in conformity with individual
taste.

'They are virtually betrothed in their cradles,' said Suzanne
jestingly, 'and divorce is done away with, for they know one another
too well to select either wife or husband lightly. But come, my dear
Luc, playtime has begun and I want you to hear my pupils sing.'

Sœurette remained with her little folk, for it was also the time when
some of them took their baths, and Josine for her part had to go into
her needlework ward, where several of the little girls preferred to
spend their play-hour in learning to make dresses for their dolls. Thus
Luc alone followed Suzanne down the covered gallery into which opened
the five class-rooms.

It had long since been necessary to subdivide the classes, provide
more spacious buildings, and even enlarge the dependencies, the
gymnasiums, the apprenticeship workshops, and the gardens into which
the children were turned in all liberty every two hours. After a few
trials a definite system of education had been arrived at, and this
system, which rendered study attractive by leaving the pupil all his
personality, and only requiring of him attention to such lessons as he
preferred, as he freely chose, yielded admirable results, providing the
city each year with a new generation that tended more and more towards
truth and justice. This was, indeed, the only good way to hasten the
future, to create such men as might be entrusted with the realisation
of to-morrow, free from all lying dogmas, reared amidst the necessary
realities of life, and won over to proven scientific facts. And now
that the new system worked so well nothing seemed more logical or more
profitable than to abstain from bending a whole class beneath the rod
of some master who would have tried to impose his personal views upon
some fifty pupils of varying disposition and sensibility. It seemed
indeed quite natural that one should simply awaken a desire to learn
among those pupils, then direct them on their journey of discovery,
and favour the individual faculties which each might display. The
five classes had thus become experimental grounds, where the children
gradually explored the field of human knowledge, not to devour that
knowledge gluttonously without digesting any of it, but to awaken
individual intellect, assimilate knowledge in accordance with personal
comprehension, and in particular make sure of one's specialities.

Luc and Suzanne had to wait another moment for the school work to
cease. From the covered gallery they were able to glance into the large
class-rooms, where each pupil had his or her little table and chair.
Long tables and forms had been discarded, and the new system made the
pupil feel as if he were virtually his own master. But how gay was the
sight of all these lads and girls mingled together promiscuously! And
with what deep attention they listened to the professor who went from
one to another, teaching in a conversational manner, and at times even
provoking contradiction. As there were no longer any punishments or
prizes the children set their budding desire for glory in competing
together as to who could best show that he or she had understood some
knotty point. It often happened that the professor ceased speaking to
listen to those whom he guessed to be full of the subject, and the
lesson then acquired all the interest of a discussion. Indeed one of
the chief objects that the masters had in view was to put life into
the studies, to draw the pupils from inanimate books, to make them
cognisant of living things, and impart to them the passion of ideas.
And pleasure was born of it all, the pleasure of learning and knowing;
and through the five classes was spread the _ensemble_ of human
knowledge, the real stirring drama of the world, which each of us ought
to know, if he wishes to take part in it and find happiness in its
midst.

But a joyous clamour arose, playtime had come round. Every two hours
the gardens were invaded by a rush of boys and girls, fraternising
together. A sturdy, good-looking lad, some nine years old, ran up and
flung himself in Luc's arms, exclaiming: 'Good morning, grandfather.'

This was Maurice, the son of Thérèse Froment, who had married Raymond
Morfain.

'Ah!' said Suzanne gaily, 'here's my nightingale! Come, children, shall
we repeat our pretty chorus on that lawn between those big chestnut
trees?'

Quite a band already surrounded her. Among a score of others there were
two boys and a girl whom Luc kissed. Of the former one was Ludovic
Boisgelin, a lad eleven years old, the son of Paul Boisgelin and
Antoinette Bonnaire, whose marriage had first announced the fusion of
the classes. Then there was Félicien Bonnaire, now fourteen, the son
of Séverin Bonnaire and Léonie Gourier, the daughter of Achille and
Ma-Bleue, whose love had flowered among the wild perfumed rocks of the
Bleuse Mountains. And the girl was Germaine Yvonnot, a granddaughter
of Auguste Laboque and Marthe Bourron. A handsome, dark-haired
laughing girl she was, and in her one found blended the blood of
workman, peasant, and petty trader, who had so long warred one against
the other. It amused Luc to unravel the intricate skeins of those
alliances, those frequent crossings of the race; and he was skilful in
identifying the young faces, whose endless increase enraptured him.

But Suzanne spoke: 'You shall hear them,' she said; 'it is a hymn to
the rising sun, a salute on the part of childhood to the planet which
will ripen the crops.'

Some fifty children assembled together on the lawn amidst the chestnut
trees. And the chant arose, very fresh, pure, and gay. There was no
great musical science in it. It was merely a series of couplets, sung
by a girl and a boy alternately, and emphasised by choral repetition.
But it was so lively, so expressive of naïve faith in the planet of
light and kindliness, that it possessed a stirring charm as sung by
those young and somewhat shrill voices. For his part Maurice Morfain,
the little boy who replied to Germaine Yvonnot, the girl, possessed,
even as Suzanne had said, an angel voice of crystalline lightness,
rising to the most delightful, high-toned, flute-like notes. And the
chorus-singing suggested the warbling and chirruping of birds in
freedom on the branches. Nothing could have been more amusing.

Luc laughed, like a well-pleased grandpapa, and Maurice, full of pride,
again rushed into his arms.

'Why, it's true, my lad,' said Luc, 'you sing like a little
nightingale! And do you know that is very nice, because in life, you
see, you will be able to sing in your hours of worry, and your songs
will bring back your courage. One ought never to weep, one ought always
to sing.'

'That is what I tell them!' exclaimed Suzanne. Everybody ought to sing,
and I teach them in order that they may sing here, and in studying, and
in their workshops, and afterwards throughout their lives. The nation
that sings is a nation of health and gaiety.'

She displayed no severity nor vanity in the lessons which she gave in
this fashion amidst the garden greenery. Her only ambition was to open
those young souls to the mirth of fraternal song and the clear beauty
of harmony. As she expressed it, whenever the day of universal justice
and peace should dawn, the whole happy city would sing beneath the sun.

'Come, my little friends,' she exclaimed, 'once again, and carefully,
in time. There is no occasion to hurry.'

Once again the chant arose, but towards the finish of it the young
vocalists were disturbed. A man appeared amidst some shrubbery behind
the chestnut trees--a man who furtively turned round as if to hide
himself. Luc, however, perceived that it was Boisgelin, and was greatly
surprised by the maniac's strange behaviour; for he stooped and
explored the grass as if seeking some hiding-place, some secret cavity.
At last Luc understood the meaning of it. The poor fellow was looking
for some nook where he might store away his incalculable wealth in
order that it might not be stolen from him. He was often met behaving
in this wild way, trembling with fear, at a loss where he might bury
all that surplus fortune, the weight of which bowed him down. Luc
shuddered with pity at the sight, and became yet more concerned when he
perceived that the children were alarmed by the apparition, even like a
party of gay chaffinches put to flight by the wild fluttering of some
night-bird.

However, Suzanne, who had turned somewhat pale, repeated in a louder
voice: 'Keep time, keep time, my dears! Bring out the last bar with all
your fervour!'

Haggard and suspicious, Boisgelin had disappeared, like a black
shadow vanishing from amidst the flowering shrubs. And as soon as the
children, recovering their composure, had saluted the sovereign sun
with a last joyful cry, Luc and Suzanne complimented them on their
efforts and dismissed them to their play. Then they walked together
towards the apprenticeship workshops on the other side of the garden.

'Did you see him?' Suzanne asked in a low voice, after a moment's
silence. 'Ah! the unhappy man, how anxious he makes me!' But as Luc
thereupon expressed his regret that he had been unable to follow
Boisgelin and take him home again, she once more protested: 'Oh! he
would not have followed you; you would have had to struggle with him,
and there would have been quite a scandal. My only fear, I repeat it to
you, is that he may be found some day in a pit with his head broken.'

They relapsed into silence, for they were now reaching the workshops.
A good many pupils spent a part of their playtime there, planing wood,
filing iron, sewing or embroidering, whilst others who reigned over a
neighbouring strip of ground busied themselves with digging, sowing,
and weeding. And now Luc and Suzanne again met Josine, standing in a
large room where sewing, knitting, and weaving machines, placed side by
side, were worked sometimes by girls and sometimes by boys. Here again
several of the children were singing, and a joyous spirit of emulation
seemed to animate the workshop.

'Do you hear them?' exclaimed Suzanne, whose gaiety had returned.
'They will always sing, those warblers of mine.'

Josine was explaining to a big girl of sixteen, named Clémentine
Bourron, the manner in which she ought to manage a sewing-machine in
order to do certain embroidery, whilst another pupil, a girl of nine,
Aline Boisgelin by name, was waiting to be shown how she ought to turn
down a seam. Clémentine was the daughter of Sébastien Bourron and
Agathe Fauchard, her grandfather on her mother's side being Fauchard,
the old drawer of the Abyss, and on her father's Bourron the puddler.
Aline, who was a younger sister of Ludovic, the son of Paul Boisgelin
and Antoinette Bonnaire, laughed affectionately when she perceived her
grandmother, Suzanne, who was very fond of her.

'Oh, grandmamma!' said she, 'I can't turn my seams down very well as
yet, but I sew them very straight--don't I, friend Josine?'

Suzanne kissed her, then watched Josine, who turned down a seam to
serve as a pattern for the child. Luc himself took an interest in these
little matters, aware as he was that everything has its importance,
that happy life depends upon the happy employment of one's hours. Then,
as Sœurette came up, at the moment when he was about to quit Josine
and Suzanne in order to repair to the works, he found himself for a
moment in the flower garden with the three women, those three loving
and devoted hearts that helped him so powerfully to bring about the
fulfilment of his dream of goodness and happiness. They surrounded him
like symbols of the affectionate solidarity, the universal love which
he wished to disseminate among mankind. Taking each other by the hand
they stood there smiling at him, old no doubt, with their white hair,
but still beautiful, with the wondrous beauty of kindliness. And when,
after discussing some details of organisation with them, Luc departed,
going towards the works, their loving eyes long followed his footsteps.

The factory halls and workshops, which were now much more extensive
than formerly, were full of the healthy gaiety which comes from an
abundance of sunshine and air. On all sides fresh water washed the
cement pavement, carrying off the slightest particles of dust in such
wise that the abode of work, once so grimy, muddy, and pestilential,
now shone with cleanliness. Most of the work, too, was now performed
by machines which stood around in serried array, like an army of
docile, indefatigable artisans, ever ready for the effort required of
them. If their metal arms wore out they simply had to be replaced. They
themselves did not know what pain was, and they had in part suppressed
human pain. They, too, were friendly machines, not the machines of
the earlier days, the competitors which aggravated the workman's want
by producing a fall in wages, but liberating machines, universal
tools toiling for man whilst man rested. Around those sturdy workers,
propelled by electricity, there were only so many drivers and watchers,
whose sole duties consisted in moving levers or switches, and in making
sure that the mechanism acted properly. The working day did not exceed
four hours, and a workman never spent more than two upon one task,
being relieved at the expiration of his two hours by a mate, whilst he
himself passed to some other form of work, industrial art, agriculture,
or public function. Again, the general employment of electric power had
virtually done away with the uproar with which the workshops had once
resounded, and now they were enlivened by the songs of the workmen,
the vocal mirth which the latter had brought from their schools like
a florescence of harmony embellishing their whole lives. And the
singing of those men around that silent machinery, at once so powerful
and so easy to manage, proclaimed the delight of just, glorious, and
all-saving work.

As Luc passed through the hall containing the puddling furnaces, he
paused for a moment to exchange a few friendly words with a strong
young man of twenty or thereabouts, who managed one of those furnaces
without any need of assistance.

'Well, Adolphe, are things going on satisfactorily, are you satisfied?'
Luc inquired.

'Oh! certainly they are! I've just completed my two hours, and the
"bloom" is just fit for removal.'

Adolphe was a son of Auguste Laboque and Marthe Bourron. Unlike his
maternal grandfather, Bourron the puddler, who had now retired, he did
not have to perform the terrible task of stirring the ball of fusing
metal with a long bar amidst all the flaring of the fire. The stirring
was now performed by mechanical means, and, indeed, an ingenious
contrivance brought the dazzling ball out of the furnace and placed it
on the chariot which carried it to the helve hammer without the workman
having to intervene.

'You shall see,' Adolphe gaily resumed, 'it's of first-rate quality,
and the work's so easy.'

He lowered a lever, a door opened, and the ball, like some planet,
setting the horizon aglow with its luminous trail, slid down to the
chariot, whilst the young man continued smiling, without a drop of
perspiration appearing on his brow, his limbs remaining nimble and
supple, undeformed by excessive toil. The chariot had already started
off to deposit its burden under the hammer, one of a new pattern,
worked by electricity, and doing everything that had to be done by
itself, without need of any smith to turn the lump over, now upon this
side and now upon that. And the hammer also worked so easily and the
sound it gave out was so clear and light that it became like a musical
accompaniment to the mirth of the workmen.

'I must make haste,' said Adolphe again, after washing his hands. 'I
have to finish a table in which I'm greatly interested, and I shall do
a couple of hours in the carpenters' workshop.'

He was indeed a carpenter as well as a puddler, having learnt various
callings, like all the young folk of his age, in order that he might
not be brutified by clinging to some particular specialty. Varied in
this manner, work became both delight and recreation.

'Well, amuse yourself!' cried Luc, sharing his delight.

'Yes, yes, thanks, Monsieur Luc. That's the right thing to say--good
work, good amusement.'

One spot where Luc spent a few enjoyable minutes on the mornings when
he visited the works was the hall where the crucible furnaces were
installed. He there felt himself to be far indeed from the old hall at
the Abyss, that hall with its glowing pits growling like volcanoes,
whence the wretched workers, amidst a blaze of fire, had to lift at
arm's length their hundred pounds' weight of fusing metal. Instead of
the old-time grimy, filthy place, there was now a spacious gallery,
having broad windows through which the sunshine streamed, and a
pavement of large slabs between which opened batteries of symmetrically
disposed furnaces. As electricity was employed to work them they
remained cold, silent, clean, and bright. And here again mechanical
appliances performed all the work, lowered the crucibles, lifted them
all aglow, and emptied them into moulds under the eyes of the men
directing them. Women were even employed in this department, attending
to the distribution of the electric power, for it had been noticed that
they displayed more care and precision than men in working the delicate
appliances.

Luc walked up to a tall and good-looking girl of twenty, Laure
Fauchard, daughter of Louis Fauchard and Julienne Dacheux, who,
standing near one apparatus, was carefully directing the current
towards one of the furnaces in accordance with the indications of a
young workman, who on his side watched the progress of the fusion.

'Well, Laure, you are not tired, are you?' Luc asked her.

'Oh! no, Monsieur Luc, it amuses me. How can I get tired from merely
turning this little switch?'

The young workman, Hippolyte Mitaine, who was now nearly
three-and-twenty, had drawn near. He was the son of Évariste Mitaine
and Olympe Lenfant, and was reported to be betrothed to Laure Fauchard.

'Monsieur Luc,' said he, 'if you would like to see some billets cast we
are ready.'

The machinery on being started quietly and easily removed the
incandescent crucibles, and then emptied them into the moulds, which
another mechanism brought forward in turn. In five minutes, whilst the
young man and the girl looked on, the work was properly performed and
the furnace was ready to receive yet another charge.

'There!' exclaimed Laure, laughing. 'When I think of all the terrible
stories which my poor grandfather Fauchard used to tell me when I was a
child I can hardly believe them. He hadn't got much of his wits left,
and he related things about his old calling as a drawer that were fit
to make one shudder. It was as if he had spent his life in the midst of
a fire, with the flames licking his limbs. All the old folk think us
very happy nowadays.'

Luc had become grave, and emotion moistened his eyes. 'Yes, yes,'
said he, 'the grandfathers suffered a great deal. And that is why the
grandchildren enjoy a better life. Work well, and love one another
well, the lives of your sons and daughters will be better still.'

Then Luc resumed his round, and wherever he repaired throughout those
spacious works he found the same healthy cleanliness, the same tuneful
gaiety, the same easy and attractive work, thanks to the variety of the
duties entrusted to the staff and the sovereign help of the machinery.
The worker was no longer an overpowered beast of burden, held in
contempt; with freedom he had recovered conscience and intelligence.

As Luc concluded his inspection in the hall where the rolling-machinery
had its place, near the puddling furnaces, he again paused to say a few
friendly words to a young man, about twenty-six years of age, who was
just arriving.

'Yes, Monsieur Luc,' was the reply, 'I've come from Les Combettes,
where I've been helping my father. There was some sowing to finish, so
I did two hours at it over yonder. And now I mean to do another two
hours here, for there is an urgent order for some rails.'

The young man was named Alexandre, and was a son of Léon Feuillat and
Eugénie Yvonnot. Gifted with a lively fancy, he amused himself after
completing his regular four-hours' work by preparing ornamental designs
for Lange the potter.

However, he had already set himself to his task, which was the
superintendence of a train of rollers for the making of rails. Luc,
who felt very happy, looked on in a kindly way. Since electrical force
had been employed the terrible uproar of the machinery had ceased; one
only heard the silvery ring of each rail as it spurted forth, following
those which were cooling. 'Twas all the good and constant production
of an epoch of peace, rails and yet more rails, in order that every
frontier might be crossed, and that the nations, drawn closer and
closer together, might become but one sole nation, spread over the
surface of the earth, which was becoming a perfect network of roads.
And in addition to the rails there were the great steel ships--not
the hateful vessels of war, carrying devastation and death across the
ocean, but vessels of solidarity and brotherliness, enabling continents
to exchange their products, and helping on the increase of mankind's
fortune to such a degree that prodigious abundance reigned everywhere.
And there were also the bridges facilitating communication, and the
girders and all the structural materials for the erection of the
innumerable edifices which the reconciled communities needed for their
public life, the common-houses, the libraries, the museums, the asylums
for infancy and old age, the huge general stores and the granaries,
all vast enough for the life and keep of the federated nations. And
finally, there were the innumerable machines and appliances which upon
all sides and in all forms of labour replaced the arms of men: those
which tilled the soil, those which toiled in the workshops, those which
travelled along the roads, athwart the waves and through the sky. And
Luc rejoiced that all that iron and steel should have become pacific,
that the metal of conquest which mankind had so long employed solely
to make the swords and spears that it needed for its bloodthirsty
struggles, which it had afterwards turned into the guns and shells
of its latter days of carnage, should be used, now that peace was
won, solely for the erection of its city of fraternity, justice, and
happiness.

Before returning home that day Luc desired to give a last glance at the
battery of electrical furnaces which had replaced Morfain's smeltery.
The battery, as it happened, was then at work, amidst a blaze of
sunshine which filled the glazed shed where it was placed. Every five
minutes the mechanism charged the furnaces afresh, after the rolling
way had carried off the ten pigs whose glow was dimmed by the bright
light of the planet. And here again, watching over the electrical
appliances, there were two girls each about twenty, one of them a
charming blonde, Claudine, the daughter of Lucien Bonnaire and Louise
Mazelle, and the other a superb brunette, Céline, the daughter of
Arsène Lenfant and Eulalie Laboque. As it was needful that they should
give all their attention to switching the current on and off, they were
at first only able to smile at Luc. But a short rest ensued, and on
perceiving a group of children who stood inquisitively on the threshold
of the shed, they came forward.

'Good-day, my little Maurice! Good-day, my little Ludovic! Good-day, my
little Aline! Are lessons over, since you have come to see us?'

It should be mentioned that the children by way of recreation, and in
the idea that they would acquire some first notions of various forms of
work, were allowed to run about the place in comparative freedom. Luc,
well pleased at seeing his grandson Maurice again, made the whole party
enter the shed. And he answered their numerous questions, and explained
the mechanism of the furnaces, and even made the appliances work again
by way of showing the children how it sufficed for Claudine or Céline
to turn a little lever, in order to fuse the metal and enable it to
flow forth in a dazzling stream.

But Maurice, with all the importance of a little man who, though only
nine years old had already learnt a great many things, exclaimed 'Oh!
I know, I've already seen it. Grandfather Morfain showed me everything
one day. But tell me, grandfather Froment, is it true that there used
to be furnaces as high as mountains, and that one had to burn one's
face day and night in order to get anything out of them?'

The others all began to laugh at this, and it was Claudine who
answered: 'Of course there were! Grandfather Bonnaire has often
told me of it, and you, Maurice, ought to know the story, for your
great-grandfather--the great Morfain as he is still called--was the
last to wrestle with fire like a hero. He lived up yonder in a cavern
in the rocks, and never came down to the town, but from one end of
the year to the other watched over his gigantic furnace, the monster
whose ruins one can still see on the mountain-side, like those of some
storm-rent castle-keep of the ancient days.'

Maurice's eyes dilated with astonishment, and he listened with all the
passionate interest of a child to whom some prodigious fairy-tale is
being told. 'Oh! I know, I know! Grandfather Morfain told me all about
his father and the furnace as high as a mountain. But, all the same,
I thought he was inventing it just to amuse us, for he does invent
stories when he wants to make us laugh. And so it's true?'

'Why yes, it's true!' Claudine continued. 'Up above there were workmen
who loaded the furnace, by emptying into it truck-loads of ore and
coal, and down below there were other workmen ever on the watch, ever
nursing the monster so that it might not have an attack of indigestion
which would have prevented the work from being properly performed.'

'And that lasted seven and eight years at a stretch,' said Céline, the
other young woman; 'the monster remained alight all that time, always
flaming like a crater, without it being possible for one to let it
cool, for if it did cool, there was a great loss, it had to be broken
open, and cleaned, and almost entirely rebuilt.'

Then Claudine resumed: 'So you see, my little Maurice, your
great-grandfather Morfain had a vast deal of work to do, since he could
hardly quit that fire for a moment during seven or eight years; besides
which, every five hours, he had to clear the tap-hole with an iron bar,
in order to release the smelted ore, which ran out like a perfect river
of flames, hot enough to roast one, as if one were a duck on the spit.'

At this the hitherto stupefied children burst into loud laughter. Oh!
the idea of it, a duck on the spit, Old Morfain roasting like a duck!

'Ah well!' said Ludovic Boisgelin, 'it can't have been very amusing to
work in those days. It must have given one too much trouble.'

'Of course,' his sister Aline exclaimed, 'I'm glad that I was born
after all that, for it's very amusing to work nowadays.'

Maurice, however, had become serious and thoughtful, turning over
in his mind all the incredible things which had been told him. And
by way of summing up everything, he ended by saying: 'All the same,
grandfather's father must have been awfully strong, and if things go
better nowadays it is perhaps because he had such a lot of trouble
formerly.'

Luc, who hitherto had contented himself with smiling, was delighted by
this remark. He caught up Maurice and kissed him on both cheeks. 'You
are right, my boy,' said he. 'And in the same way, if you work with all
your heart nowadays, your great-grandchildren will be yet happier than
you are--even now, you see, one no longer roasts like a duck.'

By his orders the battery of electrical furnaces was started once
more, Claudine and Céline turning the current on or off by a simple
gesture. The children wished to direct the mechanism themselves, and
how delightful did that easy work seem after the legend-like narrative
of Morfain's hard toil--the toil, it seemed, of some pain-racked giant
living in a world that had disappeared!

All at once, however, there came an apparition, and the children,
perturbed by it, ran off. Then Luc again perceived Boisgelin, who this
time stood at one of the doorways of the shed, watching the work in an
angry, mistrustful way, like some master who is for ever afraid that
his men may rob him. He was often to be seen in this fashion in one or
another part of the works, distracted by the idea that the place was
too vast to be properly inspected by him, and maddened more and more
by the thought of all the millions that he must every day be losing
through his inability to check the work of all those people who were
earning milliards for him. They were too numerous, he was never able
to see them all. He looked so haggard, so exhausted by his fruitless
roaming through the workshops, that Luc, stirred by pity, this time
wished to join him, calm him, and lead him gently home. But Boisgelin
was on his guard, and springing back, ran off towards the large
workshops.

His morning ramble over, Luc now returned home, and just as the
daylight was waning in the afternoon, after glancing round the general
stores, he went to spend an hour with the Jordans. In the little
drawing-room overlooking the park he found Sœurette chatting with
schoolmaster Hermeline and Abbé Marle; whilst Jordan, stretched on a
sofa and wrapped in a rug, remained thinking, according to his wont,
with his eyes fixed upon the setting sun. Amiable Doctor Novarre had
lately been carried off after an illness of a few hours, his only
regret being that he would not behold the realisation of so many
beautiful things in the possibility of which he had at the outset
scarcely believed. Thus Sœurette nowadays received but the schoolmaster
and the priest, and these only called at long intervals, when yielding
to their old habit of meeting at her house. Hermeline, now seventy
years of age and retired, was ending his days in a state of growing
bitterness and anger against all that passed before him. He had reached
such a point in this respect that he reproached the old priest with
lack of warmth. As a matter of fact Abbé Marle, who was five years
older than the other, sought refuge in dolorous dignity, silence which
became more and more haughty as he beheld his church becoming empty and
his religion expiring.

As Luc entered and took a chair beside Sœurette, who sat there silent,
gentle, and patient, it so happened that the schoolmaster was again
badgering the priest, like the sectarian and dictatorial republican
that he still was. 'Come, come, abbé,' he said, 'since I fall in with
your views you ought to help me. This is surely the end of the world.
Children's passions, evil growths which we the educators were formerly
appointed to crush, are nowadays cultivated, it seems. How is it
possible for the State to have any disciplined citizens reared for its
service when a free rein is given to anarchical individuality? If we,
the men of method and sense, don't manage to save the Republic, it is
surely lost!'

Since the day when he had thus begun to speak of saving the Republic
from those whom he called the Socialists and the Anarchists, he had
gone over to the side of reaction, joining the priest in his hatred
of all who dared to free themselves otherwise than by his own narrow
Jacobin formula.

And he went on yet more violently: 'I tell you, abbé, that your
church will be swept away if you do not defend it! Your religion, no
doubt, was never mine. But I have always admitted the necessity of a
religion for the people; and Catholicism was certainly an admirable
governing machine. So stir yourself! We are with you, and we will have
an explanation afterwards, when we have re-conquered the lost ground
together.'

At first Abbé Marle simply shook his head. As a rule nowadays he did
not take the trouble to answer or get angry. At last he slowly said: 'I
do the whole of my duty--I am at my altar every morning, even when my
church is empty, and I implore God to perform a miracle. He will surely
do so, if He deems it necessary.'

This brought the old schoolmaster's exasperation to a climax. 'Pooh!
one must help oneself! It is cowardly to do nothing.'

Sœurette, smiling and full of tolerance for those vanquished men,
thereupon thought it necessary to intervene: 'If the good doctor was
still here,' said she, 'he would beg you not to agree so well together,
since your seeming agreement only makes your quarrel worse. You grieve
me, my friends; I should have been so happy--not to convert you to our
ideas, but to see you admit, by virtue of experience, a little of all
the good which our ideas have effected in this region.'

They had both retained great deference for Sœurette, and indeed their
presence in that little drawing-room, beside the very hearth, so to
say, of the new city, showed what ascendancy she still exercised over
them. For her sake they even put up with the presence of Luc, their
victorious adversary, though he, it should be admitted, discreetly
avoided all appearance of triumphing over them. Thus, on this occasion,
he refrained from intervening, however furiously Hermeline might deny
all that he had created. After all, thought Luc, this was simply the
last revolt of the principle of authority against the liberation of
man both naturally and socially. On seeing the nations so near the
point of escaping from civil as well as religious servitude, the
once all-powerful State and the once all-powerful Church, which had
voraciously contended for possession of them, now tried to come to an
agreement, and league themselves together in order to reconquer the
nations.

'Ah!' cried Hermeline again, 'if you own yourself beaten, abbé, it
must be all over. In that case I can only keep silent as you do, and
withdraw into my corner to die.'

The priest once more shook his head, preserving silence. But
eventually, for the last time, he said: 'God cannot be beaten; it is
for God Himself to act.'

The night was now slowly falling over the park, lengthening shadows
were filling the little _salon_, and nobody spoke any further. Only a
great quiver, coming from the melancholy past, swept through the room.
Finally the schoolmaster rose and took his leave. Then, as the priest
was about to do the same, Sœurette wished to slip into his hand the sum
which at each recurring visit she had been accustomed to give him for
his poor. This time, however, he refused the alms which he had been
accepting so regularly for more than forty years; and in a low voice he
slowly said: 'No, thank you, mademoiselle; keep that money. I should
not know what to do with it; there are no more poor!'

Ah! what words those were for Luc: 'No more poor!' His heart had leapt
as he heard them. No more poor, no more starvelings in that town of
Beauclair, which he had known so black, so wretched, peopled by such
an accursed race of famished toilers! Would all the frightful sores
which had come from the wage-system be healed then? would shame and
crime soon disappear, even as want did? The reorganisation of work in
accordance with justice had sufficed already to bring about a better
apportionment of wealth. And thus, when work should on all sides become
honour and health and joy, an entirely peaceful and a brotherly race
would assuredly people the happy city.

Jordan, who still lay upon the sofa, wrapped in his rug, had hitherto
remained motionless, his eyes fixed upon space, through which no
doubt his mind was roaming. At last, Abbé Marle and Hermeline having
departed, he woke up, and without taking his eyes off the sunset which
he seemed to be watching with passionate interest, he said in a dreamy
manner: 'Each time that I see the sun set I become dreadfully sad and
anxious. Suppose it were not to come back, suppose it were never to
rise again over the black and frost-bound earth, what a terrible death
would then overtake all life! The sun is the father, the fructifier,
without whom all germs would wither or rot. And it is in the sun that
we must place our hope of relief and future happiness, for if it were
not to help us life would some day dry up.'

Luc had begun to smile. He knew that Jordan, in spite of his great
age--he was now nearly seventy-five--had for some years been studying
the problem of how he might capture solar heat and store it in vast
reservoirs in order to distribute it afterwards as the one, great,
eternal, living force. A time would come when the coal in the mines
would be exhausted, and where would one then find the necessary energy
for the torrent of electricity which had become so needful for life?
Thanks to his first discoveries, Jordan had succeeded in supplying an
abundance of electrical force for next to nothing. But what a victory
it would be if he should succeed in making the sun the universal
motor--if he should be able to take from it direct the caloric power
which was now found slumbering in coal--if he should manage to employ
it as the one sole fructifier, the very father of immortal life! He had
but a last discovery to effect, and then his work would be accomplished
and he would be ready to die.

'Don't alarm yourself!' said Luc gaily, 'the sun will rise to-morrow
and you will succeed at last in snatching the sacred fire from it.'

However, Sœurette, whom the evening breeze now coming in cool gusts
through the open window rendered somewhat anxious, stepped forward to
ask her brother: 'Don't you feel cold? Wouldn't you like me to shut the
window?'

He declined the offer with a motion of his hand, and all that he would
allow was that she should wrap him round with the rug to his very chin.
He now seemed to live solely by a miracle, solely because he wished
to live, having adjourned death until the evening of his last day of
work, the triumphant evening when, his task accomplished, he might at
last sink into the good sleep of a loyal and contented worker. His
sister surrounded him with greater precautions than ever; her extreme
care prolonged his strength, and still gave him two hours of physical
and intellectual energy each day--two hours which by force of method
he put to wonderful use. And thus that poor, old, puny being, whom the
slightest draught threatened with annihilation, was completing the
conquest of the world simply because he was still a stubborn worker,
one who did not throw his task aside.

'You will live to be a hundred years old!' said Luc, with an
affectionate laugh.

At this Jordan likewise made merry. 'No doubt,' said he, 'if a hundred
years prove necessary.'

Again deep silence fell in the little _salon_, full of such
affectionate intimacy. It was delightful to see the warm twilight
stealing slowly over the park, whose deep paths were gradually steeped
in the gloom. Vague gleams still hovered just above the lawns, whilst
the great trees faded away and became like light and quivering
apparitions in the blue distance. And it was now the sweethearts'
hour--the sweethearts to whom the park of La Crêcherie remained open,
and who therefore came thither in the twilight after their daily work.
Nobody troubled about the roaming, shadowy couples, who, holding one
another by the hand, gradually melted away and disappeared amidst the
greenery. They were confided to the keeping of the friendly old oaks.
Reliance was placed on the freedom to love that was granted them, for
this would render them gentle and chaste, like future spouses whose
embrace becomes an indissoluble tie if mutually desired. To love always
one need only know why and how one loves. Those who choose one another,
knowing and consenting, never part. And already, along the dim avenues,
over the lawns where the shadows stretched, there came sauntering
couples, who peopled, as with apparitions, the mysterious gloom amidst
the quiver of delight which the fresh odours of spring brought from the
earth.

As other couples arrived Luc recognised among them several of the
lads and girls whom he had seen in the workshops that morning. Were
not yonder shadowy forms, so close one to the other that they seemed
carried by one and the same flight over the tips of the grass, those
of Adolphe Laboque and Germaine Yvonnot? And those others, whose hair
mingled, their heads resting one against the other, were they not
Hippolyte Mitaine and Laure Fauchard? And those others too, whose arms
were tightly clasped around each other's waist, were they not Alexandre
Feuillat and Clémence Bourron? Yet softer emotion came to Luc's heart
when he fancied that he recognised his son Charles with his arm around
the dark-haired Céline Lenfant, and his son Jules leading away in his
embrace the fair Claudine Bonnaire. Ah! the young folk, the messengers
of the new springtide, the last to awaken to love, to feel kindling
within them the glow of life which the generations transmit one to
the other! As yet they knew but the chaste quiver which comes at the
first whispered words, and the innocent caress, the clasp in which
ignorant hearts seek one another, and the furtive kiss whose sweetness
suffices to open the portals of heaven. But before long the sovereign
flame would unite and blend them in order that yet other artisans of
love might spring from them, other couples, who in years to come would
repair to this same park to exchange the vows of budding affection.
For there would ever be more and more happiness and more and more free
passion tending to increase of harmony. Even now other couples, and
others still, were arriving, the park was gradually becoming populous
with all the sweethearts of the happy city. This was the exquisite
evening after the good day of work, the gloaming spent amidst lawn and
cover, shadowy like dreamland, steeped in mystery and perfume, with
nought breaking upon the silence save light sounds of laughter and
kisses.

All at once, however, a shadowy form stopped outside the _salon_. It
was Suzanne, who had anxiously been seeking Luc. And on finding him
there she told him how greatly she was worried by Boisgelin's prolonged
absence, for he had not yet returned home. Never before had he lingered
like this out of doors after nightfall.

'You were right,' she repeated; 'I did wrong in leaving him to his mad
fancies. Ah! the unhappy man, the poor old child!'

Luc, who shared her fears, bade her go home again. 'He may return at
any moment,' he said; 'it is best that you should be there. For my part
I will have a look round and bring you tidings.'

He at once took two men with him and crossed the park, with the
intention of beginning the search among the workshops. But he had
scarcely taken three hundred steps, and was near the little lake,
fringed with willows, quite a nook of paradise, when he halted on
hearing a light cry of terror which came from an adjacent clump of
greenery. From amidst that foliage there ran a pair of frightened
lovers, who he fancied were his son Jules and the fair Claudine
Bonnaire. 'What is the matter? What has alarmed you?' he called.

But they did not answer, they fled as beneath a blast of terror,
like love birds whose caresses have been disturbed by some frightful
encounter. And when Luc himself decided to enter the copse, he also
gave vent to an exclamation of horror. For he had almost knocked
against a body which hung from a branch there, blocking the narrow
pathway. In the last gleam of light falling from the sky where the
stars were now appearing Luc recognised the body as that of Boisgelin.

'Ah! the unhappy man, the poor old child!' he murmured, repeating
Suzanne's words, and feeling quite upset by that horrible tragedy which
would cause her such deep grief.

With the help of his companions he cut down the body and laid it on
the ground. But it was already quite cold. The unhappy man must have
hanged himself there early in the afternoon, after his desperate ramble
through the busy works. Luc fancied that he could divine everything
when at the foot of the tree he noticed a large hole which Boisgelin
had apparently dug with his hands, a hole in which he had no doubt
meant to bury the prodigious fortune which his people of workers
earned for him, that fortune which he knew not how to manage or how to
store away. And despairing, perchance, of his power to make a pit of
sufficient size for so much wealth, he had ended by resolving to die
there and thus rid himself of the horrible embarrassment in which he
was placed by his ever-growing and crushing fortune. His day of wild
roaming, his madness, his inability to live, idler that he was, in the
new city of just work, had culminated in that tragic death, and he had
hung there whilst the park, in the clasp of warm and nuptial night, was
filled with the rustling of caresses and the whispering of loving vows.

In order to avoid frightening the shadowy couples gliding between the
trees around him, Luc at once sent the two men to fetch a stretcher
at La Crêcherie, at the same time begging them to tell nobody of the
lugubrious discovery. And when they had returned and laid the lifeless
body between the little curtains of grey canvas, the mournful _cortège_
set off along the blackest of the paths in order to escape observation.
In this wise death, frightful death, passed along silently, steeped in
shadows, through the delightful awakening of spring, now all a-quiver
with new life. Lovers seemed to arise on all sides, springing up at
the bends of each avenue, in the recesses of each clump of bushes.
A perfume of flowers made the air quite balmy, hands sought hands,
and lips met. Love was budding, a fresh wave was coming to increase
humanity's broad stream, death was incessantly vanquished, to-morrow
and to-morrow were ever sprouting in order that there might be yet more
truth, more justice, more happiness in the world.

Suzanne stood waiting in a state of anguish, at the door of the house,
her eyes gazing into the night. When she perceived the stretcher she
understood, and gave vent to a low moan. And when Luc in a few words
had acquainted her with the wretched end of the useless being now
slumbering there, she was only able to repeat, as she thought of that
empty, poisoned, and poisonous life which had brought her so much
suffering: 'Ah, the unhappy man, the poor old child!'

Other catastrophes took place amidst the crumbling of the rotten
society of the old days now fated to disappear. But the greatest stir
of all was caused by one that occurred during the ensuing month--the
collapse of the old church of Saint Vincent one bright sunshiny morning
when Abbé Marle was at the altar celebrating mass solely for the
sparrows which flew through the deserted nave.

The priest had long been aware that his church would some day fall
upon him. It dated from the sixteenth century, and was in a very
damaged condition, cracking upon all sides. The steeple had certainly
been repaired some forty years previously, but from lack of funds it
had been necessary to postpone all work on the roofing, whose beams,
half eaten away, were already yielding. And since that time every
application for a grant had been made in vain. The State, overburdened
with debts, abandoned that church of a remote region. The town of
Beauclair refused to contribute anything, Mayor Gourier having never
been on the side of the priests. Thus Abbé Marle, reduced to his own
resources, had been obliged to seek among the faithful the large sum
which became more and more urgently required if the edifice was not
to fall upon his shoulders. But in vain did he knock at the doors of
wealthy parishioners, the faithful were dwindling away, their zeal was
fast cooling. During the lifetime of the beautiful Léonore, the mayor's
wife, whose extreme piety proved some compensation for her husband's
atheism, the priest had found precious help in her. Subsequently,
however, only Madame Mazelle had remained to him, and not only did her
fervour decline, but she was in no wise of a generous disposition.
In course of time worries respecting her fortune consumed her, and
she came less and less frequently to Saint Vincent, in such wise that
nobody was left to the priest save a few poor creatures who in their
wretchedness clung obstinately to the hope of a better life. And
finally when no poor remained, the church became quite empty, and the
abbé lived there in solitude, amidst the abandonment in which mankind
now at last left his religion of error and wretchedness.

The abbé then felt that a world was indeed expiring around him.
His complaisance had been powerless to save the life of the lying,
poisonous _bourgeoisie_ which was devoured by its own iniquities. In
vain had he cast the cloak of religion over its last agony; it had
died amidst a final scandal. And in vain, too, had he sought a refuge
in the strict letter of dogma, in order that he might concede nothing
to the truths of science, which, he could realise, were mounting to
the supreme and victorious assault by which the ancient edifice of
Catholicism would be destroyed. Science, indeed, had at last effected
its breach, dogma was finally swept away, and the Kingdom of God was
about to be set, not in some fabulous paradise, but upon this very
earth, in the name of triumphant justice. A new religion, the religion
of man, at last truly conscious, free, and master of his destiny, was
sweeping away the ancient mythologies, the forms of symbolism amidst
which he had lost himself during the anguish of his long struggle
against nature. After the temples of ancient idolatry, the Catholic
churches in their turn had to disappear, now that a fraternal people
set its certain happiness in the sole force of its living solidarity
without need of any political system of punishments and rewards. Thus
the priest, since confessional and holy table alike had been deserted,
since the faithful had departed from his church, beheld each day when
he celebrated mass there the cracks in the walls spreading, and the
beams of the roofs yielding more and more. It was a constant crumbling,
a gradual process of destruction and ruin, the slightest premonitory
sounds of which he could detect. But since he had been unable to summon
the builders even for the most urgent repairs, he must necessarily
allow the work of death to follow its course and culminate in the
natural end of things. Thus he simply waited and continued to say his
mass, like a hero of faith, alone with his forsaken creed, whilst the
roof cracked more and more above the altar.

A morning came when Abbé Marle perceived that another large stretch
of the vaulting of the nave had split during the previous night.
And although he now felt certain of the downfall which he had been
anticipating for months past, he nevertheless came to celebrate
his last mass, clad in his richest vestments. Very tall and
broad-shouldered, with a nose like an eagle's beak, he still held
himself firm and upright in spite of his advanced age. He dispensed
with servers now, he came and went, spoke the sacramental words, and
made the usual gestures, as if a great throng were pressing together
before him, docile to his voice. But in the state of abandonment
in which the church was left, only some broken chairs lay upon the
flag-stones, suggesting the wretched-looking mouldy garden seats that
are left forgetfully out of doors exposed to the rains of winter. Weeds
grew round the columns, over which moss was spreading. All the winds of
heaven streamed in through the broken windows, and the great doorway
being half unhinged, remained partially open, allowing the animals of
the neighbourhood to flock in. On that fine bright day, however, it
was particularly the sunshine that poured into the edifice, like a
conqueror, setting as it were a triumphal invasion of life amidst that
tragic ruin where birds flew hither and thither, and where wild oats
germinated even among the stone mantles of the old saints. Above the
altar, however, there still reigned a great crucifix of painted and
gilded wood, displaying a long, livid, pain-racked effigy, splashed
with some blackish blood that dripped like tears.

Whilst Abbé Marle was reading the Gospel he heard a louder cracking,
and some dust and some fragments of plaster fell upon the altar. Then,
at the moment of the Offertory, the sinister rending began again,
and it seemed as if the edifice were shaking before it fell. But the
priest, collecting all the remaining strength of his faith together for
the Elevation, prayed with his whole soul for the miracle for whose
glorious, all-saving splendour he had so long been waiting. If it
should so please God, the church would regain its vigorous youth, and
be endowed with sturdy pillars upholding an indestructible nave. Masons
were not necessary, the Almighty power would suffice, and a magnificent
sanctuary would arise there, with chapels of gold, windows of purple,
wood-work marvellously carved, and dazzling marble, whilst a multitude
of the faithful on their knees would sing the hymn of Resurrection
amidst the blaze of thousands of candles and the loud pealing of bells.
But at the very moment when the priest, finishing his prayer, raised
the chalice, it was not the miracle he asked for that came, it was
annihilation. He stood there erect, with both arms raised in a superb
gesture of heroic belief, and the vaulted roof was rent asunder as if
by a bolt from heaven, and crashed downward in a whirlwind of fragments
with a roar like that of thunder. The shaken steeple tottered and then
in its turn fell, ripping the remainder of the roof open, and dragging
down the rest of the sundered walls. And nought remained beneath the
bright sun save a huge litter of stones and tiles, amidst which a
fruitless search was made for Abbé Marle. He had disappeared as if
the remnants of the shattered altar had consumed his flesh, drunk his
blood. And in like way nothing was ever found of the great crucifix of
painted and gilded wood. That also had been shattered to atoms, reduced
to dust. Thus yet another religion was dead, the last priest saying his
last mass had perished with the last of the churches.

For a few days old Hermeline, the retired schoolmaster, was seen
prowling about the ruins, and talking aloud as old folk are wont to
do when haunted by some fixed idea. His words could not be plainly
distinguished, but he seemed to be still arguing and reproaching
the abbé for having failed to obtain the needed miracle. Then, one
morning, he was found dead in his bed. And later on, when the ruins
of the church had been cleared away, a garden was planted there, with
fine trees and shady walks, skirting sweet-smelling lawns. Lovers went
thither on pleasant evenings, even as they went to the park of La
Crêcherie. The happy city was ever spreading, children were growing and
becoming lovers in their turn, lovers whose kisses in the shade again
sowed future harvests. After the gay day of work came love amidst the
roses blooming upon every side. And in that delightful garden where
slept the dust of a religion of wretchedness and death, one now beheld
the growth of human joy, the overflowing florescence of life.



IV


During yet another ten years the city continued growing, and organising
new society in accordance with the principles of justice and peace. And
at last, one 20th of June, on the eve of one of the great Festivals of
Work, which took place four times a year, coinciding with the seasons,
Bonnaire met with a strange experience.

He, Bonnaire, now nearly eighty-five years of age, had become the
patriarch, the hero of work. Still straight and tall, with an energetic
head under a crown of thick white hair, he remained active and gay,
in the enjoyment of good health. Old revolutionary that he was, a
theoretical Collectivist pacified by the sight of his comrades'
happiness, he now tasted all the reward of his long efforts--the
conquest of that harmonious solidarity amidst which he saw his
grandchildren and great-grandchildren growing in all felicity.

That evening then, just as the daylight was waning, Bonnaire happened
to be strolling near the entrance of the Brias gorges. He often walked
abroad in this fashion, with the sole assistance of a stick, for the
pleasure of viewing the countryside once more and recalling old-time
memories. On this occasion he had just reached the spot where in
former days had stood the gates of the Abyss, which had long since
disappeared. Near that spot also a wooden bridge had once spanned the
Mionne, but no trace of it remained, for the torrent had been covered
over for a distance of about a hundred yards, to admit of the passage
of a broad boulevard.

What changes there were! thought Bonnaire. Who would ever have
recognised the former black and muddy threshold of the accursed factory
in that broad, open space, over which there now passed a quiet,
bright-looking avenue, lined with smiling houses? As he lingered there
for a moment, erect and handsome, like the happy old man he was, he
experienced great surprise on perceiving another old man, a stranger,
huddled up on a wayside bench near him. And this other seemed to have
been wrecked by misery, for his clothes were in tatters, his face
ravaged and bushy with hair, his frame emaciated and trembling as if
with some evil fever.

'A poor man!' muttered Bonnaire, speaking aloud in his astonishment.

It was certainly a poor man, and years had now gone by since Bonnaire
had seen one. It was evident, however, that he who sat on the bench did
not belong to the region. His shoes and clothes were white with dust,
and he must have sunk upon that bench near the entry of the town from
sheer fatigue, after tramping the roads for days and days. His staff
and his empty wallet had fallen from his weary hands and lay at his
feet. With an air of exhaustion he let his gaze wander around him, like
one who is lost, who knows not where he may be.

Full of pity Bonnaire drew near to him. 'Can I help you, my poor
fellow?' he asked; 'your strength is exhausted, and you seem to be in
great distress.'

Then, as the other did not answer, but still let his eyes roam in
a scared way from one point of the horizon to the other, Bonnaire
continued: 'Are you hungry? do you need a good bed? Let me guide
you--you will here find all the help you need.'

Thereupon the old and wretched-looking beggar began to stammer in a low
voice, as if speaking to himself: 'Beauclair, Beauclair--is this really
Beauclair?'

'Of course it is; you are at Beauclair, that's certain,' declared the
former master-puddler with a smile. But on seeing the other give signs
of increasing surprise and anxiety, he ended by understanding the
truth: 'You knew Beauclair formerly, no doubt,' said he. 'It is perhaps
a long time since you were last here?'

'Yes, it was more than fifty years ago,' the stranger answered in a
husky voice.

Then Bonnaire burst into good-natured laughter. 'In that case I am
not astonished if you find a difficulty in recognising the place,'
he retorted. 'There have been some changes. For instance, here the
Abyss works have disappeared, whilst yonder the sordid hovels of
old Beauclair have been razed to the ground. And you can see that a
new city has been built; the park of La Crêcherie has spread over
everything, invading the former town with its greenery and turning it
into a vast garden, where the little white houses peep brightly from
among the trees. And thus one naturally has to reflect before one can
recognise the place.'

The stranger had followed the explanations, turning his glance upon
the various points which Bonnaire with gentle gaiety indicated. But
again he wagged his head as if he could not believe what was told him.
'No, no,' said he, 'I don't recognise it; this can't be Beauclair.
Yonder are the two promontories of the Bleuse Mountains, between which
the Brias gorge opens; and yonder, too, far away, is the plain of La
Roumagne. That's certain, but all the rest--those fine gardens and
those houses belong to some other spot, some wealthy and smiling land
which I never saw before. Ah! well, I shall have to walk further; I
must have made a mistake in the road.'

After picking up his staff and his wallet, he was making an effort to
rise from the bench when his eyes at last rested on the old man who
had shown himself so obliging and friendly. And at the first glance
which he gave Bonnaire he shuddered, and became anxious to depart.
Had he recognised Bonnaire then, although he could not recognise the
town? Bonnaire, for his part, was so stirred by the sudden flame which
shot from the other's hairy countenance that he examined him more
attentively. Where had he previously seen those bright eyes, which
blazed in moments of savage violence? All at once his memory awoke, and
in his turn he shuddered, whilst all the past lived anew in the cry
which burst from his lips:

'Ragu!'

For fifty years people had believed him to be dead! But the crushed
and mutilated body found in a gorge of the Bleuse Mountains, on the
morrow of his flight, after his crime, had not been his. He lived,
he lived, good heavens! He had come back, and to Bonnaire that
extraordinary resurrection after so many events and so many years
brought anguish--anguish respecting all that had happened in the past,
and all that might happen to-morrow.

'Ragu, Ragu, it is you!' Bonnaire repeated.

The other already had his staff in his hand, his wallet on his
shoulder. But as he was recognised why should he go off? It was certain
now that he had not mistaken his road.

'It's me, sure enough, my old Bonnaire,' he replied; 'and since you are
still alive, though you are ten years older than I, I have certainly a
right to be alive also--though it's true that I'm very battered.'

Then, in the jeering tone of former times, he resumed: 'So you give me
your word for it, that splendid big garden yonder, with those pretty
houses, is really Beauclair? Well, since I've got here, I've only to
look for an inn where they'll let me sleep in a corner of the stables.'

Why had he come back? What plans were rife under that bald skull,
behind that wrinkled face, ravaged by so many years of evil and
vagabond life? Bonnaire, who grew more and more anxious, could already
picture Ragu disturbing the festival on the morrow by some scandal or
other. He dared not question him at once, but he felt that it would
be best to have him in his charge. Moreover, he was full of pity; his
heart was quite stirred at finding the unhappy man in such a state of
destitution.

'There are no more inns,' he answered; 'you will have to come to my
place. You'll be able to eat as much as you like there, and you will
sleep in a comfortable bed. Then we can have a chat. You'll tell me
what you want, and I'll help you to content yourself if possible.'

But Ragu jeered again: 'Oh! what I want,' he retorted--'why, the wishes
of an old beggar like me, more or less infirm, are of no account at
all. What I want, indeed! Why, I wanted to see you all again, to give a
glance in passing at the place where I was born. The idea worried me,
and I shouldn't have died easy in mind if I hadn't come for a stroll in
this direction. That's a thing anybody may do, isn't it? The roads are
still free.'

'No doubt.'

'Well, so I started--oh! years ago. When a man's got bad legs and never
a copper, he doesn't make much progress. All the same, one reaches
one's destination at last, since here I am. And, it's understood, let's
go to your place, since you offer me hospitality like a good comrade.'

The night was falling, and the two old men were able to cross new
Beauclair without being remarked. On the way Ragu's astonishment
increased; he glanced to right and to left, but could not recognise
a single spot. At last, when Bonnaire stopped before one of the most
charming of the dwellings, a house standing amidst a clump of fine
trees, an exclamation escaped Ragu, showing that he still retained his
ideas of former times: 'What! you've made your fortune; you've become a
_bourgeois_ now!'

The former master-puddler began to laugh. 'No, no; I've never been
anything but a workman, and I'm only one to-day. But in a sense it's
true that we've all made our fortunes and all become _bourgeois_.'

As if his envious fears were quieted by that answer, Ragu began to
sneer once more: 'A workman can't be a _bourgeois_,' said he, 'and if a
man still works it's because he hasn't made his fortune.'

'All right, my good fellow, we'll have a chat about it, and I'll
explain things to you. Meantime go in, go in.'

Bonnaire for the time being was dwelling alone in this house, which was
that of his granddaughter, Claudine, now the wife of Charles Froment.
Daddy Lunot had long since been dead, and his daughter, Ragu's sister,
the terrible Toupe, had followed him to his grave during the previous
year, after a frightful quarrel, which, as she expressed it, had turned
her blood. When Ragu heard of the loss of his sister and father, he
simply made a little gesture, as if to say that by reason of their age
he had anticipated it. After an absence of half a century one is not
surprised to find nobody one knew left among the living.

'So here we are in the house of my granddaughter, Claudine,' continued
Bonnaire; 'she's the daughter of my eldest son, Lucien, who married
Louise Mazelle, the daughter of the Rentiers, whom you must remember.
Claudine herself has married Charles Froment, a son of the master of
La Crêcherie. But she and Charles have taken their daughter Aline, a
little girl of eight, to see an aunt at Formeries, and they won't be
back till to-morrow evening.' Then he concluded gaily: 'For some months
now the children have taken me to live with them, by way of petting me.
Come, the house is ours; you must eat and drink your fill, and then
I'll show you to your bed. To-morrow, when it's daylight, we'll see to
all the rest.'

Ragu's head swam as he listened. All those names, those marriages,
those three generations flitting by at a gallop quite scared him. How
was he ever to understand things when so many unknown events and so
many marriages and births had taken place? He did not speak again, but,
seated at a well-spread table, ate some cold meat and fruit ravenously
in the gay room, which was brilliantly illumined by an electric lamp.
The comfort and ease which he felt around him must have weighed heavily
upon the old vagabond's shoulders, for he seemed yet more aged, more
utterly 'done for,' as with his face lowered over his plate he devoured
the food, glancing askance the while at all the encompassing happiness
in which he had no share. His very silence, his downcast mien at the
sight of so much comfort, was expressive of all his long stored-up
rancour, his powerless thirst for vengeance, his now irrealisable dream
of triumphing and seeing disaster fall on others. And Bonnaire, again
uneasy at the sight of his gloominess, wondered through what adventures
he had rolled during the last half-century, and felt more and more
astonished at finding him still alive and in such destitution.

'Where have you come from?' he ended by inquiring.

'Oh, from everywhere more or less!' Ragu answered with a sweeping
gesture.

'Ah! so you've seen a good many countries and people and things?'

'Oh, yes; in France, Germany, England and America, and elsewhere. I've
dragged my carcase, indeed, from one end of the world to the other.'

Then, lighting his pipe, he gave Bonnaire, before retiring to bed,
some idea of his life as a wanderer, in rebellion against work, idle
by nature and coveting enjoyment. He typified the spoilt fruit of the
wage-system--the wage-earner who dreams of suppressing the masters in
order to take their place, and in his turn crush down his fellows. In
his estimation there could be no other happiness than that of making a
big fortune and enjoying it, with the satisfaction that one had known
how to exploit the misery of the poor. And, violent in language, but
all the same cowardly in the master's presence, dishonest, addicted
to drink, and incapable of steady work, he had rolled from workshop
to workshop, from country to country, at times dismissed, at others
impelled by some silly whim to take himself off. He had never been
able to put a copper by, wherever he had found himself want had become
his companion, each succeeding year bringing about a fresh decline in
his fortunes. When old age arrived it was a wonder that he did not
die, famished and forsaken, in some gutter. Until he was nearly sixty,
however, he had still found some petty jobs to do. Then he had stranded
in a hospital, but had been obliged to leave it, though only to fall
into another one. For the last fifteen years he had thus been clinging
to life--how, he could hardly tell; and now he begged and tramped the
roads for the crust of bread and truss of straw that he needed. And
nothing of his old nature had departed from him, neither his covert
rage and jealousy, nor his eager desire to be a master and enjoy
himself.

Restraining a flood of questions which rose to his lips, Bonnaire at
last exclaimed, 'But all the countries you passed through must now be
in a state of revolution! I know very well that we have progressed
quickly here, and are in advance of the others. But the whole world is
now stirring, is it not?'

'Yes, yes,' Ragu answered in his jeering way, 'they are fighting and
building up a new society on all sides, but all that did not prevent me
from starving.'

He had passed through strikes and terrible risings in Germany, in
England, and especially in the United States. In all the countries
through which his rancour and idleness had carried him, he had
witnessed tragic events. The last empires were crumbling, republics
were springing up in their place, while frontiers were being suppressed
by the confederation of neighbouring nations. It was like a smash
up of the ice at the advent of springtide, when the ice melts and
disappears, uncovering the fertilised soil, where germs sprout and
flower forth in a few days, under the glow of the great brotherly sun.
All mankind was certainly in evolution, busying itself at last with the
foundation of the happy city. But he, Ragu, bad workman, discontented
reveller that he was, had simply suffered from all the catastrophes he
had witnessed, merely encountering blows therein without ever finding
an opportunity even to pillage a rich man's cellar, and, for once in
his life, drink his fill. Nowadays, having become a confirmed old
vagabond and beggar, he cared not a curse for the so-called city of
justice and peace. It would not bring him back his twentieth birthday,
it would not give him a palace full of slaves, where he might have
ended his days amidst a round of pleasures, like the kings that books
speak of. And he jeered bitterly at the idiocy of the human race which
took so much trouble to prepare a somewhat cleaner social edifice for
the great-grandchildren of the next century--an edifice which the men
of nowadays would only know in dreams!

'But that dream has long sufficed for happiness,' quietly said
Bonnaire. 'However, what you say is not true, the edifice is almost
rebuilt even now, and is very beautiful and healthy and gay. I will
show it to you to-morrow, and you will see if one does not taste
pleasure in dwelling in it.'

Then he explained that on the following day he would take Ragu to
witness one of the four Festivals of Work, which filled Beauclair with
delight on the first day of each season. Each of these festivals was
marked by some particular rejoicings appropriate to the seasons. The
one on the morrow, the summer festival, would be bright with all the
flowers and fruits of the earth, overflowing in prodigious abundance,
amidst the sovereign splendour of horizon and sky, in which the
powerful sun of June would blaze.

Ragu, however, relapsed into gloomy anxiety, a covert fear, indeed,
lest he should really find the ancient dream of social happiness
fulfilled at Beauclair. Was it a fact then that after traversing
so many countries where the society of to-morrow was coming forth
amidst such frightful struggles--was it a fact that he would behold
it virtually installed in that town, his own, whence he had fled on a
day of murderous madness? Had that happiness, for which he had sought
so frantically on all sides, come into being on his native spot,
during his absence? Had he returned merely to behold the felicity of
others, now that he himself could no longer expect any joy in life? The
idea that he had spoilt his existence to the very end seemed to him
like a supreme crushing blow amidst his misery and weariness whilst
he sat there silently finishing the bottle of wine which had been
placed before him. And when Bonnaire rose to show him to his room--a
sweet-smelling white room with a large white bed in it--he followed
with a heavy step, suffering from the open-handed brotherly hospitality
offered to him with such happy ease.

'Sleep well, my good fellow,' said Bonnaire, 'till to-morrow morning!'

'Yes, till to-morrow--unless this cursed world should fall to pieces
during the night.'

Bonnaire, who also went to bed, found some difficulty in getting to
sleep, for he still felt worried with respect to Ragu's intentions. He
had a dozen times resisted his desire to put plain questions to him on
the subject, from fear of provoking some dangerous explanation; for he
thought it might be preferable to keep the matter in reserve and act
hereafter according to circumstances. He feared some frightful scene;
for perhaps that wretched vagabond, maddened by want and disaster,
might have come back in order to provoke a scandal, insult Luc, insult
Josine, and even attempt murder again. Bonnaire therefore resolved
that he would not leave him alone for a moment on the following day.
Moreover, in his desire to show him everything at Beauclair, there
was the hope of morally paralysing him by an exhibition of such an
abundance of wealth and power as would make him realise how futile
would be the rage and rebellion of any one individual. When he should
have seen and learnt everything he would no longer dare to stir, his
defeat would be definitive. And thus Bonnaire at last fell asleep,
resolved on waging that final battle for the sake of general harmony,
peace, and love.

Already at six o'clock on the following morning a joyous flourish of
trumpets sped over the roofs of Beauclair, announcing the Festival of
Work. The sun was already high in the beautiful blue heavens. Windows
opened, greetings flew through the greenery from one house to another,
and one could feel that joy was already stirring the soul of the city,
whilst the trumpet calls continued, arousing from garden to garden the
cries of children and the laughter of loving couples.

Bonnaire, having quickly dressed himself, found Ragu up, washed and
clad in some clean garments, which had been laid for him the previous
evening on a chair. Now that he had well rested, the vagabond had
become quite the jeerer of former days, resolved upon deriding
everything and refusing to acknowledge the existence of the slightest
progress. On seeing his host enter he indulged once more in his old
evil insulting laugh.

'I say, old man!' he exclaimed, 'what a row they make with those
trumpets! That must be precious disagreeable for those who don't like
to be startled out of their sleep. Are you wakened every morning in
your barracks by that music?'

The old master-puddler preferred to find his guest in this mood. He
smiled quietly, and answered: 'No, no, that's only the _réveil_ of our
high days and holidays. On other mornings one can oversleep oneself if
one chooses, for the quiet is delightful. But when life's so pleasant
one always gets up early, and only the infirm regret having to lie in
bed.'

Then, with his attentive kindness, he added: 'Have you slept well? Did
you find everything you wanted?'

Ragu tried to make himself disagreeable again. 'Oh! I can sleep
anywhere,' said he. 'For years past I've been sleeping among hayricks,
and they are worth the best beds in the world. It's just the same as
regards all those inventions you have here--baths, and cold and hot
water taps, and electrical heating appliances, which you only have to
switch on. They may be useful, no doubt, when one's in a hurry, but
it's still preferable to wash in the river and warm oneself before
a good old stove.' And, as his host did not reply, he concluded by
saying: 'You have too much water in your houses, they must be damp!'

What blasphemy! The idea of it, those streaming beneficent waters, so
pure and so fresh, which were now the very health and joy and strength
of Beauclair, whose streets and gardens they bathed as with eternal
youth!

'Our water is our friend, the good fairy of our happy destiny,'
Bonnaire replied. 'You will see it gushing forth on every side and
fertilising our city. But come and have some breakfast; we will go out
directly afterwards.'

That first breakfast in the bright dining-room, illumined by the
rising sun, was delightful. On the white cloth there were eggs, milk,
and fruit, with bread which was so golden and smelt so sweet that one
could divine it had been kneaded by carefully worked machinery for a
happy people. And the old host lavished on his wretched guest the most
delicate attentions, a simple and affectionate hospitality, which set
an atmosphere of gentleness and kindness all around.

Whilst they ate they again began to chat. As on the previous evening,
Bonnaire prudently refrained from asking Ragu any direct questions. Yet
he felt persuaded that the other, after the fashion of all criminals,
had returned to the scene of his crime, consumed by an invincible
craving to behold it again and know what had taken place during his
absence. Was Josine still alive, and if so what was she doing? Had Luc
been saved from death, and had he taken her to live with him? At all
events, what had become of them both? Surely it was an ardent curiosity
with respect to all those matters which glittered in the vagabond's
bright eyes. As he did not mention them, however--preferring apparently
to keep his secret locked within him--Bonnaire had to content himself
with putting into execution the plan which he had thought of the
previous night. Without mentioning Luc's name he began to explain the
greatness of his work.

'For you to understand things properly, my good fellow,' said he, 'it's
necessary that I should tell you something about our position before we
take a stroll through Beauclair. We have now got to the triumph, the
full florescence of the movement, which was scarcely beginning when you
went away.'

Then he reverted to the origin of the evolution, the establishment of
the works of La Crêcherie, based on an association between capital,
labour, and brains, and its struggle with the Abyss, where the
barbarous wage-system had been enforced. At last the latter had been
vanquished and replaced, and La Crêcherie, with its pleasant white
houses, had gradually spread over the site of Old Beauclair, the
wretched home of want. Then Bonnaire showed how, both in a spirit of
imitation and by reason of the necessities of the position, all the
neighbouring works had ended by joining the original association; and
how in due course other groups had been formed, every calling of a
similar kind gradually being syndicated together, every family, as
it were, meeting and uniting. Then the co-operation of producers on
the one hand and of consumers on the other had completed the victory,
work being reorganised on a basis of human solidarity, and bringing
in its train a new form of society. There was now only four hours'
work a day, and it was work freely chosen and constantly varied, in
order that it might remain attractive; whilst machinery, the enemy of
former days, had at present become a docile slave, upon whom all great
efforts were cast. Then, moreover, the co-operation of consumers had
swept away old-time trade, which had simply absorbed so much energy
and gain. Huge general stores centralised products of all kinds, and
distributed them according to consumers' needs, and in this manner
millions of money were saved, agiotage and theft abstracting nothing
on the way. Indeed, life was becoming greatly simplified: there was a
tendency towards the complete suppression of specie and the closing of
law courts and prisons; for disputes on matters of private interest
ceased, and no longer urged man against man in some mad fit of fraud,
pillage, or murder. Why should there be any crime left since there were
no more poor, no more disinherited ones, since brotherly peace was
being established more and more firmly every day, all being at last
convinced that individual happiness came from the happiness of all? A
long peace reigned, the blood tax--the conscription--had disappeared
like all other taxes; there were no longer any rates of any kind or
any prohibitive laws, but in lieu thereof full liberty for production
and exchange. And in particular, since the parasites--the innumerable
_employés_, functionaries, magistrates, barrack-men, and churchmen--had
been suppressed, the greatest wealth had set in, such a prodigious heap
of riches accumulating that from year to year the granaries became too
small and threatened to burst beneath the ever-growing abundance of the
public fortune.

'That's all right,' interrupted Ragu when Bonnaire had reached this
point. 'But all the same, the real pleasure is to do nothing; and if
you still work you are not a gentleman. To my idea there's no getting
away from that. Besides, in one manner or another you are still paid,
so that you still have a wage-system. But you are converted, eh?--you,
who always demanded the absolute destruction of capital?'

Bonnaire laughed with joyous frankness. 'It's true, they've ended by
converting me,' he said. 'I believed in the necessity of a sudden
revolution, some stroke which would have placed power in our hands,
together with possession of the soil and all the instruments of work.
But how can one resist the force of experience? For so many years past
I've been witnessing here the assured victory of social justice and
brotherly happiness, which I dreamt of so long! And thus patience has
come to me; I'm weak enough--if you like to put it that way--to rest
content with to-day's conquests, certain as I am of to-morrow's final
victory. Of course, I'm ready to grant that a great deal remains to
be done--our liberty and justice are not complete, capital and the
wage-system must entirely disappear, the social pact must be rid of
all forms of authority, we must have the free individual in the free
community. And we try to act in such wise that our grandchildren's
children may bring about the reign of justice and liberty in their
entirety.'

Then he explained the new educational methods which were in force, the
working of the _crèches_, schools, and apprenticeship workshops, the
adoption and cultivation of all the forms of energy springing from
the passions, and the up-bringing of boys and girls together with
the view of drawing yet closer the ties of love on which the city's
strength would depend. The cause of greater freedom in the future
rested with the couples of to-morrow; it might be taken that each
generation growing up amidst an increase of equity and kindliness would
contribute its stone to the final edifice. Meantime, the city's wealth
would continue accumulating now that the suppression of the right of
inheritance--almost entirely accomplished--prevented the building up of
huge, scandalous, and poisonous individual fortunes; in such wise that
the prodigious output of the work of all was becoming the property of
all. Such things as the State Funds were also falling to pieces, the
Rentiers, the idlers who lived on the work of others or on egotistical
savings of their own, were disappearing. All citizens were equally
rich, since the city--overflowing with work, freed from obstacles and
hindrances, preserved from waste and theft--was piling up such immense
wealth, that production would assuredly some day have to be moderated.
Enjoyments once reserved for a few privileged beings were to-day
already within the reach of all, and if family life remained simple the
public edifices had become wonderfully sumptuous, large enough to hold
huge multitudes, and so charming and so commodious as to be indeed true
palaces of the people, centres of enjoyment where it loved to live.
There were museums, and libraries, theatres, bathing establishments,
places for diversions of one and another kind, together with simple
'porches,' opening out of meeting and lecture halls which the whole
town frequented in its hours of rest. There was also a great number of
hospitals, special isolated hospitals, for each kind of disease, and
asylums which the infirm and the aged could enter freely; others, too,
particularly for mothers and children, for pregnant women, who were
carefully nursed from an early stage until their babes were born, and
they themselves had fully recovered their strength. In this wise the
new city affirmed its faith in motherhood and childhood--the mother
who is the source of eternal life, the child who is the victorious
messenger of the future.

'And now,' Bonnaire gaily concluded, 'since you have finished
breakfast, let us go to see all those fine things, our Beauclair in its
festive gaiety. I shan't spare you a single interesting nook of it.'

At this Ragu, who had resolved upon no surrender, simply shrugged his
shoulders, repeating what he deemed to be his decisive argument: 'As
you like; but all the same you are not gentlemen, you are still poor
devils if you still work. Work's your master, and, when all's said,
you've remained a people of slaves.'

At the door of the house a little electric car with accommodation for
two persons was waiting. Similar cars were at the disposal of all. The
old master-puddler, who, despite his advanced years, had retained a
clear eyesight and a firm hand, made his companion get in, and then
took his own seat as driver.

'You don't mean to cripple me for good with this mechanism, eh?' asked
Ragu.

'No, no, don't be alarmed. We get on very well together, electricity
and I,' Bonnaire replied, adding: 'You will find it everywhere; it is
the one force which drives our machinery, and it is in general use in
our homes, just like a domestic servant. Oh! it has been necessary to
produce it in incalculable quantities, and yet it seems that there's
not enough, and that the former master of La Crêcherie is trying to
provide us with a still larger supply, in order that we may have
something like a planet blazing over Beauclair at night-time, and live
amidst the glow of eternal day.'

He laughed at this idea of putting all darkness to flight, whilst
the car glided rapidly along the broad avenues. Before exploring
Beauclair he proposed to go as far as Les Combettes, in order to show
his companion the magnificent estate which was changing La Roumagne
into a paradise of fertility. The festive morning was bright with
sunshine, the roads resounded with gaiety, laughter and songs arising
from all the other electric cars which were continually met on the
way. A great many foot passengers were also arriving from neighbouring
villages, mostly in bands, lads and girls brave in their ribbons, who
joyously saluted Bonnaire the patriarch. And on either side of the
road stretched a perfect sea of grain. Instead of the old-time narrow
patches of ground, badly manured and badly tilled, one found but
one sole, huge field, richly cultivated by thousands of associates.
Whenever the soil showed sign of impoverishment, the properties it
lacked were imparted to it by a chemical dressing; it was warmed,
too, and screened, and high cultivation brought forth two crops of
vegetables and fruit each season. Thanks to machinery, man was spared
many efforts: the harvests sprang up as if by enchantment over leagues
and leagues of ploughed land. It was even said that one would become
master of the clouds, directing them upon one or another point at one's
will by means of electric currents, in such wise as to obtain days of
rain or days of sunshine, according to the needs of cultivation.

'You see, my good fellow,' resumed Bonnaire with a sweeping gesture,
'we have the wherewithal for bread--bread for all, the bread to which
each acquires a right as soon as he is born.'

'So you feed even those who don't work?' asked Ragu.

'Certainly we do; but with very few exceptions only the sick and the
infirm refrain from working. When one's in good health it bores one too
much to remain doing nothing.'

The car was now traversing some orchards, and the endless rows of
cherry trees covered with red fruit presented a delightful spectacle.
The apricots, farther on, were not yet ripe, and green was the fruit
which weighed down the apple and pear trees. Nevertheless there was
extraordinary abundance, enough dessert indeed for a whole nation until
the ensuing spring. But they were at last reaching Les Combettes.
The sordid village of former days had disappeared, and white houses
had been built among the greenery alongside the Grand-Jean, the once
filthy stream, which was now canalised, its pure water contributing to
all the surrounding fertility. One no longer beheld the country side
of the old times, all abandonment, dirt, and wretchedness, in which
the peasantry had wallowed for centuries with the obstinacy born of
routine and hatred of each other. The spirit of truth and liberty had
visited that spot, and an evolution had set in towards science and
harmony, enlightening minds, reconciling hearts, and bringing health,
wealth, and joy in its train. Since all had consented to co-operate the
happiness of each had come into being.

'You remember old Combettes,' said Bonnaire, 'the hovels standing in
mud and dung, and the fierce-looking peasants, who complained of dying
of starvation? See what association has done for all that!'

In his savage jealousy, however, Ragu would not let himself be
convinced. With that hatred of work which had remained in his blood,
the hereditary hatred of a wage-earner chained to toil, he replied:
'If they work they are not happy. Their happiness is mendacious; the
sovereign enjoyment is to do nothing.' And though in former times he
had often reviled the priests, he now added: 'Doesn't the catechism say
that work is man's punishment and mark of degradation? When once one
gets to heaven one has nothing to do there.'

On the way back to Beauclair the car passed La Guerdache, which was now
enlarged, and whose grounds were full of young mothers, their babes,
and playful children. But even the sight of that palace of the people
and its beautiful park did not influence Ragu. 'After all, what's the
value of luxury and enjoyment which everybody can share?' said he. 'A
thing that one can't have entirely to oneself isn't worth much.'

However, the little car was still speeding along, and they soon found
themselves in Beauclair once more. The town, as Ragu had remarked on
first perceiving it, did indeed present the aspect of a large garden.
The houses, instead of being pressed close one to the other, as in the
days of tyranny and terror, seemed to have dispersed in order that
their inmates might enjoy more freedom, quietude, and health. Land
cost nothing since all had been put in common from one to the other
promontory of the Bleuse Mountains. Why, therefore, should folk have
heaped themselves together when the whole great plain spread before
them? Are a few thousand square yards of land too much for a family
when so many immense tracts of the earth are absolutely uninhabited?
Thus, each family had chosen its lot, and had built according to its
fancy. Broad avenues ran past the gardens, supplying abundant means
of communication, but people were not required to build their houses
in line; they simply set them amongst the trees in the manner they
pleased. Still, the dwellings had a family aspect, for all were clean
and gay, and decorated with stoneware and faïence of bright colours,
enamelled tiles, and so forth, which formed gables, borders, panels,
friezes, and cornices, the convolvulus-blue, the dandelion-yellow,
and the poppy-red of all this ornamentation imparting to the houses
much the appearance of huge nosegays amidst the verdure of the trees.
Then, on the squares, at the points where the avenues met, rose the
many public buildings, huge piles in which triumphed steel and iron.
Their magnificence was compounded of simplicity, of logical fitness for
the purpose for which they were intended, and of intelligence in the
choice of materials and style of decoration. In these buildings it was
intended that the people should be at home; the museums, libraries,
theatres, baths, laboratories, meeting and amusement halls were but
so many common-houses, open to the entire community. Moreover, some
portions of the avenues were already being covered with glass, and it
was proposed to warm them in winter, so as to enable people to stroll
there in comfort during cold and rainy weather.

Ragu gave so many signs of surprise, and seemed so lost, that Bonnaire
began to laugh. 'Ah! it isn't easy to identify the place,' said he,
'but we are now on the old Place de la Mairie, whence started the four
great thoroughfares--the Rue de Brias, the Rue de Formeries, the Rue de
Saint-Cron, and the Rue de Magnolles. Only, as the old town-hall was
falling to pieces from sheer rottenness, it was demolished, together
with the old schools, where the boys learned to spell under the
master's rod. And now, you see, there is a series of large pavilions,
chemical and physical laboratories, where all are free to study and
experiment when they think they have made some discovery which may
prove useful to the community. Then, too, the four streets have been
transformed, their hovels have been swept away, and little of them
remains save the gardens and houses of the gentlefolk, in which sundry
marriages have ended by placing the children of the poor devils of
former times.'

Then Bonnaire went on to explain other transformations brought about
by the victory of the new social system. For instance, although the
sub-prefecture had been preserved and two wings had even been added to
it, it had been converted into a public library. In the same way the
law-courts had become a museum, whilst it had been possible at no very
great cost to turn the prison with its cells into a bath-house where
water abounded. Then there was the garden, which had been planted on
the site of the fallen church--a garden where some fine shady verdure
already arose around a little lake which now filled the ancient
underground crypt. In this wise, as the various forms of authority
disappeared, the buildings once allotted to them had reverted to the
people, who had disposed of them in such a manner as to increase their
own comfort and enjoyment.

However, whilst the car was ascending another fine long avenue Ragu
again felt lost, and inquired of his guide: 'Where are we now?'

'In the old Rue de Brias,' Bonnaire answered. 'Ah! its aspect has
greatly changed. Petty trade having completely disappeared, the shops
shut up one after the other, and at last the old houses were demolished
to make room for those new ones which smile so pleasantly among the
hawthorns and lilac bushes. The Clouque, that poisonous sewer, has been
covered up, and the side walk of this avenue, on the right, passes over
it.'

He went on recalling the narrow, dark Rue de Brias of former times,
with its ever-muddy pavement, over which weary workers had trudged day
by day. Hunger and prostitution had prowled there at night, whilst
poor housewives went from shop to shop to beg a petty credit. There
had reigned the Laboques, levying tribute on all purchasers, whilst
Caffiaux poisoned the workers with doctored alcohol, and Dacheux kept
jealous watch over his meat, holy meat--the chosen food of the wealthy.
Only the beautiful Madame Mitaine had been willing to close her eyes
when a loaf or two happened to disappear from her shop-front on the
days when the street urchins were unable to restrain their hunger. But
now all the misery and suffering had been swept away, and the avenue
ascended, broad, clean, and flooded with sunlight, with only the houses
of happy workers upon either hand, whilst the multitude strolled about
laughing and singing on that bright festive morning.

'But if La Clouque flow's under that grassy bank,' exclaimed Ragu
suddenly, 'Old Beauclair must have been over yonder, on the site of
that new park, where the white house-fronts are peeping out of the
greenery?'

And this time he remained aghast. The spot he mentioned had indeed
been Old Beauclair, the sordid mass of hovels spread out like an
evil-smelling stagnant pond, with its streets lacking both light and
air, and infected by their open drains. He particularly remembered the
Rue des Trois Lunes, the darkest, narrowest, and filthiest of them all.
But the blast of avenging justice had purified the spot, carried away
the abominable cloaca, and in place thereof had set that greenery,
amidst which had sprung dwellings of health and joy.

Bonnaire, amused by Ragu's astonishment, now drove him more slowly
along the new thoroughfares of the happy City of Work. In honour of
that day of rejoicing all the houses were gay with bunting; bright
oriflammes flapped in the light morning breeze, and vivid drapery
hung about doors and windows. The thresholds of the houses, too, were
covered with roses, the streets even were bestrewn with them; such
an abundance of roses being grown in the vast plantations of the
neighbourhood that the whole town was able to adorn itself with them,
like a woman on her bridal morn. Music resounded on all sides, the
chorus singing of maids and youths flew past in sonorous waves, whilst
the pure voices of the children soared aloft to the very sun itself. It
seemed as if the limpid and rejoicing orb were also participating in
the festival, as it cast great sheets of gold under the sky's sumptuous
tent, so aerial and silken, and so delightfully blue. All the people
were now flocking into the streets, arrayed in light-coloured garments
adorned with beautiful stuffs, which had once been so dear and which
were now at the disposal of all. New fashions, very simple in their
magnificence, made the women look adorable. Gold--since money had
gradually disappeared--was now simply used for purposes of adornment.
Each little girl that was born found in her cradle her necklets, her
bracelets, and her rings, even as the little ones of former days had
found their toys. But jewellery now had no value, gold had simply
become so much beauty. And, moreover, the electrical furnaces were
about to produce incalculable quantities of diamonds and precious
stones, sacks of rubies, emeralds, and sapphires--gems enough, indeed,
to cover all the women of the world. The maids who passed hanging on
their lovers' arms already had their hair adorned with constellations
of flashing stars. And there was an endless procession of couples,
those whom love in its freedom had just betrothed; the young folk
of twenty, too, who had recently mated and were never more to part;
and those also who had grown old amidst mutual affection, and whose
hand-clasp had tightened with each succeeding year.

'Where are they all going like that?' Ragu at last inquired.

'Oh! they are calling on one another,' Bonnaire answered, 'inviting
one another to the grand dinner which is to be given this evening,
and which you will attend. And many are just strolling about in the
sunshine for the love of the thing, because they feel gay and at home
in our beautiful brotherly streets. Besides, there are entertainments
and games on all sides, with admission gratis, of course, for one may
freely enter all our public establishments. Those parties of children
are being taken to one or another circus, and others of the crowd are
going to meetings, theatrical performances, and concerts. Our theatres,
you know, enter into our system of social education.'

Then, all at once, on reaching a house whose occupiers, it seemed, were
about to go out, Bonnaire stopped the car. 'Would you like to visit
one of our new houses?' he asked. 'This is where my grandson Félicien
lives, and as we have just caught him at home, he will receive us.'

Félicien was the son of Séverin Bonnaire, who had married Léonie,
the daughter of Ma-Bleue and Achille Gourier. He, Félicien, only
a fortnight previously had for his part espoused Hélène Jollivet,
daughter of André Jollivet and Pauline Froment. But when Bonnaire
wished to explain those relationships to Ragu, the latter made
the gesture of a man who feels quite lost amidst such a tangle of
alliances. The young people were charming--the wife very young and
adorably fair; the husband also fair, and tall and strong. Love
perfumed all the bright, gay, simple, yet elegantly furnished rooms
of their home, which, like the streets, was that day full of roses;
for it seemed as if roses had rained upon Beauclair--there were some
everywhere, even on the roofs. The whole house was visited, and then
they returned to a room which served as a workshop--a large, square
apartment, where an electrical motor was installed. Besides following
three or four other callings, Félicien was by taste a metal-turner, and
preferred to work at this avocation in his own home. Several of his
comrades, young men of his own age, were similarly inclined, and a new
movement was thus arising among the generation just reaching manhood.
One found the worker on a small scale following some calling at home
in all freedom, irrespective of work in the great general workshops.
For these individual artisans the supply of electric power, which they
found in their homes even as they found water there, was of wonderful
assistance. Home-work under such conditions proved easy, and clean, and
light, and some houses were gradually becoming family workshops and
tending to the realisation of the formula: The free workman in the free
city.

'Till this evening, my children,' said Bonnaire, taking leave. 'Shall
you dine at our table?'

'Oh! it's impossible this time, grandfather,' was the reply; 'we have
our places at grandmother Morfain's table. But we shall see one another
at dessert.'

Ragu took his seat in the car again without speaking a word. He had
remained silent throughout the visit, though for a moment he had paused
before the little motor. At last, he once again managed to throw off
the emotion which he had felt in the midst of so much comfort and
happiness.

'Come,' he exclaimed, 'can one call those the houses of well-to-do
_bourgeois_, when there's machinery in the largest room? I grant that
your men are better lodged, and have more enjoyment, since want has
disappeared. But they are still workmen, mercenaries condemned to
labour! In the old days there were at least a few happy, privileged
folk who did nothing. All your progress consists in reducing the entire
community to common slavery!'

At this despairing cry from that devotee of sloth, whose religion
was fast crumbling, Bonnaire gently shrugged his shoulders. 'One
must understand, my good fellow,' said he, 'what it is that you call
slavery. If it be slavery to breathe and eat and sleep--in a word, to
live--why, then work is slavery. But if you live you must necessarily
work; one cannot live an hour without doing work of some kind. However,
we'll talk of all that by-and-by. For the present let us go home to
lunch, and we'll spend the afternoon in visiting the workshops and the
stores.'

After their meal, indeed, they went out again, but this time on foot,
walking along leisurely. They crossed the entire works, all the
sunlit halls, where the steel and copper of the new machinery shone
like jewels in the bright radiance. That morning, moreover, some of
the workers--parties of youths and girls--had come to decorate the
machinery with garlands of verdure and roses; for was it not right that
it should participate in the festival of work, powerful, gentle, and
docile artisan that it was, bringing relief both to man and to beast?
And nothing could have been gayer or more touching. The roses that
adorned the presses, the huge hammers, the giant planing, rolling, and
turning machines, proclaimed how attractive work had become, bringing
comfort to the body and delight to the mind. Songs rang out, too,
chains were formed, and amidst general laughter quite a _farandole_
began, spreading gradually from one hall to another, and transforming
the entire works into an immense palace of rejoicing.

Ragu, who still remained impassive, walked about, raising his eyes to
the lofty windows, which were bright with sunshine, or glancing now at
the slabs under foot, and now at the walls of speckless brightness,
or else examining the machines, many of which were unknown to him.
They were huge creatures, provided with all sorts of intricate works,
in order that they might perform most of the tasks once allotted to
man, the most trying as well as the most delicate. Some had legs,
arms, feet, and hands, so that they might move, embrace, clutch, and
manipulate metal with fingers at once supple, nimble, and strong. The
new puddling furnaces, in which the 'bloom' was kneaded mechanically,
particularly struck Ragu. Was it possible that the 'bloom' came out
like that, quite ready to pass under the hammer! And then there was the
electricity that propelled the bridges, that set the huge hammers in
motion, that worked the rolling-machinery, which could have covered the
whole world with rails. On each and every side one found that sovereign
electric force. It had become like the very blood of the factory,
circulating from one to the other end of the workshops, giving life to
all things, acting as the one source of movement, heat, and light.

'It's good, no doubt,' Ragu grunted. 'The place is very clean and very
large, and ever so much better than our dirty dens of former times,
where we found ourselves like pigs in their styes. There has certainly
been a good deal of progress; but the worry is that one hasn't yet
found a way to give each man an income of a hundred thousand francs.'

'Oh! but we have our income of a hundred thousand francs,' retorted
Bonnaire jestingly. 'Just come and see.'

Then he took the other to the general stores--great barns, huge
granaries, vast magazines--where all the produce and wealth of the city
was accumulated. They had been enlarged, perforce, year by year; for
one no longer knew where to store the crops, and indeed it had even
been necessary to check the production of manufactured goods, to avoid
encumbrance. Nowhere else could one better realise what an incalculable
fortune a nation might amass when all intermediaries were done away
with--the drones and the thieves, all those who had lived upon the work
of others without producing anything themselves.

'There are our Rentes!' Bonnaire repeated; 'each of us can help himself
here without counting. And don't you think that it all represents a
hundred thousand francs' worth of happy life for each of us? We are all
equally rich, it's true, and, as you have said, that would spoil your
pleasure, fortune being nothing to you unless it be seasoned with the
misery of others. Yet it has an advantage; for one no longer incurs the
risk of being robbed or murdered some evening at a street corner, just
for the sake of gain.'

Then he mentioned a movement that was setting in, quite apart from the
working of the general stores--that is, a movement of direct exchange
between producers, a movement which had originated among the petty
family workshops. Perhaps then the great workshops and the huge general
stores would end by disappearing in the course of the advance towards
increase of liberty: the sovereign freedom of the individual amidst the
freedom of all mankind.

Ragu listened, more and more upset by that conquest of happiness which
he still wished to deny. And at a loss as to how he might hide the fact
that he was sorely shaken, he exclaimed: 'So you're an Anarchist now!'

This time Bonnaire burst into noisy merriment. 'Oh! my good fellow, I
used to be a Collectivist, and you reproached me for having ceased to
be one. Now you make an Anarchist of me. But the truth is that we are
no longer anything at all since the common dream of happiness, truth,
and justice has been realised. But, now that I think of it, come a
little way with me and see something else by way of finishing up our
visit.'

He led him to the rear of the general stores, to the base of the
mountain ridge, to the very spot, indeed, where Lange the potter had
formerly installed his rudimentary kilns in an enclosure barricaded
with dry stones. To-day a large building stood there, a manufactory of
stoneware and faïence, whence came the enamelled bricks and tiles, the
thousand bright-hued decorations which adorned the whole city. Yielding
indeed to the friendly entreaties of Luc, and seeing a little equity
arise to relieve the misery of the people, Lange had decided to take
some pupils. Since the masses were reviving to joy he would be able
to realise an old dream of his by making and scattering broadcast all
the bright earthenware, glowing like golden wheatears, cornflowers and
poppies, with which he had so long desired to enliven the house-fronts
peeping out of the garden greenery. And beauty had blossomed forth
under the touch of his big, genial hands--beauty in an admirable form
of art, coming from the people and returning to it, instinct with all
the popular primitive strength and grace. He had not renounced the
making of humble utensils, kitchen and table pottery, pans, pots,
pitchers, and plates--all exquisite in form and colour, setting the
glorious charm of art in the most commonplace daily life; but he had
each year increased his production, adorning the public buildings
with superb friezes, peopling the promenades with graceful statues,
setting up in the squares lofty fountains which looked like nosegays,
and whence the water of the springs flowed with all the freshness of
eternal youth. And the band of artists whom he had created in his own
image now set the beauty of art in the very pots which the housewives
used as receptacles for their preserves and jam.

As it happened, Lange was at the top of the little flight of steps on
the threshold of the factory. Although he had nearly completed his
seventy-fifth year, his short squat figure had remained robust. He
still had the same rustic-looking square head, bushy with hair and
beard, now white like snow. But at present all the kindliness, long
hidden beneath his rough bark, gleamed from his eyes in clear smiles. A
party of playful children stood before him, boys and girls, who pushed
one another and stretched out their hands whilst he went on with a
distribution of little presents, as was indeed his habit every _fête_
day. He thus apportioned among them some little clay figures modelled
with a few thumbstrokes, coloured and baked by the gross, yet very
graceful, and in some instances charmingly comical. They represented
the most simple subjects, everyday occupations, the petty incidents and
fugitive delights of the passing hour. There were children laughing
or crying, young girls attending to their household duties, men at
work--in fact, all life in its everlasting, marvellous florescence.

'Come, come, my children,' said Lange, 'don't be in a hurry, there
are enough for all of you. Here, my pet, take this little girl who's
putting on her stockings; and for you, my lad, here's this boy coming
back from school. Ah! you little darky, yonder, take this smith with
his hammer.'

He shouted and laughed, vastly amusing himself in the midst of all
those children, who struggled for the possession of his exquisite
little figures.

'Ah! be careful!' he cried, 'you must not break them. Put them in your
rooms, so that you may have some pretty colours and pleasant lines
before your eyes. And in that wise when you grow up you will love
what's beautiful and good, and be handsome and good yourselves.'

It was his theory that the people needed beauty in order to become
healthy and brotherly. Everything that surrounded them, particularly
all objects of current use--utensils, furniture, and dwellings--ought
to suggest beauty. And belief in the superiority of aristocratic art
was imbecile. The greatest, most touching and most human art was that
into which most life entered. Moreover, the work that proved immortal
and defied the centuries was one that sprang from the multitude and
summed up for it an epoch or a civilisation. And it was ever from the
people that art flowered forth in order that it might embellish the
people themselves and impart to them the perfume and the radiance which
were as necessary to their life as was daily bread.

'Ah! here's a peasant reaping, and a woman washing linen. Take that
one, my big lassie; and you, my little man, there's one for you. Well,
it's over now. Mind you are very good; kiss your mammas and papas for
me. Ah! my little lambs, my little chicks, life is beautiful, life is
good!'

Ragu had listened motionless and silent, but he was evidently more
and more surprised. At last, with a ferocious sneer he exploded: 'Ah!
Master Anarchist!' said he, 'so you no longer talk of blowing up the
whole show, eh?'

Lange turned sharply and looked at Ragu without recognising him.
However, he displayed no anger, but simply began to laugh again: 'Ah!
so you know me,' he said, 'though what your name is I can't remember.
Well, yes, it's true, I did wish to blow up the whole show. I cried
it everywhere, to all the winds of the sky, and I heaped malediction
after malediction upon the accursed city, announcing its approaching
destruction by iron and fire. I had even resolved to do justice myself
and raze Beauclair as by lightning. But things turned out otherwise.
Enough justice came to disarm me. The town was purified, and rebuilt,
and I can't destroy it now that all I wanted, all I dreamt of, is being
realised--isn't that so, Bonnaire; we've made peace, eh?'

Thereupon Lange, the former Anarchist, held out his hand to the
ex-Collectivist with whom he had once had such bitter quarrels: 'We
were ready to eat one another, were we not, Bonnaire?' he resumed. 'We
agreed as to the city of liberty, equity, and cordial understanding
which we wished to reach; only we differed as to the best road to
follow, and those who thought that they ought to turn to the right were
ready to massacre those who showed a desire to turn to the left. But
now that we've all reached our destination, it would be too stupid of
us to continue quarrelling. Is that not so, Bonnaire? As I said before,
peace is made.'

Bonnaire, who had retained the potter's hand in his grasp, pressed and
shook it affectionately.

'Yes, yes, Lange,' he replied; 'we did wrong in not coming to an
understanding, it was perhaps that which prevented us from making
progress. Or perhaps we were all right, since now here we are, hand in
hand, willing to admit that at bottom we all wanted the same thing.'

'And if things are not yet altogether such as absolute justice would
require,' Lange resumed, 'we can rely on those lads and lassies to
continue the work and some day finish it. You hear, my little chicks,
my little lambs, love each other well.'

The shouting and laughing was beginning afresh, when Ragu in his brutal
fashion intervened once more: 'But I say, you spoilt Anarchist, what
about your Barefeet, have you made her your wife, eh?'

Tears started to Lange's eyes. Nearly twenty years previously the
tall and beautiful creature whom he had compassionately picked up on
the roads, and who had worshipped him like a slave, had died in his
arms, the victim of a frightful and mysterious accident. He had spoken
of an explosion in one of his kilns, saying that its iron door had
been carried away, and had struck Barefeet full in the bosom. But the
truth was assuredly different. She had assisted him in his experiments
with explosives, and must have been struck down during some attempts
to charge those famous little 'stock-pots,' of which he had spoken
so complacently, intending to deposit them at the town-hall, the
sub-prefecture, the law-courts--in all the places, indeed, where there
was any form of authority to be destroyed. For months and for years
that tragic death had made Lange's heart bleed, and even nowadays,
after the attainment of so much happiness, he still wept for the loss
of that gentle yet impassioned woman who, in return for the alms of
a piece of bread, had for ever bestowed on him the royal gift of her
beauty.

He strode roughly towards Ragu: 'You are a bad man,' he cried, 'why do
you stab me in the heart like that? Who are you? Where have you sprung
from? Don't you know that my dear wife is dead, and that every evening
I still ask her forgiveness, accusing myself of having caused her
death? If I haven't become a bad man, I owe it to her dear memory, for
she is always with me, she is my good counsellor. But you, you are a
bad man, I don't want to recognise you, I don't want to know your name.
Go away, go away from our city!'

He was superb in his dolorous violence. The poetic spirit that dwelt
within his rugged form, and which had formerly manifested itself in
vengeful flights of fancy of a sombre grandeur, had now softened,
tempering his heart with infinite quivering kindliness.

'Have you recognised him then?' asked Bonnaire anxiously. 'Who is he?
Tell me.'

'I do not wish to recognise him,' Lange repeated yet more rigorously.
'I shall not say anything--let him go his way, let him go his way at
once! He isn't fit to be one of us.'

Thereupon Bonnaire, feeling convinced that the potter had recognised
Ragu, gently led the latter away in order to avoid any painful
explanations. For his part Ragu evinced no desire to linger and
quarrel, but retired in silence. All that he had seen and heard had
dealt him blow after blow in the heart, filling him with bitter regret
and boundless envy. He had begun to stagger beneath the shock of that
happiness, in which he had not, and would never have, the slightest
part.

But it was particularly the aspect of Beauclair in the evening that
upset him. It had become a custom for each family to set its table in
the street and dine there on that first day of summer. The repast was
like a fraternal communion of the whole city, the bread was broken,
and the wine was drunk in public, and the tables were at last brought
together in such wise that they formed but one table, the whole town
changing into a vast banqueting-hall, where the people became one sole
family.

At seven o'clock, whilst the sun was still shining, the tables were
set out, decorated with roses, that rain of roses which had perfumed
Beauclair ever since the morning. The white cloths, the decorated
crockery, the glass and the silver reflected the purple glow of the
sunset. As silver money, like gold money, was fast disappearing, each
now had his or her silver goblet, even as in olden time one had goblets
or mugs of pewter. And Bonnaire insisted on Ragu taking his seat at his
table, or rather at that of his granddaughter Claudine, who had married
Luc's son, Charles Froment.

'I have brought you a guest,' he simply said to the others, without
naming Ragu. 'He is a stranger, a friend.'

And all made answer: 'He is welcome.'

Bonnaire kept Ragu near him. But the table was a long one, for four
generations elbowed one another. When Bonnaire the patriarch looked
round he could see his son Lucien and his daughter-in-law Louise
Mazelle, both of whom were now over fifty. He could also see his
granddaughter Claudine and his grandson-in-law, Charles Froment, both
in their prime; and he could likewise see his great-granddaughter
Alice, a charming little maid, eight years of age. And all manner of
kith and kin followed. Bonnaire explained to Ragu that a gigantic table
would have been needed if his three other children, Antoinette, Zoé,
and Séverin, had not arranged to dine at other tables with their own
offspring. At dessert, however, they would bring the tables together
in a neighbourly fashion, in suchwise that they would end by being all
together.

Ragu more particularly turned his eyes upon Louise Mazelle, who still
looked very charming and active. He was no doubt surprised by the sight
of that daughter of the _bourgeoisie_, who invariably displayed so much
affection for her husband Lucien, the scion of a working-class stock.
Leaning towards Bonnaire, the old vagabond at last asked him in an
undertone: 'Are the Mazelles dead then?'

'Yes; the dread of losing their money killed them. The conversions
which upset everything and foreshadowed the approaching suppression
of Rentes altogether, fell upon them like so many thunderbolts. The
husband was the first to die, killed by the idea that his idle days
were over and that he would perhaps have to work again. Then the wife
dragged on for a while, cloistering herself at home and no longer
daring to go out, convinced as she was that as violent hands had been
laid on Rentes people must nowadays be murdered at every street-corner.
It was in vain that her daughter proposed to take her with her; she
stifled at the thought of being fed by others, and at last one day she
was found dead--stricken by apoplexy, her face quite black, and resting
among a package of her Rente certificates, which had virtually lost all
value. Poor people! They died in a state of stupefaction, absolutely
overcome, and declaring that the world had been turned topsy-turvy.'

Ragu wagged his head. He was not inclined to weep for those
_bourgeois_, but at the same time he was of opinion that a world whence
idleness was banished was not worth living in. Then he again looked
round him, and became yet gloomier as he noticed the rising spirits
of one and all, and the abundance and luxury which prevailed at the
table, though to the others those things were now only natural, and
gave no cause for vanity. The women were all arrayed in similar festive
garb, similar light, charming silks; and precious stones--rubies and
sapphires and emeralds--glittered in the hair of all. But the roses,
the superb roses, were preferred to the gems by far, for they lived,
and were therefore the more precious.

Already in the middle of the meal, which was made up of delicate and
simple viands, vegetables, and fruit especially, everything being
served on silver dishes, joyous songs began to arise, saluting the
setting sun and bidding it _au revoir_, in the certainty that in
a few hours' time it would happily arise again. And all at once,
amidst the singing, a delightful incident occurred. All the birds of
the neighbourhood--the robins, the blackcaps, the finches, even the
sparrows, flew down on the tables before retiring to rest among the
darkening greenery. They alighted boldly on one's shoulders, hopped
down to peck the crumbs on the cloth, and accepted dainties from the
hands of the children and the women. Since Beauclair had become a town
of concord and peace they had been aware of the change there; they no
longer feared aught from its kindly inhabitants--neither snares nor
gunshots. And they had grown familiar in their way; they formed part of
the various families; each garden had its denizens, who at meal-time
flew down to take their share of the common food.

'Ah! here are our little friends!' cried Bonnaire. 'How they chatter!
They know very well that to-day is a festival. Crumble some bread for
them, Alice!'

Ragu, with his face darkening and a dolorous expression in his eyes,
watched the birds as they flew down from every side, like a very
whirlwind of small light feathers to which the last sunbeams imparted
a golden glow. Those birds made the dessert quite lively, so many were
the little feet hopping jauntily among the cherries and the roses. And
of all the felicity and splendour that Ragu had witnessed since the
morning, nothing had so clearly and so charmingly told him how peaceful
and how happy was that young community. For him it was like a supreme
blow; he suddenly arose and said to Bonnaire: 'I'm stifling, I must
walk about. And besides, I want to see everything, all the tables, all
the people.'

Bonnaire understood him well. Was it not Luc and Josine whom he wished
to see? Was not all the ardent curiosity that he had displayed since
his return culminating in a desire to behold them? Still avoiding a
decisive explanation, Bonnaire answered: 'Very well, I will show you;
we will make the round of the tables.'

The first they reached--the one set out before the next house--was
that of the Morfains. Petit-Da presided over it beside his wife,
Honorine Caffiaux, both of them with snowy hair; and with them were
their son Raymond, their daughter-in-law Thérèse Froment, and their
eldest grandson, Maurice Morfain, a tall youth, nineteen years of age
already. Then, on the other side, came Achille Gourier's line, with
his widow, Ma-Bleue, whose large sky-blue eyes retained all their
intensity, though she was now nearly seventy years old. She would soon
be a great-grandmother, through her daughter Léonie, married to Séverin
Bonnaire, and her grandson, Félicien, born of that marriage, and lately
wedded to Hélène, the daughter of Pauline Froment and André Jollivet.
All were present, even both of the last named, who had come with their
daughter. And some of them were making merry with Hélène, suggesting
that if her firstborn should be a son he ought to be called Grégoire.
Meantime her sister Berthe, though she was scarcely fifteen, already
laughed at the soft things said to her by her cousin Raymond, thus
offering promise of another love-match in the future.

The arrival of Bonnaire was hailed with joyous acclamations. Ragu,
who was losing himself more and more amidst the tangle of matrimonial
alliances, particularly desired that the two Froments seated at this
table should be pointed out to him. They were two of Luc's daughters,
Thérèse and Pauline, both well on the road to their fortieth year,
but still displaying a bright and healthy beauty. Then, as the sight
of Ma-Bleue reminded Ragu of old Mayor Gourier and Sub-Prefect
Châtelard, he wished to know how they had ended. Bonnaire told him
that they had passed away, one a few days later than the other, after
spending their last years in close intimacy, linked together by the
loss of the beautiful Léonore. Gourier, the first to depart, had with
difficulty accustomed himself to the new state of things. He had often
raised his arms to heaven in astonishment at being an employer of
labour no longer; and he had been wont to talk of the past with all
the melancholy of an aged man, who, although he would willingly have
devoured the priests in former days, had actually begun to regret
the ceremonies of the Catholic Church, the First Communions and
processions, the incense and the pealing bells. Châtelard, on the other
hand, had gallantly fallen asleep in the skin of an Anarchist, for
such he had gradually become in the midst of his diplomatic reserve,
accomplishing his destiny such as he had wished it to be--living happy
and forgotten in the midst of that Beauclair which was now rebuilt
and triumphant--and at last disappearing in silence with the _régime_
whose funeral procession he had so complacently followed, he himself
swallowed up, as it were, in the collapse of the last ministry.

But there was a finer, a more noble, death to be mentioned, the death
of Judge Gaume, which was recalled by the presence at that table of his
grandson André and his great-granddaughters Hélène and Berthe. Alone
with his grandson, Gaume had lived to the age of ninety-two in all
the desolation of his spoilt and dolorous life. On the day, however,
when the law courts and the prison were closed, he had felt himself
in a measure delivered from the haunting torture of his career as a
judge. A man judging men, consenting to play the part of infallible
truth, absolute justice, in spite of all the possible infirmities of
his mind and his heart, the thought of it made Gaume shudder, filled
him with excessive scruples, dreadful remorse, terror lest he should
indeed have been a bad judge. However, the justice which he had
long awaited, which he had feared he might never see, had dawned at
last--not the justice of an iniquitous social system, reigning with the
sword, with which it defends a small minority of despoilers, and with
which it strikes the great multitude of wretched slaves, but justice as
between free man and free man--justice allotting to each his share of
legitimate happiness, and bringing in its train truth and brotherliness
and peace.

On the morning of the day he died Gauine sent for an old poacher
whom he had formerly condemned to a heavy punishment for killing a
gendarme who had dealt him a sabre stroke, and he publicly expressed
his contrition, and cried aloud all the doubts which had poisoned his
career. He proclaimed all the crimes of the Code, all the errors and
falsehoods of the Statutes, those weapons of social oppression and
hatred, those corrupt foundations of the social system whence spring
perfect epidemics of theft and murder.

'And so,' Ragu resumed, 'those young folk seated at that table, that
Félicien and his wife Hélène, at whose house we called this morning,
are at once the grandchildren of the Froments, the Morfains, the
Jollivets, and the Gaumes? But doesn't the blood of such enemies poison
those in whose veins it now flows?'

'No, indeed,' Bonnaire quietly replied, 'that commingling of blood
has brought reconciliation, and the race has acquired more beauty and
strength from it.'

Fresh bitterness awaited Ragu at the next table--that of Bourron, his
old chum, the boon companion of his days of sloth and drunkenness,
whom he had ruled and led astray so easily. The idea of it! Bourron
happy, Bourron saved, when he himself remained in his hell! In spite
of his many years Bourron did indeed look quite triumphant as he sat
there beside his wife Babette, she who had ever remained cheerful,
whose unchangeable hopes and optimism had found fulfilment without even
moving her to astonishment. Was it not natural? One was happy because
one always ends by being happy.

And around the Bourrons there had been no limit to the swarming of
offspring. There was first their eldest daughter, Marthe, who had
married Auguste Laboque and had given birth to Adolphe, who in his
turn had married Germaine, the daughter of Zoé Bonnaire and Nicholas
Yvonnot. There was next their son Sébastien, who had married Agathe
Fauchard, and had begotten Clémentine, who on her side had married
Alexandre Feuillat, the son of Léon Feuillat and of Eugénie Yvonnot.
The fourth generation proceeding from those two branches of Bourron's
family was already represented by two little girls, Simonne Laboque
and Amélie Feuillat, each of them in their fifth year. And by virtue
of the kinship established by marriage the party further included
Louis Fauchard, married to Julienne Dacheux, who had given him a
daughter, Laure; and Évariste Mitaine, married to Olympe Lenfant, by
whom he had had a son Hippolyte. Then there was the aforesaid Hippolyte
himself, now the husband of Laure Fauchard, and the father of a lad
in his eighth year, named François, in such wise that the fourth
generation was sprouting vigorously on this side also. Throughout
festive Beauclair one could not have found a larger table than that
where intermingled the descendants of the Bourrons, the Laboques, the
Bonnaires, the Yvonnots, the Fauchards, the Feuillats, the Dacheux, the
Lenfants, and the Mitaines.

Bonnaire, who here again found one of his own children, Zoé, gave
Ragu some particulars respecting those whom death had carried off.
Old Fauchard and his wife Natalie--he always in a state of stupor and
she always complaining--had gone off without understanding the great
changes which were taking place. Feuillat, on his side, had beheld
the triumph of his work, that vast estate of Les Combettes, ere he
departed. Lenfant and Yvonnot had lately followed him to their graves,
in that earth which was now loved with intelligence and fertilised with
virile power. And after the Dacheux, the Caffiaux and the Laboques,
those relics of the vanished trading system, the beautiful bakeress,
the good Madame Mitaine, had passed away full of years, kindliness, and
beauty.

But Ragu was no longer listening--he could not take his eyes from
Bourron. 'He looks quite young,' he muttered, 'and his Babette still
has her pretty laugh.'

He recalled the sprees of other days, Bourron and he lingering late in
Caffiaux's den, railing against the masters, and at last staggering
home, dead drunk. And he recalled his own long life of wretchedness,
the fifty years that he had squandered in rolling from workshop to
workshop through the world. To-day the experiment had been made and
made successfully. Work, reorganised and regenerated, had saved his
old chum when he was already half lost, whereas he, Ragu, had come back
annihilated by the old labour system, full of misery and suffering,
that iniquitous wage-system, which poisoned and destroyed.

All at once there came a charming incident which brought Ragu's anguish
to a climax. Simonne Laboque, the daughter of Adolphe and Germaine, a
fair-haired little maid about five years old, took some rose petals,
scattered over the table, in her chubby little hands, and smilingly
poured them over her great-grandfather's white head.

'There! grandpa Bourron, there you are, and there's some more! They're
to make you a crown. Oh! you've some in your hair, and in your ears,
and on your nose too. You've some everywhere! And _bonne fête, bonne
fête_, grandpa Bourron!'

The whole table laughed, applauded, and acclaimed the old man. But Ragu
fled, dragging Bonnaire with him. He was trembling, he could scarcely
remain erect. When they had got a little distance away, however, he
suddenly said to Bonnaire in a husky voice: 'Listen, what's the use of
keeping it back any longer? I only came to see _them_. Where are they?
Show them me!'

He was speaking of Luc and Josine; and, as Bonnaire, who had fully
understood it, delayed replying, he continued: 'You have been taking
me about ever since this morning and I have seemed to be interested in
everything, yet I can only think of them. It was the thought of them
indeed that brought me back here amidst so much fatigue and suffering.
I heard while I was far away that I hadn't killed him. They are both
still alive, are they not? They have had several children--they are
happy, triumphant, is that not so?'

Bonnaire was reflecting. For fear of a scandal he had hitherto delayed
the inevitable meeting. But had not his tactics succeeded? Had not
a kind of holy awe come over Ragu in presence of the grandeur of
the accomplished work? Bonnaire could tell that his companion was
quivering, distracted, too nerveless to think of committing another
crime. And so, with his air of serene good nature, he finished by
replying, 'You want to see them, my good fellow; well, I will show them
to you. And it's quite true, you will see happy folk.'

Luc's table came immediately after that of Bourron. He sat on one side
of it, in the centre, with Josine on his right, whilst on his left
hand were Sœurette and Jordan. Suzanne also was present, seated in
front of Luc; and near her Nanet and Nise had taken their places. They
in their turn would soon be great-grandparents, but their eyes still
laughed under their fair hair, which had now become somewhat paler
in hue, as in the distant days when they had looked like two little
toys--two little curly lambs. All around the table sat the younger
members of Luc's family. There was Hilaire, his eldest son, who had
married Colette, the daughter of Nanette and Nise, and had become the
father of Mariette, now nearly fifteen years of age. In like manner
from Paul Boisgelin and Antoinette Bonnaire had sprung Ludovic, who
would soon be twenty; and there was a promise of marriage between
Ludovic and Mariette, who dined side by side, spending much of their
time in whispering together, having little secrets of their own to
communicate. Then came Jules, the last of the Froments, who had married
Céline, the daughter of Arsène Lenfant and Eulalie Laboque; this pair
having a boy of six named Richard, a child of angelic beauty, the
particular favourite of his grandfather Luc. And afterwards followed
all the kinsfolk; this being the table where the blood of old-time
enemies was most closely blended, that of the Froments, the Boisgelins,
and the Delaveaus mingling with that of the Bonnaires, the Laboques,
and the Lenfants, the artisans, traders, and tillers of the soil; in
such wise that the whole social communion whence the new city, the
Beauclair of justice and peace, had sprung, was represented here.

At the moment when Ragu drew near to the table, a last ray of the
setting sun enveloped it as with a glory, and the clumps of roses, the
silver plate, the light silk gowns and the diamond-spangled hair of the
women coruscated amidst the splendour. But the most charming incident
that attended the orb's farewell was another flight of the birds of the
vicinity, who yet once again flew around the diners before retiring to
rest among the branches. There came such coveys and such a flapping of
little wings that the table was covered as with a snow of warm living
down. Friendly hands took hold of the birds, caressed them, and then
let them go. And the confidence thus displayed by the robins and the
finches was fraught with adorable sweetness. In that calm evening
atmosphere it seemed like a sign that an alliance was henceforth formed
between all creatures, that universal peace reigned at last between men
and animals and things.

'Oh, Grandpa Luc!' cried little Richard, 'just look, there is a
blackcap drinking water out of Grandma Josine's glass!'

It was true; and Luc, the founder of the city, felt both amused and
touched by it. The water came from those fresh and pure springs which
he had captured among the rocks of the Bleuse Mountains, and which
had given birth to the whole town of gardens and avenues and plashing
fountains. When the bird had flown away Luc took up the glass, and
raised it amidst the purple glow of the sunset, saying: 'Josine! we
must drink--we must drink to the health of our happy city!'

And when Josine, who all her life had remained an _amorosa_, a creature
of tender heart beneath her white hair, had laughingly moistened her
lips with the water, Luc in his turn drank of it and resumed, 'To the
health of our city, whose _fête_ it is to-day! May it ever increase and
spread, may it grow in liberty, prosperity, and beauty, and may it win
the whole world over to the work of universal harmony!'

In the last sunray, which set an aureola round his head, he looked
superb--still young even, overflowing with triumphant faith and joy.
Without pride or emphasis he simply expressed the delight he felt at
seeing his work so full of life and strength. He was the founder,
the creator, the father; and all those joyous people, all who sat at
those tables celebrating work and the fruitfulness of summer, were his
people, his friends, his kinsfolk, his ever-spreading, brotherly, and
prosperous family. An acclamation greeted the ardently loving wishes
which he offered up for his city, ascending into the evening air, and
rolling from table to table even to the most distant avenues. One and
all had risen to their feet, in their turn holding their glasses aloft
and drinking the health of Luc and Josine, the heroes, the patriarchs
of work; she, the redeemed one, glorified as spouse and as mother, and
he the saviour, who, to save her, had saved the whole wretched world of
the wage-earners from iniquity and suffering. And it was a moment full
of exaltation and magnificence, testifying to the passionate gratitude
of the vast throng for all the active faith which had been shown, and
proclaiming the community's final entry into the reign of glory and
love.

Ragu turned ghastly pale and trembled in all his limbs as that gust of
triumph swept by. He could not endure the sight of Luc and Josine, so
radiant with beauty and kindliness. He recoiled and staggered, and was
on the point of fleeing when Luc, who had noticed him, turned towards
Bonnaire.

'Ah! my friend, you were lacking to make my joy complete,' said he.
'You have ever been like my other self, the bravest, sturdiest, most
sensible artisan of our work, and people must not praise me without
praising you also. But who is that old man that I see with you?'

'He is a stranger.'

'A stranger! Let him approach then. Let him break with us the bread of
our harvests, and drink the water of our springs. Our city is a city
of welcome and peace for all men. Make room, Josine! And you, friend,
whom we do not know, come, seat yourself between my wife and me, for
we should like to honour in you all our unknown brothers of the other
cities of the world.'

But Ragu, as if seized with holy horror, retreated yet farther away.

'No, no, I cannot.'

'Why not?' Luc gently asked. 'If you come from afar, if you are weary,
you will here find helping and comforting hands. We ask you neither
your name nor your past. Here all is forgiven; brotherliness reigns
alone, in order that the happiness of all may produce the happiness
of each. And you, dear wife, repeat all that to him--the words will
come gently and convincingly from your lips, for it seems as if I only
frighten him.'

Thereupon Josine herself spoke: 'Here! my friend,' said she, 'here is
our glass, why should you not drink our health and your own? You come
from afar, and you are a brother, in you we shall have the pleasure of
still enlarging our family. It is a custom at Beauclair now, on days of
festival, to exchange a kiss of peace which effaces everything. Take
this glass and drink, for the love of all!'

But Ragu again recoiled, paler and trembling more violently than
before, stricken with terror indeed as at some idea of sacrilege: 'No,
no, I cannot!'

Did Luc and Josine at that moment suspect the truth, did they recognise
the wretched man who had returned merely to experience fresh suffering
after so long dragging about with him his destiny of sloth and
corruption? As they looked at him an expression of deep sadness came
into their eyes which had beamed so kindly. And by way of conclusion
Luc simply said: 'Go then, since you desire it, since you cannot
belong to our family, at the hour when it is drawing yet more closely
together, pressing around on all sides, hand in hand. Look! it is
mingling, tables are joining tables, and soon there will be but one
board for the whole of our city of brothers!'

This was true; the people were gathering together in neighbourly
fashion--each table seemed to set out on the march towards the next
one, in such wise that they all met and joined, as invariably happened
at the close of that repast in honour of the festival of Summer. And
it was all quite natural, the children at first served as messengers,
going from table to table, for there was a tendency among the scattered
members of particular families to gather together and seat themselves
side by side. How could Séverin Bonnaire, who sat at the table of the
Morfains, Zoé Bonnaire, who sat at that of the Bourrons, and Antoinette
Bonnaire, who sat at that of Luc, help feeling drawn towards the
paternal table, where their elder brother Lucien had his place? And was
it not natural that the Froments, scattered like the seed corn which
one casts into different furrows--Charles being among the Bonnaires,
Thérèse and Pauline among the Morfains--should desire to join their
father, the founder and creator of the city? Thus one beheld the
tables marching and uniting together in such wise that not a break
soon remained along the avenues, before the doors of the gay houses.
The paschal feast of that brotherly people was about to continue under
the stars, in a vast communion, all being seated elbow to elbow, at
the same board, among the same scattered rose petals. The whole city
thus became a gigantic banqueting-hall, the families were blended into
one, the same spirit animated every breast, and the same love made
every heart beat. Meantime from the far-spreading pure heavens fell a
delightful, sovereign peace, the harmony of spheres and men.

Bonnaire had not intervened, but he had kept his eyes on Ragu, watching
for the change that he expected after that day of surprises which, one
by one, had shaken the wanderer until at last he was terrified and
transported by that final blaze of glory. At last realising that he
was sorely stricken, and tottering, Bonnaire gave him his hand. 'Come,
let us walk a little,' he said, 'the evening air is so mild. And tell
me, do you now believe in our happiness? Surely you must now see that
one may work and at the same time be happy. Indeed, joy and health
and perfect life are to be found in work. To work is to live. And only
a religion of suffering and death could have made work a curse, and
eternal sloth the happiness of heaven! Work is not our master, it is
the breath of our lungs, the blood of our veins, the one sole reason
why we love and create and form immortal humanity!

But Ragu, as if exhausted by fatigue, weary unto death amidst his
defeat, ceased arguing: 'Oh, leave me, leave me,' said he. 'I am only
a coward, a child would have had more courage, and I hold myself in
contempt.' Then in a whisper he went on: 'I came to kill them both.
Ah! that never-ending journey, the roads that followed the roads,
the years of roaming through unknown lands with one rageful thought
in my heart--that of returning to Beauclair, of finding that man and
that woman once more, and of planting in their flesh the knife I had
used so clumsily! But you met me, amused me, and just now I trembled
before them, and retreated like a coward, when I saw them looking so
beautiful, so great, so radiant!'

Bonnaire shuddered on hearing that confession. Already on the previous
night he had apprehended a crime. But now, at the sight of the woeful
wretch's collapse, he felt stirred by pity. 'Come, come, you unhappy
being,' he exclaimed, 'come and sleep again to-night at my house.
To-morrow we'll see----'

'Sleep again at your house! Oh! no, no! I'm going, I'm going at once!'

'But you cannot start off at this hour--you are too tired, too weak.
Why won't you stay with us? You will become calmer, you will know our
happiness.'

'No, no! I must start at once, at once. The potter said the truth, I'm
not of the sort to make one of you.' And like some damned and tortured
wretch full of suppressed wrath Ragu added: 'Your happiness--why, I
can't bear the sight of it! It would make me suffer too much!'

Bonnaire then ceased to insist; secret horror and uneasiness had come
over him also. In silence he led Ragu to his house again, and the
other, unwilling even to wait till the end of the meal, took up his
wallet and his staff. Not a word was exchanged between them, not even a
gesture of farewell. Bonnaire watched the miserable old man go off with
tottering steps, and vanish at last, far away in the night, which was
gradually falling.

It was impossible, however, for Ragu to lose sight of festive Beauclair
in a moment. He slowly went up the Brias gorge, and at each step
climbed higher and higher among the rocks of the Bleuse Mountains.
Before long he was above the town, the whole of which on turning round
he once more beheld. The sky, of a dark yet pure blue, was glittering
with stars. And, beneath the sweetness of the lovely June night, the
town spread out like another stretch of sky, swarming, as it were, with
innumerable little planets--the thousands and thousands of electric
lamps which had just been lighted on the banquet tables and amidst
the greenery. Once more then Ragu beheld those tables, outlined, so
to say, with fire, and thus emerging victoriously from the darkness.
They spread along without end till they filled the whole space below
him. And he could hear laughter and singing arising, and still and ever
behold that giant festival of a whole people, gathered together at
table in one sole brotherly family.

Then he once more sought to flee the sight, and ascended still higher;
but when he next turned round, he again saw the city glowing yet more
brightly than before. He went higher still, he ever and ever climbed
upward, but at each further ascent, each time that he turned round
the city seemed to have grown, till at last it spread over the entire
plain, becoming like the very heavens with its infinite expanse of
sombre blue and glittering stars. The sounds of laughter and of song
reached him more and more distinctly; it was as if the whole great
human family were celebrating the joy of work, upon the fruitful earth.
Then, for the last time, he again set out, and walked for hours and for
hours until he became lost in the darkness.



V


Yet other years rolled by, and death, necessary death, the good
helpmate of eternal life, performed his work, carrying off one by one
those who had accomplished their tasks. Bourron was the first to go,
followed by his wife Babette, who retained her good humour to the last.
Then came the turn of Petit-Da and that of Ma-Bleue, whose blue eyes
partook of the infinite of the blue heavens. Lange died too, whilst
putting the finishing touch to a last little figure, a delightful
barefooted girl, the very image of the Barefeet he had loved. Then
Nanet and Nise went off, exchanging a last kiss, whilst still young;
and finally Bonnaire succumbed like a hero amidst the stir of work one
day when he had repaired to the factory to see a new giant hammer,
whose every stroke forged a great piece of metal-work.

Of all their generation, of all the founders and creators of triumphant
Beauclair, Luc and Jordan alone remained, loved and surrounded with the
affectionate attentions of Josine, Sœurette, and Suzanne. It seemed
as if the three women, whose health and courage in their old age were
marvellous, lived on simply to be the helpmates and nurses of the men.
Since Luc had scarcely been able to walk, his legs gradually failing
him till he was almost fastened to his arm-chair, Suzanne had come to
reside in his house, lovingly sharing with Josine the glory of waiting
upon him. He was more than eighty now, of unchangeable gaiety and in
full possession of his intelligence--quite young indeed, as he said
with a laugh, had it not been for those wretched legs of his which
were becoming like lead. And in the same way Sœurette did not quit her
brother Jordan, who now never left his laboratory, but worked there in
the day-time and slept there at night. He was Luc's elder by ten years,
and had retained at ninety the slow and methodical activity to which he
was indebted for the accomplishment of such a vast amount of work--ever
seemingly on the point of expiring, but introducing such logic and such
well-reasoned determination into his labour, that he was still working
when the sturdiest toilers of his generation had long been sleeping in
the grave.

He had often said in his weak little voice: 'People die because they're
willing; one doesn't die when one still has something to do. My health
is very bad, but all the same I shall live to a good old age, I shall
only die on the day when my work is finished. You'll see, you'll see!
I shall know when the time has come, and I will warn you, my good
friends, saying: "Good-night, my day's over, I'm going to sleep now."'

Thus Jordan still worked because in his estimation his work was not yet
finished. He lived on, wrapped in rugs; his drinks were warmed in order
that he might not catch cold, and he took long rests on a couch between
the brief hours which he was able to devote to his researches. Two or
three such hours sufficed him, however, for the accomplishment of a
considerable amount of work, in such a methodical manner did he exert
himself. Sœurette, all attention and abnegation, was like his second
self, at once a nurse, a secretary, and a preparator, allowing nobody
to approach and disturb him. On the days, moreover, when his hands were
too weak for any exertion, it was she who carried out his thoughts for
him, becoming as it were a prolongation of his own life.

To Jordan's thinking his work would only be completed when the new
city's supply of beneficent electricity should be as unlimited as the
inexhaustible water of the rivers, or the air which one can breathe
in all freedom. During the past sixty years he had accomplished a
great deal of work tending to that solution. He had diminished the
cost of electricity by burning coals when they quitted the pit, and
then despatching the electric force he obtained by cable to numerous
factories. And after long researches he had devised a new appliance by
which he even transformed the calorical energy contained in coal into
electrical energy, without mechanical energy having to be employed.
He had in this manner done away with boilers, which meant a saving of
more than fifty per cent, in the cost price. The dynamos being charged
direct, by the simple combustion of the coal, he had been able to work
his electrical furnaces cheaply and well, revolutionise metallurgy, and
provide the town with an abundance of electricity for all social and
domestic purposes. Nevertheless, in his opinion it still remained too
costly; he wished to have it for nothing, like the passing breeze which
is at the disposal of all. Besides, a fear had come to him, born of
the possibility--in fact, the certainty--that the coal mines would in
time become exhausted. Before another century perhaps coal would fail
one; and would not that mean the death of the world, the cessation of
all industry, the suppression of the chief means of locomotion--mankind
reduced to immobility, a prey to the cold, like some big body whose
blood has ceased to circulate? It was with growing anxiety that Jordan
saw each ton of coals burnt; that made a ton the less, he often said.
And although he was so puny, feverish, racked by coughing, already with
one foot in the grave, he incessantly tortured his mind in thinking of
the catastrophe which threatened the future generations. He vowed that
he would not die until he should have presented those generations with
a flood of power, a flood of endless life, which would prove the source
of their civilisation and their happiness. Thus he had set to work
again, and for more than ten years already he had been working on the
problem.

In the first instance Jordan had naturally thought of the waterfalls.
They constituted a primitive mechanical force which had been employed
successfully in mountain regions in spite of the capriciousness
of the torrents, and the interruptions which dry seasons brought
about. Unfortunately, the few watercourses still to be found in the
Bleuse Mountains--apart from the springs utilised for the town's
water-supply--did not possess the necessary energy. And, besides, no
mountain spring would ever yield such a constant, regular, and abundant
motive power as was necessary for his great design. Jordan therefore
thought of the tides, the continual flux and reflux of the ocean, whose
power, ever on the march, beats against the coasts of the continents.
Scientists had already given attention to the tides, and he turned to
their researches and even devised some experimental appliances. The
distance of Beauclair from the sea was not an obstacle, for electrical
force could already be transmitted without loss over considerable
distances. But another idea haunted him, and gradually took complete
possession of him, throwing him into a prodigious dream, full of the
thought that if he could bring it to fulfilment he would give happiness
to the whole world.

Puny and chilly as he was, Jordan had always evinced a passion for the
sun. He often watched it pursuing its course. With a quivering fear of
the spreading darkness he saw it set at evening, and at times he rose
early in the morning in order that he might have the joy of seeing
it appear again. If it should be drowned in the sea; if it should
some day never reappear, what endless, icy, deadly night would fall
upon mankind! Thus Jordan almost worshipped the sun, regarding it as
something divine, the father of our world, the creator and regulator,
which after drawing beings from the clay, had warmed them, helped them
to develop and spread, and nourished them with the fruits of the earth,
throughout an incalculable number of centuries. The sun was the eternal
source of life since it was the source of light, heat, and motion. It
reigned in its glory like a very powerful, very good, and very just
king, a necessary god, without whom there would be nothing, and whose
disappearance would bring about the death of all things. This being
so, Jordan asked himself why should not the sun continue and complete
his work? During thousands of years it had stored its beneficent heat
away in the trees of which coal was made. During thousands of years
the earth had preserved in its bosom that immense reserve stock of
heat, which had come to us like a priceless gift at the hour when our
civilisation needed new splendour. And it was to the all-helping sun
that one must again apply, it was the sun which would continue giving
to that which it had created, the world and man, increase of life, and
truth, and justice, all the happiness indeed of which one had dreamt
so long. Since the sun vanished each evening, since it disappeared
at winter-time, one must ask it to leave us a plentiful share of its
blaze, in order that one might without suffering await its return at
dawn, and take patience during the cold seasons. The problem was at
once a simple and a formidable one; it was necessary to address oneself
direct to the sun, capture some of the solar heat, and by special
appliances transform it into electricity, of which immense quantities
must be stored in air-tight reservoirs. In this fashion one would
always have an unlimited source of power, of which one might dispose as
one pleased. The rays would be harvested during the scorching days of
summer, and stored away in endless granaries. And when the nights grew
long, when winter arrived with its darkness and its ice, there would
be light and warmth and motion for all mankind. That electrical power,
ravished from the all-creating sun and domesticated by man, would then
at last prove his docile and ever-ready servant, relieving him of much
exertion, and helping him to make of work not only gaiety and health,
and just apportionment of wealth, but the very law and cult of life.

The dream which possessed Jordan had already occupied other minds.
Scientists had succeeded in devising little appliances which
captured solar heat and transformed it into electricity, but in
infinitesimal quantities, the instruments being suited merely for
laboratory experiments. It was necessary to be able to operate on a
large scale, and in a thoroughly practical manner, in order to fill
the huge reservoirs which would be needed for the requirements of a
whole nation. For years, then, Jordan was seen superintending the
building--in the old park of La Crêcherie--of some strange appliances,
species of towers, whose purpose could not be divined. For a long
while he would not speak out, but kept the secret of his researches
from everybody. In fine weather, during the hours when he felt strong
enough, he repaired with the short, slow step of a weak old man to
the new works which he had set up, and shut himself up inside them
with some chosen men. And in spite of repeated failures he clung to
his task, wrestled with it, and ended by overcoming the sovereign
planet--he, the little hard-working ant, whom too hot a sunray would
have killed. Never was there greater heroism, never did the pursuit
of an idea afford the spectacle of a loftier victory over the natural
forces--forces which yesterday had been deadly thunderbolts for man,
and which to-day were conquered, subjected to his service. He succeeded
in solving the problem, the great and glorious sun parted with some
little of that inexhaustible glow with which, never cooling, it has
warmed the earth through so many centuries. After some final trials new
works were definitively planned and erected, and supplied Beauclair
throughout a whole year with as much electricity as its inhabitants
required, even as the springs of the mountains supplied them with
water. Nevertheless, an annoying defect was observed: the loss from the
reservoirs remained very large, and some last improvements had to be
devised, a means of storing without fear of diminution the necessary
winter reserve of power, in such wise that another sun, as it were,
might be lighted above the town throughout the long cold nights of
December.

Again did Jordan set to work. He sought, he struggled still, resolved
upon keeping alive until his task should be completed. His strength
declined, he was at last unable to go out, and had to rest content with
sending his orders to the works respecting the final, long-debated
ameliorations. In this fashion several months went by. Shut up in his
laboratory he there perfected his work, resolved to die there on the
day when this work should be ended. And that day arrived: he found a
means of preventing all loss, of rendering his reservoirs absolutely
impermeable, capable of holding their store of electric force for a
long period. And then he had but one desire--to bid farewell to his
work, embrace his friends, and return again into universal life.

The month of October had come, and the sun was still gilding the last
leaves with warm, clear gold. Jordan requested Sœurette to have him
carried in an arm-chair, for the last time, to the works where the new
reservoirs had been installed. He wished to gaze upon his creation, to
make sure that enough sunshine was stored away to enable Beauclair to
wait for the return of spring. And so one delightful afternoon he was
taken to the works, and spent two hours in them, inspecting everything
and regulating the action of the appliances. The works were built at
the very foot of the Bleuse Mountains, in a part of the old park which
looked towards the south, and which had formerly been an overflowing
paradise of fruit and flowers. There were towers rising above large
buildings with long roofs of steel and glass, but nothing connected
with the work could be seen from the outside, for all the conducting
cables passed underground.

At last, by way of finishing his visit, Jordan bade his bearers halt
for a moment in the central courtyard, where he gave a long supreme
glance around him at that nucleus of a new world, endowed with the
source of eternal life, his creation, the passion of his whole life.
And finally he turned towards Sœurette, who, never quitting him, had
followed his arm-chair step by step. 'Well,' said he with a smile,
'it's finished, and it seems quite satisfactory; so now I can go off.
Let us return to the house, sister.'

He was very gay, radiant like a toiler who thinks that he will at
last be able to rest since his work is done. However, his sister,
hoping that he might benefit by the sunshine, told the men carrying
the arm-chair not to hurry, but to go back to the house by a somewhat
roundabout way. And thus it happened that on emerging from one of the
paths Jordan suddenly found himself in front of the pavilion where Luc
still dwelt, reduced like his friend to immobility, since he had lost
the use of his legs. For some months now the two friends had not seen
one another. They could only correspond, obtain news of each other
through their dear nurses, their guardian angels, who were ever coming
and going between them. And a final desire, the last desire of his
heart, suddenly upbuoyed the sinking Jordan.

'Oh! sister, I beg you,' said he, 'let them stop and place my chair
yonder, under that tree, at the edge of the tall grass. And go up to
Luc at once and tell him that I am here, at his door, waiting for him.'

Sœurette hesitated for a moment, feeling somewhat anxious at the
thought of all the emotion which such an interview would bring with it.
'But Luc is like yourself, my friend,' she said, 'he cannot stir. How
would you have him come downstairs?'

The gay smile which revived the brilliancy of Jordan's eyes, again
appeared upon his face.

'My bearers will carry him down, sister,' he replied. 'Since I have
come so far in my arm-chair he can surely come here in his.' And he
added tenderly: 'It is so pleasant here, we can have a last chat
together, and bid one another goodbye. How can we part for ever without
embracing?'

It was impossible for Sœurette to refuse his request any longer, so
she went into the pavilion for Luc. Jordan waited quietly amidst the
caress of the declining sun; and his sister soon returned, announcing
that his friend was coming. Deep was the emotion when Luc appeared,
likewise carried by the men in his arm-chair. He was brought towards
the greenery, followed by Josine and Suzanne, who did not leave him.
At last the bearers deposited him near Jordan, the chairs touching one
another, and the two friends were then able to press each other's hands.

'Ah! my good Jordan, how much I thank you,' said Luc; 'how kind of you
to have thought of bringing us together in order that we might see one
another again and bid one another a last good-bye!'

'You would have done the same, my dear Luc,' Jordan answered. 'As I was
passing and you were there it was natural that we should meet for the
last time on this grass, under one of our dear trees, whose shade we
have loved so well.'

The tree under which they sat was a big silvery lime-tree, a superb
giant that had already shed its leaves. But the sunshine still gilded
it delightfully, and the golden dust of the planet fell in a warm rain
athwart its branches. The evening too was exquisite, an evening of
intense peacefulness, fraught with the sweetest charm. A broad sun ray
enveloped the two old men as with a loving splendour, whilst the three
women, standing in the rear, watched over them with solicitude.

'Just think of it, my friend!' Jordan resumed. 'For so many years
past whilst we have been pursuing parallel tasks, our lives have been
mingled. I should have gone off full of remorse if I had not again
excused myself for having placed such little faith in your work when
you first came to me and asked my help to build the future city of
Justice. I was at that time convinced that you would encounter defeat.'

Luc began to laugh: 'Yes, yes, as you said, my friend, political,
economical, and social struggles were not your business. No doubt
there has been much futile agitation among men. But was one to abstain
on that account from taking part in what went on, was one to allow
evolution to take place as it listed, and refrain from hastening the
hour of deliverance? All the compromises--often necessary ones--all the
base devices to which the leaders of men have stooped, have had their
excuse in the double march which they have at times helped mankind to
effect.'

Jordan hastily interrupted him: 'You were right, my friend,' said he,
'and you have proved it magnificently. Your battle here has created,
hastened the advent of a new world. Perhaps you have snatched a
hundred years from human wretchedness. At all events this new town of
Beauclair, where more justice and happiness now flower, proclaims the
excellence of your mission, the beneficent glory of your achievement. I
am with you entirely, you see, in mind and in heart, and I do not wish
to quit you without telling you once more how thoroughly you won me
over to your work, and with what growing affection I watched you whilst
you were realising so many great things. You were often an example for
me.'

But Luc protested: 'Oh! do not let us speak of any example of mine,
my friend. It was you who ever gave me one, the loftiest, the most
magnificent! Remember my lassitude, my occasional attacks of weakness,
whereas I always found you erect, endowed with more courage, more and
more faith in your work, even on the days when everything seemed to
be crumbling around you. That which made you invincible was that you
believed solely in work, in which, alone, you set health and the one
reason for living and doing. And your own work became your very heart
and brain, the blood pulsing in your veins, the thought ever on the
alert in the depths of your mind. Your work alone existed for you,
building itself up with all the life that you bestowed on it, hour by
hour. And what an imperishable monument, what a gift of splendour and
happiness you will leave to mankind! I might never have been able to
carry out my own work, as a builder of towns, and leader of men, and at
all events it would as yet be as nothing, had it not been for yours.'

Silence fell, and some birds flew by, whilst through the bare branches
of the lime-tree the autumn sunshine streamed more gently as evening
advanced. Sœurette, in her motherly fashion, became anxious, and drew
Jordan's rug over his knees, whilst Josine and Suzanne bent over Luc,
fearing lest he should tire himself.

But the latter replied to Jordan: 'Science remains the great
revolutionary. You told me so at the outset, and every forward step
in our long lives has shown me how right you were. Would our town of
Beauclair, now all comfort and solidarity, have been possible as yet
if you had not placed at its disposal that electrical power which has
become the necessary agent of all work, all social life? Science,
truth, will alone emancipate man, make him master of his destiny, and
give him sovereignty over the world by reducing the natural forces to
the status of obedient servants. Whilst I was building, my friend, you
gave me what was needed to infuse life into my stones and mortar.'

'It is true, no doubt, that science will free man,' Jordan quietly
replied in his weak little voice, 'for at bottom truth is the one
powerful artisan of fraternity and justice. And I'm going off, feeling
well pleased with myself, for I've just paid my last visit to our
factory, and it is working now as I desired it to work, for the relief
and felicity of all.'

He went on giving explanations and instructions respecting the working
of the new appliances, the employment of those reservoirs of force, as
if indeed he were dictating his last will and testament to his friend.
Electricity already cost nothing, and was so abundant that it might be
given to the inhabitants of Beauclair in whatever measure they desired,
like the streams whose flood was inexhaustible; like the air which came
freely from the four corners of the heavens. And given in this wise
electricity was life.

In every public edifice and private house, even the most modest, light,
heat, and motive power were distributed without counting. It was only
necessary to turn on a few switches and the house was illumined and
warmed, food was cooked, and various trade and household appliances
were set working. All sorts of ingenious little mechanisms were being
invented for household requirements, relieving women of the work which
they had formerly done, substituting mechanical action for manual toil.
In a word, from the housewife to the factory-worker, the ancient human
beast of burden had been altogether relieved of physical exertion and
useless suffering; a subjugated and domesticated natural force now
replacing the old-time toilers and performing all the work allotted
to it, in silence and cleanliness, with merely an attendant to check
its action. And this also meant relief and freedom for the mind, a
moral and intellectual rise for every brain, hitherto weighed down by
excessive work, badly apportioned and fraught with savage iniquity
for the greater number of the disinherited, whom it had plunged in
ignorance, baseness and crime. And it was not slothful idleness that
now reigned in the place of excessive toil, but work into which more
freedom and conscience entered; man really becoming the king of work,
devoting himself to the occupations he preferred, and creating more
truth and beauty according to his tastes, after the few hours of
general work which he gave to the community. And meantime also the
unhappy domestic animals, the sad-looking horses, all the beasts used
for draught, burden, and servitude were freed from the carts they had
been compelled to drag, the millstones they had turned, the loads they
had carried, and were restored to happy life in the fields and the
woods.

But the purposes for which the electric force could be used were
innumerable, and each day brought with it some fresh benefit. Jordan
had invented some lamps of such great power that two or three sufficed
to illumine an avenue. Thus the dream of lighting another sun above
Beauclair at night-time would assuredly be fulfilled. Some huge and
splendid glass houses had also been erected, in which by means of an
improved system of heating, flowers, vegetables, and fruits could be
easily grown at all seasons. The town was full of them, they were
distributed broadcast, and winter, like night, ceased to exist.
Moreover, transport and locomotion were facilitated more and more,
thanks to the free motive power which was applied to an infinity of
vehicles, bicycles, carriages, carts, and trains of several coaches.

'Yes, I am going off feeling well pleased,' Jordan repeated with serene
gaiety. 'I've done my own work, and the general task is sufficiently
well advanced to allow me to fall asleep in all peacefulness. To-morrow
the secret of aerial navigation will be discovered, and man will
conquer the atmosphere even as he conquered the oceans. To-morrow he
will be able to correspond from one to the other end of the earth
without wire or cable. Human speech, human gesture will dart round
the world with the rapidity of lightning. And that indeed, my friend,
is the deliverance of the nations by science, the great invincible
revolutionary, who will ever bring them increase of peace and truth.
You yourself long ago obliterated the frontiers, so to say, by your
rails, your railway lines which have extended further and further,
crossing rivers, transpiercing mountains, gathering the nations
together in a closer and closer network of intercourse. And what will
it be when one capital can chat in friendly fashion with another,
however far away, when the same thought at the same minute occupies
the attention of distant continents, and when the balloon cars travel
freely through the infinite, man's common patrimony, without knowing
aught of customs' tariffs? The air which we all breathe, that space
which is the property of all, will prove a field of harmony, in which
the men of to-morrow will assuredly become reconciled. And this is
why you have always seen me so composed, my friend, so convinced of
final deliverance. Men might do all they could to devour one another,
religions might pile error upon error in order to retain their
domination, but science was taking a step forward every day, creating
more light, more brotherliness, more happiness. And by the irresistible
force of truth it will at last sweep away all the dark and hateful
past, liberate the minds of men, and draw their hearts closer and
closer together under the great and beneficent sun, the father of us
all.'

Jordan was growing tired, and his voice became very faint. Nevertheless
he laughed again as he concluded: 'You see, my friend, I was as much of
a revolutionist as you.'

'I know it,' Luc replied with affectionate gentleness. 'You have
been my master in all things. I shall never be able to thank you
sufficiently for the admirable lesson of energy you gave me by your
superb faith in work.'

The sun was now fast declining, and a light quiver had passed between
the branches of the great lime-tree, whence fell the planet's golden
dust, now of a paler hue. Night approached, and a delightful stillness
spread slowly over the tall herbage. The three women, still standing
there, silent and attentive, full of respect for that supreme
interview, nevertheless became anxious, and gently intervened. However,
as Josine and Sœurette covered Luc, in his turn, with a rug, he said to
them: 'I don't feel cold, the evening is so beautiful.'

But Sœurette turned to glance at the sun, which was about to disappear
from the horizon, and Jordan following her glance, exclaimed: 'Yes,
night is falling. But the sun may go to bed now--it has left some of
its beneficence and power in our granaries. If it now sets the meaning
is that my day is over. I am going to sleep. Good-bye, my friend.'

'Good-bye, my friend,' Luc rejoined; 'I shall soon go to sleep also.'

This was their farewell, full of poignant affection, simple yet
wondrous grandeur. They knew that they would never more see one
another, and they exchanged a last glance and spoke a few last words.

'Good-bye, my friend,' Jordan repeated. 'Do not be sad, death is good
and necessary. One lives again in others, one remains immortal. We have
already given ourselves to others, we have worked for them only, and
we shall be born again in them, and thus enjoy our share of our work.
Goodbye, my friend.'

Then Luc once again repeated: 'Good-bye, my friend, all that will
remain of us will tell how much we loved and hoped. Each is born for
his task, that is the sole reason of life; nature brings a fresh being
into the world each time that she needs another workman. And when his
day's work is over, the workman can lie down, the earth will take him
again for other uses. Good-bye, my friend.'

He leant forward, for he wished to embrace Jordan; but he was unable
to do so until the three affectionate women came to the help of both
of them, sustaining them whilst they exchanged that last embrace. They
laughed at it like children, they were full of gaiety and serenity at
that moment of separation, feeling neither regret nor remorse, since
they had done all their duty, all their work as men. And they had no
fears, no terror of the morrow of death, certain as they were of the
deep quietude in which good workmen slumber. They exchanged a long and
very tender embrace, putting all the strength that remained to them
into that last kiss.

'Good-bye, my dear Jordan.'

'Good-bye, my dear Luc.'

Then they spoke no more. The silence became intense and holy. The sun
disappeared from the great heavens, vanishing behind the vague and
distant horizon. A bird perched on the lime-tree ceased singing, and
delicate shadows stole over the branches, whilst the lofty herbage, and
all the park with its clumps of trees, its paths and its lawns, sank
into the delightful quietude of twilight.

Then, at a sign from Sœurette, the bearers took up Jordan's chair, and
slowly, gently carried him away. Luc had asked that he might be allowed
to remain under the tree a little longer, and as he still sat there he
watched his friend going off along a broad, straight pathway. At one
moment Jordan looked round, and a last glance and a half-stifled laugh
were exchanged. Then all was over, Luc saw the arm-chair disappear,
whilst the park was invaded by the gathering gloom. And Jordan, on
returning to his laboratory, went to bed there; and even as he had said
to Luc--his work being done, his day being ended--he let death take
him, dying on the morrow very peacefully, with a smile upon his lips,
in Sœurette's loving arms.

Luc was destined to live five years longer in that arm-chair of
his which he seldom quitted, and which was placed near a window of
his room whence he could see his city spreading and growing day by
day. A week after Jordan's death Sœurette came to join Josine and
Suzanne, and from that day forward all three women encompassed Luc
with their loving attentions. During the long hours which he spent
gazing upon his happy city he often lived through the past again. He
once more saw his point of departure, the distant night of insomnia
when he had taken up a little book in which the doctrines of Fourier
were set forth. And Fourier's ideas of genius: the honouring, the
utilisation, the acceptance of the human passions as the very forces
of life; the extrication of work from its prison, its ennoblement,
its transformation into something attractive, into a new social code,
liberty and justice being gradually won by pacific means, thanks to a
confederation of capital, work, and brain power--all those ideas of
genius had suddenly illumined Luc's mind and prompted him to action on
the very morrow. It was to Fourier that he was indebted if he had dared
to make that experiment at La Crêcherie. The first common-house with
its school, the first bright clean workshops, the first dwelling-houses
with their white walls smiling amidst the greenery, had all sprung
from Fourierist ideas, ideas which had been left slumbering like
good grain in winter fields, ever ready to germinate and flower.
Even like Catholicism, the Religion of Humanity might need centuries
to be firmly established. But what an evolution afterwards, what a
continuous broadening of principles as love grew and the city spread!
By proposing combination between capital, work, and brain power as an
immediate experiment, Fourier, the evolutionist, a man of method and
practicability, virtually led one first to the social organisation of
the Collectivists, and afterwards even to the Libertarian dream of the
Anarchists. In that association capital gradually became annihilated,
and work and intelligence became the only regulators and basis of the
new social compact. At the end lay the disappearance of ordinary
trade, and the suppression of money, the first a cumbersome cogwheel
levying toll and consuming energy, the second a fictitious value, which
became useless in a community in which all contributed to produce
prodigious wealth, that circulated in continual exchanges. And thus,
starting with Fourier's experiment, the new city was fated to transform
itself at each fresh advance, marching on to more and more liberty and
equity, and conquering on its way all the socialists of the various
hostile sects, the Collectivists and even the Anarchists, and finally
grouping them in a brotherly people, reconciled amidst the fulfilment
of their common ideal, the kingdom of heaven set at last upon the earth.

And that was the admirable spectacle which Luc ever had before his
eyes, a spectacle summed up in that city of happiness whose bright
roofs spread out among the trees before his window. The march which
the first generation, imbued with all the ancient errors, spoilt
by iniquitous surroundings, had begun so painfully, amidst so many
obstacles and so much hatred, was pursued with a joyous easy step
by the ensuing generations which the new schools and workshops had
created. They were attaining to heights which had once been declared
inaccessible. Thanks to continuous change, the children and the
children's children seemed to have hearts and brains different from
those of their forerunners, and brotherliness became easy to them in a
community in which the happiness of each was virtually compounded of
the happiness of all.

With trade, theft had disappeared. With money, all criminal cupidity
had vanished. Inheritance no longer existed, and so no more privileged
idlers were born, and men no longer butchered each other to benefit
by somebody's will. What was the use of hating one another, of being
envious of one another, of seeking to acquire somebody's property
by ruse or force, when the public fortune belonged to one and all,
each being born, living and dying, in as good circumstances as his
neighbour? Crime became senseless, idiotic, and the whole savage
apparatus of repression and chastisement, instituted to protect
the thefts of a few rich beings from the rebellion of the wretched
multitude, had fallen to pieces like something useless, gendarmes
and law courts and prisons alike being swept away. Living among that
people who knew not the horrors of war, who obeyed the one law of work,
with a solidarity simply based upon reason and individual interest,
properly understood, a people, too, saved from the monstrous falsehoods
of religion, well informed, knowing the truth and bent on justice,
one realised how possible became the alleged 'utopia' of universal
happiness. Since the passions, instead of being combated and stifled,
had been cultivated like the very forces of life, they had lost all
criminal bitterness, and had become social virtues, a continuous
flowering of individual energies. Legitimate happiness lay in the
development and education of the five senses and the sense of love. The
long efforts of mankind ended in the free expansion of the individual,
and in a social system satisfying every need, man being man in his
entirety, and living life in its entirety also. And the happy city had
thus secured realisation in the practice of the religion of life, the
religion of humanity freed from dogmas, finding in itself its _raison
d'être_, its end, its joy, and its glory.

But Luc particularly beheld the triumph of Work, the saviour, creator,
regulator of the world. He had at the very outset desired to destroy
the iniquitous wage-system, and had dreamt of a new compact which would
allow of a just apportionment of wealth. But what a deal of ground it
had been necessary to traverse! In this respect again the evolution
had started from Fourier, for to him could be traced the association
of workers, the varied, attractive, limited labour of the workshops,
the groups of workers forming successive series, parting to meet again
and mingling with all the constant play of free organs--the play of
life itself. The germs of the Libertarian Commune may be found in
Fourier, for if he repudiated brutal revolution, and began by making
use of the existing mechanism of society, his doctrines tended in
their result to that society's destruction. No doubt the wage-system
had long lingered at the works of La Crêcherie, passing through
various stages of association, division of profits, a percentage of
interest in the common toil. At last it had been transformed in such
a manner as to satisfy the Collectivists, realising their formula, a
regulated circulation of 'vouchers for work.' Nevertheless it still
remained the wage-system, attenuated, disguised, but refusing to die.
And the doctrine of the Libertarian Commune alone had swept it away
in the course of a last advance, that of deliverance by liberty and
justice in their entirety, that chimera of other days, that unity and
harmony which now really lived. At present no authority remained, the
new social compact was based solely on the bond of necessary work,
accepted by all, and constituting both law and cult. An infinity of
groups practised it, starting with the old groups of the building,
clothing, and metal trades, the industrial workers and the tillers
of the soil, but multiplying and varying incessantly, in such wise
as to be adapted to all individual desires as well as to all the
needs of the community. Nothing hindered individual expansion, each
citizen formed part of as many groups as he desired, passed from the
cultivation of the soil to factory work, gave his time as best suited
his faculties and his desires. And there was no longer any contention
between classes, since only one class existed, a whole nation of
workers, equally rich, equally happy, educated to the same level, with
no difference either in attire, or in dwelling-place, or in manners and
customs. Work was king, the only guide, only master, and only deity,
instinct with sovereign nobility, since it had redeemed mankind when it
was dying of falsehood and injustice, and had restored it to vigour and
to the joy of life, and to love, and to beauty.

Luc laughed gaily when the morning breeze wafted towards him all
the sonorous gaiety of his city. How good, easy, and delightful was
the work performed there! It lasted only a few hours each day, and
so much of it, the most delicate as well as the mightiest task, was
performed by the new machinery which completed man's conquest of
nature and loaded him with wealth and abundance. Freed from long hours
of rough toil, man was the better able to exert his mind; art and
science soared; the level of current mentality was ever rising; great
intelligence ceased to be an exception, and men of genius sprang up in
crowds.

The science of alimentation had already been revolutionised by
chemistry, the earth might have yielded no more wheat, no more olives,
no more grapes, and yet enough bread, oil, and wine for the whole city
would have come from its laboratories. In physics, in electricity
especially, fresh inventions were ever and ever enlarging the domain
of the possible, and endowing men with the power of gods, knowing all,
seeing all, and capable of all. Then came the flight of art, the growth
and diffusion of beauty in every respect, an extraordinary florescence
of all the arts, now that the soul of the multitude throbbed in every
soul, and that life was lived with all its passions freed, love
given and received in its entirety. Inspired by the universal loving
kindness, music became the very voice of the happy people, through and
for whom musicians found the most sublime chants, in whose continual
harmony theatres, workshops, dwellings, and streets were ever steeped.
And for the people architects built vast and superb palaces, made in
its own image, of a size and a majesty at once varied and yet all one,
like the multitude itself, all the charming variations of thousands
of individualities finding expression in them. Then sculptors peopled
the gardens and museums with living bronze and marble; and painters
decorated the public edifices, the railway stations, the markets,
the libraries, the theatres, and the halls for study and diversion
with scenes borrowed from daily life. Writers moreover gave to that
innumerable people, who all read them, vast, strong, and powerful
works, born of them, created for them. Genius expanded, acquiring fresh
strength from increase of knowledge and freedom among the community;
never before had it displayed such splendour. The narrow, cramped,
aristocratic, hot-house literature of the past had been swept away by
the literature of humanity, poems overflowing with life, which all had
helped to create with their blood, and which returned to the hearts of
all.

Full of serenity, without fear for the future, Luc watched his town
growing like a beautiful being, endowed with eternal youth. It had
descended from the Brias gorges, between the two promontories of
the Bleuse Mountains, and was now spread over the meadow-land of La
Roumagne. In fine weather its white house-fronts smiled amidst the
verdure without a single puff of smoke besmirching the pure atmosphere,
for there were no chimneys left, electricity having everywhere replaced
coal and wood for heating purposes. The light silk canopy of the
broad blue sky spread over all, immaculate, without a speck of soot.
Thus in aspect the town remained a new one, bright and gay under the
refreshing breezes, whilst on all sides one heard the carolling of
water, the crystalline streaming of springs, whose purity brought
health and perpetual delight. The population steadily increased, fresh
houses were built, fresh gardens were planted. A happy people, free
and brotherly, becomes a centre of attraction, and thus the little
towns of the neighbourhood, Saint-Cron, Formerie, and Magnolles, had
found it necessary to follow the example of Beauclair, and had ended
by becoming so many prolongations of the original city. It had been
sufficient to make an experiment on a small scale, and by degrees
the _arrondissement_, the department, the whole region was won over.
Irresistible happiness was on the march, and nothing will be able to
withstand the force of happiness when men possess a clear and decisive
perception of it. Mankind has known but one struggle through the ages,
the struggle for happiness, which is to be found beneath every form of
religion, every form of government. Egotism is merely an individual
effort to acquire the greatest possible sum of happiness for self;
and why should not each set his egotism in treating his fellows as
brothers when he becomes convinced that the happiness of each rests
in the happiness of all? If there was contention between different
interests in the past, it was because the old social pact opposed them
one to the other, making warfare the very soul of society. But let it
be demonstrated that work reorganised will apportion wealth justly, and
that the passions, playing freely, will lead to harmony and unity, and
then peace will at once ensue, and happiness will be established in
a brotherly contract of solidarity. Why should one fight one against
the other, when interests cease to clash? If all the desperate,
pain-fraught exertions of generations, the prodigious sum of efforts,
blood, and tears that mankind has given to mutual slaughter throughout
so many centuries, had only been devoted to the conquest of the world,
the subjugation of the natural forces, man would long since have been
the absolute, happy sovereign of creatures and things. When humanity
at last became conscious of its imbecile dementia, when man ceased to
be wolfishly inclined towards his brother, and resolved to devote some
of the genius and wealth hitherto squandered in mutual annihilation,
to the common work of happiness, the mastery of the elements, on that
day the nations first started on their march towards the happy city.
And no! it is not true that a nation having its every need satisfied,
having to battle no longer for existence, would thereby gradually lose
the strength it requires to live, and sink into torpor and catalepsy.
The human dream will always be without a limit, there will always
remain much of the Unknown to be conquered. Each time a new craving is
contented, desire will give birth to another, the satisfaction of which
will exalt men and make them heroes of science and beauty. Desire is
infinite, and if men long battled together in order to steal happiness
one from the other, they will battle side by side to increase it, to
make it an immense banquet, resplendent with joy and glory, vast enough
to satiate the passions of thousands of millions of human creatures.
And there will be only heroes left, and each fresh child born into the
world will receive as his birthgift the whole earth, the unbounded
expanse of heaven, and the paternal sun, the source of immortal life.

As Luc gaily contemplated his triumphant town he often repeated that
love alone had created all the prodigies he beheld. He had sown the
seed, and now he reaped inexhaustible harvests of kindliness and
brotherliness. At the very outset he had felt that it was necessary to
found his city by and for woman if it was to prove fruitful and for
ever desirable and beautiful. Woman saved--Josine set in her due place
of beauty, dignity, and tenderness--was not that the symbol of the
future alliance, the union of the sexes, ensuring social peace, and
free and just life in common? Then, too, the new system of education,
the sexes being reared together and acquiring the same knowledge, had
brought them to a complete understanding, and made them sincerely
desirous of attaining to the one object of life, that object which was
reached by loving a great deal in order that one might be loved a great
deal in return. True wisdom lay in creating happiness, it was thus
that one logically became happy oneself. And now love chose freely; no
law, mutual consent alone, regulated marriage. A young man, a young
girl had known one another since their schooldays, had passed through
the same workshops together, and when they bestowed themselves one
on the other, that bestowal was simply like the florescence of their
long intimacy. They gave themselves to one another for life, long and
faithful unions predominating; they grew old together, even as they had
grown up together, in a bestowal of their whole beings, their rights
being equal, their love equal also. Yet their liberty remained entire,
separation was always possible for those who ceased to agree, and their
offspring remained with one or the other, as they decided, or when
difficulties supervened in the charge of the community. The bitter duel
of man and woman, all the questions which had so long set the sexes one
against the other, like savage, irreconcilable enemies, came to an end
in that solution: woman free in all respects, woman the free companion
of man, resuming her position as an equal, as an indispensable factor
in the union of love. She had a right to abstain from marrying, to
live as a man, to play a man's part as far as she desired, if she
chose; but why should she deny desire, and set herself apart from
life? Only one thing is sensible and beautiful, and that is life in
its entirety. And so the natural order of things had come about, peace
was signed between the reconciled sexes, each finding happiness in the
happiness of a common home tasting at last all the delights of the bond
of love, which was freed from the baseness of pecuniary and social
considerations. One could no longer sell himself for the other's dowry,
families could no longer barter their sons and daughters like mere
merchandise.

Thus the fulness of love reigned in the community. The sense of love,
developed and purified, became the perfume, the flame, the focus of
existence. It was widespread, general, universal love, springing from
the mated couple, and passing to the mother, the father, the children,
the relations, the neighbours, the citizens, the men and women of the
whole world in ever-broadening waves, a sea of love which ended by
bathing the entire earth. Loving kindness was like the pure air on
which every breast fed; there remained but one breath of brotherly
affection, and that alone had at last brought about the long-dreamt-of
unity, the divine harmony. Humanity--equilibrated like the planets, by
force of attraction, by the law of justice, solidarity and love--would
henceforth journey happily through the eternal infinite. And such was
the ever-recurring harvest, the immense harvest of tenderness and
kindliness, which Luc each morning saw arising from all sides; from
all the furrows which he had sown so abundantly; from his entire city,
where for so many years he had cast the good seed by the handful into
the schools, into the workshops, into every home, and even into every
heart.

'Look! look!' he said with a laugh some morning when Josine, Sœurette,
and Suzanne remained near his arm-chair before the open window. 'Look,
there are trees which have flowered since last night, and it seems as
if kisses were winging their flight, like song-birds, from some of the
roofs. There, yonder, both on the right and on the left, love flaps his
wings, as it were, in the rising sunlight.'

The three women joined in his laughter, and jested in a tender way to
please him. 'Certainly,' Josine would say, 'on that side, above that
house with the blue tiles spangled with white stars, there is a great
quiver of the sunlight, telling of internal rapture. That must be the
house of some newly-wedded pair.'

'And straight before us,' said Sœurette, 'see how the window-panes are
flashing with the splendour of a rising planet, in that house-front
where the faïence ornaments are decorated with roses! Assuredly a child
has been born there.'

'And on all sides, over all the dwellings, over the whole town the rays
are pouring,' said Suzanne in her turn. 'They form sheaves of wheat, a
field of prodigious fertility. Is it not the peace springing from the
love of all that grows and is harvested there each day?'

Luc listened to them with rapture. What a delightful reward was that
which he himself had won from love, which had surrounded him with the
sublime affection of those three women, whose presence filled his
last days with perfume and brilliancy! They were full of solicitude,
infinitely good, infinitely loving, with serene eyes which ever
brought him joy in life, and gentle hands which sustained him to the
very threshold of the grave. And they were very old and quite white,
light and aerial like souls, like gay, active, pure flames, glowing
with youthful, eternal passion. He lived on; and they lived on also,
and were like his force, his activity and intelligence, healthy and
strong as they were in spite of everything, coming and going for him
when he himself could no longer move, like guardians, housewives, and
companions, who prolonged and broadened his life far beyond the usual
limits.

At seventy-eight years of age Josine remained the _amorosa_, the Eve,
who had long ago been saved from error and suffering. Extremely slim,
suggesting a dry, pallid flower that had retained its perfume, she
had preserved her supple gracefulness, her delicate charm. In the
bright sunlight her white hair seemed to recover some of its golden
hue, the sovereign gold of youth. And Luc adored her still, as on
the distant day when he had succoured her, setting in his love for
her his love for the whole suffering people, for all tortured women;
choosing her, indeed, as the most wretched, the most dolorous, in
order that with her--should he save her--he might likewise save all
the disinherited of the world whom shame and hunger were clutching
at the throat. Even nowadays it was religiously that he kissed her
mutilated hand, the wound dealt by iniquitous labour, in the prison
of the wage-system, from which his compassion and love for her had
helped him to extricate the workers. He had not remained unfruitful in
his mission of redemption and deliverance; he had felt the need of
woman, the necessity of being strong and complete in order to redeem
his brothers. It was the mated couple, the fruitful spouse, that had
given birth to the new people. When she had borne him children his work
itself had begun to create, had become lasting. And on her side she
likewise adored him, with the adoration of their first meeting, a flame
of tender gratitude, a gift of her whole person, a passion and a desire
for the infinite of love, whose inextinguishable flame age had not
weakened.

Sœurette, born the same year as Luc, her eighty-fifth birthday being
near at hand, was the most active of the three women, on her feet,
busy the whole day long. It had long seemed as if she had ceased to
grow older. Small of frame, shrunken even, she had nevertheless been
beautified by gentle age. So dark, so thin, so graceless in former
times, she had become a delightful little old woman, a little white
mouse, whose eyes were full of light. Long ago, in the distressing
crisis of her love for Luc, amidst her grief at loving and remaining
unloved, her good brother Jordan had told her that she would become
resigned, and would sacrifice her passion to the love of others.
And each day she had indeed become more and more resigned, her
renunciation proving at last a source of pure joy, a force of divine
delight. She still loved Luc, she loved him in each of his children
and grandchildren, with whom she had long assisted Josine. And she
loved him with a deeper and deeper love, freed from all egotism, a
chaste flame, that glowed with sisterly affection and motherliness.
The delicate attentions, the discreet comforts which she had lavished
on her brother, were now bestowed on her friend. She was always on the
watch, in order to make his every hour delight. And all her happiness
lay in that: to feel how greatly he himself was attached to her, to end
almost a century of life in that passionate friendship, which was as
sweet as love itself.

Suzanne, now eight-and-eighty years of age, was the eldest, the most
serious, the most venerable of the women. Slender of figure, she
remained upright, showing a tender countenance, whose only charm, as
in days before, rested in its expression of kindliness, indulgence,
and sterling good sense. But nowadays she could scarcely walk, and her
compassionate eyes alone expressed her craving to interest herself in
others and expend her strength in good work. As a rule she remained
seated near Luc, keeping him company, whilst Josine and Sœurette
quietly and attentively trotted around them. She, on her side, had
loved Luc so tenderly in her sad younger days, loved him with a
consoling love, of which she had long remained ignorant. She had given
herself without knowing it amidst her dream of a hero whom she would
have liked to encourage, assist with her affection. And on the day when
her heart had spoken, the hero was already in another's arms, and only
room for a friend remained at his hearth. She had been that friend for
numerous years now, and had found perfect peace in the communion of
heart and mind in which she had lived with the man who had become her
brother. Doubtless, too, as in the case of Sœurette, if that friendship
proved so delightful, it was because it had sprung from a brasier of
love, and retained its eternal fire.

Thus Luc, very aged, glorious, and handsome, lived his last days
encompassed by the love of those three women, who also were very old,
glorious, and beautiful. His eighty-five years had failed to bend his
lofty figure, he remained healthy and strong, save for that stiffening
of his legs which kept him at his window like a happy spectator of the
city he had founded. His hair had not fallen from above his lofty,
towering brow, it had simply whitened, surrounding his head with a
great white mane, like that of some old, resting lion. And his last
days were brightened and perfumed by the adoration with which Josine,
Sœurette, and Suzanne surrounded him. He had loved all three of them,
and still loved them with that vast love of his, whence flowed so much
desire, so much brotherliness and kindness. But signs appeared. As with
Jordan, no doubt, the work being done, Luc was soon to die. Somnolence
came over him, like a foretaste of the well-earned repose whose advent
he awaited with joyous serenity. It was with good spirits that he saw
death approaching, for he knew it to be necessary and gentle, and he
had no need of any mendacious promise of a heaven in order to accept
it with a brave heart. Heaven henceforth was set upon the earth,
where the greatest possible sum of truth and justice realised the
ideal, the entirety of human happiness. Each being remained immortal
in the generations born of him, the torrent of love was increased by
each fresh love that came into being, and rolled and rolled along,
assuring eternity to all who had lived, loved, and created. And Luc
knew that, although he might die, he would continually be born anew in
the innumerable men whose lives he had desired to see improved, more
fortunate. That was the only certainty of survival, and it brought him
delightful peace. He had loved others so much, and had expended his
strength so much for the relief of their wretchedness, that he found
reward and beatitude in falling asleep in them, in profiting himself by
his work in the bosom of generations which would ever become happier
and happier.

Anxious though they felt at seeing him thus gently sinking, Josine,
Sœurette, and Suzanne did not wish to be sad. They opened the windows
every morning in order that the sun might enter freely, they decorated
and perfumed the room with flowers, huge nosegays possessing all
the brightness and aroma of youth. And knowing how attached Luc was
to children, they surrounded him with a joyous party of little lads
and lassies, whose fair and dark heads were like other nosegays--the
flowery to-morrow, the strength and beauty of the years to come. And
when all those little folk were present, laughing and playing around
his arm-chair, Luc smiled at them tenderly and watched their play with
an air of amusement, enraptured at heart at departing amidst such pure
delight, such living hope.

Now, on the day when death, very just and very good, was to come upon
Luc with the twilight, the three women, who divined its approach by
the expression in the clear eyes of the grand old man, sent for his
great-grandchildren, the very little ones, those who would set the most
childhood, the most future promise around him in his last moments.
And these children brought others, playmates and so forth, some of
them their elders, and all of them descendants of the workers by whose
solidarity and exertion La Crêcherie had formerly been founded. It was
a charming spectacle, that sunlit room full of children and roses,
and the hero, the old lion with the white mane, still cheerfully and
lovingly taking an interest in the little ones. He recognised them all,
named them, and questioned them.

A tall lad of eighteen, François, the son of Hippolyte Mitaine and
Laure Fauchard, strove to restrain his tears as he looked at him.

'Come and shake hands with me, my handsome François,' said Luc. 'You
must not be sad, you see how cheerful we all are. And be a good man.
You have grown taller lately, you will make a superb sweetheart for
some charming girl.'

Then came the turn of two girls of fifteen, Amélie, the daughter of
Alexandre Feuillat and Clémentine Bourron, and Simonne, the daughter
of Adolphe Laboque and Germaine Yvonnot. 'Ah! you at least are gay,
my pretty ones,' said Luc, 'and it is right that you should be so.
Come and let me kiss you on your fresh cheeks, and be always gay and
beautiful, for therein lies happiness.'

Then he only recognised his own descendants, whose number was destined
to multiply without cessation. Two of his grandchildren were present,
a granddaughter aged eighteen, Alice, who had sprung from Charles
Froment and Claudine Bonnaire, and a grandson of sixteen, Richard, who
had sprung from Jules Froment and Céline Lenfant. Only the unmarried
grandchildren had been invited, for the room could not have held the
married ones with their wives and families. And Luc laughed yet more
tenderly as he called Alice and Richard to him. 'Sly fair Alice,' said
he, 'you are of an age to marry now. Choose a lad who is joyous and
healthy like yourself. Ah! is it done already? Then love one another
well, and may your children be as healthy and joyous as you are.--And
you Richard, my big fellow, you are about to begin your apprenticeship
as a bootmaker, I hear, and you also have a perfect passion for music.
Well, work and sing, and be a genius!'

But at this moment he was surrounded by a stream of little ones. Three
boys and a girl, all of them his grandchildren, tried to climb upon
his knees. He began by taking the eldest, a boy of seven, Georges, the
son of a pair of cousins, Maurice Morfain and Berthe Jollivet, Maurice
being the son of Raymond Morfain and Thérèse Froment, whilst Berthe was
one of the daughters of André Jollivet and Pauline Froment.

'Ah! my dear little Georges, the dear little grandson of my two
daughters--Thérèse the brunette, and Pauline the blonde. Your eyes
used to be like my Pauline's, but now they are becoming like those
of my Thérèse. And your fresh and laughing mouth, whose is that? Is
it Thérèse's or Pauline's? Give me a good kiss, a good kiss, my dear
little Georges, so that you may remember me for a long, long time.'

Then came the turn of Grégoire Bonnaire, who was barely five years
old. He was the son of Félicien Bonnaire and Hélène Jollivet; Félicien
having sprung from Séverin Bonnaire and Léonie Gourier, and Hélène
being the daughter of André Jollivet and Pauline Froment.

'Another of my Pauline's little men!' said Luc. 'Eh, my little
Grégoire, isn't grandmamma Pauline very kind, hasn't she always
plenty of nice things in her hands? And you love me, too, your
great-grandpapa, don't you, Grégoire? And you will always wish to be
good and handsome when you remember me, eh? Kiss me, give me a good
kiss.'

By way of conclusion he took up the two others, Clément and Luce,
brother and sister, one on his right and the other on his left knee.
Clément was five and Luce two years old. They were the children of
Ludovic Boisgelin and Mariette Froment. But at the thought of Ludovic
and Mariette a host of memories arose, for he was the son of Paul
Boisgelin and Antoinette Bonnaire, and she, the daughter of Hilaire
Froment and Colette, the eldest child of Nanet and Nise. The Delaveaus,
the Boisgelins, the Bonnaires mingling with the Froments, were born
anew in those pure brows, that light and curly hair.

'Come, little Clément, come little Luce, my pets,' said Luc. 'If you
only knew all that I recognise, all that I read in the depths of your
bright eyes. You are already very good and strong, little Clément, I
know it well, for grandfather Hilaire has told me, and is well pleased
to hear you always laughing! And you, little Luce, my little mite who
can scarcely talk, one knows that you are a brave little girl, for you
never cry, but gaily stretch your chubby little hands towards the good
sun. You also must kiss me, my beautiful well-loved children, the best
of myself, all my strength and all my hope!'

The others had drawn near, and he would have liked to have had arms
long enough to embrace and press every one of them to his heart. It was
to them that he confided the future, that he bequeathed his work as to
new forces which would ever enlarge it. He had always relied on the
children, the future generations, to complete the work of happiness.
And those dear children who had sprung from him and by whom he was so
lovingly surrounded in the serene peacefulness of his last hour, what a
testament of justice, truth, and kindness he left them, and with what
intense passion he appointed them the executors of his will, his dream
of humanity freed more and more, and dwelling together in happiness!

'Go, go, my dear children! Be good, very good, and very just with one
another! Remember that you all kissed me to-day; and always love me
well, and love each other well also! You will know everything some day,
you will do as we have done, and it will be for your children to do
as you do. Let there be plenty of work, plenty of life, and plenty of
love! Meantime, my dear children, go and play, and keep full of health
and gaiety!'

Josine, Sœurette, and Suzanne then wished to send the joyous band home,
for fear of a noise, as they could see that Luc was growing weaker and
weaker. But he would not consent to this--he desired that the children
might remain near him, in order that he might gently depart amidst the
joyous sounds of their laughter. It was then arranged that they should
play in the garden under his window. He could thus hear and see them,
and felt well pleased.

The sun--a great summer sun which made the whole town resplendent--was
already sinking on the horizon. It gilded the room as with a glory,
and Luc, seated in his arm-chair amidst that splendour, long remained
silent, gazing the while far away. Josine and Sœurette, silent like
himself, came and leant one on his right, the other on his left, whilst
Suzanne, seated close by, appeared to be sharing his dream. At last,
in a voice which seemed to become more and more distant, he slowly
said: 'Yes, our town is yonder. Regenerated Beauclair scintillates in
the pure atmosphere, and I know that the neighbouring towns--Brias,
Magnolles, Formerie, and Saint-Cron--have followed us, won over by our
example to the cause of all-powerful happiness. But what is becoming
of the world beyond the horizon, on the other side of the Bleuse
Mountains, and beyond the great dim plain of La Roumagne--what point
have the provinces and nations reached in the long struggle, the
difficult and bloody march towards the happy city?'

Again he became silent, full of thought. He was aware that the
evolution was in progress everywhere, spreading each hour with
increasing speed. From the towns the movement had gained the provinces,
then the whole nation, and then the neighbouring nations; and
there were no more frontiers, no more insurmountable mountains and
oceans--deliverance flew from continent to continent, sweeping away
governments and religions and uniting races. However, things did not on
all sides take the same course. Whilst the evolution, in the form of
a slow advance towards the conquest of every liberty, had progressed
at Beauclair without too much battling, thanks to the experiment of
association made there, on other sides it was revolution which had
broken out, and blood had flowed amidst massacre and conflagration. No
two neighbouring states indeed had taken the same road; it was after
following the most varied and contrary paths that the nations were to
meet at last in one and the same fraternal city, the metropolis of the
human federation.

And Luc, as in a dream, repeated in his failing voice: 'Ah! I should
like to know--yes, before quitting my work I should like to know how
far the great task has now advanced. I should sleep better; I should
carry yet more certainty and hope away with me.'

Silence fell again. Josine, Sœurette, and Suzanne, very old, very
beautiful, and very good, were, like himself, still dreaming, with
their glances wandering afar.

It was at last Josine who began: 'I have heard of things--a traveller
told them me,' she said. 'In one great Republic the Collectivists
became the masters of power. For years they had waged the most
desperate of political battles in order to gain possession of the
legislature and the government. And as they were unable to do so in
legal fashion, they had recourse to a _coup d'état_ when they felt
strong enough for one, and certain of substantial support among the
nation. On the morrow, by laws and decrees, they put their entire
programme into force. Expropriation _en masse_ began, all private
wealth became the wealth of the nation, all the instruments of
work reverted to the workers. No landowners, nor capitalists, nor
employers were left; the State reigned alone, master of everything,
both landowner and capitalist and employer, regulator and distributor
of social life. But, of course, that tremendous shock, those sudden
radical changes, could not take place without terrible troubles
arising. The classes would not allow themselves to be dispossessed even
of property they had stolen, and there were frightful outbreaks on all
sides. Landowners preferred to get killed on the threshold of their
estates. Other people destroyed their property, flooded mines, broke up
railroads, annihilated factories and goods, whilst capitalists burnt
their scrip and flung their gold into the sea. Certain houses had to
be besieged, whole towns had to be taken by assault. That frightful
civil war lasted for years, and the pavements of the towns became red
with blood, whilst the rivers still and ever carried corpses to the
ocean. Then the sovereign State experienced all sorts of difficulties
in getting the new order of things to work smoothly. An hour's work
became the standard of value, exchanges being facilitated by a system
of vouchers. At first a statistical commission was established to
watch over production and distribute products in accordance with each
person's amount of work. Then other controlling offices were found
necessary, and little by little an intricate organisation grew up,
impeding the working of the new social system. People fell into a kind
of regimentation and barrack life; never had men been penned up in
smaller compartments. And yet evolution was taking place, even this was
a step towards justice; for work rose to honour once more, and wealth
was each day divided with more equity. At the end, assuredly, there lay
the disappearance of the wage-system and of capital--the suppression
of trade and money. And I have been told that this Collectivist State,
ravaged by so many catastrophes, deluged with so much blood, is
to-day entering the sphere of peace, coming at last to the fraternal
solidarity of the free, working nations.'

Josine ceased speaking, and again relapsed into a mute contemplation
of the great horizon. But Luc gently replied: 'Yes, that was one of
the bloody paths, one of those which I would not follow. But now, what
matters it, since it has led them to the same unity, the same harmony
as our own?'

Then Sœurette, still gazing far away, as if exploring the world behind
the gigantic promontories of the Bleuse Mountains, in her turn took
up the tale: 'I also heard a story--some eye-witnesses told me these
frightful things. They happened in a vast neighbouring empire where
the Anarchists by means of bombs and shrapnel succeeded in blowing
up the old social framework. The people had suffered so dreadfully
that they ended by leaguing themselves with the Anarchists in order
to complete the liberating work of destruction, and sweep away the
last crumbs of the rotten world. For a long time the cities flared
like torches in the night, amidst the howling of the old butchers of
the people, who in their turn were now being slaughtered, and who did
not wish to die. And this was the prophesied deluge of blood, the
fruitful necessity of which had long been foretold by the prophets of
Anarchy. Afterwards the new times began. The cry was no longer: "To
each according to his work," but: "To each according to his needs."
Man had a right to life, lodging, clothing, and daily bread. So all
the wealth was heaped together and divided, people only being rationed
when there was a lack of abundance. But with all mankind at work, and
nature exploited scientifically and methodically, there must come
incalculable produce, an immense fortune, sufficient to satisfy the
appetites of all. When the thieving and parasitic society of olden time
had disappeared, together with money, the source of all crimes, and the
savage laws of restriction and repression which had been the sources
of every iniquity, peace would reign in the Libertarian community, in
which the happiness of each would be derived from the happiness of all.
And there was to be no more authority of any kind, no more laws, no
more government. If the Anarchists had accepted iron and fire as their
instruments, believing in the sanguinary necessity of extermination as
a first step, it was because they were convinced that they could not
utterly destroy monarchical and religious atavism, and for ever crush
the last surviving germs of authority, unless the ancient sore should
be thus brutally cauterised. In order that one might not be caught
in the toils again it was necessary to sever every living link with
a past of error and despotism. All politics were evil and poisonous,
because they were fatally compounded of compromises and bargains, in
which the disinherited were duped. And the lofty, pure dream of Anarchy
had sought realisation when the old world had been ruined and swept
away. That dream was the broadest and the most ideal conception of a
just and peaceful human race, man free in a free state of society, and
each man delivered from every hindrance and shackle, living in the
full enjoyment of all his senses and faculties, fully exercising his
right to live and to be happy through his share in the possession of
all the wealth of the earth. But then, Anarchy had gradually become
merged into the Communist evolution, for in reality it was only a
form of political negation, and simply differed from other kinds of
socialism by its determination to throw everything down before building
up afresh. It accepted association, the constitution of free groups
living by exchanges, constantly circulating, expending their strength
and reconstituting themselves, like the very blood of the human body;
and thus the great empire where it triumphed amidst massacre and
conflagration, has now joined the other freed nations in the universal
federation.'

Sœurette ceased speaking and remained motionless and dreamy, with her
elbow resting on the back of Luc's arm-chair. He, whose voice was
thickening, slowly said: 'Yes, the Anarchists, after the Collectivists,
were bound to follow the disciples of Fourier on the last day on
reaching the threshold of the promised land. If the roads were
different, the goal remained identical.' And after thinking a while he
resumed: 'Yet, how many tears, how much blood, how many abominable wars
there have been in order to win that fraternal peace which all equally
desired! How many centuries of fratricidal slaughter have followed one
after the other when the question was simply whether one ought to turn
to right or left in order to reach happiness more quickly!'

Then Suzanne, who hitherto had remained silent, and whose eyes also
had been wandering beyond the horizon, at last spoke in a voice which
quivered with compassion: 'Ah! the last war, the last battle! It was
so frightful that when it was over men for ever destroyed their swords
and their guns. It took place during the earlier stage of the great
social crises which have renewed the world, and I was told of it by
men who had well nigh lost their senses amidst that supreme shock of
the nations. In that crisis which distracted them, whilst they were
pregnant with the future, one-half of Europe rushed upon the other
half, and other continents followed them, and fleets of ships battled
on all the oceans for dominion over water and earth. Not a single
nation was able to remain apart, in a state of neutrality, they all
dragged one another forward; and two immense armies entered into
line, glowing with hereditary fury, and resolved upon exterminating
one another, as if out of every two men there was one too many in the
empty, barren fields. And the two huge armies of hostile brothers
met in the centre of Europe, on some vast plains where millions of
beings had space to murder one another. Over leagues and leagues did
the troops deploy, followed by reinforcements; such a torrent of men,
indeed, that the battle lasted for a month. Each day that dawned there
still remained human flesh for bullets and shells. The combatants did
not even take time to remove their dead; the piles of corpses formed
walls, behind which new regiments ever advanced in order to get killed.
And night did not stay the battle, men murdered one another in the
darkness. Each time that the sun arose it illumined yet larger pools
of blood, a field of carnage where death in his horrible harvesting
piled the corpses of the soldiers in loftier and loftier ricks. And on
all sides there was lightning, entire army corps disappeared amidst a
clap of thunder. It was not necessary that the combatants should draw
near or even see each other, their guns carried long miles, and threw
shells which in exploding swept acres of ground bare, and asphyxiated
and poisoned all around. Balloons also threw bombs from the very
heavens, setting towns ablaze as they passed. Science had invented
explosives and murderous engines which carried death over prodigious
distances, and annihilated a whole community as suddenly as an
earthquake might have done. And what a monstrous massacre showed forth
on the last evening of that gigantic battle! Never before had such a
huge human sacrifice smoked beneath the heavens! More than a million
men lay there in the great ravaged fields, alongside the watercourses,
across the meadows. One could walk for hours and hours, and one ever
met a yet larger harvest of slaughtered soldiers, who lay there with
their eyes wide open, and their black mouths agape, as if to cry aloud
that mankind was mad! And that was the last battle, to such a degree
did horror freeze every heart when men awakened from that frightful
intoxication, born of greed for dominion, lust for power; whilst the
conviction came to all that war was no longer possible, since science
in its almightiness was destined to be the sovereign creator of life,
and not the artisan of destruction.'

Then Suzanne in her turn relapsed into silence, quivering the while,
but with bright eyes, radiant indeed with the peace of the future. And
Luc, whose voice was becoming a mere breath, concluded: 'Yes, war is
dead, the supreme _étape_ has been reached, the brotherly kiss comes
after the long, rough, dolorous journey. And my day is over, I can now
go to sleep.'

He spoke no more. That last minute was august and sweet. Josine,
Sœurette, and Suzanne did not stir, but waited, exempt from sadness,
full indeed of tender fervour in that calm room, gay with flowers and
sunshine. Under the window the joyous children were still playing--one
could hear the shrill cries of the very little ones, and the laughter
of their elders, all the mirth of the future on the march to broader
and broader joys. And then there was the friendly sun resplendent on
the horizon, the sun, the fertiliser, the father, whose creative
force had been captured and domesticated. And under the flaring of its
rays of glory appeared the glittering roofs of triumphant Beauclair,
the busy hive where by a just apportionment of this world's riches
regenerated work now only created happy folk. And yet again beyond La
Roumagne, and on the other side of the Bleuse Mountains, there was
the coming federation of the peoples, the one sole brotherly nation,
mankind at last fulfilling its destiny of truth and justice and peace.

Then, for the last time, Luc gazed around him, his glance embracing the
town, the horizon, the whole earth, where the evolution which he had
started was progressing, and drawing nigh to completion. The work was
done, the city was founded. And Luc expired, entered into the torrent
of universal love and of everlasting life.


THE END.





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