Books: The Three Cities Trilogy: Paris, Complete

E >> Emile Zola >> The Three Cities Trilogy: Paris, Complete

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Pierre mustered his courage and, pulling a brass knob which glittered
like gold, rang the bell. There came a gay, distant jingle; but for a
moment nobody appeared, and he was about to ring again, when the door was
thrown wide open, revealing a passage which ran right through the house,
beyond which appeared the ocean of Paris, the endless sea of house roofs
bathed in sunlight. And against this spacious, airy background, stood a
young woman of twenty-six, clad in a simple gown of black woolen stuff,
half covered by a large blue apron. She had her sleeves rolled up above
her elbows, and her arms and hands were still moist with water which she
had but imperfectly wiped away.

A moment's surprise and embarrassment ensued. The young woman, who had
hastened to the door with laughing mien, became grave and covertly
hostile at sight of the visitor's cassock. The priest thereupon realised
that he must give his name: "I am Abbe Pierre Froment."

At this the young woman's smile of welcome came back to her. "Oh! I beg
your pardon, monsieur--I ought to have recognised you, for I saw you wish
Guillaume good day one morning as you passed."

She said Guillaume; she, therefore, must be Marie. And Pierre looked at
her in astonishment, finding her very different from what he had
imagined. She was only of average height, but she was vigorously,
admirably built, broad of hip and broad of shoulder, with the small firm
bosom of an amazon. By her erect and easy step, instinct with all the
adorable grace of woman in her prime, one could divine that she was
strong, muscular and healthy. A brunette, but very white of skin, she had
a heavy helm of superb black hair, which she fastened in a negligent way,
without any show of coquetry. And under her dark locks, her pure,
intelligent brow, her delicate nose and gay eyes appeared full of intense
life; whilst the somewhat heavier character of her lower features, her
fleshy lips and full chin, bespoke her quiet kindliness. She had surely
come on earth as a promise of every form of tenderness, every form of
devotion. In a word, she was a true mate for man.

However, with her heavy, straying hair and superb arms, so ingenuous in
their nudity, she only gave Pierre an impression of superfluous health
and extreme self-assurance. She displeased him and even made him feel
somewhat anxious, as if she were a creature different from all others.

"It is my brother Guillaume who has sent me," he said.

At this her face again changed; she became grave and hastened to admit
him to the passage. And when the door was closed she answered: "You have
brought us news of him, then! I must apologise for receiving you in this
fashion. The servants have just finished some washing, and I was making
sure if the work had been well done. Pray excuse me, and come in here for
a moment; it is perhaps best that I should be the first to know the
news."

So saying, she led him past the kitchen to a little room which served as
scullery and wash-house. A tub full of soapy water stood there, and some
dripping linen hung over some wooden bars. "And so, Guillaume?" she
asked.

Pierre then told the truth in simple fashion: that his brother's wrist
had been injured; that he himself had witnessed the accident, and that
his brother had then sought an asylum with him at Neuilly, where he
wished to remain and get cured of his injury in peace and quietness,
without even receiving a visit from his sons. While speaking in this
fashion, the priest watched the effect of his words on Marie's face:
first fright and pity, and then an effort to calm herself and judge
things reasonably.

"His letter quite froze me last night," she ended by replying. "I felt
sure that some misfortune had happened. But one must be brave and hide
one's fear from others. His wrist injured, you say; it is not a serious
injury, is it?"

"No; but it is necessary that every precaution should be taken with it."

She looked him well in the face with her big frank eyes, which dived into
his own as if to reach the very depths of his being, though at the same
time she plainly sought to restrain the score of questions which rose to
her lips. "And that is all: he was injured in an accident," she resumed;
"he didn't ask you to tell us anything further about it?"

"No, he simply desires that you will not be anxious."

Thereupon she insisted no further, but showed herself obedient and
respectful of the decision which Guillaume had arrived at. It sufficed
that he should have sent a messenger to reassure the household--she did
not seek to learn any more. And even as she had returned to her work in
spite of the secret anxiety in which the letter of the previous evening
had left her, so now, with her air of quiet strength, she recovered an
appearance of serenity, a quiet smile and clear brave glance.

"Guillaume only gave me one other commission," resumed Pierre, "that of
handing a little key to Madame Leroi."

"Very good," Marie answered, "Mere-Grand is here; and, besides, the
children must see you. I will take you to them."

Once more quite tranquil, she examined Pierre without managing to conceal
her curiosity, which seemed of rather a kindly nature blended with an
element of vague pity. Her fresh white arms had remained bare. In all
candour she slowly drew down her sleeves; then took off the large blue
apron, and showed herself with her rounded figure, at once robust and
elegant, in her modest black gown. He meanwhile looked at her, and most
certainly he did not find her to his liking. On seeing her so natural,
healthy, and courageous, quite a feeling of revolt arose within him,
though he knew not why.

"Will you please follow me, Monsieur l'Abbe?" she said. "We must cross
the garden."

On the ground-floor of the house, across the passage, and facing the
kitchen and the scullery, there were two other rooms, a library
overlooking the Place du Tertre, and a dining-room whose windows opened
into the garden. The four rooms on the first floor served as bedchambers
for the father and the sons. As for the garden, originally but a small
one, it had now been reduced to a kind of gravelled yard by the erection
of the large workshop at one end of it. Of the former greenery, however,
there still remained two huge plum-trees with old knotted trunks, as well
as a big clump of lilac-bushes, which every spring were covered with
bloom. And in front of the latter Marie had arranged a broad flower-bed,
in which she amused herself with growing a few roses, some wallflowers
and some mignonette.

With a wave of her hand as she went past, she called Pierre's attention
to the black plum-trees and the lilacs and roses, which showed but a few
greenish spots, for winter still held the little nook in sleep. "Tell
Guillaume," she said, "that he must make haste to get well and be back
for the first shoots."

Then, as Pierre glanced at her, she all at once flushed purple. Much to
her distress, sudden and involuntary blushes would in this wise
occasionally come upon her, even at the most innocent remarks. She found
it ridiculous to feel such childish emotion when she had so brave a
heart. But her pure maidenly blood had retained exquisite delicacy, such
natural and instinctive modesty that she yielded to it perforce. And
doubtless she had merely blushed because she feared that the priest might
think she had referred to her marriage in speaking of the spring.

"Please go in, Monsieur l'Abbe. The children are there, all three." And
forthwith she ushered him into the workshop.

It was a very spacious place, over sixteen feet high, with a brick
flooring and bare walls painted an iron grey. A sheet of light, a stream
of sunshine, spread to every corner through a huge window facing the
south, where lay the immensity of Paris. The Venetian shutters often had
to be lowered in the summer to attenuate the great heat. From morn till
night the whole family lived here, closely and affectionately united in
work. Each was installed as fancy listed, having a particular chosen
place. One half of the building was occupied by the father's chemical
laboratory, with its stove, experiment tables, shelves for apparatus,
glass cases and cupboards for phials and jars. Near all this Thomas, the
eldest son, had installed a little forge, an anvil, a vice bench, in fact
everything necessary to a working mechanician, such as he had become
since taking his bachelor's degree, from his desire to remain with his
father and help him with certain researches and inventions. Then, at the
other end, the younger brothers, Francois and Antoine, got on very well
together on either side of a broad table which stood amidst a medley of
portfolios, nests of drawers and revolving book-stands. Francois, laden
with academical laurels, first on the pass list for the Ecole Normale,
had entered that college where young men are trained for university
professorships, and was there preparing for his Licentiate degree, while
Antoine, who on reaching the third class at the Lycee Condorcet had taken
a dislike to classical studies, now devoted himself to his calling as a
wood-engraver. And, in the full light under the window, Mere-Grand and
Marie likewise had their particular table, where needlework, embroidery,
all sorts of /chiffons/ and delicate things lay about near the somewhat
rough jumble of retorts, tools and big books.

Marie, however, on the very threshold called out in her calm voice, to
which she strove to impart a gay and cheering accent: "Children!
children! here is Monsieur l'Abbe with news of father!"

Children, indeed! Yet what motherliness she already set in the word as
she applied it to those big fellows whose elder sister she had long
considered herself to be! At three and twenty Thomas was quite a
colossus, already bearded and extremely like his father. But although he
had a lofty brow and energetic features, he was somewhat slow both in
mind and body. And he was also taciturn, almost unsociable, absorbed in
filial devotion, delighted with the manual toil which made him a mere
workman at his master's orders. Francois, two years younger than Thomas,
and nearly as tall, showed a more refined face, though he had the same
large brow and firm mouth, a perfect blending of health and strength, in
which the man of intellect, the scientific Normalian, could only be
detected by the brighter and more subtle sparkle of the eyes. The
youngest of the brothers, Antoine, who for his eighteen years was almost
as strong as his elders, and promised to become as tall, differed from
them by his lighter hair and soft, blue, dreamy eyes, which he had
inherited from his mother. It had been difficult, however, to distinguish
one from the other when all three were schoolboys at the Lycee Condorcet;
and even nowadays people made mistakes unless they saw them side by side,
so as to detect the points of difference which were becoming more marked
as age progressed.

On Pierre's arrival the brothers were so absorbed in their work that they
did not even hear the door open. And again, as in the case of Marie, the
priest was surprised by the discipline and firmness of mind, which amidst
the keenest anxiety gave the young fellows strength to take up their
daily task. Thomas, who stood at his vice-bench in a blouse, was
carefully filing a little piece of copper with rough but skilful hands.
Francois, leaning forward, was writing in a bold, firm fashion, whilst on
the other side of the table, Antoine, with a slender graver between his
fingers, finished a block for an illustrated newspaper.

However, Marie's clear voice made them raise their heads: "Children,
father has sent you some news!"

Then all three with the same impulse hurriedly quitted their work and
came forward. One could divine that directly there was any question of
their father they were drawn together, blended one with the other, so
that but one and the same heart beat in their three broad chests.
However, a door at the far end of the workroom opened at that moment, and
Mere-Grand, coming from the upper floor where she and Marie had their
bedrooms, made her appearance. She had just absented herself to fetch a
skein of wool; and she gazed fixedly at the priest, unable to understand
the reason of his presence.

Marie had to explain matters. "Mere-Grand," said she, "this is Monsieur
l'Abbe Froment, Guillaume's brother; he has come from him."

Pierre on his side was examining the old lady, astonished to find her so
erect and full of life at seventy. Her former beauty had left a stately
charm on her rather long face; youthful fire still lingered in her brown
eyes; and very firm was the contour of her pale lips, which in parting
showed that she had retained all her teeth. A few white hairs alone
silvered her black tresses, which were arranged in old-time fashion. Her
cheeks had but slightly withered, and her deep, symmetrical wrinkles gave
her countenance an expression of much nobility, a sovereign air as of a
queen-mother, which, tall and slight of stature as she was, and
invariably gowned in black woollen stuff, she always retained, no matter
how humble her occupation.

"So Guillaume sent you, monsieur," she said; "he is injured, is he not?"

Surprised by this proof of intuition, Pierre repeated his story. "Yes,
his wrist is injured--but oh! it's not a case of immediate gravity."

On the part of the three sons, he had divined a sudden quiver, an impulse
of their whole beings to rush to the help and defence of their father.
And for their sakes he sought words of comfort: "He is with me at
Neuilly. And with due care it is certain that no serious complications
will arise. He sent me to tell you to be in no wise uneasy about him."

Mere-Grand for her part evinced no fears, but preserved great calmness,
as if the priest's tidings contained nothing beyond what she had known
already. If anything, she seemed rather relieved, freed from anxiety
which she had confided to none. "If he is with you, monsieur," she
answered, "he is evidently as comfortable as he can be, and sheltered
from all risks. We were surprised, however, by his letter last night, as
it did not explain why he was detained, and we should have ended by
feeling frightened. But now everything is satisfactory."

Mere-Grand and the three sons, following Marie's example, asked no
explanations. On a table near at hand Pierre noticed several morning
newspapers lying open and displaying column after column of particulars
about the crime. The sons had certainly read these papers, and had feared
lest their father should be compromised in that frightful affair. How far
did their knowledge of the latter go? They must be ignorant of the part
played by Salvat. It was surely impossible for them to piece together all
the unforeseen circumstances which had brought about their father's
meeting with the workman, and then the crime. Mere-Grand, no doubt, was
in certain respects better informed than the others. But they, the sons
and Marie, neither knew nor sought to know anything. And thus what a
wealth of respect and affection there was in their unshakable confidence
in the father, in the tranquillity they displayed directly he sent them
word that they were not to be anxious about him!

"Madame," Pierre resumed, "Guillaume told me to give you this little key,
and to remind you to do what he charged you to do, if any misfortune
should befall him."

She started, but so slightly that it was scarcely perceptible; and taking
the key she answered as if some ordinary wish on the part of a sick
person were alone in question. "Very well. Tell him that his wishes shall
be carried out." Then she added, "But pray take a seat, monsieur."

Pierre, indeed, had remained standing. However, he now felt it necessary
to accept a chair, desirous as he was of hiding the embarrassment which
he still felt in this house, although he was /en famille/ there. Marie,
who could not live without occupation for her fingers, had just returned
to some embroidery, some of the fine needlework which she stubbornly
executed for a large establishment dealing in baby-linen and bridal
/trousseaux/; for she wished at any rate to earn her own pocket-money,
she often said with a laugh. Mere-Grand, too, from habit, which she
followed even when visitors were present, had once more started on her
perpetual stocking-mending; while Francois and Antoine had again seated
themselves at their table; and Thomas alone remained on his legs, leaning
against his bench. All the charm of industrious intimacy pervaded the
spacious, sun-lit room.

"But we'll all go to see father to-morrow," Thomas suddenly exclaimed.

Before Pierre could answer Marie raised her head. "No, no," said she, "he
does not wish any of us to go to him; for if we should be watched and
followed we should betray the secret of his retreat. Isn't that so,
Monsieur l'Abbe?"

"It would indeed be prudent of you to deprive yourselves of the pleasure
of embracing him until he himself can come back here. It will be a matter
of some two or three weeks," answered Pierre.

Mere-Grand at once expressed approval of this. "No doubt," said she.
"Nothing could be more sensible."

So the three sons did not insist, but bravely accepted the secret anxiety
in which they must for a time live, renouncing the visit which would have
caused them so much delight, because their father bade them do so and
because his safety depended perhaps on their obedience.

However, Thomas resumed: "Then, Monsieur l'Abbe, will you please tell him
that as work will be interrupted here, I shall return to the factory
during his absence. I shall be more at ease there for the researches on
which we are engaged."

"And please tell him from me," put in Francois, "that he mustn't worry
about my examination. Things are going very well. I feel almost certain
of success."

Pierre promised that he would forget nothing. However, Marie raised her
head, smiling and glancing at Antoine, who had remained silent with a
faraway look in his eyes. "And you, little one," said she, "don't you
send him any message?"

Emerging from a dream, the young fellow also began to smile. "Yes, yes, a
message that you love him dearly, and that he's to make haste back for
you to make him happy."

At this they all became merry, even Marie, who in lieu of embarrassment
showed a tranquil gaiety born of confidence in the future. Between her
and the young men there was naught but happy affection. And a grave smile
appeared even on the pale lips of Mere-Grand, who likewise approved of
the happiness which life seemed to be promising.

Pierre wished to stay a few minutes longer. They all began to chat, and
his astonishment increased. He had gone from surprise to surprise in this
house where he had expected to find that equivocal, disorderly life, that
rebellion against social laws, which destroy morality. But instead of
this he had found loving serenity, and such strong discipline that life
there partook of the gravity, almost the austerity, of convent life,
tempered by youth and gaiety. The vast room was redolent of industry and
quietude, warm with bright sunshine. However, what most particularly
struck him was the Spartan training, the bravery of mind and heart among
those sons who allowed nothing to be seen of their personal feelings, and
did not presume to judge their father, but remained content with his
message, ready to await events, stoical and silent, while carrying on
their daily tasks. Nothing could be more simple, more dignified, more
lofty. And there was also the smiling heroism of Mere-Grand and Marie,
those two women who slept over that laboratory where terrible
preparations were manipulated, and where an explosion was always
possible.

However, such courage, orderliness and dignity merely surprised Pierre,
without touching him. He had no cause for complaint, he had received a
polite greeting if not an affectionate one; but then he was as yet only a
stranger there, a priest. In spite of everything, however, he remained
hostile, feeling that he was in a sphere where none of his own torments
could be shared or even divined. How did these folks manage to be so calm
and happy amidst their religious unbelief, their sole faith in science,
and in presence of that terrifying Paris which spread before them the
boundless sea, the growling abomination of its injustice and its want? As
this thought came to him he turned his head and gazed at the city through
the huge window, whence it stretched away, ever present, ever living its
giant life. And at that hour, under the oblique sun-rays of the winter
afternoon, all Paris was speckled with luminous dust, as if some
invisible sower, hidden amidst the glory of the planet, were fast
scattering seed which fell upon every side in a stream of gold. The whole
field was covered with it; for the endless chaos of house roofs and
edifices seemed to be land in tilth, furrowed by some gigantic plough.
And Pierre in his uneasiness, stirred, despite everything, by an
invincible need of hope, asked himself if this was not a good sowing, the
furrows of Paris strewn with light by the divine sun for the great future
harvest, that harvest of truth and justice of whose advent he had
despaired.

At last he rose and took his leave, promising to return at once, if there
should be any bad news. It was Marie who showed him to the front door.
And there another of those childish blushes which worried her so much
suddenly rose to her face, just as she, in her turn, also wished to send
her loving message to the injured man. However, with her gay, candid eyes
fixed on those of the priest, she bravely spoke the words: "/Au revoir,
Monsieur l'Abbe/. Tell Guillaume that I love him and await him."

III

PENURY AND TOIL

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

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

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

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

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

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