Books: The Three Cities Trilogy: Paris, Complete

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Then he again looked down into the hall, where the greatest confusion was
prevailing among the deputies with regard to the coming vote. There was
quite a rainfall of suggested "resolutions," from a very violent one
proposed by Mege, to another, which was merely severe, emanating from
Vignon. The ministry, however, would only accept the "Order of the day
pure and simple," a mere decision, that is, to pass to the next business,
as if Mege's interpellation had been unworthy of attention. And presently
the Government was defeated, Vignon's resolution being adopted by a
majority of twenty-five. Some portion of the Left had evidently joined
hands with the Right and the Socialist group. A prolonged hubbub followed
this result.

"Well, so we are to have a Vignon Cabinet," said Massot, as he went off
with Pierre and the General. "All the same, though, Monferrand has saved
himself, and if I were in Vignon's place I should distrust him."

That evening there was a very touching farewell scene at the little house
at Neuilly. When Pierre returned thither from the Chamber, saddened but
reassured with regard to the future, Guillaume at once made up his mind
to go home on the morrow. And as Nicholas Barthes was compelled to leave,
the little dwelling seemed on the point of relapsing into dreary quietude
once more.

Theophile Morin, whom Pierre had informed of the painful alternative in
which Barthes was placed, duly came to dinner; but he did not have time
to speak to the old man before they all sat down to table at seven
o'clock. As usual Barthes had spent his day in marching, like a caged
lion, up and down the room in which he had accepted shelter after the
fashion of a big fearless child, who never worried with regard either to
his present circumstances or the troubles which the future might have in
store for him. His life had ever been one of unlimited hope, which
reality had ever shattered. Although all that he had loved, all that he
had hoped to secure by fifty years of imprisonment or exile,--liberty,
equality and a real brotherly republic,--had hitherto failed to come,
such as he had dreamt of them, he nevertheless retained the candid faith
of his youth, and was ever confident in the near future. He would smile
indulgently when new comers, men of violent ideas, derided him and called
him a poor old fellow. For his part, he could make neither head nor tail
of the many new sects. He simply felt indignant with their lack of human
feeling, and stubbornly adhered to his own idea of basing the world's
regeneration on the simple proposition that men were naturally good and
ought to be free and brotherly.

That evening at dinner, feeling that he was with friends who cared for
him, Barthes proved extremely gay, and showed all his ingenuousness in
talking of his ideal, which would soon be realised, said he, in spite of
everything. He could tell a story well whenever he cared to chat, and on
that occasion he related some delightful anecdotes about the prisons
through which he had passed. He knew all the dungeons, Ste. Pelagie and
Mont St. Michel, Belle-Ile-en-Mer and Clairvaux, to say nothing of
temporary gaols and the evil-smelling hulks on board which political
prisoners are often confined. And he still laughed at certain
recollections, and related how in the direst circumstances he had always
been able to seek refuge in his conscience. The others listened to him
quite charmed by his conversation, but full of anguish at the thought
that this perpetual prisoner or exile must again rise and take his staff
to sally forth, driven from his native land once more.

Pierre did not speak out until they were partaking of dessert. Then he
related how the Minister had written to him, and how in a brief interview
he had stated that Barthes must cross the frontier within forty-eight
hours if he did not wish to be arrested. Thereupon the old man gravely
rose, with his white fleece, his eagle beak and his bright eyes still
sparkling with the fire of youth. And he wished to go off at once.
"What!" said he, "you have known all this since yesterday, and have still
kept me here at the risk of my compromising you even more than I had done
already! You must forgive me, I did not think of the worry I might cause
you, I thought that everything would be satisfactorily arranged. I must
thank you both--yourself and Guillaume--for the few days of quietude that
you have procured to an old vagabond and madman like myself."

Then, as they tried to prevail on him to remain until the following
morning, he would not listen to them. There would be a train for Brussels
about midnight, and he had ample time to take it. He refused to let Morin
accompany him. No, no, said he, Morin was not a rich man, and moreover he
had work to attend to. Why should he take him away from his duties, when
it was so easy, so simple, for him to go off alone? He was going back
into exile as into misery and grief which he had long known, like some
Wandering Jew of Liberty, ever driven onward through the world.

When he took leave of the others at ten o'clock, in the little sleepy
street just outside the house, tears suddenly dimmed his eyes. "Ah! I'm
no longer a young man," he said; "it's all over this time. I shall never
come back again. My bones will rest in some corner over yonder." And yet,
after he had affectionately embraced Pierre and Guillaume, he drew
himself up like one who remained unconquered, and he raised a supreme cry
of hope. "But after all, who knows? Triumph may perhaps come to-morrow.
The future belongs to those who prepare it and wait for it!"

Then he walked away, and long after he had disappeared his firm, sonorous
footsteps could be heard re-echoing in the quiet night.

THE THREE CITIES

PARIS

BY

EMILE ZOLA

TRANSLATED BY ERNEST A. VIZETELLY

BOOK IV

I

PIERRE AND MARIE

ON the mild March morning when Pierre left his little house at Neuilly to
accompany Guillaume to Montmartre, he was oppressed by the thought that
on returning home he would once more find himself alone with nothing to
prevent him from relapsing into negation and despair. The idea of this
had kept him from sleeping, and he still found it difficult to hide his
distress and force a smile.

The sky was so clear and the atmosphere so mild that the brothers had
resolved to go to Montmartre on foot by way of the outer boulevards. Nine
o'clock was striking when they set out. Guillaume for his part was very
gay at the thought of the surprise he would give his family. It was as if
he were suddenly coming back from a long journey. He had not warned them
of his intentions; he had merely written to them now and again to tell
them that he was recovering, and they certainly had no idea that his
return was so near at hand.

When Guillaume and Pierre had climbed the sunlit slopes of Montmartre,
and crossed the quiet countrified Place du Tertre, the former, by means
of a latch-key, quietly opened the door of his house, which seemed to be
asleep, so profound was the stillness both around and within it. Pierre
found it the same as on the occasion of his previous and only visit.
First came the narrow passage which ran through the ground-floor,
affording a view of all Paris at the further end. Next there was the
garden, reduced to a couple of plum-trees and a clump of lilac-bushes,
the leaves of which had now sprouted. And this time the priest perceived
three bicycles leaning against the trees. Beyond them stood the large
work-shop, so gay, and yet so peaceful, with its huge window overlooking
a sea of roofs.

Guillaume had reached the work-shop without meeting anybody. With an
expression of much amusement he raised a finger to his lips. "Attention,
Pierre," he whispered; "you'll just see!"

Then having noiselessly opened the door, they remained for a moment on
the threshold.

The three sons alone were there. Near his forge stood Thomas working a
boring machine, with which he was making some holes in a small brass
plate. Then Francois and Antoine were seated on either side of their
large table, the former reading, and the latter finishing a block. The
bright sunshine streamed in, playing over all the seeming disorder of the
room, where so many callings and so many implements found place. A large
bunch of wallflowers bloomed on the women's work-table near the window;
and absorbed as the young men were in their respective tasks the only
sound was the slight hissing of the boring machine each time that the
eldest of them drilled another hole.

However, although Guillaume did not stir, there suddenly came a quiver,
an awakening. His sons seemed to guess his presence, for they raised
their heads, each at the same moment. From each, too, came the same cry,
and a common impulse brought them first to their feet and then to his
arms.

"Father!"

Guillaume embraced them, feeling very happy. And that was all; there was
no long spell of emotion, no useless talk. It was as if he had merely
gone out the day before and, delayed by business, had now come back.
Still, he looked at them with his kindly smile, and they likewise smiled
with their eyes fixed on his. Those glances proclaimed everything, the
closest affection and complete self-bestowal for ever.

"Come in, Pierre," called Guillaume; "shake hands with these young men."

The priest had remained near the door, overcome by a singular feeling of
discomfort. When his nephews had vigorously shaken hands with him, he sat
down near the window apart from them, as if he felt out of his element
there.

"Well, youngsters," said Guillaume, "where's Mere-Grand, and where's
Marie?"

Their grandmother was upstairs in her room, they said; and Marie had
taken it into her head to go marketing. This, by the way, was one of her
delights. She asserted that she was the only one who knew how to buy
new-laid eggs and butter of a nutty odour. Moreover, she sometimes
brought some dainty or some flowers home, in her delight at proving
herself to be so good a housewife.

"And so things are going on well?" resumed Guillaume. "You are all
satisfied, your work is progressing, eh?"

He addressed brief questions to each of them, like one who, on his return
home, at once reverts to his usual habits. Thomas, with his rough face
beaming, explained in a couple of sentences that he was now sure of
perfecting his little motor; Francois, who was still preparing for his
examination, jestingly declared that he yet had to lodge a heap of
learning in his brain; and then Antoine produced the block which he was
finishing, and which depicted his little friend Lise, Jahan's sister,
reading in her garden amidst the sunshine. It was like a florescence of
that dear belated creature whose mind had been awakened by his affection.

However, the three brothers speedily went back to their places, reverting
to their work with a natural impulse, for discipline had made them regard
work as life itself. Then Guillaume, who had glanced at what each was
doing, exclaimed: "Ah! youngsters, I schemed and prepared a lot of things
myself while I was laid up. I even made a good many notes. We walked here
from Neuilly, but my papers and the clothes which Mere-Grand sent me will
come in a cab by-and-by. . . . Ah! how pleased I am to find everything in
order here, and to be able to take up my task with you again! Ah! I shall
polish off some work now, and no mistake!"

He had already gone to his own corner, the space reserved for him between
the window and the forge. He there had a chemical furnace, several glass
cases and shelves crowded with appliances, and a long table, one end of
which he used for writing purposes. And he once more took possession of
that little world. After glancing around with delight at seeing
everything in its place, he began to handle one object and another, eager
to be at work like his sons.

All at once, however, Mere-Grand appeared, calm, grave and erect in her
black gown, at the top of the little staircase which conducted to the
bedrooms. "So it's you, Guillaume?" said she. "Will you come up for a
moment?"

He immediately did so, understanding that she wished to speak to him
alone and tranquillise him. It was a question of the great secret between
them, that one thing of which his sons knew nothing, and which, after
Salvat's crime, had brought him much anguish, through his fear that it
might be divulged. When he reached Mere-Grand's room she at once took him
to the hiding-place near her bed, and showed him the cartridges of the
new explosive, and the plans of the terrible engine of warfare which he
had invented. He found them all as he had left them. Before anyone could
have reached them, she would have blown up the whole place at the risk of
perishing herself in the explosion. With her wonted air of quiet heroism,
she handed Guillaume the key which he had sent her by Pierre.

"You were not anxious, I hope?" she said.

He pressed her hands with a commingling of affection and respect. "My
only anxiety," he replied, "was that the police might come here and treat
you roughly. . . . You are the guardian of our secret, and it would be
for you to finish my work should I disappear."

While Guillaume and Madame Leroi were thus engaged upstairs, Pierre,
still seated near the window below, felt his discomfort increasing. The
inmates of the house certainly regarded him with no other feeling than
one of affectionate sympathy; and so how came it that he considered them
hostile? The truth was that he asked himself what would become of him
among those workers, who were upheld by a faith of their own, whereas he
believed in nothing, and did not work. The sight of those young men, so
gaily and zealously toiling, ended by quite irritating him; and the
arrival of Marie brought his distress to a climax.

Joyous and full of life, she came in without seeing him, a basket on her
arm. And she seemed to bring all the sunlight of the spring morning with
her, so bright was the sparkle of her youth. The whole of her pink face,
her delicate nose, her broad intelligent brow, her thick, kindly lips,
beamed beneath the heavy coils of her black hair. And her brown eyes ever
laughed with the joyousness which comes from health and strength.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "I have brought such a lot of things, youngsters.
Just come and see them; I wouldn't unpack the basket in the kitchen."

It became absolutely necessary for the brothers to draw round the basket
which she had laid upon the table. "First there's the butter!" said she;
"just smell if it hasn't a nice scent of nuts! It's churned especially
for me, you know. Then here are the eggs. They were laid only yesterday,
I'll answer for it. And, in fact, that one there is this morning's. And
look at the cutlets! They're wonderful, aren't they? The butcher cuts
them carefully when he sees me. And then here's a cream cheese, real
cream, you know, it will be delicious! Ah! and here's the surprise,
something dainty, some radishes, some pretty little pink radishes. Just
fancy! radishes in March, what a luxury!"

She triumphed like the good little housewife she was, one who had
followed a whole course of cookery and home duties at the Lycee Fenelon.
The brothers, as merry as she herself, were obliged to compliment her.

All at once, however, she caught sight of Pierre. "What! you are there,
Monsieur l'Abbe?" she exclaimed; "I beg your pardon, but I didn't see
you. How is Guillaume? Have you brought us some news of him?"

"But father's come home," said Thomas; "he's upstairs with Mere-Grand."

Quite thunderstruck, she hastily placed her purchases in the basket.
"Guillaume's come back, Guillaume's come back!" said she, "and you don't
tell me of it, you let me unpack everything! Well, it's nice of me, I
must say, to go on praising my butter and eggs when Guillaume's come
back."

Guillaume, as it happened, was just coming down with Madame Leroi. Marie
gaily hastened to him and offered him her cheeks, on which he planted two
resounding kisses. Then she, resting her hands on his shoulders, gave him
a long look, while saying in a somewhat tremulous voice: "I am pleased,
very pleased to see you, Guillaume. I may confess it now, I thought I had
lost you, I was very anxious and very unhappy."

Although she was still smiling, tears had gathered in her eyes, and he,
likewise moved, again kissed her, murmuring: "Dear Marie! How happy it
makes me to find you as beautiful and as affectionate as ever."

Pierre, who was looking at them, deemed them cold. He had doubtless
expected more tears, and a more passionate embrace on the part of an
affianced pair, whom so grievous an accident had separated almost on the
eve of their wedding. Moreover, his feelings were hurt by the
disproportion of their respective ages. No doubt his brother still seemed
to him very sturdy and young, and his feeling of repulsion must have come
from that young woman whom, most decidedly, he did not like. Ever since
her arrival he had experienced increasing discomfort, a keener and keener
desire to go off and never return.

So acute became his suffering at feeling like a stranger in his brother's
home, that he at last rose and sought to take his leave, under the
pretext that he had some urgent matters to attend to in town.

"What! you won't stay to /dejeuner/ with us!" exclaimed Guillaume in
perfect stupefaction. "Why, it was agreed! You surely won't distress me
like that! This house is your own, remember!"

Then, as with genuine affection they all protested and pressed him to
stay, he was obliged to do so. However, he soon relapsed into silence and
embarrassment, seated on the same chair as before, and listening moodily
to those people who, although they were his relatives, seemed to be far
removed from him.

As it was barely eleven o'clock they resumed work, but every now and
again there was some merry talk. On one of the servants coming for the
provisions, Marie told the girl to call her as soon as it should be time
to boil the eggs, for she prided herself on boiling them to a nicety, in
such wise as to leave the whites like creamy milk. This gave an
opportunity for a few jests from Francois, who occasionally teased her
about all the fine things she had learnt at the Lycee Fenelon, where her
father had placed her when she was twelve years old. However, she was not
afraid of him, but gave him tit for tat by chaffing him about all the
hours which he lost at the Ecole Normale over a mass of pedagogic trash.

"Ah! you big children!" she exclaimed, while still working at her
embroidery. "You are all very intelligent, and you all claim to have
broad minds, and yet--confess it now--it worries you a little that a girl
like me should have studied at college in the same way as yourselves.
It's a sexual quarrel, a question of rivalry and competition, isn't it?"

They protested the contrary, declaring that they were in favour of girls
receiving as complete an education as possible. She was well aware of
this; however, she liked to tease them in return for the manner in which
they themselves plagued her.

"But do you know," said she, "you are a great deal behind the times? I am
well aware of the reproaches which are levelled at girls' colleges by
so-called right-minded people. To begin, there is no religious element
whatever in the education one receives there, and this alarms many
families which consider religious education to be absolutely necessary
for girls, if only as a moral weapon of defence. Then, too, the education
at our Lycees is being democratised--girls of all positions come to them.
Thanks to the scholarships which are so liberally offered, the daughter
of the lady who rents a first floor flat often finds the daughter of her
door-keeper among her school-fellows, and some think this objectionable.
It is said also that the pupils free themselves too much from home
influence, and that too much opportunity is left for personal initiative.
As a matter of fact the extensiveness of the many courses of study, all
the learning that is required of pupils at the examinations, certainly
does tend to their emancipation, to the coming of the future woman and
future society, which you young men are all longing for, are you not?"

"Of course we are!" exclaimed Francois; "we all agree on that point."

She waved her hand in a pretty way, and then quietly continued: "I'm
jesting. My views are simple enough, as you well know, and I don't ask
for nearly as much as you do. As for woman's claims and rights, well, the
question is clear enough; woman is man's equal so far as nature allows
it. And the only point is to agree and love one another. At the same time
I'm well pleased to know what I do--oh! not from any spirit of pedantry
but simply because I think it has all done me good, and given me some
moral as well as physical health."

It delighted her to recall the days she had spent at the Lycee Fenelon,
which of the five State colleges for girls opened in Paris was the only
one counting a large number of pupils. Most of these were the daughters
of officials or professors, who purposed entering the teaching
profession. In this case, they had to win their last diploma at the Ecole
Normale of Sevres, after leaving the Lycee. Marie, for her part, though
her studies had been brilliant, had felt no taste whatever for the
calling of teacher. Moreover, when Guillaume had taken charge of her
after her father's death, he had refused to let her run about giving
lessons. To provide herself with a little money, for she would accept
none as a gift, she worked at embroidery, an art in which she was most
accomplished.

While she was talking to the young men Guillaume had listened to her
without interfering. If he had fallen in love with her it was largely on
account of her frankness and uprightness, the even balance of her nature,
which gave her so forcible a charm. She knew all; but if she lacked the
poetry of the shrinking, lamb-like girl who has been brought up in
ignorance, she had gained absolute rectitude of heart and mind, exempt
from all hypocrisy, all secret perversity such as is stimulated by what
may seem mysterious in life. And whatever she might know, she had
retained such child-like purity that in spite of her six-and-twenty
summers all the blood in her veins would occasionally rush to her cheeks
in fiery blushes, which drove her to despair.

"My dear Marie," Guillaume now exclaimed, "you know very well that the
youngsters were simply joking. You are in the right, of course. . . . And
your boiled eggs cannot be matched in the whole world."

He said this in so soft and affectionate a tone that the young woman
flushed purple. Then, becoming conscious of it, she coloured yet more
deeply, and as the three young men glanced at her maliciously she grew
angry with herself. "Isn't it ridiculous, Monsieur l'Abbe," she said,
turning towards Pierre, "for an old maid like myself to blush in that
fashion? People might think that I had committed a crime. It's simply to
make me blush, you know, that those children tease me. I do all I can to
prevent it, but it's stronger than my will."

At this Mere-Grand raised her eyes from the shirt she was mending, and
remarked: "Oh! it's natural enough, my dear. It is your heart rising to
your cheeks in order that we may see it."

The /dejeuner/ hour was now at hand; and they decided to lay the table in
the work-shop, as was occasionally done when they had a guest. The
simple, cordial meal proved very enjoyable in the bright sunlight.
Marie's boiled eggs, which she herself brought from the kitchen covered
with a napkin, were found delicious. Due honour was also done to the
butter and the radishes. The only dessert that followed the cutlets was
the cream cheese, but it was a cheese such as nobody else had ever
partaken of. And, meantime, while they ate and chatted all Paris lay
below them, stretching away to the horizon with its mighty rumbling.

Pierre had made an effort to become cheerful, but he soon relapsed into
silence. Guillaume, however, was very talkative. Having noticed the three
bicycles in the garden, he inquired of Marie how far she had gone that
morning. She answered that Francois and Antoine had accompanied her in
the direction of Orgemont. The worry of their excursions was that each
time they returned to Montmartre they had to push their machines up the
height. From the general point of view, however, the young woman was
delighted with bicycling, which had many virtues, said she. Then, seeing
Pierre glance at her in amazement, she promised that she would some day
explain her opinions on the subject to him. After this bicycling became
the one topic of conversation until the end of the meal. Thomas gave an
account of the latest improvements introduced into Grandidier's machines;
and the others talked of the excursions they had made or meant to make,
with all the exuberant delight of school children eager for the open air.