Books: The Three Cities Trilogy: Paris, Complete

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What! nobody in?" said Guillaume.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Action."

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

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

IV

THE CRISIS

A GREAT ceremony was to take place that day at the basilica of the Sacred
Heart. Ten thousand pilgrims were to be present there, at a solemn
consecration of the Holy Sacrament; and pending the arrival of four
o'clock, the hour fixed for the service, Montmartre would be invaded by
people. Its slopes would be black with swarming devotees, the shops where
religious emblems and pictures were sold would be besieged, the cafes and
taverns would be crowded to overflowing. It would all be like some huge
fair, and meantime the big bell of the basilica, "La Savoyarde," would be
ringing peal on peal over the holiday-making multitude.

When Pierre entered the workroom in the morning he perceived Guillaume
and Mere-Grand alone there; and a remark which he heard the former make
caused him to stop short and listen from behind a tall-revolving
bookstand. Mere-Grand sat sewing in her usual place near the big window,
while Guillaume stood before her, speaking in a low voice.

"Mother," said he, "everything is ready, it is for to-day."

She let her work fall, and raised her eyes, looking very pale. "Ah!" she
said, "so you have made up your mind."

"Yes, irrevocably. At four o'clock I shall be yonder, and it will all be
over."

"'Tis well--you are the master."

Silence fell, terrible silence. Guillaume's voice seemed to come from far
away, from somewhere beyond the world. It was evident that his resolution
was unshakable, that his tragic dream, his fixed idea of martyrdom,
wholly absorbed him. Mere-Grand looked at him with her pale eyes, like an
heroic woman who had grown old in relieving the sufferings of others, and
had ever shown all the abnegation and devotion of an intrepid heart,
which nothing but the idea of duty could influence. She knew Guillaume's
terrible scheme, and had helped him to regulate the pettiest details of
it; but if on the one hand, after all the iniquity she had seen and
endured, she admitted that fierce and exemplary punishment might seem
necessary, and that even the idea of purifying the world by the fire of a
volcano might be entertained, on the other hand, she believed too
strongly in the necessity of living one's life bravely to the very end,
to be able, under any circumstances, to regard death as either good or
profitable.

"My son," she gently resumed, "I witnessed the growth of your scheme, and
it neither surprised nor angered me. I accepted it as one accepts
lightning, the very fire of the skies, something of sovereign purity and
power. And I have helped you through it all, and have taken upon myself
to act as the mouthpiece of your conscience. . . . But let me tell you
once more, one ought never to desert the cause of life."

"It is useless to speak, mother," Guillaume replied: "I have resolved to
give my life and cannot take it back. . . . Are you now unwilling to
carry out my desires, remain here, and act as we have decided, when all
is over?"

She did not answer this inquiry, but in her turn, speaking slowly and
gravely, put a question to him: "So it is useless for me to speak to you
of the children, myself and the house?" said she. "You have thought it
all over, you are quite determined?" And as he simply answered "Yes," she
added: "'Tis well, you are the master. . . . I will be the one who is to
remain behind and act. And you may be without fear, your bequest is in
good hands. All that we have decided together shall be done."

Once more they became silent. Then she again inquired: "At four o'clock,
you say, at the moment of that consecration?"

"Yes, at four o'clock."

She was still looking at him with her pale eyes, and there seemed to be
something superhuman in her simplicity and grandeur as she sat there in
her thin black gown. Her glance, in which the greatest bravery and the
deepest sadness mingled, filled Guillaume with acute emotion. His hands
began to tremble, and he asked: "Will you let me kiss you, mother?"

"Oh! right willingly, my son," she responded. "Your path of duty may not
be mine, but you see I respect your views and love you."

They kissed one another, and when Pierre, whom the scene had chilled to
his heart, presented himself as if he were just arriving, Mere-Grand had
quietly taken up her needlework once more, while Guillaume was going to
and fro, setting one of his laboratory shelves in order with all his
wonted activity.

At noon when lunch was ready, they found it necessary to wait for Thomas,
who had not yet come home. His brothers Francois and Antoine complained
in a jesting way, saying that they were dying of hunger, while for her
part Marie, who had made a /creme/, and was very proud of it, declared
that they would eat it all, and that those who came late would have to go
without tasting it. When Thomas eventually put in an appearance he was
greeted with jeers.

"But it wasn't my fault," said he; "I stupidly came up the hill by way of
the Rue de la Barre, and you can have no notion what a crowd I fell upon.
Quite ten thousand pilgrims must have camped there last night. I am told
that as many as possible were huddled together in the St. Joseph Refuge.
The others no doubt had to sleep in the open air. And now they are busy
eating, here, there and everywhere, all over the patches of waste ground
and even on the pavements. One can scarcely set one foot before the other
without risk of treading on somebody."

The meal proved a very gay one, though Pierre found the gaiety forced and
excessive. Yet the young people could surely know nothing of the
frightful, invisible thing which to Pierre ever seemed to be hovering
around in the bright sunlight of that splendid June day. Was it that the
dim presentiment which comes to loving hearts when mourning threatens
them, swept by during the short intervals of silence that followed the
joyous outbursts? Although Guillaume looked somewhat pale, and spoke with
unusual caressing softness, he retained his customary bright smile. But,
on the other hand, never had Mere-Grand been more silent or more grave.

Marie's /creme/ proved a great success, and the others congratulated her
on it so fulsomely that they made her blush. Then, all at once, heavy
silence fell once more, a deathly chill seemed to sweep by, making every
face turn pale--even while they were still cleaning their plates with
their little spoons.

"Ah! that bell," exclaimed Francois; "it is really intolerable. I can
feel my head splitting."

He referred to "La Savoyarde," the big bell of the basilica, which had
now begun to toll, sending forth deep sonorous volumes of sound, which
ever and ever winged their flight over the immensity of Paris. In the
workroom they were all listening to the clang.

"Will it keep on like that till four o'clock?" asked Marie.

"Oh! at four o'clock," replied Thomas, "at the moment of the consecration
you will hear something much louder than that. The great peals of joy,
the song of triumph will then ring out."

Guillaume was still smiling. "Yes, yes," said he, "those who don't want
to be deafened for life had better keep their windows closed. The worst
is, that Paris has to hear it whether it will or no, and even as far away
as the Pantheon, so I'm told."

Meantime Mere-Grand remained silent and impassive. Antoine for his part
expressed his disgust with the horrible religious pictures for which the
pilgrims fought--pictures which in some respects suggested those on the
lids of sweetmeat boxes, although they depicted the Christ with His
breast ripped open and displaying His bleeding heart. There could be no
more repulsive materialism, no grosser or baser art, said Antoine. Then
they rose from table, talking at the top of their voices so as to make
themselves heard above the incessant din which came from the big bell.

Immediately afterwards they all set to work again. Mere-Grand took her
everlasting needlework in hand once more, while Marie, sitting near her,
continued some embroidery. The young men also attended to their
respective tasks, and now and again raised their heads and exchanged a
few words. Guillaume, for his part, likewise seemed very busy; Pierre
alone coming and going in a state of anguish, beholding them all as in a
nightmare, and attributing some terrible meaning to the most innocent
remarks. During /dejeuner/, in order to explain the frightful discomfort
into which he was thrown by the gaiety of the meal, he had been obliged
to say that he felt poorly. And now he was looking and listening and
waiting with ever-growing anxiety.