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") RAOUL DE N AVERY, |>a»u^-«<.- BY ANNA T^SADLIER, ^M40r c/ ''Namtt that Live in CatkoUc HtttrU* New York, Cincinnati, and St. Loins: - Pfintm to tki Hofy A^MtOk Sm. ^ i88a. ^-^ COPYKIGHT, 1883. BY BENZIGER BROTHKIS. ^ o- ^ T; ■ Brothers. CONTENTS. PAOB CHATTBR I. The PoMERKUL Household 5 i8 II. AProdioalSon III. The Knights of THE Black Cap 34 IV. The Crime ^' V. The Secret of God • VI. The Accusation " VII. HeartTrials ^ VIII. The Inviolable Secret... *°5 . I90 IX. ANEW Misfortune ••• X. The Trial *" XI. The Dream Ended.. ^^' XII. An Artist Supper *^ XIII. The Golden Calf * ' 9o6 XIV. The War XV. The Two Brothers **9 XVI. Jean Machu ^^ XVII. The Barricades of Death ** . .. aSo XVIII. Lipp-Lapp XIX. The Dwarf's Secret. "99 XX. The Broken Idol •^'"" 5*' IDOLS; OB, The Secret of the Rue Chaus6e d'Antin. CHAPTER I. The Pomereul Household. Two men, who in age and appearance were widely different, sat conversing in a spacious study. The room was luxurious, though somewhat severe in its arrange-' ment. It contained many fine representations in bronze of masterpieces of antique art. Antoine Pomereul, the elder of the two men, seemed upwards of sixty years of age. His hair, which looked as if a gale of wind might have passed through it, fell over his massive temples. His florid complexion, the smile on his lips and the frank expression of the face betokened a straightforward and generous disposition, and much business ability. His grey eye was wonderfully penetrating; the very position of his hand upon the desk marked the energetic man of business. ^~ His companion, on the contrary, was scarcely twenty- C five. His broad forehead bore the impress of genius upon it, and genius of a solid and somewhat serious character; his expression was earnest, with a tinge of mingled asceticism and ideality. His figure was lithe and graceful, his hair black, his complexion pale, his whole appearance most attractive. A voice true in tone and n IDOLS. musical in quality completed the charm, and added no little to the confidence which his countenance inspired. Nor did it belie a nature at once ardent and sensitive. " So, Benedict," said Antoine Pomereul, " you refuse to draw aside the envious veil which covers your statue. Your apprentice, Cleomene, has just brought it here, and 1 am longing to see it. But I assure you I respected its folds, as if they were those of the ancient Isis." "Omy dear master," said Benedict, seizing the old man's hand impulsively, " if I have kept it veiled, it is because I would fain see for myself the impression it produced upon you, and hear with my own lips the de- cree which will make me happy or miserable. I want to consult your heart and mind alike in the two-fold deci- sion you are about to give." "On my honor," laughed Antoine Pomereul, "the ^affair is more serious than I supposed." "It concerns my whole life," cried the young man eagerly. " You mean your future as an artist, I suppose," said Pomereul, "and as to that, my boy, many find them- selves deceived who follow art. Yes, those who seek her most often go farthest astray. Unwilling to follow the beaten path, they take new and unknown ones; some- times they lose the guiding thread; their mind gropes in darkness; they fail to realize the grandeur of their first conception. However, Benedict, it is better even to miss a lofty ideal, than to remain forever satisfied with what is mediocre and trivial." " Judge for yourself," cried the artist, suddenly raising the veil which covered the statue. It was about three feet in height, of the purest Car- rara marble. It represented a young girl modestly clad in a flowing robe, such as is seen on fauns of the twelfth and thirteenth centurieii. The eyes were raised to Hea- ;harm, and added no :ountenance inspired, dent and sensitive. >mereul, "you refuse h covers your statue, t brought it here, and re you I respected its ncient Isis." edict, seizing the old e kept it veiled, it is elf the impression it I my own lips the de- miserable. I want to in the two-fold deci- Dine Pomereul, "the led." ried the young man rtist, I suppose," said )y, many find them- :s, those who seek her twilling to follow the inknown ones; some- their mind gropes in randeur of their first : is better even to miss er satisfied with what rtist, suddenly raising t, of the purest Car- ng girl modestly clad 1 fauns of the twelfth :s were raised to Hea- TIIE rOMEREUL HOUSEHOLD. 7 ven, in her hand she held a chisel and hammer; she seemed the very personification of the sculpture of that period, a celestial daughter of prayer, offering her sub- limest work to the God who inspired it. The old man regarded the statue for some moments in nilence, after which he grasped the young sculptor's hand with an air of conviction, saying, " Good, my boy, good." " Ah," said Benedict, " how happy you make me.** " This figure represents — " "The daughter of Steinbach," answered Benedict, " architect of the Cathedral of Strasburg. She assisted her father in that mighty work, and the pillar des Anges, of the Angels, bear her name, Sabine." "Ah, Steinbach's daughter was named Sabine, like mine," said Pomereul, smiling. " Well, you are satisfied now, I suppose. Your statue is charming. The style and conception of it are good. Ypu have kept your ideal, and the skill of your chisel has not interfered with the purity of your inspiration. Bravo! yes, I say honestly and in all sincerity, bravo! Keep up your heart If the figure is small, the execution is great." "Master," said Benedict, "your praise confuses me." " It need not," said Pomereul. " I am stating facts. I trust you do not suspect me of flattering. You re- member when, as a mere child, you worked with my sculptors, how exacting I was. Exacting enough to dis- courage any one but you. Perhaps you thought me severe or even hard. I feared so myself, yet I continued in the same way. It is by the patience of the pupil that the reality of his vocation is determined. Those cowards -who are overcome by the difficulties of the task, and the severity of the master, are not worth a regret. It is doing them a service to keep them tradesmen, rather than raise them to the dignity of artiists. You blushed. 8 IDOLS. indeed, at my reproofs, but less with anger than with grief at your own mistakes; indefatigable you began again; every day you made new progress, and were not vain of it; you looked rather at what you had yet to learn than at the facility already acquired. At last I was forced to turn you out of the workshop, for you were too modest to see that sculpture was calling you to her service, and that with me you were making merely models for industry." "Yes," said Benedict, "you are right; it was neces- sary indeed to drive me from your house, as I would never have left it. You were anxious for my welfare; I was more anxious to keep my happiness. You aspired for me to artistic heights; I would have sacrificed every- thing at that time to continue making your pendulums and candelabras. You were right, but my heart sought to persuade me that you were wrong. I begin to be known, I may become famous; but who will assure me that I have as of old — " "The friendship of your old master? But you are still part of the family, Benedict. I love you almost as much as Sulpice more perhaps than Xavier." "Really?" " Really." " Then, if I should ask you a favor?" " I am almost sure I would grant it" " Even if it were something of importance?" " Even is not the word, say especially." " Well," said Benedict, plucking up courage, " will you allow me to offer this statue to Mile. Sabine? To-mor- row is her birthday, and — " " You dear, big boy," said Pomereul, " you were afraid to finish the sentence. Yet you have lived ten years in my house. My severity towards you was only a proof of my attachment. When the big tears rolled down your IHE POMEREUL HOUSEHOLD. ith anger than with fatigable you began jgress, and were not hat you had yet to acquired. At last I tricshop, for you were s calling you to her ere making merely ight; it was neces- ir house, as I would ous for my welfare; piness. You aspired lave sacrificed every- ing your pendulums It my heart sought to I begin to be known, ill assure me that I ^ster? But you are I love you almost as I Xavier." ir?" it." portance?" ially." p courage, " will you le. Sabine? To-mor- !ul, "you were afraid ve lived ten years in >u was only a proof ars rolled down your cheeks on the day of your departure, it was because you left behind you a happy past, and your youthful dreams and ambition., But I wished you to have such a trial. It was needed to temper your soul. Sheltered by my care and forethought, you knew nothing of the dangers of the world. You thought that each one lived there in the dignity of his own purity, and the strength of his own convictions, without either struggle or effort. I wanted you to pass through that fiery furnace, and come forth tempered for the battle of life. The boy bade me fare- well with swelling heart and tearful eyes; I hoped that the man would return to me. He is come. You have made no false steps upon your way. Your gaze has re- mained fixed upon one star, your heart was true to one attachment. It was well done; it is rare and beautiful. Artists of your age often drag their inspiring muse in the mud. But you begged her to raise you upon her wings, and she has kept you there. You have often called me your benefactor, to-day you called me master, there ii but one more title you can give me." "One title," cried Benedict, "then you understand, you do not despise my — " "Your father gives you his hand," said PomereuL Benedict grasped it, with large tears standing in his eyes, and thus the two men stood face to face for some moments, emotion keeping them silent. It was with regret they both heard Baptiste's voice at the door, asking, "Can you receive M. Andri Nicois, sir?" " Of course," said M. Pomereul advancing towards the door. " Then, my statue—" said Benedict " Is Sabine's property now," said Pomereul, " and by the way, we must let her have this surprise as soon as possible." , ii' lO IDOLS. As he spoke M. Pomereul turned to the darkest ccf ner of the room, calling, "Lipp-Lapp!" Hearing its name, a strange creature came out of the shadow where it had been hidden. It stood upright and firmly on its feet, letting its arms hang down beside its lean body, and came towards its master. It was a chimpanzee of the larger species, with intel- ligent face, mild dark eyes, and a broad wide-open mouth, which seemed about to speak. Lipp-Lapp's eyes gleamed with intelligence. He wore a robe of brocade, ornamented with pearls and gold, such as is seen in pic- tures of blacks by Italian masters. He had a bright colored turban on his head, and seemed very proud of his fine clothes. He had been brought from Java to M Pomereul by a friend, and had soon learned, as many of his race have done, to perform various little domestic services. He could carry a tray of fruit, liqueur, or coffee with perfect safety, distribute the letters, and could besides understand almost any order given to him. " Lipp-Lapp," said M. Pomereul, " take this statue and put it on Mile. Sabine's mantelpiece." The chimpanzee showed all his teeth in a broad grin; he seized the figure in his strong and dextrous arms, and went off in the direction of Mile. Pomereul's apart- ments. "My daughter is out," said Pomereul; "on her return she will find the statue, and can thank you this evening. You must dine with us, my boy." Benedict only wrung M. Pomereul's hand, exchanged salutes with M. Nicois, who was coming in, and left the house radiant with joy. M. Pomereul perceived at once that the countenance of his visitor was anxious and troubled. Unlike many to the darkest ccf ner iture came out of the 1. It stood upright ms hang down beside i master. 5r species, with intel- a broad wide-open ik. Lipp-Lapp's eyes ire a robe of brocade, such as is seen in pic- 's. He had a bright eemed very proud of rought from Java to lad soon learned, as )erform various little irry a tray of fruit, lafety, distribute the ind almost any order " take this statue and B." :eeth in a broad grin; and dextrous arms, lie. Pomereul's apart- sreul; "on her return ank you this evening. ul's hand, exchanged >ming in, and left the that the countenance ubled. Unlike many THE POMEREUL HOUSEHOLD. II people, who seeing their friends in distress, begin an ac- count of their own difficulties, for fear of being called on for assistance, M. Pomereul took a chair opposite Nicois, and said to him bluntly, " What has gone wrong with you ?" " Everything has gone wrong," said Nicois. " I came on purpose to tell you, and now — " "You hes'tate," said Pomereul; "but I say, what is the use of having friends if you cannot ask a favor of them? It was just the same with that fine, clever boy who has gone out. He came to open his heart to me, and I was obliged to offer him Sabine in marriage. You need money." " Who told you so ?" cried Nicois excitedly. " No one," answered his friend. " Can you assure me of this," said Nicois, " there are no rumors at the Bourse ?" * "On the contrary," said Pomereul, "the talk there yesterday was how solid you were. li you are in diffi- culties, no hint of it has got about. But I simply judge from this. Nothing else bu; financial embarrassment could make you look so down in the mouth, and what else could have brought you here just before the end of the month, if it were not to say, Friend Pomereul, open your money-chest wide. I want to put in both hands." "You are right," said Nicois, "you are as clear-sighted as generous. I need money, a large sum." "How much?" "A hundred thousand francs," said the banker with much embarrassment. " I have not that much in the house," said Pomereul quietly, " but I can get it for you. Come here the day after to-morrow, and it will be ready." > * Exchange. ^W-^i / 12 IDOLS. " You will save my life," said Nicois. " Ah, it is too much to put life in the scale with money," said Pomereul. " I simply do you a service, which in like circumstances I should ask of you. If friendship does not go as far as the purse, and a little beyond, there is not much use in making a parade of it." "Pomereul," said Nicois, "you know what true friend- ship is, though you do not make a parade of it. But who could be more noble, more unselfish than you are, to your very workmen, to all who surround you?" "Stop there," said Pomereul; "I object. What you ca,ll unselfishness, generosity, liberality, and so on, is only a knowledge of business. If I have laid a foundation of benevolence to others, it is only making a profitable in- vestment. I am rich, and it gives me the very great happiness of being loved by those around me, respected without being feared, and the possessor of four millions, without having any enemies or being envied. Looking back upon my life, it seems that in all its circumstances I was blessed by Providence. There is one cloud upon the blue horizon, but that I trust will in time disappear. My father was a blacksmith, pursuing his humble trade, and gaining a scanty sustenance. I resolved to aid him by my earnings. As a mere boy I got a situation in a bronze factory. I was employed only to run errands, and to sweep the store. But I never loitered upon the way, nor left a speck of dust where my broom had been. So I won my employer's confidence. He made me an ap- prentice. I astonished the workmen by my facility in learning. My master began to take a special interest in me. He had me taught the intricacies of the trade, instead of leaving me to spend my life toiling at, its lower branches. I attempted first the casting, then Uie setting or the carving of large pieces. At twenty, few workmen could equal me. If my education was not "'^.ti-itiiiMmMmmgtea imiimi ' IS. ! scale with money," ervice, which in like If friendship does le beyond, there is it." >w what true friend- parade of it. But ish than you are, to und you?" object. What you :y, and so on, is only aid a foundation of ing a profitable in- me the very great 3und me, respected 3or of four millions, J envied. Looking i its circumstances I one cloud upon the ime disappear. My humble trade, and ed to aid him by my nation in a bronze iin errands, and to upon the way, nor 31 had been. So I made me an ap- I by my facility in special interest in icies of the trade, life toiling at, its e casting, then the At twenty, fe# education was not ■.;v*«*f.,«fciJt^fti^?^i^*-«"'" THE rOMEREUL HOUSEHOLD. «3 classical, it was at least sound and practical. From that time my lot was cast. The proprietor had a daughter. He gave her to me in marriage. The firm name became 'Bernard et Pomereul.' It continued so for three years. Then Bernard died, and my name alone was on books or invoices. I succeeded him. I had three chil- dren, and our happiness was, indeed, enviable, when the greatest grief of my life came upon me. My wife died. I thought at first I should never be consoled for her loss, but though I have never forgotten her, time has softened my sorrow. My children remain to me— Sul- pice, whose intellect is far in advance of his age, Xavier, whose good heart redeems his folly, and Sabine,' the angel of our house." "Ah, yes," said Nicois, "you area happy father." Pomereul sighed, and resumed. " What was done for me, the poor child of Paris, with- out any other recommendation than his own desire to do right, I have always tried to do for others. I have striven to be rather the father than the master of my workmen. If I do all that is necessary in paying them their salary, I love to do more for my own satisfaction. You must see sometime how I have organized their dwellings at Charenton, near the factory. Each family has its own house, which is simple and comfortable. There is water to purify and take away the bad proper- ties of the gas, which gives it warmth and light; a little plot of ground to supply it with vegetables and to grow flowers; the children can likewise raise rabbits there, and the good wife, chickens. I have, besides, a hospital for the sick, a crib for nursing infants, a workroom for girls, an infant school for the little ones. My factory really in- cludes a complete city, of wViich I am chief magistrate." "And of which your son aulpice is the apostle," said Nicois. illl a / 14 IDOLS. " Yes," replied Pomereul, in a voice of considerable emotion, " you may well say Sulpice is an apostle. What I do through philanthropy, he does from pure charity. I bring to one corner of the earth comforts, improve- ments, worldly goods, but he brings Heaven there. He teaches catechism to the children, guides the family, is the adviser of the father, and is beloved and respected by every one. He has made my workmen doubly honest and faithful in the discharge of their duties. There is perfect harmony between their principles and conduct. Seeing the son of their master, the millionaire, Sulpice Pomereul, working among them in his poor cassock and coarse shoes, they cannot doubt the divine char- acter of a religion which inspires such sacrifices. Sul- pice translates the Bible into action, and he might say, with the noble pride of an apostle. Be ye also my imi- tators, as I am the imitator of Christ Jesus. Truly I love Sulpice as a living part of my own heart. But at times the veneration I feel for his virtues is even greater than my affection. There could not be a finer spectacle than that of a young man endowed with every gift of mind and fortune, renouncing the privileges of the upper few to devote his life to the education of poor chil- dren, the consolation of the wretched, and the relief of human misery. Therefore Sulpice is beloved and vener- ated by all who know him. They knock much oftener at the door of the humble room which he keeps for himself in the attic, than at that of the rich merchant, member of the Municipal Council, and Judge in the Tribunal de Commerce. Every one in the house feels the influence of his gentleness and piety. I do not speak of Sabine, she is an angel, but customers, friends, servants, all, except Xavier." " You exaggerate these youthful follies of Xavier,'^ said Nicdis;"why the deuce take it, Pomereul, a boy must sow his wild oats." •utmtkmmtimilm THE POMEREUL HOUSEHOLD. 15 ice of considerable s an apostle. What from pure charity. comforts, improve- Heaven there. He ;uides the family, is oved and respected kmen doubly honest sir duties. There is ciples and conduct. millionaire, Sulpice n his poor cassock )t the divine char- uch sacrifices. Sul- I, and he might say, Be ye also my imi- •ist Jesus. Truly I own heart. But at ■tues is even greater be a finer spectacle I with every gift of ; privileges of the ucation of poor chil- id, and the relief of 5 beloved andvener- lock muchoftenerat he keeps for himself (lerchant, member of in the Tribunal de feels the influence of ik of Sabine, she is an s, all, except Xavier." lilies of Xavier,'^ said mereul, a boy must " What they sow they must reap," said Pomcreul. "Ah, well, he will come out right," said Nicois; " per- haps he needed a fjiend and adviser of his own age in whom he could confide. Sulpice is rather too austere for your youngest son, and Sabine's very innocence pre- vents her being of service to htm." " And what of me ?" asked Pomereul. " You, why confound it, man, you are his father. Be- sides you are of that disposition which difficulties to be overcome in early life naturally make a man, and whose character forbids Xavier to confide in him. Things will improve when Benedict Fougerais is your son-in-law, for you said, did you not, that you meant to give him Sabine?" "Gladly, my friend," said Pomereul. "Benedict is one of those young men who left my workshop to be- come masters in their turn. For I have the deep satis- faction of knowing that my house has produced men who will be an honor to their country. One reason why I love my calling is that it enab.les me to aid deserving talent. Once a boy gains the special interest of his pro- fessor in drawing or modelling I keep my eye on him. I inquire as to the condition of his family. If they are poor I give the boy a pension, stipulating that he will pay me back, by yearly sums, till he has paid all I have advanced. This, in turn, is used to open a future to some other boy. It has another advantage, for it teaches them the proper value of money; that they must regard it, not as an idol, but as a power; that it must be used less for our pleasures than our necessities; that its worth may be increased a hundred-fold by the use made of it. Many artists owe their future to this plan of mine: Luc Aubry, the landscape painter, Jean Leroux, who painted the interior, which you bought last year, Benedict Fougerais,' who is likely to take a front rank among our sculptors if he does not degenerate." f'l. %*««i; •W^'^' / ;. » i6 IDOLS. " Degenerate, when he is Sabine's husband ?" " I do not mean degeneracy of hand or of intellect." " What then ?" " A moral degeneracy." " That will be impossible when he is surrounded by such an atmosphere as this." " I hope so, but who can tell ? You know how fatally easy and insidious is the descent of an artist. Benedict only knows the great art, pure, religious, Christian, the art which is the softened shade of religious feeling. He is of the school of Fra Bartolomeo and Fra Angelico, who painted their Madonnas on their knees. But the current of fashion and of popular taste does not run upon that side. Art has become pagan. It has descended from the sacred heights. The Muse has become a Bac- chante and dances with satyrs; a modest statue or a decent picture loses half its chance of success. The churches are no longer endowed with works of a re- ligious inspiration, but rather the drawing-rooms are decorated with profane or indecent figures. Therefore, woe to the artist, however gifted, who sacrifices his power of inspiration to every passing whim, who says to himself, not, I am going to create something g^eat, but, I am going to make a gfroup which will sell. First, he tries to succeed, then to succeed again, then to be talked of in the papers. So far Benedict has escaped these perils. God grant he may continue so." ' " Rest easy," said Nicois; " not only will he do that, but he will bring back your prodigal son." " You believe so ?" said Pomereul. " Most sincerely; we were alt foolish at his age, except you perhaps." " And you too, I hope," said Pomereul, looking fixedly at his friend. A dark shade passed over the banker's face. -BWria I husband ?" id or of intellect." le is surrounded by >u know how fatally an artist. Benedict gious, Christian, the ligious feeling. He d Fra Angelico, who :es. But the current [oes not run upon It has descended ! has become a Bac- modest statue or a e of success. The rith works of a re- drawing-rooms are figures. Therefore, who sacrifices his ng whim, who sa3'^s te something g^eat, hich will sell. First, d again, then to be enedict has escaped itinue so." ' mly will he do that, il son." sh at his age, except reul, looking fixedly ker'sface. THE POMEREUL HOUSEHOLD. >7 " My friend," said he, in a troubled voice, " I paid to folly one tribute, which though brief cost me dear. My hair has been always white since you knew me, has it not ?" "It is true." " It grew white in a single night." " In consequence of some terrible misfortune ?" "Yes, you name it right, a terrible misfortune," said Nicois. Seeing his friend's astonishment at this unexpected confidence he continued: "It is since that, I have had such a passion for money. Till then I only thought of it as a means of obtaining an independent position; now, I want it to gratify my pride, my wife's follies, to excite the envy of others, and plunge myself into such a whirlpool of business and of pleasure that I forget, or at least for an hour lose that one recol- lection." "Will you not confide to me the cause of your suffer- ing ?" "Ah," said Nicois, "if you knew all. But some day the friend will come to your fireside and open his heart to you. To-day, the banker alone has told you his mis- fortune." Pomereul took his friend's outstretched hand. Nicois rose to go. " You say that the money will be ready for me the day after to-morrow?" "The day after to-morrow," said Pomereul, "a hun- dred thousand francs will be in this portfolio for you." As Nicois passed out, Lipp-Lapp brought him his overcoat and cane. 1 I II il m ,1.1 P^"*)ai / I8 IDOLS. CHAPTER II. A Prodigal Son, In the Pomereul household everything, even to the smallest details, was as orderly as possible. The mer- chant himself fully appreciating the value of time never permitted it to be wasted in idleness. Many people by delaying lose a few minutes now and a few minutes again, which at the end of the week amounts to several hours. The clocks always went to perfection, and the manufacturer of bronze daily found that rare phenomenon so eagerly sought by Charles V., all the clocks struck at the same moment. At six precisely the family sat down to dinner. Pomereul never waited for anybody. He considered want of punctuality a breach of good man- ners, towards which people are usually too indulgent. When Xavier dined out he generally let his father know. But on this particular occasion, when the butler an- nounced dinner, Pomereul, Sulpice, Sabine and Benedict were in the drawing-room, but no Xavier. Sabine's face was bright and joyful. She sat at a window talking to her betrothed, and a ray of the setting sVm falling on her golden hair formed of it an aureola. Her only ornament was a white rose, which she had added to her simple toilet from the bouquet Benedict had brought her. Pomereul and Sulpice were conversing in a low voice ,of Sabine's betrothal, and the young priest seemed very much pleased about it. "It is one of those unions," said he to his father, "which are too seldom seen nowadays. On the 6ne hand is Sabine with all the virtues which form the hig^- e^t charm and special strength of a woman; on the ■cmIiw i'i'-mtmimlm ything, even to the possible. The mer- value of time never s. Many people by and a few minutes : amounts to several perfection, and the fiat rare phenomenon the clocks struck at the family sat down for anybody. He reach of good man- ually too indulgent. ' let his father know, hen the butler an- Sabine and Benedict avier. yful. She sat at a 1 a ray of the setting led of it an aureola, ose, which she had le bouquet Benedict rsing in a low voice priest seemed very id he to his father, days. On the 6ne rhich form the hig^- f a woman; on the "rmr A PRODIGAL SON. »9 other, Benedict, with his energy, love of work and law- ful ambition. You know Benedict's talents, his moral character, his strong religious principles, and you do well to place my sister's hand in his. They both know full well, despite the illusions of their age, that the future will have many trials for them, but they know also that they can overcome these trials. The blessing of heaven must surely rest on such a marriage, and I shall gladly perform the ceremony which unites them." " You remind me," said M. Pomereul smiling, " that Benedict and I have not yet spoken of Sabine's dowry." " Your lawyer will attend to that," said Sulpice. "No," said M. Pomereul, "when you want a thing well done do it yourself." As he spoke he turned to the young people. "Come here a moment, Benedict," said he. The young man came. "My good son-in-law," said Pomereul, "you acted somewhat thoughtlessly yesterday about a certain mat- ter. I must say it did not give me a very high opinion of your business ability. How can you possibly sign contracts for your work, or make agreements if you know so little of the value of money, that you did not ask me what dowry I would give Sabine ?' " A dowry to Sabine ?" cried Benedict. " I do not want any." " You do not want any ?" said Pomereul. " Most assuredly not," said Benedict. " Is it not enough that I am to become the husband of such a girl as that without receiving a large sum of money ? Do you think that while you live I would ever take a penny of your fortune from you ? By doing so I would offend Sabine and degrade myself. I am only twenty-five. I am" will- ing to work and I may add I have talents. I can easily supply our little wants. .No, dear father. I refuse to / 20 IDOLS. accept her dowry, and I am sure Sabine thinks as I do." "Yes," said Sabine, in a voice full of emotion, "you are right, perfectly right." Pomereul shook his head incredulously. " Believe me," said Benedict earnestly, " it is better that young people should not have too much money at first. Sometimes their future is marred rather than made by premature good fortune. Money is rather an incentive to idleness than to work. The rich are more apt to gather round them a crowd of parasites and flat- terers. For an artist, wealth is a positive misfortune. It induces him to waste his time, and the very praise be- stowed on him is often given less to the artist than to the rich man, so that it blinds him to the real value of his work." "You are right," said Sulpice, pressing Benedict's hand. " It seems to me, too," said Sabine, blushing, " that it robs the wife of half her merit; it condemns her to idle- ness, by making her rich all at once. A wealthy bride seems to owe everything to her family, and nothing to her husband. What will it matter, dear father, if the daughter of the millionaire Pomereul be without hordes or diamonds? I can use your carriage at need, and Benedict shall see that I know how to dispense with these things cheerfully. My surroundings will be hum- ble; so much the better. I shall go out of my world in marrying an artist, and yet I will remain myself. I do not need large means, which would render work useless, lead me to love the world, and to rival other women in dress and extravagance. We will live upon my hus- band's earnings as my mother was content to live upon yours." Pomereul opened his arms to Sabine., . '' - i t ' WW ' . ' ;«w, ! ;w.) 8 l i abine thinks as I of emotion, "you isly. :stly, " it is better oo much money at arred rather than VIoney is rather an The rich are more parasites and flat- ositive misfortune, the very praise be- > the artist than to the real value of pressing Benedict's , blushing, " that it ndemns her to idle- A wealthy bride ly, and nothing to dear father, if the i be without hordes iage at need, and r to dispense with idings will be hum- )ut of my world in nain myself. I do :nder work useless, al other women in ive upon my hus- >ntent to live upon le. A rKOniGAL SON. St "Dear daughter," he said, "and dear son, more touched than I can express, I yield to your youthful wisdom. You are now voluntarily poor. But you will permit me once and a while to give you a little surprise." " We will permit whatever will be a pleasure to you," said Benedict. " Very well," said Pomereul gayly, recovering from his emotion, " we shall serve up surprises, like truffles, under a napkin." At that moment Lipp-Lapp threw open the doors, and drew aside the curtains, while the voice of Baptiste announced, " Dinner." The great clock struck six. The same thought occurred to Sabine and Sulpice. Xavier was not there. Benedict, who read what was passing in Sabine's mind, said to M. Pomereul, in a half entreating way, " Shall we not wait for Xavier ?" " No, my boy," said M. Pomereul firmly, " it is his duty to be punctual, he has not done his duty." " He forgot that this night was not like every other." " He knows that he owes me respect and deference," said Pomereul, " that should suffice. Give Sabine your arm, Benedict; we must not let the dinner cool." They went into the dining-room. It was a large square room, made octagon in shape by g^eat side- boards, laden with massive silver. The bright light of the lamps shone on choice pictures; the table linen was snowy white; vases of flowers ornamented the table; comfort and taste reigned supreme at this board, where the finest crystal rivalled the choicest of porcelain. Taking up her napkin, Sabine uttered a cry of delight; a magnificent bracelet of diamonds lay beneath it wm a Sis'! / la IDOLS. "Ah, father," said the young girl reproachfully, "al- ready!" "It belonged to your mother," said M. Pomereul quietly. Sulpice was at his father's right hand, Sabine to the left, while Benedict sat facing his future father-in-law. An empty chair awaited Xavier. The commencement of the meal was cheerful, spite of the young man's absence. M. Pomereul himself gave the tone to it, and besides an incident at once touching and comic added to its gayety. Lipp-Lapp was a great pet of Xavier's, and the honest chimpanzee always took great delight in serving him at table. Not seeing him in his accustomed place, he showed the utmost vexation. His eyes were anx- iously fixed upon the door. Seeing, however, that dinnc- was going on without Xavier, he was determined to perform his ofhce, notwithstanding. He placed a share of all the viands before the empty chair, and changed the plates with as much care as if his young master had really partaken of all these good things. As time passed, however, Lipp-Lapp became sadder and sadder, and at the dessert his face was the picture of misery. All at once, when the coffee was being served, the chim- panzee gave a little cry of joy, and rushed towards the door, opening from the dining-room to the antechamber. He heard his young master's step. But Xavier did not appear. Lipp-Lapp's instinct had not deceived him. Xavier had just passed up stairs. Instead wer which Sabine the family, whom laid to him; " hence- |ble every day." Sabine said good A PRODIGAL SON. 27 " I hope you are not going to work late," she said. " Only to write a letter, dear child," he answered. "I understand," said Sulpice, "you are going to wait for Xavier." " Yes, he must hear my decision to-night." " Remember your promise." " Have no fear, Sulpice. Rest in peace my good son!" The young priest went up to the top floor, where his room was situated. Sabine went to her little apartment, just between her father's and Xavier's. The young girl, who had begged her father to retire early, seated herself at a table, and began to write with the rapidity of inspiration and of joy. Meanwhile M. Pomereul rang for Baptiste. " Let me know when M. Xavier comes in," he said briefly. " M. Xavier has been in more than an hour," said the man. "Then ask him to come to my study." A moment more, and Xavier was face to face with his father. His countenance bore traces of late hours and of premature excess; his eyes were dim, his lips colorless, his usually careful dress was disordered, his hands trembling with nervous excitement. " Why did you not appear at dinner ?" said his father. The young man hung his head, but said nothing. " Where were you ?" "At the club." " So you preferred the society of your friends to ours ?" " I have not dined," said Xavier, in a low voice. " What were you doing then >" " I was playing." "You were playing, and you lost, I suppose?" i.:r i 'liii' -V*,i--S«*!ka«i / 28 IDOLS. "Host." " A large sum ?" " Yes, father." " How much ?" " Forty thousand francs." " Your gaming purse is large then ?" " No. I played on my word." "Indeed. So there are people willing to risk forty thousand francs on your word. That shows considerable confidence in your honor." "And my honesty." "How is that?" " It proves that if I make debts I pay them; if I con- tract a loan I make it good." " With what ?" said M. Pomereul. " With — well with the money you are good enough to give me." " Our interview is going to be longer then than I ex- pected," said the father. " I intended to let you stand like a criminal before his judge, but I pity your evident prostration, so take a seat and listen to me." It was the first time Xavier had ever heard his father speak to him with such icy coldness. He lost the little assurance he had on entering, and almost fell into an arm-chair. " When I married your mother," began M. Pomereul, "she was poor; I was earning my living by my trade, and in those evil days we learned to know and appreci- ate each other. When fortune came, it found us pre- pared to encounter her perils. Your mother remained what she had ever been — ^a model of a woman and a wife. If she possessed jewels it was simply because it pleased me to bestow them. She never asked for them, and was never vain of them. She brought you children up without ever ceasing to be an accomplished woman, 1?" ivilling to risk forty It shows considerable pay them; if I con- I are good enough to >nger then than I ex- ded to let you stand I I pity your evident n to me." :ver heard his father is. He lost the little I almost fell into an began M. Pomereul, ' living by my trade, know and appreci- me, it found us pre- lur mother remained 1 of a woman and a as simply because it lever asked for them, t)rought you children iccomplished woman, A PRODIGAL SON. y!:j(Ky..- ' 4k;>gs%a 39 !*ai) "iSiiBsffij a charming and lovable companion to me. She watched over you as long as God spared ner, and one day she left me alone. Yes, alone ; for though she left me you threft, and you fill a great part of my heart, there is still a large portion which must remain forever widowed. I was true to that dear memory, I devoted myself to your education and that of Sulpice. You both received the same lessons, and from the same professors. Sulpice, it is true, had been longer under your mother's care, and perhaps inherited more of her angelic character. Scarce- ly was he of an age to think when he became serious ; scarcely was it time for him to choose a profession when he chose the perpetual sacrifice of self, the abnegation of his whole life. He became a priest, and is already an apostle. The seminary took him from me, you alone re- mained. You alone were to live the life of the world, and sustain the family name among respectable people. If that does not excuse my weakness, it at least explains it. For awhile I thought your folly was but the fleeting effervescence of youth ; I did not put you under the yoke of labor soon enough, and every day I have felt that you are going farther and farther away from me." " Father—" " Do not interrupt me, you will answer later. Your superfluous wants grev.- in proportion as they were satis- fied. Yo.. took me upon the weak side of affection and paternal vanity, and since then I have been nothing more to you than the purveyor of your wants, aye, the surname to his in- of a whole genera- ;came proprietor.of lese belonging[S, be- THE KNIGHTS OK THE BLACK CAP. 3S ginning by a court dark as Erebus, gloomy as a prison gate, ended in a building for the construction of which Father Methusalem had made use of the most hetero- geneous elements. Wood and mortar had the principal share in it. The doors and windows had neither form, proportion, nor equilibrium. Several panes in the win< dow were supplied by greasy paper; hinges creaked, window bolts had ceased to work, the ancient stove smoked, and yet there appeared in white letters on a black board, placed just above the entrance door, the sign, Pension Bouroeoise. These words set us thinking. What sort of kitchen could there be in the underground depths of this extraordinary structure ? Who could be the customers of such a faMe a'hote t In the middle of a large room stood a deal table, stained with wine and gravy, cut and hacked by the knives of the boarders, and set at the time when we entered with chipped plates, wooden spoons and iron forks. There were no knives, as the guests usually brought their own. Pewter mugs stood before each plate. Benches served for seats. There was but one chair in the room; it marked the place reserved for Father Methusalem. A dark, winding staircase with rickety steps led down into the depths of the cellar triansformed into a kitchen. Upon a long range or furnace, in stew-pans as large as boilers, over a hot fire boiled ^ strange mixture, the olla podrida daily served up to rte boarders; it was in fact the invariable dish. In the steaming mess were rab- bits, bones of mutton, chunks of beef, the tails of red herrings, sheeps* tails, remnants of calves' heads, beets, onions and lobster claws. A great lump of grease and several cloves of garlic gave all these components a cer- tain similarity of taste. Some fine chickens, ready for broiling, vear cutlets and beefsteaks laid out upon the ''i'M^M.i,>^mS^^^ ""W"'me^^ / p- I $0 IDOLS. table proved that this establishment was capable of ris< ing to the level of circumstances. Beside the heavy, todden-looking potato-salud was delicate lettuce or fresh red cabbage; close to the livid cheese, the odor of which, sui gtHeris, betrayed its quality, a superb basket of fruit awaited those who were equal to the expense of a dainty meal. Among the tables, pots and kettles moved an extraor- dinary figure who seemed in perfect accordance with her sinister surroundings. It was a woman scarcely three feet high and apparently some fifty odd years of age. Her head was disproportionately iarge, her face sullen ;i».' dark in expression, enlivened ever and anon by a gleam of cold malice. Her grey hair, too abundant to be held in check by the red plaid handkerchief which covered it, hung loose upon her shoulders; in her great ears, which stood far out from her head, she wore a pair of ear>rings, such as might have belonged to some Nor- man peasant and so long that they touched her shoul- ders. The upper portion of this singular creature was of the usual proportions of a woman, but her lower limbs were unnaturally small. She had the appearance of a human trunk attached to a pair of broad flat feet. This horribly deformed being was dressed in a Brandenburg or hussar jacket, a faded blue skirt and shoes made from a pair of boots whence the uppers had been cut off. How Methusalem and this dwarfish creature had be- come acquainted, and why this singular pair, similar in vice, continued to remain together no one could tell. If Methusalem were the head of the house. La Naine • was undoubtedly its right arm, and her influence upon the dealer in questionable commodities was very great. The Naine was Methusalem's factotum. She went to * Naine signifies a fenuJc dwart. was capable of ris- Beside the heavy, lelicate lettuce or cheese, the odor of , a superb basket of to the expense of a i moved an extraor- accordance with her man scarcely three r odd years of age. rge, her face sullen tver and anon by a i.', too abundant to handkerchief which ilJers; in her great sad, she wore a pair onged to some Nor- touched her shoul- ular creature was of »ut her lower limbs he appearance of a road flat feet. This in a Brandenburg nd shoes made from d been cut off. sh creature had be- ular pair, similar in o one could tell. If use, La Naine * was influence upon the ras very great, otum. She went to THE KNIGHTS OF THE BLACK CAP. 37 market every day and made all necessary purchases; and also to the lowest restaurants, buying up at nominal prices the half s ,)oiled remnants. A tin box received fish, meat and vegetables all in one, an earthenware jar, the coffee grains, tea-leaves, and crusts of bread, which were used for various culinary purposes. Meanwhile Methusalem was taken up with commercial affairs; he kept the shop, and waited upon customers. He had customers of two sorts, those who needed tools, who wanted to hire a complete disguise for a day or a week, and those who wished to engage a room or take some meals at the Pension Bourgeoise. The ordinary meal cost ten sous. It comprise^ the daily dish, brea«»fatS de-Cave will keep me ave. oncealment from the Cap!" vo, old man," said the on. I beefsteak deliciously e. She laid the table it-de-Cave was soon aciate. y the name of Flmir as a good-looking, and intelligent. His were blue, and not irows finely pencilled, I were somewhat too eascntly. His hands lair, reddish in color, ' of his complexion, man who had led an seem to have led him y which he had been hief, "I smell a rat." mb," said the other. livide." ime's worth the risk." onvenient corner lis- at-de-Cave, while his I ( THE KNIUHTS OF THE BLACK CAP. 43 " Here it is, then," said Fleur d'Echafaud: " my master, Antoine Pomereul, had a visit the other day from his great friend, Nicois, the banker. I met him by chance in the hall, and struck by the expression of his face, con- cluded that there was a secret on foot. So as soon as he had been ushered in, I listened to every word of his inter- view with my master. We can so easily make other peo- ple's affairs our own. I learned, then, to my g^'eat sur- prise that the banker Nicois, having been imprudent at the Bourse, ran the risk of being found out, and came to borrow a hundred thousand francs from the millionaire. To do M. Pomereul justice, he is goodness and honesty itself; he treats me, his secretary, as kindly as he does his son, M. Xavier. I was not therefore surprised to hear him promise the money to his friend, and I deter- mined to profit by this circumstance. I have been three years in his house, and have had time to take the form of every key, and to have the most important ones duplicated. M. Pomereul got the money at two o'clock to-day. To-night it will rest quietly in his safe, and we must take it from there." " But of course you have not the key of the safe ?" asked Rat-de-Cave. " If it had been in my possession for an hour," said his companion, "I would have duplicated it also, but my master always keeps it." " During the day, yes, but at night?" " At night he places it under his pillow." ^ ' " And we have to get it from there?" "Yes." "It is a dangerous game, an extremely dangerous game, my young friend," said Rat-de-Cave; "doors to open, chests to force, are in my tine, but to gin my fingers under a pillow I always find hard. If Pomereul should woke?" ) I i 9 •i / 44 IDOLS. " Then we will send him to sleep again," said Flcur d'Echafaud coolly, " that is all." " I do not like that kind of work. It's a pretty steep business, when the share is doubtful." " Do you refuse?" " I don't say that, but—" " Fifty thousand francs!" " That's tempting, but still—" " Bah, would you make me believe, that so old a mon- key has never learned to make faces? That you were never surprised, embarrassed, and in a moment of mad fear or avarice used your knife?" " Never," said Rat-de-Cave. " I am a thief, a robber, what you will, but it stops there. I know every kind of thieving, and if need be, could invent more. I could take away a horse and carriage as easily as a pair of shoes, no game is too small for me. When I can't find some old chap with a pocket full of gold, I am content with a box of s.pice from the grocer. I prefer petty larceny to grand, because it often brings in as much, and isn't dangerous. What makes a first-class pick- pocket is his sharpness in running risks, without taking his chanae of i\ free voyage to New Caledonia. I thought I taught you all this before." " You did, and I generally follow your advice," said Fleur d'Echafaud; ^'but this time the temptation is so great that I cannot hesitate. Do you think, old chap, it's worth while having founded the most wonderful institution of the age, when it brings in so little profit? I live well enough, it's true, but I have no carriage." " Such luxury as that will let up on you," said Rat-de- Cave. _ "Oh, I'll manage that," said the other. "Once the capital is in my hand, I'll take a run at Monaco. I can ride a few thousand francs on the roulette-table, and ) again," said Flcur It's a pretty steep ^ e, that so old a mon- es? That you were in a moment of mad am a thief, a robber, I know every kind ivent more. I could s easily as a pair of When I can't find if gold, I am content icer. I prefer petty brings in as much, hi a first-class pick- risks, without taking New Caledonia. I your advice," said the temptation is so you think, old chap, the most wonderful gs in so little profit? ive no carriage." m you," said Rat-de- other. "Once the a at Monaco. I can roulette-table, and THE KNIGHTS OF THE Bl^CK CAP. 45 whether I win or lose, it will matter little. I shall be known as a gambler, that suffices. I shall tell my friends I won, treat them at the Caf^ Anglais, invite some news- paper men, and next day the morning journals will have it that I broke the bank at Monaco. Thenceforth I can have horses and elegant apartments, and no one will inquire where or how I got the means to keep them. You admit that I am good at inventions; give me your hand; have confidence in me, and lend me your help to-night." "The merchant goes early to bed?" asked Rat-de- Cave. " Very early." " His servants ?" " Are on the fifth floor, and go up there as soon as M. Pomereul retires." "His children?" " Mile. Sabine usually retires at nine. The eldest son scarcely ever dines at his father's table, and as for M. Xavier, he never comes in till daybreak, for he plays at the club all night." "So we shall be alone." "Entirely." "The only danger is if M. Pomereul wakes." " In that case, coward, I will take charge of him," said Fleur d'Echafaud, with a sinister smile, which rendered his face positively hideous. Rat-de-Cave rose. " Count on me," he said. "Everything must be ready," said Fleur d'Echafaud; " we will wear tradesmen's clothes, take a carriage, which will set us down at the comer of the Rue de la Chauss6e d'Antin, the overcoat which we carry on our arm will conceal a blouse, in case there is need of further disguise. At the door we shall ask for M. Sulpice Pomereul; hit i~''*«W|fe / 'i 46 IDOLS. room is above his father's; the concierge will suppose we are engaged in conversation with the priest; we shall get into our carriage and go to finish the night at some theatre, and next day Jean Machd will return to his ordinary occupations, and Fleur d'Echafaud will go as usual to M. Pomereul's, to fulfil his duties as secretary." " I shall be with you." " Till to-night then, at the passage Choiseul, where we will take our carriage." The two wretches arose; but closely connected as they were by their complicity in crime, it was with profound disgust that Fleur d'Echafaud gave his hand to Jean Machd, alias Rat-de-Cave. As they went out of the room the man muttered, looking after the young man, " He will stop at nothing, at nothing !" The return of Rat-de-Cave and Fleur d'Echafaud was hailed with acclamation. " Thanks, good friends," said Fleur d'Echafaud. "There you have genius, coolness, daring," said Rat- de-Cave, pointing out his companion to Father Methu- salem. "And such a contour!" added Fleur d'Echafaud, with a gesture of indescribable insolence and conceit. Then turning to the group of " Knights of the Black Cap," he said: " Marc Mauduit, secretary of the millionaire Pomereul, must now show himself on the boulevard. Sans adieu, my friends." Leaving the courtyard, Fleur d'Echafaud stuffed his cap into the breast pocket of his coat, put on his beaver, and soon reached the thoroughfare. vicierge will suppose 1 the priest; we shall sh the night at some ft will return to his Echafaud will go as duties as secretary." e Choiseul, where we ely connected as they it was with profound ve his hand to Jean \ the man muttered, ling I" ^leur d'Echafaud was lur d'Echafaud. $s, daring," said Rat- on to Father Methu- leur d'Echafaud, with ; and conceit. Knights of the Black millionaire Pomereul, ulevard. Sans adieu, 'Echafaud stuffed his >at, put on his beaver, < •fe^ ''**6*?rfiii«»fife^ THE CRIME. ^ CHAPTER IV. The Crims. After the terrible scene which had passed between Monsieur Pomereul and his son, Xavier shut himself up in his room. The idea of returning to the club with- out paying his debt was insupportable to him, and he knew his friends too well to hope to obtain from them the sum which he so urgently required. Once alone, he paced the floor in uncontrollable rage, giving vent alternately to threats, and exclamations of shame and despair. The Abb6 Sulpice asked to be admitted. Xavier obstinately refused. Yet he knew that, far from adding to his suffering, the young priest would, on the contrary, alleviate it ; still, instead of being grateful for his kind- ness, he regarded it as an expression of contempt It made him angry to think that Sulpice had money in the safe, without reflecting, as his father had told him, that Sulpice's possessions were the patrimony of the poor. Blinded by his passions, harassed by his urgent neces- sities, he could not believe that there was any one in the world so unhappy as he, or any situation so terrible as his. Besides he was mistaken; all the abba's savings had gone the previous week to save a worthy man and the father of a family from bankruptcy. Moreover if, in his strict integrity, the young priest, like his father, believed that all debts, even gambling debts, should be paid to the last cent, he thought it but just that Xavier should pay his by instalments. Had he not after that fashion paid debts as sacred as these ? Sulpice would also have considered it wrong to abet Xavier in his evil ways by -*f ,; / 48 IDOLS. furnishing him with the means. There was no way to save him, except by letting the rotten planks of the vessel which wi'S carrying him astray break beneath his feet. Although resolved to use his influence later with his father that Xavier might be relieved, he thought it best at the time to let him fathom the depths of the gulf which yawned before him. But Xavier was in no mood to listen to sound reason, to take advice, to seek for truth and light He thought of but one thing, and that was his debt. Already he saw lus name placed at the club among the bankrupts, a punishment inflicted on all members who did not dis- charge their gambling debts after a short interval. He told himself he would rather be branded as a murderer than incur such disgrace. It would forbid him the entree to all fashionable clubs; his most intimate friends would cut him on the street. So, ds he believed it im- possible to exist without going to the club and being on familiar terms with the men about town, he fell into a sort of despair and hated all whom he had hitherto loved. The life which he had led for five years had deprived him of all sense of justice and injustice. A quench- less thirst for new pleasures, each of which left a sting, consumed him. To struggle against the weariness of monotonous pleasures and mad folly he exercised his imagination to find amongst them all something new. Without taking any special interest in horses, he went to races; without being fond of dancing, he was forever at the ballet; without any real love for art, he bought pictures. Having lost all idea of what was really good and beautiful he despised its true language. The slang of the clubs or the boulevards enlivened his conversation. He aimed at being witty, but cared nothing <^ real wit THE CRIME. 49 here was no way to otten planks of the ay break beneath his s influence later with lieved, he thought it he depths of the gulf iten to sound reason, 1 light He thought is debt. Already he ong the bankrupts, a ers who did not dis- a short interval. He anded as a murderer mid forbid him the nost intimate friends AS he believed it im- he club and being on town, he fell into a le had hitherto loved. years had deprived [ijustice. A quench- of which left a sting, nst the weariness of Dlly he exercised his all something new. St in horses, he went icing, he was forever e for art, he bought vas really good and l^age. The slang of tied his conversation. nothing <^ real wit and intelligence. Most of his stories wore those which he read in the daily papers. It must not be supposed, l.owever, that the speech of his' com pan ions, the gentlemen of the Jockey Club, was very profound or that their opin- ions were expressed in studied phrases. Their judgment of books, theatres, equipages, everything in fact was ex- pressed by " it has or it has not cAic." That meant all. Whoever was wanting in c/iit- might possess all the car- dinal and theological virtues combined with the rarest genius, but still be of no account. Xavier sat absorbed in gloomy reflections when the door of his room opened and Sabine entered. At sight of her the young man could not restrain a gesture of im- patience. " Do not be angry, Xavier," she said, gently. " I know you refused to see Sulpice and yet I ventured to come. For, kind and indulgent as our brother is, his black robe frightens you, and you dread his advice. I do not come to offer any; I have no right, nor is it my place to do sa I do not evn know what you have done wrong. I even forget that /ou threatened our father in my presence. All I want is for you to become yourself again and make peace with us all. I do not want my betrothal to be saddened by your suffering. For I was happy yester- day, until your sorrow cast a shadow upon my joy. You want money do you not ? here is my purse; it is not very heavy, what with collections, charity, and one thing or another. It contains just two thousand francs." Xavier smiled sadly. " Thank you, Sabine, but two thousand francs would not pay what I owe the Count de Moajoux." " But that is not all," said the young girl, putting her hand into her pocket; " here are my jewels." Xavier took them with feverish hand, necklaces, ear- "-=**as /^ IDOL!«. rings, rififlrs, all that his sister offered him; he examined them, calculated their value, then threw them into Sabine's lap. " I would get scarcely ten thousand francs for all," he said; "it would not be worth while deptriving you of them for that." " Tlien here," said Sabine, resolutely unfastening the bracelet which her father had given her the evening previous; "for great evils, great remedies; pawn this bracelet, Xavier, but do not sell it, it was our mother's. I will explain it to papa some way or another." "You would make a bad liar, Sabine." " Then I shall simply tell the truth," said the young girl, gently. " I may be scolded because of the princi- ple. . . . But I love you so much, Xavier, that I really think I suffer more than you do. But, in acting as he does, our father wants to save you, to bring you back to us, and to the home circle where you come so rarely." " Sabine, you promised not to reproach me." " I am not doing so. I am pleading our cause, mine, my father's, Sulpice's. We all suffer on your account. Wherever you may go, believe me, you will find none to love you as we do. So, if you still feel any affection for your sister, accept what v/ill restore you peace, sell the jewels, pawn the bracelet, discharge your debt and promise me never to act so again." " You are a dear creature, Sabine, and I am far from being worthy of your goodness. But keep your jewels, child, I have forty thousand francs to pay to-night and what you possess represents but half." " Ah ! if I had my dowry !" cried Sabine. " When you have, your husband will take care of that*" said Xavier. " He ? how little you know him ! Iftenedict sayitlie wants me to be poor, very poor. Is he not a flatterer?" red him; he examined en threw them into and francs for all," he lile deptriving you of utely unfastening the iven her the evening remedies; pawn this t, it was our mother's, or another." bine." -uth," said the young )ecause of the princi- , Xavier, that I really But, in acting as he to bring you back to )u come so rarely." proach me." ding our cause, mine, ffer on your account. e, you will find noi;e still feel any affection estore you peace, sell iharge your debt and ne, and I am far from Jut keep your jewels, 5 to pay to-night and alf." d Sabine. \ l /^ i' !, IDOLS. marriage will not take place for a month at least, and I cannot wait. Her dowry ? If I were to marry, my father would have to give me one. That money would be mine, to dispose of at my will. No doubt; but I must remain free. What would be the amount of Sabine's dowry? I think father spoke of five hundred thousand francs. Yes, since my majority, he puts it for Sulpice and me at twenty-five thousand pounds of interest, the principal to come later. So Sabine will have half a r'.'illion; and in justice he owes me as much. One fifth of that sum would save me. I could pay that envious idiot, Mon- joux, who is jealous of my horses and of my success. I could pay for the- new furniture, and have a hundred thousand francs pocket-money." Xavier began to pace furiously up and down the room. " To know it is here — in this very house — within a few yards of me !" . A dark flush passed over his face at the thought which occurred to him, and he threw himself heavily into a chair. Yet he did not drive the odious thought from his mind, but simply tried to put it in another way. " Well, after all, would it not only be what lawyers call an advance of inheritance ?" said he. He went to the bookcase and took out a large book with sprinkled edges. He turned it over long and dili- gently, till at last he found what he sought. " The law understands the matter," said he; " it is nei- ther crime nor misdemeanor to borrow money from one's father, whether by making an appeal to his heart or open- ing his safe. Article 380 reads: * Thefts committed by children, to the prejudice of their father and mother, can only be made good by civil reparation.* " I run no risk; my father will be very angry, and may even curse me. But his curse may be withdrawn, his anger appeased, and I have no choice." JUvier took a I hj&imm .^^m» THE CRIME. 53 month at least, and I re to marry, my father money would be mine, bt; but I must remain t of Sabine's dowry? [red thousand francs, or Sulpice and me at erest, the principal to lalf a r'.'illion; and in >ne fifth of that sura t envious idiot, Mon- md of my success. I and have a hundred Y up and down the is very house — within at the thought which imself heavily into a lous thought from his another way. r be what lawyers call e. ok out a large book it over long and dili- : sought. •,"said he; "it is net- row money from bfie's il to his heart or open- Thefts committed by ither and mother, can on.* : very angry, and may ly be withdrawn, his ice." JUvter took a ' sudden, irrevocable resolution. A moment before de- jected, despairing, he was now full of hope and courage. But far as he was already advanced in his fatal path, what he was about to do, in spite of all his sophisms, seemed so desperate, so terrible a crime, that he felt the necessity of stupefying his faculties till the proper mo- ment had come. The clock struck noon. He rang his bell; Baptiste appeared, and Xavier ordered breakfast in his room. " Do not forget the Chartreuse and some good cham* pagne," said he. When his meal came, he drank more than he ate. ' His repast ended, he lit a cigar and began to smoke. So passed the day. He wrote a note to the Count de Monjoux, begging him to excuse his slight but unavoid- able delay in discharging his debt; and smoked on again till dinner-time. After that, he kept up his courage by brandy and green Chartreuse, observing from his room the various movements in the house. In that peaceful dwelling, where he was the only element of disorder, the greatest regularity prevailed, even to the minutest de- tails. M. Pomercul retired early. Their duties ended, the servants went to their apartments in the highest story of the house. That he might be more free to ex- ercise his ministry of charity and consolation at all hours of the night, the Abb6 Sulpice occupied a room, fur- nished like the cell of a monk, on the same floor with the servants. ' By half-past ten Sabine and her father were the only two upon the first floor, except Lipp-Lapp, who slept in a little alcove just off his master's bedroom. When the merchant was asked why he did not keep his faithful Baptiste near him, he always answered . " I depend upon Lipp-Lapp; his coun^ and fidelity are sufficient for my safety." • .*®M-4 "'■assjjt /" 54 IDOLS. 1^1 The hours seemed to Xavier to drag painfully. Fever- ishly he watched the slow-moving hands of the clock. He dared not enter his father's room before midnight, lest he should have sat up late reading. But when he had counted twelve strokes of the clock he rose, and, barefooted, opened his door and crept cautiously to- wards his father's room. The old man slept, but some painful thought seemed to haunt his sleep. Shadows passed over that face, which was usually so serene, and the name of Xavier fell indistinctly from his lips. The criminal paused in affright. Had his father recognized him ? But no ! Pomereul was dreaming. Under the influence of his dreams he made a hasty movement, and disarranging the pillows, showed a little bunch of keys, amongst which was that of the safe. Xavier's hesitation vanished; he seized the keys and turned away. Pomereul slept on. Xavier left the door half open behind him, and entered the study. Though his father had never confided the key of the safe to him, yet he knew the one which opened it Taking a little bedroom lamp, he entered the dark room where M. Pomereul kept his books and valuables. That day Marc Mauduit, the secretary, had placed there the hundred thousand francs destined for Andr6 Nicois, and never had an occasion more favorable been offered to ft son descending to the level of a thief to satisfy his ex- pensive tastes and shameful passions. Xavier laid down the-lampupon the table, chose the key, fitted it to the se- cret lock, and the safe opened. Heaps of bank-notes lay before his eyes. He stood irresolute. Strange phenome- non ! Why did he not eagerly seize the money which a moment before he had persuaded himself would give him rest ? Why did he not remember the article of .law which had sustained him all that day ? He forgot that, but he I SS^flS ^x&^^smsm rag painfully. Fever- ; hands of the clock. om before midnight, ading. But when he e clock he rose, and, crept cautiously to- man slept, but some his sleep. Shadows isually so serene, and y from his lips. The his father recognized 'eaming. Under the liasty movement, and I little bunch of keys, seized the keys and lind him, and entered 1 never confided the he one which opened he entered the dark books and valuables, iry, had placed there ed for Andr6 Nicois, >rable been offered to lief to satisfy his ex- Xavier laid down ey, fitted it to the se- ips of bank-notes lay Strange phenome- i the money which a nself would give him ! article of .law which e forgot that, but he THE CRIME. 5S ^Aim saw at last what he really was — a thief. In presence of the gold, of the bank-notes for which he had so longed, he judged and condemned himself. The hot blood mounted to his face; as he drew back from the open door with a gesture of horror his eyes fell upon the por- trait of his mother,_where it hung above the safe. Her pure image seemed to reproach him with his crime, and implore him to degrade himself no farther. Terror min- gled with remorse, and Xavier drew back, farther and farther, his eyes still fixed upon the features of the dead ; back till he had passed out of the study, leaving the door of the safe still open, leaving the keys in the secret lock. " To-morrow I will confess all," he said, " and accept whatever punishment my father may inflict." When he had reached his own room, Xavier threw himself still dressed upon the bed. Overcome with shame, terror, and remorse, he relentlessly condemned and ~.. '^'id his own folly and wickedness, till at last he mek.'o . tears like a child. Wl5- A\ J remorse thus triumphed over Xavier's per- versit; , .* j men rang at the door of the hotel Pomereul. They asked for the Abb6 Sulpice. The concierge, half asleep, uncertain whether he Vas in or not, allowed them to go up. Instead of proceeding to the third story, the two men, who were no other than Rat-de-Cave and Fleur d'Echafaud, stopped at the first floor. Fleur d'Echafaud opened the door with a dexterity which'Was, to say the least, remarkable. The two men entered and closed it after them. "Was I not right?" said Fleur d'Echafaud; "there is none to interfere with us; we are masters of the situa- tion; let us try to make good use of it. Now for Pom- ereul's study." Rat-de-Cave cautiously threw the light of his lantern / 56 IDOLS. into every corner of the room; as it fell on the open safe he cried out, "We are robbed; some one has been before us." "Let us examine," said Fleur d'Echafaud. The robl}ers knelt down and groped in the safe with their hands. "Do not touch the bonds," said Fleur d'Echafaud; " they would only compromise us; let us stuff the bills into our pockets and be off." Rat-de-Cave and his companion began to fill the pockets of their overcoats with bank-notes. They had almost finished when a slight noise made them turn. They scarcely suppressed a cry of terror. M. Pomereul, in his dressing gown, had come into the study. When Xavier, carried away by his intense desire to procure money at any cost, even that of crime, had entered his father's room, the latter was sleeping a feverish sleep, almost like nightmare. In his dreams he had a con- sciousness of danger. Threatened by unknown foes, he was defending himself fighting; a terrible shock caused him to awake with a start, his face haggard, the cold perspiration standing out on his forehead, his limbs trembling. For a moment he could not collect his thoughts, confusing the real scenes of the evening past with the more horrible ones of his dream. Xavier's name came involuntarily to his lips, and the pain at his heart convinced him that he suffered from nothing else than the misdeeds, the harsh words, the threats of his misguided son. Pomereul's eyes fell mechanically upon the door of his room; it was ajar, and he rememt)ered perfectly having closed it when he came in. The thought that some one had been in his room while he slept crossed his mind. But who could it be ? Sulpice ? Why, Sul- pice had told him he would be obliged to go to La Vil- lette, and that he would not return till very late. Sabine 1 -^ sU on the open safe in before us." Iiafaud. k1 in the safe with Fleur d'Echafaud; :t us stuff the bills began to fill the t-notes. They had I made them turn, ror. M. Pomereul, the study. When desire to procure te, had entered his g a feverish sleep, ms he had a con- J unknown foes, he -rible shock caused haggard, the cold }rehead, his limbs Id not collect his i the evening past ( dream. Xavier's uid the pain at his from nothing else the threats of his mechanically upon id he remembered ein. The thought lile he slept crossed ilpice ? Why, Sul- id to go to La Vil- irery late. Sabine ? I THE CRIME. 5; Sabine never came into her father's room at night; she was asleep long ago. M. Pomereul had heard her light step going about her household duties, and then silence, the time for prayer and sleep. Xavier! oh, if it were Xavier ! This thought, and the deep anguish it caused him, in- stinctively led M. Pomereul to look under the pillows wiiere he usually kept the keys. He could not find them. He turned over pillows and bed-clothes. "Ah! the wretch has robbed me," he cried. He sprang out of bed, threw on his dressing-gown, and taking no light, lest it should betray him, stole softly to tiie study. The door was open, Pomereul looked in, and saw a man kneeling before the safe, busy emptying it There could be no doubt it was Xavier. Full of just wrath Pomereul advanced hastily, and in his haste, and owing to the dim light of Rat-de-Cave's lantern, he overturned a stool. At that moment the robbers turned; and at that moment Pomereul saw their faces and knew he had to deal with burglars. Rat-de-Cave and Fleur d'Echafaud exchanged glances; they understood each other perfectly; above all things M. Pomereul must not be allowed to summon help. Rat-de-Cave sprang upon the merchant, and twined his bony fingers round his neck. A stifled cry escaped from the old man; he struggled desperately, his eyes rolling in their sockets. He col- lected all his energy, and by a desperate effort would have released himself from Rat-de-Cave's hold, but the latter tripped him, and he fell panting to the ground. A providential succor arrived. A guttural cry was heard from a comer of the room, and a creature, whose nature neither of the robbers could define, sprang upon Fleur d'Echafaud, as the latter was about to assist Rat-de-Cave in finishing their victim. It was the faithful Lipp-Lapp, who^ hearii^ Pomereul leave his room at an unusual ^0 »/'«- /" I S8 IDOLS. I I hour, became uneasy, and followed him, guessing with his wonderful instinct that the merchant would have need of him. With sudden and terrible force, which almost compelled Rat-de-Cave to loosen his hold, the chimpanzee threw himself upon the assassin, paralyzing all farther effort on his part " The devil is helping him," howled Rat^e-Cave. "Why it is the ape," cried Fleur d'Echafaud; "finish the old man, I will look after him." The brief moment in which Pomereul was released from his assailant gave him time to draw breath, and collect all his strength. While Fleur d'Echafaud was preparing to dispose of the chimpanzee by strategy rather than by force, Rat-de-Cave fait that his prey was escaping him. But Fleur d'Echafaud, drawing a dagger from his breast, struck the animal with it on the shoulder, and turned upon him the anger and vengeance of the ape! With one hand Lipp-Lapp seized Fleur d'Echafaud by his red hair, and in the spirit of imitation common to his race, took him by the throat with the other, Fleur d'Echafaud would have been strangled like Pomereul, whom Rat-de-Cave had again thrown down; but he struck the monkey once more in the breast with his fatal wea- pon; Lipp-Lapp relaxed his hold, and fell full length on the floor, howling piteously. "That's one out of the way," said Fleur d'Echafaud. "The old man is dead," said Rat-de-Cave. "Let us be off quickly," said Fleur d'Echafaud; "we have provided a sensation for all to-morrow's papers." Distrusting Rat-de-Cave, or fearing he was mistaken, he bent over the corpse, and questioned the pulseless heart "All right," said he, "a first^slass funeral. As private secretary, I shall follow the corpse." The assassins pulled up the collar of their coats, drew their hats over their eyes, extinguished their dark Ian. sMwwswA'ftsa I him, guessing with lerchant would have terrible force, which loosen his hold, the e assassin, paralyzing ed Rat^e-Cave. d'Echafaud; "finish mereul was released to draw breath, and eur d'Echafaud was ipanzee by strategy elt that his prey was id, drawing a dagger th it on the shoulder, irengeance of the ape. Fleur d'Echafaud by mitation common to th the other. Fleur gled like Pomereul, I down; but he struck t with his fatal wea- nd fell full length on Fleur d'Echafaud. de-Cave. ur d'Echafaud; "we morrow's papers." ig he was mistaken, :ioned the pulseless stHEslass funeral. As rorpse." of their coats, drew ihed their dark Ian> THE CRIME. S9 tern, went out of the room, and 'quietly descended the stairs. The noise of the street-door closing made them pause to listen. Some one had come in. A firm step sounded on the marble of the vestibule. The same thought occurred to Rat-de-Cave and his companion, ' We are lost" •MttF /^ 6o IDOLS. 'a; ': ( CHAPTER V. T : Secret of God. Notwithstanding their habitual effrontery, the two villains were now utterly terror-stricken. If it should chance to be a servant belonging to the house, he would undoubtedly ask their business, nor was it likely he would ac--pt the excuse which had satisfied the sleepy toHctcrge, that they wanted the Abb6 Sulpice. He would in all probability call for assistance, and have them taken upon the very scene of their double crime. Whereas to murder him upon the stairs as he came up would be a most dangerous proceeding. In their sus- pense they went half way up to the second story; and leanmg over the bannister, caught a good view of a dark figure on the stairs below. Recognizing him by his cassock, Rat-de-Cave whispered, "The Abb(i Sulpice." As he spol he wretch dr«w a silk handkerchief from his po^et, an^ muffling his neck and the lower part of his face with it, said to his companion, "Watch whatever I do, and say whatever I say. and we are saved." . He went down as coolly as if he had qome on some legitimate business. The Abb6 Sulpice hearing the sound of footsteps, looked up, and saw the two men advancing towards him. Rat-de-Cave addressed him in a tone at once agitated and respectful: " The Abb6 Pomereul, I believe," he said " That is my name," said Sulpice; « what do you w«nt 01 mer / OD. effrontery, the two icken. If it should the house, he would >r was it likely he satisfied the sleepy Lbbi Sulpice. He issistance, and have their double crime, itairs as he came up ding. In their sus- e second story; and a good view of a Recognizing him by : handkerchief from d the lower part of n, whatever I say, and lad qomc on some pice hearing the saw the two men ive addressed him iful: « said, what do you wAnt THE SECRET OF GOD. 6i ; "We were told by the toncUrge thit you were at home, and came to ask for your ministry." " Is it a serious case?" asked the priest " The salvation of a soul is at stake." The poor priest was thoroughly exhausted, prostrate in body and mind. He had passed through one of those terrible struggles the secrets of which are known to the ministers of God alone. He had remained for five hours at a death-bed. He had disputed a soul with the powers of darkness. He had wrestled with the ungovernable fear of death. He had prayed and implored and wept by turns; to soften a stony heart, he had chosen the most touching and most consoling promises of Christ, and when he saw that they had no power to soften nor to touch ths hapless soul, which was then in its agony, he had called down, as it were, the avenging thunders of God, brought to those dying cars the s6und of the angel's trumpet, pictured all the horrors of the dreadful valley, opened the depths of the abyss, and showed the awful vision of the eternity of the damned. Seized with affright, the dying man had clutched the priest, as the drowning clutch the object nearest them, and begged that he might be reconciled with his Judge. The priest having administered the sacraments, had gently and gradually calmed the wild terror of that soul, weighed down by the weight of its sins. And the faithful laborer had come home; the day was done, the sheaves gathered in, and he was about to rest from those toils, which are like unto no other toils, when the two men waiting for him said, "The salvation of a soul is at stake." v He did not hesitate a. moment. ^ " Let us go at once," he said. "It is a great distance from here," said Rat-! S^IS^v iest such a prayer; he ulpice continued, Father, bless me, for trembling in every in a harsh, guttural le of sweetness and for in this solemn vho hears you, it is ifess the sins which ur conscience of its will have forgotten you can count upon nity of my God." )t touched the hard- lomentary weakness, )d, under the awful sacrilege to violate, a hundred thousand make restitution." ave; "the owner of [ struck him — " ;st. ave. my God!" cried the nto thy bosom! Be into eternity; have n, biit Rat-de-CAve THE SECRET OF GOD. -''v^ '.,mm NHiMMi y^ 66 IDOLS. of the table, waiting till Sulpice should find strength to rise. By an effort the abb6 at length raised himself upon his knees, and holding by the chimney-piece, got upon his feet. Rat-de-Cave, now no lon^fer afraid of recognition from the priest, had thrown aside his handkerchief and great- coat. He wore a blue blouse open at the neck, so that the cruel and even brutal expression of his face was revealed in all its repulsiveness. Then for the first time the abb6 saw his face. He thought he was mistaken, made a step forward and stopped. "Yes, it is I," said the wretch; "I, Jean Machfl, who once asked you for a night's lodging somewhere in the neighborhood of Brest." "Ah!" said the priest; " is this how you have kept the promise made to me that stormy night ? I saved you by my silence, and I find you now the murderer of my father." The abb6 seemed to have somewhat recovered his strength; he continued: " Well, whatever you have done, or whatever has come to my knowledge, I am now sworn to secrecy, so let me go. " Not yet," said Rat-de-Cave. "Why add such unnecessary cruelty to your crimes?" said the priest; " let me go home. The victim may be still alive, do you hear, he may be still alive; in the hurry of the moment you may have mistaken unconsciousness for death. Let me go, Jean Machfi, my father's dying voice seems to call me." " He is dead beyond all doubt," said Rat-de-Cave. "Be it so then," cried the priest, in a voice fiiU of anguish. " If ihe soul has indeed left that beloved form, my place is at its side, if not to save him, at least to keep my vigil nea.- his corpse. I am a priest; I will be silf nt should find strength length raised himself he chimney-piece, got id of recognition from indkerchief and great- n at the neck, so that sion of his face wms rhen for the first time jht he was mistaken, "I, Jean Machd, who ng somewhere in the ow you have kept the ight ? I saved you by the murderer of my lewhat recovered his or whatever has come I to secrecy, so let me elty to your crimes?" The victim may be till alive; in the hurry aken unconsciousness lii, my father's dying said Rat-de-Cave. It, in a voice fiiU of sft that beloved form, I him, at least to keep riest; I will be silent rtatMftMi-i.i^xt' THE SECRET OF GOD. 67 but I am a man, and I have met with a terrible affliction. You have robbed me of what I held dearest upon earth, and I implore you, for wretch though you be, you had a father, a mother, some one whom you loved. Once you were good perhaps; ah, Jean Machfi, let me go !" "I cannot," said Rat-de-Cave, "and even if I were willing, my comrade would not be." The priest clasped his hands once more in supplica- tion. Vain appeal; he saw and felt it. Then by one of those miracles of zeal, known to the hearts of apostles, the priest dried his tears, and bade his sorrow be silent. " Jean Machd," he said, " if I must pass the hours of this terrible night with you, I may at least spend them as I will ?" The other bent his head in token of assent. " I will speak to you, then, of the past," said Sulpice, "not to reproach you, but as one may recall old memories to another. Seven years ago I made a pil- grimage to Brittany; I remained for some time after recruiting my strength in a poor hut upon the sea-shore, and also preparing some work for the following winter. One night such a storm was raging as is sometimes seen upon the coast of Armorica, with its lofty crags and tremendous waves. It was very late; I was still writing, when a loud knock came to the door. I opened it; a man half clad and in miserably thin garments rushed into the cabin dripping wet, slammed the door, and stood against it, as if afraid of being driven out again into the storm. A furious gale was blowing; the peals of thunder were loud and prolonged; the waves dashed fiercely against the rocks and were hurled back with terrific clamor. It was a fearful night" Jean MachA clasped his hands and rested them upon his knees. "The man," continued the priest, "who then came into the cabin was exhausted; I offered him wine, I /^ fl 68 IDOLS. h; 4 gave him dry clothing, and my own bed in which to sleep. All at once I heard a sound rising, as it were, above the warring elements. I recognized the noise. ' It is cannon,' I said, ' it certainly is cannon.' Trembling in every limb, and shuddering violently, the stranger listened. He too knew the signal, a convict had escaped from the galleys. They were in pursuit of him. I looked at him, terror was in his face, his lips trembled, he sank upon his knees, and cried out to me in his distress, ' You can save me ! ' I was placed between society, which on the one hand demanded that he should be given up, and a poor creature who, on the other, cried to me for mercy. I listened to that voice. I kept the guest whom Providence had sent me under my roof, and cared for him. And while he slept, I wrote a paraphrase upon the words of Scripture, ' There is more joy in Heaven over one sinner who repents, than for ninety-nine just.' I went to the village next morning, procured some clothing for him from a fisherman, and at nightfall Jean Machd, the escaped convict, left my house by stealth. Before departing, he had sworn to lead an honest life, nor was he without the means of so doing; for, besides my little savings, I gave him a letter of recommendation to a relative of mine who had large fisheries in Brittany, and who would have employed him at my request Have I told the truth ?" " You have," answered Rat-dft-Cave. " Now I meet him again," continued the priest, " not as then, protesting his innocence of the petty theft with which he was charged, but avowedly laden with an hon- est man's gold, and stained with his blood !" " Ah!" cried Jean MachQ, " the tiger will remain a tiger, in spite of the gentleness of the lamb." " What do you know of it ?" cried the priest. •' In the name of that God who sees and hears us, I declare and THE SECRET OF GOD. 1 bed in which to rising, as it were, agnized the noise. nnon.' Trembling sntly, the stranger onvict had escaped »ursuit of him. I lis lips trembled, he me in his distress, veen society, which lould be given up, er, cried to me for pt the guest whom oof, and cared for I paraphrase upon ore joy in Heaven • ninety-nine just' ig, procured some d at nightfall Jean house by stealth. an honest life, nor for, besides my ^commendation to eries in Brittany, my request Have the priest, " not e petty theft with aden with an hon* ood!" ill remain a tiger, priest. " In the us, I declare and maintain the contrary. Sooner or later the gentleness of the lamb triumphs over the cowardly ferocity of the tiger. A drop of water suffices to penetrate rock; so, too, a tear suffices to melt the heart of a criminal. You called me hither, and I came. You said, ' Here is a soul to be saved,' and I demand that soul of you. You have marred my earthly happiness; I am eager to secure your eternal welfare. You have deprived me of a father; let me restore your God to you." Rat-de-Cave bent forward, as if scarce believing the testimony of his senses. " A moment ago," continued the priest, " you knelt be- fore n.c, in a sacrilegious travesty of a sacred and mys- terious rite; you claimed the privileges of a repentant sinner for one hardened in the ways of iniquity. This pardon I freely promised you; I blessed you that you might have strength to open your heart to me. Kneel to me again, I implore you, not to secure my silence, which is already yours, but to cry out from the depths of your heart, and not, as before, from the lips alone, ' Father, I have sinned;' to bend your head beneath the hand of the priest, who will absolve you ' in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.' " So noble and so lofty were the words and gestures of the priest, and such was the authority with which he spoke, that Jean Machfi felt his heart fail him. He could not understand the source whence the Abb6 Sulpice drew his magnanimity and his eloquence, but he was overcome by them. At last he stammered, " But I have robbed your father — robbed you !" " And you do not wish to lose the price of your crime? Be it so. I freely give you the hundred thousand francs you have stolen to-night They will be deducted from my share of the inheritance." :«*,**waitea*!fe<*i«iiaa^*!i-«i«-** t^-^mmKmmmimmeiMmmmmiitiiitmiim /^ 70 IDOLS. : :| ».r ' 1 -J "You will give them to me freely and without re- proach, as if I had earned them honestly ?" asked Rat-de- Cave in amazement. " Henceforth they are your own," said the priest; "I repeat that I freely give them to you. If poverty has led you to crime, you are now forever safe from want. But what you have already confessed to me, with mock- ery so cruel, repeat now, I beseech you, in sincerity. Let my grief and my tears supply for your imperfect repent- ance; but at least reflect what an awful deed it ''is to take a human life, to send a fellow-creature, full of life and happiness, out of the world; to make orphans; to bring mourning and misery to a happy home. See, I am weeping ; will you look on with dry eyes ? I have compassion on your soul; will you not g^ive a thought to its salvation ? My friend, my brother, by the God who died on the cross, I entreat you to confess your sins and ask pardon for them." " Oh, come, come !" cried a mocking voice from the other end of the room; " next thing you will be crying like a woman, Rat-de-Cave." It was Fieur d'Echafaud who spoke. He had been awake for some time, and listening to the interview be- tween Jean Mach(^ and the priest. " Hold up now, old boy," he continued, still address- ing his companion; '' you are on dangerous ground. As for you, my fine abb6, 1 do full justice to your eloquence, and if ever the Sorbonne is threatened I would back you against all odds to set it right again. Just now, though, your oratory is unseasonable. It is all very fine to have saved that brute, Rat-de-Cave, and to forget what he has told you is still better; but - that he should be so much affected by your preaching as to goto confession — I say, no, by Jupiter ! He is not alone in this affair, and must share with me." ».rM«t! THE SECRET OF GOD. 71 eely and without re- estly ?" asked Rat-de- " said the priest; " I you. If poverty has ever safe from want, ed to me, with mock- jrou, in sincerity. Let our imperfect repent- vful deed it^is to take tare, full of life and ke orphans; to bring y home. See, I am 1 dry eyes ? I have not give a thought to her, by the God who onfess your sins and king voice from the r you will be crying poke. He had been to the interview be- tinued, still address- igerous ground. As » to your eloquence, ed I would back you . Just now, though, all very fine to have 1 to forget what he lat he should be so to go to confession — me in this affair, and " If that is all — " began the priest, eagerly. " Enough disinterestedness for one day," interrupted Fleurd'Echafaud; " it is almost sunrise. We must get out of here, but we will not take you home just yet. I will call a carriage; you will get in with Rat-de-Cave, and, as I know all the roads, I will drive. We will go about for four hours or so, and at eight o'clock I will bring you back to Paris. Meantime you need not try to soften me; it is useless. Like green wood, I do not kindle." This man's intervention had quickly dispelled the mo- mentary impression made upon Rat-de-Cave by the words of the priest, so that, when Fleur d'Echafaud had gone for a carriage, and they \yere alone together, Sulpice found him once more as hard iSind cold as marble. See- ing his efforts unavailing, the abb6 knelt down in a cor- ner of the room and began to pray. The sound of carriage-wheels told Rat-de-Cave of his comrade's return. He went over and touched the priest on the shoulder, saying, "Come." They went down the dark stairs together, and the priest, who could admit of no compromise with his con- science, was purposely as unobservant as possible, fearing to see anything which might make him remember the place; and once out in the street, he glanced neither at the house nor at its number. Without a word of re- monstrance, or an attempt at resistance, he got into the carriage, which Fleur d'Echafaud was to drive. Fleur d'Echafaud, unlike his companion, had never permitted the priest to see his face. He kept his hai drawn down over his eyes, and was so disguised- that it would be impossible to recognize him again. They drove about for four hours, sometimes passing over hard pavements, or macadamized roads, going in and out « ^J^'.i^^lJV^ -^ ^ 7a IDOLS. among the suburbs, or round and round in a circle, that the abb6 might have a confused idea of the way by which they had come, and in all probability be unable to remember it When day broke, Rat-de-Cave pulled down the win- dow-blinds. Meanwhile the priest prayed on in a low voice, waiting till this last act in the drama should be accomplished. At eight by his watch, Fleur d'Echafaud was driving along by the Palais Royal. He pursued his way as far as the Chauss6e d'Antin. Stopping at the most deserted side of the new opera-house, he opened the carriage* door, and said to the priest, " Get out now; you are almost at home." Sulpice got out " Adieu," said Rat-de-Cave in a husky voice. " Au revoir," said the abb6, in a low and feeble one. Tottering, so that he was obliged to lean against a wall for support, the priest went home. " It is queer," said Rat-de-Cave, addressing his com- panion; "we are strong, of course, but there goes one who is stronger than either of us." 1.1 II- til i ■f., p!i^}ir:>iis: have been as follows: and rushes upon him. the throat, Lipp-Lapp laster, and the poor nity and intelligence erer fled, Lipp-Lapp, gged himself towards I the body, and upon id the bloody marks iport, doctor?" Lapp's wound," said rho believe that the fully illustrated. No as this. One thing "This," answered the doctor, placing a tuft of red hair covered with blood before the magistrate. "What is it r " It is hair. A tuft of fiery red hair, which Lipp-Lapp held in his clenched fingers. In his extreme suffering he held it fast, and pressing the hand which contained it to his breast, dyed it a deeper red in his own blood. Staunching the wound with it may have saved the brute's life." The piece of hair was consequently sealed and put aside, with anything else that could be used in evidence. The magistrate, out of consideration for the children of the deceased, would not permit them to be called till the examination was over. Both Sabine and Xavier were still asleep, and the Abb6 Sulpice bad not yet returned as it was only seven o'clock. The examination of the ser- vants was very brief. None of them knew anything of the crime, and could therefore throw no light on the subject. The concierge was the only one who could give any information. But the fact was that when Rat-de-Cave and Fleur d'Echafaud had rung the bell, that functionary, sleeping profoundly at his post, dimly remembered to have heard the abb6's name pronounced. His replies to the questions put him were as follows: The bell rang. I answered. A voice asked for the Abb£ Pomereul. I supposed he was in and said, Go up. Almost immediately after the abb6 came to the door. He must have met the men-who had asked for hiih on the stairs, for they all went out together. " Is the Abb£ Pomereul in ?" asked the magistrate. "No, sir." "You will let us know when he comes. You can retire." " Does it not seem to you," said the other magistrate, ^ 76 IDOLS. "that the proper person to inform Mile. Pomereul and her brother of the terrible affliction which has be- fallen them is the Abb^ Sulpice ? His sacred character of priest will enable him to break it to them as we could not do. He will console them; he will bid them rais»> their eyes to Heaven, instead of directing them to earth." The other reflected a moment, then said: " It will be more humane, and besides it will be easier for us." Baptiste was summoned. Like the other servants, he slept on the fourth floor of the house, and was utterly ignorant of all details of the terrible drama which had been enacted that fatal night. His deposition was uken, and the magistrate said: " You have been a long time in the service of the family ? Your young master, the abh6, will soon be in. Tell him all, and let him prepare his brother and sister to obey our summons." The magistrate sat down at the desk upon which they had placed: ist. The bunch of keys belonsfing to the murdered man. ad. The tuft of bloody hair .c and in Lipp-Lapp's hand. 3d. A piece of fine linen, evidently torn in the struggle, and which had been found near the door of the safe. The examining magistrate, M. Gaubert, was somewhere about fifty years of age, tall and sparely built, with a high broad forehead, a bald head, a slender nose with dilating nostrils, thin, bloodless lips, and pale face. His eyes were bright and unusually penetrating, and their , expression was so searching that it seemed to read one's V very soul. M. Gaubert was indefatigable in the discharge of his professional duties, wherein he displayed remarka- ble judgment and energy. The strictest integrity charac- terized his decisions. Nothing could either influence or soften them. But it was scarcely his fault that this con- '4 )rtn Mile. Pomereul iction which has be- His sacred character t to them as we could : will bid them raise acting them to earth." :n said: :sides it will be easier the other servants, he 3use, and was utterly L)le drama which had deposition was taken, service of the family ? (>oon be in. Tell him sr and sister to obey iesk upon which they to the murdered man. in Lipp-Lapp's hand. torn in the struggle, door of the safe. ibert, was somewhere parely built, with a a slender nose with and pale face. His netrating, and their seemed to read one's ;able in the discharge displayed remarka- test integrity charac- either influence or i fault that this con- THE ACCUSATION. 77 stant contact with criminals had left him but little con- fidence in his fellows. The other magistrate or police commissioner, M. Obry, was a totally different person. Though still young he was already eminent in his profession, and endowed withaclear head and a certain aptitude for literature. Hu saw fewer criminals than his brother magistrate and more unfortu- nates. Under the brazen shield of a magistrate he still kept a loving heart and one susceptible of great tend r- ness. Whilst these gentlemen were in the discharge of their duties Sulpice Pomereul came staggering home. We have said that he had observed from afar the crowd which had gathered round the house. When they rec- ognized the young priest, the groups of curious men and women made way for him with mingled pity and rever- ence. " Ah, how dreadful for him !" cried one; " he loved his father so much." "The Abb6 Sulpice is a saint," cried another; "why has God stricken him so cruelly ?" " To make him even more perfect." said still another. " Look how pale he is. He has come no doubt from the bedside of the dying, and O my God ! think of what is before him." Whilst these questions and exclamations were passing amongrst the eager crowd, Sulpice went up the steps; he grasped the balustrade; he tottered. He rang the bell with feverish agitation. Baptiste opened the door. Scarcely had he entered the hall, when the good old ser- vant fell sobbing at his feet. " My master, my dear young master," cried he. "-have courage." ** My father?" stammered Sulpice. " Come, come and see him, come and pray." ^ iimiWir-a ^ 79 IDOLS. Baptiste led or almost dragged the young pticst into his father's room. The body of the victim lay on the bed; a reverent hand had covered the swollen face with a handkerchief. Sul- pice raised the cloth and looked. With clasped hands and breaking heart he prostrated himself beside the bed. At first only sobs, then prayer rose slowly from his heart to his lips, and gradually a sort of calm succeeded the storm of his terrible anguish. When Sulpice felt himself strong enough to meet the others, he said to Baptiste, " Sabine ?" " Mile. Sabine has not appeared yet. A moment after Sulpice was in his sister's room. The young girl's apartments, separated from her father's by a parlor, dining-room, and boudoir, were still so far dis- tant that she had not heard any noise, either during the night, nor in the early morning hours. Besides there was often so much noise in the house, that a few comers or goers more or less never disturbed her. She always re- mained in her own rooms till the breakfast hour, which was ten o'clock. At that time she went down and found her father in the dining-room. Xavier sometimes joined them, but rarely; and as for Sulpice, the monastic fru- gality of his life forbade him to partake of this first meal. When no duties interfered, he usually came down after breakfast for a half hour's chat with his father and Sa- bine. Until breakfast time, Sabine usually occupied her- self with some sewing or fancy work. She had just finished dressing when Sulpice came in. Sab-ne uttered a cry, for she saw the traces of tears on his face. " Ah ! What has happened ?" she cried. Then remembering what her brother had said the night before, she fixed terror-stricken eyes upon Sulpice, saying simply, , •• the young pticst into bed; a reverent hand a handkerchief. Sul- g heart he prostrated tnly sobs, then prayer lips, and gradually a f his terrible anguish. enough to meet the ret. is sister's room. The from her father's by , were still so far dis- )ise, either during the •s. Besides there was that a few comers or her. She always re- )reakfast hour, which ivent down and found ricr sometimes joined ice, the monastic fru- take of this first meal, illy came down after ith his father and Sa- usually occupied her- irork. She had just le in. Sab'ne uttered s on his face. i cried. !ier had said the night upon Sulpice, saying THE ACCUSATION. 79 "Xavier?" "He knows nothing of It as yet," answered Sulpice. "You are weeping. Xavier knows nothing— then something has happened, and in this house. Something » but what? Ah," said she, with a terrible cry of an- guish, " my father !" " My sister ! Sabine, my dearest Sabine," cried Sulpice, supporting her half-feinting form. " God is the master! He has given, and has taken away." "Taken away," cried she, "taken away, and suddenly like this, without any warning sickness, without any alternatives of hope and fear to prepare us for the worst ! I am not so near to God as you, Sulpice. I cannot be resigned like you. It cannot be. It is a trance, but not death, no, not death. The doctors are mad, they do not know what they are saying. Oh, think what mistakes they make every day; they say a man is" dead, and he comes to life in a few hours. Their remedies are some- times powerless. I will take him in my arms, and with my tears and caresses bring him back to life. And if a miracle be necessary, you are a saint, Sulpice, my brother; you will ask God, and He will work a miracle." " No," said the priest, in a voice which betrayed the terrible anguish of his soul. " We cannot ask for a miracle; it would be tempting God. No; our father will never wake again, except with our Father who is in Heaven. When I have given up hope, Sabine, be assured there is none." "No hope?" cried she; "and you say this? But of' what did he die ? Was he stricken by a thunderbolt ?" "The thunderbolt which often falls upon unsuspecting victims; a crime — " " My father murdered !" cried Sabine— and oh, how terrible was the horror of her voice. ♦* Murdered," said Sulpice, in a low voice. ■^■■•^•»'''»«'Siimmmmmitifim>mt>ie:K.-,ys!e&Mstitf.s , nmmimmmmit^nf.- ^ 1 ! So IDOLS. " But why, why ? He was so good ! He had no ene mies. Who could have done it ?" " That, my poor, heart-broken Sabine, justice is seek- ing to discover," said Sulpice, " and you will presently be called upon to aid it in its work." " To aid it !" said she, bewildered. " But what do I know ? I was asleep. I was sleeping while my father was being murdered. I was sleeping, and perhaps he was calling me ! Why did not a secret presentiment warn me? I was sleeping — I who pretended to love him !" " Do not reproach yourself, Sabine. Whilst this mon- strous deed was being done I was far away, and Xavier did not hear." " Does Xavier know ?" asked Sabine. " Not yet," answered Sulpice. " I still have the second part of my task to accomplish. Help me, Sabine. My burden is heavy; I almost sink under its weight. The daughter, indeed, is on the verge of despair; but the Christian should arise. Keep Uie dignity of your sor- row. Suffer and pray, but no fears or outburst of grief, if you can help it. Promise me that, for the present at least, you will not ask to see our father's body; later, when the magistrates have left the house, we will keep watch beside him — keep our vigil together. Will you give me your word ?" " I give it, Sulpice," she said. " Go to Xavier, go !" Sabine sank down upon her prie-dieu, and kissed the feet of the crucifix, her tears streaming upon it. " Lord," said Sulpice, " comfort her soul and strength- en mine." When the priest was on his way to his brother's room, he was told that the magistrates desired his presence. The priest collected all his strength: the strength of his heart that he might not fail; of his mind that he might \V: ■v^mmma^mmmj. )od ! He had no ene abine, justice is seek- . you will presently be ed. " But what do I ping while my father ping, and perhaps he a secret presentiment ho pretended to love ne. Whilst this mon- far away, and Xavier bine. I still have the second lelp me, Sabine. My ider its weight. The e of despair; but the ! dignity of your sor- 5 or outburst of grief, tat, for the present at father's body; later, house, we will keep jether. Will you give Go to Xavier, go !" dieu, and kissed the ning upon it ler soul and strength- :o his brother's room, lesired his presence. i: the strength of his I mind that he might y.^'tA^M.^U.^^ifr^ .: THE ACCUSATION. 81 not betray, by word or sign, the secret which was the secret of God, Just as he was entering his father's room, where the magistrates were in waiting, Xavier, coming suddenly to his door, questioned Baptiste as to what was going on. "Sir," said the presiding magistrate, addressing Sul- pice in a tone of deep respect, " will you take a seat ? I beg your pardon for having to discliarge so unpleasant a duty at such a time; but justice cannot wait." " I am ready to answer your questions, sir," said the priest. M. Gaubert made a sign to his secretary, who pre- pared to take down the deposition. " You went out early yesterday evening ?" " About eight o'clock, sir. I was sent for on a sick call." " You came in after that ?" " A little before half past twelve. As I went up stairs I met two men coming down, and one of them said to me, ' We need your ministry; the salvation of a soul is at stake.' I went whither I was summoned; I fulfilled my task, and returning — " " You have nothing more to make known to the law ?" " Nothing more." " You can retire. Mile. Pomereul's testimony is also necessary. We are now awaiting her." " I will go for her," said Sulpice. After a moment's pause, Sabine, supported by her brother, entered the room. The expression of her face was pitiable. It was plainly to be seen that, trying to follow the example of her brother, she was making heroic efforts to control her grief. " Mademoiselle," said the judge, " you were alone last night with your father on this first floor of the house ?" . *.yM1KSS««aii4i!^l?^-lTi»,>>«E%«-^'*^'!Vr-»-.-v^VA.^ • $a IDOLS. "Alone? I an not sure," she said. "My brother Xavier may have been in the house." " I thought your brother spent his evenings, and, usu- ally, his nights, at the club ?" said the magistrate. "Usually, yes," she said; "but as for that, he will tell you himself." " You heard no unusual noise ?" " No, sir. I left my poor father at half past nine. I left him there sitting where you are. I went to my room. For about an hour I was writing in my journal little incidents of our domestic life, as I do every day. I went to bed. This morning Sulpice came and told me all." " To your knowledge, had M. Pomereul any ene- mies ?" " Some people may have been ungrateful to him, but he had no enemies," she answered. " Then there is nothing that occurs to your memory ? ' No light flashes upon your mind ? There was no one about him who entertained any ill feeling towards him on account of having been refused a favor, or the like ?" "My father never recused a favor which it was in his power to grant. I know that the day before yesterday his friend, M. Andr6 Ni.':ois, asked him for a hundred thousand francs before the end of the month. My father sent for that amount. People always found him ready to oblige, or to give in charity." " You can retire. Mademoiselle," said the magistrate. " Should it be necessary to question you further, you will hold yourself in readiness." Sabine slowly left the room. As she passed through the hall, a storm of passionate grief reached her ears. Xavier, to whom Baptiste had told the whole truth, had., in spite of all the efforts of the faithful servant, rushed into the chamber of death. Throwing himself upon his t said. "My brother is evenings, and, usu- the magistrate. s for that, he will tell at half past nine. I . I went to my room, in my journal little I do every day. I ce came and told me Pomereul any ene- grateful to him, but rs to your memory ? There was no one feeling towards him ; favor, or the like ?" which it was in his lay before yesterday him for a hundred e month. My father rs found him ready said the magistrate, you further, you will she passed through if reached her ears, he whole truth, had, tiful servant, rushed ig himself upon his THE ACCUSATION. H father's corpse, he strained it to his breast, and spoke to it with the eloquence of despair. He impiored it to answer him, he addressed vain prayers and supplications to it, the word pardon came again and again to his lips, and the excess of his grief bordered on frenzy. Vainly did Baptiste. repeat that the magistrates awaited him. He could not be torn from the place. What could the law do ? Could it with all its idle forms restore his father? Justice could do its work later, but only a few hours re- mained in which he could clasp the dear dead form in his arms, that form which another and more inexorable law must soon take from him. Baptiste went to the magistrates and told them how useless were all his efforts. M. Gaubert rose. " Let us go there," he said, " and question him where he is." They went thither and stopped on the threshold. Terrible was the spectacle that met their eyes: The disfigured corpse and the young man half mad with grief; it was a sight to touch the hardest heart. " How terrible his grief is," said M. Obry. "Somewhat too demonstrative," said M. Gaubert. "Let us for humanity's sake leave him time to recover himself," said M. Obry. Xavier held one of his father's stiffened hands, and thus addressed the rigid clay: "Father," said he, "is all over? You will never look at me again, your lips will never more call your son, you are lost to me, lost irrevocably and beyond appeal, lof.«, mute, dead. It is horrible, horrible, and when your eyc» last met mine it was in anger, and your lips, J .«.( cad of affectionate words, spoke but to drive nje from you, a - most cursed me." M. Obry would have approached Xavier, but his com- panion stopped him. * ^ 84 IDOLS. ■i K; i ; " Listen," said he, authoritatively, " listen." "Ah! I have been wicked and ungrateful; I repaid your goodness by causing you grief. I responded to your tenderness by indifference. My faults embittered your life, and my crime — " Xavier stopped, for convulsive sobs choked his utter- ance. M. Gaubert waited till this storm of grief had passed, pressing his companion's hand significantly. Xavier continued: " For money, that cursed money which I spent in folly or debauch I embittered your life. I needed money for my suppers and my horses. I needed it for gam- bling, gambling. Pardon, pardon, father, I implore you, pardon, pardon. C^.n you never let me knov/ from that other world that you have forgotten everything, even — ? I am indeed lost, forever accursed — " M. Gaubert whispered to his frien.', " Let us retire quietly." When they had returned to the study, M. Gaubert rang the bell. Baptiste appeared. " I wish to put some further questions to Mile. Pome- reul. Ask her to come here." When Baptiste had gone M. Gaubert said: " You see, M. Obry, our task is being simplified. It seems to me — " " You suspect — " " What do you think yourself ?" " I ? Nothing, nothing, I swear to you." " You deceive yourself. The same thought which oc- curred to me a moment ago also flashed upon your mind." "It is impossible," cried Obry, " Everything is possible," said the other; "you are still young, but you will become in time as skeptical as I am." Sabine came in, and the conversation ceased. „ -listen." ngrateful; I repaid I responded to your Its embittered your 1 choked his utter- storm of grief had iiand significantly. which I spent in c. I needed money needed it for gam- father, I implore • let me know from gotten everything, :ursed — " study, M. Gaubert ons to Mile. Pome- rt said: ing simplified. It ou." thought which oc- ashed upon your her; " you are still skeptical as I am." n ceased. r-i>rV.,ti-.^'^Va' W THE ACCUSATION. 9$ " Mademoiselle," said M. Gaubert, " in such a matter as this everything tends to enlighten a court of 'ustice. We must have a perfect knowledge of this household and its habits to guide us in our researches. Do not have any fear, conceal nothing from us. Your duty is to tell the whole truth, you should be the first to desire the punishment of the guilty." " My sorrow is too great to think of vengeance," she said. " In what frame of mind was your father when you last saw him? Had he not been annoyed in some way?" "Yes, he had some slight annryances, but it did not amount to much. My father was so jood." "Was it not on account of some money which your brother h?d asked from him?" " It was, ' " M. Pom Teul refused to furnish him with means for his superfluous expenses ?" "Yes, but he would have yielded. I offered Xavier my jewels and my savings, but he refused, such confi- dence had he in my father's generosity and affection." " Perhaps, too, the amount he required exceeded the resources at your disposal?" " That might be, sir." "Did you witness any scene of violence between M. Pomereul and your brother?" Sabine hesitated. " Your duty is to speak, mademoiselle," said the mag- istrate almost sternly. The young girl raised her tear-dimmed eyes to M. Gaubert's face- he did not heed 1 ■ distre"55. M. Obry on the contrg. cast a look of compassion upon her. " The night before last," said Sabine, with an effort, " my father had a long conversation with Xavier. I do not know what they said, only the sound of their voices ^ i ■ .!' ' 4:; 86 IDOLS. reached me. I was alarmed. Anxious to reconcile them I came here. My father seemed angry, Xavier had lost all control of himself. Ah! only for that he would never have said it. Xavier was wild, extravagant, but never wicked." " What did he say, mademoiselle ?" "He said: 'You refuse me; then something terrible will happen in this house.' " Sabine could scarce pronounce these last words. The effort overcame her, and she fainted. M. Obry sprang to her assistance. " It is like putting her to the torture," cried he. " Yes, but the torture has brought out the truth," said M. Gaubert. He summoned Sabine's maid. " Take your mistress to her room," said he, " Dr. Arnal is still in the house. He will take care of her." Then he turned to his associate. " We must proceed with this affair," said he. The secretary was sent to bring Xavier from the cham- ber of death to the presencii of the magistrates, despite his resistance. At first Xavier paid no attention to the magistrate's polite request; a more imperativ* summons was necessary. When he came into the room his face was livid, his clothing disordered, his limbs trembling, his manner full of fierce excitement; he refused to sit down: advancing to the desk he placed his two hands upon it, and leaning forward, said in a strange unnatural voice, addressing M. Gaubert, "Could you not leave me to weep for my father? Cannot justice come after the first outburst of filial grief?" " Sir," said the magistrate in a cold, impassive voice, " the Abb^ Pomereul and your sister <3omplied with our US to reconcile them gry, Xavier had lost that he would never travagant, but never I something terrible ese last words. The ire," cried he. t out the truth," said ;'s maid. Dom," said he, " Dr. take care of her." r," said he. avier from the cham- ; magistrates, despite I no attention to the imperativ«> summons face was livid, his ing, his manner full lit down: advancing upon it, and leaning voice, addressing M. eep for my father? St outburst of filial )ld, impassive voice, r domplied with our it'. ^kfAlsrl^ki'^jetr li£rll!.ii.[l._' ;>Ili^>.' 'V*!i»^*-..-v:'.'vir- ■ THE ACCUSATION. 87 demands as representatives of justice; have the goodness to imitate them." " What can I tell you of this crime ?" said he. " I knew nothing, I suspected nothing. This cowardly murder must be avenged, and I will help you with all my heart. But not now, not now! Oh, leave me in peace to weep beside the corpse of him who was my father !" " You loved him very much ?" said M. Gaubert " Ah, yes, I loved him very much." " And yet you gave him a great deal of trouble ?" " I committed faults, serious faults it is true, but their memory weighs heavy enough on me now; you need not reproach me with them." " You have debts ?" "Yes, sir." "Arising from your extravagant habits, or from i'^-^fies at the gaming table ?" " From both sources." " You have lately, in particular, lost a large sum ?" " A day or two ago I lost forty thousand francs." " Lost upon your promise ?" "On my promise." " And your father refused to pay this debt ?" " He refused." " Did not his refusal occasion a violent scene between you ?" " With which I bitterly reproach myself." " You went so far as to threaten him ?" " No, sir, my grief led me only as far as despair. I saw myself dishonored, and I thought — " " Of commiting a crime ?" " Yes," answered Xavier in a husky voice. M. Obry looked at Xavier in amazement. M. Gaubert proceeded with the examination. "Your father was a man of regular habits. You knew m^i ^ 88 IDOLS. I I- he retired early, and you waited till he was asleep to enter iiis apartments. Is it not so ?" " It is so," cried Xavier, overcome by the recollection. " Talcing off your shoes, you stole into the room where he was asleep; you took his keys and approached the safe to take the sum you required." The young man hid his face in his hands. "It was not surprising that a son should know the secret of his father's safe," continued M. Gaubert, laying an emphasis on each word, and giving them further significance by impressive pauses; "you opened the safe. It was full of valuables, and contained amongst other things the hundred thousand francs intended for M. Andr6 Nicois. The sight of the gold, the bank- notes, agitated, fascinated, bewildered you ?" " It is true, O my God ; true," cried Xavier, overcome. " You bent down you filled your hands with the gold and bank-notes, and laden with your spoils — " Xavier brought Iiir clenched fist down upon the table. "That is not trpe," he cried, exultantly; "I was tempted, I took the keys, I opened the safe, but I did not steal; on my soul, I did not steal !" He pronounced these words with such sincerity that M. Obry was deeply moved. . M. Gaubert continued in an unmoved tone: " You came for that purpose, however ?" " It is true, I freely confess it. I said to myself sub- stantially, My father's fortune, or at least a portion of it, will revert to me some day. I am only taking what will be my own. The thought of his anger was less terrible to me than the thought of being disgraced at the club. All that evening I encouraged myself with danger- ous sophistry. I silenced my conscience and listened to my passions. Even the sight of my father sleeping did not touch me. But as I was about to take the money i THE ACClJi,ATION. 89 11 he was asleep to by the recollection, into the room where ind approached the hands. » should know the M. Gaubert, laying iving them further "you opened the cc.itained amongst francs intended for le gold, the bank- I you ?" I Xavier, overcome, ands with the gold spoils — " wn upon the table, cultantly; "I was :he safe, but I did such sincerity that :d tone: er?" id to myself sub- least a portion of only taking what is anger was less g disgraced at the lyself with danger- ce.and listened to ather sleeping did o take the money / which I so much needed, when I was about to discharge my debt by committing a crime, my terrified eyes fell upon the portrait of my good mother, and my courage, if it could be called courage, left me abruptly. I saw the act which I was about to commit in its true colors, and I fled. I fled from myself." *^ And yet the money is gone and your father is dead ?" " Then, sir," cried Xavier, fixing horror-stricken eyes upon the magistrate, " if you accuse me of having stolen the money, you also accuse me of having murdered rav father !" ^ "An hour ago I came to that conclusion, answered M. Gaubert. '' I, the murderer of the best of fathers ?" cried Xavier. " The best of fathers to an unnatural son," replied the magistrate. And rising with more than his usual sever- ity, he said with all the authority of his office, " You will answer at the bar of justice for the crime of parricide." " Parricide !" cried Xavier. " Henceforth you are in the hands of the law." Xavier's eyes dilated with horror, wild thoi.j;hts passed through bis mind, and he fell unconscious into a chair. i y" 9? IDOLS. •ifV.M t I CHAPTER Vli. Heart Trials. Whilst the doctor was in attendance upon Xavier, wlio was slowly recovering from the terrible paroxysm which had ensued, M, Gaubert and M. Obry were left alone in the study. The former seem-d calm, like a man who had come to a foregone conclusion. He sorted his papers, numbered and labelled them. M. Obry, on the contrary, seemed anxious and ner\'ous. His face changed from white to red. At last he got up abruptly and began to pace the room. M. Gaubert, raising his eyes, and observing the alteration in his companion's face, asked him kindly, "Are you unwell, M. Obry '" " Yes," cried M. Obry, in a voice which plainly showed his inward emotion. "I am sufifering from a malady, which I see has passed you cy while it tortures me; this malady is called doubt.'' "Then you doubt this young man's guilt?" "Yes, I do." " But can you deny the evidence ?" " I feel a certain conviction to the contrary, an impres- sion; I yield to the imperious dictates of my conscience, and I have a presentiment, which I am sure does not deceive me. This young man's sorrow is sincere. His horror and repugnance when he heard himself accused of so terrible a crime were not feigned." " It was a well-acted farce, I admit," said the other; " but it should not mislead a man of your experience." "That may be, sir," said M. Obry; "hut there is some- thing else." i .y.;!), HEART TRIALS. 9» ndance upon Xavier, he terrible paroxysm id M. Obry were left nan who had come to his papers, numbered the contrary, seemed anged from white to Jd began to pace the :s, and observing the isked him kindly, vhich plainly showed "ing from a malady, e it tortures me; this I's guilt?" contrary, an impres- :es of my conscience, I am sure does not •row is sincere. His :ard himself accused ed." nit," said the other; : your experience." ; " but there is some- ,. i "What?" " This," said the other, holding up a tuft of red hair covered with Lipp-Lapp's blood. "You understand, however, that very little importance can be attached to such a circumstance. • Lipp-Lapp comes and goes about the house; he even goes out some- times; who can explain the whim of this singular animal ? Of course we cannot account for the presence of a tuft of hair in the hands of a chimpanzee, but it does not in the least influence my conviction. Let us look at the matter, M. Obry; let us discuss it, or rather ' lay the facts before ourselves. I would not wish the . 'ow of a doubt to be left upon your mind, because I k ou, and know that it would be torture to you. 1. .axuri- ous habits, the extravagance, the folly, the dissipation of Xavier Pomereul are well known. He admits that he is heavily in debt, and owes a gambling debt, or debt of honor as it is called, of which the amount is forty thousand francs, an enormous sum, so .enormous that, wealthy as the father was, he refused to pay it." " I know all that," said M. Obry. "Xavier is bent upon having the money; he begs, im- plores, threatens. He threatens, do you understand? His sister heard him; he himself confesses it." "True." " His father having refused, the young man shuts him- self up in his room, not daring to go to the club till he could pay his debt. He seeks some means by which to obtain the money, and loses sight of all honor and honesty. In the examination made by us a moment ago we found upon this young man's table a penal code, marked at the page containing Article 380. That proves a premeditated robbery. Then, a letter addressed to M. de Monjoux, informing him that the money owed him will be at his disposal the following day. That note was p i 1^ 93 IDOLS. I I i,'- 5. written during the evening. In tiie son's mind the hour of his crime was fixed; he could commit it fearlessly, in the certainty of impunity, the code having taught him that in such a case the law is powerless, the authority of the head 'of the family being supreme." "The unfortunate boy has admitted all this himself," said M. Obry. " He waited," continued the other, " till his father was asleep, took the keys from under his pillow, opened the safe, was in the act of taking the money, when his father stood before him, calling him thief. He grew frenzied; he was afraid of his father; he did not want to give up the money; a terrible struggle ensued; the son was the stronger; the parricide fled. All prudence deserted him. He forgot to close the srfe, left the piece of his shirt upon the ground, and throwing himself upon his bed without undressing — horrible to relate ! goes to sleep." " You may be reasoning logically from the premises," said M. Obry. '' You have drawn these conclusions from proved and admitted facts. Most men would think as you do, and yet is it not possible that, as he himself says, seized wi h terror and remorse he fled? His in- tention 9 'no . here established from the fact. He stole tuc > 78 & ^ opened the safe, then, horrified at the thought cl the crime, fled." " r ';e Hed, who took the hundred thousand francs, and who killed M. Pomereul ?" " That is what I do not know, what I cannot guess, and that is what remains for us to discover." " The most we can admit is the presence of an accom- plice," said M. Gaubert, " and that may require another trial. I believe, sir, that I am as deeply impressed as you with the sacredness of my office; my whole life is a proof of this; my conviction is unalterable, yet I will use every means to throw further light on this terrible a£Eair, which ^ 'immsmm^^^fm^'^^'^'^^'^rT^' pj' ' wu^j4JaffBJtf-i; ■^ son's mind the hour mmit it fearlessly, in : having taught him rrless, the authority •erne." ted all this himself,'" , " till his father was is pillow, opened the )ney, when his father He grew frenzied; not want to give up ed; the son was the idence deserted him. e piece of his shirt mself upon his bed te ! goes to sleep." from the premises," I these conclusions 3st men would think : that, as he himself Je he fled ? His in- from the fact. He hen, horrified at the housand francs, and hat I cannot guess, scover." ssence of an accom* >ay require another ly impressed as you ivhole life is a proof yet I will use every errible affair, which I 19 r IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 LiVA 12.5 m m 12.2 •!' 120 12.0 I.I = M 1.25 |U 1 1.6 ^' ^^ ^>..> -'^'" ^^-'l. '^. ^tfm Jfliik^ll ScMioes Carparation B Ji ( L ;wi MumiiMi 23 W0T MAM STMIT >I«IMIP«.N.V. 14SM (7U)t79-4S0S MTta :^ «v o^ CIHM/ICMH Collection de mi HEART TRIALS. 93 will stir public opinion to its depths. And if, by your efforts, you should discover some proofs in support of your presentiment, I shall be deeply indebted if you will communicate them to me." " You authorize me then to pursue my inquiries ?" "It is your duty so to do, and mine to urge you there- unto." Just then the doctor appeared with Xavier. The latter fell into an arm-chair, weak, exhausted, ut- terly overcome. " Sir," said he, addressing M. Gaubert, " I swear to you that I am innocent. I perfectly understand, with natural fear and horror, that circumstances are against me. And yet, however foolish and dissipated I may have been — sufficiently so to give ground for such an accusa- tion — I loved my father; ah ! indeed I loved him." " Had you any accomplices }" asked M. Gaubert, coldly. " Accomplices !" cried Xavier. " Do you not hear me say that I am innocent ?" " You must prove your innocence, sir, before the law," said M. Gaubert. " And now would you like to say good- by to your brother and sister ?" " Then you are going to take me — " " To prison," said the other, briefly. " Oh, I am lost, lost !" cried Xavier. In this cry of despair, M. Gaubert saw only an evi- ^ dence of a criminal's hardened conscience overcome at last by the evidence against him. It certainly seemed that a young man of irreproachable conduct and regular habits, accused of a parricide committed under such cir- cumstances, would have protested against so horrible an accusation with more vigor and eloquence. But the cir- cumstance of his intended theft weighed upop Xavier. His own admission, Sabine's testimony, in which that of Sulpice seemed to concur, all were against him. Yes, he felt that he was lost; his punishment was indeed heavy. i:;n 94 IDOLS. His nature was weakened morally and physically by his nightly vigils; his mind, too, prematurely enfeebled, lacked the energy which it would have required to sus- tain him in so terrible an ordeal. Xavier had no strong, living, overmastering plea to offer; he felt weak as a woman, helpless as a child. " Sir," said he, " I would prefer to spare Sulpice and Sabine the pain of such a parting. They will be allowed to come and see me ?" " Yes, when the affair is made known to the public." " Let us go, then— quick ! For humanity's sake, send for a carriage, and, if possible, disperse the crowd out- side; I can hear the murmur of it even here." M. Gaubert gave an order to his secretary, who went out. Xavier wrote a few lines to his brother, and left the letter open on the table. While the doctor and Sulpice were still busied with Sa- bine, Baptiste, weeping, kissed his young master's hand, and the latter, accompanied by the two magistrates, went down stairs. M. Obry whispered hastily to Xavier, " Keep up your courage. I will not desert you." The unfortunate boy gave him a grateful look. The two carriages had arrived. In one went M. Gau- bert and his secretary; in the other, M. Obry and the policemen who had charge of Xavier. During the drive M. Obry was obliged to keep silence, owing to the pres- ence of the policemen; but Xavier knew that he could regard him as a friend. Whilst Xavier was passing through the first stages of the long and sorrowful way which lay before him, Sabine was slowly recovering consciousness. The first word she uttered was Xavier's name. Sulpice promised that she would see him soon, and went out to ask the magis- trates if the three sorrowful orphans could be left tc ly and physically by >rematurely enfeebled, have required to sus- Xavier had no strong, ;r; he felt weak as a to spare Sulpice and They will be allowed nown to the public." humanity's sake, send iperse the crowd out- even here." s secretary, who went is brother, and left the re still busied with Sa- young master's hand, two magistrates, went ivier, not desert you." I grateful look. In one went M. Gau- ler, M. Obry and the er. During the drive ce, owing to the pres- r knew that he could gh the first stages of ay before him, Sabine ess. The first word ulpice promised that out to ask the magis- ans could be left tO' HEART TRIALS. 95 gether beside their father's corpse. It was then the priest first learned that Xavier had been arrested by or- der of the examining magistrate. At first he could not, would not understand. The note left by Xavier told him of the horrible accusation which had been made against his brother. "But he is innocent!" cried he; "he is innocenil I will speak to the magistrates, and beg them to give me back my brother, my poor brother." Returning to Sabine, he threw his arms round her with mournful tenderness, saying, " Pray, oh, pray, Sabine; our trial is harder than I thought." Sulpice went to the jail. He spoke with convincing eloquence; he pleaded for Xavier, answering for him — soul for soul, honor for honor. Every one showed the greatest respect and sympathy for the young priest; but, as regarded Xavier, could only give him an evasive answer. " Alas ! sir," said the magistrate to whom the priest addressed himself; " to save your brother, we must find another criminal." " But then — " cried Sulpice. He did not finish; he knew the real criminal; he had seen his face — knew his name. With one word he could orove Xavier's innocence and bring the murderer to jus- tice. If his magnanimity had been so great as to pardon his father's murderer, must he then leave his brother under so monstrous an accusation ? Did his duty oblige him to sacrifice Xavier and leave unpunished the escaped felon, Jean Machii ? Was the secret of the confessional then so absolute that, placed between the honor and the life of his own brother, he, the priest, was obliged to see the family dishonored and his brother d ing upon the scaffold, rather than betray a wretch's secret ? Would it not be different if the thief the man of blood, when he "Tj 1 I II' i ) J^ 96 IDOLS. knelt before the priest, had really repented, and been swallowed up, as it were, in the abyss of. divine mercy? But Jean Machii had played a sacrilegious farce. Sulpice's power had been used to ensnare hiin. Was he really bound to a man who had made a mockery of the sacra- ment, who had used the secrecy imposed upon the priest as a weapon to save himself, as he would have been to an ordinary and sincerely repentant sinner ? In one rapid moment Sulpice thus questioned himself. His heart beat high, his head seemed burning. A terrible struggle was going on in his breast. By one word he could save his brother; but by one word he would be- come unfaithful to his oath, perjured alike before God and men. He wiped the cold sweat from his brow, and muttered in a feeble voice, " I am sure of Xavier's innocence, but I cannot furnish any proof of it. Let me at least go and console him." "In a day or two the secret will be made known, and the doors of the prison thrown open to you," they replied. Sulpice getting into a carriage drove back to his home. He found Sabine in the chamber of death. The room had been arranged by her direction; tapers were burning at the four corners of the bed; a silver vase of holy water stood at the foot; a crucifix was laid upon the dead man's breast, and the curtains were drawn to conceal the face, changed, alas! beyond recognition. The perfume of flowers standing in vases about the room mingled with the air which had already become close and almost stifling. Sabine burst out crying when she saw Sulpice, and said but o.ne word: "Xavier?" " I told you, my poor child," said Sulpice, " to pray, and to be courageous. Let the sister rely upon her brother's words; let the Christian be resigned. .There repented, and been fTSS of. divine mercy? ;ious farce. Sulpice's lini. Was he really lockery of the sacra- osed upon the priest would have been to sinner? > questioned himself, burning. A terrible it. By one word he word he would be- ed alike before God : from his brow, and but I cannot furnish and console him." je made known, and to you," they replied, •ve back to his home, f death. The room tapers were burning silver vase of holy is laid upon the dead drawn to conceal the tion. The perfume t the room mingled me close and almost tie saw Sulpice, and 1 Sulpice, "to pray, lister rely upon her be resigned. . There ' HEART TRIALS. 97 are afflictions which surpass human strength, and to sus- tain such we must ask our Lord to let us carry the Cross with Him. Do not question me, for I cannot answer. Do not tell me to act; I am powerless; but God is above us, and God knows all !" Sabine sobbed aloud. An hour passed thus. The young girl was still weeping, and Sulpice begging mercy of Heaven, when the door of the room opened noiselessly, and Benedict Fougerais, pale and trembling, came m and knelt beside the orphans. Adopted on the very evening before the murder by M. Pomereul, he came to share in the grief of the family. Sabine raised her heavy eyes to his for an instant; Sulpice made place for him, but not a word was spoken. All three remained absorbed in a grief which was deep and beyond expression. Ever and anon Sulpice recited some psalm, thus pouring the words of faith and trust in God into their desolate hearts. A strong cry went up from his soul to God with the lamentations of the royal Prophet. Once a sob which burst from his overcharged heart broke upon the stillness of the room. Meanwhile, a scene scarcely less painful was being enacted in the drawing-room, in the dining-room, and, in fact, in all the apartments of the house, each one in turn being examined by the officers of justice. Somewhere about eleven o'clock, a short time after the inquest, Marc Mauduit appeared upon the scene to fulfil as usual his daily duties. These were the correspondences, the management of money, and the keeping of private accounts. M. Pome- reul had thought very highly of Marc Mauduit, and was wont to praise his discretion, promptitude and good habits. In fact this well-dressed young man with the soft voice and intelligent face always inspired sympathy. Yet certain signs, by which physiognomists are rarely 98 IDOLS. deceived, might have led one to believe that his employer rated him rather too highly. The lips were thin, and the expression of the face not wholly devoid of cunning. But, as we have said, these details were lost in the pleasing whole. Marc Mauduit, lithe and graceful of figure, was always well and carefully dressed, but without affectation or display. He was fi nd of fine linen and the choicest perfumes. People often jested about the great care which he bestowed upon his hair, but he always answered in the same strain, that such care was more necessary for him than any one else, because he had to make up for its color by great attention to its arrangement. The servants, ihough not over-fond of him, always showed him the greatest deference. Xavier alone regarded him with positive hatred, which was easily accounted for by the fact, that the elder Pomereul so often drew a com- parison between his son's extravagant and irregular habits, and the irreproachable conduct of his secretary. When Marc Mauduit appeared at the door, the con- cierge said to him in an agitated voice, " So you have not heard, M. Mauduit ?" " What is the matter ? what is going on ?" cried he. "M. Pomereul was murdered last night." " Murdered ? By whom ?" " By whom no one knows. But you know how it is with the law; it must always have a victim and make some arrest, and so M. Xavier has been arrested." " Ah !" cried Marc Mauduit. He said no more; he seemed overcome by emotion. " You are amazed, and no wonder," continued the con- cierge ; "a boy can be fond of gaming and of horses, without being capable of such a crime. What do you think?" " I ? Why I can answer for M. Xavier's innocence." re that his employer ps were thin, and devoid of cunning, were lost in the f figure, was always hout affectation or n and the choicest out the great care he always answered ras more necessary ie had to make up arrangement. The lim, always showed alone regarded him y accounted for by often drew a com- Sfant and irregular ict of his secretary. : the door, the con- :e, uit?" ig on ?" cried he. night" rou know how it is a victim and make 5en arrested." ;ome by emotion. " continued the cw- ling and of horses, ime. What do you vier's innocence." •-fr HEART TRIALS. 99 " Right you are, M. Marc," said the other, " and it does you honor." " But," said the secretary, " when such a dreadful affliction comes upon a family, notwithstanding their grief, many things have to be attended to. Have the funeral arrangements been thought of ?" " Nothing has been thought of, sir; every one is over- come with grief and horror." " Their grief must not be disturbed," said Marc Mau- duit. " I will consult with Baptiste, and see how I can be useful." Marc Mauduit went up stairs and found Baptiste in the dining-room. " My poor Baptiste," said he, " all I can do is to try and spare M. Sulpice the mournful duty of attending to the funeral. A certificate of burial is required, a coffin, a hearse, and printed announcements. I will attend to the legal formalities at the Mayor's office, and bring the news to the workmen in the factory at Charenton. I have lost a protector, a second father, in the person of M. Pomereul; looking down on us from above, he will see that I deem it my sacred duty to honor his memory." Baptiste highly approved of the young secretary's devotion, and the latter proceeded to the Mayor's office, to the undertaker's, and lastly to Charenton. The news of M, Pomereul's terrible death spread general conster- nation among the workmen at the factory. They asked themselves what would become of them, now that they had lost the master who had swee<^ 'iied their laborious existence, and made their domestl; ; 'e so honorable and so happy. The old men who had k ;own him when he and they were still young, and who had seen his hair grrow grey with their own, wiped away bitter tears. Each one recalled some act of benevolence or of gener- osity on the part of that excellent man. 100 IDOLS. Moreover if he had only died a natural death, if*they had been prepared for it by a long illness — but murdered! That good man! A cry of detestation against the mur- derer followed the first natural outburst of astonishment and sorrow, and when Xavier's name was mentioned the excitement was intense. " It is impossible," cried a young workman, whose dress was somewhat above his station; "he may have kept late hours, and been fond of good dinners and the theatre, but that does not lead to such a thing as this." "It does lead to such things," replied an old work- man, slowly, " and before one thinks, too, laziness leads to drunkenness. First is spent the money earned, next the money borrowed, and lastly the money stolen. I do not mean this for M. Xavier, for I saw him first when he was a little fair-haired boy, and the sight of his rosy face did my heart good, but I say it for you and such as you, who want fashionable coats and despise the blouse, who read papers which are much more Rouge than Blue in their principles, and who play billiards in low coffee- houses; you make light of all this, my lad, but if any- thing bad happens in your neighborhood you're like to get the credit of it. M. Xavier, I can answer for it, never murdered his poor father, but his conduct was bad. Circumstances which are almost proofs rise up against him, and God knows where it will all end." "Yes," echoed Marc Mauduit, "God knows where it will all end." "Meanwhile," said Blanc-Cadet, the old workman, " we have a double duty to do, to pay the last tribute of respect to our good master, and if we can to help his son. We are only laborers, but the Son of God vouchsafed to be a carpenter, to sltow us the value of work. We have hearts, souls, arms, and intelligence, let us place all these at the, service of the orphans. What say you, comrades ?" HEART TRIALS. idt tural death, irthey !ss — but murdered! 1 against the mur- rst of astonishment was mentioned the I workman, whose on; "he may have )d dinners and the 1 a thing as this." slied an old work- too, laziness leads money earned, next noney stolen. I do r him first when he ght of his rosy face u and such as you, se the blouse, who ouge than Blue in irds in low coffee- my lad, but if any- lood you're like to answer for it, never conduct was bad. ofs rise up against end." 3d knows where it the old workman, ' the last tribute of can to help his son. God vouchsafed to of work. We have et us place all these >ay you, comrades ?" I "We say yes, a thousand times, Father Blanc-Cadet," they answered, vociferously. The old man now approached Marc. "We thank you, M. Mauduit," said he, "for having come to tell us the sorrowful news; this afternoon a dep- utation of us will go to pay our tribute to the remains of our poor master, and to-morrow all the workmen will attend the funeral." The secretary then got into the carriage and drove rapidly homeward. The workmen were full of honest grief, never had they so fully under- stood M. Pomereul's constant kindness as now. When they thought of the infant-school, the work-room, and the hospital, all founded by this noble-hearted man, this model master, this generous capitalist, so delicate in his generosity, they could only repeat that no one could take his place towards them, and that they, too, like the Pome- reul family, were orphans. Each among them wanted .to go to the Chauss^e d'Antin to pray beside the mortal remains of the victim; it was at last decided that only the heads of each depart- ment should go in the name of their comrades. In about two hours afterwards they reached the Pomereul homestead. Sulpice, informed of their arrival, himself threw open the doors of the room, transformed into a chapelle ardente, and when he saw them kneeling, pray- ing, stifling back their tears, the refreshing dew of heav- enly consolation fell upon his heart. "O God most good!" he said aloud, "God of mercy and of clemency, receive into thy eternal peace him whom thou hast so suddenly withdrawn from life. Shall not the memory of his many virtues, of his benevolence suffice for Thy justice? We venture to hope so, Lord! but if aught remains against this man who lived to do good, if the alms so lavishly given were not offered fully and entirely to Thee, if he forgot to send upwards to 102 IDOLS. Thy throne the feeling which prompted him to relieve the poor and to assist his brethren, then, O my God! hear the voice of those who weep, accept our prayers and tears in suffrage for the imperfections of his life, and let the pain and horror of his last hour obtain for him mercy in Thy sight." All hearts were wrung, all eyes were streaming with tears, and all hands were outstretched towards tlie corpse as if for a parting benediction. Sulpice vainly tried to persuade these worthy men to retire; they in- sisted upon remaining to watch beside their master and benefactor, to share the vigils of the family. Both Sul- pice and his sister consented, too much touched by this mark of grief and respect to insist further. The night passed solemnly in the chamber of death. Sulpice prayed aloud by turns, and the others answered. Notwithstanding her weakness, Sabine had insisted on remaining beside her father. Kneeling by the bed, her hands resting upon the coverlet, she seemed utterly unconscious. Orders had been given that the funeral should take place very early in the morning. But, de- spite the unusual hour, a dense crowd had assembled in the Place de la Trinit6. According to promise, the workmen of the factory at Charenton had come thither with their wives and children. An effort was made to spare Sulpice the pain of saying the Mass and giving the final absolution. But, heroic to the last, the young priest would not permit any one else to pronounce, in the name of the Church, the last farewell to the beloved dead. As soon as the coffin had been placed in the hearse, the children of the employees advanced, each one laying a wreath upon it. The procession passed on to P^re-la-Chaise, where the Pomereuls had a vault. No panegyric was pronounced over the remains: not be- cause the merchants, and th£ Municipal Council, of HEART TRIALS. 103 >ted him to relieve , then, O my God! ipt our prayers and s of his life, and let Lir obtain for him ;re streaming with tched towards tlie an. Sulpice vainly I to retire; they in- ,e their master and family. Both SuU ch touched by this rther. chamber of death. :ie others answered, ne had insisted on ng by the bed, her le seemed utterly in that the funeral morning. But, de- d had assembled in ig to promise, the n had come thither effort was made to e Mass and giving the last, the young to pronounce, in the irell to the beloved been placed in the advanced, each one :ssion passed on to s hdd a vault. No e remains: not be- nicipal Council, of which M. Pomcreul had been a member had excused themselves from accompanying the funeral, but because of the charge against Xavier. To speak of the death would have been the same as mentioning the name of him whcjm some already called the murderer, and would thus have inflicted another pang upon Sulpice. Every one present came forward to shake hands with him; he kissed the younger of the children, and took his place with Benedict in M. Nicois' carriage. The banker was in despair. " Ah!" said he, in a tone of deep grief, " it seems as if I were, indeed, the cause of my poor friend's death. For had I not asked for the hundred thousand francs, no one would have thought of robbing him." " You had every right to apply to a friend for the loan you required, M. Nicois," said Sulpice, "and I shall con- sider it my duty to render you the service my father had promised. The sum which you require shall be placed to your credit at the bank, and you can use it at your discretion; accept it from me, as you would have done from Antoine Pomereul." " But under such circumstances — " "Our affliction will not lessen your anxiety, sir; my father's friendship for you must survive him, for we are heirs to it. If ever you find yourself in trouble, believe me always ready to sympathize with you." M. Nicois did not ask to see Sabine, but Benedict re- turned home with Sulpice. " Do you think your unfortunate brother has chosen a lawyer?" asked he. " He will not hear of it, my dear Benedict," said Sul- pice, " he disdains it." "Let me go and see M. Renaut for you;" said Bene- dict; " he is a young man of great talent in whom I have every confidence." j, I04 IDOLS. " Do as you like, my brother," said Sulpice, extend- i ig his hand, which the other warmly pressed. " Will you not give me yours also ?" asked he, address- ing Sabine. The young girl hesitated ; but seeing the look of pain and reproach^upon the artist's face, she could not refuse. "A brother may indeed take his sister's hand," sh , said, gravely. Benedict started, and looked at her with sad surprise; but Sulpice whispered, " She has suffered so much that you must pardon her dejection." Benedict soon went away, and Sabine threw herself into her brother's arms, with an outburst of grief. " I can bear no more !" she cried. " My God ! it is too much for a feeble creature. You are a saint, Sul- pice, but I am but a woman, and my strength has given way." TIIK INVIOLABLE SECRET. 105 d Sulpice, extend- pressed. asked he, address- :eing the look of :ace, she could not sister's hand," sh , with sad surprise; u must pardon her )ine threw herself irst of grief. " My God ! it is I are a saint, Sul- strength has given CHAPTER VIII. The Inviolable Secret. However exhausted in mind and body, the Abb6 Pomereul was none the less resolved to settle everything which his father's sudden death had left unsettled. His first important step was to proceed to Charenton, to se- cure the interests of the laboring population there, and also those of Xavier and Sabine. He sent for the fore- man of the foundry, the heads of each department of carvers, mounters, or other workmen, and said to them frankly and kindly: " My friends, your prosperity as well as ours rests with yourselves. I can guide you in the right way, teach your children the lessons of the gospel, and to love the things of God; but I am powerless to direct you in the affairs of the foundry, or bear so heavy a burden. If we give up— do not look well to the control of affairs at present— it is more than probable that more disastrous times will follow. There are rumors of war on all sides; hostilities with Prussia may begin any day; trade will Inevitably suffer. The wisest course is, therefore, to continue what my good father so well commenced, thanks to your honesty and devotion. Henceforth you will no longer be the workjnen or employees of the house of Pomereul, but its proprietors. Our commercial pros- perity will be yours. You will have full charge of the laborers under your orders. If their conduct has been hitherto good, help me to make it still better. I will now have many cares; therefore I beg of you to supply what I cannot do; give me this consolation in my heavy sorrow: say to me, ' The men, their wives and children, I I * I .1 io6 IDOLS. Still continue in the way of virtue, from which nothing will turn them aside.' " *' So it shall be, I swear to you, in the name of my companions," answered Blanc-Cadet. " As for our in- terest in the profits, we will accept it willingly, as upon it depends the future of our families. God grant that the loss of your poor father may be the last of your troubles." " But will you not come any more to officiate in our chapel, sir ?" asked one of the men. " I will devote Sunday to you, as usual, my friends," said Sulpice. " My greatest consolation hereafter will be to live among you. Farewell, or rather .«« revoir. My mind is now at peace." Touching was this scene between the Abb6 Pomereul and the workmen of the factory. All of them had tears in their eyes, and Sulpice could scarce restrain his own emotion. However, he felt better after leaving Charenton. The interests of his brother and sister would be protected, and these good people, whom he considered as a part of the family, would not suffer. When he got home, he went to Xavier's rooms. He found them in the greatest disorder. The servants, with a sort of superstitious feeling, had not ventured to go in since the legal formali- ties had been gone through with there. Sulpice opened the secretary. He examined all the papers. They were principally bills. He classified them by dates, catalo.srued them, and added the total. It was,.indeed, a large sum, «but Sulpice sent word to the creditors that he would meet their demands on Monday. He sent to the Count de Monjoux the forty thousand francs which his brother had lost, praying him to excuse the slight delay in the payment of the debt. That done, Sulpice breathed more freely. At first he thought of selling Xavier's horses and carriages. •om which nothing n the name of my "As for our in- willingly, as upon God grant that the t of your troubles." to officiate in our usual, my friends," tion hereafter will ather a» revoir. My the Abb6 Pomereul 1 of them had tears ce restrain his own ig Charenton. The ould be protected, )nsidered as a part len he got home, he hem in the greatest rt of superstitious :e the legal formali- -e. Sulpice opened papers. They were by dates, catalo.^ued ndeed, a large sum, ors that he would e sent to the Count :s which his brother slight delay in the Ipice breathed more Xavier's horses and THE INVIOLABLE ShXRET. 107 ' ■ I "But, no," he said; "that would seem like casting a reflection upon him, and might add to the gravity of his situation." He had just finished making up the accounts, and con- cluded his arrangements, when, coming out of Xavier's apartments, h'^ met the doctor. " You have come to ask for Sabine, M. Morvan ?" said he. " I thank you for your kindness. The poor thing is very weak and broken down." " She is in no danger, however," said the doctor. " She is a heroic child, and, being a true Christian, seeks strength from on high. I am less uneasy about her than about her unfortunate brother. M. Xavier has lost that wonderful vitality, which is one of the privileges of youth. He is in such a state of despair that I fear for his mind." " Doctor ! what are you saying ?" cried Sulpice. " It is a terrible truth, sir," said the doctor. " Late hours and dissipation have told upon his constitution. Another shock would finish him. Happily, however, there is only an accusation as yet. He may be speedily released. Of course, I am perfectly convinced of his innocence; but will he be able to prove it ?" "Ah! you believe in him; you — think him innocent." " Why, I am certain of it," said the doctor; " and M. Obry is of the same opinion. Unfortunately, M. Gau- bert has accumulated evidence, and the sole witness of the murder is a creature who, though gifted with the greatest sagacity or intelligence, is unfortunately de- prived of speech." " Lipp-Lapp ?" asked the priest. "Yes; the poor creature seems to know that he is needed. Sometimes his eyes question us, and his lips, too, tremble. He gives a cry, and great tears roll down his cheeka Have no fear; I will cure Lipp-Lapp, and 1 , ,1 I io8 IDOLS. set him on the trail of the murderc'-s, and I warrant you he will find them out quicker than a whole squad of police." " You are right," said Sulpice*, after a moment's silence, " That poor creature may be the means which God will employ to make known the truth— the truth which has escaped the magistrates, and which it is not in my power to make known." Just then a mournful sound was heard in the adjoining room, and the doctor said: " He has recognized your voice, and is calling you." They went in. As soon as he saw his young master, the chimpanzee rose and held out one arm towards him. His eyes, dimmed by suffering, sparkled with joy, but, overcome by weakness, he sank back exhausted. "You see," said the doctor, "your young master loves you; he has not fcygotten you." Lipp-Lapp moved upon the pillow, and with an effort put his hand to his head, making a movement as if pull- ing out hair, and then to his breast. " See," said the doctor, " Lipp-Lapp is telling you how it was he plucked the hair from the murderer's head. The murderer wounded the poor chimpanzee, and it is for us to find the wretch." " Yes," thought Sulpice; " for that is not Jean Machd, but the accomplice, to whom I have promised nothing, nothing !" When Lipp-Lapp saw that his master was going away, he held out his long hairy hand, which Sulpice pressed, remembering that it had defended his father. Sulpice had not seen his sister since the evening before; he found her in her little room, gazing, through her tears, at a photograph which Benedict Fougerais took care to have taken some hours after M. Pomereul's death. This representation of violent death was frightful, and yet the young girl could not take her eyes from it THE INVIOLABLE SECRET. 109 'S, and I warrant you he whole squad of police." ^ter a momenl's silence, means which God will — the truth which has h it is not in my power heard in the adjoining , and is calling you." aw his young master, one arm towards him, parkled with joy, but, ick exhausted, "your young master ou." low, and with an effort a movement as if puU- t. app is telling you how the murderer's head, chimpanzee, and it is lat is not Jean Mach{l, ive promised nothing, aster was going away, rhich Sulpice pressed, his father. ice the evening before; ng, through her tears, ^ougerais took care to mereul's death. This frightful, and yet the s from it " Sabine, I implore you," cried Sulpice, " give me that horrible picture. Forget that you saw your father after his terrible death agony. Remember him only as he was when last we embraced him." " I remember him so, Sulpice," she answered, " and yet my eyes seem to fix themselves upon this photograph, as if it would reveal the secret of our father's death, and tell us the murderer's name." " God will make it known, if He so wills, Sabine," said her brother; " but, meanwhile, for us courage, for Xavier, resignation." " And can he be resigned ?" said Sabine; " must he not hate both the law and society at large ? Who knows but ihat he curses me, for did not my replies to the magis- trate help to draw on him their odious suspicions ?" " We must submit to whatever the will of God per- mits," said Sulpice; '' Sabine, my sister, do not reproach yourself; you have done your duty." " When can you see Xavier ?" asked she. "The day after to-morrow, I hope," replied Sulpice. " May I go with you, Sulpice ?" / " I do not feel strong enough to have you with me during that first interview, Sabine," said he; " let me go alone and receive the first outburst of his grief and despair. You will come afterwards like a consoling angel, to soften the bitterness of that poor heart. Alas ! If your sorrow for Xavier's situation be not greater than mine, at least you have a better right to console him." " But promise me that you will let me go every other time," said she. " I promise," answered the priest "Then," said she, "I must dry my tears; if Xavier were to see us so overcome, he would believe his case hopeless. I will take your advice and put away this pic- ture which renews my gneL" no IDOLS. Sulpice left his sister to go to M. Renaut's; the law- yer, engaged by Benedict, to place his talents and elo- quence at Xavier's service. He had not been able to see him until the matter was made public. When they reached the prison, Xavier, as was usual in exceptional cases, was received by the director of the jail. He was ushered into a room, of v/hich the architecture re- sembled a chapel; and the first legal formalities were attended with so much courtesy and kindness, that Xavier warmly thanked the director. The latter, upon a word from M. Obry, had promised to pay every attention to Xavier, and to spare him as much as possible the hor- rors of prison life. A well-lighted cell, with newly white- washed walls, was given him; a narrow bed, a table, and a chair constituted its furniture. At his request they brought him writing materials. As soon as he was left alone he began a long letter to Sulpice. When it was finished he re-read it, and remained absorbed in thought, his elbows resting on the table, and his head buried in his hands. A jailer coming into the cell aroused him from his meditations. " What do you want ?" asked Xavier. " I did not call." " People never call here," replied the jailer; " I brought your supper." " I am not hungry," said Xavier. " As you please, sir," said the jailer; " but M. Gaubert has ordered a new examination, and it is better in such cases to keep up one's strengfth." " What ! is he going to question me again ?" said Xavier. " Most likely," answered the jailer. " Jiow many times does he mean to put me to the tor- ture .'" said Xavier. " Until his opinion changes, or his conscience is satis- fied." The keeper went out. Xavier did not touch the coarse .^«V,'^'*^'Wi^J^f^v .' M. Renaut's; the law- e his talents and elu- had not been able to e public. When they s usual in exceptional tor of the jail. He :h the architecture re- legal formalities were f and kindness, that )r. The latter, upon a to pay every attention ch as possible the hor- cell, with newly white- irrow bed, a table, and At his request they As soon as he was left julpicc. When it was d absorbed in thought, nd his head buried in the cell aroused him vier. "I did not call." I the jailer; " I brought liler; "but M. Gaubert ind it is better in such ne again ?" said Xavier. ler. a to put me to the tor- his conscience is satis- id not touch the coarse 1 THE INVIOLABLE SECRET. Ill food set before him; he threw himself on the bed, though he could not sleep, his wearied brain seeking for some infallible means, some indisputable proof by which to convince the judge of his innocence. But he could not find any. His past career condemned him in anticipa- tion. He could find no means by which to escape from the burden of this fearful accusation. Not one act of virtue or of self-sacrifice arose to plead for him from out the long years of his unprofitable youth. His time had been always spent in pursuits which were useless if not dangerous. He could number many companions of the gaming-table, of his suppers and his revelry, but he could not count upon one friend. Benedict Fougerais alone had stood by him, and that not so much through liking or esteem for Xavier, as for Sabine's sake. Sabine ! What did she think of him ? And Sulpice ! With what anguish, he asked himself, would they too consider his past offences as sufficient reason to accuse him of such a crime ! What mattered the opinion of the multitude if Sabine and Sulpice believed him innocent ? The director of the prison came to see him. Xavier begged him to forward the letter which he had just writ- ten to his brother. "You are still under secrecy," said the director, "but I shall send it as soon as possible." The doctor also came to see him. He advised him to eat and keep up his strength; the director sent him in some lighter food, and Xavier managed to eat a little. During the evening he was summoned into the presence of M. Gaubert to undergo a second examination. When the summons came the prisoner trembled in every limb; since the evening previous he had been frequently seized with such nervous attacks, and they left him too weak and helpless to pass through this terrible ordeal. The jailer was oblig^ to repeat the magistrate's orders; 112 IDOLS. then Xavier rose with some difficulty, and followed him in silence. When he found himself in presence of the magistrate Xavier did not even hear the words addressed to him, but said in a broken voice: "Sir, I am innocent; of course you do not believe it; you accumulate, to my ruin, a monstrous collection of faces and suppositions, in which you place the proof of my guilt. I repeat to you, as I shall repeat at the bar of justice, and as I shall proclaim to the world, that I did not murder my father. Your questions are horrible tortures to me; I-am free to remain silent, and I de- clare that whatsoever you may ask me, I shall refuse to answer." "Take care," said the magistrate, severely. "What more have I to fear?" said Xavier. "I spoke to you at first with perfect frankness. I confessed my folly and my debts; my criminal attempt to rob my father of the sum he had refused me. I concealed nothing; I did not dissimulate. You had my effects searched. Did you find the money which you accuse me of having taken ?" " Your accomplice of course has the money," said the magistrate, sententiously. " But I have no accomplice, nor am I a criminal my- self," said Xavier. " Let us look at things in their true light," said the magistrate. " You took the keys and opened the safe. While you were busy abstracting the money, your father, awakened by the noise, appeared. You, the son, were bewildered, stupefied, overpowered, by fear and remorse. Your accomplice, on the contrary, hoping to escape pun- ishment by a new crime, threw himself upon M. Pom- ereul. A terrible struggle took place, in which, I admit, you may not have taken any part. A third actor appeared upon the scene; it was Lipp-Lapp, who attempted to de- I imi ' ii.HL'H.i i »i i wmi. |i iJminWi). i'l " You know him," he cried; " you know him!" But the Abb6 Sulpice had already recovered from the brief hallucination during which he had disclosed the fact that he possessed the clue to the terrible drama that had convulsed the Pomereul household. Pale and totter- ing, he clung with both hands to the grating which sep- arated him from his unhappy brother. "So then I am saved," cried Xavier. "You will go at once to M. Gaubert and give up the murderer, and I will be cleared from the horrible stain which rests upon me, and the wretch will undergo the full penalty of his crime." " I cannot do it," murmured Sulpice. "Well," said the prisoner, "of course, that is right; you are a priest, and must pardon even the murderer of the best of fathers; you would pardon your own mur- derer. You will, of course, do what your conscience dictates, and grant to the wretch that mercy which he did not show his victim." " I cannot even do that, brother," said Sulpice. " I can- not go to the ntagistrate and say, ' I know the man, and will tell you his name.' " " Do you forget that the honor of our name is at stake ?" said Xavier. " I do not forget," replied Sulpice. " And that my life is in danger ?" " I know it." "Yet you hesitate between your brother and this wretch !" " It breaks my heart to see my brother here, but I do not hesitate." " I do not understand — I am going mad !" cried Xa- vier. " You have discovered the murderer, and will not denounce him." " I did not discover him," said Sulpice; " he confessed it all to me." know him!" recovered from the e had disclosed the e terrible drama that aid. Pale and totter- : grating which sep- !r. ;r. " You will go at murderer, and I will 'hich rests upon me, penalty of his crime." ice. )urse, that is right; ven the murderer of don your own mur- hat your conscience hat mercy which he said Sulpice. " I can- know the man, and lur name is at stake ?" r brother and this >ther here, but I do ig mad !" cried Xa- irderer, and will not ipice; "he confesged n THE INVIOLABLE SECRET. 117 " And what matters your oath of silence, if you did give su :h an oath > a murderer, when it will lead to my destruction ? Who can release you from It ? The arch- bishop? the Holy Father himself? Why, ho would tell you to speak." " But," said Sulpice, " it is not merely a promise made to the criminal himself, Xavier; it is an oath made to God — a solemn oath from which no one can release me, not even the Pope. Yes, I know the name of him who murdered our father, and I cannot speak it. One word from my lips would set you free, and I must still be silent. I beg your mercy and forgiveness, brother; for, even were you to die, I dare not disclose the name nor unveil the face of our father's murderer. Know that that which binds, and at the same time is killing me, is the sublime and terrible thing which they call the secret of confession." " Ah !" cried Xavier, " but it. does not oblige you to let me die. I respect that secret; it guarantees the in- violability of a penitent's avowal; but when my head is concerned, it is different. You will not let me die, that you may remain faithful to your vow. When you swore inviolable secrecy as to the confessions received by you in the tribunal of penance, of course you could not foresee being placed between your own brother and a murderer. If you are silent, Sulpice; it will not be the law that condemns me to die, but you. I will no longer blame the judges, but I will curse you," " Ah," said the priest; " what you ask is impossible." " You will let me be tried and condemned ?" "Yes." " You will see me brought before the Court of Assizes, sooner than reveal the truth ?" " I would give my life to save you, Xavier," said Sulpice, "|>ut I cannot be false to my duty." L. ii8 IDOLS. I ( I I i i 1 jiSj V Mil liH! ' "But your duty will make you a fratricide," said Xavier. " My God, my God !" said Sulpice, falling on his knees, *' the trial is too great." Xavier thinking that he had shaken his brother's reso- lution, continued: " I know how sacred you hold the word duty. I re- spect no other man or priest as I do you, Sulpice; yet, if you persist in this cruel silence, I shall no longer regard you with veneration, but with horror." "Xavier," said the priest, in a broken voice, "you remember when we were all children, we read books which described the agony of the martyrs. To urge them to apostacy, a mother, sister, or friend was sent into the cell. They cast themselves before the new-made Christian, begging him to burn incense before the idols, and renounce the Crucified. They said to him, ivhat you now say to me, ' Sell your soul for love of us ! ' " "Yes," cried Xavier, frantically; "sell your soul, re- nounce your God, be false to your priestly vow, risk eternal damnation if it is necessary, but oh, save me !" "Wretched boy!" cried Sulpice, "you have lost your faith." " I would trample the image of your God under my feet, if He obliged you to doom me to death. ' He is a cruel master who strikes me through your unrelenting honor as a priest. If you pe'-ist, Sulpice, I will appeal to the court, to the jury, to the whole world: He knows the guilty one, and will not reveal his name. And the law will oblige you to tell." " You mistake, Xavier," said Sulpice; " it respects the rigorous law which seals my lips." "And I who do not respect it,"- cried Xavier, "will curse you when the evidence accumulates against me. I will curse you when I hear my sentence from the judge, mmmmm >u a fratricide," said :e, falling on his knees, sen his brother's reso- the word duty. I re- : do you, Sulpice; yet, ce, I shall no longer ith horror." i broken voice, "you Idren, we read books lie martyrs. To urge ;r, or friend was sent !S before the new-made cense before the idols, r said to him, vrhat you r love of us ! ' " ■; "sell your soul, re- our priestly vow, risk y, but oh, save me !" !, " you have lost your f your God under my me to death. 'He is a )ugh your unrelenting , Sulpice, I will appeal hole world: He knows il his name. And the Ipice; "it respects the t,"' cried Xavier, "will ;cumulates against me. intence from the judge, ii THE INVIOLABLE SECRET. 119 r I and when the foreman of the jury gives the verdict of his colleagues. I will curse you when the presiding judge reads the death penalty, and my last words upon the scaffold will be to curse you." " Miserere mei, Deus," murmured the priest. His face was deathly pale; a mist gathered before his eyes; his brother's words seemed to pierce his very soul. Meanwhile, Xavier clutched at the iron bars, his features were distorted, his lips covered with foam, he seemed the very image of despair. His brother's heroic virtue roused him to fury. Unable to conceive the martyrdom which the hapless priest was undergoing, he overwhelmed him with cutting reproaches and bitter taunts. At last, f maddened at sight of him, who was even then offering I his life in exchange for his brother's, Xavier cried, shaking I the iron bars in his fury, " Go, I say, go !" " May I come again ?" asked .Sulpice. " No," cried Xavier; " the very sight of you fills me with horror. May you be accursed ! Cain! Cain!" The priest crept away from the bars, pursued by the horrible cry, Cain! Cain! gMi I20 IDOLS. CHAPTER IX. A New Misfortune. Hi H • The Abb6 Sulpice was in his father's study, looking over some papers, when Sabine entered. The young girl dressed in black bore even more in her heart than in her costume the deepest mourning for her father and her own happiness; she paused a moment mute and motion- less before her brother. She regarded him with compas- sion mingled with profound admiration; and yet it seemed that the deep, tender affection she had once felt for him was lessened somehow in her heart; he was henceforth too great, too far above her. Something of that fear was upon her which kept from their side the wives, daughters or sisters of the prophets, of those whom the Lord seemed to draw near to His own glory, and cover at all times with His shadow. Sabine had just come from the prison. She had gone thither attended by Baptiste, who waited without in the anteroom, and h^d learned from Xavi- er's lips the scene which had taken place between the brothers on the previous evening. Her first feeling was one of profound astonishment; her second, a species of awe inspired by, Sulpice's exalted virtue, which seemed to human eyes so near cruelty. From that moment her whole heart went out towards Xavier. He alone seemed suffering; she pitied only him. Xavier's affliction was so entire, so horrible, that she forgot the agony which Sulpice was enduring. She did not renounce him, but her heart no longer sought him. Alas! in those hours of terrible suffering, during that ordeal, to which few men were ever subjected, Sulpice. «'twM»aiit««e) c. JNE. ither's study, looking entered. The young re in lier heart than in for her father and her ent mute and motion- ded him with compas- ;ion; and yet it seemed had once felt for him t; he was henceforth thing of that fear was 3 the wives, daughters ose whom the Lord flory, and cover at all id just come from the Y Baptiste, who waited 1 learned from Xavi- en place between the Her first feeling was r second, a species of virtue, which seemed rom that moment her er. He alone seemed Lavier's affliction was 'got the agony which ot renounce him, but suffering, during that irer subjected, Sulpice A NEW MISFORTUNE. 121 had even more need of a friendly and consolvag voice. Never had Sabine's affection and tenderness bcemed more desirable than in this hour when both failed him. Yet he did not reproach her even in thought. Could he expect from this child the superhuman strength which he owed to his priestly character ? Had he a right, to raise Sabine to the same height as himself? He knew that he would be censured by men, cursed by Xavier, that his brethren in the ministry would alone approve of the course he had taken, and that God only could console him. These thoughts flashed across his mind, whilst Sabine, in perfect silence, stood regarding him with pairlul intentness. " You saw him ?" asked Sulpice. " I saw him. He was expecting M. Renaut" " Did he speak of me ?" Sabine hesitated. " Oh, do not fear to tell me all," said the young priest; "one pang more or less matters little." "I do not understand," said Sabine, shaking her head. And she added in a low voice, as if half ashamed of her own words, " I do not understand myself. I thought I had been early formed by you in the school of sacrifice, and it once seemed to me that however hard a duty might be it would find me ready. But it is not so. No, it is not so, Sulpice. All my compassion remains with Xavier. I will not tempt you, I do not reproach you, but I feel, with a sort of horror, that I have forsaken you and pre- ferred him." Sulpice took his sister's hand. " Do not reproach yourself," said he; " go to him. .Con- sole him, for consolation springs from your heart and flows from your lips. Meanwhile, if the priest's lips are sealed, the man will labor none the less unceasingly. ^-^niiWiwniiiwiiiiiffiiiii^^ 12: IDOLS. i 11! i w I' I There is a person whom I must seek, find, soften, that he may release me from my oath, and whose confession I will purchase with my entire fortune. Heaven can bring this man in my path, and I will hope. To each his part, Sabine. If I must journey through the desert with no angel hand to point out the spring of pure water, if I must bend beneath the burden of a sorrow misunder- stood by men, do not pity me. God will keep account of it. But comfort Xavier, devote yourself to him. Bring resignation into his soul. Though innocent of this crime he has been guilty of many faults; teach him to accept the punishment patiently, that the hand of the Lord may not weigh heavier upon him. We may not see much of each other during the next few days ; the work of justice is done in the shadow and I must strug- gle against it." " Forgive me that I cannot rise to your height," said Sabine. "Alas! my sister," said the Abb6 Pomereul, "were I abandoned to myself, I know too well how far my weak- ness might lead me." They held each other's hands for some moments, their lips trembled, their eyes filled with tears; at last they bade each other a reluctant good by, and Sabine went to her room. Whilst the priest continued his task, and Sabine wrote in her diary the painful impressions of the day, L6on Renaut proceeded to the prison for a first interview with Xavier. The young lawyer was only twenty-eight years of age. A tiative of the South, he had brought from that land, where a burning sun looked down upon the sea, his taste for all that was great, his youthful am- bition, his poetry and his eloquence. His examinations at the law school had been perfect triumphs, and his d^t had astonished even the veterans of the profession. IWKWii g A NEW MISFORTUNE. 123 seek, find, soften, that , and whose confession fortune. Heaven can I will hope. To each ley through the desert e spring of pure water, 1 of a sorrow misunder- Grod will keep account (Tourself to him. Bring ugh innocent of this y faults; teach him to that the hand of the )n him. We may not le next few days ; the dow and I must strug- e to your height," said b6 Pomereul, " were I well how far my weak- >r some moments, their rith tears; at last they d by, and Sabine went task, and Sabine wrote >ions of the day, L6on 1 for a first interview was only twenty-eight >outh, he had brought sun looked down upon great, his youthful am- ice. His examinations feet triumphs, and his irans of the profession. I Renaut possessed in a rare degree the quality of per- ception. Inferior to many as a consulting lawyer, little versed in the arts of lying and deceit, he had a perfect passion for difficult, intricate or dramatic cases, upon which he often threw a sudden light, and seizing the more human side of the case, dwelt upon it with the skill at once of a novelist and a lawyer. His whole appearance had contributed to the success to which he had already attained. He had a finely formed head, regular features, pale complexion, and large, brilliant eyes. His finely modulated voice had chords in it which went to the heart. He had a knack of using unexpected expressions and producing spon- taneous effects. If he did not carry the judge with him, at least. he made a deep impression upon the jury, and the opposing lawyer dreaded so formidable an op- ponent. He feared him all the more that the young lawyer always adhered strictly to oratorical or parlia- mentary forms. None knew better than he how to pay a tribute to the talent or experience of his adversary, and to wind up by showing in the most conclusive manner that he was wrong both in fact and in point of law. When Benedict Fougerais went to ask Renaut to under- take Xavier's defence the young Jawyer held out both hands to him. " Have no fear," said he; "skill will be of little avail in such a case as this; heart must win the victory, and, thank God! I have one in my breast. Certainly the case seems almost hopeless, and the unfortunate boy has got himself into the meshes of a net, which encloses him on every side, but we will find means to break the net and let the poor fellow out. How often I have seen him, gay, careless, light-hearted! How he did throw his life to the four winds of pleasure! What a prodigal youth has his been! What mad infatuation! The hand- '.'s»gf'»^3i P' 124 lUOLS. I r some gamester, the agreeable boon companion has come to this! An accusation which incurs capital punishment! I will see him this very day, and I swear, Benedict, that as surely as God has given me some talent I will use it to defend him." "Thanks," cried Benedict, "thanks! I not only re- gard Xavier as the friend and companion of my youth- ful days, the son of my benefactor, but almost as my brother." " You are to marry Sabine Pomereul ?" said the law- yer. " Her father gave his consent to our engagement the night before his death. Since then, though, I do not know what Sabine has in her head, but she avoids me. Yesterday she refused to receive me, sending word that her mourning did not permit her to see any one. Her mourning ! as if I had no part in it. She has no right to deprive me of being with her, and trying to console her, once she has placed her hand in mine and said, * I will be your wife.* You must save Xavier Pomereul. Then I shall have my hopes for the future." "Yes," said the lawyer, "I understand what Mile. Pomereul has not yet told you. Young, wealthy, of high social position, she was willing to become your wife; but if Xavier Pomereul be condemned, the poor girl will wear all her life two-fold mourning for the honor of her family and her love for you." " Yes, yes, you are right, L6on," said Benedict; " pro- cure the brother's acquittal and the sister will be restored to me. Sabine must be the guardian angel of my life. Ever since I remember, whilst the father gradually de- veloped my intellect and my artistic sentiment, whilst Sulpice placed my inspiration under the guidance of faith, Sabine has seemed to me the very personification of domestic virtues. A NEW MISFORTUNE. 125 companion has come i capital punishment! swear, Benedict, that e talent I will use it nks! I not only re- panion of my youth- r, but almost as my ereul ?" said the law- our engagement the ;n, though, I do not i, but she avoids me. \e, sending word that to see any one. Her She has no right to trying to console her, nine and said, ' I will tier Pomereul. Then e." derstand what Mile. )ung, wealthy, of high >ecome your wife; but d, the poor girl will 5 for the honor of her • said Benedict; " pro- : sister will be restored iian angel of my life. e father gradually de- Stic sentiment, whilst nder the guidance of le very personification I •• Well," said L^on Renaut, " this is another powerful ' mcentive for me to espouse her brother's cause with all possible zeal." The young men parted at the prison gate. Bene- dict went home, and the lawyer was admitted to the cell of his client. He found him utterly prostrate. The occurrences of the past two days had broken him down both in body and mind. His paroxysm of rage once passed, he began to remember Sulpice's words, and to repeat to himself that the murderer of his father was in Paris, and that one word would be sufficient to bring him to justice and restore himself to liberty, but he re- mained as if stricken by a sudden blow. Hitherto he had struggled against the accusation and protested his innocence; but now his courage seemed utterly to fail him. Where was the use, was not his cause already lost? The sight of his lawyer seemed to arouse him from his stupor. This handsome, brave young man, so full of life and vigor, who declared himself his champion, won his heart, and finding the lawyer convinced of his innocence he blushed at his own weakness. For the first time he opened his heart, displayed its wounds, and related even the smallest details of the drama which seemed so incomprehensible, look at it as he would. Whilst L6on Renaut took notes and classi- fied the facts, he became more and more convinced that his client had never even handled those bank-notes, which in a moment of frenzy he had dreamed of appro- priating. But still the difficulties were many and seri- ous. Would his own conviction influence the jury? In presence of facts would presumption in favor of Xuvier have any weigh ? Certainly he had never undertaken so difficult a case, and the battle would be greater than any as yet lost or won by the young lawyer. Public opinion ran strongly s^inst Xavier. At the time instances of i i i i i iiiwMi 126 IDOLS. wild and dissipated sons were becoming every day more frequent. Some robbed their father, others ended their career of folly by a cowardly suicide. Xavier capped the climax in the long list of those who ended a precocious youth spent in extravagant folly by a terrible crime. Of him an example must be made for other young men. Society had long been crying out that the new gen- eration was rotten ; therefore a gangrened member must be cut off. Arrayed against Xavier were the en- vious whom he had outshone in extravagance and luxury, the rivals of his successes on the turf, or at the theatre, fathers of families, and magistrates. They rang the changes in every key on the fact that an example was needed. Renaut knew all this and knew that it was harder to struggle against public opinion than to carry the jury. He did not conceal the truth from Xavier, but he used the very difficulties which lay before them to stimulate his courage. "Alone I can do nothing," he said, "but with you I am strong. Your attitude in the court, your replies, will assist me greatly. Between this and the great day of our struggle collect your thoughts and take note of everything that may be useful to me. Meanwhile, I will see the Abb6 Sulpice." " You will get nothing from him," said Xavier, "You are mistaken," said Renaut; "I will obtain from the man and the brother what is due to justice. He can speak as follows without betraying his sacred office: Two men were on the stairs when I went in; they came for me; while I was with them they played a sacrilegious farce, made use of a base subterfuge to force me to silelice." "But who will believe so dark and mysterious an act in this drama which seems devised on purpose for my ruin?" - I iimairffWiT-w )ming every day more icr, others ended their le. Xavier capped the lo ended a precocious y a terrible crime. Of for other young men. t that the new gen- i gangrened member t Xavier were the en- in extravagance and i on the turf, or at the agistrates. They rang fact that an example s and knew that it was opinion than to carry truth from Xavier, but :h lay before them to said, " but with you I :ourt, your replies, will and the great day of hts and take note of me. Meanwhile, I will n," said Xavier, ut; "I will obtain from s due to justice. He aying his sacred office: vhen I went in; they 1 them they played a Dase subterfuge to force and mysterious an act ;ed on purpose for my A NEW MISFORTUNE. i3jr "It will be believed, because your brother \. il declare it," said the lawyer; " his reputation for sanctity will leave no room for doubt. However brief his testi- mony it will suffice. The presiding judge, jury, etc., will divine the truth, which it is forbidden the ministry of God to reveal. They will understand that the real culprit exists, and that nothing remains for them but to release you." "You are right," cried Xavier, "and I will cling to this hope. If you believe in me, I must not lose faith in myself. I owe it to Sabine, Benedict, and the few friends who refuse to believe me a ruffian." "Well, keep up your courage," said Renaut, "the bat- tle has commenced. I will come every day." Whilst Sabine went daily to console and encourage the prisoner, whilst Leon Renaut endeavored to keep up his strength, and whilst Xavier alternated between hope and despair, Sulpice was scouring Paris for the es- caped convict, who held in his hands the destiny of his family. It seemed to him that God must put the mur- derer in his way, and that he must conquer him by gen- tle persuasion. It seemed that his sufferings were great enough to merit such a reward. Every day he set out and wandered hap-hazard through the streets, having but one object in view. He visited the prisons, the low- est parts of the city, scanned every group, peered at dark figures by night, and followed men whose gait or ap- pearance reminded him of Jean Machil. He was forever consumed by this burning thirst. His nerves seemed strained to the utmost, like the cords of an instrument where the tension is so great that but little more will suffice to snap them. He returned home^late at night, utterly exhausted, his head burning, his feet swollen and painfuk Prayer seemed to refresh him unspeakably. He found in it, not, indeed, forgetfulness, but strength; 128 IDOLS. and the next day, sustained by his brotherly affection, he set out again on his wearisome quest, ever hopinjj and expecting to find himself, some midnight, perchance, face to face with his father's murderer. Once he went to the quay. It was full of gaudily dressed, showy looking people. The day was one of bright sunlight. Every one seemed happy in the very fact of existence, though the political news was any- thing but hopeful. A declaration of war, however, seemed to every one the sure precursor of victory. ^ No one feared for the future of that great army. The past was the best guarantee for the approaching struggle. When the sound of trumpets or the measured tread of a battalion struck upon the ears of the crowd, dispersing them to right and left, a murmur of delight greeted the soldiers. Their ia^posing appearance and martial mien was freely admired; already the people saw them re- turning as conquerors, and bouquets were often show- ered upon them as they passed. Sulpice loitered about that portion which lies near the prison. All along the quay dealers in second- hand books displayed their wares to the passers-by. At sov%->e little distance from the last book-stall a crowd were surrounding a man who stood behind a wooden table, so formed that he could close it up and move it at will. This table served as a balustrade, keeping the juggler apart from the crowd. Dressed in a sort of dark velvet blouse, holding in his hand a black felt hat, the actor, who seemed to be remarkably dextrous, changed the expression of his face with wonderful art, and with astonishing rapidity. The hat was twisted into every variety of form, and, each one being accompanied by appropriate movements of the musctes of the face, the man was rendered almost unrecognizable. If you have read Poussin's £^d€s sur les Passions de VAnu, you can MMfMl wfti«iiirif delight greeted the ince and martial mien people saw them re- lets were often show- rtion which lies near y dealers in second- to the passers-by. At it book-stall a crowd >od behind a wooden ise it up and move it lalustrade, keeping the -essed in a sort of dark 1 a black felt hat, the bly dextrous, changed onderful art, and with as twisted into every leing accompanied by uscks of the. face, the gnizable. If y9u have wns de I'Anu, you can kfiai'-: A NEW MISFORTUNE. Wf form some idea of this man, reproducing by turns the most opposite expressions with a skill which was really artistic. Children laughed till they cried; nurses forgot their errand; urchins shouted for very glee, and every minute the crowd grew greater, till it became impos- sible to pass. The policemen, attracted by the spec- tacle, forgot to cry " Move on," and Sulpice, about to cross the street, found it impossible. Seeing that he could not get on, he ren ained unwillingly enough, waiting till some movement of the crowd might permit him'to pass. By the merest chance he glanced at the performer. Like a flash came a memory to him. Yet at first sight there was nothing about this man to dis- turb Sulpice; he was a mountebank exercising his pro- fession with the ease of long habit. He laughed, he made jokes and grimaces, his countenance seemed open and simple as a child's, and yet Sulpice was involuntarily convinced that this face with its multifarious expres- sions belonged to Jean MachA,' the convict. The very intensity with which the Abb6 Pomereul regarded him seemed to have a certain fascination for the performer, and the priest noticed a slight twitching of the eyes, and saw that he seemed to lose something of his animation. In fact there was a sinister gleam of feared defiance in the mountebank's eyes which would have dispelled all doubt as to his identity, if doubt had remained in the abba's mind. A sort of struggle began at once betwean Jean Machil and the priest. The former sought to es- cape the latter. Sulpice, thanking God for having at last brought him face to face with the murderer, was re- solved to follow him wheresoever he went, and to wait as long as he might be inclined to exhibit himself to the public. Jean Machd felt his vivacity diminish as his irritation increased. Whatever the Abb6 Pomereul might have to t^. j'"^%a8 gig ia 8iiiitM !tiaiiii^ 'd!>«^^-^ IDOLS. say, he dreaded an interview vvitii him. Finding no far- ther inspiration for the performance with which he iiad hitherto regaled the crowd gratis, Jean MachA brou^'lu his hand down upon thti shoulder of a boy of fourtey to recognize Ponimc " I want to bring out upon the organ as ;i keeping his eyes fixed 1 the table some green le cakes of soap wrap- ) find less difHculty ia ;yric on the articles in joke? which preceded e overture ended, the ts taken in, and then to iver, if he could, what ith him. ^ one of the book-stalls, Latin volume, but his :hil, and the wretch be- I hope of escaping that ne d'Api playfully on >u must not disgust the >m one of the cakes of ap for removing stains, g to your enlightened id by all the crowned Majesty uses it for the taving. It is infinitely hich housekeepers em« ploy in washing, to carbonate of soda, Panama chips, and all such. Come here, my bashful lad," continued the charlatan, seizing \ipon a raw lad who was listening with gaping mouth. " You have received, through your mother's goodness, a new vest fresh from the shop. The price is still on it— thirty francs sixty-five. Why, you got it for nothing ! Now, ladies and gentlemen, you see the freshness of this stuff. I will just spill this httle phial of oil upon it, like that—" And the rogue actually did spill the oil upon the poor boy's vest, while the latter made desperate efforts to escape from the charlatan's grasp, and only succeeded in splitting his coat. "Have patience, good youth," said J..n Machfl, with a sardonic laugh. " I would surely not destroy such a costly vest, had I not the means of restoring it to Us pristine splendor. You see the stain, ladies and gentle- men; it has visibly increased; it has now spread over the entire back of the garment. Well, I will now rub it with my soap, my incomparable cleansing soap, and imme- diately it grows paler, becomes effaced, disappears en- tirely, without leaving a trace. I ^hauk you. worthy youth, for having lent yourself with such good grace to scientific experiments. If your mother should not be pleased, go fearlessly to the shop at the Pont Neuf. Your money will be returned. And now for some music!" Pomme d'Api played a waltz, and meanwhile twenty hands were ou.stretched for cakes of soap. " Order, order ! have some order ! ' cried Jean Machfl. " TwD cakes of soap for you, madame ? One for that pretty little cook? And you, brunette ? Come, come ? only twenty-four cakes remain, at sixteen cents a cake. * Machfl displayed his merchandise under the very eyes of the police, to whom he showed a license from the ^g nrifisiMiBiiigito i iaiM i aaii^ M>\ i ' 132 IDOLS. prefect of police which seemed perfectly regular. Mean- while, the Abb6 Sulpice continued looking over the books. At last Jean Machfl thought he could escape those watchful eyes. Hastily he refolded his table, gave it to Pomme d'Api, whispering, *• Go to thfe right; I will go to the left. Get back as quick as you can to Methusalem's." But this movement had not been lost upon the abbe. He had made up his mind to speak to Jean Mach(jL, but he had also to consider his promise. His conscience would not permit him to compromise the ruffian in any way, nor say or do anything which might betray the secret. He feigned, therefore, to have lost sight of him; but scarce had Machii gone round the nearest corner than the abb6 followed him. Jean Machd turned once, but the crowd of vehicles prevented him from seeing' the priest, and supposing that he had eladed him, he rushed down the Rue Git-le-Coeur. When he reached Methusalem's house he turned again, but saw no one. The Abb6 Pomereul had hidden himself in an alley way. He determined to wait till nightfall, and then have a de- cisive interview with *he murderer. He leaned against the wall, pei fectly motionless. He could easily see from his post of observation what manner of customers en- tered Methusalem's shop. They were not purchasers of its wares, for none came out of that sinister abode. He divined at once that he was in the vicinity of a most dangerous den, where a visit from the police would re- sult in the arrest of many others as well as his father's murderer. The day slowly waned, and night came — a dark night, moonless and surless. One by one Methusalem's cus- tomers quitted the "boarding-house." Pomme d'Api sauntered out, cig^r in mouth, and went on his way to Qhatelet to exercise Ms calling of opening carri«ge-doors 1! ' , .,if. fectly regular. Mean- ed looking over the ight he could escape ifolded his table, gave le left. Gret back as n lost upon the abb6. ik to Jean MachCl, but nise. His conscience lise the ruffian in any ich might betray the lave lost sight of him ; d the nearest corner 1 Machd turned once, kted him from seeing' ! had eluded him, he r. When he reached gain, but saw no one. imself in an alley way. 11, and then have a de- r. He leaned against : could easily see from iner of customers en- rere not purchasers of it sinister abode. He he vicinity of a most 1 the police would re- is well as his father's tt came — a dark night, ne Methusalem's cus- •use.*' Pomme d'Api d went on his way to tpening carriage-doors A NEW MISFORTUNE. »33 in front of the theatre. Fleur d'Echafaud next appeared arm in arm with a showily-dressed young man. Soon afterwards a heterogeneous party issued, in every variety of costume. Jean MachQ came out last. The searching glances which he cast round did not penetrate the abba's hiding- place, and just as he passed the dark alley way he made a gesture which seemed to say, "All's well; why should I be uneasy ?" Jean Machd went through St. Michel's Square, and proceeding along the quay, passed the H6tel Dieu and Notre Dame. He seemed lost In the deep shadows of the night, when a footstep close behind him caused him to turn his head. He 'waited a moment to see whether it was simply a passer-by, or whether some one was following him of a set purpose. As he did so, a hand was suddenly laid upon his shoulder, and he barely suppressed a cry. " You are not mistaken, Jean Machfi," said a voice, which trembled with excessive emotion; "it is I." " You promised to forget," cried he. ' " I swore that I would not betray you." " But don't you understand that your being seen with me is dangerous ?" " Yes; otherwise I would have addressed you to-day, in front of the prison, upon which your gaze was fixed, as if you feared lest its walls should claim their prey. You know, then, Jean Machfi, the result of your crime, and of your diabolical ingenuity." " Yes," answered the felon. " You know that my unfortunate brother is accused in your place, and that in your place he will, perhaps, be condemned to death ?" " What can I do ?" cried the ruffian, in a hoarse, unnat< ural voice. "All I want is impunity. The law has %i»»i;^ '%>jKWMe@iSfiis»«#i)Hii^^#$£^iiW^^ i^mii^^m^^-^-' 134 IDOLS. 111? Pi sill made a mistake; that is not my business. Your brother has his innocence to plead for him, and besides a famous lawyer." " Do you not tremble lest I, seeing my brother in such peril, should save him at any price ?" *' No," said Jean Machil, composedly. ^ " Beware, Jean Machfl ! I am but a man, a weak, frail man, whose reason seems at times to totter under the weight of a duty so cruel. Sometimes I can scarcely distinguish right from wrong. My brother cursed me. He will die in despair if sentenced by the law. Machfl, remember that I saved you once. Remember that I promised to keep your secret, unconscious of the fatal consequences to my nearest of kin. I gave you the stolen gold; I freely pardoned you the blood which you had spiled; but can I bear to think that, in screening you, I am sending my own brother to the scaffold ?" " All this has nothing to do with me, Jean Machd, the thief and convict; what matters it who I am? remember who you are. My identity was lost in confession; you have promised, you must keep your promise." " Are you altogether pitiless ?" cried the priest. " Listen, if your brother's head doesn't fall, mine will. I must defend my own life. I always stick to that through thick and thin, and I stick to it so closely that there's no use disputing about the matter. You will not speak. I will be outside the prison every day, and you will not follow me any more. I will be present in the court on the day of the trial, and you will be silent." " But if I were to give you the means of flight, of going to America? If I were to double the amount of money which you stole, would you confess your crime ? A letter from you to the magistrates would procure an acquittal, and you could save my brother, without en- dangering yourself." mmmmm mem^.^ A NEW MISFORTUNE. 135 business. Your brother (Ti, and besides a famous eing my brother in such ce?" )sedly. but a man, a weak, frail les to totter under the metimes I can scarcely My brother cursed me. ed by the law. MachA, ice. Remember that I nconscious of the fatal kin. I gave you the )u the blood which you :hink that, in screening ler to the scaffold ?" ith me, Jean Machd, the it who I am? remember lost in confession; you our promise." cried the priest. 1 doesn't fall, mine will. I always stick to that lick to it so closely that the matter. You will e prison every day, and B, I will be present in and you will be silent." means of flight, of going le the amount of money onfess your crime ? A rates would procure an ny brother, without en- " I could not," said Machd, " on account of the extra- dition." "Then my brother is irrevocably lost." "Why, I thought," said Rat-de-Cave mockingly, "that you depended on the justice of God." "To it I submit," said the priest; "nor do I question it." Jean Machd stopped. " See here," said he, " there is no use prolonging this in- terview. You are sworn to silence. Keep your promise." "I swore to be silent before the people, before the magistrates, the judge and jury, and that oath I have kept in spite of all my sufferings. But I did not promise that I would not make a last appeal to him who alone had power to release me from this oath. Listen, Jean Machfi, the religion which I teach and profess must indeed be great and sublime to bind me to such obedi- ence. Then, in the name of that faith, in the name of the God whom I serve, I promise you complete forget- fulness, the pardon of my divine Master, and even the indulgence of men. My bppther is only twenty-three. He bears a name hitherto honorable. My sister is an angel upon earth, and we are all disgraced for you." " Oh, yes, I understand perfectly," said Jean Machfi; " it matters little for me, the escaped convict, the hard- ened criminal, who will fall into the clutches of the law sooner or later, for some other crime; who has passed through the galleys, and belongs in advance to the gallows. Ah, well, perhaps that is just why I cling so fiercely to the few years or months or days of life which yet remain to me. I have more money than I ever had in my life. I want to enjoy it, to wallow in luxury like a hog, to revel in pleasure. After that. Chariot ♦ can do [ i 1 ^ ! i 136 IDOLS. what he likes with me, and then it will be time for your sermons. Till then, to be plain with you, Mr. priest, you must not know me." Sulpice clung to the wretch's clothes. "Ah," said he, "it must be my fault. I have not explained things clearly. You do not understand my terrible anguish, the struggle which is consuming my very soul. Have pity, have pity on me! I do not think I ever injured any one in my life. I have lived for the poor and for God. Ah, see I am at your feet, praying, weeping; give me my brother's life, my brother's life!" Jean Machfl tried to extricate himself from the priest's grasp, but the latter, knowing well that no second op- portunity would ever occur, held on with the energy of despair. The wretch's anger, hitherto counterbalanced by a feeling of mingled pity and admiration, at last got the better of the other sentiments so foreign to his nature. He no longer beheld in Sulpice the man who was saving him by his silence, but one who was troubling and annoy- ing him. 4 •' Let me go," cried he, savagely, "some one is coming." Jean Machfl drew himself to his full height, put his feet firmly together, and with a sudden jerk backwards, shook off the priest with his whole strength, and the latter fell heavily on the pavement. His head struck against the parapet of the quay, and the blood gushed out. Jean Machd took to his heels, and ran from the spot with all possible speed. -^«mM THE TRIAL. 137 will be time for your li you, Mr. priest, you ;hes. yr fault. I have not I not understand my ch is consuming my 1 me! I do not think I have lived for the It your feet, praying, :, my brother's life!" nself from the priest's I that no second op- 3n with the energy of ounterbalanced by a -ation, at last got the foreign to his nature. ! man who was saving ; troubling and annoy- "some one is coming." s full height, put his dden jerk backwards, ole strength, and the int. His head struck md the blood gushed els, and ran from the CHAPTER X. The Trial. A DENSE crowd had gathered around the court-house. The streets in its vicinity were packed with a curious throng; all the efforts of the police only succeeded in keeping a narrow passarije for carriages and other vehi- cles. The court, the grand staircase, the halls and lobbies presented an unusually lively appearance on this day, when the court was expected to sit, and to surpass in interest a drama of the Boulevard. The presiding judge had been fairly persecuted with applications for tickets of admission. Within the hall were to be seen numerous representatives of the very best Parisian society. One foreign ambassador had begged them to keep him an arm-chair. The Minister of Justice had announced his intention of being present; the ushers had to double the row of chairs usually reserved for distinguished guests. Never had so many professors and students of law assembled to hear so thrilling a case. Many were the strategies employed, and several young men borrowed a friend's cap and gown to secure themselves a place on the benches of the court-room. The holders of red tickets ostentatiously displayed them, while others held on to their button- hole or even their hat, with an alacrity rarely seen any- where outside of a steeple-chase. Chase had in truth been made after tickets for the past eight days. Besides the privileged ones who had tickets, an eager multitude filled the staircases, halls, lobbies, even the court-yard outside; workingmen and women, msti ^pwasBiBM 138 IDOLS. IBI tradespeople, pale, sickly children, all crowded about the place, discussing the Pomereul family, the nature of the crime, and the improbability of the prisoner's ac- quittal. Many of the workmen from the factory at Charenton had come thither to give another proof of their interest and attachment to the family of their old master. None of them felt any great sympathy for Xavier. They re- membered him as cold and haughty towards themselves; an idler and a spendthrift; in fact they hardly knew him. But Antoine Pomereul, whose name was on every lip, together with Sulpice and Sabine, still claimed their warmest affection and gratitude. As soon as it became known in the crowd that this little group of men had known the murdered man and his children they were immediately surrounded, and plied with questions as to the crime and its melancholy probabilities. " Do you think," asked a woman, " Mile. Pomereul will be at the trial ?" "Ah, she 's an angel," said Blanc-Cadet; "and she will be there if she dies of shame." " And the priest ?" " Ah, that is another thing. He will not appear." " Why, does he disown his brother ?" "Then you don't know all that has happened," said Blanc-Cadet. " Has anything else happened in that house ?" "A terrible thing," said Blanc-Cadet, impressively; " and is connected with the other affair, toe. Some one tried to kill the Abb6 Sulpice." " To kill him .'" cried several voices. " Oh, yes, it was hushed up in the papers, out of pity for the wretch who did it; the Abb6 Sulpice refused to denounce him. But one night, about twelve o'clock, the poor priest was brought home in a carriage, un- li mwiii miiiiii^-- n, all crowded about family, the nature of of the prisoner's ac- factory at Charenton proof of their interest eir old master. None for Xavier. They re- ty towards themselves; they hardly knew him. ime was on every lip, le, still claimed their As soon as it became ;tle group of men had lis children they were !d with questions as to labilities. I, " Mile. Pomefeul will c-Cadet; " and she will ; will not appear." her?" at has happened," said n that house ?" ic-Cadet, impressively; ' affair, toe. Some one ices. the papers, out of pity Abb6 Sulpice refused U, about twelve o'clock, tme in a carriage, un- THE TRIAL. 139 conscious, and with his head split open. A passer-by found him lying on the pavement. Of course the para- pet had blood on it, and the abb6 may have struck his head in falling. But every one knows very well that it was not an accident. As soon as he came to, they ques- tioned him, but he only said, ' I fell' Since then his brain has been wandering, and he raves and raves, or keeps such a silence that it is sadder than any raving." " There seems to be some misfortune in that family," said an old man. " Just think what a burden Mile. Sabin ; has to bear. She watched beside her brother every night except two, when M. Pomereul's former secretary took her place. I used to «^hink that young chap selfish, but since his mas- ter's death he is all devotion. It is true, besides thanking him, they presented him with six months' salary; but even so, it is not every young man in Marc Mauduit's place that would take such trouble about the abba's health." " But won't his testimony be needed, and wouldn't it help his brother ?" said a woman. " Well, well, God wants to keep the secret to Himself, I suppose," said Blanc-Cadet. " But, if I was the judge, I'd do as I have read in books they used to do in old times. I'd bring the man of the woods into court." " Lipp-Lapp ? " said a child, eagerly. "Yes, just Lipp-Lapp," said the old man. "You've got his name sure enough. A worthy beast, who was almost killed defendin'* his master. The doctor who cured him is an excellent man, and if I belonged to the ' Society for the Protection of Animals,' I'd give him a medal, so I would. But, as I say, I'd bring Lipp-Lapp into court. I'd show him the knife which the murderer used, and I'd say to him as they say to the hounds, ' Catch him.' And if, when he came face to face with the ^-rt-^m. mm^"'' UK I 140 IDOLS. prisoner, the man of the woods didn't strangle him, I'd swear that M. Xavier was innocent." " Ha, ha !" laughed a bystander, " that would be too funny. It remind^ one of Jocko, or the monkey of Brazil. " " It would be contrary somewhat to the dignity of the court," said another. "Oh, well," said Blanc-Cadet, "the dog of Montargis disturbed the dignity of the 'judgment of God.' And that was as good a court as this any day. I maintain that if Lipp-Lapp alone knows the truth, Lipp-Lapp alone should be asked for it." " And why not the Abb6 Pomereul ?" said a voice. " But he wasn't there," replied Blanc-Cadet. " He knows everything," said an old man. " How could he ?" asked the other. "Well," said the old man, " I have followed all the trials at the court, and I am hardly ever mistaken, and mark my words, he knows all about it." " Why doesn't he tell it then ?" asked Blanc-Cadet. " Perhaps he can't," said the other. " What would prevent him from declaring it to the court, and saving his brother ?" " Oh, well, he's a priest, and some way or another they might have bound him to keep silent," said the old man. "But his brother?" " As for that," cried the other, " if it was himself, he'd have to keep silent just the same." " That would be horrible !" cried a woman. " Of course it would," said the man, "but heroic and grand for all that. It would show what the secrecy promised by the priest is worth. Things like this hap- pening from time to time keep the people's faith alive. If it be so, though, I think the Abb6 Sulpice as great a martyr as any that we read of in the Zives of the Saints." This idea, started by the old man, spread like wild-fire 'wmmm idn't strangle him, I'd •, "that would be too the monkey of Brazil. " it to the dignity of the ♦ the dog of Montargis gment of God.' And any day. I maintain the truth, Lipp-Lapp THE TRIAL. HI eul ?" said a voice. 31anc-Cadet. 1 old man. ler. fe followed all the trials ;r mistaken, and mark isked Blanc-Cadet. ler. »m declaring it to the ne way or another they ent," said the old man. ' if it was himself, he'd d a woman. ! man, " but heroic and ihow what the secrecy Things like this hap- he people's faith alive. Lbb6 Sulpice as great a the Lives of the Saints." an, spread like wild-fire j through the eager, breathless multitude. It produced a feeling of profound commiseration for all concerned, and deepened the interest which already centred around this mysterious case; and the regret became greater and greater that the Abb6 Sulpice was unable to give his testimony. When the great clock struck eleven, the soldiers who kept guard below, and regulated the admission to the court-room, stood back a moment as the ushers threw open the doors, and the crowd rushed in like a torrent which has burst all barriers. The reserved places, and the space without the barrier, kept for those who had no tickets, were simultaneously filled. The law-students mounted to their places on the benches, and the report- ers seated themselves at their desks, some describing the appearance of the audience, and others preparing to stenograph the trial in externa. Women took out their opera-glasses to see whom they knew in the stalls. They exchanged smiles, while the men saluted each other by a wave of the hand. The cos- tumes were for the most part dark, but rich and elegant. It was a play to be sure, but of such a character that costumes of neutral tints were in the best taste. The lawyers discussed the case among themselves in an audi- ble voice, some condemning Xavier in advance, others defending him energetically. Every one looked forward tt> hearing L6on Renaut's defence, his fervid eloquence, and the replies of the much dreaded Solicitor-General. Near the benches for the lawyers sat some members of Xavier's club, smiling and careless, looking round them glass in eye. Foremost was the Count de Monjoux, in- dulging in reminiscences of the fine suppers he hard had with young Pomereul. Taken in general, this assem- blage of curious people in the court-room seemed rather as if awaiting the rising of the curtain, than sitting in itmm MS IDOLS. expectation of a death sentence against a fellow crea- All at once a sound as of the murmur of voices was heard in the adjoining room. The door was thrown open by two attendants, and the sonorous voice of the usher proclaimed, .' "Hats off, gentlemen! the Court." A sudden death-like silence followed the solemn en- trance of the magistrates. The judges took each his place behind the great table covered with green cloth, upon which were piled huge bundles of papers. On a separate table were the deeds of indictment, numbered and sealed. The jury next appeared, each answering to his name, and then the judge gave orders for the intro- duction of the prisoner. Men and women rose tumul- tously, and every eye was fixed upon Xavier Pomereul. He appear'^d between two ^emiannrs. He had sum- moned up all his fortitude for that moment of entering the court-room. He was deathly pale. His hands worked nervously, and as he took his seat in the dock he scarcely heard L6on Renaufs whispered word's of encouragement The cruel, staring, eager crowd be- wildered him, as the noisy pack bewilders the stag. He felt too well that to every tear which he might shed a cruel taunt would respond. He made a violent effort, and steeled his face to immobility, whilst the lawyer looked over his notes and deeds. Xavier, questioned -by the judge as to his name, surname, and condition, replied in a voice scarcely audible. The clerk then began to read the accusation. Its logic was overwhelming. It was written in a sober, sedate fashion, by a man of tried integrity, with rare talent as & dialectician. Every point of the accusation was laid down with mathematical pre- cision. Hearing it, there seemed no argument left for the defence, and not even a single objection to offer to HHI '^*Sl*Ji'» ;ainst a fellow crca- irtnur of voices was e door was thrown morous voice of the wed the solemn en- udges took each his jd with green cloth, es of papers. On a idictment, numbered d, each answering to orders for the intro- women rose tumul- »on Xavier Pomereul. ntirs. He had sum- moment of entering jr pale. His hands his seat in the dock whispered woi's of ng, eager crowd be- wilders the stag. He hich he might shed a Tiadc a violent effort, ty, whilst the lawyer Xavier, questioned -by and condition, replied clerk then began to ■as overwhelming. It ion, by a man of tried lectician. Every point 'ith mathematical pre- no argument left for e objection to offer to THE TRIAL, 143 that clear, concise statement, dictated neither by hatred nor prejudice. Aware of his own innocence, Xavier was nevertheless completely overwhclmfid by the force of the accusation. Thenceforth his mind entered upon a new phase. He seemed no longer the party concerned in all this; it was not his life, his future, which was being decided, but the existence of another. From being an actor in that J terrible scene, the di'nouement of the bloody drama of the Chauss6e d'Antin, he became merely a spectator. His forced composure gave place to a sort of morbid curiosity. He asked himself what must be the fate of a man accused in such fashion, and forgot that his own life hung in the balance. For a moment he thought of giving up the defence. Where was the use ? His brother, who alone possessed the knowledge which could save him, was hindered from disclosing it. God did not will that his innocence should be made known. At least he could show the vulgar courage of dying well. Meantime a lady in deep mourning appeared. M. Renaut recognized her and offering his arm led her to a seat near the prisoner. She raised her veil and showed the face of Sabine. It was deadly pale, and sorrow had written dark lines about the eyes. But it still retained, in spite of anguish, the imprint of her own pure and gentle nature. She could not speak to Xavier, but she gave him a look which seemed to say, " For our sake, if not for your own, defend yourself, plead your innocence. Remember our hondr is at stake." The sight of Sabine revived Xavier's courage. He drew himself together, looked firmly and bravely, but without bravado, at the audience. The women seemed touched by his youth and his comely appearance, and Sabiae attracted general compassion. 144 IDOLS. The witnesses were summoned. Each one related what little they knew of the matter. The doctor made his purely scientific deposition, and Sabine was called. The young girl advanced trembling to the bar, and spoke in a clear, musical voice of Xavier, at some length, before the presiding judge had the heart to interrupt her. She spoke of their happy youth, their friendship, oi her father's great love for Xavier, which had made him weak. She touched briefly upon the dark morning when she had seen her father's corpse, and learned that Xavier had been taken away from home, and wound up by saying, . . , 't " Would Xavier have dared to look me in the face it he had murdered our father ? The affection he shows me, and his caresses, are the surest proof of his inno- cence." , The Abb6 Sulpicc was the.i called for form s sake; the doctor came forward declaring him quite incapable of appearing. The presiding judge then bade the other judges and jury remark that his written deposition con- toined all that he would have said, and it was read. The testimony being thus ended, it behooved the attorney- general to speak. Contrary to the usual custom of solicitors-general, he did not commence by showing society shaken to its very base, and tottering, if the head of the accused were not sacrificed to law and justicie. Disdaining these commonplaces, he took Xavier limb from limb, and totally ignoring his denial of the charge, overpowered him with proo'«i, showed him his punish- ment in all its horrors, and e.. .d by saying: " You despised honest work which made your father rich and respected; you despised the virtue which made your home a sanctuary. You allowed evil passions to take hold of you in the very flower of your youth, so that, from an idler and spendthrift, you became vicious. Each one related r. The doctor made I Sabine was called, to the bar, and spoke t some length, before interrupt her. She r friendship, oi her hich had made him e dark morning when d learned that Xavier !, and wound up by 3ok me in the face if le affection he shows St proof of his inno- d for form's sake; the im quite incapable of then bade the other ritten deposition con- and it was read. The ;hooved the attorney- thc usual custom ol mmence by showing 1 tottering, if the head d to law and justicfe. he took Xavier limb s denial of the charge, lowed him his punish- by saying: liich made your father the virtue which made lowed evil passions to wer of your youth, so ft, you became vicious. THE TRIAL. I4S and ended by descending to the level of burglars and midnight assassins. There is no pity for you who have despised the example of such a brother as yours. Ask mercy and pardon of that God, who would have par- doned even Judas had Judas repented, but from men expect only justice, implacable justice, which throws over you in anticipation the dark pall of a parricide." Sabine hid her face in her hands. Leon Renaut pressed the hand of the accused, murmuring, " Keep up your courage, it is my Lurn now." The young lawyer's powerful eloquence was of that kind which, without resorting to oratorical tricks, pro- duced splendid and unforeseen results. His talents were well known, and people loved to hear his impassioned imagery, which took auch a hold upon them. His past victories on the judicial battle-ground were cited, for he had saved criminals and gained when all seemed lost. But on this occasion, though no doubt existed in the minds of the audience as to Renaut's reputation as an orator, no one had any hope that it would suffice to pro- cure Xavier's acquittal. Before the summing up, the audience were already convinced of Xavier's guilt, but after the discourse of the attorney-general, scarcely a single partisan for the accused remained. M. Renaut fully understood this, and rising impetuously he began: " Gentlemen of the bench and of the jury, I see before me judges, where I looked for witnesses. I hear a pas- sionate, virulent accusation, and I demand proofs. You bring before me a deplorable scene — the blood of au old man, shed at midnight. I crave only day and open air; you intensify the darkness, and I want light." It seemed to the audience as if a portion of the dark- ness were already being dispelled. The lawyer's very tones were so convincing, his gestures so full of author- ity, his face bearing a look of such sincere conviction, liaWiiirtMfe- .^■dmmm wmm 146 IDOLS. that many of those present forgot how, a moment before, their opinion of Xavier had seemed irrevocable. " This whole case, gentlemen," he continued, " is en- shrouded in mystery. You see but one criminal, I see two. You repeat that the deposition of the Abb6 Sulpice should suffice, and I cry out that it does not satisfy me. You show me in this witness a priest, and I demand a man who holds the key to this terrible drama. A saint who is unquestionably bound to silence by the obliga- tions of his dread ministry, and a senseless being who in the order of creation is mute; an angel and a beast; the one bound by his oath to a silence like that of the grave, the other a poor brute, condemned to everlasting silence. Yet Lipp-Lapp who was severely wounded by the murderer; Lipp-Lapp who defended himself, and in whose clenched fist was found a handful of the murderer's hair; Lipp-Lapp saw it all. You point to the accused and you say, * He opened hi? father's safe, therefore he must have killed him.' And I say that he did not even rob him. Since when has temptation become an actual crime ? He tells you that, when in the very act of com- mitting a crime, he raised his eyes to the portrait of his dead mother, and drew back in shame and horror, flying from the room. No, this prodigal did not kill his father; during that night of murder and of mourning he was shed- ing tears of bitter repentance, and at the very turning- point of his career, at his very entrance upon a new way, you cast him into a felon's cell and call him — parricide. Ah, gentlemen, take care; it is not the first time I have had the honor of addressing you; it is not the first strijg- gle I have made for the innocent, against the law, whose mission it is to protect outraged society, but which, with- out ever diverging from its end, sometimes goes astray in the means; never, never, did the cause of a prisoner seem more just to me than this one; never have I so much ijTiiiiMiiliii^^ THE TRIAL. H7 low, a moment before, I irrevocable, he continued, " is en- ut one criminal, I see )n of the Abb6 Sulpice it does not satisfy me. riest, and I demand a rible drama. A saint silence by the obliga- L senseless being who an angel and a beast; ilence like that of the demned to everlasting severely wounded by fended himself, and in idful of the murderer's point to the accused ler's safe, therefore he y that he did not even tion become an actual in the very act of com- s to the portrait of his ame and horror, flying did not kill his father; mourning he was shed- d at the very turning- ranee upon a new way, id call him — parricide. )t the first time I have it is not the first stri^- against the law, whose ociety, but which, with- sometimes goes astray he cause of a prisoner ;; never have I so much desired to convince you that my client is not a murderer, but a deeply wronged and suffering man. My God, my God ! do You no longer work miracles, or will You not send thither, armed wiih full power to reveal the truth, the man who alone can do so ? From suffering, aberra- tion of mind, from the very jaws of death itself, it would seem to me that the Abbe Sulpice must appear before us." " I am here," said a feeble voice beside him. To the amazement of every one the Ahh6 Sulpice in- deed appeared suddenly in the doorway leading to the witness-stand. A murmur of compassion was heard in the court. The Abb6 Sulpice, feeble and tottering, wearing his loose black cassock unconfined by any belt, his face as pale as a corpse, seemed like one summoned from the grave. A red mark divided his white forehead in two, and this scar, still fresh and bleeding, gave him a strange resemblance to one of the eariy martyrs. Sabine arose and made a step towards him. But his eyes were fixed upon Xavier. Seeing his brother thus coming, as it were, from the verge of the grave to defend him, a sudden ray of hope entered the prisoner's heart. His eyes, dilated, feverish^ red and burning, were fixed upon Sulpice in ardent sup- plication, seeming to ask of him at once his honor, his life, here and in eternity. This dramatic entrance con- cluded L6on Renaut's appeal. The greatest emotion was displayed by the jury, and the reporters wrote some rapid lines descriptive of the effect produced by this in- cident. The presiding judge declared that by an exer- cise of his discretionary power, he would hear the Abb6 Sul pice's testimony. The hapless prisoner, clutching at the bar, grew paler and paler, seeming to fairly totter. And how all this had come about was as follows: For . Mnau tm mmm mamtn atti''-*- 148 IDOLS. I more than a month the young priest had been a prey to acute physical suffering. His mind had wandered in delirium, and lost sight of reality. On the very evening previous to the trial, the doctor had declared his almost certain conviction that he would never recover his rea- But that morning Sulpice had felt the darkness son. which enshrouded his mind gradually being dispelled, he strove to remember all that haa happened. Sitting up, and pressing his hands to his forehead, he tried to collect his thoughts. An incident occurred to assist him. Lipp-Lapp, who, since the illness of his young mastei, had never left the room; poor Lipp-Lapp, who still dragged himself about, not having yet recovered his strength, had found upon the chimney-piece an old al- manac. Sitting upon a low stool, he was going over the figures with his long hairy fingers, and seemed as if de- ploring that he could not, like others, comprehend the sense of them. Wearied with his efforts, he arose, and noiselessly approached the bed, just when Sulpice, sitting up, was trying to recollect events and to recall >.'■ -■ past. Lipp-Lapp, holding out the almanac to him, at .^d his attention. He seized the card covered w? i !S, and his eye fell upon one to which the animal \¥uut acci- dentally pointing. Providence, how wonderful are Thy ways ! That date brought back the abb6's wandering thoughts. "The eighteenth of August," said he; 'the eighteenth of August." He looked round in a sort of vague, helpless way, then suddenly light broke in upon him. "Xavier," exclaimed he; "Xavier!" He rang the bell, and Baptiste immediately appeared. *' Baptiste," said he, " where is Sabine?" The old man bowed his head, but made no replf. "She's gone there?" said Sulpice. THE TRIAL. 149 , had been a prey to 1 had wandered in 3n the very evening declared his almost ver recover his rea- d felt the darkness illy being dispelled, happened. Sitting orehead, he tried to curred to assist him. f his young mastei, ipp-Lapp, who still r yet recovered his iney-piece an old al- ; was going over the ind seemed as if de- ;rs, comprehend the :fforts, he arose, and when Sulpice, sitting id to recall S. -■ past, ac to him, ti' .-^d covered wr "i ;s, the animal '..>«&» acci- 7 wonderful are Thy le abb6's wandering he; "'the eighteenth le, helpless way, then !" mediately appeared. ^ t>ine?" made no replf. Baptiste made a gesture of assent. " Listen," said Sulpice in a feeble voice, " I am going there too. Do not say no, for I will go even if it is my death." " Go, then, dear young master," said the servant, burst- ing into tears, "and bring us back M. Xavier." Sulpice took a few drops of cordial, and feeling strong- er, sent for a carriage. Baptiste and he got in and were driven to the court-house. The young priest proceeded at once to the witness box and appeared as we have seen. The deepest emotion was visible on every face. The plot seemed thickening. Xavier was for the moment forgotten. All eyes were turned upon that frail face with its bloody aureola. Pro- found silence reigned throughout the court. Every one felt that Xavier's life hung upon his brother's words. " You being a near relative of the accused," said the judge, " I will not oblige you to take oath, being con- vinced that you will not speak one word contrary to the truth." "Sir," said Sulpice, "I will speak the truth." And turning to his brother he said, " Forgive me, that it cannot be the ivAaie truth." " What have you to say to the court ?" asked the judge. " My brother is innocent," said the young priest, rais- ing his hands to an image of the Crucified which was directly in front of him. " Can you prove it ?" asked the judge. " On the night of the crime two men came to our house and asked to see me. They did not come up to my room, nor had they any need of me. It did not take them long to accomplish their purpose; the money stolen, the victim stricken, they were stealing out. The door of my father's room had just closed after them '^'■mmmii iiMMimiiiiMaiBiiBi ISO IDOLS. when I came in from a long drive. I suspected some- thing at first. But it was necessary for them to secure my silence. It was easy to deceive me, as they knew my mission was entirely among the poor and suffering. One of them told me that my ministry was required for a man whose soul was at stake, and I went with them." " Could you tell us where you were brought ?" asked the judge. " I could not," said the priest, " and even if I did re- member I would have no right to make it known. When we arrived at a wretched house we went in, and im- mediately one of these villains knelt down and under the seal of confession told me of the crime he had com- mitted." " Did you see that man's face ?" "I did." " Would you know him again ?" " I knew him before." " Under what circumstances did you know him ?" " I once saved his life," replied the priest, quietly. " His name ?" asked the judge, " or do you know it ?" " I know it." " In that case one word will be sufficient to save your brother." Sulpice clutched at the railing. " That name I cannot reveal to the court. He, whose image you have placed upon yonder wall, forbids me. You must believe me upon the honor of a priest and the word of a Christian, but you must not ask for proofs; I cannot furnish them." Judge and jury alike looked at him. Xavier who, in the agitation of new hope, had risen from his seat, fell backwards overwhelmed. Sabine sobbed aloud. Public sympathy had reached a climax. Some ad* e. I suspected some- ,ry for them to secure ; me, as they knew my 3or and suffering. One ry was required for a I went with them." were brought ?" asked * and even if I did re- make it known. When we went in, and im- nelt down and under the crime he had com- THE TRIAL. «s« I you know him ?" the priest, quietly. " or do you know it ?" sufficient to save your the court. He, whose inder wall, forbids me. )nor of a priest and the >t not ask for proofs; I him. }f new hope, had risen overwhelmed. Sabine 1 a climax. Some ad* mired the Abb6 Sulpice, others were amazed at his silence, not comprehending the inviolable secret which bound him. To Sulpice the judge said gravely, " The gentlemen of the jury will no doubt take what you have ^aid into ac- count. It does not come within our province to urge you to betray alike your conscience and your God. Your duty is rigorous, but ours remains inexorable." The attorney-general, fully understanding that the appearance of Sulpice, and the simple words by him spoken, had done more for the defence than the elo- quence of L6on Renaut, and unwilling that he should lose at any cost the cruel victory he had been on the point of gaining, arose to reply to the young lawyer, an- nihilating his fervent defence and endeavoring to efface the impression produced by the priest's testimony. He no longer cared to display his talents and fine language, but his cutting voice, his brief, incisive words, his un- answerable arguments, followed each other in quick suc- cession like poisoned darts. He spoke of the Abb6 Sul- pice in terms of the highest praise, but briefly touched upon the illness from which he was 'scarce recovering. He declared that the confession of two mysterious men in an unknown house was undoubtedly one of the fever- ish visions of his delirium, and concluded by a scathing condemnation of the parricide. Sulpice was near Sabine, but unlike her, he heard, upon his knees, the terrible words of the attorney -general, realizing that he was henceforth powerless to save his brother. L6on Renaut again rose, but every one felt that his confidence in him- self was weakened. He knew, in fact, that if Sulpice's deposition did not save Xavier it would injure him, seeming like the stratagem of a brother to deceive the jury and gain the sympathy of the house, by a plan pre- concerted, perhaps, with the lawyer himself. -.am d*- 152 IDOLS. The jury retired, and Xavier was removed by the gen- darmes. Meanwhile the spectators were divided into two parties: the one believed what the Abb6 Pomereul had said and demanded Xavier's acquittal; the other shook their heads saying, " You see it is merely a lawyer's strategy. Would con- fession be of any importonce in such a case ? Of course he would save his brother and let religion go," Every one was busy discussing the attorney-general's speech and the eloquence of the young lawyer. Friends sought each other out, for must they not in some way pass the time while the jury was deliberating? It seemed to augur well for the accused that they were so un- decided. After an absence of an hour and a half they returned. Then in a tremulous voice, amid a death- like silence, the foreman read the decision of his col- leagues: "Xavier Pomereul was guilty, but beyond all doubt the priest's testimony must be taken into account, and a plea for extenuating circumstances be admitted." It was the only means of saving Xavier from the pen- alty of death, the only means of giving Providence time to work out its end. A murmur of astonishment greet- ed the foreman's fatal decision, and when Xavier was brought in he might have gruessed his fate at once from the appearance of every one. But he saw nothing, his eyes were fixed upon the judges while he awaited the reading of his sentence. When he heard the words, " has been found guilty," he burst into tears, and when sen- tence was pronounced, "hard labor for life," he mur- mured, " Far better death." " No, Xavier, no, my brother," cried Sulpice, trying to take his brother's hand, " for God will permit light to come upon the darkness, and you will yet be free " jyfiiiiwiiiaii i removed by the gen- rs were divided into t the Abb6 Pomereul acquittal; the other strategy. Would con- :h a case ? Of course 'eligion go," the attorney-general's lung lawyer. Friends they not in some way liberating ? It seemed hat they were so un- hour and a half they voice, amid a death- e decision of his col- >ut beyond all doubt ken into account, and ces be admitted." Xavier from the pen- ving Providence time f astonishment greet- ,nd when Xavier was his fate at once from t he saw nothing, his while he awaited the heard the words, " has tears, and when sen- or for life," he mur- ried Sulpice, trying to 1 will permit light to vill yet be free " THE TRIAU IS3 But with a gesture of abhorrence Xavier threw him off, crying, " You, who might have saved mc and would not, I dis- own you." The judge then asked, " Have you anything to say why sentence should not be passed upon you ?" Xavier answered, " I am innocent ! I am innocent !" Sabine fell into Sulpice's arms, as Xavier was being led away. A.h, r martyr !" she said " who will console you .1. . ach at deal ?" Sulpice pointed to the picture of the crucified God. " He will," said he. And, assisted by L6on Renaut, he returned home with his sister in the carriage which had brought him. wima »54 IDOLS. i to CHAPTER XI. The Dream Ended, The studio occupied by Benedict Fougerais was on the ground floor of the house, No. ii Boulevard de Clichy, which had been honored by numbering among its ten- ants at one time Jacque, the painter of fishes, and Diaz, the brilliant colorist. His studio was spacious, and fur- nished in se\ aly classical style, to harmonize with the character of him who passed his life there. The draper- ies were dark red, showing to the best advantage the whiteness of the marble, the sombre tint of the bronzes, and the softened lustre of the burnished silver. On a carved oaken buffet stood vases in bold relief, a lava plaque, painted by Joseph Devers, in imitation of one of those marvels of Lucca della Robbia, whose tra- ditions it faithfully followed. Two highly-colored pic- tures, the tints of which were mellowed by time, hung upon the panels at either side. On pedestals covered with velvet draperies were the works of the artist, well placed, each in its peculiar light, and disjjlayed to the utmost advantage. Vainly did one seek in this sanctu- ary of art the much-lauded conceptions of Pradier, Clodion's nymphs, or any of the works of that school, which, for want of an i ial, becomes realistic, and the decay of which is disguised by a word unknown to the ancients. To be realistic is to make no use of what we find in the works of God, and which His Providence has given us, that we may add thereunto the inspiration of genius; it is to choose the low in preference to the beautiful — to give interpretation to what is base and expression to mmm m m mmmm I. DED. ict Fougerais was on [ Boulevard de Clichy, leringf among its ten- er of fishes, and Diaz, vas spacious, and fur- ) harmonize with the e there. The draper- e best advantage the -e tint of the bronzes, lished silver, vases in bold relief, a evers, in imitation of la Robbia, whose tra- o highly-colored pic- Uowed by time, hung 3n pedestals covered rks of the artist, well and disjjlayed to the le seek in this sanctu- iceptions of Pradier, works of that school, mes realistic, and the word unknown to the se of what we find in Providence has gfiven inspiration of genius; e to the beautiful — to ise and expression to TIIK DREAM KNDED. 155 what is vile; for vile is the only word to express such degeneracy. To belong to the realistic school means to produce no more such faces and figures as were sculptured by Michael Angelo upon mausoleums, or admitted by the popes into the great basilica, St. Peter's, The " Night and Day" of that master would not represent, according to the idea of the realists, the human form in its whole strength, draped merely in its own chastity. The art- ists of our day have brought into art a certain profligacy of conception — the licentiousness of the times. They work no longer for temples, but for drawing-rooms. Their work is trivial, commonplace, and unwholesome. But such art pays. It gives the artist at once money and a certain ready fame. None of these groups, heads, or basso-relie/i will live; but the artist of to-day does not look beyond the present. He is indifferent to im- mortality, as he is skeptical ot a future life. His faith in art is as dead as his religious belief. For him there is no God in heaven, and on his path of life no sublime poetry. There are some noble exceptions among the modern artists, who stand out from the groups of realists, either through.', pure love of th^ antique, or through a higher and WQflhier motive. When Benedict Fougerais left off making designs for clocks and ornaments for M. Pomereul, he entered the studio of a member of the Institute, whose reputation was perhaps not yet equal to his solid merit. Jules Au- tran was a master at once kind and severe, and it was thanks to him that Benedict succeeded in finishing his artistic education. He studied history, of which so many artists remain in* ignorance; he devoted himself to archaeology and numismatics, and all the branches of sculpture and archi- tecture as practised by the ancients, whose works inspire >aa«B!«wsti«»s». mmmm»"- 156 IDOLS. in us at once admiration for their genius and a feeling of our own impotence. He studied the lives of those great artists of the middle ages and the period of the Renaissance, and drew thence this conclusion, that be- fore becoming artists whose fame was to astonish the world, they had been men. Without aspiring to equal such a master as Leo- nardo da Vinci, who reached a high degree of excel- lence in various arts, and could fortify a city with the same skill with which he produced a picture like the Holy Family of Francis I.; without ever hoping to at- tain such an eminence as the sculptor, Benvenuto Cel- 'ini, who carved a gem with the same hand that painted the Perseus, Benedict labored to acquire various kinds of knowledge, convinced that all arts and sciences tend to complete esich other. He never frittered away his time in idleness, as do so many artists, under pretence of seeking an inspiration, while they enervate themselves by the use of tobacco in every shape and form. He did not think it necessary to form exaggerated theories of art, and become, in conse- quence, the lion of a circle of petty admirers. He re- mained in his studio, and when he felt that his hand was not faithfully interpreting his thought, he did not try to force it, but turned to some useful and yet relax- ing study. His friends were all of the best type. He did not care for conversation of such a kind as to dis- turb the harmony existing between his conceptions and his execution. For, if gayety is a relaxation to the mind, licen- tiousness only troubles and disturbs it. So Benedict's friends belonged to the unhappily small class of literary men — journalists and artists — who resolutely set thetn- selves against the too general immorality of the day. Closely united, they formed a brave litUe band, who de^ WHWIiiilMiliW^^ Wk THE DlitAM ENDED. 157 genius and a feeling :d the lives of those id the period of the conclusion, that be- was to astonish the h a master as Leo- igh degree of excel- artify a city with the f :d a picture like the it ever hoping to at- ptor, Benvenuto Cel- me hand that painted icquire various kinds rts and sciences tend le in idleness, as do eeking an inspiration, the use of tobacco in ; think it necessary to and become, in conse- :ty admirers. He re- le felt that his band > thought, he did not useful and yet relax- i the best type. He iich a kind as to dis- I his conceptions and to the mind, licen- bs it. So Benedict's small class of literary I resolutely set theJtn- imorality of the day. ire litUe band, who de> pended upon each other for support and protection. Why does this sort of good-fellowship so seldom exist, except among those who are rather the brigands, the bravi, of art than its apostles ? The followers of that camp op- posed to such as Benedict are, in their individuality, protected, upheld, and sustained in a manner quite dif> ferent from their adversaries. The painter, poet, sculptor, or author, who is earnest, moral, and Christian, finds himself alone and isolated. Far from seeking each other out, assisting each other, and fraternizing, such men seem to lack either that fra- ternal feeling or the necessary attraction. They do not seem to realize that, if they wished, they could form themselves into a serried column as well as their antag- onists. Two powerful incentives kept Benedict firm in the way he had chosen: one was his faith, upon which the cold wind of doubt had never blown; the other was his attachment to Sabine. His gratitude to her father was somehow mingled and, as it were, diffused in the deep, pure affection with which he regarded Sabine. He en- tertained for her much the same species of respect and admiration which Dante felt for Beatrice, and Petrarch for Laura, and which gave to poetry " La Divina Commed- dia" and the " Canziones." Without directly confessing that she was the end and aim of his efforts, the young sculptor had never dreamed of offering the fame or fortune he might achieve to any other than the mer- chant's daughter. He told himself repeatedly that the rich heiress would no doubt despise the poor youth who owed his very livelihood to the charity of her father; but he con- soled himself by the thought that M. Pomereul had himself known poverty, struggled with privation, and considered it his bounden duty to protect those who 1 IJi IDOLS. fought the battle of life bravely, without weakness or presumption. On the day when he brought the statuette of Stein- bach's Sabine to his master's house, Benedict felt that his fate was to be then and there decided. If the young girl, with her father's consent, accepted this long-cherished work of his, she would likewise consent to become his wife. Ah! how he had trembled for the result, and how great had been his joy when M. Pomereul held out a hand of welcome to him, and called him son. Thenceforth he had believed his fate certain— his hap- piness secured. With Sabine for his wife he could never go astray, he could never fail. The thought of her had sustained him during the five laborious years of his early youth, and strengthened him in his manhood's riper age. Shf: had been his hope and his conscience, and she was to be his model and his aim in iife. If ever a man was happy it was Benedict on the night of h!s betrothal. His happiness seemed so pure, so complete, so certain ! Only a few days must elapse till the girl, who raised her eyes so frankly to his face, would be his wife. He saw her, in anticipation, in the studio on the Boulevard de Clichy, seated beside him while he worked, praising or criticising by turns. He imagined them at evening forming part once more of the family circle, where Sulpice's gentle austerity never interfered with the general gayety. What courage and what strength the title of hus- band would give Benedict ! He would no longer have to think and act for himself alone. He would be re- sponsible for the happiness of that dear one whose des- tiny M. Pomereul had confided to him with so noble a confidence, accepting industry and affection from him as his only wealth. Yes, Benedict was happy that night. And when he , ■iiMi vithout weakness or e statuette of Stein- Benedict felt that his 1. If the young girl, this long-cherished nsent to become his for the result, and 1. Pomereul held out ed him son. ate certain — his hap- , wife he could never thought of her had jorious years of his m in his manhood's and his conscience, s aim in life. If ever on the night of h!s so pure, so complete, elapse till the girl, is face, would be his in the studio on the liim while he worked, le imagined them at of the family circle, er interfered with the th the title of hus- ould no longer have e. He would be re- dear one whose des- him with so noble a affection from him as light. And when he THE DREAM ENDED. 159 slept his dreams brought before him atfuin loved faces, and the echo of their gladsome words. A thunderbolt fell upon Iiis hopes and his happiness. M. Pomcreul's murder, in itself, was to him a source of tile deepest grief. Me had never known his own father, and Ills filial affection had centred upon this man who had l)ecn his benefactor. Hastening to the house of mourning, he had been given the farther intelligence J, I which made his sorrow two-fold. Not only had the hon- ored head of the family fallen by the hand of an assas- sin, but an accusation was made against the brotlier of the woman who was so soon to b ' his wife. Benedict was well aware of Aavier's follies, but he never believed the accusation even for an instant. He trusted the wretched boy blindly, ovc, wheln^ed as he was by circumstances, and caughi in the leshes c- a net from which naught, as it seemed, could deliver ' -n. He not only interested in his be^ialf his best friend, 'v^on Renaut, but he showed the prisoner a fhousanci little kindnesses and marks of affection which c liy he wretch- ed can fully appreciate. He was very lit. 'e ir. sympathy with the worthless life Xavier had been leading, and even felt a sort of dislike towards the frequenters of low theatres and other fashionable haunts of vice, and would never have dreamed of making him a companion. But since the blow had fallen, and poor Xavit- was branded as a parricide, he felt only the deepest sorrow for him, beholding in him the hapless victim of circumstances, and a deeply afflicted son. This was a greater test of his affection than ten years of ordinary devotion. Benedict felt that he owed Sabine this proof of his love for he- ?md that by devoting him- self to Xavier's cause, he ^i >;d show in a way more convincing than words th6 depth and sincerity of his attachment. Imagine, therefore, his gnef and dis&ppoint- r! MKMMXRMMMlHnMM i6o IDOLS. ment when Sabine refused to see him during the whole time of Xavier's trial. Of course, her mourning and her intense anxiety were sufficient reasons for her seclusion, and yet Benedict had won from Sabine herself, from M. Pomereul, and now from Sulpice, a sacred title, which should, he thought, have procured him access to her. Was it just that he should be treated as a stranger in that house which was now in great part hers? He accused her in his heart of coldness and indifiference. He persuaded himself that she could not have the same deep love for him he had for her; not discouraged, how- ever, he determined to triumph over her indifference by increased devotion. So, unable to see Sabine, he devoted himself entirely to Xavier. He saw him every day, bringing new courage to that dejected soul, and if he did not succeed in soft- ening Xavier's hard, rebellious nature, he at least kept alive his faith in friendship. The sculptor's visits, and those of Renaut and Sabine, were the prisoner's only consolation. He rarely spoke of Sulpice, and when he did so it was almost with hatred. Incapable of understanding his brother, he accused him of cruelty. During the terrible scene at the court, the sculptor had not dared to approach Sabine, who sat as near as pos- sible to Xavier, but when Xavier, having heard his sentence, gave that one last despairing cry, "I am inno- cent!" it was Benedict who held him in his arms and supported him, for the gendarmes, touched by the scene, allowed Xavier that moment's consolation. Next evening Benedict went to see Leon Renaut "Do you think Xavier will appeal to another court?" he asked. *• No," said the lawyer, "he has positively refused." " And yet another court might—" began Benedict. im during the whole er mourning and her ins for her seclusion, ine herself, from M. I sacred title, which liQi access to her. ited as a stranger in eat part hers? He :ss and indifference, d not have the same 3t discouraged, how- r her indifference by >ted himself entirely ringing new courage not succeed in soft- ure, he at least kept sculptor's visits, and the prisoner's only tulpice, and when he brother, he accused )urt, the sculptor had ) sat as near as pos- r, having heard his ing cry, " I am inno- lim in his arms and ouched by the scene, tlation. !e Leon Renaut il to another court ?" ositively refused." began Benedict. THE DREAM ENDED. l6l " There is no use in hoping against hope, my friend," said the lawyer; " Xavier would have no chance before any jury." " So the unhappy boy must go to the convict-prison till he is transported ?" "He is in such a state of health," replied Renaut, " that it will be possible, I think, to have him kept where he is at present. We will meanwhile work to obtain some further concession. Public opinion is divided in his regard, some believing him to be the victim of a judicial error. He has been sentenced, it is true, but the sentence may not be enforced." " In the mean time, L6on," said Benedict, " I shall try to see Mile. Sabine." " Courage," said L6on gently and half sadly. " Why, do you fear that she will refuse ?" cried Bene- dict. "She is an angel," said the lawyer, "and will, I fear, refuse to join your life to hers, or make you share hcpr burden of sorrow." "Ah!" said Benedict, "could she be so cruel T "But she will suffer as much as you in that case," said L6on. " Your anxiety agrees but too well with my own mis- givings," said Benedict; "but I must learn my fate at once. Good by, L6on; I will be here to-night, if the blow which has stricken Xavier has not also killed my hopes." The sculptor went out and proceeded to the Pomereul homestead. It was about eight o'clock in the evening. The passers-by on the Chauss6e d'Antin saw no lights in any of the windows; that rich and elegant home seemed like a deserted house. Benedict asked if Mile. Pomereul was at home, and being answered in the affirmative, l62 IDOLS. went up the first stairs. He was met by Baptiste; he asked him to let his young mistress know that he was there, and inquire if she would receive him; the old ser- vant shook his head. "I fear not, sir," said he; "Mile. Sabine's way of act- ing frightens me. She neither speaks nor cries. She tries to keep up her strength, and meantime she seems frozen, going about the house like a spirit." " I must see her, Baptiste, do you understand ?" said Benedict, firmly. The old man bowed, opened the drawing-room door for Benedict, and went to Sabine's apartments. He found her seated in a large arm-chair reading that book which is only less sublime than the Bible; she was seek- ing in the Imitation courage to bear her heavy cross. Dressed in black, her hair arranged with perfect neatness, but with no attempt at ornament, white as marble, and sad as the Pieta, Sabine seemed a living image of grief. When Benedict's name was mentioned, she put out her hand with a gesture as if imploring that he should be kept away, but with sudden resolution she rose quickly, murmuring, " It is better, much better." To Baptiste she said aloud, ^ "I will see M. Fougerais presently in the drawing- room." The servant disappeared. Left alone, Sabine went slowly over to the prie-dieu and knelt down. "Thou who hast suffered in thine agony alone," she prayed, "give me strength to refuse the aid which is offered me. Like Simon of Cyrene he would share my cross. Grant, O Lord, that I may not accept this broth- erly help! Thou, who readest all hearts, knowest that in mine is no secret for which I should blush. My feeling for him, increased by gratitude and respect, is so deep and lasting that it can never be effaced. I must feign eiiiiwiiiiii W^2U'- THE DREAM ENDED. 163 IS met by Baptiste; he ress know that he was :ceive him; the old ser- ;e. Sabine's way of act- speaks nor cries. She i meantime she seems ; a spirit." you understand ?" said he drawing-room door ine's apartments. He hair reading that book le Bible; she was seek- bear her heavy cross, d with perfect neatness, , white as marble, and I living image of grief, ioned, she put out her ing that he should be ution she rose quickly, etter." sently in the drawing- > ift alone, Sabine went lelt down. hine agony alone," she efuse the aid which is :ne he would share my y not accept this broth- hearts, knowest that in uld blush. My feeling ind respect, is so deep effaced. I must feign indifference to save him who claims the right to share my misery and disgrace, and I fear to betray myself. My God! I am but a woman sorely tried; do Thou prove me worthy of the title of Christian, and lead me if it must be to suffer all things." Burning tears gushed from her eyes. She wiped them hurriedly away, rose, and with a firm step went down to the drawing-room. Benedict was standing near the organ upon which Sabine had played that even- ing of their betrothal. He was recalling that tender and touching scene with a vividness which made it present. Alas! scarcely two months had elapsed since then, and how long ago, ho»r far off it all seemed. So absorbed was he in these recollections that he did not hear Sabine's light step. When he raised his eyes she was standing before him with bowed head and clasped hands resting upon her heavy mourning dress. " Sabine," said he, " dear Sabine." A swift pang pierced her heart; fearing to betray her- self she turned away, and taking a chair was silent a iiioment. When she spoke it was in a cold, calm voice. "You wished to speak to me; well, I am ready to hear you." " Did you not expect me, Sabine ?" said he. " If," said she with an effort, " I had exported you, I should have spared you the pain of this interview. I will now, however, do what I have heretofore neglected. As there is nothing farther to hope, I may as well put an end to farther illusions. Therefore, M. Fougerais, I release you from any tie which may bind you to me." " You release me !" cried Benedict, warmly and indig- nantly. "And how have I deserved such treatment? How have I lost your confidence and affection ? I un- derstand: your idea is that you fear to associate me in the affliction which has most undeservedly come upon w fm SrP ^wm mfK^- i64 IDOLS. you. But the greater your trial, the greater my right to share it. You accepted me as your lover, your betrothed husband, when all your surroundings were happy and prosperous; you shall not cast me off now, when, as an orphan, you need an honorable man's support and pro- tection," " I have my brother," said Sabine, quietly. " But the fact of his being a priest, and the duties thereby involved, separate you at almost every turn from the Abb6 Sulpice. Besides, a brother's love, howsoever strong and enduring, is not always sufficient. Ah ! you know me very little, Sabine, if you think that your af- fliction has not drawn me still nearer to you. I need not now repeat that, since I was old enough to dream of a future, it has always been with you and for you." , "I know," said Sabine, in a low voice; "but still I repeat that I release you from your promise." "Do you fear that I hold you responsible for poor Xavier's faults— too dearly expiated, alas ! by the sen- tence passed upon him ? But you will not be left alone in your misfortune. To me and to society belongs the task of alleviating Xavier's condition, and working unceasing- ly to obtain your brother's release. Xavier is my adopted brother; I shall never desert him any more than you should desert me. And even if an unjust world involves you in Xavier's misfortune, what then ? We will brave it together. Leaning on me you will breast the fury of the storm. My affection shall be so tender and consid- erate that it will pass by and you will scarcely heed it Sabine, give me this greatest proof of your confidence, and accept me as your husband. I have come to beg of you to make good your father's promise." Sabine did not speak for a moment, and there was silence, till Benedict said. ♦• Ah ! your silence chills me." THE DREAM ENDED. 16$ ! greater my right to lover, your betrothed igs were happy and off now, when, as an I's support and pro- , quietly. riest, and the duties most every turn from ler's love, howsoever sufficient. Ah ! you think that your af- irer to you. I need enough to dream of u and for you." , V voice; "but still I promise." responsible for poor :d, alas ! by the sen- will not be left alone ciety belongs the task d working unceasing- Xavier is my adopted any more than you mjust world involves len ? We will brave ill breast the fury of >o tender and consid- will scarcely heed it f of your confidence, [ have come to beg of imise." ment, and there was r I " I am silent," replied Sabine, who seemed as if cast- I ing about for some mode of expression by which to crush I Benedict's hoi>es at one blow, " because it is somewhat I difficult for me to express what is in my mind, now that I my father's wishes no longer weigh upon me." " Weigh upon you !" cried Benedict. " Did he ever attempt to persuade you in any way ?" " Once only," said Sabine, blushing. " What !" cried Benedict; " you mean to say that, on that day when I ventured to make known my secret hopes, and when they were encouraged in a manner so paternal, he did not leave you free ?" " I was not consulted," said Sabine, in a low voice. " But still you did not refuse the husband whom he proposed to you ?" " Such a refusal would have distressed my father," said she. ' " If left to yourself, I would not have been your own choice?" cried Benedict. " No," said she, bowing her head. "Ah, stop, mademoiselle!" cried Benedict; "you are torturing me. But still I ask myself if it may not be some mad feeling of heroism which accounts for your conduct to-day ? Ah ! do you not remember the even- ing of our betrothal ? You accepted from me my mother's betrothal ring! You refused a dowry from your father, feeling certain that you could live by an artist's work. Were your courage and your happiness alike a cruel farce of which I was the dupe, because I believed my dream to be reality ? Yet it seems to me that my heart could not have bee; ■. deceived, and that I would neither have been so proud nor so happy. It seems to me that respect for your father's will could never have forced you to give me that proof of maidenly confidence. Let there be no deception on your part. I i66 IDOLS. have worked for you; I have struggled for you. My whole ambition has been for you. You were my hope, and would be, I thought, my reward. I served Laban for the sake of Rachel. I kept myself free from all the follies and the temptations natural to my age that I might be worthy of you. I respected myself for the sake of your innocence and purity. If at times, seeing how easily my companions in art succeeded without real genius or industry, I felt tempted to do as they had done, arriving thus quickly at the goal of fame and for- tune, your image arose before me, and I persevered in the thorny way wherein, if my feet were bleeding, at least I planted no flower whose odor was death. Sa- bine, if you desert me, if you cast me off, what is left to me ?" " Your conscience," answered she. " May I not, in my despair, forget to hear its voice ?" said Benedict. " You think only of your own suffering, Benedict," said Sabine, " your regret for a young girl, your be- trothed for a single day, your companion in an idle dream; but I have to mourn my murdered father, my brother condemned to penal servitude." " I could wish you less strong, Sabine," said Benedict; "for then you might feel the need of consolation." "The consolation which I crave cannot come from men," said she. " I expect it from God alone." "Cruel child !" said Benedict; "but if that suffices for you, my heart has need of human sympathy." " Be then my brother," said Sabine; " my brother like Sulpice and Xavier." " And you will marry some one else ?" said he. " I will never marry," said she, extending her hand to him as she spoke. "No!" said he; "I reject so false a friendship— a THE DREAM ENDED. 167 iggled for you. My You were my hope, ird. I served Laban self free from all the al to my age that I lected myself for the If at times, seeing icceeded without real d to do as they had goal of fame and for- and I persevered in ;et were bleeding, at jdor was death. Sa- me o£f, what is left et to hear its voice ?" suffering, Benedict," young girl, your be- ompanion in an idle murdered father, my ude." abine," said Benedict; of consolation." re cannot come from , God alone." but if that suffices for sympathy." ine; " my brother like else ?" said he. Extending her hand to false a friendship— a f I worthless sentiment which in no wise responds to my aspirations, or the hope of my life. I accept my sen- tence: it is banishment; so be it ! Perhaps at some fu- ture time I may find the key to the enigma which just now I cannot understand." "Good by," said she, rising. As she turned away, she repeated, in a lower voice, " Good by forever." As she was leaving the room the Abb6 Sulpice en- tered. At one glance he saw what had occurred, and Sa- bine, throwing herself into his arms, murmured, " I told an untruth, but it was to save him." The young priest spoke in a tone of authority and even severity. " You have done wrong," he said, " Sabine, very wrong. You do not know what harm you may have done to a man so noble, brave, and generous." Sabine paid no heed to his words. For once she dis- regarded the advice of her brother. She only whispered, " Console him ! console him !" and so saying hurried away. Sulpice went straight to Benedict. " Brother," said he, " for you will remain my brother, try to be brave. Summon all your strength and man- hood. Who can tell whether Sabine may not—" " Do not speak of her !" cried Benedict. " Her cold- ness and cruelty were the best proofs of what she said. In consenting to become my wife, she acted in obedience to her father's wishes. Thank you, Sulpice; thank you. I will come sometimes that we may talk over the time when I believed she woald be a link between us. Good by. 1 am only a man, and I must be alone to think it all over." ^^ , He wrung Sulpigjp' hand, and hurried away. When he returned to hif^dSo he ||lt,as if it were a grave. '* <.- •if Itt IDOLS. The room, furnished with such exquisite taste, the sanc- tuary of art which he had arranged with so much care and patience, that he might one day receive Sabine there, seemed now to him like a temple shorn of its holy images. His own works, which he had hoped she would have admired, seemed unworthy of any praise. He who had hitherto been so confident began suddenly to doubt of his own life and his own merit. He asked himself if he had not been a presumptuous fool to spend his youth at such arduous toil, which had led to so cruel a disenchant- ment. He did not unite his weary soul with that of Christ, forsaken and suffering. His happiness, so suddenly over- clouded, seemed to have carried away his faith in the universal shipwreck. "Ah !" said he, in an outburst of self-pity and scorn, " my friends were right enough when they laughed at my wisdom, sneered at my cold statues, declaring that inspication was not to be found where I persisted in seeking it. I wanted only Sabine, forsaken by the world, disgraced by her brother's sentence; but she has scorned and rejected me ! At first I thought she would be my ruin, but, perhaps, in reality, she has saved me. I am free at last. I am young. I have talent. During all my twenty-five years of life I have never drunk of the cup of pleasure. In it I shall now find forgetfulness." Suddenly he broke down, hid his face in his hands, and sobbed aloud. "jiiiiiMiiiwiiii imm^- AN ARTIST SUPPER. i6^ lisite taste, the sanc- l with so much care day receive Sabine pie shorn of its holy lad hoped she would any praise. He who in suddenly to doubt e asked himself if he 3 spend his youth at 9 cruel a disenchant- with that of Christ, !ss, so suddenly over- ivay his faith in the self-pity and scorn, len they laughed at itues, declaring that Inhere I persisted in rsaken by the world, but she has scorned ^t she would be my IS saved me. I am talent. During all never drunk of the ind forgetfulness." face in his hands, CHAPTER XII. An Artist Supper. The war which France, with the greatest imprudence, had just declared against Prussia occupied every mind. Yet so great was the confidence in her own arms that no one doubted of ultimate success. Any one who ex- pressed the least anxiety as to her glory would have been deemed wanting in patriotism. The war was regarded in the light of a brilliant military campaign, to end by an entrance into the hostile capital. There was no ques- tion of obstacles to be surmounted on the way thither, of delusive hopes, still less of defeat. At the moment of departure, the triumphant return was already hailed. The Exposition of May, 1870, in spite of military ^aiM political movements, the rise and depression of stocks, and the excitement of the war, was followed with re- markable, interest. The art critics pursued their ril/e with a strong reinforcement of sounding phrases, much more interested in showing their skill as writers than in the progress of art, or in that of the painter or sculp- tor who served as the theme for their brilliant essays. Still all the papers were unanimous in their praise of the work exhibited by Benedict Fougerais. It was not a work to attract the multitude, nor draw around it the admirers of the realistic school, but it was of such solid merit, and gave evidence of workmanship so scientific, that no one disputed its claim. Benedict's group represented Religion trampling idols under foot; not idols of bronze, wood, or gold, which are called mow Isis, now Jupiter, now Vishnu, or Brahma, n 170 IDOLS. but living idols, to which every one offers sacrifice : Wealth, Pleasure, Glory. It was a grand and lofty idea, broad in its conception, sober in execution. In it the artist had followed the traditions of the mas- ters. The lines were severe, yet not stiff, the draperies supple and falling in graceful folds, while a scrupulous regard to anatomy was proof of long and patient study. The subject gave Benedict scope for great variety of form, expression, attitude. The love of gold was rep- resented by an old decrepit man, whose skin hung loose and shrivelled upon his bones, and who held in his arms sacks of gold; whilst with one hand he clutched a purse. This figure, by its perfect workmanship, defied criticism. Pleasure, under the form of a woman, had just thrown aside an empty cup, and was unstringing a necklace of precious stones. The expression of weariness and dis- gust upon the beautiful face, the drooping attitude, the draperies of the figure disordered by the sleep that fol- lows drunkenness, proved the versatility of Benedict's chisel. Glory was represented by a king, crowned and en- compassed by crowns, trampling under foot the sceptres of other kings whom he had vanquished, and by the figure of a young man whose face bore the seal of in- spiration, but whose lyre was su'^.aenly and premature- ly broken by death. To complete the base of the group were sheaves of arms, vases of flowers, arranged artistically, so as to throw their branches over the pedestal, preventing the too sudden transition from the Carrara of which the group was composed to the black marble of the pedes- tal. Standing with one foot upon the reclining figfure of the woman, her hand outstretched towards the old man, AN ARTIST SUPI'KR. 171 one offers sacrifice : 3ad in its conception, raditions of the mas- ot stiff, the draperies ;, while a scrupulous ng and patient study, for great variety of ve of gold was rep- hose skin hung loose who held in his arms hand he clutched a workmanship, defied man, had just thrown inging a necklace of >f weariness and dis- rooping attitude, the by the sleep that fol- satility of Benedict's \g, crowned and cn- nder foot the sceptres quished, and by the bore the seal of in- lenly and premature- oup were sheaves of artistically, so as to iestal, preventing the 'arrara of which the marble of the pedes- the reclining fig^ure of towards the old man, as if condemning him to the torture of unassuaged de- sire, was Religion, her beautiful face raised to heaven as she displayed aloft the victorious Cross. It was a grand, pure face, the figure, somewhat larger than life, combin- ing angelic sweetness with majesty. This work showed the artist's real power, and at once placed Benedict in the rank of those from whom much was to be expected. Benedict had been very happy while engaged upon this conception. Often did exclaim, as he stepped back to contemplate an effect, " Sabine will be pleased." For he dedicated to her this work, into which a portion of his soul as well as his genius had passed. He had counted upon the profits of this group as a little capital upon which to begin housekeeping. He hoped that the government would purchase the group. To-day it had brought him fame; to-morrow it would bring fortune — not the fortune which most men covet, as a means of in- dulging in dangerous pleasures or wild dissipation which are equally enervating to genius, but wealth which, en- joyed sparingly and in moderation, brings with it repose. What greater happiness could there be than to behold Sabine happy in these peaceful surroundings, and to feel that this happiness was not purchased by yielding to subversive ideas, by worshipping gold for its own sake, or by servile homage paid to the degraded or frivolous taste of the multitude ? There was something great in having won a place among real artists, without being guilty of flattery, ser- vility, or meanness. For who is totally exempt from meanness that is determined to succeed at any cost ? Ah! it was in that hour of compensation for his laborious youth, that hour when success and happiness together smiled upon him, that sorrow had seized him as her prey;«and rent his heart ! She to whom his heart had m IDOLS. SO completely gone out, wiio had been his sole joy, now withdrew her hand cruelly from his, and declared that she had placed it there only in obedience to her father's will. For three days Benedict remained shut up in his studio, as one sucidenly stricken down. He no longer worked, nor even thought, for his thoughts ever strayed back to the young girl who had so coldly rejected him. Sometimes he tried to persuade himself that she had acted thus through a motive of self-sacrifice, and that she really suffered as much as he did from the separation which she believed was rendered inevitable by Xavier's condemnation. He reminded himself how she had smiled upon him on the evening of their betrothal, and the innocent joy which had lit up her face. He heard again her clear, pure voice singing the hymn from Haydn; he found once more the woman whom he had once loved, cherished, venerated, and his heart beat high with joy. But hope was succeeded by profound despondency. Sulpice had said nothing to comfort him or give him hope. Did he, too, believe that his sister had never loved him ? So the artist denied admittance to every one, and remained heart and soul absorbed in his sorrow. His strength failed with his hope. He who but the previous day had been ready for the accomplishment of great and noble work, felt himself suddenly incapable of anything. It seemed to him that his ambition had died with his hap- piness. Glory, the eagle flight of which his eyes had followed, now fell earthward with broken wings, and Benedict asked himself if the artist could survive the man's despair. The statues in his studio remained in their covers of green serge; the clay grew hard in the tubs; the stoois, upon which stood busts or statues just commenced^ were AW ARTIST SUPPER. m een his sole joy, now is, and declared that iience to her father's ined shut up in his iown. He no longer houghts ever strayed ) coldly rejected him. limself that she had elf-sacriiice, and that d from the separation nevitable by Xavier's lad smiled upon him ind the innocent joy card again her clear, iaydn; he found once >nce loved, cherished, with joy. But hope ndency. Sulpice had e him hope. Did he, !r loved him ? So the y one, and remained orrow. His strength the previous day had It of great and noble able of anything. It ad died with his hap- : which his eyes had 1 broken wings, and ist could survive the led in their covers of I the tubs; the stoois, just commenced^ were strewn with fragments of dried earth. That room, so lately full of hope, life, strength, and industry, became, as it were, a sealed sepulchre, which Benedict did not care to reopen. At times he almost wished that death would seize him in his promising youth, and that the group he had sculptured might be his monument. About a week after his interview with Sabine a large document, bearing the ministerial seal, was handed to him. He opened it absently. But in reading the enclo- sure his face changed and brightened. The minister in- formed him that the government desired to purchase his group, and asked his price; adding that, to encourage an artist who already gave promise of so brilliant a future, it had resolved to confide an important work to him. This was to be a group representing Hylas car- ried of! by Nymphs, and was for the decoration of 9. monumental fountain. " Aye," said Benedict, bitterly," so it is; success, wealth, fame, when I have no one to whom I can offer them, when they are worthless." He threw the letter aside, and resumed his gloomy train of thought. Presently he heard the bell. For a week past Beppo, his little Italian servant, who swept the studio, and served as model for lazzaroni and pifferari, and players on the zampogne, had orders to admit no one, saying that his master was unwell and unable to receive them. They usually left a card, promising to come again. But on this occasion the visitor was obstinate ; he raised his voice threateningly, he even maltreated Beppo, who went so far as to place himself before the studio door in an attitude of defiance. The visitor took Beppo by the collar, threw him aside like a rubber ball, opened the door, and rushed in to Benedict. " You are in to me," he cried, seizing the artist by both hands. w n W\ 174 IDOLS. " Lionel!" cried Benedict. Tlien he added dejectedly, " But I am not myself." "I know all about it," said the artist; " blighted affec- tion, broken ties, illusions dispelled. You will get over all that. The trials of life come thick and fast upon us, but we must not sink under them. I expected this. Xavier Pomereul's trial put an end to all your plans. Of course you could not marry a girl whose brother was condemned to the galleys." " You are mistaken, Lionel," said Benedict, " in my eyes Sabine was free from the slightest stain. I believe in Xavier's innocence, and I wanted his sister for my wife." "After the trial?" " Still more after such an affliction." " That is heroic," said Lionel, " but foolish." " Ah, but Sabine refused to marry me." " By Jupiter!" said Lionel, " I call her a noble girl." "But she broke her solemn promise." "MU-i. Pomereul had promised to make you happy, but not to ruin you." " She has succeeded in that by her cruel refusal. I worked for Sabine; my fame, if I can call it so, is her doing. With her, I could do anything; without her, I am fit for nothing." " Oh, come, now," said Lionel, " you think so, but it is not the case." " It is as true as my sorrow." " Of course, but your sorrow will gradually grow l6ss and less." " I will never forget Sabine." "Admitted. But neither can you ever forgret art, which is the source of sublime pleasure. You will not forget sculpture, because it will be your support and consolation. You will find other Sabines in life, but you i^i ^b»^.^i^:^'<*V. len he added dejectedly, artist; "blighted affec- led. You will get over thick and fast upon us, liem. I expected this, d to all your plans. Of Efirl whose brother was said Benedict, "in my ghtest stain. I believe nted his sister for my ion." 'but foolish.' rry me. all her a noble girl." )mise." d to make you happy, )y her cruel refusal. I I can call it so, is her ything; without her, I " you think so, but it ill gradually grow Itiss you ever forget art, tleasure. You will not be your support and Sabines in life, but you ■*,^, 4 *^ AN ARTIST SUPPER. m I ■ can never replace the art to which you have consecrated ■ yourself." ■ As he spoke Lionel caught sight of the ministerial ■ document with its red seal. ■ "That savors of the Minister of Fine Arts," he said. " Read it," said Benedict, offering him the letter, " Well," said the other, when he had finished reading, " you must ask thirty thousand francs for your group; it is worth more, but government invariably says it is not rich, and we must take its good will for the deed. The price being moderate, you may consider the purchase made. So you have thirty thousand francs in advance for the expenses of the fountain which is ordered." " But I will not do the fountain." " Now, there you are again with your notions. You will refuse government work ?" "Government work of that sort, at all events." " Of that sort ? What do you mean ? The choice of a subject seems to me remarkably good for such a purpose. Have you a pencil here ?" As he spoke, he took a sheet of paper and a pencil, and began to sketch. "A mass of rock will form the base. Hylas, who comes to slake his thirst at the fountain, will be upon one of them, bending towards the crystal wave, as a poet would say. Below, a nymph, carelessly reclining upon the golden sands of the fountain, seizes Hylas by the hand, gently drawing him downwards. Another kneels eager and trembling, gazing upon their prey, whilst a third glides about among the leaves and sedges, regard- ing the scene curiously, and waiting for the fall pf Hy- las, who is hastening to his death." I.iionel held out the paper upon which he had sketched the scene to Benedict Ml 176 IDOLS. "It is very natural," said Benedict, "but I am not in the least tempted to accept it." "Why?" "For a reason." ' " An artist should never have any reason for refusing a government order." " You are wrong there," said Benedict ; " he must act according to his convictions." " But what has ' Hylas and the Nymphs ' to do with politics ?" " With politics ? Nothing; but with my conscience." " On my word, I am in the dark," said Lionel. " Do you remember my group ?" **It made stir enough not to be easily forgotten," said Lionel. " The illustrated papers reproduced it ; Cham made a caricature of it; nothing was wanting." "Then you must see that I cannot be inconsistent," " But I do not understand." " I was brought up by a good man, M. Pomereul; taught by a saintly one, the Abb6 Sulpice ; betrothed to the purest and most innocent girl I have ever seen and admired. My studies^ my laborious life, the atmosphere which I breathed, heart and soul, was totally apart from the usual ideas and habits of ariists. My work was in accordance with my life. I admire the talents of such men as Pradier, Carpeaux, and Carrier-Belleuse, but I regret that it is wasted in producing dangerous if not indecent figures. I have sworn to pay homage to art by never executing, whatever the temptation, a figure at which any woman might blush. My studio is a sanctu- ary, not a harem." " Then you are still thinking of marrying Sabine?" said Lionel. " Why, because I did not marry her, am I to change all my plans ?" said Benedict. ct, "but I am not in ' reason for refusing a :nedict ; " he must act Nymphs ' to do with with my conscience." " said Lionel. easily forgotten," said reproduced it; CAam IS wanting." it be inconsistent." I man, M. Pomereul; Sulpice ; betrothed to I have ever seen and s life, the atmosphere vas totally apart from sts. My work was in 'e the talents of such arrier-Belleuse, but I :ing dangerous if not pay homage to art by mptation, a figure at ly studio is a sanctu- iHrrying Sabine?" said her, am I to change ,vLi.«*»;.^.,i_i.... . AN ARTIST SUPPER. m " You might modify them ?" said Lionel. " The beautiful must be always the beautiful," said Benedict. " But the beautiful, like Hindoo gods," said Lionel, " may have a multiplicity of forms. Beauty lies not only in drapery, but in form. I admit that the * Three Graces ' of Germain Pilon is admirable, but none the less that of Canova is exquisite." " I promised to follow that path." " Whom did you promise ? Your patron ? His death released you from it. Sabine, who has refused you ?" " My conscience!" said Benedict. " Ah, but then you must have two consciences— your conscience as a man, and your conscience as an arti^ — the one does not in the least interfere with the other. I understand and approve of your irreproachable life, but it has nothing to do with the marble figures which you represent." "Hold there," said Benedict, "an artist's work is a reflex of himself. I could never again sculpture a group of Religion trampling Idols under foot, if those idols were my own, and if religion were not sacred in my eyes.' " You could never do that, but you could do something else. Let me tell you your group is superb, but you will probably show your greatest strength in carrying out this government order. You will never persuade artists that it is as great a proof of gpirius to create a draped figure as an undraped one, or th.n it is not more alfii cult to model an Eve than a Lur • i ia. Whatever may have been the deserved sue eis of > ur ia- 1 groi.p, it can never reach the Same height thrt ilyias and the Nfymphs will." " Perhaps you are right/' r?id Benedict, " hu'c I will at least have the inward sairsiactioc of knowing that I 1 •rrn III 178 IDOLS. have been faithful to the course I marked out for myself, and that I have never made art subservient to passion." "Wait forty-eight hours before you give your reply about the fountain," said Lionel; "but do not lose a moment in fixing the price of your group. I am going in that direction and will deliver your letter." Benedict began to write. "By the way," said Lionel, "I am having a house- warming this evening. I came in fact to give you my new aadress. Of course I may count on you." "You do not understand me, Lionel." " I understand that you are despondent, and want cheering up." " I need to be alone." " You need plenty of company to make you laugh." " I will never laugh much again. I feel as if my youth were over." " Then you should only work for funeral decora- tions henceforth, my good fellow. Make a statue of Art with his torch extinguished, his compass, his lyre, and his chisel broken, and then have done with it. Make your will, and if you are too good a Christian to use a brace of pistols, set off for' La Trappe and take the vows. But do not attempt to live in the world and not be of the world. Fra Angelico became a monk, and Fra Bar- tolomeo wore the cowl. One must be consistent, so unless you want to put a cloister grating between your- self and the world, you must do as it does, and howl with the wolves, only showing your teeth less and making less noise than the rest. What does this supper amount to after all? Sitting down to table with some friends who appreciate you." "And who have not a single idea in common with me, "Upon art perhaps not, but upon /«// aux trufes, I r (larked out for myself, bservient to passion." you give your reply ; "but do not lose a r group. I am going Dur letter." am having a house - fact to give you my int on you." )nel." espondent, and want > make you laugh." I feel as if my youth for funeral decora- Make a statue of Art ompass, his lyre, and done with it. Make 1 a Christian to use a pe and take the vows, world and not be of 1 monk, and Fra Bar- iist be consistent, so rating between your- it does, and howl with :eth less and making ;s this supper amount )le with some friends dea in common with ipon pati aux truffes, I AN ARTIST SUPPER. 179 my dear boy, it is another story. You need not drink if wine does not agree with you; you need not sing if you do not feel inclined. You can su|c in a corner if you please ; you can rail at our gayety from the heights of reason. You can represent, if you wish, the philosophers at Couture's "Fete Romaine" There are concessions enough for you, I hope." " Thank you, Lionel, but I cannot — " " Refuse, you were going to say," said Lionel; " I be- lieve you." " No, accept," said Benedict; " my wound is too deep.'* " The more reason for healing it." " It will reopen." " When the weather changes, perhaps. But try to keep the barometer at fair weather." " No, Lionel, once more no." "You are wrong, Benedict, and I am sorry to see it. If vou nourish your grief in gloomy silence, it will be- come a disease. It will paralyze your brain and your hand. It will render you incapable of everything. You will be among those to whom the world says with an evil joy, Vce victis ! You must not let yourself be con- quered in this struggle. Rise the greater for misfor- tune. Forget Sabine, give the Muse the place once held in your life by that young girl, and, arrested in your course for an instant b\ an unforeseen obstacle, cross with one bound the barrier at the foot of which you had lain down to die." "I have no' i;rength for all this." " Not of yourself alone, perhaps, but sustained by your friends, and I am a fiiend, Benedict." " Tlien leave me to grieve." " To grieve with me, yes. You shall tell me of your dreams of Sabine, of your perished happiness; and I shall speak in glowing terms of the Muse who presides i8o IDOLS. over sculpture. I will paint for you the glory which you now disdain, and in a few months you will not only be contented, but happy." " If I could believe this." " You may believe me, Benedict, for what you are suf- fering I have suffered." " Byt was the one you loved like Sabine ?" " Yes, but I found that art was better and higher still." "I do not know whether you are my deliverer, or merely a tempting spirit," said Benedict; " but your visit has done me good." " And an evening spent with us will completely restore you. Will you come ?" " I would be a melancholy guest, said Benedict. "The philosopher of the Fete Romaine, it is agreed. We will expect you. " " At what hour is supper ?" "Nine o'clock." "You can set a place for me, Lionel." "And I will take your letter to the minister. Au rtvoir." They shook hands and Lionel went out. "Ah, signor tnio, I shall be scolded," said Beppo to him. "Get your master's clothes ready, you young vaga- bond," said Lionel, " and spend these five francs to my health." Beppo showed every tooth in a broad grin. Benedict called him in a moment to take his orders. "Lionel is about right," thought Benedict; "if sorrow is not strong enough to kill us at once, why should we let it do so by degrees ? I will not enter into gayety or folly to-night. But contact with others may cheer me up. Benedict made an unusually careful toilet, and at the appointed how arrived at his friend's studio. m,\ AN ARTIST SUPPER. i8i 1 the glory which you you will not only be for what you are suf- Sabine ?" tterand higher still." are my deliverer, or :dict; " but your visit 'ill completely restore said Benedict. *0maine, it is agreed. nel." :o the minister. Au nt out. ," said Beppo to him. ly, you young vaga- ;se five francs to my 'oad grin. Benedict orders. Benedict; " if sorrow 3nce, why should we enter into gayety or thers may cheer me ful toilet, and at the 's studio.. It was a large room with a very high ceiling on which draperies forming a sort of tent concealed all defects in the plastering. Brilliant pictures in large gilt frames claimed immediate attention. Lionel had truly an artist's temperament, and everything from his hand showed power and originality* Rare pieces of faience, curious coats-of-arms mounted in panoplies, statuary or terra-cotta figures, various knick-knacks, canvases by Beauvais with female figures, bunches of flowers or wings of birds peeping out from dark draperies, con- tributed to the charming effect of the whole. AU the artist's apparatus had been pushed into corners, and the supper table was served in the centre of the room. It was in excellent taste, but ir such sumptuous style as to remind one of the gorgeous feasts which Veronese loved to represent. Venetian crysvals filled with flowers, silver and gold ornaments of Gerni •: workmanship, goblets for champagne, pitchers of foam.il^g ale, flasks of Italian wine, thickset decanters, bottles co\ered with straw, and long-necked ones of Rhine wine from the royal vineyards of Johannisberg, sparkling Moselle, Chiraz, with tops of rose-colored silk and seals of fragrant wax, made up an inviting whole. Vases of flowers, pyramids of fruit, chandeliers of waxen tapers alternated with substantial dishes. Under the tablecloth was a rug of the thickness of two carpets, and the cloth itself was of the finest linen ornamented with lace and with a rich border. In the corners of the studio statues of Venetian negroes holding candelabra completed the ornamentation. When Benedict entered, nearly all the guests wcrti assembled. They were deep in conversation and his entrance was scarcely noticed. The late ones having arrived, the curtains were drawn and supper began. Benedict did not regret having come. He sat beside an "^mr- ^^Mj-^i^.itjA 1 82 IDOLS. old brother artist, who indulged in many pleasant rem. iniscences, and the gayety was for some time within per- fectly reasonable limits. Some literary men, principally art critics, enlivened the occasion by excellent stories. The mirth was real and hearty. The drinking was done slowly. The night was long, and the windows, carefully curtained, did not permit day to penetrate too quickly into the studio. At length the company began to grow heated. Congratu- lations were exchanged on mutual success. Benedict received a great many compliments, and, as he omitted to mention the purchase of his group by the Minister of Arts, Lionel took care to announce it. Every hand was immediately stretched out to him, and this spontaneous sympathy did him good. He realized how hard it was to live in solitude, and depend on one's self, and he re- solved to follow his friend's advice and dispel grief by the pursuit of pleasure. He slowly emptied his glass, touching it to that of an art critic, and his face began to light up; but it was not with the inspired light of old; it was rather with the flush of wine which quickly re- moved all traces of tears. Conversation became more animated; words flew about fike arrows. Foolish sto- ries were told; each one spoke of projected statues or paintings. In turn Benedict was questioned as to his. "Ah !" said Lionel, " he has no choice— the subject is given him." " By whom— a banker ?" asked one. "Better tb=»n that." " A prince <" " No; a king called Government." " What is it ?" asked a dozen voices. " Hylas and the Nymphs." " He is in luck !" cried they. " You do not know him; he refuses." 1 AN ARTIST SUPPER. 183 in many pleasant rem. r some time within per- y art critics, enlivened i. The mirth was real one slowly. The night fully curtained, did not cly into the studio. At ow heated. Congratu- ual success. Benedict Its, and, as he omitted •oup by the Minister of ce it. Every hand was , and this spontaneous ilized how hard it was 1 one's self, and he re- :e and dispel grief by wly emptied his glass, , and his face began to i inspired light of old; ine which quickly re- ersation became more arrows. Foolish sto- )f projected statues or questioned as to his. choice — the subject is one. ices. ises. " Bah !•• " He has sworn to make Madonnas in perpetuity." " Take care, my good fellow," said one; " that is dan- gerous." " In what way ?" asked Benedict. " To be too fond of draperies. It seems as if you iind it easier to dress a lay figure than to reproduce nature," " No," said Benedict, feeling bound to defend his con- victions; "it is because I have too much respect for art to turn it to base uses." " Bah ! then you would suppress the best creations of Michael Angelo, and burn Raphael's " Triumph of Gala- tea." Art for art's sake, my boy. A fig for those who shield themselves under a pretence of morality. I could understand your scruples if you were about to marry; but as I hear that is all over, there will be no one to criti- cise your work, and you need not fear to offend the squeamish conscience of a pretty young girl. To refuse a government order ! It is an unheard-of thing." " Perhaps, sir," said a critic, " you have some idea of reforming society, and remodelling it according to your notion. You will never succeed. To kfeep the favor of the multitude, go with it. What harm would there be in modelling the Nymphs and the youth Hylas, as de- picted in the fable ? You have proved that religion has power to inspire you. Show us now what poetry, the theogony of Greece, can gain from your chisel." " To the fountain of the Nymphs," said Lionel, raising his glass. Benedict was silent; His neighbor filled his glass for him. "Empty it in any case," said he. "You are free to do as you wish. They will call you a devotee." Benedict touched glasses with his neighbor. i i84 IDOLS. HUn I fit, 'I "To art!" cried he, " under whatsoever form it Le To art, whose love never deceives us, and who makes ot us what we im ^, and will make us immortal !" Gildas now rai- ed liis glass, and sang some verses in a ringing voice. " Bravo, bravo '" cried the young men. Lionel filled the poet's glass. " The second verse," said he, and the poet improvised a second. " That is too melancholy," said a voice. And the poet began a third and last stanza, treating of the sublimity of art, and the immortality which it purchases. This was followed by an outburst of enthusiasm. The poet's hand was warmly shaken, and he was congratu- lated on his efforts. Conversation then began to change its tone. Bottles and decanters were emptied with astonishing rapidity; the guests raised their voices, and some became very much affecte'1. The journalists registered in their note- books the name of Pr^ault, the ideal sculptor. The mirth became boisterous ; they all talked together in different keys and on different subjects. An amateur, seating himself at the piano, played the." Marche aux Flambeaux," whilst the artists, half tipsy, took a dish, a chandelier, or a lamp, and walked in procession round the room. Others threw themselves down on sofas to smoke, and the poet began a discourse on the " Visions of Opium." Heads grew muddled, words inaudible, and soon half the company was asleep. Before they left the studio a servant opened the shutters. It was broad daylight. Each one rose, stretched himself, passed his hands through his dishevelled hair, glanced at his disordered Clothing, at the remnants of the feast, and, lighting fresh cigars, went away, thanking Lionel for his royal banquet. itsoever form it Le IS, and who makes ot mmortal!" ang some verses in a f men. tlie poet improvised voice. And the poet ing of the sublimity '. purchases, of enthusiasm. The id he was congratu- 2^e its tone. Bottles istonishing rapidity; . some became very istered in their note- deal sculptor. The talked together in >jects. An amateur, :d the." Marche aux f tipsy, took a dish, alked in procession hemselves down on a discourse on the dible, and soon half ey left the studio a vas broad daylight, passed his hands d at his disordered t, and, lighting fresh or his royal banquet. AN ARTIST SUPPER. 185 " Stay," said Lionel to Benedict The young sculptor paused. "Are you tired?'" said the painter. " No," said the other. " Do you feel better ?" " I have less contempt for others and less esteem for myself," said Benedict. " That is not bad. Do you feel like working ?" " I ? I have not an idea in my mind." " So much the better. We will rest together. I will dispose of this evening: " "Where will you tak ?" "To the theatre." " To hear some fashion sze J" " Exactly." " So you want to kill my soul ?" " To kill the worm which is gnawing at it." " Can you be certain, Lionel, that the soul will sur- vive ?" " Its only use just now is to make you suffer." "Just now — yes; but once it was all my joy and strength." " Once is far off, Benedict." " Yes; and Sabine will never be my wife. As you will. I will stay. Take me where you please." For a week Lionel continued what he called his sav- ing of Benedict. He hurried him from pleasure to pleasure, varying them and inventing new ones with a sort of genius. At first Benedict was wearied and dis- gusted; then he began to find the pleasures less repul- sive, and, as they gave him forgetfulness, he ended by craving them. One morning, however, he said to Lionel, whose apart* ments he now shared, " Have you any modelling wax here ?" 186 IDOLS. "I think so. Isidor began his group of Centaurs — a piece of idiocy. Use the Centaurs for whatever you want." Benedict sat down at the table and began to model. Meanwiiile I>ionel painted on his D6janire. Both were silent, each absorbed in his work. At length the wan- ing day, with its darkness, warm d them that ;> ir tas'c had been already too far prolonged. Lionel thi*.. .u>ide nis brush, and stepped back to judge of the effecl >t h'^ work. He fixed a mirror in the proper position to sh' \ the canvas. Satisfied with his work, he said, rubbing his hands, " The D6janire is the excuse for the Centaur. That will come. And you?" turning to Beatdict. . Benedict did not hear, but continued to model. Lionel leaned over the sculptor's shoulder and v.atched him. Henedict was just finishing the rough cast of t/.e Foun- tain of Hylas and the Nymphs. "Bravo!" said Lionel, with sincere admiration. "It is a great work, and will be the beginning of your real fame." " Perhaps," said the sculptor; adding in a low voice, "something has died within me." "What is that?" " My conscience," answered Sabine's lover. I group of Centaurs — a aurs for whatever you e and began to model. s D6janire. Both were •k. At length the wan- (1 them that ;> ir tas'; ed. Lionel thi' ,*.4de jdge of the effect, of hk proper position to sh' \ work, he said, rubbing for the Centaur. That to Bcn<: from giving you his rthing for your happi- ims, hopes, and aspira- [ of wealth. The first d to make. When you St will come of itself. my misfortune. Take [ once occupied. Sov- the throne of France; 1 their power.' I an- him, but when he in- :. Dufernois I hesitated. ;lance on me. I hung want your promise.' " I gave it. He died, feeling that my own and my mother's future was secured. I kept my word. Thence- forth I worked with redoubled ardor, not so much for love of money at first, but in obedience to my father's command. Yet at times I reproached myself, reproached myself bitterly." Nicois paused, and seemed to hesitate. The abbe took his hand. "Speak," said he; "it will do you good to tell me the story of your life. I am a friend." " But a friend who is rather too austere." The abbe pointed to the crucifix. " A confessor, if you will," said he. " Not yet. But in whatever way you put it, I know I can depend on your discretion." A slight pressure of the hand he held wa« the abbe's sole reply. " I was young," said the banker, " full of youthful ardor and impetuosity. My mother was a good woman in every sense of the word, but indifferent about religion. She bore my father's name with honor, but she did not teach me what she had never known herself, the inviolable principles of duty which depend upon the keeping of God's commandments. Her advice was good, but never rose above social propriety or personal advantage. She wished me to be happy, but she thought I could be so without that faith which had been disregarded in her own education. I was young, ardent, fiery, impulsive, impa- tient of all restraint, and more ambitious of pleasure than of fortune. The entire liberty I enjoyed, the want of all religious belief, at my twenty years of age, neces- sarily led me into a dangerous path, and I followed it. Without consulting my mother, forgetful of the promise to my dying father, I became engaged to a beautiful young girl, but who, alas ! was poor.- She believed in me 192 IDOLS. entire!) ; when it was time for me to settle in life, when I vv;is iwenty-fiveand Mile. Dufernois eighleen, my mother reminded me of my father's wish. I asked for time. I had not courage to tell the confiding creature whom I loved that I had lied to her, and read her contempt for me in her honest eyes." Nicois shuddered. "It was hard, indeed," said the abbd, "but why did you not state the case to your mother?" " She would have laughed at my scruples. Not judg- ing my conduct from a religious standpoint, she would have thought my fault a very trifling one, and have had no hesitation in bidding me break the heart of the poor child whom I had asked to be my wife. On the other hand, the Dufernois family treated me already as a son- in-law. Mile. Coralie had long regarded me as her be- trothed. I found myself helpless between the obligations contracted for me by my father, my attitude in the house, and the intimacy between my mother and these friends. Doubtless, had I confessed the truth to Mile. Coralie, she would through pride have advised me to marry the poor girl to whom I had solemnly pledged my faith. But I will tell the whole truth without reserve, and' in spite of my shame disclose the entire workings of my miserable heart. I knew that Mile. Dufernois, who had been brought up to consider herself as my future wife, bore me a ten- der affection, somewhat timid, it is true, but infinitely charming, gra' ■ ul and attractive. She had never dreamt that any othei -.'iiin could be connected with her life. Her innocent soul rejoiced that she could so easily obey her family in the matter of choosing her husband. She treated me with touching deference, and did nothii\g without my advice; as the time for our marriage ap- proached she became more affectionate, but still remained calm, smiling and dignified. Her beauty, and the ele- THE GOLDEN CALF. 193 to settle in life, when 1 is eighteen, my mother . I aslted for time. I ding creature whom I read her contempt for e abb6, "but why did ther?" y scruples. Not judg- standpoint, she would ling one, and have had i the heart of the poor ly wife. On the other d me already as a son- •egarded me as her be- between the obligations y attitude in the house, )ther and these friends. ith to Mile. Coralie, she I me to marry the poor dged my faith. But I reserve, and in spite of kings of my miserable who had been brought re wife, bore me a ten- is true, but infinitely She had never dreamt )nnected with her life, he could so easily obey ing her husband. She nee, and did nothing for our marriage ap- nate, but still remained r beauty, and the ele- gance of her manner captivated me. I compared her, in her wealth and beauty, with the poor girl to whom I had dreamed of uniting my fate. Yet, if I had been free, I should never have hesitated. My heart imperiously in- clined to my first love; but reason, society — all my sur- roundings urged me towards Mile. Dufernois. I was forced to settle matters and to fix a date. I agreed 10 everything; in the first place for want of any sufficient reason to oppose to whatever was expected of me; when I found myself bound so that retreat was impossible, I asked myself what was to be done with the other one." Again the banker stopped, overcome by these recollec- tions. His eyes were fixed on vacancy, as though his words had evoked some phantom upon which he gazed. " How far off it is, how far off," he repeated, " and yet, when I recall those days it seems but yesterday. When the time of my marriage was settled I made pretext of a journey to explain my absence, and told the poor for- saken one that I would be away a month from Paris. One week afterwards I married Mile. Dufernois. She had every quality which could attract; from the day of our union I felt in anew world; I even persuaded myself it was my duty to act as I had done. I banished re< morse by asking myself if some ambitious motive had not influenced the poor girl whom I no longer loved. Having betrayed her I calumniated her to nlyself, though she conquered me there. When she learned my marriage with Mile. Dufernois, she wrote me a letter full of pity and forgiveness. She prayed that Heaven might pardon me, and concluded by saying: ' I am heart-stricken and I know that I shall not live long. A just God who pun- ishes all our faults will demand expiation for the wrong you have done me. Alas ! my greatest pain now is that all my love for you cannot avert this chastisement.' " Very soon after I heard of her death." 194 IDOLS. T "Poor child," murmured the Abb6 Sulpice. ''Alas! even her death affected me little. I forgot my victim in the happiness of seeinpf a child at my firesidi-. This child became my joy, my hope, and my ambition, i consecrated my talents and my whole future — my very life to it. I felt myself a better man beside its cradle. The child was lovely, as fair as a lily, with sweet, pun, blue eyes. Its hair was of a peculiar tawny color, in. creasing the beauty of the spirituelle face. The mothir was enraptured. Till then my desire for wealth had been moderate. My wife's dowry seemed sufficient, and I abandoned myself to the mere pleasure of living, prom- ising later to launch out into speculations. Everythintj combined to make me perfectly happy. The recollec- tion of the poor dead girl scarcely ever occurred to me, and when it did, made little impression upon me. Hap- piness inspires a singular confidence. But the predic- tion of punishment was verified, though delayed for four years." The banker wiped the cold perspiration from his brow. " Courage, courage," said the Abb6 Sulpice. "About that time," he resumed, " I was obliged to go to Austria; I expected to be away only three weeks, and did not think of taking my wife and son. While I was in Vienna I received a letter written in despair by my wife. It contained but these words, " ' Our child has been stolen.' " If a thunderbolt had fallen upon my head I could not have felt more utterly crushed. Our child stolen ! By whom, and why ? I hastened to Paris. I questioned my wife; she had no clue. During my absence a strange servant was engaged; four days after the child went for a walk with her and disappeared. The servant, fearing the mother's anger, did not return, A complaint lodged against her at the police office caused her to be found. Tin; COI.DEN CAl.F. 19$ b6 Sulpice. ne little. I forgot my a child at my fireside. >pe, and my ambition, irhole future — my very nan beside its cradle, lily, with sweet, pun, ;uliar tawny color, in. elle face. The mother lesire for wealth had seemed sufficient, and easure of living, prom- :ulattons. Everythinjj happy. The recollec- ^ ever occurred to me, ission upon me. Hap- ;nce. But the predic- lough delayed for four )iration from his brow. bb6 Sulpice. , " I was obliged to go only three weeks, and ind son. While I was :ten in despair by my >n my head I could not )ur child stolen ! By aris. I questioned my my absence a strange fter the child went for The servant, fearing A complaint lodged .used her to be found. She fell upon her knees weeping and sobbing. She was honest. It had happened in this way: Having taken the child to the Tuileries, at its request the nurse went into the Champs Elysces, where some puppets were being ex- hibited to a number of children. There was a great crowd around the stand; the child, enjoying the perform- ance, raised the cloth, trying to discover the secrets of the wooden actors, and his nurse laughed with him in his glee. When the performance was over there was a sudden panic in the crowd; children cried, mothers be- came alarmed. The greatest confusion prevailed, and when the servant sought the child, it had disappeared. She ran to and fro questioning every one. No one could give her any information. Meantime the performers had taken up their stand, packed their puppets and departed, so that the girl did not even know the sppt where my poor little Marc had disappeared. I advertised in every paper and offered immense rewards; I had placards posted everywhere, describing' the child and his dress, but all in vain, he was never found. My wife, in her despair cried out, " O my God, my God ! why are we so afflicted ! we have never injured any one." " Then I remembered. " The loss of my child was God's punishment on me." " Did not this thought lead you to repentance ?" asked .the Abb6 Sulpice. " No," said Nicois; " my grief was fierce, wild, selfish. It hardened me instead of making me better." "Alas!" murmured the priest. "I blasphemed God, whom I said had punished an innocent woman and child for my crime. I would not even admit that I deserved punishment. I made use of all the sophistry by which young men excuse the criminal levity of their conduct. I compared my blighted life 196 IDOLS. with the easy life of others, and I cried out that God was unjust. No other child came to supply the loss of our poor Marc. We remained alone with the bitter recollection of the lost child. Often did I follow a crowd of little beggar children, seeing a resemblance to my son in some of them, and drew the little vagrants into con- versation, and whenever I saw jugglers dragging miser- able children after them, I stopped and questioned them hoping for tidings of my child. I hud moments of de- spair when I beat my breast and sobbed like a woman. More than once in my outbrjrsts of grief I revealed at least a portion of the truth to my wife. She guessed the rest. Slowly and gradually she shrank away from me. I felt her growing estranged and detached from my life, as a flower from its sustaining stem. She seemed almost to hate me. In the depths of her soul I knevir that she accused me of being the cause of her misfortune. Her love for our stolen child became stronger than her love for me. She began to remember my strange moods at the time of our marriage, the anxiety concerning which she had so often questioned me, and which she now understood, in spite of all attempt at dissimulation. Henceforth, I had neither companion nor friend in her. Madame Nicois, indeed, remained a model wife, whose conduct was beyond reproach, but, as far as I was con- cerned, merely a silent shadow, bound to my life indeed, but no longer shari;ig it. I made some efforts to win her back, but I failed. Pride forbade any farther at- tempts, and I was left alone, all alone." "And did you not even then think of God ?" asked the priest. "From that time," replied the banker, "dates my craving after wealth. Happiness being denied me, I remembered the advice of my father, forgotten during Uiose happy years; I bitterly felt that all W9$ faUe ia m I cried out that God to supply the loss of lone with the bitter n did I follow a crowd ssemblance to my son ;le vagrants into con- flers dragging miser- and questioned them hud moments of de- lobbed like a woman, f grief I revealed at ife. She guessed the irank away from me. :tached from my life, . She seemed almost soul I knevi^ that she ler misfortune. Her ronger than her love ny strange moods at ity concerning which and which she now pt at dissimulation. Dn nor friend in her. a model wife, whose , as far as I was con- nd to my life indeed, some efforts to win }ade any farther at- ie." I of God ?" asked the banker, "dates my being denied me, I ler, forgotten during {haX all W9» (nise in. THK (UM.DliN CAI.F. 197 this world, woman's love, the promise of childhood; that the love of gold alone fultilled its promise. Gold brought influence, purchased honors which no man could win for himself, opened every door, surmounted all difficulties, subdued everything by its power; gold was itself fame, for in Paris luxury is celebrity. A banker who obtains a loan for the government is ennobled at his pleasure, and becomes allied to princely families. A man rich enough to own a newspaper is a power; the ministers (latter him, the court makes advances to him; authors compare him to Maecenas, when they are about to pub- lish their last novel. All the beautiful things which art creates, or the wildest fancy invents, are his, if he so de- sires. He builds mansions of marble in the heart of Paris, and finds flowers of every land and clime in his conservatory. To be rich in Paris is to hold the greatest of all power. Once understanding this, I said to my- self, I will be rich. If I were rash in my enterprises, they were nevertheless crowned with success. If any transient difficulties embarrassed me, the ultimate result far sur- passed my hopes. I fought innumerable battles, and never found my financial Waterloo. My name is side by side with the most distinguished financiers, and that gold which I so eagerly craved, I now possess in such profusion that I know not how to spend it." "Do you find the expected happiness in its posses- sion ?" asked the abb^. " I am weary of the mere grat.iication of being rich," said Nicois; "but not of the proud comparison which I can draw between myself and those who have nothing." " Then you admit," said the priest, " that the love of gold has been baneful in its effects ? Far better for you to have less wealth in your coffers and more pity in your heart for others." " Pity for others ?" repeated the banker^ 198 IDOLS. " And why not, my friend ?" said the priest. " Because no one suffers what I have suffered." " Have you forgotten," asked the priest, rising as he spoke, "the last bitter trial which has brought Sabine and me to the foot of the crucifix ?" "No," said Nicois; "certainly not, but think of my child, my child! you have only lost a brother." " And with that brother, the victim of a deplorable act of folly, we have lost the honor of the family, which God knows we highly prized. Sabine has, moreover, given up the intended marriage which my father so lately blest, and I can only weep with her." " What ? Mile. Sabine will not marry M. Fougerais ?" "She cannot," said the priest, "and I apprpve of what she has done. For it would be wrong to bring the dowry of unmerited disgrace to a worthy man so full of heart and of talent. I deplore it though, for I doubt if Bene- dict is strong enough to stand such a test. What must be our regret, if that noble intellect of his should lose the sentiment of the good, the beautiful, the true, now so strong ? If Benedict once ceased to be the Christian artist whom we loved, he falls into an abyss, whence there is little hope of rescuing him." " This is terrible," said Nicois; " and do you not curse the hand which has stricken you ?" "We adore it, even in its severity," said the priest. " Have you any hope ?" said Nicois. " Yes; that light may be thrown upon it all," said the abb& " But if such should not be the case, if like Lesurques, your brother should die before his innocence is made manifest ?" "I shall look for justice there," said the priest, point- ing upwards. "There above us," said the banker, "is the air, the 1 the priest. have suffered." he priest, rising as he h has brought Sabine I" not, but think of ni)' t a brother." ;im of a deplorable act the family, which God has, moreover, given y father so lately blest, larry M. Fougerais ?" md I apprpve of what )ng to bring the dowry Y man so full of heart , for I doubt if Bene- h a test. What must :ct of his should lose autiful, the true, now id to be the Christian ito an abyss, whence ' and do you not curse i," said the priest. 3is. upon it all," said the ase, if like Lesurques, is innocence is made aid the priest, point- iker, "is the air, the ---rir TIIE GOLDEN CALF. 199 I do ether peopled with countless stars, but that is all. not believe in another life." " That is the very reason w^hy you are inconsolable," said the priest; " believe me, there is no sorrow so great that faith cannot soften its bitt rness. To the Christian a grave is a cradle. When we kneel beside a funeral pile, we venerate the remains of a being made to the image of God. Whilst our eyes follow it into the eternal world where all is pure and incorruptible, the certainty of its joy is the best solace for our grief. Ah' if, recog- nizing the hand which had stricken you, you had bowed down humble and contrite before the justice of Heaveu, deploring your fault instead of blaspheming God, you would have suffered less I assure you. If, in the name of your lost child, you had relieved misery, assisted poor mothers, provided asylums for orphans, you miorht have appeased the anger of God, and obtained the recovery of your child. You believe your wretchedness is com- plete, but are you certain that Heaven has punished you sufficiently ?" "Spare me!" cried Nicois; "do not add to my misery." "I would rather," said Sulpice, "apply thereto the sovereign remedy of resignation." "Ah! if you could promise me that at any cost I should find my child." "I do not work miracles," said Sulpice; "nor do I tempt the Lord, my God. I simply tell you of His law, and transmit to you His precepts. You have suffered a great deal, and hitherto found no alleviation for your grief. It is because He alone who inflicted the wound can heal it. All your wealth could not console you as much as one tear shed at the feet of God." The banker shook his head. " I have given up hopes of finding my son," said he, *l . 200 IDOLS. 1 "and I cannot suffer more than I have done. Thank you for hearing me with such patience. My heart still remains closed against that God whom you would fain make me to love. To find happiness in abnegation and self-sacrifice one must have known and loved that God from childhood." " Then," said the priest, •« there is nothing I can do for you ?" " Do not say so," said the banker. " I regard you as among myiwarmest friends, and friends are scarce. If I should ever have new cause of suffering I will confide it to you alone." The banker shook hands warmly with the young priest and went away. " My God !" cried the priest, when he was thus left alone, " wilt Thou permit that heart to suffer so, instead of drawing it to Thee ?" He remained some time prostrate in prayer for the man whom so many envied, and who was, nevertheless, 8o wretched. Then going down stairs, he found Sabine,' who had just come in. " You have been there ?" he asked. She answered by an affirmative nod. " Tell me of him," said the priest. " I found him more prostrated than ever by his mis- fortune. There is reason to fear for his health, which has been terribly shaken by all these shocks. He is in a high fever. He asks justice of men and forgets to ask pardon of God. If I did not hope that he would yet be acquitted, and that the real culprit would be found, I should ask God to take Xavier to Himself." "There is every reason to hope, Sabine, even against hope. If, the unhappy boy perseveres in these rebellious dispositions we can only pray and suffer for him and with him, that he may at length be brought to resigiia* I have done. Thank tience. My heart still vhom you would fain ess in abnegation and n and loved that God is nothing I can do jr. •' I regard you as iends are scarce. If I ering I will confide it with the young priest len he was thus left t to suffer so, instead ite in prayer for the rho was, nevertheless, airs, he found Sabine, d. od. lan ever by his mis- for his health, which e shocks. He is in a n and forgets to ask 5 that he would yet rit would be found, I imself." Sabine, even against es in these rebellious suffer for him and brought tQ resigm- THE GOLDEN CALF. 201 tion. An occasion for further self-sacrifice may soon be offered us; even women may be called upon to fulfil a sublime mission, and in that case we will hope that our misfortunes have kindled in us a sacred and purifying flame." " Ah !" said Sabine, " I understand. But for my utter loneliness and desolation you would have gone with the army. A soldier cf the Cross, you would have faced death beside the soldiers of glory. When I see so many young and noble priests hastening to the scene of war, I have often thought that your place is with them; but my courage failed me when I would have advised you to follow them. I asked myself what would become of me, between the thought of my poor despairing brother and the memory of one whom I shall never see again." " Then you still regret him ?" said the priest. " You are grieving for him. Why not call him back ?" " Duty forbids it. Sorrow has its dignity, and I would rather he should think me cold and insensible than self- ish and cowardly. If I cannot at once subdue an affec- tion encouraged by my father and blessed by you, I can at least prove myself worthy a good man's love by wear- ing mourning like a widow." Baptiste came in just then with the papers. The abb6 tore them open with a hasty gesture, and glanced down the columns anxiously. Broken exclamations es- caped him; his eyes grew dim; his heart beat high. " Defeated !" cried he; " not in an equal combat, but overpowered by force of numbers. Reverses on all sides! And, though obscure soldiers are covering them- selves with glory, and performing prodigies of valor, they cannot save the army, nor preserve France. Ah ! will Heaven abandon the country of Charlemagne, of St. Louis, and of Joan d'Arc ? Will this invasion, swell- ing like a threatening sea, at last engulf Paris ? Alas ! m' •'SS'.3 2c: IDOLS. there is no Genevieve's crook to oppose to Attiia's bat. tIe-axe. It is heart-breaking to read of it. France be- trayed, sold, delivered to its enemies by some new Judas. Such will be the verdict of posterity. Never again shall that sublime feeling of love of country fill all hearts. Never again shall France rise as a nation, indignant^ wronged, but yet invincible. No nation could ever con- quer her till she has once felt the shame of defeat. They spend the time for action in words. Plans are being made when the moment has come to take up arms, and meanwhile the Prussian army is encircling us in its folds, and will finally crush us." " What !•• cried Sabine. " Do you fear that France—" " Will be conquered? Such is ever the fate of nations when, enervated by luxury, permeated to their very core by vice, they deserve a terrible awakening. How terri- ble it seems to me, as a priest, no less than as a French- man, that a ProtesUnt soldiery should set foot upon Catholic France ! And yet — " " They dare not attack Paris !" cried Sabine. " They will dare. It is their turn now." " What will you do ?" asked Sabine. " When I thought of your going away with the army to some distant place, and leaving me alone and desolate, my courage failed me. But if I can, as it were, fight by your side- take my share of the common burden, staunch wounds, console, and comfort— in a word, play my woman's part' count on me, Sulpice. The sister will be worthy of the brother. My weakness and hesitation shall be lost sight of in face of danger; and, rising above my own sorrows, I will do all for love of Him who has afflicted us." Baptlste threw open the door of the room, and said, in a voice f ' deep emotion, "Sir, A deputation from Charenton wants to see you." T THE GOLDEN CALF. 203 ppose to Attila's bat ad of it. France be- es by some new Judas, y. Never again shall )untry fill all hearts. a nation, indignant, lation could ever con- :he shame of defeat, n words. Plans are ome to take up arms, is encircling us in its J fear that France—" er the fate of nations ted to their very core ikening. How terri- ;ss than as a French- hould set foot upon ried Sabine. now." !. " When I thought my to some distant lesolate, my courage fight by your side — len, staunch wounds, ly my woman's part, irill be worthy of the 3n shall be lost sight )ve my own sorrows, s afflicted us." the room, and said, nton wants to see " Show them in, and I will see them presently," said the priest. " Bring them here," said Sabine; " they are, we might say, part of the family." Baptiste went out for the workmen, and soon ushered in about twenty of them. They were men of various ages, all scrupulously neat in their personal appearance. " Pardon us," said the spokesman, " for intruding upon you here, and, so to say, forcing your door; but our reason is important. Not a moment is to be lost in a matter which we have so much at heart. Terrible news is placarded on the walls; and, in spite of reassuring words from some of the papers, we suspect the fearful truth. We have come to you, our guide and counsellor, to ask your advice, and whether you are of opinion that France will be conquered in this war, and Paris besieged ?" " I still hope that France will repel the foe which has now set foot upon her territory; but Paris will be be- sieged." " Then who will defend it ? Our soldiers are on the frontiers." " The Parisians," answered the abb^. " We wanted but the word, sir," cried the man; " for we know that your advice will coincide with the dictates of honor. If the Parisians have to defend Paris, they must know how to hold a musket. Our comrades arc frantic s'nce yesterday's news; they long to fight like lions. This is our idea: since the beginning of the war labor is at a standstill. Let us stop all ornamental work for the present. The founders will find plenty to do; for cannon and artillery will be needed before long. They can serve their country by preparing engines of war; and the others — well, the others must learn to be soldiers as fast as they can. We will unite in forming an inde- 204 IDOLS. pendent battalion. And we have come to ask you to he our chaplain." " Brave men !" cried the priest, shaking hands with the foremost; " worthy sons of France ! I accept with all my heart. You, arms in hand, and I with the cruci- fix, will do our duty before God and men." "And I?" said Sabine, stepping forward. "And I, brother?" " You will go to Charenton. Assist these brave men's wives. Tell them from me that their husbands shall re- ceive their usual salary as long as the war lasts. Then, as we have to look forward to great trials and stern realities, you must choose the most intelligent women, and with them organize an ambulance in the factory. The wounded can be brought thither. Draw as largely as you please upon our coffers; for we shall be always rich if we always succeed in doing good." "Ah, Mademoiselle," cried Blanc-Cadet, "we shall fight with tenfold courage, when we have the consolation of knowing that if a ball should strike one of us he shall be brought to our dear factory and cared for by you." " We are only paying our father's debt, good friends," said Sabine; "the fortune which we now enjoy was made by you ; it is just that it now be of assistance to you. You know that even before our recent afflictions we always had your welfare at heart. Your wives and daughters will henceforth be our sisters; I adopt your children. If any of you should fall upon the field of battle he will leave no orphans, they will belong thence- forth to the Pomereul family." There were few dry eyes among the group when she had finished, but the Abb6 Sulpice resumed: "And it must be understood that. I shall take upon myself the equipment of the men; any of you who have been soldiers can drill the others. This ^'ery day I will : come to ask you to be ;t, shaking hands with France ! I accept with d, and I with the cruci- ind men." ng forward. "And I, Lssist these brave men's heir husbands shall re- i the war lasts. Then, great trials and stern ost intelligent women, nee in the factory. The •. Draw as largely as ve shall be always rich .d." lane-Cadet, "we shall re have the consolation rike one of us he shall d cared for by you." ■'s debt, good friends," re now enjoy was made of assistance to you. • recent afflictions we art. Your wives and • sisters; I adopt your fall upon the field of ley will belong thence- f the group when she i resumed: that. I shall take upon ; any of you who have This very day I will THE GOLDEN CALF. 20S go to the archbishop and ask his approval. I shall not see you again to-day, as I have a great deal to do, but to-morrow I shall meet you without fail." " To-morrow," repeated Sabine. The workmen then withdrew, with renewed acknowl- edgments to Sulpice and Sabine, and the young priest almost immediately left his sister. "My path is now marked out for me," said he; " let us be with God, and God will be with us." Sabine spent the afternoon in arranging papers, and disposing of everything, as if for a long absence. At six o'clock her brother returned. " On the eve of the gladiatorial combats," said he to his sister, " the martyrs always took their last meal to- gether. I will share yours this evening." " Ah, Sulpice, do you already think of death ?" " I want at least to be ready," said he. " But do not be downcast. For it seems to .me that my mission will be long, and that I have yet to save Xavier." Then he kissed her upon the forehead. "It is, my dear sister," said he, "the brother's kiss and it is also the priest's benediction. And now hold out your arm." She did so, and the Abb6 Pomereul fastened thereupon the white shield bearing the Geneva Cross. The young girl knelt down before him. " My brother," said she, " and my father also, foryou are my spiritual father, bless this life which will be exposed henceforth for my neighbor, and bless my death should Go<^ take me." "Rise, Christian," said the priest when he had blessed her; " it is the wiU of God.' fli 206 IDULS. CHAPTER XIV. The War. ' On the night of the-ist October, 1870, a party of young men were gathered round a camp fire. It was very cold. And in spite of many armfuls of wood and logs thrown upon the embers, they could scarcely keep warm. They held their hands over the blaze which now rose into the air, and again, driven downwards by a blast of wind, al- most scorched their faces. They were silent. At that crisis the thoughts of men, and especially of those who had taken up arms to defend the ramparts, were marked by a melancholy gravity. The beginning of that dis- astrous war had been remarkable for heroic efforts, for deeds of valor worthy the archives of glory; but, by a strange fatality, or by the incompetence of those who had usurped power on the 4th of September, all this courage, valor and enthusiasm were nullified. The National Guard, and the volunteers not being called to arms, were consumed with secret rage, thinking of the perils which threatened the capital on every side. Each time that the call resounded in Paris they rose, sniffed the air, scenting the powder, and attaching the last green branches to tlieir muskets, thus saluting in advance the victory which was to break up the brazen column that now threatened the besieged city with de- struction. Every evening, alas! the remnants of heroic battalions returned irom the slaughter blood-stained, weary, their numbers lessened, blaming their com- manders, who had made them believe that the war would T IV. 1870, a party of young ire. It was very cold, ood and logs thrown ly keep warm. They ich now rose into the ay a blast of wind, al- were silent. At that pecially of those who imparts, were marked !ginning of that dis- for heroic efforts, for s of glory; but, by a letence of those who f September, all this vere nullified. The 3 not being called to rage, thinking of the on every side, ed in Paris they rose, :r, and attaching the ^ets, thus saluting in break up the brazen esieged city with de- e remnants of heroic ighter blood-stained, blaming their com- ^e that the war would THE WAR. 207 be a war of extermination, and who veiled their cow- ardice under an appearance of devoted patriotism. That night the hearts of the young soldiers were burst- ing with indignation. Ever and anon one of them raised his head with a threatening scowl upon his face, or another examined the condition of his arms, while a third wrote in a note- book his will in favor of those dear ones whom he could scarcely hope to see again. Ever and anon a young artist, who was among the little group of patriots, re- cited some martial verses from the poets, or sang one of those military airs which so often serve to revive droop- ing courage, and to thrill the soul with love of country. This little group of men, who gathered grave and stern around their camp fire, chilled by the cold night air, were all artists, students, or men of letters. Th^ had been carefully chosen, poets, painters, sculptors and novelists, undertaking with noble enthusiasm and generous valor the defence of their beloved Paris, destined to be so treacherously betrayed. In truth since the very commencement of that succes- sion of disasters, unparalleled in history, they had indulged in much lawful anger, and shed many tears; but once the word went forth to stand, they were found arms in hand, with courageous hearts, a resolute, brave and noble phalanx, waiting to be cut to pieces, less indeed by the enemy than by the misdeeds of those who should have sustained them, and whose only aim seems to have been to act the Judas. "What a dreary vigil!" said the youngest of the watchers suddenly breaking silence; "far better the roar of caiinon than this death-like stillness. When the sound of artillery strikes upon the ear, then, at least, we can fight, struggle, and take our chance of victory or a glori- ous death. But when all is quiet, and we feel that in iliiliii^^ 3o8 IDOLS. these nights of perfect calm we are wasting our lives and consuming our provisions, on my word it drives one mad." "Yes, Gildas," said another, whose face as the fire- light fell upon it was dark with despair, while his voice sounded hoarse and unnatural, " yes, Gildas, better the struggle than such repose as this. What say you. Bene diet ?" he added, turning to one of the group, who sat with his face hidden in his hands. "I say," answered the young sculptor, "that I pray Heaven to be among the first killed upon the field of battle when we are exposed to fire. I am weary of this defence which is not a defence, of this marching and never advancing; of victories which end in retreat, of the day's orders which resound with the names of obscure soldiers who must be forgotten to-morrow." "It is true," said a dramatic author, who was taking notes on a tablet. " We are spectators of a bloody tra- gedy, and when the flag goes down we cannot exclaim with the ancient armies, even in their defeat, 'All is lost, save honor.' The soldiers have indeed sustained their former reputation. But what will the leaders, the mem- bers of that usurping and incompetent government, an- swer to France when it demands of them, ' What have you done with my sons ? They were willing to fight, to die, through you it has ended in a bloody farce.' Ah! may the shame at least fall upon them. I swear that if we come forth defeated from this struggle I, at least, will do my utmost to place the stigma of infamy where it is due." " Think of the long list of battles lost," cried Benedict Fougerais in a tone of feverish excitement. " When we remember with what ardor the soldiers marched to battle, and witness the result of the struggle, it fills us with shame, terror and amazeinent." THE WAR. 209 are wasting our lives my word it drives one hose face as the fire- jspair, while his voice yes, Gildas, better the What say you, Bene )f the group, who sat culptor, "that I pray lied upon the field of ;. I am weary of this of this marching and \i end in retreat, of the the names of obscure morrow." ithor, who was taking itors of a bloody tra- i^n we cannot exclaim eir defeat, 'All is lost, ideed sustained their the leaders, the mem- etent government, an- of them, 'What have willing to fight, to die, 3ody farce.' Ah! may I swear that if we ^gglc I) at least, will of infamy where it is s lost," cried Benedict :itement. " When we soldiers marched to le struggle, it fills us r I "How proud we were," continued Gildas, "when the I first battle took place outside of Paris, on the 19th of Sep- tember. At Chatillon, Ciamart and Plessis-Piquetour troops made a brave but useless defence; and the Bre- tons rushed into the thickest of the fight, with the scapu- lar on their breasts and a hymn on their lips, their ven- erable chaplain following them into battle, animating tliem, consoling when they fell, and praying over the grave which he dug for them. Such details brought tears to our eyes and filled us with enthusiasm; but when these brave men had won a position, they were recalled and hindered from pushing their victory farther," " Ah, but it was worse next day," exclaimed Benedict. " Gildas you remember, and you, Lionel. The Prussians, from their ambush, kept up a furious fire upon the forts of Aubervilliers and Noisy. The order was giyen in Paris, and the Bretons set out like the brave men they are, sing- ing and vowing to return as conquerors. How they did fight ! with what wonderful daring they skirmished about Bondy before making the assault ! And when they had not only made good their position, but would have pur- sued the enemy, they were as usual commanded to retreat, which they did in good order, according to the reports. "Oh," he cried after a pause, "if they had but called out a hundred or two hundred thousand of the national guard, sharp-shooters, infantry, volunteers, all under dif- ferent names united for the same end. Only the word would have been needed. ' Dig a trench,' and the trench would have been dug. But, instead, a few battalions -are ordered out, and go to unavailing butchery. In the history of all great sieges every man took up arms and fought, and when there were no more men to guard the ramparts, the women sufficed to defend them, and God be praised ! the women of Paris once roused have heroism enough for anything.*' i IDOLS. "You are right," said Gildas, "and that is why when- ever I spe one of those heroic creatures wearing upon her arm the Geneva Cross I take off my hi-t with profound respect. People rail against the Parisian woman for her levity, her coquetry, her love of dress and of luxury; but there remains in her something of that old valor whi( li belonged to the peasant girl who led the Parisians u> their defence against Attila, and braved the fury of the •Scourge of God."* "When we consider," said an old man, raising his tail figure gradually from the ground, "that the occupation of the village of Vitry and of Moulin Saquet by the Mauduit division had no result, any more than when on the following day it took up a splendid position at Villejuif." "And at the very same time," said Gildas, "Admiral Saisset did something brilliant in the way of reconnoit- ring, and finished his retreat by inches." " Always retreat," cried Benedict. " Read the bulletins. •The troops fell back in good order.' The permanent occupation of places taken not seeming advisable, a re- treat is made with the most wonderful coolness. Well, I say, let us have done with it; let us have no more re- treat, no more falling back; we have had enough of this child's play, at which the enemy must be laughing be- hind its bastions ! Come now. Colonel, you are a vet- eran, and have fought on many fields, and I ask you [3 this what you understand by war ?" An old man with white moustachios and figure some- what bent, whom Benedict addressed as colonel, though he wore none of the insignia of such a rank, shook his head and answered in a voice, husky at first, but which gradually became clear and ringing. •' No, gentlemen, I will tell my children, as I have al- ready told my old soldiers. I was at Sebastopol, and T and that is why when- tures wearing upon her my h4't with profound Parisian woman for her ess and of luxury; but f that old valor wliii li 3 led the Parisians tn brayed the fury of tho d man, raising Iiis tail "that the occupation doulin Saquet by the ly more than when on splendid position at said Gildas, "Admiral the way of reconnoit- ches." . " Read the bulletins, der.' The permanent eming advisable, a re- erful coolness. Well, t us have no more re- ve had enough of this must be laughing be- alonel, you are a vet- :lds, and I ask you [3 hios and figure some- ied as colonel, though ucIt a rank, shook his ky at first, but which r. ;hildren, as I have al- ts at Sebastopol, and rilK WAR. SI I when we heard the order, ' To the assault ! ' no leader ever df.red to stop us on our way to victory. I have foughf in Africa against the Arabs^ and the watch-word amongst us was, 'Retu- n as conquerors or not at all.' Why, the Spartan mothei had more military genius than the gen- erals of to-day. 'Above or below,' said they to their sons, as they buckled on their shields. In Mexico — a bad country it was — but every one did his duty. In Italy, wherever, in fact, 1 have heard the roar of cannoij or the whistling of bullets, the order was 'Go forward,' and none ever dared to say ' Fall back,' till the enemy were defeated or put to tliglit. That is why, do you see, the old Colonel, who was wont to lead his Zouaves to fire, would rather serve like you as private soldiers, than com- mand men who might one day cast upon him the stigma of a shameful defeat. I would willingly hiv,ve offered my country my long experience of war, and such military genius as is the result of sudden inspirations; but I might have been cast into the shade, and the orders of inconv petent superiors so enrage me that I would break my old sword. I might perhaps have given bad example to my men by blaming their leaders, so I became a soldier, and when the time comes I will shed my blood for my country." " Ah ! it is deplorable," cried Benedict. " Paris will be taken, when if she had been otherwise governed she might have been triumphant. People hearing me might accuse me of want of patriotism. Yet God knows I love France, but to defend a city leaders are wanted as well as an army. A struggle to the death, but an intelligent and reasonable one; blood must flow in profusion, but let it at least bring forth the fruits of victory." " Yes," continued the old Colonel," who would count the cost if victory could be won ? But unhappily, as it now stands, those who are not traitors or tuiger only for their wmtmrn m r 212 IDOLS. own ends, are incompetent. France, which once pos- sessed such scores of famous Readers, has still many brave and devoted generals, but not one of that calibre who, appearing in a great national crisis, saves a country by the sole power of his genius. Loyalty is not always sufficient. " "I swear," cried Benedict, " that the moment they show us a given point of attack with the word ' Advance,' I will advance without troubling myself about counter orders- And if victory is not for us I shall continue to fight, even though I remain alone among the enemy, and fall to rise no more." After a moment's pause, he resumed in a tone of deep bitterness, " For after all why should we value our lives so much ? We have left fragments of our hearts on so many bram- bles that they are in shreds. To survive our defeat would be the most terrible of all our misfortunes. Having no otlier idol, we have kept that of military glory. We smile with gratified pride at sight of our flag. A stranger detects the note of haughty joy in our voices when we say, 'We are Frenchmen.' If, then, we must renounce this noble pride, hang down our heads and descend from our rank among the nations with agony such as we alone can know, then I say better, far better, to lie buried in the open grave of our country." " Wrong, Benedict," cried Gildas, " wrong; even should the military glory of France be forever tarnished— and of that we need not despair— her artistic glory will still remain." At this moment a scout arrived. " Give me place at the fire and a mouthful of cognac," said he. Room was made for him, and a gourd offered him. When he had somewhat warmed his frozen limbs, he saM, rubbing his hands, ^« Good news, my lads, we fight to-morrow." O ce, which once pos- , has still many brave of that calibre who, aves a country by the lot always sufficient. " »e moment they show e word ' Advance,' I yself about counter s I shall continue to nong the enemy, and ed In a tone of deep e our lives so much ? :s on so many bram- rive our defeat would artunes. Having no iry glory. We smile ir flag. A stranger our voices when we , we must renounce is and descend from 3ny such as we alone tter, to lie buried in ' wrong; even should ever tarnished — and tistic glory will still loathful of cognac," gourd offered him. lis frozen limbs, he ■morrow." THE WAR. 213 "For a certainty?" " For a certainty !" "Who told you?" " An aide-de-camp of General NoSl's." "Where?" " At Malmaison." " Are we among those who are to fight ?" " Yes, all of us, Franchetti's Infantry, the Amis de la ^ France, and every one has sworn to fight unto death." " Provided," said the Colonel, " that the force be con- siderable." " General Noe'l is decided upon that course." " Yes, but those above General Noel ?" " Well," cried the new-comer, " if we are again ordered to desert a position once taken I will break my sword, for it will then be useless." ^ " No," cried the Colonel, " no one has a right to do that now." " But if we are driven to despair?" " We cannot despair of God nor of France." The new-comer then proceeded to give an animated account of the plan of action. The little gfroup listened with feverish interest. " The troops for the assault will be formed into three detachments," said he, "each having its own artillery. General Berthaut will command the first, marching at the head with 3400 infantry, sustained by a squadron of cavalry and twenty pieces of ordnance." " What position does General Berthaut intend to oc- cupy ?" asked one of the listeners. " He will lie between the St. Germain Railroad and the upper part of the village of Rueil." " And the second detachment ?" askvd the Colonel. "Will be commanded by Greneral No'^1," answered the scout. "At last," cried Benedict, "our turn has come." H M^i&LinsiiiJ:.-,aJ> 214 IDOLS. " But there will be fewer men and less artillery on our side, comrades," continued the scout. " We will supply the want of both by redoubled brav- ery," said the Colonel. "Thirteen hundred and fifty men and ten cannon," said the scout. "Where are we to be placed ?" asked Benedict, "We are to fill up the ravine stretching between St. Confians and Bougival, and force the park of Mal- maison." "Then the intention is to dislodge the Prussians?" "To the last one," answered the scout. The Colonel shook his head. "At the worst," he said, "we know how to die." "The last detachment," continued the new-comer, "under the command of Colonel Cholleton, will consist of sixteen hundred infantry." " That is very little," said Benedict. "A squadron of cavalry will take up its position in front of the old mill above Rueil, and unite the right flank with the left." " How many pieces of artillery ?" asked the Colonel. "Eighteen, I believe," answered the young man. " Moreover, there will be two reserve forces, one ranged to the left under General Martinot, and consisting of 2600 infantry; the others towards the centre with 2000 infantry, two squadrons of cavalry, and 46 cannon for the whole reserve." " A total," said the Colonel, " of 10,950 men, 4 squadrons of cavalry and 94 cannon." " What is your opinion. Colonel ?" asked Benedict. " That it would require," answered the Colonel, " four times the number to attain such a result. Ah ! what a disastrous war." "Yes," cried Benedict; "the great and chivalrous bat- T id less artillery on our lUt. )th by redoubled brav- len and ten cannon," sked Benedict, tretching between St. ce the park of Mal- ge the Prussians?" scout. ow how to die." lued the new-comer, Cholleton, will consist ict. ike up its position in 1, and unite the right " asked the Colonel, ed the young man. •ve forces, one ranged tot, and consisting of the centre with 2000 y, and 46 cannon for 0,950 men, 4 squadrons f" asked Benedict, ed the Colonel, "four I result. Ah ! what a at and chivalrous bat- THE WAR. ais ties recorded in military annals were not such as this. There is no such thing as real fighting. We shoot from a hollow. We are killed by a distant enemy whom we do not even see, and fall without a struggle ingloriously. Bravery in the present meaning of the word is the going to some appointed place, and as our comrades fall closing up the ranks. But that does not stir the blood, Colonel, as of old when it meant to sustain, man to man, the enemy's charge, to defend the ground foot to foot, to take his life or give up your own, to feel, in a word, that frenzy of battle, that fever of the blood and of the brain which takes from our view all but the enemy, and leaves no sound but the voice which urges us ' Forward, forward.* " "Brave boy!" cried the Colonel; "you feel as I felt when first I rushed to the field. My first vbattles were like festivals to me. I dreamed of glory — military glory in its most intoxicating form. No feat seemed impossi- ble; if one step higher, an order or decoration repaid my daring. When I began as a humble soldier, my mind full of the glorious traditions of our martial past, I saw myself in anticipation a general or even a marshal of France. Had not names more obscure than mine arisen to popularity, and won such triumphs ? But I had come tpo late. There was no more to be gained in conquered countries; war had had its day. Our rapid campaigns in Russia, China and Mexico did not even interest the provinces. Glory was all very well, but we had need of rest. People began to ask themselves why their blood was necessary to the ambition of two men. I scarcely believed another war possible, when the King of Prussia, invoking the God of armies to bless his arms, set foot upon our soil. In this unequal struggle a tremendous outburst of military ardor could alone save us; as it is, there is no hope for us. Ten thousand men come for< jiiiiiaiMMWii^^ 3a33^"" 216 IDOLS. ward where a hundred thousand are required. We fight like lions and do not win. If we dislodge a Prussian troop from its position, the black adder of a new bat- talion replaces the first. The circle of fire and of iron must enclose us, and we shall be victims sacrificed to the short-sightedness and incompetence of our leaders. Meanwhile let us fight — struggle — prove that we value something else more than our fortune, and if Paris must perish, let it bury us in its ruins." A sober silence followed the Colonel's words. The tactics followed by the generals since the com- mencement of the war proved the justice of his reason- ing. Silently and sadly the men gazed absently at the fire, the warm tints of which glowed upon their faces. No sound was heard save the measured tread of the sen- tries. Each one thought of all he held dearest, and from the depths of his soul bade farewell to those whom in all probability he would see no more. "Boys," said the Colonel, "follow the last advice of an old trooper; wrap yourselves in your blankets, and sleep till the drums awake you at daybreak; a soldier should be In good condition on the morning of a battle." Gildas, the young scout, and others of the party fol- lowed his advice. But Benedict did not move; he sat still regarding the dying light of the watch-fire till it was almost extinguished, when he rose to get some wood. The wood crackled and soon leaped into a flame. The young man, drawing a note-book from his pocket, wrote by the light of the fire for half an hour with feverish rapidity. His last thought was for Sabine PomereuL In his heart's testament, drawn out thus on the eve of battle when his return was uncertain, he declared to her that, in despair at having lost her^ he had been led away from the path she had traced out for him in those old. T e required. We fight dislodge a Prussian adder of a new bat- e of fire and of iron victims sacrificed to tence of our leaders. -prove that we value ne, and if Paris must mel's words, erals since the com- justice of his reason- fazed absently at the .red upon their faces, ired tread of the sen- eld dearest, and from U to those whom in e. >w the last advice of I your blankets, and daybreak; a soldier noming of a battle." lers of the party fol- id not move; he sat watch-fire till it was to get some wood. d into a flame. The >m his pocket, wrote I hour with feverish omereuL Jt thus on the eve of n, he declared to her e had been led away for him in those old. THE WAR. 317 happy days. He begged her to pardon his weakness, and concluded by saying, "I am going to fight for France, and if I die, the ball which kills me will do me less harm than your rejection." As if soothed by her memory he followed the example of his companions, and vrapping himself in his great- coat went to sleep. He awoke at the sound of drums in the distance. All trace of despondency had vanished from the minds of Benedict and his companions. They were going to battle. It was one against three, but what did it matter ? they never gave it a thought. They all could remember battles won against greater odds. The enemy was intrenched at Malmaison. They had to carry the place by assault. After all it was a hand-to-hand fight at the point of the bayonet; it was to shoot down with rifle balls, or break heads with the butt end of muskets; and this point gained, to descend like an avalanche upon the bulk of the enemy, to make a gap at any cost, and so break the iron chain which was enclosing Paris. O brave, beautiful, heroic youth! When we behold those improvised soldiers already inured to the hardships of camp life, we can understand how culpable were the chiefs who did not profit by such valor. The Colonel himself was no longer the cold speculator of the evening previous, the judge of a party whose adversaries he measured, and whose strokes he counted in anticipation. The roll of drums, the clank of arms, the neighing of horses, the sight of muskets, and, above all, of the flag which they were to follow and to defend, reanimated the old hero of the Russian and African campaigns. At some distance were seen the great vehicles, sur- mounted by the white flag marked with a red cross, in- dicating that the International Aid Society was ready to i'; It mm m wmm 2l8 IDOLS. play its humane part. Priests passed through th? ranks, grave and recollected, now giving to one soldier their blessing, to another some advice, or distributing medals and scapulars, the shields of faith which, if they did not guarantee against wounds, at least preserved the wearers from despair and unbelief. Occasionally a soldier was seen to call a priest aside to a deserted part of the camp, to kneel and receive absolution for his sins, and rise with a more sublime and resolute courage in his face. There was no singinnr or laughing, jokes attempted fell on unresponsive ears. They waited the signal for depart- ure. General Noel appeared, passed the men rapidly in review, and cried " Forward !" The wheels of the artillery sounded on the road, the flags were unfurled, the standards floated to the wind, and the soldiers marched with a buoyant tread inspired by their eagerness for battle. This handful of men, for they were only 1300, had sworn to do marvels. During the march no word was exchanged save oaths of mutual protection in case of danger. None were strangers to each other in the hour of battle. Men became brothers as readily as if they were upon the brink of the grave. At length General Noel's troop arrived at the ravine of St. Conflans, in sight of the park of Malmaison. General Noel was soon joined by General Berthaut. It was about one in the afternoon. All at once the artillery opened a furious fire. The soldiers could distinguish nothing amid this hurricane of iron. The smell of powder in . igorated them. But the infantry was forced to remain inactive, blinded by the smoke of the artillery, and unable to discern the position which they were to carry. Eagerly they awaited the cessation of firing to take pa.rt in the action. At length, at an order from General Noel, the infantry advanced, crawling upon the earth, concealing themselves in the THE WAR. SI9 sed through thf ranks, g to one soldier their }r distributing medals which, if they did not preserved the wearers sionally a soldier was :rted part of the camp, his sins, and rise with ige in his face. There :es attempted fell on the signal for depart- ssed the men rapidly nded on the road, the i floated to the wind, >uoyant tread inspired were only 1300, had e march no word was protection in case of pach other in the hour as readily as if they At length General e of St. Conflans, in reneral NoSl was soon ivas about one in the Y opened a furious Are. ing amid this hurricane [orated them. But the active, blinded by the to discern the position riy they awaited the he action. At length, he infantry advanced, ng themselves in the iiiuhilations of the ground or behind the walls or shrub- bery, their ears on the alert, their muskets !< aded, till tliey had approached the object in view — Malmaison. The park was full of Prussians who had thrown up therein gigantic works. Groups of soldiers had taken shelter behind the crenelated walls. From every loop- hole death came swift and terrible upon the soldiers who were to storm the intrenchment. It is true the fire of artillery occupied the enemy, and covered the French whilst they carried out General Noel's plan. But at a given signal the artillery instantaneously ceased firing, and the troops advanced with admirable valor. Little time sufficed for them to gain the ravine which leads downwards from the stream of St. Cucufa to the Ameri- can railroad intersecting. Malmaison. The left flank under General Noel passed the ravine with wonderful impetuosity, and climbed the heights leading to La Jonch^re. As they pursued their way a terrible volley of musketry burst from the woods and the houses. The Prussians had taken up position in spite of the fire of artillery, and it seemed impossible to brave that storm of balls and musketry. " Well," cried Benedict, turning to his comrades, " are we to remain here ?" " How can we go on ?" asked another. " You see that even the General hesitates," said Gildas. "But there is no hesitation for me, I swear," cried Benedict; " if they cry, Go back, I will go forward. I came to fight and fight I will. If I am afterwards ac- cused of want of discipline, so be it. Who has a right to care for our lives if not ourselves ?" Benedict was not mistaken; the General, seeing that his troops would be cut to pieces by the enemy, gave the order to retreat; the soldiers hesitated, and would, per^ haps, have obeyed, when the Colonel cried, 220 JOLS. " Boys, let all who love me follow me. We will join the others above !" An electric thrill was felt In the ranks; a hundred young soldiers sprang forward, and rushing through fire and smoke, disappeared from the gaze of their compan- ions, going over the ground with incredible rapidity. Ten of them fell in this rapid ascent. Alas ! none could stop to raise them. They were constantly under fire, and they could not pause a moment till they had effected a junction with the Zouaves of the brave commander Jacquot. It was a goodly sight to see him among those bronzed soldiers, brave as lions, rushing on to the com- bat, dashing against the crenelated walls of the park, like a tremendous wave dashing against the rock as if to uproot it. The shots came, they could scarce perceive whence. Those who fell served as ladders to the others. It was a terrible but withal a beautiful sight. The Zouaves, collected in the angle formed by the park of Malmaison, below La Jonch^re, performed prodigies of valor, and notwithstanding the bristling breastworks, notwithstanding the cannon pointed through each em- brasure, effected a breach and leaped resolutely into the park. A fearful conflict ensued. Hand to hand, tooth and nail, they fought; heads were used for battering rams, bayonets for poniards, the butt ends of muskets for bat- tle-axes. The Prussians, ten times more numerous than the Zouaves, rushed upon the handful of valiant men who, intrenching themselves against the walls, fought a terrible, furious, desperate fight, strewing the ground with corpses. The fusillade had just ceased in the park when by the widening breach rushed in the troops of which Benedict, Gildas and the Colonel formed part. At last their desire was accomplished. The struggle was a per- sonal one and terrible in the extreme; they measured THE WAR. aai low me. We will join the ranks; a hundred id rushing through fire gaze of their compan- th incredible rapidity, nt. Alas ! none could constantly under fire, It till they had effected the brave commander ) see him among those ushing on to the corn- ed walls of the park, against the rock as if arce perceive whence, to the others. It was Bfht. gle formed by the park :, performed prodigies bristling breastworks, ted through each em- >ed resolutely into the Hand to hand, tooth sed for battering rams, ds of muskets for bat- s more numerous than tndful of valiant men 1st the walls, fought a ewing the ground with ased in the park when 1 the troops of which formed part. At last lie struggle was a per- reme; they measured themselves against the enemy; the fury of battle, the thirst for vengeance, and, above all, the heroic feeling of defending their native land, took from them all thought save that of victory, even though it was at the cost of their blood. Gildas forgot that he had written pages which gave promise that he would become a first-class writer; Benedict forgot his glory as a sculptor, and the Colonel his old bitterness. They had but one thought, that they were Frenchmen, brothers, heroes, exposing their lives as a last rampart against the blows of the enemy. Gildas, carried away by his valor, had become detached from his comrades, and was assailed by a score of Prussians, defending himself bravely at the point of the bayonet, or beating about him with the end of his musket, breaking heads and wrists alike, and dealing death about him. But vigorous as he wa» he became exhausted; several weapons were directed against him, and the young man fell, uttering one cry. " Benedict, help !" The appeal was answered. " I am here, brother !" With a bayonet in each hand and a third between his teeth Benedict sprang to his assistance, wounding right and left with his triangular weapon. Blood flowed freely; howls of pain mingled with threats of vengeance. The whole rage of the Prussians was turned against the sculp- tor. Gildas rose at first upon one knee, then upon both, and at last, getting upon his feet, hurried to Benedict's side, for he in his generous ardor had rushed into the very midst of his assailants. That was not a battle, it was a massacre. Zouaves, infantry, volunteers, all performed prodigies of heroism, crushing the enemy against the walls of the park of which it had made a fortress. Ic was one of those incidental feats not mentioned by generals in their reports because liw^fiMfMifiiMiii^ --i/'V«>S»'.. Jit.'. 222 IDOLS. not witnesscfl by them, but which remain in the tnenuu y of all who have followed the history of that epoch ot patriotism. The Prussians, despairing of being able to hold the position, abandoned it hastily. The Zouaves remained in possession. In the heat of the battle Benedict saw their commander Jacquot totter, struck by a ball. He rushed to his assistance, supported him, and at length succeeded in bringing him to a sheltered spot, where in a hollow of the ground he laid him. Benedict returned to the field. To him the victory seemed incomplete; it was not suffi- cient to have driven the enemy from their position, but to pursue them. Victory had declared for France, but the advantage must be preserved. As they looked around them how many of the comrades did they per- ceive dead and wounded before their eyes ! The order for departure was given. What ! abandon this formidable position which they had so hardly won ! Their assault then was in vain, was but a gross insult to these brave men, a bloody mockery of noble sentiments. Again had men been sent to die, to rally the others, and to be ordered back to the city ! Benedict felt his blood boil at the very thought. "My friends," said he to his companions, "this is shameful treachery; to return to Paris now is to break cur oath. We are soldiers, it is true, but volunteer sol- diers; the heroes of to-day and perchance the martyrs of to>morrow, not men from whom discipline has taken away all idea of thinking for themselves. W« may be rash, perhaps, and insubordinate, but we will not go back." " No, no," cried twenty voices. The bugles sounded, the drums beat a retreat " Forward !" cried Benedict i*»,;*S8«»iWls; T THli WAR. «as remain in the mcnKuy story of that epoch ot )cing able to hold the fie Zouaves remained in ttle Benedict saw tiicir by a ball. He rushed ind at length succeeded >t, where in a hollow of t returned to the field, iplete; it was not suffi- rom their position, but dared for France, but ed. As they looked :omrades did they per- leir eyes ! ^en. ,e position which they lult then was in vain, brave men, a bloody ain had men been sent be ordered back to the le very thought, companions, "this is Paris now is to break true, but volunteer sol- rchance the martyrs of 1 discipline has taken mselves. W« may be !, but we will not go beat a retreat And with his group of friends he rushed in pursuit of the Prussians. On went the latter heedless of death, unconscious of wounds, scarce pausing to note those who fell from fatigue, and whom they trampled under foot. Their panic carried them across the park, and already hud they leaped the enclosure, when the arrival of a large force of their own troops changed the whole aspect of affairs. With this unlooked-for help their courage revived. The little band of Frenchmen, carried away by their ardor, waited for no help. Alone in the midst of that immense park full of threatening shadows, believing the victory already theirs, they suddenly found them- selves nut alone obliged to fight the battle over to ensure victory, but to fight and to die without hope of deliver- ance. The Colonel, Gildas, Benedict, and their com- panions found themselves in an instant surrounded by Prussians. They bethought themselves then of that im- mortal battalion which, at Waterloo, held the Engl'sh in check till the last of the heroes had fallen, stricken unto death; ?nd with the promptitude which sprang from their imminent peril, they form'ed a solid g^oup and faced the enemy, ready to die, but not unavenged. So proud and warlike was their aspect that the Prus- sians saw at once the victory would not be an easy one. They could no longer fight with the musket, so that the sabre or bayonet was all that remained to these cham- pions of death. Poor Gildas, wounded in the right arm, fought with the left; a blow from a musket felled him to the earth. Benedict with two of his comrades was fight- ing still, but he received a dangerous wound upon the head, and fell in his turn upon a heap of dead. That was the end of their heroic struggle. The Prus- sians disappeared during the night. Whilst they evacu- ated the park two infantry men who were only slightly wounded rose, and groping their way in the darkness iiigi»-(i«iaiMipift^^ 224 XDOLS. siimmoncd up all their strength, seeking egress from the park, and perhaps a place in an ambulance wagon. They hoped to have litters sent for such of their com- panivins as were still alive. Doubtless there must be as many wounded as dead among the heaps of motionless forms upon the field. But, if these young men's courage was great, their exhaustion was great. Weary and bleeding freely profusely from wounds hastily staunched, they could scarcely keep upon their feet. The way was strewn with heaps of corpses, forming terrible fu . vs on the ground. Ever and anon from some hollow in the earth, or a heap of wounded, rose a plaintive moan: some unfortunate asking help, a dying soldier craving a drop of water to eas'j the sufferings which death was soon to end. The two men were losing hope both for themselves and their unfortunate comrades; not a lantern glimmered before them; far as the eye could reach all was darkness; nothing could be heard but the heavy tread of the retreating French forces who, more discour- aged than ever, cursed in their hearts the infatuation or worse of those who had ordered a retceat. The two soldiers felt that soon they themselves would have to lie down and die. All at once they saw a glimmer of light in the dis- tance. A dark figure soon became dimly perceptible; it seemed to stoop every moment and rise again, no doubt examin- ing the faces of the dead, who, 'with features distorted by agony, and thefr useless weapons still clenched in their stiffened hands, called Heaven, as it were, to witness their defeat. A simultaneous cry for help escaped from the two soldiers. Guided by their voices the figure and the light began to advance in their direction, slowly, indeed, for the heaps of dead constantly barred the passage; the man stumbled over corpses and his feet slipped in the blood, t MBWM I ftWMflWW j iwafl i tiWJi iiia seeking egress from in ambulance wagon, ir such of their com- less there must be as ! heaps of motionless young men's courage great. Weary and ids hastily staunched, ir feet. The way was ning terrible fu -".vs from some hollow in rose a plaintive moan: ying soldier craving a ngs which death was losing hope both for imrades; not a lantern e eye could reach all heard but the heavy es who, more discour- Tts the infatuation or retceat. hey themselves would if of light in the dis* perceptible; it seemed ain, no doubt examin- 1 features distorted by itill clenched in their t were, to witness their } escaped from the two ke figure and the light on, flowly, indeed, for the passage; the man slipped in the blood, THE WAR, 995 delaying his difficult progress. As he came near the others saw him distinctly by the light of the lantern. In its pale and tremulous rays he had somewhat the appear* ance of a supernatural being. A red scar showed with cruel distinctness on the marble white of his face, and gave a sort of sublimity to the incomparable sweetness of its expression. The whole figure resembled those of the martyrs, who, like their Divine Master, received a crown of thorns, or were seared with red hot irons. A bluck robe, caught up a little in the broad sash so as not to impede his motion, enveloped the tall figure. A cru- cifix hung at his wrist, and a Geneva Cross was distinctly visible upon the sleeve of nis cassock. "You are a priest," said one of the soldiers; "are you alone ?" " Yes !" " Are there any ambulance wagons near by ?" " The ambulance wagons of .the International Aid are crowded with the dying, and every litter is also in use. Where are the wounded wjiom you wish to succor ?" "Alas! we do not know," said they, "we can only hope that our comrades are not all dead." "Come," said the priest, " I have two arms, and ran at least save one poor fellow. Bring me to where I can be of use." After a fatiguing walk they brought him into the park, now transformed into a vast cemetery. Those who had fallen in the first struggle were stiff and cold; the victims of the more recent one were still warm with life. It was a fearful task, this searching among the dead. The three men constantly paused and knelt upon the ground, seeking, by the wan light of the lantern, for the faintest motion of heart or pulse. Alas! all whom they thus examined were dead. Among a heap of corpses, i.iany of whom seemed bv ^nn B ■MiMMiiliilfi^^ 226 IDOLS. their uniform to be foemen who had fallen by his hand, lay a young man, the heaving of whose chest showed that iife was not yet extinct. His breast was torn open by a wound more ghastly than deep. His face was covered with a mask of blood flowing from a gash upon the forehead. He was breathing, indeed, but could they hope that he would survive being carried to a distance? Another wounded man attracted their attention by his groans. At length he managed to raise himself, cry- ing wildly, " A second retreat is commanded. Oh, the cowards, the traitors!" It was the Colonel, who had taken up again his old grief and hatred with the breath of returr ing life. He supported himself on his left arm, but when he attempted to use the other, he muttered, " My shoulder is broken." One of the soldiers made a sling out of his handker- chief, and said to the veteran, " Can you stand ?" " I think so," answered the Colonel. " Soldiers," said the priest, who had raised the other wounded man as tenderly as a mother lifts her child, " I will take charge of this one. Let us go. If possible we will return when we leave these two hi a place of safety." The weaker of the two infantry men went on before, carrying the lantern, the other supported the Colonel, the priest bringing up the rear with the wounded man, whose two arms fell heavily over the priest's shoulder, and whose rigid figure had every appearance of death. No one spoke. A sigh from the wounded man, or a groan from the Colonel alone broke the silence. Ever and anon the little group paused to take breath, and bravely resumed its march. Providence came to their assistance! A wagon rolled by. They called out, and were answered; it was the THE WAR. 227 lad fallen by his hand, f whose chest showed J breast was torn open deep. His face was ving from a gash upon indeed, but could they carried to a distance? ed their attention by d to raise himself, cry- commanded. Oh, the ken up again his old if returr ing life, eft arm, but when he uttered, " My shoulder af out of his handker- m you stand ?" mel. had raised the other lother lifts her child, Let us go. If possible :se two hi a place of men went on before, upported the Colonel, ith the wounded man, the priest's shoulder, appearance of death, unded man, or a groan le silence. Ever and ce breath, and bravely nee. A wagon rolled answered; it was the I ambulance belonging to the Theatre Italien. It received them all five. The two brave infantry men were almost as pale and exhausted as those they had rescued; but the flask offered to them revived them considerably. "Where am I to leave these wounded men, sir.?" said the head of the ambulance corps. " In the Rue de la Chauss6e d'Antin, No. 15," answered the priest. It was about ten o'clock at night when the wagon stopped its burden at the place indicated by the priest, •fhe doors of the house were immediately thrown open, and men came out carrying the wounded in with inde- scribable care and tenderness, and placing them in a large ;ipartment on the ground floor. A young girl dressed in Dlack, except for a white nurse's apron and a red cross on her arm, advanced pale and anxious. ^ "You have just come from the battle-field, brother?" said she. " Yes," answered the priest;' " and I have brought two wounded men, an old and a young one. The latter is quite irrecognizable on account of the blood." He was instantly laid upon a bed, and the young girl approached with a fine sponge, warm water and soft linen bandages. His breathing was inaudible, and it al- most seemed that his heart had ceased to beat. The young nurse gently bathed the wound upon the fore- head, separated the hair, and washed away the dreadful clots of blood; the face was once more visible, though disfigured and pallid, and with closed eyes. The girl paused in her task and trembled, drew back with dilated eyes, and cried out in a tone of horror, "Sulpice, Sulpice, it is Benedict whom you have brought to me dying !" Her courage and her heart failed her at once. She was but a woman, and she forgot that she was just then i* ^<«&M&SII^^ 228 IDOLS. the only nurse in the house. A word from Sulpice re- called her to her mission. "God is witness," said he, "that I did not recognize him when I raised him in my arms on the field. He is a guest whom God has sent us, Sabine, forget everything else." Sabine pressed her brother's hand. " I will do my duty," said she, "and if our Lord thinks I have suffered enough He will save Benedict." When the doctor came next morning to visit the wounded he declared the Colonel's wound to be slight. but pausing before Benedict shook his head. "Take good care of him, Mademoiselle, but in any case the poor boy will look at you many a day before he sees you, and hear the sound of your voice for long before he understands. Do you know him ?" asked the physician quickly. " He was my father's pupil and my betrothed, Bene- dict Fougerais." " Ah !" said the doctor, " art has done its share in this fatal war. Cavelier, the author of ' Penelope,' was killed ; Leroux is mortally wounded; Vebert may never again handle the brush, and Benedict Fougerais can only be saved by a miracle." So saying the doctor went away full of grief and emotion. THE TWO BROTHERS. 229 word from Sulpice re- al I did not recognize s on the field. He is a bine, forget everything id. and if our Lord thinks /e Benedict." morning to visit the *s wound to be slight. c his head. loiselle, but in any case ly a day before he sees ^ice for long before he " asked the physician [ my betrothed, Bene- 5 done its share in this ' Penelope,' was killed; t)ert may never again ougerais can only be ray full of grief and t^ V CHAPTER XV. The Two Brothers. Sabine's grief at sight of her betrothed exceeded her strength. She was as pale as Benedict himself. Her eyes were dimmed with tears; sobs shook her frame; her knees bent under her; she fell prostrate, her face hidden upon the bed. Sulpice found her thus. " Sabine," he said " the greater the duty the more need of courage. You should rather thank God that He permits you to nurse Benedict and perhaps save his life." These words roused the young girl from her let^hargy; she re- covered her composure, and with a hasty but fervent prayer for Benedict and herself set'about her task. After a time the wounded man began to show signs of life; but though his eyes opened and fixed themselves upon Sabine, he knew her not. Fever had set iu, and in his delirium he went over all the details of that terrible struggle. He was gentle and docile as an infant, however. He even smiled and seemed grateful for the care of which he vaguely felt he was the object, but he was not conscious of the presence of his betrothed, and in his wanderings spoke of some one whom he called Sabine, but so vaguely that it was difficult to distinguish whether he had his own Sabine in mind, or the daughter of Erwin de Stein- bach. Days and nights passed and still Sabine per- formed her manifold duties, bravely setting aside her own consuming grief. As often as possible she found time to visit the hapless Xavier at the prison of Ro- quette. His heart was not yet softened by his captivity. The sentence which had fallen on him, despite his inno- iffmm mmmim 230 IDOLS. cence, did not lead him contrite to the foot of the Cross. Cursing the injustice of men, he liiccwise cursed what he called the injustice of God. The chaplain of the prison vainly tried to calm and console him. The very sight of a cassock aroused his anger. In his hatred for Sulpice he included all who wore the same dress, and spoke to him of the same Saviour. Too bad a Catholic to understand the dread mystery which enshrouds Confession, he would fain have had his bro her betray its secret, forgetting that he had doubted a hundr«d times of the absolute secrecy of priests. Sabine's visits calmed him for the moment, but these brief interludes were usually embittered by the recollec- tion of Sulpice. He poured out all his venom and bitter- ness, and the poor girl felt powerless to console him. Far from calling religion to his aid, he dwelt forever on the recollections of a vanished past. Now he was at a gambling table with its heaps of banknotes or piles of glittering gold; again he was at some luxurious board, at a theatrical performance, or listening from his stall to the impassioned strains of Don Giovanni, Favorita or La Juive. Overcome by these memories, and contrast- ing the past with his present state, he began to think of suicide. He hesiuted, however, not through any great- ness of soul or faith in God, but for fear of physical suf- fering, of which he had an inordinate dread. Besides, there was no hurry. As long as they left him at Roquette life was endurable. But he resolved that the moment they spoke of New Caledonia he would manage to de- stroy himself, even if he had to dash out his brains against the wall. During the bloody reign of the Commune Xavier's condition was ameliorated. The new keepers were indulgent to criminals, and showed more e iidera- tion for murderers than for priests dragged Irom the churches. They felt that at need they could depend upon the foot of the Cross, ikcwise cursed what he inly tried to calm and a cassock aroused his e included all who wore ri of the same Saviour, nd the dread mystery rould fain have had his ig that he had doubted jcrecy of priests, the moment, but these ittertd by the recoUec- 1 his venom and bitter- erless to console him. id, he dwelt forever on ist. Now he was at a banknotes or piles of lome luxurious board, stening from his stall Giovanni, Favorita or emories, and contrast- :, he began to think of ot through any great- >r fear of physical suf- inute dread. Besides, sy left him at Roquette ved that the moment would manage to de- i out his brains against gn of the Commune d. The new keepers owed more c iidera- its dragged trom the ley could depend upon THE TWO BROTHERS. 231 those whom the law had condemned. As they had noth- ing to lose, not even life, for it was under sentence, they would be naturally ready for any atrocity, and in Ferr6, d'Urbain and their accomplices were found the last refuge of cut-throats. It is true that Xavier, low as he had fallen, and hardened as his judges had made him appear, would have shrunk from crime of any sort; but in times of anarchy there is always hope, and the young man saw liberty in bloodshed, excess and sacrilege. Sabine told him all that had occurred on the night of the battle of Buzenval; described Benedict Fougerais brought in covered with blood and dying, and herself approaching his bed like a Sister of Charity. " It is all your own fault," said Xavier; " if you had married him he would not have gone." " Yes, he would," said Sabine. " I would. have been the first to urge him to take up arms in defence of his coun- try. The only difference would have been that he would have had a wife whose family was disgraced." "Ah!" said Xavier, " so you are another victim of Sul- pice's silence." "Do not speak so," said Sabine firmly; "you have too little idea of holy things to understand them aright. I would sacrifice my life to give you freedom, and I would rather sacrifice my own happiness than see Sulpice false to his oath. Yes, we are both victims, but of a sublime law called duty; but I much prefer to suffer than to be forced to despise Sulpice. I love Benedict with my whole heart. From childhood upwards I remember him almost as part of the family, and at last my father chose him for me as a husband. Yet I found the courage to give him up. If you knew, Xavier, what comfort there is in faith, you would fall on your knees, were it only for consolation's sake." - *'" But Sabine could make no impression on her brother, fc"'—— -• IDOLS. and this was another thorn in her sorely tortured heart. Soon, however, she had the consolation of seeing a favora- ble change in Benedict's condition. The wound in the breast was closed, and that upon the forehead, thoujjh taking longer to heal, caused them no anxiety. Sometimes he had intervals of consciousness. There had been, in fact, no concussion of the brain. The'de- lirium of pain, the excitement of the life he had recently led, the great mental shocks of the various phases of ihe war, the superhuman struggle at Buzenval, had all a much greater share in paralyzing his faculties than even his terrible wounds. Thought returned slowly, but when he understood what was passing about him, and knew that he was with Sabine and Sulpice, his happiness con- tributed to his cure. The doctor warned Sabine not to deprive him of hope, declaring that a violent shock might be his death, and Benedict, finding her so kind and gen- tle, began to hope everything for the future. Sulpice himself brought Benedict as soon as he was able home to his studio on the Boulevard de CUchy. Beppo being scarcely sufficient to provide for his master's wants, Sulpice found as nurse for him a widow whose husband had fallen at Montrelont. Having thus attended to the welfare of his friend, the priest began to devote himself agam to his work at the factory of Charenton. The rich must give the example. The people had suffered and bled, their wounds must be staunched. But it was the peo.'.e themselves who would not accept the offered help. The cannons of Montmartre were seized ; the muskets destined for the defence of the country were used in a general revolt. The cannon still boomed and fights were fought, but it was no longer soldiers and noble volunteers defending the sacred soil of their country. An army was, indeed encamped outside of Paris, besieged for the second time *'^*«iWiiiit»iiiiiMii»Miriiiiiiia THE TWO BROTHERS. 233 sorely tortured heart, tion of seeing a favora- n. The wound in the the forehead, thoiifjh I no anxiety, consciousness. There • the brain. The'de- he life he had recently various phases of ihe Buzenval, had all a lis faculties than even rned slowly, but when about him, and knew ce, his happiness con- varned Sabine not to a violent shock might her so kind and gen- the future. Sulpice as he was able home 'lichy. Beppo being his master's wants, 'idow whose husband thus attended to the fan to devote himself :harenton. The rich pie had suffered and lied. But it was the t accept the offered re were seized ; the of the country were :hts were fought, but volunteers defending n army was, indeed for the second time but Paris, mutilated and bleeding, had scarcely time to count her ruins; they were increasing every day. The mob who fought in Paris, and defended the capi- tal against the regular army, were the members of the Commune, their banner, a red rag, inciting them to sacrilege and murder. Churches were sacked; ruffians openly preached their doctrine of free love in the sacred ])laces. Wretches abolished all religious law, decreed the suppression of worship, and tore the divine Figure from the crucifix. Women wearing red sashes, their hair fall- ing in a loose net upon their back, and a leathern bag slung at their side, ran about among the half-drunken populace, vomiting out terrible blasphemies. Often great wagons stopped at the doors of churches, and presently officers of the Commune, in costumes bedizened with gold, and escorted by a band of pillagers,^ were seen to emerge laden with their spoils. They had ransacked sanctuary and sacristy, emptied the cupboards and seized a rich booty. The reign of liberty began by proscriptions. Blood flowed on the streets. Generals were shot in the cor- ners of obscure gardens. Men who had written vol- umes against capital punishment to screen miscreants from the consequences c ' their crime unrelentingly put to death whomsoever they suspected of being opposed to their desires or their vengeance. Many were forced into the service of these brigands. Night and day the Ven- geurs of the Commune searched houses and dragged thence young men and old, forcing them at the bayonet's point to serve in their ranks. The Rouge journals in- vented a language consisting of oaths ard blasphemy. Terror was mingled with disgust, and horror surpassed even terror. Street boys carried about hideous pictures, accompanied with indecent songs or dialogues, in which the dead whose remains had been profaned were made isff°=^« «swg?a»aiftiitf'ia^^ 234 ir»(ii,s. to bear a part. The convents wcrr thrown open, under pretence of liberating the nuns, and the holy mystery, enshrouding their austerities and discipline, exposed to the vulgar view. Novices and professed sisters were alike driven into the streets, at the same time that civil marriage was proclaimed sufficient, and divorce made legal. Yet all these horrors, these blasphemies, these profa- nations, these legalized thefts, this persecution, and the insane ravings of the wretched rags they called their newspapers, did not suffice for the Communists. The hatred of religion produced hatred of its representatives. Blood could not flow fast enough for their desires. They would fain have had speedier and more frequent execu- tions. Hostages were taken who were chosen princi- pally from amongst the clergy and magistrates. Priests, both secular and religious, were brought before the tri- bunal of the Commune. To the great honor of the Parisian clergy it must be said that they rose at once to the height of persecution and martyrdom. They re- mained at their post, they continued to celebrate the divine office, and to expose themselves to death at the foot of those altars profaned by the ruffian soldiers of the Commune. They continued to visit the sick, teach the children, and every priest in Paris, deeming himself no greater than his Master, hourly expected to share the fate of the archbishop, then a prisoner at Mazas. Sabine had not a moment's rest. She was in constant fear for Sulpice's life or liberty, for the young priest would not even yield so far to the Commune as to wear secular clothes. He continued as usual to officiate at the church, and deeming himself unworthy the grace of mar- tyrdom, was ready to meet it if ne(;essary. Late one evening, as he was passing a Communist post, a drunken sentry suddenly barred his passage. wffliiiittiiMiitifMfimn^ „.- irero thrown open, under , and the holy mystery, id discipline, exposed to professed sisters were the same time that civil lent, and divorce made lasphemies, these profa- lis persecution, and the rags they called their the Communists. The id of its representatives, for their desires. They i more frequent execu- lo were chosen princi- d magistrates. Priests, brought before the tri- he great honor of the hat they rose at once to martyrdom. They re- inued to celebrate the mselves to death at the ' the ruffian soldiers of to visit the sick, teach Paris, deeming himself y expected to share the soner at Mazas. t. She was in constant , for the young priest e Commune as to wear usual to officiate at the orthy the grace of mar- '. ne(;essary. Late one munist post, a drunken TllK TWi> HR( nil Kits. 235 " Citizen," said he, " your passport." " I am a resident of Paris," said Sulpice, mildly. "That's nothing. I want your papers, your passport." " If you come with me to the Rue Chauss6e d'Antin I will give you all the papers you require." "So you do not carry them about you," said the wretch. ".Ml right, I will sign your passport." Drawing a revolver from his pocket he pointed it at Sulpice, when an officer interposed. "Have no fear," he said; "but it is better for you to come with me to the guard-room than to remain at the mercy of this drunken fellow." The abb6 thanked the officer and followed him. After half an hour's walk through streets bristling with barri- cades he was ushered into a sort of hall, at the door of which stood a sentry. Eight or ten others,vSome of whom belonged to the International Aid Society, were brought in shortly after. For two hours Sulpice was kept in this room, which was fairly reeking with tobacco, and ringing with the licen- tious songs of the half-drunken soldiery. They were all drinking and smoking, save those who had rolled drunk under the table. Meanwhile Sulpice's name was taken and his case referred to the head of that detach- ment. The latter gave orders that the priest should be brought to the Prefecture. It was about six in the even- ing when he reached there. He was immediately brought before the commandant^ " Where's the accuser ?" asked he of one of the soldiers. "Accuser? there is none. All that is a farce. He's a cahtin* — Si priest. A patriot has a right to condemn the oppressors of the people. However, the captain is coming." * A derisive epitbet in aUusion to die skull-cap sometimes worn \ff priests. •^"-^'•^'^■""•""'riiiwr i t i TiiiirM wmm 236 IDOLS. The captain said a few words in a low voice to tlic commandant; the latter gave the signal, and the priest was surrounded, seized and thrown into a cell, wheiu x- they had that morning released a criminal. Three days passed before his examination took place. At the end of that time the Abb6 Pomereul was taken out, jeered at, insulted and mocked by a crowd of ruffians wearing the red sash, and led through various corridors till he came to the tribunal of so-called justice. Rigaut raised his head, hearing a knock at the door, and gave orders that the prisoner should be brought in. It would be hard for any one that had not seen this wretch, who held in his hand the lives of the hostages, to form any idea of his face; the sharp features, the vul- ture-like profile, the thin lips parting over the white teeth, the cruel and tiger-like expression, made up a re- pulsive whole, which once seen was not easily forgotten. His very countenance breathed that gall, venom, and bitterness which made him condemn the just to deaih in mere hatred of virtue. When Sulpice was thrust into the presence of Raoul Rigaut, the latter asked: " Your name and age ?" " My name, Sulpice Pomereul; my age, twenty-eight." " Your profession ?" " That of priest." " That is to say," sneered Rigaut, " peddler of indul- gences, masses and absolutions, whose office it is to op- press and deceive the people." " Rather to bring them to respect divine law first and human law afterwards," said Sulpice. " Bah ! you teach them to execrate us who represent the law." "No," cried Sulpice, "for you represent neither law, because you lack the necessary strength, nor justice, be- cause you have not the right." m 'mm iiiiiiiffiiiiii \ in a low voice to the s signal, and the priest )wn into a cell, wheiux- I criminal. Three clays >lc place. At the end of as taken out, jeered at, of ruffians wearing tho s corridors till he came ice. Rigaut raised his •r, and gave orders that 1. that had not seen this ! lives of the hostages, sharp features, the vul- larting over the white )ression, made up a re- as not easily forgotten, that gall, venom, and mn the just to deaih in the presence of Raoul •"y age, twenty-eight." ut, " peddler of indul- rhose office it is to op- !ct divine law first and ice. :rate us who represent represent neither law, rength, nor justice, be- TIIK TWO BROTH KRS. 237 " So you teach them to despise the Republic ?" "The Commune represents neither government nor authority, nor even the popular voice," said Sulpice: "It is an emissary of disorder, bloodshed and anarchy." "Do you know where such words must lead ycu?" asked Rigaut. "To La Roquette, where you have imprisoned our archbishop," said Sulpice. " And from La Roquette ?" " To the place of execution," answered the Abb6 Pom- ereul, composedly. " Do you want to save your life ?" asked Rigaut. " I have no right to throw it away," said Sulpice. " Then fling your cassock to the dogs," said Rigaut; " take a musket and fight with the people for the sacred cause of liberty." v " The liberty I seek is not of this world," said Sulpice; "do as you like with me." Rigaut's face lit up with savage joy as he gave the order, "To La Roquette with the rest" Sulpice's face never changed, and he said not a word, though there was a pang at his heart. He thought of Sabine left alone, ail alone in the world. It was about seven o'clock. Through streets crowded with National Guard sol- diers, infantry of the Commune, and Vengeurs dt Flour- ens, his escort dragged him, a target for the insults of the crowd. Women spit upon him; his shoulders were bruised with blows, and some even struck him in the face. But he made no complaint and walked on firmly, with head erect, praying inwardly for his persecutors. They forced him to make a real Way of the Cross, for they stopped at every barricade and tavern, fraternizing with other ruffians, and drinking to the safety of the Re- public, till, becoming more and more intoxicated, they mmmmmsmtmsm 338 IDOLS. grew more and more brutul to their hapless prisonrr, He had eaten notliing since morning. Mis head »\vani and Iiis liml)s tremhU-d, but hi- concealed every sign df this involuntary weakness from his captors, lest tlipy should attril)ute it to cowardice. At length they reached the gloomy entrance to La Koqucttc. Sulpice, beholdinjr its high walls, olVcrcd up his life in advance. He was kept in th.. waiting-room for an hour, and meanwhile the list was called to make sure of the identity of each prisoner, "Where are they to be put?" asked the head turnkey. The governor shook his head. " We have no place," said he. However, after a whispered consultation with the head turnkey, he ordered them to be conveyed to the fourth division, " And," said he, " to give this bird of ill omen an op- portunity of plying his craft, put him in cell No, 8, Its tenant is so fond of priests he will eat him up." " Always fond of your joke," said the turnkey, smiling complacently at the governor. The under turnkey rattled his keys and bade Sulpice follow him. It had grown dark, there was no light in the halls; the keeper lit a small lamp and led Sulpice through long corridors, regularly divided into cells. Pausing at No. 8 the turnkey selected a large key from the bunch, and opening the aoor, cried out in a hoarse voice, " Comrade, here's company for you. If you're troubled with remorse you can unburden your conscience." With a malicious laugh he shut Sulpice in. Sulpice remained just inside the cell, which was com- pletely dark. He could only catch a glimpse of a straw pallet whereon was stretched a motionless figure. The tenant of the cell rose as the door closed, and sitting on Wi THE TWO nROTIIKkS. 239 D their hapless prisonrr. arning. His head swam coiK-ealcd every s'lan nl m liis captors, lest they At length they readied ictte. Sulpice, beholditij^ life in a-lvance. He was an hour, and meanwhili; s of the identity of eacli asked the head turnlce y- I consultation with the to be conveyed to the bird of ill omen an op- t him in cell No. 8. Its ill eat him up." laid the turnkey, smiling I keys and bade Sulpice k, there was no light in II lamp and led Sulpice irly divided into cells, lected a large key from }r, cried out in a hoarse you. If you're troubled your conscience." t Sulpice in. he cell, which was com- ch a glimpse of a straw motionless figure. The )r closed, and sitting on <^^!-^^&M0^- the side of the brd, tried to distinguish the fare of Ms companion in captivity. " From what the keeper said," he began, •' I suppose ymi to be one of the hosta>;es. Lot me hope, sir, that you will have the good taste to leave me in p.-ace during the time you share my apartment. Half of this coucii is intended for you. I will readily place the whole of it at your disposal. I only ask to be left to my own thoughts, and that no one will disturb my last moments." At the first sound of his voice Sulpice trembled. He rushed over 10 the pallet, seized the prisoner's two hands, and in a voice of mingled joy and tenderness cried, "Xavier, my brother!" "Sulpice!" criod the prisoner in amazement. Then he added bitterly, " I understand. Your apostolic duty req*iired that you should come here and force me to hear the exhortations which you must know by heart by this time. You must needs have the soul of that brother whose life you have sacrificed. You want to offer it as another trophy to your God. But you forget that your Master abhors human sacrifices, while you offer me up to a chimera of duty." " You are mistaken," said Sulpice, gently. " I did not force myself upon you even for the sake of your soul. I am a prisoner like yourself." " A prisoner ! Why what fault could you have com- mitted ?" cried Xavier. " The same as the archbishop, the cur^ of the Made- leine, and all who represent religion and justice." " But you will get out of here ?" " Yes, to die," said Sulpice. "It is horrible !" cried Xavier. " No; I swear to you, my brother," said Sulpice, " I would meet death willingly, if only I could first reconcile you with God and teach you resignation." iauttaniar;^ 2.fO IDOLS. " Resignation," cried Xavier, " when I am innocent!" "Of what crime have I been guilty ?" asked Sulpicc. Xavier was silent. A struggle was going on in his mind. While his brother was at liberty he had cherished a sullen hatred against him. But seeing him now a pris- oner, condemned to almost certain and speedy death, his resentment melted away. " Take heed of what I say, brother," said Sulpfce; " be assured whatever the Lord does is well done, and I adore His hand in the punishment no less than in the recom- pense. Just now you can only see the horrors of your fate; death frightens you, your flesh trembles at the thought, you curse men and blaspheme God. Yet if for one moment you could understand the ways of mercy, you would be resigned as I am. Xavier, we have no longer time to look back to regret departed joys. Our eyes must become accustomed to the darkness of the tomb; our minds must learn to fathom the mysteries of eternity. If ever you believed that I exaggerated my duty to God, to you or to myself, if you accuse me of cruelty or harsh- ness towards you, I beseech you in this hour, when we are face to face with death, to believe that I could neither be false to God, to you nor to myself. I offered my life in exchange for yours, and I will bless God if He deign to accept it as the price of your liberty." " My liberty ?" cried Xavier. "Yes; a chance of liberty may be nearer than you think. The wretches who hinder the priest in the dis- charge of his duties will shortly have need of all those who are outlawed by society. Very soon, now, in a few days, I believe, they will throw open the prison doors." " For what purpose ?" " That you may all be made docile instruments in the accomplishment of new crimes." Just then the shuffling of feet and the clanking of THE TWO BROTHERS. 241 " when I am innocent!" I guilty?" asked Sulpice. ivas going on in his mind. ;rty he had cherished a t seeing him now a pris- ain and speedy death, his other," said Sulpfce; " be is well done, and I adore less than in the recom- ' see the horrors of your r flesh trembles at the spheme God. Yet if for id the ways of mercy, you ivier, we have no longer eparted joys. Our eyes ; darkness of the tomb; :he mysteries of eternity, gerated my duty to God, e me of cruelty or harsh- n in this hour, when we ilieve that I could neither lyself. I offered my life 1 bless God if He deign liberty." lay be nearer than you er the priest in the dis- j have need of all those /ery soon, now, in a few open the prison doors." ocile instruments in the et and the clanking of swords mingled with oaths and imprecations were heard in the corridor without, and the list was called of a cer- tain number of the condemned. Doors were opened and closed, there was a sound of footsteps descending the stairs, and all was still again. Xavier shuddered and Sulpice fell upon his knees. In a few minutes a sharp, irregular volley of musketry resounded in the courtyard below, two or three pistol shots, and a shout of " Vive la Republique !" "Xavier," said Sulpice, seizing his brother again by both hands, "martyrs have just fallen, our turn may soon come. I swear to you by our dead mother, by my vows, by my own soul, that we must prepare to die, and to die as Christians. Xavier, I know you would find it hard to lay bare your conscience to a strange priest. But to me, poor boy, what caa you tell that I do not already know, and am not already prepared to excuse ? It is not alone the minister of God who questions you, but your friend, your brother, who upon the verge of the grave asks if you have ever known real Lappiness ?" " No," said Xavier, shaking his head. ^ " For each imperfect joy did you not find a hundred vexations ? The cup of revelry contained its drops of gall, the sinful pleasures produced weariness and satiety. In vain you sought new excitement for heart and mind. The void remained in the heart, and the weariness in the spirit." " It is true," murmured Xavier. " You offered incense before every idol that the world adores. You sought for love, but, knowing not that beauty ever ancient and ever new of which St Augustine speaks, you did not find even its pale reflection. You pitied me because I lived in poverty, fasted and crucified my flesh; yet, amid all these privations, my heart often leaped for joy, and I praised God with hymns of thanksgiving." 1 242 IDOLS. !(;' "Ah!" cried Xavler, clasping his hands and resting them upon his knees. " Oh, do you not regret having turned your mind and body to evil uses ?" said Sulpice. "Yes," said Xavier, "but now my soul seems dead within me." " Men, judging you by your faults," continued Sulpice, " have loaded you with shame and obloquy, and the Lord has permitted it, because wealth and prosperity kept you away from Him. Now He calls you. He knows how severe is your trial. He himself, though innocent, sub- mitted to the false judgments of men. If you will only raise supplicating hands to Him He will save you, and grant you for inconceivable time the happiness which the world promises indeed, but is powerless to give." Again there was a clamor in the hall, and Xavier could distinguish the words, " Paris is in flames ! The buildings of the Minister of Finance, the Legion of Honor, and the whole of the Rue de Lille and the Tuileries are burning." " O God !" cried Sulpice, " have you forsaken us ?" Innumerable voices took up the refrain. "The Versaillists must find Paris a heap of ashes. To work, all good patriots ! Let us put a bullet in the hos- tages, and set free all who will take up arms for the cause of the people." The rattling of keys was heard and shouts of joy from the- prisoners. Presently a crew of thieves, murderers and ruffians of every description were let loose to take their part in the human sacrifices, and revenge them- selves upon society which had so lately condemned them. Xavier's door, like the rest, was thrown open and a keeper offered him a musket. " Come, here's a chance for you," he said. " It's better to get a bullet put through you than to wait for Chariot's ^ifttiftiitiiiiiiiiii m^^* THE TWO BROTIIKRS. 243 his hands and resting g turned your mind and w my soul seems dead alts," continued Sulpice, d obloquy, and the Lord and prosperity kept you Is you. He knows how I, though innocent, sub- men. If you will only 1 He will save you, and the happiness which the werless to give." e hall, and Xavier could dings of the Minister of id the whole of the Rue rning." e you forsaken us ?" e refrain. ris a heap of ashes. To put a bullet in the hos- take up arms for the and shouts of joy from r of thieves, murderers I were let loose to take ;es, and revenge them- lately condemned them, rown open and a keeper ," he said. "It's better lan to wait for Chariot's knife. The Versaillists have taken the half of Paris; they are upon our track, but we are not conquered yet. We will defend the Republic to the death, so here's a chance for you to escape." The young man sprang forward eagerly. But Sulpice was before him. Seizing the weapon which the man was offering his brother, he bent it across his knees with as- tonishing strength, broke it, and threw the fragments to a distance. "Why did you do that ?" cried Xavier. " To save you," answered the priest, calmly. "Miserable calotin!" cried the keeper, "not content with preaching lies, you want to hinder those who are about to take up arms for the Commune." "I want to prevent Frenchmen from fighting with Frenchmen," said the abb6. n " Your fellow prisoner should take the knife to you," said the keeper. " Do you think the pretty boy is a pas- chal lamb ? He killed his father, and you want to prevent him fighting the Versaillists. It's not just." Far from adding to Xavier's desire for liberty, so strong a moment before, these words filled him with horror. "My boy," said Sulpice, "if you go down into the street and fight behind one of those barricades, no one will believe in your innocence. There remains a means of proving it to the world: prefer death to dishonor and even your accusers can no longer deem you capable of such a crime. Your rehabilitation is in your own hands. Stay with me. Let us die together. Better such a death than a life of dishonor. Besides, you xa&y be certain, Xavier, that God, who never leaves a good action unre- warded, will permit that if your life be not saved, at least your memory will be cleared of the terrible stain that rests upon you. In this supreme hour draw near tQ UlC ''mtliS''*''^'»>mimmKtmm VSSUM 244 IDOLS. brother and the priest. I must be tirm, for God is in my heart, and if you waver I will be here to support you. Stay; such a death will be martyrdom ! It will efface every fault, and by the baptism of blood you will be re- stored to your primal innocence. Stay, Xavier, for the expiation of past sins to purchase heaven." Sulpice knelt at his brother's feet. With streaming eyes and voice choked with emotion he implored him thus. He offered to God his future sufferings as the price of this soul doubly dear and doubly sacred in his eyes, and so ardent was his prayer, so eloquent his tears that Xavier's hardened heart was softened, and kneeling in his turn he raised his brother's crucifix to his lips. Thenceforth he heard neither musketry, nor the groans of the condemned, nor the shouts of the soldiers. Ab- sorbed in his new thoughts, occupied with the remem- brance of the speedy death that awaited them, he threw himself with one great sob into the arms of the brother whom he had so cruelly misunderstood. The night was spent by the two brothers in discussing their approaching death. Ever and anon keepers rush- ing through the passages cried out that the Rue Royale had been completely destroyed by fire, that the public granaries and the theatre at St. Martin's Gate were in flames. "Alas !*' thought the brothers, " our deliverers, the sol- diers of the army, will come too late." The night passed in prayer, repentance and interchange of affection. Xavier had made the sacrifice. Becoming truly Chris- tian he was resigned. A portion of his brother's sublime courage passed into his soul. From that time forth he judged his past life with rigorous severity. His awak- ened conscience showed him all his faults. The bitter- ness of his remorse might, indeed, have made him de- ! firm, for God is in my : here to support you. yrdom! It will efface i blood you will be re- Stay, Xavier, for the I heaven." feet. With streaming >tion he implored him iture sufferings as the d doubly sacred in his ;r, so eloquent his tears softened, and kneeling r's crucifix to his lips, isketry, nor the groans s of the soldiers. Ab- ipied with the remem- iwaited them, he threw he arms of the brother •stood. > brothers in discussing md anon keepers rush- ut that the Rue Royale }y fire, that the public Martin's Gate were in ' our deliverers, the sol- ate." intance and interchange Becoming truly Chris- of his brother's sublime rom that time forth he IS severity. His awak- his faults. The bitter- k1, have made him de- •#iaiMMIiMM*K!'r-~-' Jj THE TWO BROTHERS. 245 spair had not Sulpice, crucifix '" hand, reminded him of the mercy of God. That w. . holy vigil of tears and prayers, during which those who were soon to die forgot themselves in prayers for their afflicted country. In the morning Sulpice got paper and pen. He wrote a long letter to Sabine, the martyrs' grave and tender farewell to that beloved sister. Having encouraged her to bear this now trial bravely, he advised her to become Benedict Fougerais' wife. These last thoughts given to eaTth the priest turned entirely to God. Without the tumult incrcSased every moment. The Square de la Ro- quette was filled with a howling multitude. They an- nounced the progress made by the Versaillists, cursing them the while. The brethren had taken shelter about the guillotine and in cemeteries; driven from the last bar- ricades they could find no other asylqnr than Pere la Chaise. The populace, which had witnessed the murder of the archbishop, cried out for new blood like the wild beasts in a menagerie. In the humiliation of their ignominious defeat the leaders of the Commune resolved that blood should flow as long as their moment of power lasted. Some were killed in the last struggle, falling among the heaps of corpses which they had made; others assumed female garments, hoping in this disguise to escape in the general disorder that was certain to follow the taking of the capital by the Versaillists. Whilst one portion of Paris hailed the tri-colored flag as the symbol of order and security, the red flag of the Commune still waved over other parts of the city. The oppression of which the Communists accused their foes was practised a hun- dredfold by themselves. Incendiary fires and a final list of crimes marked the fall of a power which had only existed to commit murders. For the second time that day the turnkeys came up, accompanied by an officer ■vxti!^vSfiWU/if'-- -Mi-wmmm mmm 246 IDOLS. of the Commune, who read out the Ibt of condemned prisoners. As they pronounced each name its owner advanced, saying, " Present." They were all priests or gendarmes. The one saw the approach of their fate with holy enthusiasm, the other with manly fortitude. The soldiers hurriedly whispered a confession of their ch'ef faults; the priests gave them absolution and embracevl them. Sulpice and Xavier ap; . n . arm in arm. A murmur of astonish- ment and piiy passed through the group of the con- demned. The Ahh6 Sulpice, pale as marble, his brow still marked by the red scar, seemed ripe for martyrdom. Many of the spectators had reason to know his gen- erosity and benevolence. Even among the Communists some few felt a sort of painful surprise at his condem- nation, but the greater number were filled with savage joy, and clapped their hands in triumph. At this mo- ment a breathless, panting girl rushed through the crowd, and threw her arms about Sulpice. It was Sa- bine, who, seeing that her brother did not appear, and aware that the arrests were still continuing, had rushed from prison to prison till she came to La Roquette. She vainly begged to see hei* brothers, and, brutally re- fused, had spent the night, spite of terror and fatigue, outside an adjoining shop. She never lost sight of the prison door, so that if her brothers were brought out she must see them once more. In the morning, she questioned every passer-by. They were all in expecta- tion of a new execution, and Sabine felt hope die in her breast Only one comfort remained: to receive Sul- pice's last blessing as he passed to the place of execu- tion. She was forced by the crowd up against the wall, where she awaited the appearance of the condemned. When the prison door grated on its hinges her heart iis-iiiiiffiiieiwigw MHI J the list of condemned each name its owner armes. The one saw holy enthusiasm, the 'he soldiers hurriedly h'ef faults; the priests evl them. Sulpice and ^ murmur of astonish- the group of the con- tarble, his brow still ripe for martyrdom, ison to know his gen- mong the Communists urprise at his condem- krere filled with savage triumph. At this mo- 1 rushed through the It Sulpice. It was Sa- ;r did not appear, and continuing, had rushed ;ame to La Roquette. thers, and, brutally re- of terror and fatigue, never lost sight of the lers were brought out In the morning, she ey were all in expecta- ibine felt hope die in nained: to receive Sul- to the place of execu- ivd up against the wall, nee of the condemned, n its hinges her heart THE TWO BROTHERS. 247 almost ceased to beat. She made a violent effort, raised herself on tiptoe to see, and with a cry of joy threw her- self into the arms of Sulpice, The Communists would have repulsed her brutally, but a woman interposed, and the hapless girl remained clasped for a moment to that generous and noble heart which so soon must cease to beat. " I followed you, Sulpice, I followed you," she cried frantically; "if they murder priests, surely they will murder Christian women. If you die I cannot live." The Abb6 Sulpice pressed Xavier's haud. " Yesterday," he said, hastily, " I said die, to-day I say, live. Save yourself, profit by the tumult; you cannot help me by staying here. Take Sabine away from this scene of horror." The soldiers and spectators, surprised and even touched for an instant by Sabine's appearance, soon discovered that these family affairs were interfering with the justice of the people. The word of command was given, the band of Com- munists began to move. Sabine, rudely snatched from her brother's arms, fell upon the ground. The abb6 bent towards Xavier. " Save her," he cried, " I command you !" Xavier hastily seized the prostrate form, and dis- appeared in the crowd, while the Communists with their victims passed on towards the Boulevard des Aman- diers. 248 UOLS. CHAPTER XVI. Jean MAcnty. It had seized its prey at last, that ferocious beast called "the people of Paris," which during eighty years has made such violent efforts to become supreme master of France. It howled, it fairly shrieked for joy, to see in its power the two classes of men whose lives are spent i'. maintaining peace and good order: the priest, who educates children to virtue, and the gendarme, belonging to that picked body of soldiers, sworn to carry out the law even at the expense of their lives. Truly, witnessing the unreasonable hatred evinqed by these wretches against men whose only crime was the defence of justice against injustice, the preservation of the rights of property, and even of human life, it was plain that their sole object was impunity to commit every possible misdeed, and more especially those worthy of capital punishment. Calm and dignified the prisoners walked among that furious crew. They, the soldiers of duty, who had up- held the honor of the French flagon many a hard-fought field, and won their crosses and medals by many a wound. Yf.t they were not insensible to their fate. Bitter anguish filled the hearts of these bronzed and bearded gendarmes, at thought of their wives and chil dren left unprovided for and unprotected, and whom they were never to see again. Besides, this was being led to execution like cattle to the slaughter; death would have had no terror for them on the field; even yet their hearts would have leaped for joy at the sounds of battle. But to die at a street comer, to be shot down at the hanck^ ri. that ferocious beast 1 during eighty years come supreme master rieked for joy, to see whose lives are spent rder: the priest, who e gendarme, belonging vorn to carry out the es. t)le hatred evinqed by 2 only crime was the e, the preservation of of human life, it was impunity to commit specially those worthy rs walked among that af duty, who had up- n many a hard-fought medals by many a nsible to their fate, f these bronzed and their wives and chil • ected, and whom they this was being led to er; death would have even yet their hearts junds of battle. But t down at the hands JEAN MACHU. 249 of n ffians, seemed to them too terrible. They asked themselves what crime they had committed to merit so terrible a chastisement. " If I were alone in the world," said a gendarme to the Abb6 Sulpice, " it would be all one to me. I am a soldier, that means I have courage to face death. I am a Breton, therefore I have the faith; but my wife is ill, and my poor little ones are not even walking yet. Who will take care of the widow and the orphans? They will be obliged to beg, and if the news of my death should likewise kill the mother, [mblic charity will have to take the children as beggars, pariahs. It is terrible, so terri- ble that I am tempted to ask, now when about to appear before my Judge, whether I can expect justice ?" " Yes, comrade, and more than justice, for, if possible, mercy. seems among the divine attributes', to precede all others. Your death will be repaid to your children. You speak of justice. It will be done. We fall to-day, but our murderers have more to fear than we. Martyrs in a holy cause, we are sure of an eternity purchased by our death, but what have these poor wretches to expect ? Covered with the blood they have shed, tracked like wild beasts, despair in their hearts, and blasphei.iy on their lips, they will die cursing their fellow beings; or they who survive will dearly expiate by a life of anguish the murders of to-day. As to your children, be assured there are many noble souls who will be touched by their help- less state, and in the name of the Master I serve, I dare to promise you protection for them." Whilst they spoke thus their little group had passed on to the Boulevard des Amandiers, through the Rue de Paris, and along the Boulevard des Couronftes. Meanwhile the drums and clarionets performed a sort of triumphal march, often drowned by the singing of the Marseillaise and the frenzied shrieks of the popu- — wJ^'*.Kin»«a,^iWSK«KS8a8gjMgJSail 250 lUULS. in lace. The Communists, irritated by the calm recollec- tion t)f the doomed men, sought to disturb the peace of their last hours by furious words, and even blows. Ever and anon their progress was interrupted by an accession of curious people. Women, who might have served to personate the furies, wearing red cockades and flaming red sashes, heaped insults upon the priests, who prayed aloud. One of these miserable creatures seized her child, and tossing it on her shoulder, cried out in a coarse voice, "See the oppressors and mur- derers of the people are passing by. They are going to be shot. When you are big, you must show your hatred for them as your father does." The child, with its pretty, rosy face, looked with in- nocent amazement at the poor prisoners, and recogniz- ing its father among the Communists, held out its little arms to him. The wretch look the child and kissed, it twice. As he did so he heard a sob just behind him, and turning saw the big tears rolling down the bronzed face of a soldier. " My children, my poor children !" cried the gen- darme, " See !" said the child, " that poor man is crying. Why is he crying, papa ?" " Because he is going to be shot in the name of the Commune !" answered the father. The child, not understanding, made a movement as if to wipe away the tears from the man's eyes. But the mother, seizing the child roughly, was soon lost in the crowd. Meanwhile the bystanders laughed and jested upon the probable demeanor of the accused when they were really face to face with death. An old priest fell down. He was dragged up brutally, amid a shower of blows; but, accepting the arm of a soldier, he went on bravely, fearing to appear irresolute. liiWiiaiBiiTii^ I by the calm recollec- : to disturb the peace rords, and even blows, /as interrupted by an )men, who might have wearing red cockades isults upon the priests, se miserable creatures on her shoulder, cried oppressors and mur- by. They are going to you must show your es. yr face, looked with in- risoncrs, and recogniz- lists, held out its little he child and kissed, it sob just behind him, ling down the bronzed ircn !" cried the gen- poor man is crying. >t in the name of the nade a movement as if ; man's eyes. But the r, was soon lost in the rs laughed and jested he accused when they ith. An old priest fell Lily, amid a shower of ' a soldier, he went on ite. JEAN MACIIU. 251 The sad procession proceeded along the Rue de Paris, where it is crossed to the right by the Rue Haxo. TIk; spot appointed for the massacre was the Cit6 Vincennes. the entrance to which was at No. 83, Rue Haxo. They reached this place, which was well known to malefactors of all sorts, by crossing a small kitchen garden, and a large courtyard, stretching out in front of a large de- tached building, dingy in appearance, where the insur- gents had established their headquarters. Somewhat to the left was a second enclosure, which before the war had been intended to be used as a hall for Ixil cham- p^tres. A basement, around which the vine-clad trellis- work of this despoiled pleasure-ground was to have run, rose breast-high before one of the walls. Between this wall and the basement was a sort of trench, some ten to eighteen feet broad. A moderately large .^ir hole opened into a cellar, which occupied the centre. When the hostages reached the Cit6 Vincennes they expected to be shot at once. But the leaders who were to assist at the murder were not to be found. Or per- haps they simply desired to prolong the martyrs' agony. One of the Communists suggested that they should be temporarily shut up in the cellar. This motion was received with general approbation. The insurgents hurrica the condemned through a gloomy hall, down a noisome staircase, and into a large cellar, which received light and air from a vent hole opening on the street. They had not even a wisp of straw upon which they could stretch themselves while awaiting the supreme moment. The priests knelt down and began to recite the Psalms. This brought a hideous crowd to the air hole. Men and women thrust their faces against the iron bars, seeking by the most horrible langruage to distract, torment or disturb the prisoners* dying moments. Their sublime fortitude awakened in 'wtmi tmmmm siuimsiasssNmm wemmsiBmmmmmmgm 3S2 mors. them a sort of admiration, even as it roused their hatred to fury. But neither taunt nor Insult had power to trouble the ears of those who wero so soon to die. Heaven seemed too near; they forgot the vileness < f eartli. The more their botlies suffered, the higher rose their souls, victorious over fear and sorrow, till they found their God. Among those who crowded the strrets and rejoiced at the bloody tragedy, enjoyed in anticipation, were many of Methusalem's 'requenters. Not that they had forsaken the Rue Git-ie-Coeur, bu^ the Naine, its maid of all ork, willing to d her share 5or the public weal, had established a cr :iteen on the Rue Haxo. Upon her counter were displayed black coffee, brandy and other invigorating beverages, even to vitriol, and all suited to the varioui tastes ' . her customers. This monstrous being, eager to His . y her convictions, had assumed a flaring red aprcn, reachinfr from her chin to the shoes which . vred her mis' pen feet. She laughed, she sang, she lanced, repeating phrases from the "P^re Duchesne," predicting the triumph of the Rouge, and inciting the last defenders of the Coi unune to blow up Paris. " Are you afraid, boys," she said, " or is material want- ing.' Will you wait till those sneaks of Versaillists have you in their claws? You needn't expect much mercy then! But it's not ten or twenty of these dogs of calotim you should shoot, but crowds of them. Fire a bomb, and then fire another, till the last of these devil's preachers are lying there to rot. What's the use of turning churches into barracks if you don't do away with God ? You pn.ni'csed you would. Down with the rich, with soldiers; a id priests! We wa it republicans. No time like the present. Roll your poi>/der barrels into the gutter, put a match to them, and then for a dancit. Who loves a dance as much as I ?" JKAN MACIlO. 253 IS it roused their hatred r insult had power to were so soon to die. forgot the vileness < * uffered, the higher rose J sorrow, till they found rowded the strrets and njoyed in anticipation, lenters. Not that they Bur, bu^ the Naine, its ;r share 5or the public I the Rue Haxo. Upon ck coflfee, brandy and ven to vitriol, and all her customers. This y her convictions, had eachinnf from her chin mis' pen feet. .She epeating phrases from g the triumph of the nders of the Coi unune 1, " or is material want- aks of Versaillists have 't expect much mercy f these dogs of cahtim lem. Fire a bomb, and these devil's preachers s the use of turning I't do away with God ? rn with the rich, with ublicans. No time like arrets into the gutter, r a dance. Who loves "Never tired joking, Naine," said a man in the uni- form of the Vengeurs of the Commune. "Oh, it's you is it, Jean Machft ?" said the Naine; " what will you take ?" " Something strong, as strong as you have it," said he. The Naine poured him out a tumbler of brandy. " To your health, Naine," said he; " but come, keep me company." " Your treat ?" asked she. "To be sure," said Machfl; "you sell your wares, but you don't consume them." The Naine filled a second glass, clinking it against that of the felon. " To your speedy marriage, Naine," said Machd. The Naine laid down the glass. "It's no jesting matter, Jean," said she;'" there's none would have Methusalem's servant." "You think so?" " I'm sure of it." " You're not so sure, though, but there's one you'd like to have," said Machd, grinning. A flush passed over the hideous face. " What put that into your head ?" said she. "Oh," said the Commander of the Vengeurs of the Commune, "never you mind; but I met one the other day that you're very fond of." " Methusalem ?" " No, you are his servant, but you're not in love with him for all that." " Well, who do you mean ?" " Fleur d'Echafaud !" "You saw himf* she cried, bending over the counter eagerly. "Yes." "Where?" ^mmssmsi. IDOLS. " At the prefecture. He's in the Vengeurs." *' Oh, if the Versaillists catch him," she cried. " He will scarcely have time to marry you, Naine!" "It's no joking matter," she said almost fiercely; "if they take him they'll kill him." " The very notion that he's in danger- makes you show your teeth and claws," said Machil, laughing. " I told you so." "And you're a fool for your pains," said she, sullenly. " I don't want him to be taken, it's true. But I am the only one, do you hear, Jean Machii, the only one that knows why his life's precious to me." " You ought to have more confidence in yoiir friends," said MachQ, still jesting. " Do you know where he is now ?" she said, quickly. " How can we know from day to day what becomes of people ?" said he. " The gun does its work quickly. You and I, Naine, may be dead to-morrow." " Once I've seen the end of those gibbering fools that are braying their litanies in the cellar," said she, " I'll just be off to Methusalem's. If Fleur d'Echafaud wants a hiding-place send him to me. I know one. You are welcome to it, too, Rat-de-Cave." "That's not my stamp, Naine," said Rat-de-Cave, with sudden gravity. " I'll never hide. I'll be behind the last barricades with the last Vengeurs of the Commune, and I swear the Versaillists'll never get me alive. I'll defend my skin all I can; but once the game's up, I'll make an end of myself." Just then there was a stir in the crowd to make way for a young man in a dazzling uniform glittering with gold lace. He belonged to Bergeret's En/ants Perdus. Jean Machd looked round to see what was going on, and the Naine mounted among the bottles and glasses on her counter. Her eyes hastily scanned the crowd. ■■ jB i 1^ ^ le Vengeurs." im," she cried, marry you, Naine!" aid almost fiercely; " if anger-makes you show hii, laughing. " I told tins," said she, sullenly. t's true. But I am the Lchii, the only one that ne." idence in yoiir friends," V ?" she said, quickly. :o day what becomes of ; its work quickly. You rrow." »se gibbering fools that cellar," said she, " I'll 'leur d'Echafaud wants I know one. You are said Rat-de-Cave, with I'll be behind the last r of the Commune, and et me alive. I'll defend ;ame's up, I'll make an the crowd to make way iniform glittering with geret's En/ants Ferdus. e what was going on, the bottles and glasses ily scanned the crowd. JEAN MACHU. 255 and all at once lit up with a sort of fierce exultation as she muttered, "Fleur d'Echafaud." Hastily descending, she resumed her place at the counter. Jean MachQ meanwhile advanced to shake hands with the new-comer. " Well, Marc Mauduit," said he, " what's going on down yonder ?" "The Versaillists are taking barricade after barri- cade," said Mauduit; " our soldiers are being defeated at every point." " Did you come here to fight ?" " I came to look about me," said Mauduit, " and to make sure of some hiding-place." " You came to the right spot this time,v' said Machd. "Some one was speaking of you just now." " Who's that ?" " The Naine. She knows a hiding-place." "That will be good for to-morrow," said Fleur d'Echafaud. " I think you might have the grace to thank her/' said Machfi. So the brilliant young man approached the counter, and accepted a cup of coffee from the Naine. " To-morrow," said he, " I shall need you." " Ah !" said she, " you will need — " "Any disguise you like and a. safe shelter." " The disguise will be ready in an hour, and the hiding- place— Git-le-Coeur." " But Methusalem might bietray me ?" "He would if he dared," said she, "but he dares not." " Who will prevent him ?" "I will." '^T»&^;i^'«iVl-l"^.S-,.fe-t'?-T.UiJ*!S 35^ IIJOLS. "You!" said Fleur d'Echafaud, laughing heartily. " Yes, I," said the Naine. " Because I watched over you like a mother you think me only capable of love, and that I could not hate. You are wrong, boy, you are wrong. My hatred is terrible. I brood and brood over it till it bursts out." " It's so very droll," said Fleur d'Echafaud, laughing still more immoderately. " Droll !" cried she; " you think my hatred a thing to laugh at." " Yes," said he, " because everything about you is ridiculous, my poor Fantoche. You are not a woman and cannot have a woman's feelings. Nature made you a monster, and a monster you will always be." She fixed such a glance on him as would have terrified any one else. " Well," said she, slowly, " never incur the hatred of Fantoche, for you would find it terrible." A solemn, mournful sound just then reached their ears. It was the prisoners singing the Miserere. This cry for mercy, comii\g as it did from the bowels of the earth, in the voices of men hourly awaiting execution, had so peculiar a grandeur that the bloodthirsty, drunken populace involuntarily shuddered. Surely the victims were stronger than their persecutors. A Com- munist soldier seized his gun, pointed the barrel of it through the bars, and fired into the cellar, saying, " That will make them shut up." A groan was heard; one of the condemned had fallen. But this cowardly act only seemed to revive their courage, and the last versicles of the psalm arose more solemn and imploring than ever. It was literally out of the depths, that cry unto the Lord. of "Miserere! Mis- erere !" As day waned the crowd instead of diminishing grew i, laughing heartily, cause I watched over you nly capable of love, and re wrong, boy, you are I brood and brood over Lir d'Echafaud, laughing nk my hatred a thing to erything about you is You are not a woman and fs. Nature made you a I always be." n as would have terrified !ver incur the hatred of terrible." just then reached their fing the Miserere. This from the bowels of the urly awaiting execution, that the bloodthirsty, shuddered. Surely the ir persecutors. A Com- pointed the barrel of it the cellar, saying, p." le condemned had fallen. seemed to revive their f the psalm arose more It was literally out of ^ord. of " Miserere ! Mis- sad of diminishing grew JEAN MACHO. 257 greater. The combatants of the barricades and fugitives of all sorts flocked thither, where there were still arms to load, houses to burn, crimes to commit. Many of them, tracked from street to street, and from house to house, asked only a corner of ground where they could die, cry- ing "Vive la Commune !" The intoxication of anger or strong drink lent courage to the one half, while the other trembled at the fate which awaited them. The first paraded such of their quarters as were threatened but not yet invaded, while the second hastily cut their hair or beard, assumed various disguises, tore the red stripe from their trousers, and broke the arms which would have doubly compromised them, first because they were stolen, second because they were stained with blood. When it was night the Naine carried her table, bottles and her stove into an empty shop close by, and with- out even thinking of sleep, continued dealing out her wares, and seasoning her sales with the sinister language of the knitting- women of the Commune. The spacious apartment was soon filled with the birds of ill omen who prowl about at night, thieves by profession, young men more carefully dressed, the pillars of smoking-rooms and public balls, half -drunken Communist soldiers, hiccough- ing out mutual exhortations to die for the Commune, and borrowing from each other in the name of sacred equality. The distant growling of the cannon was as an undertone to all this. In proportion as its sound drew nearer, they knew that the regular army was gaining Paris inch by inch. At length, spite of anger, hatred and fear, sleep overcame some of the motley gathering in the Maine's shop. She herself nodded over the counter, whilst Fleur d'Echafaud and Rat-de-Cave spoke to- gether of their near future. "Ah, well," said Fleur d'Echafaud, "I have had enough of the Commune and the rights of the people. 258 IDOLS. It's all very fine, but dangerous. It sounds well at the club or in the newspapers to advance such ideas, bi't to sustain them with helmet on head and revolver in haiul is another thing. I have v^nly twenty-four hours more to wear my uniform, so covered with gold lace that it took half the money from the Pomereul safe to pay for it. Once to-morrow's drama is played I will make trad; s. and turn up again after some time as Marc Mauduit, V.n-. model secretary. What about you ?" " My way is different," said Rat-de-Cave, brusquely. " Cannons have been put in Pere la Chaise. I'll servo the last of them." " Why not try to save yourself ?" asked Mauduit. " What use ? What would I do afterwards ?" said the felon. " What you have always done," said Mauduit. " Steal and murder ?" said Machd. , " I don't think you are destined for an embassy, it's true," said Mauduit, sneeringly. "To steal, to kill," said Jean Maehfl, gloomily. "Always the same thing; besides, they leave thoughts sometimes that are like — " " What can your thoughts be like ?" said Fleur d'Echa- faud. " Remorse," said Jean Machd, in a hollow voice. " You know remorse ? You ?" cried Mauduit. "Call it what you like," said Machfl. " I know what it is to pass sleepless nights, and always to see the face of a man accusing you. I know what it is to say, * The air I breathe is stolen, my liberty is stolen, and another is paying the debt I owe to Justice.' " " Amen !" said Fleur d'Echafaud. He leaned both hands upon the table, as if weary of tne subject, and buried his face. But the Naine, in her sleep, uttered a name: It sounds well at the ance such ideas, bi't to id and revolver in hantl inty-four hours more to h gold lace that it took reul safe to pay for it. ^^ed I will make trad; ;. le as Marc Mauduit, the )u ?•• lat-de-Cave, brusquely, e la Chaise. I'll serve ?" asked Mauduit. 3 afterwards ?" said the ' said Mauduit. hfl. , led for an embassy, it's ;an MachA, gloomily. :s, they leave thoughts ke ?" said Fleur d'Echa- n a hollow voice. cried Mauduit. achfi. " I know what it ways to see the face of at it is to say, * The air stolen, and another is le table, as if weary of But the Naine, in her JEAN MACIIU. 259 " Louise, my dear Louise." Her sleep seemed troubled. Again she spoke: " You shall be avenged, Louise; you shall be avenged !" Fleur d'Echafaud raised his head and looked at her. She was hideous; there was foam about her lips, her nostrils were dilating, her brow furrowed with wrinkles. Fleur d'Echafaud almost fancied that she pronounced tlie name of Andr6 Nicois, but he thought himself mis- taken. What link could exist between the rich banker and the deformed creature, who had begun by being the attraction of couwtry fairs, and now served the kitchen of Methusalem ? Night passed. At dawn the voices of the priests, some- what more feeble, were heard again. All night long they had prayed the prayers for the dying. Priests and gendarmes alike, awaiting the carrying out of their terrible sentence, were of one mind and one heart. They had but one hope. The condemned soldiers knelt before the priests, who, exercising their divine ministry, prepared them more and more for death. The hostages had been left entirely without food, and hunger was added to their other torments. Morning brought again to the k^r hoi? those who impatiently awaited the hour of the sacrifice. They felt that the progress of the army gave them scarcely time for this last crime, and that they had need of haste. However, whether because of the anxiety caused by the resolute advance of the Ver- saillists who were taking Paris, street by street, house by house, or from some other cause, the fatal order was delayed. Nearly another day passed in suspense. At last a young man wearing the red scarf of a delegate of the Commune came to the headquarters at , the Cit6 Vincennes, with instructions for detachments of Communists belonging to a battalion of the Eleventh »3n> K^^muiimi B N tmmmmm B z6o IDOLS. District, and a battalion of the Fifth District. Imme- diately after some of Bergeret's Enfants Perdus went down into the cellar, and ordered the prisoners to come up. They obeyed without thought of resistance. Faith shed its ineffable calm over them, and the priests gave a final benediction to the soldiers, who walked to death as firmly as to battle. At sight of the prisoners cheers of savage joy were heard, and the soldiers could scarcely keep back the crowd. Not that they cared to protect the victims, but they feared lest in the tumult some should escape. The enclosure whither they were hurried was already occupied by the staff of different battalions. The fifty hostages and their executioners filled what was left of that narrow space. A portion of the crowd found it impossible to assist at this last act of barbarity. The hostages were placed against the wall, and a squad of soldiers, with loaded muskets, stood ready to fire on the word of command. Sulpice embraced his brother priests, exchanging with them what was indeed the kiss of peace of the primitive Church, which at the conclusion of the love-feasts was given those about to die. Just as the Abb6 Pomereul turned from the embrace of an old priest who had clasped him in his arms, two men covered with gold lace and bearing swords pushed their way resolutely through the crowd to obtain a position in the front rank of spectators. "The Commandant Machfl and Colonel Marc Mau- duit," whispered the crowd, making way for them respectfully. Scarcely had Machii come face to face with those who were about to be shot, and scanned their faces with a rapid glance, when he sprang forward with the agility of a tiger, and covered one of them with his own body. The soldiers who had just raised their muskets paused, ,3*3^ I Fifth District. Imme- ;'s En/ants Perdus went :d the prisoners to come jht of resistance. Faith 1, and the priests gave a who walked to death as ers of savage joy were scarcely keep back the protect the victims, but tne should escape. The ied was already occupied The fifty hostages and left of that narrow space, impossible to assist at B hostages were placed )f soldiers, with loaded he word of command, jriests, exchanging with f peace of the primitive I of the love-feasts was irned from the embrace 1 him in his arms, two bearing swords pushed he crowd to obtain a tators. id Colonel Marc Mau- naking way for them to face with those who ined their faces with a ward with the agility of with his own body, d their muskets paused, JEAN MACIIU. 361 and the officer in command advancing to Machfl, who was interrupting the justice of the people in a manner so extraordinary, said, " Commandant, the moment of execution is come." The Abb6 Sulpice's defender turning quickly faced the crowd, saying to the officers and soldiers who drew near with irrepressible curiosity, " I must have this man's life. I must have it !" "Yoo must have a fearful score to settle with him, Commandant," said a soldier, " if the justice of the people won't answer you." Sulpice in amazement recognized the man who had come between him and death. "Jean Mach(i !" he cried, involuntarily. "Yes; I want his life," pursued Jean Machfl, the felon. " You want to let a priest, a deceiver of the people, escape from justice ? Never !" cried the crowd. " He saved me," said Jean MachA, hoarsely. " I'll not be in his debt." " Shoot the caloiinr cried a child. Fleur d'Echafaud whispered in his comrade's ear, "Are you mad ? Once he dies we're safe." " Death to him ! death to him !" cried the crowd. "Comrades," said Machd, "you know me. I showed my patriotism well. I set fire to the Finance buildings, when the telegram came from Ferr^. I was there when we shot the archbishop. I've been all the week from one barricade to another The friends of the people Delescluze and Milliere, were my friends. I'm ready to fire the last gun with you, but for my services I want this man's life." " So that he can sell you later on, and get you shot by the Versaillists. " " If he promises not to betray me," said Machfl, " he'll keep his promisei." BW^UMijM^dKaVWHMfinnSKKMMKSmti 262 IDOLS. " He, a Jesuit, a eahtin /" "You don't know what his word's worth," said Machfl. " I am a Communist, and a ruffian, and a robber besides." "You flatter yourself, Commandant," said a voice. "I pillaged Notre Dame de Lorette," pursued he. "I helped to put a blaze to the eld cathedral. I have robbed God and men. This priest knew all about it, and he never said a word." "He was afraid of revenge," said some one in the crowd. " Not he," said Machd " You see he does not tremble even now before you." There were cries of " Back, Commandant !" " Clear the way !" " MachO is a traitor !" "MachA's not afraid of any of you," said the Com- mandant of the Vengeurs of the Commune. " The first who makes a step forward is a dead man." The felon cocked his pistol and waited. No one stirred. " His life," said Machfl. " Will you give me his life ?" " Never !" cried they. "Well, I'll tell you the whole story," said Machfl. "Just now it doesn't much matter having one or two things more or less on our conscience. We may all be dead to-morrow. I not only committed crimes for the general good, but I robbed this man's father. I took a hundred thousand francs out of his safe." " Bravo !" cried several voices. " He knew it, and never let up on me." A murmur passed through the crowd as Jean MachA continued, still screening Sulpice with his own body: " I killed his father, and he didn't give me up." A murmur of incredulity was now heard in the various g^ups. " No," said Machd; " he didn't give me up, because the secret of confession sealed his lips. You cry out against J I's worth," said Machfl. , and a robber besides." iant," said a voice, rette," pursued he. "I >ld cathedral. I have t knew all about it, and said some one in the see he does not tremble >mmandant !" " Clear t ' you," said the Com- ^ommune. "The first id man." vaited. No one stirred, you give me his life ?" B story," said MachO. :er having one or two ience. We may all be imitted crimes for the an's father. I took a is safe." )n me." crowd as Jean MachA nrith his own body: 't give me up." w heard in the various :ive me up, because the You cry out against JEAN MACHO. 263 ¥al^fl^^^^^ priests, but I respect them. I've done many a bad deed in my day, but I want to save this man to show my gratitude. You must either kill both of us or neither. Once he's in safety I'll come back to die with you." The Abb6 Sulpice tried to detach himself from the felon's grasp. •' Leave me to die," he said; " martyrdom is the noblest death for which I can ever hope. God in His mercy will take account of the efforts you have made to save me. Do nof force me to desert my brethren. You have spoken some dangerous words, but they will be forgotten if you leave me to the hatred of my enemies." " No," said MachA; " if they're obstinate about it we'll die together. But they daren't fire." As if to contradict this assertion the officer cried out, " Present arms !" v Once more Sulpice tried to escape from his deliverer and rejoin his friends. The soldiers of the Eleventh battalion made a rush for- ward, like a tumultuous wave flowing in on the strand. MachA felt his coat pulled; he looked down: it was the Naine. She made a mysterious sign to him, and held out a plain dark cloak, and as she, with a group of furious women eager to see the last act in the bloody drama, pushed into the front row, MachA wrapped the abb6 in the cloak and drew him aside, whispering hastily, " Think of your sister." These words went to his heart, and Machii, profiting by his momentary irresolution, and aided by the diversion which the Naine had purposely created, dragged Sulpice into the old cemetery, thence into a squalid-looking house and up the stairs. They had just reached the top, when a discharge of musketry proved that the people of Paris had committed the most iniquitous act of their reign. 264 IDOLS. Though sheltered in the house, the priest and Jean MacihA were by no means in safety. Going into an empty room they found some workmen's clothes hang- ing on the wall. The felon seized them, throwing them to the priest, and crying, "Quick, quick ! these brutes will follow us." At the same time he took a handful of gold from his pocket ii ' threw it down, adding, "That's for the owner of the clothes." Sulpice at length decided to accept the safety which Providence seemed to impose on him. He hastily donned the blue blouse and overalls, and putting a cap on his head, was so completely disguised that no one could have recognized him. " Come," said Machfl. They went down cautiously. The house had two exits. With the keen scent of a thief, and the agi'.ity of a burglar, Machft opened a door, climbed a little wall, and assisted the Abb6 Pomereul to do the same. All this had been accomplished so quickly that the savage crew without had scarcely yet discovered what had transpired. They were still gloating over the writh- ing forms of their victims. Meanwhile the Abb6 Sulpice and Machfl had reached a deserted part of Paris, where the Commune no longer had sway. •' Go," said the Vengeur of the Commune. " The Ver- saillists are there to protect you. After this you can think of me without cursing me." " Ah !" said the abb6, " if you would only come with me and amend your life." " It's too late," said MachQ. " I'm going to play the last act." With a sort of despairing energy he wrung the merci- ful hand held out to him, and ran off., THE UARRICADES OF DEATH. 36s ic, the priest and Jean lafety. Going into nii Drkmen's clothes hang- d them, throwing them Mil follow us." ndful of gold from his ?. othes." iccept the safety which on him. He hastily /eralls, and putting a y disguised that no one The house had two iief, and the agi'.ity of a imbed a little wall, and > the same. ed so quickly that the y yet discovered what s^loating over the writh- nd Machd had reached le Commune no longer Commune. " The Ver- I. After this you can would only come with * I'm going to play the J he wrung the merci- > off. CHAPTER XVII. The Barricades of Death. The bloody tragedy was ended. The bodies of the priests and gendarmes were thrown into a trench, and the populace, intoxicated with blood, rushed from the fatal spot, thronging the Rue Haxo, Rue de Paris, and the Boulevard des Amandiers. Jean Machft's daring act would no doubt have drawn upon him the accusation of treason and the swift ven- geance of the multitude had he not, immediately on returning to the Communists, begun with indomitable energy and lightning-like resolve to sketch out the plan of action for the final struggle. Their base of operations became more limited as the liberation of Paris was grad- ually being accomplished. They could no longer con- struct barricades by tearing up the pavement; on the contrary, they had to find barricades ready made, and a space sufficient to contain the proper number of com- batants, disposed in such fashion as to maintain a des- perate struggle. The streets were being swept by the cannon, cleared by charges of cavalry, and carried by the infantry. The Communists were looking around helplessly for a position in which to intrench* themselves, when Jean MachA reappeared in their midst. A hoarse murmur of reproach was heard at sight of him. " I know what you have to say," he cried. "I saved a priest. But it was my own affair, and the first one who accuses me of treason to the Commune I'll blow out his brains with my revolver. If any of you like the pros- pect, step out." w»^ii»Miwrflw 266 IDOLS. Machfi's resolute air awed the most during, and the felon continued, "You're disheartened; the more shame for you! You hear the guns and know that your turn s coming. For people like us the trial will be short; they'll thrust us against a wall and bang. Serve us right, too; but there are some of us prefer another sort of thing. Death is death. But it's better to defend ourselves, and give ball for ball, stroke for stroke. We are conquered, but let us die as good patriots and true Communists. We must fight; not in order of battle, for that would end too quick, but like poachers in the woods, or sharp- shooters in the hedges, and the scene of our last combat I have chosen. Will you follow me there ?" " Yes, yes !" cried a hundred voices. " To Pdre la Chaise, boys. The tombstones will do us for barricades." "To P^re la Chaise," repeated the crowd like an echo. MachQ's idea was hailed as the inspiration of genius. In an hour's time a band of Communists, one and all re- solved to meet death stoically, had possession of the cemetery; the last guns of the Commune were set up there, and preparations made to defend this last strong- hold of the rebels unto death. After the many sacrileges they had Committed, the Communists consummated a final one in bringing their fratricidal struggle to the city of death. The scene was more terrible than any that had preceded it. The soldiers soon carried the place by assault, and the meUt became general. It was rather a massacre than a battle. The Communists, expecting no quarter, fought furiously, and the soldiers, exasperated by their losses, enraged at having to fight against such ruf- fians, marked their advance by the heaps of dead strewn among the tombs. Every chapel was a fortress. The he most during, and the ore shame for you! You 'our turn s coming. For ; short; they'll thrust us 2 us right, too; but there sort of thing. Death is d ourselves, and give ball e are conquered, but let true Communists. We attle, for that would end in the woods, or sharp- scene of our last combat V me there ?" voices. The tombstones will do ited the crowd like an le inspiration of genius, nmunists, one and all re- ', had possession of the ! Commune were set up 3 defend this last strong- \fter the many sacrileges nunists consummated a cidal struggle to the city E terrible than any that oon carried the place by ;eneral. It was rather a }mmunists, expecting no e soldiers, exasperated by to fight against such ruf - the heaps of dead strewn )el was a fortress. The THE BARHICADES OF DEATH. 167 bullets flew fast and furious through the windows. When guns were broken the revolvers were used and daggers drawn. The blood-stained ground was slippery to the feet of victor and vanquished alike. Some of the wretches al length gave themselves up, but others put pistols to their heads to escape being made prisoners. A band of Communists, hard pressed, surrounded, and unuble longer to defend themselves, surrendered; the terror of immediate death seemed worse than the more remote punishment of their crimes. Ammunition failed, the cannon were silent, and those who served them had fallen dead among the empty powder casks. A single group remained, consisting of some twenty men, headed by Jean MachQ. As long as he had a cart- ridge he fired; when he had no more he seized his revolver by the barrel and used it as a plub. A soldier snatched it from him, but Machd, picking up a knife from the ground, rushed upon his assailant. He hoped to gain at least this one last victory; struck by a ball in the right arm, he still fought with his left, but a blow from the butt end of a musket took him in the chest, blood gushed from his mouth, his teeth were already broken, and he fell upon a heap of dead, wherein sol- diers and Communists were indiscriminately mingled. Four of his companions took to flight, vainly hoping to escape; others opened their coats and rushed forward to meet the balls. A volley of artillery swept the last of them away. In a few minutes all was still in the ceme- tery; the prisoners, with scowls of hatred and defiance on their faces, and blasphemies on their lips, were led away by the soldien.. Somewhat later litters were brought for the wounded. It war dark night when Jean Machfi recovered con- sciousness. Bruised in every limb, a sabre gash upon his forehead and his chest crushed in by the last blow, 268 IDOLS. the poor wretch felt that death was inevitable. Nor did he dread it, for he knew that life could give him nothing more, and abhorrence of the past arose now pre- dominant over every othe sentiment. To his enfeebled mind came the recollections of his past life like visions. He would fain have shut them out from his sight and closed his ears against them. But no, he was doomed to hear and see, and this illusion of the senses, arising from the fever of his wounds, occasioned him mental suffer- ing much more terrible than all his physical pain. He was a child again, sporting in a great mossy wood thickly peopled with birds, which his mother tamed. His mother ! he saw her, too, a pretty peasant woman, active and industrious, who, in the midst of her own pov- erty, had always a kind word for the afflicted and a crust of bread for beggars. His father was a wood-cutter of the forest, a rude trade, but one which had many com- pensations. It was good to see how Michel Machfl threw by his axe at noonday, when his young wife brought him his meal, sitting on the trunk of a tree and opening her basket, wherein were hot soup, tempting meat, ripe fruits and wine. Together they took their repast, while the child sported under the trees and sang with the oriole. The father, seizing the child, tossed him in the air, or sought birds* nests for him, or caught him a live squirrel. When the mother was not too busy in the house she brought her sewing out of doors, while the husband worked and the child laughed for glee. At nightfall they all went home under the waving branches; the bell on the village church rang out the Angelus, the father raised his hat, the mother blessed herself, and the child grew grave seeing the gravity of his elders. Yes, those were halcyon days in the shadow of the woods, When the wood-cutter earned their bread with his axe. Suddenly the scene changed. One day the mother and .'W^ was inevitable. Nor did lat life could give him f the past arose now pre- ment. To his enfeebled his past life like visions. 1 out from his sight and ut no, he was doomed to the senses, arising from loned him mental suffer- bis physical pain, g in a great mossy wood iich his mother tamed. . pretty peasant woman, he midst of her own pov- • the afflicted and a crust ler was a wood-cutter of e which had many com- low Michel Machfl threw lis young wife brought ik of a tree and opening up, tempting meat, ripe took their repast, while ees and sang with the child, tossed him in the m, or caught him a live as not too busy in the out of doors, while the I laughed for glee. At ler the waving branches; ng out the Angelus, the blessed herself, and the nty of his elders. Yes, ; shadow of the woods, heir bread with his axe. ►ne day the mother and THE BARRICADES OF DEATH. 269 child were in their little house, the former singing one of the ballads of the country over her washtub. All at once two neighbors came rushing in, with pale faces and eyes red with tears. They took the woman's hand, say- ing, " Poor Mathurine ! Poor Mathurine !" "Something has happened to Michel," she said, in- stinctively, " Yes, something terrible," they answered. One of the women then took Jean in her arms, mur- muring, " Poor orphan." " My man is dead ?" cried Mathurine, dazed and bewildered. "Almost. You will scarcely have time for a last word," said the neighbors. " Where is he ?" cried Mathurine, " where is he ?" "They are bringing him home," said one of the women, throwing the door open as she spoke. Four men entered; they carried a stretcher; upon it was a motionless figure covered with a blood-stained cloth. A tree rhich he had been felling killed him in its fall. Mathurine threw herself upon her husband, strained him to her heart, and vainly sought one word, one look, one sigh. He seemed already dead. They laid him on the bed and presently he opened his eyes. Seeing the terrible woe on Mathurine's face, and the tears in her eyes, he closed his own again, as if too weak to bear the sight of her sorrow. At length he made an effort to speak some parting words to those dear ones whom he was about to leave. He beckoned his wife to draw nearer to him, saying, " Do not weep. I am dying. You have been a faithful, kind and gentle ^ife. You made my life easy and helped me to bear its troubles. I was too happy, Mathurine; I must leave it and you." He kissed his wife, drew her to ;-^','l^^ 270 IDOLS. his breast for an instant, then took Jean, whom his wife held up to him. He pressed him close to his heart, saying, "You will never see me again, little Jean. Would that I might have lived to see you grow up, to teach you to be honest and industrious, as your mother will teach you to be pious. God does not will it, and I must be re- signed. Remember my last words, Jean. Be a good son and an honest man." Just then the cur^ of the neighboring village came in. Michel's face brightened. He was a simple and devout Christian, who had led a life as pure as the dawn which he saw every morning rising above his head. His con- fession was not long, and he died in peace and hope. Here there was a gap in Machu's memories. He re- membered his mother in a black dress crying over him; crying for her good husband, and for the future of her child. Jean still loved the woods; but he did not work in open day like his father. He haunted them at night like the wolves. He had forgotten his father's dying exhortation, and was deaf to the advice of his mother, who was almost heartbroken. A hard, fierce, rebellious nature was his; he laughed alike at the dying words of the one and the tears of the other. In vain did Mathu- rine, when all else failed, strive to terrify him by threats and predictions of evil. He laughed at gendarmes, as he did at saints and angels, and continued his evil way of life. Indden in the bru.ih.' )od, he wailed for the game, laii nares, spread nets, and even if occasion denanded "hot "roats. The gamekeeper, a worthy man, vrar- -id Mathurine repeatedly that he Vv'ould liave to bnnj, action against Jean for trespass, poaching and disb'">nesty. The • lother could do nothing with her son. Sliv. .0 lid only weep anl pray. One night she heard the sound of footsteps and the clanking of sabres in the THE BARRICADES OF DEATJl. 271 )ok Jean, whom his wife him close to his heart, ain, little Jean. Would 3U grow up, to teach yem your mother will teach will it, and I must be re ords, Jean. Be a good hboring village came in. fas a simple and devout pure as the dawn which eve his head. His con- id in peace and hope, chu's memories. He re- k dress crying over him; id for the future of her is; but he did not work e haunted them at night 3tten his father's dying le advice of his mother, A hard, fierce, rebellious ;e at the dying words of ler. In vain did Mathu- fo terrify him by threats aughed at gendarmes, as 1 continued his evil way ' )od, he wailed for the s, and even if occasion gamekeeper, a worthy edly that he would have r trespass, poaching and do nothing with her son. One night she heard clanking of sabres in the I wood without. A loud knock came to the door of the hut, and the poor widow saw Jean, her idolized Jean, with handcuffs on his wrists and a scowl of defiance on his face. Caught in the act of poaching, lie had resisted the gendarmes, and wounded one of them in the hand with his knife. " Mercy, mercy, good gentlemen!" cried the mother, falling on her knees. " Mathiyine," said the wounded gendarme, " if I were alone concerned I would release this vagabond, but I have my duty to do, and he must come with us. I 1 ave brought him to say good by to you, because you ; -e an honest woman, and Michel Machd left a good n. ine in the neighborhood." "Oh, where are you taking him?" asked Mathurine. " To prison," answered he. ^ "My child in prison!" she wailed out. "You must own he deserves it," said the man, "spite of all your goodness to him." " How long will they keep him?" she asked. "That," said the officer, "is the judge's affair, not mine, but I think they will put him in the House of Correction." "Jean," said the hapless mother, sinking into a chair, "you have killed me." When Mathurine recovered consciousness the whole terrible vision had passed away, but in her ears still sounded the clanking of sabres and of the handcuffs upon Jean's hands. How well Jean remembered that night, the first step in the path of crime, sentence, punishment which he had ever since pursued. Precocious criminal of fifteen as he was, he did not reflect that the law gave him every chance of becoming ati honest man. He never dreamed of rep4iriqg the faults of his youth ^ y sincere repent- 272 IDOLS. ance. On the contrary, he vowed vengeance against society, which he had so early outraged, and began a deadly struggle against its laws. Time passed slowly in the House of Correction. One day some one came and told him his mother was dead. Bad as he was the blow was a heavy one. He felt it to the core of his heart. But his companions soon dispelled whatever salutary impression it might have made on him. They stirred him up by so many anecdotes of tricks played upon the authorities, and plans for the future, that he began to long for the hour of his liberation. It came, and he was free. He had a little money in his pocket. He knew a trade, and might have earned an honest living; but he preferred idleness to work, and at any rate resolved to spend his money first. He met some companions. They brought him to wretched lodgings, and introduced him to some of the lowest dens in Paris. In a week's time his vague idea of going to work had vanished. He resolved to live without employment and exercise vagrancy as his only trade. He did not dis- dain to open carriages, pick up the butt ends of cigars, sell letter paper, or tapers for smokers, but whoever penetrated the garret where he lived would have been amazed at the curious collection of articles it contained — hams, new pairs of shoes, pieces of stuffs, balls of wool, ready-made garments, boxes of blacking, all ly- ing in the most picturesque disorder, till Methusalem, the broker of the Rue Git-le-Coeur, came to bring order out of chaos, and to carry the whole lot off in ex- change for some pieces of money. One night Machft and a companion had been on a drinking bout. When they were about returning home, the weather being rainy, and their strength unequal to crawling along by the wall, they hailed a coachman, and gave him an address which made him toss his head. THE BARRICADES OF DEATH. 273 ;d vengeance against mtraged, and began a Time passed slowly in ly some one came and Bad as he was the it to the core of his )n dispelled whatever i made on him. They dotes of tricks played or the future, that he is liberation. It came, ; money in his pocket, ave earned an honest to work, and at any y first. He met some to wretched lodgings, e lowest dens in Paris. of going to work had thout employment and ade. He did not dis- :he butt ends of cigars, smokers, but whoever lived would have been of articles it contained :ces of stuffs, balls of :es of blacking, all ly- 3rder, till Methusalem, i^oeur, came to bring the whole lot off in ex- 3anion had been on a about returning home, their strength unequal ley hailed a coachman, lade him toss his head. Coming to a suspicious-looking house, they called out to him to stop, and alighting, began as it were to fum- ble in their pockets for his fare. Of course they had nothing. Jean Machfl jogged his companion's elbow, and the driver having got down to open the door and receive the money, Machil by a rapid movement gagged him, while his comrade stunned him with a blow upon the chest, took his purse from his pocket, pushed Machfl into the carriage, got upon the box and whipped up the horses. Next day the confederates made good cheer with the horses and the money. But shortly after the police, making a descent upon a notorious haunt, V ook Jean Machii. It was a more serious matter this tiiie. A trial in a criminal court, the chain and ball, the departure with the chain-gang, and the galleys. Thenceforth Machfl had only one thbught, that of escape. And he accomplished his design by a series of adventures more extraordinary than half the wondrous tales that beguile the tediousness of the mess or guard- room. Having climbed a wall by means of his knife, he hung suspended over an abyss by a frail cord. Pur- sued by the keepers, and driven ashore by a furious storm, he rushed panting and exhausted into a hut, to which he was admitted by a young man of angelic countenance. " The Abb6 Sulpice, the Abb6 Sulpice," muttered the • . ounded wretch. Oh, how the circumstances of that night forced them- selves upon his memory. How carefully the prie£.i had warmed his stiffened limbs; with what more than brotherly love he had ,>lied him with all things necessary for his escape. More than this, ivi that little hut, at the door of which the gendarmes might any moment 1 lock demanding the convict, the priest had spoken of hope, repentance, an honorable life to the felon, 274 IDOLS. the outlaw of society. Nor had he stopped there. A letter of recommendation gave Jean MachA a chance to lead an honest life. His future might yet have been happy. A new name, an honest trade, would forever have disguised the escaped galley-slave of Brest, so that henceforth he would be unrecognizable. Touched and subdued by the priest's words and manner, Jean Machii had promised, and even made an effort to keep his word. He had gone to the manufactory, the proprietor of which had received him on the recommendation of the priest. But a robber whom he met, and whom he had knov n in other times, recognized him, deprived him of his savings, and threatened to denounce him, if he did not supply all his wants. In despair Jean Machd fled from thv place, lest his real name might become known. Still weak *rom his wounds he remained irresolute, and at the close of day sat on the edge of a ditch by the roadside, asking himself what he was to do. Better throw himself at once into the furnace, and go to Paris. Once there his first visit was to Methusalem. The latter received him with the honor due to a man who had escaped the galleys, and brought him into con- tact with some of the most rioted thieves. Thenceforth his crimes changed, not in their nature, but in the man- ner of perpetration. Mere murders seemed very paltry enterprises, and the stage-coach having been rendered ob- solete by the railroad, there was nothing to be done in that line, and so they sought some new path to re- nown. Theft arose to the dignity of a profession, a society regularly commanded. Its members were care- fully organized, recrujted from every portion of the city; they despised no auxiliary, and sometimes burst in with the news that they had just gained at one haul a band, lieutenants and captain, all ready to obey that scrupu- lously respected hierarchy. THE BAkKICADES OF DEATH. m ,d he stopped there. A fean Machd a chance to e might yet have been St trade, would forever ;y-slave of Brest, so that jnizable. Touched and .nd manner, Jean Machfl I effort to keep his word. :tory, the proprietor of recommendation of the met, and whom he had id him, deprived him of denounce him, if he did despair Jean MachQ fled ne might become known, remained irresolute, and edge of a ditch by the he was to do. Better furnace, and go to Paris. Methusalem. the honor due to a man id brought him into con- id thieves. Thenceforth r nature, but in the man- rders seemed very paltry having been rendered ob- «ras nothing to be done It some new path to r«- gnity of a profession, a Its members were care- every portion of the city; sometimes burst in with ined at one haul a band, ady to obey that scrupu- Jean Machil was enrolled in a company composed of the most heterogeneous elements. He had under his orders classical scholars, clerks of government ministers, who, beginning by stealing paper and pens from the desk, had reached to this refinement of villainy. Machfl had first met Fleur d'Echafaud at Methusalem's table, for the Fension Bourgeoise was the resort of all who were in- volved in dangerous enterprises. It was Marc Mauduit who had planned the Pomereul robbery, on account of the perfect facilities afforded him for knowing the house by his office of secretary. Ah, what a night that was ! The scenes of his double crime came before his wandering mind like the various acts of a drama. They go in, Fleur d'Echafaud and himself. The door of the safe is open, displaying piles of banknotes. While they are busy ertiptying it a man comes in. He must be killed. In a moment Jean Machfl's fingers are on the old man's throat, a brute, a senseless being, interferes; he falls, stricken by Fleur d'Echa- faud's dagger. The murderers fly in haste, leaving the murdered man, already rigid in death, and the chim- panzee writhing in agony. As they go down the stairs a noise is heard, some one enters and comes up towards them. 'Tis the Abb^ Sulpice. The name seemed to bring back consciousneu. He found himself alone in that vast cemetery, transformed intt* a general grave, and the paths of which were strewn with ApaA. He bad just passed in review his whole life, a life of shame, of crime, of utter depravity and wicked- ness. Arvvund him was darkness, afar off through the gloom the red embers of the soldiers' bivouac. Jean Machfl recalled in one brief moment his father's dying words, the sound of the village bells, the exhortations of the Abb^ Pomereul on that night when the murderer, abusing the power given to the penitent by the religious '* 276 IDOLS. law, had sealed the lips of the son upon the murder of the father. Did Jean Machd really believe in the depths of his soul that there was no future life ? That future life in which the Abb6 Sulpice musi so firmly believe, or he would never have kept faithfully the secret of confession. In the wretch's soul one good thought found place. " If I could prove his brother's innocence," he thought. This idea took such complete possession of him that he cast about for any means of putting it into execution. But to accomplish this he would have to escape from the cemetery, and pass through the detachments of soldiers stationed at all points. " If I could change my clothes," thought Jean MachA. He slipped off his coat, bound his arm with his handker- chief, and began to grope in the darkness. He recog- nized by the touch the uniform of a soldier of the line. Slowly, very slowly, for his wounds were painful, and he was very weak, MachQ took the dead soldier's clothes. Still more slowly he hid his own; but when he had suc- ceeded m putting on the uniform, which he soiled by his touch, the cold sweat of exhaustion covered his brow, and he fell back, muttering, " I can never do it." He made another effort, however, and with indescriba- ble exertion managed to get upon his feet. By grasp- ing the marble railings, steps, or crosses, and pausing ever and anon to rest, he reached one of the alleys of the cemetery. A little farther on the light of a campfire guided him. His limbs failed, he sank down, but he crept along the ground, slowly, slowly, till he was near enough to cry out in a faint voice. A soldier heard him, hastened to his assistance, and brought him to the fire. Some drops of brandy revived him, but, from the pain of his wounds and terror at his situation, he fell into a sleep THE BARRICADES OF DEATH. vrr tn upon the murder of s in the depths of his e? That future life in »o firmly believe, or he the secret of confession, thought found place, innocence," he thought, possession of him that utting it into execution, uld have to escape from ;h the detachments of ," thought Jean MachA. s arm with his handker- e darkness. He recog- )f a soldier of the line, ids were painful, and he dead soldier's clothes, i; but when he had sue- 1, which he soiled by his stion covered his brow, ;er, and with indescriba- )on his feet. By grasp- er crosses, and pausing 1 one of the alleys of the the light of a campfire he sank down, but he slowly, till he was near e. A soldier heard him, irought him to the fire, im, but, from the pain of ition, he fell into a sleep so profound that it was almost like a trance. When he opened his eyes the friendly voices encouraged him. He turned away his face from those honest ones which were bending over him, and feebly articulated, "Comrades! Chauss6e d'Antin.' The Abb6 Pome- reul !" "I see," said one of the soldiers, "you want to be brought there ?" Mach0 made an affirmative sign. " Well, as the hospitals are all full, it is the best place j'.i you. The first litter will take you there." i;: a few mitiUiirt, jean Machu, laid upon a stretcher, and ^i) v^ieak that he wondered whether he should be able to carry out his plan, was being carried by two men to the Rue de la Chauss6e d'Antin. With a new feeling of shame he had' put his arm over his face, and as he passed many an honest citizen, be- lieving him to be a soldier of that heroic army, uncovered with respect. Sulpice, Xavier and Sabine were together in a room on the first floor of the house when the concierge ran up stairs qiitt^^ breathless to Baptiste, who brought the message to hiH master. " What do you want ?" said the Abb6 Pornereul. "They have brought a wounded man here," said he. " A wounded man ?" repeated the priest. "Yes, sir, a soldier !" said Baptiste. " So, Sabine, your work is not done," said he to his sister, adding to Baptir^te " Bring him here, till a bed can be got ready." Presently the litter-bearers carried their burden into what had been M. Pomereul's study. They withdrew at once, fully repaid for their pains by Sulpice, and the wounded man immediately raised himself to a sitting posture. Sabine and her two brothers were at his side; K«;9 PtW^MIMMv. 278 IDOLS. but all at once Sulpice turned deadly pale, while a strange fire came into tiie convict's eyes. " Here," he said, " they have brought me here. I re- member 'the place well. The open safe, the door by which he came in. And there, there, the spot where I killed him." "What is he saying ?" asked Xavier. " His mind is wandering," said the priest. " Leav^; ru- alou with him. I must save this soul. God owes u to me.' S said these words with such fervor that various explosions chased each other over the convict's face. " Yes," said he; " I came to bring it to you. I am con- quered.' Mademoiselle, give me writing materials, I beg of you. And you, sir," to Xavier, " stay. I want your pardon, too." Without knowing what it all meant, Sabme brought what he had asked, and knelt with them beside the dymg man. •»« ua The Abb6 Sulpice held him in his arms. Jean MachO wrote four lines in a scrawling hand, rendered |lmost illegible by weakness, and fell back exhausted. Sabine made a movement as if to raise him, and he gave her such a look of mingled shame, terror and gratitude that it went to her heart. " I have not signed it yet," he gasped. His fingers still held the pen. He traced some letters which were barely recognizable as the signature of Jean MachA. He motioned to Xavier to take the paper. The latter took it mechanically, but at one glance his face lit up with joy, and he fell at his brother's feet, saying, " Pardon me, that I could not rise to your heights." Sulpice hastily pressed his brother's hand, and turned to devote his whole attention to the dying convict He held the crucifix to the cold lips, saying, THE BARRICADES OF DEATH. •79 deadly pale, while a :'s eyes. irought me here. I re- pen safe, the door by there, the spot where I avier. the priest. " Leav; r jt- s soul. God owes u to juch fervor that various er the convict's face. ig it to you. I am con- writing materials, I beg jr, " stay. I want your meant, Sabine brought h them beside the dying his arms. Jean Machil hand, rendered almost ack exhausted. Sabine ;e him, and he gave her srror and gratitude that gasped. He traced some letters as the signature of Jean ■ to take the paper. The It one glance his face lit •other's feet, saying, rise to your heights." other's hand, and turned the dying convict He , saying, " Die in peace, in the name of the God who died to save the world. Die in peace, and may the shedding of your blood suffice to wash away your sins." " No, not mine," cried Jean MachA, with sudden energy. " My whole life has been a long course of wickedness. My death cannot expiate such a life. Even you bear on your forehead a scar caused by me. Oh, why do you not curse me ?" " But remember the heroic actions of this day," said Sulpice. "Oh, I pardon you what is past from my heart." " But your father, your father ?" gasped the felon. " The elect of God are merciful," said Sulpice. " Your brother and sister ?" "We are Christians," said Sulpice. With admirable patience, sublime cHarity and fervor, the abb6 gradually calmed the convict's terrors. He took in his priestly hands that soul covered with so many sins and washed it in the Blood of the Lamb. By that miracle of inestimable power which is operated in con- fession the sins of Jean Machd, scarlet though they were, were washed iway. His soul was filled with the pleni- tude of grace, conveyed by those solemn words falling from an apostle's lips. Surely the Lord had awaited that supreme moment to reward the sublime faith of Sulpice, for scarcely had the words of absolution fallen upon that sinful soul when Jean Machfl heaved a deep sigh and with that sigh passed away. 38o LIPP-LAPP, CHAPTER XVIII. m Lipp-Lapp. Many guests still came to Methusalem's tad/e d'hote in the Rue Git-le-Coeur, but these assemblies were quieter than of yore, the mirth was not so boisterous, and even the second-hand dealer himself had a shade of anxiety on his face. He got rid as quickly as possible of his merchandise, and the Naine often passed whole nights in removing the markings from line linen, upon which the embroidered coronet betrayed the source whence it had come. Moreover, a stove was placed in the Naine's kitchen, where Methusalem melted up silver, making ingots, of which he hastily disposed. Yet, far from diminishing, the number of his customers was con- ■ stantly on the increase. Methusalem was obliged to establish for their accommodation a dormitory or lodg- ing-room, as he had before established a table d'hote. Most of his customers preferred remaining in this wretched hole to taking furnished lodging^ which might compro- mise them. New arrests were being made every day. Methusalem's boarders were already well represented in the prisons of the Versaillists, and those who were still at large were by no means reassured as to their future. The most anxious of all was Fleur d'Echafaud. The rank he had held in the army of the Commune, his undeniable share in the murder of the hostages, in the sacking of the Legion of Honor and the Tuileries, in the burning of the Department of Finance and the houses of the Rue de Lille, made him prefer the tedious and obscure life of the Rue Git-le-Cceur to the more brilliant and noisy one he was wont to lead ?. [VIII. p. iethusalem's taMe ^hote these assemblies were 1 was not so boisterous, r himself had a shade of d as quickly as possible line often passed wholt gs from fine linen, upon et betrayed the source !r, a stove w;as placed in lusalem melted up silver, stily disposed. Yet, far >f his customers was con- lusalem was obliged to ion a dormitory or lodg- stablished a table d'hote. emaining in this wretched gs which might com pro- being made every day. ready well represented in and those who were still ssured as to their future. Fleur d'Echafaud. The y of the Commune, his rder of the hostages, in Honor and the Tuileries, irtment of Finance and lie, made him prefer the the Rue Git-le-Coeur to one he was wort to lead l^\^- W mfrmm>wmm':xmMisssmmam^^ .3*JWiWBW(W6!n8B5(*«.1?W/BPWW*'* «■■■ r I SI- IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I liA Ui& 12.2 M 12.0 ■IMU |l-25 1 1.4 1 1.6 ■SSBSSSSS InnSBn^^B ml^^^^E 6" HiolDgFaphic ScMioes Garporatioii *♦>. 4^ n wan MAIN STMI? wiMm,N.y usM (7U)t79'4SW %r CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHM/ICMH Collection de microfiches. LIPP-LAPP. 281 among a circle of which he was the oracle. His dress had undergone much the same transformation as his habits. Instead of the fashionable overcoat and cravat, he wore a blue blouse, open at the neck, show- ing the collar of the shirt and a bright-colored foulard loosely knotted. A black wig concealed his own pecu- liar shade of hair. With his cap jauntily set on one side, a cigar in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets, he looked like a young tradesman taking a holiday. Though it is true that every day was a holiday for him. Fleur d'Echafaud had also taken care to change his quarters. Methusalem's neighborhood seemed more de- sirable just then than the great thoroughfares. Before recommencing operations, he was waiting till the politi- cal situation should be once more clearly defined, till the law had done with the members of the Commune, and the crowd of hapless wretches who had followed in its bloody track. Moreover, be had never been so carefully watched and guarded by the Naine as since the moment when he had placed himself, so to say, at her discretion. Seeing her eager gaze so constantly fixed upon him, and she herself so solicitous for his comfort and welfare, Methusalem's guests were wont to indulge in many a rude jest, in which Fleur d'Echafaud himself took part. " Naine," said they, " you must marry the handsome Marc." "Yes," said the Naine one day, in a gloomy voice, "I will marry him, and in the church, too." " Then you believe in God ?" A hideous laugh distorted her face. "At the Abbey of Monte-a- Regret," she am tvered. But this time Fleur d'Echafaud did not laugh. A cold shudder passed t^irough him. What link bound him to the Naine? As far as his memory could reach, he remembered this deformed being seizing him in her I . a82 IDOLS. disproportioned arms and carrying him hither and thither with inconceivable rapidity. He could recall the booth of the mountebank who had trained him, so that he was qualified to gain a livelihood on the rope or the trapeze, with the permission of the Mayor. The Naine, how- ever, took him away and put him at a boarding-school, where she forbade him, under the most terrible penalties, to mention the profession he had followed for five years. Pride, however, would have suggested this precaution to Marc, even had the Naine never insisted upon it. When he finished school she seemed to abandon him, and he supposed she had left Paris. He found her again as ser- vant to Methusalem, but he was by that time in Methu- salem's gang, and an intimate associate of Jean Machii. " Can this wretch have some secret design ?" he said to himself, " and is she true ?" He could not answer, but a vague fear thenceforth took possession of him, and he resolved to quit.Methusa- lem's hospitable roof as soon as he could create a new identity for himself, and pass into a new state of being. The burning of the Hotel de Ville, by destroying all registers of birth, facilitated such a plan, and the day would come when Fleur d'Echafaud would go on this errand to the Abb6 Sulpice. His share of the hundred thousand francs, as well as the proceeds of the late pillage, had given Fleur d'Echafaud an income of six thousand francs. He could, therefore, choose between the peaceful life of a citizen, or the fluctuating career of an adventurer. It seemed to him safer to slip into an honest man's shoes. If later he chose to take part in such affairs, it would be on a grand scale. He would seek to ally himself with some industrial society, under the patronage of great names, he would speculate at the Bourse, become an unlicensed broker, and succeed at length, perhaps, in acquiring a large fortune. ig him hither and thither ! could recall the booth ned him, so that he was the rope or the trapeze, yor. The Naine, how- im at a boarding-school, 5 most terrible penalties, I followed for five years. rested this precaution to insisted upon it. When to abandon him, and he ; found her again as ser- i by that time in Methu- isociate of Jean Machfl. secret design ?" he said vague fear thenceforth esolved to quit^ethusa- 5 he could create a new ito a new state of being. Ville, by destroying all »ch a plan, and the day lafaud would go on this lis share of the hundred he proceeds of the late lafaud an income of six lerefore, choose between the fluctuating career of him safer to slip into an he chose to take part in grand scale. He would industrial society, under le would speculate at the broker, and succeed at large fortune. LIPP-LAPP. 283 But this fair picture, which he cherished by night and by day, had its dark and terrible reverse side. If there is a tenacious friendship it is that of the dishonest. They do not attach themselves to any one, they cling. They never allow one of their number to attain an envia- ble situation, except in the hope of future profit, ^hey become the leeches of those who, starting at the lowest peg, finally reach the highest step of the ladder. Easier is it to escape the searching gaze of a detective than the affectionate remembrance of a felon. The latter is ever the better physiognomist. Jean Machd's death had been a great relief to his former comrade. In dying, the convict, overcome by the Abb6 Sulpice's sublime generosity, had confessed his crime, and signed his last confession with expiring hand. Under those circumstances there had been little diffi- culty in restoring Xavier Pomereul's good name, and securing his liberty. Fleur d'Echafaud was therefore easy on that score. Jean Machfl dead, the secret of the robbery and murder of the Chaussee d'Antin was safe. Some months passed. France was once more at peace, though the turmoil of politics prevented any great impetus from being given to trade. Every one was busy counting his losses, healing his wounds, mourning the departed, or calculating the decrease of his income through the rise of taxes or the losses sustained through war, incendiarism, and the Commune. The factory at Charenton still went on. It is true that upon the thresholds of the pretty homesteads built for his work- men by Antoine Pomereul was to be seen many a young mother wearing mourning, and holding her orphaned child in her arms. Touching sight! where the one had forgotten how to smile, and the other had not yet learned. There was, however, no want among these working ss^Ka^^^^^Ks^^^^s^^ss^^sr 2H IDOLS. people The widows received a pension, because their hus- bands had fallen in defence of their country. If France forgot these improvised soldiers, the Abb6 Sulpice re- membered the heroes of Champigny, Buzenval and Mon- tretout, and he paid their country's debt to them, with a generosity the more admirable that it was promptly and simply accomplished. The school took the children; apprentices, the labor of whom was always suited to their years, worked with ardor. Their main object was to please Sulpice, and in this they fully succeeded. Xavier definitely left the home in the Chauss^e d'Antin. The day after his sentence had been reversed and justice done him, he called his brother and sister. " I am saved," he said, " but my conscience is not so easily rehabilitated. It is proved that I did not kill my father, but my life was such as to give rise to the ac- cusation. I am only twenty-six, and have yet time to reform. It was a terrible lesson, but I will profit by it. My debts, which you so generously paid, Sulpice, must not come out of your inheritance, nor that of Sabine." "Xavier," said Sabine, reproachfully, "are you too proud to owe that to us ?" " No, my dear child," said he; " but I have some sense of justice, and a great deal of affection. Besides, you know what use I have hitherto made of money; it is better not to trust me with any more. I am only con- valescent as yet, and might have a relapse. Calculating everything— and you will see that I am a ready account- ant, Sulpice— I have left myself a capital of 30,000 francs, that is to say, an income of 1500. I am going to live on that." " You ?" cried Sulpice. " Why, it is impossible !" said Sabine. " But you do not take into account what I can earn," said Xavier, and turning to Sulpice he asked, jnsion, because theirhus- heir country. If France •s, the Abb6 Sulpice re- gny, Buzenval and Mon- try's debt to them, with le that it was promptly school took the children; n was always suited to Their main object was ey fully succeeded. : in the Chauss^e d'Antin. been reversed and justice and sister. my conscience is not so ed that I did not kill my s to give rise to the ac- ix, and have yet time to ,n, but I will profit by it. •ously paid, Sulpice, must ce, nor that of Sabine." roachfuily, "are you too e; " but I have some sense )f affection. Besides, you rto made of money; it is ny more. I am only con- ,ve a relapse. Calculating :hat I am a ready account- yself a capital of 30,000 me of 1500. I am going id Sabine. account what I can earn," ulpice he asked, LIPP-LAPP. 285 "What do you give your cashier?" " Six thousand francs." " Poor Dubois is dying, is he not ? Will you give me his place ?" " I cannot, my dear boy," said the Abb6 Pomereul. " Ah, I understand ! My past record." "God forbid that I should doubt your repentance," said the priest, in a voice of deep emotion; " but to fill that situation you must know book-keeping." " Is that all ?" asked Xavier. "Of course." "Then it is settled, for I know book-keeping," said Xavier. " How long have you known it?" "For nearly a year." " Who taught you ?" ^ ^ "Dubois himself," said Xavier; "and the poor old fellow almost cried with joy to see what progress I made," " That is wonderful," said Sabine. " There are many wonderful things accomplished by the same power," said Xavier; "and that power is the grace of God." " Well, w6ll !" said the Abbd Pomereul. " For the past year," said Xavier, " you have seen me going out every day, and have, no doubt, believed that I had returned to what I used to call my pleasures." " No, dear boy, no, never !" said the abb6. "I admit you had every reason to suspect me. My faults were so great that my conversion needed to be proved by facts. I promised you that I would give proof of it. One morning I went to Dubois's office. He was there with his daughter Louise, a pretty, gentle creature. They were both writing, the young girl at her father's dictation. Recognizing me, Dubois rose at 286 IDOLS. once, out of respect for the family of his master; bi.l he did not offer me his hand, as he would have done to you, Sulpice." .jr.,- " He hardly knows you, Xavier," said Sulpice. "The distinction, slight as it was, did not escape me, continued Xavier; "but it was just. I accepted it as such This man owed me neither esteem nor regard. Such as he esteem only the truly deserving, and though the unjust sentence which had sent me to prison was reversed, I was none the less the worthless and ungrate- ful son, who had opened his father's safe." "Why recall these painful memories?" said Sabine ^^^^I^have no right to forget them," said Xavier. "Your very kindness impresses them forever on my mind. " And Dubois ?" said Sulpice. "Dubois closed his books, and made a sign to his daughter. Louise was about to leave the room. I begged her to remain." " • Sir ' said I, addressing that living example of honor and honesty, 'might I ask why you require Mademoi- selle's services ? ' " The old man reddened. "'My sight is failing,' said he, 'and my strength declining. I have need of young eyes and ready hands. Louise helps me with the accounts.' "He paused a moment, and continued with touching dignity, ... u - t "'The Abb6 Pomereul is aware of this, sir; perhaps 1 should have given in my resignation, when I found my- self incapable of filling the office, which has been .imne for forty years. But I love this place, this factory. The workmen regar4 me almost as a^ father. However, sir, if you have any objection, speak.' 'With a man like you,' I said, ' it is better to be per- LIPP-LAPP. 287 lily of his master; but he would have done to ," said Sulpice. ras, did not escape me," just. I accepted it as her esteem nor regard. deserving, and though sent me to prison was worthless and ungrate- ler's safe." lemories?" said Sabine n," said Xavier. "Your rever on my mind." nd made a sign to his to leave the room. I living example of honor y you require Mademoi- i he, 'and my strength ig eyes and ready hands. ints.' continued with touching are of this, sir; perhaps I lation, when I found my- ice, which has been mine 5 place, this factory. The a father. However, sir, k.' lid, • it is better to be per- fectly frank. You are teaching Mademoiselle book- keeping, will you also teach me ? ' " ' You, sir!' said Dubois, rising in his amazement. " I gently forced him back into his chair, and went on. " ' My faults and misfortunes,' I said, ' have attained such publicity that I owe an equally public reparation to my own people and society at large. Repentance does not consist in words; it must be proved by deeds. I was an idler, I will learn to work; fond of dissipation, I will live with all possible regularity; I did nothing, I will now do good. Sulpice sowed the good seed, do you help me to foster it. Let me be your pupil, and while you teach me book-keeping, the heads of the dif- ferent departments will initiate me, each one into their several employments. I know Ihat the prodigal son will not find much favor with these hard-working men. But I will bear anything. A time will come when I shall reap the fruits of my perseverance, and when even the rudest workman will offer me his hand. Believe me, I shall value such a recompense.' " Dubois looked at me in silence, but I saw tears in his daughter's eyes. " I resumed. "'You loved my father, M. Dubois, so did I; spite of all my faults, I loved him dearly. His death made him even dearer to me. Yet though I have repented, I dare not yet pray beside his grave. I am sorry for my faults, but I have not yet expiated ther:. I shall only have a right to go there when I am abic X-, obey his last com- mand, and take control of the house he founded.' " Dubois was still silent. " * Oh,' cried I, ' will you refuse to help me ? Surely you cannot' ** He spoke then in a voice of deep emotion. 1 i :| 'MV^^m,::.- 288 IDOLS. " ' You appeal to my affection for your father, sir ; that suffices. When will you take your first lesson ? ' " ' Now,' I answered. " I was there for three hours. When I left his manner towards me no less than his words delighted me. I had not learned much yet, it is true, but I felt my heart grow light; at least I had spent my time well. The same day I got books, and began to study patiently yet ardently. Dubois was astonished at my progress. In a month he brought me to the workshop, where he had probably re- lated what had passed between us, for every face was friendly. They did not make any advances to me, but they did not repulse me. " Poor Dubois sank rapidly, and sometimes his daugh- ter gave me my lesson in his place. She explained things in a sweet grave voice, clearly and precisely. I never saw such serenity on any woman's face before." " Really!" said Sabine, with a mischievous smile. " You are malicious," said Xavier, smiling too. "Go on," said Sulpice; "do not heed her malice." « It is ever thus," she said to Sulpice; " they see, they hear, they love." " Where was I? " continued Xavier. " Well, a few days ago, when I went there, instead of finding M. Dubois in his office, I found Louise, who was looking very pale, and who said at once, 'Would you be so kind, sir, as to come up into my father's room? ' ** ' Certainly,' I answered. " I followed her trembling. " Poor Dubois was in bed. When he saw me he tried to raise himself, and held out his hand. My heart leaped for joy. I took his offered hand gratefully, for he had been the friend of my noble father. He saw my emo- tion. He asked me to sit down. " ' Come, come,' said he, * you are a true Pomereul. i.ipr-i.APK 289 r your father, sir ; that r first lesson ? ' iVhen I left his manner 5 delighted me. I had ut I felt my heart grow le well. The same day patiently yet ardently, gress. In a month he re he had probably re- us, for every face was y advances to me, but i sometimes his daugh- place. She explained early and precisely. I Oman's face before." nischievous smile, er, smiling too. t heed her malice." julpice; " they see, they ner. " Well, a few days I of finding M. Dubois ) was looking very pale, you be so kind, sir, as a?' iThen he saw me he tried hand. My heart leaped d gratefully, for he had then He saw my emo- u are a true Pomereul. Your conduct leaves me less regret now that I must go.' " ' But you must not go,* I said. " * They are calling me up there, sir,' he said, 'but my last labors have been successful. You know I was named the model cashier. My books are in order. My accounts ready. There are as few errors on the pages of my registers as faults upon my conscience. You now know as much as I do; you must henceforth take my place. ' " I heard a heart-rending sob. It was from Louise, whose face was hidden on her father's bed. "'Alone! I must leave her alone!' murmured the old man. "' No,' said I; ' Sabine will befriend her.' "Thanks, dear brother," said Sabine; "you anticipated me. " I stayed longer than usual that day at Charenton," resumed Xavier. " I did not sleep much all night, for I was weighing the great responsibility that I was about to assume. May I take Dubois's place, dear Sulpice ?" " Xavier," said the Abb6 Sulpice, " you do not know what consolation you give me. Ye», brother, with all my heart. Repair your faults, work, make new prog- ress every day, pray." " And love," said Sabine in a low voice. " Do not speak of that," said Xavier. " I am not worthy of such happiness yet." " To-morrow^," resumed Sulpice, " we will go together to Charenton. I want to install you myself in your new place." " And I to make an agreement with Louise," said Sa- bine. " Ever the best of sisters," said Xavier. " It is sweet to contribute to the happiness of others," said she mmm 290 IDOLS. *' Will you never think of your own ?" said he. Sabine shook her head. " My happiness was a dream, Xavier," she said. " He who should have kept the shrine and the figure it con- tained inviolate has offered sacrifice to false gods." " You are too severe, Sabine." " I am just." " But it was your rejection drove Benedict to despair." " One who does not know how to suffer," said she, " is not worthy to be happy. Besides, brother, the man whom I loved was the Christian artist, despising the easy success which is a disgrace to the chisel and a stain upon a character. The papers are loud in his praise just now, I know; he is doing a work which will give him a high place amongst our sculptors, ' Hylas and the Nymphs,' but a work which would make me blush. No, this devotee of pagan art is not the man from whom I accepted the statuette, to whom I gave my hand, and from whom I received a betrothal ring." There were tears in her eyes, though she spoke calmly and her face was pale. "You are suffering, Sabine," cried Xavier, "you are suffering." "Yes, I do not deny it," said she, "but I will be firm. God can console every sorrow, and will calm this as well. Virtue, Xavier, is often like the bitter draught given to the patient, the honey of sacrifice is at the bottom of the cup. I weep not so much for Benedict as for my old faith in him. I weep for the noble and dis- intecested man, who refused a dowry from my father; the good and honest man, who led a life of strict integ- rity and practical piety; the artist, who despised the approbation of the vulgar, and had Christ too clearly before his eyes to ever set up base idols in opposition." Xavier kissed his sister. •IT own ?" said he. fCavier," she said. " He 5 and the figure it con- lice to false gods." ve Benedict to despair." to suffer," said she, " is sides, brother, the man in artist, despising the :e to the chisel and a papers are loud in his loing a work which will t our sculptors, ' Hylas which would make me jan art is not the man itte, to whom I gave my I a betrothal ring." hough she spoke calmly cried Xavier, "you are she, "but I will be firm. , and will calm this as like the bitter draught :y of sacrifice is at the so much for Benedict as p for the noble and dis- dowry from my father; led a life of strict integ- irtist, who despised the had Christ too clearly ,se idols in opposition." LIPP-LAl'P. 391 " You are a noble girl," said he. " Do not pity me, Xavier," said she, " if I lose the world I will gain heaven; and we can each have our little martyrdom, though we do not bear, like Sulpice, the aureola upon our foreheads." Ne.\t day, according to promise, Sulpice accompanied Xavier and Sabine to Charenton. TI.ey went first to see Dubois. At sight of Sulpice his face lit up. " I wanted to see you, sir," he said. The priest sat down at the bedside, and the rest re- tired. While Sabine conversed in a low voice with Louise, Xavier regarded the two girls attentively. They formed a charming contrast. Sabine, fair, delicate, and slender; Louise, a perfect brunette. Louise was crying bitterly, and Sabine consoling her with many affectionate words. It was nearly an hour before Sulpice called them back to the sick-room. Dubois drew his daughter to his breast. " I am dying," said he," but the Lord in His mercy has granted me a last grace; He never forsakes those who put their trust in Him. You will not be alone in the world. The Pomereul family will adopt you. To them I leave you." Louise only answered by her tears. The father drew his daughter's face closer to his own, and whispered some words which the others did not hear. They seemed to disturb her, for she blushed and trembled. " It is my last wish," said her father. " Father, oh father !" cried she. " A sacred request," said he. Louise might have objected further, but her father took her hand from before her face, and said, " Promise, till I bless you." "I promise," said she, kissing the hand which was about to bless her. 292 IDOLS. Sabine stayed all night with Louise.. Sulpice went back with Xavier to Paris. The latter seemed greatly dejected; he hardly spoke to his brother, and Sulpice saw tears in his eyes. He did not ask the secret of this poignant regret, for did not Xavier know that it was the priest's mission to share all sufferings and console all pain ? Next day they went again to Charenton, and, hav- ing seen Dubois and Louise, Xavier was installed in his new position. Thenceforth he entered upon its duties. When Sulpice saw him through the glass doors of the office, surrounded by papers and books tipped with brass, writing busily and wholly absorbed in his work, he could not restrain an exclamation of joy. Xavier showed him the books. "What do you say to that writing," said he, " and my figures? I have made progress since I used to scrawl my morning notes." " Indeed you have," said Sulpice; " I am more than satisfttd with you," For a week Dubois struggled with that terrible con- queror Death. Not that he feared it, for he had lived well; but the earthly tenement still sought to retain its tenant, the soul. He died in his daughter's arms, press- ing the crucifix which Sulpice held to his lips. The news ov the honest cashier's death brought gen- eral grief to the factory. The workshops were closed, and the workmen all went to pray beside his mortal re- mains. Sulpice and Xavier paid the expenses of the funeral, and the faithful clerk was buried with the greatest honor. But besides the richness of the funeral draperies, there was a great concourse of people. When a stranger stopped, surprised at the display, to ask who was being buried, the Charenton men replied proudly: " An employ6 of the house of Pomereul." LIPP-LAPP. 293 Louise.. Sulpice went latter seemed greatly s brother, and Sulpice t ask the secret of this ;r know that it was the erings and console all to Charenton, and, hav- ier was installed in his ntered upon its duties, the glass doors of the id books tipped with absorbed in his work, mation of joy. Xavier ing," said he, " and my since I used to scrawl ice; "I am more than with that terrible con- red it, for he had lived ill sought to retain its daughter's arms, press- Id to his lips, er's death brought gen- workshops were closed, y beside his mortal re- paid the expenses of clerk was buried with es the richness of the eat concourse of people, rised at the display, to Charenton men replied Pomereul." Dubois had asked that a cross might be placed over his grave. So a cross rose among flowers upon his funeral mound. When the grave-digger had finished his dismal task, Louise drew near the monument, hold- ing two wreaths in her hand. She hung one upon an arm of the cross, and Xavier, seeing that she kept the other, said, "You are forgetting this one." "No," said she, "it is for our benefactor." And in fact the coachman had evidently received orders, for on leaving Charenton, instead oi going to- wards home, he drove to Montmartre. Xavier was silent, but his emotion was deep. He dared not ques- tion his brother, and Sabine, who had her arm about Louise, avoided meeting his eye. Never, since M. Pom- ereul's death, had Xavier accompanied them to the grave of the father whose life he had embittered. It seemed that Sulpice was now bringing him there, as if to say, "Repentance has effaced your faults. Be restored to your rights; in the name of our dead father, I pardon you." The carriage stopped at the gate of the cemetery. They all alighted. Louise would have fallen, but Xavier silently offered her his arm. It was. a melancholy autumn day, the dreariness of which was the more perceptible that it was among the first; the dead leaves crackled under foot, gray clouds scudded across the sky, driven by a chilly wind. The roses were all dead, and the late chrysanthemums reared their purple heads, already touched by the frost. Sulpice walked first, and Sabine and he were soon kneeling be- fore a marble tomb. A sort of awe kept Xavier back, but Sulpice, turning, said simply, " Come." And Louise, offering him the wreath, said, " Go." Xavier took it, raised it to his lips, and fell prostrate on . *!> . ^t 294 IDOLS. the marble slab, sobbing aloud. Through his sobs one word could be distinguished: " Pardon ! pardon !" Sulpice whispered to his sister, " Take Louise away, and leave me with Xavier." The young girl obeyed. And the two brothers remained alone in the vast ceme- tery, already overhung with shadows. Sulpice knelt beside Xavier, and said, " You have asked our father's pardon. Now ask par- don of God." " You wish — " said Xavier, bewildered. "That, prostrating yourself here in this place of mourning, you should arise purified from every stain." " But how can I ? I am not prepared," said Xavier. " To open your heart to the priest ?" said Sulpice. " To go to confession ? Why, your amendment of life for the past year and your present tears are preparation enough. The suffering soul is always well prepared to receive grace, salvation, mercy. And can I not assist you ? Can any other heart as well as mine console yours? My tears will be united with yours, and if the sacrifice of a life, the holocaust of a heart be necessary, I am a vol- untary victim, offering up the merits of a God to obtain mercy for you." What passed after that was known to God alone. The ardor of the apostle, the eloquence of the preacher, the piety of the priest, and the affection of a brother, all combined to soften and touch that still rebellious heart; and when the words of absolution had fallen on Xavier, Sulpice clasped his hands with indescribable joy. • Father," said he, "your lost son is found ; the dead has come to life." Tears of mingled joy and sorrow, the outpourings of a heart ennobled by its priestly office, the repentance, the firm purpose of amendment, and the sweetness of recon- LIPP-LAPP. 295 Through his sobs one Pardon ! pardon !" r, e me with Xavier." ed alone in the vast ceme- dows. .nd said, 1 pardon. Now ask par- jwildered. here in this place of ified from every stain." prepared," said Xavier. riest ?" said Sulpice. " To imendment of life for the s are preparation enough, well prepared to receive :an I not assist you ? Can ine console yours? My rs, and if the sacrifice of i)e necessary, I am a vol- aerits of a God to obtain cnown to God alone, eloquence of the preacher, affection of a brother, all hat still rebellious heart; ion had fallen on Xavier, indescribable joy. t son is found ; the dead rrow, the outpourings of ' office, the repentance, the id the sweetness of recon- ciliation with God, were all experienced by the two brothers; they knew the joy which God reserves for those who love Him. It grew dark, and Sulpice took his brother away. They hired a cab, and were soon speed- ing towards the Chauss6e d'Antin. As far up as the Rue de la Victoire, an immense crowd impeded the driver's progress. Carriages were all drawn up, and horses pawed the ground impatiently. Shouts of laughter, which seemed contagious, could be heard in the distance, and repeated through the crowd, with cries of: " He'll catch him." " No, he won't catch him." "Let us get out," said Xavier; "we may be kept an hour here, and we can make our way through the crowd." They paid the man his fare, and attempted to force a passage for themselves. But it was useless. They had to wait. They got on a few steps, when a sudden move- ment of the crowd thrust them back farther than ever. " What is it all about ?" asked Xavier of a spectator. "I hardly know, sir;^ but it's something about a monkey." "Just like Jocko, the monkey of Brazil," said a boy. "I saw that at the Ambigu for fifteen sous." " A monkey ?" repeated Xavier. " Just imagine, citizen," said the boy in a shrill voice, "about ten minutes ago this great devil of an ape was sitting upon a balcony, watching the passers-by with a melancholy face. He must belong to some people who have chic, for his dress, which would be a Mardi Gras for us, looks like the big pictures in the Louvre. There he lay, like the Pacha of Egypt, on silk cushions, looking about him. I was looking about, too, and seeing the ape, began to make faces at him, which he returned — an exchange of civilities. But all of a sudden he got on his 'X mmm 296 IDOLS. feet— I wouldn't say claws to a man of the woods so w dressed that la Belle Jardiniere has nothing to equal hi He leaned over the balcony and looked down, growli all the time to himself. I looked in the same directic and saw a fine young man in a blue blouse. He seem like a printer, for you see, citizen, I always think th printers — " " What next, what next ?" cried Xavier impatiently. "You are interested ? All right, I'll go on. The fi young man with the black hair and red foulard neckl was going along gayly, swinging a stick. I belie the monkeys are about tired of sticks ; they got t« much of them among the negroes." "Go on, go on !" cried Xavier excitedly. " Decidedly, I am a success. I must learn to reci the '/d. One creature alone "wnwtnsssKraiaiBJtSKWKt,;; , THE DWARF'S SECRET. 305 knew Inr whole m* lancholy story. Andr6 Nicois you were her munl'-rer !" Ti " Naine paused a moment, and went on: "One morning tfie body of Louise was found in the river; her dress had caught on a lnanrh, and her corpse was floating among the sedges. If you had seen her then, livid and ghastly, her eyes glassy, her lips purple, the sight would have touched even your brazen heart. But you had other things to think of. You were married to a rich heiress, and you were beginning to lay the foundation of your fortune." The Naine drew out a package of letters, tied with a black ribbon, from amongst the papers in her lap. " Here are your letters to Louise," she said. " Do you recognize them ?" " Yes," said the banker in a low voice. "Do what you like with them now," said the Naine; " the armful of proofs which I possess will be of no use after this." " But, my son ! my son !" cried the banker. " You did not know, perhaps," said the Naine, taking no heed of the banker's impatience, " that Louise had a sister. There is a story about the pretty daughter of a merchant, called Beauty, and a monster, who was called the Beast. In Louise's home lived, or rather vegetated, a shameful, hideous creature, a spectacle of ugliness, a curse and an affliction, at sight of whom children cried. Her mother and sister bore with her patiently; but no one else loved her. " Now, this monstrous being took it into her head that, as men shunned her, she would spend her time among beasts, with whom she was more on an equality. She longed to have a farm stocked with all kinds of animals, and away off on the borders of a wood. As the city cast her off, she craved the desert 3o6 IDOLS. II " The day when Louise had been asked in marriage and believed herself loved by a rich man, she led this monster into the little garden, and, taking both her ugly hands in hev own soft white ones, said, " ' Rose," for the dwarf was named Rose, * I am very happy. I am going to marry Andr6 Nicois. Do not shake your head, he has given me this engagement ring. Now, you have often admired the farm of the Huchettes. Well, that will be my wedding present. You will live there quietly, well off, and I hope as happy as you can be in this world.' " Rose threw her arms around her sister's neck, over- come with joy. How deeply was she interested in this marriage; with what eager curiosity did she question Louise thereupon ! No doubt she was glad of b«ir sister's good fortune; but Rose had a selfish, evil side to her character, engendered by the contempt, unkindness, and aversion of every one. " The monster, from whom her own mother sometimes turned away in disgust, had henceforth only one thought: " • My sister's marriage will make me rich in my turn.* « Every day she went to the farm, and, standing outside the paling, calculated the extent of the fields, counted on her fingers the number of trees; and, seating herself joy- ously on the ground, fixed her eyes on the blue slates of the roof as they glittered in ; .le sunlight, repeating like a clock, tick-tack, tick-tack, the words that expressed ill her hopes: " ' The Huchettes will be mine.' " This was a wild ambitious dream that haunted the half-demented brain of the Beast^who bore the name of Christian and kept a woman's heart under her hideous covering. She could not sleep at night, and when her eyes were closed she saw a great flower-strewn field, with the farm standing in the middle of it, and great meadows and running brooks. How she questioned THE dwarf's secret. 307 )een asked in marriage r a rich man, she led en, and, taking both her e ones, said, named Rose, * I am very Andr6 Nicois. Do not le this engagement ring, e farm of the Huchettes. present. You will live pe as happy as you can i her sister's neck, over- as she interested in this riosity did she question de was glad of her sister's L selfish, evil side to her ontempt, unkindness, and ;r own mother sometimes ceforth only one thought: lake me rich in my turn.' irm, and, standing outside t of the fields, counted on ; and, seating herself joy- eyes on the blue slates of le sunlight, repeating like : words that expressed ^11 will be mine.* ; dream that haunted the ast,^ who bore the name of heart under her hideous p at night, and when her great flower-strewn field, e middle of it, and great :s. How she questioned Louise: 'What did your lover say yesterday? Is the marriage day fixed ? Why not confide ail to your mother, and get your certificate of baptism ?' " ' He wants me to wait awhile, answered Louise sub- missively, ' so I wait.' " The Naine sought out another paper from her lap, and placed a printed announcement of marriage on the desk before the banker. Then she went on; " So Louise waited till Andre Nicois, who had promised to marry her in the village church, became the husband of Mdlle. Dupernois. When she ceased to wait, she very soon ceased to live. You have the announcement of your marriage there; here is the report of the policeman, testifying to having found Louise's body in the river." Andr6 Nicois crumpled the two papers in his hand, and remained a moment with his eyes closed, overcome by these memories. When he opened them, the Naine was standing in front of him, watching him with the ferocity of a wild beast. " You are Rose !" exclaimed he. "Yes," said she, "Rose, the sister of the dead girl, whose fate I swore to avenge, avenging myself at the same time." ♦What had I done to you?" said Nicois; "I never even saw you." " What had you done to me ?" she screamed. " Do you forget my dreams of fortune, my farm, the future Louise meant to make for me, if you had kept your promise ? I do not pretend to be more loving than I am. I was sorry for Louise, because she was always kind and sym- pathizing, but I was more sorry for the fortune of which you had robbed me. My double sorrow filled me with rage and hatred against you. My rage was that of a beast deprived of its prey. For months I was half crazed, going from the Huchettes to the river, and from 3o8 IDOLS. the river to the cemetery. Sometimes I wept for my sister, oftener yet I cast about for means of revenge. I thought of taking an axe or a stick and killing you, some dark night, at the street corner. But I remembered that your sufferings then would be too short, and I sought another means. Dying would be only one struggle, a little blood spilt, and that's all. Louise had only suffered for a short time, but I was never, never to realize my hopes- Beings like me, deformed in mind and body, are slow and sluggish. At last, one day I heard you re- quired a nurse. I knew you had a child. My vengeance was at hand. That day I uttered shrieks of joy and danced like a madwoman. At last I could punish you; at last avenge my sister on your wife and child." ^ "I see it all! I see it all!" cried the banker. " The Beast became as cunning as a fox. She gained every approach to your house. She flattered the ser- vants, and made them believe she could tell their fortunes from their palms. She made friends with the dog by bringing bones to his kennel. She did not hurry. Her work was like that of the snail. She pro- ceeded slowly but surely. You remember going to Austria?" " I remember. Oh! I remember," said the banker. « Your family was in Paris at the time. I watched your house, followed your child, spied upon the servants, and one day, taking advantage of a crowd of children who had collected to see some show in the Champs Elys6es, I carried off your son through the crowd, took him in my arms and ran. He laughed at first, thinking I was playing. When he began to cry, I brought him to my garret, took off his rich clothes, dressed him in rags, and started for the country. " I ran, ran, breathless and panting. The child, tired of crying, had fallen asleep. When he woke, we were THE DWARF S SECRET. 309 }metimes I wept for my For means of revenge. I tick and killing you, some But I remembered that s too short, and I sought be only one struggle, a Louise had only suffered ;ver, never to realize my led in mind and body, are one day I heard you re- id a child. My vengeance tered shrieks of joy and last I could punish you; ir wife and child." ied the banker, ling as a fox. She gained e. She flattered the ser- ve she could tell their (he made friends with the is kennel. She did not at of the snail. She pro- You remember going to nber," said the banker. t the time. I watched your led upon the servants, and a crowd of children who »w in the Champs Elys6es, h the crowd, took him in ed at first, thinking t was cry, I brought him to my thes, dressed him in rags, panting. The child, tired When he woke, we were far from the city. I left him with some peasants, and went home. They thought I had been taking a long walk, and did not question me as to my absence. Your wife, half Ciazed with sorrow, wrote to you, and you came back. You put up placards, offering a reward of 25,000 francs for the recovery of your son. I hesitated. With that amount I could purchase the Huchettes. But on reflection I saw that the event was too recent. Sus- picion would have turned upon me, and before pay- ing me the price I should have been questioned. I would have got months or years in prison for the return of your son. Besides, I not only wanted to enrich my- self, but to revenge my sister. So Marc never returned to you. I often wondered what I should do with him. It was impossible to leave him long where he was. But while I was in this state of uncertainty, an incident de- cided both our lives. A company of mountebanks passed through the country at the time of the Patronal Feast. They had a two-headed woman, the Northern Hercules, and a (Ivj- footed calf. Attracted by the spectacle, I mingled with the crowd outside the door. "'Come in gratis,' said the two-headed woman; * among professional people — ' " I went in, and as the spectacle was about ending, the clown made a sign to me from behind the curtain of the booth: " ' The manager wants to speak to you,' said he. "•What for?* said I. - " ' He wants you to make an engagement with him.' " I did not quite understand what he meant, but I followed the clown. " The manager, a big, red-faced, coarse-looking man, looked at me and laughed, showing every tooth in his head. " ' Upon my word/ said he, ' I haven't one like you in 310 IDOLS. my whole collection. What will you take by the year to exhibit yourself at fairs ? Your picture will be on the placards, and you will rank with foreign artists.* " • What will I take ? ' stammered I. " * Yes. A hundred francs a year,' continued Guigolfo. ' costume supplied, expenses paid, food fit for a princess, and brandy at discretion.' " ' That will answer,' said I, enchanted with the pros- pect. ' But the child ? ' " * You have a child ? ' he asked. " ' There is one that must go with me,' said I. "'What age?' " ' Three years.' ♦• ' Pretty, easy to train ? * *' ' Fair, rosy, and slender.' " ♦ Twenty francs a year for the child, and we will sign an agreement for four years.' " ' When do you leave ? ' "'To-night' " ' Where will you be to-morrow?' "'AtMelun.' "'Wait for me there, and I will bring the child.' " I shook hands upon it with Guigolfo and ran home. At dawn I set out; a neighbor wrote a line for me to my parents, telling them I was going, but not saying where. At the Mayor's office I asked in your name for Marc's certificate of baptism. Such documents are free to the public. I got it without any diflSculty. That evening I set out f r Melun, and in the middle of the night came up with the showman's wagons. The barking of dogs, squealing of monkeys, and crying of an infant greeted me. The manager opened the wagon -door and let me in. The child and myself were given a mattress, and I slept till morning. The two-headed woman un- dressed the child, felt his limbs to see if they were wmtm THE dwarf's secret. 3»» I you take by the year nr picture will be on the foreign artists.' ■ed I. ;ar,' continued Guigolfo. 1, food fit for a princess, nchanted with the pros- 1. «rith me,' said I. e child, and we will sign >w?' ill bring the child.' Guigolfo and ran home. ' wrote a line for me to i going, but not saying I asked in your name 1. Such documents are lOut any difficulty. That nd in the middle of the I's wagons. The barking and crying of an infant ned the wagon -door and If were given a mattress, two-headed woman un- ibs to see if they were supple, and throwing him like a ball to the Northern Hercules, said, " ' Good for training! ' " I signed the agreement for both of us with the man- ager." "Wretch! wretch," cried Andr6 Nicois. . " At length I was avenged," said she; " every day my hatred was being gratified. I saw that child upon whom you had lavished every care and tenderness beaten and starved. He seemed to regard me with the greatest horror. Sometimes he stretched out his little arms, cry- ing, ' Mamma! mamma! ' and I struck him, saying, " ' I am your mother.' " But he turned from me in horror, and covered his face with his hands." The Naine paused a moment to enjoy the banker's horror and despair, then went on: " The physical sufferings of the child were nothing to the moral harm done him. When they bruised his body they poisoned his mind, filling it with precocious wicked- ness. His rosy lips repeated blasphemies, and his childish speech was a tissue of horrors. One day I had some thoughts of sending him back to you. The Northern Hercules asked me to be his wife. It was a temptation. I might have had some taste of happiness. But the Hercules would not have your son. Common- sense, however, forbade me to accept this man, who would no doubt have soon begun to treat me cruelly. The end oi our agreement came. I had saved. I had learned many lucrative trades in my travels. I re- fused to remain in the troupe. I went to Paris, where I was to find the completion of my revenge. I discovered your address. I found that the misery of having lost your child had estranged you from your wife. She no longer loved you; your affection for her was more 111 I 312 IDOLS. in appearance than in reality: you had only one idol, gold; one desire, gold; one love, gold — always gold. " Men spoke of your operations at the Bourse, and envied your happiness. I knew better, and I never envied you. I placed Marc at a modest boarding-school, commanding him to be silent as to the past. Fear or pride made him discreet, and, more wonderful still, he studied. His progress was rapid. I paid his expenses, at first out of my savings, then with my wages." " You repented then ?" said the banker. " I repent ? You shall see. I left the necessary money with the schooliiiaster for Marc, and disappeared. I would have wished him to forget me; it would have better suited my plans. At eighteen he had a depraved, perverse, thoroughly evil nature. As a child he had not been innocent; as a man he was utterly had. At the age when most young men know little of life he was hardened in evil. He was hypocrite enough to disguise his wickedness, and self-controlled enough to await the time for its full enjoyment. He played a double role in the world: an honest man by day, he was a thief by night. For the rest, being a pretty, well-dressed boy, paying large sums to his tailor, perfuming his hair, and using rice-powder like a woman, with manners by turns insolent or fawning^ he succeeded in obtaining a situa- tion in an honorable house." "Ah!" said the banker with a sort of relief. " Do you know the Rue Git-le-Cceur?" said the Naine. " I believe it is somewhere near the Prefecture," said the banker mechanically. " Exactly," said the woman. " I do not think you make many purchases there; for you oftener buy diamonds from Falize than old iron from Methusalem. However, if you had done him the honor of going into his shop, you would have found me there, scrubbing the floors or THE DWARFS SECRET. 313 : you had only one idol, re, gold — always gold, tions at the Bourse, and lew better, and I never 1 modest boarding-school, t as to the past. Fear or , more wonderful still, he f)id. I paid his expenses, with my wages." the banker. :. I left the necessary or Marc, and disappeared, forget me; it would have fhteen he had a depraved, 'e. As a child he had not ras utterly bad. At the now little of life he was ocrite enough to disguise tiled enough to await the [e played a double role in f day, he was a thief by pretty, well-dressed boy, ', perfuming his hair, and m, with manners by turns ded in obtaining a situa- i sort of relief. le-CcEur?" said the Naine. lear the Prefecture," said " I do not think you make >u oftener buy diamonds Methusalem. However, if f going into his shop, you scrubbing the floors or taking the markings from linen when I was not cooking. Methusalem is a jack-of-all-trades. He makes money out of everything — thefts, frauds, ial>/c d'hdte, and lodg- ing-rooms. I saw your little Marc, then a fine youth of eighteen, come in one day to this table. He was ap- parently the intimate associate of a thief." " My God! my God!" cried the banker, burying his face in his hands. " Up to this time, bad as he was, he had committed no actual crime. He had gone through the police courts, but had not yet come to the convict-prison. He, how- ever, promised so well in the gang he had now joined that Jean Machd gave him the name of Fleur d'Echa- faud, which he has ever since kept." "lam going mad!" said the banker, "I am going mad!" - " Not yet, Andr6 Nicois," said the Naine. " You had a friend, a good friend, M. Pomereul." " Yes, but I lost him by a cruel death," said he. " His son Xavier was accused of the crime, but was since released. Do you remember that the police, on making a report of the state of the room on the morn- ing after the murder, took from the fingers of Lipp- Lapp, the chimpanzee, a tuft of red hair ?" *' Well ?" gasped the banker. " They concluded then, and later on at the trial, that the murderer, Jean Machd, had an accomplice. But Jean MachA would not betray the man who had assisted him. Till yesterday the name of that accomplice was un- known." " And now — now ?" "M. Xavier, once at liberty, wanted to forget all about >t But there was one that did not forget. Lipp- Lapp, who was wounded by Machii's accomplice, remem- bered His face." fiS^^^sidiimf^Mi&mmiim^m i>4 IDOJ.S. Andre Nicois seemed unable longer to follow the Naine: his face grew purple; his eyes protruded. Hasten, Naine, or you will be powerless to touch him further. She threw every word in his face like so many blows. "Marc was Antoine Pomereul's secretary, and the information given by him first induced Machfl, alias Rat-de-Cave, to think of robbing the banker's safe. Sur- prised by the master and attacked by the beast, they killed the one and left the other for dead. No one sus- pected Marc. I knew, but I bided my time. I feared that I might not be able to prove my charge. The Commune came, and Marc took a bloody part in it I might have had him shot, but that seemed too easy a death Yesterday Marc was passing along the Chauss^e d'Antin, disguised so that no one could recognize him except Lipp-Lapp. With his wonderful instinct, the beast knew him, leaped into the street, pursued and caught him. M. Xavier also recognized him, and he was arrested for complicity in the robbery and murder of Antoine Pomereul." The banker fell out of his chair, stricken with apo- plexy. And the Naine ran downstairs, crying to the con- cierge, " A doctor, quick ! a doctor! Your master is dying." So saying, she disappeared down a neighboring alley- way, like a phantom vanishing i.ito the night. ms. <,iii«MmmiimmmmMa»i6M TUB. BROKEN IDOL. $n lie longer to follow the le; his eyes protruded. • powerless to touch him d in his face like so many real's secretary, and the rst induced Machd, alias ig the banker's safe. Sur- acked by the beast, they er for dead. No one sus- bided my time. I feared prove my charge. The ok a bloody part in it I [t that seemed too easy a assing along the Chauss^e one could recognize him ) wonderful instinct, the the street, pursued and recognized him, and he 1 the robbery and murder chair, stricken with apo- stairs, crying to the ton- ! Your master is dying." lown a neighboring alley* ; i.ito the night. CHAPTER XX. The Broken Idol. The smoking*room opening from Benedict Fougerais' studio presented a most animated appearance. A dozen or so young men had just risen from an abundant break- fast, the champagne whereof hud given them a twofold animation. They were in fact celebrating the sending a model to the government. It was the model of the fountain ordered from the sculptor, representing Hylas and the Nymphs. If the enthusiasm of Benedict's friends was somewhat exaggerated, it must be admitted that his work was worthy of all praise. From where the young men sat they could see, through the heavily curtained arch of the smoking-room, the group chiselled from a block of white Carrara marble, resting against a background of crim- son velvet. It was a classical work — a perfect representation of that severity of outline made modern by the perfection of form, of which Coysevox dreamed and Clodion re- vealed the secret Certainly it required little short of the highest genius to create that polished yet living group, breathing youth, glowing youth. Its author might well exclaim, " My place is won." Yes, won among those who crave success from wher- ever it comes. But changed as Benedict was, he could not look on his work without remorse. Near the group of Hylas was a statue of clay, almost ready to fall into 3i6 lUOLS. dust. Unfinished and covered with a veil of gray linen, it still attracted the gaze of the artist. It was a plan of a St. Cecilia begun from memory, "See, old fellow," said one of his companions, "you did well after all to take our advice. If it had not been for that famous supper at which we converted you to mythology, you would have gone back to the Middle Ages, as sure as you live. You would have gone on dream- ing, when there is scarcely one of the younger sculptors who can rival you. Dubois is spoiled by affectation, Carpaux is too impetuous. In a couple of years you will be at the head of the new school." "What success you will have at the Exposition!" said another. " You remember how they gave the medal to Hiolle for his cU bsical figure of Orion ? Why, you are sure of it." " I have just begun my series of articles on the Salon of 1873," said an art-critic, "and I will boldly proclaim ' Hylas and the Nymphs ' the work of the year. In all my visits to the studios of Paris I have seen nothing to approach this work." " It means fame, Benedict," said the poet Gildas. "And happiness," added a novelist. • To your health, Benedict! to Hylas! to the medal!" "Tha.iks, thanks, my friends!" said Benedict, pleased at their enthusiasm, " you give me confidence. One always distrusts himself on the eve of battle. While we are at work the fever of production sustains us; when we have finished we begin to judge what is done." " It will be the greatest success in ten years," cried a painter. " It will be called the triumph of Benedict." " It should be crowned," said Gildas. "Yes, it should be crowned," cried the others, and two of the young enthusiasts leaped out of the window and with a veil of gray linen, ! artist. It was a plan of ry. of his companions, " you vice. If it had not been ich we converted you to {one back to the Middle ould have gone on dream- of the younger sculptors s spoiled by affectation, [n a couple of years you chool." ;at the Exposition!" said r they gave the medal to if Orion ? Why, you are s of articles on the Salon d I will boldly proclaim work of the year. In all is I have seen nothing to said the poet Gildas. ovelist. to Hylas! to the medal!" .!" said Benedict, pleased Ive me confidence. One ! eve of battle. While we :tion sustains us; when we e what is done." ess in ten years," cried a h of Benedict." 1 Gildas. ' cried the others, and two ed out of the window aad THK llUOKliN IDOL. 317 brought in branches, which they deposited in the arms of the nymphs. A general hurrah and another bumper of champagne saluted this offering. But whilst Benedict strove to erter into the mood of his companions, there was a shadow on his brow. He blushed at it; it irritated him, and he strove to shake off by boisterous mirth this reflection of the grief which still gnawed at his heart; but he could not. He believed his success certain. His friends did not flatter him in predicting it. But when he looked at the nymphs, the smile upon their lips seemed to mock the pain at his heart. "Benedict," said a crayon artist, "will you come to the prison to-morrow ?" "What for?" said he. "I have seen the cell of Marie Antoinette and the chapel." " Oh, it is only to sge a prisoner." "Who?" " Why, that double-dyed villain, Marc Maudult, the accomplice of Jean Machfl, who had the honesty to con- fess his crime before he died." " And to save that unfortunate Xavier Pomereul," said another. "An illustrated journal," said the artist, " wants the portrait of this charming youth, who belonged to the Black Cap gang. By my word, I hobnobbed with him one night at the Bouflfes, when I was a little excited! But what, in heaven's name, are we coming to, if the most sedate-looking government clerks and the most prepos- sessing secretaries are ready to steal into our confidence and obtain at once our handkerchief, our friendship, and our watch ? They say he has not lost a whit of his cool- ness in prison. He is a curiosity." "I say, Paul," said a novelist, "if Benedict doesn't I SIS IDOLS. g„,l« me go In hi. pl«:.. I »an. a ch.r««r tor my %;TeL'r;tXpr/rwV .» compue Marc M.»duif» no.., and docum.ni. and n>.ke a large To" m. ou. of then,, entitled • Memo r,o. F..ur d Echa- taud • You will sell fifty tl-ousand copies, I »»«"; „ '■Beside., you will save your Imaginatto. « much, «,id Gildas; " the drama is complete. ::5:u'V^m's" .aid .h. po.t,"that rieurd'Echa. faud wU.4""; excllent family. Stole., by a «r. o laua oeion - „„ for hi. .ister's death, the of a mountebank, o.- something of that sort Over an above this education on the t.ght-rope she had h.m taught Latin and Greek to disgu.se ^im the more^ i this new skin he came out as you know, and will end as 'you "n foresee. It seems that thismonster of awoman revealed the whole thing to his parents. ,, "That explains Fleur d'Echafaud's attempt toescape :a.T.^XL " His family fur;.ished the means, and had not slipped in climbing a wall, he would have been °VL"ee it is as I said, a perfect drama," said "" "tmust have a talk with my P"^^;f -;^t''^^^^^^ the author; "in a fortnight it would bring in twenty thousand francs." asked the crayon artist. " Will you come, Benedict r asKca mc v.»j " No. no," said he, shuddering. Gildks tU an opportunity *« -^!f P^ 5° '»^^^^^^^^^^^^ . " Never speak of the Pomereul family before Benedict. The shadoof sadness on Benedict's face was deepe than before. ma lilHWmiMii THE HKOKEN IDOL. 3>9 want a character for my ,y made." ; way will be to compile ments and make a large Memoirs of Fleurd'Echa- and copies, I wager." imagination so much," pletc." oet, " that Fleur d'Echa- mily. Stolen by a sort of or his sister's death, the re in a circus or the booth J of that sort. Over and tight-rope she had him guise him the more. In ou know, and will end as t this monster of a woman 5 parents." afaud's attempt to escape, furv.ished the means, and I did the rest; if his foot wall, he would have been lid, a perfect drama," said ly publisher about it," said it would bring in twenty ?" asked the crayon artist. ing. f to whisper to the artist: eul family before Benedict." Benedict's face was deeper The young man, however, feeling that he was but a sorry host, made an effort, and rising, filled the glasses of pink crystal with champagne, saying cheerily, " Keep me company, boys. Let us drink once more to the future, to joy, fame, happiness, to all that can bring us forgetfulness, to all that will give us new life." Benedict drained the glass, at the very moment that a young man, coming to the door, stopped in surprise up- on the threshold. But the sculptor recognized him, and rushed forward eagerly seizing, him by both hands. "Xavier, old fellow!" he said cordially. Most of the company knew Pomereul, and greeted him warmly. They had often met him in the resorts most frequented by men of fashion, the theatre, club, race- course. A series of questions followed to which he found some difficulty in replying all at once: " What has become of you ?" " We never see you anywhere." " Are you going to run again ?" • " Have you been travelling ?" " Good heavens !" cried Xavier, " one at a time. My story will be a surprise to you." " All the better," said the journalist; " I am never sur- prised, only animated. You will give me »» new vein." " In the first place, my friends," said Xavier, " I paid my debts." " Paid your debts ?" said a painter. " Can you show your receipts ? "I understand," said the crayon artist; "he payed his creditors to establish a baiie of confidence for future operations." "No, you are out there," said Xavier, shaking his head. " Then explain yourself." "I paid my debts," said Xavier, "that I might owe nothing to the honest people who had trusted me. And what is still more astonishing is that after paying for 320 IDOLS. everything, furniture, horses, carriages, jewelry, I still had thirty thousand francs." ^^ " But your father left a great deal of money. " I include my share of what he left," said Xavicr. " I can tell you, money goes quick in that little flower- strewn path called Parisian life. We buy at exorbitant prices, we throw money about like princes, wc go mto all kinds of costly eccentricities, and then some mommg comes the crash, and the end of it is we ruin ourselves or our tradespeople. I rather preferred ruining my- self-" ,. u A " But what did you do with the thirty thousand francs ?" said one. , . v • " What would you have done with it ?" asked Xavier of the author. j * •* " I should have taken the train to Monaco, and spent it there in trying to make more." " And you ?" to the crayon artist. " I should have gone back for six months to the old life." "But after that?" "Afte? that I would have become a Chasseur d'Afrique." " Well, I am not of the same mind as either of you,^ said Xav'ier. " I made up my mind to live on my income." " Fifteen hundred francs a year ? Why, never !" " But I could earn something besides." " How ? You can do nothing, Xavier." " I could do nothing; I learned." "What?" " Book-keeping, and became cashier of our factory. " That's a good joke," cried a chorus of voices. "Do you think I am joking?" said Xavier to Bene diet. " No," said Benedict, in a voice of deep emotion. THE BROKEN IDOL. 321 carriages, jewelry, I still t deal of money." : he left," said Xavicr. " I ick in that little flower- e. We buy at exorbitant t like princes, wc go into s, and then some morning if it is we ruin ourselves er preferred ruining my- with the thirty thousand le with it ?" asked Xavier ain to Monaco, and spent it artist. . for six months to the old ive become a Chasseur e mind as either of you," nind to live on my income." year ? Why, never !" ng besides." ng, Xavier." rned." le cashier of our factory." d a chorus of voices. ng ?" said Xavier to Bene- 'oice of deep emotion. "Now see," said Xavier, his good-humored voice tinged with bitterness, " we generally say to ourselves and others, when we are throwing money right and left, that 'we are leading a jolly life.' But it is false. We do not get the worth of our money. We eat highly spiced food and drink wines that ruin our digestion. The doctors live at our expense. Our horses do not always come in first on the turf. The cards deceive us. We pass our nights talking nonsense or dealing out bits of pasteboard. The jewellers laugh at us. At thirty we have no fortune, no horses, no illusions. One chance remains to ua. Worn out and Mas/, we marry some young girl who does not understand us, and would despise us if she could know our past life. Too often even this is only a means of retrieving our fortunes, tliat we may pursue the same career. In a few months we begin to neglect our wife, and there is one more unhappy woman added to the long list For my part, I followed the example of those savages in some part of Oceanica. They have idols to whom no sacrifice is too costly. They load them with gifts, sending up ardent prayers all the while; but if it happens that the idols do not grant the desires of their worshippers, if they receive their offerings without repaying them in pleasure, martial glory, or happiness, the savages snatch, them from the altar, spit upon them, insult them, trample them under foot, and end by setting fire to them or throwing them into the sea. I have done likewise. My idols deceived me. I laughed them to scorn and broke them." " And are you happy now ?" said Benedict. " Perfectly," said Xavier. " I have sleep, health, good temper. I take an interest in a hundred things that I never knew the value of before. I was a worthless spendthrift, now I am good for something." "But who worked this mfracle?" 322 IDOLS. " My brother first," said Xavier gravely, « then a young girl." ^ " A young girl ?" " Yes; I did not tell you alL I am going to be mar- ried." "To an heiress?" . " No, to a poor orphan. I have nothing, yet she is satisfied." " What is her name ?" " A very obscure one— Louise Dubois. You do not know her. Her father, an honest and honorable man, was our cashier for forty years." Benedict wrung his friend's hand. The others, seeing that the breakfast was going to end in a serious conversation, took their leave, and Benedict, with beating heart, found himself alone with Xavier The young men had not seen each other for two years Benedict had fought all during the war. When peaf« was concluded, and Jean Machii's confession had exon erated Xavier, Sabine besought him not to go nea Benedict. His name always woke new sorrow in he breast. She knew that he had forgotten her, or wa trying to forget; that the talent she was once so prom of had been applied to lower uses. Through the paper she learned of Benedict's new success, and henceforth gulf opened between them. Loving him too much no to suffer, and too courageous not to struggle against he sorrow, she strove to conceal it from every one. Bt Xavier was not deceived by his sister's apparent sereniti and in spite of her request and his promise resolved t find out for himself if Benedict did not share in h< regret He knew it was so at the first word Bene diet spoke, and at the first glance he gave him. Tl very way in which he took his hands, the voice in whu h2 uttered his name, sufficed to show that Sabine's men wHtm ier gravely, " then a young L I am going to be mar- have nothing, yet she is lise Dubois. You do not onest and honorable man, s." i hand. breakfast was going to end i their leave, and Benedict, imself alone with Xavier. 1 each other for two years, ing the war. When peape :hd's confession had exon- ight him not to go near \ woke new sorrow in her had forgotten her, or was ent she was once so proud uses. Through the papers w success, and henceforth a Loving him too much not , not to struggle against her al it from every one. But is sister's apparent serenity, md his promise resolved to ledict did not share in her to at the first word Bcne- glance he gave him. The lis hands, the voice in which to show that Sabine's mem- THE BROKEN IDOL. 323 ory survived all else. Scarcely were they alone, when Benedict said in a voice of much emotion, " Why did you never come all this long time ?" " I knew you were busy and happy," said Xavier. " Happy !" repeated Benedict, shaking his head. " To-morrow is the opening of the Salon, and you are to exhibit your great work to the judges; but its success is already bruited abroad. Shall I be the only one who has not seen this marvel of modern art ?" Benedict pointed to the group. " Go and look at it," he sdid. Whilst Xavier was examining the fountain, Benedict threw himself upon a sofa and buried his head in his hands. Xavier stood a long time before the group. When he came back to his friend's side, he said simply, " It is really very fine, very fine." But he spoke without enthusiasm, and in a tone which betrayed some hidden emotion. " Tell me the truth," said Benedict all at once in a troubled voice. "I want to hear from your lips the truth, terrible though it be, perhaps fatal. I want to hear it, even though it puts the last touch to the ruin of my soul. Sabine does not love me ?" " She has g^iven you up, at all events," said Xavier. "She never loved me!" cried Benedict vehemently. " She sacrificed me to a mere nothing — ^a dream — some pride of her own." " I don't understand you," said Xavier. " Was it not pride that made her put an end to all that her father had arranged between us ? What did I ask , of her in that hour of sorrow and affliction except con- stancy and good faith ?" "Do you reproach her with the very excess of her generosity ?" said Xavier. mimmm^'- 3*4 IDOLS. *♦ She had no right to drive me "Yes," said Benedict, from her in her grief." ^^ " She did not want to bring dishonor upon you, said Xavier. « She has brought worse— ruin," said Benedict gloomily. " Ruin, when to-morrow you will be famous ?" •' Famous ! Ah, you. too, with that word on your lips !^ What is this fame to me ? To whom can I offer it ? Will any face grow joyful because of my triumph ? No; I have toiled, and they tell me I have succeeded; but I worked with pain and a sort of rage. I wanted fame to avenge me, and I sought it no matter where. Do you think I absolve myself, Xavier? No. To-morrow this statue will pass out of my keeping; in six months' time it will stand in open daylight, attracting crowds of sight- seers; this evil work will make me rich, but it cannot make me happy. Oh for the pure fame that I once sought for Sabine's sake ! Oh for the crowns I once of- fered, not to pagan deities, but to the Madonna ! ^ All is over. I chose this, and I cannot now draw back." Benedict rose and unveiled the rough cast of his St "Look at that clay figure," he said; "it would have been worthy of Sabine and of myself. I saw Sabine as beautiful as that the evening she sang the O Jtsu of Haydn, which she will never, never sing again for me.' Emofion choked his voice. He made a desperate struggle for composure, failed, sobbed aloud, and threw himself into Xavier's arms, saying, " Oh my brother, my brother !" Tears came into Xavier's eyes. " I can understand," said he. " I have been too weak myself to blame you. On the one hand the saint, on the oth-r the idol, and you prostrated yourself before the latter." mMmmmmmmmmmk. Iiad no right to drive me ishonor upon you," said /•said Benedict gloomily, will be famous ?" I that word on your lips !^ rhom can I offer it ? Will af my triumph ? No; I I have succeeded; but I rage. I wanted fame to matter where. Do you ? No. To-morrow this ping; in six months' time ttracting crowds of sight- : me rich, but it cannot B pure fame that I once for the crowns I once of- to the Madonna ! All is 3t now draw back." the rough cast of his St ' he said; "it would have myself. I saw Sabine as r she sang the O Jesu of never sing again for me." He made a desperate , sobbed aloud, and threw ring, r!" es. :. « I have been too weak : one hand the saint, on the trated yourself before the THE BROKEN IDOL. 325 " Xavier," cried Benedict, with the vehemence of deep g^ief, " can nothing soften Sabine — prayer, promise, re- pentance ?" " She could not come in here," said Xavier, pointing to the various groups and statues which adorned the room. " No, no, I know," said Benedict hastily. " But if i purified the sanctuary where she once promised to dwell, if I drove the idol from its temple and broke it with the same hammer that brought it out of nothing, would Sa- bine come ?" " What are you going to do ?" said Xavier, terrified to see that his friend had seized a heavy mallet. " I am waiting for your answer," said Benedict '* Shall my false glory and to-morrow's success be annihilated ? Better so, if I must purchase them at the price of re- morse and suffering." " But this is a work of genius," said Xavier. " You will regret what you did in a moment of excitement, and you will never forgive me or Sabine." " Would she come back ?" cried Benedict again. " Yes," answered Xavier. A terrible noise was heard in the studio. ' Benedict's hammer had destroyed the group from which an hour before he expected so much fame and happiness. "Hylas and the Nymphs" flew into bits, and Xavier stood by in consternation, wondering whether Benedict had gone mad or whether he was merely obeying the imperious voice of conscience. In a few moments naught remained of the fountain but the shapeless remnants strewing the studio floor. And beside them fell Ben- edict senseless. Xavier hastily called Beppo, laid Bene- dict on the sofa in the smoking-room, lowered the cur- tains separating it from the studio, threw the green branches offered to the nymphs at the feet of St. Ce- 336 IDOLS. cilia, and rushed out of the house. He jumped into a cab, gave an address, and said to the driver, " Take me there as quick as you can. I will pay you well." The carriage fairly flew. Xavier rushed up to his sister's room, threw a Spanish lace veil over her head, and, taking her arm in his, said, " Corde." " Where are you taking me ?" said she. " Come," he said in a voice at once tender and im> perious. Sabine obeyed mechanically. When the coach stopped at the Boulevard de Clichy, and Sabine, entering the court, saw from the appearance of the house that it was specially used by artists, she was disturbed. She timidly pressed Xavier's hand. " Where are you taking me ?" she asked. He did not answer, but drew her more quickly along. The door of the studio was ajar. Xavier opened it gently, and Sabine saw at once that it was Benedict's. She would b-ive run away, but Xavier ^aid, "Stay; if you go now it will not be pride, but treason; no longer virtue, but inconstancy." Picking up a fragfnent of the fountain, a charming head of a child, modelled with exquisite art, and which alone would have added to Fougerais' fame, he said, " This was part of the great work which was not fit for your eyes." " Oh," said Sabine, her face brightening. " Now," said the young man, opening the oiigan in the studio, " sit down and sing." " I sing ?" she said. " Yes, the O Jesu of Haydn." " Brother," she said, throwing her arms around his neck, " I understand." She took her place upon the stool, and, in a voice to THE BROKEN IDOL. 327 }use. He jumped into d to the driver, ou can. I will pay you avier rushed up to his lace veil over her head, "Corne." said she. at once tender and im> he Boulevard de Clichy, aw from the appearance illy used by artists, she ssed Xavier's hand, she asked. her more quickly along, ajar. Xavier opened it that it was Benedict's. Lavier^aid, ot be pride, but treason; le fountain, a charming exquisite art, and which j;erais' fame, he said, work which was not fit rightening. opening the oi^gan in the g her arms around his I stool, and, in a voice to which suppressed emotion lent a new power, she began that song the memory of which bad so haunted Benedict. Whilst Sabine's voice rang out through the room, Benedict, under the intelligent and affectionate care of Beppo, was slowly recovering consciousness. The strain of music seemed to exert a strange influence upon him, as if he wondered from what heavenly sphere came those sounds. Great tears rolled down his cheeks, but they were peaceful and painless tears; he clasped his hands, murmuring, " St. Cecilia." Feeble and tottering, he arose and advanced to the curtained arch, from which Beppo drew aside the par- Hire. Pale as Lazarus arisen from the dead, he leaned forward, looked, stood motionless, and at last cried out, « Sabine !" " See," cried Xavier, " your idol broken, the saint has returned." Sabine did not finish the hymn. The sculptor, still weak, seemed utterly overcome by conflicting emotions. But joy at length triumphed, and when he held Sabine's hand he seemed to revive. " Will you give it to me ?" he said. She blushed and turned away her head. " You must ask Sulpice," said she. " Though I have nothing now," said Benedict, " and moreover those fragments of marble have ruined me." Sabine looked at him and smiled. " Xavier," saH she, turning to her brother, "when an* you to marry Louise ?" *♦ Why do you ask ?" said Xavier. "Because— I thought— it seemed to me," said she, " that Sulpice might marry us both the same day." Three months later, in the chapel of the factory at Charenton, a young priest, whose forehead was marked by a scar, celebrated a nuptial mass, and blessed the 328 IDOLS. union of two young couples. The workmen, in Sunday clothes and with joyful faces, crowded the place, and when the newly married came out of the chapel, two young girls offered them beautiful bouquets of white flowers. There was a general shaking of hands and many a moistened eye. Sulpice's discourse on the oc- casion drew tears from most of his auditors, though few of them understood why he chose a Scripture text concerning idols, to whom men often sacrifice their souls. So well did the noble -hearted priest portray the sweet joys of sacrifice, the power of repentance offered at the foot of the cross, and the mysteries of persecution, martyrdom endured for justice's sake, that all hearts were thrilled with emotion. Just as the wedding party came out of the chapel, the nasal voice of Pomme d'Api reached their ears. He car- ried under his arm a bundle of illustrated papers, and cried out, " Buy the Dying Speech of Fleur d'Echafaud, and the account of his last moments. Only ten centimes, two rx ^us. TUB END. he workmen, in Sunday :rowded the place, and out of the chapel, two iful bouquets of white shaking of hands and :'s discourse on the oc- >f his auditors, though chose a Scripture text ;n often sacrifice their urted priest portray the ;r of repentance offered nysteries of persecution, >'s sake, that all hearts te out of the chapel, the hed their ears. He car- illustrated papers, and ur d'Echafaud, and the Only ten centimes, two ^Mi iBrii^aai