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 SAINT 
 MAGLOIR 
 
 ROLAND 
 
 dorgelEs 
 
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 SAINT MAGLOIRE
 
 Monsieur Dorgeles, the author of the famous 
 war book, Croix de Bois, won a deserved repu- 
 tation for bravery during the war, and in this 
 novel he shows a courage of another kind. 
 Magloire Dubourg, commonly known as Saint 
 Magloire, returns to his own country after 
 forty years spent as a lay missionary. His 
 reputation has preceded him, he is known as 
 a miracle worker and a mighty teacher, and 
 when he lands in France crowds immediately 
 flock to hear him. From this point onward 
 Mons. Dorgeles traces the progress of the saint 
 and its effect on contemporary French minds, 
 peasants and bourgeois, with a fine and im- 
 partial sincerity.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 by 
 
 ROLAND DORGELES 
 
 Translated by 
 PAULINE DE CHARY 
 
 NEW >ta|r YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 '1 
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 -3fC' 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 The Havas Agency reports : 
 
 Marseilles, May i8. This afternoon at 4 o'clock 
 St. Magloire set foot in France. 
 
 It was anticipated that the return of the well- 
 known traveller would attract vast numbers of spec- 
 tators, but no one foresaw that the event would 
 produce such a tumultuous demonstration. 
 
 The local papers had annoimced the time of his 
 arrival, and long before the "Plata" had made port 
 a huge crowd collected on the platform of the Har- 
 bour Station, and in the neighbouring streets. The 
 police, surprised by these unexpected throngs, promptly 
 threw a cordon round the landing stage. 
 
 Neither the Prefect nor the Bishop was represented : 
 but a number of priests and missionaries, who have 
 recently returned from Africa, were to be seen in the 
 crowd. 
 
 Directly the gangway was lowered, the onlookers 
 rushed to the landing stage, and burst right through 
 the cordon. For some moments there was pande- 
 monium. The men shouted and cheered St. Magloire, 
 while the women threw flowers and kisses. 
 
 The saint was soon recognised, thanks to a photo- 
 graph which had already made his features familiar. 
 The crowd wanted to carry him in triumph, but the 
 explorer, who has retained all his youthful strength 
 in spite of his sixty years, valiantly resisted the 
 attempt. Escorted by over five thousand people, he 
 had no easy task in reaching his hotel. Traffic had 
 to be held up all along the route, for the human wave 
 surged over the Quai La Joliette and the Rue de la 
 Republique.
 
 2 PROLOGUE 
 
 We noted one amusing detail : some over-ardent 
 admirers had refused to permit the EvangeUst of the 
 negroes to carry his own bag; and, when he reached 
 his destination, the bag could not be found. His 
 imscrupulous followers had probably shared its con- 
 tents as relics among themselves. 
 
 The crowd, in spite of the police reinforcements 
 which had been called to the spot, was only scattered 
 with great difhcult\^ The people massed in front of 
 the Hotel, and clamoured for the saint with such 
 insistence that he was at last obliged to appear on 
 the balcony and beg them to return to their homes. 
 
 We should have been glad to obtain a few minutes' 
 interview with the illustrious traveller and to ask 
 him the reason for his return to France after an exile 
 of forty years, also whether he was definitely aban- 
 doning his apostleship; but Magloire Dubourg would 
 see no one. 
 
 Towards the end of the afternoon he walked to 
 the church of St. Vincent de Paul, where he remained 
 in prayer for some time. On being recognised by 
 the public in the streets he met with an impassioned 
 demonstration. 
 
 We are assured that St. Magloire will leave to-night 
 for Paris.
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A WHITE house, half hidden by lime trees; a spacious 
 lawn that shone like varnish, with clumps of dwarf 
 rose-bushes, bordered with marigolds; lilacs here 
 and there; and, separating the house from the road, 
 a small park crossed by zig-zag walks : all of this 
 could be seen from outside through the bars of the 
 railings. The trees were alive with chirping nests, 
 and the invisible hose of a gardener sprayed the aii- 
 with its limpid murmur. The pillar of the entrance 
 bore the following inscription in Gothic characters, 
 engraved in the stone : 
 
 The King's Domain. 
 
 The Dubourgs spent the summer here from May 
 till October. Fran9ois Dubourg, the popular novelist, 
 had bought this property about fifteen years ago, 
 some little time before the war of 1914, out of the 
 proceeds of his first success and — ^whether from grati- 
 tude, superstition, or mere vaingloriousness — ^he had 
 christened the house after his serial. The King's 
 Domain." 
 
 The Barlincourt people when they talked of the 
 Dubourg's villa called it "The House of Happiness." 
 
 From the outside nothing could ever be heard but 
 laughter, the sound of games, mad scamperings over 
 the gravel paths, Yvonne's fragile voice singing at 
 the piano, and the clarion calls of the novelist, whose 
 mania it was to shout his orders to the servants 
 through the window of his study. He said he did 
 this "to keep his ideas in order." The habitation 
 itself breathed happiness : a fragrance that varied 
 at every step : the perfume of flowers in the garden, 
 
 3
 
 4 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 the smell of delicate cookery within, the iris-scented 
 linen in the bedrooms. 
 
 This afternoon Mme. Dubourg had placed her couch 
 in her favourite spot on the terrace which stretched 
 between the villa and the out-buildings, a village in 
 miniature, with the old lime tree, and the well with 
 its worn kerb. The air was hot as midsummer. 
 All was still, as though the slightest movement would 
 bring exhaustion. The refreshing hum of the hose 
 watering the lawn alone broke the stillness 
 
 Mme. Dubourg was hovering between wakefulness 
 and sleep. She had come to that exquisite moment 
 when under closed lids vague dreams glide to and 
 fro. Consciousness lies in abeyance; thoughts fade 
 as they come, like the vain circles that ripple the 
 surface of a pool. She knew her children were near; 
 her whole happiness lay within the railings of her 
 garden. Her son had already attempted to paint her 
 in this pose : an unconscious little smile upon her 
 lips, a dimple hidden in her cheek, her round arm 
 drooping. 
 
 Motionless, with half open eyes, she revelled in 
 her quiet happiness : a swallow flying overhead, 
 streaking through the air with its shrill cry, the silvery 
 swaying of a big tree, the gardener's rake stroking 
 caressingly over the gravel. . . . Nothing either 
 harsh or disturbing anywhere. Gradually she was 
 slipping into a doze, not even taking the trouble to 
 turn away her head from the speck of sun which 
 burned her cheek. Her reverie was growing evanes- 
 cent, conscious only of the blue soul of the sweet- 
 smelling lilac. 
 
 She felt herself dropping into sleep, but at the last 
 moment, with an effort, she pulled herself up with a 
 jerk, and sat erect on the couch. Yvonne at her 
 side was laughing. 
 
 "You were falling asleep." 
 
 Her mother glanced at her, and scolded laughingly. 
 
 "And you were letting me. Of course, you don't
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 5 
 
 mind my becoming fat, you don't mind having a 
 horrid, enormous mother. I simply must keep 
 awake, so give me my book. It has fallen into 
 the well." 
 
 The girl, without showing any surprise, stood up, 
 and bending over the kerb she picked up the book, 
 which was not even wet. It had been one of M. 
 Francois Dubourg's fancies to have this sham well 
 constructed on the terrace; in his opinion "it made a 
 good impression" and looked very rustic. 
 
 This same passion for rusticity had lured him on 
 to transform the porter's lodge — an unassuming little 
 hole which did not please him — into a sort of gabled 
 mansion of the worst Old Paris style. 
 
 The inhabitants of Barlincourt had grown used to 
 it by now : but at first they used to stare at the 
 mulUoned windows, the grinning gargoyles, the sham 
 beams, the rusty signboard which creaked in the 
 wind. M. Dubourg, wishing to add to the picturesque 
 appearance of the villa, had a sundial painted on the 
 front of the outbuildings. He had drawn the divisions 
 himself by the shadow of a rod fixed in the wall, 
 ignoring all details of meridian height, angular dis- 
 tances, and other gnomonical rules. It was a real 
 freak, this fantastic timepiece that told the time in 
 a way of its own and gave the lie to all the clocks in 
 the countryside. By dint of consulting it, however, 
 the Dubourgs had come to understand something of 
 its eccentric information, and the dial, after all, gave 
 them the time to within a quarter of an hour. As 
 for the novelist, the mere sight on the wall of the 
 lyrical motto that he had composed: "My hours are 
 bom and die with thee, O Sun Divine ! " was enough 
 to make him happy. 
 
 Consulting the sundial, cut in two by the shadow 
 of the needle, Mme. Dubourg exclaimed : 
 
 "What, past three! How the time flies! It is 
 perfectly dreadful. Run along quickly and tell AdMe 
 that your father is coming back from Paris by the
 
 6 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 six o'clock train, and that we'll dine a little earlier 
 than usual." 
 
 The girl went off towards the kitchen and Mme. 
 Dubourg began to read, absent-mindedly running 
 her paper-cutter through the loose curls of her hair. 
 
 Yvonne delivered her message to the cook, whom 
 she found shelling peas, and then skipped along to 
 her brother, who was painting in the poultry-yard. 
 
 "Will you have a game of tennis, Gerard?" she 
 asked across the wire-netting. 
 
 "Not just now, it is still too hot," answered the 
 young man, keeping his back turned to her. "Be- 
 sides, I want to iinish this first." 
 
 "You won't come? All right! Then I'll shoo 
 your models away." 
 
 And pushing open the door of the enclosure, she 
 ran in, clapping her hands, her skirts a-flutter in the 
 wind. At her approach there ensued a noisy stam- 
 pede of hens with flapping wings and geese with out- 
 stretched necks. Ducklings tumbled down, beak first, 
 imable to keep on their flat feet; rabbits fled towards 
 the hazels, carrying off a blade of grass to nibble on 
 the way. 
 
 Gerard, from his campstool, followed his sister with 
 his eyes. 
 
 " How clever of you ! Just wait till your next 
 piano-lesson; you'll hear some jazz-band, I promise 
 
 you." 
 
 But already, without listening to him, she had gone 
 into the hen-house to look for eggs. The young man 
 squeezed some red on to his palette, and with hght 
 touches went on with the painting of his turkey. 
 
 "The turkey," he said as he painted, "is the 
 'bourgeois' of the poultry-yard. He is proud of 
 looking different from the others, even if the only 
 difference is a goitre. The hen and the turkey are 
 certainly the stupidest animals of all. Don't you 
 thmk so?" 
 
 The man he was addressing sat near his easel, on
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 7 
 
 a tree stump : an oldish man, badly dressed, and 
 wearing a cap several sizes too large. He gazed in 
 front of him with watery eyes, and snivelled con- 
 tinually as he talked. The thick grey moustache, 
 that drooped over his mouth, swallowed half his 
 words. 
 
 "Why, sure enough, they are not clever; but 
 there, I don't know much about poultry, and as to 
 turkeys, I must say I don't know what they taste 
 like. ... It isn't a working man's food." 
 
 Gerard, busy in trying to find a certain coloiu- on 
 his palette, was silent for a moment. Then : 
 
 "Still, you can't complain. Counting what Mr. 
 Aubemon gives you, you can live decently. . . . 
 Lots of working men haven't got so much." 
 
 The man looked down at his old shoes : 
 
 "Well, of course, I don't want to run down 
 Aubemon; he treats me fair. Before he got so rich, 
 we used to work together at the same bench, him 
 and me, and we were pals. Still, that is no reason 
 why he should give me a pension. It was during the 
 war he made his pile. Some say it wasn't always 
 on the square, but that's no business of ours. Five 
 years ago, when I was all tied up in knots with rheu- 
 matics, he said to me at once : ' Don't you worry, 
 Mathieu. I'll see to it that you keep going.' And 
 
 so I live StiU, there it is : he has become 
 
 a boss and I am still a poor working man. You, 
 being a socialist, can understand." 
 
 The young man went on with his painting, scarcely 
 hstening, for he was used to Mathieu and his re- 
 criminations. After a while the old man added, for 
 caution's sake : 
 
 "I'm only saying all this, just because we're 
 talking about it, you know. But if some day Miss 
 Yvonne married young Aubernon, as folks are sajdng, 
 you won't repeat anything to the old man, will you? 
 He's got so terribly proud, it's making him down- 
 right wicked."
 
 8 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 "All right. You needn't be afraid." 
 The animals, having recovered from their fright, 
 had gone back to their various occupations. A puUet, 
 with what looked like strapped trousers, the feathers 
 reaching to its spurs, pecked away at the hair of a 
 kid that was lying on the ground. Geese were parad- 
 ing up and down in single file, limping and heavy of 
 rump. In front of an open hutch, rabbits, squatting 
 head to head, rubbed their malicious little noses 
 together, probably slandering the fowls. Others, not 
 really hungry, were eating just for something to do, 
 and from a distance one could see the tips of their 
 ears twitching. 
 
 Gerard was sketching them swiftly, catching their 
 outlines at a glance. Mathieu had got up and was 
 watching him. 
 
 "It really is funny," he said. "But to my mind 
 photography is more profitable, because it's quicker. 
 The other day, young Aubernon took my portrait, 
 and it's me to a T." 
 
 Two little bristling cocks were fighting. First 
 they stared at each other, then slowly bent their 
 heads, watching warily for their chance; then flew 
 furiously together, screeching and flapping their wings. 
 A goose, with her yellow beak wide open, looked on, 
 hissing angrily. 
 
 "All the same," the old man went on, "I call 
 them funny ways of making a living : you making 
 
 pictures, M. Dubourg writing stories Why, 
 
 I've just been reading The Red Bastard that the 
 Dumarchey girl lent me. You can't believe such 
 things as that really happen. There's no doubt but 
 it's exciting, .... only . . . ." 
 
 He stood, swaying back and forth, with his hands 
 in his pockets, lookmg for fine words to express his 
 thoughts. Then he concluded sententiously, raising 
 his heavy drunkard's eyes : 
 
 "Only these things they don't improve the minds 
 of the people, and that's a pity."
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 9 
 
 Gerard, busy with his work, did not reply. He 
 was painting furiously, puckering his forehead and 
 biting his lips. The workman had sat do-vn again, 
 his legs having quickly failed him. He quite enjoyed 
 being at the "King's Domain." Once Mr, Aubernon, 
 his old boss, had sent him to repair the lawn-mower, 
 and ever since then he turned up from time to time 
 to spend the afternoon there, offering to do all kinds 
 of odd jobs, locks that wanted seeing to or tools that 
 needed sharpening. Thus he often earned two or 
 three francs, and was always given a good glass of 
 wine. Besides this, he was glad to show Moucron, 
 whom he had hated ever since their school-days, that 
 the gentry took notice of him. 
 
 He began again after a few minutes' silence, "So it 
 seems that your famous uncle is coming back to 
 France after all. It was in the paper this morning." 
 
 Gerard shook his head. 
 
 "I don't believe it. This is at least the twentieth 
 time they have announced his arrival and up to now 
 it has never come true. If he had actually started 
 he would have let my father know." 
 
 The workman looked worried. 
 
 "TeU me," he said, "is he really and truly a 
 saint, like the ones in the calendar ? " 
 
 The absurd question brought a smile to the young 
 man's face. 
 
 "I reaUy don't know," he answered. "You 
 would have to ask the Pope about that." 
 
 Mathieu shook his head. 
 
 "WeU, well, wouldn't he be surprised to find a 
 nephew of his with ideas like yours ? " 
 
 The idle talk was beginning to bore Gerard Dubourg. 
 He liked to paint by himself, under the old twisted 
 apple trees in whose branches the hens roosted at 
 night. The park skirted the poultry yard, each gust 
 of wind bringing from it, with a mass of whirling 
 leaves, the strong and acrid fragrance of the firs. On 
 the other side of the wall lay the kitchen garden
 
 lo SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 where Louis, the cook's nephew, coiild be heard 
 whistling softly at his work. 
 
 "Well," said the painter, standing up, "that's 
 enough for to-day. The sun has moved and the light 
 is no longer good enough." 
 
 Someone probably recognised his voice, for a shout 
 came from across the wall : 
 
 " Good - afternoon, Mr. Gerard, how are things 
 with you?" 
 
 " Good - afternoon, Moucron," the young man 
 answered, as he folded up his easel. "Here I am, 
 with one of your best friends." 
 
 "Oh, I can guess who you mean," the voice 
 went on scornfully. "It's Mathieu, the old black- 
 guard, with you again Good afternoon, 
 
 Mathieu ! I know him, he'll jabber more than he'll 
 work." 
 
 The workman did not look as though he appreciated 
 the jest. 
 
 "So do I know him," he grumbled. "And I'd 
 rather be in the poor-house than have made my 
 money the way he has. They've got so much pride, 
 those peasants, they have so much land the}' don't 
 know what to do with it, and yet they go on pUing 
 up money. I can remember some rotten tricks he 
 
 played, in our young days Now see here, 
 
 we used to have a cask of wine tapped in front" of the 
 Town Hall every 14th July, 'for the poor' as they 
 say. Well, that scoundrel was always the first to 
 turn up at the cask, and even then he wouldn't 
 drink honestly from the cup. He must needs take 
 his wine away in quarts, said he'd rather drink it at 
 home. He would come back fifteen or twenty times 
 running, and he managed to store up enough for the 
 
 whole harvest time And do you know what 
 
 he did to save himself from being blackguarded 
 by the others? He'd pretend to be as drunk 
 as a lord, and he'd sing at the top of his 
 voice, and stagger about, but anyone coald tell
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE IT 
 
 you he was no more drunk than you or I arc 
 
 now. That's the kind of man he is If you 
 
 respect the Ukes of him, well, you're wrong, 
 that's aU." 
 
 Mathieu touched his cap, bade Gerard a curt 
 good-bye, and walked off, turning into the pantry on 
 his way. Gerard put his palette away and went into 
 the house. His sister was already waiting for him, 
 bouncing her tennis ball up and down on the terrace 
 with her wiry little hand. 
 
 "Ah ! There you are, at last Hurry 
 
 up, get your racket Mother, we are off. 
 
 We'll meet father at the station." 
 
 Just then, Mme. Dubourg, who was binding a twig 
 of honeysuckle to its stake, turned towards the garden 
 door which had slammed to, and gave a cry of sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "Why, there he is," she exclaimed, as she caught 
 sight of her husband at the other end of the path, 
 "Something must have happened." 
 
 She ran to meet him. M. Francois Dubourg was 
 moving quickly, wiping his forehead as he walked; 
 he carried his large grey felt hat in his hand. His 
 hair, which was beginning to turn grey, was long and 
 brushed back, and he wore a moustache turned up 
 at the ends and a pointed beard; but the mild ex- 
 pression that his thick glasses lent him destroyed 
 any pretensions to a martial appearance, and after 
 all he looked more like a photographer than a mus- 
 keteer. His usually smiling face was grave. His wife 
 understood at once. 
 
 "Your brother?" she questioned. 
 
 M. Dubourg gave her no direct answer. Including 
 her with the children, he sail : 
 
 "I have something to say to you." 
 
 AU three gazed at him, puzzled. The novelist laid 
 his hat on the kerb, planted his walking-stick in the 
 well, as though it were an umbrella-stand, and began 
 leisurely :
 
 12 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 "Your uncle, the Saint, will be here to- 
 night. ..." 
 
 Ever since their earliest childhood Yvonne and 
 Gerard could remember hearing about the Saint. 
 Either by force of habit, or from a somewhat childish 
 pride, M. Dubourg never caUed him anything but 
 "Your uncle the Saint," and not a single day went 
 by without reference to him. He was at once the 
 protector, the adviser and the bogey of the family; 
 and from the other side of the earth, invisible but 
 always present, it was his influence which had guided 
 these children, whose names he probably did not 
 even know. As babies, they used to be threatened 
 with : — 
 
 "Wait tiU your uncle the Saint comes 
 back" . . . 
 
 Later on, when they were old enough to under- 
 stand, the honour which this relationship conferred 
 was explained to them, and soon they, in turn, began 
 to entertain their pla^rfellows with tales of the ad- 
 ventures of their hero. 
 
 No one could have foreseen, forty years earlier, 
 that a day would come when Magloire Dubourg would 
 be the pride of his family, far less that he would 
 become a saint. At that time he was a child of few 
 words, energetic, extremely gentle, but subject to 
 sudden fits of passion which terrified his mother. He 
 went to church diligently, but never seemed to feel a 
 call to the religious life. What he wanted to do was 
 to live in the country and be a farmer on a large 
 scale; and with this end in view he studied for three 
 years at an agricultural college. He left it to do the 
 year of military service, due from the eldest son of a 
 widow. He then came back to Amberieu; but it 
 was evident that his soldiering had not made him 
 more lively or more talkative. On the contrary, he 
 was more reserved than ever. Among the people
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 13 
 
 about him, it was always supposed that he was going 
 to buy land, but he discussed his plans with no one, 
 not even with his mother. 
 
 One night, on her return home, Mme. Dubourg 
 found a letter from her son, bidding her faiewell ; 
 
 "I am leaving for the Colonies," he explained 
 without further details. "A true Christian caimot 
 rest as long as there exists in the world a single man 
 who does not believe in God. I am going to save 
 souls." 
 
 The first thought of the poor widow was that 
 Magloire had gone mad, the more so as he had left 
 with his letter a bundle of securities, amounting to 
 nearly the whole of his paternal inheritance, with 
 this inscription from the Gospel: "Thou shalt take 
 nothing with thee on the road." This money he 
 wished to have distributed among the poor 
 
 The police were hurriedly notified and inquiries set 
 afoot Some people declared they had seen young 
 Dubourg getting into a train with a forme* servant 
 girl from the "Golden Lion"; others told a tale of his 
 having been seen on the banks of the river Ain, and 
 presumed that he had been drowned. Apart from 
 his mother, nobody believed in this sudden vocation; 
 none of the Fathers of the Foreign Missions, neither 
 the Lazarists nor the White Fathers, had ever heard 
 of the young man. His name did not appear on the 
 passenger lists of the shipping companies, and the 
 magistrate came to the conclusion that he must be 
 hiding in Paris with some v/oman. However, as he 
 was of age and there was no charge to bring against 
 him, the police could not be set on his track. In the 
 end he would surely give some sign of life. 
 
 Years went by and still there was no news of him. 
 Everyone pitied Madame Dubourg for having such a 
 son, and the poor woman gradually lost the courage 
 to stand up for him when people spoke of him. 
 
 "He may be dead," she sighed, still trying to 
 find excuses for him. 
 
 B
 
 14 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 Moreover, it was Francois, the younger of her boys, 
 who had always been her favourite, and he, fortu- 
 nately, gave her nothing but satisfaction. He had 
 no sooner left college than he began to write, and his 
 name soon began to appear in the Paris papers. 
 
 "It is the most one could hope for," said her 
 friends, "that out of two sons only one should turn 
 out badly." 
 
 Francois Dubourg, when approached about his 
 brother, put on the air of importance which suited 
 his new role as the eldest son of a widow. 
 
 "I would never have believed Magloire capable 
 of such baseness. It is always safer to mistrust these 
 sUent natures. He had better not show his face 
 again here ! " he said. 
 
 Of course, the money of the prodigal son had not 
 been given to the poor as he had so definitely re- 
 quested. Mme. Dubourg had invested it in a first 
 mortgage which doubled her little income, and con- 
 sidered that she had wronged no one by doing so. 
 Besides, she had confided in her father confessor 
 about this, and he had given his approval. 
 
 Not until two years after his flight did Mme. 
 Dubourg receive the first letter from her son, bearing 
 the Konakry stamp. Magloire was wandering about 
 Guinea, living from hand to mouth, harassed by the 
 authorities. He did not complain of his lot, neither 
 did he talk of coming home. 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, don't tell anyone about 
 this," Fran9ois had urged his mother. "Remember, 
 he is living like a tramp; it would do me no end of 
 harm." 
 
 More letters had come at long intervals, sometimes 
 months, sometimes as much as a year. The countries 
 changed from time to time, but the vague phrases 
 he wrote were always the same. Since he wandered 
 from the Ivory Coast into the very heart of Africa, 
 with no fixed abode and no headquarters, it was not 
 even possible to answer his letters.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 15 
 
 "Let us forget all about him. He has gone 
 astray and is lost to us," the young author, who by 
 this time had given up poetry in favour of more 
 lucrative work, said at last, "he wiU certainly end up 
 in prison." 
 
 But seven or eight years after the disappearance 
 of Magloire Dubourg somebody showed his brother 
 a Belgian newspaper which was publishing letters 
 from Gaboon. 
 
 "Look, here is a reference to your brother." 
 
 The younger brother, uneasy, took the paper and 
 read, with cheeks that suddenly flushed scarlet. He 
 was prepared for the worst, but Uttle bj'^ Uttle the 
 strained expression of his face relaxed; the news after 
 all was not so bad. 
 
 The correspondent, an agent of a timber company, 
 wrote that in travelling through the forests of the 
 Crystal Mountains, where at that time there was 
 great unrest, he had come across a most peculiar 
 character, a sort of lay missionary, who was held in 
 great respect by the natives. This man roamed un- 
 tiringly through the forests and the chaotic mountains 
 of Omvan, always unarmed, tending the sick and 
 making peace between rival chiefs. It had been due 
 to him that a smaU census expedition, which had 
 been attacked as it entered the village of Nkassia, 
 had not been massacred. 
 
 When he read this carefully, Fran9ois Dubourg 
 declared : 
 
 "I am not surprised. To be sure, he is cracked, 
 but he has got pluck; he is a character." 
 
 From that day onward he no longer tried to change 
 the subject when questioned about his brother; he 
 spoke of him with a sort of chaffing regard and tender 
 commiseration. 
 
 "He is converting the niggers," he said, shrugging 
 his shoulders. 
 
 However, from time to time French papers seemed 
 interested in the strange explorer. This happened
 
 i6 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 for the first time in connection with a rising of native 
 tribes on the banks of the Pama. Magloire Dubourg 
 who had gone into the M'Poko country to save a few 
 white men imprisoned in a factory, had been cap- 
 tured by the rebel chief. The latter had bound him 
 and thrown him on an ant-hill with another prisoner, 
 a militiaman, to be eaten alive. A few hours later, 
 when the natives returned, nothing remained of the 
 militiaman but a skeleton still covered with swarming 
 ants; but Magloire Dubourg, spared by a miracle, 
 was found quietly resting a few steps away. 
 
 This fantastic adventure gave rise to the legend of 
 Magloire Dubourg. He was mentioned again in con- 
 nection with an expedition among the M'bi cannibals, 
 into whose hands some native v/omen had fallen who 
 had recently been converted by the Fathers; and yet 
 again when, during his tours on the banks of the Niari, 
 he collected for the Catholic Mission of Bouenza dozens 
 of small niggers whom he had rescued from the agents 
 of the slave traders. 
 
 Francois Dubourg, whose respect for his brother 
 had grown since the papers had begun to talk about 
 him, now had his name continually on his lips. He 
 carried "My brother Magloire" to the point of excess. 
 He awaited his letters with impatience, because he 
 wished to read them in public, and, when they were 
 worth it he published them in the papers, spinning 
 out the text at need and adding finishing touches. 
 
 At the time of the final fight again Samory, Magloire 
 Dubourg was in the Sudan. Alone as usual and un- 
 armed, he betook himself to Dabkala, the residence of 
 the black Napoleon, and before long he assumed a 
 strange ascendancy over the Mussulman. Rumour 
 had it that he spoke firmly, even brutally, to him. 
 He reproached him for his raids and his massacres; 
 and he had, by sheer threats, saved more than one 
 invested post and obtained the pardon of entire tribes 
 of Dkimini, whom the Sofas were about to destroy. 
 
 Giving up deliberately all hope of coming out alive.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 17 
 
 he remained at Samory's side as long as the war lasted, 
 the only white man among those fanatical blacks. In 
 the end he became profoundly attached to the wan- 
 dering emperor, who for six years retreated step by 
 ctep before the French troops, carrying aU his subjects 
 with him. When the hour of defeat struck for the 
 Almany, he followed him to Gabun, to that island of 
 Ogooue whei^e the black conqueror found his St. Helena. 
 During those two 3'ears, from 1896 to 1898, the fame of 
 Magloire Dubourg spread over the whole world. His 
 grim independence added still further to his renown. 
 This strange man, to whom his country owed so much, 
 would nevei consent to the official receptions arranged 
 for him by Governors; and Lt. Col. Bertin, who had 
 been ordered to convey to him the thanks of the 
 Government after the crushing of Samory, never suc- 
 teeded in reaching him. The Evangelist associated 
 with no one but the missionaries, who commonly talked 
 •jf him as "a saint"; and this name clung to him, for 
 only a sai?t could have led that sublime and vagrant 
 
 Already he was credited with more than one miracle : 
 ^idng people cured, a blind Sudanese singer whose 
 sight he had restored, his crossing of the Bandama 
 tiry-footed when pursued by the N'Denous, a hundred 
 improbable stories, invented, no doubt, by credulous 
 ?^egroes and spread by colonials whose brains were in- 
 flamed by fever, climate and alcohol. Finally a young 
 Coloiiial administrator, who had seen him seated on the 
 nanks of a river at the foot of a tree whose trunk was 
 toirered with phosphorescent mushrooms, came in a 
 great fright to Bingerville. He related how with his 
 «vwn eyes he had seen Magloire Dubourg, surrounded 
 by an immense halo so luminous that it lighted up 
 atery detail of his garments. This tale, when it 
 reached the papers, impressed the public more than all 
 the achievements of the Christian traveller. 
 
 Francois Dubourg was no longer embarrassed when 
 tne "apostle" was mentioned, far from it. One
 
 i8 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 exploit piled on another turned Magloire Dubourg into 
 9 legendary he:-o in the eyes of the crowd, a supermsji, 
 God's latest messenger; and the novelist began to 
 boast of the relationship of which he had been so long 
 ashamed. The existence of the widow Dubourg 
 henceforth centred in her love for the big son whom 
 she had lost; it was of him she thought in the morning 
 at Mass, it was almost to him that she prayed. 
 
 The poor woman died without being granted the 
 joy of seeing her child again. On the day of the 
 funeral, a small incident occurred which caused a pro- 
 found impression. A raven followed the procession 
 from the house to the cemetery, flying very low; and 
 during the service the bird perched on the roof of the- 
 church, as if waiting for the funeral train to come out. 
 
 "It is the Saint following his mother," the old 
 women whispered. 
 
 At the cemetery the raven hovered croaking above 
 the open grave and then resumed his unwieldy flight 
 towards the woods; leaving amongst those present, 
 even the least credulous of them, a queer impression 
 of distress. 
 
 The whole press reported this fact for its mere 
 strangeness, and Mme. Dubourg, who had just married 
 the young novelist, never forgot it. 
 
 The friend of the negroes returned to Gabun, 
 following Samory to the island where he was to die, 
 and soon afterwards resumed his apostleship among 
 the Pahouins. More conversions, more miracles fol- 
 lowed; and the Paris newspapers, when short of 
 exciting crimes wherewith to fill their columns, fell 
 back on Saint Magloire, since every mail brought 
 tidings of fresh feats. Francois began to realise that 
 he owed his rapid rise to fame as much to the repu- 
 tation of his brother as to the merits of his own novels. 
 
 The Vatican had instituted inquiries about this lay 
 missionary, whose noisy celebrity was giving rise to 
 uneasiness; but the Fathers of the Foreign Missions, 
 the only people who really knew the traveller,
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 19 
 
 honoured him as the worthiest of them all, and Rome 
 wasely contented itself with ignoring the wonder-worker. 
 Magloire Dubourg, who was already popular with the 
 natives of the colony, soon became more powerful in 
 the Gabun than all the tribal chiefs, and was better 
 obeyed than the Lieutenant-Governor himself. He 
 could wander in safety through the forests of 
 Mayombe; none but the wild beasts would have dared 
 attack him. The natives even declared that the 
 animals were afraid of him, and stories of many such 
 happenings were circulated. They had filled a whole 
 number of the Lectures pour Tous. 
 
 One day when Saint Magloire was landing at 
 Cotonou, his canoe capsized as it was crossing the 
 bar, and the Saint was seen struggling in the midst 
 of sharks whose furious taUs lashed the water. Yet 
 none had bitten him, and the Saint had climbed with- 
 out a scratch into the canoe which came to rescue 
 him. A similar adventure befell him with the alli- 
 gators of the Niari. In the Bateke Desert he was 
 surprised by a panther : the wild beast gazed at him, 
 submissive, as once the lions gazed at Daniel in the 
 den, and the Loango porters, when they came up with 
 him, killed it with their assegais. In the Lower 
 Likouala, he once encountered a heid of buffalo fleeing 
 before a bush fire. The massive brutes with their 
 short glossy horns rushed past him in an infernal 
 gallop, yet not one grazed him; the Evangelist was 
 safe among the denizens of the forest. 
 
 Wherever he settled down, Saint Magloire kept bees. 
 He loved to hear around him the humming of the 
 swarms, and he taught the natives to set hives. He 
 had never been stung : one day when those agile little 
 hunters, the Babingas, were becoming dangerous after 
 a stormy palaver with the Evangelist, the bees swooped 
 upon them in hundreds and put them to rout, harass- 
 ing them with their stings and making them howl. All 
 these small facts swelled the legend of Saint Magloire : 
 he stood for all that was miraculous in a commonplace
 
 20 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 age, he represented adventure for stay-at-home 
 dreamers and, for believers, the supernatural. 
 
 Before the delimitation of the Congo-Cameroon 
 frontier in 1912 he thrilled Europe by a new exploit. 
 At that time the region of the Voleu N'Tem was in a 
 state of constant disturbance. Commercial agents 
 were roughly treated; tax-collectors were often re- 
 ceived with shots; and the proximity of the still badly 
 defined German frontier made repression more difficult. 
 At every moment the native farmers complained of 
 being raided; every month there were new rapes of 
 women, and the militia never succeeded in catching 
 up with the evil-doers, who fled towards the East as 
 soon as they had brought off a coup. 
 
 The Essobams were the first to revolt openly. They 
 made an incursion into the Bitam territory, attacked 
 the chief of the sub-division, killing a dozen of his 
 men. Then they fell back, carrying off an agent of the 
 N'Goko Sangha, his wife and child, whom they brought 
 to the other side of the N'Tem, into Ekoreti territory, 
 of which no one could sa}-' it it was French, Gernian, 
 or independent. This district, which was practically 
 in the hands of German revenue-farmers, had become 
 the refuge of all the individuals who were wanted by 
 the authorities of one country or another, an asylum 
 which the negroes considered inviolable, and a meeting- 
 place for all the plunderers and murderers of the 
 Cameroons and the Gabun. The Governor-General 
 of Equatorial Africa had received formal instructions 
 to avoid any frontier incidents; orders were therefore 
 given to the boundary troops not to pursue offenders 
 beyond the N'Tem. This attitude further encouraged 
 the rebels, and as French detachments had captured 
 isolated groups of Essobams, the chiefs made it known 
 by emissaries that they were going to behead their 
 three hostages by way of reprisals. 
 
 Magloire Dubourg, who was staying at the Catholic 
 Mission of Libreville, promptly left his retreat and 
 started for the N'Tem, cutting his way through two
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 21 
 
 hundred miles of undergrowth and forest infested by 
 rebels, and by rivers where the stations had been 
 destroyed. He penetrated into Ekoreti territory to 
 ask the Essobam chief to release his white captives : 
 it was too late, the crime had been committed, and 
 only the child was still alive. Around the unruffled 
 saint whirled a saraband of infuriated negroes, 
 clamouring to tear him in pieces there and then. 
 Among the blacks was a deserter, a rifleman, who had 
 lived in the towns and there had learnt the meaning of 
 the word Christian. He explained it to the others 
 with great bursts of laughter and contortions, and then 
 proposed that the white sorcerer should be crucified 
 like his God. The savages erected a cross. They then 
 laid the saint upon it and the torture began. Two 
 large nails were driven through his hands without 
 wresting a single complaint from him. His face did 
 not contract; with closed eyes he waited, thinking of 
 a similar torture, and his lips still gave thanks to his 
 Divine Master. He may, however, have been on the 
 point of fainting from pain and loss of blood, 
 when a great noise was heard at the entrance of 
 the village and firing broke out. It was the 
 Pahouins who, warned of the capture of the saint, 
 had taken up arms, crossed the N'Tem and come to 
 rescue him. 
 
 A terrible fight raged among the huts and the palm- 
 groves. The Essobams and their followers, for the 
 moment taken by surprise, entrenched themselves 
 behind the stockades, loaded their flintlocks, and del- 
 uged their assailants with arrows and assegais. The 
 loyal natives, whose ranks had been joined by militia- 
 men, impetuously rushed forward, shooting, jabbing 
 with their lances, and a dreadful hand-to-hand fight 
 ensued right inside the houses, through whose shat- 
 tered doors came the clamouring of slaughter. But 
 for the intervention of the saint, the rebels would have 
 been massacred to the last man. 
 
 On the next day the victorious Pahouins re-entered
 
 22 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 Oyem, bringing back their friend, and for weeks after- 
 wards the coloured covers of the illustrated papers 
 displayed the scene in all the booksellers' windows 
 and kiosks in France : the miraculous return of Saint 
 Magloire, holding the rescued child in his bleeding 
 hands, as Saint Antony or Saint Joseph are pictured 
 holding the Divine Child. 
 
 Francois Dubourg was interviewed once again, but 
 as he laiew nothing more than he had read in the 
 papers, editors, for want of something better, published 
 the photograph of Gerard, the little nephew of Saint 
 Magloire, who, it seemed, was very much like him. 
 
 During the War Magloire Dubourg distinguished 
 himself in Africa; it was due more to him than anyone 
 else — more even than to the few detachments at the 
 disposal of the authorities — that the occupation of the 
 Cameroons was achieved without losses; and when 
 risings occurred on the Upper Ivory Coast on the 
 borders of the Sudan, he alone was able to pacify the 
 rebels. After peace was signed. Saint Magloire's return 
 to France was announced more than once. The letters 
 which he continued to send to his brother from time to 
 time left room for hope; but something always inter- 
 vened, and the wonderful old man, still tireless, took 
 up his helmet, his long drill mantle and his copper 
 crucifix, and set off again, northward, southwa^rd, 
 through undergrov/th or swamp, carrying on his never 
 ending task. 
 
 So it happened that, without Papal Bull or Papal 
 Court, Magloire Dubourg, son of an Amberieu trades- 
 man, had become a saint, canonised only by the voice 
 of the people, which, they say, is the voice of God. 
 
 M. Francois Dubourg knew little about his brother's 
 journey. He had received nothing from him but a 
 short wire from Marseilles announcing his early arrival 
 at Barlincourt. 
 
 "It may be to-night or it may be to-morrow," he 
 explained in an unsteady voice, but we must be ready. 
 
 He, who usually accepted all happenings with the
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 23 
 
 same indifferent sniile, seemed quite upset. It was 
 not so much the idea of seeing his brother again, as the 
 prospect of playing host to a saint. 
 
 "You must realise that it is a great event," he 
 said, running his hands nervously through his hair. 
 "Everybody will want to see him." 
 
 The two young people listened to their father. 
 Yvonne was quite pale, Gerard was quivering with 
 excitement. Madame Dubourg lost her head at once 
 and started to run to the kitchen to order the banquet. 
 
 "Where are you off to now?" her husband, 
 who usually left her a free hand with the housekeeping, 
 asked peremptorily. " Stay here ! . . . My brother 
 always had very simple tastes, and I am sure they are 
 even more so now that his . . ." 
 
 He hunted with knitted brows for the right word. 
 
 "... that his exalted position imposes new 
 obligations on him. You will be kind enough to leave 
 your silver and cut glass alone. . . . Let us be 
 simple, as simple as possible." 
 
 He inspected his children with a look that was al- 
 most stern and quite new to them. 
 
 "You," he said to Gerard, "will begin by 
 changing. . . . What on earth do you look Hke 
 with that shirt open to the middle of your chest ? . . . 
 Elegance doesn't matter, but we must have decency. 
 ... As for you, Yvonne, I advise you not to laugh 
 and hum as you generally do at meals. . . . And 
 please, no piano. . . . And put up your hair : it 
 looks more proper. . . ." 
 
 "And what about the cooking?" Mme. Du- 
 bourg, quite upset, asked timidly. 
 
 "Simple, as simple as possible. My brother is very 
 temperate." 
 
 "We were to have had asparagus for an entree," 
 said Mme. Dubourg apologetically, "and I ordered an 
 orange souffle." 
 
 M. Dubourg shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "A souffle! You must be mad. Why not
 
 24 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 champagne? Nothing more than a Httle meat, some 
 vegetables, and stewed fruit. And very nttle wine. 
 And no more pastry or sweets on the table as long as 
 Magloire is here; do you understand?" 
 
 The novelist seemed to enjoy this hectoring attitude, 
 to which he was not accustomed. 
 
 "Now," he said, with a worried air, "I wonder 
 whether we ought not to re-arrange the house a 
 little." 
 
 He ran up the steps of the terrace, dragging his 
 family after him. 
 
 The decorations of the villa were eccentric enough. 
 M. Fran9ois Dubourg, always enamoured of sham 
 rusticity and false antiques, had furnished his dining- 
 room like the living-room of a farm or an inn. It would 
 have looked well enough with the big wild-cherry wood 
 chest, the dresser covered with pewter, the spinning 
 wheel, and the table v/ith its heavy turned legs, if he 
 had not been inspired to add carved stools by way of 
 seats, and two massive benches from a Norman dairy. 
 No one had ever been able to sit on them — they were 
 too hard — and he had been obliged to buy real chairs, 
 and keep the others for show. 
 
 "Very good," said the novelist, as he complacently 
 surveyed his favourite room. "Very dignified. . . ." 
 
 The drawing room was unobjectionable : it was the 
 only apartment, besides her bedroom, .that Mme. 
 Dubourg had been able to furnish as she liked. All 
 the rest of the house had been given over to an 
 architect-decorator, whom Frangois Dubourg had 
 known at Montparnasse in the heroic days of the Art 
 Nouveau, and the artist had given free run to his fancy. 
 
 The staircase looked like an aviary, with its frieze 
 covered with brilliantly painted birds and foliage. 
 Yvonne's room gave the impression of an aquarium, 
 with the dim light softened by green curtains, and no 
 one but an expert would have recognised a bed in the 
 mound of cushions piled up in a corner. 
 
 "Take all this away," ordered the novelist, passing
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 25 
 
 from room to room. "And the artificial plants, too, 
 and the screen. . . . Take it all away. . . ." 
 
 A pattern of thistles adorned all the furniture indis- 
 criminately. The wood was set in a zig-zag lozenge 
 design, and the uncomfortable chairs had high backs 
 like choir-stalls and narrow seats like bracket-seats in 
 a theatre. In his daughter's room, M. Dubourg made 
 them remove a Japanese print which showed two 
 naked women in a rice swamp. 
 
 "And yet," Mme. Dubourg pointed out with 
 surprise, "you thought that quite proper for a young 
 girl, and now for a man of sixty . . ." 
 
 M. Dubourg almost lost his temper : 
 
 "How can you compare the two? Yvonne is 
 
 not a saint, she ." Then, seeing that the child was 
 
 quite distressed, he added, with a kiss : — 
 
 "She is an angel." 
 
 M. Fran9ois Dubourg also noticed that there were 
 no sacred pictures on the walls, and he had some, which 
 were found in Adele's room and in the attic, hung up 
 at random. 
 
 "Another crucifix here," he ordered, pointing to 
 an empty panel. "Can't we find any more? WeU, 
 go and buy one. . . . Where? How should I know? 
 Not at the grocer's, certainly. . . . Mother Pele will 
 tell you." 
 
 At last, having scoured the villa from garret to 
 cellar, the novelist declared himself satisfied, and he 
 kissed the children, his good humour quite restored. 
 
 "Well, so you are going to meet him after aU, 
 your uncle the saint," he said to them in a voice which 
 trembled a little. "I believe it is the greatest day of 
 my Ufa." 
 
 Night had come. The whole house was asleep; only 
 in the kitchen a light was still burning. 
 
 The charwoman was washing up dishes, while Ad^le 
 carefully sharpened the knives before she put them 
 away.
 
 26 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 Louis, her nephew, was seated at the table with the 
 gardener and their friend Milot, who had dropped in. 
 They were drinking white wine, dinking glasses each 
 time they refilled them. In a comer the dog, "Turk," 
 was sleeping with his nose between his paws, his dreams 
 punctuated with happy growls. Through the open 
 window came the great silence of the fields, and the 
 voices of the three men resounded in the night. When 
 the cook passed in front of the light her magnified 
 shadow crossed the lawn on a magic white square. 
 Each puff of wind shivering in the branches brought a 
 fragrance of lilacs and pinks; it was as though the 
 night itself was breathing. 
 
 "They have not eaten much," said the char- 
 woman, setting down the last pile of dishes. "Wait- 
 ing spoiled their appetite. It was nearly ten o'clock 
 when they sat down to dinner; when it got so late I 
 knew he wouldn't come. It won't be before to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Milot sniggered, staring at the bottom of his glass. 
 
 "They do make me laugh with their saint," he 
 jeered. "Talk of stuffing people's heads with non- 
 sense ! Such rot as thej^'ve been made to swallow in 
 the way of miracles, all those boobies that have never 
 seen any colonies but Bois-Colombes. . . ." 
 
 Adele, who had just put on her glasses to read_the 
 paper, tiu"ned her head. 
 
 "Don't make fun in that way, Milot, you know I 
 don't like it." 
 
 The gardener drained the bottle. 
 
 "Tut, tut ! everyone has his own opinions about 
 that," he said soothingly. "Anyhow this man has 
 been jolly useful in Africa; everybody says so. This 
 story, now, about how the niggers wanted to crucify 
 him, that's something out of the way, you know." 
 
 Milot had risen and was holding on to the table, to 
 prevent his wooden leg from slipping on the tiled floor. 
 
 "Do you think they can stuff my head fuU of 
 catechism?" he said, craning his neck forward. "It's
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 27 
 
 bad enough to be turned into a blinking sacristan, 
 just because the bosses insist. As soon as I get out of 
 church I don't beheve anything. . . . What about 
 you, Petit Louis? You're emancipated; do you 
 beheve in their yarns about the saint? They can't get 
 over me, you know. I know those colonies, I did my 
 two years' service in the desert. I've been in those 
 troops, so you can't fool me. . . . Your Magloire — 
 he could never have beaten the Arabs like we did at 
 Timimoun, for aU he's so clever. You wanted some- 
 thing more than fairy-tales to lick those Harka chiefs 
 with." 
 
 "That isn't the point," fitienne tried to explain, 
 ""they don't tell you " 
 
 But Milot would not stop : 
 
 "You may fool other people that way, but you 
 can't fool me," he continued. "It's a put-up job 
 with his brother, a regular cinema plot. They have 
 worked out the fraud on the sly and got it into the 
 papers; and now the other chap is coming back like 
 a circus turn. They'll go and meet him with a pro- 
 cession. They think he's going to raise the dead and 
 get rid of the mice and rats; and he'll only have to 
 hold out his hand to rake in the cash. . . . That's 
 what you don't see, you folks." 
 
 Adele had risen to her feet and looked at the cripple 
 without answering, her features drawn with suppressed 
 anger. Petit Louis, sitting with his chair tilted back, 
 was signalUng surreptitiously to Milot to hold his 
 tongue, fitienne, to keep himself in countenance, 
 was snipping at a cork. 
 
 "Well," said Milot. "I can see I am in the way. 
 I had better be going. Good-night, everybody. No 
 offence, Madame Adele." 
 
 Then he went away with the charwoman, who had 
 finished her work. The tap of his wooden leg was 
 heard on the steps and died away in the distance. 
 
 "If he hadn't left his leg at the War I'd have 
 given him a piece of my mind," muttered Adele.
 
 28 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 She looked anxiously at her nephew. 
 
 "I hope you don't think like that?" 
 
 "Don't you take any notice of what he says," 
 answered Louis in his drawling guttersnipe's voice. 
 "What puts his back up is to hear people say that 
 Saint Magloire knows Africa better than anyone else. 
 He wants to be the only one to have a right to talk 
 about the Colonies. It's just the same with the 
 War, no one has any business to talk about Verdun 
 but him." 
 
 "He is a good chap at heart," the gardener de- 
 clared. "Look here, to-morrow you had better dig 
 up that square at the end; I am going to put in winter 
 potatoes. And after that we'll have to look to the 
 artichokes." 
 
 Adele had gone to the window. The sky was dusky 
 blue, growing transparent under the rising moon, and 
 the light bathed all the garden, powdering the path- 
 ways and outlining the flower-beds. Only the park, 
 where the firs were so closely crowded together that 
 no light could filter through, remained dark. A little 
 patch of night crouched under each clump of peonies 
 and fringed the shrubs with shadow. White carna- 
 tions seemed to be floating on the lawn, milky and 
 smooth as a pool of mist. 
 
 Somewhere a cricket nibbled at the silence. A dog 
 howled at the moon. The foliage rustled with hidden 
 life : branches cracked, shivering. . . . 
 
 "The saint," cried Adele in a stifled voice, stepping 
 backwards. 
 
 The two men, startled, rose to their feet. 
 
 A dark shape had indeed appeared at the end of 
 the kitchen garden, clearly outlined against the lumi- 
 nous night. The traveller, who had come through 
 the fields, stopped and looked at the house; then, 
 slowly, he lifted his hands to bless his sleeping hosts. 
 
 "Yes, it's he," murmured Etienne, recognising 
 Magloire Dubourg by his great height. 
 
 All three, drawn together, gazed at him with beating
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 29 
 
 hearts. The saint moved on and the trees hid him 
 from view. 
 
 "Someone ought to go and wake the master and 
 mistress," continued the gardener in a strangled 
 voice. 
 
 But no one moved : they stood as though they were 
 rooted to the spot. The gravel wunched under a 
 step. . . . Neither the men nor Adele stirred. The 
 maid waited, her limbs paralysed. Petit Louis looked 
 ill at ease. At last an energetic hand turned the 
 knob and pushed open the door, which shut again 
 with a bang. 
 
 "Peace be with you," said the saint as he entered. 
 
 His broad shoulders filled the whole doorway. His 
 head was bare; his broad pensive brow, which had 
 been shielded from the sun by a helmet, was white as 
 ivory, but the lower part of his face was sunburnt. 
 A rough grey beard covered half his cheeks. His 
 eyes, hidden in two pools of shadow, could not be 
 seen. 
 
 "Father, Father!" stammered Adele, on her knees. 
 
 Louis gazed at the scene, more pallid than ever; 
 the gardener stood with his shoulders bent, his cap 
 shaking in his hands. 
 
 Saint Magloire, stooping down, looked at the maid. 
 He laid his hand on her shoulder, and that enormous 
 hand seemed to have no weight. 
 
 "Do not weep," said the muffled voice. "Nothing 
 can stand in the way of God's will, but prayer can 
 drive away things of which man is afraid. We will 
 both pray." 
 
 Only Adele could understand the meaning of those 
 words. Her head dropped to the window-sill, and 
 she began to weep again, her thin back shaking with 
 sobs. 
 
 The garden had grown dim, all the stars were sud- 
 denly blotted out. A dismal wind passed by, wailing, 
 and mingled its plaint with the lament of the maid- 
 servant, prostrate before the saint. 
 
 c
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Young Josephin Pele, having filled, the holy water 
 stoup and opened the side door of the church, went 
 into the sacristy. 
 
 "Hallo, there's the duffer," said Milot as he caught 
 sight of him. 
 
 On principle the doorkeeper of the Aubernon works 
 detested all persons reputed to be rich, whether far- 
 mers, manufacturers, or people of property. But since 
 the widow Pele had reported him to his employers 
 after she had caught him one evening drinking in their 
 kitchen with some factory girls, he had transferred 
 all his hatred to her; and as he could not pay out the 
 mother, he did his best to persecute the son. 
 
 Josephin, however, could not complain of having 
 ever been threatened by Milot. The sacristan never 
 spoke to him; he expressed what he had on his mind 
 in asides, as though addressing an invisible audience, 
 or meditating aloud. In the same way the old colonial 
 would have thought himself disgraced if he had 
 directly apostrophised the priest, for whom his^ em- 
 ployers obliged him to work outside his hours at the 
 factory; he pretended to ignore his presence, and 
 seemed to conduct the only conversation he ever had 
 with Abbe Choisy through the medium of his wooden 
 leg, at which he stared hard as he talked. 
 
 "As if 'it' wouldn't be better employed at school 
 studying medicine, for instance, so as to be useful 
 to other people, instead of snufhng candles from 
 morning till night," he mumbled, turning his back 
 on Josephin. "And it thinks it can show off! But 
 in the army it will just be good for emptying pails 
 — the poor idiot ! " 
 
 Josephin hypocritically pretended not to hear. 
 
 30
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 31 
 
 He had a wide, thick-lipped mouth which was ahvays 
 smiling, and when anyone looked him in the face, 
 he giggled foolishly, blushing abruptly to the tips of 
 his ears. He wore, even at week-day services, a 
 beautiful red cassock, of which the other choir-boys 
 were jealous. His mother, by means of clamouring, 
 recrimination, intrigues and prayers, had contrived 
 to have her son better dressed than the others. 
 Young Pele, who was entrusted with delicate tasks, 
 began to fill the sacred vessels, his yellow brows 
 puckered. 
 
 "Go and ring the second bell, Josephin," said 
 
 the priest as he came in. "We are late 
 
 The good man was breathless, for the road up to 
 the church was steep. Perceiving the censer, he took 
 it in his hand, blew noisily on it, then rubbed it with 
 his sleeve, thus intimating to the sacristan that the 
 utensils of the Church, were not carefully tended. 
 But Milot, who had something to say, was contem- 
 plating the glossy tip of his wooden leg. 
 
 "There will surely be a rare fuss in Barlincourt," 
 
 he began to tell his leg, "when people know that 
 
 Magloire Dubourg arrived last night at his brother's." 
 
 Father Choisy started. 
 
 "What did you say?' he exclaimed, "the 
 
 saint " — then correcting himself at once — • 
 
 "M. Dubourg's brother in Barlincourt? Are you 
 certain ? " 
 
 The cripple, being questioned, deigned to reply 
 directly. 
 
 "I have seen him," he asserted. "Only I did 
 not speak to him because I have my own ideas." 
 
 And bending his head again, he started talking 
 politics to his right shoe. But the priest, distracted, 
 was no longer listening. 
 
 "What a business, dear me, what a business!" 
 he stammered, as he slipped on his alb. "It is a 
 great event, all Christendom will be talking of 
 it And I have had no instructions, th*
 
 32 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 Bishop has told me nothing After all, if he 
 
 is a saint, I owe him attention, an official wel- 
 come .... which .... about which, after all, 
 I haven't a notion ! But he cannot be quite a saint, 
 his name is not among the martyrs, he is not even 
 
 dead That being so, if I do things too 
 
 well, I risk displeasing the Bishop. What a terrible 
 alternative ! " 
 
 Two callow choristers listened open-mouthed to his 
 incoherencies. Josephin, who had finished ringing 
 the bell, laughed nervously, gobbling like a turkey- 
 cock. 
 
 "Shall I go and tell mother?" he ventured, "she 
 would surely know, she " 
 
 The mere idea of a possible intervention by Madame 
 Pele gave a shock to his Reverence, who dreaded that 
 pious lady above everybody and everything. 
 
 "Ah! no, indeed," he protested. "Be quiet, I 
 shall manage, I will look " 
 
 And he turned hither and thither, tormented with 
 uncertainty, passing distractedly from the sacristy 
 to the choir, while Milot, who was pretending to 
 clean the floor, said to his broom : 
 
 "They had better not ask me to sing the Sanctus 
 and the Agnus Dei, I flatly refuse. I am a sacristan, 
 
 not a chorister That wasn't in the bargain; 
 
 one man one job " 
 
 Josephin, disobeying the priest, had escaped from 
 the sacristy to go and meet his mother. It was his 
 only joy to show himself in the street in his red 
 cassock and white surplice; and had it not been for 
 the objections of a socialist councillor who had forced 
 the Mayor to interfere, young Pele would have been 
 seen walking about all day dressed for High Mass, 
 even venturing on the market-place, where the urchins 
 from the secular schools used to pelt him with cabbage 
 stumps. 
 
 "Mamma, mamma!" he squeaked as soon as he 
 caught sight of Madame Pele's black gown, "there
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 33 
 
 is a saint come to Barlincourt, M. Dubourg's brother." 
 
 The widow was a woman of about fifty, thin, 
 yellow, and seamed with wrinkles; her hair, which 
 she carefully hid under her jet bonnet as though it 
 were a sin to show it, was still very black. 
 
 "Hold your tongue," she said sharply to her son, 
 who stood in terror of her, "I knew aU that long 
 before you did." 
 
 And with the simpleton at her side she hastened 
 towards the church, her hands folded on her prayer- 
 book. 
 
 "Well, Father," she said with an air of decision, 
 as she pushed her way into the sacristy, "what are 
 we going to do? " 
 
 She always said "we" when talking of the minis- 
 trations of Abbe Choisy; and when anyone died in 
 Barlincourt, she would say quite naturally: "We 
 took him the last Sacraments." But the priest who, 
 weary of opposing her, allowed her to do as she liked 
 in the parish at ordinary times, was in no mood to 
 listen to her advice. 
 
 He turned a furious look upon her, as if she had 
 proposed something disgraceful. 
 
 "Madame Pele," he said with pursed lips, "I 
 have begged you over and over again not to invade 
 the sacristy during the services; I must renew my 
 request. As to the — distinguished person to whom 
 you are alluding, he may not actually be a saint, but 
 he is certainly a holy man, and that is more than 
 
 enough to guide my conduct I shall see 
 
 you later, Madame." 
 
 The widow, amazed at this reception, retired with 
 profound annoyance, her indignation being all the 
 greater because Milot was standing in a corner, con- 
 templating his stump with a vindictive smile. 
 
 "Not bad for a priest," murmured the sacristan. 
 
 And he dexterously pushed his broom against the 
 legs of Josephin, who was passing by to fetch the 
 Missal.
 
 34 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 In the church porch and in the aisles women were 
 chattering excitedly. Usually not more than five or 
 six were present; to-day there were nearly twenty. 
 They had hurried to the church dressed as the news 
 had found them, in their house-jackets and old shoes. 
 No sooner did they catch sight of Baptistine Pele 
 than they surrounded her eagerly. 
 
 "Well, is it true what they are saying?" 
 
 The widow, realising her importance, signified "yes" 
 by simply closing her eyes. Then, in a whisper : 
 
 "We are waiting for him to come before we 
 begin. ..." 
 
 Caps close together, the worshippers chattered in 
 hushed tones : 
 
 "Did you ever! ... To behold a saint in the 
 flesh ! Madame Aubernon was saying he might well 
 be Pope some day. . . . What does his Reverence 
 say? . . . Shan't we have a procession?" 
 
 In the sacristy Abbe Choisy was growing impatient, 
 his heart thumping with emotion. Ought he to begin 
 Mass without waiting for Saint Magloire? After all, 
 perhaps he was not coming. . . . Should he send 
 one of the children to tell him? That seemed a queer 
 step to take. . . . Should he go himself? That 
 might be too presumptuous. 
 
 "All the same, it is already twenty past eight," 
 Milot observed to a golden chasuble which he was 
 putting away. 
 
 "Well, children," said the priest as he put on his 
 maniple, "it is time." 
 
 Preceded by his two servers, he entered the choir 
 with eyes cast down, genuflected, then crossed him- 
 self, facing the nave. No, the saint had not yet 
 arrived. 
 
 He began, "Introibo ad altare Dei," 
 
 "Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam," 
 responded Josephin in his squeaky voice. 
 
 Alone in the poultry yard, surrounded by daring 
 rabbits which even climbed on to his knees, Magloire
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 35 
 
 Dubourg, seated on a bundle of wood, appeared to be 
 dreaming. The sun caressed his face. Only his lips 
 seemed to be alive, moving imperceptibly, as if stirred 
 by the breath of a prayer. . . . 
 
 Since the morning there had been continuous activit}' 
 around the King's Domain. About fifty inquisitive 
 people were grouped before the villa, and the good 
 wives, between their errands, came to ask for news, 
 inquiring "if anyone had seen him." 
 
 The Paris papers had just arrived, and were full of 
 Saint Magloire, whose retreat was not yet known; 
 and the men were arguing as they waved the news- 
 papers. 
 
 Some of the workmen had stayed away from the 
 factory; farmers were lingering on their way from 
 the fields, all the old gentlemen of leisure had come 
 to a standstill near the villa, and the tradespeople 
 who made their deliveries from door to door had 
 ranged their carts along the pavement. They were 
 waiting. 
 
 Some urchins clung to the railings, others sat astride 
 the garden wall, and kept watch. 
 
 "Come on — here he is!" they had shouted a 
 dozen times. 
 
 At once there was a rush forward, but hitherto 
 nothing had been seen but fitienne, with his spade 
 over his shoulder, or the apron of Adele as she passed 
 between the shrubs. 
 
 They had learnt, however, from Petit Louis, whose 
 room was in the mediaeval lodge, that the Saint had 
 not left the house. The Dubourg's under-gardener 
 was not popular among the neighbours, but for once 
 they had all been trying to be friendly to him, and 
 the workman Mathieu had offered him tobacco for a 
 cigarette. 
 
 Absurd and incredible stories were being circulated 
 and promptly carried by the housewives to the 
 market-place. For instance, little Debi^vre declared
 
 30 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 that he had seen the saint on the terrace, wearing a 
 white robe, with a lamb behind him; and old Moucron, 
 to whom he turned for confirmation, dared not say 
 yes or no. "To be sure, he did think he had seen 
 something too. ..." 
 
 The Mayor himself, M. Quatrepomme, a tall thin 
 man in an alpaca jacket, took the trouble to come 
 along. He was at once surrounded. 
 
 "Well, M. Quatrepomme, here's news!" 
 
 "Have you come to make a speech to him?" 
 
 The perplexed magistrate rubbed his badly-shaved 
 chin the wrong way. 
 
 "I was just passing by," he lied. "I am going 
 down to the school about the cistern. I have to look 
 after the affairs of the town, you know, and nothing 
 else. ..." 
 
 He bravely resisted the temptation even to glance 
 through the railings, and went off with his hands be- 
 hind his back, wondering whether he ought to be 
 proud of what was happening in his borough, or uneasy 
 about the disturbance it was certain to produce. 
 
 M. Dubourg, from his window, had noticed the 
 unusual throng and had experienced a childish satis- 
 faction. He had already rung up the Jour and the 
 Derniere Heure to notify them of Saint Magloire's 
 arrival ; and he was expecting numerous visitors, in 
 the afternoon. 
 
 On ordinary days he was accustomed to write all 
 the morning, and to come down to table at the last 
 minute, very untidy, with a shooting jacket un- 
 buttoned over his night-shirt; but to-day, in his 
 brother's honour, he had dressed himself properly. 
 He made a great effort to preserve a cahn demeanour, 
 but every gesture betrayed his restlessness, and it was 
 useless for him to stroll about whistling or to look 
 at the weather casually, or to wander from the terrace 
 into the drawing room and back again. 
 
 On the previous evening he had spent quite an hour 
 chatting with his brother, and he had fully expected
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 37 
 
 to carry on the conversation in the morning — they 
 had so 'much to say to each other — but the saint did 
 not appear. 
 
 When the maid had come to do his room, she found 
 the work already done, the room swept and the bed 
 made. The visitor from Africa with a smile had told 
 her that he was used to doing his own housework. 
 Afterwards, he had taken a turn in the kitchen garden, 
 had talked for a moment with fitienne, and then had 
 gone back to his room, so deeply absorbed that he 
 appeared not to see his sister-in-law smiling at him 
 from the terrace. 
 
 The children were filled with joy. Yvonne had run 
 to tell the great news to the Aubernons. As she saw 
 the impression it made on them, she realised for the 
 first time the meaning of pride. She came home on 
 wings. Gerard, who had gone to meet her, breathed 
 triumph; his head was bare and the hair on his brow 
 waved like the young wings of a Hermes. The young 
 people smiled in silence at each other, overflowing 
 with happiness. 
 
 They were in the dining-room quite half an hour 
 before lunch, Gerard wearing a tie and a buttoned-up 
 coat, Yvonne with her hair drawn tidily back, and a 
 white chemisette muffling her up to the chin. 
 
 The modest appearance of Mme. Dubourg's table 
 had not been achieved without much effort : only one 
 glass for each person, one jug of water, one decanter 
 of wine, sardines in a glass dish. It looked like a 
 boarding-house. 
 
 "That will do," declared M. Dubourg after a 
 final inspection. 
 
 \\1ien the saint appeared, the two young people 
 stiffened to attention, and while he recited the Bene- 
 dicite, they stood with bent heads like the peasants 
 of the Angelus. 
 
 The beginning of the meal was gloomy. No one was 
 brave enough to start a conversation. Everything 
 that came into their heads appeared futile and
 
 38 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 insignificant; it seemed unsuitable to entertain the 
 Saint with such idle chatter. 
 
 They remained dumb, passing the dishes by; the 
 food choked them. Magloire, on the other hand, ate 
 with a healthy appetite, cutting his bread into little 
 squares like a peasant. He drank nothing but water. 
 
 The Dubourgs could not take their ej'^es off him. 
 Without admitting it, they were expecting some 
 transubstantiation, or some miraculous apparition; 
 but nothing happened. Marie-Louise noticed that 
 her brother-in-law wore no cuffs, and that the buttons 
 of his velvet jacket did not match. 
 
 Gerard would have liked to shout his enthusiasm 
 and joy aloud. 
 
 "Shall I tell him I want to become a nun?" 
 Yvonne was wondering, her excited little heart beating 
 too fast. But then she thought of George Aubemon 
 and blushed rosy red, convinced that the Saint at a 
 single glance could read the truth in her face. 
 
 Adele waited at table, making frequent mistakes, 
 her legs almost giving way in her emotion. In spite 
 of angry glances from Mme. Dubourg, the maid was 
 unable to take her eyes off the saint. 
 
 But the traveller noticed nothing; he ate without 
 haste, absent-mindedly. The silence dragged on, 
 became embarrassing. At last, to show his family 
 that he was not perturbed, the novelist began a 
 conversation. He questioned his brother about his 
 voyage. 
 
 "Only a week," the saint answered. "Besides, 
 I spent the whole of it in my cabin; for the only time 
 I went on deck I was surroimded, tormented with 
 questions, and photographed as if I were an important 
 personage." 
 
 "But you are," Mme. Dubourg interrupted clumsily. 
 
 The saint, without replying, shook his head in 
 denial. 
 
 Then, after a moment's pause, pursuing his own 
 reflections, he went on in a very gentle voice :
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 39 
 
 "Everything surprises me here. It seems to 
 me that I have found my old life again, just as it used 
 to be. It is all familiar to me : the words I hear, the 
 faces I see around me, the trees, everything. . . . 
 It is so pleasant that I almost blame myself; I feel 
 remorseful." 
 
 "Remorseful!" exclaimed M. Dubourg. "After 
 forty years of wandering, it seems to me you have 
 earned the right to a little rest." 
 
 The saint once more shook his white head. 
 
 "He who has not yet given all has done nothing," 
 said he. "To devote oneself to a mission, one should 
 have no ties. To love one's mother, to be fond of 
 one's home, is a greater danger than to be in chains, 
 for no one can deliver you. . . . Our dear mother 
 was my first sacrifice. Believe me, it cost me a great 
 deal. ... I have often followed in thought the 
 road lined with elms that leads to the cemetery where 
 she lies at rest." 
 
 Mme. Dubourg and her husband looked at each 
 other. The memory of the mysterious raven of 
 Amberieu flashed through their minds; but neither 
 ventured to allude to it. 
 
 The Evangelist was soon immersed again in his 
 thoughtful silence, but they felt that he was making 
 an effort to emerge from it. From time to time he 
 raised his head and smiled at them, then he talked 
 gaily to set them at ease. He told tales about his 
 credulous negroes and about the agricultural colony 
 of Libreville, which he and the Fathers had founded. 
 Gerard pictured him in a landscape k la Gauguin, 
 negresses with bright coloured cottons wound about 
 their waists, squatting at his feet. 
 
 "Well, do you intend to stay in France?" asked 
 M. Dubourg, growing bolder. 
 
 "For some time, yes," answered the Evangelist, 
 his face again becoming very serious. He, however, 
 did not go on to tell them what he had come to do. 
 
 Dm^ing the meal the crowd outside the railings had
 
 40 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 continued to increase. The whole of Barlincourt was 
 there; people had even come from the country round. 
 The polished bars of countless bicycles shone along 
 the wall. 
 
 From time to time a friend of the Dubourgs entered 
 the garden, mistrustfully received by fitienne, while 
 the crowd of idlers poured forth witticisms. 
 
 "That's right, go and ask the saint to make you 
 straight again," cried a wag as old Moucron went in. 
 
 When the Dubourgs rose from the table, there were 
 already about twenty people in the garden. This 
 seemed to annoy the saint. 
 
 "You have visitors, I see. I will leave you," he 
 said to his brother. 
 
 But the novelist held him back, almost beseech- 
 ingly. 
 
 Among the visitors were some people whom he had 
 to be careful not to offend. He whispered their names 
 to his brother, pointing them out one after the other 
 with a little jerk of his head. 
 
 "The schoolmistress, very nice. . . . The fat, 
 bald man in the black coat is Aubernon, the biggest 
 manufacturer in the district. Very rich. ... He 
 began as a working man. It is likely that some day 
 he will ask me for Yvonne's hand for his son, that 
 •tall, fair youth who is standing behind him. . -. , 
 They made their money in the war, you know; the 
 marriage would give them a step up. . . . Hallo ! 
 here is the editor of the ' Franc ais, the paper that is 
 publishing my novel; I simply must introduce you. 
 When you wanted money for your Lobaye people 
 during the year of the famine, he sent five thousand 
 francs." 
 
 Magloire Dubourg came down eventually to the 
 terrace and went among the guests, who, uncertain 
 what attitude to adopt, bowed as he passed by as 
 though before a procession. These exaggerated tokens 
 of respect still further increased his dissatisfaction and 
 confusion. Much embarrassed, he went and sat down
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 41 
 
 on the kerb of the well, his hands thrust into the 
 pockets of his velvet coat. He might have been taken 
 for a rustic sportsman. 
 
 "An eccentric," the editor of the Frangais decided 
 at the first glance. 
 
 Yvonne, beaming with joy, was nmning to and 
 fro, scattering handshakes and smiles. As she greeted 
 Georges Aubernon she turned away her eyes and 
 blushed bashfully. 
 
 The garden was filled with spring. The foliage of 
 the trees was a fresh young green, and in the branches 
 chaffinches were gaily singing. The women in their 
 light frocks gave the gathering the air of a garden 
 party. The Evangelist, motionless, watched the scene 
 sadly. People stared at him as much as they could, 
 glad to be allowed to come so close. The most daring 
 began to question him. 
 
 "We have often spoken about you in my paper," 
 said the editor. "You must have read. . . ." 
 
 He almost expected the old man to thank him. 
 . . . The schoolmistress, who was accustomed to 
 think of the Earth in terms of a map in two hemi- 
 spheres, asked in a shy voice how many times he had 
 been round it. She had brought her two best pupils 
 with her by way of a reward; and the two youngsters, 
 not daring to move in their starched frocks, gazed 
 wide-eyed at the saint. M. Aubernon in due time 
 slipped into the front row. 
 
 He had a coarse, flabby grey face, which looked as 
 if it had been moulded with dirty fingers. He talked 
 to the saint about the Catholic foundation which he 
 had just presented to Barlincourt, the dispensary 
 which his wife conducted, and all the good that his 
 money enabled him to do. He seemed to apologise 
 for his fortune and at the same time to be proud 
 of it. Old Moucron, a big broken-down peasant, ill- 
 treated by his son as he in his day had ill-treated his 
 father, made a bow every time his eye met the glance 
 of the Evangelist; and as he straightened himself^ he
 
 42 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 put his hand to his back with a groan, as though he 
 hoped that the saint, in pity, would cure him on the 
 spot. Madame Dubourg, seated in the centre of a group, 
 was giving information to the ladies leaning over her. 
 
 Frangois Dubourg thought his brother was too 
 reserved. He might, he felt, have been more credit to 
 him if, instead of merely lending his presence, he had 
 told stories, original anecdotes about Samory or the 
 latest troubles in the Kong country. But with the 
 advent of more guests, the depression of the saint 
 only increased. 
 
 Suddenly his face relaxed; he had just perceived 
 Abbe Choisy, who was coming forward awkwardly, 
 not knowing how to introduce himself. The Evangelist 
 went to meet him, and greeted him so affectionately 
 that the priest, in confusion, forgot the little speech he 
 had prepared. Father Choisy would gladly have 
 withdrawn, having done his duty and gratified his 
 curiosity, but Magloire Dubourg dragged him away 
 towards the kitchen garden. 
 
 No sooner had they passed through the door than 
 the guests visibly became more cheerful. Conversa- 
 tion was resumed, everyone talked at once; there 
 were little bursts of laughter. Impressions were 
 exchanged and M. and Mme. Dubourg were surrounded 
 and congratulated. 
 
 "They really know some very nice people," said 
 Mme. Aubernon to her son. "You see, there is 
 Madame de Choiseul just arriving with her companion. 
 She is a countess, you know. ... It seems a mem- 
 ber of the Academy is also expected. ..." 
 
 Mme. Pele had arrived with Abbe Choisy; the poor 
 man could not get rid of her. She was in tlie habit of 
 giving large sums to Church funds, she was president 
 of aU the religious societies in the parish, and replaced 
 broken windows, worn-out surplices and prie-dieu. 
 Moreover, the Bishop, in the course of a pastoral visi- 
 tation, had called her from the pulpit "our dear 
 Ibenef actress," so that it was impossible not to treat
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 43 
 
 he* with the greatest consideration; but she made 
 the priest pay heavily for her hberaHty. It was she 
 who ruled the church, lording it over the devotees 
 and the choir boys. Being inordinately suspicious, 
 she had had the pockets of their cassocks sewn up, 
 to prevent the youngsters from taking the coppers 
 out of the offertory; she measured the wine and 
 counted the bits of charcoal for the censer. At Mass 
 she sang at the top of her voice, putting everyone 
 else out of tune; and, after the service every Sunday, 
 with lowered eyes, elbows pressed against her body, 
 prim smile, and an air of walking on eggs, she gave 
 lessons in deportment to the young girls of the 
 "Catechism of Perseverance." 
 
 Nothing could be more full of pride than the 
 modesty of this woman. She stood in the midst of a 
 group of guests with her hands folded on her stomach 
 and an affected simper, and she talked in a sibilant 
 whisper, as though she were at confession. At times 
 she laughed, but it was an insincere little laugh which 
 she concealed behind tight closed lips, correcting its 
 impropriety by keeping her eyes bent prudishly on the 
 ground. 
 
 "Yes," she explained affectedly, "I have called 
 a meeting for six o'clock of the ladies of the Congrega- 
 tion of the Holy Rosary, to give thanks to the Lord 
 for having sent us this holy man. The young girls of 
 the Congregation of the Blessed Virgin are to come 
 too. ..." 
 
 One by one the guests slipped away from her. Soon 
 no one was left to listen but Mme. Aubernon, who 
 did not dare to escape. 
 
 "With all these good works," Mme. Pel6 explained 
 with a sigh, "one does not stay at home as much as 
 one would like; but so long as one has enough time 
 to look after the maid and say one's prayers nothing 
 else matters. My new girl gives me a lot of trouble 
 all the same; she is a girl of no class, brought up by 
 ♦be Assbtanc* Publiaue. ..."
 
 4,^ SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 Glancing round to make sure that no one coul6 
 overhear her, she added, lowering her voice : 
 
 "Like Louis, that nephew of Adele's whom they 
 have taken on here. Is it wise? Well, to come back 
 to my maid, I have decided to bring her back to the 
 Lord. I make her say her prayers morning and eve- 
 ning, and recite a dozen rosaries in the afternoon as 
 well. She observed the whole of Lent with us and I 
 have forbidden her to go to the cinema " 
 
 The neighbours were taking leave. Old Moucron 
 and the workman Mathieu had gone off quarrelling; 
 the schoolmistress had taken her pupUs home. When 
 everyone except friends had gone, Yvonne served tea; 
 then she came back and sat down by Georges, at whom 
 she looked with frank joy. 
 
 Time, however, went by and the saint did not re- 
 appear. They questioned Etienne, who was returning 
 from the kitchen garden, and he answered : 
 
 "They are still talking together, his Reverence 
 seems to be struck aU of a heap." 
 
 There was still the same crowd in the avenue, for 
 the loafers had not yet had a chance to see anything. 
 Several of them followed Mathieu and Moucron to the 
 Cafe Dumarchey to get some details. 
 
 "They will drink more to-day than they'll work," 
 grumbled the hostess, who disliked the factory hands. 
 
 As Milot entered, a large grey motor car slowed 
 do^^^l before the bar. 
 
 "Heigh;" called out one of the passengers, "where 
 is the Villa Dubourg, please?" 
 
 "The house of the saint," added another. 
 
 The cripple looked at them disagreeably, and 
 pointed the way with a vague nod. 
 
 "Farther on. . . ." 
 
 The car leapt forward and the beadle shrugged his 
 shoulders : 
 
 "There you are, the pilgrimage is beginning. 
 Count your coppers. . , . Get 'em ready, slow 
 music. . . ."
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 45 
 
 It was the beginning of the journalistic invasion- 
 Other reporters at the same time were arriving by 
 train. 
 
 Francois Dubourg, who was expecting them, wel- 
 comed them with open arms. The best reporters in 
 Paris had taken the trouble to come down, even the 
 great men who never exerted themselves except on 
 big occasions — among them Jacques de Nointel, a pot- 
 bellied giant, and a great specialist in religious ques- 
 tions, who only a week earlier had interviewed the 
 Pope. 
 
 The novelist, who knew him, paid him especial 
 attention. 
 
 "I'll tell my brother. ... He does not care 
 for company at all, you know, he is rather taciturn." 
 
 The guests of the Dubourgs gazed curiously at these 
 men, whose signatures they saw every morning in the 
 newspapers. 
 
 Little Pedro was there, who had been in every war, 
 in every revolution, every catastrophe, and whom the 
 Bolsheviks had nearly shot at Moscow. Hardy, a 
 former photographer, turned journalist, who seemed 
 to know nothing and yet understood ever}i;hing, was 
 also present; and Princet who poured into the articles 
 that he scribbled in trains and hotel bedrooms more 
 emotion, imagination and wit than a novelist can get 
 into ten volumes. Among others were old Bellieres, 
 who owed all his notoriety to the fact that he had been 
 present at ninety-one executions, among which were 
 three hangings — and Bemheim, the editor of the 
 "Boulevard," correct to the point of affectation, who 
 could not interview people more than once, since he 
 delighted in tearing them to pieces with little biting 
 phrases, his merciless eyes discovering at a glance 
 the very things his victim was trying hardest to hide; 
 and also Cassini, deaf as a post, blind as a bat, garru- 
 lous and irrepressible, who by some miracle contrived 
 after all to make sense out of his notes. All these 
 were men who had to discuss metallurgy one day and 
 
 D
 
 46 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 foreign politics the next; to wax emotional at one 
 moment over a fire-damp explosion, and at another 
 to pour abuse upon a bankrupt. And to deal with all 
 this on the instant, without a second to collect their 
 thovights, without documents, punctuating their text 
 with telegraphic "stops" — to be judged a few hours 
 later by half a million readers, a large number of whom 
 understood these questions far better than they did. 
 
 Behind them, almost apart, stood two beginners, 
 one none too well groomed. On the terrace the photo- 
 graphers were setting up their cameras. 
 
 "Bom at Amberieu in 1866, wasn't he?" inquired 
 Pedro without waiting. 
 
 Foimtain pens and pencils made their appearance. 
 The journalists were writing. Each had brought a 
 ready-made opinion to Barlin court, some prepared to 
 admire, others to reserve their judgment. Jacques de 
 Nointel, who had a greater reputation to live up to 
 than the others, had carefully prepared his interview, 
 as if he had been entrusted with the canonisation of the 
 saint. He had met at the Vatican a Father from the 
 African Missions of Lyons, who was a great admirer 
 of Magloire Dubourg, and had heard from him some 
 startling anecdotes out of which he hoped to make a 
 unique story. Bemheim, suddenly watchful, had 
 noticed that Frangois Dubourg, usually so noisy and 
 jovial, was now rubbing his hands like a bishop on the 
 stage. The journalist had followed Adele to the kitchen 
 to hear the story of the Saint's arrival. By this time 
 the photographers were going round the drawing 
 room, wondering whether they would be able to take an 
 interior without a flash-light, and, promptly making 
 themselves at home, they began to remove the plants 
 which interfered with the light, while one of them, 
 by dint of pulling at the ropes of the double curtains 
 succeeded in breaking them. 
 
 "Here comes my brother," said the novelist, 
 running in from the garden. 
 
 The journalists grouped themselves on the terrace.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 47 
 
 The saint was approaching slowly. He was bare- 
 headed and wore a priest's cape thrown over his 
 shoulders (a Lazarist at Marseilles had given it him 
 because his coat had disappeared with his luggage), 
 and he was looking at the new-comers with anger and 
 surprise. A cinema operator, leaning against the well, 
 began to turn his crank. 
 
 "Not so fast, if you please," he cried to the Evan- 
 gelist. . . . "Stop one moment. . . . Head this 
 way. . . ." 
 
 The photographers, hugging their heavy cameras, 
 were taking snap-shots, cUcking against time. 
 
 "He is making a careful entry," scoffed Bem- 
 heim, in an undertone. 
 
 Indeed, the appearance of this queerly dressed old 
 man in the midst of guests drawn up in line, with the 
 big dog growling at his heels, had about it something 
 stagey and artificial. 
 
 M. Frangois Dubourg was pushing his brother before 
 him. 
 
 "You can at least say a few words to them," he 
 whispered in his ear. "Do it for my sake." 
 
 As soon as he got into the di-av.'ing room, the jour- 
 nalists crowded roimd him. Their staring eyes — like 
 cameras — focused him. All the faces were serious 
 now : before that glance none would have dared to 
 smile. The eyes of the saint were blue-grey, sur- 
 prisingly pale; their gleam of fervour, their serene 
 flame, dominated the emaciated countenance. The 
 lids were wasted by sun, or fever, or tears. Little 
 Pedro was reminded of the inspired eyes of his Russian 
 Mihilists. Nointel thought of Leo XHL As for the 
 badly dressed beginner, who was standing at the back 
 to hide his shoes, he simply concluded : 
 
 "The man drinks." 
 
 Hardy, the reporter-photographer, employing his 
 favourite method, which he called " Knocking the wind 
 out of people," asked unceremoniously, "Why do they 
 call you the saint?"
 
 48 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 The traveller, probably shocked by such a question, 
 stared at him. 
 
 The others, full of curiosity, waited : 
 
 "Why? I do not know in the least, sir. Maybe 
 in mockery," he answered in his deep veiled voice, 
 " I never desired such a title, and it distresses me when 
 people apply it to me. I am only a man who is de- 
 voted to his faith and nothing more. . . ," 
 
 Pedro intervened : 
 
 "We apologise for coming in this way to disturb' 
 you in your retreat, when you must need rest so badly; 
 but the public loves you and it wants to be told about 
 you, and that must excuse our indiscretion. Now, can 
 you tell us what is the object of your return to France, 
 and if you mean to stay here? Have you given up 
 your mission in Africa?" 
 
 The Evangelist, provoked by these questions, shook 
 his head, and remained silent. 
 
 "I beg of you," he answered after a moment, "not 
 to question me. Later on, I shall probably have need 
 of you, but not now. I don't want people to bother 
 about me. There are others who are far more worthy 
 of your attention. Look here, I came back from 
 Africa with the Reverend Father Meunier of the 
 Lazarists. You had much better go to him; he is a 
 very learned man, who will be able to tell you much 
 more interesting things than I can." 
 
 "No," Nointel, who was experienced in making 
 Churchmen talk, artfully protested, "if only in the 
 interests of religion you ought to keep in touch with 
 the public. You are popular — and with good reason 
 — and certain words coming from you would be listened 
 to, whereas coming from others they would carry no 
 weight." 
 
 But Saint Magloire did not give in : 
 
 "No really, your insistence is torture to me. Not 
 now. Later. . . ." 
 
 The little badly-dressed reporter, who had been silent 
 till then, suddenly summoned up courage :
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 49 
 
 "All the same," he insisted in his lisping voice, 
 "you would do us a jolly good turn if you would tell us 
 something about your plans, so that we don't go back 
 empty-handed. . . . Ask my colleagues whether that 
 isn't so. I am not speaking for those who are paid 
 by the month, but for us penny-a-liners." 
 
 Nointel had put up his eye-glass and haughtily 
 scanned this humble comrade. All the others looked a 
 little sheepish. Yet this naive argument appealed to 
 the saint. 
 
 "Ah! really," he murmured, "that might be doing 
 you a service. . . •" 
 
 For a few moments he remained lost in thought, as 
 if still hesitating, then he made up his mind. He 
 lifted his head and asked quietly : 
 
 "Why do you never mention God in your articles?" 
 
 Taken aback by this absurd question, they looked 
 in astonishment at the saint and at one another, 
 
 "What does he say? What does he say? " spluttered 
 Cassini, loath to believe the testimony of his deaf ears. 
 
 Bemheim bit his thin lips. 
 
 "Yes," he jested under his breath, "a nice little 
 topic for the news columns of the Boulevard ! " 
 
 The saint noticed their surprise. 
 
 "That seems strange to you, doesn't it?" he con- 
 tinued in a harsh voice. "But tell me, why do you 
 suppose I came to Europe, if not to speak of Him? 
 Did you believe that after forty years spent in Africa, 
 scorched by fever, with my limbs scarred by wounds, 
 having redeemed thousands of souls through my efforts 
 and sometimes at the cost of blood, I should suddenly 
 have abandoned everything, forsaken the source of my 
 purest joys, run away from my task — in a word, de- 
 serted — to come over here and end my days in peace 
 like a retired shop-keeper? You despised me in your 
 hearts even while you showered undeserved praise 
 upon me. My task is not ended : it has only begun. 
 You inquired just now about the object of my journey. 
 Here it is : to save the world."
 
 50 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 This sudden attack startled them. However, they 
 quickly regained their composure and seized on his 
 words, jotting down notes for reference on their pads. 
 
 "So then," said Princet, who was the first to stop 
 writing, "you intend to carry on your mission in 
 France? To undertake Catholic Propaganda?" 
 
 The saint shook his head. 
 
 "No, I have come to dictate God's law to men. 
 This society, built on selfishness and hatred, has lived 
 too long. God wishes to re-enter His kingdom. I 
 have been told to come and preach goodwill; I have 
 come." 
 
 The journalists looked at him questioningly; they 
 did not yet understand. 
 
 "But who told you this?" Pedro asked timidly. 
 
 Magloire Dubourg gazed fixedly at him and made 
 no reply. 
 
 They felt disquieted. None dared take up the 
 question. They all realised Who was the supreme 
 Master from Whom the order had come, and a sudden 
 constraint held them back from mockery. They 
 waited, overcome. 
 
 "You were surprised, were you not, when I asked 
 you why you never spoke of God? But have you 
 never thought that He alone can save this world which 
 wallowed in blood through five years of war and has 
 now arisen staggering . , . ? " 
 
 He spoke with an ardour which drove his words 
 home, and his commanding glance seemed to rivet 
 them into the minds of the journalists. 
 
 "They ought to be cried from the house-tops, 
 the sublime words of Christ : ' Love one another.' It 
 is those words which will prevent the final catastrophe 
 when everything crumbles away. Look about you, 
 open your eyes, open your hearts. Can this cruel and 
 stupid society go on living, perpetually setting the 
 blind selfishness of some against the base envy of 
 others? Can this abject duel of appetites and desires 
 last any longer? , . . What are your human lawg
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 51 
 
 built on? Tell me that. On fear ! That is the ruler 
 of your civilised world. Fear ! You condemn the 
 murderer because you fear for your life; you condemn 
 the thief for fear of your goods; you only spare others 
 for fear of what they may one day do to you. . . . 
 But joi true justice, of goodwUl, there is no trace. 
 . . ". It is always the horrible law of vengeance 
 which governs both men and nations. The law which 
 has produced nothing but misery and death, which 
 has exhausted the conquerors and bruised the con- 
 quered. ..." 
 
 The journalists were taking notes, feverishly, as 
 they would have done for a Ministerial oration or a 
 brilliant speech in Court. The saint, as his enthu- 
 siasm burned brighter, began to speak more rapidly; 
 and they seized his words on the wing, without taking 
 time even to understand them. 
 
 "No wave of barbarism must be allowed to sweep 
 away aU that human genius has taken so many cen- 
 turies to build up. Humanity must not sink back 
 into the primal mire and, weighed down with mud, 
 take up again its slow ascent towards a happiness it 
 never attains. Christ is here, quite close : let us hold 
 out our arms to Him. It is in His Name that I have 
 come to cry : ' Love one another ! ' and I wiU reveal 
 hidden truths that wiU unseal the eyes of the blindest 
 and bring about the reign of universal love on earth." 
 
 They raised their heads, their eyes full of questions. 
 The last words had struck them all. What secret 
 truths was he going to disclose to them? Did the 
 wanderer really believe himself to be a messenger of 
 God? The less hardened among them were strangely 
 disturbed; with beating hearts they awaited the 
 revelation. But the Evangelist was silent. 
 
 "That is, of course . . . religious truths . . . 
 Divine truths which you intend to reveal?" Pedro 
 ventured to ask. 
 
 The Evangelist did not answer. Jacques de Nointel 
 urged him ; — "Only the press could make them known
 
 52 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 to the whole world at once. . . . That is what we 
 have come for and we fully realise the importance of 
 our mission. ..." 
 
 The others, who were eager for information, as- 
 sented. Bemheim alone was again smiling his sceptic's 
 smile. The traveller shook his head. 
 
 "No, I cannot say an5rthing at present. It was 
 just because I wanted to avoid any premature declara- 
 tions that I did not wish to see you. I am only a 
 humble son of the Church, and it is my duty before 
 speaking to confer with some of its heads. Then I 
 will willingly answer you, but not before." 
 
 The journaUsts were disappointed. Without this 
 climax their articles would fall fiat. Their self- 
 possession began to come back. 
 
 "I say, he is not encouraging, this prophet of 
 yours," Bemheim whispered to Nointel; "he's a 
 regular Jeremiah." 
 
 But the interviewer of Cardinals would not acknow- 
 ledge himself defeated. After glancing through his 
 notes, he asked cunningly : 
 
 "Do you intend to advocate any important social 
 reforms ? " 
 
 Magloire Dubourg looked at Nointel, discerning the 
 trap that was set for him. 
 
 "To hate nothing and to envy nothing," ^he 
 answered simply, "such wiU be the new law by which 
 the world wiU live. Men will no longer feel envy when 
 they understand that each in turn will have his chance; 
 they will no longer hate one another when they know 
 that each is alone responsible for his own happiness." 
 
 They guessed that these words held a hidden mean- 
 ing, which they would have been glad to miderstand. 
 
 "You mean happiness hereafter?" queried 
 Nointel. 
 
 Again the saint made no reply. 
 
 "In short," said Bemheim disdainfully, "you 
 subordinate everything to faith in God?" 
 
 "Everything," replied the saint emphatically, and
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 53 
 
 his glance forced the other man to lower his eyes. " If 
 men refuse to believe in Him, let them slaughter each 
 other like animals; it will only be a preparation for the 
 Divine chastisement that will follow. If you do not 
 believe that you possess an immortal soul, kill, loot, 
 disgrace yourselves : you have at least as much right 
 to do these things as hogs and wild beasts. What is 
 it that constrains you to be kind to your fellow-men? 
 Is it only because you all express yoiirselves by the 
 same kind of grunts? that all your snouts are alike 
 and that you all walk on two legs? If you deny 
 the soul, what law forces you to respect the human 
 beast more than any other?" 
 
 A vague gesture expressed Bemheim's scepticism. 
 
 "Oh!" said he, "the soul, the soul. ..." 
 
 "Yes, the soul," the saint repUed fiercely, bran- 
 dishing the word like a torch. " It is because it has 
 despised its soul that your unbelieving world is sinking 
 into the mud. If man would but listen to his sovJ 
 and believe in God, the rich would not be oppressing 
 the poor, and the poor would not be dreaming of 
 bloody retaliation; we should not see the strong 
 nations enslaving the weaker, peoples and individuals 
 dreaming of nothing but plunder. But if they are 
 not afraid of a judge, if they believe that after a single 
 life on earth they return into the void, they are right 
 to indulge in a surfeit of pleasures, to demand un- 
 restrained enjoyment, and the poor are only senseless 
 dupes not to snatch happiness even at the cost of 
 murder. . . . There is no more faith, you say. 
 WeU, then, make way for the animal instincts, let 
 loose desire, and allow the mob to overthrow its 
 masters and gorge itself in its turn." 
 
 Princet was the only one who was not writing. He 
 was gazing at the saint, trying to see into his mind, 
 while the others were taking down his words. 
 
 "But," he protested, "the most Christian coun- 
 tries have no more sense of equity than the others, 
 and social injustice was just as bad in the days when
 
 54 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 France called herself the Eldest Daughter of the 
 Church." 
 
 "It is not enough to hang crucifixes on the walls 
 of the law courts, you must have Christ in your 
 hearts," replied the Evangelist. 
 
 The shabby beginner, quite disheartened, had col- 
 lapsed on to a sofa. 
 
 "It's no use, I canno* foUow this," he said, as he 
 put his pencil away. "I cannot understand a 
 word. ..." 
 
 And, turning to his colleague, he added : 
 
 "You'll lend me your notes, won't you?" 
 
 The saint, as he talked, was looking at them 
 with a luminous and piercing glance that hurt 
 them. 
 
 "Mind hsLS kiUed the soul," he went on. "They are 
 like two scorpions, one of which will have to devour 
 the other. . . . You no longer believe in God, but 
 you believe in something worse, in nothingness. You 
 are freethinkers, and you smile at the idea of a 
 Creator Vvlio has always existed and will live for ever, 
 but you believe in a limitless universe where thou- 
 sands of heavens spread out into the infinite, with no 
 boundary in space to confine this soaring edifice that 
 has neither foundation nor coping-stone. . . . You 
 may invent elaborate systems, explore the history of 
 man and always find some still lower being from whom 
 to trace his descent, an animal, a molecule, an embryo; 
 yet each hypothesis brings you to a fresh enigma. 
 There always comes a moment when you can explain 
 nothing more, when all is dark and doubtful. . . . 
 It is there tliat God is waiting for you, you will always 
 encounter Him at the end of each speculation. If you 
 refuse to believe in Him, you must live in impenetrable 
 darkness, in the heart of a mysterious world that 
 admits of no explanation, beneath whose shifting 
 surface your science cannot reach. ..." 
 
 Hardy, too, with an impatient shrug of his 
 shoulders, had ceased to take notes.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 55 
 
 "There you are. Now he's started on philosophy," 
 he grumbled. "How on earth can I send in an article 
 on the existence of God?" 
 
 Old Belli^res agreed under his breath : 
 
 "He had much better tell us about his crucifixion. 
 . . . Upon my word, I've never seen one. ..." 
 
 The Evangelist's heart filled with pity for their 
 bhndness. 
 
 "Why must your heads be so full and your hearts 
 so empty?" he continued. "Listen. ... I knew 
 a black chief in Nenoue, whose sons had all been killed 
 in battle and he had suffered very deeply from their 
 loss. The memory of his dead children never left 
 him; for years it tortured him. Then, to prevent 
 himself from thinking about it, he added to his suite 
 two slaves whose duty it was throughout his waking 
 hours to beat drums, rattle baskets of shells and emit 
 discordant howls whenever they saw their master lost 
 in thought. He imagined the noise would drive away 
 the evil spirit. . . . Well, you are all like that 
 superstitious negro. In order to drive out of your 
 minds the terrible enigma of the Beginning and the 
 End, to avoid thinking about the Hereafter, you 
 stupefy yourselves with words, you build up theories, 
 you stuff phrases and formulas into every crack 
 through which a doubt might enter. . , . You 
 flourish your poor ideas like a baby's rattle so that 
 you may try to drown the frightened voice of your 
 souls which reminds you that God is waiting. But 
 sorrow is still in the heart of the King — like the fear 
 in your souls — however loud the two slaves beat their 
 hands together and strike their tambourines. Noise 
 may stun, it cannot restore confidence." 
 
 There was complete silence. The saint's impas- 
 sioned voice had penetrated deeper than their minds 
 and at last had reached their hearts. 
 
 "Noise may stun, it cannot restore confidence," 
 repeated Pedro, abbreviating the words as he wrote 
 them down, . . . "That's very good. ..."
 
 56 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 The others who were two sentences behind were 
 scribbling hastily. Bernheim, the only one using 
 shorthand, had already raised his head. 
 
 "It is true, people go less and less to church," he 
 said, nodding his head as though the admission really 
 distressed him. "In proportion as science progresses, 
 religion loses its authority ! " 
 
 "Which religion?" growled Nointel, who did not 
 like the Jew. "Not his in any case!" 
 
 "Only old women go to church nowadays," went 
 on Bernheim. "Modern children are brought up 
 without any belief. . . . Well, then" — suddenly 
 launching his treacherous question — "will these un- 
 lucky youngsters be held responsible for their lack of 
 religion? WiU God condemn them?" 
 
 The Evangelist looked at this crafty man. 
 
 "Ask the priests that," he answered; " I always seek 
 advice from them in matters that I don't understand." 
 
 This evasion put Bernheim off the track, but his 
 keen mind soon recovered it. 
 
 "By the way, how is it that with faith and tastes 
 like yours you did not enter the priesthood ? " 
 
 "I don't know," replied Magloire Dubourg, still 
 on his guard. "If God had foxmd me worthy. He 
 would have sent me the inspiration. ..." 
 
 Now that his exaltation had died down, the Evan- 
 gelist was giving his answers in a weary voice. He 
 made no reply at all to the next question. 
 
 "No, really, gentlemen, I have nothing else to 
 tell you. ..." 
 
 The journalists were still hoping that he would revert 
 to the mysterious revelations he had foreshadowed, 
 but the Evangelist clearly did not want to talk any 
 more. He was exhausted. 
 
 Behind him, the window flamed in the setting sun, 
 and the outline of his tall figure stood out against the 
 light, as on stained glass. In the centre of his open 
 palms the scars of the nails glowed like two rosy 
 stains.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 57 
 
 "Our dear colleague, Francois Dubourg, must be 
 very happy to have you back at last," Jacques de 
 Nointel said cordially as he took his leave. "You 
 bring happiness." 
 
 "Happiness," repeated the Saint absently, "^^'^lo 
 knows. ... I feel so sad that it seems to me as 
 if Death had entered here with me. . , .'' 
 
 And from the top step of the terrace he watdied 
 them go.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 "Barlincourt, Where's that?" 
 
 "T^v^ hours by train, so the Frangais saya He 
 arrived there the other night." 
 
 "Let's have a look at his picture." 
 
 The housewives, who had foregathered in the dairy, 
 leaned over the open paper and looked, thrilled and 
 curious, at the photograph. Even the shopworaan 
 stopped serving her customers, and set down her 
 measure on the white marble; all listened to the 
 reader. 
 
 "This single sentence: 'I have come to save the 
 world,' clearly shows that the popular traveller in- 
 tends to continue in France the mission that he has 
 carried on in Africa; we shall await with interest the 
 revelations which he has so mysteriously aimounced. 
 It is certain that Magloire Dubourg has not left Africa 
 for France without serious reasons." 
 
 "Well, I think," a woman broke in, "that he has 
 come to ask the deputies to let the Little Sisters come 
 to France." 
 
 "No, no," said the dair^nvoman confidently, "it's 
 about political affairs with the English." 
 
 The others lost patience. 
 
 "Do listen. Let her go on reading." 
 
 The editor gave a fairly accurate report of the saint's 
 words, but as his paper was a Government organ, he 
 had passed over in silence the Evangelist's attacks on 
 the French colonial administration. Moreover, since 
 his circulation of a mUlion and a half depended chiefly 
 upon the masses, he had omitted anything that re- 
 motely resembled a new idea and had skilfully evaded 
 all religious pronouncements, in order not to clash 
 with the convictions of anyone. 
 
 58
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 59 
 
 The daily papers had devoted ahnost the whole of 
 their front page to the saint, with large photographs 
 showing him surrounded by his relatives, or on the 
 terrace, bareheaded, with his priest's cape over his 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Magloire Dubourg States that God has sent him to 
 Reform the World," was the sub-title in the Tribune. 
 
 The Echo de France displayed the headline : 
 
 "Saint Magloire intends to make Sensational Dis- 
 closures." 
 
 "Apostle or Visionary .^" asked the Socialist Cri 
 Public. Lastly, the Illusire wrote above its ten 
 photographs: "The Prophet Predicts Disaster" and 
 underneath, as a caption, the sayings of Magloire 
 Dubourg : " A Storm of Unparalleled Violence Threatens 
 the World." 
 
 The articles on the whole were favourable, and re- 
 flected the admiration of the journalists. Jacques de 
 Nointel, in the Quotidien, recalled past miracles and 
 asserted that the Evangelist had more surprises in 
 store, "for his pierced hands could only be outstretched 
 in deeds of wonder." 
 
 "He is going to heal the sick," a broken old voice 
 in the shop declared. 
 
 The dairywoman resumed her work, filUng little 
 bowls with chocolate which the workmen drank stand- 
 ing. The woman with the newspaper continued her 
 reading in a lower voice, blundering over the difficult 
 words; and the admiring housewives listened to the 
 strange names of countries where the saint had worked 
 his miracles, against a fantastic background of giant 
 trees, and tangled lianas, on the banks of great rivers 
 where the naked roots of the mangroves seem like the 
 breeding-place of snakes. Nointel, who had more 
 information than the others, reported that at Gore, 
 shortly before his departure, Magloire Dubourg had 
 saved the country from a disaster by driving off with 
 his prayers a plague of locusts, which were about to 
 swoop upon the millet fields.
 
 6o SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 "Is that in Africa, too?" inquired the shopwoman, 
 serving and Hstening at the same time. 
 
 She appealed to a customer who was blowing into 
 his steaming cup : 
 
 "You ought to know that. Monsieur Van den Kris, 
 you have travelled so much." 
 
 The man raised his head, and everyone looked at 
 him. He was rather short, rotund and clean-shaven; 
 and he was dressed in a greenish-grey suit such as 
 tourists wear. He had a cheerful countenance, and 
 the air of a gourmand; and it was probably to 
 counteract his easy-going effect that in conversation 
 he adopted a preoccupied expression, raising his eye- 
 brows and pulling at his ears as though every word 
 perplexed him. 
 
 "Gore," he replied, "is on the Logone, on the old 
 Cameroon border." 
 
 "But is that in Africa?" the dairywoman insisted. 
 
 "Why, of course, the Cameroons are in Africa." 
 
 The shopkeeper nodded her head respectfully : 
 
 " Oh, you— well, you know everything. . . . Have 
 you been there, in those very places?" 
 
 "Yes, in 1906, buying ivory. ... I might have 
 come across Magloire Dubourg, for I went up the 
 Ubangui less than a month after he did. I should 
 have liked that, because his brother is one of my great 
 friends. I must go and call on them to-day at Bar- 
 lincourt. . . . Good-morning, madame." 
 
 Putting down his ten sous on the counter, he went 
 out quickly, pleased with the effect he had produced, 
 but unwilling to listen to the dairywoman who was 
 calling him back. 
 
 Everywhere, in the crowded streets along which 
 clerks were hastening, in the entrances of the Under- 
 ground stations, people talked of nothing but the 
 saint. Factory girls, who scarcely ever bought a news- 
 paper, jostled each other at the kiosks, not even 
 giving the vendor time to fold the sheets; and 
 then they stood at the edge of the pavement
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 61 
 
 •MT read the news at once. Friends were calling t© 
 «sich other : 
 
 "Hallo ! are you coming with me? I'm taking the 
 ?lay off to go to Barlincourt." 
 
 The masses were deeply stirred by the strange say- 
 ings of the saint. People expected supernatural 
 happenings, without quite knowing why. The day 
 Uo longer seemed like other days. 
 
 "Perhaps we'll get a holiday," mused a youngster, 
 who was kicking a cork along the gutter on his way to 
 school. 
 
 At the door of a large shop the assistants were 
 crowded together, discussing the subject before they 
 went in. Men were reading the news aloud amidst a 
 buzz of arguments, while the listening saleswomen 
 giggled nervously. Bernheim's derisive article pro- 
 voked in one group a sudden burst of hooting. 
 
 "All the same," a solitary voice protested, "he is 
 ■right. After all, your Dubourg is only a sham priest." 
 
 Everyone was angry with the speaker. 
 
 " Wliy a priest ? He dresses just like everybody else." 
 
 '■'And how do you know that the Pope isn't going 
 to excommunicate him, just out of sheer jealousy?" 
 
 A small girl in black shouted in a piercing voice : 
 
 " Leave him alone ! He's dotty . . . too much 
 cinema." 
 
 The whole group burst out laughing. Others were 
 scrambling for copies of the Dernier e Heure : the 
 only paper to announce that Magloire Dubourg was 
 likely soon to be canonised and formally proclaimed 
 a saint by the Papal Court. The writer reminded his 
 readers that in olden days saints were nominated 
 directly by the people, the ecclesiastical authorities 
 only being called upon to sanction the election, and that 
 m consideration of the exceptional services rendered 
 to Catholicism by the man from Africa, the Holy See 
 nad decided to revert to the ancient custom and to 
 canonise Magloire Dubourg without the usual formah- 
 (Ofs. dA estabhshed by Alexander III. Moreover, the
 
 62 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 Evangelist fulfilled all the requirements of Canon 
 Law : his reputation for sanctity was manifest, he 
 had never been the object of public worship, he had 
 heroically practised the human virtues of justice, 
 pmdence, strength, temperance, and the Divine virtues 
 of faith, hope, and charity. Finally, he had accom- 
 pHshed many more than three miracles. The judges 
 of the Rota, on being consulted, had delivered a 
 favourable opinion — thus the Derniere Heure — and 
 the only point still open to discussion was whether 
 the Pope would convoke a Council, or whether he 
 would issue a decree placing the name of Magloire 
 Dubourg on the Roll of the saints. 
 
 M. Van den Kris had read all this over the shoulder 
 of a messenger boy. . . . 
 
 "They are clever enough, those people," said the 
 workman to him, handing the paper to a mate; "they 
 give him a step up, and then shut him up in theii 
 sacristies so that he can't get away from them." 
 
 The man in the tweed suit departed with a pensive 
 air. He was moved by the thought of approaching 
 this extraordinary personage. On the one hand he was 
 pleased, but on the other he felt uneasy, foreseeing 
 that Magloire Dubourg would talk to him about Africa. 
 
 Some twenty years earlier, M. Van den Kris had 
 shown great enthusiasm for the Evangelist, then in 
 the dawn of his glory. One Sunday morning he had 
 called upon the novelist, M^ho was then unknown to 
 him, and had offered to take a letter to his brother, 
 whom he said that he was sure to come across during 
 his expedition in the Ubangui country. M. Van den 
 Kris was quite in earnest, and convinced that he was 
 going to Africa, though he had no idea on whose 
 behalf, nor by what means he was going : maps accu- 
 mulated on his table together with Galloch's and Pere 
 Lejeune'? negro vocabularies; but at the last moment 
 he had stayed at home. "The business," he explained, 
 "had fallen through." Then, a few months later, 
 'ter a suitable interval, he went back to the
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 63 
 
 Dubourgs, and told them that having been unable to 
 get m touch with Saint Magloire, he had entrusted the 
 letter to a friend of his, a Lakka chief, who would be 
 sure to deliver it at the peanut picking. In this way 
 M. Van den Kris had made friends with the Dubourgs, 
 who at that time had only recently been married. 
 
 He was, indeed, a most entertaining guest and a 
 most surprising explorer. No one could accuse him 
 of boasting, for he very seldom talked actually about 
 himself. He never described his travels : he simply 
 hinted at them. For instance, he never said : "When 
 I was in the Congo," but "When I v/as out there," 
 which lent itself to any interpretation and could even 
 conceal the truth. 
 
 He infected others with his own nostalgia when he 
 talked about Africa, and, as a result of listening to his 
 stories, three of his colleagues, seized with sudden 
 madness, took ship one fine day for Porto-Novo, 
 whence they were destined never to return. 
 
 As another man might offer a cigarette, he offered 
 kola nuts to all comers, consuming an astounding 
 quantity himself. He always carried some about with 
 him, in a pouch made of pahn-fibre; and the son of 
 his concierge had munched so many that at last he 
 had fallen ill, with nerves on edge and inflamed intes- 
 tines. Evil tongues even went to the length of 
 declaring that the nuts had killed the poor boy. 
 
 It was only possible to form a true estimate of the 
 travels of M. Van den Kris by guess-work and deduc- 
 tion, by connecting certain allusions, and adding them 
 to various vague remarks. 
 
 Everything about him was mysterious, even his 
 name. In reality he was only Joseph Christian, a 
 fairly common name, and legend had it that he had 
 received his pseudonym from the Bloemfontein Dutch, 
 who, on his return from a zebu hunt, had bestowed the 
 freedom of their city upon him. 
 
 On this morning, the pseudo-Dutchman only put in 
 EL brief appearance at the colonial import company of
 
 64 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 which he was the oldest representative; and having 
 promised the manager to bring him back an auto- 
 graphed photo of the saint, he went off to catch his 
 train. 
 
 In spite of his absent-mindedness, M. Van den Kris 
 noticed an unusual activity round the Gare du Nord. 
 The pavement was crowded with poor muffied-up 
 people who walked with difficulty, and with mothers 
 pushing perambulators. The motor-buses were ar- 
 riving crammed to suffocation. Inside the station 
 there reigned the bustle of the eve of a holiday. 
 Winding queues of passengers squabbled in front of the 
 ticket-offices, and many went off without tickets, for 
 the collectors could no longer keep order at the 
 entrance to the platforms. 
 
 "To Barlincourt ! To Barlincourt ! " people were 
 heard shouting on all sides. 
 
 The disorganised crowd swayed backwards and 
 forwards, to right and left, pouring in through all the 
 passages, regardless of barriers. All these cripples 
 and idlers wanted to see Saint Magloire. The miracle 
 man drew them like a magnet. 
 
 InvaHds were to be seen in the waiting rooms, 
 stretched out on the benches, or lying on stretchers. 
 Two men wearing ambulance badges came along 
 hastily, led by a little girl in tears. 
 
 "Mummy's dying," she screamed in a terrified 
 voice. 
 
 "To Barlincourt! ... To Barlincourt! . . ." 
 fresh passengers shouted as they ran by without even 
 turning their heads. 
 
 "There is another train in an hour. This one is 
 fuU." 
 
 M. Van den Kris thrust himself into the crowd like 
 a wedge, sticking out his elbows; and to help himself 
 through he shouted in an irritated voice : 
 
 " Come, don't push ! There are children here ! " 
 
 He managed to find room in the van at the back of 
 the train. The carriages were overflowing; clusters
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 65 
 
 of men hung on to the dirty roofs of the coaches, at 
 the risk of being killed in the first tunnel. All were 
 shouting and vociferating, nearly all the faces flaming 
 with excitement. Their clamour filled the great glass- 
 roofed hall where the steaming locomotives waited. 
 High up on the panes the light of the morning sun 
 was breaJcing into little blinding flashes. People were 
 singing in chorus : 
 
 "It's Magloire, Magloire, Magloire, 
 It's Magloire we want. 
 Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!" 
 
 The whistle of the engine blew; then the overloaded 
 train, with a violent jerk, started heavily on its way. 
 From every platform cheers went up in answer to the 
 triumphant shouts of those who were leaving. Then 
 by degrees the noise died down, and coming from the 
 carriages in front the first words of a psalm were 
 heard. 
 
 The invalids were singing. 
 
 Barlincourt, too, was excited. At the Aubemon 
 factory, work was almost at a standstill. The first 
 trains from Paris had already brought hundreds of 
 sight-seers, who wandered in groups through the 
 startled streets of the little town. 
 
 At the Dumarchey Cafe, the nearest to the King's 
 Domain, people could be heard brawling through the 
 open doors. On a chromo-lithograph, framed in black 
 wood, a cock with flapping wings presided over the 
 bar. 
 
 "When this cock shall crow. 
 Credit we'll allow." 
 
 This was the only ornament of the premises, besides 
 some shelves laden with bottles. The room smelt of 
 stale tobacco and coffee grounds. 
 
 The Dumarchey girl was sewing without looking
 
 66 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 at her work, crouched on a stiaw stool : her wicked 
 grey eyes were as at home in the darkness as a cat's. 
 When one of the customers shouted out an order, she 
 laid down her sewing ungraciously and served him 
 with an abrupt movement of her elbow, as if anxious 
 to get rid of him. She never softened except when 
 she spoke to Milot, who was the only customer to 
 whom credit was given. 
 
 The cripple, who by dint of raising his voice invari- 
 ably got the last word, was arguing at the moment 
 with old Moucron. Round the table some peasants 
 were hstening, turning over their thoughts in silence. 
 The workmen were standing by the counter. 
 
 "All the same," repeated the obstinate farmer, "he 
 is not an ordinary man; I have seen him, quite close, 
 and, I tell you, he doesn't look like anybody else." 
 
 "The Frangais says that in Africa he made it rain 
 whenever he liked," said a market-gardener who was 
 worried by the drought. 
 
 "Of course," jeered the sacristan, seated on a corner 
 of the table, with his wooden leg stuck out; "Don't 
 you worry. Dubourg will ask the Lord to turn on 
 the tap and send rain for your peas." 
 
 Old Moucron went on stubbornly : 
 
 "And in that kind of book with the pictures, it said 
 that the animals didn't dare touch him, not even the 
 lions. . . . And that he walked across a river on 
 foot without even getting wet." 
 
 Milot, beside himself with rage, got up : 
 
 "Well," he bellowed, "then you're going to say 
 he's a saint too, and that he works miracles." 
 
 "I don't say that," the old man retorted craftily, 
 "but what I do say is that he's a man that knows 
 more than us and that he has powers." 
 
 "Powers!" jeered the sacristan. "He has no more 
 power than my old boots, this saint of yours; only it 
 Is just old flats like you that fool everybody with your 
 greasy tongues. ... If you'd been in Africa you 
 wpuldn't let them stuff such tales into you. Those
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 67 
 
 niggers are the worst liars in the world. As for Colo- 
 nials, I know what they're made of. Half of them 
 are off then heads, and those that aren't are ticket- 
 of-leave men that will swear to anything if you only 
 oil their palms. . . . It's easy enough to tin a 
 beetroot like you, all ready-cooked, who has never 
 done anything but dig his fields. . . ." 
 
 "Saint or no saint," mumbled the peasant, "any- 
 way, he's a man that doesn't spend his life drinking, 
 like some we know of . . . . " 
 
 The one-legged man resented this attack. 
 
 "You don't know what you're talking about, Father 
 Moucron," he replied. "You're drivelling — only fit 
 for the alms-house, you are ! " 
 
 "Oh, Milot," protested the old man, trying to look 
 cool and dignified, "that's not decent. ..." 
 
 " No, that's not a thing to say," agreed one of the others. 
 
 The hostess, seeing that the door-keeper was getting 
 the worst of it, came to his rescue. 
 
 "Come, come, don't quarrel on a day like this. 
 Look, here come some more Parisians. It's a regular 
 pilgrimage." 
 
 Milot came up to the counter, hitching up his cordu- 
 roys with both hands. 
 
 "I don't argue with clod-hoppers," he said to the 
 workmen. "I despise them." 
 
 Through the window-panes, clouded with dust, 
 groups of people could be seen walking by. Someone 
 caught sight of a policeman passing on a bicycle. 
 
 "Ho! Ho!" said old Moucron. "Something's 
 happening." 
 
 Without slowing down, the cyclist called, out to the 
 mistress of the cafe. 
 
 "I'm going to fetch the Mayor." 
 
 The policeman, indeed, was going as fast as he could. 
 He flung his machine against the door, and without 
 waiting for the maid who came from the kitchen drag- 
 ging along in her old shoes, he shouted from the foot 
 of the stairs :
 
 68 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 " M. Quatrepomme ! M. Quatrepomme ! Come 
 down quickly. ..." 
 
 A door opened on the first floor, and the legs of M. 
 Quatrepomme appeared on the landing. The Mayor 
 had already got his boots on. Hastily he came down 
 a few steps, and, leaning over the banisters, looked to 
 see who was calling him. 
 
 "Well," he asked. "What has happened? Is there 
 a fire?" 
 
 The policeman, who could not keep still, in three 
 strides joined the Mayor half-way up the stairs. 
 
 "No," he stammered. . . . "You must come at 
 once; it's the saint. ..." 
 
 M. Quatrepomme jumped. 
 
 "Ah, there you are ! The troubles are beginning 
 already ! " 
 
 "Yes," the bewildered policeman continued. "A 
 demonstration. . . . The sergeant sent me. . . . 
 They're over-running the place, and they're making a 
 scene in the Rue de la Republique. They've already 
 smashed a window." 
 
 "But who are you talking about?" said the Mayor 
 impatiently. 
 
 "Some fellows. . . . Hundreds of tliem have 
 come by train, it's Bedlam let loose; they're singing 
 psalms on the public highway. . . . We rnust 
 interfere, but there are only four of us, five with the 
 rural police. . . . Don't forget your sash, the ser- 
 geant says. . . . And perhaps we might pick up 
 the drummer." 
 
 "Old Rousseau! He's the biggest fool in the 
 town." 
 
 "That doesn't matter, we want him for the 
 crowds. ..." 
 
 M. Quatrepomme, with knitted brows, had gone 
 into the drawing room to fetch his tri-coloured sash, 
 which hung on the wall beneath a photograph of him- 
 self in a frockcoat. 
 
 "I am going to ring up the Prefecture first of all,"
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 69 
 
 he mumbled. "I don't want to take anything upon 
 myself. . . . And, after all, if there's no thieving, 
 and no seditious shouting. ..." 
 
 "Shouting is always seditious, M. le Maire," re- 
 marked the policeman. "Otherwise people wouldn't 
 shout. And then there are the windows of the 
 National Bank." 
 
 "Bah! Windows!" growled M. Quatrepomme as 
 he put on his hat. "To begin with, the National Bank 
 are always trying to annoy the municipality. . . . 
 I shall keep my eye on them. ..." 
 
 The magistrate, reluctantly following the policeman, 
 who was pushing his bicycle, started in the direction 
 of the Town Hall. 
 
 "I was right, after all, to be on my guard instead 
 of dancing with joy hke aU those idiots," he mused 
 as he walked along with bent head. "Indeed, I caU 
 it a nice present for the town ! And, besides, am I 
 to be 'for' or 'against?' ... I think I had better 
 be 'for,' anyway to start with. ..." 
 
 The streets were full of imusual movement. Chil- 
 dren were running up and down and nudging each 
 other to point out the Maj^or. 
 
 "Where are you off to like that, instead of being at 
 school ? " he called out angrily. 
 
 The urchins fled headlong. Only one little 
 girl stopped, with a stupid look, her mouth wide 
 open. 
 
 "We're going to see the miracles," said she, 
 snifi&ng. 
 
 Some housewives were hastening towards the 
 Dubourg villa. Their hair undone, kerchiefs over 
 their heads, they went along calling to their neigh- 
 bours as they passed. Some workmen, having heard 
 the news in the noon-hour, had abandoned their work; 
 tradesmen were closing their shops. Scarcely any- 
 body was left in the houses. 
 
 On the threshold of his dark den, the blacksmith 
 was hurriedly shpping into his coat.
 
 70 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 "WeU, M. le Maire," he said familiarly. "We're 
 all going. Is it worth while, do you think?" 
 
 "We shall see, we shall see," answered M. 
 Quatrepomme evasively. 
 
 Beyond the market-place, no one was visible : 
 everybody had rushed off after the last batch of 
 Parisians, a troop of noisy fellows who were marching 
 in step to a song. The High Street looked sad and bare, 
 with no display in the shops and all the shutters up. 
 In the distance cries could be heard resounding clearly 
 in the heavy atmosphere. Sulphurous clouds were 
 passing overhead, very low. There was a feeling of 
 storm in the air. 
 
 "We shall have hail," prophesied the policeman, 
 looking up at the sky. 
 
 "So much the better; perhaps that will keep them 
 quiet," answered M. Quatrepomme, more gloomy 
 than ever. 
 
 Just then — at the comer of the Rue de Verdun — he 
 suddenly stopped short. He had just perceived a 
 man who was coming towards them, quite alone in 
 the empty street. A blind man. 
 
 His head was thrown back, his white eyes exposed 
 to the light, and with little timid taps of his stick he 
 was feeling his way along the edge of the pavement. 
 He sensed around him the disquieting stillness of the 
 deserted town, and was questioning the silence in a 
 toneless voice : 
 
 "If you please . , . the saint, the saint's house, 
 if you please." 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 The villa was only just waking up, and Magloire 
 Dubourg was alone in the garden when the advance 
 guard arrived from Paris, sight-seers who glued their 
 noses to the raihngs in the hope of getting a glimpse 
 of the saint, without, however, daring to ring the bell. 
 Later on they were joined by a few who had come 
 in quest of health, and the group, as it increased, grew 
 bolder.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE ^ 71 
 
 Finally, a beggar with twisted limbs led them in. 
 He pushed open the iron gate and said : 
 
 "Come along. I'm sure he won't mind." 
 
 They followed him, silently jostling one another. 
 Dew-drops were still trembling on the grass, and the 
 wet shrubs held the fragi-ance of early morning. 
 
 Now and then a bough, stirred by the breeze, shook 
 a little spray of water, like a cool powder, from the 
 tips of its leaves. Birds were ruffling their plumage 
 as they sang. 
 
 A small girl with white cheeks, who limped pain- 
 fully, left the path and went to pick lilies of the vaUey 
 and primroses imder the trees. 
 
 "Come here at once ! " cried her mother in a subdued 
 voice. 
 
 "Wait a second, I'm making a posy." 
 
 The pilgrims passed under a green archway from 
 which ivy dropped in glossy clusters; then they 
 stopped, embarrassed. They were in front of the 
 house. The shutters of both stories were closed, but 
 on the other side of the out-buildings cocks could be 
 heard crowing, and a dog barked as he tugged at his 
 chain. 
 
 "Shall we go and have a look over there? " suggested 
 the bandy-legged man. 
 
 Hesitatingly they passed up the three steps to the 
 terrace, and as they went forward the gravel crunched 
 beneath their feet. Under the lime-tree, some wicker 
 chairs, drawn close together, seemed to be continuing 
 a conversation, and the embarrassed intruders had 
 the feeling of actually disturbing people. Stopping 
 short of the foot of the steps which led up to the house, 
 they looked at the closed door, disconcerted, wonder- 
 ing what to do. 
 
 "Why have you come in here? What do you 
 want?" 
 
 The rough voice startled them, and, suddenly 
 alarmed, they turned round abruptly. At the first 
 glance they recognised the saint. Dressed in his long
 
 72 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 clerical cape, bare-headed, he stood motionless under 
 the ivied archway. He was holding close to him the 
 little girl with the posy. 
 
 "You are sight-seers, are you not?" went on 
 Magloire Dubourg. "You wanted to see me. Well, 
 you have seen me, now go away." 
 
 The men had taken off their hats. The women, 
 abashed, bent their heads, and looked at him from 
 under their eyelids, afraid to move. The lame man 
 leant heavily on his sticks, and put on a pitiable ex- 
 pression, drawing his mouth on one side as though 
 his suffering produced the spasm. It was he who 
 was bold enough to speak. 
 
 "Yes, of course," he said in a whining voice, "we 
 did want to see you. But all the same that's not 
 enough. If you would help us. . . , We are poor 
 cripples, you see. Look at me, I'm sort of paralysed 
 in both legs. Well, you can do such a lot, 
 you . . ." 
 
 The saint let go the child's shoulder and stepped 
 forward, the dark wings of his mantle fluttering about 
 him. He went up to the cripple and gazed at him so 
 steadily that the other, daunted, turned away his eyes. 
 
 "I see," he said, "you come to me as if I were a 
 quack. It is your leg you are thinking of, isn't it? 
 But what about your soul? Have you ever thought 
 about that? Yet it is far more twisted than your 
 limbs. I can see it, that soul of yours, and it is your 
 soul that you should try to cure. A day wiU come 
 when you wiU no longer need your legs to carry 
 you, my lad, but on that day you will still have 
 your soul to carry. Listen to my advice : take care 
 of it." 
 
 Then he turned towards the others, and his 
 wrathful aspect amazed them. They had expected 
 that he would bend upon them a face of heavenly 
 mildness, like the saints in sacred pictures, and all 
 they beheld was harsh features and angry eyes under 
 bushy grey brows.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 73 
 
 "You, too, are no doubt in need of healing," he 
 said roughly, coming close to them. "You, too, want 
 to be cured, and you come and pray to me. You do 
 not entreat the Master but beseech the servant. You 
 don't believe in God, do you? He is too high up, and 
 the most devout amongst you have never thought 
 that Heaven could hear their lamentations; but be- 
 cause I am alive, because I am made of flesh and 
 blood, because you can see me and touch me, you 
 believe in my power. What do you expect from me? 
 I can do nothing, you hear? Nothing. I am neither 
 priest nor a doctor; nor even a wizard." 
 
 Drawing the folds of his cloak about him, he stared 
 at them one after the other, without moving, all the 
 hfe of him flaming in his strange, pale eyes. 
 
 "Why have you come here? You there, you are a 
 working man, are you not? Why have you left your 
 work? And you, are you not a mother? Who is 
 looking after your children? Are you not ashamed 
 of your deserted homes? Come, go back. This is 
 neither a hospital nor a church. Be off with you ! " 
 
 A woman, taking her courage in both hands, dared 
 to answer him. She had fat mottled cheeks and wore 
 a jet bonnet and black gloves. 
 
 "We wanted to see you, and to pray to God after- 
 wards," she blurted out with an air of false humility. 
 
 The saint eyed her from head to foot. 
 
 "Do you think God needs so many prayers?" he 
 asked harshly. "The best prayers are silent ones. 
 There is work for you at home; and God is better 
 pleased with your work than with Paternosters which 
 your lips mumble though your heart has no part in 
 them. You mothers, praise God by taking care of 
 your children and by looking after your houses. And 
 as for you, you praise Him when you handle your 
 file, when you work in your office. The painful labour 
 of mankind is one vast hymn which rises to Heaven 
 and ceases neither by night nor by day. One half of 
 the world strives and suffers while the other sleeps;
 
 74 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 the perpetual labour of mankind eternally follows the 
 bright course of the sun, and ever since the Earth 
 began to revolve the clamour of man's work rises to 
 God, as though to say : ' We have obeyed Thee, O 
 Lord; we earn our bread by the sweat of our brow.' 
 Will jT-ou, then, disobey on my account? Others are 
 eammg your dail}' bread for you while you are idling 
 here. Go away. Did you think, cripple, that you 
 would return home on dancing feet? And you who 
 have lost your eye, did you think I was going to give 
 it back to you? WTiy, you insult God when you 
 imagine that He is like a dishonest doctor, who only 
 attends to patients who groan loudest, or those who 
 are recommended to him. I have counted you, there 
 are fifteen or twenty of you here; is there a single one 
 among you who has considered the sore places in his 
 heart? No, it is your body, always your body, that 
 you worry about. Not one of you is afraid of the 
 shameful cancer eating at his heart, which may yet 
 make him suffer throughout Eternity. The husk of 
 you is nothing, do you understand me, cripple? And 
 I do not pity you. Death is a journey that we make 
 naked with no baggage but our souls, and you will 
 not take your twisted limbs with you into the other 
 life, any more than the rich man will take his trea- 
 sures." 
 
 The pilgrims listened to him, trembling, without 
 understanding. His words were beyond their com- 
 prehension. As he advanced towards them with 
 flaming eyes, twisting his cape convulsively in his 
 fingers, they withdrew fearfully, drawing closer to 
 one another for mutual comfort, their eyes still fixed 
 on him. His passionate faith terrified them, like a 
 sudden fit of madness. 
 
 "You all understand me, don't you?" said the Saint 
 more harshly than ever. "You understand, cripple?" 
 
 He stepped forward abruptly. With a start the 
 frightened band of pilgrims drew away. The bandy- 
 legged man, who was in the front row, propped himself
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 75 
 
 up on his sticks and tried to hide himself among the 
 others. 
 
 The saint stared at all the dmnb faces, whose eyes 
 never left him. Surprised eyes, cowardly eyes, be- 
 seeching eyes. Not one look of love, not one look of 
 faith among them. 
 
 "Yes," he continued bitterly, "I am talking to 
 blockheads without ears. What do you care about 
 the Hereafter, or the Soul, or Eternal Life? You 
 didn't come here for that, I know; you came like 
 loafers, or like gullible fools running after a charlatan. 
 You talk of future bliss, you believe in nothing but 
 what can be eaten, you see no further than the bottom 
 of your trough. WTiat you were really expecting was 
 a magician in a white robe, a miracle-worker who 
 would heal the sick and quicken the dead, if only to 
 provide amusement for you. Now here you are, dis- 
 appointed and frightened. Get away from here, I 
 can do nothing, and I will do nothing for you. . . . 
 Begone ! " 
 
 He flung the words at them in a voice of thunder, 
 his arms raised to Heaven, his clenched fists still hold- 
 ing his cloak. He looked like an enormous black 
 bird, with wings outspread. The pilgrims, alarmed, 
 withdrew towards the avenue, slowly at first, then 
 faster and faster, scattering as they went. As they 
 passed out of the ivy-covered archway several of them 
 began to run. 
 
 " Begone ! Begone ! " the saint continued to shout 
 from the bottom step of the terrace. 
 
 The little white-checked girl alone looked at him 
 without fear, out of her large wondering eyes. When 
 she saw her mother running with the rest, she turned 
 as though to follow her; then she came back with her 
 little limping steps, and, approaching Magloire 
 Dubourg, held out her flowers to him. 
 
 "Please, sir," she said in a frail voice, "may I keep 
 them?" 
 
 The saint bent his head, and, for the first time, a
 
 76 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 smile lit up his features. He stooped, and lifted the 
 child right off the ground in his long gnarled hands. 
 The small wasted form weighed nothing at the end of 
 his outstretched arms, and he looked with pity at the 
 tiny blanched face with its nose that was so comically 
 long and pointed. 
 
 "They are yours, little one, keep them and think 
 of me." 
 
 The child, although she was not frightened, shivered 
 nervously, and her lovely feverish eyes plunged deep 
 into those of the saint. 
 
 "Remember that the old African does not want you 
 to be ill? Eh? He won't have it. . . . You must 
 get nice fat cheeks and make happiness for others. 
 Now, run along to mother." 
 
 He kissed her — two smacking rustic kisses — and set 
 her down again. The child raced off to catch up the 
 others. Her mother, seeing her run, screamed out : 
 
 "You'll fall!" 
 
 But the little girl, without lessening her speed, 
 threw herself into her mother's arms. A slight flush 
 tinted her cheeks. She repeated excitedly : 
 
 "Mummy, he said I was to keep the flowers and 
 not to be sick any more." 
 
 The perturbed mpther looked at her child, whose 
 thin little hands she was holding tight. 
 
 "But you ran, my Nenette, how did you do that?" 
 she questioned in a trembling voice. "And you didn't 
 fall down. . . . How did you manage to run?" 
 
 "I don't know. Mummy, I don't know," 
 
 The little one smiled up at her with a radiant ex- 
 pression that the mother had never seen on her face 
 before. 
 
 They were the last to pass out of the gate. The 
 bewildered mother stared at the curious crowd without 
 seeing them. There were two or three hundred now, 
 waiting for those who had gone into the garden. 
 
 "What is he like?" 
 
 ""What did he say to you?"
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 7> 
 
 At thit moment the mother, who was still holding 
 her child close to her with both hands, uttered a 
 T)iercjng cry — a long, heartrending cry, which startled 
 ever3'^one. Voices were hushed. A shudder passed 
 through the crowd. 
 
 " My child is cured ! " screamed the mother like a 
 madwoman. "My child is cured!" 
 
 The little maid, her face buried in the black skirts, 
 began unconsciously to cry — 
 
 "I am cured, I am cured!" she repeated, sobbing. 
 
 A scared silence held the crowd. The mother was 
 still screaming unconsciously, and the long animal 
 wail probed deeply into the very vitals of the throng. 
 They listened with beating hearts, their legs giving 
 way beneath them. A strange current passed from 
 one to another. Then, suddenly, an insensate clamour 
 broke forth — howls, cheers, a sort of frenzy, and the^' 
 flung themselves upon the little girl, in a wild rush^ 
 as though a magnet had suddenly drawn them towards 
 her. 
 
 "It's a miracle!" they shrieked. "It's a 
 miracle ! " 
 
 In the twinkling of an eye the crowd, squeezed and 
 crushed together, was nothing more than a compact 
 mass, whirling about the avenue. In the centre, in- 
 visible, was the dishevelled mother round whom they 
 pressed. They wanted to see; they broke through 
 knots of people; they beat one another down; and 
 the deafening roar drowned the cries of a woman who 
 was being trampled underfoot. Then something rose 
 from the crush : twenty arms had just raised the little 
 girl who was being suffocated, and the mob moved on 
 howling, blind, leaderless, with the little slender doll 
 in her beggar's rags carried high above it. 
 
 " It's a miracle ! " 
 
 From all sides people were running up, attracted 
 by the noise, local inhabitants or Parisians from the 
 liast train. The swelling throng resembled a huge 
 beast with a thousand outstretched hands. They all 
 
 F
 
 78 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 wanted to touch the child, her frock, her wasted legs. 
 Those who were near her jostled against each other, 
 and fought with cowardly thrusts; and the man who 
 stiunblingly was carrying her allowed himself to be 
 borne away by the ilood, with his little burden on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Flower! Give me a flower!" people were shout- 
 ing in the tumult. 
 
 Feverish hands snatched at these relics which the 
 half-stupefied child distributed among them. Other 
 hands seized on the mother, hooking on to her arms, 
 pulling at her skirts : 
 
 "What's the little girl's name? What was the 
 matter witli her ? Tell us, how long ? . . . Madame, 
 I say, Madame. ..." 
 
 From its midst the crowd cast forth to the edge of 
 the road invalids, cripples, old people, who emerged 
 from the scuffle tottering, some livid, others flushed 
 scarlet. The new-comers surrounded them, thinking 
 they might perhaps have something to tell : 
 
 "When did it happen? Were you there?" 
 
 Some people, abandoning the crowd, turned back 
 to the viUa. One woman was wheeling a psdlid youth 
 in an invalid chair. 
 
 "Let us go quick. ... He is sure to cure 
 others." 
 
 Some began to turn back, then, hearing a fresh 
 outcry, changed their minds and ran back to catch 
 up the crowd. A stout and almost breathless man 
 in a white waistcoat who was following kept on 
 saying : 
 
 "They should have it confirmed at once by a doctor. 
 Do tell them." 
 
 But nobody was listening to him. They were 
 watching the child who had been healed, and, throw- 
 ing themselves back into the whirlpool to get closer 
 to her, they joined in the universal shout of : 
 
 " It's a miracle ! It's a miracle ! " 
 
 The news spread quickly through Baxlincourt.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 79 
 
 "The saint has cured a little lame girl." 
 
 "No, it was a paralytic, a child who was as good 
 as dead.". 
 
 The rumour was carried from door to door, from 
 mouth to mouth, and the whole population was already- 
 cut of doors when the noise of the procession drew 
 near. The Parisians, coming out of the station, 
 hurried along, attracted by the din. The street was 
 full to overflowing; curious spectators were being 
 squeezed against the houses and thrown back into the 
 passages. The turbulent mob moved forward, cleav- 
 ing its way through the mass of onlookers. People 
 were leaning out of all the windows; a single cry went 
 up from the pavement and fell from the upper floors 
 
 " Here she is ! " 
 
 The fragile figure of the child could be seen at once, 
 dominating the maelstrom. Old women crossed them- 
 selves. Lads were trying to make jokes, but only 
 half-heartedly with dry throats and strange shudders 
 that made their flesh creep. It was a storm that 
 went by, a torrent. The shrill voices of 
 
 women rose suddenly, intoning the MAGNIFICAT, 
 but were at once drowned in the shouting. Only a 
 fev/ persistent devotees, who knew the words, went on 
 chanting in falsetto tones. Their dark-clad group 
 with the mother at its head could be seen round the 
 little girl with the flowers. Behind them came the 
 whirl of the rabble. . . . The men too were 
 shouting incoherently to relieve their strained nerves. 
 For a moment came cries of "Hurrah for the saint !" 
 to a revolutionary tune. - - - After that nothing 
 but confused noise . howlmg, singing, whistling. 
 
 They passed almost before a glimpse of them could 
 be caught. The boys racing in pursuit caught up 
 the procession, which was growing larger at every 
 cross-road. Behind them the street was left nearly 
 empty, for the crowd carried with it everyone except 
 a few terrified old women. 
 
 M. Quatrepomme, very pale, looked after them as
 
 8o SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 they disappeared. He had been thrown against a 
 shop-front and had clung to it as well as he could, 
 his constable having been torn away from him. 
 Dumbfounded, he was thinking : 
 
 "There are over two thousand of them." 
 
 He felt weak and helpless; all his courage had fled. 
 
 "Shall I go up to the villa to thank the saint and 
 find out what has happened, or shall I go to the 
 station?" he asked himself. 
 
 He decided on the station, as being less compromising. 
 
 "Ah. you come at the right moment." gasped the 
 distracted station-master "They broke down the 
 barriers to get out quicker. The next train is sig- 
 nalled, what on earth will happen? I have had a 
 telephone message, saying it is packed to the roofs. 
 We ought to have some gendarmes " 
 
 Railway employees were running in all directions. 
 They had found some wire and were hastily repairing 
 the fence over which the sergeant of gendarmerie was 
 ordered to mount guard. In the cloak room some 
 men were bending over an epOeptic, who was recover* 
 ing from a fit, exhausted, his eyes still glassy. 
 
 "Look out ! Here she comes !" shouted the station 
 master hearing the signal bell. 
 
 The engine was growing bigger at the further end 
 of the gHttering rails. In an uproar of yells and 
 whistles, the train steamed in. The engine was pant- 
 ing like a runner out of breath, expanding its broad 
 athletic chest and clenching the tenacious fists of its 
 buffers. 
 
 Doors slammed all along the train. It was like a 
 cask from which the bung had been pulled out. Pas- 
 sengers gushed out from everywhere and the tram 
 had not ceased moving before the platform was 
 already swarming with people. A mad clamour, 
 which overrode the whistles and the grating of the 
 brakes, filled the air Passengers were still jiunping 
 out, as if the overcrowded carriages were contracting 
 and squeezing them forth.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 8i 
 
 After two hours of jolting and suffocation, on the 
 edge of sickness, they shouted with rehef as they es- 
 caped from their stifling vapour-baths. It was the 
 disorderly crowd of racing Sundays. The sergeant, 
 standing erect in front of the gap in the fence, cla- 
 moured : 
 
 "Exit, further along!" 
 
 But the passengers did not move; they wanted to 
 see the sick people. 
 
 "Come, move on!" shouted the station officials. 
 
 In some inexplicable fashion the train had hardly 
 arrived before everyone who had travelled in it knew 
 that a Uttle girl had just been healed, and the story 
 grew in wonder as it passed from mouth to mouth. 
 Some young rascals, who had travelled on the roof 
 of the train or by hanging on to the bars, were now 
 trying to climb over the barrier 
 
 "That's forbidden," bawled the gendarme, red 
 with rage "I'll send for the Mayor!" 
 
 They burst out laughing at the absurd threat : 
 
 "Will he come in his sabots?" jeered the wags. 
 
 "Tell him to put on his best smock." 
 
 People were still streaming out of the train : it 
 seemed as if it was never going to be emptied. They 
 were all running peU-mell towards the front coaches, 
 where the sick had been accommodated. Out of 
 these carriages came a stifling smell of carbolic and 
 iodoform. Crowding round the doors as though round 
 hospital windows, tossing about on their seats and 
 stretchers, the invalids were shouting "Barlincourt ! 
 Barlincourt ! " in tones of ecstasy, such as Crusaders 
 may have used as they cried "Jerusalem!" on the 
 stony hiUs of the Holy Land. 
 
 They aU wanted to get out at once, and the less 
 feeble were pushing the others back, with malevolent 
 glances, as if each expected to be healed merely by 
 setting foot on this blessed soil. They longed to 
 breathe freely again, to be relieved from the strain, 
 to get away from hard boards that bruised their backs.
 
 82 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 Several, in spite of their feeble limbs, jumped from 
 the train while it was still moving, and a final jolt 
 threw an emaciated v/oman who had been standing 
 upon a foot-board on to the platform. 
 
 Arms v/ere stretched out on all sides to help them 
 to get out. There were consumptives with hollow 
 cheeks and glittering eyes; children with hip-disease, 
 with their legs in plaster of Paris; men crippled with 
 gout, people with livid faces, afflicted v/ith cancer; 
 hideous features corroded by lupus, old men who 
 coughed, invalids with bilious skin, suffering from 
 liver-complaints, epileptics : a horrible procession of 
 pain and disease, waste products of humanity waiting 
 to be swept av/ay by Death. 
 
 "Is the villa very far?" they asked directly they 
 alighted. "Show us the way quickly." 
 
 But tliey could only move one step at a time, for 
 the narrow gateway held them back. People were 
 jammed together imder the portico; but those at the 
 back still pushed forward, and the mass, too tightly 
 packed, finally broke, bursting through the office doors, 
 which rattled madly in a crash of broken glass. The 
 noise redoubled. The station-master, crushed against 
 the wall, thundered orders and threats which no one 
 understood. The squeals of women cut across the 
 tumult; terrified children were lifted up; and above 
 aU the uproar there could be heard the irritated whistle 
 of the train demanding free passage- 
 Suddenly there emerged from the press a large 
 placard, lifted up by two railwajTiien, who with an 
 effort placed it upright against the clock. It was an 
 inspiration of M. Quatrepomme's. Everyone read it 
 at the same moment :. 
 
 IMPORTANT NOTICE. 
 
 "There are no miracles within the bounds 
 of the parish." 
 
 The Municipal Authorities.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRR 83 
 
 For an instant the passengers were taken aback, 
 at a loss to understand; then all at once an infernal 
 hooting broke out, a huge explosion of laughter, a 
 volley of hisses. The crowd, which for a moment 
 had been motionless, drove forward again like a bat- 
 tering ram, more window-panes crashed, the whole 
 barrier collapsed, the door of the cloak room was 
 driven in, and the unchained multitude, breaking 
 loose like a sea overflowing its dykes, seemed to escape 
 in all directions. 
 
 The noise reached the market-place and filled the 
 avenue. Songs arose amid the din of rioting, and 
 suddenly M. Quatrepomme, who had taken shelter in 
 the telegraph office, heard the roUing of a drum. He 
 thought it was a signal of police intervention, and his' 
 heart sank. 
 
 "My God !" he moaned. "Wliat are they up to?" 
 
 But the drum had, after all, a cheerful sound. It 
 seemed to be beating time, gaily sounding the reveille, 
 and the noise of the crowd died away in the distance. 
 
 It was old Rousseau who, unable to make head 01 
 tail of the contradictory orders which he had received^ 
 had resolutely placed himself at the head of the demon- 
 strators, and, stepping out briskly — just as on each 
 14th of July he was accustomed to lead the fire-brigade 
 — he conducted the procession to the villa, with a 
 joyous rat-a-tat.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 About midday the crowd, which until then had been 
 good-tempered, roughly invaded the King's Domain, 
 trampling on the lawns, plundering the kitchen garden; 
 and a great human sea surged against the four walls 
 of the villa. A ceaseless hum ascended from the multi- 
 tude : sometimes a more violent clamour arose, like a 
 wave, and broke itself at the foot of the house. But 
 the door remained shut, the windows did not open. 
 The saint had shown himself once, and in the midst 
 of the tumult only those in the front rank had heard 
 his words. 
 
 Heads rose out of the crowd, to breathe a 
 little air and to look around, but the surf passed, 
 and the black waters of the crowd engulfed every- 
 thing, while other faces appeared above craning 
 necks. 
 
 The heat was overwhelming; it was one of those 
 thundery days when there seems to be no air. The 
 light was dim. The blue hills on the horizon dwindled 
 under the low skies, as though afraid. Thunder_ rolled 
 in the distance. 
 
 The trees were laden with urchins who clustered in 
 their branches. Others sat on the window-sills of the 
 out-houses, and it was a matter for wonder how they 
 could have climbed so high. Sometimes the ladder of 
 a cinema operator swayed perilously, and frightened 
 women uttered shrill cries, already foreseeing the 
 moment when man and box would fall on them. All 
 these sweating bodies now formed one solid mass. 
 Tired of marking time, some of the curious emerged 
 from the crush and returned to the Avenue, where at 
 least they were able to breathe. Hawkers threaded 
 their way through the groups. 
 
 84
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 85 
 
 "La Derniere Heure, buy La Derniere Heure, Noon 
 Edition." . . . 
 
 The crowd was speaking of nothing but miracles, 
 and the thousands of voices purred like a prayer. The 
 atmosphere and the waiting engendered fever. A 
 single cure only was certain so far, that of the little 
 girl, but others were being invented, under cover of 
 that ubiquitous "they say" which knows everything 
 and is always believed. 
 
 Everyone was talking about paralytics cured, blind 
 whose sight had been restored, of the well which had 
 been suddenly filled; and these lies produced shivers 
 of anticipation. Their souls, their minds, had yet to 
 blend together, like their breath; one single anxious 
 heart was beating for them all. 
 
 Tlie multitude was undergoing a nervous tension, a 
 crisis of impatience; and those who had congregated 
 on the lawn, where they could see nothing, suddenly 
 began to jostle each other, and to shout. But the 
 compact mass remained unshaken. It panted for 
 breath, but it did not budge. 
 
 The crowd only moved asunder, leaving a narrow 
 passage through which the infirm trickled in a thin 
 stream; as the thronged terrace could hold no more, 
 they stopped at the foot of the small staircase, and 
 those who were more fervent kissed the step where 
 Magloire Dubourg, lifting the child in his arms, had 
 performed his first miracle. Around the well, the 
 sick and the cripples pressed, like a hospital in the 
 open air, some squatting on the ground, others resting 
 on cane seats, or lying in easy-chairs and on stretchers. 
 Those who were able to drag themselves along were 
 grouped at the foot of the steps, shoulder to shoulder, 
 exhausted, shivering; here the bluish temple of a child 
 pressing against the knees of a mother, encountered 
 by chance; there, a neurasthenic, twitching convul- 
 sively, who nevertheless thrust back with disgust a 
 coughing consumptive. They all had horrible faces 
 with projecting bones and bloated flesh. Their
 
 86 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 crutches, grasped between their spare fingers, rose 
 above these emaciated forms, like crosses akeady 
 planted above them. 
 
 Hidden behind the curtains of the drawing room, 
 the saint was gazing at the poor wretches, his heart 
 heavy within him. Behind him, Yvonne, moved with 
 pity, whispered, 
 
 "If it starts raining, there will be no time to carry 
 them away — some are going to die. ..." 
 
 "True," said the Evangelist, "in the church they 
 would find shelter." 
 
 As he looked at them, he begged Heaven to pardon 
 him this idolatrous worship, which men were rendering 
 him. 
 
 He had been one of the last to hear of the little 
 girl's cure, and was scarcely astonished by it. God 
 had wished it. . . . Perhaps their unreasoning con- 
 fidence would allow the truth, of which he was 
 depository, to spring up all the better. . . . His 
 ardent eyes searched for faith in those other anguished 
 ones. 
 
 The scenes which unrolled themselves were alter- 
 nately ludicrous and pathetic. In her dress of black 
 serge, the widow Pele stood up a gaunt figiu-e in the 
 midst of the sick. By dint of nagging and the play of 
 her bony elbows, she had been able to slip up to the 
 house, where she had appointed herself overseer of the 
 invalids. She directed their prayers with her peevish 
 voice; when aU were beginning to moan in unison she 
 intoned the cry of Lourdes — "Lord, cure our sick," 
 and her yelping pierced the ear. 
 
 "Lord, cure our sick," the crowd repeated in a 
 hollow murmur. 
 
 Whenever the hubbub diminished the bigot struck 
 up a hymn, beating the measure with her black psalm 
 book. 
 
 Advised by the natives, the curious had walked 
 round the estate, having entered it by the fields, but 
 at once they had found themselves pressed in hundreds
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE B>7 
 
 against the espalier-covered wall, and no one could 
 get through the narrow door of the terrace. Unable 
 to see anything, they had to content themselves with 
 hearing the noise of the crowd, and they waited in the 
 expectation of something happening to make them 
 move on. Those who were most tired sat down on 
 the sorrel borders. To pass the time they tried to 
 imitate the strident voice of Mme. Pele, which never 
 stopped bawling. As soon as she began to sing, they 
 shouted to her. 
 
 "Shut up, you will frighten him. . . . Haven't 
 you finished clucking?" while a brat, sitting astride 
 the wall, copied her in a squeaky voice. 
 
 "Lord, cure our sick!" 
 
 In the park, there were fewer people; it was possible 
 to rest at ease. Families, with their string-bags of 
 provisions, had settled themselves on the grass; one 
 could have imagined oneself in the woods of Vincennes. 
 Children were swinging on a rope fixed between two 
 trees. Men in shirt-sleeves went across to Dumarchey's 
 to buy wine. 
 
 They did not return at once, for the miraculously 
 cured little girl was in the dancing hall, where the 
 doctors were examining her; and the com"t-yard was 
 crowded. All along the glass partition curious people 
 had their eyes glued to the panes. Some kindly ambu- 
 lance men, burdened with bandaging outfits and 
 stretchers, had set up a first-aid station there. 
 
 "It is to look after those whom the saint will be 
 too lazy to attend to," scoffed Milot, who alone had 
 maintained a mocking attitude in the midst of all this 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 The little girl, with flushed cheeks, sat exhausted 
 at the foot of the platform, as though on an altar of 
 paper streamers. Tired of repeating the same story 
 twenty times, she had now become silent. Her little 
 forehead was burning. The two doctors had kept 
 her for an hour, examining, questioning, sounding her; 
 and the old physician shrugged his shoulders with
 
 88 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 impatience when the young doctor wrung a cry from 
 her. 
 
 Old Rouquette, a worthy man of fatherly presence, 
 who had physicked the district for the last thirty years, 
 was ready to admit a kind of miraculous cure, perhaps 
 aided by auto-suggestion; but Dr. Blum, a lanky 
 young man with horn-rimmed spectacles, who had 
 recently established himself at Barlincourt, where he 
 had introduced the last word in fashionable thera- 
 peutics from Paris, remained intractable and denied 
 the miracle. 
 
 "Well, one thing is certain at all events," grumbled 
 the old practitioner, "she can wallc now, and she no 
 bnger suffers." 
 
 "That is not enough to convince me," retorted the 
 other, tight-lipped. And, never ceasing to take notes, 
 he continued his inquiries. He asked the mother for 
 information about her confinement, whether the father 
 drank, in what hospital the child had been treated, 
 even going into embarrassing details on the heredity 
 of the child, whether there had been venereal disease 
 or insanity in the family. Then he turned to the little 
 girl, feeling her legs doubtfully, as if hesitating whether 
 he should buy her or not. Behind him, leaning for- 
 ward, his pince-nez fixed on his nose, M. Rouquette 
 also looked at the child. 
 
 "It is obvious," he diagnosed, "scrofulous necrosis, 
 by Jove ! It is as clear as daylight." 
 
 Full of his own importance, Dr. Blum did not 
 answer; he was still busily scribbling. At last he 
 declared, 
 
 " I have enough data now : I am going to draw up 
 my report." 
 
 "Very well, sir, so shall I," exploded Rouquette, 
 as if taking up a challenge, "and probably we shall 
 not agree." 
 
 They sat down at the same table, face to face; and, 
 watching each other stealthily, they began to write two 
 reports, which contradicted each other in every detaU.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 89 
 
 Dr. Blum murmured scraps of speech, "Nervous 
 coxalgy . . . general neuropathic condition. . . , 
 Acute pains on the left side of the rhachis, without 
 objective signs." 
 
 In the meantime he was thinking : 
 
 "If this old bone-setter maintains there has been a 
 miracle, I will ruin him in the whole district." 
 
 Meanwhile Rouquette, shaking his fountain pen, 
 growled into his beard : 
 
 "He doesn't even know enough to distinguish a 
 child that is ill from one that isn't. ... No fear 
 that you'll get my practice, mountebank, ..." 
 
 The little girl had only a few faded flowers remaining 
 from her posy. She had flung them to the crowd, 
 giving them into all the outstretched hands, but sud- 
 denly she decided : 
 
 "I'll keep the rest for myself." 
 
 She had then been offered money; people besieged 
 the mother with entreaties, and a sort of tariff was 
 established. A spray of lily-of-the-valley reached ten 
 francs. It was this that gave Petit Louis the idea of 
 also selling relics; he had despoiled the garden on the 
 sly of all its flowers, even to the Marechal Joffre in the 
 large flower-bed, and the plants in bud in the hot- 
 houses, to sell them to the loafers. 
 
 "Who hasn't got a pretty souvenir?" he bawled in 
 front of the cafe. "Flowers gathered by Saint Mag- 
 loire. Who hasn't got a lucky charm ? " 
 
 The little girl had been photographed at least ten 
 times for the newspapers, and the hall was filled with 
 the acrid fumes of magnesium. Dead with fatigue, 
 the mother had but one idea, to return to Paris; lassi- 
 tude had subdued her feverish joy, and, sitting with 
 bruised limbs in her chair, she wearily answered the 
 reporters. It fell to Dr. Rouquette to give them 
 information, and this he did with the loquacity of a 
 showman at a fair. 
 
 "A wonderful case, gentlemen. A child who has 
 been treated for necrosis for years. The illness began
 
 90 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 with anchylosis of both insteps. . . . Lower your 
 stocking, my darling. ..." 
 
 The inquisitive groups in the courtyard, tired of 
 waiting to no purpose, were returning to the King's 
 Domain, attracted thither by the noise. The crowd, 
 greater than ever, was overwrought by the approaching 
 thunderstorm. The wind blew in sudden gusts, the 
 trees of the park creaked under the onset of the storm. 
 It was hardly three o'clock, and aheady as dark as night. 
 
 "Real Good Friday weather," said the women. 
 
 The dim light distorted the faces : the same anguish 
 oppressed all hearts. They felt they had reached the 
 limit of their endurance, something had to happen, 
 they could wait no longer. . . . 
 
 The thunder with a continuous rumble drew closer, 
 and each squall wrested large warm rain-drops from 
 the low clouds. Palms were extended questioningly : 
 
 "Now, then . . . it's going to rain. ..." 
 
 The sick, trembling with fear, began to cry and 
 complain. They gazed at the door of the villa with 
 beseeching eyes. "If he had been willing. ..." 
 
 "Have pity on us," shouted a cripple who was 
 leaning against the wall. 
 
 The copper-hued sky oppressed them, the rolling 
 of the thunder hurt them. The piercing voice of 
 Madame Pele remained without an echo; a few ex- 
 hausted voices alone took up the words : 
 
 "We want God, He is our Father, 
 We want God, He is our King. ..." 
 
 The hubbub of the multitude smothered the h5rmn. 
 They trod on each other until they groaned, sweat 
 pouring down their foreheads. At last a supreme 
 clamour burst from them under a new increase of pres- 
 sure : 
 
 "Lord, heal our sick." 
 
 Abruptly the door at the top of the steps opened 
 ar.d Saint Magloire appeared before them.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 91 
 
 An acclamation rose, a cry of ecstasy burst from 
 ten thousand throats, followed by a silence so deep 
 that one could hear at the end of the lawn the con- 
 vulsive sobbing of the sick, raised on their stretchers. 
 
 Standing upright in the recess, the saint dominated 
 the crowd, motionless, carved, in the brown velvet of 
 his coat, like a church statue in old wood. Their 
 eyes devoured him greedily. Nothing was heard but 
 a protracted and relieved cry of "Ah." 
 
 Then one invalid yelled, brandishing her crutch : 
 
 "Saint, heal me !" 
 
 The others at once set up cries of entreaty : the 
 whole of the horrible hospital, swept by the gathering 
 storm, began to wail. 
 
 " Have pity ! Heal us " 
 
 Magloire Dubourg incUned his head, his eyes 
 dimmed by tears, and humbly crossed himself. Un- 
 comprehendingly all those present followed his 
 example and made the sign of the Cross. 
 
 The supplications ascended in a woeful chorus. 
 Twisted on his stretcher a martyr howled : 
 
 "Health or Death! Death! . . . ." 
 
 The tidings spread like a wave over the crowd, 
 crossed the garden, passed beyond the railing, reached 
 the avenue : 
 
 "He has come out \" 
 
 People bumped against each other in their efforts to 
 catch a glimpse of him, clutching right and left; 
 children and women were seized and held up over 
 the press. Perched on his ladder, the cinema operator 
 was turning his crank. 
 
 The terrace presented an appalling scene. The 
 sick, in a sort of madness, were undressing with 
 trembling fingers to exhibit their infirmities; sores 
 appeared, brutally denuded; from under the dressings 
 which were wrenched away and the tattered garments 
 emerged fleshless limbs, breasts broken by ulcers, 
 the putrid fount of suffering. Each one wished to 
 expose yet more horrible infirmities, to attract the
 
 92 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 attention of the saint and awaken his pity, and they 
 vociferated with twitching faces, hoping to be the 
 first to monopolise his all-powerful glance, — 
 
 "Heal me ! Heal me !" 
 
 "I have three small children. Have pity on my 
 small children ! " 
 
 Their intermingled voices formed but one atrocious 
 lamentation. The struggle went on fiercely from 
 stretcher to stretcher. The less feeble clutched at 
 the others with ferocious hands and forced them 
 savagely backwards in order to show themselves first. 
 The helpless paralytics sobbed, imploring to be lifted 
 up. Clinging to each other, haggard, convulsed, they 
 di-agged themselves like the dead from the earth on 
 which they lay. Some tore at their wounds, to make 
 them still more horrible. They wept, stretching forth 
 child-like hands. It was like a horrible competition 
 with a miracle for its prize. 
 
 Magloire Dubourg, his heart pierced with sorrow, 
 would have liked to tell them that he was powerless 
 to help, that he could only weep with them, but his 
 courage failed him. 
 
 " Health or Death ! " the cancerous man with the 
 leaden complexion still continued to cry. 
 
 A tall man, miserably clothed, stood among the 
 human wreckage and stared into emptiness^ his 
 glassy eyes seeing nothing. 
 
 "Is he there? Is he there?" gasped the raucous 
 voice. "He will cure me, won't he? ... . He is 
 looking at me? Tell me, is he looking at me?" 
 
 As he craned his neck in his fierce desire to see, 
 the thunder pealed forth and lightning which rent 
 the shadows suddenly illuminated the saint with a 
 dazzling radiance. A fleeting vision : Magloire Du- 
 bourg blessing the crowd with raised hands. The 
 shattering noise of the thunderbolt deafened them. 
 
 " I can see ! " yelled the blind man. 
 
 He leaped into the midst of the dying who sur- 
 rounded him, crushing their bodies, and waved his
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 93 
 
 arms about with a wide movement full of mad, 
 exultation. Pallid, grimacing with a senseless smile 
 which split his cheeks, he smote his head with his 
 fists. 
 
 " I can see ! I am cured ! " 
 
 His demented voice, born amid the thunder, passed 
 over these thousands of heads, proclaiming the miracle, 
 and a shudder ran through the multitude, like an 
 electric ciurent passing through them all. 
 
 They listened, still deafened by the noise, breath- 
 less, their hearts at a stand-still. But, their stupor 
 once dispelled, a joyful clamour arose; the irresistible 
 wave of the crowd threw its foremost ranks towards 
 the villa, and in the midst of the tiunult an eddy of 
 vociferating human beings was suddenly let loose. 
 Invalids, beside themselves, caught by the delirium, 
 lifted themselves up for the first time on their 
 stretchers. A cripple raised by an unknown power 
 stood up. A squatting woman, who was moaning 
 with the torture of her disease, felt her pain depart- 
 ing suddenly in the midst of the uproar, as if a red- 
 hot iron had been withdrawn from a wound. She 
 too uttered the cry of the miracle, in a heart-rending 
 voice : 
 
 " I am cured ! A miracle ! A miracle ! " 
 
 And throwing herself in her turn into the struggling 
 crowd, she hiuled herself towards the saint strangled 
 by her words and sank down at his feet, overwhelmed 
 with joy, twisting the hem of his cape in her skinny 
 fingers, kissing and biting it till she choked. 
 
 The crowd seethed. A second storm under the 
 tempestous sky, with shrieks for lightnings .... 
 the electrified crowd of idlers and half-clad invalids 
 mingled, gesticulating, shouting, in a hideous uproar 
 which drowned the entreaties of the cripples and the 
 cries of women who were being trampled upon. 
 Bursts of chanting arose from time to time as on 
 wings, only to sink back into the noise. Yet the 
 
 G
 
 94 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 powerftil voice of the saint dominated the tumult. 
 His eyes were searching for those who, helpless, 
 trodden underfoot, were lost in the surge, and he cried 
 out despairingly : 
 
 "To the church! Bring the sick to the church!" 
 
 Instantly an orderly procession was formed in the 
 midst of the confusion, no one knew how. The 
 stretchers, from which lank hands drooped despair- 
 ingly, passed out through a breach cut in the crowd. 
 Those who were not cured; those on crutches, the 
 sick who were held up under the arms, came behind; 
 then, in a vortex of men bawling at the top of their 
 voices, came those who had been miraculously healed, 
 carried along in triumph. This little band wended 
 its way through the crowd like a caterpillar of human 
 heads; it moved forward solidly, on invisible feet, 
 almost without stirring, propelled by its own weight. 
 
 In the avenue, order was to some extent restored. 
 The empty stretcher of a woman who had been cured 
 led the procession, like a banner. At the head walked 
 the saint, and the blind man, gamboUed before him, 
 grotesque and terrifying, waving his long arms emd 
 crying perpetually like one distraught : 
 
 " I can see ! I can see ! " 
 
 Through every door simultaneously, through the 
 sacristy, by the side aisles, the fanatics invaded the 
 church. Feverishly the cripples were carried in, and 
 the rumbling thunder drove the stretcher-bearers 
 forward. The black wall of the storm was coming 
 nearer, creviced with lightnings, and the first drops, 
 in a gust, rattled on the dry leaves of the plane-trees 
 in the square. 
 
 "All the sick are inside," cried someone. 
 
 Then, as though they had been waiting for this 
 signal, the heavens burst in a deluge. The crowd 
 which had stayed outside fled, shrieking, taking refuge 
 in the houses, and under the trees. The church was 
 so full that it was impossible to stir. People had 
 climbed on to the seats, the prayer-stools, the pulpit.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 95 
 
 A small boy scrambled up to the pedestal of the 
 Immaculate Conception, and clung to the blue robe 
 to save himself from falling. Magloire Dubourg 
 mounted the three steps of the choir. Those whom 
 he had healed, three women and a blind man, knelt 
 at his feet : 
 
 "If these have been saved, it is by God's wUl," 
 proclaimed the Evangelist, laying his hands on their 
 brows. 
 
 " God wills it ! God wills it ! " answered a man at 
 the top of his voice. 
 
 Sobs rose up like incense from the nave. The 
 cripples, with hope renewed, pleaded with trembling 
 lips and eyes full of tears. Women sang distractedly. 
 In the first row of the transept, the widow Pele was 
 squeaking : 
 
 "Lord ! make my son die in a state of grace. . . ." 
 
 And by puhing at his ears, she forced Josephin to 
 bow his head. In the sacristy, the Abbe Choisy, 
 losing his head, was unable to get into his chasuble. 
 He was trembling in every limb. 
 
 "We wiU sing thanksgivings," he gasped in a stifled 
 
 voice "And I've no one to play the 
 
 organ My God, it is my greatest day. . . ." 
 
 Vehement clamouring shook the window panes. 
 
 "A miracle! A miracle!" howled the multitude. 
 
 A new cure had just taken place. The beggar at 
 the church, the epileptic who used to sit twitching 
 under the porch, had been swept away by the crowd 
 as it entered, carried right up to the Sanctuary, and 
 thrown down before the Altar. A terrible fear had 
 taken hold of him. 
 
 "He wiU cure me I shall not be able to 
 
 beg any more " 
 
 He was in such a condition that his inert limbs 
 began to shiver. Pushed hither and thither, he 
 stumbled, and his hands, as he fell, touched the 
 mantle of the saint. He received something hke a 
 shock, and pulled himself up again with a frightened
 
 96 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 spring. He was standing upright now, trembling 
 no longer; his teeth had ceased chattering. Horror- 
 stricken he looked at the saint. 
 
 "Leave me alone, leave me alone," he stammered, 
 unable to tear his eyes away from the Evangelist. 
 
 "It is the Trembler .... the Trembler has 
 been healed ! " 
 
 The terrified beggar tried to escape seeking to bury 
 himself in the mob and disappear, but could not; he 
 
 was seized and carried along Then he grew 
 
 dizzy, and uttering a terrible cry, let himself drop 
 on the steps of the Sanctuary, between the weeping 
 cancerous woman and the blind man, who was laugh- 
 ing in the ecstasy of seeing the sun rise again on the 
 red and blue panes of the windows. 
 
 There was high festival in Barlincourt. Lanterns 
 were being lit in the foliage of the gardens; it might 
 have been the night of the fourteenth of July. 
 
 Towards the end of the day, the sick and the curious 
 had gone back to Paris in crammed trains. The 
 authorities had spread a report that Magloire Dubourg 
 had been summoned to Rome by the Pope and had 
 just left Barlincourt. 
 
 The streets, however, remained in a state of ex- 
 citement and noise. People had been dining at all 
 the wine shops; tables were set outside, and the 
 public-houses were full of disorderly customers, some 
 talking about medicine and religion, while others sang 
 popular songs. At Dumarchey's they had organised 
 a baU, and people were dancing to the strains of a 
 gramophone for which Milot chose the records. 
 After that day of strain there had come a 
 brusque reaction, a craving for laughter and 
 amusement. 
 
 At the Town Hall, the Prefect was holding an 
 inquiry. It was reported that, when questioned on 
 the subject of the blind man. Dr. Blum and Dr. 
 Rouquette had, after exhausting their arguments,
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 97 
 
 come to blows, and that it had been necessary to 
 separate them. 
 
 "I am expecting the journaHsts at my house," each 
 had shouted as they left the Town Hall. "I will 
 give them proofs ! " 
 
 But the joumahsts had not come; they were too 
 busy. Gathered at the Station Cafe, they had ar- 
 rived without anyone's help at a half-way opinion, 
 still in a state of excitement, they were beginning 
 their articles hurriedly while they ate their ham. At 
 the telephone which had remained open for the occa- 
 sion, they could be heard dictating the details of the 
 miracles. They had agreed to call the blind man 
 Barnabas, for the reporters set on his track had not 
 been able to find him and no one knew his name : it 
 would be easy enough to rechristen him again next 
 day. To fill in the time till he could get a portrait 
 of him, Hardy had photographed a lorry-driver who 
 at a distance looked a little like him. 
 
 M. Quatrepomme was triumphant. He had been 
 driving about all the afternoon in the Prefect's motor- 
 car to impress his constituents, and now that his day 
 was over he was very proud of it. 
 
 "I have shown that I have a will of my own," he 
 declared. 
 
 And to sustain this reputation he had just signed 
 the dismissal of old Rousseau, the town drummer, 
 condemned as incapable. Rousseau was indeed the 
 only victim of the day, except an old fellow who had 
 died at Dumarchey's from the energetic attentions 
 lavished on him by immature ambulance-men. 
 
 Abbe Choisy was rejoicing. At eight o'clock in 
 the evening he had held a special service, and by 
 order of his mother Josephin Pele had seen to it 
 that the bell rang incessantly, but at intervals he was 
 relieved by Milot to whom M. Aubernon had given 
 twenty francs. 
 
 After Benediction, the Vicar-General of the Bishopric 
 had arrived, asking the parish priest to take him to
 
 98 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 Magloire Dubourg. As they went along Abbe Chowy, 
 still quite upset, narrated the miracles ; then he 
 mentioned the singular opinions which the Evangelist 
 had expounded to him the day before. 
 
 "Possibly a power, possibly a danger," the Vicar- 
 General murmured anxiously. 
 
 Before the King's Domain a close cordon had been 
 drawn, but the priests were allowed to enter. 
 
 They crossed the plundered garden, skirted the 
 park and entered the house. Abbe Choisy, dazzled, 
 blinked his eyes as he entered the brilliantly-lighted 
 drawing room. He did not recognise at the first glance 
 all the people who were present; the Dubourgs had 
 sent out a great many invitations. He advanced 
 smiling, ^vith bows to right and left. 
 
 "V^Tiat a splendid day!" he said. . . . "WTiat a 
 triumph for religion ! " 
 
 The Vicar-General interrupted him. 
 
 "I asked M. Choisy to bring me to you, Madame,' 
 he said, greeting Mme. Dubourg. "I was impatient 
 to meet our great traveller." 
 
 The two men bowed and shook hands, the traveller, 
 despite his stoop, still towering above the Bishop's 
 envoy. 
 
 "Let us go out, shall we?" asked the latter. 
 
 The wide lawn was as smooth as sleeping water, 
 and the rising moon laid timorous shadows across it. 
 Noises came from everywhere in the quiet night air, 
 and the joyous chirp of the grasshopper weighed as 
 heavily on the silence as the lowing of the cattle which 
 were being driven homewards. Far away on the 
 market-place, young men were singing, and around 
 their sonorous chant the shrill voice of a child seemed 
 to gambol like a young dog at play. From the clear 
 sky fell showers of stars. 
 
 The Vicar had plucked a tuft of anise, which he 
 crushed between his fingers, inhaling its perfume. He 
 hesitated to speak, for he was more moved than he 
 wished to show.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 99 
 
 "Sir, the Church akeady owes you a great deal, and 
 will owe you still more in the future," he began at 
 last. "To-day you have indeed achieved wonders, 
 and we greet you as one of the most glorious of God's 
 servants. It may be that you possess a superhuman 
 power, in any case you have gained a magnificent 
 ascendancy over the public, and it is great good for- 
 tune for the Faith to possess such a propagandist as 
 you. . . . It is indeed above all to bid you welcome 
 that I am paying you this visit, which is not of&cial, 
 but of which His Eminence is not unaware. You are 
 a great Christian. ..." 
 
 They had stopped in the middle of the path, where 
 the gravel, white under the moon, ran between two 
 grass banks. The Vicar-General communed with 
 himself for a moment before proceeding. He 
 smoothed his hair with a hand that was scented 
 with anise. 
 
 "But aU the same," he continued, weighing his 
 words, "we thought that, in the interest of religion, 
 which you have always served so wonderfully, you 
 would yourself wish to give certain explanations to 
 the ecclesiastical authorities. For instance, with re- 
 gard to the marvellous cures of to-day. , . . You 
 are well aware that they may benefit our cause, but 
 also they might do it harm if we failed to act with 
 the greatest discretion." 
 
 The saint looked closely at the young prelate. 
 
 "You doubt me, do you not?" he said gently. 
 
 The Vicar-General raised hb head. 
 
 "Oh, no," he exclaimed with evident sincerity. "I 
 admire j^ou. But think of the responsibility we incur 
 in acknowledging these cures as miracles. Even at 
 Lourdes, where it is the Blessed Virgin who performs 
 the cures, we ask the doctors to confirm them." 
 
 "Well," said the Evangelist, "you must stiU apply 
 to them. I know nothing. ... I saw these poor 
 folks, I prayed for them; but if some of them have 
 been kealed it is to God alone that they owe it. I
 
 TOO SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 did nothing; and I don't believe in the power of my 
 poor wounded hands." 
 
 Magloire Dubourg was facing the evening hght, his 
 countenance was sweet and grave, two luminous points 
 glowed within the hollow sockets of his eyes. The 
 Vicar-General felt profoundly disturbed, and, taking 
 the hands of the saint, he lifted them devoutly to his 
 lips, to kiss the scars. The Evangelist hardly noticed 
 the gesture. 
 
 "Have you put before the journalists the scheme 
 which you confided to the White Fathers on your 
 voyage?" asked the priest after a moment. 
 
 "No," said the Evangelist, "I wished to discuss it 
 first with the Heads of the Church." 
 
 Then, standing still, he looked fixedly at the Vicar. 
 
 "But let me tell you, Monseigneur," he continued, 
 "that nothing will prevent me from speaking the 
 truths which have been revealed to me. The time 
 has come to establish the law of God on earth, and 
 no one has the right to impose silence on Him Who 
 sends me." 
 
 The priest shivered. 
 
 "So you claim to speak in the name of God," he 
 said distinctly, "but consider in what a formidable 
 dilemma the Church will find itself. . , . We can- 
 not, without injuring ourselves, disown a splendid 
 man who has done so much for the Faith, a wonder- 
 worker, almost a martyr; but, on the other hand, 
 how are we to give free rein to a man who claims to 
 hold from God a doctrine which reason and the 
 Councils are at one in condemning ? " 
 
 "I am not acquainted with the Councils, and my 
 judgment is too frail for me to rely on it," replied the 
 saint. 
 
 Putting his hand on the shoulder of the emissary, 
 he made him sit down on the stone bench and himself 
 sat down near him. A hidden nightingale was singing. 
 The fir-trees threw their pointed foliage like a cloak 
 over the nakedness of the night. At the end of the
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE loi 
 
 garden, the lighted window of the drawing room made 
 a golden splash, the colour of happiness. With bent 
 brows Magloire Dubourg was calling up memories, 
 
 "I see again that comer of the Gabun forest," he 
 murmured; "warm vapour rose from the moist 
 ground; across the track a white-bellied spider had 
 woven his web; and sticky creepers and lianas scented 
 like jasmine, hung down in green cascades from the 
 top of the great trees with their red trunks. . . . 
 Fruit fell on the soft earth, with a dull thud. , . . 
 I was alone, and yet I heard. . . . The voice was 
 within me. ..." 
 
 He was silent, then, after a pause : 
 
 "I know it now, we do not die. It is on earth 
 that the soul lives and will live again xuiceasingly till 
 the last Judgment. . , . Death releases us for a 
 moment, then Life takes us up again and we are born 
 once more, having forgotten everything. With a 
 new purity and new hopes — to-day in the body of a 
 rich man, to-morrow in the husk of a beggar. We 
 return each time to the common fount of all souls, 
 then we descend again, like a drop of water which 
 evaporates and rises towards the clouds, to fall again 
 in the guise of rain. The Divine afflatus which lives 
 within us cannot have been bom for only a single day; 
 the Master said to Moses in the burning bush : ' God 
 is not the God of the dead but the God of the living.' 
 Life is eternal; we shall no more die than the rose- 
 trees that are withered by the winter. Like them, 
 we only change our corolla, and the ages of the world 
 are the seasons of God. ..." 
 
 The Vicar, overwhelmed, clasped his hands : 
 
 "But how can you possibly pretend . . .?" he 
 urged. 
 
 "I do not pretend," the saint interrupted imperi- 
 ously. "I affirm. This truth must save the world. 
 We do not die ! We are bound for ever to the earth 
 which God has given us, and the task of mankind is 
 to reconstruct the earthly paradise which it has
 
 103 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 destroyed. Then Christ will fall of His own will from 
 all the crucifixes, for it will no longer be in vain that 
 He died on the Cross. One single life is nothing; it 
 will be by all our lives that we shall be judged. To 
 suppose that God places man for just a few days in 
 the midst of sensual pleasures, simply to tempt him, 
 to drive him into sin, to judge him without appeal 
 and make him pay for one second of error by an 
 eternity of sufferings : that is sacrilege, and he who 
 believes it is a blasphemer." 
 
 The Vicar-General recovered his self-control. His 
 soul was ready to surrender, but his disciplined intelli- 
 gence fought on. 
 
 "But you know that this belief is heretical," he 
 cried in a trembling voice. "The texts are 
 explicit. ..." 
 
 "What do I care?" exclaimed Saint Magloire, 
 sv/eeping away these objections with a gesture. 
 "There is no truth but in the Gospel. For centuries 
 human words have been added to the words of God. 
 and it is impossible to find the truth under this pile of 
 rubbish where good and bad are inextricably mixed 
 together. We must scrape the walls of the Temple 
 where every passer-by has written his own hypothesis. 
 God has need of fervent hearts, not of doctrinaires." 
 
 The Vicar-General put up a desperate resistance. 
 Tears stood in his eyes. He had taken the sunburnt 
 hands of the saint between his own white ones, and 
 he was still hoping to convince him. 
 
 "But at least," he implored, "think of the monstrous 
 sin you are about to commit. You who are all faith 
 and goodness, you will perhaps bring dissension into 
 the Church, or at least group behind yourself some 
 unhappy distracted souls who Mdll pay for your visions 
 in an eternity of suffering — you wUl deliver them to Hell." 
 
 The saint gazed at him with a shade of bitterness. 
 
 "Why must these words be always on your lips?" 
 he asked sadly. "Always the promise of heaven, 
 always the menace of burning. ... I, you see.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 103 
 
 would like to be able to destroy both. Heaven and 
 Hell, so that God might be loved for Himself. . . . 
 You love God, but not as He should be loved. Christ 
 spoke of nothing but goodwill, and you want to make 
 Him reign by terror. . . . You who accuse me of 
 heresy, you yourselves have created the most mon- 
 strous of all heresies by setting up an opposition in the 
 hearts of men between the Son Whom they love and 
 the Father Whom they fear. Every time that a son 
 of the Church prays to a merciful Christ rather than 
 to the wrathful God of Sinai, Whom you have trans- 
 formed into an ogre, a crime is committed against the 
 One and Only Creator, a crime for which you are 
 responsible." 
 
 The Vicar bowed his head. His knitted brows 
 ploughed two furrows in the middle of hLS pale fore- 
 head. A shudder shook the frame of the saint, and 
 his voice changed. 
 
 "Forgive me" he said, bowing humbly before the 
 priest and seizing his clasped hands. "I lose my 
 temper; I threaten; my poor heart boils with such 
 ardour that I am not able to master it. I repent^ 
 forgive me. ..." 
 
 The Vicar-General without answering disengaged 
 his right hand. In the darkness he traced a sign and 
 laid his hand on the burning forehead of the saint. 
 
 "I pledge myself to obey you," said the Evangelist. 
 " All that I can do without betraying my mission shall 
 be done. What are your orders?" 
 
 "We cannot give you any orders," answered the 
 Vicar, with a beating heart. " I only wanted to advise 
 you to avoid all agitation, and also any premature 
 statements. For this reason, the ecclesiastical authori- 
 ties would be glad if you would make a short retreat 
 in a religious house near Paris, where you will be able 
 to have some useful interviews with certain people 
 who are the only ones entitled to give you a hearing." 
 
 "Very well," said the saint, drawing himself up. 
 "I wiU start at dawn."
 
 104 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 Silence again fell between them. The priest no 
 longer dared to put any questions. He felt the in- 
 explicable glamour of the stately old man, and as he 
 looked at him a weakness to which he was a stranger 
 took possession of him. He no longer doubted. 
 Against his own judgment he thought : 
 
 "He is a saint. ..." 
 
 Magloire Dubourg looked into himself as though 
 into a mirror and sought to read the future. 
 
 "Maybe, in trying to bring about the reign of jus- 
 tice, I shall unchain iniquity," he murmured, opening 
 his eyes wider, as if seeing a vision. "It is right that 
 it should be so. All human happiness is built on 
 suffering : there is a Man on a Cross at the entrance 
 to the City of God. Joy will be born when the time of 
 trial has passed. The selfishness of man has turned 
 this world into a hell, but goodwill and kindness will 
 show the way back to our lost Paradise. Eden is still 
 here, God has not taken away its docile animals, its 
 abundant fruits, nor any of its riches : it is for us to 
 reopen the closed portals." 
 
 It seemed as if, in the limpid night, the stars were 
 waking — weary of their long stillness, they tore them- 
 selves from the skies and, at any moment, they could 
 be seen dropping, in a rapid golden curve. Lost 
 wishes. . . . 
 
 "Do you see those shooting stars?" asked the saint. 
 "Our eyes follow them but for an instant, and never- 
 theless they wend their way, through days and nights 
 and centuries, in sombre wanderings. Likewise, out 
 of his whole eternal life man only sees his present 
 span, the fleeting moment when the star is 
 shining. ..." 
 
 The moon, gliding between the branches of the lime- 
 trees whose perfume mingled with her rays, illumined 
 the crossed hands of the saint and his transfigured 
 countenance. Gradually, a smile parted his bearded 
 
 lipS: 
 
 "I see," he murmured. "I see. . . . Like Him,
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 105 
 
 I shall fall beneath the weight of my cross and shall 
 not rise, but others following will carry it after me, 
 and a day will come when the redeemed world will 
 laugh under the Eye of God. Human creatures will 
 love each other, knowing henceforth that they are 
 brothers, and the weak will no longer envy the strong, 
 knowing that the human husk may be assumed and 
 cast off like a garment. Christ made the promise, 
 but none will listen : ' Blessed are the meek, for they 
 shall inherit the earth ! It is the earth that He gave 
 us, the earth, the fruitful Mother, our first thriU of 
 consciousness, our last sleep, eternal companion of 
 the dead. ..." 
 
 He stooped a little and, with bent head, seemed to 
 watch the bright light of the moon which bathed his 
 feet. 
 
 "I see," he continued in a still lower voice, as if 
 lost in ecstasy. . . . "My freed soul will float in 
 space, cradled by the winds, waiting to live anew until 
 the memory of man, by forgetting it, has set it free. 
 Then I shall be born again. . . . The truth I have 
 proclaimed will have borne fruit. The world will be 
 better and I shaU not know that I have made it so; 
 I shall be without pride, a humble servant. . . . 
 Nevertheless, from the obscure depths of past lives, 
 strange memories will arise. I shall pause, my mind 
 far away, leaning on my pickaxe or my desk — which- 
 ever Fate has given me — and I shall dream. I shall 
 seem to be wandering through fabulous regions, I 
 shall imagine adventures, depict to myself strange 
 unknown countries, and, without realising it, I shall 
 have returned in dreams, with my helmet on mj?^ head 
 and my machete at my side, to the banks of the Tchad 
 where the sirens swim."
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Magloire Dubourg had arrived at Source Josephine 
 the day after the events at Barlincourt, having been 
 discreetly conducted thither by a Canon from Beau- 
 vais. The house, a place of retreat where priests who 
 are being transferred await their new appointments 
 and tired missionaries recoup their strength, stands 
 on the slopes of Saint Cucufa. The Evangelist had 
 met several Fathers there whom he had known in 
 Africa. 
 
 Seated on the edge of the rose-hued fountain, which 
 was full of the gentle murmur of running water, he 
 spent whole hours chatting with Father Labry, whose 
 shattered form flitted about in a cassock with seams 
 worn white. 
 
 In his quavering voice, the old missionary brought 
 back to him recollections of the dark country; and 
 sang as he clapped his hands : 
 
 la, ia, Kakinde 
 
 Allah, Toubabou Kakinde. 
 
 Magloire Dubourg interrupted him with his sonorous 
 laugh : 
 
 "Yes, yes, I remember, it was the evening I arrived 
 at Fort Roussel; I can still see the women twisting 
 themselves about and the three musicians shaking 
 their baskets of shells. It was the year poor Father 
 Debroux died." 
 
 "I made you eat roast iguana, do you remember? 
 At that time I used to think it tasted of rabbit; now, 
 when they give me rabbit it tastes of lizard. Ah, 
 thirty years of Africa do change a man. ... I 
 wonder if I should not have done bett:r to die out 
 
 io6
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 107 
 
 there. . . . What about you, do you not regret 
 anything?" 
 
 Magloire Dubourg grew serious again. 
 
 "I had others to convert here," he murmured. 
 
 His retreat at Source Josephine was known only to 
 the archbishop, possibly even the police did not know 
 of it. The reporters sent out to hunt for him had not 
 been able to get on his trail; any conjectures as to 
 his whereabouts were possible. The popular report 
 was that the saint had made himself invisible and 
 that he would soon reappear and perform more 
 miracles. 
 
 The healings at Barlincourt had caused widespread 
 sensation; the whole world had been struck with 
 amazement. That day of wonders staggered the 
 intellect. 
 
 After a few days, however, the saint having dis- 
 appeared, people recovered their balance and discussed 
 the matter. Since there was nothing more of interest 
 to be got out of the six miraculously healed people, 
 who had been interviewed, examined by specialists 
 and photographed in every attitude, the newspapers 
 had begun to make inquiries of the scientists, the 
 prelates, even of certain spiritualists. Some declared 
 enthusiastically for the miracles, others denied them 
 in toto, but the majority were half inclined to believe, 
 attributing the cures geneially to the neuropathic 
 condition of the patients and to the magnetic power 
 of the Evangelist, aided still further by the atmosphere 
 of an unprecedented demonstration. They made com- 
 parisons with Lourdes, and recalled the case of the 
 zouave Jacob. Professor Malex, the youngest member 
 of the Academy of Medicine, who was said to be an 
 atheist, pointed out that cures were aU effected on 
 extremely impressionable subjects : a feeble-minded 
 man suffering from St. Vitus' dance; a little girl whose 
 hip-disease could only have been of nervous origin; 
 a woman suffering more or less from religious mania, 
 who had been stricken with hemipl?gia after an attack
 
 io8 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 of apoplexy; a very young girl who had been treated 
 for chronic myelitis, and another woman whom ten 
 physicians had trealed in vain for a gastritis alleged 
 to be cancerous, but which in no way revealed itself 
 on clinical examination. 
 
 There still remained the blind man, but the pro- 
 fessor did not refer to him. The partisans of the 
 miracles, by way of retaliation, talked more of him 
 than of anyone else. One fact was certain; he had 
 been blind, in receipt of State assistance as a helpless 
 person; and since the miracle he had been able to see. 
 The Francais had published a facsimile of the de- 
 claration signed by the doctor at the Quinze-Vingts 
 Hospital, who acknowledged that he had treated the 
 said Joseph Grignard (not Barnabas), afflicted with 
 almost total blindness, following on glaucoma, and 
 they had added to this document the medical note 
 drawn up eighteen months previously, in which all 
 the symptoms were given : obnubilations, excavation 
 of the optic pupils, greyish tint at the back of the eye, 
 inability to bear the light. This time it was a clear 
 case of a miracle. 
 
 The journalists, who were holding on to their blind 
 man, had harassed him in vain with questions, meanly 
 trying to make him contradict himself : his story had 
 never varied. They followed the poor devil in a piti- 
 less procession, their ears always on the alert; they 
 trotted him about Paris, they took him, still dressed 
 in rags, to the big restaurants; they made him drink, 
 and when he was recognised by the crowd, demon- 
 strations broke out from which he came away stupefied, 
 haggard, and with new rents in his moth-eaten coat. 
 But, even at such moments as these, they could not 
 drag out of him the smallest contradiction; there was 
 no ground whatever for suspecting a trick, and it was 
 absolutely certain that before the miracle he had not 
 been near the saint, nor even heard of him. 
 
 A morning paper had published his "Impressions," 
 Daid for at five francs a line; a rival had bought the
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 109 
 
 "Memoirs" of the Barlincourt epileptic, who was, by 
 the way, incapable of writing a word or even of articu- 
 lating a sentence. Since the epileptic's cure, Milot 
 had acted as his impressario; and the two men, being 
 treated continually by the idlers whom the trains 
 brought in coachfuls to Barlincourt, were never sober. 
 
 Among the general public, no one troubled about 
 all these controversies. They saw but one thing : sick 
 people had been suddenly healed; and if all the doctors 
 were trying to deny it, that was only because they 
 themselves were unable to do likewise. In the cinemas, 
 when the silhouette of the saint appeared on the 
 screen, the whole theatre applauded. The ecclesias- 
 tical authorities were becoming anxious about this 
 growing popularity, for it augured a dangerous excite- 
 ment, as soon as the saint should begin to preach 
 his doctrine. 
 
 Already the Osservatore Romano, the mouthpiece 
 of the Holy See, had skilfully denied that a Council 
 was to be assembled with instructions to inquire 
 into the great deeds of Magloire Dubourg and to 
 prepare for his canonisation. The pontifical organ 
 showered praises on the illustrious traveller, and simply 
 wound up by reminding its readers that article 2101 
 of Canon Law specified that a cause for canonisation 
 could only be introduced fifty years after the death 
 of the servant of God. 
 
 "La Croix," yet more circumspect, contented itself 
 with an ambiguous note stating that the town of Dol 
 would celebrate on the 24th October the feast of St. 
 Magloire, who preached the Gospel in the fifth century. 
 It was a roundabout method of pointing out that in 
 the Calendar of Saints the place was already filled. 
 The clerical organ employed the most unexpected 
 metaphors in referring to Magloire Dubourg, desiring 
 to avoid calling him curtly monsieur, but still less 
 willing to call him saint. The other newspapers gene- 
 rally commented sharply on this singular attitude, and 
 M. Frangois Pubourg had induced the Fratigais to 
 
 H
 
 no SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 piint a paragraph in which the acts of the holy Abbe 
 of Dol and those of the Evangehst were placed side by 
 side. The comparison was not to the advantage of the 
 Breton hermit. 
 
 The novelist, since the miracles had taken place, 
 was no longer the same man. He overflowed with 
 pride; his photograph had appeared everjAwhere, and 
 there was not a soul in France who had not heard of 
 the villa of Barlincourt. Everything, moreover, had 
 combined to turn his head : the urgency of the papers, 
 who were ordering stories from him at double rates, 
 the respect of his colleagues, the curiosity of the Barlin- 
 court people, who now stood stUl to watch him pass, 
 and the huge correspondence that reached him. At 
 last, indeed, he tasted fame. 
 
 The King's Domain was constantly full of guests. 
 People were proud to be invited to the saint's house. 
 The Aubernons had become more constant visitors 
 than ever, and M. Dubourg, who had at one time waited 
 ■with some impatience for the manufacturer to ask him 
 to give Yvonne's hand to his son, now made not the 
 slightest advance. He was biding his time. 
 
 Upset by these occurrences the little town could 
 not recover its balance. At the factory, the workmen 
 took a day off on any trifling excuse; the youngsters 
 played truant from school, the housewives chattered 
 continually instead of attending to their duties, and 
 discussions even went on in the fields, while the horses 
 neighed with impatience. Never had the country 
 roads seen so many people. The Mayor lay awake at 
 night, fearful <?i fresh disturbances, but hoping for new 
 miracles; and, vanity having vanquished fear, he had 
 on his o\\Ti initiative asked the Northern Railway 
 Company to run excursion trains. 
 
 Several times the police had been obliged to 
 intervene and clear the King's Domain, where the 
 mob, hoping to catch a glimpse ot the saint, invaded 
 the park ; and on Sundays, the days of gieater 
 crowds, the Dubourgs lived in a state of siege.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE iii 
 
 flattered and anxious at the same time. They got 
 news of the Evangelist from M. Van den Kris, who 
 often went over to Source Josephine. It was known, 
 too, that Magloire Dubourg had received a visit from 
 an emissary of the Archbishop, with whom he had 
 remained behind locked doors for two whole afternoons. 
 
 This priest had questioned him closely on points of 
 doctrine, apparently following out an interrogatory 
 prepared beforehand. From the first he had been 
 astonished that the missionaries, among whom the 
 Evangelist had lived for so many years, had never 
 been alarmed by his dangerous beliefs. 
 
 "We worshipped God and we loved mankind," 
 Saint Magloire had replied, "and our discussions went 
 no further than that." 
 
 The ideas of this visitor from Africa, which at first 
 made him smile, had soon disturbed him. 
 
 The second day he listened to the saint without 
 discussion, quivering, vanquished. After that he was 
 not seen again. . . . Without warning, or explana- 
 tion, he failed to return. 
 
 Two days later, another ecclesiastic presented him- 
 self, a fat Monsignor, with haughty manners, who 
 spoke with a strong Roman accent. Upon this man 
 the power of the Evangelist had no effect; he never 
 looked the saint in the face and hardly listened to him, 
 preoccupied with the answer he was going to make. 
 It was a sophistical discussion, which Magloire Dubourg 
 was often unable to understand. With bowed head, 
 his plump hands slipped into his sash, the Monsignor 
 replied to everything by texts, decisions of 
 Councils and quotations from the Fathers of the 
 Church. 
 
 "No," he said in a mellifluous voice, "these 
 ideas are senseless. . . . They would make you 
 ridiculous and would do harm to religion. ... A 
 Christian of your standing cannot defend the doctrine 
 of the Pharisees." 
 
 When the old man cried his faith aloud, seeking to
 
 112 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 convince him, he internipted him at once, sawing the 
 air \vith his short arms. 
 
 "Please do not let us dispute about it," he lisped. 
 "The spirit of investigation is an impious spirit. The 
 dogma is there : Carpocrates and Basilides were de- 
 clared heretics for having upheld the same theories. 
 . . . You see you have discovered nothing new." 
 
 Then, with a smile he added in a tone of forbearance : 
 
 "Believe me, you must give it up." 
 
 Magloire Dubourg, however, refused to relinquish 
 the struggle, and his thrusts never failed in their effect 
 upon the prelate. At last the latter grew irritable, 
 and, without meaning to do so, lent himself to contro- 
 versy. 
 
 "Your suppositions have no foundation," he said 
 angrily. "It is heresy at every step. Thus, if you 
 admit this perpetual reincarnation, when will the souls 
 of men be judged?" 
 
 "At the Last Judgment, the only one of which 
 Jesus spoke." 
 
 The Monsignor eluded him : 
 
 "Pardon me, you must know that dogma accepts 
 two judgments : a special Judgment, immediately 
 after death, and the universal Judgment, which will 
 be but the solemn promulgation of the earlier . . . 
 I will quote the two meditations of St. Ignatius in his 
 Exercises and. ..." 
 
 Now came the turn of Magloire to interrupt. 
 
 "You know too much, Monsignor," he said in his 
 veiled voice. "He who does not conceive the King- 
 dom of God like a little child shall not enter into it." 
 
 The face of the Italian twitched angrily. 
 
 "And I," he said furiously, "I answer you: "Woe 
 to that man by whom the offence cometh. . . ." 
 By what right do you pretend to be a Catholic, since 
 you rebel against the essential principles of religion? 
 By what right do you sift all the sacred writings, the 
 decisions of twenty Councils, in the net of your judg- 
 ment? The only true Church is the codified, reasoned
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 113 
 
 Church, not the pure doctrine of Christ where every- 
 thing consists of symbols unfathomable for simple 
 
 minds I admire you, sir, and yet I pity 
 
 you, for in order to wreck your sublime qualities the 
 spirit of evil has instilled doubt and curiosity into you. 
 You have forgotten the great motto which should guide 
 us aU : 'Outside the Church, no salvation.'" 
 
 The saint, with set countenance, remained impassive, 
 and suddenly the prelate felt anxious. He regretted 
 that he had allowed himself to be carried away. A 
 rupture with Magloire Dubourg would re-echo round 
 the world, and it was precisely to avoid any such 
 scandal that he had come. H« changed his tone 
 abruptly and bowed his head before the old man with 
 a respect which was not altogether feigned. 
 
 "Sooner or later you will recant these repre- 
 hensible errors," he said; "but promise me, promise 
 the ecclesiastical authorities whom I represent, that 
 you will provoke no scandal, that you will attempt 
 nothing which might be of service to the enemies of 
 the Church." 
 
 The saint looked at him, trying to read the truth 
 in his insincere eyes. Then he replied : 
 
 "I promise you that I will always fight against 
 the enemies of God." 
 
 As he went out, the Italian talked for a moment 
 with the Superior of the establishment and a young 
 priest of the Catholic Institute, who walked with him 
 to his motor-car. 
 
 "WTtiat a pity," he murmured, "to have so 
 great a heart and so pernicious an intellect ! " 
 
 And he entered his car with a discreet blessing, which 
 the director and the young priest received with heads 
 bowed religiously, but with their minds on other 
 things, for they had been so often blessed. 
 
 This interview had at once become known through- 
 out the whole establishment, and the disturbance 
 caused by the saint's arrival only increased. 
 
 With the exception of the Colonials, who already
 
 114 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 knew him, the other boarders felt themselves em- 
 barrassed in the presence of Magloire Dubourg. They 
 were caught between the fascination which he exer- 
 cised over everyone, and an inexplicable fear. As soon 
 as anyone ventured to disagree with him, the Evan- 
 gelist adopted an authoritative tone which broke down 
 all resistance. He would have liked to force his beliefs, 
 his sentiments, even his unparalleled goodness, on 
 everyone alike. The least injustice shocked him. 
 Thus, on the first day, he had been annoyed to see 
 that the servants did not take their meals at the 
 common table. 
 
 "Ought we not to set an example of simplicity?" 
 he had asked the Superior. "Why two tables? We 
 must not despise those who serve us; if they perform 
 degrading tasks we degrade ourselves still more by 
 ordering them to do so." 
 
 This vmnecessary tirade made no change in the 
 customs of the house, but all the boarders were 
 annoyed by it, and the servants even more so. 
 
 "Oh, that's a bit too much of a good thing," ex- 
 claimed the gardener, who always felt that he was 
 being spied on from the windows as he lazily raked 
 the paths. "They might at least let us eat our dinner 
 in peace ! " 
 
 In the midst of the Fathers, Magloire led a separate 
 existence. Since all ostentation was detestable to him, 
 he even hid himself at times of prayer, and often missed 
 a service while he meditated in the leafy garden, before 
 the marble Neptune with the ivy-bound limbs. 
 
 Assisted by Father Labry, he had constructed a bee- 
 hive at the end of the kitchen -garden, and everyone 
 was surprised to see him playing with the bees, making 
 them roU inertly in his hands, without ever being stung. 
 Only the gardener was not astonished, for he could do 
 as much himself; only, where he came from nobody 
 wondered at it. 
 
 No one, then, dared to resist the Saint. However, 
 on the day of the visit of the Monsignor, the young
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 115 
 
 priest from the Catholic Institute, made irritable by 
 ill-health, refused to go and apologise to the porter 
 whom he had just treated discourteously. The eyes 
 of the EvangeUst blazed. 
 
 "I command you in the name of holy obedience,', 
 he cried. Unconsciously, he had used the very words 
 which Francis of Assisi spoke to his saintly com- 
 panions. As he had risen, the sleeping bees in the 
 folds of his mantle flew away with a pizzicato and 
 buzzed around him; a ray of simlight silvered his white 
 locks, the wounds in his hands showed their two stig- 
 mata, and the vanquished priest suddenly thought 
 that he beheld the preacher of the birds commanding 
 brother Masseo, in the gardens of Spoleto. . . . 
 Then he bowed his head, and submissive, moved 
 away. . . . 
 
 M. Van den Kris came that morning at a smart pace 
 up the Avenue Ducis, which leads to Source Josephine, 
 and to urge himself along he whistled the refrain of the 
 "Sidi Brahim," for martial music, limited strictly to 
 the regimental drum and fife, was the only sort that he 
 approved of. 
 
 Coming along in the tram he had read all the papers 
 that referred to the rebellion on the Ivory Coast, which 
 was assuming the proportions of a genuine Holy War; 
 and as he walked up the Avenue, with his straw hat in 
 his hand, he imagined himself commanding a punitive 
 column under orders to relieve Singrobo. He always 
 dreamed these daring dreams when he was out walking. 
 Whether his pace was slow or rapid depended on the 
 nature of his thoughts. If he were holding a palaver 
 at the entrance of a village, or if he were keepmg watch 
 over a sleeping camp, he tripped along quite softly 
 with the air of a gentleman at large who was out for a 
 stroll; then suddenly he might be seen hastening his 
 steps, setting off at full speed. That was because his 
 detachment had just fallen into an ambush, or because 
 the charge was being sounded under the palms. He
 
 ii6 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 must have charged a number of times since he ahghted 
 from the tram, for he was perspiring profusely as he 
 entered the door of the House of Retreat. When he 
 came into the garden he put away his dream, as one 
 closes a book, with a leaf turned down. 
 
 "I have brought you the Paris papers," said he 
 to the missionaries; "things are getting worse in 
 Africa." 
 
 "Yes, we saw that," muttered Father Labry, who 
 had as great a love for the negroes as Saint Magloire. 
 "It is a nice business. . . ." 
 
 "Come, the Senegalese are in the right," said 
 another, who was seated on the edge of the rose- 
 coloured pool. "The whites out there are like locusts." 
 
 "Poor devils," continued Father Labry, . . . 
 "I ought not to have left. One might perhaps have 
 been able to do something. . . . They'll send de- 
 tachments, of course, kill still more men, burn some 
 villages, but we shan't be any better off at the end of 
 it. . . . They wiU only detest us a little more, that's 
 all. . . . Oh, I am sorry for the Fathers who will 
 be sent out there now." 
 
 "Hallo," another missionary, a tall bearded youth 
 with a limp, said maliciously, "here is Grandpapa 
 defending his savages again." 
 
 "Savages!" flared up the old Father, "Less so 
 than we are. . . , Now you just compare the wine- 
 merchants here with those out there. . , ." 
 
 The whole group began to laugh uproariously. 
 
 "Ah, he confesses that he goes to the cafe. . . . 
 We shall have them bringing him home screwed. , ." 
 
 "Why, certainly, I go and chat there, and I drink 
 a little; it's my way of making conversions. Well, 
 suppose a publican here were never at his counter 
 and left his customers to help themselves, do you 
 think many of them would pay? Not one, I am cer- 
 tain. I know them, the scamps. And the last of them 
 would most likely empty the till. , . , Whereas in 
 Baoule I never saw anyone in charge of the huts where
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 117 
 
 they sell samba. The man is out harvesting in the 
 palm-groves, and when the porters have had a good 
 drink, everyone of them puts what he owes into the 
 bag that hangs at the door. And it is people like that 
 whom you want to civilise at the point of the bayonet. 
 . . . But they are worth more than you. . . ." 
 
 M. Van den Kris, who despised negroes, kept his 
 lips tightly closed. Neither did Magloire Dubourg 
 take part in the discussion. He seemed more care- 
 worn than usual. Seated apart from the others, he was 
 looking at the papers. They were less concerned 
 with his doings this morning; the negro revolt filled 
 all the front pages and a stop-press column as well. 
 
 The disturbances had begun in the Kong country, 
 usually one of the most peaceful in the Upper Ivory 
 Coast. For some months an alarming agitation had 
 been noticed along the edge of the Comoe, that mys- 
 terious river which winds through the Great Forest 
 and whose banks are still unexplored. The natives 
 complained of having been raided repeatedly without 
 the troops at the stations having done anything to 
 protect them, and, since that time, they had become 
 discouraged and had not started to work again. When 
 the assistant officials for native affairs appeared at the 
 villages to collect the taxes, they were received with 
 a hail of stones. 
 
 Troops were then sent with orders not so much to 
 punish the rebels as to frighten them, but, instead 
 of pacifying the district, they themselves, on the 
 contrary, let loose rebellion. Indeed, since the com- 
 manding officers had not sufficient forces at their 
 disposal, they had, on the way through, recruited 
 adherents, chosen from among the most warlike tribes 
 — triple-scarred bambaras and baoules with long flint- 
 locks — with the result that the plundered villages 
 thought the same bands who had already raided them 
 were retiuning, but this time under orders of the white 
 men. 
 
 At this injustice, the negroes rose in revolt. In a
 
 ii8 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 few days the whole Kong country was in rebellion. 
 In proportion as the troops advanced, the insurrection, 
 mysteriously organised, grew in front of them. Losses 
 soon became so heavy that they were obliged to fall 
 back on the stations. This retreat emboldened the 
 negroes; those who were still hesitating joined the 
 movement, and the Government was at last obliged 
 to acknowledge the facts : the whole colony was in 
 revolt, from the Gulf of Guinea to the Sudan. 
 
 It was the most serious rebellion tlie colony had ever 
 experienced. The whole population had taken arms, 
 without any distinction of races, from the fetish- 
 worshipping Mandingues to the Mohammedan Peuhls; 
 the native auxiliary forces were deserting the French 
 troops and returning to their own tribes, with rifles 
 and cartridges; the authorities no longer dared to 
 send detachments into the equatorial forest, since all 
 the villages in the clearings had risen; and the French 
 soldiers were being attacked up to the very gates of 
 Bingerville. 
 
 In order to impress on their readers the gravity of 
 this revolt, the newspapers published a map of France 
 opposite to one of the rebellious districts, from Ashanti 
 to the Niger : the two were precisely the same size. 
 To put down the revolt, the French troops were now 
 obliged to march for whole months together, coming 
 from Guinea or Senegal, or else, disemarking at Grand- 
 Bassam, to cross two hundred miles of virgin forest; 
 that huge moist forest, full of shadows, whose eternally 
 green foliage only dies as it reaches the coast lagoons. 
 
 Most of the newspapers spoke of Saint Magloire in 
 connection with the negro rebellion and regretted 
 that they were unable to find out his views, for he 
 was better acquainted than anyone else with the 
 tribes which had revolted. The Cri Public went still 
 further : 
 
 "People will not fail to see a connection," it said, 
 "between this sudden insurrection, which has obvi- 
 ously been prepared beforehand, and the unexpected
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 119 
 
 return of Magloire Dubourg to France. Some may 
 even wonder whether the famous traveller, knowing 
 what was about to happen, has not come here as 
 ambassador for the negroes, to negotiate with the 
 French Government." 
 
 Father Labry, to whom the saint showed this pas- 
 sage, began to laugh and pull his beard. 
 
 "That's a good joke," he exclaimed. "Here you 
 are, a full-blown Ambassador for the negroes. ..." 
 
 Paris was excited. So long as the disturbances in 
 Africa had been limited to village insurrections, the 
 public had taken little heed of them. People carelessly 
 read the first casualty lists, almost all from the Sene- 
 galese Rifles : Diara, Foutabe, Ibrahim N'Daye, 
 Moussa : savages, in fact. . . . 
 
 Men did not worry, knowing that they would not 
 be called up for this war. Women did not even look 
 at the dispatches; they read nothing but the articles 
 of the saint. It was all too far away, the danger could 
 never cross the seas. . . . 
 
 But, after the morning news, came a sudden 
 revulsion of feehng. Each paper printed across two 
 columns a little paragraph in itahcs, under the head- 
 line "Communique," and that word alone sufficed to 
 make the public realise the situation. They remem- 
 bered. . . . "Again!" They seemed to scent 
 Death . . . they thought of long-drawn-out agonies 
 in the underbrush where wild beasts prowled; of the 
 boys who would leave home and never return. War : 
 they knew what that meant, since 1914. . . . 
 
 In big headlines, the Frangais summed up the 
 opinion of the working classes. "Not a man ! Not a 
 penny ! " But the leading papers demanded the 
 sternest repression of the revolt. Le Jour, which 
 liked laconic formulas and ideas put into figures of 
 speech, had published under the title of "The Black 
 Granary " a sort of diagram in which was shown a pile 
 of bales of various sizes : coffee, cereals, spices, sugar.
 
 120 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 rice; and Le Jour reckoned that, rather than deprive 
 herself of all these supplies, generous France would 
 surely sacrifice a few more soldiers. The same paper 
 pointed out elsewhere that it was a question of special 
 troops, professional soldiers, legionaries, natives, a 
 few battalions of colonials made up of hot-heads; and 
 that, after all, the only use for such soldiers as these 
 was to make war and, if necessary, to die on the field. 
 Several retired Governors, the wife of an explorer, and 
 two Colonial generals had been interviewed, and all 
 expressed the view that reprisals were necessary. 
 True, there was still the opinion of the soldiers to be 
 considered, but no one thought of that. Still less of 
 the opinion of the negroes. 
 
 On the boulevards, where the newspapers posted up 
 their latest telegrams, the crowds hung about, restless 
 and noisy, but, with the exception of a band of 
 students, who were quickly dispersed by the police, 
 there had been no breach of the peace. 
 
 In the afternoon, outside the Chamber of Deputies, 
 the few idlers who were watching at the railings were 
 all detectives. People walked by, indifferent. But in 
 the interior of the Palace, in the corridors, in the Salle 
 des Pas Perdus, in the refreshment room, there was 
 the same hubbub that may be heard on the day of a 
 great debate. Those who wanted to find peace had 
 to seek it in the Chamber itself. 
 
 A few assiduous old deputies, of whom nothing 
 could be seen from the galleries but their bald and 
 shining heads, were carrying on their correspondence, 
 deaf to everything around them. Some were reading. 
 Others were chatting in small groups. 
 
 All alone on the Government bench sat a fat man, 
 who was wagging his head and playing mechanically 
 with a paper knife. From time to time, a voice on 
 the rostrum interrupted its mutterings to say : 
 "Passf.d," then went on with its reading. No one 
 could have told what subject was under discussion. 
 
 Deputies came and went. Ushers, who looked like
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 121 
 
 beadles with their silver chains, brought in news from 
 the outside. A famous politician came in with a rush, 
 as a singer comes to look at the house before the cur- 
 tain goes up; he shook hands with a few people and 
 went out again after a look at the galleries. The old 
 men went on writing. It was the atmosphere of a 
 business agency, of a college and an Assize Court com- 
 bined. 
 
 The pubHc galleries were already crowded when the 
 Chamber began to fill up. The deputies arrived in 
 twos and threes and went to their seats. Someone 
 was then seen to cross the semicircle, with a dossier 
 under his arm, and run lightly up the steps of the 
 tribune. There arose a burst of laughter from all the 
 benches. On several sides came cries of : 
 
 " Bouicard ! Bravo, Bouicard ! . . . " 
 
 The ushers, too, had pricked up their ears and 
 looked merrily at the orator. This Bouicard, who had 
 no special claim to celebrity, was one of the butts of 
 the Palais Bourbon, and no matter how grave the 
 discussion, he had only to open his lips for the House 
 to relax. Though he was considered stupid, he was 
 well liked. 
 
 The burlesque adventures and absurd sajdngs 
 attributed to him by the newspapers, far from injuring 
 him, had ended by making his reputation. He was 
 loyal to every Government in turn as long as it re- 
 tained its power, and he never voted except with the 
 majority. On this occasion, also, he was to speak by 
 order, simply to fill the rostrum till the arrival of the 
 Ministers. 
 
 Amid the buzz, he could be heard beginning his 
 speech. It was his everlasting project for the Medi- 
 terranean-Atlantic Canal. Some of the deputies, 
 already irritable, grew angry. 
 
 "Get on! get on!" they shouted. "The thing is 
 a farce. ..." 
 
 Then, on a sudden, came silence. A group of 
 deputies swept in, like a black flood, and scattered
 
 122 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 through the gangways. The Ministerial benches fiJled 
 up in a trice. The atmosphere had changed com- 
 pletely. 
 
 A long ovation rose from the hall : four hundred 
 deputies, standing, welcomed the President of the 
 Council, who had just arrived. He could be seen 
 walking with a slight stoop, and a somewhat surly 
 expression. He acknowledged the welcome with a 
 nod and went to his seat, shaking the hands out- 
 stretched to him. 
 
 When order was restored, the deputy who was to 
 put a question to the Government, and had come in 
 just before to gauge the temper of the House, 
 mounted the rostrum. 
 
 "He is upset," said the habitues. 
 
 "Gentlemen ... At this moment, when in dis- 
 tant lands for which we have already paid with our 
 blood, young French lives are to be offered up . . ." 
 
 He spoke in a warm, supple voice that caressed the 
 words, a voice which was more seductive than con- 
 vincing. The public whispered its admiration. 
 
 The periods succeeded each other, moving and 
 empty, with "Hear, hears" at the end. Fine 
 imagery : 
 
 "Little Turcos lying in the great plains, their 
 cold cheeks fondled by the wind that blows from 
 France. . . . We have taught the peoples, who 
 yesterday were still in slavery, that all chains fall away 
 where , our armies have passed. ... If the olive 
 branch has failed in its message to the Sudanese 
 desert, whither we had carried it with such infinite 
 pains, it is not the Republic who can be 
 blamed. ..." 
 
 The Right and the Centre applauded unceasingly. 
 Then suddenly the speaker changed his method, as a 
 boxer changes his guard. His voice trembled. 
 
 "That admirable working class, which came back, 
 bled white, with empty hands, from five years of 
 war. ..."
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 123 
 
 Then, forgetting old grudges, the Left in its turn 
 applauded frantically. Little by little, the orator 
 unmasked his batteries. Undoubtedly it would be 
 necessary to intervene; France could not without 
 shame abandon one acre of her Colonial Empire. But 
 was this Government, whom the Allies of yesterday 
 aheady regarded with distrust, quite sure that it could 
 avoid giving offence, if it attempted an operation 
 which was indeed necessary, but perhaps required 
 more delicate handling? 
 
 And then — the attack. 
 
 "I know — and there are some of us in this 
 assembly who are aheady alarmed thereat — that the 
 Government has vaster ambitions, other ends in view 
 than the pacification of the rebellious regions; and I 
 ask myself, with a shudder, whether a country which 
 has left fifteen hundred thousand dead ..." 
 
 The murmiu- became a roar. The whole Chamber 
 sprang to its feet, applause and hisses mingled; five 
 hundred men stared aghast at Minister and Orator. 
 
 In the yellow light which fell from the cupola the 
 great mass of men could be seen whirling about, and 
 bodies with waving arms seemed to shout words that 
 were lost in the tumult. 
 
 All eyes were turned towards the President of the 
 Council, who had risen. 
 
 "Speech," they called. 
 
 He seemed to hesitate. Then he mounted the ros- 
 trum. Not a note in his hand : all eyes noticed that 
 fact. And at once, without preparation or beating 
 about the bush, he replied. 
 
 As far as the repression of disturbances was con- 
 cerned, all discussion was superfluous; it was a 
 necessity. A solitary voice from the socialist benches 
 cried out "No," but it was drowned at once by hisses. 
 
 There remained only the question of intervention by 
 neighbouring Powers. France had secured complete 
 liberty of action in Liberia. By way of compensation 
 she was to leave England a free hand to carry on her
 
 124 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 police operations in Ethiopia, and was to give carte 
 blanche to the United States if they should think fit 
 to "keep a close watch" on the internal affairs of 
 Mexico. 
 
 The majority, reconquered, applauded to the echo, 
 but some exclamations were mingled with the cheers. 
 Scraps of phrases could be heard: "Greater France. 
 ... A himian reservoir. . . . Unexploited 
 wealth. . . ." Then the voice was drowned in 
 uproar. The Socialists descended, vociferating, from 
 their benches. 
 
 " Not a man ! " they cried. 
 
 From the Right, deputies rushed towards them, 
 shaking their fists in their opponents' faces, regardless 
 of the ushers who threw themselves into the fray. 
 Cries of "Long live France !" and "Down with War !" 
 were flung back and forth. A Communist, gesticu- 
 lating at the foot of the rostrum, apostrophised the 
 President, his clamouring swamped by the racket. 
 
 "Shameful haggling!" he yelled, with crimson 
 cheeks. 
 
 "So that's your Republic!" bawled a little man 
 with long hair on the Right. 
 
 The President, leaning forward, rapped out calls to 
 order, which no one heard, and vainly rang his bell. 
 The seething mass continued to rave. 
 
 The President of the Council, however, did not leave 
 the rostrum, and when the noise subsided he took up 
 his speech again at the same point and the same word. 
 There was silence; the fever had subsided, the voices 
 were exhausted. 
 
 Besides, they wanted information. A statement of 
 the plan of campaign followed. Absolute stillness 
 now reigned while the President of the Council was 
 speaking; the contrast, after the storm, was almost 
 tragic. The crowd was panting : all glances, all 
 thoughts converged on him, drinking in his words. A 
 thousand invisible rays must have pierced him. 
 
 "Who, then, would dare to leave unburied
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 125 
 
 those who died on the Upper Coast? Who would 
 leave unavenged the defenders of Seguela? Our 
 Duty ..." 
 
 At this moment, unexpected as a thunder-clap, a 
 deep voice rang out from the galleries : 
 
 "SHence!" 
 
 The Minister, startled, raised his head, his mouth 
 open, and very pale. 
 
 "I command you to be silent. ..." 
 
 With one accord the astounded deputies whipped 
 round. All eyes sought the man who had spoken. 
 People hustled each other in the galleries, leaning over 
 to get a better view. The President must have 
 shouted something, for the ushers came up quickly. 
 There was a wild uproar. . . . 
 
 "It is never the duty of men to kill. To wipe out 
 blood, you are going to spill blood. You hand over 
 slaves to predatory tribes as you would sell cattle to 
 a dealer. ..." 
 
 All over the Chamber people were shouting. 
 Round the man himself, a jostling crowd, overturned 
 benches. . . . 
 
 "What you are bartering in this market-booth of 
 yours is the blood and sweat of others. It is the 
 suffering of the negroes whom you are loading with 
 chains, it is the life of the boys you are butchering to 
 pay for your conquests. . . . Blood, always blood ! " 
 
 Then they saw him. . . . His long outstretched 
 arm cursed the assembly. Everyone intuitively 
 recognised Magloire Dubourg. The common-place 
 photographs in the papers had not given any idea of 
 the bronzed skin, the blazing eyes, the whole lumi- 
 nous visage, but everyone understood at once that it 
 was he. A murmur rose from the amphitheatre, where 
 all the deputies had sprung to their feet, but no one 
 as yet dared to interrupt. A supernatural fear suffo- 
 cated them. Women, in the galleries, stared at him, 
 haggard, their hands pressed to their lips. A youth 
 had flung himself on the saint, but stopped in the ac* 
 
 I
 
 126 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 of touching him, and drew back not daring. . . . 
 Father Labry, stupefied, looked at his old friend with- 
 out moving. And Magloire went on speaking, pouring 
 his anathema, crying his horror aloud : 
 
 "You have paid for your territories with dead 
 enough to cover them to the last acre with a harvest 
 of corpses. . . . God gave you life that you might 
 love, and you talk of nothing but hate; He intended 
 you for happiness and you have set up misery; He 
 gave you a paradise on earth and you fight over it 
 with snapping jaws like vicious dogs snarling over a 
 bone. . . . Shame on you, if you spill the blood 
 of the negroes ! It is you who are the barbarians. 
 . . . My African savages, in centuries of war, could 
 not have raised that pyramid of ten million corpses 
 which still spreads over Europe the testimony of its 
 putrefaction. ..." 
 
 The hostile murmur from below was growing in 
 volume. Each word cut them like the lash of a 
 riding-whip. People were hooting. . . . From the 
 galleries, there was nothing to be seen now but a 
 crowd of evil faces and clenched fists. Threats rose 
 on all sides. 
 
 " Put him out ! . . . That's enough ! . . . the 
 man's mad ! . . . " 
 
 Father Labry had seized Magloire Dubourg by the 
 arm and was imploring him, with quivering lips. But 
 the saint, pushing him aside, went on speaking, and 
 his powerful voice fought the clamour as a boar shakes 
 the hounds that have seized it. 
 
 "Not a crucifix on your walls!" thundered the 
 prophetic voice. . . . "He judged you from His 
 Cross, you prating hucksters ! . . . How many 
 among you will set out for the conquest of these coun- 
 tries that you are putting in chains? I swear to you, 
 you will pay in tears for aU the blood that will be 
 shed. . . . The day will come when you, too, will 
 be weak, the day will come when you, too, will be 
 poor, the day will come when you will no longer be
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 127 
 
 the boot that crushes, but the gasping thing that 
 moans beneath its weight. . . . Pray for yourselves, 
 fine talkers without a conscience, to-morrow will be 
 the ransom of to-day. . . ." 
 
 The corridors were jammed with ushers, deputies, 
 idlers, journalists, who with cries of "Where is he? 
 Where is he? " rushed up the staircase, to be swallowed 
 in the crowd above. In the Chamber the deputies 
 were massed hke a flock of sheep. Elbow to elbow, 
 the close proximity was restoring their courage. They 
 were aU shouting at once to drown his voice. Parties 
 and rivakies had disappeared : their hoarse throats 
 all bellowed the same insults. As the saint, with a 
 deep sigh, paused for breath, the President of the 
 Council attempted to reply. His voice quavered : 
 
 "I implore my colleagues to pay no attention to 
 the rambl ..." 
 
 Saint Magloire stopped him again, imperious : 
 
 "Be sUent!" 
 
 And the stunned crowd obeyed, white-faced. 
 
 "Do you not feel that Death has already hold of 
 you, ambitious old man? The last sarcasm you utter 
 will kill you, like the last sting of a hornet. . . . 
 What are you all doing, you parasites, in these places 
 which you have stolen by promises. . . ." 
 
 The door of the gallery slammed violently, and ten 
 men flung themselves in a melee on the saint. They 
 could be seen from below, and with a spontaneous 
 shout the Chamber applauded them. It was a cry of 
 triumph, one great laugh of relief. Thank God ! they 
 were dragging him away. . . . The public galleries 
 disgorged their occupants in a terrible din. The de- 
 puties, too, sprang towards the door, but the tinkle of 
 a bell held them back. 
 
 "Gentlemen," cried the President theatrically, 
 "the session will continue." 
 
 The French windows of the Salon des Quatre- 
 Colonnes were open to the garden. Seated in a red
 
 I2S SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 ann-chair with gilded arms, the President of the 
 Council, still exhausted, was thanking his friends with 
 feeble handshakes. After leaving the rostruni, he 
 had felt faint. 
 
 "It was so hot, was it not?" he explained, 
 embamassed. "And then I had been up so 
 late. ..." 
 
 "You are overworking, M. le President. ..." 
 
 The speaker had been among the first to come and 
 congratulate him, and they stood for a moment 
 shaking hands effusively, silent and profoundly moved. 
 In the comers, in little animated groups, people were 
 talking. 
 
 "They took him back to Rueil directly the Police 
 had questioned him." 
 
 "That was the best thing they could do." 
 
 "He's quite mad." 
 
 "If they had arrested him they would only have 
 made people sympathise with him." 
 
 "Do you know this place, Source Josephine?" 
 
 On being asked this question, a deputy in a cassock 
 answered with a pained expression : 
 
 "Yes, a most respectable establishment. The 
 poor people there will be distressed. . . . The best 
 thing for them would be to get rid of him as quickly 
 as possible." 
 
 Elsewhere, a socialist was justifying himself 
 desperately : 
 
 "Certainly we are against any Colonial expedi- 
 tion. On that subject we are in absolute disagreement 
 with the Government, but I hope that no one imagines 
 we approve of such a gross diatribe as that." 
 
 His opponents politely reassured him. 
 
 "My dear fellow, how could you believe. ..." 
 
 The President, tired out, closed his eyes. Round 
 about him, phrases were still buzzing. 
 
 "Economic greatness. . . . Colonial Empire. 
 . . . Insulted flag." 
 
 And as he fell asleep, he seemed to be driving them
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 129 
 
 away, with the tips of his fingers, as one flicks away 
 
 September flies. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 From his carriage, Saint Magloire, driving along the 
 Seine, caught sight of a regiment, halting for rest. 
 With a hand that still shook, he crossed himself. 
 
 The soldiers had piled arms all along the pavement. 
 War kit, with helmets. Passers-by came running up 
 to get a better view of them. 
 
 "They are Colonials going off to Africa." 
 
 The foot-soldiers had come from the Fort of Vanves 
 and were to entrain at the Gare de Lyon. They might 
 have been taken for a noisy school-class at recreation 
 time. They were romping, with resounding friendly 
 smacks, laughing, calling to each other. The long 
 journey intoxicated them; they already felt them- 
 selves different from the others : matured by adven- 
 ture. They looked at the people with a bantering 
 air, a slight contempt. Those who had spent the night 
 weeping on their straw mattresses were joking like 
 their pals. 
 
 "Au revotr, chickabiddies ! We are off to monkey- 
 land." 
 
 The idlers slipped into the ranks of the soldiers, 
 distributing cigarettes and money. For that one day, 
 the officers winked at everything. Seated, with 
 swinging legs, on the parapet, some veterans, sunburnt 
 and bemedalled, were emptying their cans. 
 
 A little apart, a beardless youth, with pale cheeks, 
 was talking to a woman, 
 
 "Mother, mother!" 
 
 Shyly, he held her by the elbow, not daring to take 
 her in his arms before so many people. She was 
 weeping; stifling her sobs with her handkerchief; a 
 continuous moan rose to her lips, and through the 
 tears which dimmed her eyes she gazed at him 
 savagely, with all her soul, as though she thought to 
 take him, absorb him, keep him living in her heart. 
 
 Her boots and her skirt were white with dust. From
 
 ISO SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 Vanves she had followed the soldiers on foot, without 
 feeling the fatigue. She could have wished this Via 
 Dolorosa to go on for ever, that she might at least 
 have her boy before her eyes, and be there to defend 
 him. She would follow him to the end, to the very 
 last glance, to the final echo of the train. If it was 
 to be for the last time . . . 
 
 Her thm back shook with sobs. 
 
 "Do not cry, mother! ..." ' 
 
 With her handkerchief to her lips, she devoured him 
 with her eyes. A horrible vision haunted her. She 
 seemed to see, beneath that white ghlish skin, the 
 horrible structure of bones that pierces the flesh, the 
 terrifying grin of lipless teeth, the double hole of the 
 eyes, that same mask that she had already seen when 
 they found the other, her first-born, in a devastated 
 field of Artois. 
 
 " My dear, my dear ! " she gasped, as if those 
 poor words of love could turn Destiny from its path. 
 
 The boy felt tears rising to his eyes from his poor 
 beating heart. To make her forget, he forced himself 
 to a jest, with dry throat and a sad smile that twisted 
 his lips. 
 
 "I shall come back aU right. . . . Come, tell 
 me what you want me to bring back from over 
 yonder. ..." 
 
 Fiercely, she took his head between her two hands, 
 and with a moan she said : 
 
 "Just bring me back your dear little face, my 
 own. ..."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Slove^tly dressed, in slippers, with his nighi-shiii 
 open at the throat, Francois Dubourg perused what 
 he had written. Through the window came ths cool 
 rustle of the leaves, and on the white wall could be 
 seen the shadows of the trees fluttering like wings. 
 
 The carpet of the study was littered with news- 
 papers. They lay on the arm-chair, on every piece 
 of furniture, some not yet unfolded; by turning his 
 head, the novelist was able to read the headlines in 
 large type across three columns : " St. Magloire Pro- 
 vokes a Scene in the Chamber." Each time this 
 caused a pang of annoyance and he dropped his pen, 
 disheartened. 
 
 "After this performance of his," he mused, pulling 
 at his beard, " I am in the soup as far as my decoration 
 is concerned. . . . Hard luck, just when it had 
 been promised to me, and on the eve of the 
 nominations, too. ..." 
 
 Then, with a sigh : 
 
 "And to what purpose, I ask you? He would have 
 done far better to hold his tongue ! . . . " 
 
 He wiped his glasses with a comer of his handker- 
 chief, resuming his work with the close attention of an 
 accountant. His publisher, on returning the proofs 
 of his novel. Monsieur de Cambrelus, which was to 
 come out in weekly instalments, had asked him to 
 add two lines to each page. When the first numbers 
 had been set up, it was noticed that the pages looked 
 somewhat empty and it was necessary to lengthen the 
 text, but so that additional expense should be avoided, 
 the make-up was not to be altered. The novelist had 
 met with far stranger experiences in his career, so 
 that he had not been much surprised at this absurd 
 
 131
 
 132 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 demand. Whilst his thoughts dwelt on his brother's 
 escapade and on his lost decoration, he mechanically 
 added the necessary lines. 
 
 If his nobleman was scouring the countryside M. 
 Dubourg caused the moon to rise or the sun to shine 
 — it did not much matter which — so long as the 
 description did not take up more than two lines. 
 When M. de Cambrelus came across some country 
 bumpkin at the end of a page, he exclaimed, 
 "Gadzooks! a pleasant-visaged varlet!" or shouted 
 to him, "Hallo, you rascal!" . . . When he 
 espied the coach of the beautiful Piedmontese, "an 
 inexpressible confusion suddenly overwhelmed his 
 mind," which filled the space exactly. On the last 
 page but one, he even interjected a remark which was 
 totally irrelevant. "In trying to do good," declared 
 M. de Cambrelus, "a saint often does more harm than 
 a heretic." The readers were destined never to 
 understand why the Gascon Musketeer had ventured 
 on such a precipitate statement to the barmaid of the 
 inn, who was helping him to sausage-pie. 
 
 Even after his task was finished, Francois Dubourg 
 had not the heart to proceed with his feuilleton for the 
 Fran^ais. His mind was a blank, and he felt no 
 inclination to do any more work. His absent glance 
 strayed to the two diagrams pinned on the wall : that 
 of "The Prince does not Deign," covered with crosses 
 — a regular churchyard — and that of "Mademoiselle 
 Flamberge" — comparatively virgin ground with its 
 empty pigeon-holes. 
 
 Since the expenditure of human lives in his novels 
 was considerable and his characters were always on 
 the move, wandering from one end of the country 
 to the other, from Gascony to Flanders, the novelist 
 was compelled to set up two huge parti-coloured boards 
 where each personage had his compartment, with his . 
 name and description. It would, for instance, have 
 led to confusion if a fair man had suddenly turned 
 dark or vice versa. He entered each change in their
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 133 
 
 fortunes : "wounded at Courtras," "nursed at the 
 castle of Vineuse" — "elopement with the daughter 
 of the Marquis." . . . When, finally, the thrust 
 of a dagger or a bullet from an arquebus laid the 
 young man low, he simply drew a cross in blue pencil 
 over the compartment. 
 
 At ordinary times, the novelist had but to glance at 
 this memorandum and count the empty allotments 
 to take fresh heart, but to-day nothing could rouse 
 him. 
 
 "He was famous, people admired him, we had 
 everything at our feet, and there he goes and spoils 
 everj^ing by a hare-brained escapade like this," he 
 pondered dejectedly. "When everything was going 
 so well, too ! " 
 
 M. Dubourg went down to the garden; time hung 
 heavily on his hands. 
 
 " Hallo ! " he exclaimed on reaching the terrace, 
 "is that you? " 
 
 "It is," answered M. Van den Kris, who was re- 
 clining comfortably in a wicker chair, his feet resting 
 on the kerb of the old well. "I came by the first 
 train." 
 
 "Any news?" 
 
 "None. Only what the papers say. ... I was 
 with him yesterday morning, hut he told me nothing. 
 . . . WTiat do you think of it ? " 
 
 "A most terrible nuisance," sighed the novelist. 
 "Just what you might expect him to do. ..." 
 
 M. Van den Kris indicated Gerard with a nod. 
 
 "WeU, your son thinks it is wonderful. He is proud 
 of his uncle and is only sorry that he wasn't there 
 himself." 
 
 M. Dubourg, lenient, shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Youth . . ." he said. "If you are not an 
 anarchist at twenty it shows you have no heart. But 
 if you remain one past that age, it shows you are 
 an idiot. He'll get over it." 
 
 He glanced at the lapel of his coat and sighed :
 
 134 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 "This won't make me love the negroes any better." 
 
 The pseudo-Dutchman suggested a game of bowls 
 before lunch to drive away their worries. 
 
 "What are they sa3ang in Barlincourt ? " inquired 
 M. Dubourg between two throws. 
 
 Gerard caught fire : 
 
 " Oh ! if you had seen the workmen on their way 
 to the factory, they were all after me. . . . One 
 had pinned the head-line from the Peuple across 
 his cap, "Vive Saint Magloire." They were quite 
 mad. They all asked me when he was coming back; 
 they want to give him a great reception." 
 
 "That's it. Comrade Burtin will deliver a speech, 
 there will be rounds of drinks and a concert arranged 
 by the revolutionary youth. It is just the right pro- 
 gramme for a saint ! " 
 
 "Won't you really be pleased to see my uncle 
 feted?" 
 
 "Not in such a fashion. . . . Besides," added 
 the novelist sceptically, "people always begin by 
 carrying you in triumph, but it is only to drop you 
 from a greater height. ..." 
 
 M. Van den Kris, who stood in his shirt sleeves 
 watching the game at the other end of the ground, 
 was losing patience : 
 
 "HaUo ! you there! Are you playing, or not?" 
 
 Gerard paid no attention. 
 
 "Well, I call it simply wonderful to do what he 
 did there. To throw in their faces, right in the middle 
 of the Chamber, what everybody is thinking." 
 
 "Everybody," repeated M. Dubourg, shrugging his 
 shoulders. "Who is everybody? Always the same 
 handful of hot-heads, who are always watching for an 
 opportunity to make a row." 
 
 "But you, to start with. ..." 
 
 The novelist eluded him. 
 
 "In the first place, I am not everybody. . . . 
 Come on, play up, . . . Livingstone will lose his 
 temper. ..."
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 135 
 
 M. Van den Kris, however, was the only one in the 
 house who had kept his composure. He had also 
 kept his appetite. During lunch he ate ravenously. 
 Merely to watch him and the Dubourgs at their meals 
 was enought to make anyone hungry. The novelist 
 was never in a bad temper when he was eating and 
 drinking. He had been known to refuse his children 
 some request with the hors d'ceuvre — never with the 
 coffee. 
 
 When the maid carried in the duck-pie, a home- 
 made pie, golden, crisp, with the wings and the drum- 
 sticks stiU in their rough-grained skin, M. Dubourg 
 and his guest looked at each other and nodded, smilmg 
 silently. 
 
 "A poor thing — human gratitude!" sententiously 
 opined the novelist, "when we consider that we have 
 preserved the name of the author of the Arvers sonnet 
 and forgotten that of the man who invented pie- 
 crust ! " 
 
 Madame Dubourg was proud of her lunch. 
 
 "We haven't had such a good meal for a week at 
 least, have we?" 
 
 "No," the husband agreed; "since my brother's 
 arrival we might have given points in frugality to the 
 widow Pele. I have never come across anyone who 
 cared as little about his food as he does ! The man 
 was bom to be a hermit. In my opinion, by enjoying 
 good living in my own way I am giving glory to God. 
 If He had wished man to find no pleasure in his food 
 He would not have created chickens or given artichokes 
 a heart; He would simply have provided the world 
 with mines of cold veal." 
 
 WTien coffee was served, he said to his wife, who 
 was pouring out the cognac : 
 
 "Go on — you can fill it up, it won't go to my head." 
 
 He had resumed the jovial demeanour which had 
 characterised his attitude before the untoward happen- 
 ings of the last week, and for the first time his children 
 heard him refer to his brother in an almost playful tone.
 
 136 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 As he rose from the table, M. Dubourg, having 
 regained his composure, came to a decision : 
 
 "I have a good mind, after all, to go to Reuil 
 and see what is happening there." 
 
 Gerard jumped at this; 
 
 "You will take me with you, won't you?" 
 
 M. Van den Kris offered to go with them, but 
 changed his mind on the way, and when they arrived 
 in Paris only saw them to the tramway of the Porte 
 Maillot, giving the lateness of the hour as an excuse. 
 
 The Dubourgs, following the instructions of Jos 
 Van den Kris, got out at Malmaison and found no 
 need to ask their way : a double file of people, one 
 going and the other returning, pointed it out to them. 
 As soon as the papers had disclosed the retreat of the 
 saint, sight-seers had flocked to it. The approach to 
 Source Josephine was barred by a cordon in front of 
 the iron gate : but the crowd remained stationary 
 round the establishment, unoccupied but full of per- 
 severance, quite content to be allowed to gape at the 
 few privileged persons who were admitted within. 
 
 They drew up in line before the novelist and his son, 
 at once on the alert. Those who were nearest pricked 
 up their ears, when M. Dubourg gave his name to the 
 sergeant. 
 
 "It is his brother." 
 
 At once, the idlers clustered round him. Gerard 
 blushed with pride. Unable to contain himself, he 
 whispered to a young man : 
 
 "And this isn't the end of it. ..." 
 
 It may have been the warning, magnified as it 
 passed from mouth to mouth, which inspired the Com- 
 missaire with the idea of doubling the number of his 
 men and asking Paris for reinforcements. 
 
 The house was in a turmoil, though nothing was 
 apparent. A silent perturbation, an uneasiness which 
 tried to hide itself. The inmates kept to their rooms, 
 the staff knew nothing. Between vespers and Bene- 
 diction the garden remained deserted; emptiness
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 137 
 
 reigned everywhere. At the door of the parlour, a 
 clean-shaven civilian, whose long frock-coat was 
 vaguely reminiscent of a cassock, politely denied 
 entrance to a journalist. 
 
 "No one, sir, absolutely no one. We are under 
 strict orders." 
 
 " Orders from whom ? " insisted the reporter. 
 
 An evasive gesture left him in doubt : it might as 
 easily have been the Pope as the Prefect of Police. 
 
 Magloire Dubourg received his family in his room. 
 They were struck by the bareness of it; the walls held 
 nothing but a crucifix with an ivory Christ, a branch 
 of blessed palms stuck between one arm and the cross. 
 Father Labry was sitting with him, an anxious look 
 upon his face. 
 
 Leaning against the window sill, another missionary 
 was reading. 
 
 The saint seemed neither more agitated nor more 
 grave than usual. The day before had really meant 
 no more to him than other days; and the commotion 
 which it had aroused, though it surprised him, left 
 him quite unruffled. He had not even wished to 
 glance at the evening papers which the missionary 
 was reading in his stead, and he listened absent- 
 mindedly to the passages that were read aloud for 
 his benefit. Each attack, on the contrary, deeply 
 impressed Father Labry, who sadly shook his white 
 head and sighed broken-heartedly. 
 
 Gerard flew into a passion over an article signed by 
 Bemheim. 
 
 "How beastly!" 
 
 The Evangelist smiled at him and shrugged his 
 shoulders indifferently. 
 
 A perfidious paragraph of a semi-official character 
 insinuated that the disturbances in West Africa might 
 have been caused by the forty years of the saint's 
 propaganda, and on the other hand, someone "in the 
 immediate circle of the Archbishop of Paris" (one 
 knows what that means) had declared in the
 
 138 ^AINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 National that the Church absolutely disapproved of 
 the attitude of the eminent traveller, who, moreover, 
 did not belong to a religious order and had no 
 "authority whatever" : these two words were printed 
 in italics in the paragraph. 
 
 Seated in his wicker chair, Magloire Dubourg gazed 
 at the crucifix : an infinite tenderness illumined his 
 countenance. 
 
 "Look here, you are not going to accept such treat- 
 ment v^ithout defending j^ourself," stormed Father 
 hahvy for the twentieth time. 
 
 Without taking his eyes from the Christ, his lips 
 hardly moving, the saint replied : 
 
 "Let it be. . . . A cross of insults is a cross 
 easily borne." 
 
 "But this is all a tissue of lies." 
 
 " No matter. Sometimes we describe as calumnies the 
 truths of which we are ashamed. And, after all, if I were 
 pleasing to men, I would not be the servant of God." 
 
 Gerard bent his head, raging inwardly. He would 
 have liked to see his uncle standing up against the 
 slanderers, fighting them and rousing the suburbs to 
 impassioned resistance; whereas, between these two 
 priests, he only beheld a righteous man, resignedly 
 submitting to undeserved stripes. 
 
 "Why should I resent their ignorance of the truth?" 
 the old man continued — "If they already knew it, 
 would He Who sent me have dragged me away from 
 my forests to come and preach to them?" 
 
 The thin hands of Father Labry were nervously 
 tieing and untieing his girdle, which was twisted round 
 his waist like a cord. 
 
 "You know me, Magloire, I am a tough old cus- 
 tomer. I don't mind turning my right cheek after the 
 left, but all the same it must not last too long. . . . 
 I agree with St. Anthony : ' Be content with not 
 returning more blows than you have received.' Well, 
 you have some blows to the good. ..." 
 
 Gerard interposed impetuously :
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 139 
 
 "I feel sure that everyone would back my uncle in 
 any course he might take." 
 
 The second missionary, having folded up his news- 
 papers, had left the room, called away by the bell for 
 evening service. For a while, silence feU between 
 the foiu- men. 
 
 "Couldn't you return to Barlincourt now?" asked 
 M. Frangois Dubourg. "You would be more com- 
 fortable than you are here, more free." 
 
 The saint pondered over this suggestion for a moment : 
 
 "No, not yet. . . . Perhaps I shall go to Paris 
 for a few days. Afterwards, I shall see." 
 
 The novelist looked vexed. 
 
 "To Paris, the deuce ! . . . But that will cause 
 a lot of talk. It will provoke fresh trouble and you'll 
 end by making yourself unpopular." 
 
 Gerard jumped to his feet as if released by a spring : 
 
 "Not at aU, on the contrary." 
 
 "Pardon me, Gerard, I am speaking seriously," his 
 father interrupted him curtly. He drew closer to his 
 brother : 
 
 "Come, be reasonable," he urged in persuasive 
 tones, "if you begin haranguing the Parisians, don't 
 think it will be the good CathoUcs who will come from 
 their parishes to hear you. Those people loathe pub- 
 licity of any kind. . . . You will only attract the 
 worst sort of riff-raff, and it is quite certain to lead to 
 trouble in the end." 
 
 Magloire Dubourg stared at the novelist. 
 
 "Do you think I came to convert honest people? 
 You say that I shall only attract the rogues. Well ! 
 so much the better, for they are the men I want above 
 all to convince. It is not the people who are in good 
 health who need the physician, but the others. ..." 
 
 The old man remained thoughtful for a long while; 
 then he began to speak again, but in a far away voice, 
 with unseeing eyes, as if his words were dictated by a 
 thought from outside. The three men listened absent- 
 mindedly, convinced beforehand, like the devotee who
 
 140 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 in church Hstens to the priest pouring out imprecations 
 on ever-absent libertines. Gradually their attention 
 wandered. Gerard was thinking of Jaures; M. 
 Dubourg of his decoration; Father Labry looked 
 back to his first meeting with Saint Magloire on the 
 Logone, near the entrance to the village, a baya with 
 cabins of woven matting. 
 
 Sentence followed sentence, stem as the verses of a 
 psalm. 
 
 "No, Time is not our Master. We shall endure as 
 long as it endures, and we shall perish only when it 
 perishes, when the doors of Eternity have opened, 
 where its limits and our bodies will be no more. . . ." 
 
 AH this passed over their heads like the drone of a 
 prayer. M. Dubourg dozed. Now and then Father 
 Labry 's chin dropped to his chest, but he immediately 
 roused himself, his eyes misty. With a clammy 
 tongue he mumbled indistinctly, and forced himself 
 to listen, his glance riveted on his friend, whose face 
 faded away little by little in the gathering darkness. 
 
 The saint was revealing aU that he carried in that 
 inspired heart of his. He spoke at length, dwelling 
 on the eternal progress of the universe, the continual 
 renewal of Life. Stripped of their mysteries the 
 truths of the Gospel appeared in aU their luminous 
 simplicity; before them speculations and false doc- 
 trines fell to the ground. 
 
 "They have not seen, neither have they under- 
 stood," the saint murmured sombrely. "Where are 
 the souls of our dead, tell me, where are their 
 souls? . . . Thou knowest it, O Lord, that they 
 are still in our devastated Eden, living over and over 
 again; the breath which Thou blewest into Adam's 
 mouth cannot have faded. . . . Thy truth blinds 
 me : none will die before the End which will be pro- 
 claimed by Thy trumpets. We are Abel and Cain 
 and all the men who ever lived, who were only our- 
 selves in other lives." 
 
 The sound of deep breathing wrested the saint
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 14^ 
 
 trom his ecstasy. His eyes and his mind retitrned to 
 «;arth; he gazed around him, in the darkening room. 
 
 No one was Hstening. 
 
 With his head sunk on his shoulder, open mouthed, 
 Father Labry was sleeping. M. Dubourg, leaning 
 against the bed-post, also seemed to be slumbering. 
 Gerard had noiselessly drawn near the window and, 
 with bent head, he stared dreamily beyond the black 
 trees to the road which was swept by the headlights 
 of motor-cars. 
 
 The sudden silence of the saint conveyed no warn- 
 ing to them. No one stirred. Should he call to 
 them? But to what purpose? 
 
 The window made a patch of twilight and, after 
 looking at it, the room seemed a little darker, as if 
 night had leapt in with a spring. AU was black. 
 The sound of the two men restfully breathing punc- 
 tuated the silence. 
 
 Saint Magloire glanced up at the ivory Christ on 
 the black wall. Little by little the Body seemed to 
 be lifting itself out of the shadows, a dawn was break- 
 ing. .. . 
 
 With head stretched forward and shaking hands, 
 the saint stared at the Figure with its pierced side, 
 which slowly was coming back to life. The meagre 
 ribs heaved with a sobbing breath : the Head vmder 
 its crown of thorns turned from side to side, the lank 
 sorrowful arms writhed on the wood. . . . After 
 twenty centuries, He was still suffering on His Cross, 
 
 For one long week Source Josephine was besieged 
 by the inquisitive and the infirm. The latter ar- 
 rived in hundreds from all over the country, even 
 from abroad : incurable cases, whose only hope lay 
 in a miracle. The Avenue Ducis looked like a street 
 of Lourdes, packed with invalid chairs, in which 
 children were being dragged along, and crowded 
 with the halt and the blind, with sick people whose 
 cheeks were hollow, shivering in spite of their blankets, 
 
 K
 
 142 SAINT MAGLOlKi:, 
 
 with repulsive beggars who harried the public by 
 displaying their hideous stumps. The cafes in the 
 neighbourhood carried on a roaring trade and the 
 crowd overflowed as far as the Park of Malmaoon, 
 whose lawns were littered with grea&[/ papers and 
 empty bottles. Street vendors hawked the photograph 
 of the saint, whilst others sold the portrait of the 
 >)lind man cured by Saint Magloire, bearing on the 
 reverse side the "true prayer of the saint :" 
 
 "In the Name of the Father, the Son and the Holy 
 Ghost, of the holy Lady Anne who gave birth to the 
 Virgin Mary, who gave birth to Jesus Christ, may 
 God bless thee and heal thee, poor suffering human 
 creature, to the glory of God, the Holy Archangel 
 Michael and Saint Magloire ! Amen." 
 
 As the Evangelist did not show himself, the crowd 
 soon became irritable. At times the impatient flood, 
 gulled by false news, rolled towards the railings, try- 
 ing to crumple up the police cordon. But nothing 
 was to be seen, and from the multitude which was 
 being pressed backwards there arose a chorus of pro- 
 tests, complaints, and jests. 
 
 They clamoured for Saint Magloire to the strains 
 of a popular tune and sang in unison a ballad sold 
 by the hawkers, whose refrain ran : 
 
 "He hails from the land of bananas." 
 
 Invalids and mothers held out their arms in sup- 
 plication, but the house, with its closed shutters, did 
 not respond. Except for the bell, which tolled for 
 the services, there was nothing to indicate life within 
 its walls. 
 
 Then, from day to day, the crowd became tumultuous 
 and hostile. After that it dwindled away. The 
 cripples were the only ones who kept on returning, 
 as nimierous as ever : they foregathered in groups, 
 always the same, and recounted their infirmities to 
 each other. To keep up their hopes they harped 
 untirmgly on the miracles of Saint Magloire. 
 
 One evening after a stifling day, which the crowd
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 143 
 
 spent in tramping about in the sun, a most startling 
 incident occurred. At the foot of a big tree, leaning 
 over an invalid carriage a woman yelled. 
 
 "My child! Quick, quick, she is dying, help!' 
 
 The little girl lay motionless, with a waxen com- 
 plexion and hollow eyes. Her discoloured lips, open 
 in a dreadful smile, disclosed clenched teeth. A mob 
 collected 
 
 "The saint should be told. Go and ring the bell," 
 said someone. 
 
 Thereupon a confused running to and fro ensued; 
 people rushed away; the police officer sent off cyclist 
 messengers, somebody came out of Source Josephine 
 with ether and some linen. The child had stopped 
 breathing and the mother, overwhelmed by grief, 
 sobbed against a tree. It was all over. . . . 
 
 The next day, certain papers printed in heavy 
 type: "Saint Magloire allows a child to die on his 
 doorstep." 
 
 Others, by way of opposition, congratulated him 
 on keeping up this attitude and refusing to lend 
 himself to fresh demonstrations. 
 
 After this event, the excitement of the crowd 
 dropped. Soon only two policemen were left on duty. 
 The few idlers who still strolled along the Aveune 
 Ducis only glanced at the house and passed on. 
 
 Inside the establishment, the inmates had split into 
 two groups : the first — missionaries all of them — 
 remained faithful to Saint Magloire, but the second 
 showed a hostile reserve. They were frightened by 
 the heterodox pronouncements of the Evangelist, his 
 disagreements with the Archbishop, and, finally, 
 his scandalous intervention in the Chamber. They 
 anxiously commented with the Superior on those 
 articles in the papers which discussed the doctrine 
 of the saint, every editor having apparently attached 
 to himself a private theologian. 
 
 "His whole doctrine rests on an assumption which 
 has been admitted like a fact, and on a hope, which
 
 144 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 has been presented as a certainty," could be read in 
 the National. "Magloire Dubourg has composed a 
 system for his own use, which combines Buddhistic 
 principles. Christian dogma, and spiritualistic beliefs; 
 and the whole is presented with an out-of-date 
 humanitarianism which seems to belong to the days 
 of Fourier and Saint Simon." 
 
 L'lllustre was stiU more caustic. 
 
 "It needs a strong dose of ingenuousness," its editor 
 wrote, "to believe that it is possible to transform the 
 world with half a dozen ideas." 
 
 Many already looked upon Magloire Dubourg as a 
 schismatic on the point of founding a new religion, 
 and they cited discouraging precedents : Vintras, the 
 sham prophet from Lyons, who founded the creed of 
 mercy, Auguste Comte, and even Abbe Chatel, who 
 ended his days as a grocer. Bernheim, turning Chris- 
 tian for the occasion, did his best to tear to pieces the 
 doctrine of the man from Africa. 
 
 "I do not see much difference," he wrote, "between 
 this unlimited transmigration of souls without memory 
 and materialism pure and simple. It is not the im- 
 morality of the substance that matters, it is that of 
 the personality — and the latter does not exist or it is 
 not realised." ' 
 
 Scientific men mocked at reincarnation and believers 
 were indignant. Jacques de Nointel was to be found 
 among the few who defended these theories, or at 
 least presented them in good faith. 
 
 "One should not, as many have done, liken this 
 belief to the Buddhist doctrine," he explained. "They 
 are not only different, but contradictory. In fact, the 
 doctrine of Sakia Mouni in a way justifies social in- 
 equalities, since it claims that the place occupied by 
 the individual in society depends on the merit of his 
 actions in former lives which bring reward or chastise- 
 ment; whereas Saint Magloire founds his teaching on 
 goodwill and mutual assistance, for man cannot know 
 in what form his eternal soul will come to life
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 145 
 
 to-morrow. If we admit this, we must bring about 
 the reign of universal happiness, in order some day to 
 have our share of it." 
 
 All these effusions, like a crop of heresies, unsettled 
 the priests. Their admiration gave place to fear : 
 they avoided the saint, they very nearly shunned him. 
 Magloire Dubourg, fortunately, appeared but seldom. 
 The regulations having been relaxed, he was accosted 
 each time he went out by reporters, would-be patients, 
 and maniacs who lay in wait for him in the garden; 
 and to escape them he kept almost entirely to his 
 room. 
 
 But in spite of all these precautions, the relentless 
 pursuers succeeded in reaching him, and the old man 
 was obliged to submit to the strangest conversations. 
 One morning a beggar, who imagined herself to be 
 Cleopatra re-incarnated, became violent and had to 
 be dragged away. Another madwoman implored him 
 to exorcise her because the Devil had breathed into 
 her the spirit of a poisoner. This was probably a result 
 of the newspaper polemics on the subject of trans- 
 migration which had turned the brains of these 
 unhappy creatures. 
 
 Now began the procession of business men and 
 traffickers in doubtful trades : 
 
 A famished-looking doctor, with the stamp of 
 clandestine obstetrics upon him, and accompanied by 
 his sleeping partner, came to the saint with the pro- 
 posal that he should open a sort of clinic in Paris, 
 where he could heal the sick under the control of the 
 Medical Faculty. A regular salary of 400,000 francs 
 was guaranteed to Magloire, plus a percentage on the 
 profits. The miracle man drove them out, but as 
 they retreated before his wrath, the sleeping partner, 
 an olive-skinned Levantine, crooked the fingers of his 
 right hand to ward off the evil eye. 
 
 Someone else offered to publish the Memoirs of the 
 Evangelist in four languages, and to organise a lecture 
 tour round the world. This man did not demand
 
 146 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 miracles as a regular attraction, but suggested that 
 they should happen occasionally. After these came 
 the procession of visionaries, adepts of strange sects 
 who thought they had found their Prophet in the 
 saint, occultists and psychics, supported by their 
 mediums, who wished to induce the all-powerful old 
 man to help them in evoking the spirits of the departed 
 by turning tables or sending their subjects to sleep. 
 It was perhaps in order to wear out the saint that the 
 Superior of the establishment allowed them all to 
 enter, while he pretended to send them away. 
 
 Thus there arrived from Lyons a delegation from 
 the Gnostic Church, headed by its Patriarch, a certain 
 M. Piquenol, who styled himself John III. Magloire 
 Dubourg, who until then had been in absolute ignor- 
 ance of the sect of Fabre des Essarts, received them 
 wearily but without mistrust, and listened to their 
 speeches, whose meaning he did not always catch. 
 The Patriarch, a little pot-bellied man, wore a bowler 
 hat and had slipped his ceremonial insignia over his 
 tweed coat. His assistant would have filled the part 
 better, for he carried himself with the dignity conferred 
 on him by his tall figure, his white beard and high, 
 bald forehead; but as soon as he opened his mouth 
 his stutter made him ridiculous, the more so as he 
 fought for his words with comical insistence. The 
 third delegate, a tall old man -with stiff legs and a long 
 scraggy neck, came to his rescue and finished the 
 sentence without hesitation, for all three thought in 
 unison, though never for long. 
 
 The three men, each speaking in turn, expounded 
 their doctrine : the world as the creation of the Devil, 
 earthly life as the reign of Satan. 
 
 "Man ought to he ... he ... he ,. ." 
 obstinately stammered the purple-faced assistant. 
 
 "Help God to defeat the Master of Evil," mechani- 
 cally completed the stiff-legged initiate. 
 
 In the garden, the Superior lamented with a sigh. 
 
 "What a pity ! There he is now giving audience to
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 147 
 
 heretics. . . . Condemned by the Holy See, do 
 you hear that? I remember that m his ApostoUc 
 Letter His Holiness Leo XHL went so far as to call 
 them Albigenses. . . ," 
 
 When the three men had departed, shown out by 
 Magloire Dubourg, the Superior followed John HI. 
 with suspicious eyes, discovering in the red-bearded 
 citizen of Lyons a resemblance to Satan. 
 
 The medical profession also took an interest in the 
 "case" of the miracle worker, and Magloire Dubourg 
 underwent a minute examination by a famous neurol- 
 ogist, who was anxious to show that the magnetic 
 influence of the explorer was the explanation of the 
 miracles. 
 
 "Why do you attach so much importance to such 
 small matters ? " the saint, irritated, finally demanded 
 of him. "In this world where everything is but a 
 continual miracle, how can you be amazed at these 
 few miserable cures? Are not all things that surround 
 us far more mysterious? Explain to me how the 
 planets revolve, how thought is born, and I may per- 
 haps tell you by what means my blind man recovered 
 his sight. ..." 
 
 At last, the establishment being no longer besieged 
 by the crowds, Saint Magloire began to go out : the 
 time was ripe to open his propaganda. 
 
 From the very first days, these sermons in the open 
 caused an extraordinary sensation in Paris. The old 
 man spoke wherever he happened to find himself : at 
 factories as the workmen were leaving, at the doors 
 of churches, in the cafes in industrial districts; and 
 he had been seen, almost at the same hour, in the Pare 
 Monceau among the children of the rich and on the 
 shabby slopes of the Boulevard Bessi^res surroimded 
 by apaches and loose women. 
 
 Astounded by his sudden advent in their midst, 
 people at first listened to him with curiosity, mainly 
 interested in his appearance; but soon they succumbed 
 to the power of his personality. His ardent eloquence
 
 148 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 stirred them profoundly; he was the bearer of new 
 promises and the soul of the people always responds 
 to a message of hope. 
 
 The saint's fame spread through the suburbs like a 
 fever. People lay in wait for him, and, as soon as 
 they caught sight of him, the workmen's dwellings 
 emptied themselves into the street in the twinkling 
 of an eye : artisans left their tools, and joined the rush 
 of shirt-sleeved men and aproned housewives. The 
 saint was hemmed in on all sides; everyone tried to 
 touch his bare hand and the mothers held out their 
 children to ask his blessing on them. 
 
 "I cannot," he said, "I am not a priest." 
 
 But he lifted the grimy babies in his arms and kissed 
 them, while the multitude cheered. 
 
 Now and then there came interruptions. When 
 these proceeded from drunkards or brawlers, the others 
 promptly silenced them and sent them flying; but 
 sometimes an unconvinced listener or a militant fre- 
 quenter of public meetings heckled the saint and the 
 latter argued with him, standing on the steps of a 
 church, or on a chair borrowed from a bar. 
 
 The Government at last became disquieted by this 
 agitation and attempts were made to catch Magloire 
 at fault. Dubious looking individuals were seen to 
 mix with the crowd and they endeavoured to extract 
 dangerous admissions and incitements to rioting from 
 the Evangelist; but the saint, in his innocence, foiled 
 them every time, for he preached nothing but good- 
 will alike to the embittered paupers and to the 
 policemen who were tiying to embroil him in a 
 disturbance. 
 
 One morning when the saint, perched on a coil of 
 ropes, was preaching on the banks of the Saint Martin 
 Canal, these soothing words exasperated a bargeman. 
 There was a smell of green bilcr water, and the steam 
 tugs, with their hoarse blast, trailed their smoke across 
 the sky. 
 
 "So that's it," interrupted the man with the blue
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 149 
 
 jersey. "We must let the capitalists gobble us up 
 and keep mum? You've an oily tongue like the rest 
 of 'em, you have. ..." 
 
 The saint was not offended. 
 
 "I do not tell you to bend your backs," he replied. 
 "On the contrary, I tell you to stand up, the hour is 
 near. . . . But if the oppressed only think of be- 
 coming tyrants in their turn, I loathe them no less 
 than I loathe their oppressors." 
 
 "Well, then, what is one to do?" insisted the man, 
 to whom this religious talk was unintelligible. 
 
 "First of all, believe in God," thundered the Evan- 
 gelist. "As long as faith has not purified their hearts, 
 people will talk of justice, but only in order to rob 
 others in its name. Look around you ! Is the world 
 just?" 
 
 A clamour answered him : 
 
 "No, no." 
 
 "But look into your hearts," continued the saint, 
 "what reigns in them but envy? Believe me, you 
 bargeman, it is not by plundering the rich that the 
 hosts of the poor are lessened : more people become 
 poor, that is all. . . . What must you do? You 
 asked me just now. I answer you : believe, believe ! 
 When men know the truth they will understand that 
 we have , to live on earth until the end of aU time, 
 powerful to-day and miserable to-morrow, at the mercy 
 of the great wind, which bears their souls along. 
 There wUl be no more hatred and everyone wiU work 
 for universal happiness, since by doing so he will 
 work for his own. . . . Do not look far afield for 
 the enemies whom you must vanquish before happi- 
 ness may reign on earth : the worst enemy resides 
 within yourselves. So long as man shall covet his 
 neighbour's wife or his neighbour's goods, so long 
 as the strong shall believe that he has a right over 
 the weak, so long as justice has to carry a sword, so 
 long shall the World seek for its lost Paradise. . . ." 
 
 A long '^v of heads craned curiously over the
 
 150 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 parapet. The steps were black with people. Some, 
 at the imminent risk of tumbling into the water at 
 each push, had climbed on to the barges which lay 
 at the wharf; whilst others, with the'-, clothes 
 whitened by plaster, hoisted themselves on to piles 
 of sacks. 
 
 The latest comers pressed into the crowd; people 
 were jammed against the wall and scraped their 
 knuckles on the rough stone, and new arrivals were 
 still to be seen running across the bridge. The silence 
 was profound : only in the distance the grating of 
 carriage wheels, the crash of unloaded scrap iron, 
 the hoot of motor-cars, all the noises of the street. . . 
 
 "I have scoured the world; I have lived in the 
 forests where God provides his creatures with bread, 
 milk, butter, wine, with the sap and the fruit of the 
 trees. I have laboured in the mines, where each 
 blow of the pickaxe lays bare a treasure; I have har- 
 vested in the fields which ever grow green again, and 
 I know now that the Earth is rich enough to give to 
 each far beyond his wants. . , . Work : your 
 effort will be repaid unto you a hundredfold. But if 
 someone says to you : "I do not work because I am 
 the Master," drive him out without pity, for he has 
 blasphemed. For there is no other Master but God. 
 Cursed be the wicked who want to wax fat on the 
 bread which others have earned by the sweat of their 
 brow. Cry to them like St. Paul "May they starve 
 who will not work." 
 
 He flung out these words with all his strength, em- 
 phasising them with his clenched fist, and his anathema 
 reverberated through the tense silence. A shiver 
 passed over the entire crowd of workmen. Then 
 there burst forth a frantic cheer, a frenzied clamour : 
 
 "Long live Saint Magloire." 
 
 Simburnt arms, hands hardened by work, stretched 
 foi"ward, trying to seize him, to carry him in triumph, 
 but the Evangelist pushed them aside, still endea- 
 vouring to make himself heard in the uproar.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 151 
 
 The crowd eddied and swirled. . . . Genuine 
 enthusiasts and evil-minded agitators were attempting 
 to sway the mob. 
 
 "To Paris, to Paris." 
 
 Constables were seen rushing across the bridge. 
 Lorries from the Prefecture were unloading others on 
 the quay, while police sergeants drew a cordon round 
 the place. 
 
 "Cut off the saint. ... No violence!" rapped 
 out a man in a frock coat, who was made ridiculous 
 by the contrast of an umbrella held against his tri- 
 colour scarf of office. 
 
 The multitude howled, but from a safe distance, 
 no longer daring to advance. Women were trying 
 to struggle free, lifting their children into the air. 
 Round Saint Magloire the more resolute gathered 
 in a solid block. 
 
 "Don't worry. . . . We'll stick to you. . . ." 
 
 Stifled shrieks rang out amidst hooting and whist- 
 ling. With rapid steps the police brutally bore down 
 on the crowd. The Evangelist, mounted on a lorry 
 that was being unloaded, suddenly appeared above 
 them all. 
 
 "Disperse," he ordered. . . . "Let everyone go 
 home. ... I promise you that we shall meet 
 again." 
 
 Fresh cheering answered him, but he lost himself 
 in the press. He probably passed through one of the 
 houses, going in by one entrance and corairig out by 
 another, for he was seen no more; and when the 
 police had cleared the street, they were unable to 
 track him. 
 
 That same evening Magloire Dubourg received at 
 Source Josephine a visit from the Prefect of Police, 
 who came to deliver to him the instructions of the 
 Government. 
 
 "These continual disturbances must cease," the 
 Prefect said to him with an embarrassed air. . . . 
 "Hire a hall if you like. The authorities of course
 
 152 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 do not mean to forbid your propaganda, but we can 
 no longer tolerate these demonstrations. My orders 
 in this respect are definite. . . . Just think of it, 
 with all these ruffians who infest Paris. . . ." 
 
 The saint stared at him, two grey slits showing 
 between his eyelids. 
 
 " If you were ordered to arrest me, what would 
 you do? " 
 
 The Prefect looked up as though accepting a chal- 
 lenge : 
 
 "Why, I would arrest you," he answered dryly. 
 
 Magloire gently shook his head : 
 
 "Some day," he said, "they will order you to do 
 so and you will not dare."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 On Sundays the gramophone at the Cafe Dumarchey 
 played all day long, with its big horn turned towards 
 the crowded room; and the customers at the tables 
 to make themselves heard had even to yell louder 
 than on week-days, so that there was a constant con- 
 fusion of shouts and laughter and disputes, mingled 
 with nasal selections from "Tosca," and the yodelling 
 of Tyrolese songs. 
 
 Milot worked the instrument and chose the records : 
 it was his Sunday recreation. When he felt senti- 
 mental, when the sight of a pretty girl had left him 
 dreaming, he spent the morning with slow waltzes 
 and romantic ballads, taking up the refrains himself; 
 when he and his friends had been calling up memories 
 of the War (the great slaughter-house was Milot's 
 name for it), " Sidi-Brahim " and " Paris-Belfort " 
 resounded at full blast; then, when the second bell 
 ringing for Mass indicated the passing by of the de- 
 vout, came the turn of all the questionable songs. 
 The sacristan, at the doorway, watched for Baptistine 
 Pele, and directly he caught sight of her black cloak 
 at the bend of the avenue, he rushed to the instrument 
 and hastily put on the best record of the lot: "My 
 Rattlesnake," or "Take away your hand from there." 
 It had become a tradition in Barlincourt : Baptistine 
 on her way to church must be greeted by the most 
 ribald ditties in the modem repertory. With eyes 
 lowered and hands folded on her prayer-book, she 
 hastened by; but in spite of all her efforts she could 
 not avoid hearing, and she was ashamed to find that 
 in the long run she had learnt the tune by heart. 
 Milot, balancing himself on his sound leg, watched 
 her hurrying past, and enjoyed a fresh triumph on 
 
 153
 
 154 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 each occasion. Then when she had disappeared, 
 he took off the record, drained his glass of white wine, 
 remarked "See you later" and went off to take his 
 part in the service. He did not stay away long. 
 
 The moment Mass was over, and he had put his 
 chain, his staff and his coat back in the cupboard, 
 he returned to the cafe, and while he waited for some 
 customer to turn up who would treat him to an 
 "aperitif," he put on a few more records. 
 
 In the afternoon the gramophone was carried into 
 the dancing hall; and the youth of the country-side 
 danced to the music of the Republican Guards. The 
 girls came in pairs, arm-in-arm, red-cheeked, with 
 starched bodices, and the young men, "dressed to 
 kill," with their hats on one side and huge roses in 
 their button-holes, looked like temporary altars. 
 Every Sunday Petit Louis, the nephew of the Du- 
 bourg's cook, surreptitiously brought Madame Pele's 
 little serv^ant as his dancing partner while the widow 
 was at church. 
 
 Save for the scant half-hour of Vespers, Milot did 
 not leave the cafe again all day. Only, while he was 
 at the dance he wished himself at the bar chatting 
 with the men, and while he was in the cafe, straining 
 his voice to convince his audience, he still listened 
 with one ear to the music, full of jealousy that any- 
 one but himself should work the gramophone. _ 
 
 "Those fools will end by smashing it." 
 
 And, leaving those who had been arguing with him, 
 he would go back to the hall where perspiring couples 
 were disporting themselves, dancing waltzes, schot- 
 tishes and quadrilles as if all of them were jigs. 
 
 On this particular Sunday the cripple, for a wonder, 
 had not been seen in the big hall. Ever since the 
 morning he had been disputing with all the customers, 
 changing his views from time to time that no oppor- 
 tunity for bawling should be lost. On one point, 
 however, he did not waver, and he never grew tired 
 of emphar'pr^g it :
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 155 
 
 " Magloire's done well to choose Barlincourt : he'd 
 never find a village where there are so many cuckolds 
 in so few houses." 
 
 All the cafes in the district were overflowing with 
 people, squabbling in indignant groups, even at the 
 doorways of the bars. Since the return of the saint 
 three days earlier, the population had been living in 
 a state of effervescence. 
 
 On the day of his return Barlincourt had given him 
 a magnificent reception; they had cheered him and 
 embraced him, they had offered him flowers, a pro- 
 cession had followed him up to the villa, and the 
 Mayor, who wanted to do something without com- 
 promising himself, had sent the Deputy-Mayor to 
 offer the good wishes of the municipality. As for 
 Abbe Choisy, he came openly, cordially holding out 
 his arms, for he had understood nothing of the too 
 subtle insinuations of La Croix, which was the only 
 paper he ever read. 
 
 The little town was proud of the sudden celebrity 
 which it owed to the saint. Though Magloire's in- 
 tervention at the Chamber and his preachings in the 
 suburbs had gained him the support of the work- 
 men at the Aubemon factory, they had roused mis- 
 trust among the people of means, the commercial 
 element and the big farmers; but since they were 
 proud of having as a fellow-citizen this man of whom 
 the whole world was talking, they admired him 
 nevertheless, and hid their resentment. The little 
 country place had become the centre of universal 
 curiosity. 
 
 At the festivals in the neighbourhood, the boys 
 from Barlincourt were so much in demand that they 
 began to believe themselves of a different clay from 
 the others. The presence of one man had been 
 sufficient to increase the stature of them aU. 
 
 On this fine Sunday the Parisians had come out in 
 fairly large numbers, hoping to see something; but 
 directly one of them ente.-ed a cafe he was met with
 
 156 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 suspicious looks and the conversation was carried on 
 in a lower tone, as though it were embarrassing to 
 discuss family affairs before strangers. 
 
 The men, excited by white wine and other drinks, 
 grew quarrelsome. The Dumarchey girl, seated in a 
 corner behind the coimter, and leaving the waitress 
 to nm about with bottles under her arm, cast black 
 looks at the brawlers. Despite her wrinkled skin and 
 her lifeless hair, she dreamed of a rich and elegant 
 society where people reckoned in louis instead of 
 francs, and in her till she kept secreted Le Roman 
 d'un Jeune Homme Pauvre." 
 
 "Well, anyhow," someone cried, above the tumult 
 of voices, " one thing is certain : since he has been 
 here there hasn't been one death in the district." 
 
 All fell silent, nonplussed. They tried to remem- 
 ber. ... It was indeed tnie. . . . For weeks 
 there had not been a funeral, not even a very little 
 one; yet babies in the country die quickly of the 
 treacherous summer fever. The idea suddenly struck 
 them that a supernatural force was hovering over 
 them. 
 
 "I say," they asked an old man, a clean-shaven 
 peasant, dressed in a waistcoat with sleeves, "has this 
 ever happened before?" 
 
 The old man shook bis head : 
 
 "Never, there's magic in it." 
 
 They stood open-mouthed, too amazed even to 
 rejoice. Milot, with a blow of his fist on the table, 
 made the glasses rattle. 
 
 " Upon my word, you must be cracked ! " he burst 
 out. "It's a fact, if cuckolds could swim you'd run 
 no risk of getting drowned. . . . \Vh3^ do you 
 believe that he will prevent you from pegging out if 
 a lorry runs over your belly?" 
 
 He turned to the workmen : 
 
 "You've got no more sense than a lot of clod- 
 hoppers." 
 
 "If you 3^ell like that you'll always be right,"
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 157 
 
 answered one of them. . . . "We're no stupider 
 than you are, and we don't believe in miracles. But 
 all the same, some things are facts. Look at the 
 Trembler, didn't he cure him? You can't deny it." 
 
 The Trembler, who was already a little drunk, was 
 sitting at the end of a bench. Against the wall he 
 had set his placard, on which were pasted the articles 
 which had appeared about him, his interview and 
 his portraits, and under the table he had pushed the 
 tray full of prophecies on gaily-coloiu-ed paper that 
 he sold to the people from Paris. 
 
 "That proves nothing," shouted the beadle. . . . 
 "You've only got to read what the scientists said 
 about it. It was his nerves that were troubling him." 
 
 The racket began again, deafening, punctuated by 
 curses and the sound of fists banged on the table. 
 Nothing but rubicund faces and glistening eyes. 
 Through the cigarette smoke, which was so dense 
 that it scorched the eyes, drinkers could be seen 
 standing up, holding their hands trumpet-wise to 
 their mouths and shouting their orders through them. 
 The waitress, stupefied by the din, turned from side 
 to s'de, not knowing whom to serve first. Glasses 
 rolled about, and were shivered to fragments. 
 
 Everyone was talking without listening, simply 
 trying to shout louder than anyone else. They were 
 intoxicated with aU sorts of absurd conjectures. They 
 proposed to nominate the saint as deputy, or even 
 as parish priest to begin with, in order to keep him 
 in the district. From time to time the Trembler 
 wanted to put in a word, but Milot cut him short ; 
 
 "Shut up, you miracle!" he flung out, looking at 
 him out of the comer of his eye. 
 
 The beggar bent his head submissively. At last the 
 bar seemed to clear. Table after table was deserted 
 and the cafe began to empty. The talking grew less 
 loud and the chink of coins was heard on the counter. 
 The waitress, taking advantage of the lull, began to 
 get the lamps ready. It was time to go to supper. 
 
 L
 
 158 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 Lively groups passed by, breaking up as they 
 reached their own doors. FamiHes came back from 
 the fields, or from some neighbouring fete, carrying 
 blue vases won in the fair-booths. The streets were 
 bathed in the half-light of evening. 
 
 And in dim farm-kitchens, where supper was being 
 served, round the oil-cloth covers of workmen's tables, 
 under the chandeliers in bourgeois homes, there was 
 but one subject of conversation : 
 
 "Since he came to the district there has not been a 
 single death. ..." 
 
 The King's Domain had resumed its air of austerity. 
 Madame Dubourg no longer ventured to laugh, the 
 menus were of the simplest, and the piano remained 
 closed. 
 
 The Evangelist seemed to live in isolation among 
 his relatives, as though in his years of wandering he 
 had lost the habit of seeking happiness elsewhere than 
 in himself. He would sometimes remain silent 
 throughout a whole meal; then, dragging himself 
 with an effort out of his perpetual dream, he would 
 join awkwardly in their conversation, understanding 
 nothing of their tastes, of their desires or their small 
 cares. 
 
 In his presence the Dubourgs dared not discuss the 
 theatre, nor anything which might resemble pleasure; 
 the most innocuous subject of conversation suddenly 
 appeared improper, and they even felt uncomfortable 
 if they used certain words in his presence. They 
 grew into the habit of lowering their voices instinc 
 tively, as though in church. Yvonne, having said 
 "What a Tartar !" when speaking of the baker's wife, 
 blushed scarlet, and turned away her eyes before the 
 stem glance her father bent on her. Thus meals went 
 by, edifying and dreary. 
 
 WTiat most grieved M. Francois Dubourg was that 
 his brother took so little interest in his writings. 
 Casually, as though the matter were of no importance.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 159 
 
 he had laid some copies of his successful books on the 
 table by Magloire's bedside. 
 
 "Here you are," he had said jestingly, "if one night 
 you cannot sleep. ..." 
 
 But Magloire did not seem to have even opened 
 them. One afternoon, however, as the novelist was 
 leaving the garden to go back to his work, the saint 
 asked him : 
 
 "What will be the title of your next book?" 
 
 "Monsiem de Cambrelus." 
 
 " Ah ! And what do you explain in it ? " 
 
 The novelist smiled at the naive question : 
 
 "Why, I don't explain anything in it. . . . It 
 is the story of the younger son of a noble family, in 
 the sixteenth centur}^ who gets mixed up with the 
 League and ..." 
 
 "I quite imderstand," the saint interrupted gently. 
 "It is fiction, an imaginary story. But what ideas 
 do you express in it? What is the conclusion you 
 draw?" 
 
 His brother almost lost patience : 
 
 "Why, there's no conclusion," he answered, a little 
 annoyed. "It is not my business to defend any ideas 
 in a novel. It's not a text-book of philosophy. I 
 write to entertain people." 
 
 The saint nodded his head : 
 
 "Ah, yes," he said in a low voice. "To enter- 
 tain. ..." 
 
 He remained silent for a moment. Then he went on : 
 
 "You know that I am very fond of you, Frangois. 
 Well, I have read the books that you left in my room. 
 They didn't interest me. . . . No. . . . You 
 don't mind my saying this, do you?" 
 
 The novelist tried to conceal his chagrin. 
 
 "Why, no, not at all. You are not in the habit of 
 reading novels, perhaps you don't know. ..." 
 
 "Yes, no doubt that is it," the saint agreed eagerly. 
 "I probably don't vmderstand. Stories don't pene- 
 trate any more into my old brain. But, you know,
 
 i6o SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 it makes my heart ache to see men getting excited 
 over futile tales, and not giving, throughout their 
 whole existence, one hour, one single hour of reflection, 
 to the mystery out of which they came, the mystery 
 into which they will return. . . . Their unconscious- 
 ness terrifies me. ... I feel as though I were 
 watching children building a palace of cards in a 
 burning house. God has given them a mind, and 
 never do they use it to think of Him. You have 
 intelligence and knowledge, Francois; why don't you 
 guide them towards the truth? Believe me, all words 
 are vain which do not help to make life better. You 
 deceive men when you only talk to them of them- 
 selves, vaunting their paltry passions, exaggerating 
 their mean gestures. . . . Man is so blinded by 
 pride that he has come to believe only in himself; and 
 to help the world to forget its wretchedness you do 
 nothing but shake rattles." 
 
 Francois Dubourg, thoroughly bored, scraped the 
 gravel of the path with the point of his shoe to keep 
 himself in countenance, and endured the lecture. The 
 words slid vainly over him like the reproaches of a 
 master over the resigned head of a schoolboy. At 
 last, when his brother had finished, he made his escape, 
 and on the way up to his study he muttered with 
 annoyance, 
 
 "Good Lord, what a deluge ! I don't need to be 
 converted ! He takes me for a nigger ! " 
 
 Then, throwing back the shutters which kept the 
 room cool during lunch-time, he saw the saint wending 
 his way towards the kitchen garden. 
 
 "Good, now he's gone back to his bees," he said, 
 shrugging his shoulders. . . . "Adele is already 
 refusing to go and pick anything for fear of getting 
 stung, and the gardener's complaining. Well, it's 
 getting to be a funny kind of house ! " 
 
 At the far end of the kitchen garden, Magloire 
 Dubourg had indeed set up three hives, which he had 
 made out of a little straw, a wicker basket and some
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE i6i 
 
 flat tiles. Round them he had planted thyme, mint 
 and mignonette, to encourage the bees to come there 
 for honey, and while he dug in the garden they buzzed 
 about him. 
 
 He spent a part of his days in the garden because 
 he was less conspicuous there than in the park, where 
 people perpetually came and worried him. 
 
 On some days he was not to be seen till dinner- 
 time, and his place at the luncheon table remained 
 empty. He would start off, walking straight before 
 him, vi'heresoever the road led him. He was reported 
 to have been seen preaching in the open fields, at the 
 hour when the men, seated on the ground around the 
 threshing-machine, were eating their midday meal ; 
 and he had been found haranguing the workmen at 
 the factory-gates. 
 
 At the iron-works of Montataire, mounted on a pile 
 of coal-bricks, he had spoken to a gang of stokers 
 coming off duty, drunk with fatigue, their hard faces 
 seamed with black wrinkles; and the affair had ended 
 in tumult, with empty bottles being pulled out of 
 knapsacks and brandished like clubs. 
 
 He invariably came back penniless, having parted 
 with his last copper; one evening, sitting down on 
 the side of the road, he had even given his shoes to a 
 tramp whose bare feet were bleeding. Sometimes he 
 came back with destitute people who had to be fed 
 for two or three days and supplied with cast-off cloth- 
 ing. He would take his meals with them on the 
 terrace, while the dog, showing his teeth, growled and 
 dragged at his chain. 
 
 Another time, he brought back a labourer from 
 Barlincourt, who had formerly been employed for 
 rough work at the villa and had been dismissed 
 because once, when he was drunk, he had insulted his 
 employers and had gone off, leaving his job unfinished. 
 
 Mme. Dubourg gave no sign of her annoyance at 
 seeing the man come back, but when he had gone, she 
 expressed her disapproval to the saint.
 
 i62 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 "It is true," he admitted, "he is rather a scamp, 
 but you will see that we shall end by making a 
 respectable lad of him." 
 
 Meanwhile "the respectable lad" was doing no good 
 at aU. He had smashed to atoms the bell-glasses 
 Etienne used for his melons, while he was helping to 
 put them in order; he could not be induced to clean 
 the bam thoroi:ghly, and whenever any member of 
 the household passed by, he would stand with his 
 head bent sulkily, his cap pushed down on the back 
 of his head, whistling between his teeth. 
 
 Magloire Dubourg alone was able to extract obedience 
 from this ruffian; the labourer was positively afraid 
 of him. At every turn, the Evangelist would come 
 up to him and, looking him straight in the eyes, would 
 ask : 
 
 "Why do you want to steal those eggs?" 
 
 Or: 
 
 "If you upset the hives the bees will follow you 
 and sting you till you drop." 
 
 And each time, unfailingly, he exposed some evil 
 thought in the other's mind. The labourer had been 
 reduced to fleeing from him in terror. Then he was 
 seen no more; he went about the country-side saying 
 that he would not work any longer at the King's 
 Domain because Magloire Dubourg practised magic 
 on him. 
 
 The inhabitants, far from being turned against the 
 Evangelist by this, were inclined to see in the labomer's 
 tales a new proof of the power of their saint. The 
 majority of M. Quatrepomme's voters — though they 
 were not in the least bigoted, nor more foolish than 
 others — ^were now convinced that Barlincourt was 
 under the protection of Saint Magloire Dubourg and 
 that they had nothing more to fear from Fate. 
 
 Moreoyer, one indisputable fact remained, and the 
 women, by repeating it over and over again, had suc- 
 ceeded in unsettling everyone : there were no more 
 deaths in Barlincourt. There was not even a sick
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 163 
 
 person whose condition gave rise to anxiety, and old 
 Dr. Rouquette regarded this as a personal triumph. 
 
 "That fellow Blum could not get such results, with 
 his stethoscope and his Hun pulsometer," he reiterated 
 as he went his rounds. 
 
 As soon as people in Paris heard of the state of 
 affairs, the pilgrimages began again. Sick people 
 arrived who wished to live in this land of promise, 
 and after a few days there was not a vacant lodging 
 in the district. At Dumarchey's they were taking 
 boarders, and M. Quatrepomme, for 3000 francs, had 
 let to an invalid woman a brick-paved outhouse, very 
 poorly furnished, where he was in the habit of ripening 
 his pears and putting his potatoes to sprout. 
 
 It was just at that moment, at the height of the 
 excitement, that old Moucron, having caught cold in 
 the rain, came in shivering and took to his bed. His 
 son woiild willingly have let him die without an effort 
 to save him; but the news of the old man's illness 
 caused a sensation in the neighbourhood, and the 
 heir, spied on by everyone, was obliged to send for the 
 doctor. He caUed in Dr. Blum, whom he believed 
 to be the less capable of the two. 
 
 The young practitioner left the farm transfigured, 
 making no attempt to conceal his satisfaction. 
 
 "It's all up with him," he declared to the inquisi- 
 tive groups who were waiting for him outside. "The 
 left lung is completely choked. . . . Expectoration 
 very bad. . . . He won't last a week." 
 
 In an hour the whole of Barlincourt knew about it; 
 people were wrangling in the streets and the saint's 
 adherents were stricken with consternation. Dr. 
 Rouquette, when the information reached him, hurried 
 to the Moucron farm. 
 
 "Let me have a look at your father," he said to 
 young Moucron, who gave him but a cold welcome. 
 " He's an old comrade of mine ; I should like to pull 
 him through. You need not pay me anything, and I 
 will supply the medicines into the bargain."
 
 l64 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 He spent nearly a quarter of an hour sounding the 
 old man, made him count aloud and cough, felt his 
 pulse, took his temperature, looked at his gums, 
 examined his handkerchiefs; and without losing any 
 time he began to put leeches on his back and chest. 
 Under the glasses, they could be seen swelling, heavy 
 with black blood, and Father Rouquette, rubbing his 
 hands, said : 
 
 "That's the disease coming out. ..." 
 
 He wrote out a long prescription, after having looked 
 at the one his colleague had ordered, and taking great 
 care not to make use of a single one of his drugs; 
 then, by way of ingratiating himself with the son, whom 
 he knew to be greedy, he added a bottle of syrup. 
 
 As he came out, he was surrounded. 
 
 "Well," said he with a broad smile, "we shall pull 
 him through, old Moucron. ... A nice little in- 
 flammation of the lungs, that is nothing. ..." 
 
 And he added with a wink : 
 
 "Specially at Barlincourt, the place where no one 
 dies." 
 
 The partisans of the saint took heart again. 
 
 "He won't die!" declared the one group. 
 
 " He's done for ! " replied the other. 
 
 In the streets people stopped one another to ask for 
 news of the sick man. The statements of the two 
 doctors were canvassed : Blum's, to whom all the 
 symptoms were alarming, and Rouquette's, who with 
 determined optimism rejoiced equally when the 
 patient coughed more and when he coughed less. 
 Early in the morning boys ran to the farm. 
 
 "The shutters of his room are open," they cried, 
 hurrying back at full speed. 
 
 And thus people knew that old Moucron was still 
 alive. At the Dubourgs' house, they waited with 
 beating hearts. Mme. Dubourg was nervous, Gerard 
 more agitated than usual, and whenever the bell at 
 the gate rang, Yvonne grew quite pale. Saint Mag- 
 loire alone remained aloof from all the excitement.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 165 
 
 On several occasions, kno^^ing that the farmer was 
 ill, he had asked whether he was any better, but he 
 had never spoken at length about it. Whenever he 
 left the villa, urchins escorted him — at a distance — in 
 the hope of witnessing a miracle, but they never got 
 any reward for their pains. 
 
 The EvangeHst went out walking as he had done 
 in the past, with no special destination in view, way- 
 laying passers-by to talk to them. At first the 
 inhabitants allowed him to accost them with a sort of 
 emotional satisfaction, and listened to him respectfully; 
 but those whom he had already catechised several 
 times ended by avoiding him wheii they saw him 
 coming. Thus Etienne, the gardener, now fled to 
 the other end of the kitchen garden directly he caught 
 sight of the saint. 
 
 "You'd spend the whole day doing nothiiig, if you 
 let him talk," he grunted. 
 
 The Widow Pele, though she found the ideas and 
 the ways of the saint strange, had, more than anyone 
 else, pursued him with her attentions, believing per- 
 haps that the piety they had in common would bring 
 them closer together. She questioned him imperti- 
 nently about his past life, and gurgled with satisfaction 
 when she discovered that the Evangelist was less strict 
 in religious observances than she was herself. 
 
 Her son also harassed Magloire Dubourg, shaking 
 like a leaf at the mere thought that he was talking to 
 a saint. He was fascinated and thought of nothing 
 but becoming a missionary and getting chopped up 
 alive by savages. This simplicity of mind filled the 
 old man with pity. 
 
 "You must not sin through excess of virtue, my 
 boy," he said to him; "it is a want of humility to 
 covet virtues which everyone admires. Be satisfied 
 with being a good man." 
 
 The big simpleton listened, trembling in every limb, 
 not daring to look him in the face, for he was always 
 afraid of committing a sin unawares.
 
 i66 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 By the time he was five years old he was already 
 being threatened with hell-fire on every occasion, 
 with or without reason. Mme. Baptistine Pele was 
 too unctuous to beat her son, except on rare and pri- 
 vate occasions, but directly he was guilty of the 
 smallest peccadillo — a dish too quickly seasoned, an 
 errand badly done, a rent in his breeches, or even less 
 — she flew into a terrible passion that drained the 
 colour from her cheeks. 
 
 "Go away!" she would gasp in a stifled voice. 
 " Heartless boy ! . . . Accursed ! . . . Do you 
 want to send me to perdition? ... Go and ring 
 for Mass ! " 
 
 And Josephin would go and ring. 
 
 The reason why the widow gave him such an 
 order was that in the beginning these scenes used to 
 take place in the early morning. Josephin, being 
 lazy, was disinclined to get up, and his mother, to 
 punish him, used to send him to ring the bell for Mass 
 without giving him any breakfast. But as time went 
 on, the youth, stupefied by these continual scoldings, 
 always trembling, seeing sins on all sides, pulled about 
 and punished, had simply grown stupid. At school 
 he was no more of a dulfer than other boys, but no 
 sooner was he at home than fear of his mother robbed 
 hL*n of what little sense he had, and he could do 
 nothing right. 
 
 "Go and ring for Mass ! Go and ring !" 
 
 Soon the widow took to shouting it at all hours of 
 the day, and the terrified choir-boy would go and 
 ring without disputing the order, whether it came 
 in the middle of a meal or after the evening Angelus. 
 
 At first the neighbourhood had been astomided, 
 and Abb6 Choisy had protested against such abuse 
 of the bells ; but nothing could withstand the 
 devout widow, and, being annoyed at the inter- 
 vention, she had made Josephin ring all the 
 harder. In the end the parish grew accustomed 
 to it, and now when the bell was hea-d people
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 167 
 
 simply remarked that Josephin had committed 
 some new blunder. 
 
 When the meaning of these inappropriate peals was 
 explained to him, Saint Magloire had intervened with 
 his customary brusqueness, and this had been the 
 cause of the rupture between him and the widow. 
 
 Nowadays the latter contented herself with a half- 
 curtsey when she met him, and she had made the 
 ladies of the Society for a Holy Death read a pious 
 leaflet, the "Propagator of the three Ave Marias," in 
 which a Canon, who viTote over a signature of three 
 stars, condemned the transmigration of souls as the 
 worst kind of monstrosity. 
 
 Yvonne's uncle had been no more tactful with 
 Georges Aubernon than with the widow. The young 
 idler, who paid overmuch attention to his toilet, had 
 displeased him at once. 
 
 "Then, do you never do any work?" he had asked 
 him point-blank one afternoon. "You are wrong. 
 He has not earned his share of Heaven who does 
 not reach the end of the journey with weary 
 arms." 
 
 The young man had been vexed, the Dubourgs an- 
 noyed; but since they had grown used to the old man's 
 eccentricities, M. Georges had not deserted the villa 
 for such a trifle. Still, as he swayed backwards and 
 forwards in his rocking-chair, with his open shirt dis- 
 closing his sunburnt throat, pinching the tight-stretched 
 strings of his racket with the tips of his fingers, it made 
 him uncomfortable to feel the austere gaze of the saint 
 resting upon him. 
 
 Magloire Dubourg tackled him on several further 
 occasions. M. Georges led the same useless and com- 
 pUcated life as his friends — "The people of my set," 
 he used to say with a fluency that dazzled his mother 
 — and, like them, he considered that he held a superior 
 position in Society because he did nothing. He was 
 always in a hurry, the days were too short for all his 
 engagements, and he was to be met on all the roads,
 
 i68 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 at the wheel of his motor-car, dashing past the mile- 
 stones, skimming round the turnings, tooting im- 
 patiently at the level crossings; and Yvonne's heart 
 began to beat when she recognised the sound of his 
 horn in the distance. 
 
 "How can you be satisfied with such an existence?" 
 asked the saint in naive amazement. "Does it not 
 humiliate you to think that others are paying for your 
 luxuries, earning your bread for you ? " 
 
 These constant remarks ended by exasperating 
 Georges Aubemon, who did not dare to make any 
 reply; and his visits became less frequent. 
 
 "Frankly," said the novelist to his brother, "you 
 would do better to leave that boy alone. He may well 
 get some pleasure out of life, his father has slaved 
 hard enough." 
 
 This false reasoning had irritated the saint still 
 further. 
 
 "The son, in the eyes of God, cannot pay his father's 
 debts, but neither will he be able to pay with his 
 father's money." 
 
 At the first opportunity he had attacked the young 
 man with fresh reproaches, and aft^" that young 
 Aubernon, feeling humiliated, only showed himself at the 
 King's Domain in the company of his parents. The 
 latter, who suspected nothing, continued to pay every 
 courtesy to the saint ; they were verv proud to intro- 
 duce him to friends who came to Banincourt for that 
 special purpose, and but Icr this attraction very few 
 people would have called on them. 
 
 Since the illness of old Moucron, this curiosity had 
 increased still further, and every day people telephoned 
 from Paris to the manufacturers to ask for the latest 
 news. 
 
 The news, indeed, was not good. Young Moucron, 
 who did not want to waste such costly drugs, dosed his 
 father equally with the remedies of Dr. Blum or Dr. 
 Rouquette; and the old man, stuffed with iodine, 
 emetics, calomel and opium, only woke up from his
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 169 
 
 heaw sleep when a fit of coughing or an attack of 
 delirmm roused him. 
 
 Barhncourt followed the course of the sick man's 
 disease as though he hadpbeen a personage of impor- 
 tance; in his gasping breath the old fellow held the 
 whole popularity of the saint. 
 
 From time to time, as night was falling, the local 
 correspondent of the National or the Frangais might 
 be seen riding up on his bicycle to inquire at the 
 farm whether " it was over " ; but old Moucron, 
 hard and dry as an old vine, would not let himself 
 die. 
 
 The peasants, among themselves, talked of it in 
 ambiguous terms. 
 
 " Young Moucron must find it hard to keep still." 
 
 "If only the saint does not take a hand, he's bound 
 to get his six acres." 
 
 "And this time he won't have to beat the old man 
 to make him hand over his property." 
 
 Then they would all laugh, displaying their rustic 
 amusement, as rough as their own hands. 
 
 When old Moucron suddenly ceased to expectorate. 
 Dr. Blum foretold the end. 
 
 "Internal secretion," he told his patients as he went 
 his rounds. "It's very serious. That aU accumulates 
 in the bronchial tubes; the poor old chap wiU die of 
 suffocation. I shall begin to giwe him injections." 
 
 Dr. Rouquette also noticed that the patient was 
 coughing less and that he was no longer expectorating; 
 but as his general condition was no worse in other 
 respects, he felt no anxiety, or at least he showed none. 
 
 Next day, however, old Moucron was in a high fever 
 and shouting so loud that he could be heard from the 
 road. He wanted to get up, refused to take any food, 
 and in a whining voice jabbered meaningless phrases. 
 Dr. Rouquette, who was as obstinate as his own 
 peasants, was determined not to acknowledge that his 
 rival was in the right, and insisted that these 
 symptoms were a good sign rather than otherwise.
 
 170 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 "It is perfectly normal," he explained to the people 
 who had collected round his carriage. "It is a result 
 of peripneumonic fever; we call it s^Tnpathetic deli- 
 rium. Dr. Blum's professors may have changed the 
 name but they haven't changed the disease. . . . 
 Well, good-bye, my friends. . . ." 
 
 In reality, however, the doctor was afraid of a stroke. 
 He trusted far more to his old practitioner's instinct 
 than to his science; and when, as he entered the far- 
 mer's room, he had sniffed the odour of acetate and 
 pippins that he had so often smelt before, he made a 
 grimace, for he knew what to expect. 
 
 "It smells of death. He is done for." 
 
 One person alone might now save old Moucron : 
 Saint Magloire. The doctor did not hesitate, if neces- 
 sary he would have gone to fetch the Bishop, the Pope, 
 the Grand Lama, to save the old man's life and dis- 
 credit Dr. Blum. A moment later he was at the King's 
 Domain, and, not shrinking from a lie, he told the 
 saint that old Moucron was at the point of death and 
 was asking for him. 
 
 "Has he received the Sacraments?" asked the 
 Evangelist anxiously. 
 
 "No, he doesn't want to give himself up for lost, 
 you see. He hopes, we hope that if you would . . . 
 your presence. . . ." 
 
 Then, finding no way out, Dr. Rouquette finished 
 abruptly with : " In short, science hands him over to 
 
 you." 
 
 • ••••* 
 
 So long as there was daylight in his room, old 
 Moucron remained in a painless stupor. Between the 
 bouts of fever, his mind followed the quiet activity 
 of the road, the passing of carts, whose sheaves 
 brushed the walls of his house, the whistles of the 
 factory, the hurried trot of sheep, the rattle of 
 threshing-machines in the bam. The last familiar 
 sound was the return of the cattle, coming home from 
 the pastures. Then night came on and he began to
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 171 
 
 toss in his bed. Trembling, he entered the realm of 
 delirium. 
 
 Sick people know : death hides in shadowy corners. 
 Some watch for it, their eyes wide with fear; others, 
 more cowardly, keep their eyes closed, that they may 
 not see it coming. The fearful soul listens, and after 
 a moment it hears. . . . Not even a sound; a 
 silence that moves. A garment trailing, the floor 
 creaking; it must be coming out of its comer and 
 approaching the bed. . . . You can feel it there, 
 quite near. . . . The silent watcher blows his icy 
 breath over the dying man, who shrinks away, rfis 
 heart beats with great throbs, but he does not stir, 
 he does not call out, he checks by main force the 
 rattle in his throat, so as not to tempt it. He wants 
 to make Death believe that he is asleep. . . . 
 
 One more instant of terrified waiting, then he opens 
 his eyes, cautiously. He looks. . . . No, there is 
 nothing, but the darkness. The room is empty. All 
 at once, with nerves xmstnmg, the body relapses into 
 titter exhaustion; the stifled rattle once more seizes 
 the sick man by the throat, and the long nightmare 
 of the darkness begins. . . . 
 
 Old Moucron struggled till the last moment- With 
 anxious eyes he watched the daylight vanishing 
 through the window with its coarse net curtains. It 
 seemed as though hfe itself left him as light faded. 
 The fear of death caught hold of him at last. 
 
 "Anatole, a candle," he asked. 
 
 But the yoimg man, who knew that his father was 
 afraid in the darkness, brought nothing. The voice 
 pleaded with him : 
 
 "A candle, Anatole." 
 
 The other made no reply. In the living-room the 
 noise of the soup-spoon and the gvirgle of wine being 
 poured out could be heard. 
 
 The old farmer remembered that, on a by-gone day, 
 it had been his turn to eat in the living-room, while 
 his father moaned in this same bed. The shaft of a
 
 172 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 dray had crushed the old man's chest, and he had 
 struggled for more than a fortnight before he died. 
 Now, in his delirium, it was towards himself that the 
 dray rolled, and it was Anatole who was whipping up 
 the horses. He tried to escape, but he could not. 
 Then, suddenly, everything changed. Madame Pele, 
 wearing a cassock, took him to dance at Dumarchey's, 
 . . . The blood was pounding so hard in his temples 
 that he seemed to hear the bells. He thought : 
 
 "If I can only stop seeing the waggon I shall be 
 saved." 
 
 But it was useless, the dray always came back; it 
 broke right through the red wall of his nightmare, and 
 Saint Magloire did not dare to come near him because 
 he was afraid of the horses. 
 
 " CaU the saint, call the saint ! " he gasped 
 urgently, his throat rattling. 
 
 In the living-room, the son went on placidly with 
 his dinner 
 
 When the farmer, after his bout of fever, found 
 himself perspiring between his drenched sheets, he 
 gazed at the thread of light beneath the door, and that 
 calmed him. At such moments the thought of death 
 no longer alarmed him. He waited for it. . . . 
 
 Despondently, he let his thoughts wander. After all, 
 how quickly life has passed ! Youth is stiU so near, 
 it seems as though one could touch one's memories 
 just by stretching out a hand. When the first of 
 his comrades had been borne to the cemetery, the 
 men of his own age had come back in a troop, their 
 coats over their arms, telling stories of him who would 
 never return. Then, year by year, they had grown 
 fewer : no more than eight, no more than seven, no 
 more than six. . . . Perhaps it was his turn now. 
 . . . But then, why not Mathieu's? 
 
 A violent fit of coughing shook him. A murderous 
 knee crushed his chest, and he relapsed into deliriuin, 
 bis head on fire. 
 
 ' Anatole t Anatole I **
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 173 
 
 Young Moucron came at last. The old man did not 
 look at him; he no longer recognised an^^thing. With 
 his mouth drawn to one side, he lay at the point of 
 death. On his white tongue there was a curious spot 
 which puzzled Anatole. Leaning over the djdng man 
 he stretched out his big hand and tried to rub the spot 
 away, but it would not come off. 
 
 To save trouble, he had dressed his father in a clean 
 shirt, for, once dead, the body stiffens and is difficult 
 to move. The old man was scratching the sheet with 
 his earth-stained hands. 
 
 "He is going," the son observed calmly. "There 
 is nothing to do but wait." 
 
 He went back to the living-room to get everything 
 ready. He poured a little holy water into a saucer — 
 the old man always kept some in a bottle, to sprinkle 
 his farm with in case of a storm — took from behind 
 the calendar the piece of dried box which was changed 
 every year on Palm Sunda}^ then set about choosing 
 a sheet for the burial. He took them all out, one 
 after the other, but could not find what he wanted. 
 
 "That one's still good. . . , So's that, with a 
 patch. It's all pure linen." 
 
 On all fours, he rummaged to the bottom of the 
 cupboard, and the candle, set on the red-tiled floor, 
 threw its full light on his fiat face, covered with coarse 
 hair. At last he brought out some yellowed sheeting, 
 carefully folded, worn by washing and made out of 
 pieces. Having unfolded it, he measured it on his 
 arm. With a grimace he muttered : 
 
 "My word ! It will be rather a tight fit. . . ." 
 
 He was kneeling there, irresolute, when the dog in 
 the courtyard began to bark. He heard a step ap- 
 proaching, then a hand lifted the latch. Anatole, 
 grumbling, rose and drew back the bolt, wondering 
 who could be coming so late at night. 
 
 "What is it you want?" he cried as soon as he re- 
 cognised the visitor. 
 
 And all at once, uistinctively, he half pushed the 
 
 M
 
 174 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 door back, barring the opening with his outstretched 
 arm. It was the saint. 
 
 "My father's not well," the peasant went on, "he 
 mustn't be disturbed, the doctor said so." 
 
 The Evangelist took him by the wrist and lowered 
 his arm without effort. 
 
 "It was Dr. Rouquette who sent me," he said. "I 
 want to see your father." 
 
 And he passed in. His outline stood out, massive, 
 against the half-light of the little courtyard, like St. 
 Christopher the ferryman upon stained-glassed windows. 
 The peasant stepped aside and eyed him furtively. 
 
 "If you've come for the Extreme Unction," he 
 stammered, " there's no hurry. Father's nowhere 
 near dying, certainly not." 
 
 The wan light from outside groped along the walls, 
 touching a copper pan, the polished comer of an old 
 piece of furniture, the big calendar. In a dark corner, 
 a fragment of mirror dreamed, with dimmed glance. 
 Upstairs, in the garret, the pigeons could be heard 
 hopping about. And in the next room, the rattling 
 breath of the old man. 
 
 "You hear how soundly he's sleeping," said Anatole 
 in a lowered voice. 
 
 Shuffling along in the clogs, he went towards the 
 room, to shut the door. 
 
 "Let it be," said Saint Magloire imperiously. 
 
 Moucron dared not refuse, but, standing between 
 his table and the open chest, he barred the way. His 
 violently beating heart nearly jumped out of his breast. 
 
 "The doctor has given orders that he is not to be 
 tired," he grumbled. "I've just given him his 
 draught. ... He must be left to sleep." 
 
 The Evangelist, without replying, took up the candle 
 and carne forward. The farmer clenched his fists, his 
 head bent low full of obstinacy. 
 
 "What d'you want, any way?" he asked furiously, 
 in a choking voice. "This is no time to come and see 
 sick people ! "
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 175 
 
 And, stepping backward a couple of paces, he 
 abruptly pulled the door to. Magloire Ehibonrg, 
 holding the candle aloft, said simply : 
 
 "You are afraid, eh?" 
 
 Anatole remained with his head lowered, to escape 
 from the saint's glance. An ox at rest. 
 
 "I don't know what you mean, but you've only 
 got to call again; to-morrow there will be daylight." 
 
 The old man watched him without repl^ong, and 
 his sUence alarmed the peasant, who held his peace, 
 his thoughts in confusion. 
 
 Through the open door the great silence of the fields 
 seemed to enter, haunted with furtive noises, the rust- 
 ling of trees and the distant barking of dogs. 
 
 "Do you hear?" asked the saint, his face close to 
 Anatole's. 
 
 No, he could hear nothing. The pigeons, a rattling 
 breath, furniture creaking. 
 
 "Your house that is watching you, all the things 
 that are spying on you, don't you hear them? The 
 old furniture that witnessed your birth, the clock 
 where your father notched your height as you grew 
 bigger. . . . Your turn will come too, to die in 
 the old house. . . . Listen, it will creak as it is 
 doing to-night. ..." 
 
 Yoimg Moucron shook hmiself, blazing up into a 
 passion. 
 
 "I am not accountable to anyone," he said, raising 
 his head, "and I tell you once for all you have no 
 business here." 
 
 For a moment both were silent. The breathing of 
 the old man filled the dark house, and the dog, in the 
 courtyard, began to howl. 
 
 "Come, let me pass," the saint commanded. 
 
 This time the young man burst out : 
 
 "What," he said in a hoarse voice, "you want to 
 cure him? Well, that's the doctor's business, not 
 yours. I tell you, you shall not go in." 
 "I shaU go in."
 
 176 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 And Magloire Dubourg pushed him back. Then 
 Anatole suddenly seized his cudgel and planted him- 
 self in a threatening attitude in front of the door. 
 
 "I'm in my own house and you shall not go any 
 farther," he shouted. "What right have you to come 
 and worry the old man ? " 
 
 The saint, without replying, took him by the arm 
 and, sturdy though he was, the peasant felt himself 
 slipping down agamst the closed door, all his strength 
 gone. 
 
 "You have no right," he said in a whining voice; 
 "I'll complain to the police, I'll say you assaulted 
 me. 
 
 Magloire Dubourg was already in the bedroom. He 
 had set down the candle on the bed-table, and had 
 taken the icy hand of the dying man between his own. 
 Over his shoulder the son watched him anxiously 
 with rancorous eyes, sawing the air with his helpless 
 hands. 
 
 "He's going to heal him," he thought in desperation. 
 
 But the rattling breath continued, and the left hand 
 of the sick man went on stroking the sheet in a dying 
 caress. At last the saint stood erect again, and in 
 spite of himself Anatole heaved a sigh. 
 
 On the damp forehead, which was already cold, 
 Magloire Dubourg traced the sign of the Cross, then 
 he went back into the living-room, leaving the candle 
 near the bed. Young Moucron shut the door of the 
 lighted room without thinking, and they found them- 
 selves suddenly in darkness. 
 
 Anatole at once drew back terror-stricken. Before 
 him, on a level with his face, two eyes gleamed, two 
 terrible, phantom eyes. . . . He flung up his arm 
 to protect himself, like a boy. Then, terrified by the 
 movement, the cat, which was perched on the cup- 
 board, jumped down, fell on the chair, and fled. They 
 had been her eyes. 
 
 The young man was still trembling on his bandy 
 legs. But by degrees the beating of his agitated heart
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 177 
 
 calmed down. Very softly, in the low voice of the 
 confessional, the saint said : 
 
 "WTiy should I have prolonged his span of life? 
 Tell me that. To expose him to your hatred? To 
 make him suffer longer ? " 
 
 Moucron listened with indifference to his words. 
 He was no longer afraid. He stood there with his 
 hands in his pockets, swaying to and fro. 
 
 "All the same, you've got a wrong idea of things," 
 he said. "We got on all right together, the old man 
 and I." 
 
 On the threshold the Evangelist turned round for the 
 last time : 
 
 " You are a parricide at heart ! ... In another 
 life the black veil will dim your eyes, and it 
 will be sorrow itself that will cut your throat. 
 Farewell ! " 
 
 He went away in the direction of the Presbytery, 
 and for a moment Moucron looked at his dog, which 
 was sitting in the middle of the courtyard, howling at 
 Death. 
 
 "I wonder if it is over?" he said. 
 
 He went back into the room. The death-rattle had 
 
 ceased. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 Mme. Baptistine Pele was hastening along the Rue 
 de Verdun; under her arm she carried something long, 
 wrapped in a newspaper. Tradesmen opening their 
 shops looked at her, amazed. 
 
 "There you are! Baptistine is taking the funeral 
 taper to Moucron. ..." 
 
 As soon as it woke up, Barlincourt heard of the 
 news : old Moucron had passed away. The people of 
 the neighbourhood were so used to seeing the widow 
 hurrying to every death-bed, with an artificial air of 
 consternation and her long stick of wax under her 
 arm, that instead of saying that a sick man was grow- 
 ing worse it had become the custom to announce : 
 
 "Baptistine will soon be taking him her taper."
 
 178 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 She scented corpses with the instinct of a vulture, 
 and in some unknown way she always managed to be 
 the first to hear when anyone was dead or dying. 
 Weeks had passed since she had been seen with her 
 taper, and when people caught sight of her on that 
 morning there was a general feeling of depression. 
 Death had been stronger than the saint. 
 
 The pious widow pursued her way indifferently, 
 rather pleased than otherwise at the defeat of the 
 Evangelist. Besides, she looked on births and deaths 
 with the same dry eye, and derived all her joy from 
 celestial calculations. Near the post office she en- 
 countered M. Quatrepomme's tenant, who was coming 
 back from six o'clock Mass. The invalid was walking 
 with the aid of a stick, having acquired new pains in 
 the damp store-house which the Mayor had rented 
 to her as a summer residence. 
 
 "Where are you off to, dear lady?" 
 
 "To say the prayers for the dead at old Moucron's," 
 whispered the widow. 
 
 Tho other woman tottered and turned pale. 
 
 "What, is he dead?" 
 
 She felt as though her heart had suddenly grown 
 heavier and would cease to beat, then she would fall 
 down there on the spot and never rise again. 
 
 "But what about the saint? . . . The miracles ? " 
 she stammered. 
 
 Mme. Pele smiled maliciously. 
 
 "The samt, the saint," she said in a strange tone. 
 "To begin with, he is not a saint. No one can be a 
 saint in his life-time. It cannot be done. ..." 
 
 "But what about us sick people?" moaned the 
 invalid. 
 
 "In your place," the widow advised her, "I should 
 go to Lourdes. At least that is weU-established, there 
 are proofs, the Holy Father has recognised the 
 miracles. Whereas this Magloire ... To tell you 
 the truth, I have always mistrusted him. . . . Think 
 of it, a man whose brother writes abominable stories
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 179 
 
 in irreligious papers. And besides, he's really a 
 heretic, it's quite possible he may be excommunicated 
 some day. ..." 
 
 The invalid listened to her railing in silence, her 
 back bowed, her eyes dulled. 
 
 "Come, you must pull yourself together," Mme. 
 Pele said to her. "Look here, come with me and 
 say the prayers for old Moucron." 
 
 They trotted along together, and, with tapping 
 stick and black gowns and the long covered taper, 
 they looked like two wicked fairies in search of some 
 evil prank. 
 
 The farmers going down to the fields mid the ringing 
 of their iron harrows, the housewives chattering round 
 the pump, the workmen from Aubernon's as they 
 walked by in batches, aU gathered to discuss the bad 
 news; and the tolling of the death-bell made a deep 
 impression on them. Old Moucron, in breathing his 
 last, had put them all back into the hands of Destiny; 
 at one blow the inhabitants of Barlincourt would lose 
 all their prestige. It was the end of a beautiful 
 dream. . . . 
 
 No one thought of the old farmer, whose liberated 
 spirit still hovered in the blue smoke of the houses, 
 unable to detach itself so soon from the old familiar 
 roofs. What interested them was their own fate, 
 their return to the inevitable law. Some of the old 
 men, frowning, reckoned that they already had more 
 friends among the dead than among the living. 
 The younger ones, care-free, wrangled in the farm- 
 yards. 
 
 Only Sairt Magloire thought about the dead man, 
 as he let the big beads of the rosary slip through his 
 fingers. He seemed to be following him on that 
 supreme journey. . . . 
 
 The old man, forgotten, roamed sadly through the 
 streets, glueing his invisible countenance to the 
 windows of the farms. The beasts scented him, the 
 dogs whining in their kennels, scattered partridges
 
 i8o SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 calling one another in the stubble. ... It may 
 be that he was waiting for a regret, a single tear, 
 before going on his way. ... It is so hard to go 
 away for good, to leave the little acre which has held 
 one's happiness. . . . 
 
 He was alone already, in the vast unknown of the 
 world, and without a thought to hold him, with no 
 faithful heart to shelter him, he felt himself disappear- 
 ing, evaporating, like the mist of a pool. To be 
 nothing more, not even a memory. . , . 
 
 There can be no resistance. . . . The soul melts 
 in the light. It takes flight with the wind. ... A 
 rustling in the lime-trees, a slamming door, a weather- 
 vane creaking. Then, nothing more. . . . High 
 up in the bright sky, where swallows tie and untie the 
 slender black ribbon of their flight. . . . 
 
 The tale goes that it was a baker in Barlincourt, 
 on the day of the funeral, who hissed for the first time 
 as he passed in front of the King's Domain. The 
 crowd was at once electrified. They began to shout, 
 some for, some against, and the procession entered 
 the cemetery in confusion. A few old peasants and 
 women in mourning alone remained round the grave 
 to listen to the prayers, while the rest of the mourners 
 quarrelled in the pathways of the cemetery. M. 
 Quatrepomme, seeing that things were going badly, 
 made himself scarce before the end, and hastened 
 home, ready to go up and hide himself in the gaiTet 
 in case he should be needed. 
 
 In front of the villa, people were squabbling, 
 always egged on by the baker. 
 
 "If he had had any heart, he would have come 
 to the funeral, this wonderful saint," cried the fanatic. 
 "Was it not the proper thing for him to do, after he 
 had let the poor old chap die?" 
 
 Soon there were more than fifty of them, mostly 
 farmer lads, with a few shopkeepers, vociferating at 
 the gate; and when Milot passed by with Abb6 Choisy,
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE i8i 
 
 irreverently swinging the funeral holy-water vessel, 
 he gave them a sly grin of encouragement intended 
 to mean : "Go ahead ! " 
 
 However, they soon grew tired. And besides, 
 although they would not admit it, they were afraid 
 the saint might recognise them, and the demonstration 
 ended at the public-house. 
 
 When the Aubernon workmen, as they came out of 
 the factory, heard what had happened, they collected 
 together and started a fresh disturbance; but this 
 time they cheered the saint. By way of a beginning, 
 the demonstrators had smashed in the windows ol 
 Begin the baker, the worst reactionary in the district; 
 then, forming up in marching order, they went and 
 shouted outside the windows of the Mayor, who was 
 nowhere to be found, and they were wending their 
 way tumultuously towards the dwelling of M. Auber- 
 non, pompously known as the chateau, on account of 
 a wretched little turret that adorned it, when Saint 
 Magloire joined them. 
 
 He made a speech to them and, not without 
 difficulty, persuaded them to go home, putting him- 
 self at the head of the column. 
 
 They almost all lived in the Workmen's Dwellings, 
 known as the Cite, on the outskirts of Barlincourt. 
 Sixty small brick houses stood there in rows, with 
 grey gardens, all alike, in which sunflowers bloomed. 
 These barracks, which had cost M. Aubernon a good 
 deal of money, had earned him the reputation of a 
 philanthropist, at any rate outside his factory. He 
 let the houses at a moderate rent, but only by the 
 week; so that a workman who was dismissed on a 
 Saturday had to turn out of workshop and home 
 alike at the same time. 
 
 "In this way," said the manufacturer, "I keep them 
 in hand." 
 
 There was not a gentleman in Barlincourt who would 
 have ventured into the Cite, even in broad daylight. 
 The continual disputes, which could be heard from
 
 i82 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 the high road, the endless stories of fights there, had 
 created a legend that represented the Aubernon 
 Dwellings as a sort of anarchists' lair, and by way of 
 keeping up this reputation, a band of urchins, clad 
 in frocks, used to play all day in front of the barrier, 
 besmeared and dirty, hurling insults at well-dressed 
 children, and practising, throwing stones at them. 
 
 This was the fust time Saint Magloire had been 
 inside the place. 
 
 He spoke first on the site of a house that was in 
 course of construction, with the whole multitude 
 around him; then, when the dinner-hour came, he 
 told them to disperse, and he went from house to 
 house, preaching with the utmost simplicity under 
 each roof. These poor people found nothing to say 
 to him in welcome, they were too much moved. It 
 troubled them to see this celebrated man sitting down 
 familiarly imder their lamp and talking for them alone. 
 With beating hearts, they listened to him. Outside, 
 all along the hedge, the others were eagerly trying to 
 hear. 
 
 "Why do they reproach me with not having pro- 
 longed that poor man's life?" asked the Evangelist. 
 "He who would perform such a miracle as that would 
 be a monster, he would be Antichrist. , . . Would 
 it be fair, I ask you, that to the end of Time the 
 rich man, made immortal, should enjoy the same 
 happiness, while the poor man remained always 
 chained to his misery? On the contrary. Death should 
 be blessed, it is the revenge of the humble, it is the 
 justice of God passing by. ..." 
 
 The women turned transfigured faces towards him. 
 Eyes glistened with tears. The saint went up to a 
 workman who wore a crape band round his sleeve and 
 took his hands : 
 
 "Don't weep," he said, "Have courage. . . . 
 She is not yet dead, since she survives in you. 
 Throughout the centuries those who have loved seek 
 each other unconsciously in the world, and one day
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE i8 
 
 ■J 
 
 they meet again. So be kind to everyone. . . . 
 Tell yourselves that there is a soul hidden in the body 
 of your neighbour, and that perhaps some time in the 
 past that soul has suffered for you. ..." 
 
 A militant, who was gnawing the stiff hairs of his 
 moustache as he listened, was the only one who dared 
 to interrupt him. These promises of a distant reward 
 did not satisfy him. 
 
 "Since God has put us here on earth," he asked 
 bitterly, "why does He not establish justice?" 
 
 Magloire Dubourg looked at him without anger. 
 
 "And do you think God ought to take the trouble 
 to distribute to each man his ration of happiness, like 
 you divide the fodder among cattle?" he answered. 
 "Do the bees need you to build their hives and 
 direct their buzzing realm; or the swallows to build 
 their nests, or the ants their subterranean palaces? 
 What would you say if you were to give to some 
 people a castle containing all the treasures of the 
 earth, and if long afterwards the house were still in 
 disorder, with men fighting in it, some lying gorged 
 in the drawing rooms, while others were starving in 
 the attics? Well, God is the Giver, and He sees you 
 cutting each other's throats in His house. ..." 
 
 The workmen listened, fascinated. Open-eyed, they 
 entered into his dream. 
 
 "Then," said an old woman whose hands were 
 trembhng, "we shall see our dead again, I shall find 
 my boys?" 
 
 "You will find them!" promised the Evangelist 
 emphatically. " I vouch for it : death is nothing. 
 . . . What, must everj'thing come to an end just 
 because an outworn heart ceases to beat, because a 
 breast no longer rises and falls? Must the soul, in- 
 tangible, yet present, which we feel within us, fade 
 into nothingness like our flesh ? No, the Divine essence 
 survives. Nothing dies, even when the shovelful of 
 earth has dropped on the cofhn, which gives back a 
 sound of emptiness. The soul does not perish : it
 
 i84 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 leaves its husk like a nomad his shelter, and goes on 
 to taste of perfect rest in the spiritual kingdom. 
 Heaven, radiant abode, beatitude of beatitudes, con- 
 solation for all sorrows ! In the kingdom of the elect 
 you will not find all the powerful of this life, the rich, 
 the cruel masters, the tormentors of the world. They, 
 humble and despairing, must remain in the mists of 
 lower regions, whence they look with envy on those 
 who have lived righteously and who at last enjoy 
 their reward. 
 
 It is up there that the soul is moulded, summing 
 up its good deeds and its sins; for it rises above 
 Time and looks back, as from a mountain-top, on 
 all the road it has traversed, all its former lives. 
 Then there is gnashing of teeth, albeit without fire or 
 torment, at the vision of the blessed heights to which 
 the righteous have attained. The soul vows pas- 
 sionately to sacrifice everything henceforth for the 
 sake of rising one step nearer God, and it is the 
 obscure recollection of such pledges that guides us 
 here on earth. When, in the presence of evil, a faint 
 voice says "Do not do it !" do you believe that it is 
 conscience; conscience is but a vain word : it is your 
 eternal soul that speaks to you, that implores you, 
 for it alone remembers the anguish it has endured 
 on high." 
 
 At this moment the old man, breaking off, gazed 
 at them all with his compelling eyes. Then with a 
 sweeping gesture he drew them, panting, closer to 
 him. 
 
 "Listen to me. In the cemetery of FavreuUes, 
 near here, you know the tomb of the Marquise. 
 More than a hundred years ago, she was buried there 
 by her own desire, with all her jewels, all her precious 
 stones, a useless fortune grown grey and tarnished 
 on her old bones. Well, I saw a poor woman sitting 
 dreaming on that tombstone, pulling up with her 
 worn fingers the grass that grew between the flags. 
 Listen to me ! What if that were the Marquise come
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 185 
 
 back to her tomb? Yes, was it indeed not she? Her 
 reincarnated soul draws her blindly thither, like mi- 
 grant birds that cross the seas as soon as their wings 
 will bear them, without knowing why. She is hungry, 
 bowed down with misery, she drags herself along the 
 roads dreaming of a hospital where she may rest; 
 and there, close by, under the very stone that she is 
 scratching, lies her fortune : happiness that she has 
 buried, bread, raiment, a warm house, all that she 
 stole from herself when she stole it from others, fool 
 that she was. . . . Well, understand me : we are 
 like the mistress of Favreulles. When we are happy 
 in one life we want to bury happiness with us." 
 
 The workmen listened to him, feverishly, with 
 growing exaltation. A new world was opening out 
 before them. One of them, overcome, murmured : 
 
 "Ah, if only we had the power for just one mo- 
 ment, then, by God ! everything would be changed !" 
 
 This oath shocked them all. 
 
 "Take care," whispered his wife, "the saint will 
 hear you." 
 
 But the old man, full of joy at feeling the hearts 
 of these disciples awakening, noticed nothing. He 
 went away, and those who had been listening to him 
 followed him in a fervent procession. Mathieu, the 
 workman, half-drunk as usual, wept without ceasing. 
 
 "Well, since we've got to die, I don't mind," he 
 stuttered. "I may have better luck next time." 
 
 And he distributed farewell handshakes around 
 him, saying with an air of bravado : 
 
 "Good-bye my friends." 
 
 The saint halted as he was passing a little garden. 
 He plucked a velvety jasmine leaf, and rubbing it 
 between his brown fingers, inhaled its fragrance. 
 
 "Smell this," he said to the militant workman who 
 had interrupted him, and he handed him the soft 
 perfumed leaf. "You who do not believe in God, 
 don't you see in this a proof of His existence? As 
 for me, everything I see around me cries out to me
 
 i86 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 that God exists. Smell this fresh scent that clings 
 to one's fingers. What was needed to bring it to 
 life? A fragile seed carried by the wind. The seed 
 falls, and you have this blossoming of perfume and 
 colour. Think what men would have needed to make 
 this penetrating odour and this vivid green, picture 
 to yourself the factories full of complicated machinery, 
 the chemists, the workmen, the pjTamids of coal : 
 and the perfume would have been less sweet, the 
 colour less bright. Well, all that great factory, all 
 that science, God puts them all into a seed that is 
 borne on the wing of a bird. . . ." 
 
 He spoke, and in the faUing dust the bare-armed 
 disciples listened, entranced. There was joy in the 
 air. Happy wives nestled against their husbands, 
 slipping their little cold hands into the big rough 
 ones; mothers, enraptured, held their children close 
 to them, and in every heart fantastic hopes were bom.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 ABEt Choisy experienced the most beautiful emotion 
 of his life on the first Sunday when he saw his usually 
 empty church filled to the paupers' bench for High 
 Mass, and recognised at the foot of the pulpit the 
 most desperate characters of the Aubernon Cite. Here 
 were those who generally greeted him with derisive 
 cries, and even Mathieu the workman, who declared 
 that babies ought to be baptized with red wine. At 
 the end of the service the Abbe quickly removed his 
 chasuble and, hastening back to the chapel, embraced 
 Magloire Dubourg in the presence of the whole con- 
 gregation. 
 
 "You have converted them," he stammered. "It is 
 you who have brought all these lost sheep back to God. 
 People may say what they like, you are a saint." 
 
 He had immediately forgotten all his doubts and 
 the feelings of mistrust which besieged him whenever 
 he read certain papers that Mme. Pele brought to 
 him. He was proud that he had resisted and that 
 he had not wavered in his faith in the Evangelist. 
 But his enthusiasm did not last. 
 
 These new converts, who were looked at askance 
 by the regular worshippers, were filled with a peculiar 
 and unconventional faith. From the following Satur- 
 day onward he had to deal with penitents at confession 
 who did not even know The Lord's Prayer, though 
 they were able to carry on impossible discussions on 
 points of doctrine. They carped at everything, made 
 reservations with regard to the Ten Commandments, 
 and refused without hesitation to believe in Purgatory, 
 Needless to say, they all admitted the transmigration 
 of souls as an essential principle, a heresy which ap- 
 palled the cur6; and tliey spoke with such eloquence 
 
 187
 
 i88 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 and conviction, weeping and beating their breasts 
 that Abbe Choisy, stunned, deafened, bewildered, 
 felt himself unable to cope with them and preferred 
 to grant them absolution at once and so get rid of 
 them. 
 
 The parishioners who were waiting their turn and 
 praying in the shadow of the side aisles, listened in 
 horror to these lamentations and outbursts, and won- 
 dered with a shudder what unpunished crimes could 
 give rise to such confessions. 
 
 One morning, in the middle of the service, a scanda- 
 lous scene occurred. A woman — a factory hand — 
 who knelt sobbing on her prie-dieu, suddenly rose 
 and, turning towards the congregation, began con- 
 fessing her sins aloud, like the Christians of old. Her 
 neighbours in dismay endeavoured to make her sit 
 down, but she roughly pushed them aside and went 
 on with renewed ardour, proclaiming her faults with 
 abhorrence. Finally, to make her stop, Milot had to 
 lead her outside, which was much better for her own 
 sake, for her husband's, and for that of various other 
 people in the parish. This incident made the worst 
 possible impression on the regular worshippers, people 
 of staunch faith; and Baptistine Pele, with fresh 
 audacity, undertook a stealthy compaign against the 
 disciples of the saint. 
 
 She did not dare to side openly against the Evan- 
 gelist, but her aim was to drive away from "iier" 
 church all these rowdy converts, who seemed to feel 
 quite at home in it and did not recognise her authority. 
 As she knew Mass by heart, she rose, sat down, and 
 knelt before anybody else, even forestalling the re- 
 sponses; and like an old hen, her cruel eye scanned 
 the submissive herd of those who followed her example 
 without trying to understand, and crossed themselves 
 indiscriminately as soon as she gave the signal. She 
 sang all the hymns and canticles at the top of her voice, 
 trying to shame the new-comers by pretending never 
 to look at the book; and when the consecrated bread
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE i8g 
 
 was being distributed she kept her ej^es on the basket, 
 as though she beheved that all of them were capable 
 of trying to lay in supplies from it. She sought every 
 means of mortifvdng the converts from the Cite; and 
 she set about it so adroitly, with hj'pocritical smiles 
 and an air of trying to do a ser\dce, that it 
 was impossible to find a pretext for being angry 
 with her. 
 
 Fortunately, if the parents dared not protest, the 
 youngsters were bolder; and whenever they met the 
 widow at dusk after catechism, they escorted her 
 home and shouted horrid innuendoes at her. 
 
 These young rascals, who had only been going to 
 church since the conversion of the Cite, were recruits 
 of little value. They only served to create disorder. 
 They were jealous of the sons of the country-folk and 
 tradespeople, and revenged themselves by repeating 
 to them that they were just as good as they were, 
 and that their turn would come next time to have 
 fathers rolling in money. When the weU-dressed ones 
 sneered, they kicked them fiercely under the benches 
 and stole the pictures out of their prayer-books. 
 
 It was Yvonne Dubourg who, to please her uncle, 
 coached all these urchins in the catechism. She was 
 the only person who could keep them in order. They 
 all knew her, having often seen her at the Dispensary 
 in the Cite, where she helped Mme. Aubemon; it was 
 she who dressed their aching little hands, which were 
 covered with those sores from which only the children 
 of the very poor suffer. As she spoke gently to them, 
 making the smaller ones laugh and flattering the 
 elders, they were on their best behaviour with her. 
 Sometimes, however, she did not come, and Josephin 
 Pele looked after them; and then catechism turned 
 into pandemonium. Feeling that this big trembling 
 simpleton was at their mercy, old pupils and new 
 leagued themselves maliciously against him; they 
 shoved each other, squalled, gave idiotic answers to 
 make the others laugh, and, from hiding places, threw 
 
 N
 
 I90 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 moth-worms at his back, incited thereto by the one- 
 legged sacristan, who exulted in the discomfiture of 
 Josephin. 
 
 At last Abbe Choisy grew unhappy at this continual 
 agitation, and began secretly to regret his deserted 
 church of by-gone days, with the thinly-scattered flock 
 which had been so easy to lead. It was not to him 
 that all these fanatics came : it was not even to God; 
 it was the saint who drew them. Urged on by the 
 Widow Pele, he at last decided to inform the Bishop of 
 all these incidents and to ask for guidance; but the 
 Vicar-General, who received him, only exhorted him 
 to be patient and gave him no instructions. The 
 Church, to avoid a scandal, preferred for the moment 
 to ignore the doings of Magloire Dubourg. 
 
 The Evangelist often called his disciples together. 
 The meetings took place either in the Cite, after 
 supper, at the hour when the houses dream in the 
 fading day and the lights come slowly out, or else in 
 the dusky fields on the borders of the Bois Noisette. 
 The couples stretched on the grass or seated along 
 the hedges kept their eyes fixed on Magloire's face : 
 he spoke, and aU the converging glances, like taut 
 strings, seemed to draw new vitality from him. At 
 first they listened attentively, trying to understand 
 ever}^thing; but little by little their attention wan- 
 dered, as though blunted; the meaning of the words 
 no longer reached them. It was as if the Voice be- 
 witched them. They were bewildered and could only 
 catch hold of a word here and there : happiness . . . 
 grace . . . goodness . . . , which their eyes 
 seemed to gather from the lips of the saint; and in- 
 coherently their dreams floated round his sayings. 
 A mysterious power emanated from the old man's 
 ecstasy, and in the night its boundaries stretched as 
 far as his voice could carry; when he feU silent his 
 audience remembered nothing, and only felt within 
 themselves a mighty desire for love and atonement. 
 
 Often, too, the saint explained the Gospel to small
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 191 
 
 groups at a time, in the houses; and if on the following 
 Sunday the same passage happened to be commented 
 on from the pulpit, the poor Abbe would see his 
 parishioners staring at him with contemptuous grim- 
 aces, which clearly meant " Pooh, pooh ! not brilliant ! " 
 
 In proportion as the saint's popularity grew in the 
 Cite, it diminished in the rest of the countryside. 
 Everything he did — and he did nothing but good — 
 exasperated the majority of the inhabitants, specially 
 the big farmers, the shopkeepers and the pensioned 
 employees. All these good people preferred an order 
 of things based on the poverty of others to all the 
 happiness which might arise out of an upheaval. 
 When Saint Magloire asked the Town CouncU to place 
 the parish meadow, which yielded no income, at the 
 disposal of tramps, so that the best of them could 
 settle down, his request called forth general condem- 
 nation. The peasants were convinced that they would 
 be robbed — "as if we hadn't enough to put up with, 
 with these dirty factory folk ! " — and the day-labourers 
 complained that the object of the scheme was to 
 take the bread out of their mouths. Later, the old 
 man suggested to the cure, whom the proposal left 
 speechless, that all the children should be dressed in 
 cassocks for their first Communion, so that rich and 
 poor might look alike at God's Table; and the Widow 
 Pele went about telling every one in Barlincourt that 
 "Magloire Dubourg was surely jealous of the honour 
 rendered to the Lord." 
 
 Even the very words of the Nazarene in Saint Mag- 
 loire's mouth scared the most pious among them like 
 a call to riot; and when the Evangelist in the course 
 of a harangue flung out Christ's terrible warning, "I 
 am not come to bring peace upon the earth but a 
 sword," people timidly repeated the threat to each 
 other, wondering whether the gendarmes were not at 
 last going to interfere. Sometimes the EvangeUst 
 took upon himself to act as Justice of the Peace, and 
 settled quarrels without even waiting to be asked.
 
 192 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 He entered the wine-shops on Saturdays and made 
 the men go home, which led to a formal complaint 
 being lodged by a publican. Finally he called one 
 day on a rich peasant who was intending to evict one 
 of his tenants and spoke to him so sternly that the 
 other fell to the floor in a fit. 
 
 By this time people in Barlincourt were afraid of the 
 saint and his band of disciples. Though the women 
 in the Cite now sang hymns instead of popular songs, 
 no one dared to venture there after dark. Nothing 
 was more startling at night than to hear the invisible 
 murmur of the praying crowd drawing near on the 
 dark road, on its way back from the meetings. People 
 gave them a wide berth, and the dogs in the yards 
 started howling. 
 
 M. Ouatrepomme, more prudent than ever, took 
 good care not to intervene publicly, but, without say- 
 ing anything, he despatched complaint after complaint 
 to the Prefecture. The Aubernons also, although they 
 were on good terms with the Dubourgs, were beginning 
 to feel anxious. The manufacturer found that his 
 men were changed, and "ready to play dirty tricks." 
 His wife confined herself to duty calls on her neigh- 
 bours, and only paid these to please their Paris friends, 
 who always asked to be taken to the King's Domain. 
 M. Georges, who had been cut to the quick by the 
 rebuffs he had received from the saint, only came on 
 Sundays when his mother's guests made their pilgrimage. 
 
 Yvonne waited for these afternoons with feverish 
 impatience, and after lunch was finished she found it 
 difficult to sit still. She ran out to meet all the 
 visitors, so that she could do the same thing when the 
 Aubernons arrived and talk for a moment to Georges, 
 walk at his side, hear his voice speaking for her alone. 
 
 "You never come now," she reproached him softly, 
 with averted eyes. 
 
 "Is it my fault?" he retorted touchily. "Your 
 uncle pulls such a face at me. ... It annoys me 
 every bit as much as it does you, I assure you."
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 193 
 
 These few insignificant phrases, which they ex- 
 changed without her daring to look at him, 
 represented to her the happiness of a whole week. 
 On other days, when she went to the Dispensary, or to 
 the station, she walked slowly and would go far out 
 of her way in the hope of meeting the young man. 
 She always contrived to go out at the time when he 
 was returning from tennis, and as soon as she caught 
 sight of him, bareheaded, in the midst of his friends, 
 she would feel herself blushing and would turn quickly 
 into the first side-street; or else she would pass by, 
 almost running, giving him a little scared nod with- 
 out raising her eyes. She had sometimes been walking 
 for an hour just for that greeting. 
 
 The peasants, whose sharp eyes discern all that one 
 is anxious to hide, had quickly seen through this 
 manoeuvre. 
 
 "She is running after him, the saint's niece," they 
 said jokingly. "The cure will hear some fine tales 
 one Saturday." 
 
 The child recalled with a bitter delight the beautiful 
 summer afternoons they used to spend together before 
 the saint's arrival. She remembered their games, 
 the cosy hours they had spent in the drawing-room 
 where, leaning over her, he turned the pages of 
 Schumann's melodies; their wild races through the 
 Park, from which she returned with her fai"- hair 
 clinging to her forehead, and sometimes their hands 
 interlacing as they tied up a bunch of flowers. 
 
 In the morning, as Georges often went to their 
 friends at the Chataigneraie, she would watch for him 
 at the railings, and would speak to him from between 
 the ivy which she had pulled aside. She had prepared 
 reproaches with which to overwhelm him; but her 
 black eyes, soft and timid, hidden in the foliage like 
 a squirrel's, seemed to be giving the lie to all she said. 
 M. Georges took fire at this tender game. Now that 
 they only met in secret his feelings were quite different 
 from what they had been before. The bars which
 
 194 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 separated them made him long to clasp her in his 
 arms. Across the railing he took hold of her hands, 
 then of her slender arms, and covered them with 
 hurried kisses, while with head thrown back and closed 
 eyelids she timorously withheld her mouth. 
 
 "Come with me to the Chataigneraie," he said to her, 
 his breath burning her cheek. "We will say that we 
 met by chance." 
 
 She refused, shamefaced. 
 
 "Oh, no, I should never dare!" 
 
 "Then," he insisted, "come this afternoon to the 
 Bois Noisette. I'll be there at four o'clock." 
 
 She still refused, her legs weakening under her, her 
 hands limp. She dreaded these rendezvous which 
 at one time she would have accepted with no thought 
 of evil. 
 
 "WeU, then, good-bye," the young man said curtly. 
 
 And, nibbling a very bitter ivy leaf which he had 
 plucked, he went off, with his springy step, while she, 
 leaning her forehead against the bars, with two heavy 
 drops of sorrow in her eyes, watched him disappearing. 
 
 She was so unhappy that she ended by giving in; 
 one day she joined the young man in the Bois 
 Noisette. She went again a few days later, and soon 
 it became a regular practice. 
 
 "We are not doing any harm," M. Georges said to 
 her, feeling that she was nervous and worried. "As 
 long as your uncle is here we shall not be able to meet 
 at your house." 
 
 Every night, when she went up to her room after 
 dinner, still stirred by the words of the saint, she 
 swore to herself that she would not return to the 
 wood; but as soon as she was in bed, the day she 
 had just spent passed before her in the haze of im- 
 pending sleep, and she could think of nothing but her 
 happiness. She compelled herself to keep awake a 
 moment longer in order to think of Georges, to see 
 him again, to repeat his loving words to herself. 
 
 They sat among the ferns; little insects sometimes
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 195 
 
 ran over her white stockings and made her cry out. 
 She noticed pearls of sweat on Georges' forehead and 
 wiped them off with the tips of her fingers. 
 
 He was stretched out in front of her, half raised on 
 his elbows, gazing at her. He had beautiful brown 
 eyes, shining like chestnuts, and when their faces drew 
 closer together she could see her own image in them, 
 the dark mass of the trees, the infinity of the sky : the 
 whole world was contained in that beloved mirror. 
 
 When he clasped her more tightly, when he opened 
 her timid hands, when he tried to take hold of the 
 restive little head, she struggled for a moment, then, 
 cravenly, she yielded. . . . She felt the caress of 
 his long eyelashes on her neck, the touch of his fingers 
 on her bare arms, then between the buttons of her 
 bodice. ... He spoke to her, in a very low voice, 
 pressing her against him : 
 
 "I would like to feel that you are entirely mine, to 
 take you. . . . No, do not draw back. I adore 
 you, my little love. ... I don't want you to be 
 afraid of me, Yvonne. For you will be my wife. . . 
 You will, won't you, Yvette, be my little wife? Oh 
 you will see how I shaU love you. . . . Don't move ! 
 Stay just like that. I love you so much, so much ! ' 
 
 And with closed eyes, curled up in her virginal bed 
 she still seemed to feel the rough arm that held her 
 the hand which slowly bent back her head, the mouth 
 which sought hers. . . , She wished she could 
 have gone to sleep with all those kisses. . . . 
 
 In the morning, when Yvonne walked across the 
 garden to post herself at the railings and watch for 
 Georges, she often met Petit Louis, engaged in mowing 
 the grass. The under-garden er did not seem to notice 
 her; yet he did not take his furtive glance off her, and 
 as soon as she had disappeared behind the lilac bushes, 
 he cut through the park, stooping down and parting 
 the branches as he went. His rubber-soled shoes 
 slid noiselessly over the fragrant twigs that dropped
 
 196 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 from the firs, and kneeling behind a shrub, motionless, 
 with bated breath, he spied on her. In the afternoon, 
 in the Bois Noisette, he repeated this performance. 
 
 The jail-bird felt a bitter joy as he watched the girl 
 grow daily weaker, almost ready to yield. He fervently 
 longed for more urgent caresses, where he might catch 
 a glimpse of her bare skin, a little of her costly under- 
 linen. The first time that he discovered the young 
 people in a glade, exchanging a real kiss, their bodies 
 crushed together, it seemed to him as if he himself 
 were giving that kiss. He dreamt that his arms were 
 about Yvonne's supple waist, and, raising himself on 
 his hands, panting, he urged them on with all his will, 
 hoping to see them fall down on the grass before him. 
 But the arm relaxed its hold; the girl ran away with- 
 out looking back. 
 
 " Sold ! " whispered the rough, furiously. 
 
 V/hen he came upon one of these scenes he was dis- 
 turbed for the rest of the day, and his heart was full 
 of envy. Lolling in the moss, with a blade of grass 
 between his teeth, he built up a dream, in which he 
 was dressed like the other man, talking with ease and 
 using words he did not understand. Between the 
 branches he saw Yvonne pass by, crowned with misty 
 light by the sun, and he had not the courage to go 
 on working, with his flesh tormented and his heart 
 seething with rancour. 
 
 "What are you doing there?" the saint asked him 
 one day when he discovered him lying among the ferns. 
 
 Petit Louis stood up, vexed. 
 
 "I am not doing any harm," he growled, with his 
 eyes on the ground. "A fellow needs a bit of a 
 rest, I'm not a machine." 
 
 He stood with bowed head, his teeth showing a 
 little between his thin lips, like a frightened dog. 
 
 "I am not reproaching you, my lad," the old man 
 said to him. "Come along with me for a little, will 
 you? I am going to see my bees." 
 
 They walked side by side to the kitchen garden.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 197 
 
 "Are you happy here?" Magloire Dubourg asked 
 him bluntly. 
 
 Adele's nephew shook his head and answered 
 "No." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 Petit Louis shrugged his shoulders uncertainly. 
 
 "I don't know. ... I suppose I started all 
 wrong. All those convictions did me harm. ..." 
 
 The saint watched him sadly. 
 
 " Listen to me, my lad. You have no right to 
 despair and grow bitter. You must resist evil, reject 
 temptation and tear out your heart rather than give 
 way. Do you hear me ? " And the old man took 
 Petit Louis by the shoulders to compel him to look 
 him in the face. "Nothing can force you to do ^v^ong, 
 and if an evil spirit is within you, you must overcome 
 it." 
 
 At that moment the Evangelist noticed a sort of 
 mark on the narrow forehead of the youth, and with 
 the tip of his finger he pushed aside the tangled hair. 
 
 "What is this? Tattooing?" 
 
 "Yes," Petit Louis admitted, turning away his eyes. 
 
 "What is written on it?" 
 
 The boy's voice grew still more husky : 
 
 "For Deibler,"^ he answered. 
 
 The words, indeed, were to be read above his eye- 
 brows, in blue letters, and the saint gently passed 
 his hand across them as though he believed that in this 
 way he could erase them. 
 
 Every day about three o'clock Petit Louis walked 
 up to the Bois Noisette with a wheelbarrow filled with 
 herbs, and seated in that soft chair of verdure he 
 waited for Julie and smoked a cigarette. Baptistine's 
 maid did not keep him waiting long; she took the 
 short cut across the fields. Then he crammed into 
 her hod the convolvulus and the dandelions which he 
 had picked for her in the morning, and they had a 
 1 Deiblcr : the French executioner.
 
 igS SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 good hour of freedom left, which they spent lying 
 under the trees. It was the girl who had suggested 
 that Petit Louis should pick the food for the rabbits 
 beforehand. This prevented Mme. Pele, who allowed 
 roughly an hour for Julie's task, from becoming sus- 
 picious. In this way the boy was encouraged, much 
 as he disliked work, willingly to undertake the picking 
 every morning, while he rejoiced at the thought that 
 he was getting the better of the widow. 
 
 Petit Louis and Julie had known each other from 
 childhood; they had been brought up on two neigh- 
 bouring farms as wards of the Assistance Publique, 
 and had met as tiny tots on the benches of the school 
 and in the fields where they romped. While they 
 were still learning to speU, their mutual wretchedness 
 formed a bond between them. The other children 
 despised them for belonging to the Assistance, and 
 one day they had clung together and wept while the 
 little peasants danced round them singing : 
 
 " Oh ! they have no father ! 
 Oh ! they have no mother ! " 
 
 They did not talk much to the others : they were 
 considered sly. They always went about together. 
 It was said that they were up to mischief. The school- 
 master did not like them and the cure had dismissed 
 Petit Louis from the catechism. 
 
 At the age of ten the boy already knew how to 
 fight : he was driven to it; and during the last years 
 spent with their foster-parents, Julie and he were left 
 in peace, for the little peasants, who were cowardly 
 enough, kept out of their way. 
 
 "Us two," said Petit Louis to his little friend, "we 
 come from Paris. When we are grown up we'll go 
 back there." 
 
 He was the only one who went back, having run 
 away at fifteen from the metal-beater who employed 
 him; and Julie did not hear from him for several
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 199 
 
 years. Then — a few months ago — they met again by 
 chance at Barlincourt. Petit Louis had been con- 
 victed four times, forbidden to live in Paris, and de- 
 clared liable to deportation on his next offence. He 
 was known as "The Lath," and was now a young 
 bandit, ready for anything. 
 
 At the time of his last conviction, a housebreaking 
 affair in the suburbs, he had had as counsel a friend 
 of the Dubourgs, and it was in this way that, by a 
 strange chain of circumstances, Adele had found her 
 nephew, the little boy whom his parents had handed 
 over to the Assistance Publique at two years of age, 
 and whom she had sought in vain since her sister's 
 death. The delicate baby, whom she used to cover 
 with kisses as she unswathed him, had grown into 
 this sly young ruffian; and the servant's despair had 
 been so great that her employers had consented to 
 take the boy into their service when he left prison, 
 in the hope that he might reform. However, the 
 regular life which he now led had not changed him, 
 and his aunt was always in fear that he might sud- 
 denly go back to Paris and resume his evil ways. 
 
 Wlien the poor woman gently reproached him. Petit 
 Louis answered in his drawling voice : 
 
 "It isn't my fault. ... I am not bad at heart, 
 but I'm made that way." 
 
 His slouching gait, his slang, his nickname, even his 
 way of smoking, with the stump of his cigarette stuck 
 to his hp, had all dazzled Julie, who detested the 
 peasants and their clumsy manners. She listened 
 open-mouthed to his Parisian reminiscences, and she 
 who since childhood had been broken in to servitude 
 in every shape and form, at last understood the mean- 
 ing of happiness : lazy mornings in bed in furnished 
 rooms; Sundays under the arbours of Nogent where 
 you eat fried fish; the little bars of the Boulevard 
 Omano, where the men play cards amid the jangling 
 noise of barrel-organs; evenings at the cinema or the 
 music-hall; and balls in the smoky atmosphere of
 
 200 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 La Chapelle, with the couples whirling round to the 
 strains of an accordion. 
 
 Later, when she was of age, they would both lead 
 that sort of life : they had sworn it. Petit Louis spoke 
 crudely of the kind of work he expected from her, and 
 of what he would do on his side. 
 
 "The struggle to get the grub, eh? you under- 
 stand ? " he repeated at every sentence. 
 
 He spoke awkwardly, hunting for the words he 
 needed, and the effort wrinkled his forehead. 
 
 "The b . . . shame of it," he often said, "is that 
 here I am losing my connections." 
 
 And he spoke of going up "on the quiet" some 
 Saturday to take a look round in Paris. 
 
 "But you have no right, you are forbidden to go 
 there," she whispered, terrified. "If you were 
 caught. ..." 
 
 "Don't you worry, we know how to wangle it." 
 
 And he added with cynical pride : 
 
 "All the same, there aren't so many of my age that 
 are down to be deported ! " 
 
 Every night when she had finished washing up and 
 was supposed to be in bed, Julie went out to Petit 
 Louis. Without anger, resigned to her lot, she told 
 him the troubles of the day : 
 
 "The mistress wants to call me with a whistle now, 
 like a dog; she says I don't hear on purpose. ..." 
 
 These confidences made Petit Louis turn pale with rage. 
 
 "And why does she make you take a hod when you 
 go for fodder?" he grunted. "You are not a rag- 
 picker." 
 
 "She won't let me take a proper basket," the girl 
 answered timidly. "She says it's the spirit of pride." 
 
 "The Lath" often spoke of the saint. His con- 
 versations with the old man made him feel uneasy. 
 For the first time in his life a glimmer of thought came 
 to birth in his dull brain. 
 
 " I am not a fool, eh ? " he said to Julie, " but there's 
 some things I don't understand. I can't get them
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 201 
 
 into my head. It's as if I was sleeping while I'm 
 being talked to." 
 
 What had struck him most was the saint's voice 
 saying: "Nothing can force you to do wrong," and 
 his compelling glance, his powerful grip. 
 
 "I tell you, it's no bunkum, he frightened me. . . . 
 Now, what do you think ? Why did he teU me that ? " 
 
 The wastrel also talked about Yvonne and Georges. 
 He sometimes made Julie hide with htm behind the 
 hazel-trees, and together they watched the arrival of 
 the young people, who came bj^^ the sunken path. 
 
 "Look at her beautiful hair," he whispered. 
 
 At a distance they could not hear what the lovers 
 were saying to each other, but they saw M. Georges 
 drag the girl away. He seemed to be laughing at her 
 and she, ashamed of her fear, making up her mind aU 
 of a sudden, followed him, climbing the slope, where 
 the blackberry bushes caught at her skirt. 
 
 When they had disappeared in the thicket, Petit 
 Louis crawled in their wake, still hoping to see some- 
 thing. After a moment he came back, disappointed, 
 and sat down again on his wheelbarrow. He kept 
 silent, his eyes gleaming; perhaps he was 
 thinking. . . . 
 
 "You'd look better if you had fair hair," he said 
 suddenly to his mistress one day. 
 
 Julie shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "I can't change myself, can I?" 
 
 But when an idea once penetrated under Louis's 
 narrow brow it was like a big stone against which he 
 continually stumbled. He returned to the subject later. 
 
 Up till now he had never noticed the chestnut hair 
 of the little maid-of-all-work, but suddenly he could 
 think of nothing else. 
 
 "I swear to you 3-ou'd look better. . . . That, 
 and a beautiful striped dress, now wouldn't you make 
 a splash ? " 
 
 Julie, too, ended by thinking about it, and for the 
 first time she noticed that her hair was dull and dry.
 
 202 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 with no suppleness or gloss in it. She also looked at 
 her frock, supplied by the Assistance Publique, made 
 of common blue print, and the horrible black straw 
 hat, belonging to the uniform, which her mistress 
 made her wear on Sundays to humihate her. It 
 made her feel thoroughly ashamed. 
 
 "Why do you talk to me about it?" she sighed, 
 "when it isn't possible." 
 
 But Petit Louis stuck to his idea. To tempt her 
 he talked of the jealousy of the other girls and of the 
 sensational entry they would make at the Dumarchey 
 ball, she quite fair and "well turned out," with high 
 heels and silk stockings, like a "Paris madam." He 
 insisted that she should dye her hair. 
 
 " Say yes, and I'll buy you a lovely dress," he repeated. 
 
 But Julie did not dare. When he came on certain 
 nights to her attic, just above the widow's room, they 
 sat on the folding bed and talked in hushed tones. 
 Petit Louis removed his boots so that he should not 
 make a noise, and they made love and quarrelled in 
 silence, without a sound. 
 
 Each time the dispute started afresh. 
 
 "If you don't do as I say," Louis threatened in a 
 whisper, "I'll throw you over and I'll play some trick 
 on the old hag so that she'll send you away." 
 
 At last, too weak to hold out against him, the little 
 servant gave in. 
 
 "I don't care," she murmured one evening. "The 
 mistress can say what she likes." 
 
 "Come, come, she can't eat you with her false teeth." 
 
 One Saturday Petit Louis went off to Paris, changing 
 trains at Gisors because he imagined he was being 
 watched on the Northern Railway by the special police. 
 He returned with a large parcel : some dress material, 
 shoes, stockings, ribbons, and a large bottle of 
 peroxide. All his money had gone in these purchases. 
 
 "I am cleaned out," he told her. "But I declare 
 you'U be a toff ! "
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 203 
 
 With the help of a girl friend who said she had 
 learned sewing at a dressmaker's, Julie made her frock 
 herself. Only, instead of placing the blue stripes 
 lengthwise they set them horizontally, so that the 
 charity girl, who was naturally dumpy, looked as 
 though she were cut in slices like a Bologna sausage. 
 
 Petit Louis was present at the fitting. 
 
 "What did I tell you?" he cried triumphantly, in 
 spite of the stripes. "You look different aheady." 
 
 The following Saturday was the great day. There 
 was a night ball at Dumarchey's for the Barlincourt 
 festival, and the Peles were dining with the lady from 
 Paris, who limped more and more the longer she 
 waited for the miracle. 
 
 When Julie, whom they all knew as a shabby little 
 maid-of-all-work, in clumsy shoes and a gleaner's 
 bonnet, entered the dancing-hall, with yellow hair, a 
 short skirt and a black ribbon tied round her neck, 
 no one recognised her. They thought at first that 
 "The Lath" had brought a woman from Paris. 
 
 Milot was the first to cry out : 
 
 "Why, it's Baptistine's maid!" 
 
 Then all the dancers flocked up, screaming with 
 joy, and the last comers climbed on chairs to have a 
 look at the phenomenon. People shouted and laughed : 
 the music had to stop playing. The little servant, 
 suddenly ashamed of her short skirts and her hau", 
 stood dazed in the middle of the circle, pressing close 
 to her lover. In spite of her provocative dress, she 
 looked sick and miserable, and, confronted with a score 
 of red faces splitting with indecent laughter, she was 
 on the verge of tears. Petit Louis was not angry : 
 on the contrary, he was smiling, as though he were 
 flattered by this success. 
 
 The one-legged beadle shook him by the hand : 
 
 " Well done, old boy ! That will strike them dumb, 
 these stick-in-the-muds. I declare, I respect you ! " 
 
 The workmen at once agreed that Julie looked much 
 better in her new clothes, and the labourers, the farm
 
 204 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 hands, who had despised her because she looked poor, 
 began gazing at her with a shade of deference and 
 vague desire now that she looked 1-ke a woman of the 
 streets. Only the girls, who were jealous, went on 
 sneering at her. 
 
 " Well now, isn't she a guy ! " 
 
 It was when she caught their envious glances that 
 Julie suddenly realised what she was. She espied 
 herself in the big tarnished looking-glass which de- 
 corated the far end of the room, and found it difficult 
 to recognise herself, so wonderfully was she trans- 
 formed. Instinctively, as if her altered appearance 
 had infused a new soul into her, she preened herself 
 and put on a suggestive smile. Then she followed 
 Louis to the bar, with her hand on her hip, swaying 
 as she walked. Instead of syrup and lemonade she 
 ordered some cheap brandy, which she swallowed at 
 a gulp, with her throat burning, and then she began 
 to dance, her feet turning over on her high heels. 
 From the adjacent wine-shop the drinkers ran in to 
 watch her, hardly able to believe their eyes. 
 
 At ten o'clock she was already tipsy; she sang as 
 she waltzed, with locks of hair straggling into her eyes, 
 and she kissed "The Lath" right on the mouth and 
 called him "my kid." When her friend the dress- 
 maker advised her to go home, she rebelled. 
 
 "If the old woman wants me she can come and ask 
 for me," she declared, as she put on some rouge beTore 
 the mirror. 
 
 They all agreed with her, hoping meanwhile that 
 things would turn out badly. 
 
 A quadrille was just beginning and Julie had taken 
 her place, pinching her skirt and pulling it up above 
 her knees, when an apparition paralysed the two musi- 
 cians : Baptistine Pele had entered the dancing-hall. 
 The dancers stood still, taken aback, and stared at 
 mistress and maid. The widow remained in the door- 
 way; she was pale, and her eyes blazed wickedly. Her 
 cheeks were quivering with passion.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 205 
 
 She scanned the girls, trying to find JuHe. Peals of 
 laughter began to ring out, and the lads nudged each 
 other. 
 
 "Ah !" said Mme. Pele. "Ah ! Satan !" 
 
 She had only just recognised her servant and she 
 stared at her, open-mouthed, bewildered, almost afraid. 
 In her eyes it was witchcraft, a trick of the Devil. 
 
 Julie stood with her arms dangling at her sides, 
 livid in spite of her make-up, her hair clinging to her 
 damp forehead, and under the crude glare of the gas 
 she showed the distorted face of a barmaid surprised 
 by a police raid. She wiped her face with her hand, 
 and the black of her eyelashes spread over it. Her 
 lips were quivering. 
 
 "That will do," said Petit Louis, drawing near. 
 "What do you want with my girl?" 
 
 The old woman did not flinch. She spoke with a 
 hiss, without opening her lips : 
 
 "To prison!" she raved. "Both of you! You 
 good for nothing. . . . Snake. ... A wretch bom 
 in the gutter I tried to save ! Here, Julie ! " 
 
 The maid obeyed, whimpering; she looked hideous, 
 and the men, whose desire she had provoked before 
 with her swaggering airs, now meanly sneered at her. 
 
 "The Lath" tried to stop her. 
 
 "You're not thinking of going, are you?" 
 
 But the widow had already taken Julie by the arm, 
 and Milot and other friends caught hold of Petit Louis. 
 
 "No nonsense. . . . You know the risk." 
 
 The wastrel, allowing himself to be held back, 
 struggled and shouted. 
 
 "I won't have her touched," he bellowed. "Leave 
 me alone, I want to do her in; I'll slash her open like 
 an old mattress. ..." 
 
 The widow did not hear him : she was going off with 
 her sobbing maid, and to drown the wrangling, the 
 comet, pufhng out his checks, went on with the quadrille. 
 
 By the following day, the whole of Barlincourt knew 
 of the scandal. Small crowds even formed in front 
 
 o
 
 2o6 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 of the Peles' house, where people hoped to catch a 
 glimpse of "the Doll," as Julie had been nicknamed. 
 
 At the King's Domain the affair gave rise to a ter- 
 rible scene. Francois Dubourg said that he had had 
 quite enough of it, that he would not keep a convict 
 in his employ any longer; his indignant brother re- 
 proached him harshly, Mme. Dubourg intervened with 
 appeals, Yvonne wept. ... As for Adele, she was 
 in despair, her eyes red with weeping, unable even to 
 cook the lunch. The novelist caught at the oppor- 
 tunity and departed, slamming the doors. 
 
 Julie was not seen for a week, except by chance 
 through the curtains. The widow had kept her in the 
 house, and Josephin, with his inane smile, refused to 
 say anything. Petit Louis prowled uneasily round the 
 house, and Julie from her kitchen watched him with 
 tear-dimmed eyes. 
 
 At last, one evening, regardless of the risk, she half- 
 opened the door and ran to the comer of the street to 
 kiss him. The boy had a shock when he saw her. 
 
 "Oh ! . . . What has she done to you?" 
 
 The girl murmured "Yes," and, with her arms hang- 
 ing down and her mouth open, she began to weep with 
 the long-drawn-out wail of a child. 
 
 Her golden hair was gone. Baptistine had cut it 
 off. With her shaven head, her white face and her 
 swollen eyes, she stood sobbing before her lover, whose 
 only inclination was to laugh. 
 
 "You do look a sight \" he said. 
 
 The little girl moaned louder and threw herself 
 mournfully into his arms, nestling her grotesque head 
 against his shoulder. 
 
 "No, don't laugh at me ! I am too miser- 
 able. ..." 
 
 Clumsily but lovingly he embraced her, caressing 
 her bare neck; and he no longer thought of making 
 fun of her, now that he felt her sobs rising and falling 
 against his breast. He felt no pity, but a dull rage 
 hardened his heart.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 207 
 
 It ' 
 
 'The w . . . the old w . . . !" he growled. 
 
 Between her tears Julie was telling him that she 
 had been obliged to submit, that the widow threatened 
 to send her back to the Assistance and lodge a com- 
 plaint against her; and that she kept insulting her all 
 day long. 
 
 Suddenly she heard a window opening and tore 
 herself from her lover's arms. 
 
 "It's her," she stammered. "Good-bye!" 
 
 And she disappeared at a run. Louis did not see 
 her until the following Sunday : Baptistine Pele 
 dragged her to ten o'clock Mass — a thing she had never 
 done before — to exhibit the chastened and humbled 
 girl to the whole community. Hardly anything could 
 be seen beneath the hat, which, being now too large, 
 flopped down to her eyebrows; but behind, the nape 
 of the neck showed a bald space, and people burst out 
 laughing, while urchins shouted "Yah ! Yah ! " after her. 
 This walk, during which she was turned into a laughing 
 stock, proved an unending torture to Julie, but she 
 said nothing; she did not even weep any more, though 
 her poor shamed back bent under the general derision. 
 
 Petit Louis, from the wine-shop, saw her passing by, 
 and threw his glass on the floor to relieve his fury. 
 His face wore such a look that the Dumarchey girl 
 turned her eyes aside and swept up the pieces with- 
 out daring to say a word. 
 
 "The Lath," who in the end had been dismissed 
 by M. Dubourg, left the King's Domain that same 
 evening. Ad^le was beside herself with grief. 
 
 "I simply can't understand the master sending you 
 away," she lamented. "He used to be so easy-going, 
 so kind. . . . He is a different man since his 
 brother came back. He said that he had had enough 
 of this scandal." 
 
 "And what did the saint say?" 
 
 "Oh, he ... he is like God Himself!" 
 
 She took out a hundred-franc note and handed it 
 to her nephew.
 
 2o8 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 " He told me to give you this meanwhile. And that 
 he wanted to see you and talk to you, that he would 
 find work for you, that you were not to get 
 bitter. ..." 
 
 Petit Louis listened with bowed head. 
 
 " Kids like me, you see," he mumbled indistinctly, 
 "instead of chucking them over to the Assistance, the 
 parents ought to drown them. They'd be less un- 
 happy. . . . Well, good-bye. Auntie, I'll come back 
 and see you some time this week." 
 
 "The Lath" went to live with the Trembler in a 
 hovel plastered with mud, and began to look for work, 
 but only in a half-hearted fashion. At the Aubernon 
 works the overseer refused to take him on, saying that 
 he had received orders to that effect. Petit Louis 
 roved silently, at random, through the streets, or else 
 he wandered by himself in the Bois Noisette. In the 
 evening, he attended the saint's meetings. Magloire 
 Dubourg often took him aside and gave him good 
 advice. These were moments of rare comfort for the 
 vagrant : the words numbed what brain he had, and 
 with his mind empty of thought he felt reassured and 
 confident. 
 
 More often than not he did not understand the 
 saint's sermons; even the simplest parables were too 
 deep for him. However, one discussion about Mme. 
 Pele fixed itself in his memory. 
 
 A convert said : 
 
 "She is a firm believer, and yet a rotten woman." 
 
 Magloire Dubourg answered : 
 
 "He who prays is not always pious, he who com- 
 plains does not always sufi'er. God will judge by the 
 heart, not by the lips. Do not envy the fate of that 
 false Christian, her debt grows heavier every day, and 
 for her very salvation, it would be better for her to 
 die." 
 
 Without knowing it. Saint Magloire had signed the 
 death-warrant of the bigot. 
 
 "The Lath" still saw Julie in secret. Some nights
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 209 
 
 he went up to her room as of old, climbing in at the 
 kitchen window, which the maid left open; and, seated 
 on the little bed, their roughened hands clasped, they 
 talked in low tones, he muttering his rage, she choking 
 back her tears. 
 
 "No matter if I half kill myself with work, she 
 wants to send me back to the Assistance with a letter 
 where she'll tell everything. She says she won't have 
 me corrupting her son. . . . Then they'll put me 
 under supervision in some form, to clean the cattle- 
 sheds." 
 
 Her companion did not reply. Gazing vaguely 
 before him, he was trying to think it over. 
 
 "TeU me, my dear, what shall we do?" she whis- 
 pered distractedly. "And you out of work, too!" 
 Petit Louis shook his head : 
 
 "The saint was speaking of her the other day. . . . 
 He was saying it would be better for her to die." 
 
 "Pooh!" breathed the girl. "Don't you count on 
 that." 
 
 "Remains to be seen. ..." 
 
 Day by day Petit Louis grew gloomier and gloomier, 
 and his aunt was frightened. When he came to see 
 her she watched him anxiously, and by degrees she 
 gave him all her money, thinking it might keep him 
 from going wrong. Julie also noticed his air of ab- 
 straction. 
 
 "What's the matter with you?" she asked him at 
 last, one night when he was even gloomier than usual. 
 "I'm fed up with it all," he burst out. "If the 
 saint was to go back to his niggers and I hadn't got 
 jrou, I'd go off with him. Don't you see, it's getting 
 near time for my military service. They'll put me in 
 the African troops. Well, I don't feel like it. I don't 
 want to leave my bones in the Kef ! " 
 
 "But then, what will you do? " wailed Julie. "You 
 aren't going to leave me here ? " 
 He shook his head. 
 "No, what we need is enough cash for the two of us.
 
 210 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 To go away, a long way off, so that they can't find us 
 again." 
 
 She nodded, her acquiescence, all her will-power 
 gone. 
 
 "You haven't heard the saint preach his sermons. 
 . . . Well, he says one hasn't got the right to keep 
 everything for oneself, and that happiness belongs to 
 everybody. Well, then, why should Baptistine sleep 
 on her money-bags while I rot at Bel Abbes and you 
 slave in some farm ? Tell me that ! " 
 
 "Don't talk so loud, she'll hear you," implored the 
 maid, terrified. 
 
 Petit Louis had risen to his feet. 
 
 "I don't care a damn !" 
 
 He was livid. The lamp lighted up his face from 
 below, and the faded tattooing reappeared on his stub- 
 bom forehead. The girl looked at him, trembling. 
 
 "What have you got there in your pocket?" 
 
 "Nothing," he answered, pulling his coat together. 
 
 Then he surveyed her for a moment. 
 
 "Get your things ready," he said simply. 
 
 The four words were enough. She felt as though a 
 weight had fallen on her shoulders and was crushing 
 her. x\ll her strength left her. There was not a drop 
 of blood in her limbs, and her teeth began to chatter. 
 
 "What are you going to do?" she asked hoarsely. 
 
 He did not answer. Julie, haggard, shuddered from 
 head to foot. 
 
 "Petit Louis ! Petit Louis !" she cried in a husky 
 voice. 
 
 But he had left the room already, and she heard his 
 step as he went down the stairs. She dropped on her 
 knees bv her bedside, overwhelmed, and murmured : 
 
 "My God! My God!" 
 
 She started suddenly : below she had heard a creak- 
 ing sound, a door being opened. . . . Clenching her 
 teeth, burying her nails in her flesh, she stifled a groan 
 of terror. 
 
 ■'My man!"
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 2ii 
 
 She lay down, quivering, and put her ear to the 
 floor. She was biting her lips. She wished she could 
 have shut her eyes, so that she could listen more in- 
 tently, but she could not do it; against her will her 
 eyes opened wide with terror, and within the circle 
 of light which her lamp sent forth she could see the 
 trembling of her thin hand. Her whole heart, her 
 whole Ufe, were watching. 
 
 Only she, in the silence of the night, could catch 
 those furtive noises : by that almost imperceptible 
 creaking she could follow the dreadful progress towards 
 the bed. ... Oh ! she started up. . . . She had 
 just heard a heavier step, a leap. . . . Then a hoarse 
 cry, quickly stifled, and then the deadened noise of a 
 struggle, the sound of two people breathing, a foot or 
 a fist that thudded against the wall, in a supreme con- 
 vulsion. 
 
 The noise died down. . . . She felt the strain of 
 her body relaxing. A feeling almost of relief came 
 upon her. ... It was over. . , . 
 
 But at that moment a terrible shriek rang through 
 the house ; the old woman was calling for help. She 
 had probably freed herself from the murderous grasp, 
 she could be heard rushing about the room, the noise 
 of a sinister pursuit, then dull blows, groans, the 
 bound of a fall. . . . 
 
 " Help ! Murder ! " 
 
 Another voice broke forth amid the rattle of shutters 
 thrown open : Josephin was calling through the drawing 
 room window. Then, Julie, beside herself, unconscious 
 of what she was doing, ran down the stairs, carrying 
 her lamp. She entered the room at a bound; but she 
 saw the blood, and drew back. 
 
 The old woman was still moving a little, her throat 
 was cut. At that moment Josephin appeared behind 
 the maid, in his shirt, his thin legs showing. His face 
 was distorted, and when he saw the corpse he began 
 crying out again : 
 
 " Mamma ! Help ! "
 
 212 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 Petit Louis, leaning against the window, stood 
 looking at them, without attempting to escape, and 
 unconsciously he wiped his hand, from which the blood 
 was trickling down. 
 
 "Well," he was saying, "Wliat's the matter with 
 you? 
 
 Dogs began to bark on the neighbouring farms. 
 Men could be heard running up and calling to each 
 other. Young Pele was still bawling, though his 
 voice was giving out, and Julie, losing her head, also 
 began to yell: "Help! Help!" as though someone 
 might appear to save her lover. 
 
 Adele was in her kitchen, as she had been on the 
 evening of the saint's arrival, when she heard the first 
 shrieks. Etienne and Milot were sitting at the table, 
 drinking. 
 
 " My God ! " she cried out in alarm. " What's hap- 
 pening?" 
 
 It was impossible to recognise the voices, but she 
 understood at once, in a flash of realisation. She 
 dropped the plate she was wiping and collapsed on to 
 a chair. 
 
 "There you are! There you are!" she stuttered. 
 "Louis has been and done it!"
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 "To do good, to do good . . . that is quite right 
 and proper," grumbled M. Frangois Dubourg, who 
 had returned exasperated from Paris, "but after all 
 it is none of my business to pay the debts of Provi- 
 dence." 
 
 With the tip of his walking stick he dislodged a 
 pile of baby-linen that filled an arm-chair. 
 
 "This is not a home any more, it's a poor-house, a 
 charity work-room." 
 
 He looked at his friend Jos. 
 
 "Not much fun, Barlincourt, eh?" 
 
 "Well ..." Van den Kris was evasive, "if one 
 likes this sort of thing. ..." 
 
 "You show great devotion in still coming to see 
 us." 
 
 The novelist considered for a moment, shaking his 
 head : 
 
 "He is terrible," he continued. "He wants to 
 reform everything : laws, religion, property, govern- 
 ment, labour, education, even our way of making 
 soup. ... He would be capable of setting fire to 
 the house to warm some wretched creature. I some- 
 times wonder how it will all end." 
 
 "But why don't you go back to Paris? You do not 
 usually stay away so long." 
 
 M. Dubourg shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Go back to Paris? You are naive, my friend. 
 Since the murder the papers have left us comparatively 
 in peace; let's hope it will last. . . . But he would 
 not be back two days without causing a scandal on 
 the Stock Exchange or presiding over a meeting on 
 the steps of the Madeleine. I much prefer to biiry 
 myself here." 
 
 213
 
 214 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 The fact was that the author of Mademoiselle 
 Flamberge, always occupied with his newspapers — or 
 so he pretended — buried himself as Httle as possible 
 in the King's Domain. He was content to leave his 
 family there, which caused Mme. Dubourg to say : 
 
 "Husbands adore the countryside, but it is the 
 wives who stay there." 
 
 "You know me," continued M. Dubourg. "I am 
 an easy going fellow, but my brother will end by 
 making me loathe goodness. Since he settled the work- 
 men, who have been expelled from the Cite, in my 
 lodge, I have taken a violent dislike to the poor. 
 Why should they suppose that something is owing 
 to them because they are poor? It is idiotic. Is 
 there any obligation for the poor to respect the rich ? " 
 
 "You talk like a book," approved the Dutchman, 
 standing with straddled legs, an old sailor's habit, so 
 he declared, which had been acquired through the 
 rolling of the ship. "In the first place, charity is 
 useless, a regular swindle. To give here and there 
 is just like trying to stop the onrush of tons of water 
 into a ship by plugging the leak with paper. . . . 
 Your brother may give a hundred, a thousand times 
 more, he will not lessen the misery of mankind by a 
 single tear. If Christ had been nothing more than 
 a foolish philanthropist, His only thought would have 
 been to succour the poor devils of Jews who sur- 
 rounded Him. He would have spent all His time 
 healing lepers, giving back sight to the blind, filling 
 the empty baskets of the fishers and the wine-bottles 
 of Cana, instead of presenting a new teaching to the 
 world. His career on earth would have been fruitless, 
 and History would have retained but a vague memory 
 of a strange epoch when Judea was bursting with 
 victuals and sweating from too much drink. ..." 
 
 M. Dubourg made the classical gesture of Hippo- 
 crates refusing the presents of Artaxerxes. 
 
 "I implore you not to generalise," he interjected, 
 "no philosophy, no ethics. . . . And, above all, do
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 215 
 
 not pronounce the name of God in my presence. I 
 swear to you that my brother is turning me into an 
 atheist." 
 
 Then, rising, he added : 
 
 "I admired him so much when he was in 
 Africa. ..." 
 
 Life in the King's Domain had become still sadder 
 since the murder of Mme. Pele. Adele, who had been 
 obliged to take to her bed for several days, was no 
 longer able to do any housework, and it fell to the 
 charwoman, who usually undertook the heavier tasks, 
 to take charge of the kitchen; she sent up impossible 
 stews and shrivelled joints, and caused Mme. Dubourg 
 to lose her appetite altogether. Yvonne seemed rest- 
 less and nervous, and burst into tears on the slightest 
 provocation. Gerard had just gone back to Paris, 
 whither his studies summoned him. 
 
 The villa seemed now to belong much more to the 
 three households which had been evicted from the 
 Cite and taken in by Saint Magloire, than to the 
 Dubourg family. 
 
 The refugees began to complain the very day after 
 they took up their quarters in the lodge, which Petit 
 Louis had vacated. When Etienne forbade the urchins 
 to romp about the lawn, the mothers grumbled that 
 they were being treated "as if they had the plague." 
 At every turn the men would say: "We shall complain 
 to the saint." 
 
 Their noisy existence overflowed from their little 
 house until it filled the whole place. Every evening, 
 quarrels broke out in the ground-fioor lodgings : the 
 man, who was a drunkard, yelled threats at his wife 
 and the frightened children squalled shrilly. In the 
 next household, the husband, a kindly fellow, played 
 the accordion to amuse his youngsters; and, for an 
 hour after the neighbour's disagreements had sub- 
 sided, the wheezy instrument could still be heard 
 whining sentimental ballads. The head of the third 
 'araily, a fanatic adherent of Magloire Dubourg, was
 
 2i6 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 slightly mad : in the evenings, when he read the Gos- 
 pels, he donned a sort of white tunic, which had been 
 made by his wife, but in this garb he looked much 
 more like a house-painter than a bishop. 
 
 The Evangelist was still receiving large gifts from 
 all parts of Europe : money, clothes, parcels with food 
 and medicine; and he had turned the drawing room 
 into a kind of warehouse from which he drew according 
 to his needs. He undertook tours which lasted several 
 days, visiting the sick and bringing help to the aged. 
 
 Since he felt unable to do as much good by himself 
 as he would have wished, he had begged his sister-in- 
 law to accompany him, a woman being better able to 
 render certain services than a man. Marie Louise, 
 who was afraid of appearing unworthy to this man 
 whose every act was an example, whose every word 
 was a proof of goodness, gave her consent. An ex- 
 hausting life now opened before her. Every morning, 
 the saint awakened her at break of day. They 
 hun-iedly swallowed a meagre breakfast and set out 
 laden witli parcels. Mme. Dubourg, with her eyes 
 still heavy with sleep, oppressed with a feeling of 
 nausea, trotted at the side of the saint, whose strides 
 were enormous. Barlincourt lay wrapped in silence, 
 its streets wet and slippery. Marie Louise, her chin 
 bitten by the cold, whipped by the October drizzle, 
 gazed with envy at the happy villas which were still 
 sleeping. The farms were waking up, light showing 
 between their half-open shutters. In the sodden 
 fields, old hay ricks, battered by the wind, still slept 
 heavily, with blond and dirty strands tumbled across 
 their brows. 
 
 More often than not, they went to Paris. The rail- 
 way carriages still retained the musty smeU of nights 
 of travel. Mme. Dubourg was unable to endure the 
 stench; huddled in a corner near the open window, 
 her cheeks blue with cold, she breathed in the raw air 
 which helped her to overcome her faintness. 
 
 In the crowded districts, the arrival of the saint
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 217 
 
 was soon reported. Women shouted the news, lean- 
 ing out of the windows in their house- jackets; 
 children hailed each other on the landings, and an 
 avalanche of small clogs was heard rushing down 
 the stairs. 
 
 Very much against his wish, the Evangelist was 
 often followed by a band of strange disciples, who 
 afforded much merriment to the onlookers. Notable 
 among them were an old fortune-teller, who went 
 into a trance the moment the miracle man opened his 
 mouth; and a neo-Greek youth, in a tunic suitable for 
 the "bal des Quat'-z 'Arts," whose sole doctrine con- 
 sisted in living on raw salad and going barefoot. A 
 witch proclaimed everywhere that Saint Magloire was 
 a reincarnation of the prophet Daniel; and the sham 
 Greek announced that he would help the saint to 
 regenerate the world by teaching calisthenics, anti- 
 alcoholism, and the weaving of linen in the home. 
 
 He was also followed by poor people, sick whom 
 he had cured previously, beggars whom he had saved 
 from hunger; and when the Evangelist went into the 
 houses, crowds collected on the pavemeut outside them. 
 
 There floated through these working-class houses 
 a smell of sinks and dogs' mess. The walls were 
 sticky, the bannisters slippery. Brawling never 
 stopped during the whole day, for the unfortunate 
 lodgers hated each other and the noise of quarrelling 
 voices resounded from the sixth floor down to the 
 street, passing through the thin brick partitions and 
 the resonant floors. 
 
 At that time, in the poor quarters, the first cases of 
 an unknown illness were reported, a sort of influenza 
 which carried off the victims in a few hours. Some 
 said that it was the plague. 
 
 The saint devoted his visits primarily to those wha 
 were dying of this malady, and Marie Louise, afraid 
 of inhaling the infection, held her breath. 
 
 The sight of these horrors inspired her with a pro- 
 found disgust. Her candid and tender heart had
 
 2i8 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 already changed : it was as though it had been tar- 
 nished. She became subject to fits of depression and 
 sudden feehngs of resentment. Her chief regret in 
 the midst of all this squalor was that she had not 
 made sufficient use of her opportunities of happiness. 
 
 There were moments when, terrorised by the 
 prophecies of the saint, she told herself, in the room 
 of some miserable working girl, that in her turn, at 
 some time, she would be that malodorous rag; and 
 she bent over the pauper's bed, as if she were looking 
 into a mirror which reflected her own image. Those 
 withered cheeks, those eyes with shrivelled lashes, 
 those white gums swollen with rotting teeth : so might 
 she look some day. . . . She would see no sky be- 
 yond the square of the garret window, and stoop day 
 in, day out over her work; and her whole happiness 
 would lie between a husband who beat her, and a wan 
 baby, whose bottle she must fill with bread crumbs 
 and sugared water, for want of milk. 
 
 The resignation of these death-beds, instead of 
 making her reflect on the hazardous destiny of her 
 immortal soul, filled her Vvith a fierce desire to live. 
 
 "I want to enjoy what I have," she told herself 
 with a kind of rage. "I want to be happy." 
 
 And her old calm happiness no longer seemed strong 
 enough to satisfy her need. 
 
 By the end of a month there was already a great 
 change in Marie Louise. The little dimples in her 
 cheeks, where smiles had always seemed to be hidden, 
 were no longer visible. She had grown thinner. M. 
 Van den Kris noticed her new air of bitterness and 
 determination. 
 
 "To be sure," the Dutchman said to her one day, 
 "you wiU never be able to stand this existence, you 
 will fall ill. It is a curious fact, but saints have 
 always been the same. Read the Bollandists : they 
 jire fuU of edifying stories, about young men, touched 
 by Divine Grace, who leave their old mothers dying of 
 sorrow to go to Libya where they eat locusts ! And
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 219 
 
 such people are canonised ! You know that nobody 
 admires your famous relative more than I do, but I 
 ask myself whether the propagation of his ideas is 
 worth all the disturbance it is causing. ... A saint 
 in modem society is a freak. ... He is out of place, 
 out of focus. . . . Look here, can you imagine a 
 giant two hundred feet high, arriving one fine morning 
 in Paris, and leaning up casually against the Towers 
 of Notre Dame? For a week, he would cause a sen- 
 sation, but after a month, he would be in everybody's 
 way : no one would know where to find a lodging for 
 him; people would criticise him for eating too much 
 and have but one wish : to get rid of him at the 
 earliest opportunity. ..." 
 
 The perturbation in the midst of which Barhncourt 
 was living seemed to prove that the pseudo-Dutchman 
 was right. The Evangelist, though unintentionally, 
 had plunged the small country-side into chaos. The 
 workmen in the factory who had been made restless 
 by his propaganda, suffered more than ever from the 
 injustice of their lot; it seemed to them that every- 
 thing which belonged to others had been stolen from 
 them; but instead of waiting for future lives to redress 
 in their favour the balance of the wrong done to them, 
 they wanted to take their share without losiig a 
 moment's time. Though the sjoidicate had refrained 
 from giving the order to strike, the output fell from 
 day to day, and M. Aubernon weUnigh went out of 
 his mind with worry. Mastering his wrath, so that 
 the leaders should not gloat over him, he passed like a 
 whirlwind from the fitting to the sewing rooms, from 
 the making up to the mounting department, but he 
 was never able to detect anything. Everyone was in 
 his place, the fitter bent over his vice, the saUmaker 
 was pinching the folds of his splice, but no one was 
 working. The file of the fitter moved without grip- 
 ping, and the sail-maker never finished his ring. An 
 overseer was needed to stand behind each workman. 
 
 The syndicate of sails and tarpaulins had come to
 
 220 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 the conclusion that they ought to take advantage of 
 this agitation to put forward certain claims. A dele- 
 gation had come to demand that the staff should 
 control the bonuses and that a forty-four hour week 
 should be granted. M. Aubernon had exclaimed that 
 "he would prefer to shut up shop," and since this 
 interview the situation had grown worse than ever. 
 
 Mme. Aubernon did not hate the workmen any less 
 than her husband. However, she urged on him the 
 need for conciliation; and as she thought that Saint 
 Magloire alone could restore peace, she moved Heaven 
 and Earth to wrest from him a promise to come one 
 evening to the chateau. Once there, they would argue 
 with him and, with the help of statistics, show him the 
 rights of the matter. 
 
 The single meeting which took place was enough to 
 discourage the manufacturers. The whole company 
 suffered from a feeling of constraint. The guests did 
 not dare to talk. They stared curiously at the old 
 man, who stood in a bent attitude at the window, 
 with his clenched fists in the pockets of his coat. 
 
 Despite his wife's imperious looks, M. Aubernon 
 was loath to begin the discussion. 
 
 "Come on, begin," she whispered urgently. 
 
 But he only coughed, opening his mouth as if to 
 speak, but, in the end, remaining silent. Outside, 
 somebody could be heard singing a revolutionary song. 
 
 It was Mathieu, who was bawling at the bar of the 
 Factory Cafe. The workmen for some time past had 
 been in the habit of making the old man drunk and 
 getting him to sing inflammatory ditties under the 
 windows of his "benefactor." 
 
 "A lazy dog, whom I support in idleness and who 
 gets blind drunk three times a week," the manufac- 
 turer stormed, with flaming cheeks. "And they call 
 me a profiteer ! " 
 
 No one answered. The conversation languished. 
 
 Yvonne and M. Georges were half hidden behind 
 the piano. For a moment the young man turned his
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 221 
 
 head away : he was white to the lips. Stooping over 
 the young girl, he asked her in a toneless voice : 
 
 "Are you sure? Perhaps you are mistaken?" 
 
 Fortunately, no one paid any attention to them. 
 All glances were focused on the saint. At last the 
 manufacturer took courage : 
 
 " You probably know that things are very bad with 
 my workmen?" he said brusquely to the old man. 
 And then, off-hand, unable to find a better opening, 
 he added : 
 
 "You should tell them to be reasonable, you would 
 be doing me a favour. . . ." 
 
 The saint surveyed him attentively for a moment 
 and replied : 
 
 ' ' I have never preached anything to them but good- 
 ►rill, perhaps they did not understand me. . . . But 
 yt)u yourself constantly hear it preached to you in 
 church, yet are you sure that you are just?" 
 
 M. Aubemon tried to argue, but he lost all his 
 will-power when he felt the hypnotic gaze of the saint 
 jesting on him. He was only able to stutter : 
 
 " Allow me . . . allow me. ..." 
 
 His wife came to his rescue with praises for his 
 b^rneficence; but the saint harshly reproached her 
 with giving alms out of the proceeds of fines imposed on 
 izt workmen, and they took an icy leave of each other. 
 
 On that evening the return to their home was indeed 
 jrlcomy. All the lights were out in Barlincourt. The 
 r?ia dripped wearily into the puddles. Yvonne walked 
 alone behind her parents; she saw nothing. All the 
 bccviils of the evening whirled in her head. 
 
 /IS the rain in a sudden squall began to fall more 
 heavily she put aside her umbrella, exposing her chilled 
 little back to the storm, and purposely stepped into a 
 pool with her lightly-shod feet. She would have been 
 gia^i to catch cold, to fall ill. 
 
 When they arrived at the villa, she kissed her 
 parf-its and, swallowing her tears, went quickly up to 
 h«r room.
 
 222 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 She remained for a long while sitting on her bed, 
 her arms drooping wearily at her side. Then, for the 
 hundredth time perhaps, she stood before her mirror 
 and scanned her figure, searching with anxious eyes 
 at the level of her waist to find out whether already 
 it could be seen. . . . 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 The workmen heard — no doubt through Milot — of 
 the interview between the saint and their employer, 
 and they concluded from it that the Evangelist was 
 on their side. The excitement increased, meeting 
 after meeting was held; and in the end, on a rowdy 
 Saturday, a general strike was declared. 
 
 To stiffen the movement in Barlincourt the syndi- 
 cate, not content with the saint, promptly summoned 
 Comrade Lousteau, who was received by a delegation 
 as he alighted from the Paris train. 
 
 The first glance of the Comrade as he left the station 
 fell on a wall on which lines of bills were posted 
 bearing "Long Live the Strike," in five-inch letters; 
 and this at once put him in a good humour. 
 
 "Very good," he said to the militant group, "very 
 good indeed ! " They bridled with pleasure at the 
 compliment, for Lousteau was a connoisseur. He had 
 been dismissed from the Postal Servdce, was a former 
 delegate of the C.G.T. and had twice been beaten at 
 the legislative elections; he now belonged to the ex- 
 treme Left of the party, and compared with him the 
 most advanced syndicalists seemed lukewarm. His 
 profession might have been summed up by the word 
 "orator," for he was not known to possess any other 
 occupation or resources. 
 
 If the miners of Anzin declared a strike, if the 
 Union seamen of Marseilles left their ships, if the 
 farmers of the Landes started an agitation, if at the 
 arsenal of Brest or on the railways of Dijon the men 
 showed signs of an ugly temper, Lousteau would be 
 seen arriving with his painter's beard, his bald head, 
 and negligently flowing black tie, that had become so
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 223 
 
 popular in working-class circles. He at once turned 
 his attention to the most urgent business, which was 
 to put the worst possible complexion upon everything. 
 
 He was like a general taking command of an army; 
 he arrived with his plan of campaign ready formed : 
 immediate cessation of work, meetings, communist 
 soup-kitchens, compulsory control of the strikers' 
 cards; in each section, picketing, forced stoppage of 
 trafhc by all means available, and the hunting out of 
 "blacklegs." Then, if all this were not sufficient, he 
 had recourse to processions on the pubhc highway, 
 and this secured his triumph : the dragoons usually 
 arrived the very next day. Comrade Lousteau then 
 took the first train back, for the place of a general is 
 not with the outposts. 
 
 He was thus able to boast of great victories : he 
 had stirred up to revolt peasants, metallurgists, dockers, 
 vine-growers, shoemakers, and even soldiers who had 
 been transferred from one garrison to another. His 
 speeches roused crowds to fever-heat, for this man 
 who displaj-ed a rather limited mtelligence when he 
 was sitting down, blossomed out into a kind of genius 
 as soon as he rose to his feet. He needed a platform, 
 as the priestess, Pythia, needed her tripod. An 
 inspired enthusiasm took possession of him and he 
 shouted out anything that occurred to him, with his 
 heart bursting and his head on fire. 
 
 Beating his breast, as though offering himself up to 
 unjust judges and fratricidal bullets, he poured forth 
 imprecations, prayers, complaints and defiance; and 
 suddenly, as though through a rift in the storm, he 
 found the words of a poet to talk of the future city : 
 a cross between a Pastoral and a revolutionary 
 pamphlet. Oh ! what a wonderful future ! . . . 
 Machines viTcathed in ivy by young girls, revolved of 
 their own accord, and the red guards went away with 
 white lilac stuck in the butts of their rifles. . . . But 
 the avaricious "bourgeois" rises in front of them to 
 forbid the outcasts entrance to the Elysian fields. See
 
 224 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 them grinning, while before them passes the famished 
 herd of mothers, striving in vain to press a drop from 
 their dry breasts. . . . 
 
 Women sobbed and men clenched their fists. 
 
 These words falling on overwrought minds, quickly 
 bore fruit. The people had been told that the hour 
 was near — it was not clear what hour. The farmers 
 had been told: "Divide the land among you!" the 
 workmen: "Occupy the factories!" and all to such 
 good purpose that excited old soldiers, embittered 
 mothers and young lads, boiling over with ardour and 
 self sacrifice, were led to acts of violence; so that a 
 score or so of workmen were still in prison for the 
 eloquence of Lousteau, and credulous recruits were 
 dying, forgotten under the sun of Bel-Abbes. 
 
 Only a few old-fashioned syndicalists and suspicious 
 anarchists looked askance at Lousteau; they had seen 
 so many rabid revolutionaries, who had ended by 
 entering the Government. All the others, however, 
 imreservedly admired this speculative revolutionary. 
 
 All along the main street passers-by turned round 
 to look at the small procession, and Comrade Lousteau 
 who regarded this curiosity as a personal tribute was 
 flattered. The citizens did not know the agitator by 
 name, for the Socialist papers were the only ones which 
 talked about him; but the enthusiasm of the strikers 
 was more than enough to instil disquiet into their 
 minds. 
 
 "If Lousteau takes a hand, look out for trouble!" 
 said the Aubernon workmen, smiling confidently. 
 
 The orator was welcomed in the back premises of 
 the shop where the strike Committee had taken up 
 its quarters, for the Dumarchey girl had refused to 
 lend her hall. He was at once put in possession of 
 the facts. 
 
 He asked for divers information about the saint, 
 whose ascendancy over the strikers was well known 
 to him; and decided to make use of him. Mathieu 
 was introduced to him as a matter oi curiosity, an
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 225 
 
 honorary striker, since he no longer did any work; 
 and the ex-soldier, glass in hand, described in a 
 humorous fashion the beginnings of Aubernon. 
 
 "It might be useful to you in your speeches and 
 it would make people laugh. . . . Just imagine, 
 a man who has never given himself time to Uve pro- 
 perly. ... A mercenary, nothing more. ... A 
 man without dignity. . . . And it isn't as if he 
 had known how to behave. In all the time he worked 
 with us, in the days when Krantz was boss, I never 
 saw him pay for a round of drinks. Everything went 
 into the Savings Bank, just like a house-servant." 
 
 That same evening, Lousteau actually made use of 
 Mathieu in his speech. Pointing him out to the 
 crowd of strikers, where he sat below the platform, 
 he cried in a tone of contemptuous pity : 
 
 "Look at this miserable slave, this blind toy of an 
 arrogant master. . . . Look at his wretched plight 
 after forty years of servitude. That is all that the 
 luckiest among you can look forward to : the situa- 
 tion of an old jester at the Court of your Potentate." 
 
 And Mathieu, with swimming eyes, reeking of 
 brandy, nodded approval, greatly touched and proud 
 of hearing himself talked about. 
 
 The covered market where the meeting took place 
 seethed with a dense crowd. A vapour of stale 
 breath, of sweat and smoke, floated round it. Men 
 had climbed on to the roof, sitting astride the iron 
 girders. Two powerful acetylene lamps illumined 
 the platform with a harsh glare. The hall, in the 
 shadow, was full of turmoil. 
 
 At each pause in Lousteau's speech, an ovation 
 broke forth. With the clever intuition which dis- 
 tinguishes leaders of men, he had divined that he 
 must speak to them chiefly of the saint, and that his 
 name alone was capable of swaying them. Leaning 
 over them, he seemed to scent their thoughts, to 
 breathe in their appeal. 
 
 It was no longer Lousteau, it was no longer the
 
 226 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 Syndicate, that presided over the meeting; it was 
 Magloire Dubourg. It was no longer Barlincourt on 
 strike which reared itself before the employer : it 
 was the Saint. He invoked his name everywhere. 
 "Give us this day our daily bread," became a Marxist 
 formula and "Neither God, nor master," a text from 
 the Gospel. 
 
 The audience, in a state of supreme exaltation, 
 cheered without ceasing. Amid the stamping of feet, 
 "Long live Saint Magloire" and "Long live the 
 strike" merged into one. All were certain of victory, 
 since they were assured that the saint was with them. 
 The strong voice of Lousteau dominated the noise. 
 
 "The rotting society which feels its power giving 
 way here, as it is giving way everywhere, may seek 
 to grind us down by famine; it may call on its troops 
 to threaten us with powder and shot : we shall con- 
 tinue to fight. Let them dare to accuse us of dis- 
 turbing the public peace, they who mass their bayonets 
 against us, while we only oppose them with the staff 
 of the Good Shepherd ! " 
 
 At last Lousteau sat down, exhausted. Prolonged 
 applause forced him to come back and bow his thanks, 
 like an artist. Then one part of the crowd began 
 singing the "Internationale," while the people from 
 the Cite, who were closely packed in the background, 
 shouted a h3^mn. 
 
 Issue being thus joined, the strike rapidly spread to 
 two small factories in the neighbourhood, and Barlin- 
 court soon looked as though it were in a state of siege. 
 
 Mounted policemen rode about the streets. Every 
 morning, when the workshops opened, there were 
 scenes of brawling. 
 
 At midday, instead of the noisy procession of 
 workmen on their way to dinner, the housewives 
 could be seen going, soup-can or saucepan in hand, 
 to the communist kitchens. But after a week's stop- 
 page the strike funds gave out and the canteen had 
 to shut down.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 227 
 
 Resistance grew painful. Hollow-cheeked worlanen 
 could be seen returning mechanically to their closed 
 factories, like dogs going back to an empty bowl. 
 
 Magloire Dubourg heard of their distress. He 
 turned everything he could lay his hands on into 
 money and came to the assistance of the famished 
 strikers. It was all that was needed to destroy the 
 last remaining shreds of his reputation in Barlincourt. 
 
 "He is a communist," the peasants said of him. 
 
 And that word "communist" sent a shiver through 
 these families of poor people who possessed scarcely 
 anything, as though Red bands were about to deprive 
 them of the last they had, even to their imitation 
 bronze clocks and the baby's shoes. 
 
 The strike continued, without serious affrays. The 
 fanatical followers of Saint Magloire, who lived in the 
 Cite, were the means of depriving the movement of 
 any violence, for their inertia paralysed the others. 
 They awaited the capitulation of their employer with 
 confident resignation; they did not raise their voices 
 at the meetings and refused to lie in wait for "black- 
 legs" and to kick them homewards when they left 
 the factory. 
 
 Lousteau, to rouse them from their apathy, held 
 meeting after meeting : finally he organised a de- 
 monstration on the high road, a sort of procession 
 without canopy or flowers, but accompanied by h5mins 
 and banners; and then the first skirmish took place. 
 "We are entering upon the period of results," said 
 Lousteau th- t evening with satisfaction. " If only 
 there were fifty towns like this in France, bourgeois 
 society would be at its last gasp." 
 
 From the first day, Barlincourt had taken sides : 
 for and against. Milot, without hesitation, had chosen 
 the group opposing his employer. He was for the 
 strike, even before it had been voted, and on the day 
 of Lousteau's arrival, he had made himself conspicuous 
 by his enthusiasm, hailing the agitator with full- 
 throated applause and wearing a red flower in his coat.
 
 228 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 " If only that scoundrel hadn't a wooden leg ! " 
 fumed M. Aubernon. 
 
 Milot could not bear to remain a mere eye-witness 
 of this upheaval, though he had no right to take part 
 in a strike of tarpaulin and ropemakers, being after all 
 only a porter and beadle. He therefore promptly 
 organised a little meeting of his own : an assembly of 
 ex-service men to protest against the African cam- 
 paign. 
 
 This proved a disastrous evening for the Cafe 
 Dumarchey. Milot, who had been drinking all the 
 afternoon to set himself going, proposed the formation 
 of a "War on War" group, open to all who demanded 
 general disarmament and the brotherhood of nations; 
 but a drayman, who had been mobilised as a motor- 
 driver, having expressed a desire to move a resolution 
 to the same effect, was shouted down by the cripple 
 as a coward who skulked behind the lines, a ninny 
 and a hermaphrodite, and was ordered to hold his 
 tongue. As, however, he did not sit down quickly 
 enough, Milot threw a bottle at his head. "That's 
 the way we throw hand-grenades, you muck ! " 
 
 The meeting ended in a hideous brawl, the ex- 
 soldiers and the others belabouring each other mid 
 cries of "Down with War!" 
 
 The workmen, next day, broke the windows of the 
 workshops with stones and attacked an overseer, who 
 was picked up with a fractured arm. The prefect was 
 obliged to send for a detachment of infantry to guard 
 the factory. The strike was now well under way, 
 and Lousteau, pleased with this new success, was able 
 to depart in peace : he took train for the Dauphine, 
 where the workers in the paper-mills were expecting 
 him. 
 
 Magloire Dubourg had stood aside altogether from 
 the strike. His only part in it had been to relieve 
 distress, and incidentally, on one occasion he had 
 addressed some workjnen who were harassing a
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 229 
 
 "blackleg." Syndicalists had grumbled then that he 
 was, "letting them down." 
 
 Wlien the Evangelist was not absent on a round of 
 charitable visits, the converts of the Cite made a prac- 
 tice of paying their respects to him at the King's 
 Domain, bringing in their wake unbelievers and 
 atheists, who had never approached him before and 
 who now came to see him because they had nothing 
 better to do. They would find him smoking out a 
 bee-hive or working in the kitchen-garden with a blue 
 apron tied round his waist. 
 
 The day following the riot they came in greater 
 numbers than usual, downhearted and fractious. 
 
 " Ah, if only we had the upper hand ! " murmured a 
 workman, a man of fifty, gaunt and leaden-faced. 
 
 "Well . . . what would you do ?" asked the saint, 
 who was pruning a shrub. 
 
 A gleam irradiated the eyes of the militant workman. 
 
 "What would we do? . . . Well . . . Every dog 
 has his day. . . . Revenge ! It would be they that 
 would have to sweat and kill themselves with work, 
 , . . they have Uved long enough on our misery." 
 
 "And is that all?" replied the saint, returning the 
 gardening shears to the pocket of his blue apron. "Is 
 the society of which you dream any more just than 
 the other? Tell me, will the world be better when 
 you have replaced this society without virtue by a 
 society without morals? Listen to me : What you 
 need to do is to convince your opponents, not to 
 triumph over them. ... If the upheaval of the old 
 world must be limited to a fight between the rich, 
 who want to keep all and the oppressed, who want to 
 take all, what does it matter to me which of two 
 hatreds may gain the victory? I do not want to 
 choose between the ferocity of full coffers and the 
 cupidity of empty hands. ..." 
 
 "All the same," argued the workman, "one can't 
 look on and let them gorge themselves, without saying 
 a word. . . . Are we all equal, yes or no?"
 
 230 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 "More equal than you think, my man. Not equal 
 in the short passage of one life, but equal in eternity. 
 ... Is the weakling the equal of the strong man, 
 is the fool the equal of the intelligent man? No, is 
 not that true? But their power does not last, and 
 fate grants it but once. If they take an unfair ad- 
 vantage of it to enslave their brothers, they are guilty 
 of folly and crime at the same time; because, having 
 oppressed others, they will to-morrow be oppressed 
 in their turn. The very interest of the rich man is to 
 proclaim: "Neither rich nor poor," because soon he 
 will himself be poor. Verily the benefactor benefits 
 himself. As long as this truth has not entered the 
 hearts of men, there wiU be on this earth none but 
 slaves and executioners. . . . " 
 
 Each sermon brought him new converts, because 
 in days of suffering men search always and ever5rwhere 
 for hope. 
 
 In the Cite an important group of fanatics, entirely 
 devoted to the ideas of the Evangelist, had been 
 formed. Such exaggerated virtue reigned in this sect 
 that it had become the laughing-stock of the whole 
 country-side. Their edifying mode of life had in fact 
 something abnormal and scandalous about it. They 
 seemed to live by a sort of inverted common sense, 
 outside the pale of humanity. The little houses which 
 were formerly alive wdth the noise of their joys and 
 their quarrels, now lay silent and sad. Their inhabi- 
 tants never committed a single bad deed, not the 
 slightest peccadillo : it was as if they were no longer 
 alive. 
 
 The strike had found them penniless, for they de- 
 spised thrift and had faith in God. "Take therefore 
 no thought for the morrow : for the morrow shall take 
 thought for the things of itself." But He Who feeds 
 the birds of the air and clothes the lilies of the field 
 seemed to have forgotten them and, but for Magloire 
 Dubourg, they would have starved. 
 
 Devoid of pride, devoid of ambition, knowing well
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 231 
 
 that as the Gospel has it, they could not add one cubit 
 to their stature, they Hved in the state to which it had 
 pleased Providence to call them and desired nothing 
 more. Humbly, they enjoyed their mediocrity. 
 Parents, whose sons were being educated in higher 
 schools, had withdrawn them, thinking that they 
 were sinning through pride in trying to change their 
 station in life. They ate without greediness; the 
 couples lived together in continence; and, to free 
 their hearts from old lies that weighed heavily upon 
 them, husbands and wives had made painful confes- 
 sions to each other which would taint their whole lives 
 with mutual suspicion and regrets. 
 
 Their very gentleness was exasperating. No matter 
 what might be said to them, how they might be in- 
 sulted or ill-treated, they accepted everything with 
 resignation, and pitied those who offended them. 
 That these violent men, these irritable women should 
 have been transformed to such an extent in a few 
 months, was perhaps the greatest miracle achieved by 
 the saint, and certainly the most incontrovertible. 
 
 "They are not human beings any more, they are 
 Iambs, they are mussels," clamoured Milot, whose 
 nerves were set on edge by this forbearance. 
 
 And when he was informed that these peculiar 
 strikers refused to join in hunting out the traitors 
 who still worked for the extortioner — as he called his 
 employer — he grumbled indignantly : 
 
 "Never mind, at the great distribution of kicks 
 somewhere, I know some people who can come with 
 baskets. ..." 
 
 It seemed that when this embryo society had been 
 freed from its sheath of sins, its nerves had also been 
 removed. Milot was right : these bodies without 
 desires were no longer men. 
 
 The hostility against Saint Magloire was on the 
 increase in Barlincourt. All those who were afraid 
 of the strike accused the Evangelist of having set it 
 on foot; some of the workmen, discouraged, began
 
 232 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 to turn their backs on him. Shopkeepers and peasants 
 whispered to each other all manner of abominable 
 things. Allusions were made to the frequent absence 
 of Mme. Dubourg and the Evangelist, and smiles ex- 
 changed when the novelist went to catch his train. 
 
 "He's more thick-headed than a prize-bull," old 
 wags with clean shaven faces jested on the market 
 place. 
 
 And the others answered philosophically : 
 
 "Pooh ! there are never more than two cuckolds in 
 one household. ..." 
 
 Young Moucron, puckering his obstinate forehead, 
 described the death of his father in his own way. 
 
 "The saint came with his tomfooleries to his bed- 
 side when he was as bad as bad. I had to chuck him 
 out. ... It may be it's that performance which 
 caused his death, poor old fellow. . . ." 
 
 When Magloire Dubourg travelled about the 
 country-side, people did not greet him as they had done 
 heretofore. Only the old women crossed themselves 
 when he passed. Youthful labourers, hiding carefully, 
 sometimes shouted " Yah, Yah ! " from afar, to show 
 the girls that they were not afraid. And directly he 
 saw the saint the Trembler took to flight, fearing no 
 one knew what. 
 
 Of all the sufferers who had been healed by the 
 saint, only the blind man had returned to the King's 
 Domain : and he had come to ask for money. 
 
 The Pele case came before the Assizes in November. 
 The bill against the girl Julie had been thrown out; 
 Louis alone had to answer for the murder, without 
 accomplices. 
 
 The trial had attracted a large public, for it 
 became known that Saint Magloire would be called 
 as a witness. People had even come from Paris. 
 Immediately the doors were opened a band of strikers 
 from Barlincourt invaded the places reserved for the 
 public; and this preliminary scuffle showed at once
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 233 
 
 that there would be trouble before the day was 
 over. 
 
 A livid light fell from the wide bay windows and 
 gave a clear front view of the prisoner as he sat 
 between two gendarmes. His hair had been cropped 
 and the shameful tattoo-marks stood out against the 
 pale brow. The jurors, scarcely visible in the gloom 
 of the court, faced him. 
 
 The president, leaning heavily on the table, with 
 his back bent, followed the trial in a half-slumber, 
 his head bowed, so that the audience could only see 
 the lower part of his face, bulging with fat. At his 
 left, a weazel faced assessor wearing eyeglasses, looked 
 alternately at the witnesses and the murderer with a 
 fixed smile, in which sexual cruelty and stupidity 
 were mingled. The other assessor appeared to be 
 sketching something. 
 
 Behind the tribunal, above a plaster figure of the 
 Republic, a bull's eye window cut out its sinister rim 
 on the sky. 
 
 "A regular guillotine window," jested the Advocate- 
 General. 
 
 The latter was a man of fine figure, who waved his 
 drooping sleeves while he talked. He was eloquent, 
 harsh, arrogant, and when he questioned a witness 
 even for the defence, he never let himself go until he 
 had extracted from him all that could incriminate 
 Petit Louis. 
 
 "Thank you, M. le President, that was all I wished 
 to know," he said, sitting down. 
 
 And, looking at the jurors, he shook his head sig- 
 nificantly. 
 
 The murderer, hunched in the dock, with clenched 
 fists and fixed gaze, never took his eyes off from this 
 red-faced man who was bent on destroying him. 
 
 At moments, his rage carried him away : he sud- 
 denly sprang to his feet, and leaning forward, with a 
 malignant look on his face, and his arms held stiffly 
 out he began to shout; he gave the lie to the witness,
 
 234 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 held his ground before the Prosecutor, thrust aside 
 his counsel, as though he were writhing to escape 
 from the tentacles which were closing in upon him. 
 
 "Come, that will do, keep quiet," stormed the 
 President, hammeriag on his desk like a disturbed 
 school usher. " You will speak when you are questioned." 
 
 "All the same," choked Petit Louis in a spent voice, 
 "they are not going to cut my throat without allow- 
 ing me to defend myself ! " 
 
 "That is your counsel's business." 
 
 The latter thereupon, visibly touched, half rose to 
 his feet and gratefully inclined his head. He also bowed 
 to the Attorney-General after the latter had roughly 
 handled him, he bowed to the witnesses, he bowed to 
 the jurors : with a little encouragement he would 
 have bowed to the gendarmes. This was his first 
 appearance at the Assizes and he was counting on 
 this notorious case to launch him. Every time he 
 stood up, nervously fingering his notes, to answer the 
 prosecution, his agitation almost suffocated him; 
 and several times he was obliged to stop short, lost 
 in his headings, his proofs and deductions, forgetting 
 where he had begun and not knowing how to finish. 
 Behind him, with his chin sunk on his arm, looking 
 out of the corners of his eyes, the accused listened, 
 without understanding. He gave the impression of 
 a sheep delivered to the mercy of a clumsy butcher. 
 
 The witnesses passed one after another, frightened, 
 flurried by questions, their wits bemused, thinking 
 only of getting away. Josephin burst into sobs in the 
 witness-box and the President charitably cut short 
 his evidence, of which nothing could be heard but 
 scraps which were hiccoughed out amid sobs. 
 
 "His tears are enough for me," declared the 
 Attorney-General, with a flutter of his red sleeves. 
 
 Louis's first employer, a man who had thrashed 
 and ill-treated him, came forward with an account 
 of the vicious life he had led as a youth. There was 
 such malevolence in his asthmatic voice, such ran-
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 235 
 
 cour in the gossip which he repeated that the public 
 murmured disapproval. The old man, however, was 
 not disconcerted. 
 
 "Yes," he insisted, turning toward Louis, "I have 
 always said you would end on the scaffold." 
 
 The audience was roused. In the hubbub no one 
 heard the insult which the murderer hurled at him; 
 but, while the President wakened from his slumbers, 
 demanded silence, the Advocate-General proclaimed 
 in his theatrical voice : 
 
 "You were right, sir: his fate is inscribed on his 
 forehead." 
 
 Petit Louis bore this long ordeal without flinching : 
 he appeared to doze while the doctor gave evidence 
 for the prosecution, and when the Trembler, the first 
 witness for the defence, was ushered in, he only gave 
 him a little look of welcome, which the other did not 
 see. 
 
 Sometimes he turned his head toward the public, 
 his eyes resting on all these different countenances : 
 for months past he had only seen the same faces of 
 judges and warders. At other times he listened to 
 the noises coming from the street, the rolling of 
 carriages, the cries of hawkers. Free. . . . 
 
 Evening was drawing near. Clinging to the high 
 window-pane, the day peeped in, as if loath to depart 
 without knowing. 
 
 When Adele was called and came forward tremb- 
 ling, her features working, the accused gazed at her 
 with a sort of despair. She was dressed completely 
 in black and he thought, with a sudden chill at his 
 heart, that she was already wearing mourning for him. 
 
 Turning his head away, so as not to be seen, he 
 began quietly to weep, without moving a muscle. 
 
 "Look," murmured some of the spectators. . . . 
 "He does not even want to look at her. They are 
 heartless, these monsters. . . ." 
 
 The servant's tale proved to be a pitiful one. She 
 recounted as well as she could the life of her sister.
 
 236 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 who had died from destitution and had been obliged 
 to hand over her baby to the Assistance Publique, 
 as she was unable to feed him. She hemmed nap- 
 kins, at threepence a dozen, and provided the thread. 
 
 This detail provoked a titter from a woman in the 
 audience. 
 
 The father, a drunkard, had disappeared. And the 
 deserted boy had grown up in the country first with 
 the metal-beater, after that anywhere. . . . 
 
 "I respect your grief. Madam," the President, who 
 had now recovered from his lunch, intervened em- 
 phatically. "But it is an honour for France that 
 the children brought up under our Assistance Publique 
 with the admirable devotion of which everyone is 
 cognizant, provide the country with a contingent of 
 honest workers, and, when necessary, heroic soldiers." 
 
 It so happened that, by a disconcerting coincidence, 
 two wards of the Institution sat on the same bench : 
 the murderer and a gendarme. They looked at each 
 other; then, simultaneously, turned their eyes away. 
 
 Julie was the next witness. When she entered, 
 a few jeers sounded behind her and the miserable girl 
 stopped short, bewildered. She was livid, white- 
 lipped, and seemed still paler under the black kerchief 
 which she had tied over her head, to hide her cropped 
 hair. She at once bent her gaze on her lover, stirred 
 by a mysterious emotion : she had always thought 
 that she would see him thus, some day, before judges, 
 between two gendarmes. It was like a dream coming 
 true. 
 
 The President was losing patience. 
 
 "Turn round," he exclaimed. "It is the jury you 
 must address." 
 
 She did not repeat a single word of what Petit 
 Louis had told her in her garret the night of the 
 crime, understanding that it could harm him, and 
 only recounted what she had seen in the disordered 
 room, the bleeding corpse, the petrified murderer. 
 
 "She still moved a bit, and I cried, Help!"
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 237 
 
 The public, shocked, again began to mm-rnur. 
 
 "I wonder whether the proper place for this girl 
 is really the witness-box," exclaimed the Advocate- 
 General when Julie withdrew. 
 
 After she had gone, the President seemed to hesi- 
 tate and conversed in a low voice with his Assessors, 
 their three red gowns touching each other. 
 
 Petit Louis, who was gazing vaguely at the door 
 through which Julie had gone, leaned over to his counsel. 
 
 "And Mile. Dubourg," he inquired timidly, "will 
 she not come?" 
 
 "WTiy, no, we do not need her evidence," answered 
 the lawyer. 
 
 "Ah!" . . . 
 
 Louis sat down, without saying anything more. 
 He stared before him. 
 
 The President at this moment came to a decision. 
 
 "Call M. Magloire Dubourg," he ordered. 
 
 A shiver ran through the spectators and there arose 
 a sudden noise of impatient voices, shuffling feet, and 
 benches being pushed back. All eyes converged on 
 the witnesses' room.. At the back of the hall, behind 
 the railing, people jostled against each other. Then 
 the door opened and complete silence reigned. 
 
 He was the one person for whom they had been 
 waiting, all eyes were instantly fastened on him. 
 
 He was wearing a wide mantle in place of the 
 legendary cape in which he was usually seen; bare- 
 headed, his white hair like a halo, he slowly advanced 
 to the bar, and having caught sight of Louis, he 
 gazed at him for a long while in silence. 
 
 The President, bent on hurrying the case through, 
 mumbled the formula for the oath : 
 
 "Say : I swear it." 
 
 Magloire Dubourg then turned his eyes on him. 
 
 " Swear on what ? " he asked quietly. 
 
 The judge made a gesture of Ul-temper. 
 
 "The crucifix has been withdrawn from the law 
 courts," he said, forestalling the objection, "and the 
 
 Q
 
 238 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 oaths v.hich are sworn here are not less solemn on 
 that account. The testimony of atheists is just as 
 valuable as that of others." 
 
 "No," the saint replied forcibly. "If Christ reigned 
 in all hearts, you would be able to destroy your 
 tribunals and your prisons; you would not be here 
 in red gowns, these loafers would not come here to 
 scent blood, and there could not be, between two 
 gendarmes, a twenty-year-old assassin." 
 
 The President tried to drown his voice : 
 
 "I beg of you. . . , All this has no connection 
 with the process of the law. You must keep strictly 
 within the limits of your evidence." 
 
 The public, whose attention had been caught at 
 once, listened breathlessly. Women, with white faces, 
 had risen to their feet. In the background somebody 
 shouted: "Long live Saint Magloire," and the dis- 
 turbance began. People wTangled with each other. 
 
 "Sit down," protested the spectators on the back 
 benches. "Sit down!" 
 
 The usher, whom nobody heard, clamoured 
 "Silence." And the President, standing up, ges- 
 ticulated wildly. The voice of the saint dominated 
 the noise. 
 
 "Verily, I hear the rending of your old world which 
 is about to collapse. . . ." 
 
 "Silence," commanded the President. . . . /'In- 
 tervention like this is as ridiculous as it is misplaced; 
 I insist on your observing the respect due to the 
 law. . . ." 
 
 The saint continued in the midst of the tumult : 
 "You only judge in the name of egoism and of 
 fear. . . . You are the watch-dogs of a house that 
 is condemned to ruin. . . ." 
 
 " Enough ! " stormed the President, banging on the 
 table with his fists. . . . "I shall have you 
 arrested at the bar. . . . Gendarmes ! . . . " 
 
 "Judge not that ye be not judged, said the Master," 
 the voice of thunder continued, "for with the same
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 239 
 
 measure that ye mete withal, it shall be measured to 
 you again." 
 
 Loud cries rent the air. The railings in the back- 
 ground were shaken by the pushing of the crowd. 
 Some nervous jurors stood up. Suddenly a yellow 
 flash, followed by a deafening explosion, blinded 
 everyone. Frightened women shrieked and rushed 
 towards the exit. It was only a photographer who 
 had taken a flashlight picture. At last two gendarmes 
 cut through the assembly and approached the saint. 
 The cries redoubled. 
 
 In the enclosure at the back, people were shouting 
 " Long live Saint Magloire ! " at the top of their voices. 
 Petit Louis, livid, survej'ed this scene of madness. 
 No one paid any attention to him. 
 
 When he felt the hand of the gendarmes roughly 
 laid on his shoulder, Magloire Dubourg simply turned 
 his head and looked at them. His eyes had the 
 strange gleam which sometimes shone in their depths, 
 and the two men felt a sort of shock on meeting his 
 glance. He scanned these men, one after the other, 
 very calm in the midst of the uproar. 
 
 "Gendarmes, take away the prisoner. . , . No, 
 the witness," stuttered the President. 
 
 The gendarmes tried to obey the order, but their 
 strength seemed suddenly to ooze from them, leaving 
 them with limp fingers and nerv^eless wrists. They 
 were like children wanting to move a stone statue. 
 
 " Long live Saint Magloire ! " 
 
 "Down with the 'cops!'" 
 
 Some workmen scrambling over the railings sprang 
 forward to release the Evangelist; but soldiers called 
 in from outside threw themselves in front of them and 
 pushed them back, amid a racket of overturned 
 benches and a storm of cheers and hisses. 
 
 Shrill cries of women assailed the ears. Scuffling 
 and fighting had begun. An unkempt man carried 
 along by two soldiers was yelling. Excited journa- 
 lists standing on their seats were taking notes.
 
 240 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 "And you," the saint flung at the Prosecutor, 
 "you will be proud to-night, to bear off his head. It 
 will represent a new triumph. . . . Verily, I tell 
 you, you will bear it all your life, the burden of this 
 boy's head, and every day it will grow heavier. . . ." 
 
 The young lawyer with arms outstretched, begged 
 for quiet, but Magloire Dubourg did not see him. He 
 cried to the jurors, who were leaving the court : 
 
 "Hearts of stone ! There wiU be no pity for those 
 who have shown themselves pitiless. . . . The 
 hangman also will be judged. . . ." 
 
 Crowded together near the exit, the members of the 
 jury faced his anger, but from a distance. A small 
 sour-faced official threw at him : 
 
 "You side with the murderer?" 
 
 "No. He wiU pay for his crime on earth, but the 
 blood which wiU flow will only cleanse his soul and 
 sully yours. . . . Aceldama. Aceldama." ^ 
 
 The hall was being cleared amidst a deafening noise. 
 Outside, passions ran high. The demonstrators, yell- 
 ing, strove to release those who were in the hands of 
 the police and soldiers. WTien the saint appeared 
 on the steps, he was greeted by a long ovation; then, 
 while a tumultuous procession was forming behind 
 him, others, returning to the attack, tried to overrun 
 the court by breaking in the doors. At last, after an 
 hour, peace was restored and, the President haying 
 received orders from Paris, the hearing was resumed 
 before a room that was two-thirds empty. 
 
 "My dear friend, I do believe that your client is 
 lost," said the Advocate-General to the counsel for the 
 defence. "My speech to the Court is perhaps un- 
 necessary." 
 
 "Still," the young man objected anxiously, "there 
 is the family history, the mental examination. . . . 
 You yourself said this morning ..." 
 
 "Yes, this morning you were certain to get off with 
 
 1 Aceldama : field of blood. The field which Judas bought 
 for his thirty pieces of silver.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 241 
 
 penal servitude for life; but now, you understand the 
 jurors mil be thirsting for revenge, and as they cannot 
 condemn the saint, they will make your client pay 
 for it." 
 
 "At least," sighed the newly fledged lawyer, "it 
 cannot do me any harm. ..." 
 
 "Not at all, on the contrary. And now that all is 
 lost, do not hesitate. Go at it for all you're 
 worth. ..." 
 
 "Have you already obtained many death- 
 sentences?" 
 
 "This will make the eighth," the Prosecutor 
 answered negligently. And he added, throwing back 
 his sleeve : 
 
 "My wife will be so pleased. ..." 
 
 It was nearly eight o'clock when the jury finished 
 its deliberations. The hall was dark. The little 
 official had to come close to a chandelier to read the 
 verdict. In the square, shouting was still going on. 
 
 "On my honour and my conscience, before God and 
 men, the answer to the jury is "Yes" to all the ques- 
 tions. ..." 
 
 Adele, huddled on the last bench, chilled with 
 horror, a mist before her eyes, listened to the drone 
 of unintelligible words. 
 
 "WTiat does it mean? What is it?" she asked with 
 chattering teeth. 
 
 Her neighbour looked at her. 
 
 "A sentence of death." 
 
 \
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 Barlincourt shivered with cold. A sharp wind 
 roamed through the deserted streets, the empty timber- 
 yards and the bare fields. The high chimney-stacks 
 of the factories towered lifeless, and the regular throb 
 of the machines was no longer heard. The foremen 
 wandered about the silent workshops. The vices 
 remained motionless, with drooping arms; tools lay 
 about on the benches; in the repair shops, unfolded 
 rolls of canvas were still on the trestles with the big 
 needle sticking half way down the seam. The tar- 
 paulins of the sheds flapped in the wind and the 
 noise resounded sadly through the emptiness of the 
 factory. 
 
 M. Aubernon had just decided that the strikers 
 domiciled in the Cite must leave their dwellings on 
 the following Saturday, failing which they were to be 
 evicted. This crowning manoeuvre to break up the 
 strike had acted on the workmen like the lash of a 
 whip. The women, ever ready to weep, were be- 
 moaning their lot, but the men talked of raising 
 barricades. 
 
 As to the fanatics — there were at least fifty families 
 of them — they submitted at once and were tying up 
 bundles of clothing without making any demur. This 
 drove the others to fury. Quarrels broke out. Men 
 who wanted to fight were heard vociferating : 
 
 " Go and lick the boots of the boss, you traitor ! " 
 
 The militant members of the community, soured 
 by failures, realised that the game was up and laid 
 the blame on the saint. 
 
 "It is his fault ! Why did he speak of Aubernon 
 at the Assizes? It had nothing to do with it. . . . 
 That is why they are turning us out. ... If those 
 
 242
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 243 
 
 chicken-livered innocents had not stuck up for the 
 saint, this would not have happened : " 
 
 "Will your saint find a lodging for my kid? Or the 
 Cure? He was hand in glove with the boss, your 
 Magloire, you blacklegs ! " 
 
 However, a goodly number of strikers still upheld 
 the saint. On the evening of the trial, when he re- 
 turned to Barlincourt, they escorted him with cheers 
 from the station, and on the way back they stopped 
 under M. Aubernon's windows to shout "Murderer !" 
 
 Among those taking part in the demonstration, M. 
 Aubernon, crimson in the face and stamping his feet 
 with rage, recognised Milot, and this proved the last 
 straw. The same night, without a word of explana- 
 tion, he discharged the doorkeeper-sacristan. 
 
 The cripple would not allow himself to be 
 demoralised by such a trifle. On the contrary : he 
 was proud of being promoted to the ranks of the 
 working-class martyrs and was quite sufficiently re- 
 warded when at the first meeting, he was unanimously 
 elected chairman. That evening the renegades, who 
 were moving out without putting up any resistance, 
 had been freely hooted and it was decided to make a 
 stand, even against a display of military force. 
 
 Saint Magloire, to whom his disciples had come for 
 advice, told them to remain in the Cite. 
 
 "Afterwards, if they expel you," he promised them, 
 "you will take up your abode in the church. The 
 House of God is the house of the poor, it is yours." 
 
 The Cure, when these words were repeated to him, 
 was nearly overwhelmed. He saw his chapel invaded, 
 his vestry defiled, the presbytery plundered; and he 
 went straight to the Town Hall to ask M. Quatrepomme 
 to have the church guarded on the day of the evic- 
 tions. 
 
 Since sentence had been passed on Petit Louis, 
 Abbe Choisy had read in the Croix and the Nou- 
 velliste, which were lent to him, such articles on the 
 Evangelist that the old man no longer awed him. He
 
 244 SAINT MAGLOTRE 
 
 had even had the audacit}' to call him curtly "Sir" 
 in public. 
 
 After he had placed his request before the Mayor, 
 the Cure betook himself to the Gendarmerie and lodged 
 a complaint against Milot. The latter, filled with 
 sudden zeal since his dismissal, was determined to 
 remain at his post of beadle in spite of all 
 opposition ; and that very morning he had insisted 
 on serving Mass and had caused a scandal during 
 the service. 
 
 Thus, in the streets in the Cite, in the public houses, 
 and even in the church, people were quarrelling. 
 Often the wranglers came to blows. 
 
 Disquieting rumours were rife in Barlincourt; it 
 was said that the workmen in the Cite were en- 
 trenching themselves and that the factory was going 
 to be blown up. The terrified tradesmen only half- 
 opened their shops and the dragoons clattering along 
 imparted to the empty streets an atmosphere of appre- 
 hension. 
 
 On the Saturday, ever^^thing remained closed. A 
 thousand onlookers were massed on the Flanders road 
 hoping to see something; but a troop of cavalry 
 impeded their passage, and prevented them from 
 getting through. People were tremulously expecting 
 affrays, and some of the idle spectators were already 
 looking out for a way of escape. Wlien the Commis- 
 sary arrived, there was an explosion of cries and hisses, 
 but only a few gendarmes were needed to push back 
 the demonstrators. 
 
 From afar there could be heard the heart-rending 
 cries of women in the Cite : they were evidently holding 
 on to their homes with might and main. The children, 
 seized with terror, were screaming shrilly. Door-locks 
 were being forced, barricades destroyed, and bundles 
 of clothes thrown into the mud. 
 
 Between the hind-quarters of the horses the scared 
 groups of refugees could be seen, looking at their 
 houses with despairing eyes. On the brick walls were
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 245 
 
 lines of string, along which nasturtiums used to climb 
 in the summer. 
 
 "Haven't we got a home any more, then. 
 Mummy? ..." whined the smaller children. 
 
 Shabby luggage was being piled up : black wooden 
 trunks, baskets, folding beds, a cradle. ... It was 
 all loaded on lorries from the factory, and taken into an 
 old tile-shed, open to all the winds of heaven, which 
 the Prefect had placed at the disposal of the homeless. 
 
 The evicted people still forlornly waited. Little by 
 little the gendarmes drove them back. It was the 
 end. ... A sort of procession formed, women with 
 their white-faced babies in their arms, people cum- 
 bered with all sorts of heterogeneous articles, which 
 they had not wanted to leave behind : clocks, almanacs, 
 a fat red eiderdown quilt. They filed by, shamefaced, 
 between two rows of curious spectators. A platoon of 
 gendarmes came behind, urging the flock forward; 
 they looked like a gang of convicts on their way to 
 transportation. Out of bravado, they talked loudly, 
 chaffing each other and forcing themselves to laugh. 
 But when they reached the outskirts of the town and 
 foimd themselves alone, silence fell suddenly upon 
 them. The rain, cutting and icy, had begun to fall, 
 and without a word, they moved wearily away. . . . 
 
 Barlincourt drew a long breath of relief; everything 
 had gone off peacefully. . . . The shopkeepers, re- 
 assured, took down their shutters. In the Rue de 
 Verdun the well-to-do distributed cigarettes among 
 the soldiers. 
 
 One man remained indignant : and that man was 
 Milot. In anticipation of serious trouble and of the 
 occupation of the church by the Christian proletariat, 
 he had donned a black coat with a chain round his 
 neck. In this attire, supplemented by his staff of 
 ofifice, he had, during the whole afternoon awaited 
 demonstrators in the square before the church. No- 
 body appeared.
 
 246 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 He had seen the cavahy go past again, then the 
 loafers, walking two abreast, protected by umbrellas; 
 but after that he could no longer contain himself. He 
 apostrophised the passers-by, played havoc with the 
 children, bawling at the top of his voice, while he 
 brandished his staff aloft. He shouted that the 
 strikers were "knuckling under," that there were no 
 men left, and that the end of the Republic was at 
 hand. He pretended to tear off his medals and throw 
 them into the mud, then, his eloquence exhausted, 
 he cried out "Long live Saint Magloire," feeling sure 
 that these words would annoy everybody. 
 
 And now, with his voice, hoarse and spent, he 
 remained stubbornly, all by himself in front of the 
 church door, still bawling, so that he seemed to be 
 holding a solitary parade for the benefit of two children 
 who, blue from cold and the damp wind, were watching 
 him. 
 
 "Even the chickens are taking a hand," grumbled 
 old fitienne, who was now the only gardener at the 
 Villa Dubourg. 
 
 Though he did his best, preparing warm messes for 
 them and cleaning the fowl houses with coaltar to 
 rid them of the vermin with which they were infested, 
 one of them died every day. He was beginning to 
 suspect the refugees, who now had the free run of- the 
 gardens, for the saint protected them against everybody. 
 
 If he had not been buo^^ed up by the hope that 
 the family would soon return to Paris, or go south, 
 leaving him in sole occupation of the house at Barlin- 
 court, fitienne would have left the place long ago, for 
 his position had become imbearable. 
 
 He took his meals alone in the kitchen with 
 Adele, and completely lost his appetite through being 
 faced day after day by the haggard-eyed woman. The 
 cook no longer complained, and no longer wept; the 
 bad dreams of her sleepless nights still seemed to 
 haunt her waking hours.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 247 
 
 He had imagined at first that she would hate the 
 saint, for all the papers had said that but for him 
 the murderer would probably have got off with penal 
 servitude. But, on the contrary, the first time she 
 saw him again, she kissed his hands, weeping. Old 
 fitienne reaUy could not understand anything of all 
 these goings on, and, as he was terribly bored, he had 
 taken to drink. 
 
 From time to time some one could be heard 
 shouting outside : it was the fanatic of the lodge 
 coming home, escorted by a troop of urchins singing : 
 
 "He is cracked, 
 Pan, pan, pan, pan. 
 There is nothing in his head. ..." 
 
 Begin, the baker, had refused to supply the King's 
 Domain any longer, saying that all the misfortunes of 
 the district came from there; and as soon as his last 
 account had been settled, he had shouted insults 
 through the railings, his fat face purple with rage. 
 When the gardener wanted to go out and thrash him, 
 the saint held him back. 
 
 "Leave him alone," he said gently. "Perhaps he 
 is right; and I have still a great deal of pride to over- 
 come, if I am capable of being hurt by abuse." 
 
 Encouraged by this attitude, the baker persevered : 
 since then he stopped his cart every morning in front 
 of the villa, and standing up on his box, he made a 
 little speech, crying shame upon the demagogues, the 
 poisoners of the nation, whilst the fanatic in his white 
 robe, standing at his window, shouted " Vade retro" 
 and cursed him with outstretched arms. 
 
 The other refugee laughed himself sick and invited 
 friends to come and see the performance. 
 
 "I swear to you, it's more fun than the cinema." 
 
 Among the strikers the brawls had become so violent, 
 the "reds" against the converts of the tile-sheds, that the 
 latter had to be moved and lodged in another hovel.
 
 248 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 M. Frangois Dubourg, exasperated by all these inci- 
 dents, had given up returning to Barlincourt. "The 
 Red Bastard" was coming on again at the Ambigu 
 Theatre, and he declared that the rehearsals were 
 keeping him in Paris. 
 
 The truth was that he had taken a mistress — his 
 first serious love-affair, though be was over fifty — and 
 he preferred to live with her in bohemian fashion at 
 Montmartre, rather than return to the King's Domain, 
 where the austere atmosphere was too much for him. 
 
 Mme. Dubourg also was frequently away from home. 
 One day, when she felt more overwrought than usual, 
 she had fainted in the stairway of a house to which 
 she was accompanying the saint, and she had felt so 
 disheartened, so weary of everything, that instead of 
 returning straight to Barlincourt, she went up to M. 
 Van den Kris' flat to rest for a moment. She con- 
 fessed to him her disgust with this joyless existence, 
 these monotonous days. Jos showed his affection for 
 her, and endeavoured to comfort her with clumsy 
 caresses; and after that she often went back to see 
 him. 
 
 It was only when she was with him that she 
 escaped from the tediousness which enshrouded her. 
 It was a relaxation to listen smilingly to the Dutch- 
 man's whimsical remarks, and not to be continually 
 exhorted to good works. Moreover, she was experi- 
 encing that tardy thirst for happiness which the saint 
 had awakened in her. 
 
 She was also pleased by the flat itself. The rooms 
 were queerly furnished, with exotic "bric-a-brac" 
 that made them look like the clearing house of a sea- 
 port, and they smelled of vanilla, leather, old books 
 and sandal wood. Strange curtains, made of many- 
 coloured strips, such as are probably used in the huts 
 of negro chiefs, hung in front of the windows, and the 
 daylight could hardly creep in through them. On 
 the walls hung panoplies of arrows and assegais, 
 Sudanese citharas; zebu horns; upon the fumitur«
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 249 
 
 stood palm-fibre baskets, filled with dried fruits and 
 shells, a large compass and guide books of shipping 
 companies. 
 
 M. Van den Kris slept on a camp-bed of green Unen, 
 with its mosquito-net set up ready for use. To Ught his 
 room, he used a hurricane-lamp, which stood on two 
 cabin trunks that were always ready packed. There 
 was every encouragement to perpetual travel : the 
 posters, with large red steamers— DEUTSCHE OST 
 AFRIKA LINIE— which papered the entrance-hall; 
 a rolled-up tent, the maps pinned to the walls, above 
 all, the penetrating smeU of the wilds, which these 
 things had preserved. Mme. Dubourg, amused, tried 
 with the tips of her fingers the points of the lances 
 and the edge of the Touareg swords, with their short 
 blades and their cross-shaped hilts. 
 
 It was here that M. Van den Kris had been 
 travelling for the last twenty years. . . . Lying on 
 this sofa, he exhausted in the dreams of a single 
 evening every peril, every joy of a whole year's wan- 
 dering. It was enough for him to read the name of 
 a port on the prospectus of a steamship line to be 
 carried to the other end of the world. In this motion- 
 less cabin he had tasted the coarse delights of drinking 
 bouts at Colombo, the long reveries on the decks of 
 sleeping ships, when the flying fish of the China Seas 
 dash by like silver darts in the blue air. He had 
 known landings at Grand Lahou, where the Kroumen 
 paddlers, singing, clear the high foam-fringed bar; 
 he had crossed Laos with its forests of tamarinds, the 
 desert uplands of the Andes, the burnt brushwood 
 where the vultures fly, Fiji with its perfume of vanilla. 
 And all because he had found a faded view of Samoa 
 and the portrait of a little black queen with hibiscus- 
 crowned hair, marking a page in a book, he had, while 
 poring over a map of the blue seas dotted with 
 fascinating names, completed in a single night that 
 cruise among the indolent islands of the Pacific, of 
 which he still talked sometimes.
 
 250 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 Marie Louise, on the occasion of her first visit, had 
 been frightened in the semi-darkness of the flat by a 
 greyish carapace. 
 
 "Oh! This hideous beast! Is it a croco- 
 dUe?" . . . 
 
 "No, it is an iguana, a species of lizard. They 
 climb up trees like squirrels. I brought it back from 
 over there as a souvenir. ..." 
 
 "Over there" was Bordeaux, where he had bought 
 it for fifteen francs in the shop of a bird-seller. 
 
 He and she no longer felt the impulse which throws 
 eager lovers into each other's arms at their first ren- 
 dezvous; he was close upon fifty and she just over 
 forty. Their love had deeper roots than that. 
 
 They recalled old memories : the ashes were not yet 
 cold. . . . He recalled his first visits to Barlincourt, 
 Gerard gambolling in short knickerbockers, Yvonne 
 trotting about in knitted socks. . . . 
 
 At the close of day, pulling aside the curtains, they 
 would stand shoulder to shoulder and watch the small 
 square where the children were playing. It was Saint 
 Martin's summer. A transparent sun was fading on 
 the roofs and, misled by these few days of warmth and 
 light, trees were putting forth green buds and birds 
 were singing. 
 
 "They deceive themselves as we do," murmured 
 Marie Louise, smiling mournfully. "They, too, believe 
 that spring has come back. ..." 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 With her father and mother always away, her 
 brother back in Paris for his classes, Yvonne remained 
 alone for days together in the silent villa. 
 
 With a book or some embroidery on her lap, she 
 would sit for hours without stirring, almost without 
 thinking. She was like a fly, paralysed by the spider 
 who is watching it. She awaited her destiny, unable 
 to do anything. . . . The letters which she had 
 written to Georges Aubernon had remained un- 
 answered; often she had waited for him at the station.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 251 
 
 but he no longer came to Barlincourt. And now she 
 had been pregnant for at least three months. 
 
 Several times, feelmg her heart too fragile for so 
 much sorrow, she was on the verge of confessing 
 everything to her parents, but the respect tinged with 
 awe which she felt for her uncle kept her back. If 
 he had not been there, she would akeady have thrown 
 herself into her mother's arms and, weeping, would 
 have yielded up her poor secret; but in his presence 
 she would never dare. Rather than reveal her shame 
 to him, rather than appear impure before his clear 
 eyes, she would have preferred to die. 
 
 To die. . . . The word no longer instUled fear 
 into her heart : the saint spoke of death with so much 
 tenderness. ... A short sleep, and on the other 
 side, a new life, without a stain. . . . She gazed at 
 the beautiful white clouds spinning past in the icy 
 sky. Perhaps it is with those big sponges of light 
 that the blemishes on dead people's souls are wiped 
 out. . . . 
 
 Benumbed, cast back entirely into herself, she in- 
 vented sad little romances. . . . She saw herself, 
 quite white, in her bed, dying of consumption. A 
 pretty silk shawl had been thrown over her shoulders 
 and her mother was weeping. . . . 
 
 Or else she sat down at the piano, picking out some 
 plaintive melody, and it seemed to her as though the 
 pale shadows of Schumann and Chopin were leaning 
 over her and saying : 
 
 "Come . . . Come. ..." 
 
 Only during dinner, when her uncle was present, 
 Yvonne relaxed somewhat. An impression of her 
 childhood came back to her, when, after playing hard, 
 she had entered the church and found herself sud- 
 denly alone, so slender on her prie-dicu, in the midst 
 of that large, still, empty space which smelt of incense. 
 She now felt the same in her ecstasy. An atmosphere 
 of serenity surrounded the saint. 
 
 When she went up to her room, she could hear her
 
 252 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 uncle walking backwards and forwards overhead. She 
 followed his heavy step, from his ever-open window 
 to his oaken prie-dieu. She heard him drop on his 
 knees. 
 
 In the sleeping house, she soon caught the sound 
 of a hushed voice. But it was not the murmur of a 
 prayer; it was rather as if the saint had been answer- 
 ing someone, before his crucifix of black wood. 
 
 Then, frozen, her heart in her mouth, whispering 
 timidly Ave Marias, the girl Ustened to that murmur 
 which perhaps was speaking to God. 
 
 One morning when she was alone, Yvonne felt sud- 
 denly ill. A feeling of nausea assailed her, her legs 
 gave way. She looked at herself in the mirror; her 
 nose was pinched, her eyes hollow, and she remembered 
 a little maid who had been dismissed some time ago, 
 because of that same appearance. At the time she 
 had not understood, but now, she knew, and the 
 memory made her burst into tears. 
 
 When the weeping fit was over, she suddenly felt 
 lucid and resolute. It was imperative that she should 
 see Georges, speak to his parents, tell them everything. 
 When they knew the truth, they would be compelled 
 to consent to the marriage; their disagreement with 
 the saint would not be allowed to stand in its way. 
 
 Her girlish hesitations had all of a sudden given 
 place to womanly determination, and she even won- 
 dered how she could have been so unhappy, when it 
 was so simple to arrange everything. As she knew 
 that Mme. Aubernon, terrified by the strikes, had 
 returned to Paris some days before, she at once took 
 the train, a thing she had never previously done by 
 herself. 
 
 Directly Mme. Aubernon saw the girl enter the 
 room, she understood. Nothing had ever led her to 
 anticipate such a scandal, and yet, at the first glance, 
 some kind of divination enlightened her. 
 
 She recoiled involuntarily, with a surly pinching
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 253 
 
 la of her lips and found herself on the point of cr5dng 
 Dut : "It is not true ! " But she recovered her self- 
 possession at once and, forcing a smile, welcomed 
 Yvonne as graciously as she could. 
 
 "What a pleasant surprise ! Are you spending the 
 day in Paris? And how is your mother?" 
 
 The short phrases kept whirling round like a flight 
 of birds in the blank mind of the poor little girl. She 
 felt giddy and, even before she opened her lips, she 
 could tell that her voice would fail. Yet she did not 
 think of going away. 
 
 Mme. Aubernon left the room to give an order and 
 the yormg girl understood that Georges was at home 
 and had been told not to appear. 
 
 Her hands were so icy that when she laid them on 
 the marble of the centre table she did not feel the cold 
 of the stone. She was not agitated, but she realised 
 that she was going to live through a moment as solemn 
 as death itself. When Mme. Aubernon returned, 
 Yvonne thought that she looked harsher than before. 
 Nevertheless she did not flinch. 
 
 "Well, my little Yvonne," questioned the mother in 
 her cutting voice, "Have you got a message for me?" 
 
 The girl did not dare look at her, not from fear, 
 but rather from shame and decency. 
 
 "Madame Aubernon, you know that I cared very 
 much for Georges. ..." 
 
 Mme. Aubernon, at once on the defensive, interrupted 
 her : 
 
 "He is not here." 
 
 Yvonne shook her head as if to say that this was 
 not what she wanted. She spoke in a muffled voice, 
 without lifting her eyelids. Having stopped an instant 
 CO choose her words she continued : 
 
 "Georges and I saw each other freely; you and my 
 parents were agreed about that, and I always thought 
 ^hat later on we should marry." 
 
 "Oh, not at all," protested Mme. Aubernon. 
 "There has never been anything definite. ... It 
 
 &
 
 254 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 was a mere childish friendship, which carried no obli- 
 gations with it, and my son is not in the least bound." 
 
 "But he is, Madame," said Yvonne simply. 
 
 Mme. Aubernon ceased playing with her chain of 
 black stones, her heart heavy with apprehension. 
 
 "I do not understand what you mean. . . . Have 
 your parents advised you to take this step? I am 
 not surprised. Well, then, what is your object?" 
 
 Yvonne summoned her courage and in a little hurt 
 voice : 
 
 " I have come to ask Georges to marry me as he 
 promised," she murmured. 
 
 This time, the mother rose, with a malicious expres- 
 sion on her face : 
 
 "Ah, no, no," she ejaculated, still restraining her 
 anger; "we won't allow ourselves to be caught like 
 that. . . . My son cannot marry you, you know it. 
 First, there was never any question of it. And after 
 what has happened in Barlincourt, we no longer have 
 an^^'thing in common with your family; you are our 
 enemies. It is on account of your uncle that all our 
 factories have gone on strike; he has insulted my 
 husband, he has roused the country to revolution. 
 . . . Oh ! I will never see your parents again, never, 
 5^ou can tell them that from me, since it is on their 
 advice that you have come to seek us out. ..." 
 
 Yvonne remained unmoved. Her inherent sweet- 
 ness was more firm and resolute than sheer will-power. 
 Nothing could stop her. 
 
 "Madame, my parents do not even know that I am 
 here," she asserted. "I could not possibly tell them." 
 
 Mme. Aubernon sneered evilly : 
 
 "Really, for a girl in good society, you have been 
 nicely brought up. . . . Well, if your parents do 
 not know you are here, you need not have taken the 
 trouble. ..." 
 
 "I had to, Madame," said the young girl, whose 
 delicate hands had begun to shake. "Ask Georges, 
 he will teU you. ..."
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 255 
 
 "I do not believe you," shrilled the woman, at last 
 losing her temper. "My son does not know anything, 
 he would not understand any of your tricks." 
 
 "Yes," went on Yvonne, who felt a nervous tremb- 
 ling taking possession of her whole body, from her 
 knees which knocked against each other, to her 
 quivering chin and the very words in her contracted 
 throat. "Yes, he knows. ..." 
 
 And shaken by a big gasp of distress, she burst into 
 tears, her face hidden between her hands. 
 
 This outburst should have enlightened Mme Auber- 
 non, but she was determined to understand nothing, 
 to remain blind. She gazed with hatred at the 
 weeping child; she would gladly have seized her bodily 
 and thrown her out to the landing, as she might have 
 done in bygone days, when she still belonged to the 
 working class. It was her son that she was shielding, 
 and she was ready to do anything to save him from 
 this danger. Already she was standing in front of the 
 door of the drawing room to stop the child in case she 
 should wish to pass. 
 
 Without ceasing to cry, Yvonne moaned : 
 
 "Georges must marry me; he cannot do otherwise 
 now, he knows that quite well. ..." 
 
 It seemed to Mme. Aubernon that the floor creaked 
 in the next room and she had only ears for that. She 
 looked round furtively, ready to push back the door, 
 should her son by chance wish to come in. 
 
 "I have told him," confessed Yvonne at last, ex- 
 hausted with weeping, "it is awful, I am going to have 
 a baby. ..." 
 
 She lay across the table, her face on the marble 
 top, her arms hanging at her sides, and nothing could 
 be seen of her but a slender back shaken with sobs. 
 
 Mme. Aubernon drew near, white with passion. 
 
 "It is not his, it is not his," she stammered. "You 
 are trying to blackmail us." 
 
 The young girl raised herself, showing her haggard 
 face.
 
 256 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 " You say that ! . . . to me ! " 
 
 She was frightful to look upon v/ith her mottled 
 skin, her reddened eyes, her disordered hair. Her 
 colourless Ups were quivering : 
 
 "You know that I am speaking the truth," breathed 
 her appealing voice. "Ask Georges." 
 
 "I shan't ask anything," muttered the gaunt woman 
 who was bending over her. "I do not care to have 
 him mixed up with such a dirty business. You can 
 lie as much as you like, it is your parents who have 
 sent you. ... I saw what your game was some 
 time ago. ... I ought to have been on my guard. 
 . . . You ran after him, you lay in wait for him, 
 you enticed him to your house. ..." 
 
 "That is not true !" 
 
 " It is ... he told me so ! " 
 
 Yvonne rose, stunned, hardly understanding these 
 insults. 
 
 "But I swear to you that if anyone imagines that 
 we can be blackmailed, they are making a mistake ! " 
 
 This time the child rebelled : 
 
 "You lie!" she cried. "You are a wicked 
 woman. ..." 
 
 Then losing her head, she called : 
 
 "Georges! Georges!" 
 
 Mme. Aubernon sprang at her and seized her by 
 the wrists; but there was little need to push her, for 
 the girl had dropped back on her chair, white-faced 
 and tearless, her teeth chattering. 
 
 "He wUl not come," the woman continued venom- 
 ously. "He knows only too well what you are worth, 
 your whole family of mountebanks, and all the harm 
 you have done us. . . . Your uncle is a madman 
 who will end his days in prison. . . . It is no good 
 for you to look as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, 
 you know a thing or two. . . . You know that your 
 father lives in Montmartre with some low creature, 
 and that your mother has a lover. ... No one 
 would marry into such a family. ..."
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 257 
 
 Yvonne listened with bruised heart. Her mother? 
 She thought at once of M. Van den Kris. She hung 
 her head. She suddenly felt ashamed of herself, 
 ashamed of her people. Everything was collapsing 
 round her, as though she no longer had a family, or 
 anything. There was nothing left but a little bit of 
 flotsam that was being kicked away, and perhaps 
 they had the right to do it. . . . She gave in and 
 stopped defending herself. In a hoarse voice she 
 added : 
 
 "But what am I going to do?" 
 Her collapse brought rehef to the woman : 
 "Oh ! well !" she said, "you wiU manage somehow. 
 These things will happen. ..." 
 
 Yvonne thought again of the little maid whom her 
 parents had turned out. She felt humble and desper- 
 ate, as the other must have felt outside the door of 
 the villa. She rose mechanically, and having tidied 
 herself in front of the looking-glass, she went out. 
 
 Before the parlour-maid, self-respect induced her 
 to make a last effort, and she smiled at Mme. 
 Aubernon as she said "Good-bye" in a small husky 
 voice. Then when the door closed behind her, she 
 stood for a long moment looking at it, wondering if all 
 was really over, if no one would take pity and open 
 it again for her. 
 
 Georges looked at his mother with a sidelong 
 glance : 
 
 "Were you listening?" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "Wasn't I right?" 
 
 He did not answer. But after a moment, he said 
 in a terrified tone : 
 
 "What if she went and killed herself?" 
 
 "Kill herself! Nonsense! ..." 
 
 And she added between her teeth ; 
 
 "What if she did. ..."
 
 258 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 A wild wind blew through the firs, wresting from 
 them a long-drawn plaint. It sniffed under the doors 
 like a snarling dog and swept roaring up the chimneys. 
 On the wall of the villa a shutter-blind, which had 
 come undone, was flapping. 
 
 Adele walked across the terrace, sheltering her 
 lantern behind her blue apron. The impenetrable 
 light hid sounds of terror, and the gusts pursued each 
 other, shaking off great drops of rain in their flight. 
 Ten paces away nothing could be seen. The leafless 
 park creaked in the storm; the naked trees swayed 
 like masts : the Flying Dutchman was about to 
 sail. . . . 
 
 The maid pushed open the door of the outbuildings, 
 to go up to the loft for some pears; the wind, with one 
 rough blast, shut it behind her and blew out the light. 
 Adele stopped, unable to see anything; but little by 
 little the window of the wash-house stood out against 
 the darkness in a lighter black, and by this uncertain 
 reflection the outline of things could be guessed at. 
 The maid, by their help, knew where she was and 
 moved on, gropingly. She mounted the stairs, in- 
 tending to light her lantern when she reached 
 the top. 
 
 Her lonely step sounded dismally through the old 
 house. She walked straight on, for she knew her way. 
 Suddenly she ran against something. Her heart leiipt 
 and she moved back terrified. . . . 
 
 What had they put there? . . . Something to 
 dry? A sack? Standing still, wide-eyed, she vainly 
 tried to realise what it was, and her shaking hand 
 could not find the matches. At last, recovering from 
 the shock, she resolutely drew near and stretched out 
 her hand. . . . 
 
 It was not a cry that she uttered, but a howl, a 
 heartrending call for help, a horrible clamour which 
 pierced the night. She sprang forward as though 
 electrified, dropping her lantern; and full of horror 
 she shrieked, lier arms held stiffly before her. The
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 259 
 
 thing she had touched was a hand, a cold hand at the 
 end of an inert arm. . . . 
 
 An icy sweat broke out on her forehead and she 
 dashed towards the staircase and fell down. Lying 
 prone, she hunched herself up, contorted by horror, 
 as if the cold hand were going to seize her. Then 
 springing to her feet, she ran down the stairs, shout- 
 ing : 
 
 "Help! Mademoiselle is dead ! Help!" 
 
 She was heard as far as the lodge at the entrance. 
 The refugees ran up, calling to each other, fitienne 
 arrived first. He climbed the stairs, four steps at a 
 time, and his lantern lit up the loft. 
 
 The body was swinging to and fro, frightfully 
 elongated. . . . Yvonne was hanging. 
 
 Her fallen hair, loosened in the death struggle, hid 
 her face. One of her arms was twisted, the palm 
 turned back. 
 
 She had said: "It is the end. . . . my little 
 mother," and with one kick she had thrown down 
 the stool. . . . 
 
 The scared women halted on the last steps, gazing 
 at their men who were unfastening the rope, while the 
 gardener lifted the little figure. 
 
 "The house is cursed!" stuttered one of them. 
 
 Mme. Dubourg, on her knees at the foot of the bed, 
 was choking with tears, pouring forth for the last time 
 distracted words of tenderness. The sheet exactly 
 moulded the long frail body, bulging in the middle 
 and at the knees, and, under the crucifix the eternal 
 peace of the folded hands could be divined. 
 
 "My darhng, why did you do it? My beloved 
 
 child! ..." 
 
 She rose abruptly, wishing to raise the veil, but the 
 saint prevented her; he had seen that swollen mask. 
 It was not necessary that . . . 
 
 "But why did she do it?" sobbed Mme. Dubourg, 
 again prostrate at the bedside of her dead daughter.
 
 26o SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 "My God! tell me why? It is abominable. ... If 
 it were my fault. . . . Do not leave me like this, 
 take pity on me, tell me why?" 
 
 She was kneeUng on the edge of the bed and it 
 was startling to see the corpse lying on a couch, framed 
 with moss, and the mother writhing on a green carpet 
 decorated with little silver fishes : No, it was not a 
 room to weep in. The consecrated palms, the crucifix, 
 the funeral tapers, all clashed with the bizarre sur- 
 roundings : the useless pieces of furniture, the huge 
 cushions, the glaring screens. The light net curtains 
 kept their frivolous appearance; on the walls, across 
 the painted Japanese trees, shadows passed, shame- 
 faced. . . . No preparations are ever made for the 
 advent of Death. . . . 
 
 Suddenly Mme. Dubourg turned round and stared, 
 wild-eyed, at Saint Magloire. 
 
 "Well," she said in a strangled voice, "this is not 
 the end, you are going to save her. . . . You cannot 
 let my girl remain dead. ..." 
 
 She rose, with a set face. 
 
 "You are a saint after all. . . . You have worked 
 miracles, I have seen them. . . . Well, you must 
 work this one. You hear me, you will have to; it 
 is my little chUd, she was happy before you came here, 
 she was always laughing. . . . You must wake her 
 up. . . ." 
 
 Her voice gave way suddenly, drowned in tears. 
 
 "Wake her, I beseech you, wake my little 
 Yvonne. ..." 
 
 The saint, supporting her, made her sit down. 
 Nothing was heard but her sobs and the spluttering 
 wick of the candle. In the night the mad wind rushed 
 howling, flinging itself at times against the house, so 
 that the shutters trembled under the impact. 
 
 For a long while the saint gazed at the dead child, 
 then he took two steps forward and bent down. He 
 drew the veil aside. . . . 
 
 The face, now, looked less tortured. The closed
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 261 
 
 eyes had found peace, the relaxed mouth was no longer 
 distorted, and already the cheeks had lost that dread- 
 ful purple hue. 
 
 Little empty body, forsaken dwelling place. A 
 breath wings its way upwards and this is all that is left. 
 . . . One breath sufficed to give bounding movement 
 to these stiffened limbs, to fill this crushed little breast 
 with life and song, to lend brilliance to these eyes, to 
 open these small pinched lips with laughter. Just one 
 breath. . . . 
 
 He bent lower still, a prayer on his lips, and his 
 large brown hands rested on the shoulders of the sleep- 
 ing child. As he bent his visionary eyes upon her, 
 his breath passed across the motionless face. Just 
 one breath. . . . 
 
 Adele, who was standing at the foot of the bed, 
 began to tremble. In the midst of her tears, it seemed 
 to her suddenly that she saw a change coming over 
 the face of the dead girl, the features relaxing, the 
 sunken eyelids swelling. . . . Shaken by terror, she 
 thought she saw on the face, that had grown peaceful, 
 a dawning line of bitterness, a wrinkle which drew 
 down the mouth in a sorrowful smile. Was she 
 emerging again from nothingness, was she conscious of 
 her life once more? . . . Adele put her hand before 
 her mouth and bit her lip for fear of screaming. Her 
 tears had dried in a moment and, seeing clearly, she 
 looked on with wide-open eyes and throbbing 
 heart. . . . 
 
 No, she must have been mistaken, overwrought. 
 Yvonne's face kept its look of eternal indifference, 
 and the saint, with pious hands pulled up the 
 sheet. 
 
 Mme. Dubourg flung herself at her brother-in-law's 
 feet. 
 
 "Magloire, I beseech you! ... Do not leave her, 
 give her back to me ! . . . " 
 
 But he shook his head, with a far-away look, a 
 whisper on his lips.
 
 262 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 "WTiy try to keep her back? She had borne her 
 share. ..." 
 
 M. Fran9ois Dubourg arrived about eleven o'clock. 
 The editor of the Frangais, who had been asked to 
 break the news to him, had found him in a Montmartre 
 restaurant where, scarcely sober, he was finishing his 
 dinner with his mistress. He had recovered his com- 
 posure during the two hours of travel in the motor-car, 
 but after he had shed the first tears, and had spent 
 some time in the death-chamber, where there was a 
 smell of ether mingled with the scent of flowers, he felt 
 giddy. As a result of the shock, he was suffering 
 extreme discomfort, his thoughts seemed to dissolve, 
 he grew dizzy and felt his legs giving way under him. 
 He pulled himself together, making an effort to realise 
 the horror of this tragedy. Through a mist he saw 
 his wife in tears and his daughter lying dead, and that 
 same mist prevented him from thinking. As soon 
 as he shut his eyes, his arm-chair seemed to slope and 
 dip, and he quickly opened his eyes again, his fore- 
 head bathed in icy perspiration. He did not know 
 whether the bitter taste in his mouth came from 
 drink or from shame. If he had thought it could 
 sober him he would have torn his face with his 
 finger-nails. 
 
 With unsteady gait he approached his brother.- 
 
 "We were so happy, Magloire, so happy," he said 
 in a thick voice. 
 
 Mme. Dubourg, worn out with weeping, could but 
 repeat : 
 
 "The good Lord will forgive her, won't He? She 
 was such a good little girl. ... I want to believe, 
 oh, my God ! I want to believe, so that I may see 
 her again some day. . . . " 
 
 Gerard stood sUent in a comer near the mantelpiece. 
 He was terribly pale and a deep furrow cut across his 
 forehead. When he had heard of the suicide, he had 
 understood at once.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 263 
 
 He gave a few con\nalsive sobs when he entered 
 the room, then he quieted down, and had not uttered 
 another word. He was looking on. His eyes always 
 came back to the mournful remains of the little dead 
 girl. Was it only her clasped hands that swelled the 
 shroud in that way? 
 
 It seemed to him as if he had suddenly aged. Never 
 had he felt so grave, so self-possessed. He was proud 
 of standing upright behind his parents as they knelt 
 in prayer. He was the man. . . . 
 
 And gazing down at that little sullied body, he felt 
 Hate plunging its claws deep down into his heart.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 On the very day of Yvonne's funeral, the Dubourgs 
 left Barlincourt in the evening, and everyone felt re- 
 lieved when the saint had departed. 
 
 Only the fanatics of the Cite, sheltering in their 
 ruined hovel, regretted his going; but they still pos- 
 sessed his doctrine, and that was the best part of 
 himself. Harassed b^'' the priest, disliked by the 
 faithful, they soon changed their attitude when the 
 old man was no longer there to guide them. 
 
 They began by renouncing the Church, but as, in 
 spite of everything, they were stUl believers, they 
 wanted to continue to worship God, and, without 
 realising it, they created a schism. Every Sunday, 
 when the bell rang for Mass, they met in an old barn 
 which they had decorated in their own fashion. The 
 eldest among them read the service, then a ropemaker, 
 of whom the Evangelist was particularly fond, ex- 
 pounded the Gospel for the day, and they sang psalms, 
 to the accompaniment of an accordion. They glorified 
 Magloire as a saint of the martyrology; they added 
 his name to the litanies, and after the "Remember," 
 they regularly recited the prayer which the hawkers 
 in Paris sold with his photo, but which had been dis- 
 owned by the Evangelist himself. 
 
 In spite of their propaganda, the schismatics 
 recruited but one adherent : Milot, who arrived one 
 day in his beadle's uniform, offering to place his know- 
 ledge of the liturgy and his familiarity with the 
 Church practices at their service. 
 
 He did not believe in this religion any more than 
 
 in the other; but he wanted to be revenged on his 
 
 employer and on the priest who had dismissed him; 
 
 and on the other hand, since he had lost his situation 
 
 264
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 265 
 
 on account of Saint Magloire, he proclaimed the latter 
 as the greatest man of modern times, so that he might 
 acquire merit through having suffered for him. For 
 the same reason he was proud of having lost his leg 
 at Verdun rather than at the Chateau de Carleul, or 
 in the Berlingot trenches, whose names sounded less 
 heroic. 
 
 But the presence of this noisy fellow in the new 
 church did not tend to attract seriously-minded people, 
 and the priest of Barlincourt did not lose a single 
 member of his flock thereby. 
 
 It angered the other strikers to see this handful of 
 visionaries content with telling their beads while they 
 waited for the coming of Justice, and they vented on 
 them the rancour of their own misfortunes. They 
 even came and attacked them in their retreat, break- 
 ing dowTi what was left of the fences. These were the 
 last gasps of the strike. 
 
 The strike funds were now completely exhausted, 
 and the weaker spirits began to talk of re-opening 
 negotiations. A week after the departure of the 
 Evangelist, M. Aubernon saw his workmen return, 
 humiliated and beaten. 
 
 "It is clear that he is no longer there to stir 
 them up," he said triumphantly. 
 
 He did not understand that hunger alone was re- 
 sponsible for his victory. 
 
 In Paris, the return of Magloire Dubourg caused a 
 certain excitement. The day after Yvonne's death, 
 the newspapers began to talk about the saint and his 
 family, and seizing upon an incident provoked by 
 Gerard on the day of the funeral when he ordered M. 
 Aubernon to leave the procession (which the other did 
 without replying) they had insinuated that the young 
 girl had no doubt been driven to suicide to save her 
 honour. These discussions stirred up public opinion 
 for a moment; they made a diversion from the 
 anxieties of the day : the losses of the French troops
 
 266 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 in Africa and the growing ravages of the mysterious 
 influenza. People began to pry into the private 
 Hfe of the Dubourgs; they criticised the conduct of the 
 mother; they descanted unreservedly on the liaison 
 of the father; then, after a few days, they began to 
 talk of something else. But the happiness of the 
 family was gone : completely swept away by scandal. 
 
 In Paris, too, Saint Magloire had lost some of his 
 popularit5^ but the humblest and most destitute turned 
 despairingty to him. Ruined by unemployment, deci- 
 mated by the influenza plague, they believed that the 
 Man of Miracles alone could save them. The old man 
 therefore resumed his trips to the suburbs. Bands of 
 ragged women sometimes escorted him, singing beneath 
 the windows when he went home; and the house of 
 the Dubourgs, situated right in the middle of the 
 town, was soon besieged all day long by unhappy folk, 
 sick people and loafers; so great were the crowds, that it 
 became necessary to call in the police to disperse them. 
 
 Marie Louise, imprisoned in her own house, saw no 
 one but M. Van den Kris and from time to time Father 
 Labry. As for Frangois Dubourg, who was completely 
 distracted by the eccentricities of his brother, he 
 slept ostensibly at the hotel, attributing this unusual 
 arrangement to his sorrow, and was only visible at 
 lunch-time. He arrived with an anxious air, fearing 
 the remonstrances of his elder brother, and also afraid 
 that Magloire might bring back the germs of the 
 epidemic in the folds of his big cloak. 
 
 "Is he here?" he would ask at once as he entered 
 the house. And if Gerard answered "Yes," he would 
 take a vaporiser and spray the whole room with some 
 patent chemical that smelt vilely. 
 
 Sometimes the saint hardly spoke to him; on other 
 days, on the contrary, he would drag him into the 
 study and roughly rebuke him. The saint had such 
 an ascendancy over his younger brother that the latter 
 did not dare to reply. With lowered eyes, he listened, 
 impenitent, while the Evangelist reproached him with
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 267 
 
 his conduct, and, as he talked, Francois gazed atten- 
 tively at the trousers of the saint and the soiled cuffs 
 of his velvet coat, and wondered how on earth he had 
 managed to make himself in such a mess. 
 
 "He'll end by giving us all the plague," he thought 
 as he held his breath. 
 
 As soon as his brother ceased speaking, Fran9ois 
 agreed in toto vath. everything he said, ajid made for 
 the door at full speed without even thinking of saying 
 good-bye. 
 
 "Ouf !" he gasped on the stairs. "I would rather 
 have fifty kicks behind than such discussions. But 
 what is he hoping to get at? By God ! I shall end 
 by not coming home at all. . . ." 
 
 Magloire Dubourg very rarely spoke of Yvonne; he 
 seemed akeady to have forgotten her, and for that 
 cruelty Marie Louise bore him a deadly grudge. 
 
 Gerard, like his parents, had drifted away from his 
 uncle. He thought incessantly of his sister's tragic 
 end, though he never spoke of it; and his secret sor- 
 row, his shame, his longing for vengeance had turned 
 him into a taciturn and violent man. He reminded 
 his father of Magloire as a child. 
 
 He never left the house except to go to the studio, 
 or if he did not go there, he would take his paint-box 
 and sketch on the banks of the Seine, usually on the 
 days when M. Van den Kris was coming. 
 
 But Yvonne's suicide was to have more serious 
 consequences than these. Poor people regarded it as 
 an example. Their whole outlook was changed by 
 the theories of the saint, and they told themselves 
 that it would be easy enough to lay down their burden. 
 This life had been cruel : the next would be better. 
 Who would not willingly take risks to achieve happi- 
 ness in that uncertain lottery. . . .? Surely it was 
 in order to show them the way that the saint had 
 sacrificed his niece; one had but to follow her example. 
 So the suicides began. 
 That strange epidemic, against which nothing could
 
 268 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 be done, soon increased alarmingly. In a single week 
 a hundred and twenty suicides were recorded in Paris 
 alone. The population was demoralised by it. Old 
 men threw themselves from windows; charcoal stoves 
 were lighted in lodging houses, mothers flung them- 
 selves under Metropolitan trains with their babies in 
 their arms; and every morning new cases of hanging 
 were discovered. At Barlincourt, the lady from Paris, 
 who lodged at the Mayor's house, was one of the first 
 to kill herself, having given up all hopes of a miracle. 
 
 This contagious madness soon spread into other 
 spheres; tradesmen, who had been regarded as well 
 off, ended their lives with a revolver shot, and rich 
 women asphyxiated themselves, driven by fear of some 
 unknown horror — plague or revolution. 
 
 Magloire Dubourg alone was held responsible for all 
 these tragedies and the hatred against him increased. 
 From the pulpit at the Madeleine, a preacher con- 
 demned the suicides and anathematised the "man 
 possessed" who inspired them. The Evangelist, 
 however, continued to preach resignation and courage, 
 and condemned those who fled from the world without 
 contributing their share of effort in it. He even suc- 
 ceeded in checking these tragic follies among the lower 
 classes. 
 
 But although he was able to make a successful resist- 
 ance against the suicides, he could do nothing against 
 the plague, which was blindly reaping its harvest. 
 Day by day people heard of fresh deaths in their 
 immediate circle; one funeral followed another at the 
 door of the churches; the hospitals overflowed with 
 patients, and a regular panic swept over terrified Paris. 
 For a week people fought each other in the railway 
 stations, the trains for the South were crammed, and 
 despite the bad weather, motor-cars in hundreds were 
 to be seen passing out through the Porte dTtalie. 
 Whole streets seemed to be cleared of their inhabi- 
 tants; from the Concorde to Auteuil nothing was to 
 be seen but sleeping houses, with closed shutters.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 2C9 
 
 In the populous quarters the infection was alive 
 filce vermin that could not be crushed. As soon as 
 people in a lodging house heard the little dry cough 
 that announced the terrible disease, they fled from 
 the doomed patient. In this way, alone, uncared for, 
 people died every day. Wlien the neighbours could 
 no longer hear either cough or rattle behind the door, 
 they notified the municipality. The post-mortem 
 doctors worked at furious speed, and stories were told 
 of men buried ahve. 
 
 Crowds gathered in the streets in front of the great 
 white posters of the Prefecture headed "Preventive 
 Measures." The curious read them and shrugged 
 their shoulders. Leading physicians, with the serene 
 indifference of learned men, explained therein the 
 precautions to be taken. These people who hved in 
 corruption were told that they must wash their hands 
 with disinfectant before each meal, that they must 
 never breathe through the mouth, that they must air 
 their rooms frequently and maintain a moderate 
 temperature in them, and that they must take care 
 to have the bedding of the patients disinfected. 
 
 "And what are we going to sleep on?" 
 
 " Drink hot toddy indeed ! Will they pay for the 
 rum?" 
 
 "Nonsense, it's only rich people's fads. Don't 
 take any notice." 
 
 At the Gobelins, at the Pont-de-Flandres, in the 
 Saint-Paul quarter, there were positively hotbeds of 
 infection which were marked by black crosses on the 
 maps published in the newspapers. People were 
 warned not to go into them on any pretext, and a 
 deputy had even proposed that a sanitary cordon be 
 established round these overcrowded districts to pre- 
 vent any contact with the outside world. 
 
 It was in these accursed quarters that Saint Magloire 
 spent his days, never leaving the bedside of the sick, 
 'ho but for him would have had no nursing. 
 
 When he came home in the evening to the Dubourgs, 
 
 s
 
 270 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 ihe other tenants shut themselves up nervously in 
 their flats, and as soon as he had passed by the con- 
 cierge hastily opened all the windows on the staircase. 
 
 "What is he meddling for, going to visit the sick?" 
 said the neighbours. "Is he a doctor? He ought to 
 be stopped, it is a public danger." 
 
 The newspapers, for their part, treated him as an 
 alarmist, and accused him of spreading the epidemic 
 by going, without any precaution, from the contami- 
 nated houses into districts which were still free. 
 "When is this Dangerous Chatterer to be silenced?" 
 asked the Echo de France in large headlines. 
 
 However, despite the terrible menace of the plague, 
 all who had money sought relaxation. There was a 
 frantic gaiety, a need for forgetfulness, and people 
 laughed and spent their money, unwiUing to think of 
 the morrow. 
 
 "What admirable morale!" exclaimed Frangois 
 Dubourg with enthusiasm. "You might think the 
 years of the war had come back. . . ." 
 
 Christmas Eve had never been so noisy, so gorgeous 
 as it was that year. At the doors of the great restaur- 
 ants and the theatres, shivering loafers watched the 
 procession despite the drizzling rain. In Montmartre, 
 outside a well-known cabaret, a hundred of them were 
 crowded together. A large awning was stretched 
 across the pavement and a carpet laid down; women 
 stopped a moment as they alighted from their car- 
 riages, and threw back their furs, to show their gowns, 
 their pearls, their bare skin. 
 
 Working girls, down at heel, sneered jealously. 
 Their men dragged them away, exasperated. 
 
 "Come on, let's clear out, it makes me sick. ..." 
 
 Between the curtains of the first floor there slid a 
 thread of light, and the silhouettes of dancers could 
 be seen passing. The music, so gay up there, took 
 on a note of sorrow under the rain. The loafers looked 
 on, with raised eyes, their feet in the cold mud. . . .
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 271 
 
 Those drawTi net curtains were thicker than a wall, 
 harder to cross than a frontier. It was another world, 
 another humanity that hved there. . . . Joy and 
 wretchedness, what a contrast of heritage ! 
 
 Some Uttle girls, under their breath, hummed the 
 melodies. People stamped their feet to warm them, 
 and the damp soles of their boots squeaked as they 
 drew them out of the slush. A drunkard growled out 
 insults as each new customer entered, but not too 
 loud, for fear of the policeman. 
 
 "Ah, the saint ought to come and shake them up, 
 those . . ."he repeated. 
 
 Then, suddenly, a hand put him aside, and before 
 the bemedalled porter could make a movement, the 
 man who had just elbowed his way through the crowd 
 entered the restaurant and passed up the stairs. 
 
 "It is he! There he is. . . . It's Saint Mag- 
 loire ! . . . " 
 
 They sprang after him; but the porter and the 
 policeman hurled themselves forward, while the negro 
 in the red cloak shut the iron gate. 
 
 There was a sudden scramble; a woman slipped on 
 the sticky pavement and fell, and when the noise died 
 down, one heard, between two shouts, that the music 
 was no longer playing. 
 
 Magloire Dubourg had just entered the dining room 
 on the first floor, and by the time the guests at supper 
 noticed him he was already standing on the musicians' 
 platform. Then suddenly there was a burst of hoot- 
 ing. 
 
 People left their tables, rushed forward amid a 
 clatter of broken crockery, climbed on chairs; and 
 the old man was left alone in the midst of the crowd 
 of merry-makers. They were not ill-disposed : they 
 looked more inclined to chaff. Several of them wore 
 cotillon favours on their heads : paper jockey caps, 
 peasant women's bonnets. When the manager came 
 up to turn out the Evangelist, the guests held him 
 back.
 
 272 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 "No, no, don't; it will be amusing. . , . Speech' 
 Speech ! " 
 
 The saint towered above them. On account of the 
 rain he was wearing the big cape of early days ; it 
 covered him in its stiff folds, which were shining with 
 water. He waited a moment, for the noise of their 
 gaiety to die down, then he spoke. 
 
 "Are you sure you have the right to laugh?" he 
 asked. "WTien the plague is reaping its harvest, when 
 misery holds the poor in its grip, when lads sent out 
 to sacrifice mark the African trails with their bodies, 
 do you think you have the right to laugh . . .? 
 Your ghoulish rejoicings are a provocation to men 
 and an insult to God ! Go away ! Go home ! " 
 
 A booing arose in the crowded room and then ended 
 in a huge burst of laughter. Jests flew to and fro. 
 
 "There you are, he's started, turn the handle!" 
 
 "Give the orator a glass !" 
 
 "Go on, Magloire !" 
 
 And, in the scramble, they trampled the broken 
 glasses underfoot. The voice of the saint rose above 
 the uproar. 
 
 "Laugh away! Stuff yourselves as fast as you 
 can. God will soon come to clear the table, you 
 stupid louts." 
 
 The hooting began again, more boisterous than 
 before. One guest, already drunk, wanted to fling 
 himself on the old man who was insulting them. 
 
 "You may try to stifle remembrance with shouts 
 and laughter; you may stop up your ears and turn 
 away your eyes, but the catastrophe which is coming 
 cannot be averted. . . . Laugh on, your gaiety wiU 
 be but a drop in an ocean of tears. ..." 
 
 "You are doddering, you old chatterbox," cried 
 somebody. . . . 
 
 The saint did not hear. 
 
 "It is not Hell that I am predicting for you, but 
 eternal life, the same kind of life that you have made 
 for others. . . . No demons with red pitchforks;
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 273 
 
 only yourselves, who will have been your own execu- 
 tioners. ..." 
 
 "That's enough," they cried. . . , "That's not 
 funny! ..." 
 
 " Music, music ! " called others. . . . 
 
 The pianist sat down again on his stool, at the foot 
 of the platform, and attacked a negro air, hammering 
 out the chords with all the strength in his arms. Some 
 of the women guests sang with him. The men were 
 yelling. From all sides celluloid balls aimed at the 
 saint were thrown on to the platform. 
 
 "Verily, I tell you," he continued, "the flood is not 
 made of the waves of the sea but of the waves of 
 humanity. ..." 
 
 "What do we care?" cried a voice in the racket. 
 
 Some men in dinner jackets began whistling through 
 their keys. 
 
 "Nothing will remain of your generation, when 
 that flood has passed," the apostle went on shouting, 
 "not even whitened bones. . . . Yet one word would 
 have sufficed to save you, the word for which Christ 
 accepted the Cross : Love, love ! . . . " 
 
 "Hurrah for love! Long live Saint Magloire!" 
 screamed the half -dressed women. 
 
 The orchestra began to play again. The noise in- 
 creased, and spread to the street outside : yells could 
 be heard in the square. The saint turned his blazing 
 glance on the women, who were drumming their heels 
 on the floor : 
 
 " You who came out of the mud of the suburbs, and 
 deny your miserable origin, beware ! " 
 
 Then he turned to the men, who were gesticulating 
 wildly : 
 
 "Beware, you who have done nothing for the cause 
 of Justice. . . ." 
 
 Hooting, hisses, and music swamped his voice, but 
 he could still be heard in snatches : 
 
 "You children of the rich, overdressed good-for- 
 nothings who have always lived on the labour of
 
 274 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 oLhers. . . . Profiteers whose coffers have been 
 swelled by wars and disasters. . . . Harlots who 
 pay for your luxury wlih your shame. . . ." 
 
 He lashed them all, pointing with his finger; and, 
 yelling and sneering, the revellers replied with insults. 
 
 "I curse you in the name of the world's anguish," 
 cried the saint with a prophetic gesture. 
 
 Pushed forward by those behind, the men in the 
 front row advanced threateningly upon him. Instead 
 of throMing their harmless balls, they were now armed 
 with walking-sticks and bottles. 
 
 "Put him out! ... Go back to the negroes! 
 .... Throw him out ! . . ." 
 
 A threatening crowd surrounded him. 
 
 " To Charentoni with him ! . . . Sham priest. . . 
 Go on, take him by the feet." 
 
 Hands were already outstretched to seize him, 
 when the saint, retreating a step, drew himself up 
 and flung open the two lappets of his mantle. 
 
 "Come no nearer," he roared. . . . "I bring 
 3^ou the plague in the folds of my cloak. ..." 
 
 Thoroughly frightened, the crowd held back. Some 
 with arched backs, pushed, and the whole mass re- 
 treated in a body. Sharp cries rose from the throng. 
 
 "The plague. ... He has come from the hos- 
 pitals ! . . ." 
 
 Stepping to the edge of the platform and seeming 
 suddenly to have grown taller. Saint Magloire pursued 
 them with the thunder of his voice : 
 
 "Breathe, it smells of death. . . . Breathe, it is 
 death that I bring to yom feast. ..." 
 
 Then panic ensued. The guests spread into the 
 other rooms, with haggard eyes, and rushed down the 
 stairs. A nameless terror had taken hold of them. 
 Each one seemed to feel Death already in the air he 
 breathed. In the cloak-room they snatched garments 
 haphazard. Women strunbled and rolled beneath the 
 feet of men whose one wish was to get away. On the 
 *■ Charenton — French lunatic asylum.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 275 
 
 first floor the piercing screams of hysteria could be 
 heard. And all, as they fled, looked so distracted that 
 the curious crowd, massed outside, drew away from 
 them as though the plague itself was hard upon their 
 heels. 
 
 This latest demonstration of the saint caused wide- 
 spread consternation in Paris, for, on the day after 
 Christmas, two customers and a head waiter of the 
 night cabaret died suddenly of the dread plague. 
 People shuddered. . . . They began to wonder 
 whether the old man, who had already shown his 
 power to heal, had not also the power to slay. Some 
 even whispered that it was he who brought this un- 
 known scourge from Africa. 
 
 The newspapers attacked him with stUl greater 
 violence, and accused him of stirring up hatred and 
 fomenting disturbances. The revolutionary organs, 
 afraid of this incoherent propaganda, also disowned 
 him. 
 
 Then a report by Dr. Blum was published at the 
 Academy of Medicine and read by Professor Porcher, 
 his teacher. The young neurologist strove to demon- 
 strate that the wonder-worker was a neurotic subject, 
 suffering from religious monomania, and that his 
 progress towards general insanity could be scientifically 
 traced in his career. The report caused imanimous 
 rejoicings : why, of course it was a madman they had 
 to do with; why had not people said so before? 
 
 The young doctor examined the history of his subject 
 from his abrupt departure from his mother's house 
 onward : sudden and complete disappearance of family 
 affection. This first attack had been preceded, as 
 usual in such cases, by a period of unrest, the 
 Religious Melancholy referred to by Morel and Brous- 
 sais, which was sufficiently explained by the intense 
 mental labour into which young Magloire Dubourg 
 had thrown himself without preparation. 
 
 After this first attack came a long interval of respite; 
 out the subject, far from taking the rest which was
 
 276 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 essential in such a case, had gone to Africa; and cli- 
 mate, privations, absence of hygiene, fever, added to 
 an excessive intensity of thought had encouraged the 
 secret progress of the trouble. By degrees, a complete 
 transformation was to be observed in the tastes, the 
 sentiments, the opinions of Magloire Dubourg. By 
 his own confession, from that period onward he lost 
 appetite and sleep : warning signals of the culminating 
 attack. His sentiments were so perverted that even 
 the instinct of self-preservation disappeared : the 
 Evangelist sought, and desired death. Finally the 
 patient became the victim of an " idee fixe," he believed 
 himself a messenger of God, and wanted to reorganise 
 the world. Then came illusions of the senses, halluci- 
 nations; external impressions were no longer controlled 
 by the intelligence. However, it was only a question 
 of partial insanity. Apart from his monomania, Mag- 
 loire Dubourg had fuUy preserved his reason. 
 
 "But watch him when he is preaching," Dr. Blum 
 pointed out, "the attack is then at its height; and 
 you will see a childish expression spread over his 
 countenance; his gestures and his voice become very 
 gentle, just as Carre de Montgeron in the eighteenth 
 century observed in the case of persons subject to 
 convulsions. Then, without reason, this childish 
 gentleness gives place to an inexplicable fury; the 
 subject grows excited, his eyes blaze, it is certain" that 
 at such moments he had lost all control over himself. 
 He is but the sport of the caprices of the " idee fixe." 
 
 This memorandum, which was commented on 
 throughout the press, dealt a rude blow to the repu- 
 tation of the saint. People no longer took him 
 seriously. It was only among the humblest, the very 
 poor, that he was still listened to and admired : and 
 there only because he promised them happiness, not 
 because he loved them. 
 
 Had he paid attention to such things, he woulci 
 have noticed that he was treated with less respect 
 than hitherto. In the improvised hospital which had
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 277 
 
 been set up in the military zone with a view to at least 
 a partial isolation of the contagious cases, the doctors 
 gave hnn but a grudging welcome. Their science had 
 to confess itself powerless. One single miracle would 
 have been sufhcient to bring ridicule upon them, and 
 they followed him mistrustfully from ward to ward. 
 
 The sick who, in the early days, roused by a flash 
 of hope, used to lift themselves on their pUlows when 
 they caught sight of the saint, now lay supine in their 
 beds, all alike, with their poor shrivelled hands trailing 
 on the sheets. The glassy look of the dying, the 
 glittering eyes of fever, fastened themselves upon him. 
 Said some disappointed : 
 
 "He cannot heal us." 
 
 Others malignantly added : 
 
 "He doesn't want to." 
 
 When he went out, he mingled with the crowd of 
 relatives who had come for news and were turning 
 away, shivering and muddy, having handed in their 
 oranges at the office. The tramping of these wretched 
 folk formed his escort, and in front of the sad proces- 
 sion people instinctively looked for a hearse. As 
 they passed, all stared at Saint Magloire, and drew 
 away from him; in their glances he read the same 
 entreaties and the same resentment. 
 
 One evening a little girl attached herself to him. Her 
 leg must have been cut off recently, for she still walked 
 awkwardly, pulling herself along with the help of her 
 two cutches. 
 
 "Why didn't you heal mamma? " she said in a poor 
 little strangled voice. " I shall be all alone now. . . . 
 Perhaps you stUl could : she only died to-day." 
 
 The saint hastened on, sick at heart. 
 
 In the hospital which he had just quitted, the sick 
 were so numerous that they had been obliged to lay 
 them on stretchers, between the beds. Their breaths 
 mingled, and death moved from mouth to mouth, 
 like some dismal word of command passed on by 
 soldiers. Each one cursed his neighbour.
 
 278 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 "He fidgets so that I can't sleep." 
 
 "He coughs in my face. ... He smells 
 bad. ..." 
 
 And when, at night, a rattle rose from a corner of 
 the ward, they told each other casually : 
 
 "No. i8's going." 
 
 Then, turning over, they tried to sleep again. 
 
 "I can do nothing," the Principal Medical Officer, 
 discouraged, had said, to the Evangelist. "As fast 
 as you cure ten, a hundred more come in. We'd have 
 to open up Paris, let in air. ..." 
 
 Saint Magloire remembered those words, as he 
 crossed the £toile district with its deserted houses. 
 Air. . . . Big windows open to the light. . . . 
 And he gazed at these great vessels with their stone 
 prows, at all those mansions and houses with closed 
 fronts. They were like selfish faces that did not want 
 to see. The owners were in fisterel, at Saint Moritz, 
 in their castles at Anjou. . . . 
 
 All along the Riviera, they were dancing for the 
 poor. The "Amaranth Ball" at Cannes had produced 
 more than sixty thousand francs. It was like fairy- 
 land, said the papers. ... At that same time, in 
 the fever-barracks, for want of a mortuary, they were 
 dragging the dead out under a tarpaulin and the winter 
 rain kept the death-watch over them, weeping over 
 their gleaming shrouds. 
 
 Saint Magloire wandered about for more than 
 an hour in those silent streets; then, having 
 thought things over, he betook himself to the 
 Elysee. 
 
 He had hardly entered under the archway when a 
 young man stopped him, and two plain-clothes police- 
 men, who now followed the Apostle continually, 
 hurriedly overtook him. 
 
 "What do you want?" 
 
 "To see the President of the Republic," replied 
 Magloire simply. 
 
 TTie others looked at him bewildered, and the
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 279 
 
 handful of inquisitive people who had collected at 
 once began to laugh. 
 
 "The President of the Republic does not receive 
 people like that. . . . You must send in a request 
 for an audience. . . ," 
 
 "I cannot wait," answered the old man. 
 
 The officer on duty having been notified by an 
 orderly ran up. 
 
 "It can't be done in this way, sir," he said 
 nervously, pushing away a group of idlers. "You 
 must understand that the President of the Republic 
 cannot receive everyone who comes in hke this. ..." 
 
 "Not even to save the lives of thousands of men?" 
 said Saint Magloire. 
 
 "I cannot discuss the matter, sir, that is not my 
 business. But I repeat that audiences are not granted 
 in this fashion, even to you. . . ." 
 
 " Least of all to him ! " cried someone in the growing 
 circle of onlookers. 
 
 The Evangelist did not move. He raised his voice. 
 
 "Go and tell the President of the Republic that a 
 man has come to ask him to rescue thousands of vic- 
 tims from the plague. Tell him that the orphan 
 children of the suburbs implore him with their little 
 hands outstretched. ..." 
 
 The words echoed under the archway, and people 
 came out of the corridors, while others ran up from 
 the street. The crowd of onlookers was blocking the 
 way, and in the Faubourg St. Honore motor-cars 
 brought to a stand-still were sounding their horns, for 
 the crowd was overflowing on to the roadway. The 
 dinner guests could not get in; they were surprised at 
 finding themselves in the midst of such a mob; they 
 wanted to know what was going on and tried to see 
 over the heads of the crowd. 
 
 "What is the matter?" 
 
 "It is Saint Magloire making a disturbance." 
 
 They gave an exasperated "Ah!" 
 
 "Again! Oh, Lord. . . . Are they never going
 
 28o SAINT MAGLOTRE 
 
 to send him to prison ! . . . Why, a man like that 
 is a disaster ! Let them take him to Charenton and 
 have done with it. . . ." 
 
 In the uproar, the saint could still be heard dis- 
 puting with the officer and the attendants; possibly 
 in the hope that they might yet let him in. But 
 suddenly, a violent jolt shook the crowd; the Republi- 
 can Guards had come, and with fists and shoulders 
 they drove the people away, throwing out indiscrimi- 
 nately on to the pavement guests in evening-dress and 
 street loafers. 
 
 " Come . . . Move on ! . . . " 
 
 In a moment the archway was freed, and two 
 policemen seized Saint Magloire by the arm. A 
 commissionaire rushed up. 
 
 "No, no, not that. Leave the gentleman alone. 
 Orders. ..." 
 
 The Evangelist, therefore, v/as pushed outside with 
 the others. He had lost his hat in the scramble, and 
 bareheaded, surrounded by shouting strangers, he felt 
 for a moment dizzy, on the slopes of that moving 
 street where the lights were dimmed by the rain. 
 The commissionaire had followed him. 
 
 "Come, get into this cab," he said, opening the 
 door of a taxi. And he gave the address of the saint, 
 v/hich was familiar to everyone. A few shouts, a few 
 hisses followed the car; then it was over. 
 
 The saint, although discouraged, was still unwilling 
 to give up his projects : too many lives were at stake. 
 He told the driver to take him to the offices of the 
 Frangais, whose editor-in-chief he had often seen in 
 Barlincourt. 
 
 That powerful personage received him himself, 
 thinking that he might be able to get something out 
 of the interview, but he soon regretted it. The saint 
 told him briefly of his ill-luck at the Elysee, then he 
 explained what he had wished to ask of the President. 
 To prevent the epidemic from eating into the over- 
 crowded houses, they must get the empty flats and
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 281 
 
 the mansions of the wealthy quarters put at the 
 disposal of working-class famihes. He repeated what 
 the P.M.O. had said to him : open up Paris, that way 
 lay salvation. 
 
 ^ The editor-in-chief, stupefied and dumbfounded, 
 listened without finding anything to say in reply. He 
 sat on the edge of his desk and looked in turn at 
 the saint and the sub-editor, whom he had sent for 
 and who was smiling and biting his lips. At last he 
 let himself go. 
 
 "But really, Monsieur Dubourg," he interrupted 
 (in the early days, he had called him "cher Maitre," 
 for want of a better name), "Your plan won't hold 
 water. It is confiscation of property pure and simple 
 that you are asking for." 
 
 Saint Magloire thought he had been misunderstood. 
 
 "No, no. It is only a question of occupying thou- 
 sands of rooms that are not being used at all and of 
 putting into them temporarily these wretched people 
 that are condemned to death. When they know for 
 what purpose their houses are being taken, the owners 
 and the tenants will be the first to approve." 
 
 This candour, carried to the point of aberration, 
 cut the groimd from under the feet of the editor-in- 
 chief. He even looked at the saint with more 
 compassion than anger, and while he listened, he kept 
 sa5dng " Phew, phew ! " as though he wanted to blow 
 out some hidden fire. In the end, he exploded : 
 
 "But, my dear sir," he said as he took the saint 
 familiarly by the shoulders, " I know what I am talk- 
 ing about : I have got a house in the Rue de la Pompe. 
 WeU, I should not think it at all funny to have a crew 
 of ragamuffins installed there; they would make 
 everything dirty, and leave me all their vermin, and 
 then make off with my linen as a souvenir, with a 
 little silver thrown in." 
 
 "And you don't think ..." 
 
 "Come, come," continued the editor-in-chief, 
 apoplectic, "I have good reason to be mistrustful;
 
 282 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 I had some refugees in 1914. I know what they are : 
 clothes washed in the bath and tobacco ashes all over 
 the cai-pets. ... If I have got to the point where 
 I can afford a house of my own, I haven't done it in 
 order to turn the place into a night shelter. ..." 
 
 Magloire Dubourg gazed at him in amazement. 
 
 "So," said he, "I make my appeal to you in the 
 name of the mothers who are suffering, of the children 
 who are dying, and you answer me by talking about 
 your hnen and your carpets. . . . Do you know you 
 ;!.re a criminal? " 
 
 The editor-in-chief turned away, exasperated, raising 
 his arms to Heaven. 
 
 "It is no use to discuss it," he announced emphatic- 
 ally, "we don't talk the same language. ... I am 
 a matter-of-fact person, I don't go looking for the 
 good of humanity in the moon." 
 
 Magloire Dubourg shook his head. 
 
 "Happiness will be on earth, and throughout 
 eternity. ..." 
 
 The editor-in-chief shrugged his shoulders : 
 
 "In eternity or in the moon," said he, "it's all the 
 same to me. ..." 
 
 The Evangelist turned towards the door. 
 
 "I shall find hearts less pitiless than yours," he 
 said, looking round for the last time. "Cost what it 
 may, they will follow me." 
 
 And he went out. 
 
 Then the sub-editor looked at the editor-in-chief, 
 who was still agitated. 
 
 "That man," he said in a tone of conviction, "is a 
 monster of goodness." 
 
 When it was reported at the Prefecture of Police 
 that Saint Magloire, at the head of a column of de- 
 monstrators, was coming down from the Boulevard 
 de la Chapelle towards the centre of Paris, the officials 
 thought at first that it was a case of one of those 
 peaceful processions which he had frequently been
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 283 
 
 organising, so the news caused no anxiety. Usually 
 these processions dispersed of their own accord, as 
 soon as the Apostle had gone home. But other reports 
 followed, urgent telephone calls from police commis- 
 sioners, and it became evident that on this occasion 
 the affair was serious. The band of rioters, its nimi- 
 bers swelling at all the cross-roads, had just entered 
 the Rue Lafayette, routing a barrier of poUce; and 
 new columns, at some mysterious word of command, 
 were forming in all the populous quarters of the City. 
 One such column came yelling down the Faubourg du 
 Temple, following a cross taken from the Belleville 
 Church, and another from the Gobelins marching 
 behind a great black flag, came by way of the Boule- 
 vard de I'Hopital. 
 
 The police sprang into motor lorries, platoons 
 of Republican Guards set off at the double; 
 and at the barracks the alarm was given in case 
 of emergency. 
 
 The arrival of the first band on the boulevards was 
 the signal for a panic. They came suddenly out of the 
 Faubourg Poissonniere, preceded only by a long-drawn- 
 out clamour which no one understood; then the tragic 
 rabble came in sight. They were marching in disorder, 
 perhaps three thousand of them, dragging in their 
 train hand-carts, a laundry van which they were 
 pulling along by the shafts, cabs that they had taken 
 from their drivers. All these vehicles overflowed with 
 shabby odds and ends, brats screaming with joy 
 perched up on the bundles. They might have been a 
 crowd of madmen coming back from a raid. 
 
 "To the Champs Elysees ! To the swells' houses!' 
 they shouted. 
 
 The rabble swept by like a gust of v.ind. In the 
 light of the street the livid features of a demented 
 woman might be seen as she held up her child to show 
 it to the crowd; a child that had ceased to move. Some 
 groups were singing. Standing on the seat of a car- 
 riage a man seemed to be making a speech, and
 
 284 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 between two yells of the mob "the saint . , . the 
 plague ..." could be heard. 
 
 People were afraid of things that they could not 
 4;learly see : the most trivial utensils looked like 
 V/eapons. One of the demonstrators, in mockery, was 
 brandishing a long broom, a wolf's head which he 
 lifted up to the windows; and shuddering womeu 
 thought they saw the first pike of the revolution. 
 
 "To the Champs Ely sees ! . . ." 
 
 Behind the mob trailed the lame and footsore : a 
 family pushing an overloaded cart, old men who could 
 not keep up. . . . The uproar died away in the 
 distance. 
 
 But far off, towards the Opera House, new cries 
 could be heard, and distant clamouring, still more 
 violent, suddenly filled the night and made the low 
 sky tremble. The column which had just passed by 
 had met the rabble which the saint was leading; and 
 this army of the poor was now pushing its way, irre- 
 sistibly, towards the Madeleine. Behind it, restaurants, 
 even theatres, were emptied. With fear in their hearts 
 people who had been dining late sprang into carriages 
 or hastened towards the Metropolitan. They had but 
 one idea now : to get home quickly and lock themselves 
 in. Lights went out in the windows, as though they 
 were afraid to show themselves; people muffled up and 
 leaned out over the balconies, straining their ears to 
 catch the terrifying noises that re-echoed on all sides 
 What tragedy was the night preparing? 
 
 Squadrons of Guards, dashing by amid the din ot 
 galloping hoofs and the rattle of sabres, added to the 
 anxiety instead of allaying it. Ambulances, recognis- 
 able by their bells, could be heard in the distance. 
 
 "Let us get home quickly. . . . There are 
 wounded. . . ." 
 
 The first encounter with Authority took place in the 
 Rue Royale. The police-barrier which advanced elbow 
 to elbow, with clenched fists, was at first obliged to 
 retreat, forced back by the mass, but a dotachment
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 285 
 
 arrived at the double, their truncheons hidden under 
 their capes; and a bloody affray took place among 
 the overturned carts, in the midst of shrieking women. 
 Workmen with bleeding faces shouted as they defended 
 themselves, knots of men rolled in the mud; gleaming 
 objects were dragged out feverishly from the litter on 
 the carts. Behind the police came the Guards, 
 charging with sheathed sabres, and human bundles 
 could be seen rolling beneath the hoofs of the horses. 
 
 The demonstrators retreated when the police, after 
 having swept away the first band, turned upon the 
 other, the more numerous of the two, which had come 
 from Pantin. But these people had aheady broken 
 through several police barriers and were expecting 
 further attacks : they were ready. 
 
 As the police approached, like a dense black wall, a 
 savage cry went up : 
 
 "Charge!" 
 
 And with one accord the rioters at the head of the 
 crowd sprang forward, pushing their hand-carts before 
 them like battering rams. Several policemen, struck 
 full in the chest, fell beneath the wheels; others found 
 themselves suddenly isolated. Caught in an entangle- 
 ment of carts, paralysed by the press, bewildered, 
 fending off blows, striking out at haphazard, they tried 
 to extricate themselves from the howling wave that 
 swept them bleeding along with it. A hundred yards 
 behind, the Republican Guards were hesitating to 
 charge, for groups of police separated them from the 
 demonstrators; but the mob was upon them at once 
 and the battle began. In the midst of the torrent, 
 horses reared suddenly, and beating the air with their 
 hoofs fell back into the eddying mass, smashing skulls 
 as they came down. Men sprang up behind the riders, 
 seizing them by the throat, while others, hanging on to 
 their boots, pulled their feet out of the stirrups; and 
 the Guards rolled down upon the roadway, in a crash 
 of steel cuirasses. Their arms were hastily snatched 
 from them : sabres, pistols. . . . 
 
 T
 
 286 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 Suddenly revolver shots were heard, and the crowd, 
 with renewed yells, rushed in pursuit of the last flying 
 pohcemen. 
 
 A commissioner in a black overcoat, with a knotted 
 scarf, shouted to the cyclists : 
 
 "Help. . . . Hurry up. . . . They must send 
 big reinforcements." 
 
 After the column had passed by, the boulevard 
 was filled with shadows, for the demonstrators were 
 breaking the arc lamps with stones and bolts. It 
 seemed as though the night were advancing with them. 
 
 Some cries of "Long live Saint Magloire" still rose 
 in the tumult, but the clamouring of the multitude 
 smothered them at once. In the darkness there could 
 be heard the ringing sound of shop windows being 
 broken. A woman, from an upstairs room, cried out 
 "Help !" but her husband must have pulled her back, 
 and the window closed upon her cries. 
 
 When the fray was over, the crowd hovered for a 
 moment in uncertainty. AU kinds of incongruous 
 objects were being trampled underfoot : army caps, 
 hats, broken wood, wrecked carts. The clamour died 
 down; they were waiting for a word of command. 
 
 Cries of "Saint Magloire !" rang out like an appeal. 
 
 But the saint had already passed on with his band 
 of followers by way of the Tuileries. 
 
 At that moment, a growing uproar was heard.' An- 
 other column was coming by the Boulevard Malesherbes. 
 They were the unemployed from Levallois, the rag- 
 pickers of the zone among whom the plague was raging, 
 the gas-fitters from Clichy, the firemen from the State 
 Railways with their faces stiU black from the engines, 
 a whole terrible multitude urged along by a woman, 
 that same fortune-teller whom the saint encountered 
 ererywhere. She was marching at the head of the 
 crowd, dishevelled and crying : 
 
 " Come with us, the Prophet Daniel is leading us ! " 
 
 The roar of the two torrents mingled and the two- 
 fold orowd poured into the Rue Royale.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 2I7 
 
 Bandaged heads, bleeding faces, rendered the »ob 
 cnore alarming than ever. They were no longer hidi- 
 crous, with the vans they dragged along and their 
 bundles of clothing : they were terrifying. 
 
 The black army invaded the Champs Ely^ees, and 
 filled the avenue with its disorderly multitudes. It 
 had begun to rain again : the night was sweating with 
 agony. 
 
 The crowd could no longer be discerned in the 
 shadows, but the life of it could be felt, and its fluc- 
 tuations could be divined by the noises that arose. 
 The wave of the plague-stricken passed up the avenue, 
 seeking for the saint and the houses he had promised 
 them. They had grouped themselves by streets, by 
 districts, by factories. Scattered families hailed each 
 other. The few Ughts that remained burning on the 
 carts caught up faces with hollow cheeks, making them 
 stand out of the invisible crowd in a saffron halo. 
 More were coming, yet more. . . . The tragic flood 
 rolled on unceasingly. 
 
 Under the trees, a noise of broken windows could be 
 heard : the summer restaurants were being invaded 
 in search of food. Motor-cars, caught in the crowd, 
 were held up, smashed in, demolished; and women in 
 evening dress could be seen fleeing, their cloaks 
 wrenched off, their hair in disorder. It was a whirl- 
 wind of a moment only, a din of vociferations, then 
 the great dark river continued to flow onward. 
 
 Round the Arc de Triomphe, where there had also 
 been a fight, thousands of rioters were already as- 
 sembled. Some had come up from Javel and Crenelle, 
 others down from the Epinettes and Saint-Ouen. A 
 large body had come from Puteaux, carrying with them 
 unemployed from the motor-works, the factory women, 
 workmen dismissed from the Arsenal and stevedores 
 from the river-boats with striped jerseys and bare 
 throats. 
 
 A rumour spread suddenly that Magloire Dubourg 
 was in the Avenue de Bois, near the Rond-Point, and
 
 288 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 that the distribution of quarters had just begun. The 
 rabble at once moved forward, dragging its carts with 
 it, and filed along in front of the police who were massed 
 on the sidewalks, and did not dare to retaliate, though 
 they were struck with stones and pieces of metal. 
 During this time, the brawling started again in the 
 Champs Elysees, where the Republican Guards charged 
 with drawn sabres down the Avenue de I'Alma. The 
 noise of this affray could be heard from the ;£toile. 
 
 At the entrance to the Avenue Malakoff, progress 
 became impossible. The great mass trampled and 
 twisted; the wheels of the carts were locked, the ranks 
 of people inextricably tangled. The crowd and the 
 night were both black. Not a gleam of light. . . . 
 
 Suddenly great open windows were illuminated and 
 the crowd saw some of their friends gesticulating 
 against the glowing screen. A cheer rose instantly 
 from the multitude, and a fresh eddy carried them 
 closer to the house which had been invaded. 
 
 The Evangelist must be near at hand, but no one 
 knew where. People learnt what was going on by 
 snatches or phrases that floated over their heads. 
 There was a report that the whole of the Avenue 
 Bugeaud had already been allocated, and that another 
 mob was coming up by the Porte Dauphine. 
 
 In the adjacent streets, which were also in darkness, 
 it was possible to move about. Rowdy groups came 
 and went, doors were broken in. 
 
 There, too, a few houses had been invaded, but the 
 assailants had hardly made themselves masters of the 
 buildings when they seemed to hesitate, and they 
 came downstairs again quickly, on the alert, afraid 
 of being hemmed in. Some hooligans were passing 
 out bundles; silver was being packed up in silk 
 curtains. 
 
 "Let's go home, they're looting. It will come to a 
 bad end ! " 
 
 In the Avenue Bugeaud, everything had been man- 
 aged at the beginning in the most orderly fashion;
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 289 
 
 the saint had gone first into the houses, and had 
 dragged out of the terrified concierges vague rephes 
 that might have been taken for consent. The selected 
 families moved in quickly, clinging to their few bundles; 
 but they had no sooner settled down than parents and 
 children alike began to feel ill at ease in these huge 
 apartments. Accustomed as they were to live in close 
 proximity to each other; able, by stretching out their 
 hands, to touch all their four walls at once, they were 
 lost in these great rooms with the big bay windows, 
 these suites of drawing rooms, with theii- impressive 
 portraits and all their museum furniture, that repre- 
 sented neither the cupboard nor the dresser of their 
 daily life. The peace of these dwellings, whose thick 
 walls, portieres, and carpets muffled all noise, im- 
 pressed these people, who were only used to great 
 bare-walled barracks where every sound echoes. 
 
 To dispel their unrest and banish their feeling of 
 isolation, they soon opened the windows to watch the 
 others swarming in the streets, or they went out on to 
 the landings. All these new tenants soon came to- 
 gether, and seated on the stairs, they began to chat. 
 They felt better there, less uncomfortable. Some did 
 not dare to stay at all and went away with their be- 
 longings. 
 
 Beggar women accustomed to spend their night in 
 the doorways, homeless folk with dripping garments, 
 were sleeping pell-mell on the carpets and the sofas 
 with a cushion under their heads. Not one of them 
 had dared to undress and lie down in a bed. 
 
 In small houses, shady characters broke the furni- 
 ture and rifled everything as soon as they got in. Other 
 occupants caught them at it and were scandalised. 
 
 "You have no right. . . . We shall tell the others, 
 . . . You are thieves. . . ." 
 
 Then rows had begun. One workman had been 
 killed with a knife by some ruffians whom he had tried 
 to tackle. Little by little, the houses allocated by the 
 saint were emptied. All their late inmates gathered
 
 290 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 outside and began to grumble. Men who had come up 
 drunk from the cellars yelled louder than anj'one, 
 uttering aimless threats. 
 
 "We've had no food since midday," screamed the 
 women, "let him work a miracle. He has only to say 
 so, and we shall get something to eat. . . ." 
 
 The crowd was already less dense. Uneasy groups 
 were setting out for their own districts. 
 
 When Saint Magloire came out of the last house in 
 the Avenue, there was a rush towards him. In the 
 din of their cries one could hear : 
 
 "We want food! If the police come, what are we 
 to do?" 
 
 "They've killed a man." 
 
 "There are people plundering. , , , Look, they 
 are loading their carts." 
 
 They eddied about the saint, jostling each other. 
 Disputes broke out in their midst, men shouting into 
 one another's faces. 
 
 "Well, what if they are plundering? What next, 
 what belongs to the rich belongs to us. , , , He said 
 so. . . ." 
 
 "You just came to rob !" 
 
 "What if I did. . . . We're sick of only plucking 
 pigeons." 
 
 Shoving with their shoulders, dealing out blows in 
 the crush, the burglars pushed their way into the front 
 ranks, and soon the saint had none but ruffians around 
 him. They were mostly very young; pallid youths 
 with evil faces and a handkerchief knotted round the 
 neck; others were older and better dressed, with the 
 garments and the air of buUies out of small public- 
 houses. 
 
 "They can do nothing to you," cried the saint to 
 the helpless crowd. "Let each one go without fear 
 into the house that has been assigned to him. . . , 
 No one has the right to turn you out and drive you 
 back to your graves." 
 
 But the clamouring continued :
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 291 
 
 "Food! Food!" 
 
 "The police will come. They're stealing everything." 
 
 The saint raised his arms. 
 
 "I forbid you to loot," he shouted. "Seize the 
 thieves ! " 
 
 The ruffians jeered at him : 
 
 " Let 'em come and try I " 
 
 The old man went on : 
 
 "I hear that riots broke out this evening, that places 
 have been demolished, pillaged. I condemn these 
 crimes. . . . Those who commit such deeds do not 
 belong to us." 
 
 The evil gang laughed yet louder. Jests flew back- 
 wards and forwards. 
 
 " We haven't got a chateau at Barlincourt. ..." 
 
 "He's entertaining us so as to give the 'cops' 
 time to come up. ..." 
 
 It was the scum of the riot that was swarming now 
 about the saint, those who had followed simply to 
 break in and rob. 
 
 The others had gone off, group by group. They 
 had tramped for hours in the freezing mud; and the 
 wind that blew in gusts, driving the sleet before it, 
 had cooled their fever. They wanted to flee in soli- 
 tude, through the side-streets, for fear of the police. 
 In the night the measured footfalls of marching troops 
 could be distinguished. 
 
 There were not more than a few thousand left be- 
 tween the Place Victor Hugo and the Avenue du Bois. 
 
 Now that they no longer felt the support of the 
 crowd stretching out indefinitely behind them, their 
 boldness disappeared, they scented danger. 
 
 "Where is Magloire? He must make another 
 speech. ..." 
 
 "We are betrayed. ..." 
 
 Dead drunk, or mad, the fortune-teller, dishevelled, 
 was singing at the window of a first-floor room, and 
 the rabble were egging her on with their shouts. 
 
 Then to the north, a sudden glow lit up the sky; a
 
 292 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 lofty red cupola raised itself against the darkness, its 
 tragic gleam growing and fading at the will of the 
 flames : a great fire had broken out in the direction of 
 Belleville. . . . 
 
 A roar went up. A great " Oh ! " of surprise. Then 
 cries of fear, oaths. Rage seized upon them, a savage 
 fury that made them see red. 
 
 "They're burning our houses. It was a trick to 
 get us away from our homes. . . . They're burning 
 the poor districts to stop the plague. ..." 
 
 They aU screamed together, gesticulating, brandish- 
 ing the sabres taken from the Guards; and a stampede 
 swept down the Avenue Bugeaud. 
 
 "The saint has betrayed us. . . . They're burning 
 our houses. ..." 
 
 A blind invy seized them. Revolver shots, fired at 
 random, were heard. Broken window-panes crashed 
 down noisily. In the upper floors the burglars hastily 
 ended their job by throwing bundles down to their 
 accomplices. 
 
 "Death to Magloire ! Kill him. ..." 
 
 The fighting began, an invisible massacre in which 
 nothing could be distinguished but the cries of the 
 wounded and the resounding blows of the attackers. 
 But suddenly a shout stopped them. 
 
 "Dragoons !" 
 
 They had no time to pull themselves together : 
 already the gallop of the cavalry was upon them, 
 coming from the Porte Dauphine, and all along the 
 Avenue, there was the scramble of a sauve-qui-peut, 
 a screaming flight, a gasping, jostling mob, while the 
 strugglers rolled beneath the horses' hoofs. 
 
 At the same moment a similar charge came up the 
 Avenue du Bois at full speed, and there the same flight, 
 the same cries followed. 
 
 In the darkness horses broke their legs against the 
 abandoned hand-carts, and horsemen fell to the 
 ground. Behind the cavalry came the police, cap- 
 turing small bodies of rioters, whom they struck down.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 293 
 
 As one platoon, bayonet in hand, flung itself upon 
 a group, the men sprang back, and some of the women 
 fell to their knees. 
 
 "Do not strike!" someone cried, throwing himself 
 before the police. 
 
 It was Saint Magloire, very pale, with a little blood 
 on his face. The police surrounded him. The officer 
 commanding the charge sprang from his car and ran 
 up when he understood what was happening. 
 
 "Do you arrest me?" the saint asked him, recog- 
 nising the man who, a few months before, had urged 
 him to leave Paris. 
 
 The Prefect looked at him, troubled. He remem- 
 bered that at their first meeting the saint had said to 
 him: "You wUl not darel" And now, this evening, 
 he had left his little girl at home, dying, struck down 
 by the scourge. An unconquerable fear filled his 
 heart, the fear of some mysterious connection between 
 the step he was about to take and the little life that 
 was trembling in the balance. . . . The policemen 
 looked at him, waiting for his orders. 
 
 But was not this night of pillage, this abortive 
 revolt, the collapse of the power of Magloire Dubourg? 
 Wovild not the plague come to an end too, directly his 
 dictatorship over the populace had ceased? 
 
 "Yes ! I arrest you !" he cried in a hoarse voice. 
 
 Four men flung themselves at once upon the saint 
 and dragged him away. 
 
 A workman, with his temple cut open, lay on his 
 back in his death agony.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Magloire Dubourg found it restful to be alone in the 
 villa at Barlincourt, where Death seemed to have left 
 something of its silence. Old fitienne cooked his 
 meals and looked after him as best he could; the saint 
 hardly ever spoke to him. 
 
 In spite of the cold he would remain seated on the 
 steps of the terrace for long hours, motionless; or on 
 frosty mornings he would walk dreamily about the 
 park, often forgetting the hour of lunch. The frosted 
 twigs cracked beneath his step like barley-sugar. The 
 air was keen and cruel. Under the rosy sun, the leaf- 
 less trees where the mistletoe nested lazily traUed 
 their misty shadows on the ground; on the branches 
 the snow had laid its soft white down. 
 
 His glance alighted on things without seeing them; 
 nothing could distract him from his reverie. One 
 memory pursued him : the great Forest to the south 
 of Ouesso. It is an impenetrable world of lianas, of 
 trees and plants, where never an axe has hewn a path- 
 way, a still virgin domain, vast as a whole coimtry. 
 From the rotting soil to the tops of the giant citrons, 
 it is a tangle of verdure, cascades of sticky branches, 
 a formidable confusion of mingled boughs, of stifled 
 plants, of slender palms, of luxuriant undergrowth, 
 an inextricable jumble where the long shafts of the 
 lianas, burnished like bayonets, may be seen between 
 the leaves. Even game cannot find its way into that 
 Forest. Only snakes glide in, white ants swarm there, 
 and skipping monkeys race along the green highway of 
 the branches. The blacks have named this mysterious 
 region " Djamba na mangombe" : the forbidden place. 
 
 That prophetic phrase haunted him. Was it not 
 for him that a bUnd man crushing millet had spoken 
 
 294
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 295 
 
 one day of the "forbidden place? " He had left Africa, 
 abandoned his faithful negroes, crossed the seas and 
 vainly preached the word of God to stony hearts that 
 did not understand. Djamba na mangombe. . . . 
 
 On the evening of his arrival the evicted workmen, 
 who were still housed in the lodge, would not open 
 the gate for him. The drunkard growled behind the 
 iron gates that "he was responsible," that the gardener 
 was out, and that he was, "so to speak, the care- 
 taker"; if the accordion-player had not interfered, the 
 saint might have had to stay outside. As for the 
 third tenant, he had some weeks earlier joined the 
 schismatics in their hovel, and on Sundays he put on 
 his white blouse to hear Mass, which now drew only a 
 congregation of five or sLx. 
 
 Milot had been one of the first to withdraw from the 
 sect. In his double capacity of Colonial veteran and 
 dismissed beadle, he regarded himself as the sole 
 repository of the doctrine of the Apostle, and after 
 serious disagreements with the leader, he had resumed 
 his liberty : Milot insisted on genuflexions and conse- 
 crated bread, the other would not hear of them. 
 Agreement was therefore out of the question. 
 
 This rupture had not prevented Milot from con- 
 tinuing to defend the saint, far from it. Now when 
 everyone was deserting him, when the newspapers 
 were overwhelming him with insults, when Dr. Blum 
 was building up a reputation for himself by proclaiming 
 him a madman, the cripple remained faithful to his 
 cause, as obstinately determined to extol the Evan- 
 gelist as he had once been to disparage him. He had 
 even quarrelled with the Trembler, who, once more a 
 victim to his palsy, blamed the saint for all his sufferings. 
 
 At Dumarchey's, where he now behaved as though 
 he were the landlord, Milot argued with the factory 
 kands, who were being taken on again, a few at a time, 
 after they had been reduced to the greatest straits 
 and had nm up debts that it would take months to 
 pay off.
 
 296 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 "He told you, Saint Magloire did, that your pockets 
 were empty and that you would soon go bust," he 
 bellowed at the counter. " It takes more than an 
 eight-day strike to re-make the world and keep the 
 scum from getting on top." 
 
 "See here," interrupted one of the workmen, indi- 
 cating the Dumarchey girl with a wink, "we haven't 
 got lady friends to fatten us up. If you want food, 
 you've got to scratch for it." 
 
 This did not convince the cripple. 
 
 "Those are reasons that won't wash," he went on, 
 brandishing the bottle of vermouth. "If all the poor 
 devils had some in their stomachs, it is a certainty 
 that the masters couldn't make themselves sick of 
 indigestion any longer, while the others are rotting in 
 hospital. But it's no good you ranting against the 
 Army. Wliat you need is to be stuck into a uniform 
 with a number on your tunics, and a non-com. at your 
 heels, to put some courage into you. As soon as you 
 get into civvies, with your Sunday hats and your fifty- 
 franc suits, you're good for nothing. These damned 
 profiteers could make you spit up everything down 
 to your blood, and the cowards that wouldn't fight 
 could make you pay the cost of the War; and none 
 of you opened your mouths. WTiy, I'm ashamed to 
 be a man. ... If the whole nation had agreed to 
 meet on the same day at the Chambre des Deputes, 
 to say they'd had enough of it, you'd have seen that 
 they'd have rushed the laws through quick enough. 
 Only, the fellows never budged. They'll come down 
 in their hundreds and thousands to the Boulevards to 
 see the Carnival go by; they'll tread on each other's 
 toes for a whole day outside a station to see Charlie 
 Chaplin steam in, but when it is a case of something 
 worth while, there's not one of 'em will come out of 
 his house for it. Well, then, they'd better not grumble 
 so much; it's not hearts they've got — it's dish-cloths ! 
 If only they'd listen to Magloire. ..." 
 
 But all his eloquence was of no avail, and except
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 297 
 
 for the landlady, who swore by him, he had so far 
 converted nobody. Moreover, in proportion as he 
 gained a footing in the house, he grew less and less 
 revolutionary, and his demands for social reform be- 
 came purely theoretical; and when it was decided 
 that, for the sake of appearances, he and the 
 Dumarchey girl should get married, which made a 
 landlord of him, his evolution was still further 
 hastened. 
 
 By degrees, in all good faith and without realising 
 it in the shghtest, he developed into a sworn opponent 
 of all his old theories. In particular he set his face 
 against violence — perhaps to save the glassware — and 
 while perpetually sheltering himself behind the name 
 of Saint Magloire, he constituted a one-man party of 
 moderate anarchism, anti-clerical Catholicism and 
 pacifist militarism. All this gave him an excuse for 
 shouting as loud as ever, and attacking all men with- 
 out ever agreeing with any. 
 
 Apropos of nothing at all he would begin a discussion 
 about the transmigration of souls — which he compared 
 to wine decanted from one bottle to another — and he 
 placidly referred the task of pouring oil on the troubled 
 waters of society to the centuries to come. So great 
 was his admiration for the saint that finally he decided 
 to dedicate the inn to him. He ordered some pots of 
 paint, climbed up the ladder himself and painted on 
 the signboard in huge letters : 
 
 "THE SAINT MAGLOIRE." 
 
 Then, down below, in somewhat smaller type : 
 
 "Grand Ball on Saturdays and Sundays." 
 
 The absurd juxtaposition caused some laughter at 
 first, but Milot was very dignified about it, and when 
 after the January riots Magloire Dubourg came back 
 to Barlincourt, he paid him a formal visit, with his
 
 298 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 two crosses pinned to his breast, to ask permission to 
 keep his name over the inn. 
 
 The townspeople had been distressed to see Saint 
 Magloire so broken and aged in a few months; but 
 the hands at the Aubernon works looked askance at 
 him. 
 
 "Why did they arrest all those hundreds of fellows 
 and send them for trial, when he was at the bottom 
 of it all and they haven't done a thing to him? It 
 shows he was in with the Government all the time." 
 
 They were only repeating what they read in the 
 papers. The Government, when it decided not to 
 prosecute the Evangelist, knew quite well that it was 
 destroying his popularity. ImpiTsonment would have 
 made a martyr of him; left at large he was nothing 
 but a traitor. 
 
 At first the saint's return caused M. Aubernon a 
 certain amount of anxiety; but he soon realised that 
 the propagandist was no longer to be feared. 
 
 "This business has brought my fellows to heel," he 
 confided to M. Quatrepomme. "I'll take them back 
 by degrees, I shaU not hurry about it; the bad time 
 they've had will do them a lot of good. To begin 
 with. I am going to stop the Saturday half-hoUday 
 and put them on piece-work again." 
 
 For the moment the only annoyances the manu- 
 facturer had to put up with came from Milot. Now 
 that he was independent, the cripple was revenging 
 himself for his dismissal, and backed up by all the 
 factory-hands, who were his customers, he had de- 
 clared war to the knife on his former employer. 
 Whenever M. Aubernon encountered him, he looked 
 the other way, to avoid seeing Milot's expressive grim- 
 aces and to ignore the insults growled at him. 
 
 Every evening at the bar the former beadle told 
 stories of the private life of the Aubemons : everything 
 he had heard from the maids in old days, everytliing 
 he had found out for himself, with additions of his 
 own to produce a better effect.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 299 
 
 He would explain to the vminitiated how in 1915 
 A.ubernon had begun to make money by manufacturing 
 hangars for the army which were so unsteady that the 
 slightest breeze was enough to blow them over; and 
 how in 1920, he had declared himself bankrupt to 
 avoid paying War Profits Duty. 
 
 Out of the suicide of little Yvonne he built up a 
 romance that might well have roused jealousy in the 
 breast of Francois Dubourg, and the story gained a 
 notable success with the audience that came to drink 
 its "aperitif" at the inn. 
 
 "It was a murder !" he ranted. "As long as I live 
 they shall not forget the little girl they killed. I'll 
 find a fresh dodge every day to poison their Hves, and 
 if they don't die of remorse I'll make them burst with 
 rage. . . ." 
 
 It was this that put the idea of the blackboard into 
 his head. One day, without warning anyone, he hung 
 outside his window a sort of big school blackboard on 
 which he had written in white paint : 
 
 "Petit Louis has been condemned to death, but 
 there are others that have crimes on their consciences 
 who are not even in prison. Wait ! " 
 
 The hands going down to the workshops collected 
 round the board; by midday all Barlincourt had filed 
 past it, and the workman Mathieu, half-servile, half- 
 contemptuous, went and reported the affair to M. 
 Aubernon. 
 
 Next day the wording was changed to another 
 variation on the same theme : chips of the old block 
 who went about seducing virtuous young girls and 
 driving them to their death. Every day Milot, intoxi- 
 cated by success, found something new to say, dragging 
 father, mother, and son in the mud, but taking care 
 never to mention names. 
 
 The manufacturer was soon driven to desperation, 
 defenceless as he was in the face of this malicious and 
 damaging campaign. He consulted his lawyer, who 
 advised him against an action in a case that was so
 
 200 SAINT MAGLOII^ 
 
 wi 
 
 "difilcult because no direct attack had been made, and 
 suggested that simple official pressure would be pre- 
 ferable, the Mayor being exactly the right man to 
 exercise it. Unfortunately, 11. Quatrepomme declined 
 at once, though he 'warmly assured M. Aubemon of his 
 good-will. Now that Milot was an inn-keeper his 
 vote was an importaid one, and the Mayor had no 
 intention of losing it. After that M. Aubemon said 
 no more, though he broodod over some vague revenge. 
 He pretended to ignore the whole business. But every 
 day when, huddled in the comer of his car, he passed 
 the caf^, he made out a word or two on the black- 
 board, or found an absurd figure, roughly drawn, in 
 which he could not fail to recognise himself, round 
 as a barrel and wearing a hat too smaJl for him, 
 Eelow, to assist identification, the former beadle had 
 written: "Sham-bankrupt and the father of a mur- 
 derer." 
 
 "You'll end by landing us in prison," said the 
 D^omarchey girl, trembling. 
 
 But Milot mocked at the danger. 
 
 "Don't worry, my microbe. He won't budge. I've 
 got him as tight as a sausage in its sldn. ..." 
 
 He sav/ himself developing into a leading power of 
 the coimtry-side; and now that he was daily called 
 upon to arbitrate between customers quarrelling over 
 law-suits, he dispensed justice in front of his gramo- 
 phone like Saint Louis under his oalr. 
 
 In the presence of the saint he lost all his glibness 
 and listened to him respectfully, feeling himself to be 
 near a being from another sphere. He could not 
 always follow Magloire in his vast and disconnected 
 arguments, but he understood a few scraps; and v/hen, 
 still dizzy, he left the King's Domain, it seemed ta 
 him astounding that men could be content with such 
 degradation when it would have been so easy to turn 
 this unjust v;orld into a garden of Eden. 
 
 All property seemed a crime to him — always ex- 
 cepting his own cafe— and in the evening, still excited.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 301 
 
 he would proclaim the advent of good-will on earth 
 and universal love, declaring that ail who did not 
 agree with him were "fat heads" and "half-baked." 
 
 Adele also came several times to see the Evangelist. 
 Though her employers had disowmed their relative, 
 she still regarded him with the instinctive veneration 
 of the first evening; and she and Milot would sit 
 beside him, both of them captivated, finding again 
 the credulous hearts of their childhood, and listening 
 to the words of joy that rose Hke ring-doves against 
 a Spring sky. 
 
 The maid had no one but the saint to whom she 
 could talk of her Louis, and, in spite of everything, 
 she hoped that he would still do something to save 
 the boy's life. 
 
 One day she showed him something which the 
 prisoner had wTitten her. Petit Louis had ended it 
 with "I'll see you soon," and Adele, kneeling at the 
 feet of the Evangelist, broke down and sobbed. 
 
 Petit Louis, lying on hh back, with wide open eyes, 
 was dreaming of Guiana. It was fair as Paradise. 
 On the day when his counsel had come to teU him 
 that the Cour de Cassation had rejected his appeal, 
 he had been seized by something closely resembling a 
 fit, his head rolling about on his shoulders, his eyes 
 glassy; and they had had to wait until he recovered 
 before they could make him sign a petition for mercy. 
 After that he had gone asleep, exhaiisted, but when 
 he awoke in the early morning his fear had vanished 
 like fatigue after repose. Can a man believe he is 
 going to die when he still feels his heart beating hard, 
 and the keen desire for life still swells his breast and 
 holds his muscles taut. . . . Can all that be cut 
 off? No . . . impossible, not to be believed. 
 
 He had but one hope left — transportation — and to 
 that he clung with savage confidence. Far off, at the 
 end of a black tunnel he could see a sunlit vision. A 
 sky for ever blue. Half naked women, fast rivers 
 
 u
 
 302 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 across which escape might be made. ... At times 
 he fell half asleep, and in his dreams he saw himself, 
 his feet shackled, his hands tied behind his back, 
 running in Uttle jumps towards that tropical garden 
 where men in blue were beckoning to him. If he could 
 get out of the tunnel he was safe; but behind him 
 he could hear footsteps running; there were a whole 
 pack of them, the warders, the judge, Deibler, and 
 M. Aubernon. "Buck up!" the men in blue cried 
 to him from the other end of the tunnel. Then, with 
 the sweat pouring down his face, he jumped quicker 
 and quicker, he tried to run despite his bonds; and 
 then, suddenly tripping, he fell fiat, face forward. . . . 
 
 That woke him abruptly. He turned over on his 
 bed, and propped up on an elbow he looked at the 
 sky imprisoned behind the bars. How good it would 
 be to be out of doors ! ... He thought of Barlin- 
 court, of sentimental rambles in the Bois Noisette. 
 He remembered his Paris pals; they must often talk 
 of him with the women, in the little bars; and a 
 naive pride filled him at the thought. He saw them 
 standing round the marble counter, their glasses filled 
 to the brim. His mouth watered with envy. No, 
 he had not known how to get the best out of life. If 
 he could only Hve it over again, v/hat a good time he 
 would have ! . . . 
 
 He had grown used to this prison life. It seemed 
 less painful to him than during the other sentences 
 which he had served, because he was not obliged to 
 work. He ate, he smoked, he often played cards 
 with his two warders : he was almost happy. On 
 Mondays he greedily breathed in the free Sunday air 
 which seemed to come from their tunics, and during 
 the rest of the week he thought about it. 
 
 He listened to the clocks striking the hours : the 
 Town Hall, the Cathedral, the Prefecture. ... In 
 the yard, when he took his exercise, he often saw a 
 prisoner doing hard labour, always the same thing; 
 and with a wink he would briefly bid him good-day.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 303 
 
 In his thoughts the man had become a friend, and it 
 annoyed him when he failed to see him. 
 
 One evening as he lay on his bed listening to the 
 rain tapping on the slate roof, one of the warders 
 asked him : 
 
 "What would you like to have? What would 
 please you? " 
 
 Petit Louis was gazing ahead with imseeing eyes, 
 in a doze, thinking of nothing at all. 
 
 "I would like to go on always like this," he 
 answered, with his head in his hands. 
 
 The other, a stout drunkard witti a grey moustache, 
 shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "You know that's not possible. You must be 
 reasonable. . . ." 
 
 Louis did not like this warder. He was not iU- 
 natured, but after thirty years of prison life he was 
 no longer a man but a stupid and unfeeling piece of 
 mechanism, like the bolts and bars he handled. He 
 might have retired, but, being a bachelor, he was 
 afraid of the empty life in which no rules or regulations 
 would divide the hours, and, being a creature of habit, 
 he preferred the prison. He spent the day grumbling 
 against his job, so saturated with alcohol that the 
 very first glass made him drunk, and promptly he 
 bullied the prisoners, whom he regarded as his op- 
 pressors. 
 
 "WT-ien I think that but for these blackguards I 
 might be at home," he could be heard shouting in 
 the corridor. 
 
 He forgot that his "home" was a cell like theirs, 
 with the self-same bars. After supper, when they 
 were all three playing "manilla" with Louis, he would 
 grow maudlin over his own hard fate. 
 
 "The fact is," he whimpered, "it is us that are 
 the prisoners. . . . When they've done their time, 
 they go out and they're free; but we have to 
 stay here and spend our whole life in the beastly 
 hole."
 
 304 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 He would turn to Louis and look at him with 
 bleary eyes, wagging his head. 
 
 "The only ones I'm sorry for, they're the ones 
 like you, that are going to be guillotined. That's 
 unpleasant. . . ." 
 
 And he would hand him the pack of cards. 
 
 "Come, it's your deal. . . ." 
 
 These alhisions made Petit Louis's mouth suddenl}^ 
 go dry, and his throat contract. But he felt the 
 pitying look of the other warder upon him, and de- 
 liberately, to show off, he began to whistle as he 
 shuffled the cards. 
 
 "Here's good luck. . . . It's for you to play." 
 
 His aunt had twice come to see him, and on those 
 evenings they had rum to diink, which the warder 
 had smuggled in. 
 
 "The old girl is more wide-awake than she looks," 
 drawled the murderer. "She slipped me the money 
 on the sly and the chief never twigged." 
 
 "She was crying, wasn't she?" asked the new 
 warder. 
 
 Louis shrugged his shoulders : 
 
 "Oh, well, women, you know. . , ." 
 
 He had even been ashamed when the old servant, 
 choking with tears, had taken his hands between the 
 bars and kissed them. His hands that had killed. . . . 
 But that night, when he was all alone, his face trrmed 
 towards the waU, he had begun to tremble. 
 
 "Why had she cried so much? Was it because she 
 knew that the end was coming?" 
 
 Terrified, unable to sleep, he watched in the silent 
 night for the heavy jolting of the cart, the murmur 
 of the crowd and the hammers of the assistants. 
 
 When the town woke up, and the gleam of day Ugh t 
 In his cell grew brighter, when the warder came in — 
 alone — his tortured heart seemed to burst, and, for the 
 first time, doubled up, with his head on the hard 
 plank-bed, he had wept with irritation and rage. 
 
 In spite of everything, he did not beUeve that he
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 305 
 
 was going to die, and he did not even think of his 
 appeal for mercy : his faith in Saint Magloire was too 
 strong for that. He did not know how the saint 
 would manage it; but he would not let him be killed, 
 of that he felt certain. 
 
 He often spoke of him to the warders; he talked 
 also of his old employers, and of Mile. Yvonne. 
 
 "It is funny that with connections like that 3'ou 
 should have done such a thing," murmured the 
 drunkard. 
 
 Then coming back to his obsession, he began com- 
 paring the life of the prisoners with that of the 
 warders. 
 
 "Later on," he explained to Louis, "they've pro- 
 mised us central heating. That will be better for 
 everybody, even for you fellows." 
 
 Then he quickly corrected himself. 
 
 "It is true it won't matter a tinker's curse to 
 you. . . . You won't feel the heat or the cold. . ." 
 
 Petit Louis put up his hand to his throat, with a 
 mechanical gesture, and he felt his lip twitching. The 
 warder did not say these things out of malice : it 
 seemed quite natural to him, and he lost his temper 
 when his younger colleague told him to be silent. 
 
 One evening when he had drunk too much, he 
 began fumbling about among his memories to de- 
 scribe the last execution at which he had been present. 
 He was sitting under the lamp, leaning his elbows 
 heavily on the table, and the brim of his cap threw a 
 shadow across his face. 
 
 "It was an affair very much like yours," he re- 
 lated in a toneless voice. "Only it was an old man 
 that he had killed instead of an old woman. . . . 
 You can't think how plucky he was ! . . ." 
 
 With his neck craned forward, with pinched lips, 
 his cheeks more colourless than ever, Petit Louis was 
 listening. 
 
 "The disgusting part of it," continued the drunk- 
 ard, "is when they throw the head down with the
 
 3o6 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 body : They tip it, like a hod, into the big basket, 
 and you see the funny cut-off face, with the eyelids 
 still blinking. . . ." 
 
 The second warder interrupted, in a rough voice : 
 
 "Here, shut up, you oughtn't to talk of things like 
 that in front of him." 
 
 But the old man persisted : 
 
 "Why not? ... It is science, as you might 
 say, instructive information. You want me to tell 
 you, don't you, my lad?" 
 
 Louis's white lips murmured a hoarse "Yes," and 
 he nodded his head. 
 
 "Of course it is better for him to know," the old 
 man continued. "Well, what upset me most, was 
 when we v/ere taking him to the cemetery. I was 
 seated on the bench, by the driver; then, behind us, 
 we could hear that it was still fidgeting; as if it had 
 been kicking in its basket. ..." 
 
 At that moment, with a reflex action, Louis's leg 
 shot out and he gave a great kick at the table. He 
 was livid, the pupils oddly dilated in his staring eyes. 
 He tried to foixe a word out of his parched throat. 
 
 "All right, that's enough," the other warder said 
 in a tone of command to his mate, as he rose to his 
 feet, quite white. . . . "You go to bed. You're 
 even too drunk to play cards." 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 Petit Louis had just gone to bed; the two warders 
 had remained in his cell that night, and with a sort 
 of uneasiness they watched his slumbers. The thought 
 that next day, in a few hours, it would be over, dis- 
 turbed them. They would fold up the mattress, with 
 a turn of the broom they would sweep up a few loose 
 hairs, and a ragged shirt; they would see a white back 
 disappearing with short steps down the corridor. Ah ! 
 how short it is, all of a sudden, that corridor that leads 
 to the street. . . . 
 
 "I don't know whether it's the change in the 
 weather, but I am shivering," muttered the younger.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 307 
 
 The old man was reflecting. 
 
 "You will notice," he said to his mate, "that as 
 soon as the knife falls, when it goes 'chhu,' half the 
 people always put their hands up to their throats; 
 they can't help it." 
 
 The other, feeling his limbs growing weak, wanted 
 to put some courage into himself. 
 
 "After all, he is a rotten little scoundrel. . . . 
 Five convictions at his age. And that poor old woman 
 done in, for no reason at all." 
 
 But the drunkard was not hstening to him. He 
 was fingering a thick woollen jersey that Louis had 
 thrown on the table when he undressed. 
 
 "I'd like to put this on one side for myself, what 
 do you think? " 
 
 They both sat down on their stools. They heard 
 eleven strike op all the clocks, and the new warder 
 was afraid that the condemned man might wake. 
 
 "If he were to suspect that it is to-night and begin 
 to ask us questions," he said in a whisper. "What 
 should we tell him ? " 
 
 The old man was filling his pipe. 
 
 "Bah! A little sooner or a httle later, what does 
 it matter? I've known some that wouldn't even be 
 kept awake by it. Wliy, there was one, at 
 Melun. ..." 
 
 "Don't talk so loud." 
 
 They had drawn closer together. The yellow star 
 on their caps made a little point of light. Petit Louis 
 was snoring. . . . 
 
 They were still chatting when they heard steps in 
 the corridor. The old man put out his pipe with a 
 jab of his moistened thumb, and stuffed it in his 
 pocket. They stood up. 
 
 The chief warder pushed open the door, and, stand- 
 ing aside, allowed someone to pass in. 
 
 Suddenly they recognized Magloire Dubourg. The 
 saint had bared his head, and, without speaking, he
 
 o 
 
 oS SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 looked for a long moment at the condemned man, who 
 was still sleeping. 
 
 Then he turned to the Procureur de la Republique, 
 who had accompanied him, and said in a low voice : 
 
 "I thank you, sir." 
 
 The official with a gesture explained that he had 
 nothing to do with it : 
 
 "Diiectly you had the permit. . . . Well, then, I 
 will leave you with the warders. We will come back 
 when it is time to wake him, at five o'clock." 
 
 It was the rattle of the door, as it closed, which 
 awoke Petit Louis. 
 
 He sprang up, gazed stupidly about him, then a 
 child-like smile parted his lips. He must have thought 
 he saw a vision. . . . 
 
 "Ah ! you have come to see me !" he said, jumping 
 up from his bed, his face flushed with pleasure. "I 
 always said you would. . . . With you, I was never 
 afraid, I was always at ease. ..." 
 
 The saint stretched out his arms to him. 
 
 "You were right, my child." 
 
 Petit Louis sprang towards him, then pulled up 
 short. His face, suddenly, had changed. He was 
 livid, with two great blue hollows round his eyes, and 
 those horrified eyes were fixed, riveted like two nails 
 driven in. He asked no question; his glance had 
 suddenly understood everything. A gleam of- the 
 soul discovering the invisible. . . . 
 
 The saint took the step that Petit Louis had been 
 about to take and put his arms about his shivering 
 body. 
 
 "My poor child! ..." 
 
 The condemned man did not weep; no tear could 
 have been squeezed forth from his contracted flesh. 
 He was shaking, in the grip of an icy chill, his teeth 
 chattered, his legs gave way beneath him; and if the 
 saint had not held him up, he would have fallen to 
 the ground. 
 
 "He takes it badly," whispered the old warder.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 309 
 
 The other said nothing : he was seeking for a httle 
 saliva in his choking throat. 
 
 Petit Louis at last withdrew from the embrace of 
 the saint and dropped on his bed. He was hiccough- 
 ing, and they had to give him something to drink. 
 Presently he seemed to grow calmer, and his first words 
 were : 
 
 "I wouldn't have believed. ..." 
 
 Magloire Dubourg drew near to him : 
 
 "Has life been so good to you that you regret it so 
 much ? " he asked, leaning over Louis. 
 
 Louis recalled his childhood, his home under the 
 Assistance Pubhque, the farm, the blows, Paris, the 
 rowdy Paris of the quarters on the hiUs, poverty, 
 prison. . . . 
 
 "Well, yes, I do regret," he growled savagely. "I 
 had the right to live hke other people, and it was good 
 in spite of everything." 
 
 The saint sat down at his side. 
 
 "But are you sure you won't live any more?" he 
 asked gently, in the same voice that in the old days, 
 under the sunshine, he had used among his humming 
 bees. 
 
 The condemned man stared at him, not understand- 
 ing. 
 
 The old man drew him within the shelter of his 
 arms. 
 
 "Listen to me, don't tremble," he said in a passionate 
 voice. "On the contrary, be glad. Only one more 
 night and you will escape. Only one more night and 
 you will cease to be the hunted beast you have been 
 ever since yom" chUdhood; you will no longer bear 
 the burden of your crime, you will be free of all 
 the vices that you drag about with you; your destiny 
 will no longer be printed on your forehead for all to 
 read, and you will fly away, free at last, to live again, 
 in a better body, a life that you will be able to make 
 happy. It is a new dawn that will rise for you in the 
 narrow window of the scaffold. ... Be glad and
 
 310 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 give thanks to God, my child; only one more 
 night. ..." 
 
 The tense face of the murderer slowly relaxed; he 
 did not yet understand, but his heart was listening. 
 With his open mouth and his attentive air, he looked 
 as though he were watching a breach opening in the 
 walls of his prison. 
 
 "But all the same," he repeated, "it's no good for 
 them to kill me. ..." 
 
 "They won't kill you, they will set you free. . . . 
 One human gesture cannot destroy a creature of 
 God. ..." 
 
 A hundred memories rose in the muddled brain of 
 the condemned man. That phrase ... he had 
 heard it already in Barlincourt. . . . Yes, Saint 
 Magloire used to say that you didn't die, that you 
 only flew from one life to another, that men are lilie 
 plants that die and come to Ufe again eternally, since 
 God tossed the first grain into the wind. . . . 
 
 His eyes fastened on the saint, helplessly. Round 
 his twisted mouth a saffron-yellow spot was spreading. 
 
 "Then," he gasped. "You believe that? . . . 
 It's true?" . . . 
 
 Saint Magloire seemed to absorb the condemned 
 man into his flaming glance : 
 
 "I promise it to you. ... On my eternal salva- 
 tion, I swear it to you. ..." 
 
 The bloodless head of the prisoner began once more 
 that tragic swaying back and forth that had overcome 
 him when he learned of the rejection of his appeal. 
 
 "Say it again," he murmured in a stifled voice. 
 . . . "Promise me. . . . Again. ..." 
 
 The Apostle had taken his two hands in his own, 
 and in his moving voice he prophesied to the dying 
 man the everlasting course of Life, the comforting 
 return. 
 
 "Don't believe them, those who have threatened 
 you with Hell. God is not an executioner. . . . 
 Your crime : thousands of men shared in it with you :
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 311 
 
 all those who caused you to be bom wretched and to 
 grow up among scoundrels. . . . Don't believe those 
 who have told you that we only liVe once and that 
 God judges us by this single test. . . . This uncertain 
 passage from the cradle to the grave, Destiny is more 
 responsible for it than we are : Destiny who brought 
 us into the world Christian or infidel, rich or poor, 
 generous or envious. . . . Hope, my boy; you will 
 live again. . . . No weapon can reach, no steel can 
 sever the breath of divinity you bear within you. . . . 
 The dead are not dead. ..." 
 
 "Again . . . again . . ." implored Louis, like 
 a frightened child begging to be rocked. 
 
 The hands of the old man resting on the shoulders 
 of the prisoner began to tremble. 
 
 "Close your eyes, merciful Death is approaching. 
 You are going to join the souls that float around us, 
 that moan in the wind, rustle in the leaves and roam, 
 on certain evenings, through silent houses where people 
 dream. . . . Then, one after the other, the ties that 
 hold your soaring spirit to earth will break. . . . 
 Only two memories left. . . . Now only one, a 
 thread of gossamer swinging in the wind. . . . Then 
 nothing more, forgetfulness, the long rest in heavenly 
 spheres. . . . And then suddenly, the darkness is 
 rent asunder and there comes the resurrection, the 
 eternal miracle. ..." 
 
 Suddenly, Louis gave a convulsive start. A sinister 
 sound, in the street. A cart being unloaded. In a 
 flash, he understood. His head sank down between 
 his shoulders, and he looked at the saint with great 
 terrified eyes, his mouth twisted in a grimace that 
 puckered his cheeks. He tried to rise, but his strength 
 forsook him, and he huddled his face against Magloire 
 Dubourg, making an absurd noise with his sputtering 
 lips. Leaning lightly on his shoulder, the saint pressed 
 him down to his knees and then knelt down beside 
 him. 
 
 "Speak to God," said he.
 
 312 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 A mysterious distress took hold of the warders, as 
 though they were waiting for something. They 
 watched, but with a mist before their eyes, with strain- 
 ing hearts, shivering under a tingling sensation that 
 froze them to the marrow. They no longer heard the 
 noises outside. 
 
 Magloire Dubourg was leaning back, his face up- 
 raised to heaven and his arms outstretched. It was 
 hardly possible to see anything in the cell. Then it 
 seemed to them that a faint light appeared round the 
 white head, that all was dying away in the shadows, 
 and that nothing remained but that radiant counten- 
 ance, in a golden halo. 
 
 Then, at the same time, drawn as by a command, 
 they looked at his hands. They started, ashen-faced, 
 their knees shaking. . . . There, in the middle of 
 his bare palms they saw two red spots appearing, two 
 bleeding holes, two marks of nails. The Stigmata. 
 
 Overwhelmed, they scarcely breathed; they dared 
 not look at each other. 
 
 With clammy hands they raised their caps, and, 
 submissively, bowed their heads. The shuddering 
 that had seized them filled their empty minds with 
 confusion : not a thought remained . . . nothing. 
 Yet, miraculously, the prayers of their childhood came 
 back to them, intact, and their words were added to 
 those of the man whose agony was just beginning. 
 
 "... I have deeply sinned by thought, by word, 
 and by deed; it is my fault, it is my fault, it is my 
 most grievous fault ! . . . " 
 
 Outside the prison the assistants could be heard 
 setting up the guillotine. 
 
 It is dark red, the colour of wine-lees. The blade, 
 high up, can hardly be seen, like a fang of steel planted 
 in a heavy box. One of the assistants, holding out his 
 lantern at arm's length, lights up the scaffold, piece 
 by piece. The light rises, descends, glides over the 
 wall, is lost in the night. . . .
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 313 
 
 Near by, at the cross-roads, the hum of the swarm- 
 ing crowd can be heard. Under the dark vault of the 
 prison, the glow of cigarettes flares up and fades away; 
 there are already some people about. No one dares 
 to speak aloud; they whisper. 
 
 The assistants, unconcerned, are fixing a plank with 
 sweeping blows of a mallet. One of them is whistUng : 
 a little man with the torso of a bruiser. Everyone 
 thinks : 
 
 "They are making too much noise, he will 
 hear. ..." 
 
 But no one dares to say so, everyone is ashamed. 
 After all, he has committed a murder. . . . 
 
 Shadows come and go, furtively, then stop and 
 collect together; spectators come up, to see better; 
 they appraise it with their eyes. It is as though it 
 drew them. They had imagined it massive, very wide, 
 holding the sky between its arms; but no, on the con- 
 trary, it is narrow, paltry. 
 
 An assistant scatters sawdust, like a cafe waiter, in 
 the morning, before he begins to sweep. All is ready. 
 
 The executioner has just arrived. He wears a 
 bowler hat and a long grey overcoat, creased by travel- 
 ling. The face of an obsequious petty official, with 
 furtive eyes and a small beard. He assmnes a rueful 
 and good-natured air. 
 
 "We are not out of the wood yet," he sighs. 
 "Morals have become terribly lax since the War. 
 They will need a few more lessons like this. . . ." 
 
 It seems he is paid four hundred francs a 
 head. . . . 
 
 Dawn is already approaching; the stars are melting 
 away. One can see groups of people standing about, 
 and the file of soldiers. Some policemen begin to 
 make the crowd move on; the idlers manoeuvre for a 
 good view, withdraw, come back again. They have 
 passed the night waiting to see a man beheaded, a 
 living man. . . . Most of them, however, feel dis- 
 tressed; anguish has made them hollow-eyed.
 
 314 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 The time must be drawing near. Here are the 
 Prefect, the Procureur, some people from Paris. . . . 
 
 "No, sir, you cannot stay, it is definitely forbidden, 
 you know that quite well. ..." 
 
 It is a newspaper photographer whom the commis- 
 sary is driving away. Among the journalists old 
 BeUieres is holding forth. It is his ninety-second 
 execution; he is giving reminiscences : Caserio, the 
 Pollet gang, at Bethune, and his famous adventure in 
 Corsica, where he himself was obliged to take command 
 of the police, the Sub Prefect being inexperienced, and 
 the Procureur having fainted. People are amused, 
 they force themselves to laugh. 
 
 Ah ! the chaplain. . . . Everyone is silent. Be- 
 hind the priest they have shut the door again. Now 
 it will only open for the other. 
 
 A report is being spread that Saint Magloire has 
 been allowed to spend the last night with the murderer, 
 but no one believes it. They ask questions, they 
 dispute about it. 
 
 Five o'clock strikes. Above the houses the sky 
 takes on softer tints. At this moment, no one knows 
 where, on a branch or on the edge of a roof, a bird 
 begins to sing. First a little chirp at waking. Then 
 he twitters as he probably shakes himself, the little 
 dishevelled feather-ball; then when he has settled 
 down, full-throated, he opens with a prelude of piercing 
 trills, and now he is singing with all his heart, disturb- 
 ing the other nests that shiver into wakefulness. 
 
 All eyes are on the look-out for him. Where is he? 
 He should be driven away, with stones. It hurts to 
 listen to these love-lorn roulades of his, in the bashful 
 half-light. His delirious joy oppresses the heart. 
 . . . Ah ! at last, he is silent. . . . Has he 
 guessed perchance? The door opens. . . . 
 
 In the corridor the saint had taken the boy in his 
 arms to help him to walk. At times he had almost 
 to lift him up. 
 
 Louis let himself go. His face v/as calm, his eyes
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 315 
 
 very gentle. With bent head he asked, below his 
 breath : 
 
 "It's true, eh? You are quite sure?" 
 
 And the saint answered ardently : 
 
 "Before God, I swear it to you. It is for you that 
 dawn is breaking. The night of your poor hfe is draw- 
 ing to its close. All their guards can do nothing; it 
 is finished, you are escaping. ..." 
 
 The narrow corridor pressed them in between its 
 two walls. Behind their doors the prisoners, with 
 beating hearts, must be listening to the noise of the 
 passing footsteps : the atmosphere of a house of mourn- 
 ing, when the body is being carried down. At the 
 end of the corridor a shivering dawn is waiting. 
 
 At the top of the steps Magloire made the lad pass 
 in front of him; the chaplain went before them, raising 
 his crucifix, and Louis sought it with his lips. Shut 
 in like a well, the little garden was the colour of ashes, 
 but along the pathway a lantern spread a quivering 
 carpet of light. Under the vault nothing could be 
 seen : a dark cave, where shadows hid themselves. 
 
 The heavy bar of the gate dropped with a noise of 
 iron; the folding-doors swung slowly back and the 
 light of early morning appeared, a slender ray at first. 
 Then the livid band widened and a striking picture 
 showed itself, framed in the porch : men shivering 
 with upturned collars, bareheaded. Not a sound. 
 In the distance, on the cobblestones, the impatient 
 stamp of a horse's hoof. A great horrified waiting, 
 under the grey sky. 
 
 Petit Louis, on the verge of collapse, had stopped 
 short, his legs giving way. 
 
 He weighed heavily on the arms of Magloire Du- 
 bourg. 
 
 " It's true, eh ? You are sure ? " 
 
 The saint embraced him and pushed him before 
 him. 
 
 "God has already forgiven you. You will live agaui. 
 Be good and be happy."
 
 3i6 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 Turning to the left, the condemned man suddenly 
 saw the machine. No broad space about it. A look 
 of abject intimacy, some people crowded round near 
 the sprinkled sawdust. And against the framework, 
 a man standing alone, his arm upraised. 
 
 Suddenly, in the profound silence, a terrifying cry 
 arose : 
 
 "Louis! my man!" 
 
 Down there, lost in the crowd, Julie had called, 
 warned by the sudden silence. A shudder of horror 
 ran down every spine. The condemned man had 
 heard, they saw his face change. 
 
 Then, in fear of weakening, unwilling to awake from 
 the peace into which the promises of the saint had 
 plunged him, he snatched himself from his arms, and 
 wild-eyed, with clenched teeth, ran stumbling up the 
 scaffold, in little leaps, with shackled feet. He wanted 
 to be done with it, quickly, without thinking, without 
 waiting. He sprang forward. The hardened assistant 
 who was getting ready to push him along with his two 
 massive fists had not even time to touch him; 
 Louis had thrown himself alone on the block, his neck 
 outstretched. 
 
 A dark mass descending. All eyes are closed. It 
 is over. 
 
 To the disgraceful sound of the blade, a woman's 
 shriek replied, very far away, behind the police. 
 Blood. . . . They throw the head, stiU Uving, into 
 the basket. The assistants hurry. The horse at the 
 cart snorts and stiffens his legs. A great sponge is 
 passed over the knife. How ugly they are, all of them, 
 how horribly ugly in their human fashion. . , . 
 
 After the execution, Magloire Dubourg fell into 
 general contempt. For the Barlincourt workmen, the 
 permit (illegal, after all) which had been granted to 
 the saint, was a proof of his connection with the 
 Government; as for the tradespeople, this interest in 
 an assassin made them furious.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 317 
 
 "He didn't take so much trouble for the victim," 
 squeaked Begin, the baker. 
 
 Fran9ois Dubourg himself had suffered from the 
 behaviour of his brother : when the first episode of 
 "Monsieur de Cambrelus" had been shown in the 
 cinemas, and the portrait of the author thrown on 
 the screen, there had been a diabolical hullabaloo, 
 and the novehst, who was in the theatre with his mis- 
 tress, had paled under the volley of hisses. As for 
 Mme. Dubourg, she received threatening letters by 
 every post, and directly she set foot out of doors she 
 felt that the police were watching her. 
 
 In political circles, the President of the Council, by 
 giving the compromising permit to Magloire, was re- 
 garded as having acted with extreme skill. People 
 recalled the precedent of Marcelin Albert, the vine- 
 yard agitator, who had lost standing for having spent 
 a quarter of an hour in the office of Georges Clemen- 
 ceau. 
 
 The newspapers had published further notes by Dr. 
 Blum on the case of Julien Fortunat, called "The 
 Trembler," who had relapsed into his old epileptic 
 fits, and whose St. Vitus' Dance had been, if anything, 
 aggravated, after several months' diminution, "which 
 was to be attributed solely to a great nervous shock 
 such as m.ight have been caused by an accident or 
 any other violent emotion." 
 
 The beggar had re-established himself on the steps 
 of the church, pallid and trembling as before the 
 miracle, but he was no longer indifferent and submis- 
 sive under his affliction, as he had formerly been. He 
 had knowTi some months of normal existence, had lived 
 like other men, had tasted happiness — rumour even 
 credited him with a mistress, a farm-girl — and now he 
 suffered torture; in every lad that passed by he saw 
 the man he had been himself, and, racked by regrets, 
 devoured by envy, he wept with rage as he crouched 
 under his porch. 
 
 As soon as he caught sight of the saint he began to 
 
 X
 
 3i8 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 growl, and Milot had been obliged to turn him out of 
 the cafe. Besides, he was offensive to the customers, 
 with his crooked mouth and his twitching limbs. 
 
 "And then, if you beg your living," Milot argued, 
 reasonably enough, "it is a pretty thing to go and 
 spend all your takings in the public house." 
 
 Although the beadle still continued his determined 
 campaign by writing the benefactions of the saint on 
 the blackboard, which he followed up on the next day 
 with insults intended for M. Aubernon, everyone in 
 Barlincourt had thrown over the Evangelist. The 
 strike which he had brought about unintentionally 
 had overwhelmed the workmen like a catastrophe; 
 it is only for the rich that wounds to the purse are not 
 fatal. Poverty had brought degradation to everyone. 
 Girls who were tired of their miserable existence had 
 gone off to Paris to a life of debauchery. Housewives 
 were in hospital, children were boarded out in schools 
 and work-rooms. The strikers, who had not all been 
 taken on again, were like vicious dogs ready to tear 
 each other to pieces, for the mere pleasure of biting. 
 
 The young men, farmers' sons, now amused them- 
 selves by insulting the saint when they met him. 
 They dared each other to approach close to him, as on 
 Midsummer Eve they dared each other to spring across 
 the bonfire. M. Quatrepomme contemplated with a 
 feeling of relief the return of peace to his parish, but 
 he was no longer very confident as to the result of the 
 coming elections. Not only had he all the socialists 
 against him now, but he was also the enemy of the 
 Clericals, who reproached him with having given 
 refuge to the schismatics; on account of Aubernon he 
 had fallen foul of all the manufacturers of the district, 
 and on account of Milot all the old soldiers opposed him. 
 
 "Besides, it is quite simple," sighed the Mayor un- 
 happily. "Never have people hated each other so 
 bitterly as since the time when their saint came to 
 preach good- will here. . . . " 
 
 Maglnire Dubourg, feeling this hostility, and warned
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 319 
 
 by Milot, who hid nothing from him, showed himself 
 as Uttle as possible. 
 
 He no longer received visitors. However, on certain 
 days at nightfall, an ecclesiastic might be seen alight- 
 ing from a carriage in front of the villa : it was the 
 Vicar-General, who came to talk with the saint. The 
 Church was now congratulating itself on not having 
 acted hastily. Everything would come right, in time. 
 The Vicar-General told the old man again and again 
 that he ought to acknowledge the mistakes which 
 had arisen out of his own altruism, to avoid contro- 
 versy and go back quietly to Africa, where his 
 presence could do so much good. 
 
 Father Labry also came to see him. 
 
 The Evangelist, to avoid any unpleasant incidents, 
 now only attended Low Mass, kneeling quite at the 
 back of the nave, at the paupers' bench. 
 
 One Sunday, however, he came to High Mass. All 
 the pious church-goers, turning round in their seats, 
 stared malevolently at him, and when young Pele 
 entered, with his aunt at his side, both in deep mourn- 
 ing, a murm.ur arose. The saint, kneeling with his 
 head in his hands, remained unconscious of it. 
 
 Abbe Choisy, who had been reproached with 
 cowardice by his flock, rehabilitated himself that day 
 in the eyes of his parishioners. He had never been so 
 eloquent. With flushed cheeks, stammering in his 
 eagerness, and waving the great white wings of his 
 surplice, he launched his condemnation. 
 
 "Beware of false prophets who come to you in 
 sheep's clothing, but inwardly are ravening wolves," 
 he cried, brandishing his book. 
 
 Young Pel^ began to bellow, some of the women, 
 on the verge of tears, blew their noses; and, had they 
 been anywhere else except in church, the handful of 
 peasants in the labourers' seats would certainly have 
 seized the Evangelist by the collar and thrown him out. 
 
 As they left the church after the ofhce, the people 
 crowding r^imd the h-^h'-watf^r stoup stared at the
 
 320 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 tall old man. Coming forward with his heavy step, 
 he dipped his fingers into the water and offered them, 
 moistened, to a woman who was behind him. She 
 recoiled quickly, and with an evil look hid her hands 
 under her cape. 
 
 " Bah ! Bah ! " cried a raucous voice in front of them. 
 
 It was the Trembler, who was dragging himself along, 
 grimacing ; and he had dropped his wooden bowl to 
 shake a clenched fist. 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 One evening before dinner — the evicted workman 
 was playing "Nina la Belle" on his accordion; prim- 
 roses jewelled the short grass and on the branches the 
 buds of March were opening — the gate clanged and 
 Gerard appeared on the path. 
 
 His heart ached as he stood before the house. The 
 shutters remained closed, as on the day of the funeral; 
 he dared not look towards the outbuildings. In the 
 old days, all the joy of the viUa seemed to run to wel- 
 come him as he opened the gate : Yvonne's laugh, the 
 barking of the dogs, the scent of the baskets of flowers. 
 And always the luscious rattle of pots and pans that 
 rose from the basement. 
 
 There, on the terrace, Madame Dubourg would be 
 lying on her couch, too lazy to rise; M. Dubourg would 
 appear at his window, in his careless attire, and call 
 out a greeting. Gerard thought also of M. Van.den 
 Kris, and his glance hardened under his drawn brows. 
 
 All his happy youth lay encompassed in this great 
 garden. The shrubs had grown up with him, every 
 clump of bushes held a memory, and as he rounded 
 the bend in the little path under the pines he auto- 
 matically put out his hand, knowing that a branch 
 which always caught him in the face stretched out 
 there. 
 
 Soon the garden would flower again; the wallflowers 
 would fill the baskets with a thousand golden butter- 
 flies; the lilacs would stretch forth their perfumed 
 sprays, and yet the shutters would not swing open in
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 321 
 
 the morning svin, when fitienne placidly raked the 
 paths. 
 
 The waterless well, the low wall of the kitchen 
 garden, the three steps, the big lawn. . . . He saw it 
 all again, as it had been on the day of the miracles : 
 the swarming multitude, the noise, the small boys 
 perched in the trees, the sick people on their stretchers. 
 The Dubourgs, in the drawing room, had looked at 
 those thousands of panting beings, their hearts well- 
 nigh bursting with pride. 
 
 What remained of all that, now that the fever had 
 subsided? . . . 
 
 The young man m.astered his emotion and entered 
 the villa. Saint Magloire was seated with a book on 
 his knees. 
 
 "How do you do, uncle?" 
 
 The old man looked at him, blinking his eyes. 
 
 "Why, it's you, Gerard. Good-day, my boy." 
 
 This unexpected visit took him by surprise. He 
 feared some new disaster. 
 
 "It is nothing serious that brings you? Are your 
 parents well?" 
 
 Gerard could not keep back his distress : his voice 
 broke in a sob. 
 
 "I think so," he stammered. 
 
 Then suddenly he recovered his self-control : 
 
 " I do not see much of them. Father, as you know, 
 hardly ever comes home now, and mother was so un 
 happy that for some time ..." His voice began 
 to tremble once more. "She has also been living her 
 own life," he said at last, mumbling the words. 
 
 He pulled himself up stiffly, very pale, and, feeling 
 two big tears rising, he blinked his e\elids quickly and 
 turned his head away. All his stifled sorrow rose in 
 his throat, but he resisted proudly. In order to do 
 what he intended doing, he must play the man. But 
 the strain was too much for him. A fit of trembling 
 shook him, his full heart burst into sobs, and, over- 
 come, he dropped weeping into an arm-chair.
 
 322 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 "Oh, we were so happy, before you came," he 
 moaned, choking with tears. "You don't know how 
 happy we were. Now it is all over, never again. . . 
 Why, I ought to have known you would bring mis- 
 fortune, the very day you arrived. . . . Father 
 forbade Yvonne to laugh in front of you; one had no 
 right to enjoy oneself in the presence of a saint. . . . 
 Well, you can be satisfied, she never laughed again, 
 my poor little sister; she never will laugh 
 again. ..." 
 
 The saint, full of pity, came close to the young man, 
 and sought to take his head between his kindly hands; 
 but Gerard, ashamed of his weakness, pulled himself 
 away and rose, his cheeks still wet with tears. 
 
 "Leave me alone," he said roughly. "I am not 
 asking you to comfort me. If you hadn't done us so 
 much harm, I should not be weeping now. I had 
 never wept before I knew you; this was a house of 
 joy. And you had to come and destroy everything. 
 ... It's your fault that the Aubernons wouldn't let 
 their son associate with Yvonne any more; it's your 
 fault that my sister killed herself; it's your fault that 
 father has begun to behave badly; it's your fault 
 that mother has gone; it's your fault that Mother 
 Pele is dead; that the whole countryside has gone 
 through months of misery, that some of the workmen 
 are still in prison, it has all come about through you; 
 and it's your fault, too, if at this moment I am going 
 to take vengeance on the Aubernons, that I am going 
 to run the risk of deportation." 
 
 Magloire sprang up and seized Gerard by the 
 shoulders. 
 
 "What are you going to do?" he asked anxiously. 
 "You are not going to commit some act of madness?" 
 
 The young man freed himself and looked at his 
 uncle with a resolute air. 
 
 " Oh ! no, no act of madness, far from that. . . . 
 And it will be a fine thing, too, for the nephew of a 
 saint. . . . But I'm no saint, you understand. I
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 323 
 
 want to avenge us all. Have you done anything, you 
 who are so just, to get the Aubernons punished? No. 
 You forgive the blackguards. Well, I don't forgive. 
 . . . And, since all my life is in ruin, I will at least 
 have vengeance before ..." 
 
 The saint wanted to hold him back, but Gerard 
 evaded him and opened the door : 
 
 "Good-bye, uncle," he called out from the foot of 
 the steps. "There is no longer a Dubourg family." 
 
 He was already running down the path. The sky, 
 behind the trees, was blood red. A keen wind was 
 blowing. 
 
 "Gerard!" the old man called twice. 
 
 The boy did not even turn round. The clang of the 
 gate could be heard. ... He was gone. 
 
 When £tienne came to bring dinner he saw the 
 saint kneeling in a corner of the room, his head on an 
 arm-chair. It was quite dark. 
 
 The gardener Ughted the lamp. He moved the 
 plates about, he coughed. Still the saint did not 
 move. Usually Etienne withdrew without saying 
 anything, knowing that it was impossible to rouse the 
 saint from his meditations; but for some days Saint 
 Magloire had been so depressed, so feeble, that he was 
 sorry for him. 
 
 "You really ought to eat your soup while it is hot," 
 he said. " It's a pity Mr. Gerard didn't stay to dinner 
 with you; that would have given you an appetite." 
 
 The Evangelist rose. 
 
 "Did vou see him? " he asked. "Did he speak to you?" 
 
 Old Etienne nodded his head. 
 
 "Why, yes. ... He looked quite upset. . . . 
 He shook hands hard with me and he said : ' To-night 
 my little sister will be pleased ! ' I rather wondered 
 what he meant. ..." 
 
 He was standing near the glass door, lookmg out 
 with an air of abstraction, when he suddenly opened 
 his eyes wide.
 
 324 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 "What's happening?" he wondered. 
 
 Then he cried aloud : 
 
 "Why, there's a fire!" 
 
 He was akeady out on the terrace, with the saint 
 at his heels. They gazed with anxious hearts at a 
 great blaze that illumined the sky, from the other side 
 of the town. The windows of the little lodge were 
 opened and the men were leaning out and gesticu- 
 lating. 
 
 "It's at Aubernon's. . , . The factory is on 
 fire. ..." 
 
 Without stopping to put on their hats, they started 
 off at full speed. The burning timber yards set the 
 night on fire up to the very clouds. The church bell 
 had begun to soimd the alarm and the firemen were 
 buckling on their belts as they ran to the Town Hall. 
 
 "Oh, look! How it is spreading!" 
 
 The fire at one bound must have reached the sheds 
 under which the tarpaulins were stocked, and the 
 whole sky was lit up by a disastrous dawn. It was 
 as easy to see in the streets as in broad daylight. 
 
 Magloire Dubourg did not follow the gardener. He 
 had suddenly understood whose hand it was that had 
 kindled that flame, and seated on one of the steps of 
 the terrace, filled with despair to the very depths of 
 his soul, he watched the red pulse of the fire beating 
 in the sombre sky. 
 
 Three days later, when Saint Magloire crossed 
 Barlincourt at dusk on his way to the station, the 
 factory was still smoking. Nothing remained of the 
 workshops but blackened skeletons; of the timber- 
 yards, nothing but a few big piles of charred wood in 
 the midst of a huge swamp in which the workmen 
 were floundering. It was stated that the insurance 
 would hardly cover one-third of the loss. 
 
 The Evangelist stood for a moment in thought before 
 the huge devastated space. From a distance some 
 loafers watched him.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 325 
 
 "You haven't heard anything fresh about Gerard?" 
 he asked, turning to Milot, who was carrying his bag. 
 
 The cripple replied sadly : 
 
 "Nothing much. ... At the Town Hall they 
 have had a telephone message that Monsieur Gerard 
 had confessed everything to the judge in Paris. . . . 
 He is plucky enough, that lad." 
 
 Adele, who was accompanying them, groaned. 
 
 "My poor little dear, that I've known since he was 
 in long clothes. . . . But there's nothing but mis- 
 fortune in the world any more ! " 
 
 Magloire had started off again, with bowed 
 shoulders. . . . 
 
 Here and there they passed people who growled out 
 insults. 
 
 "A good journey and a good wind to you!" cried 
 Begin, the baker, from his doorstep. 
 
 It was only seven o'clock when they reached the 
 platform, and the train for Paris was not yet signalled. 
 The station was dozing round its glowing stoves. Out- 
 side, the wind blew in sudden gusts, carrying through 
 the night a sharp smell of burning. The flame of the 
 lanterns flickered; over the face of the clock the hour 
 was trailing its two weary fingers. 
 
 At this moment when he was to leave for ever the 
 district where, hardly a year ago, he had arrived 
 amidst tempestuous cheering, believing that he was 
 called to regenerate the world, Magloire felt himself 
 crushed beneath a load of mortal sorrow. He was 
 leaving behind him lives as desolate as those great 
 ruined timber-yards from which the smoke was still 
 rising. Why all this mourning? He had brought 
 nothing but offers of pardon, words of love. . . . 
 
 Standing at the edge of the railway track, he looked 
 at his shadow. How can a man believe that he will 
 be able to shake the world when his shadow takes up 
 so little room on a deserted platform? It follows or 
 precedes you, like a faithful dog, and it is only in the 
 lights of the world that it appears for a moment to be
 
 326 SAINT MAGLOIRE 
 
 larger. Slowly the saint raised his arms, and his 
 silhouette traced on the ground a strange cross of 
 shadow. Motionless, he gazed at the example. . . . 
 Would not that redeeming shadow, however, cover 
 the earth for all ' eternity ? . . . And how many 
 martyrs also, how many tears, how much blood ! . . . 
 
 He came back to Adele and Milot, who, with aching 
 hearts, were sitting on a bench. 
 
 "I have sown suffering on my way," he said to 
 them. "I have wounded those whom I loved and I 
 ask their forgiveness. But I was only obeying; it was 
 for the happiness of all and for the glory of God. 
 When a man wishes to sow, he sees nothing at first 
 but the sharp ploughshare that digs the soil. Before 
 you judge me, wait till the seed has sprung up. . . . " 
 
 "Judge you!" protested Milot, who had risen to 
 his feet. "No one would dare, certainly not in my 
 presence. You are above everyone." 
 
 The maid-servant, who was weeping with her face 
 hidden in her handkerchief, murmured some broken 
 words. 
 
 "For me you will always be a saint." 
 
 The Apostle looked at her sadly. 
 
 "And yet, am I not responsible for your suffering, 
 Adele, my poor friend," he said in a toneless voice. 
 "Responsible also for the death of my poor Yvonne, 
 responsible for everything. . . . Gerard said _ so : 
 there is no longer a Dubourg family, and it is my fault." 
 
 He was silent for a moment, then he fell, heavily, 
 like a log, on his knees at the feet of the old servant. 
 
 "I beg your forgiveness, my poor Adele, and i beg 
 the forgiveness of all those whom I have caused to weep. 
 You will tell them that at your feet I have promised 
 to pray for them till the day of my death, and after- 
 wards, beyond the grave. ..." 
 
 The tears were falling, down to his bushy beard, 
 and his clasped hands trembled. The old servant 
 released herself quickly, and she and Milot, taking the 
 old man by the arms, forced him to rise.
 
 SAINT MAGLOIRE 327 
 
 " You, to ask forgiveness from us, oh, never ! " cried 
 Adele. "All my life, do you hear? I have never 
 endured so much misery as in these last months. 
 Well, aU the same, that will be my dearest memory, 
 because it seems to me that I have come near to God. 
 ... It is we who ought to be at your feet, asking 
 you to bless us." 
 
 The saint raised his hands above their two bowed 
 heads, over which the wind passed caressingly, and 
 his lips rhoved in prayer. 
 
 At the entrance to the goods depot, some of the 
 railway clerks were standing together whispering, 
 with low bursts of laughter. Only Milot noticed them, 
 and turning his head towards them, he growled : 
 
 "They'U never be anything but poor devils of voters." 
 
 Adele had begun to weep again, choking with sorrow. 
 
 "I know 1 shall never see you again," she gasped. 
 "And it's cis if I were going to live always in dark- 
 ness." 
 
 "Have confidence," answered the saint. "The time 
 will come. \\Tiat does it matter if I have not been 
 understood, if they are driving me away? My words 
 will remain in the hearts of a few, and by loving kind- 
 ness eleven disciples were enough to conquer the 
 world. ..." 
 
 In the chilly silence of evening, nothing more was 
 to be heard but the tiresome ringing of the telegraph; 
 the tired eyes of the signal discs seemed ready to close, 
 and, on this deserted platform, the saint thought of 
 that other platform where all must embark, some day, 
 for the unknown journey. . . . He would have been 
 glad to die, for he felt that his task was ended. 
 
 "My God!" he murmured, "forgive my weakness! 
 When my eyes had once beheld Thee, nothing else in 
 the world ought to have given me pleasure." 
 
 All was submerged in shadow. Nothing could be 
 seen but the outlines of trees, the red and green signals 
 and the gleaming rails, the colour of rain. The smell 
 of burning still hung in the air.
 
 32« SAINT ]VIAGLOIRF- 
 
 A pulley creaked, a bell tinkled, and a cierK opened 
 the door of the waiting room. 
 
 " Persan-Beaumont, x'aris," he cried. 
 
 A few travellers appeared on the platform, loaded 
 with packages. The station began to wake up. 
 
 "Let us go," sighed Magloire Dubourg. . . . "The 
 time has come. . . . Good-bye, my good friends, 
 my only followers ! " 
 
 Adele, in tears, clung to him. 
 
 "You will pray for my poor Louis, won't you? Pro- 
 mise me ! " 
 
 Milot said nothing. With clenched jaws, he v.as 
 choking back his tears. 
 
 "Let us say good-bye, my son," said the saint. 
 
 And, as the train ran into the station, he clasped 
 the cripple in his arms in a close embrace. 
 
 Magloire Dubourg opened the first door that came to 
 hand — a third-class compartment — and got in. A 
 man was dozing m a corner. 
 
 From the carriage, leaning his broad shoulders out 
 of the window, he continued to talk to them. 
 
 "Above all," he urged them, "don't regret me. 
 Only remember my words and repeat them. . . , 
 He who speaks in the Name of Christ bears within 
 himself His Body and His Blood. . . . Good-bye. 
 . . . Good-bye ! " 
 
 The train whistled. With a wrench, the long shinmg 
 ribbon stretched itself out and began to glide along 
 the rails. The luminous carriages passed by, quickly, 
 quickly, more quickly still. . . . Then, the black 
 luggage van. . . . Then, low down, two red lamps 
 that grew smaller and smaller till they were no more 
 than two pin-points. Then, nothing. . . . 
 
 "Let us go," said Milot tonelessly. 
 
 And, as they went out, he said to the clerk who 
 stared at him : 
 
 "You may well grin, donkey-face: you have just 
 made a m^LTtyv."
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 Bordeaux, March 19. Magloire Dubourg left France 
 this morning, on board the Salzburg, on his way to 
 Dakar, An old missionary accompanied him. 
 
 His departure took place quite unobserved. 
 
 {flavas.) 
 
 V9
 
 
 JUL ^ 
 
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 DATE DUE 
 
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 JUN - 2 ! 
 
 982 
 
 
 >EC'n A 
 
 =R 2 9 19«2 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 GAYLORD 
 
 
 
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 UC SOUTHERN RtGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 000 203 036 9 
 
 3 1970 00489 107C
 
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