The Three Cities Trilogy: Paris, Complete

Standing there, hand in hand, they smiled at one another. Silviane was very drunk, but her virginal expression had returned to her face; whilst Rosemonde seemed feverish with vicious curiosity. Duthil, whom the scene amused, now had but one thought, that of seeing Silviane home; so calling to Massot, who was approaching, he asked him where he should find a cab-rank. Rosemonde, however, at once offered her carriage, which was waiting in an adjacent street.

She would set the actress down at her door, said she, and the deputy at his; and such was her persistence in the matter that Duthil, greatly vexed, was obliged to accept her offer.

“Well, then, till to-morrow at the Madeleine,” said Massot, again quite sprightly, as he shook hands with the Princess.

“Yes, till to-morrow, at the Madeleine and the Comedie.”

“Ah! yes, of course!” he repeated, taking Silviane’s hand, which he kissed. “The Madeleine in the morning and the Comedie in the evening… We shall all be there to applaud you.”

“Yes, I expect you to do so,” said Silviane. “Till to-morrow, then!”

“Till to-morrow!”

The crowd was now wearily dispersing, to all appearance disappointed and ill at ease. A few enthusiasts alone lingered in order to witness the departure of the van in which Salvat’s corpse would soon be removed; while bands of prowlers and harlots, looking very wan in the daylight, whistled or called to one another with some last filthy expression before returning to their dens. The headsman’s assistants were hastily taking down the guillotine, and the square would soon be quite clear.

Pierre for his part wished to lead his brother away. Since the fall of the knife, Guillaume had remained as if stunned, without once opening his lips. In vain had Pierre tried to rouse him by pointing to the shutters of Mege’s flat, which still remained closed, whereas every other window of the lofty house was wide open. Although the Socialist deputy hated the Anarchists, those shutters were doubtless closed as a protest against capital punishment. Whilst the multitude had been rushing to that frightful spectacle, Mege, still in bed, with his face turned to the wall, had probably been dreaming of how he would some day compel mankind to be happy beneath the rigid laws of Collectivism. Affectionate father as he was, the recent death of one of his children had quite upset his private life. His cough, too, had become a very bad one; but he ardently wished to live, for as soon as that new Monferrand ministry should have fallen beneath the interpellation which he already contemplated, his own turn would surely come: he would take the reins of power in hand, abolish the guillotine and decree justice and perfect felicity.

“Do you see, Guillaume?” Pierre gently repeated. “Mege hasn’t opened his windows. He’s a good fellow, after all; although our friends Bache and Morin dislike him.” Then, as his brother still refrained from answering, Pierre added, “Come, let us go, we must get back home.”

They both turned into the Rue de la Folie Regnault, and reached the outer Boulevards by way of the Rue du Chemin Vert. All the toilers of the district were now at work. In the long streets edged with low buildings, work-shops and factories, one heard engines snorting and machinery rumbling, while up above, the smoke from the lofty chimneys was assuming a rosy hue in the sunrise. Afterwards, when the brothers reached the Boulevard de Menilmontant and the Boulevard de Belleville, which they followed in turn at a leisurely pace, they witnessed the great rush of the working classes into central Paris. The stream poured forth from every side; from all the wretched streets of the faubourgs there was an endless exodus of toilers, who, having risen at dawn, were now hurrying, in the sharp morning air, to their daily labour. Some wore short jackets and others blouses; some were in velveteen trousers, others in linen overalls. Their thick shoes made their tramp a heavy one; their hanging hands were often deformed by work. And they seemed half asleep, not a smile was to be seen on any of those wan, weary faces turned yonder towards the everlasting task – the task which was begun afresh each day, and which – ‘twas their only chance – they hoped to be able to take up for ever and ever. There was no end to that drove of toilers, that army of various callings, that human flesh fated to manual labour, upon which Paris preys in order that she may live in luxury and enjoyment.

Then the procession continued across the Boulevard de la Villette, the Boulevard de la Chapelle, and the Boulevard de Rochechouart, where one reached the height of Montmartre. More and more workmen were ever coming down from their bare cold rooms and plunging into the huge city, whence, tired out, they would that evening merely bring back the bread of rancour. And now, too, came a stream of work-girls, some of them in bright skirts, some glancing at the passers-by; girls whose wages were so paltry, so insufficient, that now and again pretty ones among them never more turned their faces homewards, whilst the ugly ones wasted away, condemned to mere bread and water. A little later, moreover, came the employes, the clerks, the counter-jumpers, the whole world of frock-coated penury – “gentlemen” who devoured a roll as they hastened onward, worried the while by the dread of being unable to pay their rent, or by the problem of providing food for wife and children until the end of the month should come.[20 - In Paris nearly all clerks and shop-assistants receive monthly salaries, while most workmen are paid once a fortnight. – Trans.] And now the sun was fast ascending on the horizon, the whole army of ants was out and about, and the toilsome day had begun with its ceaseless display of courage, energy and suffering.

Never before had it been so plainly manifest to Pierre that work was a necessity, that it healed and saved. On the occasion of his visit to the Grandidier works, and later still, when he himself had felt the need of occupation, there had cone to him the thought that work was really the world’s law. And after that hateful night, after that spilling of blood, after the slaughter of that toiler maddened by his dreams, there was consolation and hope in seeing the sun rise once more, and everlasting labour take up its wonted task. However hard it might prove, however unjustly it might be lotted out, was it not work which would some day bring both justice and happiness to the world?

All at once, as the brothers were climbing the steep hillside towards Guillaume’s house, they perceived before and above them the basilica of the Sacred Heart rising majestically and triumphantly to the sky. This was no sublunar apparition, no dreamy vision of Domination standing face to face with nocturnal Paris. The sun now clothed the edifice with splendour, it looked golden and proud and victorious, flaring with immortal glory.

Then Guillaume, still silent, still feeling Salvat’s last glance upon him, seemed to come to some sudden and final decision. He looked at the basilica with glowing eyes, and pronounced sentence upon it.

II. IN VANITY FAIR

THE wedding was to take place at noon, and for half an hour already guests had been pouring into the magnificently decorated church, which was leafy with evergreens and balmy with the scent of flowers. The high altar in the rear glowed with countless candles, and through the great doorway, which was wide open, one could see the peristyle decked with shrubs, the steps covered with a broad carpet, and the inquisitive crowd assembled on the square and even along the Rue Royale, under the bright sun.

After finding three more chairs for some ladies who had arrived rather late, Duthil remarked to Massot, who was jotting down names in his note-book: “Well, if any more come, they will have to remain standing.”

“Who were those three?” the journalist inquired.

“The Duchess de Boisemont and her two daughters.”

“Indeed! All the titled people of France, as well as all the financiers and politicians, are here! It’s something more even than a swell Parisian wedding.”

As a matter of fact all the spheres of “society” were gathered together there, and some at first seemed rather embarrassed at finding themselves beside others. Whilst Duvillard’s name attracted all the princes of finance and politicians in power, Madame de Quinsac and her son were supported by the highest of the French aristocracy. The mere names of the witnesses sufficed to indicate what an extraordinary medley there was. On Gerard’s side these witnesses were his uncle, General de Bozonnet, and the Marquis de Morigny; whilst on Camille’s they were the great banker Louvard, and Monferrand, the President of the Council and Minister of Finances. The quiet bravado which the latter displayed in thus supporting the bride after being compromised in her father’s financial intrigues imparted a piquant touch of impudence to his triumph. And public curiosity was further stimulated by the circumstance that the nuptial blessing was to be given by Monseigneur Martha, Bishop of Persepolis, the Pope’s political agent in France, and the apostle of the endeavours to win the Republic over to the Church by pretending to “rally” to it.

“But, I was mistaken,” now resumed Massot with a sneer. “I said a really Parisian wedding, did I not? But in point of fact this wedding is a symbol. It’s the apotheosis of the bourgeoisie, my dear fellow – the old nobility sacrificing one of its sons on the altar of the golden calf in order that the Divinity and the gendarmes, being the masters of France once more, may rid us of those scoundrelly Socialists!”

Then, again correcting himself, he added: “But I was forgetting. There are no more Socialists. Their head was cut off the other morning.”

Duthil found this very funny. Then in a confidential way he remarked: “You know that the marriage wasn’t settled without a good deal of difficulty… Have you read Sagnier’s ignoble article this morning?”

“Yes, yes; but I knew it all before, everybody knew it.”

Then in an undertone, understanding one another’s slightest allusion, they went on chatting. It was only amidst a flood of tears and after a despairing struggle that Baroness Duvillard had consented to let her lover marry her daughter. And in doing so she had yielded to the sole desire of seeing Gerard rich and happy. She still regarded Camille with all the hatred of a defeated rival. Then, an equally painful contest had taken place at Madame de Quinsac’s. The Countess had only overcome her revolt and consented to the marriage in order to save her son from the dangers which had threatened him since childhood; and the Marquis de Morigny had been so affected by her maternal abnegation, that in spite of all his anger he had resignedly agreed to be a witness, thus making a supreme sacrifice, that of his conscience, to the woman whom he had ever loved. And it was this frightful story that Sagnier – using transparent nicknames – had related in the “Voix du Peuple” that morning. He had even contrived to make it more horrid than it really was; for, as usual, he was badly informed, and he was naturally inclined to falsehood and invention, as by sending an ever thicker and more poisonous torrent from his sewer, he might, day by day, increase his paper’s sales. Since Monferrand’s victory had compelled him to leave the African Railways scandal on one side, he had fallen back on scandals in private life, stripping whole families bare and pelting them with mud.

All at once Duthil and Massot were approached by Chaigneux, who, with his shabby frock coat badly buttoned, wore both a melancholy and busy air. “Well, Monsieur Massot,” said he, “what about your article on Silviane? Is it settled? Will it go in?”

As Chaigneux was always for sale, always ready to serve as a valet, it had occurred to Duvillard to make use of him to ensure Silviane’s success at the Comedie. He had handed this sorry deputy over to the young woman, who entrusted him with all manner of dirty work, and sent him scouring Paris in search of applauders and advertisements. His eldest daughter was not yet married, and never had his four women folk weighed more heavily on his hands. His life had become a perfect hell; they had ended by beating him, if he did not bring a thousand-franc note home on the first day of every month.

“My article!” Massot replied; “no, it surely won’t go in, my dear deputy. Fonsegue says that it’s written in too laudatory a style for the ‘Globe.’ He asked me if I were having a joke with the paper.”

Chaigneux became livid. The article in question was one written in advance, from the society point of view, on the success which Silviane would achieve in “Polyeucte,” that evening, at the Comedie. The journalist, in the hope of pleasing her, had even shown her his “copy”; and she, quite delighted, now relied upon finding the article in print in the most sober and solemn organ of the Parisian press.

“Good heavens! what will become of us?” murmured the wretched Chaigneux. “It’s absolutely necessary that the article should go in.”

“Well, I’m quite agreeable. But speak to the governor yourself. He’s standing yonder between Vignon and Dauvergne, the Minister of Public Instruction.”

“Yes, I certainly will speak to him – but not here. By-and-by in the sacristy, during the procession. And I must also try to speak to Dauvergne, for our Silviane particularly wants him to be in the ministerial box this evening. Monferrand will be there; he promised Duvillard so.”

Massot began to laugh, repeating the expression which had circulated through Paris directly after the actress’s engagement: “The Silviane ministry… Well, Dauvergne certainly owes that much to his godmother!” said he.

Just then the little Princess de Harn, coming up like a gust of wind, broke in upon the three men. “I’ve no seat, you know!” she cried.

Duthil fancied that it was a question of finding her a well-placed chair in the church. “You mustn’t count on me,” he answered. “I’ve just had no end of trouble in stowing the Duchess de Boisemont away with her two daughters.”

“Oh, but I’m talking of this evening’s performance. Come, my dear Duthil, you really must find me a little corner in somebody’s box. I shall die, I know I shall, if I can’t applaud our delicious, our incomparable friend!”

Ever since setting Silviane down at her door on the previous day, Rosemonde had been overflowing with admiration for her.

“Oh! you won’t find a single remaining seat, madame,” declared Chaigneux, putting on an air of importance. “We have distributed everything. I have just been offered three hundred francs for a stall.”

“That’s true, there has been a fight even for the bracket seats, however badly they might be placed,” Duthil resumed. “I am very sorry, but you must not count on me… Duvillard is the only person who might take you in his box. He told me that he would reserve me a seat there. And so far, I think, there are only three of us, including his son… Ask Hyacinthe by-and-by to procure you an invitation.”

Rosemonde, whom Hyacinthe had so greatly bored that she had given him his dismissal, felt the irony of Duthil’s suggestion. Nevertheless, she exclaimed with an air of delight: “Ah, yes! Hyacinthe can’t refuse me that. Thanks for your information, my dear Duthil. You are very nice, you are; for you settle things gaily even when they are rather sad… And don’t forget, mind, that you have promised to teach me politics. Ah! politics, my dear fellow, I feel that nothing will ever impassion me as politics do!”

Then she left them, hustled several people, and in spite of the crush ended by installing herself in the front row.

“Ah! what a crank she is!” muttered Massot with an air of amusement.

Then, as Chaigneux darted towards magistrate Amadieu to ask him in the most obsequious way if he had received his ticket, the journalist said to Duthil in a whisper: “By the way, my dear friend, is it true that Duvillard is going to launch his famous scheme for a Trans-Saharan railway? It would be a gigantic enterprise, a question of hundreds and hundreds of millions this time… At the ‘Globe’ office yesterday evening, Fonsegue shrugged his shoulders and said it was madness, and would never come off!”

Duthil winked, and in a jesting way replied: “It’s as good as done, my dear boy. Fonsegue will be kissing the governor’s feet before another forty-eight hours are over.”

Then he gaily gave the other to understand that golden manna would presently be raining down on the press and all faithful friends and willing helpers. Birds shake their feathers when the storm is over, and he, Duthil, was as spruce and lively, as joyous at the prospect of the presents he now expected, as if there had never been any African Railways scandal to upset him and make him turn pale with fright.

“The deuce!” muttered Massot, who had become serious. “So this affair here is more than a triumph: it’s the promise of yet another harvest. Well, I’m no longer surprised at the crush of people.”

At this moment the organs suddenly burst into a glorious hymn of greeting. The marriage procession was entering the church. A loud clamour had gone up from the crowd, which spread over the roadway of the Rue Royale and impeded the traffic there, while the cortege pompously ascended the steps in the bright sunshine. And it was now entering the edifice and advancing beneath the lofty, re-echoing vaults towards the high altar which flared with candles, whilst on either hand crowded the congregation, the men on the right and the women on the left. They had all risen and stood there smiling, with necks outstretched and eyes glowing with curiosity.

First, in the rear of the magnificent beadle, came Camille, leaning on the arm of her father, Baron Duvillard, who wore a proud expression befitting a day of victory. Veiled with superb point d’Alencon falling from her diadem of orange blossom, gowned in pleated silk muslin over an underskirt of white satin, the bride looked so extremely happy, so radiant at having conquered, that she seemed almost pretty. Moreover, she held herself so upright that one could scarcely detect that her left shoulder was higher than her right.