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Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
'Go away, my love?' he answered; 'it is not enough to go away. But
what joy you give me, and how grateful I feel to you for comforting
me like that!'
Several more days elapsed and still the terrible letter expected from
the Préfecture did not arrive. No doubt this was due to the fact that
a fresh incident began to impassion the district and divert public
attention from the secular school of Maillebois. For some time past
Abbé Cognasse of Jonville, whose triumph was complete, had been
meditating a great stroke, striving to induce Mayor Martineau to
allow the parish to be consecrated to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. In
all likelihood the idea had not come from the Abbé himself for every
Thursday morning during the previous month he had been seen
going to the College of Valmarie, where he had long conferences
with Father Crabot. And a remark made by Férou, the schoolmaster
at Le Moreux, was circulating, filling some folk with indignation and
amusing others.
'If those dirty Jesuits bring their bullock's heart here, I will spit in
their faces,' he had said.
Henceforth the worship of the Sacred Heart was absorbing the
whole Christian faith, developing into a new Incarnation, a new
Catholicism. The sickly vision of a poor creature stricken with
hysteria—the sad and ardent Marie Alacoque—that real, gory heart
half wrenched from an open bosom, was becoming the symbol of a
baser faith, degraded, lowered to supply a need of carnal
satisfaction. The ancient and pure worship of an immaterial Jesus,
who had risen on high to join the Father, seemed to have become
too delicate for modern souls lusting for terrestrial enjoyment; and it
had been resolved to serve the very flesh of Jesus, His heart of
flesh, to devotees, by way of daily sustenance, such as superstition
and brutishness required. It was like a premeditated onslaught on
human reason, an intentional degradation of the religion of former
times in order that the mass of believers, bowed beneath the weight
of falsehood, might become yet more stupefied and more servile.
With the religion of the Sacred Heart only tribes of idolaters were
left, fetichists who adored offal from a slaughter-house, and carried
it, banner-wise, on a pike-head. And all the genius of the Jesuits was
found therein—the humanisation of religion, God coming to man
since centuries of effort had failed to lead man to God. It was
necessary to give the ignorant multitude the only deity it
understood, one made in its own image, gory and dolorous like
itself, an idol of violent hues, whose brutish materiality would
complete the transformation of the faithful into a herd of fat beasts,
fit for slaughter. All conquests effected on reason are conquests
effected on liberty, and it had become necessary to reduce France to
that savage worship of the Sacred Heart, fit for the aborigines of
some undiscovered continent, in order to hold it in submission
beneath the imbecility of the Church's dogmas.
The first attempts had been made on the very morrow of the great
defeats, amid the grief arising from the loss of the two provinces.
Then already the Church had availed herself of the public confusion
to endeavour to consecrate France to the Sacred Heart—France,
which after being chastised so heavily by the hand of God, repented
of her sins. And at last, on the highest summit of that great
revolutionary city of Paris, the Church had reared that Sacred Heart,
palpitating and gory red like the hearts which one sees hanging from
hooks in butchers' shops. From that summit it bled over the entire
land, to the farthest depths of the country districts. And if at
Montmartre it kindled the adoration of the gentility, of ladies and
gentlemen belonging to the administrative services, the magistracy
and the army, with what emotion must it not infect the simple, the
ignorant, and the devout of the villages and hamlets! It became the
national emblem of repentance, of the country's self-relinquishment
in the hands of the Church. It was embroidered in the centre of the
tricolor flag, whose three colours became mere symbols of the azure
of heaven, the lilies of the Virgin, and the blood of the martyrs. And
huge, swollen, and streaming with gore, it hung thus like the new
Deity of degenerate Catholicism, offered to the base superstition of
enslaved France.
At first it had been Father Crabot's idea to triumph at Maillebois, the
chief place in the canton, by consecrating that little town to the
Sacred Heart. But he had become anxious, for at Maillebois there
was a manufacturing suburb inhabited by some hundreds of working
men who were beginning to send Socialist representatives to the
Municipal Council. Thus, in spite of the Brothers and the Capuchins,
he had feared some sensational repulse. All considered, it was better
to act at Jonville, where the ground appeared well prepared. If
successful there, one might always repeat the experiment on a
larger stage, some other time.
Abbé Cognasse now reigned at Jonville, which schoolmaster Jauffre
had gradually handed over to him. Jauffre's guiding principle was a
very simple one. As Clericalism was sweeping through the region,
why should he not allow it to waft him to the headmastership of
some important school at Beaumont? Thus, after prompting his wife
to make advances to the parish priest, he himself had openly gone
over to the Church, ringing the bell, chanting at the offices, taking
his pupils to Mass every Sunday. Mayor Martineau, who, following
Marc, had been an anti-clerical in former times, was at first upset by
the new schoolmaster's doings. But what could he say to a man who
was so well off and who explained so plausibly that it was wrong to
be against the priests? Thus Martineau was shaken in his ideas and
allowed the other to follow his course, till, at last, prompted thereto
by the beautiful Madame Martineau, he himself declared to the
parish council that it was best to live in agreement with the curé.
After that, a year sufficed for Abbé Cognasse to become the
absolute master of the parish, his influence no longer being
counterbalanced by that of the schoolmaster, who, indeed, willingly
walked behind him, confident that he would derive a handsome
profit from his submissiveness.
Nevertheless, when the idea of consecrating Jonville to the Sacred
Heart was propounded, some dismay and resistance arose. Nobody
knew whence that idea had come, nobody could have said by whom
it had been first mooted. However, Abbé Cognasse, with his eager
militant nature, immediately made it his business in the hope of
gaining great personal glory should he be the first priest of the
region to win an entire parish over to God. He made such a stir,
indeed, that Monseigneur Bergerot, in despair at the threat of a new
superstition, and grieved by its base idolatry, summoned him to
Beaumont, where, however, after a scene which proved, it was
rumoured, both terrible and pathetic, the Bishop once again was
compelled to give way. But, on two occasions, the parish council of
Jonville held tumultuous meetings, several members angrily desiring
to know what profit they would all derive from the consecration of
the parish to the Sacred Heart. For a moment it seemed as if the
affair were condemned and buried. But Jauffre also made a trip to
Beaumont, and, though nobody guessed exactly what personage he
saw there, he no sooner came back than, in a gentle, insidious
manner, he resumed the negotiations with the parish council.
The question was what the parish would gain by consecrating itself
to the Sacred Heart. Well, first of all, several ladies of Beaumont
promised presents to the church, a silver chalice, an altar cloth,
some flower vases, and a big statue of the Saviour, with a huge,
flaming, bleeding heart painted on it. Then, too, said Jauffre, there
was talk of giving a dowry of five hundred francs to the most
deserving Maiden of the Virgin when she married. But the council
seemed to be most impressed by the promise of setting up a branch
establishment of the Order of the Good Shepherd, where two
hundred girls would work at fine linen, chemises, petticoats, and
knickers, for some of the great Parisian shops. The peasants at once
pictured all their daughters working for the good Sisters, and
speculated on the large amount of money which such an
establishment would probably bring into the district.
At last it was decided that the ceremony should take place on June
10 (a Sunday), and, as Abbé Cognasse pointed out, never was
festival favoured by brighter sunshine. For three days his servant,
the terrible Palmyre, with the help of Madame Jauffre and the
beautiful Madame Martineau, had been decorating the church with
evergreens and hangings, lent by the inhabitants. The ladies of
Beaumont, Présidente Gragnon, Générale Jarousse, Préfete
Hennebise—and even, so it was said, Madame Lemarrois, the wife of
the radical mayor and deputy,—had presented the parish with a
superb tricolor flag on which the Sacred Heart was embroidered,
with the motto: 'God and Country.' And Jauffre himself was to carry
that flag, walking on the right hand of the Mayor of Jonville. An
extraordinary concourse of important personages arrived during the
morning: many notabilities of Beaumont, with the ladies who had
presented the flag; Philis, the Mayor of Maillebois, with the clerical
majority of his council, as well as a shoal of cassocks and frocks; a
grand-vicar, delegated by Monseigneur the Bishop, Father Théodose
and other Capuchins, Brother Fulgence and his assistant Brothers,
Father Philibin and even Father Crabot, both of whom were
surrounded and saluted with the greatest deference. But people
noticed the absence of Abbé Quandieu, who, according to his own
account, had been laid up by a violent attack of gout at the last
moment.
At three o'clock in the afternoon a band of music, which had come
from the chief town, struck up an heroic march on the Place de
l'Église. Then appeared the parish councillors, all wearing their
scarves, and headed by Mayor Martineau and schoolmaster Jauffre,
the latter of whom grasped the staff of his flag with both hands. A
halt ensued until the band had finished playing. A dense crowd of
peasant families in their Sunday best, and ladies in full dress, had
gathered round, waiting. Then, all at once, the principal door of the
church was thrown wide open, and Curé Cognasse appeared in rich
sacerdotal vestments, followed by numerous members of the clergy,
the many priests who had hastened to Jonville from surrounding
spots. Chants arose, and all the people prostrated themselves
devoutly during the solemn blessing of the flag. The pathetic
moment came when Mayor Martineau and the members of the
council knelt beneath the folds of the symbolic standard, which
Jauffre held slantwise above them in order that one might the better
see the gory heart embroidered amid the three colours. And then in
a loud voice the Mayor read the deed officially consecrating the
parish of Jonville to that heart.
Women wept and men applauded. A gust of blissful insanity arose
into the clear sunlight, above the blare of the brass instruments and
the beating of the drums which had again struck up a triumphal
march. And the procession entered the church, the clergy, the Mayor,
and the council, still and ever attended by the schoolmaster and the
flag. Then came the benediction of the Holy Sacrament; the
monstrance glittering like a great star on the altar, amid all the
lighted candles, while the municipality again knelt down most
devoutly. And afterwards Abbé Cognasse began to speak with fiery
eloquence, exulting at the sight of the representatives of civil
authority sheltering themselves beneath the banner of the Sacred
Heart, prostrating themselves before the Holy Sacrament, abdicating
all pride and rebellion in the hands of the Deity, relying on Him alone
to govern and save France. Did not this signify the end of impiety,
the Church mistress of men's souls and bodies, sole representative
of power and authority on earth? Ah! she would not long delay to
restore happiness to her well-beloved eldest Daughter, who at last
repented of her errors, submitted, and sought nothing but salvation.
Every parish would end by following the example of Jonville, the
whole country would give itself to the Sacred Heart, France would
recover her empire over the world by the worship of the national
flag now transformed into the flag of Jesus! Cries of ecstatic
intoxication burst forth, and the splendid ceremony came to an end
in the sacristy, whither the council, headed by the Mayor, repaired to
sign the deed on parchment which set forth that the whole parish of
Jonville had for ever consecrated itself to the Divine Heart, the civil
power piously renouncing its claims in favour of the religious power.
But when the party quitted the church a scandalous scene occurred.
Among the crowd was Férou, the schoolmaster at Le Moreux, clad in
a wretched, tattered frock coat and looking more emaciated, more
ardent than ever. He had sunk to the worst tortures of indebtedness,
he was pursued for francs and half francs which he had borrowed,
for he could no longer obtain on credit the six pounds of bread
which he needed daily to feed his exhausted wife and his three lean
and ailing daughters. Even before it was due, his paltry salary of a
hundred francs a month disappeared in that ever-widening gulf, and
the little sum which he received as parish clerk was constantly being
attached by creditors. His growing and incurable misery had
increased the contempt of the peasants who were all at their ease,
and who looked askance at knowledge as it did not even feed the
master appointed to teach it. And Férou, the only man of intelligence
and culture in that abode of dense ignorance, grew more and more
exasperated at the thought that he, the man who knew, should be
the poor one, whereas the ignorant were rich. Feverish rebellion
against such social iniquity came upon him, he was maddened by
the sufferings of those who were dear to him, and dreamt of
destroying this abominable world by violence.
As he stood there he caught sight of Saleur, the Mayor of Le Moreux,
who, wishing to make himself agreeable to the triumphant Abbé
Cognasse, had come over to Jonville, arrayed in a fine new frock
coat. Peace now reigned between his parish and the priest, though
the latter still grumbled at having to walk several miles to say Mass
for people who might very well have kept a priest of their own.
However, all the esteem which had departed from the thin, ghastly,
ill-paid, penniless, and deeply indebted schoolmaster had now gone
to the sturdy and flourishing priest who was so much better off, and
who turned every baptism, wedding, and burial into so much money.
Beaten, as was only natural, in that unequal duel, Férou was no
longer able to control his rage.
'Well, Monsieur Saleur,' he exclaimed, 'here's a carnival and no
mistake! Aren't you ashamed to lend yourself to such ignominy?'
Though Saleur was not at heart with the priests, this remark vexed
him. He construed it as an attack upon his own bourgeois position as
an enriched grazier, living on his income in a pretty house, repainted
and decorated at his own expense. So he sought for dignified words
of reprimand: 'You would do better to keep quiet, Monsieur Férou.
The shame belongs to those who can't even succeed sufficiently to
lead respectable lives.'
Irritated by this rejoinder, which smacked of the low standard of
morality that brought him so much suffering, Férou was about to
reply when his anger was diverted by the sight of Jauffre.
'Ah! colleague,' said he, 'so it's you who carry their banner of
falsehood and imbecility! That's a fine action for an educator of the
lowly and humble ones of our democracy! You know very well that
the priest's gain is the schoolmaster's loss.'
Jauffre, like a man who had an income of his own, and who,
moreover, was well pleased with what he had done, replied with
compassionate yet crushing contempt: 'Before judging others, my
poor comrade, you would do well to provide your daughters with
shifts to hide their nakedness!'
At this Férou lost all self-control. With his unkempt hair bristling on
his head, and a savage gleam in his wild eyes, he waved his long
arms and cried: 'You gang of bigots! you pack of Jesuits! Carry your
bullock's heart about, worship it, eat it raw, and become, if you can,
even more bestial and imbecile than you are already!'
A crowd gathered around the blasphemer, hoots and threats arose,
and things would have turned out badly for him if Saleur, like a
prudent Mayor, alarmed for the good name of his commune, had not
extricated him from the hostile throng and led him away by the arm.
On the morrow the incident was greatly exaggerated; on all sides
people talked of execrable sacrilege. Indeed, Le Petit Beaumontais
related that the schoolmaster of Le Moreux had spat on the national
flag of the Sacred Heart at the very moment when worthy Abbé
Cognasse was blessing that divine emblem of repentant and rescued
France. And in its ensuing number it announced that the revocation
of schoolmaster Férou was a certainty. If that were so, the
consequences would be serious, for as Férou had not completed his
term of ten years' duty as a teacher he would have to perform some
years' military service. And, again, while he was in barracks, what
would become of his wife and daughters, those woeful creatures for
whom he was already unable to provide? He gone, would they not
utterly starve to death?
When Marc heard of what had happened he went to see Salvan at
Beaumont. This time the newspaper's information was correct, the
revocation of Férou was about to be signed, Le Barazer was resolved
on it. And as Marc nevertheless begged his old friend to attempt
some intervention, the other sadly refused to do so.
'No, no, it would be useless,' he said; 'I should simply encounter
inflexible determination. Le Barazer cannot act otherwise; at least,
such is his conviction. Opportunist as he is, he finds in that course a
means of ridding himself of the other difficulties of the present
time.... And you must not complain too much; for if his severity falls
on Férou it is in order that he may spare you.'
At this Marc burst into protest, saying how much he was upset and
grieved by such a dénouement.
'But you are not responsible, my dear fellow,' Salvan replied. 'He is
casting that prey to the clericals because they require one, and
because he thus hopes to save a good workman like yourself. It is a
very distinguée solution, as somebody said to me yesterday.... Ah!
how many tears and how much blood must necessarily flow for the
slightest progress to be accomplished, how many poor corpses must
fill up the ditches in order that the heroes may pass on!'
Salvan's forecast was fulfilled to the very letter. Two days afterwards
Férou was dismissed, and, rather than resign himself to military
service, he fled to Belgium, full of exasperation at the thought that
justice should be denied him. He hoped to find some petty situation
at Brussels, which would enable him to send for his wife and
children, and make himself a new home abroad. He even ended by
declaring that he felt relieved at having escaped from the university
galleys, and that he now breathed freely, like a man who was at last
at liberty to think and act as he listed.
Meantime his wife installed herself with her three little girls in two
small, sordid rooms at Maillebois, where, with all bravery, she at
once began to ply her needle as a seamstress, though she found
herself unable to earn enough for daily bread. Marc visited her and
helped her as far as he could, feeling quite heartbroken at the sight
of her pitiable wretchedness. And a remorseful feeling clung to him,
for the affair of the crucifix appeared to be forgotten amid the keen
emotion roused by the sacrilege of Jonville and the revocation which
had followed it. Le Petit Beaumontais triumphed noisily, and the
Count de Sanglebœuf promenaded the town with victorious airs as if
his friends, the Brothers, the Capuchins, and the Jesuits, had now
become the absolute masters of the department. And then life
followed its course, pending the time when the struggle would begin
again, on another field.
One Sunday Marc was surprised to see his wife come home carrying
a Mass-book. 'What! have you been to church?' he asked her.
'Yes,' she answered,' I have just taken the Communion.' He looked
at her, turning pale the while, penetrated by a sudden chill, a quiver,
which he strove to hide. 'You do that now, and you did not tell me of
it?' said he.
On her side she feigned astonishment, though, according to her
wont, she remained very calm and gentle: 'Tell you of it—why?' she
asked. 'It is a matter of conscience. I leave you free to act according
to your views, so I suppose I may act according to mine.'
'No doubt; all the same, for the sake of a good understanding
between us, I should have liked to have known.'
'Well, you know now. I do not hide it, as you may see. But we shall,
none the less, remain good friends, I hope.'
She added nothing more, and he lacked the strength to tell her of all
that he felt seething within him, to provoke the explanation which he
knew to be imperative. But the day remained heavy with silence.
This time some connecting link had certainly snapped and sundered
them.
 III

Some months elapsed, and day by day Marc found himself

confronted by the redoubtable question: Why had he married a
woman whose belief was contrary to his own? Did not he and
Geneviève belong to two hostile spheres, divided by an abyss, and
would not their disagreement bring them the most frightful torture?
Some scientists were suggesting that when people desired to marry
they should undergo proper examination, and provide themselves
with certificates setting forth that they were free from all physical
flaws. The young man for his part felt convinced that all such
certificates ought also to state that the holder's heart and mind were
free from every form of inherited or acquired imbecility. Two beings,
ignorant one of the other, coming from different worlds, as it were,
with contradictory and hostile notions, could only torture and destroy
each other. And yet how great an excuse was, at the outset,
furnished by the imperious blindness of love, and how difficult it was
to solve the question in some particular cases, which were often
those instinct with most charm and tenderness!
Marc did not yet accuse Geneviève—he merely dreaded lest she
should become a deadly weapon in the hands of those priests and
monks against whom he was waging war. As the Church had failed
to strike him down by intriguing with his superiors, it must now be
thinking of dealing him a blow in the heart by destroying his
domestic happiness. That was essentially the device of the Jesuits,
the everlasting manœuvre of the father-confessor, who helps on the
work of Catholic domination in stealthy fashion, like a worldly
psychologist well acquainted with the passions and the means they
offer for triumphing over the human beast, who, fondled and
satiated, may then be strangled. To glide into a home, to set oneself
between husband and wife, to capture the latter and thereby destroy
the man whom the Church wishes to get rid of, no easier and more
widely adopted stratagem than this is known to the black whisperers
of the confessional.
The Church, having taken possession of woman, has used her as its
most powerful weapon of propaganda and enthralment. At the first
moment an obstacle certainly arose. Was not woman all shame and
perdition, a creature of sin, and terror, before whom the very saints
trembled? Vile nature had set its trap in her, she was the source of
life, she was life itself, the contempt of which was taught by the
Church. And so for a moment the latter denied a soul to woman, the
creature from whom men of purity fled to the desert, in danger of
succumbing if the evening breeze wafted to them merely the odour
of her hair. Beauty and passion being cast out of the religious
system, she became the mere embodiment of all that was
condemned, all that was regarded as diabolical, denounced as the
craft of Satan, all against which prayer, mortification, and strict and
perpetual chastity were enjoined. And in the desire to crush
sexuality in woman, the ideal woman was shown sexless, and a
virgin was enthroned as queen of heaven.
But the Church ended by understanding the irresistible sexual power
of woman over man, and in spite of its repugnance, in spite of its
terror, decided to employ it as a means to conquer and enchain man.
That great flock of women, weakened by an abasing system of
education, terrorised by the fear of hell, degraded to the status of
serfs by the hatred and harshness of priests, might serve as an
army. And as man was ceasing to believe and turning aside from the
altars, an effort to bring him back to them might be attempted with
the help of woman's Satanic but ever victorious charm. She need
only withhold herself from man, and he would follow her to the very
foot of the shrines. In this, no doubt, there was much immoral
inconsistency; but had not the Church lost much of its primitive
sternness, and had not the Jesuits appeared upon the scene to fight
the great fight on the new field of casuistry and accommodation with
the world? From that time, then, the Church handled woman more
gently and skilfully than before. It still refused to take her to wife,
for it feared and loathed her as the embodiment of sin, but it
employed her to ensure its triumph. Its policy was to keep her to
itself, by stupefying her as formerly, by holding her in a state of
perpetual mental infancy. That much ensured, it turned her into a
weapon of war, confident that it would vanquish incredulous man by
setting pious woman before him. And in woman the Church always
had a witness at the family hearth, and was able to exert its
influence even in the most intimate moments of conjugal life,
whenever it desired to plunge resisting men into the worst despair.
Thus, at bottom, woman still remained the human animal, and the
priests merely made use of her in order to ensure the triumph of
their creed.
Marc easily reconstituted the early phases of Geneviève's life: in
childhood, the pleasant convent of the Sisters of the Visitation, with
all sorts of devout attractions; the evening prayer on one's knees
beside the little white bed; the providential protection promised to
those who were obedient; the lovely stories of Christians saved from
lions, of guardian angels watching over children, and carrying the
pure souls of the well-beloved to heaven, such indeed as Monsieur le
Curé related in the dazzling chapel. Afterwards came years of skilful
preparation for the first Communion, with the extraordinary
mysteries of the Catechism enshrouded in fearsome obscurity, for
ever disturbing the reason, and kindling all the perverse fever of
mystical curiosity. Then in the first troublous hour of maidenhood the
young girl, enraptured with her white gown, her first bridal gown,
was affianced to Jesus, united to the divine lover, whose gentle sway
she accepted for ever; and man might come afterwards, he would
find himself forestalled by an influence which would dispute his
possession of her with all the haunting force of remembrance. Again
and again throughout her life woman would see the candles
sparkling, feel the incense filling her with languor, hark back to the
wakening of her senses amid the mysterious whispering of the
confessional and the languishing rapture of the Holy Table. She
would spend her youth encompassed by the worst prejudices,
nourished with the errors and falsehoods of ages, and, above all
things, kept in close captivity in order that nothing of the real world
might reach her. Thus the girl of sixteen or seventeen, on quitting
the good Sisters of the Visitation, was a miracle of perversion and
stultification, one whose natural vision had been dimmed, one who
knew nothing of herself nor of others, and who in the part she
would play in love and wifehood would bring, apart from her beauty,
nought save religious poison, the evil ferment of every disorder and
every suffering.
Marc pictured Geneviève, somewhat later, in the devout little house
on the Place des Capucins. It was there that he had first seen her in
the charge of her grandmother and mother, the chief care of whose
vigilant affection had been to complete the convent work by setting
on one side everything that might have made the girl a creature of
truth and reason. It was enough that she should follow the Church's
observances like an obedient worshipper; she was told that she need
take no interest in other things; she was prepared for life by being
kept quite blind to it. Some effort on Marc's part was already
necessary to enable him to recall her such as she had been at the
time of their first interviews—delightfully fair, with a refined and
gentle face, so desirable too with the flush of her youth, the
penetrating perfume of her blond beauty, that he only vaguely
remembered whether she had then shown much intelligence and
sense. A gust of passion had transported them both; he had felt that
she shared his flame; for, however chilling might have been her
education, she had inherited from her father a real craving for love.
In matters of intellect she was doubtless no fool; he must have
deemed her similar to other young girls, of whom one knows
nothing; and certainly he had resolved to look into all that after their
marriage. But when he now recalled their first years at Jonville he
perceived how slight had been his efforts to know her better and
make her more wholly his own. They had spent those years in
mutual rapture, in such passionate intoxication that they had
remained unconscious even of their moral differences. She showed
real intelligence in many things, and he had not cared to worry her
about the singular gaps which he had occasionally discovered in her
understanding. As she ceased to follow the observances of the
Church he imagined that he had won her over to his views, though
he had not even taken the trouble to instruct her in them. He now
suspected that there must have been some little cowardice on his
part, some dislike of the bother of re-educating her entirely, and also
some fear of encountering obstacles, and spoiling the adorable
quietude of their love. Indeed, as their life was all happiness, why
should he have sought a cause of strife, particularly as he had felt
convinced that their great love would suffice to ensure their good
understanding whatever might arise?
But now the crisis was at hand, heavy with menace. When Salvan
had interested himself in the marriage he had pointed out to Marc
that if husband and wife were ill-assorted there was always some
fear for the future; and to tranquillise his own conscience with
respect to the young man's case it had been necessary that he
should accept the view adopted by Marc, that when a young couple
adored one another it was possible for the husband to make his wife
such as he desired her to be. Indeed, when an ignorant young girl is
handed over to a man whom she loves, is it not in his power to re-
create her in his own image? He is her god, and may mould her
afresh by the sovereign might of love. Such is the theory, but how
often is it put into practice? Languor, blindness, come upon the man
himself; and in Marc's case it was only long afterwards that he had
realised how ignorant he had really remained of Geneviève's mind—
a mind which, awaking according to the play of circumstances,
revealed itself at last as that of an unknown, antagonistic woman.
The effects of the warm bath of religiosity in which Geneviève had
grown up were still there. The adored woman, whom Marc had
imagined to be wholly his own, was possessed by the indelible,
indestructible past, in which he had no share whatever. He perceived
with stupefaction that they had nothing in common, that though he
had made her wife and mother, he had in no degree modified her
brain, fashioned from her cradle days by skilful hands. Ah! how
bitterly he now regretted that, in the first months of their married
life, he had not striven to conquer the mind that existed behind the
charming face which he had covered with his kisses! He ought not to
have abandoned himself to his happiness, he ought to have striven
to re-educate the big child who hung so amorously about his neck.
As it had been his desire to make her entirely his own, why had he
not shown himself a prudent, sensible man, whose reason remained
undisturbed by the joys of love? If he suffered now it was by reason
of his vain illusions, his idleness, and his egotism in refraining from
action, from the fear of spoiling the felicity of his dalliance.
But the danger had now become so serious that he resolved to
contend with it. A last excuse for avoiding anything like rough
intervention remained to him: respect for another's freedom,
tolerance of whatever might be the sincere faith of his life's
companion. With amorous weakness he had consented to a religious
marriage, and subsequently to the baptism of his daughter Louise,
and, in the same way, he now lacked the strength to forbid his wife's
attendance at Mass, Communion, and Confession, if her belief lay in
such observances. Yet times had changed; he might have pleaded
that at the date of his wedding, and again at the period of his
daughter's birth, he had been quite indifferent to Church matters,
whereas things were very different now that he had formally
rejected the Church and its creed. He had imposed a duty on
himself, he ought to set an example, he ought not to allow in his
own home that which he condemned in the homes of others. If he,
the secular schoolmaster, who showed such marked hostility to the
interference of priests in the education of the young, should suffer
his wife to go to Mass and take little Louise with her, would he not
render himself liable to reproach? Nevertheless, he did not feel that
he had the right to prevent those things, so great was his innate
respect for liberty of conscience. Thus, confronted as he was by the
imperious necessity of defending his happiness, he perceived no
other available weapons, particularly in his own home, than
discussion, persuasion, and the daily teaching of life in all that it has
of a logical and healthful nature. That which he ought to have done
at the outset, he must attempt now, not only in order to win his
Geneviève over to healthy human truth, but also to prevent their
dear Louise from following her into the deadly errors of Roman
Catholicism.
For the moment, however, the case of Louise, now seven years of
age, seemed less urgent. Moreover, though Marc was convinced that
a child's first impressions are the keenest and the most tenacious,
circumstances compelled a waiting policy with respect to his little
girl. He had been obliged to let her attend the neighbouring school,
where Mademoiselle Rouzaire was already filling her mind with Bible
history. There were also prayers at the beginning and at the end of
lessons, Sunday attendance at Mass, benedictions and processions.
The schoolmistress had certainly bowed assent with a sharp smile
when Marc had exacted from her a promise that his daughter should
not be required to follow any religious exercises. But the girl was still
so young that it seemed ridiculous to insist on preserving her from
contamination in this fashion; besides which, Marc was not always at
hand to make sure whether she said prayers with the other children
or not. That which disgusted him with Mademoiselle Rouzaire was
less the clerical zeal which seemed to consume her than her
hypocrisy, the keen personal interest which guided all her actions.
The woman's lack of real faith, her mere exploitation of religious
sentimentality for her own advantage, was so apparent that even
Geneviève, whose uprightness still remained entire, was wounded by
it, and for this reason had repulsed the other's advances.
The schoolmistress, indeed, wishing to worm her way into Marc's
home and scenting the possibility of a drama there, had suddenly
manifested great friendship for her neighbour. What delight and
glory it would be if she could render the Church a service in that
direction, separate the wife from the husband, and strike the secular
schoolmaster down at his own fireside! She therefore showed herself
very amiable and insinuating, ever keeping on the watch behind the
party-wall, hoping for some opportunity which would enable her to
intervene and console the 'poor persecuted little wife.' At times she
risked allusions, expressions of sympathy, words of advice: 'It was so
sad when husband and wife were not of the same faith! And
assuredly one must not wreck one's soul, so it was best to offer
some gentle resistance.' On two occasions Mademoiselle Rouzaire
had the pleasure of seeing Geneviève shed tears. But afterwards the
young wife, feeling very uneasy, drew away from her, and avoided all
further confidential chats. That mealy-mouthed woman, with her
'gendarme' build, her fondness for anisette, and her chatter about
the priests,—'who, after all, were not different from other men, and
of whom it was wrong to speak badly,'—inspired her with
unconquerable repugnance. Thus repulsed, Mademoiselle Rouzaire
felt her hatred for her neighbours increase, and visited her spite on
little Louise by instructing her most carefully in religious matters, in
spite of the paternal prohibition.
If Marc was not seriously concerned as yet about his daughter, he
understood that it was urgent he should act in order to prevent his
beloved Geneviève from being wrested from him. It was now plain
to him that her religious views had revived at her grandmother's
house. The pious little home on the Place des Capucins was like a
hot-bed of mystical contagion, where a faith, which had not been
extinguished, but which had died down amid the first joys of human
love, was bound to be fanned into flame once more. Had they
remained at Jonville in loving solitude, he, Marc, might have sufficed
for Geneviève's yearning passion. But at Maillebois foreign elements
had intervened between them. That terrible Simon case had brought
about the first snap, and then had come its consequences, the
struggle between himself and the Congregations, and the liberating
mission which he had undertaken. Besides, they had no longer
remained alone; a stream of people and things now flowed between
them, growing ever wider and wider, and they could already foresee
the day when they would be utter strangers, one to the other.
At present Geneviève met some of Marc's bitterest enemies at
Madame Duparque's. The young man learnt at last that the terrible
grandmother, after years of humble solicitation, had obtained the
favour of being included among Father Crabot's penitents. The
Rector of Valmarie usually reserved his services as confessor for the
fine ladies of Beaumont, and only some very powerful reasons could
have induced him to confess that old bourgeoise, who, socially, was
of no account whatever. And not only did he receive her at the
chapel of Valmarie, but he did her the honour to repair to the Place
des Capucins whenever an attack of gout confined her to her
armchair. He there met other personages of the cloth, Abbé
Quandieu, Father Théodose, and Brother Fulgence, who became
partial to that pious nook all shadows and silence, that well-closed
little house where their conclaves, it seemed, might pass
unperceived. Nevertheless, rumours circulated, some evil-minded
people saying that the house was indeed the clerical faction's secret
headquarters, the hidden laboratory, where its most important
resolutions were prepared. Yet how could one seriously suspect the
modest dwelling of two old ladies, who certainly had every right to
receive their friends? The latter's shadows were scarcely seen;
Pélagie, the servant, swiftly and softly closed the door upon them;
not a face ever appeared at the windows, not a murmur filtered
through the sleepy little façade. Everything was very dignified—great
deference was shown for that highly respectable dwelling.
But Marc regretted that he had not gone there more frequently.
Assuredly he had made a great mistake in abandoning Geneviève to
the two old ladies, allowing her to spend whole days in their
company with little Louise. His presence would have counteracted
the contagion of that sphere; had he been there the others would
have restrained the stealthy attacks which, as he well realised, they
made upon his ideas and his person. Geneviève, as if conscious of
the danger with which the peace of her home was threatened,
occasionally offered some resistance, struggling to avoid hostilities
with the husband whom she still loved. For instance, on returning to
the observances of the Church, she had chosen Abbé Quandieu as
her confessor instead of Father Théodose, whom Madame Duparque
had sought to impose on her. The young woman was conscious of
the warlike ardour that lurked behind the Capuchin's handsome face,
his beautifully-kept black beard, and his glowing eyes, which filled
his penitents with dreams of rapture; whereas the Abbé was a
prudent and gentle man, a fatherly confessor, whose frequent
silence was full of sadness—one, too, in whom she vaguely divined a
friend, one who suffered from the fratricidal warfare of the times,
and longed for peace among all workers of good will. Geneviève,
indeed, was yet at a stage of loving tenderness, when her mind,
though gradually becoming clouded, still manifested some anxiety
before it finally sank into mystical passion. But day by day she was
confronted by more serious assaults, and yielded more and more to
the disturbing influence of her relatives, whose unctuous gestures
and caressing words slowly benumbed her. In vain did Marc now
repair more frequently to the Place des Capucins; he could no longer
arrest the poison's deadly work.
As yet, however, there was no attempt to enforce authority, no
brutal roughness. Geneviève was merely enticed, flattered, cajoled,
with gentle hands. And no violent words were spoken of her
husband; on the contrary, he was said to be a man deserving of all
pity, a sinner whose salvation was most desirable. The unhappy
being! He knew not what incalculable harm he was doing to his
country, how many children's souls he was wrecking, sending to hell,
through his obstinate rebellion and pride! Then, at first vaguely, and
afterwards more and more plainly, a desire was expressed in
Geneviève's presence that she might devote herself to the most
praiseworthy task of converting that sinner, redeeming that guilty
man, whom, in her weakness, she still loved. What joy and glory
would be hers if she should lead him back to religion, arrest his
rageful work of destruction, save him, and thereby save his innocent
victims from eternal damnation! For several months, with infinite
craft, the young woman was in this wise worked upon, prepared for
the enterprise expected of her, with the evident hope of bringing
about conjugal rupture by fomenting a collision between the two
irreconcilable principles which she and her husband represented—
she a woman of the past, full of the errors of the ages—he a man of
free thought, marching towards the future. And in time the much-
sought, inevitable developments appeared.
The conjugal life of Marc and Geneviève grew sadder every day—
that life so gay and loving once, when their kisses had perpetually
mingled with their merry laughter. They had not yet reached the
quarrelling stage; but, as soon as they found themselves alone
together and unoccupied, they felt embarrassed. Something of
which they never spoke seemed to be growing up between them,
chilling them more and more, prompting them to enmity. On Marc's
side there was a growing consciousness that she who was bound up
with every hour of his life, she whom he embraced at night, was a
woman foreign to him, one whose ideas and sentiments he
reprobated. And on Geneviève's side there was a similar feeling, an
exasperating conviction that she was regarded as an ignorant,
unreasonable child, one who was still adored but with a love laden
with much dolorous compassion. Thus their first wounds were
imminent.
One night, when they were in bed, encompassed by the warm
darkness, while Marc held Geneviève in a mute embrace as if she
were some sulking child, she suddenly burst into bitter sobs,
exclaiming: 'Ah! you love me no longer!'
'No longer love you, my darling!' he replied; 'why do you say that?'
'If you loved me you would not leave me in such dreadful sorrow!
You turn away from me more and more each day. You treat me as if
I were some ailing creature, sickly or insane. Nothing that I may say
seems of any account to you. You shrug your shoulders at it. Ah! I
feel it plainly, you are growing more and more impatient; I am
becoming a worry, a burden to you.'
Though Marc's heart contracted, he did not interrupt her, for he
wished to learn everything.
'Yes,' she resumed, 'unhappily for me I can see things quite plainly.
You take more interest in the last of your boys than you do in me.
When you are downstairs with the boys, in the classroom, you
become impassioned, you pour out your whole soul, you exert
yourself to explain the slightest things to them, and laugh and play
with them like an elder brother. But directly you come upstairs you
get gloomy again; you can think of nothing to say to me, you look ill
at ease, like a man who's worried by his wife and tired of her.... Ah!
God, God, how unhappy I am!'
Again she burst into sobs.
Then Marc, making up his mind, gently responded: 'I dared not tell
you the cause of my sadness, darling, but if I suffer it is precisely
because I find in you all that you reproach me with. You are never
with me now. You spend whole days elsewhere, and when you come
home you bring with you an air of unreason and death, which
ravages our poor home. It is you who no longer speak to me. Your
mind is always wandering, deep in some dim dream, even while you
are sewing, or serving the meals, or attending to our little Louise. It
is you who treat me with indulgent pity, as if I were a guilty man,
perhaps one unconscious of his crime; and it is you who will soon
have ceased to love me, if you refuse to open your eyes to a little
reasonable truth.'
But she would not admit it; she interrupted each sentence that came
from him with protests full of vehemence and stupefaction: I! I! It is
I whom you accuse! I tell you that you no longer love me, and you
dare to assert that I am losing my love for you!' Then, casting aside
all restraint, revealing the innermost thoughts that haunted her day
by day, she continued: 'Ah! how happy are the women whose
husbands share their faith! I see some in church who are always
accompanied by their husbands. How delightful it must be for
husband and wife to place themselves conjointly in the hands of
God! Those homes are blessed, they indeed have but one soul, and
there is no felicity that heaven does not shower on them!'
Marc could not restrain a slight laugh, at once very gentle and
distressful. 'So now, my poor wife,' he said, 'you think of trying to
convert me?'
'What harm would there be in that?' she answered eagerly. 'Do you
imagine I do not love you enough to feel frightful grief at the
thought of the deadly peril you are in? You do not believe in future
punishment, you brave the wrath of heaven; but for my part I pray
heaven every day to enlighten you, and I would give—ah! willingly—
ten years of my life to be able to open your eyes, and save you from
the terrible catastrophes which threaten you. Ah! if you would only
love me, and listen to me, and follow me to the land of eternal
delight!'
She trembled in his embrace, she glowed with such a fever of
superhuman desire that he was thunderstruck, for he had not
imagined the evil to be so deep. It was she who catechised him now,
who tried to win him to her faith, and he felt ashamed, for was she
not doing what he himself ought to have done the very first day—
that is, strive to convert her to his own views? He could not help
expressing his thoughts aloud, and unluckily he said: 'It is not you
yourself who is speaking; you have been given a task full of danger
for the happiness of both of us.'
At this she began to lose her temper: 'Why do you wound me like
that?' she asked. 'Do you think I am incapable of acting for myself—
from personal conviction and affection? Am I senseless, then—so
stupid and docile that I can only serve as an instrument? Besides,
even if people—who are worthy of all respect, and whose sacred
character you disregard—do speak to me about you in a brotherly
way which would surprise you—ought you not rather to be moved by
it, ought you not to yield to such loving-kindness?... God, who might
strike you down, holds out His arms to you ... yet when He makes
use of me and my love to lead you back to Him you can only jest
and treat me as if I were a foolish little girl repeating a lesson!... Ah!
we understand each other no longer, and it is that which grieves me
so much!'
While she spoke he felt his fear and desolation increasing. 'That is
true,' he repeated slowly, 'we no longer understand one another.
Words no longer have the same meaning for us, and every reproach
that I address to you, you address to me. Which of us will break
away from the other? Which of us loves the other and works for the
other's happiness?... Ah! I am the guilty one and I greatly fear that
it is too late for me to repair my fault. I ought to have taught you
where to find truth and equity.'
At these words, so suggestive of his profession, her rebellion
became complete. 'Yes, for you I am always a foolish pupil who
knows nothing and whose eyes require to be opened. But it is I who
know where truth and justice are to be found. You have not the right
to speak those words.'
'Not the right!'
'No; you have plunged into that monstrous error, that ignoble Simon
affair, in which your hatred of the Church blinds you and urges you
to the worst iniquity. When a man like you goes so far as to override
all truth and justice in order to strike and befoul the ministers of
religion, it is better to believe that he has lost his senses.'
This time Marc reached the root of the quarrel which Geneviève was
picking with him. The Simon case lay beneath everything else, it was
that alone which had inspired all the discreet and skilful manœuvring
of which he beheld the effects. If his wife were enticed away from
him at her relatives' home, if she were employed as a weapon to
strike him a deadly blow, it was especially in order that an artisan of
truth, a possible justiciary, might be smitten in his person. It was
necessary to suppress him, for his destruction alone could ensure
the impunity of the real culprits.
His voice trembled with deep grief as he answered: 'Ah! Geneviève,
this is more serious. There will be an end to our home if we can no
longer agree on so clear and so simple a question. Are you no longer
on my side, then, in that painful affair?'
'No, certainly not.'
'You think poor Simon guilty?'
'Why, there is no doubt of it! The reasons you give for asserting his
innocence repose on no foundation whatever! I should like you to
hear the persons whose purity of life you dare to suspect! And as
you fall into such gross error respecting a case in which everything is
so evident, a case which is settled beyond possibility of appeal, how
can I place the slightest faith in your other notions, your fanciful
social system, in which you begin by suppressing religion?'
He had taken her in his arms again, and was holding her in a tight
embrace. Ah! she was right. Their slowly increasing rupture had
originated in their divergence of views on that question of truth and
justice, in reference to which others had managed to poison her
understanding. 'Listen, Geneviève,' he said; 'there is only one truth,
one justice. You must listen to me, and our agreement will restore
our peace.'
'No, no!'
'But, Geneviève, you must not remain in such darkness when I see
light all around me; it would mean separation forever.'
'No, no, let me be! You tire me; I won't even listen.'
She wrenched herself from his embrace and turned her back upon
him. He vainly sought to clasp her again, kissing her and whispering
gentle words; she would not move, she would not even answer. A
chill swept down on the conjugal couch, and the room seemed black
as ink, dolorously lifeless, as if the misfortune which was coming had
already annihilated everything.
From that time forward Geneviève became more nervous and ill-
tempered. Much less consideration was now shown for her husband
at her grandmother's house; he was attacked in her presence in an
artfully graduated manner, as by degrees her affection for him was
seen to decline. Little by little he became a public malefactor, one of
the damned, a slayer of the God she worshipped. And the rebellion
to which she was thus urged re-echoed in her home in bitter words,
in an increase of discomfort and coldness. Fresh quarrels arose at
intervals, usually at night, when they retired to rest, for in the
daytime they saw little of each other, Marc then being busy with his
boys and Geneviève being constantly absent, now at church, now at
her grandmother's. Thus their life was gradually quite spoilt. The
young woman showed herself more and more aggressive, while her
husband, so tolerant by nature, in his turn ended by manifesting
irritation.
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