



Produced by Dagny, and David Widger. HTML version by Al Haines.









                          THE THREE CITIES



                               PARIS



                                BY

                            EMILE ZOLA



                TRANSLATED BY ERNEST A. VIZETELLY



                              BOOK II



I

REVOLUTIONISTS

IN that out-of-the-way street at Neuilly, along which nobody passed after
dusk, Pierre's little house was now steeped in deep slumber under the
black sky; each of its shutters closed, and not a ray of light stealing
forth from within. And one could divine, too, the profound quietude of
the little garden in the rear, a garden empty and lifeless, benumbed by
the winter cold.

Pierre had several times feared that his brother would faint away in the
cab in which they were journeying. Leaning back, and often sinking down,
Guillaume spoke not a word. And terrible was the silence between them--a
silence fraught with all the questions and answers which they felt it
would be useless and painful to exchange at such a time. However, the
priest was anxious about the wound, and wondered to what surgeon he might
apply, desirous as he was of admitting only a sure, staunch man into the
secret, for he had noticed with how keen a desire to disappear his
brother had sought to hide himself.

Until they reached the Arc de Triomphe the silence remained unbroken. It
was only there that Guillaume seemed to emerge from the prostration of
his reverie. "Mind, Pierre," said he, "no doctor. We will attend to this
together."

Pierre was on the point of protesting, but he realised that it would be
useless to discuss the subject at such a moment, and so he merely waved
his hand to signify that he should act in spite of the prohibition were
it necessary. In point of fact, his anxiety had increased, and, when the
cab at last drew up before the house, it was with real relief that he saw
his brother alight without evincing any marked feebleness. He himself
quickly paid the driver, well-pleased, too, at finding that nobody, not
even a neighbour, was about. And having opened the door with his latch
key, he helped the injured man to ascend the steps.

A little night lamp glimmered faintly in the vestibule. On hearing the
door open, Pierre's servant, Sophie, had at once emerged from the
kitchen. A short, thin, dark woman of sixty, she had formed part of the
household for more than thirty years, having served the mother before
serving the son. She knew Guillaume, having seen him when he was a young
man, and doubtless she now recognised him, although well-nigh ten years
had gone by since he had last crossed that threshold. Instead of evincing
any surprise, she seemed to consider his extraordinary return quite
natural, and remained as silent and discreet as usual. She led, indeed,
the life of a recluse, never speaking unless her work absolutely required
it. And thus she now contented herself with saying: "Monsieur l'Abbe,
Monsieur Bertheroy is in the study, and has been waiting there for a
quarter of an hour."

At this Guillaume intervened, as if the news revived him: "Does Bertheroy
still come here, then? I'll see him willingly. His is one of the best,
the broadest, minds of these days. He has still remained my master."

A former friend of their father,--the illustrious chemist, Michel
Froment,--Bertheroy had now, in his turn, become one of the loftiest
glories of France, one to whom chemistry owed much of the extraordinary
progress that has made it the mother-science, by which the very face of
the earth is being changed. A member of the Institute, laden with offices
and honours, he had retained much affection for Pierre, and occasionally
visited him in this wise before dinner, by way of relaxation, he would
say.

"You showed him into the study? All right, then, we will go there," said
the Abbe to the servant. "Light a lamp and take it into my room, and get
my bed ready so that my brother may go to bed at once."

While Sophie, without a word or sign of surprise, was obeying these
instructions, the brothers went into their father's former laboratory, of
which the priest had now made a spacious study. And it was with a cry of
joyous astonishment that the _savant_ greeted them on seeing them enter
the room side by side, the one supporting the other. "What, together!" he
exclaimed. "Ah! my dear children, you could not have caused me greater
pleasure! I who have so often deplored your painful misunderstanding."

Bertheroy was a tall and lean septuagenarian, with angular features. His
yellow skin clung like parchment to the projecting bones of his cheeks
and jaw. Moreover, there was nothing imposing about him; he looked like
some old shop-keeping herbalist. At the same time he had a fine, broad,
smooth brow,