The Three Cities Trilogy: Rome | Page 7

a few hours would make all Paris shudder! There was
not an article of furniture or linen left in the place; it had been
necessary to sell everything bit by bit to a neighbouring dealer. There
was nothing but the stove where the charcoal was still smoking and a
half-emptied palliasse on which the mother had fallen, suckling her
last-born, a babe but three months old. And a drop of blood had trickled
from the nipple of her breast, towards which the dead infant still
protruded its eager lips. Two little girls, three and five years old, two
pretty little blondes, were also lying there, sleeping the eternal sleep
side by side; whilst of the two boys, who were older, one had
succumbed crouching against the wall with his head between his hands,
and the other had passed through the last throes on the floor, struggling
as though he had sought to crawl on his knees to the window in order to
open it. Some neighbours, hurrying in, told Pierre the fearful
commonplace story; slow ruin, the father unable to find work,
perchance taking to drink, the landlord weary of waiting, threatening
the family with expulsion, and the mother losing her head, thirsting for
death, and prevailing on her little ones to die with her, while her

husband, who had been out since the morning, was vainly scouring the
streets. Just as the Commissary of Police arrived to verify what had
happened, the poor devil returned, and when he had seen and
understood things, he fell to the ground like a stunned ox, and raised a
prolonged, plaintive howl, such a poignant cry of death that the whole
terrified street wept at it.
Both in his ears and in his heart Pierre carried away with him that
horrible cry, the plaint of a condemned race expiring amidst
abandonment and hunger; and that night he could neither eat nor sleep.
Was it possible that such abomination, such absolute destitution, such
black misery leading straight to death should exist in the heart of that
great city of Paris, brimful of wealth, intoxicated with enjoyment,
flinging millions out of the windows for mere pleasure? What! there
should on one side be such colossal fortunes, so many foolish fancies
gratified, with lives endowed with every happiness, whilst on the other
was found inveterate poverty, lack even of bread, absence of every
hope, and mothers killing themselves with their babes, to whom they
had nought to offer but the blood of their milkless breast! And a feeling
of revolt stirred Pierre; he was for a moment conscious of the derisive
futility of charity. What indeed was the use of doing that which he
did--picking up the little ones, succouring the parents, prolonging the
sufferings of the aged? The very foundations of the social edifice were
rotten; all would soon collapse amid mire and blood. A great act of
justice alone could sweep the old world away in order that the new
world might be built. And at that moment he realised so keenly how
irreparable was the breach, how irremediable the evil, how deathly the
cancer of misery, that he understood the actions of the violent, and was
himself ready to accept the devastating and purifying whirlwind, the
regeneration of the world by flame and steel, even as when in the dim
ages Jehovah in His wrath sent fire from heaven to cleanse the accursed
cities of the plains.
However, on hearing him sob that evening, Abbe Rose came up to
remonstrate in fatherly fashion. The old priest was a saint, endowed
with infinite gentleness and infinite hope. Why despair indeed when
one had the Gospel? Did not the divine commandment, "Love one

another," suffice for the salvation of the world? He, Abbe Rose, held
violence in horror and was wont to say that, however great the evil, it
would soon be overcome if humanity would but turn backward to the
age of humility, simplicity, and purity, when Christians lived together
in innocent brotherhood. What a delightful picture he drew of
evangelical society, of whose second coming he spoke with quiet
gaiety as though it were to take place on the very morrow! And Pierre,
anxious to escape from his frightful recollections, ended by smiling, by
taking pleasure in Abbe Rose's bright consoling tale. They chatted until
a late hour, and on the following days reverted to the same subject of
conversation, one which the old priest was very fond of, ever supplying
new particulars, and speaking of the approaching reign of love and
justice with the touching confidence of a good if simple man, who is
convinced that he will not die till he shall have seen the Deity descend
upon earth.
And now a fresh evolution took place in Pierre's mind. The practice of
benevolence