PARIS
BY
EMILE ZOLA
TRANSLATED BY ERNEST A. VIZETELLY
IN that out-of-the-way street at Neuilly, along which nobody passed afterdusk, Pierre's little house was now steeped in deep slumber under theblack sky; each of its shutters closed, and not a ray of light stealingforth from within. And one could divine, too, the profound quietude ofthe little garden in the rear, a garden empty and lifeless, benumbed bythe winter cold.
Pierre had several times feared that his brother would faint away in thecab in which they were journeying. Leaning back, and often sinking down,Guillaume spoke not a word. And terrible was the silence between them—asilence fraught with all the questions and answers which they felt itwould be useless and painful to exchange at such a time. However, thepriest was anxious about the wound, and wondered to what surgeon he mightapply, desirous as he was of admitting only a sure, staunch man into thesecret, for he had noticed with how keen a desire to disappear hisbrother had sought to hide himself.
Until they reached the Arc de Triomphe the silence remained unbroken. Itwas only there that Guillaume seemed to emerge from the prostration ofhis reverie. "Mind, Pierre," said he, "no doctor. We will attend to thistogether."
Pierre was on the point of protesting, but he realised that it would beuseless to discuss the subject at such a moment, and so he merely wavedhis hand to signify that he should act in spite of the prohibition wereit necessary. In point of fact, his anxiety had increased, and, when thecab at last drew up before the house, it was with real relief that he sawhis brother alight without evincing any marked feebleness. He himselfquickly paid the driver, well-pleased, too, at finding that nobody, noteven a neighbour, was about. And having opened the door with his latchkey, he helped the injured man to ascend the steps.
A little night lamp glimmered faintly in the vestibule. On hearing thedoor open, Pierre's servant, Sophie, had at once emerged from thekitchen. A short, thin, dark woman of sixty, she had formed part of thehousehold for more than thirty years, having served the mother beforeserving the son. She knew Guillaume, having seen him when he was a youngman, and doubtless she now recognised him, although well-nigh ten yearshad gone by since he had last crossed that threshold. Instead of evincingany surprise, she seemed to consider his extraordinary return quitenatural, and remained as silent and discreet as usual. She led, indeed,the life of a recluse, never speaking unless her work absolutely requiredit. And thus she now contented herself with saying: "Monsieur l'Abbe,Monsieur Bertheroy is in the study, and has been waiting there for aquarter of an hour."
At this Guillaume intervened, as if the news revived him: "Does Bertheroystill 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, MichelFroment,—Bertheroy had now, in his turn, become one of the loftiestglories of France, one to whom chemistry owed much of the extraordinaryprogress that has made it the mother-science, by which the very face ofthe earth is being changed. A member of the Institute, laden with officesand honours, he had retained much affection for Pierre, and occasionallyv