tilised by will. There is something which is
superior to work."

Thomas and Antoine had drawn near. And Francois, as much for them as for
himself, inquired: "What is that, father?"

"Action."

For a moment the three young men remained silent, impressed by the
solemnity of the hour, quivering too beneath the great waves of darkness
which rose from the vague ocean of the city. Then a young voice remarked,
though whose it was one could not tell: "Action is but work."

And Pierre, who lacked the respectful quietude, the silent faith, of his
nephews, now felt his nervousness increasing. That huge and terrifying
mystery of which he was dimly conscious rose before him, while a great
quiver sped by in the darkness, over that black city where the lamps were
now being lighted for a whole passionate night of work.

IV. THE CRISIS

A GREAT ceremony was to take place that day at the basilica of the Sacred
Heart. Ten thousand pilgrims were to be present there, at a solemn
consecration of the Holy Sacrament; and pending the arrival of four
o'clock, the hour fixed for the service, Montmartre would be invaded by
people. Its slopes would be black with swarming devotees, the shops where
religious emblems and pictures were sold would be besieged, the cafes and
taverns would be crowded to overflowing. It would all be like some huge
fair, and meantime the big bell of the basilica, "La Savoyarde," would be
ringing peal on peal over the holiday-making multitude.

When Pierre entered the workroom in the morning he perceived Guillaume
and Mere-Grand alone there; and a remark which he heard the former make
caused him to stop short and listen from behind a tall-revolving
bookstand. Mere-Grand sat sewing in her usual place near the big window,
while Guillaume stood before her, speaking in a low voice.

"Mother," said he, "everything is ready, it is for to-day."

She let her work fall, and raised her eyes, looking very pale. "Ah!" she
said, "so you have made up your mind."

"Yes, irrevocably. At four o'clock I shall be yonder, and it will all be
over."

"'Tis well--you are the master."

Silence fell, terrible silence. Guillaume's voice seemed to come from far
away, from somewhere beyond the world. It was evident that his resolution
was unshakable, that his tragic dream, his fixed idea of martyrdom,
wholly absorbed him. Mere-Grand looked at him with her pale eyes, like an
heroic woman who had grown old in relieving the sufferings