It was Christmas Eve in Paris. A large Christmas tree, grown in the wood of St. Germain, stood in their little chalet on the Cours de la Reine. They were going out after breakfast to buy Christmas presents for the children. The Baron was pre-occupied, for he had just published a little pamphlet, ent.i.tled: "Do the Upper Cla.s.ses const.i.tute Society?"

They were sitting at breakfast in their cosy dining-room, and the doors which led to the nursery stood wide open. They listened to the nurse playing with the children, and the Baroness smiled with contentment and happiness. She had grown very gentle and her happiness was a quiet one.

One of the children suddenly screamed and she rose from the table to see what was the matter. At the same moment the footman came into the dining-room with the morning post. The Baron opened two packets of printed matter. The first was a "big respectable" newspaper. He opened it and his eyes fell on a headline in fat type: "A Blasphemer!"

He began to read: "Christmas is upon us again! This festival dear to all pure hearts, this festival sacred to all Christian nations, which has brought a message of peace and good-will to all men, which makes even the murderer sheathe his knife, and the thief respect the sacred law of property; this festival, which is not only of very ancient origin, but which is also, especially in the countries of the North, surrounded by a host of historic a.s.sociations, etc., etc. And then like foul fumes arising from a drain, an individual suddenly confronts us who does not scruple to tear asunder the most sacred bonds, who vomits malice on all respectable members of society; malice, dictated by the pettiest vengeance...." He refolded the paper and put it into the pocket of his dressing-gown. Then he opened the second parcel. It contained caricatures of himself and his wife. It went the same way as the first, but he had to be quick, for his wife was re-entering the dining-room. He finished his breakfast and went into his bed-room to get ready to go out. They left the house together.

The sunlight fell on the frosted plane-trees of the Champs Elysees, and in the heart of the stony desert the Place de la Concorde opened out like a large oasis. He felt her arm on his, and yet he had the feeling as if she were supporting him. She talked of the presents which they were going to buy for the children, and he tried to force himself to take an interest in the subject. But all at once he interrupted her conversation and asked her, a-propos of nothing:

"Do you know the difference between vengeance and punishment?"

"No, I've never thought about it."

"I wonder whether it isn't this: When an anonymous journalist revenges himself, it is punishment; but when a well-known writer, who is not a pressman, fights with an open visor, meting out punishment, then it is revenge! Let us join the new prophets!"

She begged him not to spoil Christmas by talking of the newspapers.

"This festival," he muttered, "on which peace and good-will...."

They pa.s.sed through the arcades of the Rue de Rivoli, turned into the boulevards and made their purchases. They dined at the Grand Hotel.

She was in a sunny frame of mind and tried to cheer him up. But he remained preoccupied. Suddenly he asked,

"How is it possible that one can have a bad conscience when one has acted rightly?"

She did not know.

"Is it because the upper cla.s.ses have so trained us, that our conscience troubles us whenever we rebel against them? Probably it is so. Why shouldn't he who has been hurt unjustly, have the right to attack injustice? Because only he who has been hurt will attack, and the upper cla.s.ses hate being attacked. Why did I not strike at the upper cla.s.ses in the past, when I belonged to them? Because, of course, I didn't know them then. One must look at a picture from a distance in order to find the correct visual point!"

"One shouldn't talk about such things on Christmas Eve!"

"True, it is Christmas. This festival of...."

They returned home. They lit the candles on the Christmas tree; it radiated peace and happiness; but its dark branches smelt of a funeral and looked sinister, like the Baron's face. The nurse came in with the little ones. His face lighted up, for, he thought, when they are grown up they will reap in joy what we have sown in tears; then their conscience will only trouble them when they have sinned against the laws of nature; they won't have to suffer from whims which have been caned into us at school, drummed into us by the parsons, invented by the upper cla.s.ses for their own benefit.

The Baroness sat down at the piano when the maids and the footmen entered. She played melancholy old dances, dear to the heart of the people of the North, while the servants danced gravely with the children. It was very much like the penitential part of divine service.

After that the presents were distributed among the children, and the servants received their gifts. And then the children were put to bed.

The Baroness went into the drawing-room and sat down in an arm-chair.

The Baron threw himself on a footstool at her feet. He rested his head on her knees. It was so heavy--so heavy. She silently stroked his forehead. "What! was he weeping?"

"Yes!"

She had never before seen a man weep. It was a terrible sight. His big strong frame shook, but he made no sound.

"Why was he weeping?"

"Because he was unhappy."

"Unhappy with her?"

"No, no, not with her, but still, unhappy."

"Had anybody treated him badly?"

"Yes!"

"Couldn't he tell her all about it?"

"No, he only wanted to sit at her knees, as he used to sit long ago, at his mother's."

She talked to him as if he had been a child. She kissed his eyes and wiped his face with her handkerchief. She felt so proud, so strong, there were no tears in her eyes. The sight of her inspired him with new courage.

"How weak he had been! That he should have found the machine-made attacks of his opponents so hard to bear! Did his enemies really believe what they said?"

"Terrible thought! Probably they did. One often found stones firmly grown into pine-trees, why should not opinions grow into the brain in the same way? But she believed in him, she knew that he was fighting for a good cause?"

"Yes, she believed it! But--he must not be angry with her for asking him such a question--but--did he not miss his child, the first one?"

"Yes, certainly, but it could not be helped. At least, not yet! But he and the others who were working for the future would have to find a remedy for that, too. He did not know, yet, what form that remedy would take, but stronger brains than his, and many together, would surely one day solve this problem which at present seemed insolvable."

"Yes, she hoped it would be so."

"But their marriage? Was it a marriage in the true sense of the word, seeing that he couldn't tell her what troubled him? Wasn't it, too, pro...?"

"No, it was a true marriage, for they loved one another. There had been no love between him and his first wife. But he and she did love one another, could she deny it?"

"She couldn't, he was her dear love." Then their marriage was a true marriage before G.o.d and before Nature.

UNNATURAL SELECTION OR THE ORIGIN OF RACE

The Baron had read in _The Slaves of Life_ with disgust and indignation that the children of the aristocracy were bound to perish unless they took the mothers' milk from the children of the lower cla.s.ses. He had read Darwin and believed that the gist of his teaching was that through selection the children of the aristocracy had come to be more highly developed representatives of the genus "Man." But the doctrine of heredity made him look upon the employment of a foster-mother with aversion; for might not, with the blood of the lower cla.s.ses, certain conceptions, ideas and desires be introduced and propagated in the aristocratic nursling? He was therefore determined that his wife should nurse her baby herself, and if she should prove incapable of doing so, the child should be brought up with the bottle. He had a right to the cows' milk, for they fed on his hay; without it they would starve, or would not have come into existence at all. The baby was born. It was a son! The father had been somewhat anxious before he became certain of his wife's condition, for he was, personally, a poor man; his wife, on the other hand, was very wealthy, but he had no claim to her fortune unless their union was blest with a legal heir, (in accordance with the law of entail chap. 00 par. 00). His joy was therefore great and genuine.

The baby was a transparent little thoroughbred, with blue veins shining through his waxen skin. Nevertheless his blood was poor. His mother who possessed the figure of an angel, was brought up on choice food, protected by rich furs from all the eccentricities of the climate, and had that aristocratic pallor which denotes the woman of n.o.ble descent.

She nursed the baby herself. There was consequently no need to become indebted to peasant women for the privilege of enjoying life on this planet. Nothing but fables, all he had read about it! The baby sucked and screamed for a fortnight. But all babies scream. It meant nothing.

But it lost flesh. It became terribly emaciated. The doctor was sent for. He had a private conversation with the father, during which he declared that the baby would die if the Baroness continued to nurse him, because she was firstly too highly strung, and secondly had nothing with which to feed him. He took the trouble to make a quant.i.tative a.n.a.lysis of the milk, and proved (by equations) that the child was bound to starve unless there was a change in the method of his feeding.

What was to be done? On no account could the baby be allowed to die.

Bottle or foster mother? The latter was out of the question. Let us try the bottle! The doctor, however, prescribed a foster mother.

The best Dutch cow, which had received the gold medal for the district, was isolated and fed with hay; with dry hay of the finest quality. The doctor a.n.a.lysed the milk, everything was all right. How simple the system was! How strange that they had not thought of it before! After all, one need not engage a foster mother a tyrant before whom one had to cringe, a loafer one had to fatten; not to mention the fact that she might have an infectious disease.

But the baby continued to lose flesh and to scream. It screamed night and day. There was no doubt it suffered from colic. A new cow was procured and a fresh a.n.a.lysis made. The milk was mixed with Karlsbad water, genuine Sprudel, but the baby went on screaming.

"There's no remedy but to engage a foster mother," said the doctor.