V
No! Uncle Anthime had not stayed in his laboratory.
He had passed rapidly through the room in which the six rats were bringing their long-drawn sufferings to a close. Why did he not linger on the terrace which lay bathed in the glimmer of the western sky? Perhaps the celestial radiance of the evening might have calmed his rebel soul—inclined his.... But no, he stopped his ears to so wise a counsel. He went on, took the difficult winding stairs and reached the court-yard, which he crossed. To us, who know what efforts each painful step cost him, this crippled haste seems tragic. When shall we see him show such savage energy in a good cause? Sometimes a groan escaped his lips; his features were distorted. Where would his impious rage lead him?
The Madonna, who stood in the corner niche, was watching over the house and perhaps interceding for the blasphemer himself. Grace and radiance—whose light was borrowed from Heaven’s own—streamed from her outstretched hands upon the world below. This figure of the Virgin was not one of those modern statues, made out of Blafaphas’ newly invented Roman Plaster, such as the firm of Fleurissoire and Lévichon turn out by the gross. In our eyes the very artlessness of the figure makes it all the more expressive of the people’s simple piety—gives it an added beauty—an enhanced eloquence. The colourless face, the gleaming hands, the blue cloak, were lighted by a lantern, which hung some way in front of the statue; a zinc roof projected over the niche and at the same time sheltered the ex-votos, which were fixed to the wall on each side of it. A little metal door, of which the beadle of the parish kept the key, was within arm’s reach and protected the fastening of the cord to which the lantern was attached. Two candles burnt day and night before the statue. Fresh ones had been placed there that afternoon by Veronica. At the sight of these candles which were burning, he knew, for him, the unbeliever’s wrath blazed out afresh. Beppo, who was munching a crust and a stalk or two of fennel in his hole in the wall, came running to meet him. Without answering his friendly greeting, Anthime seized him by the shoulder and, bending down, whispered something in his ear. What could it have been to make the boy shudder? “No! No!” he protested. Anthime took out a five-lira note from his waistcoat pocket. Beppo grew indignant.... Later on he might steal perhaps—perhaps he might even kill—who knows with what sordid defilement poverty might not smirch his brow? But raise his hand against his protectress?—against the Virgin to whom every night he breathed out a last sigh before he slept, and whom, every morning when he woke, he greeted with his first smile? Anthime might try in turn entreaties, blows, bribes, threats; nothing would make him yield.
But don’t let us exaggerate. It was not precisely the Virgin that was the object of Anthime’s fury. It was more particularly Veronica’s candles that enraged him. But Beppo’s simple soul could make nothing of such distinctions; and, moreover, the candles had by now been consecrated; no one had the right to extinguish them.
Anthime, exasperated by this resistance, pushed the boy away. He would act alone. Setting his shoulder against the wall, he seized his crutch by the lower end and, swinging it backwards, hurled it with terrific violence into the air. The wooden missile rebounded from the inside wall of the niche and fell noisily to the ground, bringing with it some fragment or other of broken plaster. He picked up his crutch and stepped back to look at the niche.... Hell and fury! The two candles were still burning! But what was this? The statue’s right hand had disappeared and in its place there was nothing to be seen but a piece of black iron rod.
For a moment he gazed with disillusioned eyes at the melancholy result of his handiwork. That it should end in such a ludicrous assault!...
Fie! Oh, fie! He turned to look for Beppo; the boy had vanished. Darkness was closing in; Anthime was alone; but what was this he caught sight of, lying on the pavement?—The fragment which he had brought down with his crutch; he picked it up—it was a little plaster hand, which with a shrug of his shoulders he slipped into his waistcoat pocket.
Shame on his brow and rage in his heart, the iconoclast went up again to his laboratory; he wanted to work but the abominable effort he had just made had shattered him. He had no heart for anything but sleep. He would certainly not say good night to anyone before he went to bed. And yet, just as he was entering his room, a sound of voices stopped him. The door of the next room was open and he stole into the darkness of the passage.
Little Julie in her night-gown, like some tiny familiar angel, was kneeling on her bed; at the head of the bed, full in the light of the lamp, Veronica and Marguerite were both on their knees; a little further off, Julius, with one hand on his heart and the other covering his eyes, was standing in an attitude at once devout and manly; they were listening to the child’s prayers. The deep silence in which the scene was wrapped brought back to Anthime’s recollection a certain tranquil, golden evening on the banks of the Nile. Like the blue smoke that had risen that evening into the pureness of the sky, the little girl’s innocent prayer rose straight to Heaven.
Her prayers were no doubt drawing to a close; the child had gone through all the usual formula, and was praying now in her own words, out of the fullness of her heart; she prayed for the little orphans, for the sick, for the poor, for sister Genevieve, for Aunt Veronica, for Papa, for dear Mamma’s eye to be well soon.... As he listened, Anthime’s heart grew sore within him; from the threshold of the door where he was standing, he called out in a voice that was meant to be ironical, and loud enough to be heard at the other end of the room:
“And is God not to be asked anything for Uncle Anthime?”
And then, to everyone’s astonishment, the child, in an extraordinarily steady voice, went on:
“And please, dear God, forgive Uncle Anthime his sins.”
These words struck home to the very depths of the atheist’s heart.