The Informer
An Ironic TaleMR. X came to me, preceded by a letter of intro-duction from a good friend of mine in Paris, spe-cifically to see my collection of Chinese bronzes andporcelain.My friend in Paris is a collector, too. He collectsneither porcelain, nor bronzes, nor pictures, nor medals,nor stamps, nor anything that could be profitably dis-persed under an auctioneer's hammer. He would reject,with genuine surprise, the name of a collector. Never-theless, that's what he is by temperament. He collectsacquaintances. It is delicate work. He brings to it thepatience, the passion, the determination of a true col-lector of curiosities. His collection does not containany royal personages. I don't think he considers themsufficiently rare and interesting; but, with that excep-tion, he has met with and talked to everyone worthknowing on any conceivable ground. He observesthem, listens to them, penetrates them, measures them,and puts the memory away in the galleries of his mind.He has schemed, plotted, and travelled all over Europein order to add to his collection of distinguished personalacquaintances.As he is wealthy, well connected, and unprejudiced,his collection is pretty complete, including objects (orshould I say subjects?) whose value is unappreciated bythe vulgar, and often unknown to popular fame. Oftrevolte) of modern times. The world knows him as arevolutionary writer whose savage irony has laid barethe rottenness of the most respectable institutions. Hehas scalped every venerated head, and has mangledat the stake of his wit every received opinion and everyrecognized principle of conduct and policy. Who doesnot remember his flaming red revolutionary pamph-lets? Their sudden swarmings used to overwhelm thepowers of every Continental police like a plague ofcrimson gadflies. But this extreme writer has beenalso the active inspirer of secret societies, the mysteriousunknown Number One of desperate conspiracies sus-pected and unsuspected, matured or baffled. And theworld at large has never had an inkling of that fact!This accounts for him going about amongst us to thisday, a veteran of many subterranean campaigns, stand-ing aside now, safe within his reputation of merely thegreatest destructive publicist that ever lived."Thus wrote my friend, adding that Mr. X was an en-lightened connoisseur of bronzes and china, and askingme to show him my collection.X turned up in due course. My treasures are dis-posed in three large rooms without carpets and curtains.There is no other furniture than the etagres and theglass cases whose contents shall be worth a fortune tomy heirs. I allow no fires to be lighted, for fear ofaccidents, and a fire-proof door separates them fromthe rest of the house.It was a bitter cold day. We kept on our overcoatsand hats. Middle-sized and spare, his eyes alert in along, Roman-nosed countenance, X walked on his neatlittle feet, with short steps, and looked at my collectionintelligently. I hope I looked at him intelligently, too.A snow-white moustache and imperial made his nut-brown complexion appear darker than it really was. Inhis fur coat and shiny tall hat that terrible man lookedfashionable. I believe he belonged to a noble family,and could have called himself Vicomte X de la Z if hechose. We talked nothing but bronzes and porcelain.He was remarkably appreciative. We parted on cordialterms.Where he was staying I don't know. I imagine hemust have been a lonely man. Anarchists, I suppose,have no families -- not, at any rate, as we understandthat social relation. Organization into families mayanswer to a need of human nature, but in the last in-stance it is based on law, and therefore must be some-thing odious and impossible to an anarchist. But, in-deed, I don't understand anarchists. Does a man ofthat -- of that -- persuasion still remain an anarchistwhen alone, quite alone and going to bed, for instance?Does he lay his head on the pillow, pull his bedclothesover him, and go to sleep with the necessity of thechambardement general, as the French slang has it, of thegeneral blow-up, always present to his mind? And if sohow can he? I am sure that if such a faith (or such afanaticism) once mastered my thoughts I would neverbe able to compose myself sufficiently to sleep or eat orperform any of the routine acts of daily life. I wouldwant no wife, no children; I could have no friends, itseems to me; and as to collecting bronzes or china, that,I should say, would be quite out of the question. ButI don't know. All I know is that Mr. X took his mealsin a very good restaurant which I frequented also.With his head uncovered, the silver top-knot of hisbrushed-up hair completed the character of his physi-ognomy, all bony ridges and sunken hollows, clothed ina perfect impassiveness of expression. His meagrebrown hands emerging from large white cuffs came andwent breaking bread, pouring wine, and so on, withquiet mechanical precision. His head and body abovethe tablecloth had a rigid immobility. This firebrand,this great agitator, exhibited the least possible amountof warmth and animation. His voice was rasping, cold,and monotonous in a low key. He could not be called atalkative personality; but with his detached calmmanner he appeared as ready to keep the conversationgoing as to drop it at any moment.And his conversation was by no means common-place. To me, I own, there was some excitement intalking quietly across a dinner-table with a manwhose venomous pen-stabs had sapped the vitality of atleast one monarchy. That much was a matter ofpublic knowledge. But I knew more. I knew of him --from my friend -- as a certainty what the guardians ofsocial order in Europe had at most only suspected, ordimly guessed at.He had had what I may call his underground life.And as I sat, evening after evening, facing him atdinner, a curiosity in that direction would naturallyarise in my mind. I am a quiet and peaceable productof civilization, and know no passion other than thepassion for collecting things which are rare, and mustremain exquisite even if approaching to the monstrous.Some Chinese bronzes are monstrously precious. Andhere (out of my friend's collection), here I had before mea kind of rare monster. It is true that this monsterwas polished and in a sense even exquisite. His beauti-ful unruffled manner was that. But then he was not ofbronze. He was not even Chinese, which would haveenabled one to contemplate him calmly across the gulfof racial difference. He was alive and European; hehad the manner of good society, wore a coat and hatlike mine, and had pretty near the same taste in cook-ing. It was too frightful to think of.One evening he remarked, casually, in the course ofconversation, "There's no amendment to be got out ofmankind except by terror and violence."You can imagine the effect of such a phrase out ofsuch a man's mouth upon a person like myself, whosewhole scheme of life had been based upon a suave anddelicate discrimination of social and artistic values.Just imagine! Upon me, to whom all sorts and formsof violence appeared as unreal as the giants, ogres, andseven-headed hydras whose activities affect, fantasti-cally, the course of legends and fairy-tales!I seemed suddenly to hear above the festive bustleand clatter of the brilliant restaurant the mutter of ahungry and seditious multitude.I suppose I am impressionable and imaginative. Ihad a disturbing vision of darkness, full of lean jaws andwild eyes, amongst the hundred electric lights of theplace. But somehow this vision made me angry, too.The sight of that man, so calm, breaking bits of whitebread, exasperated me. And I had the audacity to askhim how it was that the starving proletariat of Europeto whom he had been preaching revolt and violence hadnot been made indignant by his openly luxurious life."At all this," I said, pointedly, with a glance round theroom and at the bottle of champagne we generallyshared between us at dinner.He remained unmoved."Do I feed on their toil and their heart's blood?Am I a speculator or a capitalist? Did I steal myfortune from a starving people? No! They know thisvery well. And they envy me nothing. The miserablemass of the people is generous to its leaders. What Ihave acquired has come to me through my writings; notfrom the millions of pamphlets distributed gratis to thehungry and the oppressed, but from the hundreds ofthousands of copies sold to the well-fed bourgeoisie. Youknow that my writings were at one time the rage, thefashion -- the thing to read with wonder and horror,to turn your eyes up at my pathos . . . or else,to laugh in ecstasies at my wit.""Yes," I admitted. "I remember, of course; and Iconfess frankly that I could never understand thatinfatuation.""Don't you know yet," he said, "that an idle andselfish class loves to see mischief being made, even ifit is made at its own expense? Its own life being all amatter of pose and gesture, it is unable to realize thepower and the danger of a real movement and of wordsthat have no sham meaning. It is all fun and senti-ment. It is sufficient, for instance, to point out theattitude of the old French aristocracy towards thephilosophers whose words were preparing the GreatRevolution. Even in England, where you have somecommon-sense, a demagogue has only to shout loudenough and long enough to find some backing in thevery class he is shouting at. You, too, like to see mis-chief being made. The demagogue carries the amateursof emotion with him. Amateurism in this, that, andthe other thing is a delightfully easy way of killingtime, and feeding one's own vanity -- the silly vanity ofbeing abreast with the ideas of the day after to-morrow.Just as good and otherwise harmless people will join youin ecstasies over your collection without having theslightest notion in what its marvellousness really con-sists."I hung my head. It was a crushing illustration ofthe sad truth he advanced. The world is full of suchpeople. And that instance of the French aristocracybefore the Revolution was extremely telling, too. Icould not traverse his statement, though its cynicism-- always a distasteful trait -- took off much of its valueto my mind. However, I admit I was impressed. Ifelt the need to say something which would not be inthe nature of assent and yet would not invite discussion."You don't mean to say," I observed, airily, "thatextreme revolutionists have ever been actively assistedby the infatuation of such people?""I did not mean exactly that by what I said justnow. I generalized. But since you ask me, I may tellyou that such help has been given to revolutionaryactivities, more or less consciously, in various countries.And even in this country.""Impossible!" I protested with firmness. "Wedon't play with fire to that extent.""And yet you can better afford it than others,perhaps. But let me observe that most women, if notalways ready to play with fire, are generally eager toplay with a loose spark or so.""Is this a joke?" I asked, smiling."If it is, I am not aware of it," he said, woodenly."I was thinking of an instance. Oh! mild enough in away . . ."I became all expectation at this. I had tried manytimes to approach him on his underground side, so tospeak. The very word had been pronounced betweenus. But he had always met me with his impenetrablecalm."And at the same time," Mr. X continued, "it willgive you a notion of the difficulties that may arise inwhat you are pleased to call underground work. It issometimes difficult to deal with them. Of course thereis no hierarchy amongst the affiliated. No rigidsystem."My surprise was great, but short-lived. Clearly,amongst extreme anarchists there could be no hier-archy; nothing in the nature of a law of precedence.The idea of anarchy ruling among anarchists wascomforting, too. It could not possibly make forefficiency.Mr. X startled me by asking, abruptly, "You knowHermione Street?"I nodded doubtful assent. Hermione Street hasbeen, within the last three years, improved out of anyman's knowledge. The name exists still, but not onebrick or stone of the old Hermione Street is left now.It was the old street he meant, for he said:"There was a row of two-storied brick houses on theleft, with their backs against the wing of a great publicbuilding -- you remember. Would it surprise you verymuch to hear that one of these houses was for a timethe centre of anarchist propaganda and of what youwould call underground action?""Not at all," I declared. Hermione Street hadnever been particularly respectable, as I remembered it."The house was the property of a distinguishedgovernment official," he added, sipping his champagne."Oh, indeed!" I said, this time not believing a wordof it."Of course he was not living there," Mr. X continued."But from ten till four he sat next door to it, the dearman, in his well-appointed private room in the wing ofthe public building I've mentioned. To be strictlyaccurate, I must explain that the house in HermioneStreet did not really belong to him. It belonged tohis grown-up children -- a daughter and a son. Thegirl, a fine figure, was by no means vulgarly pretty. Tomore personal charm than mere youth could accountfor, she added the seductive appearance of enthusiasm,of independence, of courageous thought. I suppose sheput on these appearances as she put on her picturesquedresses and for the same reason: to assert her individu-ality at any cost. You know, women would go to anylength almost for such a purpose. She went to a greatlength. She had acquired all the appropriate gestures ofrevolutionary convictions -- the gestures of pity, ofanger, of indignation against the anti-humanitarianvices of the social class to which she belonged herself.All this sat on her striking personality as well as herslightly original costumes. Very slightly original; justenough to mark a protest against the philistinism of theoverfed taskmasters of the poor. Just enough, and nomore. It would not have done to go too far in thatdirection -- you understand. But she was of age, andnothing stood in the way of her offering her house to therevolutionary workers.""You don't mean it!" I cried."I assure you," he affirmed, "that she made that verypractical gesture. How else could they have got holdof it? The cause is not rich. And, moreover, therewould have been difficulties with any ordinary house-agent, who would have wanted references and so on.The group she came in contact with while exploringthe poor quarters of the town (you know the gesture ofcharity and personal service which was so fashionablesome years ago) accepted with gratitude. The firstadvantage was that Hermione Street is, as you know,well away from the suspect part of the town, speciallywatched by the police."The ground floor consisted of a little Italian restau-rant, of the flyblown sort. There was no difficultyin buying the proprietor out. A woman and a manbelonging to the group took it on. The man had beena cook. The comrades could get their meals there,unnoticed amongst the other customers. This wasanother advantage. The first floor was occupied by ashabby Variety Artists' Agency -- an agency for per-formers in inferior music-halls, you know. A fellow-called Bomm, I remember. He was not disturbed. Itwas rather favourable than otherwise to have a lot offoreign-looking people, jugglers, acrobats, singers ofboth sexes, and so on, going in and out all day long.The police paid no attention to new faces, you see. Thetop floor happened, most conveniently, to stand emptythen."X interrupted himself to attack impassively, withmeasured movements, a bombe glacee which thewaiter had just set down on the table. He swallowedcarefully a few spoonfuls of the iced sweet, and askedme, "Did you ever hear of Stone's Dried Soup?""Hear of what?""It was," X pursued, evenly, "a comestible articleonce rather prominently advertised in the dailies, butwhich never, somehow, gained the favour of the public.The enterprise fizzled out, as you say here. Parcels oftheir stock could be picked up at auctions at consider-ably less than a penny a pound. The group boughtsome of it, and an agency for Stone's Dried Soup wasstarted on the top floor. A perfectly respectable busi-ness. The stuff, a yellow powder of extremely unappe-tizing aspect, was put up in large square tins, of whichsix went to a case. If anybody ever came to give anorder, it was, of course, executed. But the advantageof the powder was this, that things could be concealed init very conveniently. Now and then a special case gotput on a van and sent off to be exported abroad underthe very nose of the policeman on duty at the corner.You understand?""I think I do," I said, with an expressive nod at theremnants of the bombe melting slowly in the dish."Exactly. But the cases were useful in anotherway, too. In the basement, or in the cellar at the back,rather, two printing-presses were established. A lot ofrevolutionary literature of the most inflammatory kindwas got away from the house in Stone's Dried Soupcases. The brother of our anarchist young lady foundsome occupation there. He wrote articles, helped toset up type and pull off the sheets, and generally as-sisted the man in charge, a very able young fellow calledSevrin."The guiding spirit of that group was a fanatic ofsocial revolution. He is dead now. He was anengraver and etcher of genius. You must have seen hiswork. It is much sought after by certain amateursnow. He began by being revolutionary in his art, andended by becoming a revolutionist, after his wife andchild had died in want and misery. He used to say thatthe bourgeoisie, the smug, overfed lot, had killed them.That was his real belief. He still worked at his art andled a double life. He was tall, gaunt, and swarthy, witha long, brown beard and deep-set eyes. You must haveseen him. His name was Horne."At this I was really startled. Of course years ago Iused to meet Horne about. He looked like a powerful,rough gipsy, in an old top hat, with a red muffler roundhis throat and buttoned up in a long, shabby overcoat.He talked of his art with exaltation, and gave one theimpression of being strung up to the verge of insanity.A small group of connoisseurs appreciated his work.Who would have thought that this man. . . .Amazing! And yet it was not, after all, so difficult tobelieve."As you see," X went on, "this group was in a posi-tion to pursue its work of propaganda, and the otherkind of work, too, under very advantageous conditions.They were all resolute, experienced men of a superiorstamp. And yet we became struck at length by thefact that plans prepared in Hermione Street almostinvariably failed.""Who were 'we'?" I asked, pointedly."Some of us in Brussels -- at the centre," he said,hastily. "Whatever vigorous action originated inHermione Street seemed doomed to failure. Somethingalways happened to baffle the best planned manifesta-tions in every part of Europe. It was a time of generalactivity. You must not imagine that all our failuresare of a loud sort, with arrests and trials. That is notso. Often the police work quietly, almost secretly,defeating our combinations by clever counter-plotting.No arrests, no noise, no alarming of the public mindand inflaming the passions. It is a wise procedure.But at that time the police were too uniformly successfulfrom the Mediterranean to the Baltic. It was annoyingand began to look dangerous. At last we came to theconclusion that there must be some untrustworthyelements amongst the London groups. And I cameover to see what could be done quietly."My first step was to call upon our young LadyAmateur of anarchism at her private house. She re-ceived me in a flattering way. I judged that she knewnothing of the chemical and other operations going onat the top of the house in Hermione Street. The print-ing of anarchist literature was the only 'activity' sheseemed to be aware of there. She was displaying verystrikingly the usual signs of severe enthusiasm, and hadalready written many sentimental articles with ferociousconclusions. I could see she was enjoying herselfhugely, with all the gestures and grimaces of deadlyearnestness. They suited her big-eyed, broad-browedface and the good carriage of her shapely head, crownedby a magnificent lot of brown hair done in an unusualand becoming style. Her brother was in the room, too,a serious youth, with arched eyebrows and wearing a rednecktie, who struck me as being absolutely in the darkabout everything in the world, including himself. Byand by a tall young man came in. He was clean-shavedwith a strong bluish jaw and something of the air of ataciturn actor or of a fanatical priest: the type withthick black eyebrows -- you know. But he was very pre-sentable indeed. He shook hands at once vigorouslywith each of us. The young lady came up to me andmurmured sweetly, 'Comrade Sevrin.'"I had never seen him before. He had little to sayto us, but sat down by the side of the girl, and they fellat once into earnest conversation. She leaned forwardin her deep armchair, and took her nicely rounded chinin her beautiful white hand. He looked attentively intoher eyes. It was the attitude of love-making, serious,intense, as if on the brink of the grave. I suppose shefelt it necessary to round and complete her assumptionof advanced ideas, of revolutionary lawlessness, bymaking believe to be in love with an anarchist. Andthis one, I repeat, was extremely presentable, notwith-standing his fanatical black-browed aspect. After afew stolen glances in their direction, I had no doubt thathe was in earnest. As to the lady, her gestures wereunapproachable, better than the very thing itself in theblended suggestion of dignity, sweetness, condescension,fascination, surrender, and reserve. She interpretedher conception of what that precise sort of love-makingshould be with consummate art. And so far, she, too,no doubt, was in earnest. Gestures -- but so perfect!"After I had been left alone with our Lady AmateurI informed her guardedly of the object of my visit. Ihinted at our suspicions. I wanted to hear what shewould have to say, and half expected some perhaps un-conscious revelation. All she said was, 'That's serious,'looking delightfully concerned and grave. But therewas a sparkle in her eyes which meant plainly, 'Howexciting!' After all, she knew little of anything exceptof words. Still, she undertook to put me in com-munication with Horne, who was not easy to find unlessin Hermione Street, where I did not wish to show myselfjust then."I met Horne. This was another kind of a fanaticaltogether. I exposed to him the conclusion we inBrussels had arrived at, and pointed out the significantseries of failures. To this he answered with irrelevantexaltation:"'I have something in hand that shall strike terrorinto the heart of these gorged brutes.'"And then I learned that, by excavating in one ofthe cellars of the house, he and some companions hadmade their way into the vaults under the great publicbuilding I have mentioned before. The blowing up of awhole wing was a certainty as soon as the materials wereready."I was not so appalled at the stupidity of that moveas I might have been had not the usefulness of ourcentre in Hermione Street become already very prob-lematical. In fact, in my opinion it was much moreof a police trap by this time than anything else."What was necessary now was to discover what, orrather who, was wrong, and I managed at last to getthat idea into Horne's head. He glared, perplexed, hisnostrils working as if he were sniffing treachery in theair."And here comes a piece of work which will no doubtstrike you as a sort of theatrical expedient. And yetwhat else could have been done? The problem wasto find out the untrustworthy member of the group.But no suspicion could be fastened on one more thananother. To set a watch upon them all was not verypracticable. Besides, that proceeding often fails. Inany case, it takes time, and the danger was pressing. Ifelt certain that the premises in Hermione Street wouldbe ultimately raided, though the police had evidentlysuch confidence in the informer that the house, for thetime being, was not even watched. Horne was positiveon that point. Under the circumstances it was anunfavourable symptom. Something had to be donequickly."I decided to organize a raid myself upon the group.Do you understand? A raid of other trusty comradespersonating the police. A conspiracy within a con-spiracy. You see the object of it, of course. Whenapparently about to be arrested I hoped the informerwould betray himself in some way or other; either bysome unguarded act or simply by his unconcerned de-meanour, for instance. Of coarse there was the risk ofcomplete failure and the no lesser risk of some fatalaccident in the course of resistance, perhaps, or in theefforts at escape. For, as you will easily see, the Her-mione Street group had to be actually and completelytaken unawares, as I was sure they would be by the realpolice before very long. The informer was amongstthem, and Horne alone could be let into the secret ofmy plan."I will not enter into the detail of my preparations.It was not very easy to arrange, but it was done verywell, with a really convincing effect. The sham policeinvaded the restaurant, whose shutters were immedi-ately put up. The surprise was perfect. Most of theHermione Street party were found in the second cellar,enlarging the hole communicating with the vaultsof the great public building. At the first alarm, severalcomrades bolted through impulsively into the aforesaidvault, where, of course, had this been a genuine raid,they would have been hopelessly trapped. We did notbother about them for the moment. They were harm-less enough. The top floor caused considerable anxietyto Horne and myself. There, surrounded by tins ofStone's Dried Soup, a comrade, nick-named the Pro-fessor (he was an ex-science student) was engaged inperfecting some new detonators. He was an ab-stracted, self-confident, sallow little man, armed withlarge round spectacles, and we were afraid that under amistaken impression he would blow himself up andwreck the house about our ears. I rushed upstairs andfound him already at the door, on the alert, listening, ashe said, to 'suspicious noises down below.' Before Ihad quite finished explaining to him what was going onhe shrugged his shoulders disdainfully and turned awayto his balances and test-tubes. His was the true spiritof an extreme revolutionist. Explosives were his faith,his hope, his weapon, and his shield. He perisheda couple of years afterwards in a secret laboratorythrough the premature explosion of one of his improveddetonators."Hurrying down again, I found an impressive scenein the gloom of the big cellar. The man who personatedthe inspector (he was no stranger to the part) wasspeaking harshly, and giving bogus orders to his bogussubordinates for the removal of his prisoners. Evi-dently nothing enlightening had happened so far.Horne, saturnine and swarthy, waited with folded arms,and his patient, moody expectation had an air of stoi-cism well in keeping with the situation. I detected inthe shadows one of the Hermione Street group surrep-titiously chewing up and swallowing a small piece ofpaper. Some compromising scrap, I suppose; perhapsjust a note of a few names and addresses. He was atrue and faithful 'companion.' But the fund of secretmalice which lurks at the bottom of our sympathiescaused me to feel amused at that perfectly uncalled-for performance.In every other respect the risky experiment, thetheatrical coup, if you like to call it so, seemed to havefailed. The deception could not be kept up muchlonger; the explanation would bring about a veryembarrassing and even grave situation. The man whohad eaten the paper would be furious. The fellows whohad bolted away would be angry, too."To add to my vexation, the door communicatingwith the other cellar, where the printing-presses were,flew open, and our young lady revolutionist appeared,a black silhouette in a close-fitting dress and a largehat, with the blaze of gas flaring in there at her back.Over her shoulder I perceived the arched eyebrows andthe red necktie of her brother."The last people in the world I wanted to see then!They had gone that evening to some amateur concertfor the delectation of the poor people, you know; butshe had insisted on leaving early, on purpose to call inHermione Street on the way home, under the pretext ofhaving some work to do. Her usual task was to correctthe proofs of the Italian and French editions of theAlarm Bell and the Firebrand." . . ."Heavens!" I murmured. I had been shown once afew copies of these publications. Nothing, in myopinion, could have been less fit for the eyes of a younglady. They were the most advanced things of the sort;advanced, I mean, beyond all bounds of reason anddecency. One of them preached the dissolution of allsocial and domestic ties; the other advocated systematicmurder. To think of a young girl calmly trackingprinters' errors all along the sort of abominable sen-tences I remembered was intolerable to my sentimentof womanhood. Mr. X, after giving me a glance,pursued steadily."I think, however, that she came mostly to exerciseher fascinations upon Sevrin, and to receive his homagein her queenly and condescending way. She was awareof both -- her power and his homage -- and enjoyed themwith, I dare say, complete innocence. We have noground in expediency or morals to quarrel with her onthat account. Charm in woman and exceptionalintelligence in man are a law unto themselves. Is itnot so?"I refrained from expressing my abhorrence of thatlicentious doctrine because of my curiosity."But what happened then?" I hastened to ask.X went on crumbling slowly a small piece of breadwith a careless left hand."What happened, in effect," he confessed, "is thatshe saved the situation.""She gave you an opportunity to end your rathersinister farce," I suggested."Yes," he said, preserving his impassive bearing." The farce was bound to end soon. And it ended in avery few minutes. And it ended well. Had she notcome in, it might have ended badly. Her brother, ofcourse, did not count. They had slipped into thehouse quietly some time before. The printing-cellarhad an entrance of its own. Not finding any onethere, she sat down to her proofs, expecting Sevrin toreturn to his work at any moment. He did not do so.She grew impatient, heard through the door the soundsof a disturbance in the other cellar and naturally camein to see what was the matter.Sevrin had been with us. At first he had seemedto me the most amazed of the whole raided lot. Heappeared for an instant as if paralyzed with astonish-ment. He stood rooted to the spot. He never moveda limb. A solitary gas-jet flared near his head; allthe other lights had been put out at the first alarm.And presently, from my dark corner, I observed on hisshaven actor's face an expression of puzzled, vexedwatchfulness. He knitted his heavy eyebrows. Thecorners of his mouth dropped scornfully. He wasangry. Most likely he had seen through the game, andI regretted I had not taken him from the first into mycomplete confidence."But with the appearance of the girl he becameobviously alarmed. It was plain. I could see itgrow. The change of his expression was swift andstartling. And I did not know why. The reasonnever occurred to me. I was merely astonished at theextreme alteration of the man's face. Of course he hadnot been aware of her presence in the other cellar; butthat did not explain the shock her advent had given him.For a moment he seemed to have been reduced toimbecility. He opened his mouth as if to shout, orperhaps only to gasp. At any rate, it was somebodyelse who shouted. This somebody else was the heroiccomrade whom I had detected swallowing a piece ofpaper. With laudable presence of mind he let out awarning yell."'It's the police! Back! Back! Run back, andbolt the door behind you.'"It was an excellent hint; but instead of retreatingthe girl continued to advance, followed by her long-faced brother in his knickerbocker suit, in which he hadbeen singing comic songs for the entertainment of ajoyless proletariat. She advanced not as if she hadfailed to understand -- the word 'police' has an un-mistakable sound -- but rather as if she could not helpherself. She did not advance with the free gait andexpanding presence of a distinguished amateur anarchistamongst poor, struggling professionals, but withslightly raised shoulders, and her elbows pressedclose to her body, as if trying to shrink within herself.Her eyes were fixed immovably upon Sevrin. Sevrinthe man, I fancy; not Sevrin the anarchist. But sheadvanced. And that was natural. For all theirassumption of independence, girls of that class are usedto the feeling of being specially protected, as, in fact,they are. This feeling accounts for nine tenths oftheir audacious gestures. Her face had gone com-pletely colourless. Ghastly. Fancy having it broughthome to her so brutally that she was the sort of personwho must run away from the police! I believe she waspale with indignation, mostly, though there was, ofcourse, also the concern for her intact personality, avague dread of some sort of rudeness. And, naturally,she turned to a man, to the man on whom she had aclaim of fascination and homage -- the man who couldnot conceivably fail her at any juncture.""But," I cried, amazed at this analysis, "if it hadbeen serious, real, I mean -- as she thought it was -- whatcould she expect him to do for her?"X never moved a muscle of his face."Goodness knows. I imagine that this charming,generous, and independent creature had never knownin her life a single genuine thought; I mean a singlethought detached from small human vanities, or whosesource was not in some conventional perception. All Iknow is that after advancing a few steps she extendedher hand towards the motionless Sevrin. And that atleast was no gesture. It was a natural movement. Asto what she expected him to do, who can tell? Theimpossible. But whatever she expected, it could nothave come up, I am safe to say, to what he had madeup his mind to do, even before that entreating hand hadappealed to him so directly. It had not been necessary.From the moment he had seen her enter that cellar, hehad made up his mind to sacrifice his future usefulness,to throw off the impenetrable, solidly fastened mask ithad been his pride to wear --""What do you mean?" I interrupted, puzzled."Was it Sevrin, then, who was --""He was. The most persistent, the most dangerous,the craftiest, the most systematic of informers. Agenius amongst betrayers. Fortunately for us, he wasunique. The man was a fanatic, I have told you.Fortunately, again, for us, he had fallen in love with theaccomplished and innocent gestures of that girl. Anactor in desperate earnest himself, he must have be-lieved in the absolute value of conventional signs. Asto the grossness of the trap into which he fell, theexplanation must be that two sentiments of such ab-sorbing magnitude cannot exist simultaneously in oneheart. The danger of that other and unconsciouscomedian robbed him of his vision, of his perspicacity,of his judgment. Indeed, it did at first rob him of hisself-possession. But he regained that through thenecessity -- as it appeared to him imperiously -- to dosomething at once. To do what? Why, to get herout of the house as quickly as possible. He wasdesperately anxious to do that. I have told you hewas terrified. It could not be about himself. He hadbeen surprised and annoyed at a move quite unforeseenand premature. I may even say he had been furious.He was accustomed to arrange the last scene of hisbetrayals with a deep, subtle art which left his revolu-tionist reputation untouched. But it seems clear tome that at the same time he had resolved to make thebest of it, to keep his mask resolutely on. It was onlywith the discovery of her being in the house that every-thing -- the forced calm, the restraint of his fanaticism,the mask -- all came off together in a kind of panic.Why panic, do you ask? The answer is very simple.He remembered -- or, I dare say, he had never forgotten-- the Professor alone at the top of the house, pursuinghis researches, surrounded by tins upon tins of Stone'sDried Soup. There was enough in some few of them tobury us all where we stood under a heap of bricks.Sevrin, of course, was aware of that. And we mustbelieve, also, that he knew the exact character of theman. He had gauged so many such characters! Orperhaps he only gave the Professor credit for what hehimself was capable of. But, in any case, the effectwas produced. And suddenly he raised his voice inauthority."'Get the lady away at once.'"It turned out that he was as hoarse as a crow;result, no doubt, of the intense emotion. It passed offin a moment. But these fateful words issued forth fromhis contracted throat in a discordant, ridiculous croak.They required no answer. The thing was done. How-ever, the man personating the inspector judged it ex-pedient to say roughly:"'She shall go soon enough, together with the rest ofyou.'"These were the last words belonging to the comedypart of this affair."Oblivious of everything and everybody, Sevrinstrode towards him and seized the lapels of his coat.Under his thin bluish cheeks one could see his jawsworking with passion."'You have men posted outside. Get the lady takenhome at once. Do you hear? Now. Before you try toget hold of the man upstairs.'"'Oh! There is a man upstairs,' scoffed the other,openly. 'Well, he shall be brought down in time to seethe end of this.'"But Sevrin, beside himself, took no heed of thetone.'"Who's the imbecile meddler who sent you blunder-ing here? Didn't you understand your instructions?Don't you know anything? It's incredible. Here --'"He dropped the lapels of the coat and, plunginghis hand into his breast, jerked feverishly at some-thing under his shirt. At last he produced a smallsquare pocket of soft leather, which must have beenhanging like a scapulary from his neck by the tapewhose broken ends dangled from his fist."'Look inside,' he spluttered, flinging it in the other'sface. And instantly he turned round towards the girl.She stood just behind him, perfectly still and silent.Her set, white face gave an illusion of placidity. Onlyher staring eyes seemed bigger and darker."He spoke rapidly, with nervous assurance. I heardhim distinctly promise her to make everything as clearas daylight presently. But that was all I caught. Hestood close to her, never attempting to touch her evenwith the tip of his little finger -- and she stared at himstupidly. For a moment, however, her eyelids de-scended slowly, pathetically, and then, with thelong black eyelashes lying on her white cheeks, shelooked ready to fall down in a swoon. But she nevereven swayed where she stood. He urged her loudly tofollow him at once, and walked towards the door at thebottom of the cellar stairs without looking behind him.And, as a matter of fact, she did move after him a paceor two. But, of course, he was not allowed to reach thedoor. There were angry exclamations, a short, fiercescuffle. Flung away violently, he came flying back-wards upon her, and fell. She threw out her arms in agesture of dismay and stepped aside, just clear of hishead, which struck the ground heavily near her shoe."He grunted with the shock. By the time he hadpicked himself up, slowly, dazedly, he was awake to thereality of things. The man into whose hands he hadthrust the leather case had extracted therefrom anarrow strip of bluish paper. He held it up above hishead, and, as after the scuffle an expectant uneasy still-ness reigned once more, he threw it down disdainfullywith the words, 'I think, comrades, that this proof washardly necessary.'"Quick as thought, the girl stooped after the flutter-ing slip. Holding it spread out in both hands, shelooked at it; then, without raising her eyes, opened herfingers slowly and let it fall."I examined that curious document afterwards. Itwas signed by a very high personage, and stamped andcountersigned by other high officials in various countriesof Europe. In his trade -- or shall I say, in his mission?-- that sort of talisman might have been necessary, nodoubt. Even to the police itself -- all but the heads --he had been known only as Sevrin the noted anarchist."He hung his head, biting his lower lip. A changehad come over him, a sort of thoughtful, absorbed calm-ness. Nevertheless, he panted. His sides worked visi-bly, and his nostrils expanded and collapsed in weirdcontrast with his sombre aspect of a fanatical monk in ameditative attitude, but with something, too, in hisface of an actor intent upon the terrible exigencies of hispart. Before him Horne declaimed, haggard andbearded, like an inspired denunciatory prophet from awilderness. Two fanatics. They were made to under-stand each other. Does this surprise you? I sup-pose you think that such people would be foaming at themouth and snarling at each other?"I protested hastily that I was not surprised in theleast; that I thought nothing of the kind; that anarchistsin general were simply inconceivable to me mentally,morally, logically, sentimentally, and even physically.X received this declaration with his usual woodennessand went on."Horne had burst out into eloquence. While pour-ing out scornful invective, he let tears escape from hiseyes and roll down his black beard unheeded. Sevrinpanted quicker and quicker. When he opened hismouth to speak, everyone hung on his words."'Don't be a fool, Horne,' he began. 'You knowvery well that I have done this for none of the reasonsyou are throwing at me.' And in a moment he becameoutwardly as steady as a rock under the other's luridstare. 'I have been thwarting, deceiving, and betrayingyou -- from conviction.'"He turned his back on Horne, and addressing thegirl, repeated the words: 'From conviction.'"It's extraordinary how cold she looked. I supposeshe could not think of any appropriate gesture. Therecan have been few precedents indeed for such a situ-ation."'Clear as daylight,' he added. 'Do you understandwhat that means? From conviction.'"And still she did not stir. She did not know whatto do. But the luckless wretch was about to giveher the opportunity for a beautiful and correct gesture."'I have felt in me the power to make you sharethis conviction,' he protested, ardently. He had for-gotten himself; he made a step towards her -- perhapshe stumbled. To me he seemed to be stooping low asif to touch the hem of her garment. And then theappropriate gesture came. She snatched her skirtaway from his polluting contact and averted her headwith an upward tilt. It was magnificently done, thisgesture of conventionally unstained honour, of an un-blemished high-minded amateur."Nothing could have been better. And he seemedto think so, too, for once more he turned away. Butthis time he faced no one. He was again panting fright-fully, while he fumbled hurriedly in his waistcoatpocket, and then raised his hand to his lips. There wassomething furtive in this movement, but directly after-wards his bearing changed. His laboured breathinggave him a resemblance to a man who had just run adesperate race; but a curious air of detachment, of sud-den and profound indifference, replaced the strain of thestriving effort. The race was over. I did not want tosee what would happen next. I was only too wellaware. I tucked the young lady's arm under minewithout a word, and made my way with her to thestairs."Her brother walked behind us. Half-way up theshort flight she seemed unable to lift her feet highenough for the steps, and we had to pull and push to gether to the top. In the passage she dragged herselfalong, hanging on my arm, helplessly bent like an oldwoman. We issued into an empty street through ahalf-open door, staggering like besotted revellers. Atthe corner we stopped a four-wheeler, and the ancientdriver looked round from his box with morose scorn atour efforts to get her in. Twice during the drive I felther collapse on my shoulder in a half faint. Facing us,the youth in knickerbockers remained as mute as afish, and, till he jumped out with the latch-key, satmore still than I would have believed it possible."At the door of their drawing-room she left my armand walked in first, catching at the chairs and tables.She unpinned her hat, then, exhausted with the effort,her cloak still hanging from her shoulders, flung her-self into a deep armchair, sideways, her face halfburied in a cushion. The good brother appearedsilently before her with a glass of water. She motionedit away. He drank it himself and walked off to a dis-tant corner -- behind the grand piano, somewhere. Allwas still in this room where I had seen, for the firsttime, Sevrin, the anti-anarchist, captivated and spell-bound by the consummate and hereditary grimacesthat in a certain sphere of life take the place of feelingswith an excellent effect. I suppose her thoughts werebusy with the same memory. Her shoulders shookviolently. A pure attack of nerves. When it quieteddown she affected firmness, 'What is done to a man ofthat sort? What will they do to him?'"'Nothing. They can do nothing to him,' I assuredher, with perfect truth. I was pretty certain he haddied in less than twenty minutes from the moment hishand had gone to his lips. For if his fanatical anti-anarchism went even as far as carrying poison in hispocket, only to rob his adversaries of legitimate ven-geance, I knew he would take care to provide somethingthat would not fail him when required."She drew an angry breath. There were red spotson her cheeks and a feverish brilliance in her eyes."'Has ever any one been exposed to such a terribleexperience? To think that he had held my hand!That man!' Her face twitched, she gulped down apathetic sob. 'If I ever felt sure of anything, it was ofSevrin's high-minded motives.'"Then she began to weep quietly, which was goodfor her. Then through her flood of tears, half resentful,'What was it he said to me? -- "From conviction!"It seemed a vile mockery. What could he mean byit?'"'That, my dear young lady,' I said, gently, 'is morethan I or anybody else can ever explain to you.'"Mr. X flicked a crumb off the front of his coat."And that was strictly true as to her. ThoughHorne, for instance, understood very well; and so did I,especially after we had been to Sevrin's lodging in adismal back street of an intensely respectable quarter.Horne was known there as a friend, and we had nodifficulty in being admitted, the slatternly maid merelyremarking, as she let us in, that 'Mr Sevrin had not beenhome that night.' We forced open a couple of drawersin the way of duty, and found a little useful information.The most interesting part was his diary; for this man,engaged in such deadly work, had the weakness to keepa record of the most damnatory kind. There were hisacts and also his thoughts laid bare to us. But the deaddon't mind that. They don't mind anything."'From conviction.' Yes. A vague but ardenthumanitarianism had urged him in his first youth intothe bitterest extremity of negation and revolt. After-wards his optimism flinched. He doubted and becamelost. You have heard of converted atheists. Theseturn often into dangerous fanatics, but the soul remainsthe same. After he had got acquainted with the girl,there are to be met in that diary of his very queerpolitico-amorous rhapsodies. He took her sovereigngrimaces with deadly seriousness. He longed to con-vert her. But all this cannot interest you. For therest, I don't know if you remember -- it is a good manyyears ago now -- the journalistic sensation of the 'Hermi-one Street Mystery'; the finding of a man's body in thecellar of an empty house; the inquest; some arrests;many surmises -- then silence -- the usual end for manyobscure martyrs and confessors. The fact is, he wasnot enough of an optimist. You must be a savage,tyrannical, pitiless, thick-and-thin optimist, like Horne,for instance, to make a good social rebel of the extremetype.He rose from the table. A waiter hurried up withhis overcoat; another held his hat in readiness."But what became of the young lady?" I asked."Do you really want to know?" he said, buttoninghimself in his fur coat carefully. "I confess to the smallmalice of sending her Sevrin's diary. She went intoretirement; then she went to Florence; then she wentinto retreat in a convent. I can't tell where she willgo next. What does it matter? Gestures! Gestures!Mere gestures of her class."He fitted on his glossy high hat with extreme pre-cision, and casting a rapid glance round the room, fullof well-dressed people, innocently dining, mutteredbetween his teeth:"And nothing else! That is why their kind is fatedto perish."I never met Mr. X again after that evening. I tookto dining at my club. On my next visit to Paris I foundmy friend all impatience to hear of the effect producedon me by this rare item of his collection. I told him allthe story, and he beamed on me with the pride of hisdistinguished specimen."Isn't X well worth knowing?" he bubbled overin great delight. "He's unique, amazing, absolutelyterrific."His enthusiasm grated upon my finer feelings. Itold him curtly that the man's cynicism was simplyabominable."Oh, abominable! abominable!" assented my friend,effusively. "And then, you know, he likes to have hislittle joke sometimes," he added in a confidential tone.I fail to understand the connection of this last re-mark. I have been utterly unable to discover where inall this the joke comes in.[from A Set of Six]
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