Pugin lived in the Boulevard Haussmann. He had begun life quite low down in the Parisian world on the quays as apprentice to Manasis, a jew book-dealer, who has been dead twenty-five years, whose money has been dispersed, whose name has been forgotten, of whom nothing remains on earth but the few hours a day of time filched from him by Pugin.

Pugin had a hard and bitter fight for twenty years before he obtained recognition. The garret and starvation act had been unduly prolonged in the case of this genius, and it seemed a mystery where and how in the ruined city which is at the heart of every city, in that cour des Miracles where the Bohemians camp, he had found, like a crystal vase, his exquisite style, preserved it unbroken by mischance or shock of fate, and carried it safely at last to the hands of Fame.

He was very rich now, very powerful, and very fortunate. Charitable, too, and ever ready to assist a fellow-worker in straitened circumstances, and to-day as he sat reading in the cool recesses of his library, and listening to the sound of the Paris he loved floating in with the warm June air through the open window, he felt at peace with all the world and in a mood to do justice to his bitterest enemy.

The striped sun-blinds filtered the blaze outside, letting pass only a diffused and honey-coloured twilight; a great bowl of roses filled the room with the simple and deep poetry of summer, the story of the hedges and the fields, of orchards shot through with the voices of birds, of cattle knee-deep in cool water where the dragon-flies keep up their eternal dance to the flute-like ripple of the river amidst the reeds.

Pugin, his book upon his knees, was enjoying these pictures of summer woven by perfume, when a servant entered and handed him Adams’s card and the letter of introduction written by Sabatier.

He ordered the visitor to be shown in. Adams, when he entered, found himself before a small man with a big head; an ugly little man, with a look of kindness and a very gracious and charming manner.

To Pugin Adams seemed a giant. A giant bronzed by unknown suns, talking French indifferently well, and with a foreign accent. An interesting person, indeed, but a being quite beyond his range of knowledge.

Pugin, in physical matters, was timid as a rabbit. He had never travelled farther than Trouville or Ostend, and when he indicated a chair, and when these two sat down to talk to each other, the mastiff-man felt instinctively the presence of the rabbit-man, and was at a loss how to begin.

Not for long, though. Bluffly, and with little grace enough, but with earnestness and a cunning one would never have suspected, he told of Maxine’s great admiration for the author’s work, and how she had suggested the enlistment of the said author in the crusade against crime which he, Adams, was endeavouring to raise.

Pugin listened, making little bows, sniffing the lettuce which the mastiff-man had so cunningly placed before his nose.

Then honestly and plainly and well, Adams told his tale, and the rabbit held up its hands in horror at the black doings disclosed to it. But it was horror divorced from sentiment. Pugin felt almost as great a revulsion toward the negroes upon whom these things were done as toward the doers.

He could not see the vast drama in its true proportions and its poetical setting of forest, plain, and sky. The outlandish names revolted him; he could not see Yandjali and its heat-stricken palms or M’Bassa burning in the sun.

But he listened politely and it was this that chilled the heart of the story-teller who instinctively felt that though he had shocked his hearer, he had not aroused that high spirit of revolt against injustice which converts a man into a living trumpet, a living axe, or a living sword.

Pugin would have been a great force could his sentiment have been awakened; but he could not see palm trees.

“What would you have? You cannot grow baobabs on the Boulevards.”

“Ma foi!” said he, “it is terrible what you tell me, but what are we to do?”

“I thought you might help,” said Adams.

“I? With all the power possible and goodwill. It is evident to me that should you wish for success in this matter, you should found a society.”

“Yes?”

“There is nothing done in a public way without coÖperation. You must found a society; you may use my name. I will even let you put it on the committee list. I will also subscribe.”

Now Pugin was on the committee lists of half a dozen charitable and humanitarian concerns. His secretary had them all down in a book; but Pugin himself, lost in his art and the work of his life, had forgotten their very names. So would it be with this.

“Thanks,” said the visitor.

Pugin would lend his purse to the cause, and his name, but he would not lend his pen—simply because he could not. To every literary man there are dead subjects; this question was dead to the author of “Absolution”—as uninspiring as cold mutton.

“Thanks,” said Adams, and rose to take his leave. His rough-hewn mind understood with marvellous perspicuity Pugin’s position.

“And one moment,” cried the little man, after he had bidden his visitor good-bye and the latter was leaving the room. “One moment; why did I not think of it before? You might go and see Ferminard.”

He ran to a desk in the corner of the room, took a visiting card and scribbled Ferminard’s address upon it, explaining as he wrote that Ferminard was the deputy for —— in Provence; a Socialist it is true, but a terrible man when roused; that the very name of injustice was sufficient to bring this lion from his den.

“Tell him Pugin said so,” cried he, following his visitor this time out on the landing and patting him on the shoulder in a fatherly manner, “and you will find him in the Rue Auber, No. 14; it is all on the card; and convey my kind regards to Mademoiselle ——, that charming lady to whose appreciation of my poor work I owe the pleasure of your visit.”

“Nice little man,” said Adams to himself as he walked down the Boulevard Haussmann.

He found Ferminard at home, in an apartment smelling of garlic and the south. Ferminard, a tall, black-bearded creature, with a glittering eye; a brigand from the Rhone Valley who had flung himself into the politics of his country as a torpedo flings itself into the sea, greeted Adams with effusion, when he read Pugin’s card; gave him cigarettes, and shut the open window in honour of his guest.

He worked himself into a state of indignation over Adams’s story; as a matter of fact he knew the whole thing well; but he was too polite to discount his visitor’s grievance, besides it gave him an opportunity to declaim—and of course the fact that a king was at the bottom of it all, added keenness to the arrows of his invective.

As Adams listened, delighted to have awakened such a trumpet; as he listened to Ferminard thundering against all that over there, speaking as though he were addressing the Chambre, and as though he had known Africa intimately from his childhood, he noticed gradually and with alarm that the topic was changing; just a moment ago it was Africa and its luckless niggers; the ProvenÇal imagination picturing them in glowing colours, and the ProvenÇal tongue rolling off their disabilities and woes. One would have fancied from the fervour of the man that is was Ferminard who had just returned from the Congo, not Adams.

Well, a moment after, and Africa had quite fallen out of the discussion. As a child lets a Noah’s Ark fall from its hands—elephants, zebras and all on to the floor whilst he grasps for a new toy—so Ferminard let Africa tumble whilst he grasped for Socialism, found it and swung it like a rattle, and Socialism went the way of Africa as he seized at last that darling toy—himself. The speech, in its relationship to the subject in point, was the intellectual counterpart of the cry of those mechanical pigs which the street venders blow up, and which, standing on a board, scream in the face of Oxford Street, loudly at first, and then, as the figure collapses, weakening in voice to the buzzing of a fly.

Ferminard was, in fact, a great child with a good heart, a ProvenÇal imagination, a power of oratory, a quickness in seizing upon little things and making them seem great, coupled with a rather obscure understanding as to the relative value of mountains and mole-hills. A noise maker of a first-class description, but useless for any serious work. Feu de bruit was his motto, and he lived up to it.

It is only when you try to enlist men on your side in some great and holy cause, that you come to some knowledge of the general man’s weakness and want of holiness—your own included. Adams, during the fortnight that followed his visit to Pugin, had this fact borne in on him. All the thinking minds of the centre of civilization were so busy thinking thoughts of their own making, that it was impossible to attract their attention for more than a moment; from Bostoc the dramatist to Bastiche the anarchist, each individual was turning his own crank diligently, and not to be disturbed, even by Papeete’s skull.

With such a thing in one’s hand, picked up like some horrible talisman which, if not buried, will eventually cast its spell upon human thought and the future of the world; with such a thing in one’s hand, surely the Church would present itself to the mind as a court of appeal.

But as the Roman Catholic Church had actually put its broad back against the door of the torture chamber, and was, in fact, holding it tight shut whilst Papeete’s head was being hacked from his body, it would scarcely be logical to bring out the victim’s skull hoping for redress. Other denominations being of such little power in France, Adams determined to leave the attempt to rouse them till he reached England, whither he determined to go as soon as Berselius’s health would permit him.

One evening, a fortnight after his visit to Pugin, on his return to the Avenue Malakoff, Maxine met him in the hall.

He saw at once from her face that something had happened.

Berselius was worse; that afternoon he had suddenly developed acute neuralgia of the right side of the head, and this had been followed almost immediately by twitching and numbness of the left arm. ThÉnard had been summoned and he had diagnosed pressure on the brain, or, at least, irritation from depressed bone, due to the accident.

He declared himself for operation, and he had gone now to make arrangements for nurses and assistants.

“He will operate this evening,” said Maxine.

“And Madame Berselius?”

“I have telegraphed for her.”