She, however, though turning very pale,
began to protest, concealing both what she knew and what she really
thought.
"I tell you I haven't seen him for several days," said she. "He must
certainly be in Belgium. And as for a bomb, that's humbug. You say
yourself that he's very gentle and wouldn't harm a fly!"
A little later as Pierre journeyed back to Neuilly in a tramcar he fell
into a deep reverie. All the stir and bustle of that working-class
district, the buzzing of the factory, the overflowing activity of that
hive of labour, seemed to have lingered within him. And for the first
time, amidst his worries, he realised the necessity of work. Yes, it was
fatal, but it also gave health and strength. In effort which sustains and
saves, he at last found a solid basis on which all might be reared. Was
this, then, the first gleam of a new faith? But ah! what mockery! Work an
uncertainty, work hopeless, work always ending in injustice! And then
want ever on the watch for the toiler, strangling him as soon as slack
times came round, and casting him into the streets like a dead dog
immediately old age set in.
On reaching Neuilly, Pierre found Bertheroy at Guillaume's bedside. The
old /savant/ had just dressed the injured wrist, and was not yet certain
that no complications would arise. "The fact is," he said to Guillaume,
"you don't keep quiet.
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