A Set of Six

by Joseph Conrad

  THE INFORMER

  Mr. X came to me, preceded by a letter of introduction from a goodfriend of mine in Paris, specifically to see my collection of Chinesebronzes and porcelain.

  "My friend in Paris is a collector, too. He collects neither porcelain,nor bronzes, nor pictures, nor medals, nor stamps, nor anything thatcould be profitably dispersed under an auctioneer's hammer. He wouldreject, with genuine surprise, the name of a collector. Nevertheless,that's what he is by temperament. He collects acquaintances. Itis delicate work. He brings to it the patience, the passion, thedetermination of a true collector of curiosities. His collection doesnot contain any royal personages. I don't think he considers themsufficiently rare and interesting; but, with that exception, he has metwith and talked to everyone worth knowing on any conceivable ground. Heobserves them, listens to them, penetrates them, measures them, and putsthe memory away in the galleries of his mind. He has schemed, plotted,and travelled all over Europe in order to add to his collection ofdistinguished personal acquaintances.

  "As he is wealthy, well connected, and unprejudiced, his collection ispretty complete, including objects (or should I say subjects?) whosevalue is unappreciated by the vulgar, and often unknown to popular fame.Of trevolte of modern times. The world knows him as a revolutionarywriter whose savage irony has laid bare the rottenness of the mostrespectable institutions. He has scalped every venerated head, andhas mangled at the stake of his wit every received opinion and everyrecognized principle of conduct and policy. Who does not remember hisflaming red revolutionary pamphlets? Their sudden swarmings used tooverwhelm the powers of every Continental police like a plague ofcrimson gadflies. But this extreme writer has been also the activeinspirer of secret societies, the mysterious unknown Number One ofdesperate conspiracies suspected and unsuspected, matured or baffled.And the world at large has never had an inkling of that fact! Thisaccounts for him going about amongst us to this day, a veteran of manysubterranean campaigns, standing aside now, safe within his reputationof merely the greatest destructive publicist that ever lived."

  Thus wrote my friend, adding that Mr. X was an enlightened connoisseurof bronzes and china, and asking me to show him my collection.

  X turned up in due course. My treasures are disposed in three largerooms without carpets and curtains. There is no other furniture than theetagres and the glass cases whose contents shall be worth a fortune tomy heirs. I allow no fires to be lighted, for fear of accidents, and afire-proof door separates them from the rest of the house.

  It was a bitter cold day. We kept on our overcoats and hats.Middle-sized and spare, his eyes alert in a long, Roman-nosedcountenance, X walked on his neat little feet, with short steps,and looked at my collection intelligently. I hope I looked at himintelligently, too. A snow-white moustache and imperial made hisnutbrown complexion appear darker than it really was. In his fur coatand shiny tall hat that terrible man looked fashionable. I believe hebelonged to a noble family, and could have called himself Vicomte X dela Z if he chose. We talked nothing but bronzes and porcelain. He wasremarkably appreciative. We parted on cordial terms.

  Where he was staying I don't know. I imagine he must have been a lonelyman. Anarchists, I suppose, have no families--not, at any rate, as weunderstand that social relation. Organization into families may answerto a need of human nature, but in the last instance it is based on law,and therefore must be something odious and impossible to an anarchist.But, indeed, I don't understand anarchists. Does a man of that--ofthat--persuasion still remain an anarchist when alone, quite alone andgoing to bed, for instance? Does he lay his head on the pillow, pullhis bedclothes over him, and go to sleep with the necessity of thechambardement general, as the French slang has it, of the generalblow-up, always present to his mind? And if so how can he? I am surethat if such a faith (or such a fanaticism) once mastered my thoughtsI would never be able to compose myself sufficiently to sleep or eat orperform any of the routine acts of daily life. I would want no wife, nochildren; I could have no friends, it seems to me; and as to collectingbronzes or china, that, I should say, would be quite out of thequestion. But I don't know. All I know is that Mr. X took his meals in avery good restaurant which I frequented also.

  With his head uncovered, the silver top-knot of his brushed-up haircompleted the character of his physiognomy, all bony ridges and sunkenhollows, clothed in a perfect impassiveness of expression. His meagrebrown hands emerging from large white cuffs came and went breakingbread, pouring wine, and so on, with quiet mechanical precision.His head and body above the tablecloth had a rigid immobility. Thisfirebrand, this great agitator, exhibited the least possible amount ofwarmth and animation. His voice was rasping, cold, and monotonous in alow key. He could not be called a talkative personality; but with hisdetached calm manner he appeared as ready to keep the conversation goingas to drop it at any moment.

  And his conversation was by no means commonplace. To me, I own, therewas some excitement in talking quietly across a dinner-table with aman whose venomous pen-stabs had sapped the vitality of at least onemonarchy. That much was a matter of public knowledge. But I knew more. Iknew of him--from my friend--as a certainty what the guardians of socialorder in Europe had at most only suspected, or dimly guessed at.

  He had had what I may call his underground life. And as I sat, eveningafter evening, facing him at dinner, a curiosity in that directionwould naturally arise in my mind. I am a quiet and peaceable product ofcivilization, and know no passion other than the passion for collectingthings which are rare, and must remain exquisite even if approaching tothe monstrous. Some Chinese bronzes are monstrously precious. And here(out of my friend's collection), here I had before me a kind of raremonster. It is true that this monster was polished and in a sense evenexquisite. His beautiful unruffled manner was that. But then he wasnot of bronze. He was not even Chinese, which would have enabled oneto contemplate him calmly across the gulf of racial difference. He wasalive and European; he had the manner of good society, wore a coat andhat like mine, and had pretty near the same taste in cooking. It was toofrightful to think of.

  One evening he remarked, casually, in the course of conversation,"There's no amendment to be got out of mankind except by terror andviolence."

  You can imagine the effect of such a phrase out of such a man's mouthupon a person like myself, whose whole scheme of life had been basedupon a suave and delicate discrimination of social and artistic values.Just imagine! Upon me, to whom all sorts and forms of violence appearedas unreal as the giants, ogres, and seven-headed hydras whose activitiesaffect, fantastically, the course of legends and fairy-tales!

  I seemed suddenly to hear above the festive bustle and clatter of thebrilliant restaurant the mutter of a hungry and seditious multitude.

  I suppose I am impressionable and imaginative. I had a disturbingvision of darkness, full of lean jaws and wild eyes, amongst the hundredelectric lights of the place. But somehow this vision made me angry,too. The sight of that man, so calm, breaking bits of white bread,exasperated me. And I had the audacity to ask him how it was that thestarving proletariat of Europe to whom he had been preaching revolt andviolence had not been made indignant by his openly luxurious life. "Atall this," I said, pointedly, with a glance round the room and at thebottle of champagne we generally shared between us at dinner.

  He remained unmoved.

  "Do I feed on their toil and their heart's blood? Am I a speculator or acapitalist? Did I steal my fortune from a starving people? No! Theyknow this very well. And they envy me nothing. The miserable mass of thepeople is generous to its leaders. What I have acquired has come tome through my writings; not from the millions of pamphlets distributedgratis to the hungry and the oppressed, but from the hundreds ofthousands of copies sold to the well-fed bourgeoisie. You know that mywritings were at one time the rage, the fashion--the thing to read withwonder and horror, to turn your eyes up at my pathos . . . or else, tolaugh in ecstasies at my wit."

  "Yes," I admitted. "I remember, of course; and
I confess frankly that Icould never understand that infatuation."

  "Don't you know yet," he said, "that an idle and selfish class loves tosee mischief being made, even if it is made at its own expense? Its ownlife being all a matter of pose and gesture, it is unable to realize thepower and the danger of a real movement and of words that have no shammeaning. It is all fun and sentiment. It is sufficient, for instance,to point out the attitude of the old French aristocracy towards thephilosophers whose words were preparing the Great Revolution. Even inEngland, where you have some common-sense, a demagogue has only to shoutloud enough and long enough to find some backing in the very class heis shouting at. You, too, like to see mischief being made. The demagoguecarries the amateurs of emotion with him. Amateurism in this, that, andthe other thing is a delightfully easy way of killing time, and feedingone's own vanity--the silly vanity of being abreast with the ideas ofthe day after to-morrow. Just as good and otherwise harmless people willjoin you in ecstasies over your collection without having the slightestnotion in what its marvellousness really consists."

  I hung my head. It was a crushing illustration of the sad truth headvanced. The world is full of such people. And that instance of theFrench aristocracy before the Revolution was extremely telling, too.I could not traverse his statement, though its cynicism--always adistasteful trait--took off much of its value to my mind. However, Iadmit I was impressed. I felt the need to say something which would notbe in the nature of assent and yet would not invite discussion.

  "You don't mean to say," I observed, airily, "that extremerevolutionists have ever been actively assisted by the infatuation ofsuch people?"

  "I did not mean exactly that by what I said just now. I generalized.But since you ask me, I may tell you that such help has been givento revolutionary activities, more or less consciously, in variouscountries. And even in this country."

  "Impossible!" I protested with firmness. "We don't play with fire tothat extent."

  "And yet you can better afford it than others, perhaps. But let meobserve that most women, if not always ready to play with fire, aregenerally eager to play 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 ofan instance. Oh! mild enough in a way . . ."

  I became all expectation at this. I had tried many times to approach himon his underground side, so to speak. The very word had been pronouncedbetween us. But he had always met me with his impenetrable calm.

  "And at the same time," Mr. X continued, "it will give you a notionof the difficulties that may arise in what you are pleased to callunderground work. It is sometimes difficult to deal with them. Of coursethere is no hierarchy amongst the affiliated. No rigid system."

  My surprise was great, but short-lived. Clearly, amongst extremeanarchists there could be no hierarchy; nothing in the nature of alaw of precedence. The idea of anarchy ruling among anarchists wascomforting, too. It could not possibly make for efficiency.

  Mr. X startled me by asking, abruptly, "You know Hermione Street?"

  I nodded doubtful assent. Hermione Street has been, within the lastthree years, improved out of any man's knowledge. The name exists still,but not one brick or stone of the old Hermione Street is left now. Itwas the old street he meant, for he said:

  "There was a row of two-storied brick houses on the left, with theirbacks against the wing of a great public building--you remember. Wouldit surprise you very much to hear that one of these houses was fora time the centre of anarchist propaganda and of what you would callunderground action?"

  "Not at all," I declared. Hermione Street had never been particularlyrespectable, as I remembered it.

  "The house was the property of a distinguished government official," headded, sipping his champagne.

  "Oh, indeed!" I said, this time not believing a word of it.

  "Of course he was not living there," Mr. X continued. "But from ten tillfour he sat next door to it, the dear man, in his well-appointed privateroom in the wing of the public building I've mentioned. To be strictlyaccurate, I must explain that the house in Hermione Street did notreally belong to him. It belonged to his grown-up children--a daughterand a son. The girl, a fine figure, was by no means vulgarly pretty.To more personal charm than mere youth could account for, she addedthe seductive appearance of enthusiasm, of independence, of courageousthought. I suppose she put on these appearances as she put on herpicturesque dresses and for the same reason: to assert her individualityat any cost. You know, women would go to any length almost for sucha purpose. She went to a great length. She had acquired all theappropriate gestures of revolutionary convictions--the gestures of pity,of anger, of indignation against the anti-humanitarian vices of thesocial class to which she belonged herself. All this sat on her strikingpersonality as well as her slightly original costumes. Very slightlyoriginal; just enough to mark a protest against the philistinism of theoverfed taskmasters of the poor. Just enough, and no more. It would nothave done to go too far in that direction--you understand. But she wasof age, and nothing 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 very practical gesture.How else could they have got hold of it? The cause is not rich.And, moreover, there would have been difficulties with any ordinaryhouse-agent, who would have wanted references and so on. The group shecame in contact with while exploring the poor quarters of the town(you know the gesture of charity and personal service which was sofashionable some years ago) accepted with gratitude. The first advantagewas that Hermione Street is, as you know, well away from the suspectpart of the town, specially watched by the police.

  "The ground floor consisted of a little Italian restaurant, of theflyblown sort. There was no difficulty in buying the proprietor out. Awoman and a man belonging to the group took it on. The man had been acook. The comrades could get their meals there, unnoticed amongstthe other customers. This was another advantage. The first floor wasoccupied by a shabby Variety Artists' Agency--an agency for performersin inferior music-halls, you know. A fellow called Bomm, I remember. Hewas not disturbed. It was rather favourable than otherwise to have a lotof foreign-looking people, jugglers, acrobats, singers of both sexes,and so on, going in and out all day long. The police paid no attentionto new faces, you see. The top floor happened, most conveniently, tostand empty then."

  X interrupted himself to attack impassively, with measured movements,a bombe glacee which the waiter had just set down on the table. Heswallowed carefully a few spoonfuls of the iced sweet, and asked me,"Did you ever hear of Stone's Dried Soup?"

  "Hear of what?"

  "It was," X pursued, evenly, "a comestible article once ratherprominently advertised in the dailies, but which never, somehow, gainedthe favour of the public. The enterprise fizzled out, as you say here.Parcels of their stock could be picked up at auctions at considerablyless than a penny a pound. The group bought some of it, and an agencyfor Stone's Dried Soup was started on the top floor. A perfectlyrespectable business. The stuff, a yellow powder of extremelyunappetizing aspect, was put up in large square tins, of which six wentto a case. If anybody ever came to give an order, it was, of course,executed. But the advantage of the powder was this, that things could beconcealed in it very conveniently. Now and then a special case got puton a van and sent off to be exported abroad under the very nose of thepoliceman on duty at the corner. You understand?"

  "I think I do," I said, with an expressive nod at the remnants of thebombe melting slowly in the dish.

  "Exactly. But the cases were useful in another way, too. In thebasement, or in the cellar at the back, rather, two printing-presseswere established. A lot of revolutionary literature of the mostinflammatory kind was got away from the house in Stone's Dried Soupcases. The brother of our anarchist young lady found some occupationthere. He wrote articles, helped to set up type and pull off the sheets,and generally assis
ted the man in charge, a very able young fellowcalled Sevrin.

  "The guiding spirit of that group was a fanatic of social revolution. Heis dead now. He was an engraver and etcher of genius. You must have seenhis work. It is much sought after by certain amateurs now. He began bybeing revolutionary in his art, and ended by becoming a revolutionist,after his wife and child had died in want and misery. He used to saythat the bourgeoisie, the smug, overfed lot, had killed them. That washis real belief. He still worked at his art and led a double life. Hewas tall, gaunt, and swarthy, with a long, brown beard and deep-seteyes. You must have seen him. His name was Horne."

  At this I was really startled. Of course years ago I used to meet Horneabout. He looked like a powerful, rough gipsy, in an old top hat, with ared muffler round his throat and buttoned up in a long, shabby overcoat.He talked of his art with exaltation, and gave one the impression ofbeing strung up to the verge of insanity. A small group of connoisseursappreciated his work. Who would have thought that this man. . . .Amazing! And yet it was not, after all, so difficult to believe.

  "As you see," X went on, "this group was in a position to pursueits work of propaganda, and the other kind of work, too, under veryadvantageous conditions. They were all resolute, experienced men ofa superior stamp. And yet we became struck at length by the fact thatplans prepared in Hermione Street almost invariably failed."

  "Who were 'we'?" I asked, pointedly.

  "Some of us in Brussels--at the centre," he said, hastily. "Whatevervigorous action originated in Hermione Street seemed doomed to failure.Something always happened to baffle the best planned manifestations inevery part of Europe. It was a time of general activity. You must notimagine that all our failures are of a loud sort, with arrests andtrials. That is not so. Often the police work quietly, almost secretly,defeating our combinations by clever counter-plotting. No arrests, nonoise, no alarming of the public mind and inflaming the passions. Itis a wise procedure. But at that time the police were too uniformlysuccessful from the Mediterranean to the Baltic. It was annoying andbegan to look dangerous. At last we came to the conclusion that theremust be some untrustworthy elements amongst the London groups. And Icame over to see what could be done quietly.

  "My first step was to call upon our young Lady Amateur of anarchism ather private house. She received me in a flattering way. I judged thatshe knew nothing of the chemical and other operations going on atthe top of the house in Hermione Street. The printing of anarchistliterature was the only 'activity' she seemed to be aware of there. Shewas displaying very strikingly the usual signs of severe enthusiasm,and had already written many sentimental articles with ferociousconclusions. I could see she was enjoying herself hugely, with all thegestures and grimaces of deadly earnestness. They suited her big-eyed,broad-browed face and the good carriage of her shapely head, crowned bya magnificent lot of brown hair done in an unusual and becoming style.Her brother was in the room, too, a serious youth, with arched eyebrowsand wearing a red necktie, who struck me as being absolutely in the darkabout everything in the world, including himself. By and by a tall youngman came in. He was clean-shaved with a strong bluish jaw and somethingof the air of a taciturn actor or of a fanatical priest: the type withthick black eyebrows--you know. But he was very presentable indeed. Heshook hands at once vigorously with each of us. The young lady came upto me and murmured sweetly, 'Comrade Sevrin.'

  "I had never seen him before. He had little to say to us, but satdown by the side of the girl, and they fell at once into earnestconversation. She leaned forward in her deep armchair, and took hernicely rounded chin in her beautiful white hand. He looked attentivelyinto her eyes. It was the attitude of love-making, serious, intense, asif on the brink of the grave. I suppose she felt it necessary toround and complete her assumption of advanced ideas, of revolutionarylawlessness, by making believe to be in love with an anarchist. And thisone, I repeat, was extremely presentable, notwithstanding his fanaticalblack-browed aspect. After a few stolen glances in their direction, Ihad no doubt that he was in earnest. As to the lady, her gestureswere unapproachable, better than the very thing itself in the blendedsuggestion of dignity, sweetness, condescension, fascination, surrender,and reserve. She interpreted her conception of what that precise sortof love-making should be with consummate art. And so far, she, too, nodoubt, was in earnest. Gestures--but so perfect!

  "After I had been left alone with our Lady Amateur I informed herguardedly of the object of my visit. I hinted at our suspicions. Iwanted to hear what she would have to say, and half expected someperhaps unconscious revelation. All she said was, 'That's serious,'looking delightfully concerned and grave. But there was a sparkle in hereyes which meant plainly, 'How exciting!' After all, she knew littleof anything except of words. Still, she undertook to put me incommunication with Horne, who was not easy to find unless in HermioneStreet, where I did not wish to show myself just then.

  "I met Horne. This was another kind of a fanatic altogether. I exposedto him the conclusion we in Brussels had arrived at, and pointed outthe significant series of failures. To this he answered with irrelevantexaltation:

  "'I have something in hand that shall strike terror into the heart ofthese gorged brutes.'

  "And then I learned that, by excavating in one of the cellars of thehouse, he and some companions had made their way into the vaults underthe great public building I have mentioned before. The blowing up of awhole wing was a certainty as soon as the materials were ready.

  "I was not so appalled at the stupidity of that move as I might havebeen had not the usefulness of our centre in Hermione Street becomealready very problematical. In fact, in my opinion it was much more of apolice trap by this time than anything else.

  "What was necessary now was to discover what, or rather who, was wrong,and I managed at last to get that idea into Horne's head. He glared,perplexed, his nostrils working as if he were sniffing treachery in theair.

  "And here comes a piece of work which will no doubt strike you as a sortof theatrical expedient. And yet what else could have been done? Theproblem was to find out the untrustworthy member of the group. But nosuspicion could be fastened on one more than another. To set a watchupon them all was not very practicable. Besides, that proceeding oftenfails. In any case, it takes time, and the danger was pressing. I feltcertain that the premises in Hermione Street would be ultimately raided,though the police had evidently such confidence in the informer that thehouse, for the time being, was not even watched. Horne was positiveon that point. Under the circumstances it was an unfavourable symptom.Something had to be done quickly.

  "I decided to organize a raid myself upon the group. Do you understand?A raid of other trusty comrades personating the police. A conspiracywithin a conspiracy. You see the object of it, of course. Whenapparently about to be arrested I hoped the informer would betrayhimself in some way or other; either by some unguarded act or simply byhis unconcerned demeanour, for instance. Of coarse there was the riskof complete failure and the no lesser risk of some fatal accident in thecourse of resistance, perhaps, or in the efforts at escape. For, asyou will easily see, the Hermione Street group had to be actually andcompletely taken unawares, as I was sure they would be by the realpolice before very long. The informer was amongst them, and Horne alonecould be let into the secret of my plan.

  "I will not enter into the detail of my preparations. It was not veryeasy to arrange, but it was done very well, with a really convincingeffect. The sham police invaded the restaurant, whose shutters wereimmediately put up. The surprise was perfect. Most of the HermioneStreet party were found in the second cellar, enlarging the holecommunicating with the vaults of the great public building. At the firstalarm, several comrades bolted through impulsively into the aforesaidvault, where, of course, had this been a genuine raid, they would havebeen hopelessly trapped. We did not bother about them for the moment.They were harmless enough. The top floor caused considerable anxietyto Horne and myself. There, surrounded by tins of Stone's Dried Soup,a comrade, nick-name
d the Professor (he was an ex-science student)was engaged in perfecting some new detonators. He was an abstracted,self-confident, sallow little man, armed with large round spectacles,and we were afraid that under a mistaken impression he would blowhimself up and wreck the house about our ears. I rushed upstairs andfound him already at the door, on the alert, listening, as he said, to'suspicious noises down below.' Before I had quite finished explainingto him what was going on he shrugged his shoulders disdainfully andturned away to his balances and test-tubes. His was the true spiritof an extreme revolutionist. Explosives were his faith, his hope, hisweapon, and his shield. He perished a couple of years afterwards in asecret laboratory through the premature explosion of one of his improveddetonators.

  "Hurrying down again, I found an impressive scene in the gloom of thebig cellar. The man who personated the inspector (he was no strangerto the part) was speaking harshly, and giving bogus orders to hisbogus subordinates for the removal of his prisoners. Evidently nothingenlightening had happened so far. Horne, saturnine and swarthy, waitedwith folded arms, and his patient, moody expectation had an air ofstoicism well in keeping with the situation. I detected in the shadowsone of the Hermione Street group surreptitiously chewing up andswallowing a small piece of paper. Some compromising scrap, I suppose;perhaps just a note of a few names and addresses. He was a true andfaithful 'companion.' But the fund of secret malice which lurks at thebottom of our sympathies caused me to feel amused at that perfectlyuncalled-for performance.

  "In every other respect the risky experiment, the theatrical coup, if youlike to call it so, seemed to have failed. The deception could notbe kept up much longer; the explanation would bring about a veryembarrassing and even grave situation. The man who had eaten the paperwould be furious. The fellows who had bolted away would be angry, too.

  "To add to my vexation, the door communicating with the other cellar,where the printing-presses were, flew open, and our young ladyrevolutionist appeared, a black silhouette in a close-fitting dress anda large hat, with the blaze of gas flaring in there at her back. Overher shoulder I perceived the arched eyebrows and the red necktie of herbrother.

  "The last people in the world I wanted to see then! They had gone thatevening to some amateur concert for the delectation of the poor people,you know; but she had insisted on leaving early, on purpose to call inHermione Street on the way home, under the pretext of having some workto do. Her usual task was to correct the proofs of the Italian andFrench editions of the Alarm Bell and the Firebrand." . . .

  "Heavens!" I murmured. I had been shown once a few copies of thesepublications. Nothing, in my opinion, could have been less fit for theeyes of a young lady. They were the most advanced things of the sort;advanced, I mean, beyond all bounds of reason and decency. One of thempreached the dissolution of all social and domestic ties; the otheradvocated systematic murder. To think of a young girl calmly trackingprinters' errors all along the sort of abominable sentences I rememberedwas intolerable to my sentiment of womanhood. Mr. X, after giving me aglance, pursued steadily.

  "I think, however, that she came mostly to exercise her fascinationsupon Sevrin, and to receive his homage in her queenly and condescendingway. She was aware of both--her power and his homage--and enjoyed themwith, I dare say, complete innocence. We have no ground in expediencyor morals to quarrel with her on that account. Charm in woman andexceptional intelligence in man are a law unto themselves. Is it notso?"

  I refrained from expressing my abhorrence of that licentious doctrinebecause of my curiosity.

  "But what happened then?" I hastened to ask.

  X went on crumbling slowly a small piece of bread with a careless lefthand.

  "What happened, in effect," he confessed, "is that she saved thesituation."

  "She gave you an opportunity to end your rather sinister farce," Isuggested.

  "Yes," he said, preserving his impassive bearing. "The farce was boundto end soon. And it ended in a very few minutes. And it ended well. Hadshe not come in, it might have ended badly. Her brother, of course, didnot count. They had slipped into the house quietly some time before. Theprinting-cellar had an entrance of its own. Not finding any one there,she sat down to her proofs, expecting Sevrin to return to his work atany moment. He did not do so. She grew impatient, heard through the doorthe sounds of a disturbance in the other cellar and naturally came in tosee what was the matter.

  "Sevrin had been with us. At first he had seemed to me the most amazedof the whole raided lot. He appeared for an instant as if paralyzedwith astonishment. He stood rooted to the spot. He never moved a limb. Asolitary gas-jet flared near his head; all the other lights had been putout at the first alarm. And presently, from my dark corner, I observedon his shaven actor's face an expression of puzzled, vexed watchfulness.He knitted his heavy eyebrows. The corners of his mouth droppedscornfully. He was angry. Most likely he had seen through the game,and I regretted I had not taken him from the first into my completeconfidence.

  "But with the appearance of the girl he became obviously alarmed. It wasplain. I could see it grow. The change of his expression was swift andstartling. And I did not know why. The reason never occurred to me. Iwas merely astonished at the extreme alteration of the man's face. Ofcourse he had not been aware of her presence in the other cellar; butthat did not explain the shock her advent had given him. For a moment heseemed to have been reduced to imbecility. He opened his mouth as if toshout, or perhaps only to gasp. At any rate, it was somebody else whoshouted. This somebody else was the heroic comrade whom I had detectedswallowing a piece of paper. With laudable presence of mind he let out awarning yell.

  "'It's the police! Back! Back! Run back, and bolt the door behind you.'

  "It was an excellent hint; but instead of retreating the girl continuedto advance, followed by her long-faced brother in his knickerbocker suit,in which he had been singing comic songs for the entertainment ofa joyless proletariat. She advanced not as if she had failed tounderstand--the word 'police' has an unmistakable sound--but rather asif she could not help herself. She did not advance with the free gaitand expanding presence of a distinguished amateur anarchist amongstpoor, struggling professionals, but with slightly raised shoulders,and her elbows pressed close to her body, as if trying to shrink withinherself. Her eyes were fixed immovably upon Sevrin. Sevrin the man, Ifancy; not Sevrin the anarchist. But she advanced. And that was natural.For all their assumption of independence, girls of that class are usedto the feeling of being specially protected, as, in fact, they are. Thisfeeling accounts for nine tenths of their audacious gestures. Her facehad gone completely colourless. Ghastly. Fancy having it brought home toher so brutally that she was the sort of person who must run away fromthe police! I believe she was pale with indignation, mostly, thoughthere was, of course, also the concern for her intact personality, avague dread of some sort of rudeness. And, naturally, she turned to aman, to the man on whom she had a claim of fascination and homage--theman who could not conceivably fail her at any juncture."

  "But," I cried, amazed at this analysis, "if it had been serious, real,I mean--as she thought it was--what could she expect him to do for her?"

  X never moved a muscle of his face.

  "Goodness knows. I imagine that this charming, generous, and independentcreature had never known in her life a single genuine thought; I mean asingle thought detached from small human vanities, or whose source wasnot in some conventional perception. All I know is that after advancinga few steps she extended her hand towards the motionless Sevrin. Andthat at least was no gesture. It was a natural movement. As to whatshe expected him to do, who can tell? The impossible. But whatever sheexpected, it could not have come up, I am safe to say, to what he hadmade up his mind to do, even before that entreating hand had appealed tohim so directly. It had not been necessary. From the moment he had seenher enter that cellar, he had made up his mind to sacrifice his futureusefulness, to throw off the impenetrable, solidly fastened mask it hadbeen his pride to wear--"

 
"What do you mean?" I interrupted, puzzled. "Was it Sevrin, then, whowas--"

  "He was. The most persistent, the most dangerous, the craftiest, themost systematic of informers. A genius amongst betrayers. Fortunatelyfor us, he was unique. The man was a fanatic, I have told you.Fortunately, again, for us, he had fallen in love with the accomplishedand innocent gestures of that girl. An actor in desperate earnesthimself, he must have believed in the absolute value of conventionalsigns. As to the grossness of the trap into which he fell, theexplanation must be that two sentiments of such absorbing magnitudecannot exist simultaneously in one heart. The danger of that other andunconscious comedian robbed him of his vision, of his perspicacity, ofhis judgment. Indeed, it did at first rob him of his self-possession.But he regained that through the necessity--as it appeared to himimperiously--to do something at once. To do what? Why, to get her out ofthe house as quickly as possible. He was desperately anxious to do that.I have told you he was terrified. It could not be about himself. He hadbeen surprised and annoyed at a move quite unforeseen and premature. Imay even say he had been furious. He was accustomed to arrange thelast scene of his betrayals with a deep, subtle art which left hisrevolutionist reputation untouched. But it seems clear to me that atthe same time he had resolved to make the best of it, to keep his maskresolutely on. It was only with the discovery of her being in the housethat everything--the forced calm, the restraint of his fanaticism, themask--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 neverforgotten--the Professor alone at the top of the house, pursuing hisresearches, surrounded by tins upon tins of Stone's Dried Soup. Therewas enough in some few of them to bury us all where we stood undera heap of bricks. Sevrin, of course, was aware of that. And we mustbelieve, also, that he knew the exact character of the man. He hadgauged so many such characters! Or perhaps he only gave the Professorcredit for what he himself was capable of. But, in any case, the effectwas produced. And suddenly he raised his voice in authority.

  "'Get the lady away at once.'

  "It turned out that he was as hoarse as a crow; result, no doubt, ofthe intense emotion. It passed off in a moment. But these fateful wordsissued forth from his contracted throat in a discordant, ridiculouscroak. They required no answer. The thing was done. However, the manpersonating the inspector judged it expedient to say roughly:

  "'She shall go soon enough, together with the rest of you.'

  "These were the last words belonging to the comedy part of this affair.

  "Oblivious of everything and everybody, Sevrin strode towards him andseized the lapels of his coat. Under his thin bluish cheeks one couldsee his jaws working with passion.

  "'You have men posted outside. Get the lady taken home at once. Do youhear? Now. Before you try to get hold of the man upstairs.'

  "'Oh! There is a man upstairs,' scoffed the other, openly. 'Well, heshall be brought down in time to see the end of this.'

  "But Sevrin, beside himself, took no heed of the tone.

  "'Who's the imbecile meddler who sent you blundering here? Didn't youunderstand your instructions? Don't you know anything? It's incredible.Here--'

  "He dropped the lapels of the coat and, plunging his hand into hisbreast, jerked feverishly at something under his shirt. At last heproduced a small square pocket of soft leather, which must have beenhanging like a scapulary from his neck by the tape whose broken endsdangled from his fist.

  "'Look inside,' he spluttered, flinging it in the other's face. Andinstantly he turned round towards the girl. She stood just behind him,perfectly still and silent. Her set, white face gave an illusion ofplacidity. Only her staring eyes seemed bigger and darker.

  "He spoke rapidly, with nervous assurance. I heard him distinctlypromise her to make everything as clear as daylight presently. But thatwas all I caught. He stood close to her, never attempting to touch hereven with the tip of his little finger--and she stared at him stupidly.For a moment, however, her eyelids descended slowly, pathetically,and then, with the long black eyelashes lying on her white cheeks, shelooked ready to fall down in a swoon. But she never even swayed whereshe stood. He urged her loudly to follow him at once, and walked towardsthe door at the bottom of the cellar stairs without looking behind him.And, as a matter of fact, she did move after him a pace or two. But,of course, he was not allowed to reach the door. There were angryexclamations, a short, fierce scuffle. Flung away violently, he cameflying backwards upon her, and fell. She threw out her arms in a gestureof dismay and stepped aside, just clear of his head, which struck theground heavily near her shoe.

  "He grunted with the shock. By the time he had picked himself up,slowly, dazedly, he was awake to the reality of things. The man intowhose hands he had thrust the leather case had extracted therefrom anarrow strip of bluish paper. He held it up above his head, and, asafter the scuffle an expectant uneasy stillness reigned once more, hethrew it down disdainfully with the words, 'I think, comrades, that thisproof was hardly necessary.'

  "Quick as thought, the girl stooped after the fluttering slip. Holdingit spread out in both hands, she looked at it; then, without raising hereyes, opened her fingers slowly and let it fall.

  "I examined that curious document afterwards. It was signed by a veryhigh personage, and stamped and countersigned by other high officialsin various countries of Europe. In his trade--or shall I say, in hismission?--that sort of talisman might have been necessary, no doubt.Even to the police itself--all but the heads--he had been known only asSevrin the noted anarchist.

  "He hung his head, biting his lower lip. A change had come over him,a sort of thoughtful, absorbed calmness. Nevertheless, he panted. Hissides worked visibly, and his nostrils expanded and collapsed in weirdcontrast with his sombre aspect of a fanatical monk in a meditativeattitude, but with something, too, in his face of an actor intent uponthe terrible exigencies of his part. Before him Horne declaimed, haggardand bearded, like an inspired denunciatory prophet from a wilderness.Two fanatics. They were made to understand each other. Does thissurprise you? I suppose you think that such people would be foaming atthe mouth and snarling at each other?"

  I protested hastily that I was not surprised in the least; that Ithought nothing of the kind; that anarchists in general were simplyinconceivable to me mentally, morally, logically, sentimentally, andeven physically. X received this declaration with his usual woodennessand went on.

  "Horne had burst out into eloquence. While pouring out scornfulinvective, he let tears escape from his eyes and roll down his blackbeard unheeded. Sevrin panted quicker and quicker. When he opened hismouth to speak, everyone hung on his words.

  "'Don't be a fool, Horne,' he began. 'You know very well that I havedone this for none of the reasons you are throwing at me.' And in amoment he became outwardly as steady as a rock under the other's luridstare. 'I have been thwarting, deceiving, and betraying you--fromconviction.'

  "He turned his back on Horne, and addressing the girl, repeated thewords: 'From conviction.'

  "It's extraordinary how cold she looked. I suppose she could not thinkof any appropriate gesture. There can have been few precedents indeedfor such a situation.

  "'Clear as daylight,' he added. 'Do you understand what that means? Fromconviction.'

  "And still she did not stir. She did not know what to do. But theluckless wretch was about to give her the opportunity for a beautifuland correct gesture.

  "'I have felt in me the power to make you share this conviction,' heprotested, ardently. He had forgotten himself; he made a step towardsher--perhaps he stumbled. To me he seemed to be stooping low as if totouch the hem of her garment. And then the appropriate gesture came. Shesnatched her skirt away from his polluting contact and averted herhead with an upward tilt. It was magnificently done, this gesture ofconventionally unstained honour, of an unblemished high-minded amateur.

  "Nothing could have been better. And he seemed to think so, too, foronce more he turned away. But this time he faced no one.
He was againpanting frightfully, while he fumbled hurriedly in his waistcoat pocket,and then raised his hand to his lips. There was something furtive inthis movement, but directly afterwards his bearing changed. His labouredbreathing gave him a resemblance to a man who had just run a desperaterace; but a curious air of detachment, of sudden and profoundindifference, replaced the strain of the striving effort. The race wasover. I did not want to see what would happen next. I was only too wellaware. I tucked the young lady's arm under mine without a word, and mademy way with her to the stairs.

  "Her brother walked behind us. Half-way up the short flight she seemedunable to lift her feet high enough for the steps, and we had to pulland push to get her to the top. In the passage she dragged herselfalong, hanging on my arm, helplessly bent like an old woman. We issuedinto an empty street through a half-open door, staggering like besottedrevellers. At the corner we stopped a four-wheeler, and the ancientdriver looked round from his box with morose scorn at our efforts to gether in. Twice during the drive I felt her collapse on my shoulder in ahalf faint. Facing us, the youth in knickerbockers remained as mute as afish, and, till he jumped out with the latch-key, sat more still than Iwould have believed it possible.

  "At the door of their drawing-room she left my arm and walked in first,catching at the chairs and tables. She unpinned her hat, then, exhaustedwith the effort, her cloak still hanging from her shoulders, flungherself into a deep armchair, sideways, her face half buried in acushion. The good brother appeared silently before her with a glass ofwater. She motioned it away. He drank it himself and walked off to adistant corner--behind the grand piano, somewhere. All was still in thisroom where I had seen, for the first time, Sevrin, the anti-anarchist,captivated and spellbound by the consummate and hereditary grimaces thatin a certain sphere of life take the place of feelings with an excellenteffect. I suppose her thoughts were busy with the same memory. Hershoulders shook violently. A pure attack of nerves. When it quieted downshe affected firmness, 'What is done to a man of that sort? What willthey do to him?'

  "'Nothing. They can do nothing to him,' I assured her, with perfecttruth. I was pretty certain he had died in less than twenty minutesfrom the moment his hand had gone to his lips. For if his fanaticalanti-anarchism went even as far as carrying poison in his pocket, only torob his adversaries of legitimate vengeance, I knew he would take careto provide something that would not fail him when required.

  "She drew an angry breath. There were red spots on her cheeks and afeverish brilliance in her eyes.

  "'Has ever any one been exposed to such a terrible experience? To thinkthat he had held my hand! That man!' Her face twitched, she gulped downa pathetic sob. 'If I ever felt sure of anything, it was of Sevrin'shigh-minded motives.'

  "Then she began to weep quietly, which was good for her. Then throughher flood of tears, half resentful, 'What was it he said to me?--"Fromconviction!" It seemed a vile mockery. What could he mean by it?'

  "'That, my dear young lady,' I said, gently, 'is more than I or anybodyelse can ever explain to you.'"

  Mr. X flicked a crumb off the front of his coat.

  "And that was strictly true as to her. Though Horne, for instance,understood very well; and so did I, especially after we had been toSevrin's lodging in a dismal back street of an intensely respectablequarter. Horne was known there as a friend, and we had no difficulty inbeing admitted, the slatternly maid merely remarking, as she let us in,that 'Mr Sevrin had not been home that night.' We forced open a coupleof drawers in the way of duty, and found a little useful information.The most interesting part was his diary; for this man, engaged in suchdeadly work, had the weakness to keep a record of the most damnatorykind. There were his acts and also his thoughts laid bare to us. But thedead don't mind that. They don't mind anything.

  "'From conviction.' Yes. A vague but ardent humanitarianism had urgedhim in his first youth into the bitterest extremity of negation andrevolt. Afterwards his optimism flinched. He doubted and became lost.You have heard of converted atheists. These turn often into dangerousfanatics, but the soul remains the same. After he had got acquaintedwith the girl, there are to be met in that diary of his very queerpolitico-amorous rhapsodies. He took her sovereign grimaces with deadlyseriousness. He longed to convert her. But all this cannot interest you.For the rest, I don't know if you remember--it is a good many years agonow--the journalistic sensation of the 'Hermione Street Mystery'; thefinding of a man's body in the cellar of an empty house; the inquest;some arrests; many surmises--then silence--the usual end for manyobscure martyrs and confessors. The fact is, he was not enough of anoptimist. You must be a savage, tyrannical, pitiless, thick-and-thinoptimist, like Horne, for instance, to make a good social rebel of theextreme type.

  "He rose from the table. A waiter hurried up with his overcoat; anotherheld his hat in readiness.

  "But what became of the young lady?" I asked.

  "Do you really want to know?" he said, buttoning himself in his fur coatcarefully. "I confess to the small malice of sending her Sevrin's diary.She went into retirement; then she went to Florence; then she went intoretreat in a convent. I can't tell where she will go next. What does itmatter? Gestures! Gestures! Mere gestures of her class."

  "He fitted on his glossy high hat with extreme precision, and castinga rapid glance round the room, full of well-dressed people, innocentlydining, muttered between his teeth:

  "And nothing else! That is why their kind is fated to perish."

  "I never met Mr. X again after that evening. I took to dining at my club.On my next visit to Paris I found my friend all impatience to hear ofthe effect produced on me by this rare item of his collection. Itold him all the story, and he beamed on me with the pride of hisdistinguished specimen.

  "'Isn't X well worth knowing?' he bubbled over in great delight. 'He'sunique, amazing, absolutely terrific.'

  "His enthusiasm grated upon my finer feelings. I told him curtly that theman's cynicism was simply abominable.

  "'Oh, abominable! abominable!' assented my friend, effusively. 'And then,you know, he likes to have his little joke sometimes,' he added in aconfidential tone.

  "I fail to understand the connection of this last remark. I have beenutterly unable to discover where in all this the joke comes in."