One evening, too, perhaps, he might again enter some room of horror and find that another mother had killed herself and her five little ones, her last-born in her arms clinging to her drained breast, and the others scattered over the bare tiles, at last contented, feeling hunger no more, now that they were dead! But no, no, such awful things were no longer possible: such black misery conducting to suicide in the heart of that great city of Paris, which is brimful of wealth, intoxicated with enjoyment, and flings millions out of window for mere pleasure! The very foundations of the social edifice were rotten; all would soon collapse amidst mire and blood.

Never before had Pierre so acutely realised the derisive futility of Charity.

And all at once he became conscious that the long-awaited word, the word which was at last springing from the great silent multitude, the crushed and gagged people was _Justice_! Aye, Justice not Charity! Charity had only served to perpetuate misery, Justice perhaps would cure it.

It was for Justice that the wretched hungered; an act of Justice alone could sweep away the olden world so that the new one might be reared.

After all, the great silent multitude would belong neither to Vatican nor to Quirinal, neither to pope nor to king.