The Project Gutenberg eBook, The woman of mystery, by Georges Ohnet,
Translated by Fred Rothwell


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Title: The woman of mystery


Author: Georges Ohnet



Release Date: October 13, 2022  [eBook #69149]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8


***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WOMAN OF MYSTERY***


This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler





                                   THE
                             WOMAN OF MYSTERY


                                * * * * *

                                    BY

                              GEORGES OHNET

            AUTHOR OF “THE IRONMASTER,” “DOCTOR RAMEAU,” ETC.

                                * * * * *

                    TRANSLATED BY FRED. ROTHWELL, B.A.

                       [Picture: Publisher’s logo]

                              A NEW EDITION

                                * * * * *

                                  LONDON
                             CHATTO & WINDUS

                                   1904

                                * * * * *

                                PRINTED BY
                    WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
                           LONDON AND BECCLES.




CONTENTS

                  PAGE
PART I               1
PART II            135
PART III           260




PART I


CHAPTER I


IN his study, situated in the Rue Saint-Dominique, the Minister of War
was walking to and fro. In furious fashion he twisted his moustache,
which seemed even redder than usual, as he nervously fingered his
eyeglass, in a manner which promised anything but a cordial welcome to
any who entered his presence. Doubtless, his officers were well
acquainted with the reasons of his ill-humour, for a profound silence
reigned all around, and the great man’s solitude was undisturbed save by
the querulous twitterings of the birds in the garden. A minute later, he
seemed to lose all patience, and, marching to the mantelpiece, he pressed
an electric bell. An usher, with anxious mien, at once approached.

“Has Colonel Vallenot returned?” exclaimed the Minister, in fierce tones.

The servant shrunk away, as though he would have liked the earth to open
and swallow him; then he stammered, faintly—

“I do not think so, sir—I will ask—”

The General became purple with rage. An oath burstforth from his lips
like a bombshell, then a second, the third was useless. The door was
again closed, the servant had vanished.

“What can Vallenot be doing all the time he has been gone?” muttered the
Minister, as he resumed his pacing about the room. “Ah! This is the way I
am served!”

Before he could finish, the usher had opened the door, and announced—

“Colonel Vallenot.”

A man of fifty years of age, tall and thin, with blue eyes and light
moustache, marched briskly into the room, and, after saluting his
superior in friendly wise, said—

“You seem to have lost all patience, General. I found an officer waiting
for me at the very door of the War Office. The fact is, this has been
anything but a small matter. After all, I have done everything possible—”

“Indeed!” interrupted the Minister, impatiently. “You have just come from
Vanves?”

“Yes, General.”

“Alone?”

“No; I took with me one of our cleverest detectives. You had not given me
this authorization, but I took upon myself the responsibility.”

“You have done quite right. But are you sure he is trustworthy?”

“Absolutely. He is a former sub-officer. Besides, I did not reveal to him
the real object of my researches; he knows nothing important, and
imagines he has simply been my auxiliary in an inquiry into the causes of
a catastrophe hitherto ill-explained. We have nothing to fear in this
direction.”

“Well, what has been the result of your researches?”

“If you will allow me, General, we will divide the inquiry into two
parts, one consisting of moral circumstances, the other of material
facts. The affair is more complicated than you at first thought, and when
I have finished, your embarrassment, instead of having lessened, will
probably have increased.”

“Impossible!”

He sat down before the desk, leaned over on his elbows, and, motioning to
the Colonel to take a seat in an armchair by his side, said—

“Now, tell me everything.”

“The house tenanted by General de Trémont is situated above the village
of Vanves, near the fort. It was the night-watch which gave the alarm,
and the garrison which organized first aid when the fire broke out.
Nothing worth mentioning remains of the building. The explosion of the
combustible matter contained in the laboratory has disorganized the very
foundations, and the effect has been formidable. Stones hurled into the
air have been found more than a mile distant, and the surrounding gardens
belonging to the peasants are covered with _débris_. Had there been
houses in the neighbourhood, the loss to property would have been
enormous—”

The Minister interrupted.

“The effects of melinite, probably?”

“No, General, something quite different! Increase a hundred-fold the
effects of the powder actually employed in charging our bombshells, and
then perhaps you will have the equivalent of the destructive power
revealed by the explosion of General de Trémont’s laboratory.”

The Minister shook his head.

“Yes; that is what he told me the last time I saw him at the Artillery
meeting. He was on the trace of a discovery destined to give to our
cannons so crushing a superiority that we were to become for long the
arbiters of victory. The struggle against us would have been marked by
such massacres, accomplished with such absolute precision, that our
military supremacy would have been certain once more. Has this had
anything to do with the discovery?”

“Then you admit, General, that malevolence may not have been entirely
foreign to this mishap!”

“I admit nothing, Vallenot. I suspect everything. When you have told me
all you know, we will talk it over. Continue.”

“On reaching the spot, we found a body of troops, who had been ordered by
the Ministry to proceed there, guarding the approaches of the property.
There was already collected a crowd of three or four hundred people,
discussing the matter, without counting a score of journalists, who made
more noise than all the others together. They were complaining that they
were not allowed to visit the spot _where_ the explosion had taken place
among the still smoking ruins of the villa. But there was in command a
stern little lieutenant, who, in quite military fashion, had maintained
order. Probably the press will be against us, but in the mean time we
shall not have been interrupted; and that is something to be thankful
for. Inside, there was only the secretary of the Prefecture of Police and
the head of the detective force. My agent and I had come at the right
moment. The researches were just beginning—”

“_Where_? In the house?”

“On the site of what had been the house, and which now offered to the
gaze nothing but a gaping hole, at the bottom of which appeared a cellar,
the vaults of which had been burst open. A staved-in barrel of wine
formed a red pool on the floor. Not a trace of the staircase remained.
The very steps had disappeared, and the stones were broken up into
fragments as large as pigeons’ eggs. Never should I have thought such a
crumbling possible. Wonderful to relate, one side of a wall which must
have belonged to a wash-house remained standing, along with a narrow
window, in the iron bars of which a cloth-rag was waving. We were all
staring at this solitary vestige of the disaster, when the chief of the
detective force cautiously approached the spot. Raising his stick, he
touched the shapeless rag hanging there, picked it up from the ground
with an exclamation of surprise, and exposed it to our gaze. It was a
human arm, still covered with both coat and shirt sleeves, cut off at the
elbow, and covered with blood, the hand quite black.”

“Most extraordinary!” exclaimed the Minister.

“Rather sinister, General,” continued Colonel Vallenot. “I have seen
hundreds of men killed on the field of battle, and thousands of wounded
carried off in ambulances. At Gravelotte, I saw the head of the captain
of my squadron roll at my feet, and the eyes wink repeatedly in the dust.
It had been carried off by the bursting of a shell. In Tonkin I have
found soldiers cut in four, their faces still grinning in spite of their
torture. But never have I been so impressed as I was by this human arm,
the sole remaining vestige of the drama we were trying to understand. The
Government agent was the first to regain his _sang froid_, and he said,
‘Gentlemen, this is an important piece of evidence. This arm has
evidently been hurled across these bars by the explosion. But to whom did
it belong? Is it one of the ill-fated General de Trémont’s arms?’ ‘The
General did not live alone in the villa,’ observed the detective. ‘There
was a cook and a man-servant. Let us at once eliminate the supposition of
the cook. This is a man’s arm; accordingly, it belonged either to the
General or to his valet. Unless—’ There was a silence. The Government
agent turned towards him and said, ‘Well, finish. Unless it belongs to
the author of the catastrophe himself.’”

“Ah!” said the Minister; “then he, too, thought the affair might be the
result of a crime.”

“Yes, General; and, as he spoke, he examined with the most minute
attention the smutty, blackened hand. Carefully separating the fingers,
he drew from the fourth finger a ring, which none of us had noticed; and,
holding it aloft in triumph, said, ‘The question is decided, if this ring
belongs to the General. If not, we still doubtless possess a valuable
piece of circumstantial evidence, which will permit us to unravel the
mystery.’”

“A ring! The deuce! I never remember seeing Trémont wearing a ring! No! I
would take my oath on it. He never wore an ornament of any kind in his
life, much less a ring. It would have been absurd in a man who was in the
habit of handling acids from morning to night! No metal would have
resisted the oxidising action of the substances he used in his
experiments. But what kind of a ring was it?”

“An engagement ring, General. When rubbed with a glove-skin, the gold
circle shone out, freed from the soot which tarnished it. Our agent
fingered it a moment, then pressed it with his nail, and the ring
separated in two. ‘Look here, gentlemen!’ he exclaimed. ‘There are
letters engraved in the interior. Whatever happens, we now hold a clue.’”

“This fellow has, indeed, proved himself very clever, Vallenot,” said the
Minister. “Up to the present, I find that he is the only one who has
shown any initiative. I must remember it.”

“Wait a little, General. I have not yet reached the end. The Government
agent had taken up the engagement ring, and was examining it. He finally
placed it coolly in his pocket, with the words, ‘We will look into this
later on.’ And there we all stood, rather discountenanced by the strange
intervention of the magistrate in leaving our curiosity thus
disappointed. On due reflection, perhaps he was right in postponing for a
more thorough examination the information destined to result from this
discovery, in not publishing proofs which might be of supreme importance.
Still, if he wished to keep the secret of his investigations, he was
disappointed, for at that very moment our agent, pursuing his inquiries,
had removed the double sleeve, and laid bare the naked arm. This time it
was no longer possible to conceal what he had found. On the forearm,
between the wrist and the bleeding end, a blue tattooing appeared,
representing a heart surrounded with flames, around which could be read
the words ‘Hans and Minna,’ and beneath the German word ‘Immer,’
signifying ‘Always.’ ‘Gentlemen,’ said the Government agent, fixing his
eyeglass, ‘I demand of you the utmost discretion. A single word on what
we have just discovered might have the most serious consequences. We may
be in presence of an anarchist plot, or be obliged to suspect foreign
interference. The affair is assuming quite unexpected proportions. In all
probability a crime has been committed.’”

“The deuce!” exclaimed the Minister. “I say, Vallenot, this is becoming
serious! Perhaps we ought at once to inform the President of the Board
of—”

“The secretary of the Prefect of Police must have done so already. As
soon as he saw how matters were turning, he did not wait for the end of
the inquiry, but immediately rode off to the Place Beauvau.”

“The first thing to do is to prevent the press from saying anything
silly. If we have a crow to pick with foreign agents, for Trémont’s
investigations were suspected in Europe, it is of the highest importance
that no suspicions be aroused, so that we may try to seize the authors of
this guilty attempt.”

“That is what we thought, General, and, consequently, all arrangements
have at once been taken. It was absolutely necessary to throw public
opinion on a false scent. Accordingly, the theory of a chance accident
was inevitable. It was at once decided that all communications made to
the press should have this object in view. General de Trémont was rather
eccentric, we must say, engaged in commercial chemical investigations,
and it was his imprudence which had brought about the accident which has
now cost him his life.”

“Poor Trémont! So fine a savant as he was! Well! well! State reasons must
predominate. But it is hard to contribute in heaping calumnies on an old
comrade!”

“Do not have such thoughts, General,” interrupted Colonel Vallenot, with
a smile. “There are surprises in store for us which will, doubtless,
lessen your regret.”

“What do you mean?” said the rough soldier, frowning. “You do not intend
to utter calumnies against my friend from childhood, my comrade in war?”

“God forbid, General! I shall simply give you the facts on which you
desired information. If I have the misfortune to displease you, you will
not be angry with me; you are too just for that.”

“What is the meaning of this silence? Continue right to the end, Colonel;
speak freely.”

“So I intend to do, General. Well, then, the secretary of the Prefect of
Police had just undertaken to supply the version arranged by us to the
numerous reporters waiting there, held in check by the line of troops,
and to inform the Minister of the Interior, in case the police might have
to be called in, when a great uproar arose from the direction of the
village. A tumult of cries and shouts was heard. The lieutenant was
preparing to go and see what was happening, when a man, breaking through
the sentinels, ran up to us, bare-headed, with troubled countenance, and
exclaiming, in tones of despair, ‘My master! O God! What has happened to
the house? Not one stone left on another!’ Thereupon he halted, sank down
on the ruins, and began to weep bitterly. We looked at him in silence,
moved by his grief, and foreseeing some speedy enlightenment on the dark
situation we were in. ‘Who are you, my friend?’ asked the Government
agent. The man raised his head, passed his hand over his eyes to brush
away his tears, and, raising up to us a countenance at once intelligent
and determined, said, ‘The General’s head servant, sir, for the last
twenty years. Ah! If I had been there, this disaster might perhaps have
been avoided! At any rate, I would have died with him!’”

“It was Baudoin!” exclaimed the General. “The brave fellow had escaped!
Ah! That is fortunate. We shall learn something from him!”

“Yes, General, but not the enlightenment we expected. Rather the
contrary.”

“In what way the contrary?”

“I will explain. The night before, about six o’clock, the General was in
his garden, strolling about, after working all day in the laboratory,
when a telegram reached him from Vanves. He read it, continued his walk
for a few minutes, with bowed head, as though in profound meditation,
then he called Baudoin. ‘You must set out for Paris,’ he said to him. ‘I
have an important order to give to my chemist, who lives in the Place de
la Sorbonne. Give him this letter, then go to M. Baradier and pay him my
respects. Then dine, and, if you like to spend the evening at the
theatre, you may do so; here is a five franc piece. Return to-morrow
morning with the chemicals.’

“Baudoin, who knew what it all meant, understood that the General wished
him to leave the house for the whole night. He was anything but pleased
at this, because, he said, it was not the first time that it had
happened, and always under the same circumstances: the arrival of a
telegram, and the dismissal immediately following.

“Still, the General did not give a holiday to the cook, with whom he was
less cautious, as she was in the habit of going bed very early, which
fact rendered any surveillance she might have exercised almost null. So
the General needed to be alone from time to time. And he took care to
send away the faithful servant, on whom he might have relied for the most
complete discretion. What reason had he? This was what troubled Baudoin,
and displeased him. So little was he accustomed to conceal his thoughts
from his master that the latter noticed his sulky mood, and said to him:
‘What is the matter? Don’t you want me to send you to Paris? Are you to
be pitied for the opportunity of going and enjoying yourself?’ ‘I don’t
care about going to the theatre,’ Baudoin had said, ‘but I do about
performing my duty.’ ‘Very well, you are doing your duty; you are obeying
the order I have given you, to fetch for me some chemical products,
dangerous to handle, but which I must have; besides, you are to call on
my friend Baradier. Now go. I do not want you before to-morrow morning.’
‘Very well, sir.’

“But Baudoin was anything but pleased, a secret anxiety troubled him.
Proceeding to the kitchen, he said to the cook, ‘Last time the General
sent me to Paris, what happened during the night? Did the General dine as
usual? Did he shut himself up in his study, or did he go into the garden?
At what time did he retire for the night? Did nothing happen out of the
ordinary?’

“The woman said she knew nothing, she had noticed nothing unusual, and
was very much astonished at his questions. He saw she was a thousand
leagues from suspecting anything, so he did not press his questions.
Still, although deeply respecting his master’s wishes, his interest in
his welfare made him less strictly obedient, and he resolved to feign a
departure, then take up a post outside, so that he might see what took
place once the General was sure there was no inconvenient observer to be
dreaded. The weather was exceedingly mild. Not a breath of air, and the
gardens, filled with roses, shed forth exquisite odours as night
approached.

“Baudoin, after dressing himself, went to take leave of his master,
received from him a list of the chemical products to be purchased, a few
lines for his friend Baradier, and then took his departure. He went
straight to the station, dined in a small restaurant close by, and, after
nightfall, returned towards the house of his master. He dared not enter
the garden, as he was afraid he would be noticed by the General, so he
slipped into a cottage garden, the owner of which was his friend, and
concealed himself in a small hut used for storing tools.

“From this spot he could keep an eye on the approaches of the villa, and,
along a thick hedge, come right up to the wall adjoining the General’s
property. He sat down, lit his pipe, and waited. A few minutes before
eight, the roll of a carriage was heard on the road. Baudoin, in ambush
behind the hedge, was keeping a sharp look-out. By the light of the
lantern he saw a brougham, drawn by two horses, pass by. Something told
him that this carriage contained the persons the General was expecting.
He ran along, right to the wall of the villa, and reached it the very
moment the brougham came to a stop before the door. But he was not the
only one on the look-out, for scarcely had the horses, still panting from
the steep ascent, come to a halt, than the lofty form of the General
showed itself through the darkness. At the same time, an impatient hand
opened the door, and a man’s voice said, in foreign accents, ‘Ah!
General, so you have come to meet us?’ M. de Trémont simply replied, ‘Is
the Baroness there?’ ‘Certainly,’ replied the voice of a woman. ‘Could
you imagine otherwise?’ The man was the first to descend. But the General
gave him no time to help his companion to descend; he sprang forward with
the eagerness of a lover, and, almost carrying off the lady in his arms,
exclaimed, with extraordinary ardour, ‘Come, madame, you have nothing to
fear—no one can see you.’ The man uttered a brutal laugh, and said, in
guttural tones, ‘Do not trouble about me, I will follow you,’ and all
three disappeared into the garden. Baudoin, astonished, had only time to
place on the wall a ladder which happened to be there. As soon as he
could look into his master’s garden, the alleys were empty, but the large
window of the laboratory was shining through the darkness. The faithful
fellow said to himself, ‘What is to be done? Enter the house? Play the
spy on the General? Disobey his orders? For what reason? Has he not the
right to receive any one he pleases? What am I thinking about? Is it
likely that the people he receives are objects of suspicion? Their
carriage is waiting at the door, a sign that they will not remain long,
but will return to Paris immediately. Here I am, troubling my head for
nothing in all probability! All I can do now is to obey my master.’ He
descended the ladder, proceeded along the hedge, left the garden, and
reached the railway. His master’s orders were now literally followed,
except that the drug store was closed when he arrived there, and he was
obliged to return the following morning. When he reached Vanves, he found
the approaches to the General’s property occupied by a guard, the villa
in ruins, and his master vanished from the scene of the catastrophe.”

Colonel Vallenot had finished. Profound silence, interrupted only by the
twittering of the birds in the neighbouring trees, reigned in the
Minister’s study. The old soldier, leaning forward on his desk, his head
resting on his hand, was buried in reflection. After a short pause, he
said, with a sigh—

“How surprising all this is! Doubtless here is the key of the whole
matter. These two unknown characters, one with a foreign accent, coming
mysteriously by night to see Trémont, and their visit followed by such a
frightful cataclysm; what does it all mean? Is it an accident or a crime?
And, if a crime, what motive inspired it?”

Rising, he crossed to the window, with anxious mien, then returned
mechanically to his desk, resumed his seat, and, again fixing his eyes on
the Colonel, said—

“Well! Vallenot, what happened after this honest fellow had finished his
tale? What measures were taken?”

“A squad of soldiers from the fort had been sent for, and the ruins were
carefully searched, under the supervision of the police. Nothing,
however, was found. The destruction was too complete. With the exception
of the side of the wall still standing, not a single piece of anything
was left whole. Still, after a couple of hours’ examination of the
_débris_, from which arose a very strong odour of fulminate of mercury,
the diggers brought to light an iron chest, with broken hinges, the
bottom of which was curiously pierced with thousands of holes as though
with an auger.”

“That is one result of the explosion,” interrupted the Minister. “You are
aware that we have in our shrapnels similar cases of rupture. It is quite
possible the initial explosion took place in this chest. Has it been
kept?”

“It was handed over to the Government agent.”

“We may need it again when we undertake an analysis of the substances
which occasioned the deflagration. Finish your explanations. What became
of the carriage stationed in front of the door?”

“The carriage must have left before the accident. There was not a trace
of it on the road near the villa. The customs officers, on being
interrogated, declared that a brougham, driven by two horses, returned to
Paris about eleven o’clock. To the question, ‘Have you anything to
declare?’ a female voice had replied, ‘Nothing.’ As for the explosion,
the guard at the fort reports that it took place about three o’clock in
the morning.”

“Then the man with the foreign accent had remained, after the departure
of the carriage?”

“Most probably.”

“You are not certain?”

“I did not wait for the end of the investigations; I came away to inform
you of what I had learnt, leaving behind me our agent, with orders to
return here at once, after the final statement had been made.”

“Perhaps he is here now?”

Colonel Vallenot pressed the electric knob, and the usher appeared.

“Has Laforêt returned?”

“Yes, Colonel, a minute ago.”

“Send him here.”

Closing the door with considerable precaution, the agent, with firm step,
a sonorous cough, and head raised in military fashion, as he stood at
attention, appeared before his principals.

The Minister examined for a moment the man’s frank, martial face; then he
asked briefly—

“Colonel Vallenot has reported all that had taken place up to the time of
his departure from Vanves. Complete his version by telling us what you
have learnt since. Take a seat, Vallenot.”

“Monsieur le Ministre,” said the agent, “I will come at once to the most
important point: the body of General de Trémont has been found.”

“In the ruins?”

“In the garden. At first no one thought of searching beyond the house and
the _débris_. It was whilst exploring the bushes that the body of the
General was discovered, close to the entrance gate.”

“What! Had the explosion projected him so far?”

The agent replied—

“The body had not been projected by the explosion. It had remained on the
very spot where it had been struck by a knife under the left
shoulder-blade. The General was dead when the explosion took place, and
certainly the explosion was caused by the assassin.”

“The man with the foreign accent? The companion of the lady the General
called ‘Baroness’?”

The agent kept his countenance before these bold questions. For a moment
he appeared to be reflecting; then he said—

“Yes, the one who has left his arm in the ruins of the villa, and who in
forcing open the chest escaped death only by a miracle. The man named
Hans, in short.”

“But what makes you say that he escaped death?” asked the Minister.

“Because I found tracks in the garden continued outside on the road he
followed, leaving his blood behind at every step. The man must be endowed
with indomitable energy to have had the strength to escape, mutilated as
he was, to reach the fields, and there, doubtless, find some market cart
or other to pick him up and carry him to Paris; but this is an additional
inquiry to be made, and a track to be followed up.”

“In your opinion, then, it is the man who came with the woman who killed
the General?”

“Yes, Monsieur le Ministre; most likely when the General was conducting
them back to the carriage. The murder took place close to the gate. The
sand is trodden down as though a struggle had taken place, and the body
had been carried off behind the bushes. The traces of the trailing legs
are quite visible. The woman probably helped. At any rate, once the
murder accomplished, she must have left, whilst the man stayed behind. He
robbed the General of his keys, which never left him, and which have not
been found; in addition, he took his watch and portfolio, so that it
might be believed that a murder, the motive of which was robbery, had
been committed; then he entered the villa, and worked in the laboratory.
It was with the laboratory that he had to do.”

“How do you know this?”

“From what Baudoin, his valet, said. It appears that, one day, whilst
placing things in order, in the cabinet of the General, the latter
entered on his way from the laboratory. He took a few paces in the room,
rubbing his hands together; then he said almost to himself, ‘This time
our fortune is made! What will Hans say?’ For a week the General had been
working hard at an experiment, which had hitherto failed, and from which
he expected great results. On different occasions, formerly, he had
temporarily dismissed his valet, certainly with the object of receiving
his mysterious guests at night.”

“Good; we will admit what you say regarding the man,” said the Minister,
captivated by the explanations of his agent. “But, in your opinion, what
shall we think of the _rôle_ played by the woman?”

“That is much more evident, Monsieur le Ministre; both indications and
proofs abound. The General de Trémont has been the victim of a too tender
disposition. I know nothing of the General’s secrets or researches,
though the journals have on different occasions spoken of his
investigations. He was a member of the Academy of Science, and his
reputation as a savant was fully established. Suppose for a moment that
M. de Trémont had made a discovery of interest to the future of European
armies, and that some one Power wished to obtain information as to the
value of his invention—obtain possession of it, perhaps. Do we not know
that women have been, only too often, the best political agents employed
in our country? In spite of his age, the General remained very
susceptible. A young woman, beautiful and intelligent, is placed in his
path. He meets her by chance, falls in love with her. But the fair one is
guarded; she is obliged to take great precautions. A complaisant friend,
relation, perhaps, under the cover of science, facilitates the interviews
by accompanying the lady, so as to throw some imaginary rival off the
track. Whilst the old lover is paying his court, the benevolent
companion, observes, takes his measures, skilfully questions, and obtains
the confidence of the one to whom he is rendering a service. Passion
lulls all fear, and a sweet smile and caressing eyes drive one to acts of
folly. Then, one fine night, the General de Trémont, who has, doubtless,
finished his discovery, is visited by the unknown couple. The woman tries
to obtain the secret. She does not succeed. Then the man, as a last
extremity, decides to strike. The General falls under the dagger; his
accomplice takes to flight. The assassin returns with the keys, searches
the laboratory, and tries to open the chest containing the precious
products. But the dreaded powder, unskilfully handled, avenges its maker,
and, in a terrible explosion, annihilates at the same time both formula
and the one trying to steal it. This is how it is possible, Monsieur le
Ministre, to make a guess at the events now occupying our attention.
But—I do not wish to deceive myself—this is only conjecture. There may be
other versions, more certain, if not more likely. What is an absolute
fact is that General de Trémont has been assassinated, that the murderer
was one of the two persons received that night at the villa, and that the
explosion following on the crime has been caused by the imprudence of the
man we may name Hans, who has been grievously wounded.”

The Minister and Colonel Vallenot looked at one another for a moment in
silence. Then the Minister said to the agent—

“I thank you for your report, but do not trouble any further in the
matter, which is in the hands of the police. If we have any additional
investigations to make, I will send for you. Now go, and do not say a
word to any one on the matter.”

Laforêt bowed, gave a military salute, and, with the same tranquil
precision, left the room. The two principals sat there absorbed by what
they had heard, going over once more all the details of this drama, which
was becoming materially so clear, but remained morally so obscure. The
precautions taken by the two accomplices appeared so perfect, that it was
doubtful whether the truth could be learned concerning them. One hope
remained—the wounded man, with his arm cut off, might be found, half-dead
with exhaustion on the road. By questioning the inhabitants of the
neighbourhood, the man might be discovered; doubtless the police were
already on the track, and the most adroit detectives as well.

“You know, Vallenot, Trémont was my senior. He retired before the age
limit, the more easily to devote his time to scientific research; as he
had serious money difficulties.”

“And now,” said Colonel Vallenot, “we have reached the point I wished to
come to, when I said, at the beginning of my report, that, after
examining the material facts, we should deal with the moral
considerations of this affair. The examination of facts is over. There
has been the death of a man, probably an attempt at robbery, and finally,
the complete destruction of an inhabited house. But under what conditions
have all these criminal acts been accomplished?”

“I understand what you mean. You see in this affair something other than
a criminal attempt. You suspect a plot of a special order, something very
delicate, fastidious, dangerous even.”

“Yes, General, because in this case, we have not our hands quite free in
the search of the causes, hindered as we are by diplomacy, by politics,
and often even by such unexpected complicities that we are first obliged
to beat about the bush, then to withdraw, and finally, give up all idea
of proceeding with rigour. Shall I enumerate the affairs in which we have
come to no certain issue for several years?”

“It is unnecessary, I am sufficiently well informed on the situation, and
have a tolerably good idea of what you possess in the archives. How long
have you been in the Ministry, Vallenot?”

“Ten years, occupying different positions, with intervals of service in
the regiments. We have never ceased being exploited by other nations,
with a skill, an audacity, and a perseverance, against which all our
efforts have been in vain. The most important captures have always been
effected by women. Accordingly, when the servant of General de Trémont
spoke of this nocturnal lady-visitor, my suspicions were immediately
aroused.”

“Explain yourself.”

“It is not the first time, General, that we have had to deal with this
mysterious woman, who comes and passes away, leaving ruin and bloodshed
in her train. Her manner of procedure is always the same: she fixes her
mind on some one whom she knows to be in a position to give up to her
some important secret or other, then she seduces him, until, in the end,
he betrays it. Then, she casts him off, like useless _débris_. A creature
to be dreaded, if I may judge by the results she has already obtained,
and a powerful corruptress. No heart is proof against her alluring
temptations. She artfully graduates the doses of her love-philtre; and
the noblest minds, the most upright consciences, and the staunchest
courage bend and capitulate at a sign from her. Do you remember the
ill-fated Commandant Cominges, who blew out his brains, without anything
being publicly known as to the reason? The woman had come along. Cominges
had become her slave. A part of our mobilization had become known. Before
killing himself, Cominges swore that the documents had been stolen from
his dwelling, whilst he was absent with this woman. He had made the grave
mistake of taking them from the office to work on them, and the still
graver one of saying that they were in his possession. But the poor
fellow had confidence in her. He was a man of honour, a gallant soldier.
A pistol-shot settled the whole matter.”

“What was the woman’s name?”

“Madame Ferranti. She took most careful precautions in seeing Cominges,
presumably on account of her family. One of our agents, however, was
acquainted with her. Within six months he died by an accident. He was,
one evening, travelling by rail from Auteuil. They found him dead under a
tunnel. Doubtless he had leaned out too far from the carriage.”

“The deuce!”

“The following year the young Captain Fontenailles, a fine young fellow
we were all fond of, was induced by a woman, whom his comrades called the
‘Ténébreuse,’ because no one of them ever saw her, to disclose certain
confidences. Understanding the gravity of his conduct, he went to his
superior and confessed everything. The latter succeeded in repairing the
damage done by changing the key to the secret writings. Captain
Fontenailles left for Tonkin, where he fell, fighting bravely, at the
attack of Bae-Ninh. His fault was atoned for.”

“And the woman is always the same?”

“According to all these gentlemen. The Ferranti of Cominges was the
Ténébreuse of Fontenailles. Then there was the Madame Gibson of the
Aerostat affair, without speaking of several other cases only partially
revealed. Always the same Ténébreuse, with the same method of procedure,
corruption. In her train, ruin, tears, and blood.”

“How long has she been engaged in this work of intrigue?”

“Ten years, certainly, General; and under all these impersonations we
have not been able to lay our hands on her. She is only known by her
professional names.”

“What a deep-dyed scoundrel! We must try to cut short her career.”

“Nothing more difficult. Once the _coup_ accomplished, she disappears, as
does an eel, gliding about in the mud, in which it remains hidden until
the water again becomes clear. She arranges in such a way as to cut off
all communications behind her; that is her method. For instance, in this
new affair, we shall have to struggle in the dark. Search will be made
for some time, but no clue will be found. The accomplices, as well as the
principal instigator of the crime, will now have got to earth. By degrees
the search will calm down, and something else will be on the tapis. At
any rate, it is in this way that the majority of these cases end,
unless—”

“Unless? Ah! You still hope something may happen?”

“Unless this time the wounded accomplice affords us a trace. Let us
merely hold one end of the conducting wire, and I promise you, General,
we will arrive at some result or other, if only to avenge our poor
comrades.”

“And to prevent the repetition of similar accidents. For, after all,
Vallenot, you will agree with me that it is rather too much for foreign
Powers to become acquainted with our most secret affairs, as though they
were matter of discussion on the public thoroughfares.”

“We are as well acquainted with foreign affairs, General, as they are
with ours,” said the Colonel with less sullen mien. “To sum up, there are
always two at the game; it has ever been so. Ay, the very time, in 1812,
when Russia was procuring information as to the efficiency of the
Emperor’s troops, Caulaincourt sent to Napoleon the engraved copper
plates of the map of Russia. I quote this fact of days gone by without
alluding to contemporary events. But, taking everything into
consideration, General, our secrets are scarcely secrets at all. If, in
war, reliance were placed on nothing beyond mysterious preparations—”

“Then we should have to start by abolishing the press,” muttered the
Minister.

“And that is impossible!” said Vallenot. “Still, in this special case
before us, we must undertake the task of clearing the moral atmosphere,
and employ every means possible, if we would succeed.”

“That concerns the legal authorities now.”

“Officially, General; but we also, on our side, may investigate, in a
quiet way, and I have no doubt—”

“The lesson to be learned is that our officers are becoming too gallant!”

“If you know any means, General,” said Vallenot, with a laugh, “of
suppressing that, please tell me.”

“To think of this old General! Sixty years old, too! True, he did not
appear more than fifty! In what position does he leave his daughter?”

“General de Trémont was a widower?”

“Yes, that is his excuse! But he has a daughter, still at school. She is
eighteen years old, and without dowry. Luckily, Baradier is there.”

“You mean Baradier and Graff, the bankers?”

“Certainly. Baradier fought in the war of 1870; he is a true patriot, and
his son, Marcel, a fine young fellow, just out of the Central School, has
been working with General de Trémont. Marcel Baradier was principally
occupied in investigating vegetable dyes, connected with the woollen
weaving manufactures his father owns in the Aube. But the General opened
his laboratory to him, and probably informed him of his own
investigations. We may learn a great deal from this young man, I think.”

“Is the Baradier family in good circumstances?”

“Very wealthy; their fortune daily increases from industrial and from
banking operations. It is Graff, Baradier’s step-brother, who deals more
specially with finance, whilst Baradier manages the works. Both, however,
are busily employed all day long, and the millions roll in,
notwithstanding the rivalry of the firm of Lichtenbach, who is a mortal
enemy of Baradier and Graff.”

“Business rivalry?”

“More than that. Personal hatred, dating from long back, and madly
fomented. They say that Lichtenbach formerly wished to marry Mademoiselle
Graff, and that he has never been able to swallow the insult Graff
inflicted on him by refusing the proposal and bestowing his sister’s hand
on his friend Baradier. Between these two families there is a whole
series of differences and grievances, which makes them implacable
enemies.”

“Still, General, you see no relation between this hostility and the death
of General de Trémont?”

“Not at all. Lichtenbach is a fervent Catholic, in close touch with the
Orleanist party, and, in my opinion, incapable of a dishonourable action.
Besides, what could it matter to him whether Trémont lived or died?”

“Might not the General’s investigations have a serious interest for the
Lichtenbach firm?”

“Doubtless! But we are well aware that Trémont has been specially
occupied within the last few weeks with the manufacture of a war powder,
the formidable effects of which we have seen in the Vanves explosion.
True, the powder in question might become a source of great profit by its
possible application to industry in modified proportions. In mines, for
instance, or the blasting of quarries, it would certainly have replaced
dynamite. There would have been a fortune in such an application of the
powder, and this Trémont was well aware of. Now it is all vanished in
smoke, and the General has taken his secret with him.”

“Unless he had communicated it to the son of M. Baradier.”

“Ah! that would indeed be strange!”

Three o’clock struck; the Minister arose, and took up his hat, gloves,
and stick.

“You are going, General?”

“Yes, I am going to speak to Baradier on the whole matter. Madame
Baradier was particularly interested in Mademoiselle de Trémont. I intend
to pay a visit of condolence, in person, to this young lady. Her father
and myself were great friends, we made campaigns in Mexico and on the
Loire together, whilst, on the retreat from Mans, Trémont saved all our
lives, by an admirable battery arrangement in the rear of the army, which
cut short the pursuit of the Prussians. A fine soldier! One who deserved
to fall on the field of battle! But Fate decides such things. Everybody
does not die the death he wishes! Well, I will see you to-morrow,
Vallenot. And if you hear of anything fresh, ring me up on the
telephone.”

The Colonel accompanied his principal right to the large staircase,
saluted, and returned to the office.



CHAPTER II


IN an old hotel situated at the end of a large courtyard, in the Rue de
Provènce, has been established, for more than fifty years, the banking
firm of Baradier and Graff. Following on the war of 1870, it was usual in
business to designate this establishment under the company name of
Alsace-Lorraine. They are ardent patriots, and never since the annexation
have they returned to Metz. Still, they have never been willing to sell
any of their land property in the lost provinces. They have kept a foot
on the soil torn from France, as though they had no doubt they would
return to it some day, like masters after a long and sorrowful absence.
Baradier is a man of fifty-five years of age, stout and short, with
ruddy, pleasant face lit up by light blue eyes. Graff is tall and thin,
dark-complexioned, and of stern forbidding mien and glabrous countenance,
the complete opposite of his ally, both physically and morally. For
Baradier, with his engaging exterior, is an influential and practical
man; whilst Graff, with his cold and reserved aspect, possesses the fancy
and sensitiveness of a poet.

In other respects, admirably equipped, the imagination of the one
moderated by the prudence of the other, and all rough points in the
determination of the former being mitigated by the benevolent gentleness
of the latter. In financial circles this fortunate want of similarity of
disposition was well known. Never did a customer, after failing with
Baradier, leave the house without calling at Graff’s office to appeal for
his intervention, and obtaining a “just leave the matter to me, I will
arrange it all” preliminary balm on the sore of displeasure, followed, in
the majority of instances, by an arrangement profitable to both parties.
For, in the long run, the two partners had reached such a point that they
profited by the differences in their dispositions, and Baradier pretended
to be altogether irreconcilable, well knowing that Graff would come in
afterwards, and have the pleasure of arranging everything to suit all
concerned.

Baradier, hearty and happy-looking, had two children, a son aged
twenty-six and a daughter of eighteen, both admirably brought up by their
mother. Graff, solemn and sentimental, had remained a bachelor. As Marcel
Baradier said jokingly, he would be the best uncle in France in point of
inheritance. In fact, Madame Baradier’s brother loves the two children as
though they were his own, and every time Marcel commits some grave act of
folly he always appeals to Uncle Graff to settle things, as his father is
rather strict with him. Father and son, unfortunately, have often been on
anything but good terms, for Marcel, reared in the lap of luxury, and
early discovering the mercantile value of his name, has not always given
his family all the satisfaction that might have been desired. “Nothing
important,” said Uncle Graff; “merely money difficulties!”

It was so that the taciturn and modest banker, who would not have spent a
farthing outside of his daily expenses on anything else than charity,
called the debts which young Marcel periodically gave him the opportunity
of paying. When his nephew comes for him at night, after dinner, before
leaving for the club, where he goes to indulge in a game of cards, Uncle
Graff knows at once his errand. He assumes his most gloomy aspect, sinks
into his armchair, casts a veiled glance at his rather embarrassed heir,
and, in sepulchral tones, demands—

“Well, what is it this time?”

Then, as Marcel develops his usual request—terribly bad luck at the
races, or at baccarat, or some love difficulty—Graff looks at his
sister’s son, and, without listening to a word, says to himself, What a
handsome fellow! How could one with such a figure help getting into a
scrape? He is popular everywhere by reason of his graciousness and
amiability. He is only twenty-six, and is it not quite natural that he
should enjoy himself while he is young? Why do Baradier and Graff engage
in banking operations all day long, anxious as to what is happening at
the London and Berlin Exchanges, as well as keeping an eye on the Bourse
of Paris, if not for this charming and agreeable young fellow to enjoy
himself whilst they are working? Well! Marcel, take your pleasure, and
take my share as well, for am I not your steward? Off to the races in a
fine turn-out, drawn by prancing horses, and take your place in the most
exclusive society; your means, those of the firm of Baradier, will permit
of all this. All the same, do not squander too much in gambling; do not
wager in too extravagant a fashion, for this is an evil passion, and very
harmful to those who recklessly give themselves up to it. In all things
else do as you wish, and then come back and give your old uncle the
pleasure of asking a service of him.

All these reflections, however, crowding into his mind, and giving him
the most perfect satisfaction, Uncle Graff kept wisely to himself. Aloud,
he said, in that Lorraine accent he had never succeeded in abandoning—

“How stupid you are, Marcel, to be swindled by a crowd of adventurers! A
member of the firm of Baradier and Graff ought not to behave in this way.
If your father knew he would be furious. What reply can I give him when
he accuses me of encouraging your bad conduct? He is quite right, and I
am wrong to give you money when you make such bad use of it. I shall
finish by cutting off your allowance. Do you know how much you have
received from me since the beginning of the year?”

And as the old bachelor pretended to turn the leaves of his cash-book,
Marcel, terrified, exclaimed—

“Oh, Uncle Graff, it shall be the last time!”

“It is always the last time!” replied the old uncle. “Well, tell me all
about it.”

And Marcel would enflame the old bachelor’s tender soul with his
enthusiasm, and end by obtaining all he wanted.

Still, Uncle Graff had some excuse. Marcel did not neglect his work.
Admirably endowed by nature, the young man, as though they were a mere
pastime, had advanced considerably in his studies. He had opposed the
General de Trémont, who wished him to enter the Polytechnic School, and
afterwards the Artillery. He had preferred the Central and the General’s
chemical laboratory. Under the supervision of his father’s friend, he had
made interesting researches into mineral colouring matters, and given
Baradier the pleasure of saying: “We employ in our works dyeing
processes, invented by my son, and which are absolutely unique.”

It was one of Uncle Graff’s grand arguments when defending Marcel—

“You know very well that your son is a remarkable man, and that our
manufactures owe much to him!” Whereupon Baradier would reply, furiously—

“Ah! If only he would be serious! He has every quality necessary, but he
will not make use of his gifts. Our fine young fellow will work a month a
year, and spend the other eleven in reckless folly!”

For all that, for some time past, Marcel seemed to have sobered down, or,
rather, his mind was occupied in investigations of more than usual
interest. He no longer appeared at the club, scarcely ever went out at
nights, and, but for the fact that he still went to the races on Sundays,
one might have imagined he had entirely changed his life. Both Baradier
and Graff were equally surprised at this transformation; the father was
pleased, the uncle uneasy at it. They had spoken on the matter to the
General, who had said to them—

“He is an extraordinary young man; you will continually have surprises
with him, but do not be anxious, he will turn out a fine man in the end.
He has great gifts. Just now he is trying to discover some process of
colour photography. Surprising results have already been obtained. Let
him alone, do not hinder him, and you will see!”

Graff’s triumph was a brilliant, Baradier’s a quiet one. Marcel had not
even noticed the effect caused on his family. He had almost completely
quitted Paris. For three weeks he had been living at Troyes, at the Ars
manufactory, shut up in his laboratory, only returning to embrace his
mother, and give the General an account of the progress of his work. The
old chemist and the young inventor then spent delightful days in
verifying prescriptions and practising experiments. The one communicated
his calculations in the dosings of powders, the other explained his
superpositions of plates to obtain the perfect stereotypes he sought.
Then they would lunch together, and the General, as warmhearted as the
young man, would relate his former escapades, and envy the youth, whilst
admiring the strength and intelligence of this fine young fellow before
him, who combined so perfectly the capacity for study and pleasure at the
same time.

In spite of the storms caused by Marcel’s caprices, life for Baradier and
Graff would have flown along pleasantly enough had not destiny brought
them in touch with Lichtenbach. Moses, the chief of the firm, son of a
Jew marine-store dealer of Passy-sur-Moselle, had in past times been at
school with Graff at Metz. Old Graff, who was a brewer, had dealings with
Lichtenbach, “the rabbit-skin dealer,” as he called him jokingly, and
sold him all his broken glasses and used-up barrels. He imagined him to
be poor, and liked to give him the chance of earning a little money.
Moses Lichtenbach might have been seen in the streets of Metz driving an
old grey horse, harnessed to a waggon, in which the marine-store dealer
piled up all kinds of goods and rubbish. He was a kind of wholesale
rag-picker, who helped house-wives to get rid of utensils which were no
longer of any use, and were becoming an encumbrance. He bought them
cheap, but not for nothing. Sometimes, almost ashamed of loading him with
corroded stove-pipes, broken shovels, worn-out carpets, and even old
straw, or shavings, they would say to him, “Take it, Moses, for the
trouble of carting it away.” He would reply, “No! no! Everything has some
value or other; I pay little, but I pay.”

It was a point of honour with him to pay. Several people shrugged their
shoulders, with a smile, as they said to themselves, “The old madman that
he is! What use will he make of all that rubbish?” They were in the
wrong. Everything had a value, as Moses affirmed, and this was proved
when, after the war, the old man left Metz, and settled in Paris, in the
rue de la Chaussee d’Antin, in a small shop, above the door of which he
had painted the sign: “Lichtenbach, money-changer.” It was in this modest
counter that the Passy dealer, leaving Lorraine, which had become part of
the Empire, had commenced his new business, ceasing to buy and sell old
iron in order to buy and sell money. But one grave event had happened,
which had in no slight degree contributed to the exodus of the
Lichtenbach family from Passy to Paris, and to the change of business.

The first cannon-shots of the war, fired at Forbach, had been, for the
majority of the inhabitants of Metz and its environs, the signal for
departure. The farmers and peasants strictly bound down to the land were
the only ones to remain in the villages. All who were free of action had
loaded the waggons with their trunks, and reached the towns, to shelter
themselves from the enemy, whose approach was announced by defeats and
disasters. The highways in the direction of Thionville, Metz, and Verdun
were covered with carts and flocks. The majority of the fugitives made
their way towards the interior, making forced marches, to escape the
invasion, which, according to them, must, of necessity, halt, crushed
before the strongholds of the East. Contrary to the general impulse,
Moses, decided on leaving Passy, had not bent his steps towards the
centre of France. Instead of moving away from the invader he had marched
towards him, and leaving behind in the shop everything cumbersome and
worthless, had reached Metz with six baggage waggons, carefully covered,
and had settled in a small street near the cathedral, with his wife and
son, Elias.

Moses had been well received. Through seeing him, along with his waggon
and old horse, all over the town, everybody knew him. Some, more cunning
than others, said, “Old Moses is a sly fellow. If Metz is besieged he
will buy the broken fragments of German shells as old iron, and continue
his business.” But they were wrong. Old iron was not now the end of
Lichtenbach’s ambition. He had guessed that a stout siege and an
energetic defence would take place, that victuals would soon become
scarce for the town population, and that whoever had the disposal, at a
given time, of special food products, might, by selling them at a high
price, make a considerable profit.

Accordingly he had entered the town with his six waggons, whilst in his
cellar were carefully stored quantities of brandy, coffee, sugar, ham,
and a dozen barrels of salt. He had spent a portion of the ready money he
possessed in procuring these stores, and had awaited results. Meanwhile,
all the Lorraine youth left. The male population which had not become
enrolled in the army, as being under age, undertook to resist the
invaders. The old martial blood boiled in French hearts, and the young
Graff, returned from the town hall, a cockade in his hat, when he met on
the square Elias Lichtenbach, walking about smoking a pipe.

Scores of times, extending over long years, whilst old Moses was
stationed at Graff’s door loading old iron, or buying the skins of goats
or hares killed by the brewer the previous Sunday, had the two boys
played together. Antoine carried off young Elias into the garden, and,
between them, to the great wrath of Madame Graff, they would climb the
wall and steal the fruit, still unripe. They often played at marbles, but
in spite of Elias’s utmost efforts, he could never succeed in
transferring his glass ones for Antoine’s agate ones. He was the only boy
in the town he had not succeeded in exploiting. One day even Antoine
proved himself the more cunning, and succeeded in getting Elias to take
an old broken sword in exchange for six enormous marbles quite new. Moses
was obliged to confess, with a feeling of humiliation, that the young
Graff had proved himself more shrewd than the young Lichtenbach.

It must be stated that, on that occasion, Catherine Graff was present,
and, with the object of dazzling his friend’s sister, Elias had shown
unwonted generosity. This young girl had even then the power of troubling
the young boy.

As he saw his former companion pass by, proud of his patriotic
determination, Elias had taken the pipe from his mouth, and said—

“Where are you going, Antoine?”

“To join the 27th line regiment at Chalons.”

“What! Have you enlisted?”

“Yes, like every one else of my age. Are not you going to do the same?”

“I don’t know; my father has said nothing to me about it.”

“Are you to wait for your father’s orders before doing your duty?”

Elias scratched his head, whilst his whole face expressed uncertainty and
embarrassment.

“But he needs me for the business.”

“France also needs you, and more urgently than your father.”

“I am only nineteen years old.”

“And I, not yet twenty.”

“Yes, you are right, I will go and speak to my father about it.”

“If I do not see you again, good-bye.”

“Good-bye, and good luck.”

Elias, in greater trouble than he had ever been before, made his way to
his father’s shop, and found old Moses in the cellar in the act of
bottling brandy. The son was warmly received by his father, and
Lichtenbach, filling a goblet, held it out to his son and heir.

“Taste this cognac, it is very palatable! In a short time it will fetch
twenty francs a litre; there will be only ourselves who will drink it for
nothing, my son!”

“You will drink of it, perhaps, father,” said Elias, troubled. “But I—”

“What! You? What is the meaning of this?”

“Shall I be by your side when the cost of this good liquor has mounted to
that price?”

“Well! Where will you be?”

“Where all the youths of the village are—in the army.”

“You in the army, Elias; what will you do there?”

“Fight, like the others.”

Old Moses, by the light of the candle, which lit the cellar, looked at
his son in utter bewilderment. He could not believe his own ears. Still
he said—

“Fight? Why fight?”

“To defend the country.”

“What country?”

“France, where I have lived and been brought up, whose language I speak,
and where all our clients and friends are.”

Old Lichtenbach shook his head, and remained a moment without speaking.
Then, in trenchant tones, he said—

“My son, we do business in this country, but we have not been born here.
I was in Switzerland, with your mother, in Geneva, when you came into the
world. My birthplace is Hanover, your mother’s Baden. Your name appears
on no official register, and you are free to do what you like. We are
German by birth, French by habit and everyday relations; we belong no
more to one side than to the other. The best thing we can do is to keep
out of the quarrel. What could we gain by fighting? Blows for you, pain
and suffering for both of us. And how would it benefit any one, if Elias
Lichtenbach were killed in battle, and old Moses were left to finish his
life all alone? Does any one even know why all these people are fighting?
Do they even know themselves? They have quarrelled, like tipplers on
leaving the grog-shop after having absorbed more than is good for them.
And now they fly at one another’s throats. What have the Germans done to
you to make you want to fight them? What advantage will you gain from
having defended the French?”

“But all the young men are off, father. Antoine Graff, whom I have just
met, has received his papers.”

“He is a fool!”

“But the son of Rabbi Zacharias is also going.”

“Great good may he get from it!”

“To-morrow there will only be left in the town the aged and infirm. I
shall be the only one remaining, and everybody will laugh me to scorn.”

Old Moses sighed as he said, “Yes, you have your full share of
self-respect; you have been brought up in the schools of France, in which
a great deal is related on the subject of honour. Listen, Elias, and
remember all your life long, all this teaching is sheer nonsense. Honour
consists in paying what one owes, and in meeting one’s bills when they
fall due. Outside of that, believe me, everything is false. Patriotic
legends have been invented to lead men to butchery and slaughter to the
strains of the ‘Marseillaise.’ They consist merely of sounding words,
with which mankind is deceived in the interests of rulers and states. One
ought not to let one’s self be the dupe of such tricks and artifices.
When it is all over, none of the sly rascals who have persuaded the rest
to fight, and carefully kept out of the way themselves, will give you
even a single word of pity for your misfortunes. I have seen the world,
and I know life. Beware of enthusiasm, it is the most false and dangerous
thing on earth.”

There was a moment’s silence in the dark cellar, where the countenances
of the two men showed red in the flickering flames of the candle. The
dripping of the brandy, as it fell into the tub beneath the barrel tap,
was the only sound audible. The dark, cold air which enveloped Elias
began to calm the ardour, with which he was burning a few minutes before.
The old man continued after a moment’s silence—

“Besides, I well understand that you do not care to remain alone here
when all your acquaintances are leaving the town. You shall leave, too.
But there are other things for you to do than risk your skin, or try to
endanger the lives of others. Great profits may now be made in food
supplies. In a short time the whole of Alsace and Lorraine will be
invaded. The armies will have to live—the French armies, I mean, for the
Germans, who are the conquerors, will lack nothing. We must make it our
duty to collect provisions on the side of Chalons, towards Paris. You are
not yet of age, you owe nothing to any one; besides, the services you may
render are a thousand times more important than those of these
simpletons, who are intending to shoulder muskets. I will prove my
confidence in you by giving you the means to show what you are worth.
Come here; bring me the light.”

Moses went to one corner of the cellar. Removing a couple of barrels, he
took up a spade, and, digging a hole in the ground, laid bare an
iron-bound box. Raising it with considerable difficulty, he took from his
pocket a bunch of keys, opened the lock, and showed his son the interior
full of carefully arranged rolls. Tearing away the paper envelope of one
of these rolls, he poured the contents into his son’s hands. They were
twenty-franc gold pieces.

“Here,” said Moses, “are forty thousand francs in gold. You are strong
enough to carry off the box. Early to-morrow morning you will take the
train for Troyes. Deposit this money with Baradier, the banker, but do
not accept either bank-notes or drafts. Before long gold will be at a
premium, and you will benefit by the exchange. With the capital I now
place at your disposal buy sheep and cattle, and offer to supply the
management with beef and mutton. Owing to the disorder in which the
invasion will throw agriculture, cattle will be sold at a loss of
seventy-five per cent. In the embarrassment in which the army will find
itself for victuals, the contractors will sell again at a profit of cent.
per cent. Do you understand the affair? Then act according to these data.
If you do, by contributing to feed the troops you will be of far more
service than marching in red trousers, under the orders of a stupid
corporal. You, too, will be defending your country. And do not forget to
betake yourself to the drug-store to-night to proclaim it aloud.”

“But suppose some one asks me in what corps I am to serve, what reply
shall I give?”

“You will say, ‘I am going to Rhetel. It will be settled there.’”

“Very well, father.”

“Take hold of one of the handles of the box, and help me to mount it to
the shop.”

“Leave it to me, father.”

Whereupon, seizing in both his arms the heavy box, filled with gold, he
raised it on his stout shoulder, and, preceded by Moses, who held aloft
his candle to light the staircase, he bore away without flinching all his
father’s fortune.

The double combination conceived by Lichtenbach succeeded, as all simple
ideas do. Within Metz, besieged and filled with troops, stored provisions
were not long in coming to a premium. The salt Moses thought of selling
at a moderate price gave him a great surprise. It proved more valuable
than sugar. The want of salt caused keen suffering to the soldiers, who
had become disgusted with horseflesh. The brandy, largely adulterated,
also sold well. Still the old man’s profits did not recompense him for
lack of news of his heir. Elias’s last letter, delivered on the evening
of the Battle of Borny, announced the young man’s arrival in Paris. He
had left thirty thousand francs in gold with the firm of Baradier, at
Troyes, and was preparing to make for Orleans, as he did not consider
himself in safety in Paris, which would infallibly soon be blockaded.

He had introduced five thousand sheep into the town. But he did not
consider it necessary to continue business with the Government, which was
too economical and avaricious. After the 14th of August not a word did
the old man receive. During those long, sleepless nights, whilst
listening to the cannon of Saint Julien or of Plappeville thundering away
at long intervals, the old man reflected bitterly that his son was very
young and inexperienced, that he might be robbed, and that the sum he had
entrusted to him represented twenty years’ wanderings along the roads of
Lorraine, buying up all the old iron in the province. Still, he had the
consolation of thinking that Elias was not taking part in the terrible
and bloody battles, doleful and desperate tidings of which came across
the outposts right to the besieged town. He saw his neighbours and
clients pass along with bowed heads, wondering uneasily, and asking one
another—

“What news? Have you heard anything of your son? Where is he? If only all
our boys are not dead!”

He at least could reply, “I do not know,” with comparative assurance. But
the others? Old Graff especially was an object of pity. He seemed as
though he would go mad. One evening he had gone out bareheaded into the
streets, when the weather was icy cold, saying to all he met, “If Antoine
does not come back, I shall have been his murderer. Why did I send him to
the war; he was not even of age? He ought to be here by my side. All this
time they have been fighting around Paris. A presentiment comes to me
that my son is dead!” and he wept bitterly. They were obliged to take him
back home by force, whilst little Catherine hid herself behind her
mother’s skirts. Moses congratulated himself for the prudent resolution
he had imposed on Elias, though he did his best to lament with the rest
on the dangers run by this brave and valiant band of youth gone out in
defence of their country.

One evening, on returning homey the inhabitants of the district around
the cathedral found ambulance carriages in the streets and assistants
carrying wounded men into private houses. No more beds were to be had at
the hospitals. All the untenanted houses had been requisitioned, and now
the military authorities appealed to the patriotism of the inhabitants of
Metz for lodging the victims of the last sortie. A captain of light
infantry belonging to the Guards had just been carried to the house of
Moses, and Graff had taken in a captain of artillery, named M. de
Trémont. As he was bringing back his battery from the hills of Servigny,
the young officer had received a ball in the thigh.

Anxiety for the health of his patient, the remedies he needed, and other
little attentions, caused a happy diversion to the ever-present anxiety
of Antoine’s father. As he saw this handsome young officer, who had
fought so heroically, and who under such solicitous care, was about to
recover his health under his roof, Graff began to hope once more. He said
to himself, “If my own son is wounded, why should not he also be so
fortunate as Captain de Trémont? He has been brought a long distance,
with his wounded thigh, but he will be quite well again in less than a
couple of months. They do not all die who are wounded in war. I feel sure
Antoine will come back now.” And his spirits returned with renewed hope.
The captain, well cared for by Graff and his wife, was soon able to leave
his bed, and after dinner, at night, he would relate to them his
campaigns in Algeria and Mexico. He explained to his hosts the reasons
why France was coming off the worst in this disastrous campaign,
attributing all the advantages of the Germans to their remarkable
organizing capacity, and the perfection of their artillery.

“You see, the whole future of war consists in war material. We have to
give way before breech-loading cannons, which have, from the very first,
given proof of a marked superiority over our grooved arms. The moral
effect on our troops has been decisive. The first thing to be done after
the war, will be to investigate a new kind of cannon and explosives of a
terribly destructive power. The question of explosives will be of capital
importance. This ought to be the main end of our efforts in the
artillery.”

With remarkable clearness he explained all that modern chemistry offered
in cunning combinations, such as would guarantee victory to that
adversary which could most scientifically assure massacre and death. So,
in the evening silence in that large town, besieged by the conquering
enemy, the conquered were already engaged in thinking of preparations for
revenge.

The siege came to an end, and all the brave soldiers who would have
defended Metz to the death were surrendered alive to the enemy. The
flags, a prey to famine, were carried off to form trophies of victory in
Germany. Paris fell in her turn, then the final armies of France, driven
back across the snow, stained with blood, not so tired of death as
exhausted with the fight, stopped at the country’s call. And on that
immense battlefield, two hundred leagues square, the victors’ shout of
triumph mingled with the despairing cry of the vanquished. By degrees
news arrived, bringing sorrow to some and joy to others. Among the brave
young fellows who had gone forth to fight, so ardent and proud, many
never returned, whilst the numbers of prisoners and wounded will never be
known.

One morning, Graff, in the dining-room, was taking breakfast with his
family and Captain de Trémont, who was still a convalescent in Metz, when
the outside door was opened, a rapid step was heard on the staircase, and
father, mother, and little Catherine, looked at one another with pale
faces. Not a word was uttered as they listened tremblingly to this quick,
seemingly joyful ascent. They had all been struck by the same thought; he
who comes hastening to us in this way, without asking any questions, who
enters as though he were master of the house, and mounts the well-known
steps four at a time, must be Antoine! Before they had time to give
expression to their thoughts the door opened, and a tall, bearded young
man, so thin and terrible that they did not recognize him, but whose eyes
were instantly flooded with tears, appeared before them.

“Father! Catherine! Mother!”

They all rose to their feet, mad with joy, for they could not mistake the
voice, and the long-expected child for whom so many tears had been shed,
was taken in their arms and covered with kisses, amid the cries and sobs,
questions and exclamations, of parents and servants, whilst the Captain
looked on with a smile at this family scene. Finally, Antoine escaped
from their arms, and his first words were the following—

“Good heavens! How hungry I am!”

As he spoke he cast hungry looks on the coffee and cake with which the
table was spread. In a trice he was seated there, and served and fed so
well, that he was obliged to beg them to desist. Then explanations began,
and long accounts of events, interspersed with questions as to the fate
of such and such a one. He himself, after fighting at Sedan, had escaped
by Mézières, reached the North, where, with Faidherbe, he had passed the
whole campaign. He had not slept in a bed for three months. But he had
fought at Pont-Noyelles, Bapaume, and Saint Quentin, and had been lucky
enough to come out without a scratch, with the grade of sergeant-major;
disgusted all the same, with the soldier’s profession for the rest of his
life. His father said to him—

“Well, it is all over now! You shall never begin again. Our unhappy
country is crushed. It will take a score of years to bring things to
their former condition. Ah, my poor Antoine, how ill I have slept the
last six months! I may say, with truth, I have not had a single hour’s
peace of mind since you left. But here you are back again once more, and
all is forgotten.”

Then the incidents of the campaign would begin again. Captain de Trémont
questioned the young soldier on the details of the campaign in the North,
and Antoine could not dwell too long on the valour of the calm and
indefatigable Faidherbe, the bravery of his companions, and the services
rendered by François Baradier, a volunteer like himself, the son of a
banker of Troyes, who had saved his life, snatching him away from the
hands of the Prussians of Manteufel on the evening of the battle of
Bapaume, within a farm which the shells had set on fire, and where he was
surrounded by a dozen of the enemy.

“He will come and see you—he promised me so—and you will appreciate such
a fine brave fellow as he is.”

“Your rescuer? Certainly, he shall be welcome. But let me look at you, my
poor child. Who would have recognized you? You look like a brigand! Had I
met you in the street, I should have been afraid!”

All day long the Graffs were visited by whole lines of relations and
friends, who had called to congratulate them, to admire the returned
soldier, and to listen to the hundredth account of the episode of the
Battle of Bapaume, whilst tumblers of beer and glasses of kirsch-wasser
were served, bringing to their height the overwrought feelings of Graff,
who was usually sober enough, though, on this occasion, he had completely
lost his bearings.

The following morning fresh stirrings in the quarter. Elias Lichtenbach
made his appearance in a cab. He looked well and hearty, and, after
greeting his family, immediately entered into conference with the German
authorities. The rumour soon spread that young Lichtenbach had been sent
by the authorities of Bordeaux, and had become a person of importance
during the war. In reality, his mission concerned the re-victualling of
the army on the frontiers of the East. The delegate to the war, who
appreciated the services rendered by Elias, his skill as an intermediary,
and his facility in avoiding difficulties, had sent his agent to the
enemy’s headquarters. He was now full of self-importance, and proudly
looked down upon his compatriots, worn out by privation and hunger,
though furious at defeat.

After the first few hours of astonishment full fling was given to
curiosity. Where had Elias come from, looking so strong and well? Of all
who had left at the same time as himself, he was the only one who had
returned looking better than when he left. All the rest were pale and
savage-looking. Inquiries were set afoot. At the very first question the
representatives of the authorities replied, with circumspection, that M.
Lichtenbach had rendered eminent service to the country, and that the
delegate for the war considered him with the most benevolent esteem. What
kind of service? It was young Baradier who, on reaching Metz, on a visit
to Antoine and his family, began to throw light on the obscure conduct of
the boasting Elias.

Sergeant Baradier, ruddy of complexion, full of life and vigour, was as
firm in disposition as Antoine was gentle. His open frankness pleased
everybody, and amongst all these good people he was immediately at his
ease. Twenty-four hours had not passed before he was on very good terms
with Captain de Trémont, and had grouped together all the volunteers of
Metz to a banquet to celebrate their return. Elias had had the calm
audacity to give in his name, like the rest, and had put in an appearance
at the Hotel de l’Ours, to take part in the banquet. But his reception
had been a cold one. All who were present, though in civil dress, as the
German authorities had forbidden the uniform, knew in what regiments they
had served, in what battles they had been wounded. Elias alone lost
himself in vague explanations. He pretended to have been everywhere—with
the armies at Chanzy and Bourbaki, at the camp of Conlie, and near
Garibaldi. This gift of ubiquity astonished everybody. Sergeant Baradier
undertook to give an explanation clearer than all those behind which
Elias had sheltered himself.

“Are you not the Lichtenbach who did business with the firm of Baradier
at Troyes?” he asked old Moses’ son, point-blank. “Is it not you who
bought sheep in the Ardennes, and drove them through Belgium into
France?”

“Yes, it is myself,” replied Elias, cautiously.

“Well! No wonder you have been everywhere during the war, since you were
buying meat from every available spot, on behalf of the management.”

As Elias became agitated and turned pale, Baradier continued—

“Oh, I am not reproaching you, I am simply stating a fact. These
gentlemen just now did not appear to understand the part you played. I am
explaining it to them. M. Lichtenbach is a patriot in a fashion. Instead
of fighting he undertook to feed the fighters. If not a glorious
employment, it is, at least a useful one.”

“But I risked my life like the rest,” exclaimed Elias, red with anger.
“Had the Germans caught me they would have shot me!”

“It is most extraordinary that they allowed you to move in and out so
freely through their lines, for they did not generally show themselves
over confident. The good reception, too, they gave you must have appeared
very strange.”

“What do you mean!” exclaimed Elias.

“Simply what I say; nothing more,” replied Baradier, coldly. “But if you
wish me to explain, I merely remark that remaining out of the reach of
sabre cuts and musket shots, whilst others are fighting, being warm and
comfortable, and deprived of nothing, whilst your companions are dying of
cold and hunger, seeing in the misfortunes of one’s country only an
opportunity of making a fortune, is not what one would call the height of
heroism.”

“You insult me!”

“I am ready to give you satisfaction.”

“Good! you shall hear from me.”

“Do not cry out so loud; I can easily be found. I am staying with M.
Graff, and am the son of M. Baradier, your banker at Troyes. Now we will
change the subject.”

Immediately Elias found himself alone. Everybody turned their backs on
him. Flinging on his adversary a look of hatred he left the room. As he
closed the door he heard Graff exclaim—

“Now that there are none but good patriots left let us drink to the
health of France!”

The following morning Baradier, accompanied by Captain de Trémont and his
friend Graff, waited for Lichtenbach to put in an appearance. They waited
in vain. The prudent Elias, having avoided wounds during the war, seemed
quite determined not to run the risk of receiving any in times of peace.
Still, as though by chance, M. Baradier at Troyes, received in his house
a supplement of twenty Hessian hussars, to board and lodge, and old Graff
was summoned thrice in a single week to reply to denunciations
representing him as having spoken in insulting terms concerning the
German army. Finally, Baradier received notice to leave Metz within
twelve hours.

It was quite possible that chance alone might have caused the increase of
the burden laid on the banker of Troyes, and the expulsion of Baradier
might have been the consequence of the banquet, at which more was said
than the circumstances warranted. But old Graff was convinced that his
neighbour Lichtenbach’s son was an agent of the enemy, and that the rogue
had simply turned informer against him. All the same, Elias bowed to him
in the street with the greatest deference, and he always showed himself
very polite to Antoine.

The quiet and taciturn heir to the firm of Graff avoided, as far as
possible, his former companion. He did not openly break with him, his
nature being opposed to violence of every kind. But very few words were
spoken on either side, and he avoided transacting business with him. The
firm Graff stored up large quantities of wool, which were sold to the
manufacturers of Champagne and the Ardennes. The Baradiers, who had just
bought a large factory at Ars, were great customers of theirs. Elias, who
continued his father’s wholesale business, bought and sold everything in
the nature of a business transaction, and had often made offers to the
Graff for the wool of Germany. The latter had always declined his offers.
Still, in spite of such evident ill-will, Elias was not discouraged, and,
with that tenacity which is one of the virtues of his race, he
periodically visited Graff and his son, in the hope of bringing off a
bargain.

Thus, after two years spent by Mademoiselle Graff in one of the best
boarding schools in Nancy, Elias, one fine morning, found himself in
front of her in the garden, whilst waiting for Antoine. He was stupefied
and completely dazzled. The child had become a young lady, tall and
graceful, with dark eyes, light hair, and brilliant complexion. He dared
not speak to her, and could only bow as she passed. On returning home he
mentioned the incident to his father, and, with a wealth of biblical
comparison, he depicted the maiden, like Rebecca appearing to Jacob. He
left his father in no doubt that he was passionately in love, and that
if, as the shepherd had served Laban, he should have to serve Graff, he
would submit to it for love of the fair Elise.

Old Moses remarked that, being a Jew, and the Graffs being Christians,
there was no chance of being accepted by them, without prejudice to the
grievances they had manifested against him ever since the war. Elias
replied that he could abjure his religion, and by his conversion give
great prestige to the Catholic faith, that he had earned sufficient
money, and that a young fellow of twenty-two years of age, who would
place four hundred thousand francs on the table when the contract was
signed was not a suitor to be thrown over so easily.

Moses warned his son that he was entering upon a perilous negotiation. He
did not dissuade him from changing his religion, if he found any
advantage in such a course, but he warned him that, whether as Christian
or Jew, he would not obtain the hand of Mademoiselle Graff, and that he
would gain nothing but the shame of his apostacy. Elias, however, had a
will of iron; he astonished the archbishop by his determination,
conciliated him by his piety and generosity, and, with remarkable skill,
brought over to his interests all the high Catholic powers. At a time
when German pietism was struggling in the conquered provinces, with a
clergy of purely Protestant tendencies, the conversion of Elias was a
political event.

Had Elias not been so well known he might have become popular. All the
same, he met a thorough refusal at the hands of the Graff family, and, as
though to intensify the insult offered to him, before six months the
beautiful Elise married the former sergeant, Baradier. At the same time,
a rumour spread abroad that the Graffs were leaving the town. Antoine
followed his step-brother to Paris, and entered with him into the banking
establishment of Baradier senior.

It was too much for Elias. He lost his sleep, and one day, after meeting
the Graffs, who were being escorted to the station by all their friends,
he returned home, and was taken suddenly ill. Old Moses, terrified, put
his son to bed, summoned the doctor, and learnt that the new convert was
at the point of death. A furious delirium had taken possession of him;
during its course he negotiated fabulous bargains with imaginary buyers
and sellers. A semblance of reason returned only when he poured forth
floods of insults and threats against the Baradiers and the Graffs,
whilst his father calmed him by saying—

“Yes, Elias, you shall have your revenge on these rascals! You shall ruin
them! You shall crush them under your heel!”

Then a happy smile came over the patient’s lips; he slept a few hours,
and awoke feeling much better. One may affirm that it was the intensity
of his hatred that kept him from dying. Plans of revenge haunted his
fevered brain, and when the doctor, in astonishment, declared that the
young man was convalescent, the first words Elias uttered were, “All the
better! Had I died, the Baradiers and Graff’s would have been too glad!”

To tell the truth, the latter paid not the slightest heed to the feelings
of rancour they had so violently aroused. They had assumed the direction
of the firm, had extended the business, and founded additional woollen
factories. Marcel Baradier and his sister Amélie were born. Complete
harmony seemed to exist in this happy family, when Elias Lichtenbach, his
father having died, came to establish himself in Paris.

A singular metamorphosis had been wrought in him. The first time Baradier
and his rival met at the Bourse the banker did not recognize Lichtenbach.
He saw before him a thin, stooping man, almost bald, with cold,
passionless eyes, hidden behind gold spectacles. His very voice had
changed. M. Lichtenbach spoke little, said only what was absolutely
essential, and remained impassive before the most important news. A
contraction of the jaws alone betrayed his emotion, giving to his
countenance a character of singular ferocity.

Lichtenbach’s connection with the firm of Baradier and Graff was full of
meaning. He caused them to lose three hundred thousand francs in a single
morning on a contract for wool, concluded at the Bourse of Troyes. Elias
sold wool from Hungary at so low a rate that Baradier and Graff, who had
speculated on a rise, were obliged to sell out rapidly to limit their
risks. It was the first clear flash from the cloud. Henceforward an
enemy, always on the watch, was ever ready to strike the Baradier firm in
its most vulnerable part. Lichtenbach’s evil intentions, though
concealed, were none the less certain.

When attacked they ingeniously defended themselves, took needful
precautions, and trusted nothing to hazard. Lichtenbach was very powerful
and dangerous. Left a widower, with one daughter, whom he had sent to the
Sacre-Coeur, there to be brought up according to the principles of the
most rigid devotion, Elias was a type of the renegade who had become more
Christian than the Pope himself.

Still, if Lichtenbach was dreaded, he was received everywhere, and his
influence in society was as secret as it was sure. He rendered priceless
help to ruined families. Instead of aiming his financial batteries
against the established Government, he divided his attempts, placed his
hands on all the syndicates of Europe, and by means of the capital he
collected caused diverse speculations not only to benefit himself, but
all his friends in addition.

The simplicity of his life was extreme. He lived in a gloomy mansion in
the Rue Barbet-de-Jouy, attended by servants from Lorraine, who spoke
German better than French. He never received visitors, whilst a game of
whist seemed to form his only distraction. It was at his office, right in
front of the Bourse, that he received his clients. Although only
forty-five years of age, he seemed to have lost all interest in the fair
sex, as though all women were an object of terror for him. The little
Duchess de Bernay, who, thanks to speculations conducted by Elias, had
been able to pay her debts, one day said to her friend, the Marchioness
de Premeur—

“I must find out what Lichtenbach really thinks. After all, the manner in
which he treats us is almost humiliating.”

For some evenings, in the presence of all her friends, she flirted with
Elias, without succeeding in thawing him. Then suddenly she ceased paying
attention to him. To her companions’ ironical questions she replied,
evasively—

“I have lost my time. It is no use.”

But it was noticed that her style of living changed; that she spent large
sums of money, and that, according as she ceased joking with the
financier, she became more and more settled in money matters. Elias,
distant and silent as ever, continued to speculate in the four corners of
the globe, to advise the Prince, manage his journal, and prove to
the-firm of Baradier and Graff, as well as to those in any way connected
with him, that the enmity he was nourishing would be with him as long as
he lived.



CHAPTER III


ON reaching the Rue de Provènce, the Minister of War descended from his
brougham with the eagerness of a young man, crossed the court-yard,
entered the offices, and, in loud tones, asked the office boy—

“Is M. Baradier in?”

The office-boy instinctively stood at attention, and replied—“Yes,
General; I will announce you at once.”

The Minister, with nervous steps, strode to and fro in the ante-chamber,
behind whose windows the Havas despatches gave the current rates of all
the Exchanges of Europe. Suddenly a door opened, and a stout man with
ruddy complexion entered the room with outstretched arms.

“Ah, it is you, General! What trouble you have taken! Just step into this
room.”

The Minister entered, and as soon as the door was closed he exclaimed—

“Ah, my poor friends! How sad it all is!”

“We cannot get over the shock, Baradier and I,” said Graff, rolling
forward an armchair. “Take a seat, General.”

“Who has told you the news?”

“Baudoin, who was sleeping here last night, and came in terrified this
afternoon with the dismal tidings. What has happened down there? The
whole circumstances are even more serious than the disaster itself. Graff
and I have been questioning and discussing with one another, without
succeeding in settling the frightful problem.”

“If only Marcel were here!” moaned Uncle Graff. “He would enlighten us.
He is so well acquainted with Trémont’s life and habits, his weaknesses.”

“His weaknesses?” asked the Minister. “A woman? Is that what you mean?”

“Yes, General.”

“You are taking the paltry side of the matter,” said the old soldier,
firmly. “It is no question of a mere _passade_. The affair before us is
far more than a paltry intrigue. The woman—yes, indeed, she has had a
_rôle_ to play. But she has only been the agent, perhaps unwittingly, of
an attempt, carefully thought out and boldly executed.”

“With what object?” asked Baradier. “Tell me everything, General. Let us
communicate our suspicions to one another, in an attempt to throw light
on the affair.”

“Ah! It is evident that the object of the attack was the discoveries made
by Trémont. In this abominable plot, which has ended in the murder of a
man we loved, a remarkable _savant_, I see—but do not let this go beyond
the three of us here present—the hand of the foreigner.”

There was a moment’s silence. Baradier and Graff looked at one another,
uneasily, and as though undecided. But the impetuous Baradier could not
long keep to himself the idea working in his brain.

“We, too, General, seem to recognize in the blow which has fallen on our
friend some hateful intention against him and against ourselves at once.”

“Baradier,” intervened Graff, “you are going too fast and too far! How
can you risk such a charge, on suppositions alone?”

“Ah! You still hesitate!” exclaimed Baradier. “You are still bound down
by scruples! The deuce! I feel there is treason and infamy in all this!
I—Let me continue! I would swear that Lichtenbach is at the bottom of it
all!”

“You have no right to speak in that way!” exclaimed Graff, rising to his
feet and quivering with emotion. “How can you insinuate that a man
against whom nothing can be said from either a professional or a moral
point of view, is a party to a crime, simply because he is our enemy? It
is abominable! We must give some place to justice!”

Baradier, boiling over with excitement, rose in his turn, and began to
walk to and fro, speaking in snatches.

“For the last two hours, General, we have been disputing in this way,
Graff and myself, and the only reply he can give me is that I am not
just! As though that were a matter of concern when an imperious instinct
cries out to you: ‘There is the culprit. He is not seen; he is well
masked, cunningly concealed, and appears in nothing.’ Probably he will
not be found out, but it is he all the same who has done the deed,
because it was to his interest and hatred combined to do it! No! With his
justice, humanity, and philanthropy, you can have no idea how stupid
Graff is, at times!”

In spite of the gravity of the situation, the three friends burst into a
loud laugh, and Graff, bending forward his great body, exclaimed—

“Thanks!”

The Minister then intervened to give a little order to the debate.

“Come, Baradier, explain yourself. As your brother-in-law says, vague
presentiments are not sufficient to establish an accusation. Presumptions
lead to investigations, and if guilt results from information obtained,
then one may proceed. Besides, I will observe to you that the authorities
have been notified, an examination has been commenced, and if you have
proofs to furnish—”

“Impossible!” interrupted Baradier. “To you I have been telling my inmost
thoughts; to an examining magistrate I would not repeat what I have just
said.”

“Ah!” triumphed Graff; “what did I tell you?”

“For me to quit my reserve, such discoveries ought to be brought to
light, that the proofs—moral as they are—upon which I lean, should have
material coincidences. But do not think I am retreating. I will make
inquiries, and if I find—”

“You will not find anything. If your suspicions are true, we have to deal
with those who are stronger than ourselves.”

“We shall see about that!”

The General intervened again.

“Is this Lichtenbach, of whom you speak, the great merchant-prince who is
allied with the clerico-royalist party?”

“Yes, the same man.”

“And you imagine him capable of a crime?”

“I believe he is capable of anything.”

“Doubtless you know that he is very influential with the Ministry, and
obtains whatever he wishes.”

“He is very powerful everywhere; his arms stretch in all directions.”

“But what interest would he have in trying to circumvent Trémont, in the
first place, and, afterwards, in bringing about his disappearance?”

“Well, General, what do you think of the investigations into explosives?
Lichtenbach is at the head of the French syndicate of mining
exploitations. In Russia, Austria, and Spain, he has considerable
interests. Now, in the composition of a powder, easy to control in
results, capable of being handled without harm, and of very moderate
cost—and all these advantages were claimed by the Trémont powder, as was
seen from the report read by the General, at the Academy of Science, six
months ago—was there not something to tempt the covetousness of business
men, ever on the look-out for progressive and remunerative processes?
Trémont had received splendid offers, but had always refused even the
initial overtures. Then he explained to Graff and myself his intention of
promoting a company, the working of which should be exclusively French.
It was a point of honour with him that his own country should profit from
his discovery.”

“The fine fellow! Just like him!”

“He was well aware that he had found an opportunity of making a fortune,
but he did not wish foreign money to have a hand in it. Besides, at the
same time, he had almost completed his investigations into a new
war-powder. He would not throw the commercial affair on the market until
he had given his new explosive to the Government. He said to us: ‘Both
powders at once. The one that will make me rich, and the one that will
make us conquerors. In this way I shall be pardoned for the benefits I
shall reap from the first, in favour of the prestige the second will give
our Army.’”

“Yes; secret experiments had already taken place with his war-powder.
Never had my colleagues or myself seen such destructive effects. Nothing
could have resisted an artillery firing projectiles charged with this
powder! And the secret has vanished in smoke! It is a great misfortune
for France!”

A strange smile passed over Graff’s mouth, and, with a gesture of
dissent, he said—

“Ah! Who knows?”

“What do you mean?”

“Yes, it is not absolutely certain that the secret is lost! Perhaps some
one possesses the General’s formulæ in duplicate.”

“Who?” exclaimed the Minister.

Graff rubbed his hands together and replied—

“My nephew!”

“Marcel? Has he said anything to you?”

“Yes. A week ago.”

At these words Baradier turned pale. Turning to his brother-in-law, with
a look of anguish, he exclaimed—

“Never let the slightest suspicion of this be known! Repeat to no one
what you have just said! They have killed Trémont! Do you want them to
kill my son?”

“Ah! Baradier, have you no courage left?” asked the General. “You are
afraid of your shadow now. Do you imagine that, if your hypothesis be
true, and I am much inclined to share it, those who have dealt the blow
will be disposed to recommence without delay? We have time to act, and we
are warned. Why the deuce should we be afraid? Just now, the authors of
the crime have carefully gone to earth, for they can have no doubt that
the police are on the look-out for them. Do not be alarmed, and let us
speak frankly.”

“My dear General, if the possession of the secret of the powders has been
fatal to Trémont, whom they thought simply of robbing, what is not to be
feared for Marcel Baradier, if this terrible intrigue is conducted by the
implacable enemy of all his family? They would have spared Trémont’s
life, could they have obtained possession of his formulæ. Marcel can
expect no pity, for it is Graff and myself—it is his own mother whom they
will reach in striking him.”

“We shall be there to defend him,” said Graff, in trembling tones. “I am
not an evil-disposed person, but still I feel myself capable of the
utmost ferocity in preventing any harm befalling my nephew!”

“You understand,” said the General, “that if the police have no clue to
your suspicions, I will take it upon myself to inform them.”

“It would be wiser not to do anything of the sort,” interrupted Baradier.
“If, as we imagine, it is Lichtenbach who has directed the frightful
plot, you may be certain beforehand that it will not be brought to light.
Both he and his accomplices are free from all responsibility. The woman
who appears to have acted as a decoy will have disappeared. The man whose
arm has been torn off will be carefully attended to in some dark spot,
perhaps abroad, and the coachman who accompanied the accomplices to
Vanves is a trusted member of the band. Nothing will be discovered, you
may be sure. The examining magistrate may prepare at once to shelve the
whole affair.”

“I think as you do. But that is no reason for not making investigations.
In the first place, if Lichtenbach is watched, perhaps some proof will be
discovered. But all that concerns the police. We will change the subject.
General de Trémont has left an only daughter, without support.”

“I beg your pardon, General. We will console her and pay her all possible
attention.”

“Yes, my dear friend, I know the poor child may rely upon you. But she is
without fortune. Trémont left very little property; his pension was
almost all that he had.”

“Reassure yourself. She shall never lack anything. This very morning my
wife went to her to the Sacre-Coeur, and brought her here. She shall stay
with my daughter and be treated as though she bore my own name.”

“All the same, I will obtain for her a pension from the Ministry.”

“Certainly, if you wish; but it will simply be to ease your conscience.
She will have every want fulfilled. I take charge of her as though she
were my child.”

“Can I not speak to her? Is she in a fit state to receive me?”

“She is in great grief, but very calm. Graff will tell her that you are
here.”

The uncle left the room. Baradier drew his chair nearer the General’s, as
though afraid the walls would hear what he was about to say.

“Between you and myself—for Graff is too sentimental—is this a matter
that concerns other countries?”

“How can we tell, so long as we have not laid our hands on the culprits?
Even if they are found, how can we throw light on that question? We can
never hope for absolute certainty in this respect, as foreign agents
always keep themselves aloof from direct responsibility, and disclaim all
connection with abroad, if they are caught. We shall never get beyond
probabilities. Our artillery material and explosives are at present, and
will long remain, a matter of anxiety to rival Powers. Our armaments are
well known, though our projectiles are continually being perfected. It is
certain that the artillery which made use of the Trémont powder would
have had an overwhelming advantage. Hence the attempt against the
inventor, evidently.”

“So you attach a great value to the formulæ discovered by the General?”

“A very great value. Its possession would render our country an immense
service.”

Baradier became serious. Bowing his head, he continued resolutely—

“I am a good patriot, General. I fought for France to the very last hour
of the war. All the Baradier family, Lorraines from Metz, went into
voluntary exile so as not to live in the midst of our conquerors. If my
country needed my life, I would not hesitate to give it up. I will do
more, I will risk my son’s life. If Marcel knows Trémont’s secret, I give
you my oath you shall have the powder.”

A flash of joy shone in the old soldier’s eyes. Stretching out his hand
to Baradier, he exclaimed, in trembling tones—“Thank you. You are a brave
soldier.”

At this moment the door opened, and the General gave a sonorous hum, and
regained his composure. Madame Baradier and Mademoiselle de Trémont
entered the room, followed by Graff. Still slender and graceful, Madame
Baradier now showed a few silver threads among the beautiful blonde
tresses of her youth. But her frank look and smiling lips revealed the
young girl beloved of Elias Lichtenbach. Mademoiselle de Trémont, wearing
a blue convent dress, slender and dark-complexioned, showed in her
countenance, overwhelmed with grief, the charming grace of her sixteen
years. Without the slightest awkwardness or hesitation, she walked
straight to her father’s friend. At the first words the old soldier
addressed her, however, her eyes filled with tears, which silently flowed
unheeded down her cheeks. She listened with eager satisfaction to the
consoling words of praise, consecrated to him who had just disappeared,
and the silent nod she gave from time to time seemed an acquiescence of
resignation and grief, in the bitterness of life now beginning for her.

Alas! she had scarcely known her father. A widower very soon after the
birth of his daughter, he had been obliged to entrust her to the care of
pious and devout women. She had scarcely ever tasted of the delights of
home. Geneviève often tried, in vain, to recall the sound of her mother’s
voice. How sad it was! She had never felt on her heart the caressing
warmth of an ever-present affection. Isolation, in the midst of
strangers, kind and benevolent though they were, had been her lot, right
to the day on which death had broken the slender bond which still
attached her to her father. And now what a sorrowful end, in this
catastrophe, at once stupefying and terrible, which left her an orphan,
and filled her mind with thoughts of violence and massacre!

She had not even the supreme consolation of thinking that the one she
mourned had had a calm and peaceful death. As a soldier, he had not
fallen on the field of battle; as a _savant_, he had not succumbed, a
victim to his investigations. In a base and cowardly fashion, he had been
assassinated by bandits. She heard the Minister telling her that she
might rely on his protection. Stammering out her thanks, and blinded by
tears, she left the room with Madame Baradier, almost heart-broken at
being made to understand more vividly, from the expressions of condolence
addressed to her, the extent of her loss.

The Minister, on leaving the room in his turn, found General de Trémont’s
servant awaiting him in the antechamber. He looked with interest at the
latter’s intelligent and energetic countenance.

“Well, my poor Baudoin, this is a great loss for us.”

“It is a great crime, General.”

“They had sent you away, my good fellow; but for that, all this would not
have happened.”

“Ah, General, it is always the fair sex who ruin everything!”

“Come, come! Don’t say anything more on the subject.”

“Pardon me, General. I do not mention it from lack of deference for my
poor master, but if attempts are not made to find the scoundrel, the
woman who controlled the whole affair, nothing will be discovered, and my
master will remain unavenged.”

“Do you know the woman?”

“Ah! If I had known her, I, too, should have been dead!”

Baradier, Graff, and the Minister looked at one another. What Baudoin had
just said was so clear a confirmation of Baradier’s fears, concerning his
son, that the threatening power of the mysterious woman instantly forced
itself on the Minister’s thoughts. He was already so well acquainted
personally, and through his predecessors, with these fortune-hunters,
always in quest of a speculation or intrigue to work out, or a secret to
be stolen, from the sellers of crosses of honour, to searchers of
official desks. He could have named several of them. And the experience
of the past: all these acts of imprudence and folly, were there to prove
the truth of what the simple and devoted Baudoin now said. The Minister
continued—

“I heard her voice, General, last night, and I will warrant that if she
uttered a word in my hearing, I should recognize it.”

“Ah, a voice, my poor fellow, a voice heard for a single moment, uttering
a few sentences only. How could one dare to accuse another on such feeble
evidence? Do you know, there are voices so similar that one may be
mistaken, even when one is familiar with their owners. If you have no
other proof to give, my poor Baudoin, you had better say nothing at all.”

“We shall see, General.”

“Ah, you are obstinate!”

“A little, General.”

“Well, well! What can I do for you? You have been a good soldier, and a
devoted servant. I imagine your master would have recommended me not to
abandon you. Would you like to enter the office of the Ministry?”

“Thank you, General. M. Baradier has offered to take me into his office,
and I have accepted. But if you would be good enough to—”

“Well, speak!”

“Could you please tell me the name of the Ministerial agent who has been
conducting the investigations? He seemed to me a very intelligent man,
and I should like to speak to him.”

“His name is Laforêt. But keep the name to yourself. I have sufficient
confidence to mention it to you; still, it must not be generally known.”

“You may rely on my discretion, General. I will say nothing.”

“Well, good day!”

The Minister shook hands with Baradier and Graff, and rode away in his
brougham. When the two partners returned into the hall, Baudoin, to whom
they wished to speak, had disappeared.

As soon as he learnt the agent’s name, Baudoin had taken his hat, and,
leaving the hotel by the servants’ exit, had made his way to the
Ministry. On reaching the entrance he made inquiries. Being an old
soldier, he knew how to speak to soldiers. The orderly he met in the hall
pointed out to him the building he wished to enter, right at the end of
the court, staircase C. There the porter had stopped him; no one could
enter without authorization. He had none; he must accordingly ask for
one.

“I simply wanted to speak to M. Laforêt.”

The porter looked at him with suspicion. Then he said—

“M. Laforêt? You will not find him at the Ministry, call at his private
residence.”

“Where is that?”

“You must inquire.”

It was quite evident there was nothing to be gained here. Bowing, he
thanked the porter and took his departure. In the Rue Saint-Dominique, at
the corner of the Rue Martignac, he noticed a small café. He entered with
the object of making inquiries, as the porter had recommended. Four
customers, under the complaisant eye of the proprietor, were playing at
cards. At the far end was a room, containing a billiard-table. The
players could be seen, though indistinctly, each time they passed before
the door. There appeared to be spectators present. Probably a pool was
being contested.

“A bock. Is there a billiard academy here?”

“Ah, sir, we have some very fine players. Some of these gentlemen from
the Ministry come every evening. M. Trousset, the head clerk, though an
amateur, would be a match for the best players in Paris, and even from
abroad!”

“Indeed! And may one watch the game?”

“If you wish, sir, I will carry the beer into the next room.”

Baudoin had already entered the billiard-room, which contained two
tables. Taking a seat, he looked on. One of the players was a stout,
jovial fellow, who accompanied his cannons with stale jokes. The other, a
tall, thin dark-complexioned man, was Laforêt himself. Baudoin gave
himself a slap on the thigh, took out a cigarette, and exclaimed to the
astonishment of his neighbour—

“I am lucky this time!”

As he was looked at inquisitively, he said no more, but lit a cigarette,
and began to sip his beer. The stout player said to his opponent, with a
wink—

“The balls are in the corner; now for the final!”

Whereupon he made a series of seventeen cannons, and missed the
eighteenth. Laforêt, without being disconcerted, took up the cue, but
only scored five points. His adversary exclaimed—

“If I score fifteen now, I win the set.”

He won without the slightest effort, turned down his shirt-sleeves, put
on his coat, and, holding out his hand to his opponent, said:

“No ill feeling?”

“None at all. You have played very well, M. Moussin,” said Laforêt. “My
revenge next time.”

“Whenever you like.”

Laforêt, with perfect indifference, approached Baudoin, exclaiming in
loud tones—

“Waiter, a bitter.”

Then, turning towards the General’s servant, he asked—

“Are you waiting for me?”

“Yes; so you recognized me?”

“That is my business. Anything fresh?”

“No; all the same, I wish to speak to you.”

“Good!”

The few loiterers gradually filed out into the other room, which was
lighter and more pleasant in appearance. A few players alone remained,
and Baudoin and Laforêt found themselves isolated.

“You may speak here, no one will pay any attention to us.”

“Well! This morning, when I saw you, in the presence of all the others, I
had an impression that you were a man to be relied upon, and that, in
case it were necessary to appeal to any one concerning something
difficult or dangerous, one would run no risk with you of being left in
the lurch. Am I mistaken?”

“No.”

“If I think rightly, you do not work under the same conditions as the
agents in the service of the Prefecture, who are entirely allied to the
Administration. You are, I suppose, a kind of volunteer of the police, at
liberty to give information as you please, consequently free as regards
initiative.”

Laforêt interrupted him.

“If you wish to speak to me on the Vanves affair, I must stop you at
once. My principal ordered me not to take any further steps in the matter
for the moment. The Public Prosecutor is in possession of the
information. Every one to his own department. We shall not take up the
matter again, provisionally.”

“But if I simply asked you to enlighten me on certain points?”

“One can always give advice.”

“Good! The police are about to make a search for the authors of the crime
of which my master has been the victim. But I, also, should like to
investigate.”

“There is no one to prevent you.”

“Ah! One must know how to go about it. One does not become a detective by
instinct. Which end shall I begin with, to unravel the skein?”

“Come! Had your master any family?”

“A daughter.”

“She had no interest in wishing to be rid of him?”

“Not the slightest.”

“Had he any visitors?”

“Very few; he was so distrustful! The woman who called on him only came
mysteriously by night, on which occasions he always sent me away.”

“That is the same woman who came last night?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know if M. de Trémont had any enemies?”

“No.”

“Was there any one who had reasons for injuring him?”

“In a certain sense, yes.”

“Why do you suspect this?”

“I judge from personal observation, confirmed by the conviction of one of
my master’s friends.”

“A man who can offer good guarantees?”

“Perfect.”

“Very good! Search must be made in that direction.”

“If only you knew what difficulties I am likely to meet with.”

“That is the most interesting part about it. It is not very clever to
arrest a coal-dealer who has been thrashing his wife in his shop, or a
hair-dresser who has cut his lady’s throat with one of his razors! What
excites one is the struggle and pursuit, the necessity of employing
trickery and invention. We are men of imagination, and novelists often
make us laugh by the poverty of their combinations.”

“That is because you like your profession. It is not so with me; I am not
inquisitive. Were I not mad with grief at seeing my master, whom I was so
fond of basely murdered, I should take good care not to meddle with other
people’s affairs. But vengeance seems a kind of duty my master would
impose on me, could he do so. Had he had time to think, the moment he was
struck, he must have said to himself: ‘Ah! If only Baudoin were here he
would defend me with his last breath.’ You see, I must find his
murderers. I shall have no rest till I have succeeded in this pursuit.”

Laforêt had become thoughtful. After a moment’s hesitation, he said—

“You are a brave fellow. But you do not possess the qualities necessary
for the unravelling of an affair like this one. You will spoil everything
by putting on their guard the very people you suspect. Do not stir; just
wait. Patience is the first duty of a detective. Time is a precious
auxiliary. At first, a criminal is very cautious; he takes every
precaution. By degrees, as his feeling of security increases, his
prudence lessens, he trusts himself out of his lair once more, and it is
then that there is a good chance of catching him. Instead of undertaking
a campaign, remain inactive. If you have to deal with powerful and
determined men, be sure they will keep a watch on you, in proportion to
their unwillingness to be caught. You will do more for the success of
your side by giving them to believe that you do not suspect them, than by
plotting against them, without knowing how to out-trick them. Go back
home, warn those who, like you, wish to avenge the General, and wait and
see the trend of events. Be sure something will happen which will put you
on their track. Then go ahead boldly. If ever you need me, come here
about five o’clock. You will find me regularly at this hour. My principal
may be disposed to allow me to co-operate with you.”

Baudoin rose from his seat.

“Very good. I will follow your advice. If you have anything to tell me,
send to Messieurs Baradier and Graff.”

“The bankers of the Rue de Provènce?”

“Yes.”

“Strange! My principal has just gone to see them, on leaving the
Ministry. I heard it from the coachman. Good! Everything will turn out
for the best, when the right moment comes. _Au revoir_!”

The two men shook hands, and Baudoin returned home.

Marcel, summoned by wire, had just returned from Ars. He was closeted
with his father and uncle. Walking to and fro about the room, he gave
brief replies to the questions asked him. Tall and slender, of fair
complexion, with long moustache, and blue eyes, he offered a perfect
pattern of the Lorraine type, in its full purity and strength. He was a
very fine-looking young fellow, and his Uncle Graff watched him with a
glow of pride and satisfaction.

“Well, then, what did Trémont tell you, the last time you saw him?”

“From a scientific point of view, we spoke of nothing but my
investigations on the subject of aniline.”

“Nothing concerning his powders?”

“He had already told me the results he had reached. I shared his opinion
that the main difficulty was solved. In the composition of explosives
there was nothing more to do besides introducing a few details of
manipulation.”

“And you knew his formulæ?”

“I know every one of them.”

“You could prepare them?”

“Without the slightest difficulty.”

“That is what I was afraid of,” exclaimed Baradier, sorrowfully.

“What! Afraid of? But it is very lucky for us all. For Geneviève, for
whom a fortune is assured; for the Army, which will possess the Trémont
powder; and for the General’s memory, by reason of the glory attaching to
so important a discovery.”

“Well, Marcel, I beg of you,” said Baradier, in trembling tones, “for the
sake of us all, for the time being, not to breathe a word to any one
concerning what you have just revealed to us. It is a matter of life or
death. So long as those who have killed Trémont remain at large, and
unpunished, there will be no safety for those who might be suspected of
being in possession of his scientific secret. It was to rob him of this
that the blow fell. In Heaven’s name, be very careful not to let it be
known that you have been taken into the confidence of our friend.”

“Do not be uneasy,” said the young man, with a smile. “No one in the
world knows, except my uncle and yourself. I feel no inclination to
proclaim it on the housetops. But I cannot refuse to refrain from
profiting by it, when the right time comes, even though there may be
risks to run.”

“Nor do we. But let us continue our investigations. Trémont was very free
with you. He spoke to you of his private life. He told you of his
adventures in the early days of his military career.”

“Poor man! That was his only weakness. His heart remained as young as
ever. His imagination was very inflammable, and he gave way to it with
unparalleled facility. I was often obliged to stop him.”

“Did he mention nothing that had happened recently?”

“No; he appeared preoccupied and less expansive than usual. Probably he
had been recommended to be very discreet, and his promise had been given.
I must say that his passion for the fair sex rather disgusted me, and I
gave no encouragement to tales which appeared to me unworthy of our
friend’s noble mind. Latterly, therefore, finding him reserved and quiet,
I did not encourage him to speak. I preferred him to say nothing on the
subject.”

“What a pity! Just the time when his explanations would have been so
useful.”

“It is always so!”

“Had he made no fresh male acquaintances? Was there no name you could
catch?”

“He spoke to me of no one except a foreign savant, with whom he had
struck up a friendship, and who seems to have been an extraordinary man.
He suspected him of being a nihilist, and that worried him. But he spoke
of him with the utmost admiration.”

“Was he a Russian?”

“I do not know. His name was Hans.”

“Hans!” exclaimed Baradier. “That was the name of the man whose arm was
torn off! It is the name on the ring worn by the man who caused the
explosion of the house at Vanves. This is the first flash of light.”

“So the General was acquainted with this Hans? Still, Hans is a German
name!”

“Only a German Christian name. As you are aware, there are several
Russians of German origin. If the Hans in question is the author of that
catastrophe, the end he aimed at by obtaining access to the General might
well be the possession of the formulæ of the explosive found by him. But
then, how had he become acquainted with the discoveries the General kept
strictly secret?”

Graff, who had not yet spoken, but had been listening in a reverie to the
observations exchanged between his brother-in-law and his nephew, raised
his hand, and slowly began, as though following the slender thread of a
still fugitive idea—

“You are getting lost. The motives of the instigators of this crime—for,
certainly, there are several of them—are of a much higher order than you
imagine. You are looking for robbers trying to obtain possession of some
exceedingly fruitful discovery, or of anarchists on the scent of some
powerful means of extermination. All this is very vulgar and commonplace.
You have to deal with criminals of a higher stamp. The care they took to
rob Trémont after killing him prove that his murderers wished to throw
one off the scent. When one has a house to pillage, he does not linger
behind to steal a watch or a pocket-book. The mysterious proceedings of
those who effected the _coup_ are those of political conspirators, and
the thing that gives the whole plot its special character is the presence
of a woman. Every undertaking of interest to foreign politics, for the
past century, has been carried on by women. From my point of view, this
is in a large measure what must have taken place. One or several European
States have been acquainted with the investigations carried on by
Trémont. His communications to the Institute may have sufficed to give
the alarm. Immediately, means have been sought for becoming intimate with
him, or obtaining his confidence. Our friend’s nature has been studied,
and a young woman, clever and beautiful, has been fastened on him, soon
to serve as intermediary between the General and Hans. The latter is no
Russian, but probably some native of Baden. The woman is a spy in the
service of our enemies. The man, introduced into the premises by the
woman, failed in his attempts to obtain, by trickery, Trémont’s secrets;
accordingly he had recourse to violence. Be certain the whole _coup_ was
entered upon for interests far higher than you imagine. You see a
Lichtenbach in the affair, and imagine that it is in his interests that
Hans and the mysterious woman have been playing each a perilous game. You
attach to him more importance than he deserves. You must seek higher, or
rather not seek at all, for nothing will be found now.”

“I cannot deny,” replied Baradier, “that Graff’s explanation possesses
some semblance of likelihood. Graff is a man of imagination, who often
sees things that do not exist. Still, in the present circumstances, he
would be a bold man who would say that he was mistaken. Perhaps his
supposition and mine both contain part of the truth. What cannot be
doubted is that the authors of this audacious plot are persons who will
shrink before nothing. Accordingly we must be prudent, and not appear to
suspect them, living in just our usual manner. Apparently we must abstain
from all participation in the work of justice. If the police succeed we
shall be satisfied, without having been involved in the affair. If they
find nothing, as is very likely, then our turn will come. In my opinion
clever and cool-headed criminals it is almost impossible to run to
ground. It is only by their imprudence that they betray themselves. It is
when they begin to be no longer on their guard that there is a chance of
finding some clue to their guilt. So, after all, the most prudent and
skilful plan will be to wait. Marcel will return to Ars—”

“Not until I have seen Geneviève.”

“Of course, you will dine and sleep here, and take the train to-morrow
morning. Your mother and uncle will not be sorry to see a little of you.”

“And my father?” asked the young man, smiling.

“And your father. Now come along with me to see your mother. Graff, you
are staying in the office?”

“For a few minutes. Then I return home, but will be back in time for
dinner.”

Proceeding along an inner staircase, father and son reached the private
rooms, and were astonished to find in the hall a tall footman waiting
there.

“Your mother has visitors,” said Baradier. “How has that come about;
to-day is not her reception day?”

They entered Madame Baradier’s small salon. There she sat, pensive, near
the window, her needlework lying idly in her lap.

“What! You here?” said Baradier. “I thought you were receiving.”

“The visit is not for me.”

“What is the meaning of this? No one can have called for Amélie. Then it
must be for Mademoiselle de Trémont?”

“You are right,” said Madame Baradier.

“What is the matter with you?” asked the banker. “There is something
extraordinary going on. Explain.”

“It is, indeed, very extraordinary. It is a schoolmate of Geneviève, who
has come especially from the convent to assure her of her sympathy and
affection; a trusted servant came with her, since her father could not
come in person.”

Baradier’s face turned crimson, as he asked with a frown—

“Then it is—?”

His wife did not give him time to continue. They understood one another
at a glance.

“Yes, my dear, it is Mademoiselle Lichtenbach.”

A silence fell throughout the room. Marcel had gone straight to his
mother, to embrace her. He now stood looking at his father, who, standing
before the mantelpiece, was endeavouring to fathom the meaning of this
unexpected visit.

“What is she like?” asked Marcel.

“I scarcely looked at her, I must confess, my child. When her name was
announced I was very much astonished. Amélie and Geneviève were with me
at the time. I left them in the salon as soon as Mademoiselle Lichtenbach
entered. She appeared to me to be tall, and rather good looking. It was,
however, her voice, a sweet, charming voice, which impressed me most
favourably.”

“It is different from her father’s, then,” growled Baradier.

“And how long has she been here?”

“Half an hour, at least.”

“And my sister is with them?”

“She could not help staying with them, otherwise it would have been a
show of hostility quite out of place. Parents’ enmities, I hope, form no
necessary part of children’s inheritances.”

“Mother, what you are now saying is contrary to all poetical tradition.
Look at Romeo and Juliet. What would become of literature were there no
hereditary enmities? They form part and parcel of romantic
stock-in-trade. The deuce! We must not diminish it, as it is becoming
less and less quite fast enough!”

Baradier was not listening to his son; he remained still plunged in his
own reflections. At last he murmured—

“What has she come for? Why has Lichtenbach permitted her to come?”

“Shall I go and ask her?” asked Marcel.

“Try to be serious, Marcel,” exclaimed the banker. “This is no matter for
jest.”

“Oh, I know that well enough. I wonder what it is that upsets you so
much? Here is my mother as pale as death, and yourself in a fever-heat,
and all because a young girl has come to sympathize with her school-mate!
There is something extraordinary going on.”

Baradier glanced sideways at his son, and replied in a tone of
irritation—

“Don’t be such a fool, Marcel. You are incapable of understanding!”

Marcel bowed, in mock humility.

“Thanks! What do I owe you for that?”

But Baradier had no time to give way to his increasing irritation. The
door of the salon opened, and Amélie appeared on the threshold.

“Mamma, Mademoiselle Lichtenbach would like to say good-bye to you before
leaving.”

“She seems to be very well bred,” said Marcel, in low tones. “Are you
going, mother? I will accompany you. I should like to see what she looks
like.”

It was in vain that Baradier shouted to his son—

“Marcel, stay here; I forbid you!”

Already the young man, with a laugh, had slipped behind his mother into
the salon.

“The young rascal will never have any common sense,” moaned Baradier. And
he sat down in the seat his wife had just left, vaguely listening to the
sound of voices, which now reached him.

At the very first glance Marcel Baradier noticed that Mademoiselle
Lichtenbach was of a very elegant figure, with a countenance of great
gentleness. On further examination he did not find her pretty. Her
features were irregular, but her face was lit up by eyes of limpid blue,
radiant with frankness and amiability. She was standing there, an upright
and slender form, in her sombre school-dress, with the blue ribbon on her
breast. On Madame Baradier introducing Marcel to her she made a
respectful bow, and said in delightful accents—

“I could not take my leave, madame, without thanking you for your kind
welcome. Mademoiselle de Trémont and myself are very fond of one another.
For a year we have been close companions, and I sympathize with her
present suffering, as though her loss were also mine. It is a great
relief to me, now that we are obliged to separate, to know that she will
be with one who loves her. I hope you will permit her to speak to you of
me, so that she may not forget me too soon, and, perhaps, instil into
your mind a little of the sympathy her heart feels for me.”

Marcel was still under the charm of the voice that uttered these gentle
words, when those clear, luminous eyes fell on him. He returned the look
with an inquisitive and, perhaps, rather bold glance, for she immediately
turned aside. At the same time a slight blush, as though accompanied with
a shudder, passed over her smiling face, which suddenly became serious.

“I must thank you, mademoiselle, for the sentiments you express regarding
our dear Geneviève. For ourselves,” continued Madame Baradier, “rest
assured we shall not endeavour to influence her in her affections.”

Mademoiselle Lichtenbach bowed, gave a graceful nod to Amélie, and, on
passing in front of Marcel, heard the latter say to her, in troubled
tones—

“Permit me, mademoiselle, to show you the way.”

Opening the door of the salon, and, taking the mantle the young girl had
left in the hall, he placed it over her shoulders. Then, walking by her
side, his mother and sister looking on in stupefaction, he descended the
steps, followed by the footman. On reaching the bottom he said, with a
charm full of grace—

“Mademoiselle de Trémont’s departure will doubtless make your stay at the
convent seem rather sad to you now, mademoiselle?”

“Yes. I hope Geneviève will not forget me, but come and see me.”

“After all, probably you will not stay long yourself at the Sacre-Coeur.”

“I was like Mademoiselle de Trémont, alone with my father. Geneviève will
find a mother in Madame Baradier, whilst I—”

She left the sentence unfinished. Marcel, however, well understood the
sadness of her meaning—“I shall remain abandoned, as I have been all my
life. My youthful years will pass away behind the sad walls of a convent,
under the cold, methodical surveillance of nuns, most excellent persons,
but incapable of giving me that warmth of affection I need to be happy.
My friend is leaving me, and all the sweetness of my life is past.”

She looked so melancholy and resigned that Marcel was moved with pity at
her grief. They had now reached the brougham, the door of which was held
open by the footman.

“No, mademoiselle,” said Marcel. “Rest assured Geneviève de Trémont will
not forget you.”

He fastened his eyes on Mademoiselle Lichtenbach’s face, which now, in
feature, seemed delicate and charming in its modest grace; then, bowing,
he added, in lower tones—

“I do not think you are one of those whose fate it is to be forgotten.”

Mademoiselle Lichtenbach smiled and bowed. Then, entering the carriage,
she said to the servant—

“Drive back home.”

Not another word was exchanged, whilst the footman climbed to his seat,
and the coachman put the reins in order. Marcel, with head uncovered,
stood there on the footpath in the Rue de Provènce, looking through the
window of the brougham at this young girl, who appeared so simple and
attractive to him, though he had never seen her until an hour before.
Mademoiselle Lichtenbach sat there with bowed head, while a smile played
on her lips. The carriage started, and the charm was broken.

On returning to the house Marcel reflected: If the father is a rogue, the
daughter, at any rate, is a very charming person. After all, she is not
responsible for her father’s misdeeds. But all this has nothing to do
with me. In all probability we shall never meet again, so she may be what
she likes. All the same, he could not get over the idea that Mademoiselle
Lichtenbach, daughter of the declared enemy of Baradier and Graff, was a
very striking character.

“Well,” said his father, who was awaiting his return, “you show yourself
very polite. You could not be more gallant to a princess.”

“Probably not,” said the young man, calmly.

“Will you have the goodness to explain why you show yourself so obliging
towards the daughter of our enemy?”

“For the sole reason that she is the daughter of our enemy.”

“It may be very chivalrous on your part, but to me it appears stupid.”

“Do you intend to introduce the fair sex into your quarrels?”

“I should like to see how Lichtenbach would treat your mother and sister
if ever they fell into his power!”

“Let us hope we may never experience it. Still, Baradier and Graff are
not obliged to act like Lichtenbach. Ask my uncle what he thinks about
it.”

“Oh, your uncle is too sentimental. For the last hour I have been trying
to find motives for this intervention. Evidently Lichtenbach wishes to
throw us off the scent by this demonstration of affection for
Mademoiselle de Trémont, but it is this very thing which awakens my
suspicions. Do you know what Barentin, of the Supreme Court, told me
lately? Not twenty-five per cent. of the criminals are ever discovered,
and then only by their own folly. The rich calculate, and are almost sure
of impunity.”

“My dear father, if the whole might of the law cannot seize a murderer,
how can you expect Baradier and Graff to succeed? We must be sensible,
and not attempt impossibilities. We will do the best we can—you by
protecting Mademoiselle de Trémont, and I by assuring her the fortune her
father promised her. For the rest let us trust in Providence.”

“In Providence!” growled Baradier. “Trust rather in the devil! Attend to
what I tell you, Marcel. Your mother, yourself, and myself are all
involved in the quarrel between Lichtenbach and your uncle. Lichtenbach
is one of those revengeful _men_ who strike both their enemies and their
enemies’ offspring. Trémont has met his fate; it will be our turn next.”

“No, father, our turn will never come,” said Marcel, energetically. “At
the very first threat, the faintest attempt, I will go to Lichtenbach
myself, and settle all our accounts with him at a single time. That I
swear!”

Graff, clean shaven and elegantly attired, now entered the office.
Baradier signed to his son to say no more, and all three mounted to the
salon to join the ladies.



CHAPTER IV


IN his study, soberly furnished, Elias Lichtenbach, seated in front of a
large Louis Fourteenth bureau, was speaking in low tones, as though
afraid of being heard, to a priest, lolling at ease in an enormous
armchair. By the light of the setting sun, the sharp, bony face of the
banker, with his _keen_ eyes and thin, well-shaven lips, could be faintly
distinguished. He was no longer the stout healthy-looking Elias of former
days. The cares of life had withered the flower of youth on his cheeks,
and wrinkled the once careless brow. The jaws were still pronounced, but
hard and thin, like those of a powerful and ferocious man-eater. The
hairy hands, long and grasping as they lay there on the desk, revealed
unusual love of wealth. A black skull-cap covered Lichtenbach’s bald
forehead. His visitor was a young and elegant ecclesiastic of graceful
and intelligent mien. He spoke with a southern accent, which gave his
voice a kind of hilarity in sound.

“It will be a very profitable undertaking. The property we have in view
has no value whatever at present, nothing but waste land and marshes. The
purchase will be effected in your name, and when we have signed an
emphyteutic lease with you, we shall at once commence building. We want
an advance of three hundred thousand francs.”

“There will be no difficulty there,” said Lichtenbach. “I have clients
disposed to lend—”

“You need not go very far, eh?” said the young priest, with an ironical
glance at the drawer of the desk, over which the banker spread his
formidable hands.

“No, Monsieur l’Abbé, not very far, indeed; but, all the same, not here.
It is a principle of mine never to advance money on securities which
cannot immediately be realized. Now, the matter you have just been laying
before me offers no actual guarantee. But that does not matter. You wish
me to find the capital.”

“After all, this is the main point. Still, we have to rely on others than
yourself. These gentlemen will not place their confidence lightly. They
trust you, as they are certain of you, but they would not listen to
strangers.”

“These gentlemen, as usual, will only have to deal with me,” said
Lichtenbach, with deference. “I know what I owe them, and they will
always find me at their service.”

“Then, as soon as the land is bought, and placed at our disposal, we
immediately commence excavations, which will reveal the presence in the
subsoil of the layers of ore I have been speaking to you about. At a
bound the value of the land will be increased tenfold. You will sell back
a small part of the ground, and with the profits, without further
expenditure, we shall have paid for the establishment of our community.”

“If the tenor of the ore is such as you state, the exploitation, once
granted to a company, will bring you in large revenues for several
years.”

“That is what Monseigneur said on receiving the report of the engineer
who undertook the soundings. Oh! we need a great deal of money to make
the work a success,” sighed the young priest. “Our religion is attacked
with such violence that if we do nothing but defend it we are lost. We
must carry the war into the enemy’s territory.”

“That is my own opinion, Monsieur l’Abbé. As you see, my journal has
zealously undertaken the campaign.”

“Yes, it is doing good; but your _panache blanc_ is not sufficiently
dogmatic as regards pure doctrine. Too much space is given to speculation
and business enterprise. Your columns smack too much of the Bourse.”

“Monsieur l’Abbé,” replied Elias, roughly, “I do not possess, as these
gentlemen do, the art of conducting business in a double-faced manner.
But I will learn from them.”

“Come, do not play the jesuit, my dear Lichtenbach,” said the young
priest, airily. “We appreciate your services; that you have had proof of,
and shall have again. By-the-by, who is this wounded man we picked up
yesterday at Issy? The poor fellow was in a bad way. He came under your
recommendation.”

Elias turned pale. In tones of alarm he exclaimed—“Not so loud! Monsieur
l’Abbé—not so loud! No one must suspect that—”

“Oh! what a state you are in! Rest assured. The Superior and myself alone
were taken into the poor wretch’s confidence. After all, he said very
little. He was completely exhausted by the efforts he had made in
dragging himself to our door. It was four o’clock in the morning, and the
whole brotherhood was at matins. It was, accordingly, possible to
introduce the wounded man without any one seeing him. It was quite time,
for, as soon as he was put to bed, he fainted away.”

“Who is attending to him?”

“Our Superior himself; he has a thorough knowledge of medicine. Besides,
the arm was cut off as though by a thermo-cautery, and all that had to be
done was to dress the wound. The man has given evidence of the most
heroic courage. But now he is ravaged by fever, and he speaks.”

“What does he say?”

“A most extraordinary mixture of things. He mentions, in almost the same
breath, a fortified camp in the Vosges, and a war powder possessed of
extraordinary virtues. His object is to carry off the plans of the
former, and obtain possession of the formula of the latter.”

“Does he mention no names?”

“Yes, the name of a woman, whom he calls Sophia, and sometimes the
baroness. He consults and threatens her in turn. She appears to be his
accomplice in some underhand work or other.”

“Has he expressed himself more clearly?”

“No, he beats about the bush, and it is impossible to understand his
meaning. After all, you have nothing to fear.”

Elias gave a sigh of relief.

“Monsieur l’Abbé, I am not afraid for myself, but for others. I am
engaged in great international relations, as you are aware. The interests
entrusted to my care represent not merely immense capital, but a great
number of human lives. It is accordingly my duty to be very prudent.”

The young priest gave a gesture of protest. His countenance assumed a
serious expression.

“I do not want to hear anything about it, M. Lichtenbach. These
gentlemen, as you are aware, are thorough Frenchmen. Everything that
happens beyond the frontiers is foreign to them—I might almost say
hostile. Outside of France, which we love with deep and enlightened
tenderness, and wish to save from the corruption of revolution, we
recognize only the Pope, Sovereign of all Catholics, and our chief, whom
we blindly obey. Keep your secrets; we will respect them, as you are
serving us. But do not expect from us any help in the success of
enterprises which would not concur towards the triumph of the cause to
which we are devoted—monarchy and religion. In all else you will find us
neutral. That is all you may expect of us.”

“Have you been commissioned to tell me this?” asked Elias, in tones of
anguish.

“No, my dear Lichtenbach; I was only to speak to you of the ground
purchase.”

“Thanks, Monsieur l’Abbé. Tell them I will send my agent to-morrow to
Grasse, to bring the matter to a conclusion, and that before the month is
over we shall be in possession.”

“Very well!”

The young Abbé rose from his seat. He stopped, and, in negligent tones,
said—

“Ah! I was forgetting. Have you heard of that frightful catastrophe which
took place at Vanves? The explosion even shook the buildings here at
Issy. Were you not acquainted with this General de Trémont?”

Lichtenbach looked paler and more sombre than ever, as he replied
stammeringly—

“Yes, Monsieur l’Abbé, I knew him a long time ago.”

“It appears he was a dangerous maniac, dabbling with chemical experiments
which were destined to kill him in time. A person of doubtful morality as
well, according to public rumour, and who, even at his advanced age, gave
himself up to the most degrading debauchery. He will not be missed. They
say he was assassinated and robbed, before his house blew up. That is
what comes of investigating in explosives! Well, _au revoir_, my dear
Lichtenbach. When you come to see the patient give me due notice, and I
will introduce you to him privately.”

Lichtenbach made no reply. He showed out his visitor with a semblance of
respectful humility. Then he bowed, as to a superior, and said—

“Assure your friends, Monsieur l’Abbé, of my devotion to their
interests.”

“Good! Though it is scarcely necessary,” replied the young priest,
carelessly; and, slowly descending the staircase, he disappeared.

Lichtenbach, in thoughtful mood, returned to his study. It was now almost
dark. Where the Abbé had just been sitting, a female form now sat
stretched out in the armchair. A fresh, clear voice said—

“It is as dark as in an oven here, Lichtenbach; let us have a little
light.”

“What! You are here, Baroness!” exclaimed the banker, eagerly.

“Yes, I have just arrived. Was that the little Abbé d’Escayrac you were
just taking leave of?”

Lichtenbach had turned on the electric light, bringing into view the
unceremonious visitor Elias had just called Baroness. She was a
light-complexioned young woman, of exceeding beauty, with proud profile,
blue eyes, intelligent forehead, though there was an expression of
harshness in her small mouth, with its charming red lips, as well as in
her strong chin. She was very elegantly clothed in black, and wore a
hooded lace cloak. Patent leather shoes covered her charming feet.

“Have you been here long?” asked Elias abstractedly.

“No, I have only just come, I say. Your servant showed me into the salon,
and I came in here when I heard your visitor leave. Do not be uneasy, I
was not listening to what he said.”

“Oh! I have no need to be on my guard against you.”

“Yes, you mistrust me, as you do every one else. I do not blame you for
it. It is a sign of prudence. Though, all the same, you have nothing to
fear from me, and neither have I from you.”

“Oh! Baroness, you know that I belong to you, body and soul,” exclaimed
Lichtenbach.

“Yes, yes, and you would not be sorry if the converse were true, would
you?” interrupted the young woman, with a mocking smile.

The banker’s pale face lit up with passion; he drew near the Baroness,
and, taking her hand within his own, said—

“And yet, Sophia, if you would only—”

Withdrawing her hand, she tossed her head with an air of disdain, and
replied—

“Yes, but I will not, there!”

“Never?”

“Who can tell? If ever I am in great pecuniary difficulties, perhaps I
may apply to you. Would you advance me money, Lichtenbach, if I needed
any?”

As she spoke she looked at the banker with a bewitching glance and a
smile full of promise. The latter, as soon as mention was made of money,
regained possession of himself. Placing his hand on her lap, he said, in
a tone of assurance—

“I will give you as much as you need.”

“You undertake a great deal. Take care! After all, there is no hurry; the
time has not come yet.”

As she spoke, she drew back slightly from Lichtenbach’s presence. The
latter sighed—

“Ah, Sophia, you are a terrible flirt—your only pleasure consists in
making men mad.”

“I? You are dreaming, Lichtenbach. Have you ever seen me trouble about
any man unless it were to my interest to do so? And yet you say such
silly things. One would think you did not know me!”

“On the contrary, I know you well. Even better than you imagine, for
there are portions of your short life-which, all the same, has gone
through so many sensations—which you leave in a favourable light, so that
I have understood them. You are very clever and bold. I, too, am very
tenacious and patient, and have an instinctive knowledge of what it is
useful for me to know, as well as the means of obtaining information.
Accordingly, I am well aware what you are to-day, Baroness Grodsko. But I
also know what you were before.”

Sophia’s eyes flashed, and her lips contracted, giving her face an aspect
of terrible import. Looking boldly at Elias, she said, dryly—

“Ah, ah! Tell me all about it. I should be very pleased to know what you
have learned about me. If it is true I will not deny it, upon my honour I
will not. If false you may stop the wages of your informers. When one has
spies in one’s pay one should always try to have reliable and intelligent
ones.”

“Mine never deceive me; it is not to their interest to lie.”

“We shall see about that. Well—”

“Well, before becoming the wife of Baron Elmer Grodsko, a Hungarian
nobleman, who quarrelled with his family in order to marry you, you were
dancing and singing at the theatre of Belgrade, in a touring troupe,
directed by an adventurer, half villain, half rogue, named Valaque. It
was there that Baron Elmer, on his way from Varna, saw you, fell in love,
and carried you off, after shooting down Escovisco, who pursued him with
a poniard.”

The young woman’s lips quivered, as she said with a look of disdain—

“Then that is all you know? You cannot go back any further than the
theatre of Belgrade, and the Escovisco affair? You are making much ado
about very little!”

“Oh! I was proceeding in order. I could go back further, and tell you of
the mysterious strange death of Madame Ferranti, a charitable lady of
Trieste, who had taken you, almost dead with hunger, from the streets
into her service. You were sixteen years of age. Your benefactresses had
a son. On the day his mother died—she was said to have been poisoned,
though there was no definite proof of this—young Ferranti left home with
you, carrying off all the ready money, negotiable deeds, and jewels of
his dead mother. Was it you or he who gave Madame Ferranti the cup of tea
she drank before she fell asleep never to wake again?”

“Indeed it was neither he nor I. It was an old servant, who had been
twenty years in their service. Besides, she confessed it, and as there
was no proof against her, nor against any one else, she was released.”

“Whilst you set out for Venice, and had a pleasant time with your
companion. Ah! He had a fine way of mourning for his mother, the young
Ferranti! It was at the Café Florian, on the Place Saint-Marc, that, one
evening when he was drunk, the young ninny picked a quarrel with an
Austrian major, who, the following morning, on the Lido, ran six inches
of steel into his body, killing him on the spot.”

“Quite true! Poor Ferranti! He was a handsome fellow, who waltzed
divinely, but was too fond of absinthe. It _was_ that which killed him,
or rather the stoccata of Major Bruzelow—a fine man, whose moustaches
went almost round his head, but as stupid as his sabre, and as dangerous.
It was he who forced me to leave Venice, where I was enjoying myself so
well! I could not even speak to a man without the Major challenging him.
He would have called out the whole town; I was obliged to go.”

“The Austrian police had something to do with it, had they not?”

“I have always hated the Tedeschi, and they have always paid me back in
the same coin!”

“So that you cannot return to Austria, even now?”

“No, all by reason of that fool of a Grodsko.”

“And what has become of this excellent Grodsko, who broke his mother’s
heart all for your sake?”

“The excellent Grodsko spends the summer in Vienna, and the winter at
Monte Carlo. Both winter and summer he gambles to pass the time, and when
he has lost he drowns his disappointment in drink.”

“Does he always lose?”

“Yes, so he is always drinking.”

“Here are a few corpses already, if I know how to count, to your credit,
without mentioning the grief, despair, and shame of others. You have
lived a very exciting life, though you have scarcely yet reached the age
of thirty.”

“I was twenty-eight last week,” rectified the Baroness, coldly.

“You have trampled on humanity as on a carpet to gain your objects:
luxury, pleasure, domination. And here you are to-day more brilliant,
better loved, and more powerful than ever, with a strength of will which
shrinks before nothing, and a conscience ready for anything. Am I right?”

She looked boldly at Lichtenbach, then, drawing from her pocket a
cigarette-case of chased silver, she took out an Oriental cigarette,
which she lit with perfect coolness; then she replied in gentle tones—

“Quite right, though incomplete. I am far more to be dreaded than you
imagine. You are well aware of it, but are afraid of displeasing me by
depicting me as I really am. You are in the wrong. I have such a scorn
for mankind that you cannot vex me by declaring me to be ready to profit
by it, as though it were a piece of merchandise. In my opinion, men are
no more interesting than cattle destined for slaughter. They serve to
feed and enrich me; it is for that they toil and die. Apparently, it is
their function, since they cannot escape this fate, and as soon as one
disappears another offers to replace him. Are you going to say that I am
a destroying flail? Possibly. All over the world there are beings born
for work, sacrifice, and suffering; as there are others born irremediably
for idleness, egoism, and enjoyment. It is nature which has made it so.
To some instinct manifests itself, leading to servitude, to others
leading to tyranny. Beings exploited and exploiting, beasts of burden and
beasts of prey. Is not that the sole social classification founded on
common sense? Look all around you, Lichtenbach, it is an invariable rule:
a flock of simpletons led away, fleeced, and strangled by a few audacious
individuals. Will you reproach me for being of the number of those who
strangle, rather than of those who fleece? We are both at the same game,
Lichtenbach; the only difference is, I am bold enough to confess it,
whilst you are hypocritical enough to say nothing. Our object is the
same—the exploitation of the human race for our greatest mutual profit
and pleasure. There you are! If I am wrong, prove it to me now.”

She had spoken without raising her voice, and the calm tone in which
these terrible theories had been expounded as they came from that
charming mouth formed so strange a contrast with the ferocious cynicism
of the confession that Lichtenbach, who, although he appeared to have no
illusions left concerning his beautiful and dangerous partner, was placed
for a moment out of countenance. He had very few scruples, this
trafficker in all kinds of goods, who had commenced by despoiling his
country in its hour of trial, and who continued speculating on social
poverty and infamy. But now he found himself confronted by a creature
more audacious and violent, if not more redoubtable, than himself, And he
weighed in imagination the perils she might make him incur and the
advantages she could bring him. This beautiful, intelligent, and
unscrupulous woman was an admirable instrument. He knew what she was
capable of, but he had no wish to run so great a risk as she ran without
any need. The adventures which offered the Baroness Sophia her most
certain means of existence were not open to him; other matters, those of
a man on the eve of becoming a Deputy, perhaps a Minister, and those of
this industrial cosmopolity, coining money with filth and blood. His
coolness returned. He had said too much that was foolish at the beginning
of the conversation. The time had come to mitigate the confidence of the
beautiful Sophia, and to give her to understand that, between herself and
himself, their existed a stout barrier of respectability and of millions
of francs.

“On the whole, my dear Baroness,” he said, “there is some truth in what
you have just said, though your manner of explaining yourself is rather
exotic. Your pompous and declamatory cynicism is of the Orient. All you
have declared a few moments ago may be summed up in a very few words;
human inequality is unchangeable. There are fools and rogues. The first
are exploited by the second, under the surveillance of the police and the
control of the law. In your theory, you have not granted sufficient
importance to police and law. I could not recommend you too strongly to
pay more attention to them. They are one of the most important factors in
the problem you are spending your life in solving. If you consider them
as a neglectable quantity, one of these mornings you will receive a rude
awakening.”

She smiled disdainfully—

“The small fish are caught in the meshes of the net, the large ones break
through and escape. I am afraid of no thing or person except myself. I
alone am capable of doing myself any harm. That, of course, I never think
of doing.”

“Not just now. But you have gone through moments of anxiety. I heard that
in London two years ago.”

A dark cloud came over Sophia’s brow. She suddenly flung her cigarette
into the fire, and in changed accents, said—

“Yes, I have committed acts of folly, for I was in love. And a woman in
love becomes as stupid as a man.”

“The object of your affections was an actor, I believe, the handsome
Stevenson?”

“Yes, Richard Stevenson, the rival of Irving.”

“You were madly in love with him, but he played you false. Accordingly,
one evening you found means to entice your rival on board a yacht you had
hired, lying at anchor on the Thames. Since that time she was never heard
of.”

“Ah! You are acquainted with that anecdote? Indeed you have been well
informed. Do you also know that Stevenson, to whom in a fit of madness I
had said that he would never see her again, beat me with his cane, and
left me almost dead on the spot?”

“The stick presented to him by the Prince of Wales, doubtless. You must
have felt highly flattered. It did not prevent you two days later from
going to the Empire, and cheering your brutal persecutor.”

“Yes, I loved the wretch; but now, luckily, all that is over.”

Lichtenbach burst into a laugh.

“What have you done with the handsome Cesare Agostini?”

“Ah! He forms a mere pastime for me. I must interest myself in some one
or other. That is no passion at all.”

“All the same, he costs you a great deal, I suppose?”

“Enormous sums! These Italians are terrible spendthrifts. This one knows
one good way of making money, and ten better ways of spending it. In the
first place, he is a gambler, and then, he cannot see a fine ring without
buying it. But then, he has a few good qualities. He is no novice at
either pistol or sword.”

“He is simply a bravo.”

“At your service, if there is any one you wish to be rid of.”

“Is he bold and intrepid?”

“Yes; but, above all, to be relied on. Try him, you will be well
satisfied.”

Lichtenbach’s countenance grew dark, as it always did every time a
subject was mentioned which did not please him, and he said in arrogant
tones—

“Much obliged, but I do not deal in drama; comedy is sufficient for me.”

“Ah! You’re fond of a joke. You are still one of those good apostles who
insinuate a crime, have it executed, and then exclaim in candid tones, ‘I
have had nothing to do with it!’ Have you had nothing to do with this
affair at Vanves, I should like to know?”

This time Elias became quite angry.

“Silence! What are you thinking of to cry out in such a loud voice? Are
we the only ones in the house?”

She burst into a laugh.

“Well, well! You amuse me! For an hour you have been telling me my own
history, without the slightest precaution, and when I make the slightest
allusion to your’s you tremble with fear. You do not mind compromising
me, but not yourself. Very kind of you.”

“My daughter is here, and I have no wish—”

“For her to know you under your real aspect. For you are a regular
scoundrel, Lichtenbach, and of the very worst kind, one who wishes to
keep up appearances, even with one’s accomplices. Do you think you can
deceive me, eh? Your jesuitism has no affect on me; I am well acquainted
with your lubricity. In the whole world there is no more villainous
character than yourself, and yet you wish to be taken for a man of honour
and virtue!”

Lichtenbach, pale with fear and anger, exclaimed—

“Baroness! Really, you wish to throw me into a passion.”

“Oh no, no! Now I will be very nice with you. Listen, my voice is a mere
whisper. Lean over and listen. I need a hundred thousand francs to-night,
to have Hans carried off to Geneva. He can bear the journey now. Cesare
has gone to see him.”

“Do you think he will survive?” asked Lichtenbach.

“Yes. That vexes you? You would rather be well rid of him? Calm yourself,
he would bite off his tongue rather than betray a companion. Besides,
what does he know? That your interests were the same as ours, and that,
had he found the formula for the explosive for commerce, you would have
paid as much for them as those for whom we are working would have paid
for the war explosive. The _coup_ missed. Hans is maimed. But, thanks to
me, you are free from all suspicion.”

Looking calmly at Elias, she said—

“A hundred thousand francs, on account.”

“On account?”

“Yes, on account. And do not waste any time. General de Trémont, whom you
hated so strongly, has been killed for you. How much would you give for
Baradier and Graff.”

“Nothing, nothing!” groaned Lichtenbach. “What crimes are these you are
laying to my account? That I desired the death of General de Trémont and
am anxious to harm Baradier and Graff? You are wandering! It is sheer
madness! Certainly they are my enemies, and have done me a great deal of
harm. But, commit a crime on that account! Never, never! If they were to
die, ah! I should consider it as a divine providence, but hasten their
last moments by a single hour or minute, I, great God!”

“Of Abraham, of Jacob, and of Moses! Yes, my fine renegade! My good
Lichtenbach!” said the Baroness, with a look of scorn. “Yes, you are
quite ready to accept the favours of providence, incarnated under the
features of the Baroness Grodsko, but you will not take the initiative
yourself. Hypocrisy again! You ask for nothing, but you accept all! Well,
your unuttered prayer shall be granted!”

“Baroness! In the name of God, do not compromise me. Do not proceed
without instructions.”

“Ah, ah! How terrified you are. You remind me of old Trémont when I
handled his chemical products after dessert. ‘Don’t touch that, it is
deadly!’ he would say. Meanwhile, I tried to take in wax the impress of
the lock of the iron casket, which Hans succeeded in opening, but which
cost him his arm. And all for nothing. The box exploded, and destroyed
the secret in the midst of the flames. But some one has this secret, and
I must find it out. Whatever it cost I will obtain possession of it!”

“What have you been promised for it?”

She looked at him, with a laugh.

“You are very inquisitive! Don’t think I shall tell you, however.
Professional pride apart—for, after all, one does not care to fail in a
mission of this importance—the affair is worth all the trouble I am
taking. Meanwhile, my hundred thousand francs!”

Lichtenbach opened a drawer, took out ten bundles of bank-notes, and held
them out to the Baroness.

“Here they are.”

“Thanks. Now, Lichtenbach, what would you say if it were young Marcel
Baradier who was the depository of old Trémont’s formulæ?”

Elias sat up with renewed interest.

“What! What makes you think—”

“Ah, ah! Cannibal, you have just smelt human flesh, and have become quite
young again in consequence.”

“Baroness, you will kill me with anguish.”

“Ah! Yes, you look as though you would die, indeed! Hate, Lichtenbach,
hate is a far stronger sentiment than love, is it not?”

He made no reply. The only thing that was now of importance to him was
the supposition Sophia had just given utterance to. He saw nothing,
except that the son of his deadly enemy might possibly be in possession
of this secret they were so anxious to fathom. If only it were possible!
Suppose chance were to give him the opportunity of crushing the very
people he hated with all his soul, and, at the same time, depriving them
of a fortune. He asked the Baroness in eager tones—

“What makes you think the General took Marcel Baradier into his
confidence?”

“In the first place, they saw one another constantly; the young man was
admitted into his laboratory, a most exceptional favour. I know well he
worked there with Trémont, who had entire confidence in him. However
mysterious a man may be, however close and sullen, a fatal hour is sure
to come, when he is forced to unburden himself. The General would never
have imparted his plans to a man, even to his best friend, for he was as
cunning as a fox. But, after dinner, with a good cigar between his lips,
he felt strongly impelled to dazzle me, and as he could not do this
either by his youth or his beauty, he attempted to win me over by his
genius. In this way, on different occasions, he let slip several small
incidents, which, collected and coordinated by a good memory, form a
certainty.”

“Then all is not lost?”

“Nothing is ever lost.”

“Then what are you going to do, Baroness?”

“You shall know when it is to my interest to tell you.”

“You have no confidence in me?”

“Under what pretext should I have confidence in you? I know you only too
well. You will serve me until the time comes when you find it more to
your advantage to throw me over.”

“I!”

“You, Elias Lichtenbach; but that is all the same to me—I hold you now.”

“Do you hope to succeed?”

“I always hope to succeed. Look at me now, please.”

She threw back her head with a movement of voluptuous grace, which seemed
to intensify her beauty a hundred-fold. She smiled, and her eyes and lips
assumed an expression of passionate ardour, which sent a thrill through
the veins of Lichtenbach. Who could resist this creature’s imperious
power? She well knew the extent of her charm. At a sign from her men
became changed into slaves. She was the magician who loosened human
passions and appetites, and led lost creatures to folly, shame, and
crime.

“Yes; you will succeed in whatever you undertake,” murmured Lichtenbach,
fascinated by her charm.

“No exaggeration! I am not infallible, as you know, since Trémont escaped
me. Still, I will do everything a human being can do to succeed. Have
confidence, and keep calm, that is all I ask.”

A rolling of wheels was heard under the carriage gate, and a trampling of
horses’ hoofs announced the return of Mademoiselle Lichtenbach.

“It is my daughter returning,” said the banker.

“Then she is at home for the present?”

“She wished to assist at the funeral of the General de Trémont, whose
daughter is a friend of hers.”

A smile flitted across the lips of the Baroness.

“Chance or precaution?”

“Chance,” said Lichtenbach, coldly. “They are both at the Sacre-Coeur.
They found themselves thrown together, and a mutual attachment sprang
up.”

“And now that you know of it, you encourage this intimacy?”

“I never oppose my daughter.”

“That is true; I forgot. You are a good father, Lichtenbach. It is the
last concession you have made to humanity. And it is there that you are
still vulnerable. Take care!”

“My daughter is an angel, who prays for me. I dread nothing. She has her
mother’s goodness and grace.”

“And she imagines you to be a good and honourable father. Suppose the day
were to come when her eyes were opened about yourself?”

Elias stood upright in threatening attitude.

“Who could do that?”

“One of your enemies; you do not lack them now. Perhaps a friend; the
world is so wicked.”

“His boldness would cost him dear!” growled Lichtenbach.

The Baroness arose. She walked about the room for a few seconds, as
though undecided to leave. Then she asked—

“Before I go, could I see your daughter?”

Lichtenbach looked steadily at her, then he replied rudely—

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it is useless.”

“Are you afraid that I shall corrupt her by speaking a few words to her?”

“Perhaps.”

“Bravo! Well, you are frank now, at any rate.”

Lichtenbach raised himself to his full height, and, repaying Sophia in a
single moment for all the insolent expressions she had been so prodigal
with the last hour, said—

“Mademoiselle Lichtenbach can have nothing in common with the Baroness
Grodsko.”

Sophia gave a gesture of indifference.

“Very well. As you please. _Au revoir_, Lichtenbach.”

She was going in the direction of the hall when he stopped her.

“Not that way.”

Opening a door, concealed behind some folds of tapestry, he said—

“Go down this staircase, you will meet no one.”

“There is no trap-dungeon at the bottom?” she asked, laughingly.

“No; there is only the concierge’s room.”

“Adieu. No ill will?”

“I should think not; you ought to be well satisfied. You carry away with
you indulgences to the extent of a hundred thousand francs. _Au revoir_.”

She disappeared. He returned to his desk in dreamy mood. This woman, so
dangerous and depraved, always disturbed him, though he knew her well.

A knock at the door threw him from his reverie. Rising to open it, an
expression of pleasure came into his face. It was his daughter, who had
come to see him.

“Am I not disturbing you?” she asked, with a shade of uneasiness in her
voice.

“No, my darling, you never disturb me. Have you had a pleasant visit?”

“Very pleasant. They were all very kind to me.”

Lichtenbach said nothing; his eyes fell on the ground. He did not wish
his daughter to catch their expression.

“Madeline is very fortunate to find such devoted friends in her trouble.
Madame Baradier is an excellent lady. She is going to keep the poor girl
with them. Although I am very sorry she is leaving the convent, since we
shall be separated in future, I am very glad to know that she has found
such good friends. It will be like a renewal of life for her.”

“You are so sympathetic, my little Marianne.”

“The blow which has struck Madeline is so terrible. Can anything more
terrible happen to a child than to lose its parents? And when one has no
longer one’s mother, as was the case with both of us.”

The young girl’s voice shook, tears stood in her eyes. Lichtenbach turned
pale, but kept his eyes still fixed on the ground.

“It was this similarity of situation which, from the very first day, drew
us together. Our common sorrow has been the source of our affection. It
seemed to us that, as we were less loved than the rest we ought to be all
the dearer to one another. She had for her father the same affection I
have for you. It seems he was a great _savant_. Did you know him?”

He was obliged to reply. In tremulous tones he said—“No; I have only
heard mention of him.”

“He was a very close friend of M. Baradier, and the godfather of his son
Marcel. They all bewail his loss.”

Lichtenbach raised his eyes from the ground; he looked at his daughter
with keen look—

“Who has told you all this?”

“Madame Baradier and Madeline.”

“You have spoken to Mademoiselle Baradier?”

“Yes; and to her mother as well.”

“And the son also, perhaps?”

The sudden harshness of tone in Lichtenbach’s questions troubled
Marianne. She stopped astonished—

“But, papa, I assure you, everybody was exceedingly kind to me. M. Marcel
Baradier accompanied me right to the carriage. Was it not quite natural?”

“Yes, yes, perfectly natural. Repeat to me all they said to you. Did they
make no mention of me?”

“Not once. Your name was not even pronounced. I was surprised at that,
for the Baradier family must know you. You formerly lived in the same
town.”

“Yes, we lived in the same town, and left it together. But we did not
travel the same road. For, I ought to tell you, there was no friendship
between us. My father and the Graffs had been hostile to one another.
Graff is Baradier’s brother-in-law.”

“But all this happened so long ago that it is doubtless forgotten.”

“No, my dear girl,” said Elias, solemnly. “Nothing is forgotten.”

“So you are not well disposed towards Madeline’s friends?”

“Had I been ill disposed, should I have permitted you to call on them?”

“Then it is they who wish you ill? That must be unjust on their part, for
you are so good and kind. There must be some misunderstanding, and you do
not know one another sufficiently.”

“It is not so, my child. We have long known one another very well, and
have always been opposed to one another. You are grown up now, and in a
position to learn what life has in store for you. Very well! From the
Baradiers and Graffs you have nothing favourable to expect. Every time
you have dealings with them be on your guard. I had made up my mind to
enlighten you some day on the situation this inveterate hostility has
created between us. To-day is as good a time as any. I permitted you to
enter the house which has received Mademoiselle de Trémont that you might
not be in a position to accuse me of having concealed from you the least
fraction of truth. Now you have seen the Baradiers, and you are convinced
that I can treat with them on equal terms. Your grandfather Lichtenbach
suffered a great deal at their hands in days gone by. He was an honest
man, who commenced life in a very humble way. They humiliated and
tortured him. When I was a poor little trader they spread abroad all
kinds of calumny and slander about me. But I repaid them for all their
insolence to old Lichtenbach. All this happened before we had left
Lorraine—long before you were born. Still, this kind of hatred leaves an
almost indestructible ferment in the heart. Whatever goes back to days of
childhood and youth remains graven more firmly in the memory than things
that happen in mature life. The Baradiers and Graffs came to Paris, so
did I at a later date. We have been separated by life more completely
than by immense distances, for in this great city, from street to street,
quarter to quarter, one is more separated than from province to province.
And yet, we have never forgotten the past. The Baradiers and Graffs are
the inveterate enemies of the Lichtenbachs. Keep that well in your mind,
my child, and let it be the rule of your conduct under every circumstance
in life.”

Marianne looked at her father uneasily.

“Then you wish me to espouse your quarrel?”

“God forbid! I love you too well to endanger your peace of mind, and I
will do all I can to protect you from anything which might cause you pain
and suffering. I have opened your eyes, for you must know how to discern,
at a given moment, the causes of certain events, and the bearing of
certain expressions. Leave to me the responsibility of assuring your
security and happiness.”

“Can I go and see Madeline again?”

“Why should you? If you do not call on her what will prevent her coming
to see you?”

“I shall be at the convent.”

“Not for ever.”

The young girl gave her father a beseeching look as she said—

“Ah! If you would only let me stay with you, how pleased I should be.”

Lichtenbach’s face lit up with an expression of joy and gladness.

“What would you do here?” he asked good humouredly.

“I would keep the house for you. There is great need of it, though I do
not wish to criticize. A woman would not leave this fine mansion in so
gloomy and so dismal-looking a condition. So little would be needed to
arrange the rooms so as to make them comfortable and agreeable. Besides,
you could devote yourself entirely to your own work, and you would see
how much better everything would go. It is not a man’s _rôle_ to give
orders to servants. Would you not like to have some one about you who
would ever be affectionately on the watch to attend to your every need
and comfort? I am eighteen years old now; they no longer know what to
teach me at the convent. Very soon it will be I who will be giving
lessons to the pupils. Have I been born into the world to be a teacher at
the Sacre-Cœur? You have a daughter; she does not belong to others, she
is your own. Why don’t you keep her to yourself?”

As she spoke she flung her arms round him and pressed him to her breast,
so that the paternal instinct of Elias warmed gently under the influence
of her fond caresses. This man, harsh-natured and ferocious as he was,
became filled with generous and tender sentiments as his child looked
down upon him. A sigh escaped his lips.

“If I were to listen to you, should I not be doing something very
imprudent? One should be alone and untrammelled if he wishes to remain
strong and safe.”

“But what are you afraid of? To listen to you one would imagine you were
in a state of war with enemies lying in ambush for you. Is life so full
of dangers? Is there no protection in this world from one’s foes?”

Elias smiled.

“Simple upright minds never see anything threatening to be afraid of.
They are blind. But sagacious observers look at everything with anxious,
uneasy eyes, and see danger all around. Look at the sea; at the first
glance all you can distinguish will be an immense sheet of water,
azure-blue, the mirror of the sky, furrowed all over by vessels, and
troubled by the winds. Then lean over, and try to pierce the ocean’s deep
bed, and you will see frightful reefs, whose existence you never
suspected, and terrible monsters ever on the watch. _Débris_ and wrecks,
the lamentable remains of ships and seamen, will prove to you that danger
is ever present, that catastrophes are everyday events, and to avoid
them, unceasing attention and prudence are needed. It is the same with
society, which you believe trustworthy, and with life, which you judge so
easy. The surface is smooth and attractive, but beneath everything is
monstrous and terrifying. Still, I am here to watch over you, do not be
uneasy. By my side you will be sheltered from danger, and as you wish to
stay at home, my dear child, you shall do so. Your presence will be a
consolation and a joy to me in the decline of life.”

Holding out his arms, she threw herself on his breast with a cry of
gratitude. Lichtenbach, rather ashamed at having given way to such tender
emotions, said briefly—

“Well, that is settled. I will send to the convent for your wardrobe and
all your belongings, and you shall settle down here at once.”

“Oh, my dear father, it would scarcely be worth while to take back the
few garments I have; they may be disposed of in charity. There are only a
few personal souvenirs I should like to keep. You will give me some
money, will you not, as a present for these excellent nuns who have taken
such good care of me?”

“But you are rich, my darling,” said Elias, with a smile. “You have your
mother’s fortune, which has been accumulating interest. Besides, I must
give up my accounts to you.”

Marianne went up to her father, and, kissing him tenderly, said—

“This will serve as a receipt for everything!”



CHAPTER V


M. MAYEUR, examining magistrate, was seated in his study, near the
fireplace, whilst his clerk, in listless mood, was engaged in questioning
one of the agents, charged with investigating the Vanves affair. M.
Mayeur was terribly bored; he was accustomed to carry through sensational
affairs, without giving himself much trouble. The results were obtained
with regularity, and as though by enchantment. Chance seemed to favour
him, and he was reputed to be the luckiest judge on the bench. He had
become accustomed to his good fortune, so, when the Vanves affair had
been placed in his hands, he gave a smile of satisfaction and confidence,
whilst his clerk, rubbing together his hands, with a look of pity for the
culprits, said—

“We shall not need to spend much time over this matter!”

And yet matters were dragging along slowly. For a whole week, M. Mayeur
had multiplied his investigations, sent out detective after detective,
summoned witnesses, and fulfilled judicial commissions. Nothing came of
it all. As he expressed it, he was moving about in a thick fog, from
which he could not escape. Every evening the Government agent sent for
him, and asked in satirical accents—

“Well, Mayeur, where are we now?”

And the magistrate, accustomed as he was to success, found himself
obliged to reply—

“Ah, sir, we are still on the look-out, but we have found nothing yet.”

“Ah, ah! The deuce! A week already flown since the crime was committed.
Your chances are diminishing. In proportion as time passes, false tracks
appear, and the scent becomes fainter. I expected a better result from
you! As a rule, your inspiration is clearer.”

“But there is nothing whatever to take hold of—not the slightest clue in
the cursed affair!”

“What! Nothing? You have the corpse of the victim, the house in ruins,
and the arm of the assassin! What are you doing with this latter? It
ought to reveal something.”

“For the present it is in the frigorific apparatus,” growled M. Mayeur.
“But neither corpse, nor house, nor arm gives me the slightest results.
An evil genius seems to have passed over everything, carrying with it
death and mutilation, and leaving nothing behind. It is enough to drive
one mad!”

“Gently, Mayeur, keep a cool head, whatever happens. Persevere. You have
been spoiled by success, but do not be discouraged; at any moment light
may flash on the whole affair, and clear up everything.”

What caused M. Mayeur the greatest chagrin was that he was perfectly
aware of the secret pleasure his want of success gave all his colleagues.
A magistrate who had failed in so important an investigation; how could
he expect to be nominated to the Assize Court, contrary to all normal
promotion, if he had no longer his invariable good luck as his supreme
justification? And, seated in his study, with his back to the light,
looking vacantly into the fire, whilst his clerk ran the risk of
dislocating his jaw with too much gaping, M. Mayeur, to satisfy his
conscience, in mournful accents, questioned one of his agents, who had
returned after a fruitless search.

“So there was no trace of the wounded man having passed through the
cottage gardens, nor on the road to Paris?”

“No, sir. I have visited all the inns frequented by the quarrymen and
gardeners of the district. No one could give me any definite information.
One would imagine the murderer had been annihilated by the explosion
itself.”

“Nothing of the kind! He was tracked to within three hundred paces from
the Trémont property, and there a trail of blood, quite visible, which he
had left all the way, suddenly disappeared. Did he, at that spot, find
his accomplices waiting for him? Was he carried off? How and where?
Nothing but darkness and obscurity!”

“Those who committed the crime are not professional thieves, although the
General has been robbed of objects of value he carried on his person.
Accordingly, they will not be found so easily. That is where the whole
difficulty comes in.”

The magistrate gave a gesture of discontent, as though to signify that he
knew all that. Stroking his beard, he said, with a sigh—

“You may go now. Send me Baudoin, the General’s servant, whom I have sent
for afresh.”

The agent bowed, and left the room. A moment after the door opened again,
and the valet’s resolute, intelligent face appeared. He already
sympathized with the clerk, who gave him a friendly nod. The magistrate
said, in sulky tones—

“Take a seat, M. Baudoin. I have disturbed you once more, with the object
of explaining certain details which I find incomprehensible.”

“Do not apologize, sir; it is no disturbance if it is for anything
concerning the General. Ah! I should only be too happy if I could give
you any efficient help in your task!”

How could this servant throw light on a mystery which he, Mayeur, could
not succeed in unravelling? Well, it could not be helped. The clerk
seemed overjoyed at his master’s humiliation. He had been worrying him
long enough with his lack of capacity. A striking failure would make him
less self-confident, and he would be a little more indulgent towards his
subordinate, whom he always appeared to look upon as an imbecile. Fume
away, my good master! That will not help you much. And the clerk gave
another mighty yawn.

“This woman you saw leave the carriage at the door of the house—was she
tall or short?”

“Rather tall. But as she was wrapped in a large mantle I could not say
precisely. By the way in which she descended from the carriage, I should
imagine she was rather slender in build.”

“And her companion?”

“Oh! her companion; I saw him distinctly. He was a strong man, with a
thick beard, light-complexioned, and brutal in appearance. He wore a grey
felt hat and a dark suit. His accent was foreign, and—”

“Do you think it is the man your master called Hans?” asked the
magistrate.

“It could be no one else. The General received no one, except his
friends, Messieurs Baradier and Graff. The people who came on different
occasions at night to the villa must have been regular villains for him
not to permit me to stay with him.”

“What do you consider the reason of this precaution on the part of M. de
Trémont?”

“The fact that he would see me trying to fathom the plots of this lady
and her acolyte.”

“Then, in your opinion, it is a feminine intrigue which is at the root of
the matter?”

“Apparently, yes.”

“And in reality?”

“It was their object to steal from the General his formulæ for the
manufacture of his new powders.”

“Then the woman was only an intermediary?”

“An intermediary, no. They well knew the General would never consent to a
bargain. A bait, yes. I did not see the woman, but every time she came
she left the General’s study impregnated with a peculiar perfume of a
very captivating odour. Oh! I should recognize it amongst a hundred! The
woman’s voice, too, was caressing and seductive. Ah! my poor master! She
knew what power she had over him. That woman was capable of anything—of
driving mad a brave warm-hearted man like my master, of pouring over him
the poison of her looks and smiles, and having him cruelly killed for
some cause I know nothing of. As for the man Hans, he was only an agent—a
well-informed man, for the General respected his opinions, and could
speak with him of his discoveries, but not of the same social position as
his accomplice. He was an ordinary, even a rough individual. The woman’s
prestige must have been demanded to have had him received by M. de
Trémont, who was so aristocratic.”

“And you could never find out, by means of the cook, who remained in the
house, what took place when you had left the house?”

“No, she was of a very dull intellect. Outside of her work, there was
very little to be obtained from her. That is the reason M. de Trémont had
no cause to mistrust her. All the same, she saw the woman on several
occasions, and told me that she was a miracle of beauty—young,
light-complexioned, with eyes that would have damned a saint. She spoke
with the General in a foreign language. Now the General could only speak
English and Italian.”

“Was your master rich?”

“No, sir, he had a very modest fortune—about twenty thousand francs
income. But his discoveries were very valuable. And it was these the
woman was aiming at. In all probability, whilst she was with the General,
her accomplice was examining the papers and searching among the
products.”

“You never found any paper dealing with the relations of the General with
this woman?”

“Never.”

“What became of the telegrams the General received telling him of the
arrival of his visitors?”

“The General burnt them himself. I saw him do it. Ah! Every precaution
was taken by my brave master not to compromise the fair Baroness. God
knows how he loved her! He trembled like a student at the idea of seeing
her!”

“And yet he never gave up to her the secret of his discoveries?”

Baudoin’s face became serious.

“Ah! He was reserving his secret for France. I heard him say so more than
once, after an experiment which satisfied him: ‘Baudoin, my good fellow,
when our artillery has this powder, we shall no longer be afraid of any
one.’ Certainly the General was passionately fond of this woman. But he
loved his country far more, and between the two, he did not hesitate.
Besides, that was certainly the cause of his death. They could not
succeed in taking his secret by fair means, so they attempted to obtain
possession of it by force.”

The clerk had ceased yawning; he was listening to Baudoin with
sympathetic interest all the while he was writing his deposition. He
wrote down the main outlines only, for it was the third time M. Mayeur
was having the same thing repeated to him, as though he hoped to discover
among expressions already heard, some special signification which would
permit him to unravel the truth. And it was always this love intrigue,
cloaking the criminal attempt, the bearing of which he could not succeed
in gauging. Was it a matter that concerned international politics or was
it mere spying? Or simply a bold attempt to seize a commercial product of
considerable value? Still, before whatever hypothesis he stopped, there
was obscurity with regard to cause, ignorance concerning details, an
impenetrable mystery which maddened him, and which seemed as though it
would compromise his career. Flinging himself back in his chair, he said—

“Yes, the criminals have taken great precautions. The General is dead,
the servant, too, is dead, and you had been sent away. The wounded man
has disappeared, as though buried in the bowels of the earth. And the
unknown woman is mocking at our researches.”

Baudoin shook his head.

“So long as attempts are made to find her, she will hide, and nothing
will be discovered. If the matter concerned me, I know what I should do.”

M. Mayeur, in his distress, flashed at the valet a look of curiosity.
When he, the examining magistrate, so famous for a resourceful
imagination, no longer knew what expedient to try, a simple witness
pretended to understand the position, and point out the means to be
followed. He was on the point of crushing him with official disdain, by
telling him to trouble with what concerned him, when he thought that,
after all, advice was not to be neglected, and he might despise it
afterwards, if necessary. He accordingly asked, in mocking tones, to
safeguard his dignity—

“Then, what would you do, M. Baudoin?”

“Please pardon me, sir, if what I say is foolish, but if the affair were
in my hand, instead of sending out in every direction, seeking
information everywhere, I would not stir a step. I should let it be known
that I had given up the pursuit, and was engaged in something else. You
must know what takes place in a barn, where there are mice. There is a
general rush to the holes as soon as the sound of entering feet are
heard. If you remain quiet, after a few moments the mice are seen to be
risking out again, and playing about the floor as before. Well, I believe
it would be the same in the present case. I beg pardon, if I interfere in
the matter, but I, too, am bent on finding the rascals who killed my
master, and if I can contribute towards their capture it will be the
brightest day of my life.”

M. Mayeur no longer cast a disdainful glance at the General’s valet. He
smiled at him in most amiable mood. For, in a flash he had furnished him
with the means of taking advantage of the difficulty in this cursed
affair. When the Government agent should say to him, that very
evening—“Well, my dear Mayeur, where have you got to now? Nothing yet?”
instead of replying in a tone of vexation, “Nothing at all,” thus
confessing his inability to discover, and even the absence of grounds on
which to found his researches, he would be able to reply: “This matter
has been badly begun, I undertake to recommence everything _ab ovo_. We
have to deal with rogues who are exceedingly cunning. I intend to change
my plans entirely.” This time he would no longer appear incapable, as
though he were entrusted with a task too difficult for his capacity. He
would secure an honourable retreat, and gain time as well.

Resuming his stiff and formal gravity, he said—

“There will be plenty of time to act as you suggest. But I have still at
my disposal many other means of throwing light on the subject.”

His clerk, pen in mouth, could not help laughing outright. When Mayeur
was at bay, without a single idea in his head, befooled by the culprits
when he had not the slightest idea where to look for them, he still
pretended to “throw light on the subject.” Light on the subject! It was
enough to make any one laugh! He gave Baudoin a wink, and noisily rattled
his desk.

M. Mayeur, as though he guessed the secret hostility of his subordinate,
said to him—

“Just go and see if Colonel Vallenot has come from the Ministry.”

The clerk stretched himself; showed Baudoin his cigarette-case, with a
grimace which signified, “I’m just going to smoke one,” and left the
room. M. Mayeur followed him, bolted the door, and returning to Baudoin,
said—

“I would rather we were alone in discussing the subject I am engaged on.
The slightest indiscretion in so delicate a matter might ruin everything.
Just now you gave me a piece of advice which I might follow to advantage.
Still, you did not tell me everything. You are better informed than you
have yet shown. Perhaps they are only suspicions, still, I am sure you
are quite determined to help justice in an energetic pursuit of your
master’s murderers. Why have you not perfect confidence in me? We have
the same object in view. Come, M. Baudoin, be frank and open. You imagine
you have discovered some means of laying hands on the culprits?”

Baudoin raised his head, and looking fixedly at the magistrate, saw that
he was in passionate earnest. He thought that he had really an ally in
him, and that professional secrecy guaranteed his discretion, and
accordingly made up his mind to speak.

“Well! yes, I have a means by which we shall lay our hands on the
culprits.”

“What is it?”

“First of all, swear that what I am about to say shall not be repeated.”

“But—,” protested the judge.

“Take it or leave it,” declared Baudoin, bluntly. “I am risking my life
and that of others as well. I shall say nothing, unless you give me your
word of honour not to repeat to a living soul what I am going to entrust
to you.”

“Not even to my chief?”

“Not a word to any one! Do you give me your promise?”

“Very well! I promise.”

“Well, then! as I told you before, in matters concerning scientific
research, the General had confidence in no one except a young man whom he
loved as though he were his own child, M. Baradier’s son. I have reason
to believe that M. Marcel knows M. de Trémont’s formulæ. If, therefore,
the villains we are on the look-out for have the slightest suspicion that
they might in this direction try the _coup_ which failed with the
General, as soon as they are reassured as to the result of the present
search, they will set to work afresh. It is there my task will begin. I
am entering the service of M. Marcel, and I shall not leave him a single
moment. Besides, I have a friend, who is accustomed to such work. I am
taking him with me. The two of us are organizing a continual
surveillance. If the plot recommences, we let it develop, and intervene
at the critical moment. That is my plan. That is why I made bold, a few
minutes ago, to advise you to give up the game, to all appearance. With
villains like those with whom we have to deal, there may be a great deal
of trouble. Now, you may do all that is necessary to give me a hand, and
as soon as developments have come to a head, I will immediately lay the
matter in your hands.”

The examining magistrate reflected for a moment, then said—

“All this is outside of legal precedent, but the situation is an
exceptional one. Above everything, we must succeed! If we have to deal
with determined criminals, as I imagine is the case, this is not their
first attempt, and perhaps we shall capture a whole gang. Put into
performance, therefore, the plan you have indicated, and, at the
slightest difficulty, come to me, and I will summon all the forces of the
law to your aid. You need simply show me the beginning of the thread, and
I will go right to the end.”

“Good; you shall hear from me at the right time. Not another word, for
here is your clerk returning.”

The clerk knocked at the closed door, and the magistrate opened it.
Colonel Vallenot stood in the passage, and M. Mayeur addressed him—

“Come in, Colonel, take a seat.”

Turning towards Baudoin, he said—

“You may now retire, M. Baudoin; I don’t think I shall need you for some
time to come. All the same, if you leave Paris, give M. Baradier your
address, so that the summons I shall address to you may reach you in good
time.”

Baudoin bowed to the magistrate, saluted the Colonel in military fashion,
and left the room. When he was gone M. Mayeur returned to Vallenot, with
a smile on his face; he could not allow his discouragement to appear in
public.

“The Minister of War delivered a very solid speech last night in the
House.”

“Yes; they try to mystify him, but he is able to defend himself. He knows
what he is talking about, and a direct attack always succeeds with
Parliamentarians.”

“_Imperatoria brevitas_,” sneered the magistrate.

After a short pause he asked in honeyed tones—

“Have your researches come to a point yet?”

The Colonel replied bluntly—

“Not at all; they are no further advanced than yours.”

M. Mayeur smiled faintly.

“Ah, ah! Then we make no progress?”

“If I were not afraid of offending you I should say that we were going
backwards.”

“That appears to be exactly as the matter stands,” said Mayeur, with a
look of intelligence.

“Ah! Have you obtained some clue at last?” asked Vallenot, perplexed.

“I am not in a position to explain, but have patience; a surprise is in
store for you.”

“How delighted the chief will be! The whole affair has put him in such a
nervous condition that the whole staff suffers in consequence. He is
never out of a temper; one does not know how to manage him.”

“To return to our investigations abroad, what result have they given?”

“We have obtained the certainty that, if an attempt has been made to
obtain possession of the formulæ of General de Trémont, the Triple
Alliance has had nothing to do with it. Ever since the last espionage
affair, the different Governments have given orders to their agents to
observe the strictest reserve. If there really has been a plot it can
only have been made by the English. You are well aware that their
artillery is quite out of date, and they are trying to recover ground.”

“So there are nothing but suppositions; no proofs?”

“None whatever. In Paris, or, at any rate, in France, there are half a
dozen women well known for their international intrigues, and who might
have been suspected of having acted the _rôle_ of the Baroness with the
poor General de Trémont. Those known to have been in France have been
strictly watched. Besides, the majority form part of our
counter-espionage, and could have informed us, whilst still in the pay of
another nation. So far as Hans is concerned, a police report from
Lausanne announces the arrival in Geneva of a wounded man, whose arm has
been amputated. He is from Baden, and is named Fichter. The accident took
place in a wire mill in the neighbourhood of Besançon. Accordingly, he
could not be at the same time in the Jura and at Vanves. All the same,
the description of him corresponds exactly with that given by Baudoin. If
this Fichter is the man we are seeking, the proprietor of the wire mill
must have given accommodation certificates, or a substitution must have
taken place on the way between the two men. All this is very improbable.
So, you see, the matter is involved in greater obscurity than ever.”

“Yes, yes,” hummed the magistrate, who appeared so absent-minded that the
Colonel looked at him in amazement.

“You take all this very calmly!” said Vallenot.

“What is the use of getting excited? It never serves any useful purpose.”

“Then you have not lost all hope?”

“Why should I?”

“The deuce!”

“Ah! my friend, success often comes at the very time you think everything
is lost.”

“You magistrates are very lucky; it is not so in the Army. When you
expect Grouchy it is always Blucher who comes!”

“Well, we shall see.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“Let the whole affair slide for some time. It is too premature to do
anything yet.”

“In other words, you are shelving it?”

“Yes, I am shelving it provisionally.”

“Then you abandon the whole affair?”

The magistrate looked gravely at Vallenot and, to the profound amazement
of his clerk, said humbly—

“I do, if no fresh incident happens.”

“Have I to inform the Minister of this?”

“Please do so. Tell him I am sorry, and wish I could have done better.
That has been impossible. Still all is not lost, in my opinion. We shall
see at a later date.”

The Colonel stood there rather disconcerted by this unexpected solution,
and as he took his leave he shook his head, saying—

“A pleasant message you send me with. I shall be received like a dog in a
game of skittles.”

“Nonsense! You are the favourite. I am off to the Government agent. He
will not grumble; on the contrary, he will poke fun at me. Still no
matter. He laughs best who laughs last!”

Shaking the Colonel by the hand, he conducted him to the passage, and
returned to his office. He signed several sheets of paper handed to him
by his clerk. The latter, devoured by curiosity, said—

“Then the matter is really finished, sir! Are you giving it up?”

“One cannot do what is impossible,” said Mayeur, negligently. “A house
cannot be built without scaffolding. Here we have no grounds to work
upon. I am not strong enough to invent what I am ignorant of. It is
already difficult enough to obtain benefit from certain proof.”

A look of pity came over the clerk’s countenance. So long as the
magistrate had manifested a tranquil assurance of success he had, in his
conscience, violently criticized him. Now that his master showed himself
modest and simple he disdained him. Nothing but a poor fellow, after all,
who was very lucky when things went well, but gave up the struggle at the
very first difficulties.

“Just put away that brief into my case. I am going to the Public
Prosecutor’s office,” said the magistrate. “Afterwards you may go; it is
five o’clock. I will see you to-morrow morning.”

Colonel Vallenot, meanwhile, was rolling away in a cab in the direction
of the Ministry. On entering his chief’s ante-chamber he came across
Baudoin, who was leaving the Minister’s cabinet. Stopping him, he said—

“You have just seen the General?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Is he in a good temper?”

“Yes, Colonel. You had better hurry, sir, if you wish to find him in.”

“What! He is going out?”

“I heard him say that he was going to the Chamber.”

“You had something to ask him, Baudoin?”

“No, Colonel. I wished simply to speak to him of the affair of General
Trémont.”

“In what respect?”

“The magistrate makes no progress, and seems to me as though about to
abandon the matter altogether.”

“You told this to the Minister?”

“Yes, not five minutes ago.”

“And how did he receive the communication?”

“He whistled softly; then said aloud, ‘After all, perhaps it is better
so.’”

Colonel Vallenot looked at Baudoin, as though to make sure he was not
making fun of him. Then he shrugged his shoulders, as though he did not
understand, and declared, in vexed tones—

“Good! Good! Well, we will say no more about it.”

With a friendly gesture to the former soldier, he said—

“Good night, Baudoin. If you need anything send for me. We were all very
fond of M. de Trémont.”

And he passed along, muttering to himself—

“Everybody I meet seems to have lost his head.”

Baudoin descended the large staircase. He went out into the street, after
shaking hands with the concierge, and made his way towards the small
café, where, in condescending fashion, Laforêt watched the billiard
players, during the absinthe hour, eagerly playing pools. He was seated
in his usual place, smoking his pipe, and speaking to a neighbour, a
retired business man, who was telling him his domestic worries.

“Yes, sir; a woman who is always out of the house, and has never enough
money. The vaults of the Bank would not suffice for her. And whenever I
remonstrate with her she rouses the whole house with her cries. We cannot
keep servants, for she will not pay them, and when she is not pleased,
then there are blows! I have already been several times before the
Justice of the Peace on her account. The life she leads me is a regular
inferno!”

“Divorce her,” said Laforêt, curtly.

“But the greater part of our common stock is hers!”

“Then put up with her!”

“I can do it no longer.”

“Well, treat her as she treats her servants.”

“Ah! No! The deuce! She would pay me back in the same coin!”

Baudoin’s arrival interrupted the consultation. The unhappy tradesman
arose, and said—

“The only place where I have a little quiet is here.”

“Well, that is something. Good-bye, sir. Consider me at your service if I
can be of any use to you.”

Baudoin had taken a seat. Laforêt leaned over in his direction.

“Well, anything fresh?”

“Yes. I want you. But we had better leave here.”

The agent arose, took his stick, and left the café, accompanied by
Baudoin.

“Where shall we go?”

“Where we shall be neither disturbed nor overheard.”

“Then come along with me.”

They proceeded along the banks of the Seine, and, on reaching a quay,
Laforêt led the way down a flight of stone stairs leading to the
embankment. Under the shade of the elms, which twisted their knotty
boughs above the slimy, swift-flowing river, they sat down. On the
opposite bank the gardens of the Tuileries exposed to view their lovely
verdure. Lighters were unloading sand fifty yards on the left.
Ferry-boats sped swiftly along, crowded with passengers, and the distant
rolling of carriages formed a rumbling accompaniment to their words.

“Here we are certain that whatever we say will be heard by none other
than the birds or the fishes,” said Laforêt. “This is the spot I
recommend to you whenever you have any secrets to communicate to any one.
There is not even a single fisherman about. Now then, what have you to
tell?”

“Well, after three weeks’ researches, the examining magistrate is obliged
to confess that he has not made the slightest progress. Clearly, if left
to himself, he will never effect anything. Besides, the cleverest of them
would have been no more fortunate. There is nothing to seize hold of. The
culprits have plunged, and everything is quiet again. The upshot of the
matter is that our magistrate is about to stop all investigations, and
now I am free to go where I like, as I shall no longer have to spend all
the day walking about the corridors of the Law Courts. Accordingly, I am
leaving Paris.”

“Ah! Where are you going?”

“To stay with the son of my master, M. Baradier, who is at the works near
Troyes, in Champagne. The district is called Ars, noted for alkaline
springs and thermal waters, visited every summer by invalids.”

“Are you going to your master with the object of forgetting your
troubles?”

“No! Rather to keep watch over him. Since I have been in the house I have
spoken with his father, and learnt several things. M. Baradier is
informed that his son has received communications from the General de
Trémont, and now the famous formulæ can only be obtained from Marcel. M.
Baradier, I believe, would give a large sum if his son had never entered
the General’s laboratory. But that is a fact which cannot be undone. The
only important thing now is to defend the young man. This trust has been
confided to me. M. Baradier said to me: ‘Baudoin, Marcel is my only son,
and although he is not so steady as he might be, I am all the same very
fond of him. I do not want him to come to any harm. As soon as you are
free go down to Ars, and do not leave him.’”

“But why does this young man, who is so rich, and of whom his family is
so fond, shut himself up in a quiet provincial town? Why does he not stay
in Paris?”

“For several reasons. The best one is that his father considers it more
prudent for him to be at Ars than in Paris. Surveillance is more easy in
the country. Besides, M. Marcel, from what I have learned, has been
living rather too fast, and his father has cut off his supplies; but for
his uncle Graff, the young heir would have nothing whatever. Just now he
is desperately bent on finding a chemical process of wool-dyeing, and,
though he is rather a hare-brained fellow, as the General called him, he
has an extraordinary aptitude for scientific research, so that his work
will be sufficient to keep him away from all kinds of distractions.”

“He is rather a strange character.”

“The finest young man you would meet anywhere. Generous and lively in
disposition, not proud in the least. Ah! he will please you, I know, when
you meet him.”

“Then I am to make his acquaintance?”

“Certainly.”

“In what way?”

“Listen. As soon as I learned that I could leave Paris I rushed off to
the Minister to explain what I wanted to do, and asked him, if he wished
the affair to succeed, to give me permission that you should come down to
Ars whenever I need you.”

“I must have permission first.”

“You have only to see Colonel Vallenot, who has received instructions,
and he will give you your papers.”

“Good. And what shall I have to do afterwards?”

“According to circumstances. It is my firm conviction that the
catastrophe of which my poor master has been the victim, is nothing but
the beginning of a drama. Many important events will take place, and we
must arrange so as to prevent them from being harmful to the intended
victims. Serious interests are at stake. We shall probably have to deal
with matters that are anything but attractive. But then, afterwards,
everything will be cleared up. We must succeed. By the way, you must know
how to disguise yourself.”

Laforêt smiled.

“Do not be uneasy on that score. I will be there at the rendezvous you
appoint; but I will not vouch for your recognizing me when you see me.”

“That is all right, then. Unfortunately, I am not to be relied upon for
playing a double _rôle_. But I can well maintain my own, which will be
that of a watch-dog.”

“Then everything is settled?”

“So it seems. When I have a communication to make I will send my letter
to the Ministry.”

“Very good. Now let us get back.”

Mounting the stone staircase, they reached the quay, and took leave of
one another.

Laforêt made his way towards the Rue Saint Dominique; Baudoin crossed the
Pont de la Concorde, and returned to the Rue de Provènce by the Rue de
Richelieu and the boulevards. Messieurs Baradier and Graff were in their
office, along with the cashier of the firm, who was making inquiries
concerning the collection of debts. The cashier was saying—

“Do you know, gentlemen, that the ‘Commercial Explosives’ Company,’ of
which M. Lichtenbach is chairman, is on its last legs? The shares have
gone down considerably. It seems that there is an American company
competing with them.”

“Yes, so I have heard,” said Graff. “The Americans have found a product
of very simple composition, costing fifty per cent. less than dynamite.
They have already taken very large orders for Australia and South Africa.
That is the reason of the fall of the Lichtenbach Company.”

“Do not be uneasy, Bernard,” said Baradier to his cashier. “It will not
affect Lichtenbach, but his shareholders. You have no more letters to be
signed?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then, you may go now. Good night.”

“Good night, gentlemen.”

Baradier rose from his seat, and stood with his back to the fire.

“You see,” he said to his brother-in-law, “here we have a clear proof
that Trémont has been killed as much to rob him of his commercial as of
his military secret. Do you now understand how Lichtenbach would be
interested in being in possession of the formulæ of an explosive which
would be less costly than the American product, the discovery of which is
ruining the French company, and would be as effective though a hundred
times less in volume? For this is the real value of the discovery made by
Trémont, and which Marcel has explained to me. Accordingly, if
Lichtenbach, by some means or other, came into possession of the unknown
formulæ, he would only have to take out a patent, and secretly buy back
all the shares of the company which have now fallen so low. The day after
he had swept everything before him he would sell to the company all
property in the new explosive, and make millions at a single stroke,
without speaking of the future success of the product.”

“Yes, it would be a fine _coup_ worthy of him. He might give up to his
confederates the profits from the war powder, for they would be little
compared with those of the commercial product. Governments are not in the
habit of remunerating philanthropists who afford them the means of
marching triumphantly forward to a universal massacre.”

“Oh, don’t make any mistake. Marcel affirms that this discovery made by
Trémont is followed by the most frightful results. It is a kind of paste,
which, according to the way in which it is prepared, causes a formidable
detonation or else burns, without the slightest noise, even when in
water.”

“Greek fire?”

“Something like it. Or, rather, like an up-to-date cannon compared with
one of the fourteenth century. Torpedoes loaded with this paste, and lit
by means of a well-graduated mechanism, might at will envelop a ship in
flames at a single moment.”

“That would mean the suppression of all naval supremacy!”

“Ah! You understand. Now, do you think there exists any real security for
the possessor of such a secret? A State would have to be governed by
angels if it did not use its utmost endeavours to procure this monstrous
power of annihilating all its enemies and subduing all its rivals. This
is why Trémont was put to death, and why I have lost my sleep at the
thought that my son has openly worked with him and may be suspected of
having possession of this mysterious agent of destruction and greatness.”

“Send him away from France, on a cruise.”

“He would be in much greater danger away from France. The place where he
runs least risk is here among his friends. Ah! How glad I should be were
he rid of this heavy burden! I have begged him to hand over the General’s
formulæ to the Minister. It would have been announced in all the journals
that Marcel Baradier had handed over to the Technical Committee of
Explosives all notes relating to the experiments of General de Trémont.
After that he would have been free, and no further risk would have been
run. Do you know what reply he gave me?”

“No; tell me.”

“He said to me, with a smile, and in tones of calm assurance: ‘My dear
father, the General’s powder is still lacking in one slight detail. I
know what he intended to do, for he explained everything to me. Well,
then, I will continue his experiments, and when everything is complete I
will hand over the formulæ to the State, according to his
clearly-expressed will, and form a company with the commerce explosive to
enrich the General’s daughter.’”

“Does Marcel know what a risk he is running?” asked Graff.

“I became hoarse in telling him. But he is a Lorraine; he’s as obstinate
as a mule. To all my arguments he offered an imperturbable resistance. ‘I
alone,’ he said, ‘can manage the affair successfully. If I give the
General’s notes to the Technical Committee, one of those sharp fellows on
the Board will boast that he has made the discovery himself, and obtain
all the credit for it. Unless he spoil the invention by absurd additions,
which is at bottom a very likely thing. As for the commercial product, if
I open my mouth before taking all necessary precautions, it will be
stolen in an instant, and the General’s daughter will lose her fortune.
For these reasons, and others, I do not intend to abandon the work I have
begun.’

“‘But you are risking your life?’

“‘Is it so very precious? You spend your time in telling me I am a
rascal, that I am ruining you, and shall bring your name into dishonour.
Very good! You will be well rid of a guilty and unworthy son!’”

Graff struck his hands against one another.

“You see! That is the result of your harshness towards the poor child.
How can you expect him to listen to you?”

“Ah! Leave me alone!” exclaimed Baradier, pale with anguish, “I am
sufficiently worried with all this! You do not intend to make me
responsible for it, into the bargain! I love Marcel as well as you do!
The only difference is that I am not always fawning on him and giving him
money! We should have been in a fine state had you been the only one to
set him an example! All you did was to encourage his evil inclinations!
If he has done wrong, it is all your fault!”

“Yes! I, who have set an example to him, and practised what I preached!”
exclaimed Graff. “I being his evil genius, as everybody knows. Really,
Baradier, I wonder if you have gone mad!”

Baradier walked excitedly about the room, then, returning to his
brother-in-law, placed his hand on his shoulder, and said in trembling
tones—

“You are right! I believe I am losing my senses. Pardon me, this anxiety
has completely overwhelmed me. We have only Marcel, Graff. Think of what
would become of us, if destiny willed it that—”

Graff rose quickly from his seat.

“Not another word! It is unlucky to predict disaster. We must not even
admit that there is a disaster at all. Still, I cannot blame Marcel for
doing what he considers his duty. Did he act otherwise, he would be
neither a Baradier nor a Graff. He is acting very courageously. All the
same we must keep watch over him, and defend him against his own folly.”

At that moment, a knock was heard at the study door. Baradier went to
open it, and seeing Baudoin on the threshold, said—

“Ah! You have come at the right moment. First of all, tell us how things
are going at the courts.”

“Everything is at a standstill, sir. The examining magistrate can find
nothing. The culprits have left a vacuum behind them.”

“Well?”

“Well, M. Mayeur, in despair, unable to arrest the criminals, is simply
stopping all investigations, and shelving the affair.”

“That’s a fine idea! Is it his own?”

“No, sir.”

“What fool could have suggested such a course?”

“I did.”

“I congratulate you. Now, the rascals who have killed your master,
believing themselves sure of impunity, will recommence—”

“I am relying on their doing so!”

“But! Marcel? My son! What is to become of him? Have you even thought of
such a thing?”

“I have thought of nothing else. Here I am free. If you will allow me, I
will leave Paris this very night, and be at Ars about midnight. The news
of the affair being abandoned will not appear in the journals for a
couple of days. I shall have organized my surveillance by that time. I
promise you nothing shall happen to M. Marcel, or, at any rate, they will
have to begin with me.”

“Very reassuring!” growled Baradier. “But what can one do with such a
madman as my son? He is in danger everywhere. Ah, the cursed powder! What
need had Trémont to tell him of his inventions? If this explosive is as
dangerous to those against whom it is used as it is to its inventors,
there will be fine butcheries the next war.”

Baudoin philosophically paid no heed to these paternal recriminations.

He understood how correct they were, but could he do more than devote
himself to the defence of him who might at any time, be so gravely
threatened? When M. Baradier finally sat down, in consternation, Graff
decided to speak in his turn.

“After all,” he said, “as the wine is drawn, we must drink it. The thing
to guard against is not to poison one’s self with it. Forewarned is
forearmed. The situation is not the same as it was for the General. With
a little prudence it will be easy to make everything turn out right.
Patience brings all things about.”

“Have you finished with your proverbs, which have no meaning whatever?”
exclaimed Baradier, exasperated by his brother-in-law’s optimism.
“Without so much palaver, all that is needed is to give Baudoin
permission to summon the police in case he sees anything suspicious in
Marcel’s surroundings. For my part, I have more confidence in armed might
than in providence.”

“If you are interrupting me to say such nonsense,” replied Graff, “you
might have held your peace. Let Marcel work on. The sooner he has
finished the sooner he will be out of danger. Until that time, Baudoin, I
entrust him to your care.”

“Do not be uneasy, Monsieur Graff. I will answer for him with my life.
Besides, I am not trusting in myself alone. I am going to send for a
companion, who in himself is worth a score of men. I need say no more.
Trust to me.”

“Yes, my brave fellow, I will trust to you,” said Baradier.

“Very good,” said Baudoin, rubbing his hands. “Have you any message to
send to M. Marcel?”

“Tell him to be very careful; give him our best love, and ask him to
think of us at times.”

“By-the-bye, have you any money for the journey?”

“I have all I need, sir, thank you. Your servant, sir. _Au revoir_!”

Bowing, he left the room. Father and uncle remained behind, silent and
grave, plunged in reverie. After a time Graff stood up and said—

“Nothing ill will happen. Of that I am sure. I feel it. You know I am
never mistaken. In business, every time we have had a loss I have always
had a very clear intuition of it beforehand. Be assured, Baradier, we
shall come out of it without loss or damage.”

The anxious father replied—

“Heaven grant you may be right! But so long as there is a woman in it I
cannot be at rest concerning Marcel. Ah! if it were only you or I, there
would be no danger. But this young madman!”

“The oldest are not always the wisest. Look at Trémont.”

“Well, well. It is all in God’s hands!”

Holding out his hand to his brother-in-law—

“We will have no more quarrels; they serve no useful purpose, and only
cause us pain!”

“Ah! Speak to me as harshly as you like!” exclaimed Graff, greatly moved.
“It does not hurt me, and it relieves you! But be careful to say nothing
to your wife. There is no occasion that she should worry herself about
the matter.”

They left the office, and, as they crossed the court they saw Baudoin,
portmanteau in hand, starting off, with alert and happy step, for the
station.




PART II


CHAPTER I


ARS is a small town of six thousand inhabitants, a distance of four
leagues from Troyes. On the manly declivities to the South stretch miles
upon miles of vineyards. The mineral springs of Ars are distant half a
mile from the town, on the road to Lusigny, as is also the thermal
establishment.

It was whilst engaged in sounding for ore, in land which did not contain
the slightest trace of it, that M. Reverend, chief engineer, unexpectedly
discovered the alkaline and chalybeate waters, rivalling those of
Plombieres and of Aix. But, after all, Ars is too near Paris for patients
to have confidence in the healing virtues of its springs. It is
frequented only by people of limited income, and hotel-keepers who are
not in the habit of fleecing travellers. Near the forest of Bossicant,
close by, a few villas, almost lost amid the trees, are every year placed
at the disposal of wealthy invalids. These are modest-looking, quiet
houses, offering their peace-loving guests nothing but the smiling
solitudes of the forest. The weaving and spinning mills belonging to
Messrs. Baradier and Graff are situated on the Barse, the rapid current
of which turns the dynamos, which supply both light and motive-power. The
private residence is separated from the works by a large court-yard and a
beautiful garden. The road to Vandoeuvre passes in front of the house,
whilst, on the other side of the road, through meadows in which large
numbers of cattle are grazing all the year round, runs the railroad, past
Chaumont, right to the German frontier. Ars is an important working
centre. The quarries and mines give work to a large proportion of the
male population.

Two hundred men, a hundred women, and a large number of children are
employed at the works of Baradier and Graff. The manager of the
establishment, M. Cardez, is a native of Lorraine, who came from Metz
with his masters. He had married at Ars, and was now a widower with two
grown-up sons, devoted to duty, and kind towards his workmen, but of a
taciturn disposition, and ruling with almost military discipline. One of
his sons is in the Army, the other assistant-manager in the works at La
Barre.

A very good fellow, on the whole, whom Marcel Baradier, from his
childhood, had been in the disrespectful habit of calling “the bear.” The
“bear” and Marcel could never understand one another. There was the same
distance between them as between Pascal, the inventor of the
wheel-barrow, and the workman whose duty it was to roll it along the
highway. Marcel likes Cardez well enough, though he is fond of poking fun
at him. Cardez is very respectful towards the son of his master, though
he deplores his light-heartedness and frivolity. The two might live
together for years without the slightest affinity being manifested
between them. As Marcel says, with a smile, the one is negative, the
other positive. Cardez is none too glad at Marcel settling down at the
works, for his presence is a cause of trouble for the workmen. The
master’s son is too ready to listen to their complaints, and discipline
suffers in consequence. The military order no longer reigns, and Cardez,
more bearish than ever, never ceases railing at what he calls “the
encouragement given to the rebellious instincts of the workmen.”

Marcel’s researches in the colouring of cloth leave the director
sceptical. He considers there is no necessity to change a system which
has succeeded so well for so many years. A dye-shed always seemed useless
to him. The raw thread, which brought so ready a sale, was quite
sufficient for their requirements. All these new inventions, costing so
dear, only served, in his mind, to introduce an element of trouble into
the working of a business already prosperous. The laboratory at the end
of the garden, in an isolated pavilion, was the object of raillery on the
part of the director, who called it “the Capernaum.”

Since Marcel had come to settle at Ars, contrary to his usual habit, he
scarcely ever appeared at the works. He shut himself up in the
“Capernaum,” or went off in search of recreation, with a gun and his dog,
into the forest of Bossicant. Baradier and Graff owned two hundred acres
of waste land, very picturesque, and abounding in game. Certain of the
uplands of Bossicant remind one of Scotland, in point of wild,
picturesque view, dry, arid heather, and the clear freshness of the
invigorating air.

Half-way down the hollow rose a villa, in the form of a chalet, buried in
the trees—a red spot in the midst of so much surrounding verdure. It was
gloomy and silent, and almost always uninhabited, by reason of its
distance from the town, and proximity to the wood. One morning, as he
passed by this villa, Marcel was surprised to see that the shutters were
down, and that a servant was busily sweeping in front of the door. She
was rather elegantly dressed, and appeared to be a stranger in the
district, doubtless attending to some invalid who had come to effect a
cure. Marcel was not inquisitive, and went his way.

It was three o’clock when he reached the plain, which he began to cross
with careless steps. The movements of his dog, however, drew his
attention. He slipped a couple of cartridges into his gun, and mounted to
the side of the slope. After a moment’s interval, on climbing the
opposite bank, Marcel saw a rabbit bent on reaching the open. He took
aim, pulled the trigger, and the rabbit rolled over to the foot of the
descent. The dog was not far away; he seized the dead animal by the back,
and brought him to his master.

Marcel relieved the dog, placed the game in a light bag he carried over
his shoulder, uncocked his gun, and, considering that he had done enough
damage for the time being, sat down on the sand, at the foot of a fir
tree, and looked dreamily away at the distant forests in the east. A
delightful torpor, induced by the dull silence of the woods, took
possession of his body, whilst his more active thoughts, as though freed
from all material bond, began to dwell on his past life. He saw again the
house in the Rue de Provènce, in which his father and his uncle Graff had
quarrelled so often about him; and his mother’s salon, where Amélie,
seated near Mademoiselle de Trémont, dressed in deep black, was quietly
working.

Suddenly his reveries were interrupted by a bark of his dog. The
pattering step of some animal or other made him turn his head, and there,
close by, he saw a small terrier, no larger than his two fists, a silk
ribbon tied in a knot round his neck, advancing in his direction. A
little farther away, a woman, dressed in black, slowly followed. He had
no time to examine the newcomer, for the little dog, with a furious yelp,
leaped towards the other, with the unthinking audacity of a rat attacking
a tiger. A gentle voice exclaimed, “Bob!” It was of no use. Marcel’s dog
stood up against his tiny adversary, and rolled him over into the dust.

“Bob! Oh, _Mon Dieu_!” exclaimed his mistress, anxiously, as she rushed
to the spot.

Marcel heard the cry, saw a pair of beautiful eyes, and, without waiting
longer, bounded forth, and seized his dog by the skin of his neck,
flinging him over on to the ground. Then, picking up the terrier, still
panting with the shock, but quite uninjured, he exhibited him to the
lady, with a smile—

“Do not be anxious, madame; your savage little animal is safe and sound.
Still, we were only just in time. Please excuse us, and take into account
that we were not the aggressors.”

The lady put the dog under her arm, gave him a gentle tap, saying, in
scolding tones—

“Oh! _Che bestia_! A fly trying to devour a wolf!”

Marcel could now see her at leisure, as she was tenderly scolding her
terrier, and he stood there, filled with admiration at the gentle beauty
of the unknown lady. Her face was of a perfect oval, surrounded by golden
hair; her dark eyes were languishing and gentle, whilst she had the
chaste and timid mien of a young girl. All the same, she was dressed in
mourning, like a widow. Fixing her eyes on Marcel, she said, in quiet,
gracious accents—

“A thousand thanks, sir, for your timely intervention. I am sorry for
your poor dog, which did quite right in defending itself.”

“There can be no comparison, madame,” said Marcel, “between this charming
little animal of yours and this large-pawed dog of mine, accustomed to
brambles and thorns. I am sorry I have stopped your walk, but now you may
continue in perfect safety; I will chain up my dog.”

The young woman bowed her head in token of thanks.

“If I am trespassing on your property, I beg you to excuse me. I am a
stranger, and have only been in these parts the last two days. I am
acquainted with no one to inform me as to what I have a right to do.”

“Here, madame, you may do as you please. Doubtless you are living at the
Villa de la Cavée?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then these woods are easily within your reach. There are very few
passers-by, and you may come whenever you wish.”

She murmured, in constrained accents, “A thousand thanks.”

Thereupon she moved away at a slow pace. Marcel stood there motionless,
unable to remove his eyes from the ravishing figure, now slowly
disappearing from view. Then he whistled for his dog, stroked him gently,
as though to atone for his rough treatment a few moments previously, and
returned, in pensive mood, to the works. After dinner he strolled about
the garden, smoking, till nine o’clock; then, completely tired out,
retired to rest for the night.

The following morning he spent all his time in the laboratory. Suddenly
the door opened, and Baudoin appeared.

“Holla! You here?” said the young man. “Has my father sent you?”

“Yes, sir. I am requested by all the family to convey to you their best
love. Besides, I have come to stay by your side.”

“For what purpose?”

“To be your servant.”

“Very good, Baudoin; make yourself at home. Your presence will be very
useful here, in making things go all right. The inhabitants of this
district are fine people on the whole, but not over-intelligent.”

“We will put all that in order for you.”

He walked round the laboratory, looking attentively at the objects on the
table, and the alembics, with their copper spirals, on the stove.

“So it is here that you are working! Who arranges things in this
laboratory?”

“No one enters the place but myself.”

“So I see. However, I will clean your utensils; I know how to go about
it. Are you working at the General’s formulæ?”

“Not yet; I have had other things to attend to. Still, I intend to
commence shortly. I am very glad you have come, for you will be at hand,
in case I want any help. See here, Baudoin, these are blue, pink, and
green dyes which I have fixed lately. They are capable of giving wool an
unchangeable colour.”

As he spoke, he handled hanks of a strong and harmonious shade,
stretching them out before the light of day, and showing all their
reflections.

“Our poor General put this idea into my head. Ah! if he had only
contented himself with undertaking industrial researches, we should still
have had him alive and well among us, and in possession of a large
fortune. But he disdained such productive discoveries; he thought only of
the State. He would work for nothing else.”

“After serving it so long, M. Marcel, it was second nature with him.”

“Well, well, Baudoin! Settle down here, and commence your duties this
very night.”

Marcel stayed behind in the laboratory, inactive, as though some dull
preoccupation would give him no peace. _He_ sat down in a large leather
armchair he had gaily baptized the “alchemist’s armchair,” and, with open
window to allow the sun to enter, he sat there in a reverie, until five
o’clock struck.

He went down into the garden, walked past beds of rose-trees, and halted
by the banks of the river, watching in the crystal waters a jack chasing
a shoal of roaches, which, to escape the dreaded pursuit, leapt out of
the water, like silver arrows. The clock at the entrance, as it struck,
disturbed his thoughts, and he saw approaching him, and preceded by the
porter, a tall, elegantly dressed young man, of very handsome features
and blue eyes. As he drew near he took off his hat, bowed with
considerable deference, and said, in a sing-song Italian accent—

“Have I the pleasure of addressing M. Marcel Baradier?”

“That is my name, sir,” said Marcel, examining the stranger with a sudden
interest. “To what do I owe the honour of this visit!”

The young man gave a sidelong glance to assure himself that the porter
had left the room, then, in haughty tones, said—

“As I have no one to present me, allow me to introduce myself. I am Count
Cesare Agostini, of the Princes of Briviesca. I live at the Villa de la
Cavée with my sister, and I have called to thank you for the kindness
with which, yesterday, you—”

“What I did, sir, was merely natural; it was quite by chance that I met
your sister. She is a stranger in these parts, and appeared to be sad,
and in search of rest and quiet. All I did was to simply comply with her
wishes so far as I could.”

Count Cesare bowed gracefully; a cloud came over his handsome face, and
in accents of sadness he continued—

“My sister is, indeed, very sad; she has had a great deal of trouble. She
has spent her strength in attending to the needs of a husband far older
than herself, and whom she had the misfortune to lose some time ago. With
the object of regaining her health, she has come into this valley, to
seek calm and quiet. The waters of Ars, too, have been well recommended
to us. But it is chiefly fresh air my sister needs, after being confined
for long months by the bedside of a dying man.”

The handsome Italian several times shook his head, and said—

“Oh, it is very sad, very sad indeed!”

“And you have come from Italy with your sister?” asked Marcel.

“No,” said Cesare. “Madame Vignola was living in Paris, where I have
recently been to see her. We intend to return to Naples, and settle down.
Not before autumn, however. Yes, it is very sad indeed!”

Marcel saw that the Count Cesare did not appear to wish to take his
leave, and, as he was interested in what he related, he led the way to a
green arbour, with rustic seats, sheltered from the rays of the setting
sun.

“Will you take a seat, sir?”

The Italian chose an armchair, and drew from his pocket a gold
cigarette-case, which he held out to Marcel. “A cigarette?”

“Willingly.”

They began to smoke, and the tobacco seemed to render Cesare even more
loquacious.

“This villa where my sister now lives is far from the village. Is the
country round here quite safe?”

“Perfectly safe. Your sister will have nothing to fear from any one.”

“All the better! I myself am not staying here long. My business takes me
back to Paris, and the idea of leaving her alone with a chamber-maid and
a servant-girl whom I do not know makes me very anxious, that I will not
deny. Is Ars always so quiet as at present?”

“Always, at this time of the year. The season begins in June, and it is
now only April. In a few months the hotels will be filled, and the roads
overrun by all the stage waggons in the district. That is the time I
shall choose for going away.”

“You do not stay here the whole year round?”

“No; I only call here at rare intervals. My home is at Paris; I am at Ars
on business.”

“Your works are very large?”

“One of the largest in the department. My grandfather founded the
industry. It is the cradle of our family and the source of our fortune.
Accordingly, my father, who is a banker, could never make up his mind to
give it up, although he has far greater interests in other enterprises.”

“I see he has trusted to you the responsibility of managing the works.”

“Oh no. My father is represented by a director. I am simply the master’s
son, and interfere in no way with the weaving. Here I have a laboratory,
in which I undertake chemical experiments. But all the people in this
district will tell you that I am an amateur, anything but serious, and
that I spend more money on experiments than my pretended discoveries will
ever bring me.”

As he spoke he laughed gaily. The handsome Italian joined, and said, in
his sing-song voice—

“Rich men’s eldest sons are always ill-judged. When one is wealthy it is
extremely difficult to get one’s self considered as a serious worker.
Because one has no need of money, people are only too ready to conclude
that one is incapable of earning any. And yet, why should not a rich man
be a genius?”

“Ah, sir, then what would become of other poor wretches?”

“So you pretend, yourself,” said the Count, with a graceful wave of the
hand, “to despise these investigations, though they probably interest you
greatly?”

“Almost as much as the experiments of a dyer. I have woollen stuffs
steeped in coloured vats, and I try to fix the tints indelibly, so that
the stuff sold in future will not become discoloured under the influence
of either light, rain, or wind. The tapestries placed on furniture or
walls, nowadays, are scarcely in their places than they have to be taken
down—they are already quite faded. All the same, the stuffs of former
times lasted, and exist even now. Our ancestors were in possession of
dyeing processes superior to ours, and yet modern chemistry offers us
mighty resources. That is what I am working at, sir. It is very
commonplace, as you see.”

“Evidently, it is not the philosopher’s stone! Still, all researches have
their value. Have you obtained satisfactory results?”

Marcel bowed in mock humility.

“You are very polite, sir, but you wish to take advantage of my vanity.
Inventors always like to speak of their investigations, you are thinking;
and I wish to repay this gentleman for the kindness he has shown my
sister. But it would doubtless serve you right if I bored you with my
discoveries, took your curiosity seriously, and showed you my samples.”

The Italian bent down his head, and, in contrite tones, said—

“I am indeed sorry you imagined I was not sincere. All you have told me
interests me greatly. Doubtless I am not so frivolous as your
compatriots, and since you appear to defy me examining your results, with
satisfaction to myself, I now ask you to have the kindness to show me
them, unless you were joking, in which case I should not have understood
you, as I do not always seize all the finesse of your language. In which
case I must ask you to pardon me.”

“Indeed, I was not jesting; I was perfectly serious,” said Marcel, gaily.
“I still believe you will be punished for your curiosity. But since you
insist, follow me; I will show you my laboratory.”

“Many thanks!” exclaimed Cesare. “I was afraid I should vex you.”

“In what way? You would believe in the most marvellous things, did I not
show you my poor results. Take care not to soil yourself; everything here
is not perfectly clean.”

Opening the door of the summer-house, he introduced the Count into the
panelled room, leading to the laboratory, and which he used as a
workroom. A blush mounted to Cesare’s temples. He looked eagerly around.
On a Louis XVI. bureau, leaning against the wall, were scattered some
papers covered with figures. A half-opened drawer exhibited boxes of
different sizes and colours, carefully labelled. A massive table
supported wide-mouthed jars, on the rough glass of which could be read
the indications: sulphuric acid, nitro-benzine, picric acid, and a whole
series of chlorates. The Italian, pointing to the table, said—

“Ah! Here are some chemicals you do not make use of for your dyes!”

“No,” said Marcel, evasively; “those are for something else.”

And, as his visitor drew near, stretching out his hand towards one of the
wide-mouthed jars—

“Do not touch these jars—they are dangerous. If, by any chance, you were
to upset the contents, both yourself and myself might find ourselves in a
very disagreeable position. Come this way!”

Opening the door of the laboratory, he bade him take a seat in the
alchemist’s armchair, by the window, as he said—

“Here you may smoke, if you like, without danger; there is nothing
explosive here.”

“Whilst in the next room?” asked the Italian, carelessly.

“In the next room, if you threw down a match in the wrong place, you
might explode the whole works!”

“Diavolo! Then I will stop smoking even here, my dear sir, for I have no
wish to leave the place by way of the roof.”

He patiently examined Marcel’s fine samples of dyed wool. Apparently he
was listening attentively, but his awakened intelligence, his piercing
eyes under his half-closed eyelids were busied with that “something
else,” of which Marcel had spoken so briefly. But nothing in the
laboratory appeared to have any reference to that mysterious task, which
demanded the manipulation of such dangerous products.

“I should like you,” said the Italian, “to give me some of these
beautiful cloths, of such a rich and harmonious colouring. I will take
them to my sister, who can embroider like a fairy. She will start some
magnificent piece of work, which will sooth her solitude, and thus you
will see the effect of your colours, artistically employed.”

“If you will permit me, I will bring them myself,” said Marcel.

“As you please. We are always at home about five o’clock. But do not
delay, for I shall soon be leaving the neighbourhood.”

“Very well! To-morrow, if that will not inconvenience you?”

“Not at all. To-morrow, then.”

The Italian rose from his seat. He walked round the laboratory, and drew
near the window overlooking the river.

“Ah! You are close to the water here. You might even fish from the
window, without descending into the garden. Are you not afraid of some
one entering the laboratory? A few marauders in a boat could enter the
summer-house.”

“Who would ever think of such a thing!” exclaimed Marcel. “Besides, as is
well known, there is nothing to take. And, then, the inhabitants of this
district are very honest people.”

“But have you no foreign employees at the works?”

“Very seldom. A few from Belgium or from Luxembourg. As few as possible,
for they are difficult to deal with.”

“You do not live in this summer-house? You never sleep here?”

“No; there is no convenience—simply a barn above the ground floor, that
is all. I live in the house opposite the manager’s. It is small, but very
comfortable. My uncle Graff lived there several months.”

“You are very fortunate to have family relations,” said Cesare, in
sorrowful tones. “My sister and I are alone—private dissensions have
alienated us from the Briviescas. M. Vignola had no relations. We are
obliged to be all in all to one another.”

“Your sister is a young and charming lady. She may marry again.”

“She never thinks of it. After all the sorrow caused by her union with M.
Vignola, she aspires after nothing but peace and rest. Oh, she has
suffered so much! The diseased and unhappy Vignola was madly jealous. He.
could not endure his wife to be absent from him a single hour. He must
have her constantly before his eyes. He left her a great fortune at his
death. Poor compensation for all the tortures he inflicted on her! But
now he is dead. Peace to his memory!”

“Your sister has no children?”

“No, sir; that is her greatest sorrow.”

The image of the young woman, in deep mourning, walking sorrowfully about
the woods, was evoked in Marcel’s imagination. Very pretty to be
inconsolate at the loss of an old husband! How old could she be?
Twenty-five years, perhaps, at the most, and no knowledge of life except
grief and sadness. Cesare arose, and took his leave. Marcel accompanied
him across the garden to the gate, and there said, with a cordial smile—

“Till to-morrow, then, sir, my respectful homage to your sister.”

When he had gone, Marcel made his way towards the works, when he saw M.
Cardez coming in his direction, even redder than usual, and with a dark
frown on his brow.

“Ah, M. Marcel, I was calling to see you! I have a great deal of worry,
and am indeed very pleased that you are here, so that you may understand
yourself, and inform Messieurs Baradier and Graff.”

“What is the matter?”

“The fact is, the dyers are not pleased with their working hours, and
threaten to come out on strike.”

“Ah! That is something fresh.”

“Fresh? No, it has been coming on for more than three weeks; the plot has
only been developing. I was in hopes that, summer coming on, and the
hours of daylight being more numerous, some arrangement might be reached.
Now there is another cause of grievance. Instead of working more, they
want to work less and earn more!”

“Ah! Are their claims justified?”

The manager, standing upright, cast a look of indignation on the son of
his master.

“Are workmen’s claims ever justified? This class of people have only one
programme: the minimum of work and the maximum of wages.”

“After all,” said Marcel, calmly, “they are only like other men.”

“Ah, sir, let their ringleaders talk in that way; do not speak so
yourself.”

“Why not?”

“Because, with philanthropic theories, and _laisser-aller_ tendencies, we
should soon be no longer masters of our own works; they would put us out
of doors.”

Marcel looked gravely at the manager, and replied—

“My opinion is entirely opposed to yours. I think that if workmen were
treated as partners they would work better and keep better discipline.
There is a huge misunderstanding between Capital and Labour. They treat
one another as enemies, when they ought to proceed in concerted action,
like allies.”

“Eh? That is downright Socialism.”

“No! It is simply co-operation.”

“And do you know,” said Cardez, looking slily at Marcel, “what is the
principal reason of the discontent of the dyers?”

“The principal reason? Then the grievances they have manifested are only
a pretext?”

“Nothing more. These workmen, in whose lot you are so interested, are
full of deceit and treachery; they never show their real motives. Well,
the dyers, in their secret meetings, rail at your inventions—they are
displeased with your new dyeing processes!”

“Ah! The fools!”

An expression of triumph appeared on Cardez’s ill-tempered face.

“What did I tell you! Here are processes they are not yet acquainted
with; and they maintain that your object is to simplify the workmanship,
and, consequently, to do without workmen. Now they want to strike, to
obtain concessions regarding both work and wages.”

“They have been ill-advised. When the real state of things is explained
they will easily understand. Then they will see that, far from injuring
them, the improvements I shall introduce into the manufacture are
entirely to their advantage.”

“They will never admit that.”

“Suppose I prove it to them?”

“Their ringleaders will prove the contrary.”

“Who are these ringleaders?”

“A few Belgians.”

“Send them away.”

“Ah, that would be very imprudent! Better have patience, and try to come
to an understanding. These men are from the Wallon district, and when
they have drunk one glass of brandy too many you may fear anything at
their hands. It was one of these Belgians who struck the overseer with a
knife last year. They are good workmen, but terribly exacting and
disagreeable. There is nothing to fear for the present. They want an eye
keeping on them. Now, if you would like to call them together and speak
to them, you will see what you can make of the matter.”

He spoke in sneering tones. Marcel well understood that the manager,
speaking from experience, was thinking: Have a little experience of these
brutes, my young novice, and you will learn to know them. Speak to them
nicely, explaining that it is to their advantage to work without
grumbling, so that you may have a fine profit at the year’s end, whilst
they have had the greatest difficulty to make ends meet. Try to obtain
their approval. Afterwards, come and tell me what result you have
obtained. Unless you give them the works, and capital to keep it going,
perhaps even guaranteeing them dividends, you will never make them
satisfied!

Marcel would not discuss any longer with Cardez. He did not consider it
necessary to weaken the authority of the manager at such a critical
moment. He determined to give him all possible help to avoid the
difficulties he foresaw.

“You may be sure, M. Cardez, that if I can do anything to help you, you
have only to mention it. It is possible we may not have the same ideas on
the way of settling Labour difficulties. Still, it is of no use waiting
till the house is on fire before discussing the fire-brigade system by
which the conflagration may most surely be extinguished. The best thing
to do is to use the means nearest at hand. Consequently, do as you think
best. Have you informed my father of the matter?”

“No; indeed, I am not in the habit of tormenting _my_ masters with an
account of the difficulties of the works here. There will be plenty of
time, in case things become more serious.”

“Very good; we will wait.”

At that hour the Count Cesare Agostini reached the Villa de la Cavée, and
after traversing the garden he entered a small salon on the ground floor,
where the young lady, in mourning, lolling on an easy-chair, was lazily
reading a novel. The setting sun, entering through the window, shed his
golden rays on the reader’s face. She was no longer the melancholy and
timid widow Marcel had met in the woods. Her hair, thrown back on to her
forehead, gave her delicate profile a look of audacious pride. On hearing
Cesare enter the room, she flung down her book, rose eagerly to her feet,
and, in joyous tones, said—

“Well, _caro mio_, you are back at last! Are you satisfied with your
mission?”

“As far as one can be. I have seen your pigeon. He actually holds out the
wing, without being asked. You will obtain no merit in plucking such a
confiding youth, Sophia.”

She laughed outright.

“Never mind merit! I can do without glory. Success will suffice for me.
So you found the ground well prepared?”

“I am afraid distractions are sadly lacking in this district, and that
our appearance in the woods has already produced its effect on Marcel.”

“Then he will come?”

“Yes; and not later than to-morrow. I told him I was going away.
Consequently you will have the field free to do as you please. Do not let
this affair lag; you have your revenge to take.”

“Ah, _mio caro_, the _coup_ missed the first time, all through Hans’
stupid obstinacy. Had he left me to act as I pleased, the General would
finally have offered me his formulæ on a silver plate, and kneeling into
the bargain. Hans wished to rush everything through, and old Trémont,
infatuated as he was, became distrustful. Sorry adventure, in which our
friend lost his arm, and almost all of us just missed being compromised.
The most stupid part of it was that the General had said to Hans, as he
pointed out to him the steel box—a fine box of Fichet’s, supplied with
one of those admirable locks, so very complicated, but which are of no
use whatever: ‘Look here, my friend, it is impossible to open this
without my permission. All my secrets are inside. On raising this lid all
my formula would be found. But then one must know how to do it; otherwise
one may die in the attempt.’ Ah, ah! Old Trémont spoke the truth! He had
made his box into a kind of reversing bomb. One must know how to handle
it. Hans perceived the necessity of this. All the same, he distrusted
himself. He had taken the precaution to go out on to the perron of the
house, and there he tried to open the box. Ah, _caro mio_, when the
explosion took place the very earth trembled! I had already returned to
Paris in the carriage. The vibration was so great that the very windows
of the brougham shook. I thought to myself: There, Hans has smashed up
everything! I had no idea I was so near the truth, for the house was
entirely destroyed. I cannot possibly understand how Hans, who had
succeeded in opening the lock of the box, and who, lying on the ground a
score of yards away, behind a tree, drew off the lid with a cord, justly
dreading some devilish trick or other, was not completely blown to
pieces.”

“But since the lock was opened, how was the explosion produced?”

“It was when the lid was raised that the explosion happened. Did the box
overturn? It was a very heavy one. Was there some special manner of
placing it, when removing the lid, to prevent a prime of fulminate going
off? Was it clock-work, arranged in a certain manner? All is mere
conjecture. What is certain enough is that, in a second, box, formulæ,
powders, house, Hans’ arm, and all our hopes disappeared at the same
time. Our friend must have shown extraordinary energy not to have been
surprised by all the people who came running up from all directions. You
may believe me when I say that, so long as I was not assured that he was
out of danger, I felt very anxious.”

“Ah, you are an intelligent woman, Sophia—really clever and brave! Now we
must make amends for a preliminary defeat, and nonplus this young booby
of a Marcel.”

“Just leave the matter to me. He seemed a very nice young fellow.”

“You are right; but don’t go and fall in love with him, whatever you do.”

She burst into a laugh.

“I have other things to attend to. Besides, Cesare, is it so easy to find
a rival to yourself?”

The handsome Italian shook his head.

“You are so strange, Sophia, whatever is difficult is the very thing to
tempt you.”

“A scene of jealousy between you and me, Cesare!” said Sophia,
ironically. “Do we not know one another well enough to be _blasés_ as
regards our mutual qualities and failings? Shall I be jealous, the day I
have married you to Lichtenbach’s wealthy daughter? Just close your eyes,
and leave me free to act. Besides, if you acted otherwise, that would be
all of no use. You are well aware that I have never done anything that
did not please me, even with personages far more redoubtable than
yourself.”

“Come, come, Sophia, do not get excited! If I do not stop you, you will
be threatening me in a minute. Ah, you have a will of iron!”

“Yes; and just now it is my will to completely subjugate this young
Baradier.”

“Poor fellow, you will succeed only too easily!”

“Ah! Now you are going to pity him, are you?”

They both laughed outright. Then the young woman asked—

“Have you visited the dwelling?”

“Yes. I have also obtained an entrance into the laboratory without the
slightest effort.”

“Did you see anything special?”

“A number of spiders’ webs, several broken phials, and tubs of various
colours, in which pieces of cloth were soaking.”

“Nothing resembling the powders we are in search of?”

“Nothing whatever. I must say that, in one of the rooms of the
summer-house, the young man charitably warned me that if I touched a
single one of the flagons lying on the table some catastrophe might
result. Accordingly, it is there he manipulates his products, or, at any
rate, conceals them. In the next room there is nothing suspicious. He
said to me: ‘Here you may smoke, if you like, and that without the
slightest danger.’”

“That is worth knowing.”

“Do you think of going to see him?”

“I think of nothing and of everything. Does one ever know what means will
have to be employed in the performance of anything? Wisdom consists in
preparing several, so as not to be caught unexpectedly. I have undertaken
to obtain possession of and hand over the formulæ of the General de
Trémont. For me, it is a matter of self-respect, as well as a question of
interest. I will not admit that I cannot succeed in anything I undertake.
Our friends abroad would consider me as having depreciated in ability if
I failed, and you know what their support is worth to me. So long as my
influence lasts, the Baron Grodsko will remain aloof, and not trouble
about me. If my protection were to cease to-morrow, Heaven knows what
sort of account I should have to give him!”

Cesare looked at the young woman in surprise.

“Ah! You are almost overcome with emotion. Are you afraid of him?”

Sophia became serious.

“I am afraid of no one in the world, as you know. Still, Grodsko is a
terrible man, especially when he is not drunk.”

“But then he is always drinking. Is it because he likes drink?”

“No! It is to forget,”

“Forget what? You?”

“Perhaps.”

“He was passionately fond of you, I suppose?”

“So were all the other men.”

“Is it long since you saw him?”

“Some years.”

“And he is still at Monte Carlo?”

“In the winter. During the summer he lives at Vienna.”

“And he drinks both at Monte Carlo and in Vienna?”

“Yes, and gambles as well. He has a way of drinking which leaves his
brain perfectly clear, so that he is able to play.”

“Does he win?”

“Often. But then, what does that matter to him?”

“Then he is so rich that he is indifferent to his winnings? Lucky man!”

“Grodsko is proprietor of a whole district in Moravia. He owns forests,
mountains, and villages. His forests furnish the finest pines in Europe.
The mountains are bored through and through with mines from which copper
and tin are extracted. As for villages, Grodsko, with the peasants on his
domains, could, in case of war, furnish a couple of regiments.”

“And you left this nabob?”

“Yes, for a young man, who had nothing but his beauty to recommend him.”

“What did Grodsko say to that?”

“He said nothing, he set out in our pursuit, overtook us, and killed my
companion.”

“Whilst you?”

“I had reached the frontier when Grodsko came up to me.”

“And there followed—”

“An explanation, in the course of which, as he dared to raise his hand
against me, I planted in his arm one of the knives lying on the table, on
which I had just finished lunch.”

“What exquisite relations you had with one another! And did that satisfy
him?”

“No. He bound me with cords and took me back to Vienna in his carriage.
There I succeeded in escaping from him, thanks to certain irresistible
influences. It cost me very dear to regain my liberty. Still, from that
day I had no longer anything to fear, and could travel all over the world
as I pleased.”

“What was the name of the great personage who rendered you this service?”

Sophia looked at the handsome Italian mockingly; she clacked her fingers
as though they were castanets, and replied—

“If any one asks you, you will say you know nothing about it?”

“Then you have no confidence in me, Sophia?”

“I have confidence in no one, scarcely in myself. Acknowledge that I am
frank with you. I might tell you all kinds of tales—that it was the
minister of police, or an archduke, or a foreign ambassador, or all three
combined, who set me free. Be assured, all the same, that I have
contracted obligations towards those who served me, and whom I am serving
in my turn.”

“Whatever obligations you are under to them, they have done a very good
stroke of business in obtaining such an ally as yourself. Is there
another so good in the whole world? You have the genius of corruption,
and I do not think there is a conscience anywhere strong enough to resist
you. If seductive charm is needed, you will succeed in everything you
undertake. Ah, your power is indeed very great and terrible!”

Sophia smiled bitterly, she raised her head, and her countenance assumed
a threatening expression.

“All my power consists in my scorn of humanity. I believe men are capable
of everything. The sole question is to find the way to make them act. I
have seen men, though heroes in the face of death, turn pale and
trembling at the idea of being deprived of their pleasures. The most
rigid from the point of view of honour, brought into contact with
poverty, become accessible to the basest compromises. To turn an honest
man into a thief, all that is needed is a woman’s smile. To make the
mildest of men shed the blood of another, you need simply arouse his
jealousy. These poor wretches who people the earth act, and are
unconscious of the influence inspiring them. Men are like puppets, the
strings of which are held by firm, audacious hands, whilst they
accomplish the most sublime or the most infamous actions at will. And all
this, merely through some favourable or perverse influence, a string
pulled on one side or the other. And man, irresponsible agent of a
destiny he is unable to modify, is treated as a hero or a brigand,
carried aloft in triumph or flung into the gutter.”

“But virtue, Sophia, the love of right?”

“Mere accidents, my friend. Do not make them into general rules. The
majority of people are virtuous because they have never had the
opportunity of being rascals. But have no doubt that they would have
been, and very successful ones, with the greatest ease. The human soul,
Cesare, is a ground ready prepared for vice and crime. It is simply a
question of what seed you intend to sow there. Very well! I am a sower,
as you have said. I excel in growing the fruit of corruption. Young
Marcel Baradier is now going to be my experiment field.”

“Great good may it do him!”

“Had he been content with the profession of a banker, or the business of
a cotton manufacturer, nothing of what is now being prepared would have
happened; he would have lived a happy, quiet life. But he has dabbled in
chemistry, and that has spoiled everything.”

The sun had sunk behind the hill, and the small room was quite dark.
Sophia and Cesare could no longer distinguish one another. At last the
young woman arose from her seat, and said—

“Come, we have had sufficient philosophy. What does all that prove? They
are nothing but mere words. Fortune does not come to those who speak, but
to those who act.”



CHAPTER II


AFTER Baudoin had been a fortnight at the works, he was astonished to
find that Marcel had passed from a state of perfect calm to one of
extreme agitation. The young man, who spent the greater part of his time
in the summer-house, either working or indulging in day-dreams, had
suddenly begun to leave the laboratory after lunch, and did not return
before night set in. A more significant fact was that Marcel’s appearance
had changed as well as his habits. Instead of a country costume—soft felt
hat and heavy shoes—a quiet, refined elegance now characterized him. The
expression of his countenance, too, was far different from the one he had
assumed previously; his eyes shone more brightly, even his voice sounded
more vibrating. Baudoin thought, “There is a woman at the bottom of all
this.”

He had had experience when with the General de Trémont, and was well
acquainted with that tension of the nerves which enters into the
slightest movements. He knew the meaning of that satisfied little humming
and that firm step on the floor, of conquering though feverish sound.
There was a woman at the bottom of it, without the slightest doubt.
Baudoin felt anxious. In that quiet country district, how had his master
found the opportunity of falling into a passion? He instituted a discreet
inquiry.

He had made the acquaintance of the landlord of the Golden Lion, the
principal hotel of Ars, a former cook, who had served in the Army, and
proudly wore at his buttonhole, on Sundays, a blue and yellow ribbon,
brought from Tonkin. Whilst drinking a bitter, Baudoin chatted with him,
and listened to all the local gossip he retailed. He questioned him: Were
there any strangers in the district? Did his hotel contain any fresh
arrivals? Had any fair ladies been seen lately in the town?

All these questions received categoric replies. No one staying with him
or anywhere in Ars could be suspected by any stretch of imagination of
having disturbed Marcel’s peace of mind. The only thing to do was to make
inquiries in the outskirts.

“A young gentleman and a young lady,” said the landlord, “are staying at
the Villa de la Cavée. But they are in mourning, and never visit the
town, but live in very retired fashion. They have hired carriages on
three occasions, for driving in the environs. The young lady has never
shown herself at Ars, and I could not say whether she is pretty or ugly.
My coachman, who drove them, said that they look very sad, and speak very
politely to one another. He thinks they are brother and sister. At any
rate, they are not French.”

Baudoin could obtain nothing more. This, however, was quite sufficient,
and he determined to secretly watch his master, to try to find out the
object of his walks. The fact that the young Jady was very sorrowful and
in mourning seemed no reason to him why his master should not fall in
love with her. On the contrary; besides, he had an instinctive distrust
of foreigners who passed as brother and sister.

The following day, his friend of the Golden Lion said to him—

“I have some news for you regarding the people at the villa. The young
man left this morning. He was driven to the railway, and is going to
Paris; his luggage was registered by the coachman. The young lady is now
alone.”

That evening Baudoin noticed that his master returned home later than
usual, and on the coat he flung off he discovered small pieces of moss,
as though Marcel had been seated in the woods. The following day, about
two o’clock, the young man went out as usual. Baudoin, who had made
arrangements to keep a watch on him, starting out before him, waited for
him at the bottom of the Cavée, to make certain that he had proceeded in
that direction. Seated under the arbour of an inn, close to the town, he
did not lose sight of the Ars road, which mounts towards the woods of
Bossicant. After waiting half an hour, he saw Marcel, wearing a grey
suit, and with a new straw hat on his head, come along, at a brisk pace,
his stick under his arm, and his face lit up with pleasure.

“Ah, my friend,” said Baudoin to himself, “you are on the way to meet
your lady-love! You would not be stepping out at such a brisk pace were
your mission merely to gather herbs on the hills.”

He allowed the young man to go on ahead, then he followed him with
infinite precautions. Marcel was, indeed, going in the direction of the
villa. Since he had been introduced to Madame Vignola, the whole tenor of
his life had changed. He no longer thought either of chemistry, of the
works, or even of his family. There was nothing in the world for him
except the ravishing Italian. Could his uncle Graff have seen him, he
would have said, “Ah, caught again! He has lost his head and his heart
once more!” The fact was, he well knew that feverish state, which
rendered Marcel incapable of thinking of anything else than his
inamorata, and capable of the greatest acts of madness in the pursuit.

But the special sign of love with this inflammable young fellow was the
reasoning rigour with which he pursued the conquest of the loved one. He
was an engineer and a mathematician even in his passion, neglecting
nothing, and profiting by everything to advance his cause, and the court
he paid was a veritable siege.

Madame Vignola had only needed half a day, spent with Marcel, in her
brother’s presence, to obtain sole possession of the young man’s mind.
She had shown herself so charming and modest, and so cajoling, and
chaste, that Cesare, who was, all the same, well aware what this
remarkable actress was capable of, was quite stupefied at the result. The
art of deception reaching such a stage of perfection became real genius.
In dilettante fashion the handsome Italian had followed the progressive
phases of his pretended sister’s manoeuvring. The two hours Marcel had
passed at the villa had sped away like a flash of lightning. And the
young swain, already love-smitten, had been obliged to retire, when he
thought he had only been there a few moments.

True, Madame Vignola, at her brother’s request, had seated herself at the
piano, and, with penetrating and expressive tones, had sung a few
Dalmatian airs in true artistic style. Marcel, an excellent musician
himself, had accompanied the young woman, and afterwards offered some
musical scores he kept at Ars as a distraction for the solitary evenings
he often spent there. At his earnest request, Cesare had postponed his
departure, and the following afternoon had been spent in the woods of
Bossicant wandering along the narrow alleys, breathing the keen fresh air
of the plain, and chatting in friendly fashion. That evening Cesare had
pointed with a smile to his sister’s animated and healthy looking
countenance, saying to Marcel—

“You see what good it does her to have change and distraction. You would
scarcely take her to be the same person. Ah! If only she could forget her
grief every day in the same way, her usual health and good spirits would
quickly come back.”

“Then stay on; why should you go away?” asked Marcel.

“Ah! It is not I who can give her the distraction she needs,” said the
handsome Italian, heedlessly.

A moment later he appeared to regret having spoken so frankly.

“It is much easier for strangers, you see, than for intimates to obtain a
fortunate change in the dispositions of people who suffer.”

“But your sister is not suffering! Look with what an alert and supple
step she is walking there, in front of us.”

“Yes; but just now her nerves sustain her. This very night she will
relapse into a feeling of melancholy, and be completely prostrated. I
shall not be able to draw a single word from her.”

“If you would authorize me to call and see her, and she also would permit
me, I should find great pleasure in her company.”

The Italian grasped Marcel effusively by the hand.

“I do not know how to thank you for your kindness. But it would be
expecting too much from you. Poor Anetta would quickly tire out your
patience. She is a capricious child. You do not know her yet.”

They had no opportunity to continue, for Madame Vignola turned towards
them a questioning look, which asked—

“What are you two plotting there?”

“Count Cesare, madame, is handing over to me his authority over you
during his absence,” said Marcel, gaily. “He is making me responsible for
your state of mind. Accordingly, from to-morrow, I am in charge of your
good or bad temper. But you must be willing to put up with my tyranny.”

Her countenance became grave; in low but fascinating tones she said—

“Yes, he is right. You must not leave me. When I am alone all kinds of
gloomy thoughts come into my head. Be a friend to me. Cesare will not be
long away, and then we will resume our walks in the woods. Until then,
call for me at the villa; you will always be welcome.”

Count Agostini had left, and Marcel, by invitation, was now calling at
the Cavée. The nearer he drew the faster became his pace, and his temples
were quite flushed. On reaching the villa he suddenly slackened his
steps, for he had heard Madame Vignola’s voice. She was alone in the
salon, the windows were open, and the passionate melody, in which both
art and sentiment were wonderfully blended, had filled Marcel’s soul with
a keen jealousy. It was the “Gipsies’ Cantilena,” by Marackzy, the great
Hungarian artist, who died of grief when in full possession of his genius
and glory—

    “Viens sur ma levre parfumée,
    Rose fremissante et pamée,
    Trempée encore des pleurs d’amour,
    Cueillir le baiser, dont la flamme
    Fera de mon cœur a ton âme
    Jaillir. . . . ”

The song stopped suddenly, as though the voice were broken by sobs. It
seemed to Marcel that the singer’s very heart had broken under the
influence of some mysterious grief. Unable to contain himself, he rushed
through the garden, and reached the salon. Madame Vignola was still
seated at the piano. She was weeping bitterly, her beautiful pale face
leaning on her hand. At the sight Marcel gave a cry of pain, which made
the young woman suddenly look up. Holding out her hand to Marcel,
apparently ashamed at being thus surprised, she said—

“Pardon me. I ought never to sing when I am alone. These harmonious
strains agitate me, and recall to my mind souvenirs that are too
painful.”

“_Mon Dieu_! What is the matter? Have confidence in me.”

“No, no! Do not ask me.”

Closing the piano, and summoning a smile to her face, she said—

“Let us talk about you, not about me.”

She looked at Marcel, and said, in tones of affectionate reproof—

“How warm you are! You have been walking too fast, and the hill is so
steep! It will be my turn to scold if you do not act sensibly. Now come
out into the garden.”

He quietly followed her. They walked along the small alleys of the tiny
garden, then seated themselves under the shade of the blossoming lilacs,
where they entered into a chat, talking of everything except of what they
really thought.

On the road, Baudoin had not lost sight of his master. When Marcel had
entered the villa the servant had approached with considerable
precaution. Madame Vignola’s singing had stopped as soon as Marcel
appeared, so that Baudoin had heard nothing. He took good care not to
pass in front of the door, but followed a footpath along the wall which
continued in the direction of the wood, along a high copse crowned with
large trees. On reaching the thicket he climbed the slope, and, concealed
behind a bush, was able to catch a glimpse of the garden. The lilacs,
under which Anetta and Marcel were chatting, grew at the foot of the
mound which Baudoin had chosen as his observatory. There they were,
seated with their backs towards him, about thirty yards away.

Baudoin reflected. Who can this woman dressed in black be? She looks
young, and of very good figure. Marcel loses no time once he sets out on
a campaign. But perhaps all preliminaries have been facilitated for him?
What is this young stranger doing here, and what interest is it of hers
to place herself in immediate communication with M. Marcel? What are they
speaking of, there, under my very eyes? Certainly it cannot be business.
Then love must be the bait at the end of the line. The hook is well
concealed, and will appear at the right moment.

During this monologue the two friends continued their conversation. They
sat there, near one another, but the sound of their words did not reach
Baudoin. At the end of an hour they stood upright, and the young woman
turned round so as to face Baudoin. _He_ examined her with astonishment
and admiration, for seldom had he seen a more beautiful face. He was
obliged to acknowledge that he had never seen her hitherto. After all,
what resemblance had he expected? The “other” woman, the one of Vanves,
he had seen only in the shadow of night, and so as to render it
impossible to recognize her again. The only clues he possessed were that
characteristic favourite perfume of hers, and the sound of her voice,
which still vibrated in his ears.

He thought, “If I could only hear her speak! A single sentence would be
sufficient to enable me to recognize her.” His heart leaped with joy, for
the couple were now slowly walking along the circular alley which passed
close to the foot of the mound not a dozen steps from where Baudoin was
concealed. They were speaking to one another without the slightest
suspicion that any one was listening. The former soldier, like a hunter
on the watch, who sees his long-expected quarry approach, with beating
heart and slightly dimmed eyes, listened with all the attention he was
capable of. He heard Marcel say—

“Now that you are free, do you intend to take up these former plans of
yours?”

And the woman, in caressing tones, but with an Italian accent, replied—

“What is the use? I am now quite old. I am twenty-seven years of age.
Artistic triumphs would have no value for me now. Sing in a theatre, in
public;—be the object of everybody’s gaze? Oh no. I no longer think of
such a thing.”

“And yet you would obtain a great success!”

“For whom?”

They passed by, and Baudoin was obliged to confess to himself that this
woman in mourning had not the same voice as the “other,” the one who had
brought death with her. He saw the two promenaders disappear into the
house, then he heard the clear tones of the piano, and the pure vibrating
voice of the young woman arose, filling the silence of the woods with its
melodious accents. Thereupon Baudoin descended the mound, and returned to
Ars preoccupied and reflective. As he passed in front of the post-office
he entered and wrote the following despatch:—

“Laforêt, War Office, rue Saint Dominique, Paris. Come to Ars, near
Troyes. Ask for me at works. Baudoin.”

After paying he watched the transmission of his telegram, and, slightly
relieved, returned home. At seven o’clock Marcel arrived. He dined
without uttering a single word, and immediately afterwards retired into
the laboratory, where Baudoin heard him pacing to and fro, far into the
night.

Meanwhile Madame Vignola, seated in her small salon, an Oriental
cigarette between her lips, was cutting a pack of cards under the
complaisant looks of her chambermaid. The latter, a confidential
companion rather than a servant, was a small, dark-complexioned woman,
whom Sophia had had with her for the last ten years. Her name was Milona,
but she was always called Milo. She had been born in the Carpathians, in
the midst of a gipsy encampment. Her mother had died by the side of a
ditch, leaving her, at the age of twelve, quite alone, and exposed to the
attentions of a villain of the band, who had been smitten with the
precocious grace of the child.

Sophia, as she passed through Trieste, in the course of her adventurous
life, had been present, in the court of the inn where she had put up, at
a quarrel between Milona and her ferocious suitor. The little one boldly
opposed the zingaro, who wished to compel her to follow him, and to his
loud-voiced threats uttered in the Romany tongue, she replied by a
determined denial and a flashing look of defiance. The whole band, the
only relations Milona knew, supported the young bandit’s pretensions. But
Milona continued her refusal, when the chief of the band, an old man with
grey beard and white curly hair, a regular patriarch, whose chief
business was to steal poultry from the villages they traversed, tried to
reason with the young girl.

Sophia, with her elbows resting on the window-sill, was enjoying the
sight, and a feeling of sympathy came over her for this proud child who
would not submit to the man’s tyranny. She appeared to understand the
language these gipsies spoke, and smiled at the highly-coloured
expressions of their speech.

“Milona,” said the venerable poultry-thief, “you are not acting aright.
You refuse Zambo, who belongs to the tribe, and loves you well, because
you have been listening to this little Hungarian hussar who has lately
been making love to you. And yet you are well aware that he is a dog, an
enemy of our race, who will soon tire of you, and leave you all alone. It
was to me your mother left you when she died. I have paid for your
training and food, taught you to tell fortunes, and all about chieromancy
and the composition of love philtres. Will you be ungrateful and refuse
to be the wife of my little nephew Zambo?”

“I do not love him,” said the girl, dryly.

“But he loves you.”

“That does not matter to me.”

“But if you resist him, he will kill you.”

“That is my business!”

“Do you intend to leave us, then?”

“Yes. I am tired of living on robbery, and being clothed in rags!”

“Then pay for your freedom.”

“I have no money. Wait, and some day the hussar will give me my hands
full of money.”

At these words, Zambo gave a terrible imprecation, and leapt towards the
child with the words—

“That is the last word you shall ever speak!”

And, brandishing a long dagger, he threw himself on Milona. At that
critical moment the Baroness Sophia gave a shrill, whistling sound, which
drew the attention of the whole band, and speaking in their own tongue,
she said—

“That is quite enough. I intend to send for the police. You, old man,
would you like to sell the girl?”

“Yes, your ladyship.”

“How much?”

“Twenty golden ducats.”

“You thief!”

“I cannot take less, your Excellency!”

A purse fell into the courtyard at the patriarch’s feet. He picked it up
with the rapidity of a juggler, counted the money, and, after bowing to
the Baroness, said to Milona—

“Thank your noble benefactress. She has paid; you are free!”

“Come up here, little one,” said Sophia.

Immediately Milona, followed by the imprecations of her disconcerted
lover, flew into the inn. The window of the Baroness was closed, and the
gipsies, with vehement words and exaggerated gestures, tried to give
Zambo to understand that girls were far less rare than ducats, and that,
though his love remained to him on account, the till of the troupe would
be filled for a whole year. Ever since this strange introduction, Milona
had become attached, with a wild and savage affection, to her deliverer.
She had served her indefatigably, and, with the exception of those
terrible secrets which Sophia entrusted to no one, she knew the
life-story of her mistress.

Sophia exhaled a puff of blue smoke, and hesitated before the combination
of her cards—

“King of hearts, nine of spades, and knave of clubs,” said Milona,
calmly, her finger pointing to the spotted cards. “And then, queen of
clubs, knave of hearts, and seven of spades. Still the same reply. You
will not succeed!”

Sophia raised her bold though beautiful eyes up to her companion, and, in
her ordinary accents, which were different from those in which she spoke
Italian, said—

“I must succeed, I tell you, I must, Milona: do you hear?”

“Shall we try the water test?”

“Yes, we have not tried it for some considerable time.” Milona took a
crystal cup filled with flowers. She threw the bouquet on to the floor,
and after extinguishing the wax candles in the chandelier, with one
single exception, placed the cup on the table in such a way that the
light might fall upon it from behind. Then, drawing out one of the long
gold pins which fastened her hair, she crouched down on a stool, dipped
the metal stem into the vase, and commenced a strange chant. In the
water, through which the light penetrated, irisated eddies formed, and
the two women attentively watched the broken fugitive lines, the tiny
drops sparkling like diamonds, and the brilliant spirals of the water
stirred to motion by the gold needle. Milona sang—

“Water is nought but trouble and mystery, light is certainty and truth.
Let the light penetrate the water, and cause its secrets to be revealed.
Turn, needle; shine, ray; water, divide.”

“Look, Milo, look!” exclaimed Sophia, excitedly. “The water is turning
red, it seems to be turning into blood!”

Milona continued her chant—

“Blood is strength and life. The blood of the brain is victory. The blood
of the heart is love. Turn, needle; redden, blood. Grant us victory and
love!”

Sophia, on her knees by the side of the table, was anxiously watching
with ardent eyes the crystal vase in which the water was whirling round
under the impulse given to it by the gold needle.

“Look! Look again!” she exclaimed. “The water is turning green! It is
shining like an emerald!”

“The emerald is the colour of hope, and hope is the joy of life. Turn,
needle; water, become glaucous, like the eyes of the sirens, whom a man
follows to his death!”

Milona withdrew the gold needle. The water, again restored to a state of
calm, after having ceased turning around the sides of the crystal vase,
first assumed a greyish tint, then turned to a dark colour.

“Milo,” exclaimed Sophia, in dismay, “the water is black! It is a sign of
mourning! Who is to die?”

The servant, without replying, relit the candles, took the crystal vase
and threw out of the window the water which had just been used for the
experiment; then, in anger, she spat out into the night—

“May he die who opposes you!” she said fiercely. “Fate announces love,
happiness, and death. You have the privilege of not continuing the
enterprise you have begun. The spotted cards say you will not succeed.
The water predicts death! For whom? That we cannot learn. Stop, there is
still time.”

Sophia walked silently to and fro in the salon, then halted in front of
Milona, who sat there, in pensive calm.

“Do you believe in these predictions of yours?”

“I do.”

Sophia lit a cigarette.

“What is the use of being superior in thought and courage, of a bold
audacity that recognizes no obstacle, if one acts with the weak cowardice
of an ordinary mortal? It is only in whatever is difficult, if not
impossible, Milo, that there is any interest. How can one live like a
common citizen when one possesses the soul of a sovereign of mankind? No!
Cost what it may, one must follow one’s instinct, give evidence of one’s
will. You know me, Milo; you know that I give way before no obstacle,
once my resolution is taken. Why did you say to me just now, ‘Renounce
what you are undertaking; there is still time?’”

“And you,” said Milona, gravely, “since you are so firm in your plans,
why do you consult cards, and ask the water to lay bare to you its
secret?”

Sophia smiled.

“What you say is just. But, after all, little one, mortals are only
human; that is to say, beings accessible to fear and superstition. Don’t
you know that doctors—who, after all, are well aware how precarious and
powerless is their art—call other doctors to their bedsides when they are
ill? A concession to human frailty, Milo. Still, people do not think any
the worse of them.”

“And is all this in honour of the young man who has been coming here
every day since the Agostini first brought him?”

“The Agostini, as you disrespectfully call him, brought me this young man
because I ordered him to do so. Do you not know that he obeys me without
discussion?”

“Oh, he will never discuss. But, some day or other, he may no longer
obey.”

“Poor Cesare is no favourite of yours,” said Sophia, gaily.

“He is false, and a coward as well. If ever he tries to strike you, it
will be in the back.”

“But he loves me.”

“And do you return his affection?”

“Perhaps; though I am not very sure of it. Why do you call him a coward?
You are well aware that he fought a duel at Palermo with the Marquis
Belverani.”

“Because he knew he was the stronger or the more skilful, and the other
had struck him in the presence of fifty people at the club, after
accusing him of having cheated at cards. And it was quite true; he did
cheat!”

“No one will ever say so again, now that he has killed a man for that
very reason! Besides, the proof that he does not cheat is that he always
loses.”

“You know something about it?”

“Ah, what should I do with my money if I did not give it to him?”

“You are right. Money is vile; it should serve no other purpose than to
satisfy one’s caprices. Its only value is in the pleasures it procures;
in itself it is worth no more than the pebbles lying at one’s feet. Will
the young man who comes now give it you or receive it from you?”

“I do not think he would accept it, Milo,” said Sophia, laughing. “You
are a regular barbarian, and incapable of understanding anything beyond
bribery. There are honest people on earth, little one, and they cannot be
paid for obtaining from them what one wishes. Other seductive means must
be employed.”

“Ah, that is why you sing when he is here! You will make him mad, like
all the others. And yet he looks so gentle and charming!”

“That is true, but he is our enemy, Milo; and if he were to discover who
I am, and what I wish to obtain from him, I should run the most terrible
danger.”

“So the Agostini has brought him here to ruin him?”

“In a way.”

“And he already loves you? Ah, your power over men is irresistible. Take
care, however, or some fine day you will be caught in your turn. Then it
will be terrible for you!”

“I have loved, as you well know. Love has nothing new to teach me.”

“Your heart has never been touched, for all those you have loved have
been your victims. Sincere and pure love is no assassin. It is a
protection and self-sacrifice. Up to the present, however, you have had
to deal with none but fortune-hunters, and it was pure justice to treat
them as they had been in the habit of treating their own victims. The day
you show the Agostini to the door, you may summon me to open it for him.
I will do it most gladly!”

“That day has not come yet.”

“What a pity!”

Sophia gave a weary toss of the head, and Milona understood that she must
cease this light jesting tone. She said—

“I am going to close all the shutters, mistress, do you need me any
longer?”

“No, I am going to write. You will hear me when I retire to rest.”

Seating herself in front of the table, she took an elegant blotting-pad
and began to trace, on perfumed paper, in a large masculine hand, the
following lines:—

    “MY DEAR CESARE,

    “Since you left me, I have not been wasting my time, nor have you, I
    imagine, been inactive. Let me know how your Lichtenbach affair is
    progressing. Here everything is going along smoothly. Our young
    Marcel came to-day, overflowing with enthusiasm, and surprised me
    singing the most plaintive songs imaginable. Milona, who was on the
    look-out for him, had signalled to me his approach, and I played the
    _rôle_ of despair with extraordinary success. He seemed frantic with
    grief at seeing my tears flow. You know that I can weep at will, and
    that in the most seductive fashion. I led him away into the garden,
    and there, made him talk about himself. He is a regular child, of
    most disconcerting simplicity, and so frank and open that you would
    smile. To tell the truth, there will be no merit in triumphing over
    such innocence. This lamb will hold out his neck to the sacrificial
    knife. And we shall have our formula willingly handed over, or I am
    greatly mistaken. Besides, I am enjoying a delightful rest in this
    abandoned spot, and never suffer from _ennui_, even for a single
    moment. In the midst of such an adventurous life, it is long since I
    had time for reflection, and now I am astonished at the result. The
    joys and pleasures for which I have sacrificed everything hitherto,
    form, I am afraid, only one of the phases of life. There is another I
    did not suspect, far more seductive and beautiful. This afternoon, as
    I was listening to young Marcel speaking to me of his father, his
    mother, and sister, with such tender and delicate affection, a
    feeling of sadness came over me. These are all good, honest people.
    They are happy in a mutual love, and would be ready to undergo the
    greatest sacrifices for one another. And, although nothing could be
    simpler, more upright and monotonous than their existence, it cannot
    be disputed that they find happiness in it.

    “It is this lamb of a Marcel, who is the scapegrace of the family.
    From time to time his father threatens him with his malediction, and
    the poor fellow is very repentant for a whole week. He comes and
    buries himself at Ars, like an anchorite in the desert. During his
    penance he works in the laboratory, eats the most ill-cooked food
    imaginable, and has quarrels with the manager of the works, who seems
    to be a disagreeable fellow to deal with. It is during these periods
    of repentance that the interesting discoveries on the dyeing of wools
    and other industrial stuffs—which, it appears, have a certain value,
    as he explains to me in rather too much detail for my liking—have
    been due.

    “But, after all, he is a very fine fellow. He actually asked me how
    old I was! He does not imagine that I am older than himself, and I
    should not be astonished in the slightest, if he were to cherish the
    idea of marrying me. I lead him by a thread—he neither feels nor
    sees—on towards absolute slavery. Then, after he has delivered up to
    me his secret, as all the rest have done, I shall disappear. Once the
    mourning weeds of Mme. Vignola flung aside, I shall again become the
    Baroness Sophia, in which character I challenge my lover to recognize
    the plaintive sorrowful widow he is paying court to just now. So, you
    see, I am not neglecting business matters. I hope you are doing the
    same on your side. The little Lichtenbach heiress will be a
    multi-millionaire; that is well worth the trouble of whispering words
    of love into her ear.

    “A thousand kisses, Cesare. _Sempre t’amero_.

                                                                 “SOPHIA.”

She sealed the letter, took up a cigarette, and was preparing to retire
to rest, when three slight taps on the shutters sent a shudder through
her veins. She listened, an anxious frown on her face, and, after a
moment’s interval, the taps were repeated. Opening a drawer, she seized a
revolver, and, walking deliberately to the window, half opened it, and,
speaking through the closed shutter, said in Italian accents—

“Who is there?”

A voice replied in muffled tones, “It is I—Hans; there is nothing to
fear, Sophia.”

A slight pallor came over her face, but she placed back the revolver in
the drawer, and, without replying, left the salon. On reaching the
outside door she drew the bolts, and noiselessly opened the door. A tall
man entered. Without the exchange of a single word, she led the way to
the salon, then carefully closed the door. The man removed the felt hat
which covered his head, displaying a bold, rough countenance. He was a
man of athletic build, and very broad-shouldered, whilst a reddish beard
covered the lower portion of his face.

Taking a seat, he cast a keen look at Sophia, and said—

“Who is with you, here?”

“Milona.”

“Where is Agostini?”

“In Paris. And where have you come from?”

“From Geneva. Lichtenbach sent me your address.”

“How did you enter?”

“Over the wall.”

“With your wounded arm?”

“My arm is healed.”

As he spoke he extended it with a threatening smile. The arm was indeed
whole. A glove covered the hand. He continued—

“The Swiss are very fine mechanics. They have made for me a jointed
fore-arm which works like a natural one. The hand is of steel. It is the
best fisticuff imaginable. A blow from that hand, Sophia, would kill a
man.” With a sigh he continued. “But, after all, this arm is not worth
the one I have lost. Still, those who have mutilated me shall pay for my
flesh and blood.”

As he spoke his face assumed a ferocious expression, and _he_ ground his
teeth savagely. Sophia, in grave accents, replied—

“Have you not already been paid? At the time you were struck, the General
de Trémont was dead. Perhaps it was he who was taking his vengeance on
you!”

“The old fool! He had only to accede to your request when you were
inducing him to tell you the secret of his safe. Then nothing would have
happened!”

“Hans, it all happened because you were in too great a hurry. You
destroyed all my combinations through your brutality. Had you merely
given me another week the poor fool would have given up to me his secret,
his honour, and everything else. Your intervention put him on his guard;
he recovered from his torpor, and all was lost!”

“No reproaches, please. This mistake has cost me dearly enough. Now, how
do matters stand here?”

“If you will leave me to act in my own way, I shall succeed.”

“Good! Good! I, too, am preparing a slight diversion, which will be of
use. Besides, it will please Lichtenbach.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“Stir up the workmen at the manufactory.”

“Then you intend to make a tool of socialism?”

“Certainly. In it lies the future of society. The thoughtless, brutal
mob, under the sway of a few bold leaders, will obtain for themselves
universal dominion and rule.”

“How long will this be your rule of conduct?”

“Until everything in this execrably rotten society is destroyed.”

“What will you put in its place?”

“That is the secret of time. The revolution will tell it to us.”

“I hate your opinions as well as those who maintain them.”

“I know, I know,” interrupted Hans, with a loud laugh. “You are an
aristocrat, Sophia, and equality is not to your liking. You must have
luxury and superiority always around you. But how do you know that we
shall not give them to you? We aim at levelling, but it is the levelling
of those who rise above us. Have you ever seen a flock of sheep without a
shepherd and his dog to guide them? Then how could nations live without a
head? The great thing is to command. For this power must be snatched from
the hands of those who now have it, by means of certain privileges we
pretend to suppress because we do not enjoy them. Once power is in our
hands, torrents of blood will have to be shed before it can be taken from
us. Who would try to do so? Only revolutionists have any energy left, for
they alone are governed by passion. Revolution is the only means of
succeeding rapidly. To-day I am nothing; in the near future I intend to
be everything. To attain to my object I suppress everything in my way.
This is the meaning, expressed briefly, of all the burlesque rigmarole
uttered by these apostles of humanity. Their love and thoughts are
entirely for themselves. And that suffices.”

Sophia laughed aloud.

“They are mere brigands. You are another, but you must take care, Hans,
for those you dream of spoiling will not let themselves be robbed so
easily as you think. They have invented the police, a tolerably effective
safeguard. But what are you preparing for these poor Baradiers and
Graffs?”

“For the past fortnight I have been exciting the workmen by means of my
agents. I am going to turn their works upside down. That will divert
their attention, for they are far too wide awake concerning what we are
doing. I do not know who is informing the sly rogues, but they seem to
understand Lichtenbach’s game with the greatest ease.”

“Lichtenbach is such a coward! He has done something stupid again. I have
sent Cesare to him, quite as much to keep a watch over him as to pay
court to his daughter. But you cannot put courage into the heart of a
coward.”

“It seems the shares of the Explosives Company had fallen so favourably,
thanks to the bear system undertaken by Lichtenbach, that the re-purchase
was on the point of being effected under the most favourable conditions.
Suddenly, without apparent reason, the brokers began to buy in enormous
quantities on the Stock Exchange, and the shares rose by leaps and
bounds. Lichtenbach held firm, but he had to deal with some one superior
to himself. The threatening ruin was checked. He, personally, has lost a
pile of money at the liquidation. And, from information received, it is
the Baradiers and Graffs who have formed a syndicate, along with a large
number of shareholders belonging to the threatened Company, with the
object of checking the too complete depreciation of the shares. There is
a rumour in business circles that, thanks to a new patent, you
understand, Sophia, the prosperity of the affair is assured for the
future. That is why I am here; direct competition against Lichtenbach
means a challenge to us. The war has begun; it must be maintained, and
the victory won. You all appear to me to be doing nothing but play here.”

“Now, Hans, nothing rash this time,” said Sophia, firmly. “We are going
along very well; take care not to spoil everything again. You have only
one arm left to lose, my dear friend. Do not attempt too much.”

Hans’ features contracted.

“You are in a very gay humour, Sophia. I have only one arm, true; but it
is the better one of the two, make no mistake. Little chance for him who
comes within its reach!”

“So you have come to settle down here?”

“With your permission.”

“You will be greatly in my way.”

“Do not be anxious. I shall only be out-of-doors at night time. It is not
to my interest to be seen in the open daylight. Darkness suits me better.
You attend to your business, and I will attend to mine. All I ask of you
is a room up in the garret, where I may write and sleep during the
daytime. Milona alone will know that I am here. We can have entire
confidence in her.”

“Entire, unless there is harm threatening to myself.”

“Who would think of doing you any harm? Not I, at any rate, so long as we
have the same end in view.”

They exchanged looks, and in their eyes could be read the memory of
long-standing complicity and collusion. Sophia was the first to avert her
glance, which she did with a sign of acquiescence.

“Then follow me.”

She opened the door, and showed the way to the man who appeared to her an
object of mingled dread and hate.



CHAPTER III


BAUDOIN had just finished arranging everything in the summer-house where
Marcel lived, when he heard his name called by the concierge of the
works. On showing himself at the window, the concierge bowed with
deference, and said—

“M. Baudoin, some one wishes to speak to you at the gate.”

“Good; I will be down in a moment.”

It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and, as Marcel had just set out in
the direction of the woods, Baudoin was alone in the house. He had just
placed the furniture in order, and now, after closing the window, he took
off his apron, and went out into the courtyard. On reaching the entrance
to the works, he saw standing in the street a ruddy-faced man, with
untrimmed beard, dressed like a workman, and wearing a pair of large
rough shoes. The concierge disdainfully pointed out the man, and said—

“There he is!”

At the same moment the man turned round, and, seeing Baudoin, came up
with smiling face and extended hands. Baudoin, astonished, watched him
draw near, ransacking his memory, but unable to call to mind if he had
ever seen him before. He said to himself, “Who the deuce can it be? Some
one who has made a mistake!” On coming close up to him, the man said—

“Good day, M. Baudoin.”

Then Baudoin recognized Laforêt. Taking him by the arm, he conducted him
along the garden wall in the direction of the main road; then, sure that
he would be out of the hearing of any one, he said—.

“So you are here at last! What a perfect disguise! I had no idea who you
were till you spoke.”

“We must not remain in the open air, for no one must see us together. Is
there no small inn where we can talk?”

“Certainly; come with me to the Soleil d’Or. I know the landlord; he will
let us have a small room to ourselves, where we shall not be disturbed.
He is an old soldier, and to be relied upon.”

“Very good!”

Seated before a bottle of beer, the two men began their confidential
talk—

“It was quite time you came,” said Baudoin. “There is something new at
last. M. Marcel’s solitude has been broken in upon by two strangers, who
pass as brother and sister, jabber away in Italian, and who, from the
very first week of their stay here, have found means of entering into
friendly relations with my master.”

“What kind of a woman is she?”

“Ah, unless I am mistaken, she is a very cunning woman, like the one who
called to see my poor General, and tricked him so cleverly.”

“And the man?”

“A foreigner. His first appearance. He calls himself a count, but he is
probably a mere fortune-hunter. A handsome-looking fellow, though I have
only seen him at a distance.”

“And the sister?”

“A splendid woman! Light-complexioned, with hair arranged in Madonna
fashion. The most innocent, harmless-looking creature imaginable! In deep
mourning, reminding one of ‘Mignon’ bewailing her country. What is her
object in coming here just at this time?”

“We will do our best to throw some light on the matter if possible.”

“I can do nothing, you understand, for I am too well known here. At the
very first sign of activity I gave, it would be equivalent to saying to
these people, ‘Look out, I am watching you.’ They would be at once on
their guard, and the game would be over! I have already hazarded a rather
risky examination of the house in which they live, and the surroundings.
But I cannot recommence without running the risk of being caught by M.
Marcel; and, if he questioned me, what reply could I give him? To warn
him of the toils being skilfully drawn around him would be to cut short
the intrigue now in preparation, and which, in all probability, will give
us an opportunity of laying hands on the villains we are on the look-out
for. And not to warn him is to leave him exposed to the greatest dangers!
I have been thinking of all this for some days, and the more I reflect,
the more I hesitate. Accordingly I was very anxious to see you, as you
can give me your advice in the first place, and afterwards we can
deliberate as to the best means of defending M. Marcel in case he comes
to be threatened.”

“We must proceed methodically. Where is this house situated?”

“Oh, it is very easy to recognize! It is half-way between Ars and the
woods of Bossicant, and is named the Villa de la Cavée. Impossible to
make a mistake, for it stands all alone.”

“To-morrow morning I will take up my post at the door.”

“How?”

“That is my business. You will see how it is possible to keep a watch
over people without appearing to do so.”

“But there is no house for more than half a mile around.”

“That will make no difference. How does the lady live?”

“Very quietly. She never leaves the house, except to take a walk in the
wood. Until lately, alone, or with her brother, but now with my master.”

“Then he is bitten?”

“Very badly.”

“Good!”

“And what, in your opinion, must we do as regards M. Marcel?”

“Nothing.”

“Not even warn him of his danger?”

“Under no pretext. What danger does he run? I will keep watch over him
outside, and you will look after him inside. No one has any interest in
threatening him. If, as is very probable, according to usual tactics, a
pretty woman has been told off to try to catch him, all he risks is
falling in love with a worthless creature. Will it be the first time this
will happen to him? You do not think so, nor do I. Meanwhile, we will set
a few caltrops to try and catch our freebooters. Are you sure it is not
the same woman who came to Vanves?”

“She has neither the same voice nor the same accent. But then, can one be
certain of anything when one has to deal with people of such cunning? As
for the man, I can answer that it is not he, for I saw the man at Vanves.
He was a head taller than this tom-tit of an Italian. His speech, too,
was very peculiar. Oh! I should at once recognize the man who killed my
General! And if ever he comes within my reach—”

As he spoke his fists were tightly clenched, and a fierce glare shone in
his eyes. Laforêt calmed him by saying—

“Do not get angry! Especially in the matter now engaging our attention;
we must keep cool heads. Suppose you suddenly found yourself in front of
this man, what would you do?”

“I would seize him by the throat, and he should not escape, that I would
swear to before God!”

“What folly! Your duty would be to pretend not to recognize him. You
could follow him, find out where he lives, and keep a watch over him, so
that we might capture both himself and his accomplices. My dear Baudoin,
let us agree at once to some such course beforehand. For if we act in too
sentimental a fashion, we shall fail utterly.”

Baudoin sighed—

“You are right; still, it would be very hard for me to keep my fingers
away from the rascal’s skin! But then, you have had experience; I will
obey you.”

“Well, then, let us find some means of correspondence. For the future we
must not be seen to have any communications with one another. See here;
when I have anything to say to you I will go to the entrance door of the
works, and write on the top of the gate on the left side the day and hour
of the rendezvous in red pencil. For instance: ‘Tuesday, 4 o’clock.’ Then
you will arrange to come round to this inn, where you will find me. If
you wish to speak to me you will do the same on the other pillar on the
right of the gate. I shall pass by every morning and evening to see if
the rendezvous has to take place that evening or not.”

“Very good.”

“Then good-bye for the moment. When we leave here we no longer know one
another. I will go now, and leave you to pay. Good luck, and keep cool!”

“I will, if possible.”

At that very hour Marcel was walking to and fro in the woods with Madame
Vignola. The small terrier was running about along the path, which was so
narrow that the young man and his fair companion were brought into close
proximity to avoid the shooting branches which invaded the way. A feeling
of languor seemed to emanate from the earth, gently warmed by the early
spring sun. On reaching the edge of the plateau they halted by a rocky
ledge overshadowed by large ash-trees.

The whole valley of Ars lay before them. The tile roofs of the works, the
large chimney-steeple with its plume of black smoke, and the church and
houses capriciously grouped, formed a smiling and delightful picture. The
young woman pointed out with the end of her parasol the different parts
of the panorama, and Marcel named all the points of interest visible. It
was a kind of taking possession of the country under the auspices of
Marcel. He said to her, with a smile—

“You are asking questions, as though you intended to settle down in these
parts.”

“It is a custom of mine,” she said. “I like to know where I am, and to
make inquiries about the district. Things have no meaning or interest for
me unless I know their names and purposes. For instance, you point out to
me down there a railway line which passes into the plain. To the fact
that it is a railway I am absolutely indifferent; you add, it is the line
running from Troyes to the frontier, _viâ_ Belfort. Immediately my mind
begins to work, and the precise representation given by the thing
attaches my mind to the thing itself. As you see, I am of anything but a
poetic nature.”

“You appear to me to have an extraordinary intelligence.”

“And one which is not of a very feminine nature, now confess.”

“True, I find you anything but silly or fickle in disposition. But I give
you credit for a good quality.”

“In any case, confess that it is not a graceful one.”

“Oh! You have so many others!”

“I did not ask you for a compliment.”

“You must accept it now, all the same.”

She looked at him with an air of simple content, then shook her head.

“That is not right of you; you have broken our agreement. It was
understood between us that you should treat me as a companion, in return
for which I would allow you to accompany me in my walks, and call on me
unceremoniously. But you are a Frenchman, and it is impossible for you to
give up all pretensions to gallantry.”

“Would an Italian have stayed so long in your company without telling you
how charming you are?”

“Yes, if I had forbidden him to speak of such things. But he would have
thought the more!”

“How can you tell?” said Marcel, eagerly. “Do you think I am indifferent
because, obeying you too well, I have addressed to you nothing but simple
expressions of cold courtesy? Do not judge my feelings by my words; they
are very different from one another.”

“You have only known me for a week.”

“Is a longer time needed to love for ever?”

“For ever! What an engagement to make! And so quickly decided on!”

“And so easy to keep when one first sees and afterwards comes to know
you!”

“And which can have no result, as I must soon leave, and go away far
from—”

“What need is there for you to follow out plans formed during the early
days of sadness and solitude? Is it wise to decide for a whole lifetime
in a single moment at your age, and with such a store of future
compensations to draw upon? At the age of twenty-four to think that
everything is lost, because destiny has separated you from a husband old
enough to have been your father? Your life has only just begun, at the
very time you think it is all over.”

“Yes, my brother has often said the same thing to me. That is the usual
way of looking at things. New tenderness to replace a dying affection.
But then, how wretched to lend one’s self to such social arrangements,
and undergo such an unexpected fate! And yet a heart cannot be swept out
like a room for new tenants. The memories of the one who occupied it
cannot be so speedily effaced; they remain. And is it not a kind of
profanation for a delicate soul to allow itself to cherish a new
affection, when it imagined the light had vanished for ever?”

“I will reply in your own words: ‘For ever! What an engagement to make!
And so lightly decided on!’ Can you be sure of keeping it? Let the world
wag along. Your decision will not alter anything. There is nothing
definite in this world, not even the sincerest grief.”

She stood there silent for some time with downcast eyes. Her companion
admired the graceful curves of her supple form, and the youthful grace
that appeared on the beautiful countenance. She seemed scarcely twenty
years of age. Her cheeks had all the appearance of a tempting and savoury
fruit, Finally she continued, with a sigh—

“If I listened to your protestations, what trouble should I be preparing
for myself in the future? You are not dependent on yourself, as I am, for
I have only a brother, though, after all, he is very indulgent towards
me. You have a family which will claim you. When you leave this district
where will you go?”

“I shall return to Paris, where I generally live. What prevents you
taking up your abode there also? Your interests are in Italy? What then?
Your brother will look after them, and you will have nothing to do but
consider your own happiness.”

“Paris frightens me. That immense stir and commotion troubles me, and I
imagine it would be impossible to live there in calm and quiet.”

“What a mistake you make! The excitement of Paris life is very deceptive;
it is only the surface that is troubled. Its depths, as in those of the
sea, are quiet and peaceful, and the storms on the surface never disturb
them. In Paris itself are peaceful corners, filled with verdure, light,
and flowers, where a happy and gentle life may be passed. We would find
such a spot for you, chosen with tenderest care, and there you would
learn to spend your time free from melancholy and feverish anxiety. Far
from noise and distraction of every kind, within easy reach of the utmost
refinements of taste and intellectual pleasures, you will find out the
most precious thing in the world: a quiet home, embellished by a love at
once sincere and tender.”

“That is a very seductive picture you have drawn, and you know how to
present it in the best light. Is there a touch of the fairy about you?
Are you in possession of an enchanter’s wand, to be able thus to dispose
of the destiny of others? You summon up characters and scenes to suit
your fancy. Were I to listen to you, would you be free to realize your
programme? To me you appear to be building castles in the air. What would
your parents and friends say of this arrangement?”

“Oh! they would accept it, there is not the slightest doubt of that. If
you only knew how fond they are of me, and how joyfully they would
welcome anything giving proof of moderation and wisdom on my part! My
father, though rough to outward appearance, is the finest man in the
world. He is anxious about my doings, only because of his affection for
me, and his anxiety regarding my future welfare. He never gave the least
sign of egoism, even when we quarrelled. His own pleasure and peace of
mind, even, were subordinated to my interests. Only when he saw that some
action of mine which he judged harmful—would injure me in some way, did
his anger burst forth against me. He loves me so well that, were he
certain my happiness might be assured under honourable conditions, he
would sacrifice his own without the slightest hesitation. As for my
mother, she is the very embodiment of virtue and goodness.”

She bit her lips, and answered with sudden harshness, as though tired of
listening to this wealth of praise.

“Very fine sentiments, indeed! Then you are not a dutiful son if you have
not been in perfect accord with such loving parents.”

“I have not been undutiful, though not always reasonable.”

“Then what has been lacking to make you so?”

“A serious love.”

Raising a delicate finger, with threatening gesture, to Marcel, she said—

“I am afraid you are anything but a model of virtue!”

“Do not judge me ill for having spoken so frankly. That would be neither
benevolent or just. For, really, you would form a false idea of me.”

She continued, gaily—

“Come! I see that you are quite a model, after all!”

“Now, you are joking! How changing is your mood! How can one hope to get
the better of you?”

“Ah! my dear sir, did you think that a single word or look would suffice
to seduce me? If so, I am more rebellious than you imagined. Did you
suppose that the influence of spring, amid this charming scenery, an
inactive solitude, and the length of the evenings, joined to your own
particular qualities, would have induced me to fall down at your feet?
You are going rather too fast. My melancholy mood cannot accommodate
itself to such a rapid change! There, now, don’t look so down-hearted; I
am speaking to you very gently. Had I wished I might have assumed an
offended attitude, for, after all, you offer me your heart without taking
the slightest precaution. Still, in this out-of-the-way place one cannot
help feeling nearer the simplicity of nature. It is easy to return to
habits and manners that are almost primitive, even without troubling
concerning forms and customs, and saying what one really thinks and
feels. I will forgive you, on condition you do not recommence.”

Astonished at hearing the young woman speak in such a vivacious tone of
raillery, Marcel wondered if she were really the same sorrowful
languishing widow whose tender melodies were so often broken by sobs. Her
face sparkled with a malicious harshness, and those caressing eyes of
hers belied the coldness of her words. She offered so irritating a
mixture of decency and profligacy, of modesty and sensuality, that Marcel
no longer knew what to think. Suddenly the church-bell of Ars began to
toll the evening Angelus, changing the trend of their thoughts. The young
woman suddenly stood upright, exclaiming—

“Six o’clock already! How time passes! They will wonder what has become
of me.”

“But you are quite alone!”

“My servant—”

“That extraordinary creature you call Milo.”

“Do not speak ill of her; she likes you.”

“Thanks for the favour!”

“Oh! she is not fond of everybody. With you, however, she is like my dog,
which licks your hand; he does not treat everybody the same way!”

“Yes, I may charm the servant and the dog, but the mistress disdains me.”

“Oh! the mistress. She is the one who orders, and the others obey.”

“Then I will obey.”

Giving him a charming smile, she summoned to her the little terrier,
which was hid among the heather, and, walking slowly by Marcel’s side,
returned in the direction of the villa. On approaching the gate they saw
a man engaged in arranging on the road a pile of stones discharged from a
tumbrel that very morning. A large sledge-hammer lay near his vest under
a straw covering. Politely raising his cap to the two passers-by, and
without appearing to bestow any further heed on them, he continued his
task. Madame Vignola seemed vexed at this installation so near her home.
She looked carefully at the man, and, as soon as the garden gate was
closed, asked—

“What does that person intend to do there?”

“He seems to be engaged in breaking stones,” said Marcel. “Most likely a
journeyman who will be working on the road for some time.”

“Will he stay here long?”

“A few days, perhaps.”

“He has a villainous-looking face. Is there nothing to fear from such
people?”

“Nothing whatever, except the sound of their hammers breaking the stones.
But you will not hear that from the house.”

Madame Vignola did not appear to be quite satisfied by what Marcel said.
A look of anxiety shaded her brow.

“If the presence of this poor fellow disturbs you so much,” said the
young man, “would you like me to request the authorities to have him
removed? He will be sent to work a few hundred yards away. I have
sufficient influence to obtain this change.”

“Do nothing of the kind. I shall get accustomed to his presence. After
all, he has his living to earn.”

She held out her hand to Marcel, with a smile. Holding it for a moment
within his own, he said, softly—“You are not angry with me?”

“No.”

“You will allow me to return to-morrow?”

“Yes, I should like you to do so.”

“And you will allow me to tell you that I love you?”

“If it gives you pleasure to do so.”

They said nothing more; night was falling, and a gentle obscurity was
overshadowing all nature. Still, they were less alone than on the plain
of Bossicant, and it was, perhaps, this very fact which rendered them
more audacious. Marcel drew near to himself the young woman, without the
slightest resistance on her part. The tissue of her black dress came in
contact with Marcel’s shoulder. A kind of fever seized him, and for a
moment he lost all notion of the surrounding world.

A cry of pain, and an effort of resistance, recalled him to himself. He
saw Anetta fleeing towards the house. On the threshold she halted, looked
at him for a moment, as though trying to find something to say to him. He
took a step forward, but she stopped him with a gesture. Placing his
fingers to his lips, he sent a kiss to the enchantress who had so
completely gained possession of his heart, and took his departure.

A disagreeable surprise awaited him on his arrival at the works. The
gates, usually open, were now closed, and small knots of men were
collected in the street. They removed as he approached, only to form
again a little further distant. What the manager had told him a few days
previously concerning the evil dispositions of the workmen returned to
his mind. In his eagerness to overcome his love difficulties he had
forgotten business worries. Going up to the concierge, he asked—

“What is the matter here? Why are the gates closed? What is the meaning
of all these people in the streets?”

“Ah! M. Marcel, there are troubles with the workmen. They went on strike
at three o’clock to-day, and are scattered about in the cafés and inns,
along with the strikers from the Troyes works, who have turned their
heads.”

“No damage has been done?”

“No, M. Marcel. But the manager has been looking for you everywhere.”

“I will go at once and speak to him.”

He made his way towards the office. Through the closed shutters a ray of
light announced the presence of M. Cardez in his study. Marcel entered.
The manager was seated before his desk writing. On seeing the son of his
master he rose at once, and, without waiting to be questioned, began—

“Well! what did I tell you, M. Baradier? Here they are in open revolt!
And that without the slightest plausible reason! Simply to do as their
comrades! Their heads have been turned by the leaders of the strike. I
have reasoned and talked gently to them, but all in vain; they are
nothing but machines! Ah! you are interested in the workers, now you will
learn to know them!”

“What measures have you taken?”

“I have closed the doors, so that no one may enter without our
permission, or without incurring a penal responsibility. Now I am
expecting a delegation of the workmen.”

“Under what pretext have they ceased work?”

“They demand the suppression of sweeping and lighting, the supply of
needles at a lower price.”

“Is the demand a just one?”

“It is something quite new.”

“But is it just?”

“_Mon Dieu_! Concessions might, doubtless, be granted, but then others
would immediately be made. Their grievances would never come to an end.
We are only at the beginning. Is it wise to yield all at once?”

“Why not give them the impression that we wish them well?”

“They would look upon it as a sign of weakness.”

Marcel remained pensive.

“So the weavers of Troyes are on strike, and are inciting our workmen to
follow their example?”

“They were at Sainte-Savine yesterday, and to-day they are at Ars. They
made sufficient noise; you must have been very busy not to have heard
them.”

“I was away from home,” said Marcel, embarrassed.

“All the same had you been here; that would have made no difference;
their plan of action is fixed. They would have insulted you, as they did
me, that is all.”

“Insulted?” exclaimed Marcel.

“Listen.”

A vague sound was heard breaking the silence of the night. The harsh
untrained voices of the mob were heard singing a kind of workmen’s
Marseillaise—

    “Les patrons, les damnés patrons,
    Un beau matin, nous les verrons
    Accrochés au bout d’une branche!
    En se sentant morts a moitié,
    C’est alors qu’ils crieront pitié!
    Mais nous leur repondrons: Dimanche!
    Retroussez vos manches, luron!
    Bientôt va commencer la danse.
    Ayons la victoire, ou mourons
    Pour notre indépendance!
          Ayons la victoire, ou mourons
          Pour notre indépendance!”

A shrill clamour, mingled with the shrieks of women and children,
followed this threatening refrain; then came a formidable hooting—

“Down with Cardez! Down with the manager! To the gallows with him!”

“Do you hear them?” said Cardez. “The gallows, indeed! And what have I
done to them? Simply exact from them a conscientious amount of work, and
respect for the regulations. The gallows! If they think they can frighten
me with their threats they are mistaken. An old soldier like myself
cannot be intimidated so easily. Besides, these are nothing but idle
cries; no deeds will follow!”

“Have you written to my father and uncle?” asked Marcel.

“I have telephoned to them. They must, by this time, have entered into
relations with the prefect to insure the protection of the works, and
respect for the rights of labour. But for that troops will be needed, and
no one can tell how far things will go with people of the character of
these Champagne fools. We have a loyal police at Ars, who are well known
and respected. I think that ought to be sufficient.”

“Are you afraid of a conflict?”

“I am afraid of nothing, but I am obliged to take every precaution. Our
Ars workmen, as I said, are more noisy than evil-intentioned. But there
are strangers who have incited them to action, and it is with them that
we shall have to deal.”

“A mob is a brute force, both blind and deaf. You cannot undeceive a
hundred men. If they all clamour aloud at once, how can any possible
understanding be reached?”

“That is what leaders of strikes rely upon! Tumult and violence.
To-morrow I shall receive a delegation of workmen, with whom, I hope, it
will be possible to come to reasonable terms.”

“I will help you.”

“If you wish.”

“Will there be any hostile manifestation this evening?”

“No. Not before to-morrow.”

“Then I will go and dine. Good night.”

Baudoin was waiting for him. In serving his meal the devoted servant, to
whom Marcel permitted a certain amount of familiarity, lingered near the
table instead of returning to the kitchen. He looked carefully at his
master, and seemed to wish to read his secret impressions on his face.
Never had the young man been so silent and preoccupied as during the past
few days. In solitude he lived over again the hours he had spent in the
company of the beautiful Italian, and never appeared tired of thinking
about her. Not a word did he say, but his countenance was illumined by an
inner radiance. Still, in spite of his absentmindedness, Baudoin’s
persistence in standing there before him, like a note of interrogation,
struck Marcel at last. Looking at him for a moment, he said—

“What is the matter with you, this evening, Baudoin? You seem quite
agitated.”

“One might be so with less cause. You are aware, sir, that the employees
have assumed a very threatening attitude?”

“Well! Are you afraid?”

“No, indeed, sir, not for myself, at any rate!”

“For whom, then?”

“For yourself, sir. When I left Paris M. Baradier gave me precise orders
to protect you from all harm. If anything were to happen I should not
know what to do. That is what agitates me, as you say, sir.”

“There is nothing to do, Baudoin, except wait.”

“I beg your pardon, sir, there is something far preferable to that—that
is, to take the first train back to Paris.”

“And leave my father’s works exposed to the violence of his workmen?”

“M. Baradier’s works are doubtless very precious, but not so precious as
his son.”

“Do not be uneasy, Baudoin; no one will harm either the son or the works.
The deuce! Are there no laws in existence? The people of Ars are not
savages.”

“Neither are the people of Troyes, nor those of Sainte-Savine, savages,
and yet, this very morning, they destroyed everything at the works of
Messrs. Tirot and Malapeyre.”

“Hard masters!”

“The question is not whether they are hard or lenient masters, but simply
whether they are masters at all. Your presence here, sir, is not
absolutely necessary. It would be better if you would go and spend a week
in Paris.”

“They would say that I had run away. And old Cardez, who is none too fond
of me, will say that I am good for nothing except making chemical
experiments! That, when the works are to be defended, I am no longer to
be found. No, no! Chance has brought me here, and chance will keep me. I
shall even try to arrange everything for the general good.”

“Then you will take all necessary precautions, sir?”

“What precautions?”

“A good revolver on your person, in the first place.”

“What an idea! What would be the use of a revolver, Baudoin? If I have to
deal with a crowd of men, I could not attempt to defend myself. With one
or two men only, I shall run no danger.”

“At any rate, if you have anything important here, sir, it might be
useful to put it in safety.”

They looked at one another in silence. Marcel had understood what the
General’s servant meant. He became very serious.

“You allude to the powders, I suppose, Baudoin?”

“Yes, sir, I am aware that you possess the formulæ. Can nothing be stolen
which would place the one who should be audacious enough to attempt the
_coup_, in possession of the secret?”

“The powders, even the formulæ might be stolen, Baudoin, without the
secret being discovered. There is a peculiar trick of manipulation the
General revealed to me, which alone constitutes the real value of the
discovery.”

“All the same, it was to obtain possession of the formulæ that my master
was killed.”

“No, Baudoin, he was killed because he refused to tell the proportions of
the ingredients. It was madness at finding himself deceived that inspired
the murderer’s arm. He imagined he could substitute his own for the
genius of the inventor, and find out the mixtures himself. He wished to
storm the mystery and brutalize science. It was then the General was
struck.”

“Is it not possible he may try again?”

“Is he even alive? Come, Baudoin, are you attempting to discover some
relation, however far-fetched, between these disturbances, which are
putting the whole district in commotion, and this powder affair?”

“I know nothing; but I am on my guard against everything that appears of
a suspicious nature. There are strangers in the works. It is they who
lead the strikers. Strangers were also in the powder affair. _Mon Dieu_!
I may be stupid, sir, but I would give a great deal to be safe back in
Paris with you.”

“You are very imaginative, Baudoin.”

“Well, then, as I see you are determined to pay no attention to what I
say, I should be glad, sir, if you would give me the key of the
laboratory. I will keep watch by day, and sleep there by night. In that
way I shall be more completely at ease.”

“Very well, Baudoin. You will find the key in my room, over the
mantelpiece. If that will restore your peace of mind, it is easy enough.”

“That will not restore my peace of mind entirely, sir; but, at any rate,
it will give me a certain amount of satisfaction.”

The dinner being now at an end, Marcel went out for a stroll in the
garden and along the river bank. It was a cool evening, and the stars
shone forth in undimmed brilliancy. At times a dull, rumbling sound was
heard coming from the inns and cafés of the town, where the workmen were
celebrating the strike in numerous bumpers. A feeling of sadness came
over Marcel at the thought of the women and children awaiting in their
poor dwellings the return of the father for the evening meal, whilst the
latter, under the persuasion of raillery or threats, lingered before the
table covered with glasses, and drinking the most poisonous and maddening
liquors imaginable. What wretchedness would result from this interruption
of work! The paltry savings of the thrifty would vanish, the debts of the
improvident would increase. And the net result of all this tumult and
agitation, excited by hypocritical leaders, would be nothing but severity
and rancour.

Turning aside his thoughts from these evils, to which he could see no
remedy, he directed them to the Villa de la Cavée. There, at the same
time as himself, Anetta would be walking to and fro in the garden. He
pictured her passing down the winding alley in dreamy solitude. What
could she be thinking of, if not of himself; whose heart was filled with
her memory? Were they not united in soul, and was not that delicious kiss
a proof of her affection. A thrill of pleasure came over him in the
silence of the night, and he thought to himself, “Suppose I were to pay
her a visit now? She does not expect me, true. What would she think of my
eagerness to see her again? Would not the untimely hour, and the
isolation she is in, make her consider my visit offensive? The more
defenceless she is, ought I not the more to respect her? Ah! She loves
me, I feel it. Am I on the point of spoiling by my rashness all the
happiness the future has in store for me?”

In his tenderness Marcel was anxiously solicitous of sparing the
susceptibilities of her who had set the terrible trap in which he was
hopelessly caught. Had he been able to penetrate into the Villa de la
Cavée, and reach the salon unperceived, he would have heard Sophia and
her Dalmatian servant exchanging their impressions; whilst, seated
astraddle on a chair, the terrible Hans was listening to them, smoking
the while, and with an expression of ironical contempt on his face.

“After all, madame, what will you do with this poor young man when you
have obtained from him what you want?”

“Oh, that will not trouble me! He is very agreeable and charming, and
will doubtless bewail my departure. But he has not yet reached the point
I wish to bring him to.”

“What we chemists call the incandescence point,” said Hans, harshly. “We
know what that is, Sophia, when you have a hand in the matter. For young
Zypiatine it was the moment when, in his madness, he handed over the
secrets concerning the concentration on the frontiers of Afghanistan; for
poor Stenheim, the hour when he stole from the War Office the plan of
defence of Herzegovina, and for our friend, the handsome Cesare
Agostini—”

“Don’t speak of Cesare,” interrupted the young woman, frowning.

“Why not, indeed? The _coup_ he effected was a very fine one. Were he to
attempt to cross the Italian frontier I believe he would be sent to rot
in the darkest fortress of Sardinia. For he is not one of those whom they
risk passing judgment on, even in private; he knows rather too much.
Certainly, this fair-complexioned young fellow from Champagne you are now
preparing to shear, is a pascal lamb compared with the dangerous
characters you have hitherto led to their ruin without the slightest
compunction. All the same, you must beware, Sophia; I know you well. You
are not quite at your ease just now, you have become silent and
dreamy—preoccupied, in fact; not a good sign at all! Are you on the point
of doing something stupid?”

Sophia shuddered. Fixing her eyes full on Hans, she asked suddenly—

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, ah! Now you are interested. I am not surprised. You are too
intelligent to form any illusions regarding yourself. You must have
noticed that something abnormal is taking place in your mind. The other
day there was something in your way of saying that no harm whatever
should come to the young Baradier, which gave me serious grounds for
reflection. This very evening, on returning home, I saw you in a state of
languor anything but natural to so practical a woman as you are. Usually,
after playing a _rôle_, you resume your ordinary expression and clear
directness of speech, as though, after removing a mask, you had become
your own self once more. This time it is not the same. You are under the
sway of external influences. In short, to sum up, you seem to me as
though about to fall in love with this young Baradier!”

“I!” exclaimed Sophia, almost angrily.

“Yes, you, Sophia, Baroness Grodsko, known here under the name of Madame
Vignola. Now listen, my dear, such an occurrence would be an out-and-out
act of stupidity!”

“You are mad, Hans!”

“I shall only be too glad if I am mistaken. But I have a very keen
intuition! We all have our little weaknesses, Sophia, and I should not
wonder in the least if this young man pleased you. But I should be very
much astonished if you thought of attaching yourself really to him, for
nothing would be more dangerous to us, or to him, or even to yourself. If
you could keep the young Marcel from the works for a short time I will
not deny that such a course would serve my purpose. But no passion,
remember, just a passing fancy. Keep him in the villa just long enough to
enable us to execute our plans. That is how I understand things.”

“As I, also,” said the young woman, coldly.

“Very good. If you can keep a cool head and heart, there is nothing to
fear and everything to hope for. You hear that, Milo. If your mistress
shows any inclination to go astray, you will be there to remind her of
her engagements.”

“My duty is to obey her,” said Milona, with scowling look, “and not to
order. As for you, never presume to order me to do anything.”

“Why not, if you please, my young savage?”

“Because a girl like myself is willing to give up her liberty for the
sake of one she loves, but she will not serve one she detests.”

“That means simply that we are not friends, my little one,” jeered Hans,
with a loud laugh. “As you please; I will not force you to like me.”

Milona gave him a steady look, and shrugged her shoulders, pronouncing a
few words in an uncouth tongue. She then left the room.

“What did she say in that Romany tongue of hers?”

“She said, ‘Son of a she-wolf, may you die of a burning fever without any
one at hand to give you a glass of water.’”

“Many thanks for her gracious wishes. Some day my stick shall make the
acquaintance of your back, charming creature.”

“Do not think of such a thing, Hans, she would repay you with
dagger-blows!”

“What delightful relations! But you know well that I am afraid of no one.
Now let us speak of something more serious. Have you heard from Cesare?”

“He writes to say that he is back from London, where business matters are
progressing well. As you are aware, our English friends are very
practical. They have launched a company with a capital of fifty million
francs. They will need a whole territory for their money, and they will
certainly succeed.”

“Assuredly. When one’s calculations are based on human folly and
incredulity, failure is impossible. That is why business matters possess
so little interest.”

“At the bottom, you have no esteem for anything but force and might. Your
temperament is that of a _condottiere_ of the fourteenth century. You
have been let loose in this coward society of ours, there is no scope for
your talents in such a restricted civilization as the present. Come,
Hans, since we are speaking to one another to-night, with apparent
frankness, who are you, and where do you come from? It is five years
since I first met you, and yet I know you no better than I did the first
day. We have mutual interests, and yet I have no hold on you. You are
generally called Hans, but sometimes Fichter; although you look like a
German, you can speak both Russian and Spanish admirably. I have known
you to accomplish the most abominable actions, and yet you are never
cruel without necessity. You attempt to obtain possession of huge sums of
money, though your style of living is anything but extravagant. Where do
all your resources go to? What end have you in view? What is this
mysterious task you are engaged on, for the little you accomplish with us
is only a small part of your work? You have trusty companions who do not
belong to us. Suddenly you disappear, to accomplish some work or other we
know nothing about. I sometimes suspect that we are merely tools in your
hands, and are collaborating, without the faintest suspicion of it, in
the execution of some far-reaching plan which embraces the whole of
humanity. At times, I wonder if you are not the visible head of some
enormous and terrible international federation, which, at a given moment,
and everywhere at the same time, will set the revolution aflame.”

Hans smiled, shook his head approvingly, and then said in railing tones—

“Women are far better than men, after all, for being possessed of
delicate tact and a clear perception of things. Ah! So you have wondered
who I really was, Sophia? Well, well! my dear, you are more inquisitive
than either Lichtenbach or Agostini, without speaking of the rest, for
not one of them ever attempted to find out what I was unwilling to show.
Good! Sophia, good! I am interested in you, my child, for you are no
fool.”

Rising, he took the young woman by the waist, drew her to himself, and
gave her a friendly kiss on the forehead. Then, looking at her
steadfastly as though to force his words to enter her brain, he said—

“If you attempt to make a psychological study of me you will lose your
time, Sophia. Know that I am Hans Fichter to you, and shall never be any
other. All the same, do not forget that I am not really Hans Fichter. You
have sought my personality with amusing clear-sightedness, but you will
never discover it, and that is very lucky for you, otherwise you would
not survive your discovery a single moment. Yes, my child, I have too
many people around me, interested in my freedom of action, for any one,
who thought of playing the spy on me, to be permitted to live. Do not
imagine, however, that I am a kind of evil genius, a master of rebel
souls, or the arbiter of future social transformations. If you did you
would be on the wrong track. My power is great, but not sovereign. I am
one of the numerous soldiers of a cause which will triumph in time, and I
bow to no master!”

“Hans!” exclaimed Sophia; “you speak like the nihilists of my own
country. I knew a young student, named Sewenikof, who propagated nihilist
literature among the Moujiks in Moscow, and spoke in almost the same
tones as you are using now. One day he disappeared.”

“Yes, my child, as you will disappear if you repeat a single word,
however seemingly simple and inoffensive, of what I have just said. Your
Sewenikof, whom I have never met, but whom I know, after all, as though I
saw him, was merely an instigator, an agent who has been suppressed. That
kind of thing happens every day. Be careful, Sophia. I am very fond of
you, and should be sorry if any trouble befell you. All the same, I
should be unable to do anything. Now it is time to say good night.”

“You are going to bed?”

“No. I have a rendezvous with my men at Ars. Have you not heard them
shouting themselves hoarse all day long, fools as they are? What a pack
of simpletons! These people have no idea that they are hurling threats
and imprecations simply because such a course suits my convenience.”

“Be prudent yourself, Hans.”

“Ah! This is nothing more than child’s play for me!”

Lighting a cigar, he took his leave. The garden was dark. He proceeded,
without the slightest noise, along the edge of the turf; gliding along
like a shadow. On reaching the gate he opened it noiselessly, and
remained there a moment against the wood panel, so as not to be noticed
from the road. Then he looked all around, as though possessed of the
faculty of seeing in the darkness. After a moment’s hesitation he set out
in the direction of Ars. It would have been impossible for any one coming
behind him to believe that he had come from the garden of the villa.

When he had advanced a hundred yards the branches of a bush silently
separated on the opposite side of the road, and another man, in his turn,
appeared. He was the stone-breaker who had been working for the past few
days at the Cavée. Walking along in step with Hans, he, too, made his way
towards the town.



CHAPTER IV


ON leaving Marcel, Baudoin, after obtaining permission to keep watch over
the laboratory, had gone out on to the main road. It was dark. Taking his
pipe, he filled it with tobacco, then halting near the pillar which
served for Laforêt’s correspondence, he struck a match. By the light he
examined the plaster, and discovered the following inscription in red
pencil, “This evening. Nine.” The old soldier lit his pipe, looked at his
watch, and muttered to himself—

“Nine o’clock to-night. At last! I will go and wait for him.”

He made his way towards the inn, which was no longer dark and silent as
usual. A vivid light shone through the glass on the door, and a rumbling
sound arose from the bar. Baudoin drew near one of the windows on the
ground floor, and listened through the shutters. A voice, as of some one
delivering a discourse, could be heard, interspersed from time to time
with shouts and exclamations. At one time it sounded louder and more
violent, and a thunder of applause rang through the room, as though all
the tables had been struck at one and the same time by the robust fists
of the men present.

“The deuce!” said Baudoin; “this place does not seem very safe for one
belonging to the master’s household. The strikers have met at the Soleil
d’Or, and they appear to be paying favourable attention to one of their
usual haranguers.”

Making the round of the house, he reached the door of the courtyard, and
looked around for an entrance into the kitchen, where he expected to find
his friend the innkeeper. A hand was placed on his shoulder. Turning
round, he recognized Laforêt, who had arrived, noiselessly, and was
standing by his side.

“I was watching you,” said the agent. “The place is full. I was convinced
you would enter this way. We must not stay in the middle of the
courtyard. Many eyes to-night are on the watch around us.”

“Where shall we go?”

“Come along into my room.”

An outer staircase led to a wood corridor, running along the first floor,
and continued right to the top story. It was right under the roof that
Laforêt had taken a room, the wretchedest in the whole establishment, and
quite in accordance with the condition of a poor labourer. Opening his
door, he signed to Baudoin to take a seat on the bed; then, raising the
skylight, he looked along the roof to make sure no one was watching.
Dropping the iron sash, he said in low tones—

“Speak close to my ear. There are rooms on either side of this. The
partitions are very thin, and it is possible to hear everything that is
said.”

“What have you summoned me for?” whispered Baudoin.

“Because I have news from the Cavée. The lady is no longer alone. There
is a man in the house.”

“What kind of a man? A dark, handsome young fellow, who speaks Italian?”

“No; tall, strong-looking, and light-complexioned, with a thick beard,
and speaking with a kind of German accent.”

Baudoin’s eyes shone. He vigorously grasped Laforêt’s hand, and, in
trembling tones, asked—

“Did you see him?”

“Yes, as distinctly as I see you.”

“Had he both arms?”

“He has both arms.”

Baudoin gave a sigh of disappointment.

“Then it is not he! Ah! For a moment I hoped—”

“That it was the man of Vanves? Could you recognize him if he were shown
to you?”

“Perhaps not, for I never saw him except in the dark, but if I heard him
speak, yes, without the slightest doubt, I should recognize his voice
from among a thousand.”

“Very well! I hope I shall be able to give you satisfaction; the man is
here.”

“In the inn?”

“In a room on the first floor with three others, the ringleaders, who
were summoned from the common room when he arrived. He himself has no
relations with the mass of the workmen; he communicates only with the
staff. I shadowed him from the villa to this very spot. The cunning
rascal forced me to keep my wits about me. He changed direction three
times, and twice tried to throw me on a false scent. One would have
thought he felt me close at his heels, though I followed him with the
utmost precaution. He went to the Café de la Gare, where he drank a
bitter; then he left by the servants’ door, after entering by the front.
I suspected the trick, so I went round to the back. Then he went to the
station itself, crossed the waiting-room, and reached the platform. He
walked the whole length, right on to the storeroom; there he found an
open gate, through which he entered the town, and came straight to the
Soleil d’Or. At this very moment he is beneath us, holding a conference
with his confederates.”

“How will you manage to give me an opportunity of hearing him?” whispered
Baudoin.

“You will see shortly. But, first of all, what does the rascal want at
the Villa de la Cavée?”

“Well, you see, it has reference to M. Marcel, that I would swear to.
There is trouble in the air. Why are the works in this condition when
there has never, hitherto, been the slightest difference between the
kindest of masters and the best-treated of workmen? The same thing is at
the bottom of it all. When I summoned you I knew what I was doing. This
Italian is here for M. Marcel, and so is this new arrival, and everything
has been planned by the villains who killed the General!”

“Well! We will throw some light on the matter. If I can succeed in laying
hands on this gang the Minister of War will be delighted. After all,
Baudoin, if you are not mistaken, this affair is simply the result of the
attempt at Vanves. We have to deal with a whole company, and an
experienced one, too, which has already had a crow to pick with us.
Follow me.”

Raising the sash, he placed one foot on a chair, and mounted on to the
roof. Baudoin imitated him. A large leaden pipe surrounded the building.
This they followed until they reached the front, overlooking the
courtyard twenty feet below. Laforêt pointed out to his companion a small
zinc roof below the first floor. It was the covering of a shed, used as a
saddle-room.

“Now, then, our friends are in the room where you see that lighted window
above this roof. If you can get there unnoticed, and without making the
slightest noise, you may see from the roof into the interior; certainly
you could hear.”

Baudoin leaned over into the courtyard, looking for some means of
descending.

“How can I get there? Twenty feet and no ladder.”

Laforêt pointed to something projecting from the angle of the wall.

“That is a cast-iron pipe used for the drains.”

“You are right! Come along!”

“Put your shoes in your pocket.”

After doing so the agent seized hold of the leaden pipe with his hands,
and separating his knees in the angle of the wall to protect himself by
the friction, he silently began to descend. Baudoin, leaning over the
roof, watched the operation with anxious curiosity. He was not afraid
that Laforêt would be found lacking in strength or agility, but was
wondering if the pipe would prove solid. Suppose the attaching
cramp-irons became loose, both pipe and man would fall to the ground with
a terrible clatter. The alarm would be raised, and the consequences of
such an accident might be disastrous. But his anxiety did not last long.
At the end of a few seconds Laforêt had reached the roof, and was lying
there extended at full length.

Baudoin thereupon followed suit. On reaching the bottom of the window,
where the meeting was being held, he knelt down and looked. Through the
muslin of the curtain the human forms appeared indistinct, like the
silhouettes of a badly-focused magic-lantern. According to the position
he was in, and his distance from the light, each of the three men
assembled appeared either like a giant or a dwarf. One of them had risen
from his seat, and was walking to and fro. According as he approached or
went away from the window, a voice, distinct or indistinct, reached
Laforêt’s ears. The latter, without turning round, drew Baudoin nearer,
and whispered in his ear—

“It is difficult to see, but you may hear. Come a little nearer and
listen.”

Baudoin obeyed, and listened attentively in the effort to discover the
object of his keen curiosity. It was not the man who was walking to and
fro whose voice could now be heard. It was rather the voice of some one
seated near a table, who appeared to be examining some papers. Difficult
as it was to find any meaning in what was said, all the same certain
expressions reached them, “No use using violence—nothing would result.
Alarm the workmen. Excite the attention of the authorities.” All the
same, it was easy to understand that he was not of the same mind as the
man on his feet, who appeared to be pacing to and fro with downcast head,
as though impatiently submitting to opposition. Suddenly the walker
stopped, and in harsh tones said—

“It shall be as I wish!”

The other replied, though, on account of the distance, only a few broken
phrases reached the listeners.

“General interest; unfavourable opinions.”

The man on his feet resumed his walk, and was listening to his opponent.

Once more he stopped, and said—

“It shall be as I wish, I tell you.”

Laforêt whispered—

“Is he the man? Do you recognize the voice?”

“No!” said Baudoin, anxiously. “I don’t recognize it at all.”

The man seated before the table thereupon folded up his papers, and put
them in his pocket, with the words—“Then there is nothing to do but
obey!”

The other thereupon went up to the table, laid his hand on the shoulder
of his opponent who had capitulated, and said in joyful accents—

“That’s right! You were a long time before you would give in! Now we must
set to work. No one will repent the decision reached!”

And he burst into a loud laugh.

Laforêt felt the hand of his companion shake, and, at the same time,
Baudoin murmured in accents of frightful anguish—

“It is he—yes, that is the man; I recognize his laugh!”

He gave a gesture of anger, but Laforêt immediately restrained him.

“Listen once more! Make sure that you are not mistaken!”

“It is he! I cannot be mistaken! Ah! that laugh of his; just as I heard
it on the night of the crime, when he descended from the carriage.”

“Well, then, we know all we want. We must not stay any longer here; it is
useless to risk any unnecessary danger.”

Thereupon he glided down to the edge of the zinc roof. Baudoin followed
him, and the two men put on their shoes and reached the courtyard. There
they halted. The door of the inn was closed, but Laforêt knew how to deal
with locks, and, a second later, his companion and himself were in the
open street.

“What are you going to do now?” said Baudoin. “The police are at hand.
Will you hesitate to lock up this villain at once?”

“Good!” said Laforêt. “That is one solution. And afterwards?”

“What do you mean—afterwards?”

“Nothing is easier than to take him. We need only wait till he leaves the
inn, and then carry him off to the police! But what then?”

“Of course he will be accused of the crime committed at Vanves; then he
will be tried, convicted, and finally condemned.”

“Indeed! Convicted? You think so? Such a man as the one with whom we have
to deal? Take him unawares? Could he not easily find an alibi to prove
that he was five hundred miles away from Vanves on the night of the
crime? Even yourself, five minutes ago, hesitated about recognizing him.
And then, whilst we have this bird safe under lock and bolt, only to be
obliged, later on, to set him at liberty, perhaps, all the others will
take to flight. That will be a fine end to everything!”

“All the same, we cannot fold our arms quietly, and let this rascal get
off scot-free?”

“The villain is plotting something here, and the play must not be
interrupted at the very moment the principal character is about to enter
on the stage. What about the beautiful lady of the Cavée and her
pretended brother? And all these rascals who are just now doing their
best to ruin the works of Baradier and Graff? Do you not think of them?
Should we let them know that the whole affair is over and their plot
discovered?”

“But we cannot remain inactive spectators in all this?”

“Spectators, yes, for the moment. Inactive, never! I did not come from
Paris to Ars simply for the purpose of breaking stones on the road. I am
engaged in my profession, and I intend the whole affair to be
successful.”

“But can I not, at least, warn M. Marcel?”

“Under no pretext! His first impulse would be to have a frightful scene
with his lady-love, and everything would be ruined. In the name of
Heaven, let us keep those who are under the influence of passion out of
our confidence! From them you may expect nothing but the most utter
folly!”

“But suppose Marcel falls into some trap or other?”

“Have no fear for him. He will come out of it all right. For my part, I
intend to shadow our man, and shall not let him give me the slip until I
have everything necessary for giving him up to the magistrate in Paris,
who is extremely mortified at his failure in this affair. Do you agree?”

“I must do so, I suppose.”

“Then we will each attend to our own business.”

They shook hands, and separated in the darkness of the night. The
illuminated inn rang with shouts and exclamations, alternating with the
cadence of mugs of beer, as they struck the wooden tables. Away in the
distance the factory raised its sombre bulk under the star-lit sky. At
the very moment Baudoin passed in front of the concierge’s room, the
latter stopped him, and, in joyful tones, said—

“M. Graff has just arrived!”

Uncle Graff, uneasy at what Cardez had telephoned, had not hesitated, but
had left Baradier to continue an important operation at the Bourse on the
shares of the Explosives Company, and, taking the train, had made
straight for the works. Marcel, who was taking a walk by the riverside,
had seen the worthy uncle come along the flower-beds, and had rushed
joyfully forward to meet him.

“What! Is it you, Uncle Graff?”

“Yes, my nephew, I wanted to see for myself what is taking place here. I
have just had a talk with Cardez, and at present I know how matters
stand. Now, let us speak of yourself. How are you getting along, and what
are you doing? I don’t want to find fault, but you send us very little
news. Your mother is anything but pleased, and said to me only last
night, ‘He no longer thinks of us; he loves us no more.’”

“I! Not think of you all!” said Marcel.

“How can your poor mother have any illusion on the subject? Certainly,
you do not spoil her! Ah! I well know that children do not live for their
parents, but for themselves. All the same, they might do a little, from
time to time, for those who have brought them up and loved them from
childhood.”

“Oh, uncle! What you say pains me very much!” said Marcel, penitently.
“Has my silence been interpreted in this way? To obey my father I have
come to bury myself at Ars for several weeks. I think I have given him
sufficient pledges of my good intentions, in spite of a few silly
escapades I have been guilty of.”

“Debts amounting to three hundred thousand francs, my little Marcel,
without counting what I often gave you unknown to your parents, eh?”

“Ah! Uncle Graff, why return to discuss such matters?”

“Yes, you forget them very soon, don’t you?”

Marcel smiled.

“You are a very indulgent uncle; you know what young men are!”

“All the same, I have never been young! Ah! Marcel, I should have adored
pleasure and luxury had I not looked as solemn as a churchwarden.”

“So you gave yourself up to finance, and succeeded brilliantly! My good
uncle, it is you who pay when your spendthrift of a nephew is in
difficulties! All the same, I am very fond of you, Uncle Graff.”

He had taken him by the shoulders, and was embracing him with warmth. The
old man, his eyes filled with tears, looked tenderly at the handsome
young fellow by his side. He coughed to conceal his emotion, and said—

“Yes, I know you are fond of me. Well, well! Promise me that you will
write a nice little letter to your mother.”

“I promise, Uncle Graff, I will write to-morrow morning, and one to my
father into the bargain.”

“That is right! By the way, things don’t seem to be going along very well
here! Are these rascally strikers going to ruin our workmen?”

“There is every appearance of it. Cardez has not sufficient tact; he is
too straightforward in his talk. A fine man, in reality, but one who
appears to act too tyrannically.”

“I will attend to the matter myself. To-morrow I will see the syndicate.
And you—what are you doing? Has your work been progressing?”

“Considerably. I have discovered the pale green and the golden yellow I
have been looking for. You shall see my samples.”

“And the other affair?”

Lowering his voice, he asked in anxious tones—

“The powders?”

“The formulæ have been tested, and their success is assured.”

“Have you made any experiments?”

“Yes, Uncle Graff, and they have been terrible in their simplicity. I set
off, carrying a small piece of the commerce-explosive, in the direction
of Bossicant; I placed it all around the roots of a huge oak. After
igniting it, the immense tree, without noise or smoke, lay there level
with the ground, lying in the heather, as though cut down by a giant
scythe.”

“No one saw you?”

“No one. The following morning the gamekeeper said, ‘Ah, M. Marcel, what
a loss we have had! The old oak of the flat Mare was struck to the ground
last night by the storm. It is strange how those old trees go; but the
wind is a famous wood-cutter!’ In fact, it would be impossible to form
any idea of the destructive force of this powder. I wished to test it
once more, and this time in the breaking up of a rock. Going to the old
stone quarry on the Sainte-Savine road I placed a squib in an excavation.
There were three hundred yards of earth and sand-stone to explode. When
night came I set fire to it, and withdrew. There would be no one passing
in the neighbourhood till morning came; accordingly I feared no accident.
The detonation was extremely feeble, and I was only half a mile away. In
fact, I scarcely heard it. The following morning I returned to judge of
the result. It was terrible! The whole cube had been lifted, and a hole
six yards deep had been dug out in the shape of a funnel. With a
sufficient charge I would wager that a mountain could be blown into the
air! See here, Uncle Graff, if the Spaniards took it into their heads to
destroy Gibraltar they would succeed with this powder. What a fine sight
it would be, that huge mass, rocks, parapets, casemates, cannons, and all
the rest, thundering down into the sea!”

“Have you drawn up your formulæ?”

“No, not yet.”

“Well, draw them up, and give them to me. I will take them away with me
to Paris, and deposit them at the Patents Office. The time is come to
make use of them.”

“You shall have them to-morrow morning, Uncle Graff. It is a mere
trifle.”

“You see, your father and myself have for some time been putting into
execution a plan, the consequences of which are far-reaching. Baradier,
who has a fine intuition for business, has found out Lichtenbach’s plans.
The old rascal caused several shares in the explosives to be sold at a
loss, and brought the stock down to nothing. We were wondering why the
depreciation kept getting greater and greater, when chance afforded us
the proof that it was Lichtenbach who was plotting to ruin the company,
so as to reconstitute it to his profit. He had seven or eight
stockbrokers under his orders. One of them, however, committed an
indiscretion, which placed us immediately in possession of the secret.
Then your father, equal to the emergency, did not hesitate, but bought up
all Lichtenbach was selling, and after the fall had reached the limit,
the rise began. At this moment we hold two hundred thousand shares in the
explosives, bought at a very low price, and which to-morrow, in case the
patent of the new powder is acquired by the company, will rise above par.
It is a formidable party stroke. If we succeed, the fortune of the family
is increased tenfold. We shall have directed against Lichtenbach the
attack he wished to inflict on the Explosives shareholders. He will lose
on what we gain, and this time I think we shall have finished with him.”

“Very well! Uncle Graff, you shall have the formulæ to-morrow, and you
may do what you please with them.”

“It will be a fortune for Mademoiselle de Trémont, and one for ourselves
into the bargain.”

“Ah! Are you not rich enough?”

“Yes. But your father is ambitious. He wants the maximum in everything,
and affirms that there is no reason why French fortunes should not be as
great as those of the Americans.”

“Ah! The Vanderbilts and the Astors! What a weakness to think of such
things!”

“My young friend, you cannot understand this intoxication of success
which takes possession of the calmest and most level-headed of men. You
know well enough that your father is very simple in his tastes, and
spends less money than you do. But it is no longer a matter of pleasure;
it is a question of arithmetic.”

“Yes, I know. But it is precisely there that the harm lies. It would be
far better if he were not so rich, and spent more money. What weapons you
place in the hands of these socialists, who are, at this very moment,
causing us so much trouble! How can you justify in their eyes such a
piling-up of capital at the disposal of one individual whilst the
generality of men toil and suffer from all kinds of privations? You see,
Uncle Graff; the sole excuse of wealthy men is that they spend a great
deal, so as to throw their superabundant riches into general circulation.
It would give me pleasure to see my father fling money out of the window,
since he has so much. Those in the street would pick it up, and their
momentary wretchedness would be relieved, at any rate. I should be glad
if he would order statues of sculptors, and pictures of artists, and set
rolling all the wealth now being piled up in the safes. How can you
expect me to be interested in the shares of such and such a company? What
does this paper represent in my eyes, if not the labour of a whole crowd
of workmen, who toil and sweat to produce dividends which will enrich the
shareholders? Uncle Graff, all this is neither moral nor just, nor even
human! And I believe that a prodigal son like myself is the just ransom,
from a social point of view, of a treasure-hoarder like my father.”

“But consider, my little Marcel, your father’s work enriches, and his
wealth strengthens the country. It is the resources of the rich which
keep up the vigour of a nation in time of national peril. Your father is
a citizen useful by reason of his wealth, just as an inventor is by his
genius, or a general by his talent for war. It is your father who will
give the inventor funds to perfect his invention, and who will pay for
the improved cannons and guns of the soldier. Every man has his function
in life, as in society. And, I can assure you, your father is not one of
the most despicable.”

“Uncle Graff, I speak sentiment to you, and you reply with political
economy. It is impossible for us to come to an agreement. We are both
right, only we are not speaking of the same thing.”

“Neither are we of the same generation. Ideas change several times in a
single century, and one generation does not reason like the following.
Your father and I have seen the war of 1870, invasion and ruin on every
side, and we remember what a ransom we had to pay. That has made us
parsimonious for the rest of our days. You came into the world only when
prosperity had returned; you have been brought up under the breath of
Republican ideas. Your thoughts are quite different from ours; you are an
advocate for equality. We are nothing of the kind. My father inspired in
me respect for caste. I have less consideration for a tradesman than for
a mill-proprietor, more respect for a lawyer, a magistrate, or a notary,
than for a painter or man of letters. It is my nature. I cannot change if
I would. I am well aware that ideas are changing all round me, but I
shall die impenitent. Your generation has no bump of veneration as ours
had. You consider yourself on the same footing as an elderly man, famous
and respected, and you treat him on the most familiar terms. That is
something which would be impossible for me, any more than I should expect
the foreman at the works to look upon me as his equal, and pat me
familiarly on the shoulder. Possibly you and your companions may be
right, but I don’t think so. At any rate we shall see what your children
will be like, if you have any, for even family life is another
institution quite out of fashion now.”

“Well, uncle, you have a very effective way of discussing, without giving
yourself any pretensions! Father would long ago have called me a fool,
without offering the slightest argument. With you, it is different, and
when I listen to you I am by no means sure that I am right. Besides, you
are so kind and tolerant, Uncle Graff, that I do not feel myself capable
of resisting you for any length of time!”

“Ah, you little rogue! Now you are flattering me; you know how to make me
do as you wish. At bottom you are a sly fox, and I believe you trick the
lot of us!”

“Oh! Uncle Graff!”

“Come now, you are not so nice as that for nothing,” said the old
bachelor, with a laugh. “What is it you want me to do for you now?”

“Nothing, upon my word, uncle. I am perfectly sincere in everything I
have just said!”

“Then you are conducting yourself very well just now.”

Marcel raised his eyes, and said calmly—

“How could I do anything else here?”

“Ah! Do you think you could not find an opportunity if you wanted? I
really believe that if you were thrown on to a desert island you would
find means to fall in love and get into debt, even there!”

“But who would pay them if my Uncle Graff were not at hand?”

“You are jesting with me, you rascal!”

“No, I am quite serious. I never leave my laboratory except for a walk in
the woods; and I have not spent twenty-five francs since I came here.”

A violent clamour, coming from the direction of the town, cut short the
conversation. A light shone in the sky. Songs, at the same time as a dull
tramp of a marching band, were heard on the road. And the workmen’s
Marseillaise, shouted out by hundreds of voices, again broke the silence.
On leaving the inn the workmen, accompanied by their wives, were marching
through the sleeping town, hurling out against the startled citizens
threats of revolt and violence. Marcel and his uncle Graff, halting there
in the garden, listened, and watched the shouting mob as it passed by,
waving in the air torches made of pine branches. It was the smoke and
flame hovering above a crowd which was hurling imprecations against the
masters.

Uncle Graff pointed to the street, and said—

“You hear what these people are saying. ‘All the masters shall be strung
up!’ And yet there is not one of them who, were he ill or infirm, would
not have the right to rely on us to mitigate his suffering. We have given
them workmen’s dwellings where they are lodged, schools where their
children are educated, hospitals where they are treated with every
attention when ill, and co-operative societies where they may buy
everything at cheap rates. There is only the public-house we have been
unwilling to give them, and it is there they go, to become filled with
sentiments of hatred against us! It is alcohol which is their master, and
he is a pitiless tyrant who will give them no mercy!”

The end of the column had just passed. Whether it was that they had seen
the two men in the garden, or they simply wished to fling to the winds
their cries of rebellion and rancour, these latter, the most intoxicated
and miserable of them all, screamed forth in a shrill chorus, “Down with
the masters! Down with exploiters!” Then silence was restored by degrees.
Uncle Graff sadly shook his head, and said—

“Come along, exploiter, let us turn in!”

And they made their way towards the house.

The following morning Uncle Graff was up early. He hunted up Cardez, to
come to some arrangement with him; Marcel made his way to the laboratory.
He had promised the powder formula, and he wished to draw it up at his
leisure, As he entered he found Baudoin arranging the chemical utensils.
He admired the unwonted order reigning in the capharnaum.

“Ah, that is better!” said he; “here is a room which has not been so
clean for several weeks. The dust cannot know what it all means to be
disturbed in this way. But you must take care, Baudoin, not to touch a
single product. There are some very dangerous ones here.”

“Ah, sir, I know all about them; I handled any quantity of products
during my poor General’s lifetime. I always obeyed the orders he gave me.
And after what has taken place at Vanves, I am not likely to risk
handling them.”

“You have been sleeping in the summer-house, Baudoin?”

“Yes, M. Marcel, I have arranged a bed very comfortably in the attic.
Now, I am no longer uneasy. Still, so long as there are doubtful
characters in the neighbourhood, I shall sleep with one eye open.”

“In my opinion, the people to whom you allude have intentions on the
works rather than on the laboratory.”

“I cannot tell, M. Marcel. There are sufficient mixed characters in the
company which has come here the last few days.”

“One would imagine you had discovered something extraordinary.”

Baudoin bent his head. He was afraid he had said too much, and recalled
to mind Laforêt’s prudent advice.

“Oh! I am not clever enough for that; but I warn you, M. Marcel, to be on
your guard. Have confidence in no one—in no one!”

He left the room, leaving Marcel astonished at his persistence. What was
the meaning of this mysterious warning his servant kept giving him? Did
he know more than he meant to tell? To whom did he allude when he said,
‘In no one.’ The beautiful and charming silhouette of Madame Vignola
sprang up in his imagination. Was it of her that he ought to be on his
guard? He pictured her again in her dreamy, careless attitude,
promenading sorrowfully in the woods of Bossicant. What had he to fear
from her? What danger could she make him incur, except that of adoring
her without obtaining a return of affection? There, indeed, was a very
grave and serious peril! It was the most dreadful he could imagine just
then, and one against which he felt himself utterly helpless. To love,
without obtaining love in return! What would become of him if such a
misfortune befell him? He could not think of it without a kind of
distraction, so long as the young woman was mistress of his heart and
mind. For a few moments he walked up and down the laboratory with anxious
mien, and only halted when he heard the door open. It was Uncle Graff.

“You know we have to meet the syndicate of workmen this morning, at ten
o’clock?”

“Yes; I have not forgotten.”

“What is the matter with you? You do not appear at your ease. Is there
anything that troubles you?”

“Nothing whatever; it is simply this distressing situation that makes me
anxious. Now that you have spoken to Cardez, uncle, what is it the
workmen want?”

“Oh, several things! In the first place, less work and more pay.
Afterwards, themselves to nominate their own overseer. To have personal
administration of the pension and assistance funds. To submit to no
stoppage of wages for insurance against accidents. _Mon Dieu_! On all
these points some understanding may be reached, and I am quite disposed
to meet them half way. But there is on the point of being formulated a
final demand which may render all conciliation impossible.”

“What is that!”

“They will demand the dismissal of Cardez, who is accused by the workmen
of being extremely severe in enforcing the regulations.”

“Dismiss the director? To-morrow they will want to send us away also.”

“Ah, my nephew, is not that the collectivist doctrine, pure and simple?
The works to the workers, the land to the tillers—that is to say, the
dispossession of the master and the landlord. We are advancing in that
direction.”

Marcel said coldly—

“We cannot give way on these points. Abdicate all authority, be no longer
master in one’s own house? At no price and under no pretext. Be kind to
the workmen, certainly! But be their dupe, never!”

“Come,” said Uncle Graff, with a smile, “do not get excited. You always
go to extremes. Yesterday all fire and flame; this morning full of
reactionary energy. You must keep to the golden mean as I do. I still
have hopes of seeing the triumph of reason and common sense. But I should
like to obtain one thing from you.”

“What is that?”

“That you go out for a stroll instead of being present at the meeting.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Marcel; “that is not your own idea, Uncle Graff. It is
Cardez who has given you this hint.”

“Well! I confess you are right. He mistrusts your impetuosity, and is
afraid you cannot keep perfect possession of yourself. He knows what your
opinions are.”

“The fool! Let him trouble himself with his own opinions! After having
alienated our workmen by useless reforms, how can he have the assurance
to ask that the son of his master should not be present at a debate in
which his own interests, both material and moral, are engaged? And he
thinks I shall submit to this eviction? Decidedly, he knows me very
little!”

“But if I myself asked you not to come to the meeting!”

“For what reason?”

Uncle Graff hesitated a moment, but finally decided to speak.

“I did not wish to tell you all my reasons. This morning’s debate may
cause grave disorders. We have been informed that the workmen, who have
been worked up to a high pitch, will admit of no refusal to their
demands. In short, it is feared violent measures will be resorted to.”

“Very good! The greater reason I should be there!”

“If I consent, think what responsibility I assume in your father’s eyes!”

“But what do you think I should do?”

“You would do well to take the next train for Paris.”

“And leave you to resist these madmen, all alone? You have a fine opinion
of me, indeed!”

“Come, now, Marcel, do not get angry. I am an old man, and command a
certain amount of respect. It will be easy for me to keep out of a
quarrel, but it will be no easy matter to keep an eye on you. To tell the
truth, you would be greatly in the way. Here, you have no official
standing; you are simply an inventor, and there is a whole group of
workmen who regard you with no kindly feelings on account of your
investigations in dyeing. They pretend that it is your intention to take
away their living by manufacturing with the machine what they now do by
hand. I assure you, Marcel, I have good reasons for keeping you away,
and, if you are reasonable, you will obey me.”

“Well, Uncle Graff, I am not reasonable. That you have long known; on
many occasions have I proved it, and I will prove it once again to-day. I
don’t care what people think. I will keep close to your side, without
giving you any cause for trouble. But I will be present, because it is
both my duty and my right. Besides, if I did not come, some time after
you would say to yourself; ‘After all, he obeyed me very readily. My
young nephew is bent on pleasure only, and is quite willing to keep out
of the way when there is danger in the air.’”

As the old man listened to his nephew the look of anxiety, by degrees,
disappeared from his countenance. Doubtless he blamed him for his
unwillingness to obey him, but approved of his showing himself at once
determined, devoted, and affectionate. Oh yes, affectionate above all! In
the bachelor’s tender heart Marcel’s protests found a delightful echo. He
felt himself loved by this nephew of his, whom he himself loved as though
he were his own son, and all his discontent melted away in an exquisite
sensation of happiness. Still, he would not confess to a satisfaction so
little in accord with his expressed wishes. He gave himself an angry and
displeased mien; but a smile shone in his eyes as he murmured—

“Very good! I cannot force you. As you please! If anything happens
through you we shall know whose fault it is!”

“Uncle Graff, we will perish together!” exclaimed the young man, gaily.
“What more brilliant end could I hope for! What a glorious item of news
for the journals!”

“That would be the last straw!”

“What precautions are you going to take to prevent our being devoured by
the popular lion?”

“None whatever! I am convinced that a display of force would effect no
useful end. Accordingly, I begged the authorities not to disturb
themselves. They wished to send us out the dragoons! Why not the
artillery at once?”

“And who are the delegates to whom we shall have to reply?”

“There are eight of them. But it is the famous Balestrier who is at their
head and acts as their mouthpiece.”

“He is a very intelligent fellow, only he reads too many books beyond his
power of comprehension.”

“The rest are honest enough, but they have been incited to revolt by
their companions at Troyes, and I am afraid I shall find them more
violent than they are naturally disposed to be. They assume an attitude
and play a _rôle_.”

“We will judge them by their actions.”

Pointing out to his uncle on the laboratory table a glass recipient of
moderate size, Marcel said—

“Look at this jar, Uncle Graff. If I were to throw a lighted match into
it, in a moment I could annihilate all these ill-advised strikers.”

“Then that is the famous powder?”

“Yes.”

“Show it me.”

Marcel took the jar, removed the stopper, and poured into his hand a few
small brown shavings. An odour of camphor spread throughout the room.

“It is the war powder in flakes, but I intend to manufacture it in
pastilles. Then it will resemble an ordinary button without holes. In
flakes it is more convenient for charging large projectiles. In pastilles
it will be better suited for cartridge sockets. Non-compressed it burns
like German tinder, with a smell of disinfecting powder, and entirely
without smoke. Would you like to see it?”

“No!” said Uncle Graff, eagerly. “I do not care to see you handling such
substances. One never knows! They might explode without any one expecting
it!”

“Impossible! Besides, as this powder smells of camphor it might be placed
with one’s clothes during the summer to prevent the moths from spoiling
them.”

He laughed aloud. Uncle Graff, slightly reassured, forced him to place
the bottle back on to the table.

“And the commerce powder?”

“I have none manufactured. But the formula is already there in the
drawer.”

“With this formula Trémont’s discovery may be exploited?”

“Certainly, on condition one knows how to make use of it. But that is my
secret, which I shall reveal only at the moment the exploitation
commences. The different kinds of products employed, with their dosings,
are specified.”

Opening a drawer he took out a sheet of paper, at the head of which were
written the words: Powder Formula. No. I. Then followed lines of
abbreviated words, with figures.

“Leave it in this drawer; I do not need it just now. You will give it me
this evening, after the conference. Then I will write to your father and
send on the paper to him.”

“As you please,” said Marcel.

Placing back the paper he shut the drawer. Uncle Graff left the room
saying—

“I am going to see Cardez; if you want me you will find me with him.”

Marcel, left all alone, walked up and down the laboratory, then drew near
the open window, and looked out on to the river flowing beneath. A
fisherman was sitting there in a boat, moored in the middle of the
stream, engaged in throwing baked grain as bait into the water all around
him. A large straw hat covered his head, whilst the wind blew out his
grey smock-frock into the form of a balloon. He did not appear even to
see Marcel, but filled his pipe with tobacco, lit it, and began to throw
out his line, at the end of which was a ball of worms as bait. After a
few moments a bite came, he struck adroitly, and landed a small
silver-bellied fish in the boat. Marcel, interested, sat and watched from
the window-ledge. After watching for a good quarter of an hour, the
fisher, in his smock-frock, who, by the way, appeared to have the best of
luck, the door of the laboratory opened, and Baudoin appeared. He seemed
embarrassed, but came straight up to his master, and said, in tones of
seeming regret—

“Monsieur Marcel, there is some one at the porter’s lodge who is asking
for you.”

“Who is it?”

Baudoin said, with a wry grimace—

“A kind of chambermaid.”

Marcel arose eagerly. He thought, “It is Milona, sent by Madame Vignola.
Something has happened.” In a trice he was out of the room.

Baudoin followed him with ill-pleased look.

“How he runs off to meet her! Ah, that crafty woman holds him tight
indeed! And this servant, who looks like a gipsy! This kind of company
does not inspire confidence in one!”

Marcel, on reaching the porter’s lodge, had found Milona there, as he had
conjectured. Drawing her aside, he asked anxiously—

“No harm has befallen Madame Vignola?”

“No; I am with her all the time. But my mistress is uneasy for your sake.
She heard cries and threats, and saw flashes of light through the
darkness of the night. She well knows what these mad acts of folly
committed by an angry mob mean, and would like to see you and have you
explain the meaning of all this tumult.”

“May I go to her at once?”

“She is expecting you every minute.”

He gave a gesture expressive of the joy he felt.

“Then start back at once. We must not be seen crossing the plain
together. In a few minutes I will follow you. Tell this to your
mistress.”

Milona bowed with a kind of haughty deference. With a tender look at the
young man she said—

“Do not tarry; she is never happy except when you are there!”

Marcel stifled a cry of joy.

“Oh, Milona! What has she told you?”

“Nothing. But even had she taken me into her confidence I would not
betray her. All the same, I see the difference between when she is alone
and when you are with her. She is not the same at all. Come! She was in
tears all the morning.”

With a bow, she placed her fingers to her lips and withdrew.

Marcel watched her take her departure. His heart beat wildly; flashes of
light seemed to pass before his eyes. He had forgotten everything—works,
strikes, danger, Uncle Graff, and his good resolutions. Now he thought of
nothing but the radiant blonde awaiting him in that solitary villa, for
which he set off with all the ardour of youth and love.



CHAPTER V


IN the dimly-lit salon Marcel and Madame Vignola were seated chatting
near the window. It was ten o’clock. In the clear blue sky the sun shone
brightly, and its warm rays breaking through the branches of the trees
came with caressing gentleness to the lovers. Madame Vignola was saying
in grave accents—

“Even in this out-of-the-way little place, right in the midst of the
forest and far away from the rush of town life, there is no perfect peace
and calm.”

“You seem to have no luck. Never before have the inhabitants of Ars shown
themselves so turbulent. Generally they are quite peaceable and harmless
creatures. If they have any claims to make they do it with moderation and
politeness, sure, in advance, of obtaining what they want. I do not know
what madness has come over them!”

Madame Vignola smiled.

“Doubtless they have listened to bad counsel and advice. But that is of
little importance. The main thing is that you are not exposed to the
violence of these madmen. When I heard them last night shouting out their
threats of death I trembled.”

“Then you do take a certain amount of interest in me?”

“Can you ask me such a question?”

Passionately he seized hold of a dainty hand, which she made no attempt
to withdraw.

“Well, now, listen, Anetta. I cannot understand how I have been able to
find any joy in life before I knew you. I seem to myself only to have
been alive the last month.”

Graciously raising her hand with threatening gesture, she said—

“Not another word! I know you have been anything but perfect. Don’t try
to deceive me like all the others you have said you were in love with.”

“Oh! I have never been in love before. That I understand well enough
now!”

“Marcel, for pity’s sake, be quite frank with me. I have gone through
such suffering hitherto, but that was because my heart was untouched. I
am afraid of suffering now, as I shall love—”

“No, have confidence in me. I will make you forget all your past sorrow.
You are so young, and the future may yet be so bright for you. I want you
all to myself. Once your mourning over you will again become mistress of
your own destiny, and if you will authorize me to speak to your brother—”

The young woman gave a gesture of fright.

“To Cesare? Do nothing of the kind. You do not know him! In a moment he
would become your most bitter enemy!”

“Why so?”

“Ah! It is sad to think of and even sadder to mention. Cesare is without
fortune, and I have been left a wealthy widow by M. Vignola. Were I to
leave my brother, and cease to be free, he would be absolutely without
resource. How could I induce him to accept a modest station in life? He
is already unhappy, indeed, at not being able to do honour to his birth,
for we are descended from a princely family. The Briviescas formerly
reigned in Padua. An Agostini was ruler of Parma. But ruin came, and
Count Cesare receives only the pay of a captain of cavalry. A sorry
position for a man of his disposition! Accordingly, ever since I have
been a widow he has undertaken the direction of my property. He finds it
to his advantage, I believe, and I am well pleased that it is so. For he
is very kind, and I am fond of him.”

“In that case give him what belongs to you. Have I any need of your
fortune? I only want yourself! Leave Count Cesare all your possessions.
I, too, shall be rich, and if I wished I could restore to you to-morrow
more than all you would have sacrificed in becoming mine.”

She seemed astonished. A light shone in her beautiful eyes as she said—

“Tell me how?”

No suspicion came across his mind. He saw nothing but that exquisite
mouth and those gentle eyes which questioned him so eloquently.

“I am in possession of a commercial secret calculated to bring about a
complete revolution in the economic conditions of work in mines. The
assured profit will not belong to me entirely, but I shall have my share
of it. That sole share alone will be immense. They can do nothing without
me, for I alone know the secret of the process of manufacturing the
powder. A company will be formed to exploit the patents of this
discovery. All this means fortune—you hear, Anetta?—an immediate and
enormous fortune.”

“Oh! continue! Tell me all, my dear friend.”

“You are the first to whom I have said so much. But, then, can I conceal
anything from you? Were you to ask me for my very honour I would
sacrifice it for your sake. Besides, what have I to fear from one so kind
and disinterested? Yes, I am the possessor of a glorious and powerful
secret. The glory of the discovery will belong to the inventor, and I
shall be happy to have helped in making him world-famed. To those who
have organized and rendered his work practicable will belong an
incalculable financial power.”

Madame Vignola interrupted Marcel.

“But suppose you were to disappear—suppose some misfortune happened you;
in these noisy street quarrels of the strikers you might be struck to the
ground. Then what would become of this invention of yours? Probably you
have given no more thought to the protection of your secret than you have
to that of your life.”

As she spoke she pressed him to her heart, a look of anguish
overshadowing her face. Her looks seemed to burn into Marcel’s brain as
she gently passed her hand over his brow.

“No!” he said. “Do not deceive yourself. I took the precaution this very
morning to write out the formulæ of this wonderful invention.”

“You have it on your person?” she asked in terrified accents.

“No, do not be anxious, dearest; I left it in my laboratory. It cannot be
destroyed now. My Uncle Graff would take it from the drawer of my desk in
case anything were to befall me. But I love you, and nothing can possibly
happen to me. I must succeed and triumph if you love me!”

With a gesture expressive of infinite content, she said—

“Can you doubt it, after what I have said? How could I help loving one so
fervent and capricious as you are? It is this youthful folly of yours
which pleased me from the beginning. You are so different from those with
whom I have hitherto lived. My early life was passed with my old parents,
who were very strict and severe with me, in a cold and gloomy house in
Milan. Then my husband, though so kind and anxious to please me, could
not bring his cold and reasoning habits into harmony with my youth and
inexperience. Sorrow and _ennui_ were my daily portion. It seems that I
have only awakened to life from this very day, as though I had all my
life been like the sleeping princess in the fairy tale. You have appeared
before me, and now my eyes open to the light of day, my ears listen to
your tender, loving words, and with inexpressible delight I awake to a
new birth of happiness.”

The most accomplished actress could not have more artfully uttered such
ravishing words as these which fell from the lips of the beautiful
temptress. Turning aside her face, as though to conceal her blushes, her
lithe form seemed to quiver with delight. He, maddened by this
confession, and burning with the passion this redoubtable enchantress
knew so well how to inspire, dropped his fevered head on Anetta’s
shoulder. His reason seemed to leave him as he murmured—

“I adore you!”

At this moment she turned her head to look at him, perhaps to reply.
Their lips met, and united in a burning kiss. Suddenly, above the green
expanse of forest, in the midst of the calm in which the peaceful house
was wrapped, rose a shout which grew louder and louder, whilst the clang
of an alarm-bell could be distinctly heard. Anetta exclaimed—

“What is that?”

Marcel listened attentively.

“It sounds like shouts and cries for help coming from the direction of
Ars.”

He rushed towards the window, and, already trembling with secret anguish,
exclaimed—

“It is the alarm-bell! Perhaps the works are on fire! _Mon Dieu_! What
can be the matter? You are well aware to what risks we were exposed at
Ars, and I am afraid that matters have taken a turn for the worse in my
absence.”

Madame Vignola opened the door, and called—

“Milo.”

The servant appeared. Without waiting to be questioned, she said—

“There is something wrong at Ars, madame. Bells are ringing, and a black
cloud of smoke is rising above the trees. It might be possible to see
from the roof.”

“I will mount at once!” exclaimed Marcel.

“I will follow you. Go with him,” she said to Milona.

But instead of keeping her word the young woman entered the small office
where she was in the habit of writing her letters, took up a sheet of
paper, and traced a few rapid lines. Steps could already be heard on the
staircase. Marcel, pale and agitated, appeared before her.

“The fire must have caught the works. Oh, Anetta, I have forgotten
everything by your side! Good-bye, I must rush off at once.”

“Marcel, do not forget that you are mine.”

With a look of fright she pressed him in her arms, and held him back.

“Darling, I must go. What would they think of me? I will return to-night.
Let me go now.”

“Very well. But Milona will follow you, and bring me back the news.
Promise me you will be very careful.”

A final kiss, and he was already in the garden. Anetta turned to the
servant and handed to her the note she had just written.

“Run to Ars. On the river, in a boat, you will see Hans, dressed like a
peasant. Give him this paper, and return at once. Go, Milo! This time we
shall succeed.”

“And the young man, madame—what will you do with him?”

A look of anxiety came over her brow.

“I cannot tell yet, Milo. I believe I love him.”

The servant smiled faintly as she said—

“Poor fellow! What a pity!”

And, without another word, she disappeared.

Marcel was running towards the works. At the first turn of the road the
whole town lay before his eyes. From the Supply Stores a lofty column of
black smoke mounted towards the sky, and flames were beginning to break
through the roof.

“Ah, the wretches!” exclaimed the young man. “They have set the place on
fire! And Uncle Graff? _Mon Dieu_! if only he is safe and sound!”

Young and vigorous, spurred on by fear and anger, he ran along faster
than ever. A mass of onlookers was standing in the street, kept in check
by the police. Marcel rushed through them like a bullet and entered the
yard, perspiring and out of breath. Workmen were manipulating the
fire-engine belonging to the works. On seeing their master’s son arrive
they exclaimed eagerly—

“Ah, M. Marcel! You have come at last!”

“How did the fire happen?” exclaimed the young man panting for breath.

No one replied. They were two hundred; he was alone. All the same he
exclaimed, in angry tones—

“So it is you, rascals, you who have set fire to the works which afforded
you your only means of livelihood?”

They protested noisily.

“No, M. Marcel, we did not do it! We set forth our demands, but we did
not enforce them by such villainous means. There are strangers about. We
had nothing to do with it.”

“Where is my uncle Graff?”

Terror-stricken, a foreman advanced—

“Ah, M. Marcel, we could not prevent him entering.”

“Entering where?”

“Into the managing department, with M. Cardez and your servant. They
wanted to find the account books, etc.”

“But the managing department is on fire!” shrieked the young man, in
despair. “If you could not prevent them going, you might at least have
accompanied them.”

A crash was now heard coming from the burning building. Millions of
sparks shot forth into the air, and a black dust filled the sky. It was
the roof of the stores, which had fallen in.

“How can we reach them now?” said the overseer, anxiously. “They are
caught between the weaving department and the stores. The fire is all
over the place now.”

“By the roof.”

The workman shook his head discouragingly.

“Who will dare to go?”

“I will!”

“But it means death!”

“Well, I will risk it with them!”

“We will not let you go. What would your father say?”

“What would he say if I did not go?”

Scarcely knowing what he was doing, Marcel seized hold of a hatchet, and
rushed into the works. A violent biting sensation of heat seized him by
the throat, but he did not halt. He mounted the staircase leading to the
door of the book-keeping department. Here he was forced to stop. Before
him was a wall of flames. Climbing higher, he came out on the roof, ran
along a drain-pipe, entered the loft, which was filled with smoke, and,
almost suffocated, reached that part of the building which lay above the
offices. The fire had not reached them. He halted. If Cardez and Uncle
Graff were in the book-keeping compartment they were surrounded on every
side by the fire. Accordingly, they could only effect an escape either
from above or below. Without the slightest hesitation he began to cut
away at the floor. Suddenly he heard his name called from the roof.
Without stopping he shouted back—

“This way! In the loft!”

It was the overseer and three of the workmen, who had followed with picks
and levers. They set to work. Marcel, with his hatchet, seemed possessed
of the strength of ten men; the beams appeared to fall away like reeds
before the blows he dealt. Bricks and plaster were flying in all
directions. At last a hole was made in the floor, and Marcel, lying flat
on the ground, shouted with all his might—

“Uncle Graff, Cardez, Baudoin—are you there?”

A stifled voice replied—

“Ah! This is you, Marcel. Yes, we are here. Be quick; we are almost
exhausted. The smoke is suffocating us. We cannot open the window on
account of the flames.”

“Take care of yourselves!”

Seizing the lever he gave a powerful lift, which considerably enlarged
the hole. Then he saw the smoke rise as though by an escape-flue. There
appeared in full view the three men, who had not let go their books and
registers, stolidly awaiting deliverance or death. It was deliverance
that came. A rope was lowered down the hole.

“Baudoin, fasten my uncle firmly under the arms with this rope. Are you
ready?”

“Yes.”

“Pull away, my men!”

The rope, hoisted by impatient arms, was drawn up, and Uncle Graff, black
with dirt and smoke, trembling, and scarcely able to breathe, though
perfectly happy, was pressed in Marcel’s arms, whilst tears flowed down
their cheeks, though not a word was uttered. Cardez and Baudoin were
hoisted up in the same way.

“By the way,” said Marcel, “is there anything else you want from the
office? I will go down, if you like.”

“No!” exclaimed Uncle Graff; finding his voice; “we have all the books we
want. That is sufficient! The place is insured, so there is nothing more
to do.”

“Then we must beat a retreat at once,” exclaimed Marcel. “The smoke is
getting denser here.”

Marcel, helping along his uncle, made his way to the drain-pipe. From the
yard they were seen returning safe and sound. An immense shout arose,
almost deafening the roar of the flames. They reached the works, where
the firemen had already taken up their positions with the object of
preserving the buildings still intact. Once in the yard Uncle Graff sank
down on a bale of wool, turned pale, and almost fainted. He had come to
the end of his strength.

“A glass of water!” exclaimed Marcel.

In a moment a decanter was in his hand. No matter what he had asked for,
his demand would have been immediately obeyed. Full of respect before
courage and devotion, the mob regarded him with indulgent and reverent
tenderness. The very men who had cried out only the night before, “Down
with the masters!” were ready to shout out, Hurrah for M. Marcel! The
reason was that he had just performed a feat none of them had had courage
to attempt, and in their inmost souls they were conscious that he was
braver and better than themselves, and, accordingly, they felt nothing
but admiration for him.

“Cardez, take these registers and the money home,” said Marcel. “We will
go to my home, Uncle Graff. You must try to regain your strength
completely.”

“No! I feel better already. I can breathe more freely. Ah, Marcel, you
came just in time. Another quarter of an hour and you would have found us
all dead.”

“I was miserable at the thought that I was not with you all the time.”

“Had you been with us everything would have been lost! We were dying.
Your absence was quite providential! But for that, all would have been
over with us!”

“But how did it all happen?”

“We cannot understand anything yet! For an hour we had been discussing
with the delegates, and I must say the peaceful settlement of the strike
seemed very doubtful, when we were suddenly interrupted by shouts of
‘Fire! Fire!’ The workmen assembled in the yard awaiting the delegates
had just seen a dense cloud of smoke issue from the stores. To tell the
truth, they were ill-disposed towards us. When we crossed the yard on the
way to the office they received us with a hostile silence. Not a head was
uncovered. Veritable enemies on our own ground! In a moment the fire
effected a complete change. They became like madmen when they saw the
works burning. At bottom these workmen are not evil-disposed, for they
rushed forth from every direction, shouting out, ‘To the pumps!’ When
they saw me appear with Cardez they shouted: ‘M. Graff, this is not our
work!’ A moment after one of the strangers, who has been here only a
week, a native of Luxembourg, named Verstraet, being caught prowling
about the works, they half killed him, accusing him of being the
incendiary. We were obliged to tear him from their hands.”

Marcel listened with gloomy interest to this recital. He associated the
fire with the strange fears, manifested on different occasions by
Baudoin, respecting the safety of the laboratory. He heard the servant
say, “Just now, there are men here whose appearance is anything but
prepossessing.” The workmen also spoke vaguely about strangers.
Everything was wrapped in mystery. Instinctively, Marcel felt himself
enveloped in a network of threats and hatred. Was it still this secret of
the General de Trémont, which brought disaster on all those who possessed
it? Looking round for Baudoin, he found that he had disappeared. The fire
was raging less fiercely, for the torrents of water poured on the stores
had extinguished the bales of wool. The works themselves did not seem to
have suffered to any considerable extent; the loss was only partial. The
captain of the Ars fire brigade, a plumber by trade, came out from the
rest and stood there, hot and panting, with cap in hand, before M. Graff
and Cardez.

“Well, gentlemen, we shall come out of this affair better than we might
have expected. At present, more than two-thirds of the works are safe. We
may take our breath a little. It has been warm work, indeed, the last
hour!”

“Yes. But for M. Marcel,” said Cardez, “we should not be speaking to you
at this moment, M. Prevost.”

“That was a very noble act of his,” said the captain. “Ah! neither my men
nor myself had thought of doing as he did. There was courage enough in
us, but we should not have thought of piercing a hole in the roof. He did
not lose his head; and that was the main thing.”

Just at that moment, a voice quivering with anguish, was heard, and
Marcel, pale and excited, came rushing from the laboratory, exclaiming—

“Uncle Graff. Come here, quick!”

“What is the matter?” asked Cardez.

“Stay here! My uncle only!” said the young man. Monsieur Graff
immediately went up to his nephew. Baudoin was already on the threshold
guarding the entrance.

“Come in! _Mon Dieu_! Come in!” said Marcel, pushing the old man before
him. “Baudoin, shut the door and place the key inside.”

“What is the matter now?” exclaimed the old man.

“Look!”

Standing there on the threshold of the capharnaum, the three men looked
around in bewildered astonishment. All the signs of a desperate fight had
thrown the room into the utmost disorder. A curtain, half torn from the
window still open on the river, was hanging from its broken pole. Jars,
retorts, and alembics of every description crushed to pieces lay
scattered about the floor. On the table was a large clot of blood, still
wet, as though some one had there met his death. The paper everywhere was
splashed over with large red spots, and the drawer of the table lay wide
open before their eyes.

“What has taken place here?” asked Uncle Graff, in low tones.

“Look in the drawer, Uncle Graff,” said Marcel. “Try to find the formula
I placed there before your eyes.”

“Well!”

“It is there no longer! It has been stolen! Look for the flagon
containing the war powder, which was on the table. Disappeared!”

“Stolen? By whom?”

“Perhaps by the same person who set fire to the works? Whose blood is
that on the floor? Uncle Graff, we have brought about our heads a
terrible stream of enemies. Think of what has happened concerning the
inventions of M. de Trémont. There has been a whole band of rascals at
work for months, bent on stealing these secrets at whatever cost, and in
face of the greatest difficulties! My father guessed this, for it was
with the utmost trouble that I succeeded in obtaining his permission to
continue this discovery. Baudoin knew it, for he asked my permission to
keep watch in the laboratory. It was the excitement caused by the fire
which forced him to quit his post; doubtless, had he stayed here, he,
too, would have lost his life. But whose blood is this that has been
shed?”

“Come, my child, do calm yourself,” said the old man, alarmed at the
increasing agitation of his nephew. “Speak, Baudoin, tell us all you
know.”

“Monsieur Graff, I know who has fallen here, and I know, too, whose hand
struck the blow. The victim is a man devoted to our cause, who, from the
very first, had scented the culprits. He could not help the robbery being
committed, and, had he not been killed, he would certainly have arrested
the thief.”

“And who is the man who struck him?”

“Ah! This is by no means the first attempt. He is a determined villain;
all the troubles in the district have been caused by this man. It is he
who started the conflagration. He who stabbed General de Trémont. It is
the man of Vanves. In a word, it is Hans!”

“How do you know this?”

“Because I have seen him. Laforêt, whom I had sent for to keep a watch on
these people whom I suspected, and who has doubtless paid with his life
for his zeal and devotion, followed him last night, and we both spent
part of the night in tracking his movements. We were present at his
conferences with the leaders of the strike at the Soleil d’Or. We heard
him give his orders to his acolytes. It is he our unhappy workmen obeyed,
without knowing it, seduced as they were by the rabid language of the
leaders. This is the villain who, secretly, and from a distance, directed
the riot, and set fire to the works!”

“But how could he know that the written formula was in the table of the
laboratory? Why did he come here?”

“He came here because I ran off to the fire and left my post. He has,
somehow or other, received precise information.”

Baudoin stopped. He gave his young master a look of anguish.

“Ah, Monsieur Marcel, must I speak? Will you pardon me?”

Marcel turned pale. All the same he said, in firm tones—

“Speak. I insist upon it.”

“Well, then, this man, for the past week, has been living at the Villa de
la Cavée.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Marcel. “Hans! This villain?”

“Monsieur Marcel,” resumed Baudoin, bravely, but with infinite sadness,
“I have seen him there myself. Laforêt has been watching him for a whole
week. He lived in the attic, and only went out at nights.”

“And I never suspected anything!” exclaimed the young man, in stupefied
grief. “Then who is this woman who has been there the last six weeks?
What is this atrocious farce she has been playing with me?”

“Ah!” exclaimed Uncle Graff. “A woman! Another woman? Incorrigible
child!”

Marcel, seated by the table on a stool, his head in his hands, was
endeavouring to collect his ideas. He was falling from a pure heaven of
delight in which he had been living into the degradation of blood and
crime.

“Come, it is impossible!” he continued, with trembling voice. “Why should
she have deceived me so atrociously? Was there any need to make me so
madly in love with her? No, I cannot believe her guilty; she never lied
once to me. Her very looks were frank and true. No, no! You are mistaken;
you are heaping calumny on her! Even though the man be a villain, she, at
least, is no accomplice of his. She is his victim, as we all are. If they
tried to harm me, she had not the strength or the authority to resist.
And if she knows what has happened, she is lamenting it all, as we are,
this very moment.”

His desperate protests were stifled by sobs, and, leaning his head on the
blood-stained table, he wept bitterly. His uncle respected his grief,
and, taking Baudoin to the window, he said to him, in subdued tones—

“In your opinion, who has been in the laboratory after you left it?”

“Laforêt, who was keeping watch over our man, must have followed him to
this very spot. During the tumult caused by the fire Hans entered the
yard of the works, and went right to the summer-house. Laforêt must have
surprised him whilst he was examining the drawer. A terrible struggle
must then have taken place between Hans, who is a giant in form, and
Laforêt, who is very muscular. Hans doubtless made use of some arm or
other to rid him of his adversary. Laforêt, killed outright, or stunned,
fell on the table, thereupon Hans seized him and dragged him to the
window. He became entangled with the curtain, which has been torn away;
the weight must have been a heavy one, for the pole is broken.”

“And afterwards?” asked M. Graff, anxiously.

“Afterwards Hans flung the ill-fated Laforêt out of the window. The
current has carried him off. Probably he will be picked up in the sluice
of the mill of Sainte-Savine.”

“And the woman, Baudoin?” whispered the old man.

“Ah, Monsieur Graff, I do not know if she is the woman of Vanves or not.
Both the scent she uses and her voice are different. But a voice may be
modified, and a perfume changed. What remains unchanging is villainous
skill and seductive charm. This one has all that is needed to madden a
man—beauty, distinction, grace. Look at M. Marcel there, in tears. It is
neither crime nor theft that has brought him into that state. It is the
grief caused by suspecting the one he adores, and the fear that he may
now be under the obligation of hating her.”

“Poor fellow! He, at least, did not deserve to suffer. He has been very
brave. But for him, Baudoin, we should not now be in the land of the
living.”

“True; and but for this wretched woman all this trouble would have been
avoided. She well knows what she has done, and with whom she has had to
deal. It is not you she would have undertaken to corrupt. She would have
known beforehand that your calm and tranquil reason would have guarded
you from her attacks. But with the General and M. Marcel it was
different. Oh, M. Graff, she has made no mistake! Had she had either the
necessary time or desire both the old and the young man would have given
up their secret of their own accord.”

Uncle Graff, astonished at such clear-sightedness, looked at Baudoin with
considerable interest.

“Ah, sir, you are astonished at hearing me speak in this way. But what I
have said is not an invention. My General, on those days when he was
master of himself, spoke to me in similar terms. He accused and blamed
himself, well knowing how weak he was.”

“And his weakness brought him to his death. Let us consider ourselves
fortunate that Marcel has not been treated so harshly. The poor fellow
suffers; he is unhappy. But, then, he is only twenty-five years of age,
and in one’s youth no sorrow lasts long. But if these rascals had killed
him? Ah, his father seemed to guess the danger he ran! He imagined his
son would be safer at Ars, in the midst of the workmen, but you see how
mistaken he has been.”

“Ah! But, after all, this woman knew how to track him. And in this quiet
spot her power was more manifest than ever.”

“What will she do now?”

“Disappear with her acolytes.”

“Are there many of them?”

“There is a pretended brother, a handsome, dark-complexioned young
fellow; the servant, who called this morning for M. Marcel; and then
Hans, without counting those we know nothing about. A whole band, you may
be certain. Sir, not a single act of rascality or treachery happens in
the country without those rascals having a hand in it. Laforêt told me so
himself: ‘France is exploited by foreigners. The Government will do for
strangers what they will not do for Frenchmen. If only an individual
offers himself, speaking with a foreign accent, and wearing a
many-coloured decoration, all kinds of privileges are showered upon him.’
We are a set of ninnies and simpletons, M. Graff, though we imagine
ourselves very clever.”

Marcel drew near. During the past few minutes his face seemed to have
become quite furrowed.

“Uncle Graff,” he said, “the present is not the time for lamenting. We
must act at once. Perhaps we may still come across the bold scoundrel who
has been here. We must give a description of him to the police. For
myself, I shall go to the villa and find out the whole truth.”

“We know very little, Marcel, about the people with whom we have to deal
if we can think they have lost a single second in escaping.”

“How can they imagine they are even suspected?”

“The _coup_ is effected; all they need do now will be to clear off!”

Marcel gave a gesture of protest.

“Yes,” continued the old man, gently. “You are asking why she could have
gone? How could she have taken her departure without seeing me again? My
poor child, you are still under the effect of the delusion practised on
you! You cannot yet understand that all the tenderness she lavished on
you was calculated, interested in its nature, that, in short, you were
only a victim. And you still expect her to be waiting for you. Well! we
will all go and see, my child. Then we shall know the value of the
promises by which you have allowed yourself to be deceived. Meanwhile we
must inform the authorities. Take my advice, and say nothing about the
powders. We must speak of the murder only. Our man will be caught just as
easily, if he is to be caught at all, which I very much doubt. We will
keep our secret in the background. Ah! We have to deal with enemies
stronger than ourselves! Do not reproach yourself in any way. Everything
was too well arranged. In one way or another, you were bound to succumb.
Luckily, your life is out of danger.”

“Thanks, Uncle Graff, you do your best to console me. But I shall never
forgive myself, in case you are right. Come along.”

They descended into the yard. The fire had been extinguished, and the
pumps were now silent, with the exception of the one belonging to the
works, which was still dashing water on the ruins. On their approach, the
crowd of workmen stood there in respectful silence, all heads uncovered.
This misfortune had kindled renewed sympathy with their masters, and
their devotion enjoined an attitude of respect. Cardez came forward, and
said—

“Monsieur Graff, the workmen want you to speak to them. They do not wish
to remain suspected.”

Graff advanced, and said in grave accents—

“My friends, I know you too well to accuse you of the crime which has
been committed here. I am well aware that you are hot-headed, but you are
very honest all the same. Besides, what would have been the use of such
wilful destruction, if not to throw you on to the streets and cause you
to die of hunger? The very moment the fire broke out, your delegates and
ourselves were on the point of coming to a mutual understanding. After
the good will you have just given proof of, in uniting to save the works,
I can only admit of one solution, the one most favourable to you.
Accordingly, I grant you your demands.”

An immense cheer of mingled joy and gratitude burst from five hundred
throats. Caps were waved high in the air. Graff raised his hand; silence
was instantly restored.

“I beg you to remember that it is to the manager quite as much as to
myself that you owed this result. If he is severe in point of discipline,
it is because he feels it to be necessary in the interest of the work.
But no one is a stauncher upholder of your interests than your excellent
director.”

“Hurrah for M. Cardez!”

Uncle Graff smiled.

“Come, come! You are like overgrown children! Yesterday you wanted to
hang him. And myself into the bargain! To-day you receive him with shouts
of joy. And it is at this moment that you are more just and reasonable.
Remember what has taken place. And next time you have any demands to
make, do not begin by threats of murder. Now, go home, all of you, and
to-morrow morning, at the usual hour, we shall expect you back at work!”

The crowd melted away in respectful silence. With its usual fickleness it
now showered blessings on those it had formerly cursed. Obeying its
instincts, which are always generous and kind when left to develop
freely, it congratulated itself on the happy ending of a day which might
have been so tragic, and now withdrew, delighted at the prospect of
resuming the labour it had contemptibly looked upon as utter slavery.




PART III


CHAPTER I


WHILST Milona was running in the direction of Ars, her mistress returned
quietly to the salon. Flinging herself on the sofa, she abandoned herself
to a delightful reverie. What a difference she found between Cesare
Agostini and Marcel! A feeling of nausea came over her when she compared
them with one another. The complaisant and needy lover, who always knew
when to close his eyes, when some mysterious interests of his were at
stake, and this tender, sincere lover, who thought of nothing but her
happiness, and sacrificed for that his own.

She remembered Hans’ sarcastic remarks, “Take care you are not caught in
your own net, and fall in love with this young man.” Had he then read her
inmost thoughts, this dread accomplice of hers, who trampled humanity
under foot, and who had no more respect for joy and happiness than the
hail has for the harvest? Suppose it were so? Had she not the right to do
as she wished? Was she a slave, linked to obscure and threatening
adventurers engaged in some formidable though tremendous task? Or was
there equality for both them and herself, in danger, success, and
pleasure alike? Who could compel her to do what was displeasing to
her—above all, who would dare to attempt it? She knew she was as
dangerous as any of them, and they, too, were well aware how powerful and
audacious she was. If it were necessary to try conclusions with them,
they would see who would come out the winner.

She smiled, and her face shone with the light of a glorious graciousness.
In that young woman, with those delicate, refined features, who would
have discovered the bold, sarcastic Sophia Grodsko? What would
Lichtenbach have said, had he seen her, and what would all those have
thought who had known her, so faithless and vice-stained, fatal to all
who had loved her, and whom she had led on to ruin, dishonour, or death?
A young man, the least remarkable of all she had hitherto met, in all
probability, had obtained the triumph of making her uneasy and anxious at
the thought of what might become of him. Following him in imagination, on
his way back to the town, she wondered if it would not have been better
to have kept him by her side, instead of allowing him to rush off to the
burning works, and especially towards the spot where Hans was
watching—Hans, more to be dreaded than all the other scourges combined.

She rose, and, already repenting of having shown such a lack of decision,
she was deliberating whether or not she ought, herself, to go to Ars, and
find out what was taking place there. Prudence checked the impulse. All
the same, she mounted to the second floor of the villa, on to a balcony
from which a view of the valley could be obtained beyond the trees. There
she quickly saw that the danger, if there had been any, had lessened. The
smoke was disappearing, not a single flame was to be seen, and the hubbub
from the town had calmed down, whilst even the church bell had ceased
ringing. She was about to descend, when she saw Milona open the garden
gate. The servant was coming along the alley with rapid and uneasy steps.
Sophia had a presentiment that she was the bearer of bad news, and gave a
sharp, low whistle. Milo mounted the steps all out of breath, and came
straight to her mistress—

“I have performed your commission,” she said. “I found Hans. He read your
note, and placed it back in my hands. Here it is.”

“Good. That is not all. What is the matter?”

“Agostini is close behind me. He has just landed at Ars.”

Sophia frowned. A slight blush mounted to her cheeks. Taking a match, she
lit it, and set fire to the paper Milona had handed to her. Thoughtfully,
she watched the ashes fly away in the wind. Then she asked—

“How is he coming here?”

“In a cab. Listen, you may hear the horse’s hoofs already.”

The cab stopped in front of the door, and Cesare descended. The cabman
waited. Sophia slowly descended the staircase, and found herself in the
hall, to receive the handsome Italian. He advanced with shining eyes and
eager gait. Carelessly, and with an air of indifference, she held out her
hand.

“Well, well! my dear,” said he. “Is this the way you receive me after a
fortnight’s absence?”

“Silence!” she said firmly; “this is no time for nonsense. Hans at this
very moment is doubtless risking his life to obtain possession of the
powders.”

“Have you then succeeded with our young victim?”

“You may see for yourself. There will be more to learn later on.”

“Diavolo!”

Rushing from the room, he exclaimed—

“Milo, tell the cabman to wait.”

He returned—

“Who knows if we shall not need him shortly? As I passed by I saw the
town was in the greatest commotion imaginable, and that the works were on
fire. Is this accident an invention of yours?”

“I believe Hans arranged the whole affair.”

“Gay disposition, Hans! He is fond of an attractive _mise en scene_. But
I should be glad to have a little lunch; I left Paris quite hurriedly.”

“Milona will serve you.”

They passed into the dining-room. The table was set, and Cesare took a
seat.

“Come and talk to me, my beautiful Sophia. Time has weighed heavy on my
hands since last I saw you. I have vainly sought for distractions.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Ah! Trying to win a little money at cards. A kind of fatality seems to
pursue me, my bad luck never leaves me, and I cannot touch a card without
losing.”

“You have lost much?”

“Too much! I so easily get excited, you know.”

“Well, how much?” asked Sophia, impatiently.

The handsome Italian replied with a smile—

“Nothing at all, cara; I had the money!”

“Who gave it you?”

“Lichtenbach. I was obliged to accustom him to my little fancies. When he
becomes my father-in-law I shall appeal to him rather often.”

“Take care. He may tire.”

“He will not be allowed to do so.”

“His resources are not inexhaustible.”

“You are jesting. I am well acquainted with the source of his wealth.”

“Indeed! Who has been informing you?”

“A relation of mine, the Very Reverend Monsignor Boldi, whom I saw in
Paris a few days ago. Lichtenbach, in addition to his wealth, is a church
trustee. I no longer wonder at the influence he wields. He has the
disposal of immense sums, and of almost limitless power. But he is not a
man of action. He is always hesitating and trembling. Had you seen how
terrified he was when I alluded to his position as a kind of
ecclesiastical banker, you would have laughed outright. Ah! cara, his
brow was covered with perspiration. Whatever can he be afraid of?”

“From his constituents, nothing. From you, everything. That he doubtless
guessed at once.”

“Oh! _Mon Dieu_! All that trouble for such a trifle! A mere bagatelle of
forty thousand francs. That cursed baccarat! But Lichtenbach never plays,
except on the Bourse. And there he always wins!”

“Question!”

“Ah! Can he, too, be cursed with bad luck?”

“We are now doing our best to arrange matters so that he may have nothing
but good luck!”

“The powder affair?”

“Yes. Listen, what is that?”

A sound was heard outside. Taking from a cupboard a small revolver, she
slipped it into her pocket, and said—“Are you armed?”

“I am always armed. What are you afraid of?”

“Wait!”

In the silence a curious whistling sound was heard. Sophia’s features
relaxed.

“It is Hans!”

A rapid step was heard on the sand of the alley. The door of the salon
opened, and Milona made her appearance, followed by the colossus. He was
still clothed in his mean-looking fisher’s costume. Flinging his hat on
the ground, he removed his blouse and his huge shoes, without the
slightest thought of Sophia’s presence, and exclaimed—

“Milo, my clothes.”

Placing on the table a glass recipient and a sheet of paper, he said,
with a grimace—

“Here it is!”

“Then you have succeeded at last?”

Sophia and Cesare approached with a kind of respect, and saw through the
jar the brownish shavings of the powder which had already cost so much
blood!

“Yes, here it is! This small phial and this piece of paper again
represent the life of a man.”

“You were surprised in the act?”

“Yes. And I have killed again.”

“Who is the victim this time?” exclaimed Sophia, pale as death.

“Do not alarm yourself, my dear; it is not your turtledove.”

_He_ gave Cesare a glance, which immediately put the Italian on the
alert. His light, careless attitude disappeared, and a cold, hard look
came into his face.

“It was a troublesome fellow I have had on my track for several days,”
continued Hans. “A Government spy. It was not the first time we had met,
either. He almost caught me three years ago at Lyons, in the affair of
the Sergeant-Major. I took good note of him at the time, and his account
is now settled!”

“But will his murder not be discovered?”

“What then? We must clear off at once; the authorities never trouble
about detectives, that you know very well. This one will undergo a curing
process, with his broken head, in the river, until he is fished out.
Meanwhile, we shall be on the other side of the frontier.”

Milona entered, carrying a suit of elegant-looking clothes, a grey felt
hat, and yellow shoes. Unceremoniously, Hans dressed himself.

“The cabman is at the door. Did he see you enter?” asked Sophia.

“No. I am not such a fool as to show myself to him. It was very
convenient to come along the end of the garden, where the wall is
conveniently low. I am returning the same way, and I would advise you, my
children, to vacate this place as soon as possible. As you are aware, we
are due shortly in Venice. The first who arrives will wait for the rest.
There, I again become Major Fraser.”

Placing in a leather bag his glass recipient and the folded paper, he
shook hands with Agostini, smiled familiarly to Sophia, and disappeared
as he had come. The Italian gave a kick at Hans’ cast-off clothes, and
said—

“Milo, all this must disappear, my child.”

“In the kitchen fire,” said the Dalmatian, gravely.

“And you, Sophia, what do you intend to do? You have heard what our noble
friend has just said. In my opinion, the best thing we can do is to start
at once.”

The young woman made no reply. She passed into the salon with slow,
steady steps, as though laboriously seeking the right form to explain her
meaning. Sitting down, she took a cigarette, and, looking at the handsome
Italian standing before her, said—

“Yes, indeed, I do think you would do well to start off. There is no
reason for you to stay here. As for myself, a sudden disappearance would
excite suspicion; it would, in fact, be a very tactless thing to do.”

“But will you not be suspected if you remain behind? Will no action be
taken against you?”

“I? Suspected? In what way? Who could suspect me? Have I done anything
whatever calculated to excite mistrust? There has been no one here except
Marcel Baradier; he alone knows me.”

“But doubtless he gave you the information by the help of which Hans
succeeded in his enterprise.”

“He did certainly give it me, a couple of hours ago. The execution has
been concomitant with the revelation, so to speak. By what miracle could
I, who have not stirred from here, have informed the one who entered the
laboratory, and rid himself of his spy? This latter will not speak, as he
is dead! The laboratory will be found ransacked and in disorder. Very
good! Have there not taken place to-day, at the works, sufficient events
in which several rascals have been implicated, without there being any
need to charge me with a deed so much more likely to have been wrought by
any of them? If I leave I shall be suspected. Why have I taken to flight?
How is it I have left no explanation of my departure? What has become of
me? Then, afterwards, what and who am I? Whilst if I remain quietly here
with Milona, Marcel returns, finds me serene and calm, and everything is
safe. Is the arrangement not a good one?”

Cesare smiled, and, in ironical tones, said—

“Very good, indeed; too good, in fact!”

Sophia frowned.

“What do you mean?”

Drawing near her, with subtle grace, and still bent on adopting gentle
means, he said—

“Have you no longer confidence in me, cara? Why are you trying to deceive
me?”

“In what way, may I ask?”

“You are not telling me the truth. This is the first time you have played
me false, Sophia.”

She bit her lips, and turned slightly pale.

“My dear Cesare, do not ask so many questions. Do as I tell you, as you
have always done hitherto. You have never found it a bad policy, have
you? Very well, continue as before.”

“No!”

This refusal rang out sharp as a lash.

“Ah! Might I be permitted to know the reasons influencing you?”

“They are the same as yours. You will not come with me on account of this
young Marcel Baradier. But it is on that very account that I am bent on
your accompanying me.”

“Can you be jealous?”

“I am.”

“That is something quite novel; and I must confess I am greatly
surprised!”

“It is diversity of sensations which gives a charm to life!”

“Then you think—”

“That this fair-complexioned young fellow has pleased you more than was
agreed upon in our programme. Now, though I was disposed to allow you to
practice your wiles on him, in the interests of business, I no longer
feel inclined to permit you to flirt with him for art’s sake. The play is
over, let us drop the curtain without continuing the love scene in the
green-room.”

“You are a very practical lover, Cesare.”

“Did you not know that before?”

“I have been very generous to you.”

“Many thanks.”

“And now I intend to act as I please, and to-day I cannot obey you.”

They looked at one another like two wrestlers about to come to close
quarters. Cesare’s eyes sparkled with anger, while Sophia stood there
calm, with lowered eyelids, as though unwilling to meet his look. The
Italian, with an effort, controlled himself, and speaking with affected
gaiety, said—

“Come, cara, let us not quarrel. We have every possible reason to be
indulgent with one another; have we not been acquainted so long? Tell me
what you have resolved on. I will do all I can to further your wishes. Is
it a week’s liberty you want? When that length of time has elapsed will
you promise to come to Venice? _Mon Dieu_! We may well be complaisant
with one another. I will imagine I am nothing more than the brother of
Madame Vignola, and will bear you no ill-feeling; that I promise. Will
that satisfy you?”

She replied with a sigh—

“I do not know.”

“But I must know.”

“How can you be so stupid, Cesare, as to speak to the Baroness Grodsko as
you would to any other woman? One would think you had forgotten what she
is when some fancy takes possession of her. My poor friend, I am sorry
for you; Lichtenbach’s company must have spoiled you. You must stop
seeing him; he has turned you into a mere bourgeois!”

“You are jesting with me?”

“No!”

“You refuse to promise to come and rejoin me?”

“When I left Zypiatine, was he ever a source of annoyance to me?”

“Then you confess you wish to leave me?” exclaimed the Italian, pale with
anger.

“You will know later, my friend. At present I have not the slightest wish
to see you again.”

“Ah! Now you are speaking frankly. Do you forget that we have several
secrets in common?”

“No; nor do I forget there is no obligation for you to remember them.”

“That means?”

Sophia raised her eyelids, and flashed a look on Agostini which
astonished him.

“It means that if for my own safety your disappearance were necessary,
your life would be very cheap.”

“You threaten me with death?”

“Fool! You are well aware that if you breathed a single word calculated
to throw light on our enterprises, there are at least five persons who
would kill you at once.”

“But the affairs of the association are not your affairs, and you know
that I am acquainted with the ones as well as with the others.”

“Listen, Cesare; people like ourselves ought to be agreed in everything
we do, if we wish to run no risk of ruin. The slightest discord places us
at the mercy of our enemies. We must serve one another with the greatest
self-sacrifice. Every selfish demand detracts from the force necessary to
common success.”

“Ah! Do you pretend to impose an apathetic indifference on people who
live with an intensity a hundred times greater than the rest of mankind?
You forget that I love you, and I will submit to no rivalry, Sophia.”

“And how will you compel me to obey your wishes, may I ask?”

“In the simplest manner imaginable. I will inform Marcel Baradier of your
life before you gave up your whole existence to international
investigations and diplomatic intrigues, and we shall see if his love for
you will survive, for instance, an account of the incident of Segovia.”

Sophia turned so pale that Cesare was afraid of the impression he had
produced. Grinding her teeth, and stamping about the room like a wild
beast at bay, she seized upon the revolver she had taken up on the
arrival of Hans, and, levelling it at the head of the Italian, said—

“Ah, you villain; never again shall you betray a single human being!”

With extraordinary agility, Agostini leapt on to her, dashed her arm
upwards, so that the shot could not reach him, and pitilessly twisting
her beautiful white wrist, he took possession of the revolver, which he
calmly placed in his pocket. Then looking resolutely at Sophia, he said—

“Now let the dagger have a turn!”

She fell into a chair.

“You dog! To dare to raise your hand against me! You shall be punished
for it.”

“Good! But we cannot lose our time with such nonsense. Can it be admitted
that the man the Countess Grodsko has chosen as her companion will submit
to being fooled like the veriest ninny? You may hate me if you like,
Sophia, but you shall not despise me! This is the first time we have
tested our strength against one another, and as you see, I have not been
found to be the weaker. Do not recommence the struggle; if you do, I
shall treat you without the slightest gallantry?”

Shaking her head, and looking at her bruised hand, she said,
submissively—

“You have hurt me, Cesare!”

“Whose fault is it? Upon my word, I believe you were mad, for a moment.
You brave me, all for the sake of this young fop! Do you know I am going
to kill him?”

“I forbid you!” said Sophia, emphatically.

“I shall be delighted to obey you,” he said gallantly. “There is this
difference between us, that I am dominated by respectful attentions
towards you, and treat you like a sovereign, whilst you, by your language
and your attitude, wish to reduce me to the rank of a lackey! Is that
just?”

She made no reply. He walked to and fro for a short time, then drawing
nearer said—

“Never have I seen you in such a passion before. What in the world can
this young fellow have taught you? For the future I shall not be able to
trust you at all, though hitherto I have had the most complete confidence
in you! Is it possible that just now you thought of blowing out my
brains? Afterwards, what would you have done with my body? Your Marcel
would have arrived. He would have found the floor stained with blood, and
my corpse lying in the middle of the salon! How would you have explained
the matter to him? You see, Sophia, it was a fit of madness which came
over you. And all for what? Place in the balance these love-dreams of
yours, weigh them against the immense interests in which you have a part,
and decide whether the former weigh down the latter? Really, women must
at times be mad for one like yourself to give way to such acts of
extravagance!”

He gave her a side-long glance as he spoke, but the expression on her
face did not appear to satisfy him, so he continued—

“We neither have nor can have strength, unless we support one another. I
rely on your beauty, and you ought to be proud of my skill and courage.
Wherever we pass, it is your _rôle_ to charm and please, and mine to
defend you. Have I ever failed in my duty? When Colonel de Bredmann, last
year in Vienna, spoke of you in a manner you considered derogatory, did I
hesitate to challenge him the following day, and drive six inches of cold
steel through his throat in the Prater? I must confess that you, with
charming generosity, enabled me to support the run of ill-luck which
always overtook me at the club. Mutual exchange—you, of money; and
myself, of respect. Meanwhile, we carried on our affairs. And with what
success? Do you remember? Was it not better than quarrelling? Come,
Sophia, don’t look so gloomy; I know your feelings are bitter, but don’t
let them be more bitter than my own. Diavolo! Wake up and speak. Give me
an answer.”

Appearing to shake off the feeling of numbness which had come over her,
she once more looked at her reddened fingers, and said, with a strange
smile—

“Very well! Order, since it is you who are the master!”

With displeased air, he replied—

“No! Don’t adopt such an attitude! Now you are acting the part of a
resigned victim! You must act according to your own free will and
pleasure. I think I have proved to your satisfaction that you are turning
your back on the right path, and that it is time to turn round. Am I not
right?”

“One is never right when one is the stronger!”

“That is a woman’s reply. Well, Sophia, I am very sorry, but I will not
assume this advantage of imposing on you any resolution whatever. I leave
you free to do as you wish. Stay or go as you like. For my part, I must
go; I do not feel inclined to let myself be caught in this house like a
fox in a poultry-yard. I will give you ten minutes while you make up your
mind and prepare your luggage. I will smoke a cigarette in the garden.
Decide your future for yourself.”

He left the room. A flash of hate shone in Sophia’s eyes. She arose, gave
a sigh of despair, and then murmured—

“He is right!”

She called for Milona. The servant appeared.

“The trunk at once. We are leaving,” she said briefly.

“Good, madame.”

Sophia sat down before a small desk, took up a sheet of writing-paper
edged with black, and wrote—

    “MY DEAR MARCEL,

    “When you return to the villa I shall no longer be here to receive
    you. My brother, to whom I have been denounced by some person
    unknown, has arrived in a passion, and is taking me far away. Never
    try to see me again. Keep the remembrance of my kisses ever fresh in
    your heart. I am carrying off the delicious flavour of yours on my
    lips. Good-bye.

                                             “Yours with life-long regret,
                                                                 “ANETTA.”

Sealing the envelope, she placed it in full view on the table of the
salon, and, after looking all around, she went out into the small garden.
Cesare was walking to and fro, along the alley, where she had spent so
many hours by Marcel’s side. She sighed deeply. But her mind was made up,
and she was not a woman to draw back.

“Well?” asked the Italian.

“Well, you have convinced me; I will accompany you.”

“Very good. Now you are yourself again. It was only a momentary weakness
which came over you.”

“Indeed, I was mad,” she said, mockingly. “Just think, I was in love with
this young Baradier.”

“That I can well understand,” he conceded graciously. “He is a charming
young fellow. But everything comes to an end. And since, thanks to this
intrigue, you have obtained the result so ardently followed up by Hans,
the only thing we can now do is to quit. And that is what you are now
doing, with your usual good sense. Just now you surprised me, I must
confess, by your resistance. This is the first time I have ever seen you
sentimental. This fit of idyllic tenderness seemed quite incomprehensible
to me. Now, can you explain to me what has taken place?”

“Oh! It is very simple. In this young Marcel I found a love and affection
at once simple and disinterested, quite refreshing. It seemed as though I
were in a thirsty desert, and came upon a limpid spring, at which no one
had drunk previously. I stopped at the edge, looked into the crystal
water, and the reflected image was so different from myself, that I stood
there astonished and delighted. I thought I was about to find tranquil
rest, and a delightful regeneration, and cease being the Sophia who had
gone through so many adventures, to become a simple harmless woman in the
eyes of a love-stricken swain. Perhaps my mouth would forget its lying,
and my eyes their deceit and fascination! What a dream! And how near
realization! What unexpected happiness, ruined in a moment by your
reappearance. Ah! I have cursed you, Cesare, and Hans as well! But what
can I do, how can I tear myself away from my destiny? It was the height
of madness for me to think that a sincere love could unfold in my heart,
as though a wild floweret of the open fields could spring up in a marsh!
Come, let us think no more of all this. Society shall pay the price of my
disillusion!”

“Now you are speaking sensibly. But all you have been telling me is most
deplorably romantic. To think of your settling down in a village like the
Dame aux Camelias to live on new-laid eggs with Armand Duval! How
ridiculous! Ah! Here is Milona with your hat and cloak.”

“Ask the coachman to mount the luggage.”

Sophia, apparently impassive, watched her trunk and bags change position.
As Cesare stood at the garden-gate calling her, she looked around for the
last time, raised her hands to her lips, and to all she associated with
Marcel—green trees, forms on which they had sat, birds that had sung
above their heads, sky which had shone on their happiness—she sent a
rapid kiss.

“Are you ready?” asked the Italian.

“Here I am.”

“We will not leave by Ars, the town is in too great a commotion. This
worthy coachman will drive us to Saint-Savine, where we will take the
express for Paris.”

“As you like.”

“Come along, then, quick!”

She mounted the open carriage. Milona took up a position opposite her
mistress. A lash of the whip, a sound of bells, and at the turn of the
road everything was out of view.

It was four o’clock when Uncle Graff, after arranging for the search for
Laforêt, and giving orders for the management of the works, in short
arranging for whatever was absolutely pressing, came for his nephew to go
with him to the Villa de la Cavée. Baudoin, with a trusty revolver in his
pocket, went on in front as a scout. Marcel and his uncle followed, a
hundred yards behind. The excitement of the struggle and danger was now
past, and they were beginning to examine the position more coolly.

It was not a brilliant one. The boldness and violence of their enemies
had been manifested with too few precautions, for the utmost excesses
were to be dreaded at their hands in case the struggle were continued.
Now, at this moment, they appeared to be on the point of triumph. They
had just obtained possession of the scientific treasure, the commercial
application of which would assure them an enormous fortune. How exultant
they must feel, accordingly! But then, on the other hand, how
disconcerted they would be on attempting to utilize the stolen formula!
As Marcel had said, to obtain the explosive in its full power, and with
its special destructive qualities, a particular manipulation, a twist of
the hand, so to speak, discovered by General de Trémont, was necessary.
They might try to apply the formula; but if they did not know how to
handle the different doses, their hopes would fail of realization. Now
the thief-assassin, who had found his way into the laboratory, had
carried off the precious document, but would it not remain utterly
worthless, like the golden crown in the legend, which changed into a dry
leaf?

Uncle Graff was meditating on all this as he walked by Marcel’s side. He
said nothing to the young man. What was the use? It was also certain that
the villains, bent as they were on obtaining the secret, had already
killed two men and set fire to the works to accomplish their object.
Granting that they had once more failed, would they not recommence the
struggle, and purchase victory at the cost of no matter what sacrifices?
Under these conditions there was no drawing back; they must risk much to
try and check an offensive return, and not hesitate in case the unknown
beauty were an accomplice in the crimes already committed; it must be
their object to keep her in view, question her, and if need be, deliver
her into the hands of justice in order to try and throw light on this
dark and dangerous affair.

They reached the wood, and, the house being no more than a hundred yards
distant, Baudoin, who had waited for them, said—

“I will go all round the garden, and bear off in the direction of the
wood, so that, if any one tries to escape, I may be able to cut off his
retreat.”

“No,” said Marcel. “Let us remain together.”

Just at that moment an old woman appeared before them, dragging a faggot
of decayed wood.

She smiled with her toothless mouth, and, stopping to take breath, said—

“Is it the young lady of the villa you want to see? If so—”

“Well?” said Marcel.

“You will not find her here. An hour ago she went away in a cab with all
her luggage, in the direction of Sainte-Savine. Cacheu, of the Lion d’Or,
drove the cab himself.”

“Gone?” exclaimed Marcel, stupefied.

“So it seems,” said Uncle Graff. “The _coup_ is effected.”

“Impossible!”

“Poor young man! His walks with the young lady were very agreeable,”
muttered the old woman.

She shook her head, encircled with a kerchief, accepted the two-franc
piece Uncle Graff slipped into her hand, and walked slowly away, in the
direction of the town, dragging her faggot along the road.

Marcel had already entered the villa. On the threshold his heart seemed
almost to stop beating. The door remained open, as though, in the hurry
of flight, they had not had time to close it, or rather, as though she
had left nothing behind worth keeping. Crossing the garden, he entered
the hall, and called—

“Milona! Anetta!”

No reply came; nothing but silence and darkness. Entering the salon, he
saw a letter lying on the table. Tearing it open, he rapidly ran over the
contents, sat down to read it once more, finally understood it, and sat
there, with bowed head and throbbing brow, as though in the presence of a
terrible disaster. There Uncle Graff found him. He had gone over the
whole house, and acquired the certainty that it was abandoned. Baudoin
was seated in the garden. Seeing his nephew’s anguish and the pallor of
his countenance, the old man’s heart melted; he placed his hand
affectionately on the young man’s head, softly stroked his hair, and
seeing the letter pressed between his passive fingers, asked—

“Has she written to you?”

At these words, simple though they were, his fugitive love seemed almost
reinstated in his eyes, as he felt that she had not forgotten him, and
Marcel burst into sobs as he silently held out the paper and hid his face
in his hands. Uncle Graff drew near the window and read the letter, after
which he stood there in a reverie. Marcel, regaining possession of
himself to defend the one he loved, finally rose from his seat, and said
in supplicating accents—

“Uncle Graff, is this the letter of a woman who lies? Do not her protests
appear sincere to you? Has she the faintest complicity in the crimes
committed? Do you accuse her of having deceived me? Is she not rather a
victim undergoing a rigorous tyranny at the hands of the very monsters
who threaten us? This letter, Uncle Graff, this letter—does it not
breathe despair in every line? Is it not a confirmation of her love for
me?”

“The letter appears to be sincere,” said the old man, calmly. “I cannot
but recognize that grief is evident in every word, and that the one who
wrote it was evidently acting under compulsion when she left the house.
That is a proof that she loves you, and regrets your absence. But is that
a proof that she is not guilty, and the accomplice of the rest?”

“Oh, Uncle Graff, do you think it possible?”

“I do, and I am afraid it is so, my dear Marcel, and that would be more
serious than anything else, for, if this woman loves you—and how could
she help loving you, my dear child, once she knows you—ah, if this woman
loves you, my anxiety will become greater than ever. For she might try to
see you again, and then—”

A light of hope illumined Marcel’s face.

“Ah, if only that could be!”

“Marcel, you see what grounds I had for fear. At the very thought of
seeing her again you at once become radiant with joy. And yet she is a
rascal, there is not the slightest doubt of it. I will not dispute her
charms, since she has obtained such control over you; but she is very
dangerous all the same, for, in short, suppose she were the woman of
Vanves?”

“Impossible!”

“Do not say impossible. You know nothing about it. These women, you see,
are terrible creatures. In matters like the one now engaging our
attention they are a kind of female Proteus, capable of assuming all
forms, even the most diverse and disconcerting, to deceive their enemies
and allay suspicion. Cosmopolitan adventuresses, living on human folly;
spies, on the track of State secrets; corruptresses, sufficiently
fascinating to obtain the mastery over all consciences. You are aware
that these women are insinuating and of plausible manners, generally very
beautiful. And this one—”

“Oh! No, no!”

Uncle Graff insisted authoritatively.

“This one, very clever and dangerous, more dangerous than the rest, even,
has played her _rôle_ with you, whilst satisfying her caprice at the same
time. Come, Marcel, be reasonable; do not blind yourself. Why was the man
of Vanves concealed here? Why have the powders been removed from the
laboratory, and why is the house deserted, now that the burglary is
accomplished? It is not a mere departure, it is a flight. Consider the
rapidity and suddenness of the resolution reached. This morning only she
had no thought of it, or, rather, in that case she deceived you, since
she said nothing about it, and was to receive you to-night. Crime and
duplicity are manifest everywhere. You have been deceived by words of
tenderness, whilst the others, her accomplices, were stealing and
murdering.”

Marcel gave a movement expressive of anger.

“If only I had the proof of this!”

Uncle Graff looked at him fixedly.

“Well, what would you do?”

“Ah! I would have my revenge, that I swear! All my love would turn into
hate. If my heart has been deceived with lying words, I would tear it out
of my breast, rather than cherish a poisoned love! If that woman was not
a victim, she would be a monster. And, by what I hold most sacred in
existence, I would punish her!”

The old man looked at his nephew with considerable satisfaction.

“Oh! _Mon Dieu_! We don’t ask you to do that! Simply forget her. Above
all, make up your mind not to fall into her toils again, if ever you meet
her.”

At that moment the door opened, and Baudoin appeared. Holding a book in
his hand, he approached mysteriously, and said—

“It is useful to make a thorough search. One can never examine too well.”

He laughed as he spoke and held the book aloft—

“Had I done nothing but cast a careless glance over the lady’s
bed-chamber, I should not have found this.”

“What is it?” asked Graff.

“A book—a simple book.”

Marcel took it up, looked at the title, and said—

“Yes, it is a book she has been reading lately.”

“Oh! the book in itself signifies nothing,” said Baudoin. “It had fallen
down by the side of the bed nearest the wall. In a hurry of departure she
did not see it, and it was left there. But there was something between
these leaves.”

Baudoin took between his fingers a piece of paper, and showed it to his
masters.

“This envelope, torn in two, and folded to serve as a book-mark. To whom
does it belong, if not to the one who has been making use of it? Now on
the folded part, there is a line of writing and an address.”

“An address?”

“Look!”

He handed the paper to Marcel, and on the small band, concealed by the
folding, the young man read aloud the name: “Madame la Baronne Grodsko.”
The bottom of the envelope, on which was doubtless written the street,
number and town, had disappeared. On the top, however, a large stamp
contained the postmark: “Wien, April 18.”

The rest was effaced.

“Baroness Grodsko,” repeated Marcel. “But her name was Anetta Vignola.”

“Ah!” said Uncle Graff; “these women change their names as easily as
their dresses. She has only kept this envelope from the most incredible
and imprudent carelessness. And how is it this letter, which came from
Vienna a fortnight ago, is now here? It must have been forwarded under
another envelope to the name and address she assumed here!”

Baudoin then remarked—

“Perhaps I may be permitted to state that the woman who called on my
master on the night of the crime was addressed by him as Baronne—”

Marcel turned pale.

“True,” he murmured, in a low tone. “But what relation is there between
Anetta Vignola and the Baroness Grodsko?”

“That is what we must discover, for it is the clue which may guide us
through the darkness in which we are now groping. Courage, my child; if
this woman is the same who has committed such infamous actions—”

“Ah! Uncle Graff, in that case I should feel no pity whatever for her.”

The uncle shook his nephew’s hand, in sympathetic approval.

“Now, there is nothing more for us to do here. The house has delivered up
to us part of its secret. The rest we must seek elsewhere.”

The three men went out into the garden, after carefully closing the
doors, and slowly returned to Ars.



CHAPTER II


LICHTENBACH was sitting in his study, listening to young Vernot, his
broker, who was speaking with the utmost volubility.

“Baradier and Graff will not long be able to maintain their position on
the Explosives now. It has already been remarked at the Bourse that they
have not reduced their stock. The coming liquidation will be a decisive
one; or else they will remain firm; then what a bankruptcy it will be! Or
they may sell everything. What a fall that will mean!”

A faint smile came over the banker’s lips.

“I should like to see that!”

“_Man Dieu_! My dear master, I cannot conceal from you the fact that, in
business circles they say it is a duel between the firm of Baradier and
Graff and the firm of Lichtenbach. One of the two will go under.”

“I know it; but I have no fear.”

“I have negotiated this affair for you, so I know our mode of action.
Hitherto it has been an admirable one. To sum up in a word, you have sold
what the Baradiers have bought.”

“Yes, my friend, and I have their money, as they have my vouchers. Now,
Vernot, be wideawake as to what is about to happen. The explosives, which
are now at their highest price, will rapidly fall to the very lowest.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely certain.”

“Why?”

“Because a rival company is being formed, which is in possession of the
patents of a product destined to replace, within a very short time, all
the mining powders and other dynamites hitherto employed, and which will
cost fifty per cent. less in commerce. What do you say to that?”

“It will be a crushing blow!”

“You are right. Read my journal to-night; it will contain the first
article of a series destined to set forth before the world this new
discovery. In two months from now I wish to see Baradier and Graff
bankrupt!”

“Oh, they have a long purse to draw on,”

“We shall see about that.”

“So now you engage me to sell?”

“From to-morrow sell as fast as you can. There will be a gain of five
hundred francs per share. You will see the movement begin. All my
personal orders will be executed on foreign Exchanges. Profit by this
opportunity.”

“I shall not be likely to forget.”

“Now go. My daughter is expecting me, and I am punctual in my habits.”

“My dear master, many thanks, and my respectful compliments.”

The stockbroker left the room. Lichtenbach did not even rise from his
seat to accompany him to the door. He was thinking. From Venice a letter
had reached him which, on the one hand, caused him great satisfaction,
and, on the other, brought him a certain amount of uneasiness. Sophia
Grodsko had written to him: “The war powder is a triumphant success.
Experiments made at Spezzia and Trieste have given prodigious results
with marine cannons. Plates of Siemens steel a foot thick are pierced
like sheets of paper. We have received two million francs, the rest will
come afterwards. The affair is big with magnificent results. Things are
not progressing so well with the commerce powder. Hans has been at work
for the last fortnight at Swalbach with Prunier, from Zurich. He has been
disappointed. All the attempts have been unsatisfactory. They have
manipulated the product in different manners, but no result has been
obtained. The explosive is worth no more than dynamite. True it is not so
dear, but we are far from what we hoped, and from what must actually be
the case. There must be some secret or other in the fabrication of the
powder unknown to us. Hans is trying to find it, and has not abandoned
all hopes of doing so. But, up to the present, fiasco. Don’t be
discouraged, but thank me for telling you the exact truth. Agostini sends
you his best wishes, and informs you that you will shortly receive your
brevet of baron.”

Lichtenbach growled.

“Baron! That will be of some use to me, indeed, if this affair fails.”

Rising, he gave a gesture of defiance.

“It will not fail! Hans is a skilful chemist. He will find out the
secret. Besides, if need be I will retrace my steps. They will not catch
me so easily, altogether unprepared.”

He smiled. His daughter entered the room. She was no longer the little
schoolgirl, dressed in the blue convent robe, but an elegant and graceful
Parisienne. The banker looked at her with considerable satisfaction.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, father. It was agreed we should start at four o’clock.”

“And where are you taking me?”

“To the Charity Bazaar in favour of the Alsace-Lorraine orphans. You must
come.”

“I might have sent a cheque.”

“But I must be there. Madame Sainte-Alix has charge of a stall, along
with several of my old school companions. I promised to be there.”

“Well, let us start.”

They set off. The sale took place in the Agricultural Hall of France. All
over the walls hung groups of flags, whilst above a verdant groove stood
a marble bust representing Alsace, with a mourning sash flung across the
breast. The wife of a Deputy from the Vosges, surrounded by a group of
ladies belonging to official circles, performed the honours. A large
double sofa occupied the middle of the room, between two rows of stalls,
in which the most aristocratic families of Alsace and Lorraine were
represented by white haired grandmothers who had never been willing to
acknowledge the conquest of these two lost provinces, and elegant young
ladies, smiling and careless, educated or born in exile, and finding
France beautiful, and life pleasant, even though it were passed far from
their native soil.

Lichtenbach and Marianne were warmly received immediately they entered
the room. Here the financier’s prestige and the influence of the journal
proprietor could be exercised in uninterrupted sovereignty. Nothing but
smiles on every side. The more republican one’s opinions, the more
unctuous was the respect lavished on Lichtenbach, the reactionary.
Marianne, timid and anxious, was looking for the stall presided over by
Madame Sainte-Alix.

A young attendant, anxious to serve so rich an heiress, placed himself
under the young girl’s orders, and Marianne passed through the crowd of
buyers and sellers until she reached the stall where her old companions
were selling children’s clothing at five times its real value, and that
without the slightest difficulty. Geneviève de Trémont, dressed in
mourning, presided over the hosiery department. After exchanging a
friendly greeting she asked—

“Are you all alone?”

“Oh no. My father has stayed behind for a moment to speak to the wife of
a Senator.”

“He is going to leave you here for some time?”

“I do not know. Perhaps it would not be convenient for him to return for
me.”

Turning towards the nun presiding at the cash-box, she said—

“Are you pleased with the result of your sales, madame?”

“We have made three thousand francs since noon, my child. But it will
soon be five o’clock. In an hour everything will be over. We have still a
third of our stock left.”

“Very well. Send me everything you have not sold to-night,” said the
young girl, simply.

“Ah, my child, how grateful I feel to you. But what will your father
think?”

Mademoiselle Lichtenbach smiled calmly.

“My father? He never opposes my wishes. Besides, I am rich.”

She exhibited a purse full of gold.

“And, if that is not sufficient, papa will make me an advance.”

“Ha, look in front!” said Geneviève de Trémont. “There is Amélie at the
stall of Madame Baradier.”

Marianne blushed. She remembered what her father had said regarding their
quarrels with the Baradiers and Graffs, and felt considerably embarrassed
in consequence. What kind of relations could be set up between these
hostile families? Suddenly the smiling face of Marcel Baradier awoke in
her memory. The hostility of the parents could not bind the children,
since he had so graciously received Lichtenbach’s daughter when she had
called at the Rue de Provènce. Turning her eyes in the direction of
Geneviève, she recognized the one of whom she was thinking, near the
counter where Madame Baradier and Amélie were selling. He smiled as he
talked to an old man who was purchasing a porcelain vase of a very ugly
pattern. After the bargain was struck he took it from his hands, placed
it gaily back again on to the stall, and said, in tones sufficiently loud
to be heard by Marianne—

“This is the third time, Uncle Graff, that we have sold it, and it has
been left behind. People don’t object to paying for it, but it is so
frightful that no one will decide to carry it off.”

The old man put back his purse into his pocket and said—

“Now, where is the stall of Mademoiselle de Trémont?”

“We will go there together. The very thing you want, uncle. _Trousseau_
and baby linen. Indispensable for bachelors!”

“You rogue!”

They crossed the room. Suddenly Marcel became very grave; he had
recognized Mademoiselle Lichtenbach. She, too, had seen him approach,
and, trembling, had not had the courage to look him in the face. Uncle
Graff, with his usual good nature, said—

“Well, Mademoiselle Geneviève, what are you going to sell me? Children’s
hoods? How much a dozen?”

“Sixty francs, as it is you, Monsieur Graff. And you can leave them with
us if you like.”

“Certainly. It would be too much trouble to carry them all off.”

“What you leave us we will give to the Sainte-Enfance institution. After
you have finished, if there is anything which remains one of our friends
has promised to buy it up.”

“Who is she?”

“Mademoiselle Marianne Lichtenbach.”

Graff started. His face changed expression, and he said—

“The daughter of—”

As he took a step backwards he heard a gentle voice say—

“On the ground of charity there are no enemies, only competitors as to
who shall do the most good.”

“You are quite right, mademoiselle,” replied the old man, with a bow.
“And I will immediately put your precept into practice.”

Leaning towards the nun, he asked calmly—

“How much for the contents of the stall?”

“My dear sir,” stammered Madame Sainte-Alix, astonished.

“Is two thousand francs enough?”

“Oh, that’s nothing! I will give four thousand!”

And Count Cesare Agostini, smiling and elegant, appeared by the side of
Mademoiselle Lichtenbach.

“Our father has sent me to you, mademoiselle,” he said, with a bow. “He
will be here in a moment, and, really, he would not have tolerated that
_any_ one should rob you of the honour of your generosity at so moderate
a price.”

Glancing around at those present, and recognizing Marcel he affected a
joyful surprise.

“Ah! Monsieur Baradier! I am delighted to meet you. We have had a great
deal of trouble since last I saw you. I heard all about it on my return
to call for my sister. I greatly regretted not being able to stay and
tell you how sorry we felt for you. You were so kind and gracious to us
in that quiet country place.”

He spoke without the slightest hesitation, and with a boldness which
stupefied Marcel. As he looked at Agostini he wondered whether he were
not dreaming—whether this calm, phlegmatic person speaking to him at this
charity bazaar in the heart of Paris, without even thinking of escape,
was indeed the man he suspected of having mystified him at Ars, of being,
doubtless, the accomplice of murderers and incendiaries; at the very
least in collusion with this enigmatical woman whose memory still filled
his heart. He listened with astonishment, and replied—

“And your sister, Madame Vignola?”

“Ah! Poor Anetta!” interrupted Cesare. “She is at Venice, engaged in
troublesome family affairs. But she will probably come to Paris this
summer to assist at my marriage.”

“Ah! You are about to be married, Count?”

“Yes, M. Lichtenbach has given his consent at last.”

This news of the marriage of Agostini into the Lichtenbach family
produced an electric effect. Marcel immediately regained full possession
of his faculties.

Looking at the Italian from head to foot, he said ironically—

“Ah! you are about to enter the family of M. Lichtenbach. It was to be,
and it would have been a pity could it not have taken place!”

“I do not understand very well,” replied Cesare.

“Yes, you understand perfectly. And if you wish further information ask
for it from your sister.”

“These are strange words,” said the Italian, arrogantly.

“Every one does as well as he can; all men have not the privilege of
being strange in their actions.”

Agostini was about to reply, and the two men stood threateningly in front
of one another, when a hand was laid on the Italian’s arm, and the voice
of Mademoiselle Lichtenbach was heard saying—

“Monsieur le Comte, will you come this way, please? My father is looking
for you.”

Cesare gave Marcel a defiant glance. Then, turning with flattering
humility to the young girl, he said—

“Your slightest wish shall be obeyed, mademoiselle. But I shall see this
gentleman again, and—”

“I forbid you!”

“Very good.”

Lichtenbach came up to them. He passed in front of Graff, without
appearing to see him.

“What is this they are telling me, Count?” he said, addressing Agostini.
“You have been bidding up to four thousand francs for the contents of
this stall? What a trifling sum! You must have had some very sorry
competitors against you!”

An expression of disdain came over his face as he looked round on Marcel
and Uncle Graff.

“Formerly my opponents were more tenacious. The struggle for gold has
considerably cooled them down.”

Turning towards the nun he wrote a few lines on a piece of paper, saying—

“Here, madame, is a cheque for ten thousand francs.”

“What shall I give you in return?” asked Madame Sainte-Alix, stupefied.

“Your prayers,” said Elias, humbly.

A group had formed round the stall, and a murmur of approving admiration
reached the ears of Lichtenbach. Agostini exclaimed, with emphasis—

“This is a magnificent gift!”

“Come along, my daughter,” said Elias.

Marianne kissed Geneviève de Trémont, and, lowering her head, so as not
to see Marcel, followed her father and Agostini. As she passed in front
of Graff she heard him say—

“Ten thousand francs’ worth of prayers! At a franc per villainous trick
he has committed he loses nothing!”

The old man had not time to further exhibit his bad temper, for Marcel
interrupted him—

“Not so loud, Uncle Graff; his daughter might hear you. Poor child; it is
not her fault!”

Marianne felt sad at heart, and, more afflicted at the nephew’s
humiliating indulgence towards herself than at his uncle’s scorn for her
father, she left the room.

Since his return to Paris, Marcel had been restored to the good graces of
M. Baradier. Graff’s story of the conflagration at the works, and the
rescue effected by his nephew, had touched the old man’s heart. The
danger incurred by his brother-in-law, Cardez, and Baudoin, had made him
quiver with anxiety; the intervention of his son at the critical moment,
when even the bravest among the workmen drew back from the danger, had
aroused his enthusiasm. He had taken Marcel in his arms, and said to
Madame Baradier and Amélie, who were sitting there in tears—

“You seem quite astonished. Did you think this child, on account of a few
silly escapades, was not a fine and brave fellow, after all? For my part
I was sure, if the opportunity occurred, he would act as nobly as he has
done! It is because I knew what he was capable of that I treated him
harshly when he went astray. But, after all, he is a Baradier!”

The same evening, alone with his wife, he said—

“Indeed, I am very well pleased with Marcel. Graff has told me things
concerning him which have touched me very much. I am beginning to hope
that, once the passion and giddiness of youth is over, he will turn out a
remarkable man. All he lacks is a certain amount of order. But that will
come in time. He is both intelligent and warm-hearted. Now, it is time he
thought of marrying.”

“He is only twenty-five years of age.”

“The very best age imaginable. One’s happiness in life is assured when
one finds a good partner and marries young, as I did. What kind of
attitude does he show with regard to Geneviève?”

“He treats her like a sister, neither more nor less.”

“Not the slightest sign of flirtation?”

“I believe she has a faint liking for him, but I know nothing about his
feelings for her.”

“Ask Amélie a few discreet questions.”

“I will think of it.”

Marcel’s mind was occupied with things entirely different. He thought of
everything except marriage. His return home appeared very pleasant, for
he was very fond of his parents. Perhaps the exile’s son, more than
another, possessed a liking for home. He had so often heard his father
and uncle regret the old home at Metz, their friends and customs of
former times, that the bonds which attached him to his father’s house
were very strong, and when away from them all something essential seemed
to be lacking in his life. Doubtless this something was his father’s
affectionate chiding and his mother’s consoling smile.

Since his return he spent almost the whole of his time out of the office;
went out very little at nights, and worked away at a task known to no one
except Uncle Graff. M. Baradier, greatly troubled at the turn of events
the Explosives had taken, expressed his anxiety to no one but his
partner. Uncle Graff, however, calmly replied—

“We must keep wide-awake, but we need not exaggerate the danger.
Everything will come out right in the end, that I am sure of.”

“Eh! Do you expect a miracle?” murmured Baradier. “These Explosives
shares continue to go down, in spite of all our efforts. Yesterday there
was a rumour out on the Bourse that a patent had just been taken, in
Germany, England, and France, by an Englishman named Dalgetty, for some
marvellous powder or other superior to dynamite. They go so far as to
state that this substance is so manageable and harmless, in spite of its
destructive power, that they expect to make use of it for engine power.
That would mean the suppression of steam, gas and petroleum. A complete
revolution. If a quarter of all this is true we are ruined! Doubtless it
is an application of Trémont’s formulæ, and Dalgetty is the dummy of the
villains who stole them.”

“Possibly,” murmured Graff, calmly.

“And you can find nothing else to say?” exclaimed Baradier, furiously.
“You resign yourself to all this robbery and murder?”

“No; I am simply waiting for the Dalgetty powder in use. It may be the
Trémont explosive, but then, on the other hand, it may be something
entirely different, and in that case worth nothing at all.”

“But suppose we are ruined in the meantime?”

“We shall obtain the upper hand in the long run.”

“But it is this villain of a Lichtenbach who is leading the campaign
against us. This is what I am informed from both London and Brussels.”

“Give him his head. The farther he goes the greater will be his fall.”

“I should like to know the cause of your confidence.”

“It is Marcel, your son, who is stronger in himself, than Trémont,
yourself, myself, and all the others. You will see.”

“But, after all, cannot you tell me?”

“No, I will say nothing. Let Dalgetty go ahead, and the shares continue
to lower. Above all else, do not sell. He laughs best who laughs last.”

The calm assurance of Uncle Graff had its due impression on Baradier at
the time. But afterwards, in his study, in front of his correspondence,
which brought him nothing but bad news, fear again took possession of
him. He was aware that Marcel was working hard. He saw him start every
morning for the laboratory of the Arts-et-Métiers. But what was he
engaged in? Doubtless some improvement of the Trémont powder; perhaps
simply the exact doses of the products. How could he prove, after all,
that he knew the dosing, which was the General’s invention? And Baradier,
red and excited, would take up his hat and go out for a walk, to avoid a
congestion.

At night, when they were dining, he again saw Marcel in the salon, seated
between his mother and sister, or playing the piano with Geneviève de
Trémont. He was an excellent musician, this son on whom Nature had
lavished such gifts. And Uncle Graff, a passionate melomaniac, lay
stretched out in an armchair, listening, in delighted ecstasy, to some
_lied_ of Schubert or a concerto by Schumann. He pointed out to Baradier,
who had entered the room on tip-toe, the charming picture of these two
young people playing duets together, and murmured—

“What a fine couple. She is dark; he is fair. Perfect match. And as their
fortune—the General’s powder.”

“Nothing but smoke!” growled Baradier.

“No, it does not give any,” laughed Uncle Graff.

In his partner’s feeling of security, though he was mistrustful enough in
business matters, there was a kind of unconsciousness which astonished
Baradier. Evidently Marcel was preparing something extraordinary, which
Graff was well aware of and which promised to have extraordinary results.
But what was it? Besides, with rascals who went about everywhere carrying
into action their murderous plans, under the indulgent regard of the
Government, was one sure of anything? Accordingly he fumed and raged, but
that in itself was something, and kept him occupied.

Baudoin, on his part, had not remained inactive. His first visit had been
to Colonel Vallenot. He had found him at the War Office, busily engaged
on a question the Minister was to receive from a socialist Deputy, who
complained that anarchist journals were not permitted in barracks. How
could the people be educated if the soldier were refused the right of
knowing why it was his duty to despise his superiors? The good Colonel
had bristled up like a wild boar. Only the night before he had been
abused by his superior, who, greatly worried, himself, had passed on his
ill-temper to the other, and so it descended from grade to grade right
down to the concierge. The latter had given a drubbing to his dog, which
had been at a loss to understand the reason for this treatment. It was
the only difference between the animal and the functionaries.

“What is it you want?” growled Colonel Vallenot to Baudoin, as he
saluted. “To see the Minister? Well, you are lucky. If you go in there I
will not guarantee your safe exit. And, then, what is it you want to tell
him? That the agent he had placed at your disposal has disappeared? It is
now three weeks since we heard from him.”

“I have brought you news of him.”

“Ah! What is the matter?”

“He is dead.”

“The deuce! How did that happen!”

“He has been killed.”

“Who has killed him?”

“The same who killed General de Trémont.”

“What was his object?”

“The same as before—to obtain possession of my master’s secrets.”

“Was he successful?”

“Yes.”

“So now he is in possession of the powder formula?”

“He is.”

“Well, this is a fine business. We suspected something of the kind, for
we have received notice from abroad that experiments have been made with
smokeless powder of extraordinary power.”

“That is the one.”

Colonel Vallenot had forgotten all about the Deputy’s question. He pulled
and twisted his moustache furiously. Finally he asked—

“When was poor Laforêt murdered?”

“Nearly a fortnight ago. But it was only later that we had the proof of
his death. The poor fellow had been flung into the river, and the current
had carried him into a millrace. He remained several days fastened to
some piles under water, and it is only just recently that his body
mounted to the surface. It was taken out, recognized, and buried as was
fitting for an old soldier and an honest man. Now he is lying under the
green turf of the cemetery of Ars.”

“And his murderers?”

“Ah, that is what I have come to speak to the Minister about. I know the
villains.”

Vallenot sat upright.

“Those spies! You know who they are?”

“And you, also, Colonel, without doubt, for this is not their first
attempt. The Minister, before now, has had a crow to pick with them. They
are professionals in treason!”

The Colonel rose, and, with changed expression, said—

“Ah! Here, at any rate, is something which will distract him! I will risk
entering his room without being summoned. Yes, it is possible such news
may restore him to good humour again. Wait for me here.”

Opening a door, he left the room. Baudoin, standing near the
mantel-piece, stood there a few minutes ‘attentively listening to the hum
of voices which proceeded from the next room; then suddenly the door
opened, and a voice called—

“Baudoin!”

The old soldier advanced, and, on reaching the threshold of the study, he
saw the Minister standing there, a frown on his face, which was even
redder than usual.

“Come in!” he said.

Baudoin entered. The General, who wore a black frock-coat and grey
trousers, was striding to and fro. Vallenot stood waiting in the
embrasure of the window.

“The Colonel informs me that you have very important news to relate
concerning the death of M. de Trémont and my agent.”

“Yes, General.”

“You think you know the rascals who have committed these murders?”

“Yes, General.”

“Tell me all about it.”

“I must ask permission to speak in the presence of no one but yourself.
It is a secret which interests the lives of those who are too dear to me
to warrant my entrusting it to any other than yourself.”

“Not even to Colonel Vallenot?”

“A secret which belongs to several persons,” said Baudoin, coldly, “is no
longer a secret. I will tell it either to the Colonel or to yourself.”

“Very good, my friend, you are right. Will you retire, Colonel Vallenot?
This good fellow means no offence. I approve of his thoughtfulness.”

Vallenot smiled and saluted. It was evident he would gladly have stayed.
But his chief had given the order. A quarter of an hour later the
telephone bell rang. Placing the apparatus to his ear, he heard the
Minister call out—

“Bring me File Z, No. 3, from the secret press.”

Vallenot opened a large iron safe, and took out a yellow bundle of
papers, which he carried into his chief’s room. Baudoin was standing
before the desk, and the General _was_ attentively listening to him.
Vallenot withdrew. Another interval for a quarter of an hour, then a
fresh ring at the telephone—

“Send me Captain Rimbert, who had charge of the Valance affair.”

Vallenot murmured—

“The deuce! There is something in the wind here!”

Ringing for his office-boy, he gave the order and waited patiently. Half
an hour passed, then the study-door opened, and Baudoin, conducted by the
General himself, appeared. The latter now appeared satisfied, and said—

“Very good, Baudoin; so it is understood?”

“Yes, General.”

“You will request M. Marcel Baradier to call on me?”

“Yes, General.”

“And if you hear of anything, let me know of it at once.”

“Yes, General.”

“Good day. Come in, Vallenot.”

Baudoin left the room. The Minister returned to his study, where the
young Captain Rimbert stood waiting.

“Colonel, will you kindly make out a _resumé_ of the Espurzheim and
Vicomte de Fontenailles affairs. I believe we are on the point of laying
our hands on this crafty woman who so completely tricked all my
predecessors, and mystified myself two years ago. Ah! If I can have my
revenge it shall be a complete one!”

“Then we have to deal with the woman who has successively borne the name
of Madame Ferranti, with Espurzheim, . . . ” said the Colonel.

“And of Countess de Vervelde, with poor Fontenailles,” added Captain
Rimbert.

“And finally of La Ténébreuse,” summed up the Minister.

“Oh! What trouble and money the wretch has cost us without our succeeding
in laying hands on her!”

“Well, gentlemen, we will try not to fail this time. Prepare the notes I
requested, Colonel. And you, Captain Rimbert, not a word!”

Both Colonel and Captain left the room. The Minister rubbed his hands
with satisfaction. Meanwhile Baudoin had made his way along the quays,
and reached the Law Courts as four o’clock was striking. Crossing the
large entrance hall, he mounted to the second floor, and stopped in front
of M. Mayeur’s study. The attendant was an old friend of his, and
welcomed him cordially—

“Holloa! you here?” he asked. “Have you come as witness in another
affair?”

“No. I simply wish to speak to the magistrate. Is he engaged?”

“Always! Just now it is a gang of oil-painting thieves, who have been
overhauling the hotel of a marquis in the Champs-Elysées.”

“Can I speak to him?”

“As soon as he rings, I will tell him you are here. Ah, he is in no
amiable mood. He and the attorney seem to be quarrelling all the time!”

The bell rang, a door opened, and three men of slouching gait, regular
types of Parisian blackguards devoured by absinthe, advanced, casting
sly, searching looks in every direction. But there were neither doors nor
windows by which they could gain the open-air, so they quietly continued
their route.

The attendant said—

“M. Baudoin, will you come in now? M. Mayeur is disengaged.”

The old soldier entered the study. The registrar looked at him as he
passed with a certain amount of curiosity. M. Mayeur smilingly pointed to
a chair, placed his papers in order, and, turning to the clerk, said—

“You may go now. Put all the files in order. Goodbye.”

The clerk gave a grimace, which might at will have been taken as a mark
of politeness or of insolence, and withdrew. M. Mayeur, doubtless tired
of questioning, looked steadily at Baudoin, and invited him to explain
himself.

“I undertook, monsieur, to inform you of whatever fresh might happen
concerning the Vanves affair. I have come to keep my promise.”

“Has something taken place of a nature to throw light on the affair?”

“A great deal has happened.”

“What?”

“A fire, a murder, and a robbery!”

M. Mayeur’s face lit up.

“And where have these crimes been committed?”

“At Ars, in the Aube.”

The magistrate’s countenance darkened, as though the inner light which
had just illumined it had died away. He said—

“In the Aube? That is not within our jurisdiction, and does not concern
us.”

“I beg your pardon; it concerns us very much. For the people who have
committed these crimes have also the Vanves affair to their credit, and
it is for this affair, of which the other is only the consequence, that
they are wanted.”

“Then you know them?”

“I do.”

“And you know where to lay hands on them?”

“No. But I can tell you how to do so.”

“So the affair we were so unfortunately obliged to shelve a couple of
months ago is about to recommence? Perhaps this time we shall be able to
reach a satisfactory conclusion!”

“I maintain without the slightest hesitation that we shall succeed if you
will do your duty.”

“I?” exclaimed M. Mayeur, his face purple with agitation. “I! After all
the trouble I have had, and the humiliation I have endured.”

He felt that he was giving himself away. The passionate and ardent nature
of the man disappeared, and the calm, cold nature of the magistrate
resumed sway.

With a sigh, he said—

“Tell me everything in detail.”

Baudoin resumed one by one all the events that had taken place at Ars. He
depicted the character of Madame Vignola, and of Agostini, and finally
explained the dreaded intervention of Hans. Motionless, the magistrate
listened, taking short notes from time to time. The time sped swiftly
along, the sun as it sank tinged with a ruddy glow the waters of the
Seine, and the veil of darkness had fallen when the magistrate ceased
listening, and began to question.

“So this Cesare Agostini is in Paris?”

“M. Graff, M. Marcel’s uncle, has seen him, and M. Marcel has spoken to
him. It appears he is engaged to the daughter of M. Lichtenbach, the
banker.”

“Lichtenbach? A man in his position, with his fortune and relations? Is
it possible?”

“You will see. If you wish to know where Agostini lives, set a watch over
Lichtenbach. They are hand and glove with one another.”

“And the woman Vignola?”

“Agostini will take you to her abode. And when you have the Vignola, you
come to Hans, and the rest of the accomplices, if there are any. And I
believe there is a whole gang of them!”

“And what will M. Marcel Baradier do?”

“Do not trouble about him; he does not wish to appear in the matter. A
mere question of scruples!”

“But suppose some attempt is made against him? Does he not wish me to
take precautions to assure his safety?”

“No. He is strong enough to protect himself. Besides I am with him.”

“And so was Laforêt.”

“Yes, that is true; still, it is my master’s wish—do not do any more than
he asks you to undertake. I think you will be well pleased with the
result. That has cost dear enough! But if we can obtain vengeance for the
murder of my General and poor Laforêt we shall be quits!”

“Very well,” said the magistrate. “If I need you, M. Baudoin, where can I
find you?”

“I am living with my master, M. Baradier.”

“Good. Now that you have been working so well, it is my turn. This gang
will find that they have not been mocking at justice with impunity.”

“Ah! This has been going on a considerable time, from what I understand
at the War Office.”

“I shall put myself into relations with that Office; we will act in
co-operation. Keep your courage up, and have good hopes, M. Baudoin; the
affair is about to start afresh.”

Baudoin, conducted to the door by the magistrate, went out into the
passage, shook hands with the attendant, and left the building. Returning
straight to the Rue de Provènce, he mounted to Marcel’s rooms.

This evening he was seated in a small salon examining with minute care
the plan for a machine at which he was working. On seeing Baudoin enter
he placed the diagram on the table, looked at his visitor, and said—

“You have just left?”

“Yes, M. Marcel.”

“You have seen the Minister?”

“Yes. At the very first words I uttered he was all attention. He wishes
to see you, and affirms that the lady in question is a spy of the most
dangerous category, who has had the police on her tracks for the past six
years. That woman must have a number of crimes on her conscience.”

“That is not what I asked you,” said Marcel. “Are they going to take
measures to keep a watch on Agostini and his companions? If so—”

“The Minister told me that was the business of the Detective Department,
and advised me to see Mr. Mayeur. I have just left him. Ah! he will not
allow the affair to lag.”

“Good!”

The tinkling of a bell in the yard interrupted the conversation. It was
the signal for dinner, which, from time immemorial, had thus been
announced every evening, as is the custom in the provinces. Marcel took
off his coat, and replaced it by another, after which he made his way to
the salon. On entering, his father, Uncle Graff, the two young ladies,
and Madame Baradier, were already waiting before passing into the
dining-room. More comfort than luxury was evident everywhere; not the
slightest sign of ostentation was manifest. Usually, dinner was the time
when all the company related the events of the day. This evening one
would have thought that nobody wished to speak. All the same, Graff, when
the joint was brought on the table, risked the remark—

“The Bourse has been firmer to-day.”

“No great improvement!” growled Baradier.

A deeper silence than before followed. But Uncle Graff had the patience
of a Lorraine, and he continued after a while—

“I have received a letter from Cardez, in which he says they have reached
the second floor of the new building. The Assurance Company has paid the
claim. After all, everything has turned out for the best.”

“Are the workmen quiet now?” asked Madame Baradier.

“Poor creatures! They were sorry for what they had done. But they were
not responsible. It was the leaders of the strike! The deuce take them!”

“Have they fixed upon a larger building-site for a new steam-engine?”
asked Baradier, who forgot his bad temper as soon as business was on the
tapis.

“Father,” interrupted Marcel, “I should advise you to postpone this plan
of yours. Something might happen which would cause the system of power
employed in the works to be radically changed. Better wait a little.”

“Mere idle fancies and whims! Some wild impracticable invention, I
suppose.”

“No,” replied the young man, with warmth. “No idle fancy at all! My dear
Geneviève, it would cover your father’s name with glory, for it was he
who had the idea of this invention first, and, indeed, if it is
realizable, as I believe will be found to be the case, it will bear his
name.”

“Then this is something at which you have been working the last month?”
asked Baradier, inquisitively.

“The last two years, father. It is on this application of the regulated
explosive power of the Trémont powder—you understand, regulated, that is
the point—that I have been working with the General. We were on the point
of success when he disappeared. But I was in possession of all the plans,
sketches, and calculations we made together, and I have continued the
work all alone.”

“And you think you have succeeded?”

“I do.”

“And what result will you attain with your machine?”

“A substitute for coal, petroleum, and even electricity, in the
production of force. That is to say, the suppression of magazines in war
vessels, permitting them to increase to an indefinite extent their sphere
of action. There would be no necessity for locomotives to be supplied
with a tender, and in all industries coal need only be used for
metallurgic and heating purposes.”

“Oh, oh!” said Baradier. “And what will you put in the place of coal,
petroleum, and electricity?”

“That, my dear father, is what I will tell you the day the patents have
been taken all over the world.”

“When will you take them?”

“To-morrow, if you will advance me the forty thousand francs necessary.”

“I will give you them,” exclaimed Uncle Graff, with warmth. “I have
confidence in you.”

“Who says I am not ready to advance the sum myself?” resumed Baradier. “I
would do it merely to honour the memory of Trémont.”

“Very good, father; I warrant you have never advanced money at better
interest,” said Marcel, joyfully. “It is a discovery calculated to
completely change the methods of commerce, and yet it is the simplest
thing in the world!”

“Like all good inventions!”

Baradier remained silent for a moment, and then said—

“But the invention of this machine is connected with the discovery of the
Trémont powders?”

“Yes, father.”

“And the powders have been stolen?”

A sad smile passed over Marcel’s lips.

“Yes, father, the powders have been stolen. The war powder, for instance,
and it is very unfortunate. For the General intended to present France
with this marvellous product, which would have assured for our army a
supremacy of several years over the other Powers of Europe. Then you know
what would have happened; foreigners would have set to work, and either
discovered or bought our secret, and equilibrium again have been
restored. There will be no superiority for any one, since the formula of
the Trémont war-powder will be given by me to-morrow to the War Office.
That will establish equality. And if there is war, valour and
intelligence will have to undertake the victory. As for the business
powder, that is another matter. They may have stolen the formula, even
manufactured it themselves, but I defy them to find the means of using it
for its destined purpose.”

“There is a secret about it?”

“Yes, which I discovered quite by chance when working with the General.
That is the peculiarity of this powder, which, under ordinary conditions,
is destructive enough, being ignited by simple friction—in a word, very
dangerous to use; but which, employed according to our method, is under
perfect control, and regulates its dynamic effects, even to the movement
of a pendulum, according to my pleasure.”

All present were listening attentively, thinking of the importance of
this discovery, and the wretched fate of its initiator. M. Baradier said—

“To-morrow you shall have your money. If the affair is worth merely the
hundredth part of what you claim, Geneviève will be rich and Trémont
world-famed.”

“As for the Explosives Company,” added Graff, “it is in a bad way.
Lichtenbach is likely to have met his match at last!”



CHAPTER III


IT was five months since Marcel had solemnly promised his father to break
with his giddy companions, give up his fast life, and no longer set foot
in the club, but, instead of all this, to work and obliterate the acts of
folly he had previously committed. Scrupulously keeping his word, he
withdrew to Ars, and only seldom appeared in Paris. So well had he worked
that the result of his efforts were manifest. The Minister, after the
conversation he had had with Marcel, had expressed himself to Baradier,
concerning the young savant, in such terms that the father was quite
disarmed. All these deprivations of rights, which he had patiently
submitted to, were now removed, and, not without considerable
satisfaction, this fine young fellow of twenty-six years of age had
resumed his former habits.

The first time he appeared at the club he had been welcomed with open
arms by his companions, young and old alike.

“What has become of you; we have seen nothing of you for several months!
Probably you have been travelling?”

Marcel replied that he had indeed been away from Paris, but added that he
had been thinking seriously concerning gambling, and had determined to
give up baccarat.

“How often have I heard you talk in that way,” said the Baron de Vergins.
“All the same, you could not resist the temptation to play if you were in
front of the baccarat-table a single quarter of an hour!”

“Come along, then, and you will see.”

They passed into the large room. Beneath the ceiling floated a grey mist
of tobacco smoke, like a fog.

On either side of the room was a green table, around which thronged a
crowd of sour-visaged punters.

“Ah! You have two baccarat-tables now,” remarked Marcel.

“Yes; it is an innovation. At the one the minimum stake is a louis; at
the other, it is ten francs. So that, when a punter has had a run of
ill-luck at the large table, he goes to the small one to try and recoup,
with the privilege of returning afterwards to the other, to lose once
more what he may have won.”

“Very ingenious. A double sieve from which nothing escapes!”

He approached the large table, and his look immediately became fixed. In
front of him, dealing the bank, he had just recognized Agostini.
Impassive and smiling, a flower at his buttonhole, he gracefully
distributed the cards at both tables. He did not see Marcel. With his
sing-song voice he called out—

“Cards!”

Marcel, addressing the Baron de Vergins, asked—

“Who is the banker?”

“Count Cesare Agostini.”

“Newly joined the club?”

“For a time. Agreeable fellow, good fencer, and reckless player.”

“Is he lucky?”

“Ah, no. He has very bad luck. Loses more than any one else, in fact.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“He was introduced by the Prince de Cystriano and M. Beltrand. The
Agostini family is well known; they are the younger branch of the great
Italian family, the dukes of Briviesca.”

“Why do they receive so many foreigners at the club?” asked Marcel, with
a displeased air.

“Ah, my dear friend, the club lives on them, so to speak. I know they
make themselves as much at home here as at their hotel. It is not very
pleasant for us. But what is there to be done? The establishment must be
kept going.”

“Has he any relations in Paris?” asked Marcel. “A sister?”

“No; he is unmarried, and has never been seen in the company of a lady.”

Marcel changed the conversation, made an excuse for leaving his
companion, and went to the writing-room. Taking up a directory, he found
a recent indication, handwritten as follows: “Count Cesare Agostini, 7
Rue du Colisée.” It was something to know this address, though what he
wanted was information respecting that mysterious woman, Anetta or
Sophia, Madame Vignola or the Baroness Grodsko. What was Agostini to him
besides that infinitely charming creature, who had suddenly become
metamorphosed into a most dangerous monster. Her brother, really? Her
accomplice, without the slightest doubt. That was what he wished to know,
and, at the risk of the greatest danger, he was determined to have his
doubts removed.

He had taken a seat in a large armchair, the back of which, turned
towards the door, almost entirely concealed him. Two members of the club
were writing letters. The quiet of this retired spot, the ticking of the
timepiece, seemed to numb his faculties. The murmur of distant voices
lulled him into a reverie.

Suddenly a quiver ran over him, and he listened attentively. The voice of
Agostini had just joined in the conversation.

“I have again lost two thousand louis. With the thousand yesterday, it is
quite enough.”

He laughed, and one of his companions said—

“You ought to hold off for a few days, Agostini! It is useless being
obstinate against ill-luck.”

“But if I did not play, what should I do? It is my only distraction.”

“That was a beautiful lady, at the opera, to whom you introduced Colonel
Derbaut the other night.”

Marcel’s heart seemed to stop beating. He had a presentiment that the
woman in question was the one who was engaging his own attention so
strongly. He could not hear Agostini’s reply, and the other continued—

“If she is no more than a compatriot of yours, I should be pleased to
make her acquaintance.”

Agostini laughed, but made no promise. And Marcel said to himself: “His
compatriot? An Italian? It is Anetta, I am sure of it. What is she doing
here with this villain? The army once more in danger, for she has made
the acquaintance of Colonel Derbaut, a staff-officer.” Meanwhile, he had
lost the thread of the conversation, but a second sentence told him all
that was necessary—

“Very good! To-night, at the opera?”

“Agreed!”

Silence was restored. The members of the club continued their
correspondence. Marcel rose from his seat, sure that he was about to meet
the pretended sister of Agostini. She was not in Italy, as the adventurer
had had the audacity to tell him at the charity sale. She was in Paris
and, without thinking of the past, engaged on some fresh intrigue. Along
whatever path she travelled she sowed corruption, infamy, and death.

Suddenly in Marcel’s memory arose the smiling, tender image of Madame
Vignola with that bewitching smile, and those clear, limpid eyes. Was it
possible that such a creature should be a monster? If so, then one
greatly to be dreaded!

How can one help trusting in that exquisite gentleness which pervaded her
whole person? And yet, had she not betrayed him? Had she not revealed the
presence of the secret documents in the laboratory? And that, too, with
marvellous rapidity, and a skill scarcely compatible with honesty. He
would have liked to free her from every suspicion which hung over her;
but was it possible?

Leaving the club, he returned to the bank, and, entering his father’s
study, found his uncle Graff, attentively reading an evening paper. The
old man arose on seeing his nephew enter, and, holding the printed sheet
out to him, said—

“See here, Marcel, here is an article on this affair of ours. It is a
report of a meeting of the Academy of Science, where Professor Marigot
read his notice on the Trémont powder.”

Marcel carelessly took the journal. Without even glancing at it, he laid
it on the desk.

“Is that all the interest you take in the matter?” exclaimed the uncle.
“You are not inquisitive about the effect produced by Marigot’s official
communication? Very well, I will tell you what he says. The _Globe_ has
given up a whole column to the discovery, which it states is an important
one, and it predicts, within a short date, a revolution in the use of
motive power. On the other hand, the _Panache Blanc_, Lichtenbach’s
journal, is dead against the invention, which it qualifies as a
shamefaced imitation, insinuating that it is simply the Dalgetty process,
without the slightest change in the doses of the products.”

“What a brazen falsehood!” Marcel exclaimed, unable to restrain himself.

“Here is something better. At the Bourse a rumour has got abroad that the
Explosives Company is in possession of the Trémont patents, and the
shares have begun to mount, in spite of the desperate efforts of the
bears. Accordingly, our situation is saved, and, on the other hand, that
of Lichtenbach seems to be in a terrible pass!”

“You do not expect me to get excited over that?”

“I do not, indeed. But your father, who for the past three months has
hardly been able to sleep, is now happy and smiling. He has just gone to
Aubervilliers to examine a plot of land, covering seven acres, which has
been offered to us, and which would be the very spot for constructing the
works necessary. He is especially pleased at owing this result to you.
Though not very expansive, he is enthusiastic and warm-hearted, and
exceedingly proud to be obliged to confess that you are so gifted. Up to
the present, it is Trémont that has been mentioned, but, when it is known
that it is you who brought the affair to its completion, and your name is
in everybody’s mouth, as soon will be the case, then you will see your
father expand.”

Marcel made no reply. He walked to and fro in the study, with so
absent-minded an air that Graff exclaimed—

“What a strange fellow you are! And yet you must be well pleased with
what I have been telling you. Though you will scarcely listen to me. What
is the matter with you?”

The young man shook his head, and, with an attempt at a smile, said—

“There is nothing the matter with me, Uncle Graff. What do you expect me
to say?”

“Ah! Perhaps you have no suspicion of the plans Baradier has been forming
for you. He explained them to me this very morning. We are going to put
Marcel at the head of the works as director. At the same time he shall be
one of the managing directors of the Explosives Company we are about to
completely reorganize. You see, Marcel, you are about to play a very
important _rôle_ in life at twenty-six years of age. And your father
added, ‘If he will marry, I shall no longer have anything to wish for. He
will have satisfied me in everything.’ What do you think of the idea? I
believe he was thinking of Geneviève de Trémont. What will your reply
be?”

Marcel replied quietly—

“Nothing whatever, Uncle Graff.”

The old man touched Marcel on the shoulder, and, looking attentively at
him, said—

“I do not understand you, Marcel; there is something you are hiding from
me. Have you seen the woman of Ars again?”

This time, the young man broke out—

“No, I have not seen her; but I know she is in Paris. I know where I
shall see her this evening. Uncle Graff, I intend to have the key to this
living enigma.”

“Ah! My child, there is no enigma; she is simply a villain, nothing more!
How anxious you make me in still troubling yourself with this woman! Take
care! You know how dangerous she and her companions are. Remember the
poor General, and this brave fellow killed at Ars. Just inform the
police, she will be arrested, and all will be over.”

“If I were certain she were as guilty as you suspect her to be, I would
do so. Though it is not very gallant to give up a woman.”

“What! Chivalry with such people?”

“But I have my doubts, Uncle Graff. I cannot make up my mind to condemn
her unheard.”

“Yes! In a word, you wish to see her again. Don’t tell me any idle
stories; I am not so stupid as to be taken in by them. She still holds
you in her power. And you are about to risk being murdered, in some dark
corner or other, for the pleasure of being deceived once more by such a
traitress.”

“Uncle Graff, no one will kill me at the opera. It is there I rely on
seeing her to-night.”

“Are you in earnest?”

“Have you disposed of your orchestra stall?”

“No.”

“Very well, give it to me.”

“Promise me you will do nothing extravagant, and that if this woman wants
you to accompany her, you will not do so.”

“No; I cannot promise that. But I will be on my guard all the same.
Agostini shall not knock me over like a pigeon.”

“Take a good revolver with you.”

“Certainly.”

“Ah! _Mon Dieu_! And I was feeling so happy!” groaned the old man.
“Suppose you take Baudoin with you?”

“Under no pretext. Be assured, however, I am running no risk this time.
Later on, we shall see.”

The arrival of Baradier cut the conversation short. Marcel returned home
to dress before dinner.

That evening the _Walkyrie_ was being given at the opera. When Marcel
reached his stall, the second act was commencing. The domestic troubles
of Wotan, the Scandinavian Jupiter, with Fricka, a real Juno without her
peacock, possessed only a slight interest for the young man. Turning
round, he leaned his elbow on the back of his stall, and looked about
him. Slowly, the boxes began to fill, as though the subscribers had only
decided to come at all because they had paid dearly for the privilege. Up
above in the amphitheatre was a sea of eager faces turned on to the
stage. There was the real amateur and artistic public.

But Marcel was not looking for critical observations as to the musical
capacity of the different auditors of a masterly piece, rather for the
face of a woman. Nowhere could he catch a glimpse of the beautiful
profile of Madame Vignola. Two side boxes on the right of the actors
still remained unoccupied. And Marcel, again turning towards the stage,
kept a watch on them.

Towards the end of the act the sound of an opening door drew his
attention. He saw a light appear in one of the side boxes, then a vague
uncertain form appeared in its velvet frame. The door closed again, the
background again darkened, and a woman, clothed in white, _décolleté_,
and wearing a necklace of beautiful pearls, came to the front of the box.
As her face was turned away from Marcel he could not distinguish her
features. Still, what relation could there be between this vigorous
brunette and the blonde and languishing Anetta? Strength, where he had
found grace. No. This could not be the one.

As the curtain fell amidst a tempest of cheers, and the artists
reappeared on the stage to bow their acknowledgments, the lady turned
round, in such a way as to face Marcel, who, stupefied, recognized the
look of the one he loved. He might have been mistaken in everything else,
but not in the languishing look which formed so delightful a contrast
with that mocking smile and imperious brow. He examined her attentively,
without her being aware that she was observed. But what grief he felt at
being obliged to recognize her in such a disguise!

Was not the very fact of this metamorphosis, the most complete of
confessionals? Why, if not to disarm curiosity, these changes, in
head-dress, in the colour of the hair, and the expression of the face?
What was this comedy she was playing, and when? Was it at Ars that she
was painted and disguised, or at the opera?

Marcel arose. All around him were leaving their seats. Madame Vignola was
no longer in front of the box. Marcel counted the number of boxes. This
one was the fourth after the passage. Standing behind a column, he kept
watch.

This self-imposed waiting seemed interminable to him. The passers-by
irritated him, he replied to a few bows, but avoided shaking hands with
any one. Finally, the door of the box opened, and Agostini and an elderly
man, wearing the rosette of the Legion d’Honneur, appeared. The count and
his companion made their way towards the grand staircase, before Marcel,
who had his back turned to them, and disappeared. Then the young man
opened the door of the box, and entered.

The spectator was seated on the sofa. Marcel closed the door, and walked
up to her. Turning her head, she looked at the intruder, and said,
without the faintest agitation—

“You are in the wrong box, sir.”

He replied ironically—

“No, madame, there is no mistake, if I am in the presence of Madame
Vignola, unless you are the Baroness Grodsko.”

At these words, the young woman’s face appeared frightfully agitated. Her
eyes turned pale, and her lips trembled.

“Whose name is that you have uttered?” she murmured, in unsteady accents.

“Evidently one of your own! So far as I can judge, you change names,
according to circumstances, just as you change faces, according to the
men you associate with.”

“I do not understand what you mean. Once more I say, you are mistaken,
retire.”

“No! I shall wait here till Count Agostini returns. We will have an
explanation in his presence. He, at any rate, will not be able to deny
his identity. And that will help to establish yours.”

Rising from her seat, and no longer taking the trouble to deny, she said—

“And he will kill you! Wretched man, leave here at once, without a
moment’s delay. You do not know what dangers you are running!”

“I know them quite well. General Trémont is dead, Laforêt, the police
agent, is dead, and so, doubtless, are many others who have resisted your
fancies or intrigues. And if I, too, do not yield, you will try to
compass my death also. But, before that happens, I will know who and what
you are.”

The woman’s countenance darkened. Raising her beautiful arm, she said in
tragic tones—

“Do not attempt it! You will never succeed!”

“Still, I have made a beginning,” he said madly. “Spy—thief—actress; yes,
actress even in love!”

She did not appear to have heard the other insults he hurled at her, but
from this last one, she recoiled. Blushing, she seized Marcel by the arm,
and fixed on him a pair of eyes which seemed to flame with passion.

“No! I have not lied! Don’t believe that of me! Do not accuse me of
having been false in love. I did love you! Can you think otherwise?
Accuse me of whatever you wish, it matters little to me! We shall never
see one another again, you hear!—never see one another again in this
world. Therefore, believe what I now swear to you: I loved you; I still
love you! I have never loved any one as I have loved you, and that is why
I shall never see you again. Do not attempt to understand or to fathom my
secrets; they would cause your death. Content yourself with what you know
of me, and with the fact that you have not paid for it with your life.
Become blind when I pass by your side; deaf, whenever my name is
mentioned. Do not enter the darkness in which I am shrouded. Oh! Marcel,
my loved one, go away, do not suspect me of having lied to you. Clasped
in your arms, your lips pressed against mine, I told the truth, I—”

She stopped. Tears shone in her eyes, and her beautiful arms are flung
around Marcel’s neck. He felt himself pressed to her throbbing bosom, the
fire of her eyes blinded him, and he shuddered at the contact of that
ardent mouth pressed to his own in a delirium of delight. Amid her sighs,
he heard the word “Adieu!” and found himself near the door. There, her
embrace relaxed, and he stood dazed and maddened in the passage, amidst
the spectators who were returning to their seats. Taking up his coat, and
staggering along like a man intoxicated, he obeyed his mysterious love,
and left the theatre.

He no longer doubted. That cry, “I love you still!” was sincere. She was
not lying when she confessed her love. Besides, why had she driven him
away from her, if not inspired by the passionate fright of the woman who
trembles lest her loved one meet his death. Then it was some strange
will, superior to her own, which had compelled her to fascinate him, and
which was again controlling her in the performance of some dark,
mysterious deed or other! That he was, and must remain, ignorant of.

On reaching the Place de l’Opéra, he felt calmer. The open air did him
good. But the memory of those glorious eyes, and that quivering voice, as
she held him in her arms, came back to him with painful intensity. Ah!
What a woman!

But she was a monster of corruption and depravity. He had told her so
without the slightest protest. She was, beyond doubt, an accomplice in
several murders; perhaps even that white and delicate hand of hers had
itself been stained in blood! She was the secret agent of threatening
hostility and venal treason. Her beauty, grace, and intelligence were so
many attractions which served to captivate her dupes. Her love was only a
means to an end.

A feeling of revolt came over him. He said to himself, “Really, I am too
much of a coward. The attraction this woman exercises over me is taking
away my moral faculty! At the very moment she appears in such a
despicable light before me, I yet love her. And yet, I scarcely know her.
She loved me; that is the reason she left me, unwilling as she was to
ruin me!” He laughed in a nervous fashion, and thought, “Very soon, I
shall be obliged to feel grateful towards her! And yet she is an infamous
wretch. Yes; but how beautiful!”

A prey to these contradictory thoughts, he reached the Rue de Provènce,
and immediately retired to rest. The following morning, when he awoke, he
was astonished to find his uncle Graff at his bedside. It was eight
o’clock. He had had a dreamless sleep. The old man, feeling uneasy, had
been turning over and over in his bed, and, at daybreak, had not been
able to resist the desire of making sure that nothing had happened to
Marcel. For some time he had been watching his nephew sleep, and now he
wished to question him, but, finding him silent, or evasive in his
answers, he abandoned all hope of learning anything just then, and called
on Baradier for a cup of coffee. He had left his room, fasting, and was
dying of hunger.

The same morning, in Lichtenbach’s study, about ten o’clock, Agostini and
Hans were engaged in a _tête-à-tête_ with the banker. Count Cesare was
sitting in dreamy attitude, smoking a cigarette. Hans, impassive, was
listening to Elias, who was speaking in even a duller voice than usual.

“The situation is certainly serious for you,” he was saying, “but for me
it is becoming very grave. Relying on your information, I undertook a
bear campaign, which was to place the Explosives Company in my hands, by
permitting of my redeeming the shares for a mere trifle. It happens that
my closest rivals, and deadly enemies, the firm of Baradier and Graff,
have undertaken the counter-part of my operations, and all my efforts to
shake them off have been unavailing. Then, I did not understand the
causes of their firmness, but now I do. The notice read at the Academy of
Science gives me the key to their calculations. They are in possession of
the secret you have failed to find. They are in a position to exploit the
Trémont powder, and the Dalgetty patent is worth nothing! This is the net
result of all your intrigues. You have indeed something to be proud of!”

“What will all this cost you?” asked Agostini, coldly.

“How much will it cost me?” exclaimed the banker, furiously. “Almost all
I possess! You seem to look at things in a very philosophical light! It
is easy to say to a man one has ruined, ‘How much has it cost you?’ Can I
rely on my physical attractions? To have money I must work, and it has
been so with me for the past forty years!”

“Come, Lichtenbach,” said Hans, “don’t cry about it. We are aware that
you will lose considerably, in case the affair does not succeed. But
there will be something left. I will offer you ten million francs for
whatever remains, if you like!”

“Stupid rogues as you are!” exclaimed Elias. “You are speaking of what
you know nothing about! This filthy affair of yours, managed by such
silly dolts, has cost me the labour of half my life, and even more—my
pride! For I, who have always had the upper hand of Baradier and Graff,
am now at their mercy. Your famous Sophia has, indeed, been brilliant in
this matter! A man-eater who has never failed. A flower of rottenness,
one need only breathe to be intoxicated, such corrupting ferments does
she exhale! A simple young man is given into her hands; a mere
child’s-play for her, and here she remains, inactive and powerless,
either unable or unwilling to make him give up his secret. Meanwhile, I
have been losing all my money. You idiots! You stupid rascals! Will you
give me back my money? I know of nothing in the world more despicable
than an imbecile bandit! And that is what you are, both of you, and your
Sophia into the bargain!”

Hans’ countenance remained unchanged. Agostini, with sombre look, flung
away his cigarette, and said—

“There is some truth in what you say, Lichtenbach, so I will overlook
your insolent words. But for that, I would have made you pay dearly for
what you have just said.”

“Not another word!” growled Lichtenbach. “I defy you!”

“You will be foolish to do so,” continued the Italian. “A Count Cesare
Agostini will not receive a gratuitous insult from a Lichtenbach.”

“Gratuitous? Indeed!”

“Come! Peace!” said Hans, in tones of authority. “We are not here to
exchange compliments with one another, but to find some solution to the
difficulty. It is true the Baroness has failed. We know the reason now,
when it is too late. She has been stupid enough to fall in love with this
young man, and has only half accomplished her mission. When she led him
on to talk confidentially to her, she was afraid that he would despise
her later on. To sum up, the _coup_ failed. The young man is now on his
guard; he will say nothing more, unless I undertake, as a last resource,
to question him. For the present, however, the situation is as follows:
We possess an excellent patent, similar, as regards the composition of
the powder, to the one taken under the name of Trémont. But we are in
ignorance of the trick of working it. Our powder is a brutal explosive.
The Trémont powder is graduated in action. There is the real value of the
discovery. Under these conditions, Dalgetty could establish a claim, and
accuse of counterfeit the exploiters of the Trémont patent, which was
taken out after ours. The result—scandal, trial, blackmailing. This is
the line we must follow, and it may serve as a means for a settlement.”

“In what way?” asked Lichtenbach, interested.

“By sending a trusty ambassador to Baradier and Graff to offer them terms
of peace.”

“They will not accept!”

“How do you know? It all depends on the manner in which the proposal is
made; you may have to concede to them both material and moral advantages,
in order to reach a fusion of the two affairs.”

“That would mean safety, and even triumph!” exclaimed Lichtenbach. “Just
let me get them into my power, and they shall not escape so easily!”

“Then I will rely upon you! Ah! You sly rogue, you have come back to life
again.”

“The fact is, the idea of being their dupe was killing me! The whole of
my life would have been spent in vain! Ever since I have been in Paris, I
have only had one desire—to injure them! Give up this joy! I could not!
Whom shall I send them?”

“A priest,” insinuated Agostini.

“The Abbé d’Escayrac, if he would do me this service! Fine idea! He well
knows how to lull one’s conscience by moulding a man’s intelligence to
his will. But what can we offer Baradier and Graff?”

“Anything you imagine they might decently accept. What will it cost you?
Have you not a daughter? She has been carefully brought up, and is of an
amiable disposition, so I am told.”

“Well!”

“Offer her to young Baradier, with an enormous dowry. If Sophia were only
willing, she would arrange the matter well enough!”

This time, Agostini manifested symptoms of violent discontent. He brought
his hand down forcibly on the table, and, looking at the others with
murderous eyes, said—

“And what is to become of me in this combination? Are you forgetting that
Mademoiselle Lichtenbach is my affianced wife?”

“The engagement can easily be broken,” replied Hans, coldly.

“Do you intend to jest with me?”

“I never jest with any one to no purpose.”

“Then you are seriously thinking of overthrowing all my plans?”

“What use will your plans be to you, if Lichtenbach is ruined? Besides,
you silly fellow, do you think Elias is a man likely to trouble himself
with you, if you are no longer of any use to him? Already you have gone
down several notches in his esteem. If an arrangement has to be made with
you, we will offer you money. I know where to find it.”

The handsome Italian laid his hand on his heart.

“And what compensation will be large enough to satisfy me?”

“Ah, ah!” jeered Hans. “We are well aware that your conscience is as
tender as it is delicate!”

Lichtenbach, who had remained silent, after hearing the suggestion
concerning his daughter, now said—

“A Baradier marry a Lichtenbach! Is it possible? Never would the Graffs
and Baradiers consent to such a thing! For my own part, I ought to
protest with all my might against such a proposal.”

He remained silent, as though absorbed in thought, and then said slowly—

“Still, my daughter is well worthy of entering such a family. They are
honest people, after all! And she is a charming and proud child. If only
they would consent! My daughter would be certain of a happy future. She
would have a peaceful and tranquil life. These Baradiers are honest and
respectable, after all! If they would receive my daughter as their own,
they would treat her well, and she would not be the prey of an
adventurer! True, I hate them, and wish to do them harm, for all the
humiliations they have inflicted on me. But if they would accept my
daughter!”

A tear shone on the cheek of this hardened man—a tear more precious than
a diamond, for it owed its source to a father’s love. Hans interrupted
the scene; he was not a man to understand such tender feelings.

“So you adopt my plan? You will make an attempt at conciliation with our
opponents. Offer them what you like, that is your own affair, and if we
succeed, we will unite the two patents. You alone carry on the
transaction, though, naturally, you reserve us our share. You see, this
young Count Cesare might turn out troublesome. Is it agreed upon?”

“Yes.”

Hans and Agostini took their leave. Elias walked to and fro about his
study, then he proceeded to his daughter’s room. Marianne was seated near
the window overlooking the garden, working. She rose on seeing her father
appear. Wearing a blue dressing-gown ornamented with quipure lace, her
fair hair tied up in bands, she had about her a kind of virgin
gentleness, which caused her father’s heart to swell with love and
tenderness. Sitting by her side, he drew her near to himself, and entered
into conversation.

“You have now been settled down here some considerable time. Are you
satisfied? Is everything progressing as you wish?”

“Yes, father, I should be very ungrateful if I were not satisfied. You
let me do whatever I want. But I hope you are well pleased yourself,
also.”

“Certainly, little one, and I wish us always to remain so. But, you know,
some day we shall be obliged to separate.”

Marianne looked serious; her smile vanished.

“A day in the distant future, father; there is no hurry.”

“You will marry. Would you not like to be married?”

“That will depend on the husband.”

A silence followed. The controller of men felt ill at ease before this
child, whose future he had disposed of by calculation. He did not dare
speak to her of Agostini, whom he had introduced to her, and praised in
her presence only the night before. It was Marianne who took it upon
herself to explain the precise situation of things.

“I am rather troubled, I confess, at the favour you accord this young
Italian count, and at the way in which you speak to me of him.”

“My dear child!” exclaimed Lichtenbach.

“No! Let me continue,” interrupted Marianne. “Afterwards you may praise
your candidate as much as you like. But allow me to speak to you quite
freely. Your _protegé’s_ conduct and habits make me uneasy. He does not
seem to me frank; he is too polite, and full of compliments. There is
something suspicious about this man who is always smiling and flattering.
Besides, his voice has no genuine ring about it. His cold, cruel looks
belie his handsome face and gentle words. Lastly, dear father, he is a
foreigner. Are there no more Frenchmen to marry in France that one should
be obliged to look for a _fiancé_ for one’s daughter on the other side of
the frontier? He is a count, but I have no ambition in that direction. He
does not work, and I should not care to marry any one without business of
any kind. Papa, if you wish to please me and consult my tastes, you will
choose another suitor. Your daughter is something to you—that you have
often given me to understand; you have, perhaps, insisted rather too much
on the fact, for I might have formed too good an opinion of myself.
Luckily, I am reasonable and modest in my demands. Do not marry me to an
idle man, who is also ambitious and wicked. If you want me to be free
from anxiety, send away this handsome Italian. He is not the man for me!”

Lichtenbach smiled good-humouredly and said—“Then who is?”

Marianne blushed, but made no reply.

“Ah, ah!” continued Lichtenbach. “So there is a secret, is there? Better
tell your father all about it, little one. Have you met some one you
like, my dear? Tell me everything; don’t be afraid. You know very well I
will do nothing opposed to your wishes. If you do not like Agostini, why
did you not tell me so sooner? Come, now, tell me all!”

With downcast head she said—

“No, no! It is useless. I have only one wish—to stay by your side just as
I am. I shall be very happy.”

“You are not telling me the truth,” exclaimed Lichtenbach, excitedly.
“You must tell me what you mean. Do you imagine there are difficulties in
the way? Yes? Of what kind? Is it some one I know?”

“Let us say nothing more on the subject, father,” said Marianne. “I was
wrong in introducing the subject. It can be nothing but a painful one for
both yourself and myself. You had given me warning. But it was too late.
The subject shall never be brought up again between us; that I promise
you.”

“You could not speak to me otherwise if it were my greatest enemy. Is it
so?”

He did not utter the name of Baradier, but Marianne read it upon his
lips. She raised her eyes up to her father’s face, as though to ask
pardon from him for what he must consider a kind of treason. She did not,
however, find in his countenance that angry and threatening expression
she dreaded to see there. He was passive and calm, and sat there for a
moment without uttering a word. Then, in accents of great deliberation,
he asked—

“We are thinking of Marcel Baradier, are we not? Yes, it must be he. I
was wrong to let you visit Geneviève de Trémont. That was very imprudent
on my part. However, it cannot be helped now. We must try to arrange
matters.”

“Arrange matters!” stammered Marianne.

“Yes, my dear child. We must make an attempt. I would do anything to make
you happy.”

“Forget your bitter feelings of the past?”

“I will try to make the Baradiers forget theirs.”

“Oh, father, dear father!”

She flung her arms around his neck with such a burst of joy, that
Lichtenbach turned pale with shame. For the first time in his life, he
had a very clear impression of the significance of a cowardly action,
doubtless, because his victim in this case was his own daughter. At the
same time, he felt that the evil deeds of a whole lifetime accumulate,
and that, at some time or other, the interest must be paid, in
humiliation and suffering. He looked at Marianne tenderly, and said, in
accents of sincerity—

“Ah! is it so serious as that? Very well, my child, I will do everything
possible to make you happy.”

After kissing her, he returned to his room, ordered his carriage, and
drove away to call on the Abbé d’Escayrac.



CHAPTER IV


ABOUT five o’clock Madame Baradier had just returned, and was reading in
her small salon; her daughter, Amélie, and Geneviève de Trémont were
working at the table, chatting pleasantly the while, when the servant
entered, and said—

“There is a priest here, who wishes to speak to you, madame.”

Madame Baradier, lady patroness of several charitable institutions, was
continually receiving appeals to her generosity. She made no distinction
between the clergy and the laity, but received all with equal
benevolence. Accordingly, she ordered the visitor to be showed in. The
first glance she gave him showed her a fine, intelligent face, the
general aspect being rather that of a fashionable and carefully dressed
priest. The first words he uttered confirmed this judgment—

“Madame,” said the visitor, “I am the Abbé d’Escayrac, secretary of the
Issy establishment, which is under the lofty patronage of the Bishop of
Andropolis.”

“Superior of the Absolutionists, unless I am mistaken.”

“You are not mistaken, madame.”

“What can I do for your work, Monsieur l’Abbé?”

“You can do much, madame. But, first of all,”—here the Abbé lowered his
voice—“I have information of special importance to communicate to you,
and it might be better, if you have no objection, if we were alone.”

“As you please, Monsieur l’Abbé.”

The two girls had been well brought up. On a look from Madame Baradier,
they arose, bowed, and left the room.

“You may now speak freely, Monsieur l’Abbé.”

“I am well aware, madame, how you are animated by a sincere Christian
fervour,” continued the priest, “and it is on the certainty that all
apostolic work must receive your cordial assistance that my mission is
based. As you know, we are devoted heart and soul to the service of the
poor. Poverty and misery, nay, even vice itself, have an exclusive claim
on our interest and attention. To us a criminal is a brother we try to
restore to the path of virtue, just as we use our best efforts to save a
sick man. In this way a vast amount of misfortune and crime is revealed
to us. We are the confidents of the most painful of physical vices, the
most lamentable of moral back-slidings. We offer help to all, without
exception, and often serve as intermediaries between those who have the
power to punish and those who wish to be spared. We are never deaf to
repentance, and try to turn it to the advantage of our holy religion.”

He spoke with grave earnestness, and an insinuating voice, turning on one
side the obstacles in the way, preparing his ground, and gradually
attempting to win over to his side the intelligence of the wife, so as to
make of her an ally against the husband. Madame Baradier, astonished at
this lengthy introduction, was beginning to wonder what was the meaning
of it all, so she asked—

“Is it pecuniary help you want, Monsieur l’Abbé? If so, you will find us
very sympathetically disposed towards your work.”

“We shall be very grateful, madame, for whatever you may do for us, but
money is not at present the object of my visit. Recently, we have founded
in the Var an important establishment, where we propose, in imitation of
other powerful religious orders, to open a business establishment. To
facilitate our efforts, we have received very important assistance. We
are full of gratitude towards those who have helped us, and, the
opportunity of doing them a service now offering itself, I, your humble
servant, have been appointed to bring to you a message of conciliation
from a man who, for many years, has been in a state of hostility with
your family, but who now wishes to end his life in concord and peace.”

Madame Baradier, for the last few minutes, had been manifesting serious
symptoms of uneasiness. She saw that the interview was assuming a form
which did not please her; accordingly, she cut short the speech of the
amiable Abbé, and said—

“Will you kindly tell me what you wish, Monsieur l’Abbé? The man’s name
will, I believe, explain the affair far better.”

The young priest smiled; and, with the suppliant look of a martyr, he
said—

“I am a minister of charity and pardon, madame. The man’s name is M.
Lichtenbach.”

“I suspected it.”

“Am I to imagine that his personality will render all understanding
impossible, even in the interests of religion?”

“It is not my place to form such a resolution, Monsieur l’Abbé. I cannot
forget that there are in this house two men who are alone entitled to
reply: my husband and my brother. Permit me to call them.”

“I am at your disposal, madame.”

“No. Monsieur l’Abbé, do not speak so. Whatever happens, be sure that we
all rightly appreciate the mission of conciliation you have accepted. We
shall not confound the mission with its agent.”

Bowing to the priest, she left the room. The Abbé remained motionless in
his armchair, buried in thought. He was fulfilling a mission useful to
his order in a double sense. No preoccupation foreign to his religious
duties troubled him. He rightly appreciated Elias, but the evangelical
spirit would not allow him to neglect the salvation of even the most
despicable of men. Had not Christ permitted the kiss of Judas? Did not
the Holy Father lave the feet of the filthiest of beggars? Besides, the
interests of the Church inspired him. The door opened, and Graff
appeared. Coming up to the young Abbé, he bowed—

“My sister, Madame Baradier, has just informed me of your presence,
Monsieur l’Abbé. My brother-in-law, Barassin, is busy in the office, and
begs to be excused. Besides, I have full permission to act as I think
best. Will you explain?”

“Has not Madame Baradier told you?”

“In a few hasty words. You are sent by Lichtenbach? Good! That does not
astonish us in the least. So long as he was the stronger, he did us all
the harm he could. Now that we have the upper hand, he is trying to stop
the game. Let us hear what he wants.”

M. d’Escayrac smiled.

“It is pleasant to talk to you, monsieur; one knows at once where one is
going.”

“Very well, Monsieur l’Abbé; since you know, proceed at once to facts.”

“By chance, your firm and that of Lichtenbach have met on the same ground
concerning the exploitation of a patent.”

“You call that chance? Good! Good! As for the ‘same ground,’ there is
some truth in that, since, in order to obtain the patent in question,
they have exploded a house, that of one of our friends; set fire to a
manufactory, our own; assassinated two men, and risked killing several
others. It is a ‘ground’ sprinkled with blood, Monsieur l’Abbé! But,
still, it is that abominable ‘same ground!’”

The priest crossed his hands with an expression of horror.

“Monsieur, I knew nothing of what you are now revealing to me. Were it
any one but yourself who were speaking, I should think he had taken leave
of his senses. It is impossible that the man, in whose name I am here,
should have committed the frightful acts you now reproach him with.”

“Let us understand one another,” replied Uncle Graff, eagerly. “I do not
accuse Lichtenbach of having shed blood. He is incapable of it for
several reasons, the best of which is that he would not dare to do such a
thing. But the patent of which you speak has been obtained by the means I
have just informed you of. Monsieur l’Abbé, you have been beguiled into a
disagreeable enterprise. Still, in us you have to deal with those who
have too much respect for religion for you to need to fear any
responsibility. You may explain yourself without any further beating
about the bush. Whatever may be said between us will not be repeated.
After all, this interview may have some useful result, who knows?”

“I have no doubt whatever of that,” said the Abbé, considerably troubled
all the same. “Oh, monsieur, how pleased I am to have to discuss the
interests entrusted to my charge with so benevolent a man as yourself!
God be praised! If possible, we will bring about a perfect understanding.
If only you knew what I myself dread! In very truth, M. Lichtenbach is
not so responsible for all that has happened as you suppose. He is not
his own master in this matter; he has to deal with powerful personages,
who will not lay down their arms, and who, I am afraid, will have
recourse to the most extreme measures to obtain the supremacy over you.”

“We have nothing to fear!”

“There are poisoned weapons which will kill even the most invulnerable.
Be on your guard, monsieur, against the plots to which your adversaries
at bay may have recourse. I speak to you in all sincerity. I was not
aware of the past, but I have been terrified at the glimpse into the
future that has been permitted me.”

“By whom? Lichtenbach?”

“Oh! He was terrified himself; and begged me to come and speak to you,
simply knowing me to be one whose character could offer him sufficient
guarantee for discretion. I can assure you that in him you no longer have
an enemy to deal with. Of that he is ready to give you whatever proof you
wish.”

“He is deceiving you, Monsieur l’Abbé. You have been his dupe, and know
him well. What does he want?”

“He proposes the complete fusion of the two enterprises by the
exploitation of the two patents. Though the Dalgetty is previous to the
Trémont patent, the two discoveries, being almost similar, shall be
considered as equal.”

“What is that?” exclaimed Uncle Graff. “Lichtenbach is, indeed, very
kind. One is genuine, the other counterfeit. The Trémont patent is the
result of work and intelligence; the Dalgetty patent is the result of
fraud and theft.”

“My dear sir,” exclaimed the Abbé, uneasily, “official declarations are a
guarantee of faith. One cannot go against facts. The Dalgetty was taken
out by an English company before the Trémont.”

“And how does that affect us? The Dalgetty has no value; those who have
sent you here are well aware of that fact. We have them in our power, I
tell you; they can do nothing. Their patent is not worth the money they
have spent in taking it out. For months past Lichtenbach and ourselves
have been adversaries over the Explosives Company. We hold the right end,
that he well knows. He will soon have to undertake a liquidation. And
then?”

“He offers to stop his bear operations.”

“He cannot continue them any longer.”

“He will take at half price the shares of the Explosives of which you are
the holders, and pay for them at once.”

“I dare say he will; they will rise at a leap to two hundred francs
each!”

“He is ready to offer you a pledge of his frank and, henceforth,
invariable co-operation. If, in your family, you had a person belonging
to his family, if an alliance united your common interests, would you not
consider that an absolute guarantee of his sincere cessation of enmity
against you?”

Graff turned pale, but succeeded in mastering his emotions, and, wishing
to know his opponent’s inmost thoughts, he said—

“Who is the person in question on Lichtenbach’s side?”

“Mademoiselle Marianne, his daughter.”

“And on ours?”

“Your nephew, M. Baradier.”

“So these two would be married, and Baradier, Graff, and Lichtenbach
would form one single family.”

“I do not know whether or not you are acquainted with Mademoiselle
Lichtenbach. She is a charming young lady, brought up under the loftiest
religious influences, and calculated to offer your nephew the most
serious guarantees of happiness possible. It would be a joy to us to have
contributed to the reconciliation of former enemies, separated by
quarrels, which might, doubtless, easily be forgotten in the midst of
general satisfaction. Concord and peace instead of enmity; no more fears
or threats. One common and complete prosperity! Come, my dear sir,
pronounce the words of redemption and hope, make an effort over your
pride, and give the world an example of gentleness and charity.”

Graff had silently listened to the priest’s earnest pleading. His bent
forehead and closed eyes gave the Abbé d’Escayrac to believe that his
words were having their due effect on the old man’s thoughts. There was a
moment’s silence. Then the uncle looked the Abbé straight in the face,
and, in firm tones, said—

“Monsieur l’Abbé, in the cemetery of Metz, there are Graffs who would
leap from their tombs if one of their descendants were to demean himself
so far as to marry the daughter of a Lichtenbach!”

“Monsieur!” exclaimed the Abbé in surprise.

“Then you do not know the Baradiers and Graffs, or you would not propose
to them an alliance with a Lichtenbach? Do you know who Lichtenbach is?
Between Lorraine and Paris, there is not a mile of ground which has not
been strewn with French blood, on account of this wretch. A spy, to lead
the enemy to victory; food-supplier to the foe; when our troops were
dying of hunger, he fattened on war, and enriched himself on treason. He
sold his brothers of France—the Jews, who fought in our ranks and died
like brave soldiers, double Judas as he was! And after receiving the
reward for his treason, he turned Christian, and set about defiling
another religion, by the disgusting intransigence of his apostate zeal!
There you have a picture of Lichtenbach, Monsieur l’Abbé. Must I now tell
you who Graff and Baradier are?”

“Oh, I know well, my dear sir! Your honour and patriotism are universally
respected. But what animosity and rancour! Is this what I shall have to
tell the one who sent me?”

“Tell him he is an impudent rascal for having charged such a man as
yourself with such a mission. Tell him our scorn for him is only equalled
by his hatred against us. Assure him we have not the slightest fear. If
he wishes to slander us, we will pay him back in the same coin; if he
dares to strike us, we will defend ourselves. In the latter case, let him
be careful!”

“Monsieur!” said the Abbé, in tones of entreaty. “Reflect? Anger is a bad
counsellor.”

“Monsieur l’Abbé, I am perfectly calm. You do not know me. I never give
way to passion. If I did, the result would be terrible. But a great deal
would be needed to bring about such a state of things!”

“Must I then leave you without obtaining any result? I am well aware that
you are exposed to the most terrible dangers.”

“I thank you for warning us. We shall be on our guard.”

“Is that your last word?”

“No, Monsieur l’Abbé. Never has a priest entered this house without
taking away, for himself and his work, a testimony of our respectful
deference and humble piety.”

Graff took from his pocket a cheque-book, wrote a few words, and, handing
the piece of paper to his visitor, said—

“For your poor parishioners, Monsieur l’Abbé.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the priest. “This is princely liberality. I will pray for
you, monsieur, with all my heart.”

“Thanks, Monsieur l’Abbé,” said Graff, with a smile. “But pray, above
all, for Lichtenbach.”

And, opening the door, he conducted the priest out.

That same evening, about nine o’clock, after dinner, Lichtenbach
descended from his brougham, close to the entrance of the Boulevard
Maillat. It was a brilliant night, and the groves in the Bois, under the
silvery light of the moon, raised their dark masses against the horizon.
The banker hurried along, not without some anxiety, for the spot was a
deserted one, and a likely haunt of undesirable characters. After walking
about a hundred yards, he halted in front of the ivy-covered gate of a
villa, and knocked. A few seconds passed, then a small door turned on its
hinges, and a woman appeared. It was Milona. Recognizing the banker, she
stepped backwards, without uttering a word, and led the way into a garden
in front of the house.

“Is madame at home?” asked Elias.

“She is expecting you,” said the Dalmatian, in guttural accents.

“Good. Have the others arrived?”

“Yes; an hour ago.”

They proceeded along a flower-bed, the flowers of which gave out fragrant
odours on to the night air. The servant mounted a flight of steps,
followed by Lichtenbach. On reaching a dark ante-chamber, Lichtenbach
handed his overcoat and hat to Milona, who opened a door, and out of the
darkness he passed suddenly into the light of the salon, the windows and
curtains of which were hermetically closed. Seated at a table, Hans and
Agostini were playing at piquet and drinking grog. On a divan Sophia
reclined, in an elegant white deshabillé. The two men scarcely raised
their heads on hearing Lichtenbach enter. The Baroness slowly sat
upright, nodded graciously, and said—

“Sit down by my side. They are finishing their game. How did you come? I
did not hear the wheels of your carriage.”

“I left it near the Porte Maillot.”

“What precautions! Can you not trust your coachman?”

“I trust no one.”

“And suppose some night prowler had struck you to the ground, to teach
you not to walk about alone at night in these parts?”

Elias raised the butt-end of a revolver from his pocket, and said—

“I should have been able to speak to him in his own language.”

“I see; then you never travel without an interpreter?”

“I cannot let myself be murdered for a paltry twenty francs; it would be
altogether too stupid!”

The conversation was interrupted by an exclamation from Cesare, who, in a
passion, threw the cards down on to the table. Hans laughed to himself,
and made a rapid calculation on a piece of paper.

“That makes thirty-five louis for you to pay. You have lost fourteen
hundred points!”

“It is enough to make one believe in the Evil Eye!” growled the handsome
Italian. “Ever since this Marcel Baradier cast his eyes on me, I cannot
touch a single card without losing, at no matter what game!”

Glancing angrily in the direction of Sophia, he said—

“This must come to an end!”

“Come, now, peace!” ordered Hans, authoritatively. “What noise you make
for nothing at all! What news have you, father money-bags? Has your
jesuit d’Escayrac seen our friends?”

“He has. They refuse.”

“Refuse what? Be precise. Your daughter or our affair?”

Elias changed colour, and his eyes flashed. However, neither anger nor
chagrin appeared from his voice.

“They refuse both alliance with me and co-operation with you. Everything,
in short!”

“Donnerwetter!” growled Hans. “Are they mad?”

“No; they are aware that you have nothing, and they have everything. This
they prove by sending us about our business.”

“You take all this very calmly,” exclaimed Count Cesare. “I have seen you
less resigned than you now appear.”

“I am not in the habit of fighting windmills. You have tricked me into an
absurd and dangerous business; now I am simply leaving it, that is all.”

“Leaving your feathers behind.”

“As you say. But as few as possible. I have already turned round about
and effected a counter-operation.”

“You rogue! You will end by earning money, where we lose everything!”
replied Agostini, pale with anger.

“If I do so, it is because I am not so stupid as you, who can do nothing
but spend it.”

Hans burst into a laugh. As Agostini seemed to be on the point of losing
his temper, he laid his hand on his arm, and forced him to keep his seat.

“Old money-bags is right; but we must not act like horses when there is
no hay in the rack, and begin to fight. Let us study the situation, and
see what can be done. First of all, what does the beauty say? Up to the
present she has not spoken a word. Still, she must have an opinion on the
matter; we will allow her to give it first.”

The Baroness appeared to awake from a reverie, and she said, in
disdainful tones—

“It is not my custom desperately to follow up badly-conceived operations.
You know what I have always told you since the Vanves night: that there
was an evil spell over the whole affair. You will arrive at no successful
end. After all, you have obtained half of what you wanted—the war powder.
Follow the example Lichtenbach sets you. Give it up, and pass on to
something else.”

“Something else, indeed!” growled Hans. “No, I shall not let go an affair
which has cost me so dear. Some one must pay me for the arm I have lost!”

“Well, what plan have you to offer?” asked the Baroness, impatiently.

“You will arrange to strike up a fresh acquaintance with Marcel Baradier.
Bring me the young man here one of these evenings. He knows the secret of
the manufacture, and he shall either give it up to you of his own free
will, or I will undertake to force him to do so.”

Lichtenbach’s hands trembled nervously. Sophia remained impassive.

“Well, what do you say to my proposal?” asked Hans, in jovial tones.

“I will have nothing further to do with the matter!” declared the
Baroness.

“Ah! take care!” exclaimed Agostini. “I know why you refuse to help us
against young Marcel. You are afraid for him. That is the difficulty.”

“And what if it were so?”

Hans made no reply. He appeared to reflect deeply. Then, with feigned
good temper, he said—

“After all, you may be right. In any case, we can do nothing without
you.”

Lichtenbach heaved a sigh of satisfaction. The conciliating attitude
suddenly assumed by Hans seemed to be full of meaning. Wishing to know
what this terrible partner of his really thought, he judged it useful to
dissimulate his own ideas.

“Come, we will say nothing more on the matter! What this affair has cost
me I will pass through the profit and loss account. Still, it is a pity
we could not find that secret trick of manipulation. There was a great
deal of money to be earned by it, after all!”

Hans bit his lips, but made no reply; whilst Agostini turned gracefully
round to Lichtenbach, and said—

“And my marriage? What is to become of it?”

“What has become of this affair of ours,” replied Elias, roughly,
“nothing. The one fell with the other! My fine fellow, you have no longer
a prospective dot. I took you with the Trémont powder, and the only
powder now left is blinding dust!”

“Ah! You treat me in this way. I may give you reason to repent it!”

“And if I wished, you would not be allowed in France another twenty-four
hours. Let us be going,” added Lichtenbach; “it is already late.”

“We will accompany you to the toll-gate, for fear something may happen to
you. This quarter is not very safe at nights. Good night, Sophia.”

“Good night.”

She held out her white hand, which her dreaded ally touched with that
iron hand of his, covered with a glove.

“May I not stay a few minutes, Sophia?” asked Agostini.

“No,” said the Baroness, emphatically. “Good night!”

Ringing the bell, Milona appeared.

“Show these gentlemen out, Milo.”

Silently they left the house, preceded by the Dalmatian, who held a round
lantern to light the way through the sinuous turnings of the path leading
to the little ivy-covered door. This she opened, and then disappeared.
They proceeded along the Avenue Maillot in silence, each occupied with
his own thoughts. Suddenly Hans stopped, and said, in low accents—

“Sophia is tricking us. But things shall not happen as she imagines. I
pretended to give way, the better to deceive her. Now this is what we
will do. Cesare will send a letter in a disguised hand-writing to young
Marcel Baradier, fixing a rendezvous at the Boulevard Maillot about ten
o’clock at night. I shall be there to receive him, with others on whom I
can rely, and I will undertake to introduce the pigeon into the dovecot.
Once there, Sophia must be forced to employ her wiles, whether she will
or not. It is the same plan I mentioned just now, and which she refused.
The only difference is that I do not ask for her permission before
putting it into practice.”

“But suppose Baradier does not come?” said Cesare.

“What? Not come? Can you imagine that he would not come to a rendezvous
fixed by the Baroness? He will fly to it at once. And when we have him!”

“What will you do?” asked Lichtenbach, in quivering accents.

“That is my own business. Just trust to me to loosen this young man’s
tongue!”

“Violence?”

“A mode of persuasion he cannot resist.”

“And suppose he denounces you on leaving the house?”

“If only he will speak beforehand he will have plenty of time to say what
he wishes afterwards.”

Lichtenbach shuddered. He felt that Hans had made up his mind to kill
Marcel Baradier, and that the bandit was pursuing a double end:
possession of the secret, and revenge for his mutilation.

“For the future,” he said, “I will have nothing more to do with your
actions, in which I repudiate all share. I do not wish even to know the
result of your attempt. You seem to have gone mad!”

“Ah! don’t think we ever relied on you for anything else than an advance
of funds?” said Count Cesare, jeeringly. “To us you have been the hen
which laid the golden eggs; now that you have stopped laying, go your own
way!”

“No tricks with us, Lichtenbach,” said Hans. “If we succeed, the Dalgetty
patent will have its full effect, you know; consequently you will share
in the profits. What you say now is only another instance of your
hypocrisy; you reject the responsibility, but are willing to accept the
profits. Very well, my friend, you shall have them!”

They had reached the spot where Lichtenbach’s carriage stood. Agostini
gracefully opened the door, saying—

“Good night, my prince, pleasant dreams!”

Meanwhile, M. Mayeur had acted in accordance with information received
from Baudoin and Colonel Vallenot. For a week now he had known the
details of Count Cesare’s life. Of very good birth, belonging to an
illustrious family, Signor Agostini had been obliged to leave the Italian
army after an affair of honour.

Concerning Hans, nothing could be discovered. The Baroness had been
tracked, through Agostini, to her rooms in the Boulevard Maillot. The
hotel had been let furnished. She lived very quietly, under the name of
Madame de Frilas. M. Mayeur had sent an intelligent agent to the Baron
Grodsko at Nice, and obtained from him full information concerning her.

Provided with his notes, M. Mayeur had returned to the War Office to
communicate them to Colonel Vallenot, and ask of him the result of his
personal investigations. Introduced at once into the Minister’s cabinet,
the magistrate had seen the results of his examination confirmed by
supplementary details. In proportion as light was thrown on the
personality of the different actors in the drama, the gravity of the
affair became more and more evident. They discovered, beyond the faintest
shadow of doubt, that they had to deal with an association of
international espionage, which had been working for at least ten years on
behalf of foreign governments, probably exploiting them in turn, and
betraying them to the profit of one another.

It was possible that the whole of Europe had been duped by these clever
rascals. The least false step might alarm the culprits and cause them to
disappear! M. Mayeur grew pale at the restraint placed on him. But how
was it possible to neglect such imperious political necessities? Colonel
Vallenot was the first to speak out clearly on the subject—

“From this moment, General, it is certain we hold the Ténébreuse, as our
agents call her. This is the woman of whom I spoke to you at the outset
of our investigations some months ago, the one involved in the Cominges,
Fontenailles affairs, etc. We have only to order, and she is in our
power. Is it possible that we can let her escape?”

“It is these deuced formalists, with their politics!” growled the old
chief. “If the matter were in my hands it should not be allowed to linger
in this way. These lawyers and quibblers astonish me! I only regain
possession of myself when in the midst of my officers. What do you say,
Monsieur le Juge?”

At that moment the door opened, and the porter brought a card to Colonel
Vallenot. The latter handed it to the Minister, who exclaimed—

“Marcel Baradier! Show him in!”

The young man entered, bowed, and, addressing the General, said—

“I undertook, General, to keep you _au courant_ of anything fresh that
might happen. I have come to keep my promise.”

“Very good, my friend, explain.”

“This morning, General, I received this letter.”

He placed on the desk a sheet of paper, which the Minister examined
attentively.

“No date, very common paper, an evidently counterfeit handwriting, and no
signature. Now let us see what it says: ‘If you wish to see once more the
one who still loves you, go to-night, at ten o’clock, to the Place de
l’Etoile, at the corner of the Avenue Hoche. A carriage will be stationed
there. Enter it, the coachman will ask no questions, and will take you
where you are expected.’”

“Good. The classic mode of procedure, except that you are not asked to
submit to having your eyes bandaged. What have you made up your mind to
do?”

“I shall go to the rendezvous.”

“Ah, ah! Without the slightest apprehension?”

“That is another matter, General. All the same, I shall go. I am
determined to have the solution to this enigma.”

The magistrate interrupted him in gentle tones—

“Permit me to remark, monsieur, that this resolution of yours is an
exceedingly imprudent one. Ninety-nine chances to a hundred they are
attempting to entrap you. Do not add to our trouble by exposing yourself
to danger for an uncertain result.”

“If it is she who has written to me, I have nothing to fear.”

“The deuce!” exclaimed the General. “You are very affirmative!”

Marcel replied gently—

“You may have concerning this woman whatever opinion your information has
permitted you to form. False with the others, she was truthful to me. She
betrayed the rest. To me she has been faithful and devoted.”

“Listen!” exclaimed the General. “He is convinced of the truth of what he
says. She persuades each and every one of them that she is sincere, and
they all believe her!”

“I will run the risk!”

The old soldier brought down his fist on to the desk—

“Well, you are a brave fellow! I like this obstinacy, Vallenot. The deuce
take me if I would not have done the same thing at his age. Well, it is
understood, go to the rendezvous. But we, too, shall take precautionary
measures to protect and defend you, if necessary.”

“Oh! General, do nothing whatever, please! The slightest intervention
would ruin everything! If it is really Sophia who has written the letter,
I have no need of an escort or protection of any kind. If it is a trap,
those who have prepared it have their eyes open, and will notice all your
preparations.”

“Do you know where the lady lives?” asked the magistrate.

“No, sir; as you see, no address is given in the letter.”

M. Mayeur then said in measured tones—

“My dear sir, your reasons are not bad ones at all. True, I have
recommended you to be prudent, but if you will go to the rendezvous, go.
Still, as we must always look at things from a practical standpoint, what
result do you expect to obtain?”

“Monsieur,” said Marcel, gravely; “General de Trémont was my friend; his
death has not been avenged. Our works have been fired; my uncle Graff, my
servant, and myself were almost burnt alive. This crime has not been
punished, any more than the assassination of Laforêt. I intend to throw
light on all these facts, though it be at the peril of my life.”

“Very good, sir, all I can do is to wish you good luck.”

Marcel bowed and shook hands with the three men.

“He is a true Baradier! But he is too venturesome!”

As soon as the door was closed, M. Mayeur rose from his seat,
exclaiming—.

“Here is an opportunity, General, to seize all these rascals at once. Of
course, you know as well as I do that it is their object to entice M.
Baradier into the house in the Boulevard Maillot, and there force him to
give up his secret. Just now you said that these villains must be induced
to resist, and then massacred. Without going to that extremity, we have
now an opportunity of simplifying the whole proceedings.”

“But you promised Marcel you would not interfere!” said Colonel Vallenot.

“I don’t intend to interfere. He shall do as he likes. But I cannot take
no interest in these preparations, nor will I, like young Baradier, be
chivalrous with bandits. This is my plan: The rendezvous is for ten
o’clock. You know the situation of the Boulevard Maillot; there is a
ditch separating it from the Bois de Boulogne. A splendid hiding-place to
hide a posse of police entering by the wood. I know a detective officer
who is as intelligent as he is determined. I shall give him instructions
to post himself there, and keep watch. In case M. Baradier is right, and
there is nothing to fear, my men will simply have passed a night in the
open-air. If he is mistaken then the danger will be a real one. You heard
him say that he would be armed and ready to defend himself. At the first
cry or shot my men will invade the house. If they are threatened they
resist, if they are struck they will fire. Whether diplomacy wishes or
not, if the villains are caught in the act the matter must take its
course.”

“Whatever happens, do not let young Baradier be killed, and above all try
to lay hands on the woman.”

“What do you think of the plan, General?”

The old soldier looked at the magistrate, then at Vallenot. He noticed
the impassive countenance of the latter, and replied—

“You need not ask for my advice. All these judicial operations are out of
my province. Act as you think best; I have nothing to say.”

The magistrate shook his head, with a mocking smile; then, taking up his
hat, he said—

“Ah, I know what you mean! So long as the affair is not over, no one
wishes to have anything to do with it. If it succeeds, then I shall be
the only one to be left out of it all. But that matters little. It is my
duty, and I will not hesitate. Your servant, General.”

And he left the room accompanied by Colonel Vallenot.



CHAPTER V


IT was about half-past nine, and Uncle Graff had dined in the Rue de
Provènce as usual. Baudoin approached him, and whispered in his ear—

“Two ladies have called, and one of them wishes to speak to M. Marcel.”

“What kind of a woman is she?” asked the uncle.

“A very respectable-looking person, sir. The other must be a governess or
a lady’s maid.”

“Where are they?”

“In the ante-chamber.”

“Turn on the electricity in my room, and show them in.”

Baudoin did as he was ordered. Uncle Graff continued his descent,
murmuring to himself—

“Another of Marcel’s escapades! I wonder what it is this time.”

On approaching his room he saw, standing by the door, a young lady
dressed in black, and wearing a veil. Uncle Graff’s first impression was
a favourable one. Pointing to a seat, he said kindly—

“My nephew, madame, is not at home. Cannot I—”

He was not allowed to finish the sentence. The young lady said in
beseeching tones—

“Monsieur, it is a question of life or death.”

“For whom?” asked Uncle Graff, anxiously.

“For your nephew!”

“How have you been informed of this? And who are you?”

The visitor replied immediately—

“I am Mademoiselle Lichtenbach, monsieur, and I place myself entirely at
your disposal.”

As she spoke she removed her veil. Uncle Graff, stupefied, recognized the
daughter of his enemy. She was pale and trembling, but resolute.

“Who has sent you?” he asked.

“My father! He thought that if he came himself, perhaps you would not
receive him. At this very moment, perhaps, your nephew is running the
most serious danger. My father, who has just received news of it, begged
me to come and tell you.”

“But how did he receive his information?” asked Graff, suspiciously.

“Ah, monsieur! begin by taking the necessary measures to help M. Marcel,”
said Marianne, eagerly. “Afterwards you may ask what questions you
please.”

“At whose hands lies the peril?”

“At the hands of the same band which killed General de Trémont. My father
has been informed of these intrigues. Act without losing a moment.”

“But what can we do?” exclaimed Uncle Graff, carried away by the young
lady’s eagerness.

“I will explain to you. Wait a moment.”

Passing her hand over her forehead, she said in piteous accents—

“Yes, that was it. A woman he knew at Ars.”

“The Italian?”

“Yes, doubtless. He loved her, and they knew he would be pleased to see
her again.”

She paused. The pallor of her face increased. What she was relating
seemed to torture her.

“So they wrote to him to fix a rendezvous. And they are expecting him
this very evening, in a solitary out-of-the-way house. But he will not
find the one he expects to meet, but, instead, a band of villains,
determined to employ the most violent measures to force him to reveal a
secret that they cannot fathom. Now do you understand?”

“Yes. ‘Where is this house?”

“See, here is the address written on this piece of paper.”

Graff read—

“Boulevard Maillot, 16 bis. And you say that he was expected there about
ten o’clock?”

As though in obedience to his words, the timepiece struck the hour at the
very instant.

Graff rang the bell. Baudoin appeared.

“Quick, Baudoin, a carriage! You will accompany me. Have you a good
revolver?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then bring it with you. Do not say a word to any one. I will rejoin you
in the yard. Ten o’clock! We will be there, all the same, and if they
have harmed the child, let them beware!”

Baudoin had already left the room. Marianne, motionless, watched Uncle
Graff make his preparations. He took up a bundle of bank-notes, a
revolver, and a heavy steel-headed stick. Then he appeared to remember
that Mademoiselle Lichtenbach was in the room. Coming up to her, he said
kindly—

“My child, I thank you for the service.”

“Oh, monsieur!” exclaimed Marianne, her eyes gleaming with suppressed
tears; “save him, that is the main thing!”

“He shall be informed, mademoiselle, of what you have risked for his
sake. I know what this errand must have cost you.”

Marianne smiled sadly.

“I am returning to-morrow to the convent, doubtless for ever. Life is
full of sadness and pain.”

Graff waited no longer, but rushed out into the street, as the brougham
of Mademoiselle Lichtenbach vanished in the distance. Baudoin was
standing near the cab. Graff leapt into the carriage and said—

“To the Porte Maillot! You, Baudoin, mount with me. I want to speak to
you.”

                                * * * * *

Marcel had never felt so calm as on the evening he made his way towards
the Place de l’Etoile.

When he entered the carriage it immediately started off along the Avenue
de la Grande-Armée, wheeled round at the Porte Maillot, and, after a two
minutes’ further run, came to a halt in a dark-looking avenue, near a
garden gate. Marcel stepped out, and the carriage disappeared. A small
door, hidden in the ivy, was now opened, and a valet in livery appeared.
Marcel followed him in the direction of a house which raised its sombre
mass in front. A single light shone from a window on the first floor.
Mounting a flight of steps, he entered an ante-chamber. Suddenly an
exclamation was heard in the next apartment, a rapid step was heard, a
door overhung with tapestry was flung open, and Sophia, her face
convulsed by the violence of her emotion, appeared. Her looks expressed
the terror she felt, but not a word did she utter. Taking Marcel by the
wrist, she drew him into the room she had just left—a bedroom—quickly
turned the key in the lock, bolted another door, and, seizing the young
man in her arms, whispered in his ear—

“Wretched man that you are! How did you come here?”

At the same time, and without appearing to be able to help herself, her
lips sought Marcel’s neck, and she kissed him with a delirious rapture.

“Then it was not you who summoned me?”

“I! _Grand Dieu_! I would give ten years of my life if you were anywhere
but in this house at this moment. Ah! the wretches! They have deceived
me!”

“Who are the wretches you speak of?” asked Marcel, firmly.

“Ah! Do not question me! I cannot, must not, speak!”

“Are you jesting?” said Marcel, ironically.

“Poor child! You do not know them!”

“Madame, is your brother among them?”

She laid her hands on his mouth, those beautiful white hands, and he
remained silent. Then, clasping him to her breast with passionate ardour,
her eyes filled with tears—she stammered out—

“Oh! Marcel, Marcel!”

A sudden pallor came over her; she clung to him to prevent herself from
falling, and her shapely head, with its wealth of raven hair, lay on the
shoulder of the one she loved with hopeless passion.

A sharp knock on the door brought them back to the reality of life.

“Listen!” said Sophia.

She drew near the door, asked a short question in a foreign language, and
received an immediate reply. Apparently reassured, she opened the door,
saying to Marcel—

“It is Milo.”

Milona entered, and the door was carefully closed again.

“Have they sent you?” asked Sophia.

“Yes, mistress.”

“What do they want?”

“To come to an understanding with you.”

“I shall not go.”

“They have provided for that contingency.”

“Well?”

“They have told me to repeat to you their demands from the young master.”

“Silence! I do not wish him to know them!”

“Would you rather they mount the stairs and kill him?”

A deep silence followed. Sophia twisted about her arms, and groaned in
despair. Her beautiful features were convulsed by powerless rage and
exasperated dismay. Grinding her teeth, she flew to the mantel-piece,
seized a short, sharp dagger, which she brandished aloft with a terrible
skill.

“Milo, you will not abandon me?”

“Never! I will die for you, that you know well!”

“Marcel is armed; so we are three! Oh! I will defend him with my last
breath!”

“Against them?” said Milona. “Can you hope to do such a thing? It would
be impossible to resist them. They are all waiting below, in the
dining-room, ready for anything!”

“Oh! _Mon Dieu_! How mad I am! Do I not know them? Oh! Marcel, why did
you place yourself at their mercy?”

Flinging her poniard on to the ground, she sat down, overcome with
emotion, buried her head in her hands, and burst into tears. Marcel,
turning to the Dalmatian, asked, in calm accents—

“Tell me, in a word, what it is they want from me?”

Milona cast a questioning glance at her mistress. As Sophia made no sign,
the servant explained—

“They want the famous secret, which will give value to the powder they
stole from you!”

Marcel smiled, and then frowned in disdain.

“Ah! that is what is puzzling them. I am glad to know that they have not
succeeded in discovering what they were so interested in knowing. Milona,
you may tell them that they will never learn it from me!”

“We shall see about that before long!” exclaimed Agostini, passionately,
from behind the door.

“Ah! you are listening, you villain?” said Marcel, in vibrating tones. “I
am very pleased to know it, for such a procedure simplifies things
considerably! Tell your acolytes that I am not afraid of them; I have in
my hand a revolver which will answer for the lives of six men. If they
like, I will open the door, and the dance shall begin.”

“Take time for reflection!” replied a deep, guttural voice—that of Hans.
“Do not do anything stupid!”

“Who is that?” asked Marcel. “He does not appear so stupid as the
others.”

“One would think you know us!” railed the bandit. “Patience! We will give
you half an hour in which to decide. If, within thirty minutes, you have
not given us satisfaction, I will undertake to make you speak. The night
is damp—there is a good fire below!”

Steps were now heard descending the staircase. Milona silently left the
room, and Marcel and Sophia remained alone. The time-piece pointed to ten
minutes past ten.

“You heard them,” said Sophia. “Now you know what they propose to do.
They want your secret.”

“Very well! I have told them they shall not have it!”

Looking at the young woman, he saw that a shudder came over her. Laying
his hand on her shoulder, he added—

“But I wish to know yours.”

“Mine?” exclaimed the young woman, with a terrified gesture.

“Yes! Who and what are you?”

She smiled sadly.

“A broken-hearted woman who loves you!”

“Empty words! You say you love me. The only proof of this confession I
ask for is that you be sincere with me.”

Hiding her face in her hands, she exclaimed—

“Never! You would hate me if I told you!”

“Then it is true that you are the most abominable creature on earth?”

“Oh! my darling, do not insult me!”

“You will not speak? Then I will ask your accomplices downstairs. I
imagine it will be a pleasure to them to give me information about you.”

He started towards the door. She leapt forward. “Madman! You do not know
the danger you are running! Stay here by my side.”

He looked steadily into her eyes, and asked again—“Who are you?”

She groaned.

“Why are you so pitiless?”

“If you do not speak, it is because you are well aware that my scorn for
you would be so great, that nothing but disgust would remain in my memory
from this past happiness!”

She stood up, and proudly answered—

“Poor Marcel, you are mistaken—you would still love me. If I pleased,
nothing could withdraw you from me!”

She looked at him as she spoke, and under the influence of her glance
Marcel felt all his resolutions melt away, a feeling of languor came over
him, and he lost the faculty of will-power.

“Death is all around us,” she whispered. “Let us forget everything. Do
not think any more, my love—leave your poor tortured heart in peace.”

Suddenly a sound of footsteps was heard throughout the house, and cries
coming from outside. Then came a sound as though a door had been torn
from its hinges, followed by a revolver-shot. At the same time was heard
a voice, which Marcel knew well.

“Help! Baudoin, help!”

Then another shot, followed by a volley of oaths. Marcel, on his feet,
exclaimed—

“It is my uncle Graff! _Mon Dieu_! They are killing him!”

“Stay here, do not stir!” said Sophia, in beseeching tones.

He made no reply, but rushed forward into the corridor, found the
staircase, and, in the semi-darkness, saw in the hall, on the ground
floor, a group of three men, in a hand-to-hand conflict with Graff, who,
half-stifled, and encircled by their arms, was trying in vain to make use
of his revolver. In front of the entrance-door Hans and Baudoin were
engaged in a fierce struggle. The brave servant had his forehead gashed
open, and the blood was flowing freely, but he had obtained a firm hold
on his terrible opponent, and succeeded in holding him harmless for the
moment.

Standing above the balustrade, Marcel took aim at one of the three men
who were strangling his uncle. A flash followed, and the man fell. At the
same moment a shot was heard behind Marcel, and a ball whizzed past his
ear. Turning round, he found himself face to face with Agostini, who was
preparing to repeat the shot. With a sudden blow he dashed aside the
weapon, seized the Italian by the waist, and, his strength doubled by the
fury and rage which now possessed him, raised him in the air, and flung
him over the rails of the staircase.

At this exploit, Hans, powerless to strike Marcel, who was descending the
steps four at a time, gave a howl of fury. He shook Baudoin with such
energy that he forced him to abandon his hold. Then he placed him under
his knee, and his iron arm was already raised to deal the deathblow, when
Marcel rushed to the rescue with a terrible blow in the body, which
hurled the colossus to the ground. He immediately rose to his feet,
however, and, taking up a position in a corner, shouted out aloud—

“Help! Here, you others! Help!”

But the others had by this time too much to do. The police, attracted by
the firing, invaded the house. Uncle Graff, at liberty, now came up with
his revolver. But Baudoin, in hoarse tones, exclaimed—

“Monsieur Graff, leave him to me—he is mine! It is he who killed my
General!”

He then took from the old man’s hand his steel-headed stick, disdaining a
firearm, which would have made the combat unequal, and fell upon Hans.
The bandit swore frightfully on seeing that all was lost; he struck a
blow with his iron fist, but Baudoin lightly stepped aside. Then the
stick whizzed through the air, and the steel head descended. Hans, struck
on the temple, rolled over the flag-stones, and fell like an ox to the
ground. This was a signal for a general rout. The three men who still
resisted now leapt through the open windows, and vanished like shadows
into the garden.

“All escape is cut off; do not trouble about them,” exclaimed the head
detective. “Let us see after the wounded and the dead.”

Uncle Graff wished to take Marcel into his arms, question him, and assure
himself that he was safe and sound; but, on turning round, he found
Baudoin wiping away with his handkerchief the blood and perspiration
flowing from his forehead. Marcel, as soon as the issue of the struggle
left no room for doubt, had immediately thought of Sophia. Now that
danger for him had disappeared, it loomed forth with a terrible aspect
for her. The police, who had restored the situation by intervening to
save him, would now appear on the scene for her ruin. He mounted the
stairs more quickly than he had descended, for he felt that the time in
which anything could be done was short indeed.

Rushing into the room, the door of which was still open, he drew the
bolts on Sophia with as much fear and solicitude as she had drawn them on
himself. She had remained standing, leaning pensively against the
mantelpiece, as though devoid of interest in what was taking place on the
floor beneath. Milona stood by her side; she had doubtless told her of
the defeat of her companions. Marcel, in terrified ardour, rushed up to
her.

“The house is in the hands of the police, do you not know? Why are you
still here?”

“I was waiting for you,” replied Sophia, calmly. “But it means ruin to
you!”

“How does that affect you?”

“I will not consent to it! I cannot endure the idea that you should
suffer threatenings and torture for having defended me.”

A light came into Sophia’s face.

“Then will you still allow me to see you?”

He replied, firmly—

“Impossible! After what has taken place between us, I must never see you
again! I cannot, I must not! For your own sake!”

Her tranquil, careless look returned.

“Then leave me to my fate!”

“No! I will not do that! You, ruined on my account, when— Will you
torture my thoughts by the frightful memory of the past?”

“Oh, Marcel, if I could only please you! If you would only love me! How
dearly I would pay you for such happiness!”

She smiled. Tears filled her eyes, and she looked so beautiful that a
shudder ran through his whole body. Turning aside, he said—

“Wretched woman! what will become of you?”

She showed him a ring, the bezel of which was made of a bead of chased
gold.

“Look at this bead of gold; it contains liberty and death at the same
time. Pour its contents into a glass of water, and all is over, without
suffering.”

She stretched out her hand towards a tray containing a bowl of water and
a glass.

“I forbid you!” cried Marcel, dismayed.

She looked at him with a terrible intensity, whilst her face shone with
superhuman ardour.

“Nothing without you!” she said. “Everything with you! Decide!”

“Impossible!”

With a sorrowful smile, she continued—

“Reflect! You know what I am. If you wish, I will live, but only to be
yours. I will come whenever you want me, and will not trouble you in any
way. Oh! every expiation and sacrifice, every grief and pain imaginable,
to be yours once more!”

Steps were heard mounting the staircase. Marcel, terror-struck, said—

“They are coming! They will take you! If you wish to save your life,
leave the room at once!”

“Let them come! They will only take me if I am willing. I have nothing to
fear from any other than yourself. Do you wish me to live? Swear that you
will see me again!”

At that supreme moment the pale faces of General de Trémont and poor
Laforêt, of Agostini, dead, and Hans, lying on the blood-stained stone,
rose before Marcel’s imagination, and an insurmountable horror came over
him. He bent his head without a word. A slight noise of something
touching glass caused him to look up. He saw Sophia drinking the poison.
Rushing up, he dashed from her hands the empty glass. Smiling, she said—

“Too late!”

“Open! Open!” exclaimed several voices behind the door.

Sophia found sufficient strength to say—

“Open now, Milona!”

The Dalmatian obeyed. A veil came over Sophia’s eyes, her cheeks turned
deadly pale. Milona, terrified, fell to the ground, her dark, dishevelled
hair falling round her face like a funeral veil.

“Where is the woman?” shouted M. Mayeur from the staircase, as he came on
the scene, panting and triumphant. “She has not been allowed to escape, I
hope!”

He appeared, accompanied by Graff, and stood, as though petrified, on the
threshold.

Marcel, pointing to Sophia, who had just breathed her last, said—

“Here she is!”

The Ténébreuse, ever elusive, had this time taken refuge in the darkness
of eternal night.



CHAPTER VI


THE affray of the Boulevard Maillot was prudently passed over as a drama
founded on jealousy. Two men quarrelling over a woman, and the rivals
killing one another over the corpse of the fair one—such was the account
furnished to the reporters. Imagination did the rest. Paris dwelt with
passionate interest for twelve hours on this magnificent butchery, the
horrors of which were described all the better from the fact that no one
had been admitted to see them. M. Mayeur alone made a complete search all
over the house, but discovered nothing calculated to throw any light on
the identity of Hans. Neither the anthropometric service nor the most
experienced detectives could find out the slightest indication as to the
mysterious personality of the dreaded bandit. Certainly he was the same
man whose arm had been carried off at Vanves, when he had appeared there
with Sophia, on the evening the General’s house had been destroyed. But
what was he besides? The international police, on being questioned, said
nothing. Either they knew nothing, or were unwilling to give information.

Sophia and Agostini were identified. The Princes of Briviesca undertook
to inform the magistrate concerning the one member of their family they
were well pleased to see themselves rid of. Count Grodsko could relate
nothing more than he had already told to the agent who had questioned him
at Monte Carlo. The examining magistrate enraged at finding nothing,
thought for a moment of bringing a charge against Lichtenbach. He
summoned him to his study, questioned him, and tried to obtain from
Baradier and Graff revelations concerning him. But the former would not
impeach, as was expected, their old enemy. Rivalry in business affairs,
quibbles in banking relations, but nothing legally guilty. If a charge
could be brought on these heads, then they would be obliged to surround
the Place de la Bourse, from twelve to three every day, and arrest all
who were raising those frightful cries beneath its columns. Besides, the
highest circles had immediately interceded in favour of Lichtenbach, and
the examining magistrate saw at once that he was on a wrong track.
Accordingly, this time the Vanves affair was definitely shelved, and
classed amongst the legal mysteries of the year.

But though these tragic events were not destined to have any material
consequences for Lichtenbach, serious moral results rapidly followed.
Within a week following the death of Agostini and Sophia, Mademoiselle
Lichtenbach entered the Convent des Augustines of the Rue Saint Jacques.
She had had a two-hours’ conversation with her father. Pale, but
determined, she was seen to leave her father’s study. Elias followed her,
trembling, and with bowed head, tears streaming down his cheeks. On the
landing he tried to stop his daughter, and stretched out his hands
beseechingly as he stammered—

“My child, do not be inexorable; have pity on me!”

Marianne bowed her head as she replied—

“I wish I could, father; but how will you redeem the past?”

Without turning round, she descended the stone staircase, at the foot of
which the carriage was waiting to conduct her to the Rue Saint Jacques. A
moan of pain escaped the old man’s lips as he leaned over the iron
balustrade. For a moment he seemed as though he would fling himself over.
Then he cried out in heart-piercing accents—

“Marianne! Marianne!”

She raised her head. Stretching out his hands, he groaned—

“You are the only one I have left in the world! Will you forget your
father?”

The young girl shook her head sadly, but did not give in. What terrible
explanation could have taken place between father and daughter? What had
Lichtenbach been forced to confess, for Marianne to show herself so
inexorable? She made the sign of the cross, as though to strengthen her
fainting heart. The pallor of her face increased, though she replied in
firm accents—

“I shall not forget you, father. I will pray for you.”

She mounted the carriage, a rolling of wheels was heard, then followed a
long silence. Lichtenbach returned slowly to his room, and sank down in a
reverie.

All the same, he did not give up business. On the contrary, he seemed to
show a greater ardour than before for finance. His position on the
Explosives settled, he regained the ground he had lost by a formidable
campaign on gold mines. Never had his speculations been more brilliant or
lucky than they were during the six months following his daughter’s
departure. One would have thought that his grief had brought him good
fortune, for everything succeeded which he undertook. All the same,
nothing seemed to give him pleasure, and he changed greatly in physique.
No longer could he mount the steps of the Bourse without halting for
breath. Society had no further attractions for him.

One winter evening, the _valet de chambre_, as he entered his master’s
room, found Elias leaning over his desk, apparently asleep. Calling him
by name, he received no reply. Terrified, he drew nearer, and touched his
master. The banker remained motionless, whilst his hand clasped a short
letter from his daughter. The few words he had been reading were still
moist with the tears he had shed. He was dead, a victim to the only
sentiment by which he had ever been vulnerable; the love of a father.

Six months later, at twilight, in the study of the Rue de Provènce, Uncle
Graff and Marcel were seated together. After signing all the letters for
the evening’s post, Baradier had retired to his own room.

The darkness gradually deepened, and uncle and nephew, seated in their
armchairs, without a word, looked like vague, uncertain silhouettes. The
clerks had all left, and silence reigned around.

“Are you asleep, Uncle Graff?” asked Marcel.

“No; I was just thinking.”

“What about?”

“About all that has happened the past twelve months. It is no mere
trifle!”

“No, indeed. And what is the result of your reflections?”

“That we have had the most extraordinary luck; we had to deal with
enemies who seemed destined to triumph over us time after time; and that
we have manifestly been protected by a divine providence.”

“Uncle Graff, you are rather illogical; extraordinary luck on the one
hand, and divine providence on the other. They do not go very well
together.”

“Oh, you are too sceptical. It is your generation which makes you so. You
no longer believe in anything.”

“I do not believe in chance, no!” said Marcel, ironically. Then he added,
in tones of sudden gravity, “But I believe in the firm, steadfast will of
human beings. If we have been protected, as you say truly enough, it is
because it was so willed. But for that—”

Silence followed. The darkness had now become complete.

“It was so willed,” repeated Uncle Graff. “You are alluding to that
woman?”

“I am alluding to ‘that woman.’ It was she who defeated the plans of her
acolytes, and saved me.”

“Because she loved you?”

“Because she loved me.”

“Well, then, tell me what passed between you for a woman of this stamp to
sacrifice herself for a man she first intended to dupe, and afterwards to
rob. For you cannot doubt the fact that she had plans concerning you?”

“I am quite aware of the fact.”

“She had had considerable experience in life, and yet—”

“And yet she fell in love with a young man like myself. Well, probably
because I was a change from all her other acquaintances. A cup of milk to
a drunken man, for instance.”

“And she killed herself for your sake, under your very eyes?”

“Yes, Uncle Graff, because I would not promise to see her again.”

“And yet you loved her?”

“I both loved and hated her. Had I seen her again she would have obtained
renewed dominion over me and ruined me. I determined it should not be
so.”

Uncle Graff sighed—

“And do you sometimes think of this woman?”

“Always.”

“Do you know what you ought to do now, if you wish to turn over a new
leaf?”

“I know very well, my father spoke to me yesterday. And it is doubtless
because I received his overtures coolly, that you are now returning to
the same subject.”

“You are right, my child. If you would only marry, now that you are
reasonable and settled in life.”

“Marry Geneviève de Trémont?”

“Yes. She is the wife your father and mother have always intended for
you. It would give them great pleasure, if you would marry her.”

After a moment’s silence, Marcel said—

“When Mademoiselle Lichtenbach came to warn you that a snare had been set
for me, was she excited?”

“Greatly excited.”

“And you thought, when you saw her, that this extraordinary emotion was
caused by some special interest she took in myself. At any rate, you said
so to me.”

“Certainly. I promised I would tell you. Besides, the child pleased me.
She was anything but commonplace. And her determination the following
morning confirmed the good opinion I had formed of her.”

“Her resolve to enter the convent?”

“You are right.”

“In a word, then, Mademoiselle Lichtenbach has abjured the world for my
sake. This child will have been recompensed for her devoted tenderness by
the loss of everything happy and pleasant life had in store for her; and
she is now destined to die poor; wearing a nun’s robe, with shorn hair,
attending to the wants of the destitute?”

“Yes.”

“Uncle Graff, in your opinion, are children responsible for the misdeeds
of their parents?”

The old man did not reply.

“You do not reply,” urged Marcel. “My question troubles you?”

“It troubles me greatly. One day, in this very room, I told an envoy of
Lichtenbach’s, who made us an offer of the hand of his daughter for you,
that all the Graffs would rise in their graves if a Baradier were to
marry a Lichtenbach.”

“What!” exclaimed Marcel, greatly agitated. “Such an offer has been made,
and you never informed me of it?”

“What would have been the use? You know how we felt just then for me to
have given such an emphatic and stupid reply. Your father—Oh! I believe
he would have preferred to see you in your grave rather than married to a
Lichtenbach. Just think of it! The General had just been killed—the works
were still in flames! No, no! It was impossible.”

“But now, Uncle Graff?”

“What! Can you think of such a thing?” asked the sentimental old fellow,
in trembling accents.

“I think of it so much,” said Marcel, firmly, “that if Mademoiselle
Lichtenbach does not consent to become my wife I will never marry
another.”

At that moment a slight sound was heard, and the door closed.

“Who is there?” asked Graff, eagerly.

“Do not excite yourself,” said the voice of Baradier.

“Were you listening?”

“No; I have just come. But I heard your last words. How long are you
going to remain in this darkness?”

At the same moment he turned on the electric light. The three men looked
at one another for a moment; they were very grave and serious, but a look
of contentment was visible on their countenances. Baradier did not bow
his head with that obstinate mien his son and brother-in-law knew so
well. He was perfectly self-possessed. Sitting down at his desk, he said—

“What difference would there be between us and mere nobodies or
good-for-nothings if we were incapable of showing gratitude? It is not
sufficient to appear honest and delicate in the eyes of the world—one
must be without the slightest reproach before one’s own conscience.”

He fixed on his son a look of perfect satisfaction, though his face paled
with the emotion which had taken possession of him.

“Marcel has spoken like a real Baradier or Graff. We must do as he has
said.”

At these simple words the three men quivered, consecrating as they did
their successor with the worthy renown of his predecessors. Tears of joy
and pride shone in his uncle’s eyes. Marcel, without a word, flung
himself into his father’s arms.

                                * * * * *

                                 THE END

     PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.




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