CHAPTER I

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.