The woman of mystery

by Georges Ohnet

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