The woman of mystery

by Georges Ohnet

CHAPTER I

Whilst Milona was running in the direction of Ars, her mistress returned quietly to the salon. Flinging herself on the sofa, she abandoned herself to a delightful reverie. What a difference she found between Cesare Agostini and Marcel! A feeling of nausea came over her when she compared them with one another. The complaisant and needy lover, who always knew when to close his eyes, when some mysterious interests of his were at stake, and this tender, sincere lover, who thought of nothing but her happiness, and sacrificed for that his own.

She remembered Hans’ sarcastic remarks, “Take care you are not caught in your own net, and fall in love with this young man.” Had he then read her inmost thoughts, this dread accomplice of hers, who trampled humanity under foot, and who had no more respect for joy and happiness than the hail has for the harvest? Suppose it were so? Had she not the right to do as she wished? Was she a slave, linked to obscure and threatening adventurers engaged in some formidable though tremendous task? Or was there equality for both them and herself, in danger, success, and pleasure alike? Who could compel her to do what was displeasing to her—above all, who would dare to attempt it? She knew she was as dangerous as any of them, and they, too, were well aware how powerful and audacious she was. If it were necessary to try conclusions with them, they would see who would come out the winner.

She smiled, and her face shone with the light of a glorious graciousness. In that young woman, with those delicate, refined features, who would have discovered the bold, sarcastic Sophia Grodsko? What would Lichtenbach have said, had he seen her, and what would all those have thought who had known her, so faithless and vice-stained, fatal to all who had loved her, and whom she had led on to ruin, dishonour, or death? A young man, the least remarkable of all she had hitherto met, in all probability, had obtained the triumph of making her uneasy and anxious at the thought of what might become of him. Following him in imagination, on his way back to the town, she wondered if it would not have been better to have kept him by her side, instead of allowing him to rush off to the burning works, and especially towards the spot where Hans was watching—Hans, more to be dreaded than all the other scourges combined.

She rose, and, already repenting of having shown such a lack of decision, she was deliberating whether or not she ought, herself, to go to Ars, and find out what was taking place there. Prudence checked the impulse. All the same, she mounted to the second floor of the villa, on to a balcony from which a view of the valley could be obtained beyond the trees. There she quickly saw that the danger, if there had been any, had lessened. The smoke was disappearing, not a single flame was to be seen, and the hubbub from the town had calmed down, whilst even the church bell had ceased ringing. She was about to descend, when she saw Milona open the garden gate. The servant was coming along the alley with rapid and uneasy steps. Sophia had a presentiment that she was the bearer of bad news, and gave a sharp, low whistle. Milo mounted the steps all out of breath, and came straight to her mistress—

“I have performed your commission,” she said. “I found Hans. He read your note, and placed it back in my hands. Here it is.”

“Good. That is not all. What is the matter?”

“Agostini is close behind me. He has just landed at Ars.”

Sophia frowned. A slight blush mounted to her cheeks. Taking a match, she lit it, and set fire to the paper Milona had handed to her. Thoughtfully, she watched the ashes fly away in the wind. Then she asked—

“How is he coming here?”

“In a cab. Listen, you may hear the horse’s hoofs already.”

The cab stopped in front of the door, and Cesare descended. The cabman waited. Sophia slowly descended the staircase, and found herself in the hall, to receive the handsome Italian. He advanced with shining eyes and eager gait. Carelessly, and with an air of indifference, she held out her hand.

“Well, well! my dear,” said he. “Is this the way you receive me after a fortnight’s absence?”

“Silence!” she said firmly; “this is no time for nonsense. Hans at this very moment is doubtless risking his life to obtain possession of the powders.”

“Have you then succeeded with our young victim?”

“You may see for yourself. There will be more to learn later on.”

“Diavolo!”

Rushing from the room, he exclaimed—

“Milo, tell the cabman to wait.”

He returned—

“Who knows if we shall not need him shortly? As I passed by I saw the town was in the greatest commotion imaginable, and that the works were on fire. Is this accident an invention of yours?”

“I believe Hans arranged the whole affair.”

“Gay disposition, Hans! He is fond of an attractive mise en scene. But I should be glad to have a little lunch; I left Paris quite hurriedly.”

“Milona will serve you.”

They passed into the dining-room. The table was set, and Cesare took a seat.

“Come and talk to me, my beautiful Sophia. Time has weighed heavy on my hands since last I saw you. I have vainly sought for distractions.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Ah! Trying to win a little money at cards. A kind of fatality seems to pursue me, my bad luck never leaves me, and I cannot touch a card without losing.”

“You have lost much?”

“Too much! I so easily get excited, you know.”

“Well, how much?” asked Sophia, impatiently.

The handsome Italian replied with a smile—

“Nothing at all, cara; I had the money!”

“Who gave it you?”

“Lichtenbach. I was obliged to accustom him to my little fancies. When he becomes my father-in-law I shall appeal to him rather often.”

“Take care. He may tire.”

“He will not be allowed to do so.”

“His resources are not inexhaustible.”

“You are jesting. I am well acquainted with the source of his wealth.”

“Indeed! Who has been informing you?”

“A relation of mine, the Very Reverend Monsignor Boldi, whom I saw in Paris a few days ago. Lichtenbach, in addition to his wealth, is a church trustee. I no longer wonder at the influence he wields. He has the disposal of immense sums, and of almost limitless power. But he is not a man of action. He is always hesitating and trembling. Had you seen how terrified he was when I alluded to his position as a kind of ecclesiastical banker, you would have laughed outright. Ah! cara, his brow was covered with perspiration. Whatever can he be afraid of?”

“From his constituents, nothing. From you, everything. That he doubtless guessed at once.”

“Oh! Mon Dieu! All that trouble for such a trifle! A mere bagatelle of forty thousand francs. That cursed baccarat! But Lichtenbach never plays, except on the Bourse. And there he always wins!”

“Question!”

“Ah! Can he, too, be cursed with bad luck?”

“We are now doing our best to arrange matters so that he may have nothing but good luck!”

“The powder affair?”

“Yes. Listen, what is that?”

A sound was heard outside. Taking from a cupboard a small revolver, she slipped it into her pocket, and said—“Are you armed?”

“I am always armed. What are you afraid of?”

“Wait!”

In the silence a curious whistling sound was heard. Sophia’s features relaxed.

“It is Hans!”

A rapid step was heard on the sand of the alley. The door of the salon opened, and Milona made her appearance, followed by the colossus. He was still clothed in his mean-looking fisher’s costume. Flinging his hat on the ground, he removed his blouse and his huge shoes, without the slightest thought of Sophia’s presence, and exclaimed—

“Milo, my clothes.”

Placing on the table a glass recipient and a sheet of paper, he said, with a grimace—

“Here it is!”

“Then you have succeeded at last?”

Sophia and Cesare approached with a kind of respect, and saw through the jar the brownish shavings of the powder which had already cost so much blood!

“Yes, here it is! This small phial and this piece of paper again represent the life of a man.”

“You were surprised in the act?”

“Yes. And I have killed again.”

“Who is the victim this time?” exclaimed Sophia, pale as death.

“Do not alarm yourself, my dear; it is not your turtledove.”

He gave Cesare a glance, which immediately put the Italian on the alert. His light, careless attitude disappeared, and a cold, hard look came into his face.

“It was a troublesome fellow I have had on my track for several days,” continued Hans. “A Government spy. It was not the first time we had met, either. He almost caught me three years ago at Lyons, in the affair of the Sergeant-Major. I took good note of him at the time, and his account is now settled!”

“But will his murder not be discovered?”

“What then? We must clear off at once; the authorities never trouble about detectives, that you know very well. This one will undergo a curing process, with his broken head, in the river, until he is fished out. Meanwhile, we shall be on the other side of the frontier.”

Milona entered, carrying a suit of elegant-looking clothes, a grey felt hat, and yellow shoes. Unceremoniously, Hans dressed himself.

“The cabman is at the door. Did he see you enter?” asked Sophia.

“No. I am not such a fool as to show myself to him. It was very convenient to come along the end of the garden, where the wall is conveniently low. I am returning the same way, and I would advise you, my children, to vacate this place as soon as possible. As you are aware, we are due shortly in Venice. The first who arrives will wait for the rest. There, I again become Major Fraser.”

Placing in a leather bag his glass recipient and the folded paper, he shook hands with Agostini, smiled familiarly to Sophia, and disappeared as he had come. The Italian gave a kick at Hans’ cast-off clothes, and said—

“Milo, all this must disappear, my child.”

“In the kitchen fire,” said the Dalmatian, gravely.

“And you, Sophia, what do you intend to do? You have heard what our noble friend has just said. In my opinion, the best thing we can do is to start at once.”

The young woman made no reply. She passed into the salon with slow, steady steps, as though laboriously seeking the right form to explain her meaning. Sitting down, she took a cigarette, and, looking at the handsome Italian standing before her, said—

“Yes, indeed, I do think you would do well to start off. There is no reason for you to stay here. As for myself, a sudden disappearance would excite suspicion; it would, in fact, be a very tactless thing to do.”

“But will you not be suspected if you remain behind? Will no action be taken against you?”

“I? Suspected? In what way? Who could suspect me? Have I done anything whatever calculated to excite mistrust? There has been no one here except Marcel Baradier; he alone knows me.”

“But doubtless he gave you the information by the help of which Hans succeeded in his enterprise.”

“He did certainly give it me, a couple of hours ago. The execution has been concomitant with the revelation, so to speak. By what miracle could I, who have not stirred from here, have informed the one who entered the laboratory, and rid himself of his spy? This latter will not speak, as he is dead! The laboratory will be found ransacked and in disorder. Very good! Have there not taken place to-day, at the works, sufficient events in which several rascals have been implicated, without there being any need to charge me with a deed so much more likely to have been wrought by any of them? If I leave I shall be suspected. Why have I taken to flight? How is it I have left no explanation of my departure? What has become of me? Then, afterwards, what and who am I? Whilst if I remain quietly here with Milona, Marcel returns, finds me serene and calm, and everything is safe. Is the arrangement not a good one?”

Cesare smiled, and, in ironical tones, said—

“Very good, indeed; too good, in fact!”

Sophia frowned.

“What do you mean?”

Drawing near her, with subtle grace, and still bent on adopting gentle means, he said—

“Have you no longer confidence in me, cara? Why are you trying to deceive me?”

“In what way, may I ask?”

“You are not telling me the truth. This is the first time you have played me false, Sophia.”

She bit her lips, and turned slightly pale.

“My dear Cesare, do not ask so many questions. Do as I tell you, as you have always done hitherto. You have never found it a bad policy, have you? Very well, continue as before.”

“No!”

This refusal rang out sharp as a lash.

“Ah! Might I be permitted to know the reasons influencing you?”

“They are the same as yours. You will not come with me on account of this young Marcel Baradier. But it is on that very account that I am bent on your accompanying me.”

“Can you be jealous?”

“I am.”

“That is something quite novel; and I must confess I am greatly surprised!”

“It is diversity of sensations which gives a charm to life!”

“Then you think—”

“That this fair-complexioned young fellow has pleased you more than was agreed upon in our programme. Now, though I was disposed to allow you to practice your wiles on him, in the interests of business, I no longer feel inclined to permit you to flirt with him for art’s sake. The play is over, let us drop the curtain without continuing the love scene in the green-room.”

“You are a very practical lover, Cesare.”

“Did you not know that before?”

“I have been very generous to you.”

“Many thanks.”

“And now I intend to act as I please, and to-day I cannot obey you.”

They looked at one another like two wrestlers about to come to close quarters. Cesare’s eyes sparkled with anger, while Sophia stood there calm, with lowered eyelids, as though unwilling to meet his look. The Italian, with an effort, controlled himself, and speaking with affected gaiety, said—

“Come, cara, let us not quarrel. We have every possible reason to be indulgent with one another; have we not been acquainted so long? Tell me what you have resolved on. I will do all I can to further your wishes. Is it a week’s liberty you want? When that length of time has elapsed will you promise to come to Venice? Mon Dieu! We may well be complaisant with one another. I will imagine I am nothing more than the brother of Madame Vignola, and will bear you no ill-feeling; that I promise. Will that satisfy you?”

She replied with a sigh—

“I do not know.”

“But I must know.”

“How can you be so stupid, Cesare, as to speak to the Baroness Grodsko as you would to any other woman? One would think you had forgotten what she is when some fancy takes possession of her. My poor friend, I am sorry for you; Lichtenbach’s company must have spoiled you. You must stop seeing him; he has turned you into a mere bourgeois!”

“You are jesting with me?”

“No!”

“You refuse to promise to come and rejoin me?”

“When I left Zypiatine, was he ever a source of annoyance to me?”

“Then you confess you wish to leave me?” exclaimed the Italian, pale with anger.

“You will know later, my friend. At present I have not the slightest wish to see you again.”

“Ah! Now you are speaking frankly. Do you forget that we have several secrets in common?”

“No; nor do I forget there is no obligation for you to remember them.”

“That means?”

Sophia raised her eyelids, and flashed a look on Agostini which astonished him.

“It means that if for my own safety your disappearance were necessary, your life would be very cheap.”

“You threaten me with death?”

“Fool! You are well aware that if you breathed a single word calculated to throw light on our enterprises, there are at least five persons who would kill you at once.”

“But the affairs of the association are not your affairs, and you know that I am acquainted with the ones as well as with the others.”

“Listen, Cesare; people like ourselves ought to be agreed in everything we do, if we wish to run no risk of ruin. The slightest discord places us at the mercy of our enemies. We must serve one another with the greatest self-sacrifice. Every selfish demand detracts from the force necessary to common success.”

“Ah! Do you pretend to impose an apathetic indifference on people who live with an intensity a hundred times greater than the rest of mankind? You forget that I love you, and I will submit to no rivalry, Sophia.”

“And how will you compel me to obey your wishes, may I ask?”

“In the simplest manner imaginable. I will inform Marcel Baradier of your life before you gave up your whole existence to international investigations and diplomatic intrigues, and we shall see if his love for you will survive, for instance, an account of the incident of Segovia.”

Sophia turned so pale that Cesare was afraid of the impression he had produced. Grinding her teeth, and stamping about the room like a wild beast at bay, she seized upon the revolver she had taken up on the arrival of Hans, and, levelling it at the head of the Italian, said—

“Ah, you villain; never again shall you betray a single human being!”

With extraordinary agility, Agostini leapt on to her, dashed her arm upwards, so that the shot could not reach him, and pitilessly twisting her beautiful white wrist, he took possession of the revolver, which he calmly placed in his pocket. Then looking resolutely at Sophia, he said—

“Now let the dagger have a turn!”

She fell into a chair.

“You dog! To dare to raise your hand against me! You shall be punished for it.”

“Good! But we cannot lose our time with such nonsense. Can it be admitted that the man the Countess Grodsko has chosen as her companion will submit to being fooled like the veriest ninny? You may hate me if you like, Sophia, but you shall not despise me! This is the first time we have tested our strength against one another, and as you see, I have not been found to be the weaker. Do not recommence the struggle; if you do, I shall treat you without the slightest gallantry?”

Shaking her head, and looking at her bruised hand, she said, submissively—

“You have hurt me, Cesare!”

“Whose fault is it? Upon my word, I believe you were mad, for a moment. You brave me, all for the sake of this young fop! Do you know I am going to kill him?”

“I forbid you!” said Sophia, emphatically.

“I shall be delighted to obey you,” he said gallantly. “There is this difference between us, that I am dominated by respectful attentions towards you, and treat you like a sovereign, whilst you, by your language and your attitude, wish to reduce me to the rank of a lackey! Is that just?”

She made no reply. He walked to and fro for a short time, then drawing nearer said—

“Never have I seen you in such a passion before. What in the world can this young fellow have taught you? For the future I shall not be able to trust you at all, though hitherto I have had the most complete confidence in you! Is it possible that just now you thought of blowing out my brains? Afterwards, what would you have done with my body? Your Marcel would have arrived. He would have found the floor stained with blood, and my corpse lying in the middle of the salon! How would you have explained the matter to him? You see, Sophia, it was a fit of madness which came over you. And all for what? Place in the balance these love-dreams of yours, weigh them against the immense interests in which you have a part, and decide whether the former weigh down the latter? Really, women must at times be mad for one like yourself to give way to such acts of extravagance!”

He gave her a side-long glance as he spoke, but the expression on her face did not appear to satisfy him, so he continued—

“We neither have nor can have strength, unless we support one another. I rely on your beauty, and you ought to be proud of my skill and courage. Wherever we pass, it is your rôle to charm and please, and mine to defend you. Have I ever failed in my duty? When Colonel de Bredmann, last year in Vienna, spoke of you in a manner you considered derogatory, did I hesitate to challenge him the following day, and drive six inches of cold steel through his throat in the Prater? I must confess that you, with charming generosity, enabled me to support the run of ill-luck which always overtook me at the club. Mutual exchange—you, of money; and myself, of respect. Meanwhile, we carried on our affairs. And with what success? Do you remember? Was it not better than quarrelling? Come, Sophia, don’t look so gloomy; I know your feelings are bitter, but don’t let them be more bitter than my own. Diavolo! Wake up and speak. Give me an answer.”

Appearing to shake off the feeling of numbness which had come over her, she once more looked at her reddened fingers, and said, with a strange smile—

“Very well! Order, since it is you who are the master!”

With displeased air, he replied—

“No! Don’t adopt such an attitude! Now you are acting the part of a resigned victim! You must act according to your own free will and pleasure. I think I have proved to your satisfaction that you are turning your back on the right path, and that it is time to turn round. Am I not right?”

“One is never right when one is the stronger!”

“That is a woman’s reply. Well, Sophia, I am very sorry, but I will not assume this advantage of imposing on you any resolution whatever. I leave you free to do as you wish. Stay or go as you like. For my part, I must go; I do not feel inclined to let myself be caught in this house like a fox in a poultry-yard. I will give you ten minutes while you make up your mind and prepare your luggage. I will smoke a cigarette in the garden. Decide your future for yourself.”

He left the room. A flash of hate shone in Sophia’s eyes. She arose, gave a sigh of despair, and then murmured—

“He is right!”

She called for Milona. The servant appeared.

“The trunk at once. We are leaving,” she said briefly.

“Good, madame.”

Sophia sat down before a small desk, took up a sheet of writing-paper edged with black, and wrote—

“My dear Marcel,

“When you return to the villa I shall no longer be here to receive you. My brother, to whom I have been denounced by some person unknown, has arrived in a passion, and is taking me far away. Never try to see me again. Keep the remembrance of my kisses ever fresh in your heart. I am carrying off the delicious flavour of yours on my lips. Good-bye.

“Yours with life-long regret,
“ANETTA.”

Sealing the envelope, she placed it in full view on the table of the salon, and, after looking all around, she went out into the small garden. Cesare was walking to and fro, along the alley, where she had spent so many hours by Marcel’s side. She sighed deeply. But her mind was made up, and she was not a woman to draw back.

“Well?” asked the Italian.

“Well, you have convinced me; I will accompany you.”

“Very good. Now you are yourself again. It was only a momentary weakness which came over you.”

“Indeed, I was mad,” she said, mockingly. “Just think, I was in love with this young Baradier.”

“That I can well understand,” he conceded graciously. “He is a charming young fellow. But everything comes to an end. And since, thanks to this intrigue, you have obtained the result so ardently followed up by Hans, the only thing we can now do is to quit. And that is what you are now doing, with your usual good sense. Just now you surprised me, I must confess, by your resistance. This is the first time I have ever seen you sentimental. This fit of idyllic tenderness seemed quite incomprehensible to me. Now, can you explain to me what has taken place?”

“Oh! It is very simple. In this young Marcel I found a love and affection at once simple and disinterested, quite refreshing. It seemed as though I were in a thirsty desert, and came upon a limpid spring, at which no one had drunk previously. I stopped at the edge, looked into the crystal water, and the reflected image was so different from myself, that I stood there astonished and delighted. I thought I was about to find tranquil rest, and a delightful regeneration, and cease being the Sophia who had gone through so many adventures, to become a simple harmless woman in the eyes of a love-stricken swain. Perhaps my mouth would forget its lying, and my eyes their deceit and fascination! What a dream! And how near realization! What unexpected happiness, ruined in a moment by your reappearance. Ah! I have cursed you, Cesare, and Hans as well! But what can I do, how can I tear myself away from my destiny? It was the height of madness for me to think that a sincere love could unfold in my heart, as though a wild floweret of the open fields could spring up in a marsh! Come, let us think no more of all this. Society shall pay the price of my disillusion!”

“Now you are speaking sensibly. But all you have been telling me is most deplorably romantic. To think of your settling down in a village like the Dame aux Camelias to live on new-laid eggs with Armand Duval! How ridiculous! Ah! Here is Milona with your hat and cloak.”

“Ask the coachman to mount the luggage.”

Sophia, apparently impassive, watched her trunk and bags change position. As Cesare stood at the garden-gate calling her, she looked around for the last time, raised her hands to her lips, and to all she associated with Marcel—green trees, forms on which they had sat, birds that had sung above their heads, sky which had shone on their happiness—she sent a rapid kiss.

“Are you ready?” asked the Italian.

“Here I am.”

“We will not leave by Ars, the town is in too great a commotion. This worthy coachman will drive us to Saint-Savine, where we will take the express for Paris.”

“As you like.”

“Come along, then, quick!”

She mounted the open carriage. Milona took up a position opposite her mistress. A lash of the whip, a sound of bells, and at the turn of the road everything was out of view.

It was four o’clock when Uncle Graff, after arranging for the search for Laforêt, and giving orders for the management of the works, in short arranging for whatever was absolutely pressing, came for his nephew to go with him to the Villa de la Cavée. Baudoin, with a trusty revolver in his pocket, went on in front as a scout. Marcel and his uncle followed, a hundred yards behind. The excitement of the struggle and danger was now past, and they were beginning to examine the position more coolly.

It was not a brilliant one. The boldness and violence of their enemies had been manifested with too few precautions, for the utmost excesses were to be dreaded at their hands in case the struggle were continued. Now, at this moment, they appeared to be on the point of triumph. They had just obtained possession of the scientific treasure, the commercial application of which would assure them an enormous fortune. How exultant they must feel, accordingly! But then, on the other hand, how disconcerted they would be on attempting to utilize the stolen formula! As Marcel had said, to obtain the explosive in its full power, and with its special destructive qualities, a particular manipulation, a twist of the hand, so to speak, discovered by General de Trémont, was necessary. They might try to apply the formula; but if they did not know how to handle the different doses, their hopes would fail of realization. Now the thief-assassin, who had found his way into the laboratory, had carried off the precious document, but would it not remain utterly worthless, like the golden crown in the legend, which changed into a dry leaf?

Uncle Graff was meditating on all this as he walked by Marcel’s side. He said nothing to the young man. What was the use? It was also certain that the villains, bent as they were on obtaining the secret, had already killed two men and set fire to the works to accomplish their object. Granting that they had once more failed, would they not recommence the struggle, and purchase victory at the cost of no matter what sacrifices? Under these conditions there was no drawing back; they must risk much to try and check an offensive return, and not hesitate in case the unknown beauty were an accomplice in the crimes already committed; it must be their object to keep her in view, question her, and if need be, deliver her into the hands of justice in order to try and throw light on this dark and dangerous affair.

They reached the wood, and, the house being no more than a hundred yards distant, Baudoin, who had waited for them, said—

“I will go all round the garden, and bear off in the direction of the wood, so that, if any one tries to escape, I may be able to cut off his retreat.”

“No,” said Marcel. “Let us remain together.”

Just at that moment an old woman appeared before them, dragging a faggot of decayed wood.

She smiled with her toothless mouth, and, stopping to take breath, said—

“Is it the young lady of the villa you want to see? If so—”

“Well?” said Marcel.

“You will not find her here. An hour ago she went away in a cab with all her luggage, in the direction of Sainte-Savine. Cacheu, of the Lion d’Or, drove the cab himself.”

“Gone?” exclaimed Marcel, stupefied.

“So it seems,” said Uncle Graff. “The coup is effected.”

“Impossible!”

“Poor young man! His walks with the young lady were very agreeable,” muttered the old woman.

She shook her head, encircled with a kerchief, accepted the two-franc piece Uncle Graff slipped into her hand, and walked slowly away, in the direction of the town, dragging her faggot along the road.

Marcel had already entered the villa. On the threshold his heart seemed almost to stop beating. The door remained open, as though, in the hurry of flight, they had not had time to close it, or rather, as though she had left nothing behind worth keeping. Crossing the garden, he entered the hall, and called—

“Milona! Anetta!”

No reply came; nothing but silence and darkness. Entering the salon, he saw a letter lying on the table. Tearing it open, he rapidly ran over the contents, sat down to read it once more, finally understood it, and sat there, with bowed head and throbbing brow, as though in the presence of a terrible disaster. There Uncle Graff found him. He had gone over the whole house, and acquired the certainty that it was abandoned. Baudoin was seated in the garden. Seeing his nephew’s anguish and the pallor of his countenance, the old man’s heart melted; he placed his hand affectionately on the young man’s head, softly stroked his hair, and seeing the letter pressed between his passive fingers, asked—

“Has she written to you?”

At these words, simple though they were, his fugitive love seemed almost reinstated in his eyes, as he felt that she had not forgotten him, and Marcel burst into sobs as he silently held out the paper and hid his face in his hands. Uncle Graff drew near the window and read the letter, after which he stood there in a reverie. Marcel, regaining possession of himself to defend the one he loved, finally rose from his seat, and said in supplicating accents—

“Uncle Graff, is this the letter of a woman who lies? Do not her protests appear sincere to you? Has she the faintest complicity in the crimes committed? Do you accuse her of having deceived me? Is she not rather a victim undergoing a rigorous tyranny at the hands of the very monsters who threaten us? This letter, Uncle Graff, this letter—does it not breathe despair in every line? Is it not a confirmation of her love for me?”

“The letter appears to be sincere,” said the old man, calmly. “I cannot but recognize that grief is evident in every word, and that the one who wrote it was evidently acting under compulsion when she left the house. That is a proof that she loves you, and regrets your absence. But is that a proof that she is not guilty, and the accomplice of the rest?”

“Oh, Uncle Graff, do you think it possible?”

“I do, and I am afraid it is so, my dear Marcel, and that would be more serious than anything else, for, if this woman loves you—and how could she help loving you, my dear child, once she knows you—ah, if this woman loves you, my anxiety will become greater than ever. For she might try to see you again, and then—”

A light of hope illumined Marcel’s face.

“Ah, if only that could be!”

“Marcel, you see what grounds I had for fear. At the very thought of seeing her again you at once become radiant with joy. And yet she is a rascal, there is not the slightest doubt of it. I will not dispute her charms, since she has obtained such control over you; but she is very dangerous all the same, for, in short, suppose she were the woman of Vanves?”

“Impossible!”

“Do not say impossible. You know nothing about it. These women, you see, are terrible creatures. In matters like the one now engaging our attention they are a kind of female Proteus, capable of assuming all forms, even the most diverse and disconcerting, to deceive their enemies and allay suspicion. Cosmopolitan adventuresses, living on human folly; spies, on the track of State secrets; corruptresses, sufficiently fascinating to obtain the mastery over all consciences. You are aware that these women are insinuating and of plausible manners, generally very beautiful. And this one—”

“Oh! No, no!”

Uncle Graff insisted authoritatively.

“This one, very clever and dangerous, more dangerous than the rest, even, has played her rôle with you, whilst satisfying her caprice at the same time. Come, Marcel, be reasonable; do not blind yourself. Why was the man of Vanves concealed here? Why have the powders been removed from the laboratory, and why is the house deserted, now that the burglary is accomplished? It is not a mere departure, it is a flight. Consider the rapidity and suddenness of the resolution reached. This morning only she had no thought of it, or, rather, in that case she deceived you, since she said nothing about it, and was to receive you to-night. Crime and duplicity are manifest everywhere. You have been deceived by words of tenderness, whilst the others, her accomplices, were stealing and murdering.”

Marcel gave a movement expressive of anger.

“If only I had the proof of this!”

Uncle Graff looked at him fixedly.

“Well, what would you do?”

“Ah! I would have my revenge, that I swear! All my love would turn into hate. If my heart has been deceived with lying words, I would tear it out of my breast, rather than cherish a poisoned love! If that woman was not a victim, she would be a monster. And, by what I hold most sacred in existence, I would punish her!”

The old man looked at his nephew with considerable satisfaction.

“Oh! Mon Dieu! We don’t ask you to do that! Simply forget her. Above all, make up your mind not to fall into her toils again, if ever you meet her.”

At that moment the door opened, and Baudoin appeared. Holding a book in his hand, he approached mysteriously, and said—

“It is useful to make a thorough search. One can never examine too well.”

He laughed as he spoke and held the book aloft—

“Had I done nothing but cast a careless glance over the lady’s bed-chamber, I should not have found this.”

“What is it?” asked Graff.

“A book—a simple book.”

Marcel took it up, looked at the title, and said—

“Yes, it is a book she has been reading lately.”

“Oh! the book in itself signifies nothing,” said Baudoin. “It had fallen down by the side of the bed nearest the wall. In a hurry of departure she did not see it, and it was left there. But there was something between these leaves.”

Baudoin took between his fingers a piece of paper, and showed it to his masters.

“This envelope, torn in two, and folded to serve as a book-mark. To whom does it belong, if not to the one who has been making use of it? Now on the folded part, there is a line of writing and an address.”

“An address?”

“Look!”

He handed the paper to Marcel, and on the small band, concealed by the folding, the young man read aloud the name: “Madame la Baronne Grodsko.” The bottom of the envelope, on which was doubtless written the street, number and town, had disappeared. On the top, however, a large stamp contained the postmark: “Wien, April 18.”

The rest was effaced.

“Baroness Grodsko,” repeated Marcel. “But her name was Anetta Vignola.”

“Ah!” said Uncle Graff; “these women change their names as easily as their dresses. She has only kept this envelope from the most incredible and imprudent carelessness. And how is it this letter, which came from Vienna a fortnight ago, is now here? It must have been forwarded under another envelope to the name and address she assumed here!”

Baudoin then remarked—

“Perhaps I may be permitted to state that the woman who called on my master on the night of the crime was addressed by him as Baronne—”

Marcel turned pale.

“True,” he murmured, in a low tone. “But what relation is there between Anetta Vignola and the Baroness Grodsko?”

“That is what we must discover, for it is the clue which may guide us through the darkness in which we are now groping. Courage, my child; if this woman is the same who has committed such infamous actions—”

“Ah! Uncle Graff, in that case I should feel no pity whatever for her.”

The uncle shook his nephew’s hand, in sympathetic approval.

“Now, there is nothing more for us to do here. The house has delivered up to us part of its secret. The rest we must seek elsewhere.”

The three men went out into the garden, after carefully closing the doors, and slowly returned to Ars.

CHAPTER II

Lichtenbach was sitting in his study, listening to young Vernot, his broker, who was speaking with the utmost volubility.

“Baradier and Graff will not long be able to maintain their position on the Explosives now. It has already been remarked at the Bourse that they have not reduced their stock. The coming liquidation will be a decisive one; or else they will remain firm; then what a bankruptcy it will be! Or they may sell everything. What a fall that will mean!”

A faint smile came over the banker’s lips.

“I should like to see that!”

“Man Dieu! My dear master, I cannot conceal from you the fact that, in business circles they say it is a duel between the firm of Baradier and Graff and the firm of Lichtenbach. One of the two will go under.”

“I know it; but I have no fear.”

“I have negotiated this affair for you, so I know our mode of action. Hitherto it has been an admirable one. To sum up in a word, you have sold what the Baradiers have bought.”

“Yes, my friend, and I have their money, as they have my vouchers. Now, Vernot, be wideawake as to what is about to happen. The explosives, which are now at their highest price, will rapidly fall to the very lowest.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely certain.”

“Why?”

“Because a rival company is being formed, which is in possession of the patents of a product destined to replace, within a very short time, all the mining powders and other dynamites hitherto employed, and which will cost fifty per cent. less in commerce. What do you say to that?”

“It will be a crushing blow!”

“You are right. Read my journal to-night; it will contain the first article of a series destined to set forth before the world this new discovery. In two months from now I wish to see Baradier and Graff bankrupt!”

“Oh, they have a long purse to draw on,”

“We shall see about that.”

“So now you engage me to sell?”

“From to-morrow sell as fast as you can. There will be a gain of five hundred francs per share. You will see the movement begin. All my personal orders will be executed on foreign Exchanges. Profit by this opportunity.”

“I shall not be likely to forget.”

“Now go. My daughter is expecting me, and I am punctual in my habits.”

“My dear master, many thanks, and my respectful compliments.”

The stockbroker left the room. Lichtenbach did not even rise from his seat to accompany him to the door. He was thinking. From Venice a letter had reached him which, on the one hand, caused him great satisfaction, and, on the other, brought him a certain amount of uneasiness. Sophia Grodsko had written to him: “The war powder is a triumphant success. Experiments made at Spezzia and Trieste have given prodigious results with marine cannons. Plates of Siemens steel a foot thick are pierced like sheets of paper. We have received two million francs, the rest will come afterwards. The affair is big with magnificent results. Things are not progressing so well with the commerce powder. Hans has been at work for the last fortnight at Swalbach with Prunier, from Zurich. He has been disappointed. All the attempts have been unsatisfactory. They have manipulated the product in different manners, but no result has been obtained. The explosive is worth no more than dynamite. True it is not so dear, but we are far from what we hoped, and from what must actually be the case. There must be some secret or other in the fabrication of the powder unknown to us. Hans is trying to find it, and has not abandoned all hopes of doing so. But, up to the present, fiasco. Don’t be discouraged, but thank me for telling you the exact truth. Agostini sends you his best wishes, and informs you that you will shortly receive your brevet of baron.”

Lichtenbach growled.

“Baron! That will be of some use to me, indeed, if this affair fails.”

Rising, he gave a gesture of defiance.

“It will not fail! Hans is a skilful chemist. He will find out the secret. Besides, if need be I will retrace my steps. They will not catch me so easily, altogether unprepared.”

He smiled. His daughter entered the room. She was no longer the little schoolgirl, dressed in the blue convent robe, but an elegant and graceful Parisienne. The banker looked at her with considerable satisfaction.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, father. It was agreed we should start at four o’clock.”

“And where are you taking me?”

“To the Charity Bazaar in favour of the Alsace-Lorraine orphans. You must come.”

“I might have sent a cheque.”

“But I must be there. Madame Sainte-Alix has charge of a stall, along with several of my old school companions. I promised to be there.”

“Well, let us start.”

They set off. The sale took place in the Agricultural Hall of France. All over the walls hung groups of flags, whilst above a verdant groove stood a marble bust representing Alsace, with a mourning sash flung across the breast. The wife of a Deputy from the Vosges, surrounded by a group of ladies belonging to official circles, performed the honours. A large double sofa occupied the middle of the room, between two rows of stalls, in which the most aristocratic families of Alsace and Lorraine were represented by white haired grandmothers who had never been willing to acknowledge the conquest of these two lost provinces, and elegant young ladies, smiling and careless, educated or born in exile, and finding France beautiful, and life pleasant, even though it were passed far from their native soil.

Lichtenbach and Marianne were warmly received immediately they entered the room. Here the financier’s prestige and the influence of the journal proprietor could be exercised in uninterrupted sovereignty. Nothing but smiles on every side. The more republican one’s opinions, the more unctuous was the respect lavished on Lichtenbach, the reactionary. Marianne, timid and anxious, was looking for the stall presided over by Madame Sainte-Alix.

A young attendant, anxious to serve so rich an heiress, placed himself under the young girl’s orders, and Marianne passed through the crowd of buyers and sellers until she reached the stall where her old companions were selling children’s clothing at five times its real value, and that without the slightest difficulty. Geneviève de Trémont, dressed in mourning, presided over the hosiery department. After exchanging a friendly greeting she asked—

“Are you all alone?”

“Oh no. My father has stayed behind for a moment to speak to the wife of a Senator.”

“He is going to leave you here for some time?”

“I do not know. Perhaps it would not be convenient for him to return for me.”

Turning towards the nun presiding at the cash-box, she said—

“Are you pleased with the result of your sales, madame?”

“We have made three thousand francs since noon, my child. But it will soon be five o’clock. In an hour everything will be over. We have still a third of our stock left.”

“Very well. Send me everything you have not sold to-night,” said the young girl, simply.

“Ah, my child, how grateful I feel to you. But what will your father think?”

Mademoiselle Lichtenbach smiled calmly.

“My father? He never opposes my wishes. Besides, I am rich.”

She exhibited a purse full of gold.

“And, if that is not sufficient, papa will make me an advance.”

“Ha, look in front!” said Geneviève de Trémont. “There is Amélie at the stall of Madame Baradier.”

Marianne blushed. She remembered what her father had said regarding their quarrels with the Baradiers and Graffs, and felt considerably embarrassed in consequence. What kind of relations could be set up between these hostile families? Suddenly the smiling face of Marcel Baradier awoke in her memory. The hostility of the parents could not bind the children, since he had so graciously received Lichtenbach’s daughter when she had called at the Rue de Provènce. Turning her eyes in the direction of Geneviève, she recognized the one of whom she was thinking, near the counter where Madame Baradier and Amélie were selling. He smiled as he talked to an old man who was purchasing a porcelain vase of a very ugly pattern. After the bargain was struck he took it from his hands, placed it gaily back again on to the stall, and said, in tones sufficiently loud to be heard by Marianne—

“This is the third time, Uncle Graff, that we have sold it, and it has been left behind. People don’t object to paying for it, but it is so frightful that no one will decide to carry it off.”

The old man put back his purse into his pocket and said—

“Now, where is the stall of Mademoiselle de Trémont?”

“We will go there together. The very thing you want, uncle. Trousseau and baby linen. Indispensable for bachelors!”

“You rogue!”

They crossed the room. Suddenly Marcel became very grave; he had recognized Mademoiselle Lichtenbach. She, too, had seen him approach, and, trembling, had not had the courage to look him in the face. Uncle Graff, with his usual good nature, said—

“Well, Mademoiselle Geneviève, what are you going to sell me? Children’s hoods? How much a dozen?”

“Sixty francs, as it is you, Monsieur Graff. And you can leave them with us if you like.”

“Certainly. It would be too much trouble to carry them all off.”

“What you leave us we will give to the Sainte-Enfance institution. After you have finished, if there is anything which remains one of our friends has promised to buy it up.”

“Who is she?”

“Mademoiselle Marianne Lichtenbach.”

Graff started. His face changed expression, and he said—

“The daughter of—”

As he took a step backwards he heard a gentle voice say—

“On the ground of charity there are no enemies, only competitors as to who shall do the most good.”

“You are quite right, mademoiselle,” replied the old man, with a bow. “And I will immediately put your precept into practice.”

Leaning towards the nun, he asked calmly—

“How much for the contents of the stall?”

“My dear sir,” stammered Madame Sainte-Alix, astonished.

“Is two thousand francs enough?”

“Oh, that’s nothing! I will give four thousand!”

And Count Cesare Agostini, smiling and elegant, appeared by the side of Mademoiselle Lichtenbach.

“Our father has sent me to you, mademoiselle,” he said, with a bow. “He will be here in a moment, and, really, he would not have tolerated that any one should rob you of the honour of your generosity at so moderate a price.”

Glancing around at those present, and recognizing Marcel he affected a joyful surprise.

“Ah! Monsieur Baradier! I am delighted to meet you. We have had a great deal of trouble since last I saw you. I heard all about it on my return to call for my sister. I greatly regretted not being able to stay and tell you how sorry we felt for you. You were so kind and gracious to us in that quiet country place.”

He spoke without the slightest hesitation, and with a boldness which stupefied Marcel. As he looked at Agostini he wondered whether he were not dreaming—whether this calm, phlegmatic person speaking to him at this charity bazaar in the heart of Paris, without even thinking of escape, was indeed the man he suspected of having mystified him at Ars, of being, doubtless, the accomplice of murderers and incendiaries; at the very least in collusion with this enigmatical woman whose memory still filled his heart. He listened with astonishment, and replied—

“And your sister, Madame Vignola?”

“Ah! Poor Anetta!” interrupted Cesare. “She is at Venice, engaged in troublesome family affairs. But she will probably come to Paris this summer to assist at my marriage.”

“Ah! You are about to be married, Count?”

“Yes, M. Lichtenbach has given his consent at last.”

This news of the marriage of Agostini into the Lichtenbach family produced an electric effect. Marcel immediately regained full possession of his faculties.

Looking at the Italian from head to foot, he said ironically—

“Ah! you are about to enter the family of M. Lichtenbach. It was to be, and it would have been a pity could it not have taken place!”

“I do not understand very well,” replied Cesare.

“Yes, you understand perfectly. And if you wish further information ask for it from your sister.”

“These are strange words,” said the Italian, arrogantly.

“Every one does as well as he can; all men have not the privilege of being strange in their actions.”

Agostini was about to reply, and the two men stood threateningly in front of one another, when a hand was laid on the Italian’s arm, and the voice of Mademoiselle Lichtenbach was heard saying—

“Monsieur le Comte, will you come this way, please? My father is looking for you.”

Cesare gave Marcel a defiant glance. Then, turning with flattering humility to the young girl, he said—

“Your slightest wish shall be obeyed, mademoiselle. But I shall see this gentleman again, and—”

“I forbid you!”

“Very good.”

Lichtenbach came up to them. He passed in front of Graff, without appearing to see him.

“What is this they are telling me, Count?” he said, addressing Agostini. “You have been bidding up to four thousand francs for the contents of this stall? What a trifling sum! You must have had some very sorry competitors against you!”

An expression of disdain came over his face as he looked round on Marcel and Uncle Graff.

“Formerly my opponents were more tenacious. The struggle for gold has considerably cooled them down.”

Turning towards the nun he wrote a few lines on a piece of paper, saying—

“Here, madame, is a cheque for ten thousand francs.”

“What shall I give you in return?” asked Madame Sainte-Alix, stupefied.

“Your prayers,” said Elias, humbly.

A group had formed round the stall, and a murmur of approving admiration reached the ears of Lichtenbach. Agostini exclaimed, with emphasis—

“This is a magnificent gift!”

“Come along, my daughter,” said Elias.

Marianne kissed Geneviève de Trémont, and, lowering her head, so as not to see Marcel, followed her father and Agostini. As she passed in front of Graff she heard him say—

“Ten thousand francs’ worth of prayers! At a franc per villainous trick he has committed he loses nothing!”

The old man had not time to further exhibit his bad temper, for Marcel interrupted him—

“Not so loud, Uncle Graff; his daughter might hear you. Poor child; it is not her fault!”

Marianne felt sad at heart, and, more afflicted at the nephew’s humiliating indulgence towards herself than at his uncle’s scorn for her father, she left the room.

Since his return to Paris, Marcel had been restored to the good graces of M. Baradier. Graff’s story of the conflagration at the works, and the rescue effected by his nephew, had touched the old man’s heart. The danger incurred by his brother-in-law, Cardez, and Baudoin, had made him quiver with anxiety; the intervention of his son at the critical moment, when even the bravest among the workmen drew back from the danger, had aroused his enthusiasm. He had taken Marcel in his arms, and said to Madame Baradier and Amélie, who were sitting there in tears—

“You seem quite astonished. Did you think this child, on account of a few silly escapades, was not a fine and brave fellow, after all? For my part I was sure, if the opportunity occurred, he would act as nobly as he has done! It is because I knew what he was capable of that I treated him harshly when he went astray. But, after all, he is a Baradier!”

The same evening, alone with his wife, he said—

“Indeed, I am very well pleased with Marcel. Graff has told me things concerning him which have touched me very much. I am beginning to hope that, once the passion and giddiness of youth is over, he will turn out a remarkable man. All he lacks is a certain amount of order. But that will come in time. He is both intelligent and warm-hearted. Now, it is time he thought of marrying.”

“He is only twenty-five years of age.”

“The very best age imaginable. One’s happiness in life is assured when one finds a good partner and marries young, as I did. What kind of attitude does he show with regard to Geneviève?”

“He treats her like a sister, neither more nor less.”

“Not the slightest sign of flirtation?”

“I believe she has a faint liking for him, but I know nothing about his feelings for her.”

“Ask Amélie a few discreet questions.”

“I will think of it.”

Marcel’s mind was occupied with things entirely different. He thought of everything except marriage. His return home appeared very pleasant, for he was very fond of his parents. Perhaps the exile’s son, more than another, possessed a liking for home. He had so often heard his father and uncle regret the old home at Metz, their friends and customs of former times, that the bonds which attached him to his father’s house were very strong, and when away from them all something essential seemed to be lacking in his life. Doubtless this something was his father’s affectionate chiding and his mother’s consoling smile.

Since his return he spent almost the whole of his time out of the office; went out very little at nights, and worked away at a task known to no one except Uncle Graff. M. Baradier, greatly troubled at the turn of events the Explosives had taken, expressed his anxiety to no one but his partner. Uncle Graff, however, calmly replied—

“We must keep wide-awake, but we need not exaggerate the danger. Everything will come out right in the end, that I am sure of.”

“Eh! Do you expect a miracle?” murmured Baradier. “These Explosives shares continue to go down, in spite of all our efforts. Yesterday there was a rumour out on the Bourse that a patent had just been taken, in Germany, England, and France, by an Englishman named Dalgetty, for some marvellous powder or other superior to dynamite. They go so far as to state that this substance is so manageable and harmless, in spite of its destructive power, that they expect to make use of it for engine power. That would mean the suppression of steam, gas and petroleum. A complete revolution. If a quarter of all this is true we are ruined! Doubtless it is an application of Trémont’s formulæ, and Dalgetty is the dummy of the villains who stole them.”

“Possibly,” murmured Graff, calmly.

“And you can find nothing else to say?” exclaimed Baradier, furiously. “You resign yourself to all this robbery and murder?”

“No; I am simply waiting for the Dalgetty powder in use. It may be the Trémont explosive, but then, on the other hand, it may be something entirely different, and in that case worth nothing at all.”

“But suppose we are ruined in the meantime?”

“We shall obtain the upper hand in the long run.”

“But it is this villain of a Lichtenbach who is leading the campaign against us. This is what I am informed from both London and Brussels.”

“Give him his head. The farther he goes the greater will be his fall.”

“I should like to know the cause of your confidence.”

“It is Marcel, your son, who is stronger in himself, than Trémont, yourself, myself, and all the others. You will see.”

“But, after all, cannot you tell me?”

“No, I will say nothing. Let Dalgetty go ahead, and the shares continue to lower. Above all else, do not sell. He laughs best who laughs last.”

The calm assurance of Uncle Graff had its due impression on Baradier at the time. But afterwards, in his study, in front of his correspondence, which brought him nothing but bad news, fear again took possession of him. He was aware that Marcel was working hard. He saw him start every morning for the laboratory of the Arts-et-Métiers. But what was he engaged in? Doubtless some improvement of the Trémont powder; perhaps simply the exact doses of the products. How could he prove, after all, that he knew the dosing, which was the General’s invention? And Baradier, red and excited, would take up his hat and go out for a walk, to avoid a congestion.

At night, when they were dining, he again saw Marcel in the salon, seated between his mother and sister, or playing the piano with Geneviève de Trémont. He was an excellent musician, this son on whom Nature had lavished such gifts. And Uncle Graff, a passionate melomaniac, lay stretched out in an armchair, listening, in delighted ecstasy, to some lied of Schubert or a concerto by Schumann. He pointed out to Baradier, who had entered the room on tip-toe, the charming picture of these two young people playing duets together, and murmured—

“What a fine couple. She is dark; he is fair. Perfect match. And as their fortune—the General’s powder.”

“Nothing but smoke!” growled Baradier.

“No, it does not give any,” laughed Uncle Graff.

In his partner’s feeling of security, though he was mistrustful enough in business matters, there was a kind of unconsciousness which astonished Baradier. Evidently Marcel was preparing something extraordinary, which Graff was well aware of and which promised to have extraordinary results. But what was it? Besides, with rascals who went about everywhere carrying into action their murderous plans, under the indulgent regard of the Government, was one sure of anything? Accordingly he fumed and raged, but that in itself was something, and kept him occupied.

Baudoin, on his part, had not remained inactive. His first visit had been to Colonel Vallenot. He had found him at the War Office, busily engaged on a question the Minister was to receive from a socialist Deputy, who complained that anarchist journals were not permitted in barracks. How could the people be educated if the soldier were refused the right of knowing why it was his duty to despise his superiors? The good Colonel had bristled up like a wild boar. Only the night before he had been abused by his superior, who, greatly worried, himself, had passed on his ill-temper to the other, and so it descended from grade to grade right down to the concierge. The latter had given a drubbing to his dog, which had been at a loss to understand the reason for this treatment. It was the only difference between the animal and the functionaries.

“What is it you want?” growled Colonel Vallenot to Baudoin, as he saluted. “To see the Minister? Well, you are lucky. If you go in there I will not guarantee your safe exit. And, then, what is it you want to tell him? That the agent he had placed at your disposal has disappeared? It is now three weeks since we heard from him.”

“I have brought you news of him.”

“Ah! What is the matter?”

“He is dead.”

“The deuce! How did that happen!”

“He has been killed.”

“Who has killed him?”

“The same who killed General de Trémont.”

“What was his object?”

“The same as before—to obtain possession of my master’s secrets.”

“Was he successful?”

“Yes.”

“So now he is in possession of the powder formula?”

“He is.”

“Well, this is a fine business. We suspected something of the kind, for we have received notice from abroad that experiments have been made with smokeless powder of extraordinary power.”

“That is the one.”

Colonel Vallenot had forgotten all about the Deputy’s question. He pulled and twisted his moustache furiously. Finally he asked—

“When was poor Laforêt murdered?”

“Nearly a fortnight ago. But it was only later that we had the proof of his death. The poor fellow had been flung into the river, and the current had carried him into a millrace. He remained several days fastened to some piles under water, and it is only just recently that his body mounted to the surface. It was taken out, recognized, and buried as was fitting for an old soldier and an honest man. Now he is lying under the green turf of the cemetery of Ars.”

“And his murderers?”

“Ah, that is what I have come to speak to the Minister about. I know the villains.”

Vallenot sat upright.

“Those spies! You know who they are?”

“And you, also, Colonel, without doubt, for this is not their first attempt. The Minister, before now, has had a crow to pick with them. They are professionals in treason!”

The Colonel rose, and, with changed expression, said—

“Ah! Here, at any rate, is something which will distract him! I will risk entering his room without being summoned. Yes, it is possible such news may restore him to good humour again. Wait for me here.”

Opening a door, he left the room. Baudoin, standing near the mantel-piece, stood there a few minutes ‘attentively listening to the hum of voices which proceeded from the next room; then suddenly the door opened, and a voice called—

“Baudoin!”

The old soldier advanced, and, on reaching the threshold of the study, he saw the Minister standing there, a frown on his face, which was even redder than usual.

“Come in!” he said.

Baudoin entered. The General, who wore a black frock-coat and grey trousers, was striding to and fro. Vallenot stood waiting in the embrasure of the window.

“The Colonel informs me that you have very important news to relate concerning the death of M. de Trémont and my agent.”

“Yes, General.”

“You think you know the rascals who have committed these murders?”

“Yes, General.”

“Tell me all about it.”

“I must ask permission to speak in the presence of no one but yourself. It is a secret which interests the lives of those who are too dear to me to warrant my entrusting it to any other than yourself.”

“Not even to Colonel Vallenot?”

“A secret which belongs to several persons,” said Baudoin, coldly, “is no longer a secret. I will tell it either to the Colonel or to yourself.”

“Very good, my friend, you are right. Will you retire, Colonel Vallenot? This good fellow means no offence. I approve of his thoughtfulness.”

Vallenot smiled and saluted. It was evident he would gladly have stayed. But his chief had given the order. A quarter of an hour later the telephone bell rang. Placing the apparatus to his ear, he heard the Minister call out—

“Bring me File Z, No. 3, from the secret press.”

Vallenot opened a large iron safe, and took out a yellow bundle of papers, which he carried into his chief’s room. Baudoin was standing before the desk, and the General was attentively listening to him. Vallenot withdrew. Another interval for a quarter of an hour, then a fresh ring at the telephone—

“Send me Captain Rimbert, who had charge of the Valance affair.”

Vallenot murmured—

“The deuce! There is something in the wind here!”

Ringing for his office-boy, he gave the order and waited patiently. Half an hour passed, then the study-door opened, and Baudoin, conducted by the General himself, appeared. The latter now appeared satisfied, and said—

“Very good, Baudoin; so it is understood?”

“Yes, General.”

“You will request M. Marcel Baradier to call on me?”

“Yes, General.”

“And if you hear of anything, let me know of it at once.”

“Yes, General.”

“Good day. Come in, Vallenot.”

Baudoin left the room. The Minister returned to his study, where the young Captain Rimbert stood waiting.

“Colonel, will you kindly make out a resumé of the Espurzheim and Vicomte de Fontenailles affairs. I believe we are on the point of laying our hands on this crafty woman who so completely tricked all my predecessors, and mystified myself two years ago. Ah! If I can have my revenge it shall be a complete one!”

“Then we have to deal with the woman who has successively borne the name of Madame Ferranti, with Espurzheim, . . . ” said the Colonel.

“And of Countess de Vervelde, with poor Fontenailles,” added Captain Rimbert.

“And finally of La Ténébreuse,” summed up the Minister.

“Oh! What trouble and money the wretch has cost us without our succeeding in laying hands on her!”

“Well, gentlemen, we will try not to fail this time. Prepare the notes I requested, Colonel. And you, Captain Rimbert, not a word!”

Both Colonel and Captain left the room. The Minister rubbed his hands with satisfaction. Meanwhile Baudoin had made his way along the quays, and reached the Law Courts as four o’clock was striking. Crossing the large entrance hall, he mounted to the second floor, and stopped in front of M. Mayeur’s study. The attendant was an old friend of his, and welcomed him cordially—

“Holloa! you here?” he asked. “Have you come as witness in another affair?”

“No. I simply wish to speak to the magistrate. Is he engaged?”

“Always! Just now it is a gang of oil-painting thieves, who have been overhauling the hotel of a marquis in the Champs-Elysées.”

“Can I speak to him?”

“As soon as he rings, I will tell him you are here. Ah, he is in no amiable mood. He and the attorney seem to be quarrelling all the time!”

The bell rang, a door opened, and three men of slouching gait, regular types of Parisian blackguards devoured by absinthe, advanced, casting sly, searching looks in every direction. But there were neither doors nor windows by which they could gain the open-air, so they quietly continued their route.

The attendant said—

“M. Baudoin, will you come in now? M. Mayeur is disengaged.”

The old soldier entered the study. The registrar looked at him as he passed with a certain amount of curiosity. M. Mayeur smilingly pointed to a chair, placed his papers in order, and, turning to the clerk, said—

“You may go now. Put all the files in order. Goodbye.”

The clerk gave a grimace, which might at will have been taken as a mark of politeness or of insolence, and withdrew. M. Mayeur, doubtless tired of questioning, looked steadily at Baudoin, and invited him to explain himself.

“I undertook, monsieur, to inform you of whatever fresh might happen concerning the Vanves affair. I have come to keep my promise.”

“Has something taken place of a nature to throw light on the affair?”

“A great deal has happened.”

“What?”

“A fire, a murder, and a robbery!”

M. Mayeur’s face lit up.

“And where have these crimes been committed?”

“At Ars, in the Aube.”

The magistrate’s countenance darkened, as though the inner light which had just illumined it had died away. He said—

“In the Aube? That is not within our jurisdiction, and does not concern us.”

“I beg your pardon; it concerns us very much. For the people who have committed these crimes have also the Vanves affair to their credit, and it is for this affair, of which the other is only the consequence, that they are wanted.”

“Then you know them?”

“I do.”

“And you know where to lay hands on them?”

“No. But I can tell you how to do so.”

“So the affair we were so unfortunately obliged to shelve a couple of months ago is about to recommence? Perhaps this time we shall be able to reach a satisfactory conclusion!”

“I maintain without the slightest hesitation that we shall succeed if you will do your duty.”

“I?” exclaimed M. Mayeur, his face purple with agitation. “I! After all the trouble I have had, and the humiliation I have endured.”

He felt that he was giving himself away. The passionate and ardent nature of the man disappeared, and the calm, cold nature of the magistrate resumed sway.

With a sigh, he said—

“Tell me everything in detail.”

Baudoin resumed one by one all the events that had taken place at Ars. He depicted the character of Madame Vignola, and of Agostini, and finally explained the dreaded intervention of Hans. Motionless, the magistrate listened, taking short notes from time to time. The time sped swiftly along, the sun as it sank tinged with a ruddy glow the waters of the Seine, and the veil of darkness had fallen when the magistrate ceased listening, and began to question.

“So this Cesare Agostini is in Paris?”

“M. Graff, M. Marcel’s uncle, has seen him, and M. Marcel has spoken to him. It appears he is engaged to the daughter of M. Lichtenbach, the banker.”

“Lichtenbach? A man in his position, with his fortune and relations? Is it possible?”

“You will see. If you wish to know where Agostini lives, set a watch over Lichtenbach. They are hand and glove with one another.”

“And the woman Vignola?”

“Agostini will take you to her abode. And when you have the Vignola, you come to Hans, and the rest of the accomplices, if there are any. And I believe there is a whole gang of them!”

“And what will M. Marcel Baradier do?”

“Do not trouble about him; he does not wish to appear in the matter. A mere question of scruples!”

“But suppose some attempt is made against him? Does he not wish me to take precautions to assure his safety?”

“No. He is strong enough to protect himself. Besides I am with him.”

“And so was Laforêt.”

“Yes, that is true; still, it is my master’s wish—do not do any more than he asks you to undertake. I think you will be well pleased with the result. That has cost dear enough! But if we can obtain vengeance for the murder of my General and poor Laforêt we shall be quits!”

“Very well,” said the magistrate. “If I need you, M. Baudoin, where can I find you?”

“I am living with my master, M. Baradier.”

“Good. Now that you have been working so well, it is my turn. This gang will find that they have not been mocking at justice with impunity.”

“Ah! This has been going on a considerable time, from what I understand at the War Office.”

“I shall put myself into relations with that Office; we will act in co-operation. Keep your courage up, and have good hopes, M. Baudoin; the affair is about to start afresh.”

Baudoin, conducted to the door by the magistrate, went out into the passage, shook hands with the attendant, and left the building. Returning straight to the Rue de Provènce, he mounted to Marcel’s rooms.

This evening he was seated in a small salon examining with minute care the plan for a machine at which he was working. On seeing Baudoin enter he placed the diagram on the table, looked at his visitor, and said—

“You have just left?”

“Yes, M. Marcel.”

“You have seen the Minister?”

“Yes. At the very first words I uttered he was all attention. He wishes to see you, and affirms that the lady in question is a spy of the most dangerous category, who has had the police on her tracks for the past six years. That woman must have a number of crimes on her conscience.”

“That is not what I asked you,” said Marcel. “Are they going to take measures to keep a watch on Agostini and his companions? If so—”

“The Minister told me that was the business of the Detective Department, and advised me to see Mr. Mayeur. I have just left him. Ah! he will not allow the affair to lag.”

“Good!”

The tinkling of a bell in the yard interrupted the conversation. It was the signal for dinner, which, from time immemorial, had thus been announced every evening, as is the custom in the provinces. Marcel took off his coat, and replaced it by another, after which he made his way to the salon. On entering, his father, Uncle Graff, the two young ladies, and Madame Baradier, were already waiting before passing into the dining-room. More comfort than luxury was evident everywhere; not the slightest sign of ostentation was manifest. Usually, dinner was the time when all the company related the events of the day. This evening one would have thought that nobody wished to speak. All the same, Graff, when the joint was brought on the table, risked the remark—

“The Bourse has been firmer to-day.”

“No great improvement!” growled Baradier.

A deeper silence than before followed. But Uncle Graff had the patience of a Lorraine, and he continued after a while—

“I have received a letter from Cardez, in which he says they have reached the second floor of the new building. The Assurance Company has paid the claim. After all, everything has turned out for the best.”

“Are the workmen quiet now?” asked Madame Baradier.

“Poor creatures! They were sorry for what they had done. But they were not responsible. It was the leaders of the strike! The deuce take them!”

“Have they fixed upon a larger building-site for a new steam-engine?” asked Baradier, who forgot his bad temper as soon as business was on the tapis.

“Father,” interrupted Marcel, “I should advise you to postpone this plan of yours. Something might happen which would cause the system of power employed in the works to be radically changed. Better wait a little.”

“Mere idle fancies and whims! Some wild impracticable invention, I suppose.”

“No,” replied the young man, with warmth. “No idle fancy at all! My dear Geneviève, it would cover your father’s name with glory, for it was he who had the idea of this invention first, and, indeed, if it is realizable, as I believe will be found to be the case, it will bear his name.”

“Then this is something at which you have been working the last month?” asked Baradier, inquisitively.

“The last two years, father. It is on this application of the regulated explosive power of the Trémont powder—you understand, regulated, that is the point—that I have been working with the General. We were on the point of success when he disappeared. But I was in possession of all the plans, sketches, and calculations we made together, and I have continued the work all alone.”

“And you think you have succeeded?”

“I do.”

“And what result will you attain with your machine?”

“A substitute for coal, petroleum, and even electricity, in the production of force. That is to say, the suppression of magazines in war vessels, permitting them to increase to an indefinite extent their sphere of action. There would be no necessity for locomotives to be supplied with a tender, and in all industries coal need only be used for metallurgic and heating purposes.”

“Oh, oh!” said Baradier. “And what will you put in the place of coal, petroleum, and electricity?”

“That, my dear father, is what I will tell you the day the patents have been taken all over the world.”

“When will you take them?”

“To-morrow, if you will advance me the forty thousand francs necessary.”

“I will give you them,” exclaimed Uncle Graff, with warmth. “I have confidence in you.”

“Who says I am not ready to advance the sum myself?” resumed Baradier. “I would do it merely to honour the memory of Trémont.”

“Very good, father; I warrant you have never advanced money at better interest,” said Marcel, joyfully. “It is a discovery calculated to completely change the methods of commerce, and yet it is the simplest thing in the world!”

“Like all good inventions!”

Baradier remained silent for a moment, and then said—

“But the invention of this machine is connected with the discovery of the Trémont powders?”

“Yes, father.”

“And the powders have been stolen?”

A sad smile passed over Marcel’s lips.

“Yes, father, the powders have been stolen. The war powder, for instance, and it is very unfortunate. For the General intended to present France with this marvellous product, which would have assured for our army a supremacy of several years over the other Powers of Europe. Then you know what would have happened; foreigners would have set to work, and either discovered or bought our secret, and equilibrium again have been restored. There will be no superiority for any one, since the formula of the Trémont war-powder will be given by me to-morrow to the War Office. That will establish equality. And if there is war, valour and intelligence will have to undertake the victory. As for the business powder, that is another matter. They may have stolen the formula, even manufactured it themselves, but I defy them to find the means of using it for its destined purpose.”

“There is a secret about it?”

“Yes, which I discovered quite by chance when working with the General. That is the peculiarity of this powder, which, under ordinary conditions, is destructive enough, being ignited by simple friction—in a word, very dangerous to use; but which, employed according to our method, is under perfect control, and regulates its dynamic effects, even to the movement of a pendulum, according to my pleasure.”

All present were listening attentively, thinking of the importance of this discovery, and the wretched fate of its initiator. M. Baradier said—

“To-morrow you shall have your money. If the affair is worth merely the hundredth part of what you claim, Geneviève will be rich and Trémont world-famed.”

“As for the Explosives Company,” added Graff, “it is in a bad way. Lichtenbach is likely to have met his match at last!”

CHAPTER III

It was five months since Marcel had solemnly promised his father to break with his giddy companions, give up his fast life, and no longer set foot in the club, but, instead of all this, to work and obliterate the acts of folly he had previously committed. Scrupulously keeping his word, he withdrew to Ars, and only seldom appeared in Paris. So well had he worked that the result of his efforts were manifest. The Minister, after the conversation he had had with Marcel, had expressed himself to Baradier, concerning the young savant, in such terms that the father was quite disarmed. All these deprivations of rights, which he had patiently submitted to, were now removed, and, not without considerable satisfaction, this fine young fellow of twenty-six years of age had resumed his former habits.

The first time he appeared at the club he had been welcomed with open arms by his companions, young and old alike.

“What has become of you; we have seen nothing of you for several months! Probably you have been travelling?”

Marcel replied that he had indeed been away from Paris, but added that he had been thinking seriously concerning gambling, and had determined to give up baccarat.

“How often have I heard you talk in that way,” said the Baron de Vergins. “All the same, you could not resist the temptation to play if you were in front of the baccarat-table a single quarter of an hour!”

“Come along, then, and you will see.”

They passed into the large room. Beneath the ceiling floated a grey mist of tobacco smoke, like a fog.

On either side of the room was a green table, around which thronged a crowd of sour-visaged punters.

“Ah! You have two baccarat-tables now,” remarked Marcel.

“Yes; it is an innovation. At the one the minimum stake is a louis; at the other, it is ten francs. So that, when a punter has had a run of ill-luck at the large table, he goes to the small one to try and recoup, with the privilege of returning afterwards to the other, to lose once more what he may have won.”

“Very ingenious. A double sieve from which nothing escapes!”

He approached the large table, and his look immediately became fixed. In front of him, dealing the bank, he had just recognized Agostini. Impassive and smiling, a flower at his buttonhole, he gracefully distributed the cards at both tables. He did not see Marcel. With his sing-song voice he called out—

“Cards!”

Marcel, addressing the Baron de Vergins, asked—

“Who is the banker?”

“Count Cesare Agostini.”

“Newly joined the club?”

“For a time. Agreeable fellow, good fencer, and reckless player.”

“Is he lucky?”

“Ah, no. He has very bad luck. Loses more than any one else, in fact.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“He was introduced by the Prince de Cystriano and M. Beltrand. The Agostini family is well known; they are the younger branch of the great Italian family, the dukes of Briviesca.”

“Why do they receive so many foreigners at the club?” asked Marcel, with a displeased air.

“Ah, my dear friend, the club lives on them, so to speak. I know they make themselves as much at home here as at their hotel. It is not very pleasant for us. But what is there to be done? The establishment must be kept going.”

“Has he any relations in Paris?” asked Marcel. “A sister?”

“No; he is unmarried, and has never been seen in the company of a lady.”

Marcel changed the conversation, made an excuse for leaving his companion, and went to the writing-room. Taking up a directory, he found a recent indication, handwritten as follows: “Count Cesare Agostini, 7 Rue du Colisée.” It was something to know this address, though what he wanted was information respecting that mysterious woman, Anetta or Sophia, Madame Vignola or the Baroness Grodsko. What was Agostini to him besides that infinitely charming creature, who had suddenly become metamorphosed into a most dangerous monster. Her brother, really? Her accomplice, without the slightest doubt. That was what he wished to know, and, at the risk of the greatest danger, he was determined to have his doubts removed.

He had taken a seat in a large armchair, the back of which, turned towards the door, almost entirely concealed him. Two members of the club were writing letters. The quiet of this retired spot, the ticking of the timepiece, seemed to numb his faculties. The murmur of distant voices lulled him into a reverie.

Suddenly a quiver ran over him, and he listened attentively. The voice of Agostini had just joined in the conversation.

“I have again lost two thousand louis. With the thousand yesterday, it is quite enough.”

He laughed, and one of his companions said—

“You ought to hold off for a few days, Agostini! It is useless being obstinate against ill-luck.”

“But if I did not play, what should I do? It is my only distraction.”

“That was a beautiful lady, at the opera, to whom you introduced Colonel Derbaut the other night.”

Marcel’s heart seemed to stop beating. He had a presentiment that the woman in question was the one who was engaging his own attention so strongly. He could not hear Agostini’s reply, and the other continued—

“If she is no more than a compatriot of yours, I should be pleased to make her acquaintance.”

Agostini laughed, but made no promise. And Marcel said to himself: “His compatriot? An Italian? It is Anetta, I am sure of it. What is she doing here with this villain? The army once more in danger, for she has made the acquaintance of Colonel Derbaut, a staff-officer.” Meanwhile, he had lost the thread of the conversation, but a second sentence told him all that was necessary—

“Very good! To-night, at the opera?”

“Agreed!”

Silence was restored. The members of the club continued their correspondence. Marcel rose from his seat, sure that he was about to meet the pretended sister of Agostini. She was not in Italy, as the adventurer had had the audacity to tell him at the charity sale. She was in Paris and, without thinking of the past, engaged on some fresh intrigue. Along whatever path she travelled she sowed corruption, infamy, and death.

Suddenly in Marcel’s memory arose the smiling, tender image of Madame Vignola with that bewitching smile, and those clear, limpid eyes. Was it possible that such a creature should be a monster? If so, then one greatly to be dreaded!

How can one help trusting in that exquisite gentleness which pervaded her whole person? And yet, had she not betrayed him? Had she not revealed the presence of the secret documents in the laboratory? And that, too, with marvellous rapidity, and a skill scarcely compatible with honesty. He would have liked to free her from every suspicion which hung over her; but was it possible?

Leaving the club, he returned to the bank, and, entering his father’s study, found his uncle Graff, attentively reading an evening paper. The old man arose on seeing his nephew enter, and, holding the printed sheet out to him, said—

“See here, Marcel, here is an article on this affair of ours. It is a report of a meeting of the Academy of Science, where Professor Marigot read his notice on the Trémont powder.”

Marcel carelessly took the journal. Without even glancing at it, he laid it on the desk.

“Is that all the interest you take in the matter?” exclaimed the uncle. “You are not inquisitive about the effect produced by Marigot’s official communication? Very well, I will tell you what he says. The Globe has given up a whole column to the discovery, which it states is an important one, and it predicts, within a short date, a revolution in the use of motive power. On the other hand, the Panache Blanc, Lichtenbach’s journal, is dead against the invention, which it qualifies as a shamefaced imitation, insinuating that it is simply the Dalgetty process, without the slightest change in the doses of the products.”

“What a brazen falsehood!” Marcel exclaimed, unable to restrain himself.

“Here is something better. At the Bourse a rumour has got abroad that the Explosives Company is in possession of the Trémont patents, and the shares have begun to mount, in spite of the desperate efforts of the bears. Accordingly, our situation is saved, and, on the other hand, that of Lichtenbach seems to be in a terrible pass!”

“You do not expect me to get excited over that?”

“I do not, indeed. But your father, who for the past three months has hardly been able to sleep, is now happy and smiling. He has just gone to Aubervilliers to examine a plot of land, covering seven acres, which has been offered to us, and which would be the very spot for constructing the works necessary. He is especially pleased at owing this result to you. Though not very expansive, he is enthusiastic and warm-hearted, and exceedingly proud to be obliged to confess that you are so gifted. Up to the present, it is Trémont that has been mentioned, but, when it is known that it is you who brought the affair to its completion, and your name is in everybody’s mouth, as soon will be the case, then you will see your father expand.”

Marcel made no reply. He walked to and fro in the study, with so absent-minded an air that Graff exclaimed—

“What a strange fellow you are! And yet you must be well pleased with what I have been telling you. Though you will scarcely listen to me. What is the matter with you?”

The young man shook his head, and, with an attempt at a smile, said—

“There is nothing the matter with me, Uncle Graff. What do you expect me to say?”

“Ah! Perhaps you have no suspicion of the plans Baradier has been forming for you. He explained them to me this very morning. We are going to put Marcel at the head of the works as director. At the same time he shall be one of the managing directors of the Explosives Company we are about to completely reorganize. You see, Marcel, you are about to play a very important rôle in life at twenty-six years of age. And your father added, ‘If he will marry, I shall no longer have anything to wish for. He will have satisfied me in everything.’ What do you think of the idea? I believe he was thinking of Geneviève de Trémont. What will your reply be?”

Marcel replied quietly—

“Nothing whatever, Uncle Graff.”

The old man touched Marcel on the shoulder, and, looking attentively at him, said—

“I do not understand you, Marcel; there is something you are hiding from me. Have you seen the woman of Ars again?”

This time, the young man broke out—

“No, I have not seen her; but I know she is in Paris. I know where I shall see her this evening. Uncle Graff, I intend to have the key to this living enigma.”

“Ah! My child, there is no enigma; she is simply a villain, nothing more! How anxious you make me in still troubling yourself with this woman! Take care! You know how dangerous she and her companions are. Remember the poor General, and this brave fellow killed at Ars. Just inform the police, she will be arrested, and all will be over.”

“If I were certain she were as guilty as you suspect her to be, I would do so. Though it is not very gallant to give up a woman.”

“What! Chivalry with such people?”

“But I have my doubts, Uncle Graff. I cannot make up my mind to condemn her unheard.”

“Yes! In a word, you wish to see her again. Don’t tell me any idle stories; I am not so stupid as to be taken in by them. She still holds you in her power. And you are about to risk being murdered, in some dark corner or other, for the pleasure of being deceived once more by such a traitress.”

“Uncle Graff, no one will kill me at the opera. It is there I rely on seeing her to-night.”

“Are you in earnest?”

“Have you disposed of your orchestra stall?”

“No.”

“Very well, give it to me.”

“Promise me you will do nothing extravagant, and that if this woman wants you to accompany her, you will not do so.”

“No; I cannot promise that. But I will be on my guard all the same. Agostini shall not knock me over like a pigeon.”

“Take a good revolver with you.”

“Certainly.”

“Ah! Mon Dieu! And I was feeling so happy!” groaned the old man. “Suppose you take Baudoin with you?”

“Under no pretext. Be assured, however, I am running no risk this time. Later on, we shall see.”

The arrival of Baradier cut the conversation short. Marcel returned home to dress before dinner.

That evening the Walkyrie was being given at the opera. When Marcel reached his stall, the second act was commencing. The domestic troubles of Wotan, the Scandinavian Jupiter, with Fricka, a real Juno without her peacock, possessed only a slight interest for the young man. Turning round, he leaned his elbow on the back of his stall, and looked about him. Slowly, the boxes began to fill, as though the subscribers had only decided to come at all because they had paid dearly for the privilege. Up above in the amphitheatre was a sea of eager faces turned on to the stage. There was the real amateur and artistic public.

But Marcel was not looking for critical observations as to the musical capacity of the different auditors of a masterly piece, rather for the face of a woman. Nowhere could he catch a glimpse of the beautiful profile of Madame Vignola. Two side boxes on the right of the actors still remained unoccupied. And Marcel, again turning towards the stage, kept a watch on them.

Towards the end of the act the sound of an opening door drew his attention. He saw a light appear in one of the side boxes, then a vague uncertain form appeared in its velvet frame. The door closed again, the background again darkened, and a woman, clothed in white, décolleté, and wearing a necklace of beautiful pearls, came to the front of the box. As her face was turned away from Marcel he could not distinguish her features. Still, what relation could there be between this vigorous brunette and the blonde and languishing Anetta? Strength, where he had found grace. No. This could not be the one.

As the curtain fell amidst a tempest of cheers, and the artists reappeared on the stage to bow their acknowledgments, the lady turned round, in such a way as to face Marcel, who, stupefied, recognized the look of the one he loved. He might have been mistaken in everything else, but not in the languishing look which formed so delightful a contrast with that mocking smile and imperious brow. He examined her attentively, without her being aware that she was observed. But what grief he felt at being obliged to recognize her in such a disguise!

Was not the very fact of this metamorphosis, the most complete of confessionals? Why, if not to disarm curiosity, these changes, in head-dress, in the colour of the hair, and the expression of the face? What was this comedy she was playing, and when? Was it at Ars that she was painted and disguised, or at the opera?

Marcel arose. All around him were leaving their seats. Madame Vignola was no longer in front of the box. Marcel counted the number of boxes. This one was the fourth after the passage. Standing behind a column, he kept watch.

This self-imposed waiting seemed interminable to him. The passers-by irritated him, he replied to a few bows, but avoided shaking hands with any one. Finally, the door of the box opened, and Agostini and an elderly man, wearing the rosette of the Legion d’Honneur, appeared. The count and his companion made their way towards the grand staircase, before Marcel, who had his back turned to them, and disappeared. Then the young man opened the door of the box, and entered.

The spectator was seated on the sofa. Marcel closed the door, and walked up to her. Turning her head, she looked at the intruder, and said, without the faintest agitation—

“You are in the wrong box, sir.”

He replied ironically—

“No, madame, there is no mistake, if I am in the presence of Madame Vignola, unless you are the Baroness Grodsko.”

At these words, the young woman’s face appeared frightfully agitated. Her eyes turned pale, and her lips trembled.

“Whose name is that you have uttered?” she murmured, in unsteady accents.

“Evidently one of your own! So far as I can judge, you change names, according to circumstances, just as you change faces, according to the men you associate with.”

“I do not understand what you mean. Once more I say, you are mistaken, retire.”

“No! I shall wait here till Count Agostini returns. We will have an explanation in his presence. He, at any rate, will not be able to deny his identity. And that will help to establish yours.”

Rising from her seat, and no longer taking the trouble to deny, she said—

“And he will kill you! Wretched man, leave here at once, without a moment’s delay. You do not know what dangers you are running!”

“I know them quite well. General Trémont is dead, Laforêt, the police agent, is dead, and so, doubtless, are many others who have resisted your fancies or intrigues. And if I, too, do not yield, you will try to compass my death also. But, before that happens, I will know who and what you are.”

The woman’s countenance darkened. Raising her beautiful arm, she said in tragic tones—

“Do not attempt it! You will never succeed!”

“Still, I have made a beginning,” he said madly. “Spy—thief—actress; yes, actress even in love!”

She did not appear to have heard the other insults he hurled at her, but from this last one, she recoiled. Blushing, she seized Marcel by the arm, and fixed on him a pair of eyes which seemed to flame with passion.

“No! I have not lied! Don’t believe that of me! Do not accuse me of having been false in love. I did love you! Can you think otherwise? Accuse me of whatever you wish, it matters little to me! We shall never see one another again, you hear!—never see one another again in this world. Therefore, believe what I now swear to you: I loved you; I still love you! I have never loved any one as I have loved you, and that is why I shall never see you again. Do not attempt to understand or to fathom my secrets; they would cause your death. Content yourself with what you know of me, and with the fact that you have not paid for it with your life. Become blind when I pass by your side; deaf, whenever my name is mentioned. Do not enter the darkness in which I am shrouded. Oh! Marcel, my loved one, go away, do not suspect me of having lied to you. Clasped in your arms, your lips pressed against mine, I told the truth, I—”

She stopped. Tears shone in her eyes, and her beautiful arms are flung around Marcel’s neck. He felt himself pressed to her throbbing bosom, the fire of her eyes blinded him, and he shuddered at the contact of that ardent mouth pressed to his own in a delirium of delight. Amid her sighs, he heard the word “Adieu!” and found himself near the door. There, her embrace relaxed, and he stood dazed and maddened in the passage, amidst the spectators who were returning to their seats. Taking up his coat, and staggering along like a man intoxicated, he obeyed his mysterious love, and left the theatre.

He no longer doubted. That cry, “I love you still!” was sincere. She was not lying when she confessed her love. Besides, why had she driven him away from her, if not inspired by the passionate fright of the woman who trembles lest her loved one meet his death. Then it was some strange will, superior to her own, which had compelled her to fascinate him, and which was again controlling her in the performance of some dark, mysterious deed or other! That he was, and must remain, ignorant of.

On reaching the Place de l’Opéra, he felt calmer. The open air did him good. But the memory of those glorious eyes, and that quivering voice, as she held him in her arms, came back to him with painful intensity. Ah! What a woman!

But she was a monster of corruption and depravity. He had told her so without the slightest protest. She was, beyond doubt, an accomplice in several murders; perhaps even that white and delicate hand of hers had itself been stained in blood! She was the secret agent of threatening hostility and venal treason. Her beauty, grace, and intelligence were so many attractions which served to captivate her dupes. Her love was only a means to an end.

A feeling of revolt came over him. He said to himself, “Really, I am too much of a coward. The attraction this woman exercises over me is taking away my moral faculty! At the very moment she appears in such a despicable light before me, I yet love her. And yet, I scarcely know her. She loved me; that is the reason she left me, unwilling as she was to ruin me!” He laughed in a nervous fashion, and thought, “Very soon, I shall be obliged to feel grateful towards her! And yet she is an infamous wretch. Yes; but how beautiful!”

A prey to these contradictory thoughts, he reached the Rue de Provènce, and immediately retired to rest. The following morning, when he awoke, he was astonished to find his uncle Graff at his bedside. It was eight o’clock. He had had a dreamless sleep. The old man, feeling uneasy, had been turning over and over in his bed, and, at daybreak, had not been able to resist the desire of making sure that nothing had happened to Marcel. For some time he had been watching his nephew sleep, and now he wished to question him, but, finding him silent, or evasive in his answers, he abandoned all hope of learning anything just then, and called on Baradier for a cup of coffee. He had left his room, fasting, and was dying of hunger.

The same morning, in Lichtenbach’s study, about ten o’clock, Agostini and Hans were engaged in a tête-à-tête with the banker. Count Cesare was sitting in dreamy attitude, smoking a cigarette. Hans, impassive, was listening to Elias, who was speaking in even a duller voice than usual.

“The situation is certainly serious for you,” he was saying, “but for me it is becoming very grave. Relying on your information, I undertook a bear campaign, which was to place the Explosives Company in my hands, by permitting of my redeeming the shares for a mere trifle. It happens that my closest rivals, and deadly enemies, the firm of Baradier and Graff, have undertaken the counter-part of my operations, and all my efforts to shake them off have been unavailing. Then, I did not understand the causes of their firmness, but now I do. The notice read at the Academy of Science gives me the key to their calculations. They are in possession of the secret you have failed to find. They are in a position to exploit the Trémont powder, and the Dalgetty patent is worth nothing! This is the net result of all your intrigues. You have indeed something to be proud of!”

“What will all this cost you?” asked Agostini, coldly.

“How much will it cost me?” exclaimed the banker, furiously. “Almost all I possess! You seem to look at things in a very philosophical light! It is easy to say to a man one has ruined, ‘How much has it cost you?’ Can I rely on my physical attractions? To have money I must work, and it has been so with me for the past forty years!”

“Come, Lichtenbach,” said Hans, “don’t cry about it. We are aware that you will lose considerably, in case the affair does not succeed. But there will be something left. I will offer you ten million francs for whatever remains, if you like!”

“Stupid rogues as you are!” exclaimed Elias. “You are speaking of what you know nothing about! This filthy affair of yours, managed by such silly dolts, has cost me the labour of half my life, and even more—my pride! For I, who have always had the upper hand of Baradier and Graff, am now at their mercy. Your famous Sophia has, indeed, been brilliant in this matter! A man-eater who has never failed. A flower of rottenness, one need only breathe to be intoxicated, such corrupting ferments does she exhale! A simple young man is given into her hands; a mere child’s-play for her, and here she remains, inactive and powerless, either unable or unwilling to make him give up his secret. Meanwhile, I have been losing all my money. You idiots! You stupid rascals! Will you give me back my money? I know of nothing in the world more despicable than an imbecile bandit! And that is what you are, both of you, and your Sophia into the bargain!”

Hans’ countenance remained unchanged. Agostini, with sombre look, flung away his cigarette, and said—

“There is some truth in what you say, Lichtenbach, so I will overlook your insolent words. But for that, I would have made you pay dearly for what you have just said.”

“Not another word!” growled Lichtenbach. “I defy you!”

“You will be foolish to do so,” continued the Italian. “A Count Cesare Agostini will not receive a gratuitous insult from a Lichtenbach.”

“Gratuitous? Indeed!”

“Come! Peace!” said Hans, in tones of authority. “We are not here to exchange compliments with one another, but to find some solution to the difficulty. It is true the Baroness has failed. We know the reason now, when it is too late. She has been stupid enough to fall in love with this young man, and has only half accomplished her mission. When she led him on to talk confidentially to her, she was afraid that he would despise her later on. To sum up, the coup failed. The young man is now on his guard; he will say nothing more, unless I undertake, as a last resource, to question him. For the present, however, the situation is as follows: We possess an excellent patent, similar, as regards the composition of the powder, to the one taken under the name of Trémont. But we are in ignorance of the trick of working it. Our powder is a brutal explosive. The Trémont powder is graduated in action. There is the real value of the discovery. Under these conditions, Dalgetty could establish a claim, and accuse of counterfeit the exploiters of the Trémont patent, which was taken out after ours. The result—scandal, trial, blackmailing. This is the line we must follow, and it may serve as a means for a settlement.”

“In what way?” asked Lichtenbach, interested.

“By sending a trusty ambassador to Baradier and Graff to offer them terms of peace.”

“They will not accept!”

“How do you know? It all depends on the manner in which the proposal is made; you may have to concede to them both material and moral advantages, in order to reach a fusion of the two affairs.”

“That would mean safety, and even triumph!” exclaimed Lichtenbach. “Just let me get them into my power, and they shall not escape so easily!”

“Then I will rely upon you! Ah! You sly rogue, you have come back to life again.”

“The fact is, the idea of being their dupe was killing me! The whole of my life would have been spent in vain! Ever since I have been in Paris, I have only had one desire—to injure them! Give up this joy! I could not! Whom shall I send them?”

“A priest,” insinuated Agostini.

“The Abbé d’Escayrac, if he would do me this service! Fine idea! He well knows how to lull one’s conscience by moulding a man’s intelligence to his will. But what can we offer Baradier and Graff?”

“Anything you imagine they might decently accept. What will it cost you? Have you not a daughter? She has been carefully brought up, and is of an amiable disposition, so I am told.”

“Well!”

“Offer her to young Baradier, with an enormous dowry. If Sophia were only willing, she would arrange the matter well enough!”

This time, Agostini manifested symptoms of violent discontent. He brought his hand down forcibly on the table, and, looking at the others with murderous eyes, said—

“And what is to become of me in this combination? Are you forgetting that Mademoiselle Lichtenbach is my affianced wife?”

“The engagement can easily be broken,” replied Hans, coldly.

“Do you intend to jest with me?”

“I never jest with any one to no purpose.”

“Then you are seriously thinking of overthrowing all my plans?”

“What use will your plans be to you, if Lichtenbach is ruined? Besides, you silly fellow, do you think Elias is a man likely to trouble himself with you, if you are no longer of any use to him? Already you have gone down several notches in his esteem. If an arrangement has to be made with you, we will offer you money. I know where to find it.”

The handsome Italian laid his hand on his heart.

“And what compensation will be large enough to satisfy me?”

“Ah, ah!” jeered Hans. “We are well aware that your conscience is as tender as it is delicate!”

Lichtenbach, who had remained silent, after hearing the suggestion concerning his daughter, now said—

“A Baradier marry a Lichtenbach! Is it possible? Never would the Graffs and Baradiers consent to such a thing! For my own part, I ought to protest with all my might against such a proposal.”

He remained silent, as though absorbed in thought, and then said slowly—

“Still, my daughter is well worthy of entering such a family. They are honest people, after all! And she is a charming and proud child. If only they would consent! My daughter would be certain of a happy future. She would have a peaceful and tranquil life. These Baradiers are honest and respectable, after all! If they would receive my daughter as their own, they would treat her well, and she would not be the prey of an adventurer! True, I hate them, and wish to do them harm, for all the humiliations they have inflicted on me. But if they would accept my daughter!”

A tear shone on the cheek of this hardened man—a tear more precious than a diamond, for it owed its source to a father’s love. Hans interrupted the scene; he was not a man to understand such tender feelings.

“So you adopt my plan? You will make an attempt at conciliation with our opponents. Offer them what you like, that is your own affair, and if we succeed, we will unite the two patents. You alone carry on the transaction, though, naturally, you reserve us our share. You see, this young Count Cesare might turn out troublesome. Is it agreed upon?”

“Yes.”

Hans and Agostini took their leave. Elias walked to and fro about his study, then he proceeded to his daughter’s room. Marianne was seated near the window overlooking the garden, working. She rose on seeing her father appear. Wearing a blue dressing-gown ornamented with quipure lace, her fair hair tied up in bands, she had about her a kind of virgin gentleness, which caused her father’s heart to swell with love and tenderness. Sitting by her side, he drew her near to himself, and entered into conversation.

“You have now been settled down here some considerable time. Are you satisfied? Is everything progressing as you wish?”

“Yes, father, I should be very ungrateful if I were not satisfied. You let me do whatever I want. But I hope you are well pleased yourself, also.”

“Certainly, little one, and I wish us always to remain so. But, you know, some day we shall be obliged to separate.”

Marianne looked serious; her smile vanished.

“A day in the distant future, father; there is no hurry.”

“You will marry. Would you not like to be married?”

“That will depend on the husband.”

A silence followed. The controller of men felt ill at ease before this child, whose future he had disposed of by calculation. He did not dare speak to her of Agostini, whom he had introduced to her, and praised in her presence only the night before. It was Marianne who took it upon herself to explain the precise situation of things.

“I am rather troubled, I confess, at the favour you accord this young Italian count, and at the way in which you speak to me of him.”

“My dear child!” exclaimed Lichtenbach.

“No! Let me continue,” interrupted Marianne. “Afterwards you may praise your candidate as much as you like. But allow me to speak to you quite freely. Your protegé’s conduct and habits make me uneasy. He does not seem to me frank; he is too polite, and full of compliments. There is something suspicious about this man who is always smiling and flattering. Besides, his voice has no genuine ring about it. His cold, cruel looks belie his handsome face and gentle words. Lastly, dear father, he is a foreigner. Are there no more Frenchmen to marry in France that one should be obliged to look for a fiancé for one’s daughter on the other side of the frontier? He is a count, but I have no ambition in that direction. He does not work, and I should not care to marry any one without business of any kind. Papa, if you wish to please me and consult my tastes, you will choose another suitor. Your daughter is something to you—that you have often given me to understand; you have, perhaps, insisted rather too much on the fact, for I might have formed too good an opinion of myself. Luckily, I am reasonable and modest in my demands. Do not marry me to an idle man, who is also ambitious and wicked. If you want me to be free from anxiety, send away this handsome Italian. He is not the man for me!”

Lichtenbach smiled good-humouredly and said—“Then who is?”

Marianne blushed, but made no reply.

“Ah, ah!” continued Lichtenbach. “So there is a secret, is there? Better tell your father all about it, little one. Have you met some one you like, my dear? Tell me everything; don’t be afraid. You know very well I will do nothing opposed to your wishes. If you do not like Agostini, why did you not tell me so sooner? Come, now, tell me all!”

With downcast head she said—

“No, no! It is useless. I have only one wish—to stay by your side just as I am. I shall be very happy.”

“You are not telling me the truth,” exclaimed Lichtenbach, excitedly. “You must tell me what you mean. Do you imagine there are difficulties in the way? Yes? Of what kind? Is it some one I know?”

“Let us say nothing more on the subject, father,” said Marianne. “I was wrong in introducing the subject. It can be nothing but a painful one for both yourself and myself. You had given me warning. But it was too late. The subject shall never be brought up again between us; that I promise you.”

“You could not speak to me otherwise if it were my greatest enemy. Is it so?”

He did not utter the name of Baradier, but Marianne read it upon his lips. She raised her eyes up to her father’s face, as though to ask pardon from him for what he must consider a kind of treason. She did not, however, find in his countenance that angry and threatening expression she dreaded to see there. He was passive and calm, and sat there for a moment without uttering a word. Then, in accents of great deliberation, he asked—

“We are thinking of Marcel Baradier, are we not? Yes, it must be he. I was wrong to let you visit Geneviève de Trémont. That was very imprudent on my part. However, it cannot be helped now. We must try to arrange matters.”

“Arrange matters!” stammered Marianne.

“Yes, my dear child. We must make an attempt. I would do anything to make you happy.”

“Forget your bitter feelings of the past?”

“I will try to make the Baradiers forget theirs.”

“Oh, father, dear father!”

She flung her arms around his neck with such a burst of joy, that Lichtenbach turned pale with shame. For the first time in his life, he had a very clear impression of the significance of a cowardly action, doubtless, because his victim in this case was his own daughter. At the same time, he felt that the evil deeds of a whole lifetime accumulate, and that, at some time or other, the interest must be paid, in humiliation and suffering. He looked at Marianne tenderly, and said, in accents of sincerity—

“Ah! is it so serious as that? Very well, my child, I will do everything possible to make you happy.”

After kissing her, he returned to his room, ordered his carriage, and drove away to call on the Abbé d’Escayrac.

CHAPTER IV

About five o’clock Madame Baradier had just returned, and was reading in her small salon; her daughter, Amélie, and Geneviève de Trémont were working at the table, chatting pleasantly the while, when the servant entered, and said—

“There is a priest here, who wishes to speak to you, madame.”

Madame Baradier, lady patroness of several charitable institutions, was continually receiving appeals to her generosity. She made no distinction between the clergy and the laity, but received all with equal benevolence. Accordingly, she ordered the visitor to be showed in. The first glance she gave him showed her a fine, intelligent face, the general aspect being rather that of a fashionable and carefully dressed priest. The first words he uttered confirmed this judgment—

“Madame,” said the visitor, “I am the Abbé d’Escayrac, secretary of the Issy establishment, which is under the lofty patronage of the Bishop of Andropolis.”

“Superior of the Absolutionists, unless I am mistaken.”

“You are not mistaken, madame.”

“What can I do for your work, Monsieur l’Abbé?”

“You can do much, madame. But, first of all,”—here the Abbé lowered his voice—“I have information of special importance to communicate to you, and it might be better, if you have no objection, if we were alone.”

“As you please, Monsieur l’Abbé.”

The two girls had been well brought up. On a look from Madame Baradier, they arose, bowed, and left the room.

“You may now speak freely, Monsieur l’Abbé.”

“I am well aware, madame, how you are animated by a sincere Christian fervour,” continued the priest, “and it is on the certainty that all apostolic work must receive your cordial assistance that my mission is based. As you know, we are devoted heart and soul to the service of the poor. Poverty and misery, nay, even vice itself, have an exclusive claim on our interest and attention. To us a criminal is a brother we try to restore to the path of virtue, just as we use our best efforts to save a sick man. In this way a vast amount of misfortune and crime is revealed to us. We are the confidents of the most painful of physical vices, the most lamentable of moral back-slidings. We offer help to all, without exception, and often serve as intermediaries between those who have the power to punish and those who wish to be spared. We are never deaf to repentance, and try to turn it to the advantage of our holy religion.”

He spoke with grave earnestness, and an insinuating voice, turning on one side the obstacles in the way, preparing his ground, and gradually attempting to win over to his side the intelligence of the wife, so as to make of her an ally against the husband. Madame Baradier, astonished at this lengthy introduction, was beginning to wonder what was the meaning of it all, so she asked—

“Is it pecuniary help you want, Monsieur l’Abbé? If so, you will find us very sympathetically disposed towards your work.”

“We shall be very grateful, madame, for whatever you may do for us, but money is not at present the object of my visit. Recently, we have founded in the Var an important establishment, where we propose, in imitation of other powerful religious orders, to open a business establishment. To facilitate our efforts, we have received very important assistance. We are full of gratitude towards those who have helped us, and, the opportunity of doing them a service now offering itself, I, your humble servant, have been appointed to bring to you a message of conciliation from a man who, for many years, has been in a state of hostility with your family, but who now wishes to end his life in concord and peace.”

Madame Baradier, for the last few minutes, had been manifesting serious symptoms of uneasiness. She saw that the interview was assuming a form which did not please her; accordingly, she cut short the speech of the amiable Abbé, and said—

“Will you kindly tell me what you wish, Monsieur l’Abbé? The man’s name will, I believe, explain the affair far better.”

The young priest smiled; and, with the suppliant look of a martyr, he said—

“I am a minister of charity and pardon, madame. The man’s name is M. Lichtenbach.”

“I suspected it.”

“Am I to imagine that his personality will render all understanding impossible, even in the interests of religion?”

“It is not my place to form such a resolution, Monsieur l’Abbé. I cannot forget that there are in this house two men who are alone entitled to reply: my husband and my brother. Permit me to call them.”

“I am at your disposal, madame.”

“No. Monsieur l’Abbé, do not speak so. Whatever happens, be sure that we all rightly appreciate the mission of conciliation you have accepted. We shall not confound the mission with its agent.”

Bowing to the priest, she left the room. The Abbé remained motionless in his armchair, buried in thought. He was fulfilling a mission useful to his order in a double sense. No preoccupation foreign to his religious duties troubled him. He rightly appreciated Elias, but the evangelical spirit would not allow him to neglect the salvation of even the most despicable of men. Had not Christ permitted the kiss of Judas? Did not the Holy Father lave the feet of the filthiest of beggars? Besides, the interests of the Church inspired him. The door opened, and Graff appeared. Coming up to the young Abbé, he bowed—

“My sister, Madame Baradier, has just informed me of your presence, Monsieur l’Abbé. My brother-in-law, Barassin, is busy in the office, and begs to be excused. Besides, I have full permission to act as I think best. Will you explain?”

“Has not Madame Baradier told you?”

“In a few hasty words. You are sent by Lichtenbach? Good! That does not astonish us in the least. So long as he was the stronger, he did us all the harm he could. Now that we have the upper hand, he is trying to stop the game. Let us hear what he wants.”

M. d’Escayrac smiled.

“It is pleasant to talk to you, monsieur; one knows at once where one is going.”

“Very well, Monsieur l’Abbé; since you know, proceed at once to facts.”

“By chance, your firm and that of Lichtenbach have met on the same ground concerning the exploitation of a patent.”

“You call that chance? Good! Good! As for the ‘same ground,’ there is some truth in that, since, in order to obtain the patent in question, they have exploded a house, that of one of our friends; set fire to a manufactory, our own; assassinated two men, and risked killing several others. It is a ‘ground’ sprinkled with blood, Monsieur l’Abbé! But, still, it is that abominable ‘same ground!’”

The priest crossed his hands with an expression of horror.

“Monsieur, I knew nothing of what you are now revealing to me. Were it any one but yourself who were speaking, I should think he had taken leave of his senses. It is impossible that the man, in whose name I am here, should have committed the frightful acts you now reproach him with.”

“Let us understand one another,” replied Uncle Graff, eagerly. “I do not accuse Lichtenbach of having shed blood. He is incapable of it for several reasons, the best of which is that he would not dare to do such a thing. But the patent of which you speak has been obtained by the means I have just informed you of. Monsieur l’Abbé, you have been beguiled into a disagreeable enterprise. Still, in us you have to deal with those who have too much respect for religion for you to need to fear any responsibility. You may explain yourself without any further beating about the bush. Whatever may be said between us will not be repeated. After all, this interview may have some useful result, who knows?”

“I have no doubt whatever of that,” said the Abbé, considerably troubled all the same. “Oh, monsieur, how pleased I am to have to discuss the interests entrusted to my charge with so benevolent a man as yourself! God be praised! If possible, we will bring about a perfect understanding. If only you knew what I myself dread! In very truth, M. Lichtenbach is not so responsible for all that has happened as you suppose. He is not his own master in this matter; he has to deal with powerful personages, who will not lay down their arms, and who, I am afraid, will have recourse to the most extreme measures to obtain the supremacy over you.”

“We have nothing to fear!”

“There are poisoned weapons which will kill even the most invulnerable. Be on your guard, monsieur, against the plots to which your adversaries at bay may have recourse. I speak to you in all sincerity. I was not aware of the past, but I have been terrified at the glimpse into the future that has been permitted me.”

“By whom? Lichtenbach?”

“Oh! He was terrified himself; and begged me to come and speak to you, simply knowing me to be one whose character could offer him sufficient guarantee for discretion. I can assure you that in him you no longer have an enemy to deal with. Of that he is ready to give you whatever proof you wish.”

“He is deceiving you, Monsieur l’Abbé. You have been his dupe, and know him well. What does he want?”

“He proposes the complete fusion of the two enterprises by the exploitation of the two patents. Though the Dalgetty is previous to the Trémont patent, the two discoveries, being almost similar, shall be considered as equal.”

“What is that?” exclaimed Uncle Graff. “Lichtenbach is, indeed, very kind. One is genuine, the other counterfeit. The Trémont patent is the result of work and intelligence; the Dalgetty patent is the result of fraud and theft.”

“My dear sir,” exclaimed the Abbé, uneasily, “official declarations are a guarantee of faith. One cannot go against facts. The Dalgetty was taken out by an English company before the Trémont.”

“And how does that affect us? The Dalgetty has no value; those who have sent you here are well aware of that fact. We have them in our power, I tell you; they can do nothing. Their patent is not worth the money they have spent in taking it out. For months past Lichtenbach and ourselves have been adversaries over the Explosives Company. We hold the right end, that he well knows. He will soon have to undertake a liquidation. And then?”

“He offers to stop his bear operations.”

“He cannot continue them any longer.”

“He will take at half price the shares of the Explosives of which you are the holders, and pay for them at once.”

“I dare say he will; they will rise at a leap to two hundred francs each!”

“He is ready to offer you a pledge of his frank and, henceforth, invariable co-operation. If, in your family, you had a person belonging to his family, if an alliance united your common interests, would you not consider that an absolute guarantee of his sincere cessation of enmity against you?”

Graff turned pale, but succeeded in mastering his emotions, and, wishing to know his opponent’s inmost thoughts, he said—

“Who is the person in question on Lichtenbach’s side?”

“Mademoiselle Marianne, his daughter.”

“And on ours?”

“Your nephew, M. Baradier.”

“So these two would be married, and Baradier, Graff, and Lichtenbach would form one single family.”

“I do not know whether or not you are acquainted with Mademoiselle Lichtenbach. She is a charming young lady, brought up under the loftiest religious influences, and calculated to offer your nephew the most serious guarantees of happiness possible. It would be a joy to us to have contributed to the reconciliation of former enemies, separated by quarrels, which might, doubtless, easily be forgotten in the midst of general satisfaction. Concord and peace instead of enmity; no more fears or threats. One common and complete prosperity! Come, my dear sir, pronounce the words of redemption and hope, make an effort over your pride, and give the world an example of gentleness and charity.”

Graff had silently listened to the priest’s earnest pleading. His bent forehead and closed eyes gave the Abbé d’Escayrac to believe that his words were having their due effect on the old man’s thoughts. There was a moment’s silence. Then the uncle looked the Abbé straight in the face, and, in firm tones, said—

“Monsieur l’Abbé, in the cemetery of Metz, there are Graffs who would leap from their tombs if one of their descendants were to demean himself so far as to marry the daughter of a Lichtenbach!”

“Monsieur!” exclaimed the Abbé in surprise.

“Then you do not know the Baradiers and Graffs, or you would not propose to them an alliance with a Lichtenbach? Do you know who Lichtenbach is? Between Lorraine and Paris, there is not a mile of ground which has not been strewn with French blood, on account of this wretch. A spy, to lead the enemy to victory; food-supplier to the foe; when our troops were dying of hunger, he fattened on war, and enriched himself on treason. He sold his brothers of France—the Jews, who fought in our ranks and died like brave soldiers, double Judas as he was! And after receiving the reward for his treason, he turned Christian, and set about defiling another religion, by the disgusting intransigence of his apostate zeal! There you have a picture of Lichtenbach, Monsieur l’Abbé. Must I now tell you who Graff and Baradier are?”

“Oh, I know well, my dear sir! Your honour and patriotism are universally respected. But what animosity and rancour! Is this what I shall have to tell the one who sent me?”

“Tell him he is an impudent rascal for having charged such a man as yourself with such a mission. Tell him our scorn for him is only equalled by his hatred against us. Assure him we have not the slightest fear. If he wishes to slander us, we will pay him back in the same coin; if he dares to strike us, we will defend ourselves. In the latter case, let him be careful!”

“Monsieur!” said the Abbé, in tones of entreaty. “Reflect? Anger is a bad counsellor.”

“Monsieur l’Abbé, I am perfectly calm. You do not know me. I never give way to passion. If I did, the result would be terrible. But a great deal would be needed to bring about such a state of things!”

“Must I then leave you without obtaining any result? I am well aware that you are exposed to the most terrible dangers.”

“I thank you for warning us. We shall be on our guard.”

“Is that your last word?”

“No, Monsieur l’Abbé. Never has a priest entered this house without taking away, for himself and his work, a testimony of our respectful deference and humble piety.”

Graff took from his pocket a cheque-book, wrote a few words, and, handing the piece of paper to his visitor, said—

“For your poor parishioners, Monsieur l’Abbé.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the priest. “This is princely liberality. I will pray for you, monsieur, with all my heart.”

“Thanks, Monsieur l’Abbé,” said Graff, with a smile. “But pray, above all, for Lichtenbach.”

And, opening the door, he conducted the priest out.

That same evening, about nine o’clock, after dinner, Lichtenbach descended from his brougham, close to the entrance of the Boulevard Maillat. It was a brilliant night, and the groves in the Bois, under the silvery light of the moon, raised their dark masses against the horizon. The banker hurried along, not without some anxiety, for the spot was a deserted one, and a likely haunt of undesirable characters. After walking about a hundred yards, he halted in front of the ivy-covered gate of a villa, and knocked. A few seconds passed, then a small door turned on its hinges, and a woman appeared. It was Milona. Recognizing the banker, she stepped backwards, without uttering a word, and led the way into a garden in front of the house.

“Is madame at home?” asked Elias.

“She is expecting you,” said the Dalmatian, in guttural accents.

“Good. Have the others arrived?”

“Yes; an hour ago.”

They proceeded along a flower-bed, the flowers of which gave out fragrant odours on to the night air. The servant mounted a flight of steps, followed by Lichtenbach. On reaching a dark ante-chamber, Lichtenbach handed his overcoat and hat to Milona, who opened a door, and out of the darkness he passed suddenly into the light of the salon, the windows and curtains of which were hermetically closed. Seated at a table, Hans and Agostini were playing at piquet and drinking grog. On a divan Sophia reclined, in an elegant white deshabillé. The two men scarcely raised their heads on hearing Lichtenbach enter. The Baroness slowly sat upright, nodded graciously, and said—

“Sit down by my side. They are finishing their game. How did you come? I did not hear the wheels of your carriage.”

“I left it near the Porte Maillot.”

“What precautions! Can you not trust your coachman?”

“I trust no one.”

“And suppose some night prowler had struck you to the ground, to teach you not to walk about alone at night in these parts?”

Elias raised the butt-end of a revolver from his pocket, and said—

“I should have been able to speak to him in his own language.”

“I see; then you never travel without an interpreter?”

“I cannot let myself be murdered for a paltry twenty francs; it would be altogether too stupid!”

The conversation was interrupted by an exclamation from Cesare, who, in a passion, threw the cards down on to the table. Hans laughed to himself, and made a rapid calculation on a piece of paper.

“That makes thirty-five louis for you to pay. You have lost fourteen hundred points!”

“It is enough to make one believe in the Evil Eye!” growled the handsome Italian. “Ever since this Marcel Baradier cast his eyes on me, I cannot touch a single card without losing, at no matter what game!”

Glancing angrily in the direction of Sophia, he said—

“This must come to an end!”

“Come, now, peace!” ordered Hans, authoritatively. “What noise you make for nothing at all! What news have you, father money-bags? Has your jesuit d’Escayrac seen our friends?”

“He has. They refuse.”

“Refuse what? Be precise. Your daughter or our affair?”

Elias changed colour, and his eyes flashed. However, neither anger nor chagrin appeared from his voice.

“They refuse both alliance with me and co-operation with you. Everything, in short!”

“Donnerwetter!” growled Hans. “Are they mad?”

“No; they are aware that you have nothing, and they have everything. This they prove by sending us about our business.”

“You take all this very calmly,” exclaimed Count Cesare. “I have seen you less resigned than you now appear.”

“I am not in the habit of fighting windmills. You have tricked me into an absurd and dangerous business; now I am simply leaving it, that is all.”

“Leaving your feathers behind.”

“As you say. But as few as possible. I have already turned round about and effected a counter-operation.”

“You rogue! You will end by earning money, where we lose everything!” replied Agostini, pale with anger.

“If I do so, it is because I am not so stupid as you, who can do nothing but spend it.”

Hans burst into a laugh. As Agostini seemed to be on the point of losing his temper, he laid his hand on his arm, and forced him to keep his seat.

“Old money-bags is right; but we must not act like horses when there is no hay in the rack, and begin to fight. Let us study the situation, and see what can be done. First of all, what does the beauty say? Up to the present she has not spoken a word. Still, she must have an opinion on the matter; we will allow her to give it first.”

The Baroness appeared to awake from a reverie, and she said, in disdainful tones—

“It is not my custom desperately to follow up badly-conceived operations. You know what I have always told you since the Vanves night: that there was an evil spell over the whole affair. You will arrive at no successful end. After all, you have obtained half of what you wanted—the war powder. Follow the example Lichtenbach sets you. Give it up, and pass on to something else.”

“Something else, indeed!” growled Hans. “No, I shall not let go an affair which has cost me so dear. Some one must pay me for the arm I have lost!”

“Well, what plan have you to offer?” asked the Baroness, impatiently.

“You will arrange to strike up a fresh acquaintance with Marcel Baradier. Bring me the young man here one of these evenings. He knows the secret of the manufacture, and he shall either give it up to you of his own free will, or I will undertake to force him to do so.”

Lichtenbach’s hands trembled nervously. Sophia remained impassive.

“Well, what do you say to my proposal?” asked Hans, in jovial tones.

“I will have nothing further to do with the matter!” declared the Baroness.

“Ah! take care!” exclaimed Agostini. “I know why you refuse to help us against young Marcel. You are afraid for him. That is the difficulty.”

“And what if it were so?”

Hans made no reply. He appeared to reflect deeply. Then, with feigned good temper, he said—

“After all, you may be right. In any case, we can do nothing without you.”

Lichtenbach heaved a sigh of satisfaction. The conciliating attitude suddenly assumed by Hans seemed to be full of meaning. Wishing to know what this terrible partner of his really thought, he judged it useful to dissimulate his own ideas.

“Come, we will say nothing more on the matter! What this affair has cost me I will pass through the profit and loss account. Still, it is a pity we could not find that secret trick of manipulation. There was a great deal of money to be earned by it, after all!”

Hans bit his lips, but made no reply; whilst Agostini turned gracefully round to Lichtenbach, and said—

“And my marriage? What is to become of it?”

“What has become of this affair of ours,” replied Elias, roughly, “nothing. The one fell with the other! My fine fellow, you have no longer a prospective dot. I took you with the Trémont powder, and the only powder now left is blinding dust!”

“Ah! You treat me in this way. I may give you reason to repent it!”

“And if I wished, you would not be allowed in France another twenty-four hours. Let us be going,” added Lichtenbach; “it is already late.”

“We will accompany you to the toll-gate, for fear something may happen to you. This quarter is not very safe at nights. Good night, Sophia.”

“Good night.”

She held out her white hand, which her dreaded ally touched with that iron hand of his, covered with a glove.

“May I not stay a few minutes, Sophia?” asked Agostini.

“No,” said the Baroness, emphatically. “Good night!”

Ringing the bell, Milona appeared.

“Show these gentlemen out, Milo.”

Silently they left the house, preceded by the Dalmatian, who held a round lantern to light the way through the sinuous turnings of the path leading to the little ivy-covered door. This she opened, and then disappeared. They proceeded along the Avenue Maillot in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts. Suddenly Hans stopped, and said, in low accents—

“Sophia is tricking us. But things shall not happen as she imagines. I pretended to give way, the better to deceive her. Now this is what we will do. Cesare will send a letter in a disguised hand-writing to young Marcel Baradier, fixing a rendezvous at the Boulevard Maillot about ten o’clock at night. I shall be there to receive him, with others on whom I can rely, and I will undertake to introduce the pigeon into the dovecot. Once there, Sophia must be forced to employ her wiles, whether she will or not. It is the same plan I mentioned just now, and which she refused. The only difference is that I do not ask for her permission before putting it into practice.”

“But suppose Baradier does not come?” said Cesare.

“What? Not come? Can you imagine that he would not come to a rendezvous fixed by the Baroness? He will fly to it at once. And when we have him!”

“What will you do?” asked Lichtenbach, in quivering accents.

“That is my own business. Just trust to me to loosen this young man’s tongue!”

“Violence?”

“A mode of persuasion he cannot resist.”

“And suppose he denounces you on leaving the house?”

“If only he will speak beforehand he will have plenty of time to say what he wishes afterwards.”

Lichtenbach shuddered. He felt that Hans had made up his mind to kill Marcel Baradier, and that the bandit was pursuing a double end: possession of the secret, and revenge for his mutilation.

“For the future,” he said, “I will have nothing more to do with your actions, in which I repudiate all share. I do not wish even to know the result of your attempt. You seem to have gone mad!”

“Ah! don’t think we ever relied on you for anything else than an advance of funds?” said Count Cesare, jeeringly. “To us you have been the hen which laid the golden eggs; now that you have stopped laying, go your own way!”

“No tricks with us, Lichtenbach,” said Hans. “If we succeed, the Dalgetty patent will have its full effect, you know; consequently you will share in the profits. What you say now is only another instance of your hypocrisy; you reject the responsibility, but are willing to accept the profits. Very well, my friend, you shall have them!”

They had reached the spot where Lichtenbach’s carriage stood. Agostini gracefully opened the door, saying—

“Good night, my prince, pleasant dreams!”

Meanwhile, M. Mayeur had acted in accordance with information received from Baudoin and Colonel Vallenot. For a week now he had known the details of Count Cesare’s life. Of very good birth, belonging to an illustrious family, Signor Agostini had been obliged to leave the Italian army after an affair of honour.

Concerning Hans, nothing could be discovered. The Baroness had been tracked, through Agostini, to her rooms in the Boulevard Maillot. The hotel had been let furnished. She lived very quietly, under the name of Madame de Frilas. M. Mayeur had sent an intelligent agent to the Baron Grodsko at Nice, and obtained from him full information concerning her.

Provided with his notes, M. Mayeur had returned to the War Office to communicate them to Colonel Vallenot, and ask of him the result of his personal investigations. Introduced at once into the Minister’s cabinet, the magistrate had seen the results of his examination confirmed by supplementary details. In proportion as light was thrown on the personality of the different actors in the drama, the gravity of the affair became more and more evident. They discovered, beyond the faintest shadow of doubt, that they had to deal with an association of international espionage, which had been working for at least ten years on behalf of foreign governments, probably exploiting them in turn, and betraying them to the profit of one another.

It was possible that the whole of Europe had been duped by these clever rascals. The least false step might alarm the culprits and cause them to disappear! M. Mayeur grew pale at the restraint placed on him. But how was it possible to neglect such imperious political necessities? Colonel Vallenot was the first to speak out clearly on the subject—

“From this moment, General, it is certain we hold the Ténébreuse, as our agents call her. This is the woman of whom I spoke to you at the outset of our investigations some months ago, the one involved in the Cominges, Fontenailles affairs, etc. We have only to order, and she is in our power. Is it possible that we can let her escape?”

“It is these deuced formalists, with their politics!” growled the old chief. “If the matter were in my hands it should not be allowed to linger in this way. These lawyers and quibblers astonish me! I only regain possession of myself when in the midst of my officers. What do you say, Monsieur le Juge?”

At that moment the door opened, and the porter brought a card to Colonel Vallenot. The latter handed it to the Minister, who exclaimed—

“Marcel Baradier! Show him in!”

The young man entered, bowed, and, addressing the General, said—

“I undertook, General, to keep you au courant of anything fresh that might happen. I have come to keep my promise.”

“Very good, my friend, explain.”

“This morning, General, I received this letter.”

He placed on the desk a sheet of paper, which the Minister examined attentively.

“No date, very common paper, an evidently counterfeit handwriting, and no signature. Now let us see what it says: ‘If you wish to see once more the one who still loves you, go to-night, at ten o’clock, to the Place de l’Etoile, at the corner of the Avenue Hoche. A carriage will be stationed there. Enter it, the coachman will ask no questions, and will take you where you are expected.’”

“Good. The classic mode of procedure, except that you are not asked to submit to having your eyes bandaged. What have you made up your mind to do?”

“I shall go to the rendezvous.”

“Ah, ah! Without the slightest apprehension?”

“That is another matter, General. All the same, I shall go. I am determined to have the solution to this enigma.”

The magistrate interrupted him in gentle tones—

“Permit me to remark, monsieur, that this resolution of yours is an exceedingly imprudent one. Ninety-nine chances to a hundred they are attempting to entrap you. Do not add to our trouble by exposing yourself to danger for an uncertain result.”

“If it is she who has written to me, I have nothing to fear.”

“The deuce!” exclaimed the General. “You are very affirmative!”

Marcel replied gently—

“You may have concerning this woman whatever opinion your information has permitted you to form. False with the others, she was truthful to me. She betrayed the rest. To me she has been faithful and devoted.”

“Listen!” exclaimed the General. “He is convinced of the truth of what he says. She persuades each and every one of them that she is sincere, and they all believe her!”

“I will run the risk!”

The old soldier brought down his fist on to the desk—

“Well, you are a brave fellow! I like this obstinacy, Vallenot. The deuce take me if I would not have done the same thing at his age. Well, it is understood, go to the rendezvous. But we, too, shall take precautionary measures to protect and defend you, if necessary.”

“Oh! General, do nothing whatever, please! The slightest intervention would ruin everything! If it is really Sophia who has written the letter, I have no need of an escort or protection of any kind. If it is a trap, those who have prepared it have their eyes open, and will notice all your preparations.”

“Do you know where the lady lives?” asked the magistrate.

“No, sir; as you see, no address is given in the letter.”

M. Mayeur then said in measured tones—

“My dear sir, your reasons are not bad ones at all. True, I have recommended you to be prudent, but if you will go to the rendezvous, go. Still, as we must always look at things from a practical standpoint, what result do you expect to obtain?”

“Monsieur,” said Marcel, gravely; “General de Trémont was my friend; his death has not been avenged. Our works have been fired; my uncle Graff, my servant, and myself were almost burnt alive. This crime has not been punished, any more than the assassination of Laforêt. I intend to throw light on all these facts, though it be at the peril of my life.”

“Very good, sir, all I can do is to wish you good luck.”

Marcel bowed and shook hands with the three men.

“He is a true Baradier! But he is too venturesome!”

As soon as the door was closed, M. Mayeur rose from his seat, exclaiming—.

“Here is an opportunity, General, to seize all these rascals at once. Of course, you know as well as I do that it is their object to entice M. Baradier into the house in the Boulevard Maillot, and there force him to give up his secret. Just now you said that these villains must be induced to resist, and then massacred. Without going to that extremity, we have now an opportunity of simplifying the whole proceedings.”

“But you promised Marcel you would not interfere!” said Colonel Vallenot.

“I don’t intend to interfere. He shall do as he likes. But I cannot take no interest in these preparations, nor will I, like young Baradier, be chivalrous with bandits. This is my plan: The rendezvous is for ten o’clock. You know the situation of the Boulevard Maillot; there is a ditch separating it from the Bois de Boulogne. A splendid hiding-place to hide a posse of police entering by the wood. I know a detective officer who is as intelligent as he is determined. I shall give him instructions to post himself there, and keep watch. In case M. Baradier is right, and there is nothing to fear, my men will simply have passed a night in the open-air. If he is mistaken then the danger will be a real one. You heard him say that he would be armed and ready to defend himself. At the first cry or shot my men will invade the house. If they are threatened they resist, if they are struck they will fire. Whether diplomacy wishes or not, if the villains are caught in the act the matter must take its course.”

“Whatever happens, do not let young Baradier be killed, and above all try to lay hands on the woman.”

“What do you think of the plan, General?”

The old soldier looked at the magistrate, then at Vallenot. He noticed the impassive countenance of the latter, and replied—

“You need not ask for my advice. All these judicial operations are out of my province. Act as you think best; I have nothing to say.”

The magistrate shook his head, with a mocking smile; then, taking up his hat, he said—

“Ah, I know what you mean! So long as the affair is not over, no one wishes to have anything to do with it. If it succeeds, then I shall be the only one to be left out of it all. But that matters little. It is my duty, and I will not hesitate. Your servant, General.”

And he left the room accompanied by Colonel Vallenot.

CHAPTER V

It was about half-past nine, and Uncle Graff had dined in the Rue de Provènce as usual. Baudoin approached him, and whispered in his ear—

“Two ladies have called, and one of them wishes to speak to M. Marcel.”

“What kind of a woman is she?” asked the uncle.

“A very respectable-looking person, sir. The other must be a governess or a lady’s maid.”

“Where are they?”

“In the ante-chamber.”

“Turn on the electricity in my room, and show them in.”

Baudoin did as he was ordered. Uncle Graff continued his descent, murmuring to himself—

“Another of Marcel’s escapades! I wonder what it is this time.”

On approaching his room he saw, standing by the door, a young lady dressed in black, and wearing a veil. Uncle Graff’s first impression was a favourable one. Pointing to a seat, he said kindly—

“My nephew, madame, is not at home. Cannot I—”

He was not allowed to finish the sentence. The young lady said in beseeching tones—

“Monsieur, it is a question of life or death.”

“For whom?” asked Uncle Graff, anxiously.

“For your nephew!”

“How have you been informed of this? And who are you?”

The visitor replied immediately—

“I am Mademoiselle Lichtenbach, monsieur, and I place myself entirely at your disposal.”

As she spoke she removed her veil. Uncle Graff, stupefied, recognized the daughter of his enemy. She was pale and trembling, but resolute.

“Who has sent you?” he asked.

“My father! He thought that if he came himself, perhaps you would not receive him. At this very moment, perhaps, your nephew is running the most serious danger. My father, who has just received news of it, begged me to come and tell you.”

“But how did he receive his information?” asked Graff, suspiciously.

“Ah, monsieur! begin by taking the necessary measures to help M. Marcel,” said Marianne, eagerly. “Afterwards you may ask what questions you please.”

“At whose hands lies the peril?”

“At the hands of the same band which killed General de Trémont. My father has been informed of these intrigues. Act without losing a moment.”

“But what can we do?” exclaimed Uncle Graff, carried away by the young lady’s eagerness.

“I will explain to you. Wait a moment.”

Passing her hand over her forehead, she said in piteous accents—

“Yes, that was it. A woman he knew at Ars.”

“The Italian?”

“Yes, doubtless. He loved her, and they knew he would be pleased to see her again.”

She paused. The pallor of her face increased. What she was relating seemed to torture her.

“So they wrote to him to fix a rendezvous. And they are expecting him this very evening, in a solitary out-of-the-way house. But he will not find the one he expects to meet, but, instead, a band of villains, determined to employ the most violent measures to force him to reveal a secret that they cannot fathom. Now do you understand?”

“Yes. ‘Where is this house?”

“See, here is the address written on this piece of paper.”

Graff read—

“Boulevard Maillot, 16 bis. And you say that he was expected there about ten o’clock?”

As though in obedience to his words, the timepiece struck the hour at the very instant.

Graff rang the bell. Baudoin appeared.

“Quick, Baudoin, a carriage! You will accompany me. Have you a good revolver?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then bring it with you. Do not say a word to any one. I will rejoin you in the yard. Ten o’clock! We will be there, all the same, and if they have harmed the child, let them beware!”

Baudoin had already left the room. Marianne, motionless, watched Uncle Graff make his preparations. He took up a bundle of bank-notes, a revolver, and a heavy steel-headed stick. Then he appeared to remember that Mademoiselle Lichtenbach was in the room. Coming up to her, he said kindly—

“My child, I thank you for the service.”

“Oh, monsieur!” exclaimed Marianne, her eyes gleaming with suppressed tears; “save him, that is the main thing!”

“He shall be informed, mademoiselle, of what you have risked for his sake. I know what this errand must have cost you.”

Marianne smiled sadly.

“I am returning to-morrow to the convent, doubtless for ever. Life is full of sadness and pain.”

Graff waited no longer, but rushed out into the street, as the brougham of Mademoiselle Lichtenbach vanished in the distance. Baudoin was standing near the cab. Graff leapt into the carriage and said—

“To the Porte Maillot! You, Baudoin, mount with me. I want to speak to you.”

Marcel had never felt so calm as on the evening he made his way towards the Place de l’Etoile.

When he entered the carriage it immediately started off along the Avenue de la Grande-Armée, wheeled round at the Porte Maillot, and, after a two minutes’ further run, came to a halt in a dark-looking avenue, near a garden gate. Marcel stepped out, and the carriage disappeared. A small door, hidden in the ivy, was now opened, and a valet in livery appeared. Marcel followed him in the direction of a house which raised its sombre mass in front. A single light shone from a window on the first floor. Mounting a flight of steps, he entered an ante-chamber. Suddenly an exclamation was heard in the next apartment, a rapid step was heard, a door overhung with tapestry was flung open, and Sophia, her face convulsed by the violence of her emotion, appeared. Her looks expressed the terror she felt, but not a word did she utter. Taking Marcel by the wrist, she drew him into the room she had just left—a bedroom—quickly turned the key in the lock, bolted another door, and, seizing the young man in her arms, whispered in his ear—

“Wretched man that you are! How did you come here?”

At the same time, and without appearing to be able to help herself, her lips sought Marcel’s neck, and she kissed him with a delirious rapture.

“Then it was not you who summoned me?”

“I! Grand Dieu! I would give ten years of my life if you were anywhere but in this house at this moment. Ah! the wretches! They have deceived me!”

“Who are the wretches you speak of?” asked Marcel, firmly.

“Ah! Do not question me! I cannot, must not, speak!”

“Are you jesting?” said Marcel, ironically.

“Poor child! You do not know them!”

“Madame, is your brother among them?”

She laid her hands on his mouth, those beautiful white hands, and he remained silent. Then, clasping him to her breast with passionate ardour, her eyes filled with tears—she stammered out—

“Oh! Marcel, Marcel!”

A sudden pallor came over her; she clung to him to prevent herself from falling, and her shapely head, with its wealth of raven hair, lay on the shoulder of the one she loved with hopeless passion.

A sharp knock on the door brought them back to the reality of life.

“Listen!” said Sophia.

She drew near the door, asked a short question in a foreign language, and received an immediate reply. Apparently reassured, she opened the door, saying to Marcel—

“It is Milo.”

Milona entered, and the door was carefully closed again.

“Have they sent you?” asked Sophia.

“Yes, mistress.”

“What do they want?”

“To come to an understanding with you.”

“I shall not go.”

“They have provided for that contingency.”

“Well?”

“They have told me to repeat to you their demands from the young master.”

“Silence! I do not wish him to know them!”

“Would you rather they mount the stairs and kill him?”

A deep silence followed. Sophia twisted about her arms, and groaned in despair. Her beautiful features were convulsed by powerless rage and exasperated dismay. Grinding her teeth, she flew to the mantel-piece, seized a short, sharp dagger, which she brandished aloft with a terrible skill.

“Milo, you will not abandon me?”

“Never! I will die for you, that you know well!”

“Marcel is armed; so we are three! Oh! I will defend him with my last breath!”

“Against them?” said Milona. “Can you hope to do such a thing? It would be impossible to resist them. They are all waiting below, in the dining-room, ready for anything!”

“Oh! Mon Dieu! How mad I am! Do I not know them? Oh! Marcel, why did you place yourself at their mercy?”

Flinging her poniard on to the ground, she sat down, overcome with emotion, buried her head in her hands, and burst into tears. Marcel, turning to the Dalmatian, asked, in calm accents—

“Tell me, in a word, what it is they want from me?”

Milona cast a questioning glance at her mistress. As Sophia made no sign, the servant explained—

“They want the famous secret, which will give value to the powder they stole from you!”

Marcel smiled, and then frowned in disdain.

“Ah! that is what is puzzling them. I am glad to know that they have not succeeded in discovering what they were so interested in knowing. Milona, you may tell them that they will never learn it from me!”

“We shall see about that before long!” exclaimed Agostini, passionately, from behind the door.

“Ah! you are listening, you villain?” said Marcel, in vibrating tones. “I am very pleased to know it, for such a procedure simplifies things considerably! Tell your acolytes that I am not afraid of them; I have in my hand a revolver which will answer for the lives of six men. If they like, I will open the door, and the dance shall begin.”

“Take time for reflection!” replied a deep, guttural voice—that of Hans. “Do not do anything stupid!”

“Who is that?” asked Marcel. “He does not appear so stupid as the others.”

“One would think you know us!” railed the bandit. “Patience! We will give you half an hour in which to decide. If, within thirty minutes, you have not given us satisfaction, I will undertake to make you speak. The night is damp—there is a good fire below!”

Steps were now heard descending the staircase. Milona silently left the room, and Marcel and Sophia remained alone. The time-piece pointed to ten minutes past ten.

“You heard them,” said Sophia. “Now you know what they propose to do. They want your secret.”

“Very well! I have told them they shall not have it!”

Looking at the young woman, he saw that a shudder came over her. Laying his hand on her shoulder, he added—

“But I wish to know yours.”

“Mine?” exclaimed the young woman, with a terrified gesture.

“Yes! Who and what are you?”

She smiled sadly.

“A broken-hearted woman who loves you!”

“Empty words! You say you love me. The only proof of this confession I ask for is that you be sincere with me.”

Hiding her face in her hands, she exclaimed—

“Never! You would hate me if I told you!”

“Then it is true that you are the most abominable creature on earth?”

“Oh! my darling, do not insult me!”

“You will not speak? Then I will ask your accomplices downstairs. I imagine it will be a pleasure to them to give me information about you.”

He started towards the door. She leapt forward. “Madman! You do not know the danger you are running! Stay here by my side.”

He looked steadily into her eyes, and asked again—“Who are you?”

She groaned.

“Why are you so pitiless?”

“If you do not speak, it is because you are well aware that my scorn for you would be so great, that nothing but disgust would remain in my memory from this past happiness!”

She stood up, and proudly answered—

“Poor Marcel, you are mistaken—you would still love me. If I pleased, nothing could withdraw you from me!”

She looked at him as she spoke, and under the influence of her glance Marcel felt all his resolutions melt away, a feeling of languor came over him, and he lost the faculty of will-power.

“Death is all around us,” she whispered. “Let us forget everything. Do not think any more, my love—leave your poor tortured heart in peace.”

Suddenly a sound of footsteps was heard throughout the house, and cries coming from outside. Then came a sound as though a door had been torn from its hinges, followed by a revolver-shot. At the same time was heard a voice, which Marcel knew well.

“Help! Baudoin, help!”

Then another shot, followed by a volley of oaths. Marcel, on his feet, exclaimed—

“It is my uncle Graff! Mon Dieu! They are killing him!”

“Stay here, do not stir!” said Sophia, in beseeching tones.

He made no reply, but rushed forward into the corridor, found the staircase, and, in the semi-darkness, saw in the hall, on the ground floor, a group of three men, in a hand-to-hand conflict with Graff, who, half-stifled, and encircled by their arms, was trying in vain to make use of his revolver. In front of the entrance-door Hans and Baudoin were engaged in a fierce struggle. The brave servant had his forehead gashed open, and the blood was flowing freely, but he had obtained a firm hold on his terrible opponent, and succeeded in holding him harmless for the moment.

Standing above the balustrade, Marcel took aim at one of the three men who were strangling his uncle. A flash followed, and the man fell. At the same moment a shot was heard behind Marcel, and a ball whizzed past his ear. Turning round, he found himself face to face with Agostini, who was preparing to repeat the shot. With a sudden blow he dashed aside the weapon, seized the Italian by the waist, and, his strength doubled by the fury and rage which now possessed him, raised him in the air, and flung him over the rails of the staircase.

At this exploit, Hans, powerless to strike Marcel, who was descending the steps four at a time, gave a howl of fury. He shook Baudoin with such energy that he forced him to abandon his hold. Then he placed him under his knee, and his iron arm was already raised to deal the deathblow, when Marcel rushed to the rescue with a terrible blow in the body, which hurled the colossus to the ground. He immediately rose to his feet, however, and, taking up a position in a corner, shouted out aloud—

“Help! Here, you others! Help!”

But the others had by this time too much to do. The police, attracted by the firing, invaded the house. Uncle Graff, at liberty, now came up with his revolver. But Baudoin, in hoarse tones, exclaimed—

“Monsieur Graff, leave him to me—he is mine! It is he who killed my General!”

He then took from the old man’s hand his steel-headed stick, disdaining a firearm, which would have made the combat unequal, and fell upon Hans. The bandit swore frightfully on seeing that all was lost; he struck a blow with his iron fist, but Baudoin lightly stepped aside. Then the stick whizzed through the air, and the steel head descended. Hans, struck on the temple, rolled over the flag-stones, and fell like an ox to the ground. This was a signal for a general rout. The three men who still resisted now leapt through the open windows, and vanished like shadows into the garden.

“All escape is cut off; do not trouble about them,” exclaimed the head detective. “Let us see after the wounded and the dead.”

Uncle Graff wished to take Marcel into his arms, question him, and assure himself that he was safe and sound; but, on turning round, he found Baudoin wiping away with his handkerchief the blood and perspiration flowing from his forehead. Marcel, as soon as the issue of the struggle left no room for doubt, had immediately thought of Sophia. Now that danger for him had disappeared, it loomed forth with a terrible aspect for her. The police, who had restored the situation by intervening to save him, would now appear on the scene for her ruin. He mounted the stairs more quickly than he had descended, for he felt that the time in which anything could be done was short indeed.

Rushing into the room, the door of which was still open, he drew the bolts on Sophia with as much fear and solicitude as she had drawn them on himself. She had remained standing, leaning pensively against the mantelpiece, as though devoid of interest in what was taking place on the floor beneath. Milona stood by her side; she had doubtless told her of the defeat of her companions. Marcel, in terrified ardour, rushed up to her.

“The house is in the hands of the police, do you not know? Why are you still here?”

“I was waiting for you,” replied Sophia, calmly. “But it means ruin to you!”

“How does that affect you?”

“I will not consent to it! I cannot endure the idea that you should suffer threatenings and torture for having defended me.”

A light came into Sophia’s face.

“Then will you still allow me to see you?”

He replied, firmly—

“Impossible! After what has taken place between us, I must never see you again! I cannot, I must not! For your own sake!”

Her tranquil, careless look returned.

“Then leave me to my fate!”

“No! I will not do that! You, ruined on my account, when— Will you torture my thoughts by the frightful memory of the past?”

“Oh, Marcel, if I could only please you! If you would only love me! How dearly I would pay you for such happiness!”

She smiled. Tears filled her eyes, and she looked so beautiful that a shudder ran through his whole body. Turning aside, he said—

“Wretched woman! what will become of you?”

She showed him a ring, the bezel of which was made of a bead of chased gold.

“Look at this bead of gold; it contains liberty and death at the same time. Pour its contents into a glass of water, and all is over, without suffering.”

She stretched out her hand towards a tray containing a bowl of water and a glass.

“I forbid you!” cried Marcel, dismayed.

She looked at him with a terrible intensity, whilst her face shone with superhuman ardour.

“Nothing without you!” she said. “Everything with you! Decide!”

“Impossible!”

With a sorrowful smile, she continued—

“Reflect! You know what I am. If you wish, I will live, but only to be yours. I will come whenever you want me, and will not trouble you in any way. Oh! every expiation and sacrifice, every grief and pain imaginable, to be yours once more!”

Steps were heard mounting the staircase. Marcel, terror-struck, said—

“They are coming! They will take you! If you wish to save your life, leave the room at once!”

“Let them come! They will only take me if I am willing. I have nothing to fear from any other than yourself. Do you wish me to live? Swear that you will see me again!”

At that supreme moment the pale faces of General de Trémont and poor Laforêt, of Agostini, dead, and Hans, lying on the blood-stained stone, rose before Marcel’s imagination, and an insurmountable horror came over him. He bent his head without a word. A slight noise of something touching glass caused him to look up. He saw Sophia drinking the poison. Rushing up, he dashed from her hands the empty glass. Smiling, she said—

“Too late!”

“Open! Open!” exclaimed several voices behind the door.

Sophia found sufficient strength to say—

“Open now, Milona!”

The Dalmatian obeyed. A veil came over Sophia’s eyes, her cheeks turned deadly pale. Milona, terrified, fell to the ground, her dark, dishevelled hair falling round her face like a funeral veil.

“Where is the woman?” shouted M. Mayeur from the staircase, as he came on the scene, panting and triumphant. “She has not been allowed to escape, I hope!”

He appeared, accompanied by Graff, and stood, as though petrified, on the threshold.

Marcel, pointing to Sophia, who had just breathed her last, said—

“Here she is!”

The Ténébreuse, ever elusive, had this time taken refuge in the darkness of eternal night.

CHAPTER VI

The affray of the Boulevard Maillot was prudently passed over as a drama founded on jealousy. Two men quarrelling over a woman, and the rivals killing one another over the corpse of the fair one—such was the account furnished to the reporters. Imagination did the rest. Paris dwelt with passionate interest for twelve hours on this magnificent butchery, the horrors of which were described all the better from the fact that no one had been admitted to see them. M. Mayeur alone made a complete search all over the house, but discovered nothing calculated to throw any light on the identity of Hans. Neither the anthropometric service nor the most experienced detectives could find out the slightest indication as to the mysterious personality of the dreaded bandit. Certainly he was the same man whose arm had been carried off at Vanves, when he had appeared there with Sophia, on the evening the General’s house had been destroyed. But what was he besides? The international police, on being questioned, said nothing. Either they knew nothing, or were unwilling to give information.

Sophia and Agostini were identified. The Princes of Briviesca undertook to inform the magistrate concerning the one member of their family they were well pleased to see themselves rid of. Count Grodsko could relate nothing more than he had already told to the agent who had questioned him at Monte Carlo. The examining magistrate enraged at finding nothing, thought for a moment of bringing a charge against Lichtenbach. He summoned him to his study, questioned him, and tried to obtain from Baradier and Graff revelations concerning him. But the former would not impeach, as was expected, their old enemy. Rivalry in business affairs, quibbles in banking relations, but nothing legally guilty. If a charge could be brought on these heads, then they would be obliged to surround the Place de la Bourse, from twelve to three every day, and arrest all who were raising those frightful cries beneath its columns. Besides, the highest circles had immediately interceded in favour of Lichtenbach, and the examining magistrate saw at once that he was on a wrong track. Accordingly, this time the Vanves affair was definitely shelved, and classed amongst the legal mysteries of the year.

But though these tragic events were not destined to have any material consequences for Lichtenbach, serious moral results rapidly followed. Within a week following the death of Agostini and Sophia, Mademoiselle Lichtenbach entered the Convent des Augustines of the Rue Saint Jacques. She had had a two-hours’ conversation with her father. Pale, but determined, she was seen to leave her father’s study. Elias followed her, trembling, and with bowed head, tears streaming down his cheeks. On the landing he tried to stop his daughter, and stretched out his hands beseechingly as he stammered—

“My child, do not be inexorable; have pity on me!”

Marianne bowed her head as she replied—

“I wish I could, father; but how will you redeem the past?”

Without turning round, she descended the stone staircase, at the foot of which the carriage was waiting to conduct her to the Rue Saint Jacques. A moan of pain escaped the old man’s lips as he leaned over the iron balustrade. For a moment he seemed as though he would fling himself over. Then he cried out in heart-piercing accents—

“Marianne! Marianne!”

She raised her head. Stretching out his hands, he groaned—

“You are the only one I have left in the world! Will you forget your father?”

The young girl shook her head sadly, but did not give in. What terrible explanation could have taken place between father and daughter? What had Lichtenbach been forced to confess, for Marianne to show herself so inexorable? She made the sign of the cross, as though to strengthen her fainting heart. The pallor of her face increased, though she replied in firm accents—

“I shall not forget you, father. I will pray for you.”

She mounted the carriage, a rolling of wheels was heard, then followed a long silence. Lichtenbach returned slowly to his room, and sank down in a reverie.

All the same, he did not give up business. On the contrary, he seemed to show a greater ardour than before for finance. His position on the Explosives settled, he regained the ground he had lost by a formidable campaign on gold mines. Never had his speculations been more brilliant or lucky than they were during the six months following his daughter’s departure. One would have thought that his grief had brought him good fortune, for everything succeeded which he undertook. All the same, nothing seemed to give him pleasure, and he changed greatly in physique. No longer could he mount the steps of the Bourse without halting for breath. Society had no further attractions for him.

One winter evening, the valet de chambre, as he entered his master’s room, found Elias leaning over his desk, apparently asleep. Calling him by name, he received no reply. Terrified, he drew nearer, and touched his master. The banker remained motionless, whilst his hand clasped a short letter from his daughter. The few words he had been reading were still moist with the tears he had shed. He was dead, a victim to the only sentiment by which he had ever been vulnerable; the love of a father.

Six months later, at twilight, in the study of the Rue de Provènce, Uncle Graff and Marcel were seated together. After signing all the letters for the evening’s post, Baradier had retired to his own room.

The darkness gradually deepened, and uncle and nephew, seated in their armchairs, without a word, looked like vague, uncertain silhouettes. The clerks had all left, and silence reigned around.

“Are you asleep, Uncle Graff?” asked Marcel.

“No; I was just thinking.”

“What about?”

“About all that has happened the past twelve months. It is no mere trifle!”

“No, indeed. And what is the result of your reflections?”

“That we have had the most extraordinary luck; we had to deal with enemies who seemed destined to triumph over us time after time; and that we have manifestly been protected by a divine providence.”

“Uncle Graff, you are rather illogical; extraordinary luck on the one hand, and divine providence on the other. They do not go very well together.”

“Oh, you are too sceptical. It is your generation which makes you so. You no longer believe in anything.”

“I do not believe in chance, no!” said Marcel, ironically. Then he added, in tones of sudden gravity, “But I believe in the firm, steadfast will of human beings. If we have been protected, as you say truly enough, it is because it was so willed. But for that—”

Silence followed. The darkness had now become complete.

“It was so willed,” repeated Uncle Graff. “You are alluding to that woman?”

“I am alluding to ‘that woman.’ It was she who defeated the plans of her acolytes, and saved me.”

“Because she loved you?”

“Because she loved me.”

“Well, then, tell me what passed between you for a woman of this stamp to sacrifice herself for a man she first intended to dupe, and afterwards to rob. For you cannot doubt the fact that she had plans concerning you?”

“I am quite aware of the fact.”

“She had had considerable experience in life, and yet—”

“And yet she fell in love with a young man like myself. Well, probably because I was a change from all her other acquaintances. A cup of milk to a drunken man, for instance.”

“And she killed herself for your sake, under your very eyes?”

“Yes, Uncle Graff, because I would not promise to see her again.”

“And yet you loved her?”

“I both loved and hated her. Had I seen her again she would have obtained renewed dominion over me and ruined me. I determined it should not be so.”

Uncle Graff sighed—

“And do you sometimes think of this woman?”

“Always.”

“Do you know what you ought to do now, if you wish to turn over a new leaf?”

“I know very well, my father spoke to me yesterday. And it is doubtless because I received his overtures coolly, that you are now returning to the same subject.”

“You are right, my child. If you would only marry, now that you are reasonable and settled in life.”

“Marry Geneviève de Trémont?”

“Yes. She is the wife your father and mother have always intended for you. It would give them great pleasure, if you would marry her.”

After a moment’s silence, Marcel said—

“When Mademoiselle Lichtenbach came to warn you that a snare had been set for me, was she excited?”

“Greatly excited.”

“And you thought, when you saw her, that this extraordinary emotion was caused by some special interest she took in myself. At any rate, you said so to me.”

“Certainly. I promised I would tell you. Besides, the child pleased me. She was anything but commonplace. And her determination the following morning confirmed the good opinion I had formed of her.”

“Her resolve to enter the convent?”

“You are right.”

“In a word, then, Mademoiselle Lichtenbach has abjured the world for my sake. This child will have been recompensed for her devoted tenderness by the loss of everything happy and pleasant life had in store for her; and she is now destined to die poor; wearing a nun’s robe, with shorn hair, attending to the wants of the destitute?”

“Yes.”

“Uncle Graff, in your opinion, are children responsible for the misdeeds of their parents?”

The old man did not reply.

“You do not reply,” urged Marcel. “My question troubles you?”

“It troubles me greatly. One day, in this very room, I told an envoy of Lichtenbach’s, who made us an offer of the hand of his daughter for you, that all the Graffs would rise in their graves if a Baradier were to marry a Lichtenbach.”

“What!” exclaimed Marcel, greatly agitated. “Such an offer has been made, and you never informed me of it?”

“What would have been the use? You know how we felt just then for me to have given such an emphatic and stupid reply. Your father—Oh! I believe he would have preferred to see you in your grave rather than married to a Lichtenbach. Just think of it! The General had just been killed—the works were still in flames! No, no! It was impossible.”

“But now, Uncle Graff?”

“What! Can you think of such a thing?” asked the sentimental old fellow, in trembling accents.

“I think of it so much,” said Marcel, firmly, “that if Mademoiselle Lichtenbach does not consent to become my wife I will never marry another.”

At that moment a slight sound was heard, and the door closed.

“Who is there?” asked Graff, eagerly.

“Do not excite yourself,” said the voice of Baradier.

“Were you listening?”

“No; I have just come. But I heard your last words. How long are you going to remain in this darkness?”

At the same moment he turned on the electric light. The three men looked at one another for a moment; they were very grave and serious, but a look of contentment was visible on their countenances. Baradier did not bow his head with that obstinate mien his son and brother-in-law knew so well. He was perfectly self-possessed. Sitting down at his desk, he said—

“What difference would there be between us and mere nobodies or good-for-nothings if we were incapable of showing gratitude? It is not sufficient to appear honest and delicate in the eyes of the world—one must be without the slightest reproach before one’s own conscience.”

He fixed on his son a look of perfect satisfaction, though his face paled with the emotion which had taken possession of him.

“Marcel has spoken like a real Baradier or Graff. We must do as he has said.”

At these simple words the three men quivered, consecrating as they did their successor with the worthy renown of his predecessors. Tears of joy and pride shone in his uncle’s eyes. Marcel, without a word, flung himself into his father’s arms.

THE END

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