"No, no; Monsieur need not give himself the trouble. No wine." After a time a faint colour came back to him. With an effort his muscles reasserted themselves, and he pulled himself together. But he kept his eyes fixedly on the floor, and spoke rapidly, though almost inaudibly. "Monsieur, five years ago I was a chemist in Paris--Rue Flaubert--and, my faith, what a charming shop! Sophie, my dear wife, was there, and the little one, an adorable little one of four years. Ah, how I loved them--how happy we were! Monsieur, that she-devil of a Madame commanded that Paris should be terrorized by bombs. She wished for a revolution. Close by my little shop a bomb was thrown one night. It burst. Oh, most terrible name of names! Shall I ever forget the bursting of that hell-bomb? It killed my Sophie and my dear little Therese." His voice broke with a dry sob. "They were buried in the ruins of our happy home. I lived; conceive to yourself, Monsieur, I lived. Yes," his voice rose, "to destroy those who destroyed them."
Rouge flung up his arms with a theatrical gesture of despair, and paced hurriedly to and fro. Aldean did not speak. He did not know what to say in the face of such grief.
"Yes, Monsieur, I lived to plot vengeance. I was ill long, long. When I was again myself; I was not myself--not Emile Durand, but Monsieur Rouge, the Anarchist, as you see me now. I joined the Brotherhood, I took the oath. I used my knowledge of chemistry to invent explosives. I wormed myself into their confidence, their counsels, their secrets. Now I am the friend of that she-devil. Figure to yourself, Monsieur, the dear friend of Madame. I make the bombs; I place them. I work, work, work--not for them, but for myself. They shall all die to-morrow."
"Good Lord!" cried Aldean, in horror. "Do you intend, then, to blow them up?"
With an insane light in his eyes Rouge turned on him.
"Monsieur seeks to know what I care not to tell. Holy blue! I know when to be silent. To you I speak of Monsieur Mallow; to him I have related the story of Emile Durand, and he knows that Emile Durand will rescue him. But Rouge--ha ha!"--he broke into a peal of laughter not good to hear, "he will not rescue Madame, or Monsieur the doctor. No, no, not death in life for the innocent, but death in life for her. Ah! ha! it will be a pretty sight."
Frankly speaking, after the first natural feeling of horror, Jim did not care two straws if the Anarchists were blown to atoms or not. On the whole, he considered that some such wholesale destruction might be beneficial. It would assuredly rid the world of a lot of these pestilential wretches, and frighten the others. Moreover, there was something ironically just in their being hoist on their own petard.
"But about Monsieur Mallow?" he observed.
"I shall save him," replied Rouge. "He is in a little room on the top, with a skylight window on the slope of the roof. In the next house I have a room, with a little window, too, through which I can climb. Behold, Monsieur, I take a rope, well strong, and to its end I fasten a stone. I climb on the roof opposite to my window, and throw the stone at the skylight on the slanting roof. Crash! It falls in, and Monsieur Mallow will knot it to his bed. Then he will climb up, like the little cat, along the slanting roof and round its corner, until he slips into my window. Then I will lead him down the stairs to the door, to the street. There you will be, Monsieur, and receive this unfortunate."
The plan of escape appealed to Aldean as simple and skilful and safe enough. Forgetting their relative positions, he sprang to his feet, and shook Rouge heartily by both hands.