“I did.”
“I congratulate you. Now, the rascals who have killed your master, believing themselves sure of impunity, will recommence—”
“I am relying on their doing so!”
“But! Marcel? My son! What is to become of him? Have you even thought of such a thing?”
“I have thought of nothing else. Here I am free. If you will allow me, I will leave Paris this very night, and be at Ars about midnight. The news of the affair being abandoned will not appear in the journals for a couple of days. I shall have organized my surveillance by that time. I promise you nothing shall happen to M. Marcel, or, at any rate, they will have to begin with me.”
“Very reassuring!” growled Baradier. “But what can one do with such a madman as my son? He is in danger everywhere. Ah, the cursed powder! What need had Trémont to tell him of his inventions? If this explosive is as dangerous to those against whom it is used as it is to its inventors, there will be fine butcheries the next war.”
Baudoin philosophically paid no heed to these paternal recriminations.
He understood how correct they were, but could he do more than devote himself to the defence of him who might at any time, be so gravely threatened? When M. Baradier finally sat down, in consternation, Graff decided to speak in his turn.
“After all,” he said, “as the wine is drawn, we must drink it. The thing to guard against is not to poison one’s self with it. Forewarned is forearmed. The situation is not the same as it was for the General. With a little prudence it will be easy to make everything turn out right. Patience brings all things about.”
“Have you finished with your proverbs, which have no meaning whatever?” exclaimed Baradier, exasperated by his brother-in-law’s optimism. “Without so much palaver, all that is needed is to give Baudoin permission to summon the police in case he sees anything suspicious in Marcel’s surroundings. For my part, I have more confidence in armed might than in providence.”