It was whilst engaged in sounding for ore, in land which did not contain the slightest trace of it, that M. Reverend, chief engineer, unexpectedly discovered the alkaline and chalybeate waters, rivalling those of Plombieres and of Aix. But, after all, Ars is too near Paris for patients to have confidence in the healing virtues of its springs. It is frequented only by people of limited income, and hotel-keepers who are not in the habit of fleecing travellers. Near the forest of Bossicant, close by, a few villas, almost lost amid the trees, are every year placed at the disposal of wealthy invalids. These are modest-looking, quiet houses, offering their peace-loving guests nothing but the smiling solitudes of the forest. The weaving and spinning mills belonging to Messrs. Baradier and Graff are situated on the Barse, the rapid current of which turns the dynamos, which supply both light and motive-power. The private residence is separated from the works by a large court-yard and a beautiful garden. The road to Vandoeuvre passes in front of the house, whilst, on the other side of the road, through meadows in which large numbers of cattle are grazing all the year round, runs the railroad, past Chaumont, right to the German frontier. Ars is an important working centre. The quarries and mines give work to a large proportion of the male population.
Two hundred men, a hundred women, and a large number of children are employed at the works of Baradier and Graff. The manager of the establishment, M. Cardez, is a native of Lorraine, who came from Metz with his masters. He had married at Ars, and was now a widower with two grown-up sons, devoted to duty, and kind towards his workmen, but of a taciturn disposition, and ruling with almost military discipline. One of his sons is in the Army, the other assistant-manager in the works at La Barre.
A very good fellow, on the whole, whom Marcel Baradier, from his childhood, had been in the disrespectful habit of calling “the bear.” The “bear” and Marcel could never understand one another. There was the same distance between them as between Pascal, the inventor of the wheel-barrow, and the workman whose duty it was to roll it along the highway. Marcel likes Cardez well enough, though he is fond of poking fun at him. Cardez is very respectful towards the son of his master, though he deplores his light-heartedness and frivolity. The two might live together for years without the slightest affinity being manifested between them. As Marcel says, with a smile, the one is negative, the other positive. Cardez is none too glad at Marcel settling down at the works, for his presence is a cause of trouble for the workmen. The master’s son is too ready to listen to their complaints, and discipline suffers in consequence. The military order no longer reigns, and Cardez, more bearish than ever, never ceases railing at what he calls “the encouragement given to the rebellious instincts of the workmen.”
Marcel’s researches in the colouring of cloth leave the director sceptical. He considers there is no necessity to change a system which has succeeded so well for so many years. A dye-shed always seemed useless to him. The raw thread, which brought so ready a sale, was quite sufficient for their requirements. All these new inventions, costing so dear, only served, in his mind, to introduce an element of trouble into the working of a business already prosperous. The laboratory at the end of the garden, in an isolated pavilion, was the object of raillery on the part of the director, who called it “the Capernaum.”
Since Marcel had come to settle at Ars, contrary to his usual habit, he scarcely ever appeared at the works. He shut himself up in the “Capernaum,” or went off in search of recreation, with a gun and his dog, into the forest of Bossicant. Baradier and Graff owned two hundred acres of waste land, very picturesque, and abounding in game. Certain of the uplands of Bossicant remind one of Scotland, in point of wild, picturesque view, dry, arid heather, and the clear freshness of the invigorating air.
Half-way down the hollow rose a villa, in the form of a chalet, buried in the trees—a red spot in the midst of so much surrounding verdure. It was gloomy and silent, and almost always uninhabited, by reason of its distance from the town, and proximity to the wood. One morning, as he passed by this villa, Marcel was surprised to see that the shutters were down, and that a servant was busily sweeping in front of the door. She was rather elegantly dressed, and appeared to be a stranger in the district, doubtless attending to some invalid who had come to effect a cure. Marcel was not inquisitive, and went his way.
It was three o’clock when he reached the plain, which he began to cross with careless steps. The movements of his dog, however, drew his attention. He slipped a couple of cartridges into his gun, and mounted to the side of the slope. After a moment’s interval, on climbing the opposite bank, Marcel saw a rabbit bent on reaching the open. He took aim, pulled the trigger, and the rabbit rolled over to the foot of the descent. The dog was not far away; he seized the dead animal by the back, and brought him to his master.
Marcel relieved the dog, placed the game in a light bag he carried over his shoulder, uncocked his gun, and, considering that he had done enough damage for the time being, sat down on the sand, at the foot of a fir tree, and looked dreamily away at the distant forests in the east. A delightful torpor, induced by the dull silence of the woods, took possession of his body, whilst his more active thoughts, as though freed from all material bond, began to dwell on his past life. He saw again the house in the Rue de Provènce, in which his father and his uncle Graff had quarrelled so often about him; and his mother’s salon, where Amélie, seated near Mademoiselle de Trémont, dressed in deep black, was quietly working.
Suddenly his reveries were interrupted by a bark of his dog. The pattering step of some animal or other made him turn his head, and there, close by, he saw a small terrier, no larger than his two fists, a silk ribbon tied in a knot round his neck, advancing in his direction. A little farther away, a woman, dressed in black, slowly followed. He had no time to examine the newcomer, for the little dog, with a furious yelp, leaped towards the other, with the unthinking audacity of a rat attacking a tiger. A gentle voice exclaimed, “Bob!” It was of no use. Marcel’s dog stood up against his tiny adversary, and rolled him over into the dust.
“Bob! Oh, Mon Dieu!” exclaimed his mistress, anxiously, as she rushed to the spot.