“Had he been content with the profession of a banker, or the business of a cotton manufacturer, nothing of what is now being prepared would have happened; he would have lived a happy, quiet life. But he has dabbled in chemistry, and that has spoiled everything.”
The sun had sunk behind the hill, and the small room was quite dark. Sophia and Cesare could no longer distinguish one another. At last the young woman arose from her seat, and said—
“Come, we have had sufficient philosophy. What does all that prove? They are nothing but mere words. Fortune does not come to those who speak, but to those who act.”
CHAPTER II
After Baudoin had been a fortnight at the works, he was astonished to find that Marcel had passed from a state of perfect calm to one of extreme agitation. The young man, who spent the greater part of his time in the summer-house, either working or indulging in day-dreams, had suddenly begun to leave the laboratory after lunch, and did not return before night set in. A more significant fact was that Marcel’s appearance had changed as well as his habits. Instead of a country costume—soft felt hat and heavy shoes—a quiet, refined elegance now characterized him. The expression of his countenance, too, was far different from the one he had assumed previously; his eyes shone more brightly, even his voice sounded more vibrating. Baudoin thought, “There is a woman at the bottom of all this.”
He had had experience when with the General de Trémont, and was well acquainted with that tension of the nerves which enters into the slightest movements. He knew the meaning of that satisfied little humming and that firm step on the floor, of conquering though feverish sound. There was a woman at the bottom of it, without the slightest doubt. Baudoin felt anxious. In that quiet country district, how had his master found the opportunity of falling into a passion? He instituted a discreet inquiry.
He had made the acquaintance of the landlord of the Golden Lion, the principal hotel of Ars, a former cook, who had served in the Army, and proudly wore at his buttonhole, on Sundays, a blue and yellow ribbon, brought from Tonkin. Whilst drinking a bitter, Baudoin chatted with him, and listened to all the local gossip he retailed. He questioned him: Were there any strangers in the district? Did his hotel contain any fresh arrivals? Had any fair ladies been seen lately in the town?
All these questions received categoric replies. No one staying with him or anywhere in Ars could be suspected by any stretch of imagination of having disturbed Marcel’s peace of mind. The only thing to do was to make inquiries in the outskirts.
“A young gentleman and a young lady,” said the landlord, “are staying at the Villa de la Cavée. But they are in mourning, and never visit the town, but live in very retired fashion. They have hired carriages on three occasions, for driving in the environs. The young lady has never shown herself at Ars, and I could not say whether she is pretty or ugly. My coachman, who drove them, said that they look very sad, and speak very politely to one another. He thinks they are brother and sister. At any rate, they are not French.”