“Ah, the wretches!” exclaimed the young man. “They have set the place on fire! And Uncle Graff? Mon Dieu! if only he is safe and sound!”
Young and vigorous, spurred on by fear and anger, he ran along faster than ever. A mass of onlookers was standing in the street, kept in check by the police. Marcel rushed through them like a bullet and entered the yard, perspiring and out of breath. Workmen were manipulating the fire-engine belonging to the works. On seeing their master’s son arrive they exclaimed eagerly—
“Ah, M. Marcel! You have come at last!”
“How did the fire happen?” exclaimed the young man panting for breath.
No one replied. They were two hundred; he was alone. All the same he exclaimed, in angry tones—
“So it is you, rascals, you who have set fire to the works which afforded you your only means of livelihood?”
They protested noisily.
“No, M. Marcel, we did not do it! We set forth our demands, but we did not enforce them by such villainous means. There are strangers about. We had nothing to do with it.”
Terror-stricken, a foreman advanced—