“A glass of water!” exclaimed Marcel.
In a moment a decanter was in his hand. No matter what he had asked for, his demand would have been immediately obeyed. Full of respect before courage and devotion, the mob regarded him with indulgent and reverent tenderness. The very men who had cried out only the night before, “Down with the masters!” were ready to shout out, Hurrah for M. Marcel! The reason was that he had just performed a feat none of them had had courage to attempt, and in their inmost souls they were conscious that he was braver and better than themselves, and, accordingly, they felt nothing but admiration for him.
“Cardez, take these registers and the money home,” said Marcel. “We will go to my home, Uncle Graff. You must try to regain your strength completely.”
“No! I feel better already. I can breathe more freely. Ah, Marcel, you came just in time. Another quarter of an hour and you would have found us all dead.”
“I was miserable at the thought that I was not with you all the time.”
“Had you been with us everything would have been lost! We were dying. Your absence was quite providential! But for that, all would have been over with us!”
“But how did it all happen?”
“We cannot understand anything yet! For an hour we had been discussing with the delegates, and I must say the peaceful settlement of the strike seemed very doubtful, when we were suddenly interrupted by shouts of ‘Fire! Fire!’ The workmen assembled in the yard awaiting the delegates had just seen a dense cloud of smoke issue from the stores. To tell the truth, they were ill-disposed towards us. When we crossed the yard on the way to the office they received us with a hostile silence. Not a head was uncovered. Veritable enemies on our own ground! In a moment the fire effected a complete change. They became like madmen when they saw the works burning. At bottom these workmen are not evil-disposed, for they rushed forth from every direction, shouting out, ‘To the pumps!’ When they saw me appear with Cardez they shouted: ‘M. Graff, this is not our work!’ A moment after one of the strangers, who has been here only a week, a native of Luxembourg, named Verstraet, being caught prowling about the works, they half killed him, accusing him of being the incendiary. We were obliged to tear him from their hands.”
Marcel listened with gloomy interest to this recital. He associated the fire with the strange fears, manifested on different occasions by Baudoin, respecting the safety of the laboratory. He heard the servant say, “Just now, there are men here whose appearance is anything but prepossessing.” The workmen also spoke vaguely about strangers. Everything was wrapped in mystery. Instinctively, Marcel felt himself enveloped in a network of threats and hatred. Was it still this secret of the General de Trémont, which brought disaster on all those who possessed it? Looking round for Baudoin, he found that he had disappeared. The fire was raging less fiercely, for the torrents of water poured on the stores had extinguished the bales of wool. The works themselves did not seem to have suffered to any considerable extent; the loss was only partial. The captain of the Ars fire brigade, a plumber by trade, came out from the rest and stood there, hot and panting, with cap in hand, before M. Graff and Cardez.
“Well, gentlemen, we shall come out of this affair better than we might have expected. At present, more than two-thirds of the works are safe. We may take our breath a little. It has been warm work, indeed, the last hour!”