“No, I will say nothing. Let Dalgetty go ahead, and the shares continue to lower. Above all else, do not sell. He laughs best who laughs last.”
The calm assurance of Uncle Graff had its due impression on Baradier at the time. But afterwards, in his study, in front of his correspondence, which brought him nothing but bad news, fear again took possession of him. He was aware that Marcel was working hard. He saw him start every morning for the laboratory of the Arts-et-Métiers. But what was he engaged in? Doubtless some improvement of the Trémont powder; perhaps simply the exact doses of the products. How could he prove, after all, that he knew the dosing, which was the General’s invention? And Baradier, red and excited, would take up his hat and go out for a walk, to avoid a congestion.
At night, when they were dining, he again saw Marcel in the salon, seated between his mother and sister, or playing the piano with Geneviève de Trémont. He was an excellent musician, this son on whom Nature had lavished such gifts. And Uncle Graff, a passionate melomaniac, lay stretched out in an armchair, listening, in delighted ecstasy, to some lied of Schubert or a concerto by Schumann. He pointed out to Baradier, who had entered the room on tip-toe, the charming picture of these two young people playing duets together, and murmured—
“What a fine couple. She is dark; he is fair. Perfect match. And as their fortune—the General’s powder.”
“Nothing but smoke!” growled Baradier.
“No, it does not give any,” laughed Uncle Graff.
In his partner’s feeling of security, though he was mistrustful enough in business matters, there was a kind of unconsciousness which astonished Baradier. Evidently Marcel was preparing something extraordinary, which Graff was well aware of and which promised to have extraordinary results. But what was it? Besides, with rascals who went about everywhere carrying into action their murderous plans, under the indulgent regard of the Government, was one sure of anything? Accordingly he fumed and raged, but that in itself was something, and kept him occupied.
Baudoin, on his part, had not remained inactive. His first visit had been to Colonel Vallenot. He had found him at the War Office, busily engaged on a question the Minister was to receive from a socialist Deputy, who complained that anarchist journals were not permitted in barracks. How could the people be educated if the soldier were refused the right of knowing why it was his duty to despise his superiors? The good Colonel had bristled up like a wild boar. Only the night before he had been abused by his superior, who, greatly worried, himself, had passed on his ill-temper to the other, and so it descended from grade to grade right down to the concierge. The latter had given a drubbing to his dog, which had been at a loss to understand the reason for this treatment. It was the only difference between the animal and the functionaries.
“What is it you want?” growled Colonel Vallenot to Baudoin, as he saluted. “To see the Minister? Well, you are lucky. If you go in there I will not guarantee your safe exit. And, then, what is it you want to tell him? That the agent he had placed at your disposal has disappeared? It is now three weeks since we heard from him.”
“I have brought you news of him.”