The young girl shook her head sadly, but did not give in. What terrible explanation could have taken place between father and daughter? What had Lichtenbach been forced to confess, for Marianne to show herself so inexorable? She made the sign of the cross, as though to strengthen her fainting heart. The pallor of her face increased, though she replied in firm accents—
“I shall not forget you, father. I will pray for you.”
She mounted the carriage, a rolling of wheels was heard, then followed a long silence. Lichtenbach returned slowly to his room, and sank down in a reverie.
All the same, he did not give up business. On the contrary, he seemed to show a greater ardour than before for finance. His position on the Explosives settled, he regained the ground he had lost by a formidable campaign on gold mines. Never had his speculations been more brilliant or lucky than they were during the six months following his daughter’s departure. One would have thought that his grief had brought him good fortune, for everything succeeded which he undertook. All the same, nothing seemed to give him pleasure, and he changed greatly in physique. No longer could he mount the steps of the Bourse without halting for breath. Society had no further attractions for him.
One winter evening, the valet de chambre, as he entered his master’s room, found Elias leaning over his desk, apparently asleep. Calling him by name, he received no reply. Terrified, he drew nearer, and touched his master. The banker remained motionless, whilst his hand clasped a short letter from his daughter. The few words he had been reading were still moist with the tears he had shed. He was dead, a victim to the only sentiment by which he had ever been vulnerable; the love of a father.
Six months later, at twilight, in the study of the Rue de Provènce, Uncle Graff and Marcel were seated together. After signing all the letters for the evening’s post, Baradier had retired to his own room.
The darkness gradually deepened, and uncle and nephew, seated in their armchairs, without a word, looked like vague, uncertain silhouettes. The clerks had all left, and silence reigned around.
“Are you asleep, Uncle Graff?” asked Marcel.
“No; I was just thinking.”
“What about?”