This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler

THE
WOMAN OF MYSTERY

BY

GEORGES OHNET

AUTHOR OF “THE IRONMASTER,” “DOCTOR RAMEAU,” ETC.

TRANSLATED BY FRED. ROTHWELL, B.A.

A NEW EDITION

LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS

1904

PRINTED BY
WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.

CONTENTS

PART I

CHAPTER I

In his study, situated in the Rue Saint-Dominique, the Minister of War was walking to and fro. In furious fashion he twisted his moustache, which seemed even redder than usual, as he nervously fingered his eyeglass, in a manner which promised anything but a cordial welcome to any who entered his presence. Doubtless, his officers were well acquainted with the reasons of his ill-humour, for a profound silence reigned all around, and the great man’s solitude was undisturbed save by the querulous twitterings of the birds in the garden. A minute later, he seemed to lose all patience, and, marching to the mantelpiece, he pressed an electric bell. An usher, with anxious mien, at once approached.

“Has Colonel Vallenot returned?” exclaimed the Minister, in fierce tones.

The servant shrunk away, as though he would have liked the earth to open and swallow him; then he stammered, faintly—

“I do not think so, sir—I will ask—”

The General became purple with rage. An oath burstforth from his lips like a bombshell, then a second, the third was useless. The door was again closed, the servant had vanished.

“What can Vallenot be doing all the time he has been gone?” muttered the Minister, as he resumed his pacing about the room. “Ah! This is the way I am served!”

Before he could finish, the usher had opened the door, and announced—

“Colonel Vallenot.”

A man of fifty years of age, tall and thin, with blue eyes and light moustache, marched briskly into the room, and, after saluting his superior in friendly wise, said—

“You seem to have lost all patience, General. I found an officer waiting for me at the very door of the War Office. The fact is, this has been anything but a small matter. After all, I have done everything possible—”

“Indeed!” interrupted the Minister, impatiently. “You have just come from Vanves?”

“Yes, General.”

“Alone?”

“No; I took with me one of our cleverest detectives. You had not given me this authorization, but I took upon myself the responsibility.”

“You have done quite right. But are you sure he is trustworthy?”

“Absolutely. He is a former sub-officer. Besides, I did not reveal to him the real object of my researches; he knows nothing important, and imagines he has simply been my auxiliary in an inquiry into the causes of a catastrophe hitherto ill-explained. We have nothing to fear in this direction.”

“Well, what has been the result of your researches?”

“If you will allow me, General, we will divide the inquiry into two parts, one consisting of moral circumstances, the other of material facts. The affair is more complicated than you at first thought, and when I have finished, your embarrassment, instead of having lessened, will probably have increased.”

“Impossible!”

He sat down before the desk, leaned over on his elbows, and, motioning to the Colonel to take a seat in an armchair by his side, said—

“Now, tell me everything.”

“The house tenanted by General de Trémont is situated above the village of Vanves, near the fort. It was the night-watch which gave the alarm, and the garrison which organized first aid when the fire broke out. Nothing worth mentioning remains of the building. The explosion of the combustible matter contained in the laboratory has disorganized the very foundations, and the effect has been formidable. Stones hurled into the air have been found more than a mile distant, and the surrounding gardens belonging to the peasants are covered with débris. Had there been houses in the neighbourhood, the loss to property would have been enormous—”

The Minister interrupted.

“The effects of melinite, probably?”

“No, General, something quite different! Increase a hundred-fold the effects of the powder actually employed in charging our bombshells, and then perhaps you will have the equivalent of the destructive power revealed by the explosion of General de Trémont’s laboratory.”

The Minister shook his head.

“Yes; that is what he told me the last time I saw him at the Artillery meeting. He was on the trace of a discovery destined to give to our cannons so crushing a superiority that we were to become for long the arbiters of victory. The struggle against us would have been marked by such massacres, accomplished with such absolute precision, that our military supremacy would have been certain once more. Has this had anything to do with the discovery?”

“Then you admit, General, that malevolence may not have been entirely foreign to this mishap!”

“I admit nothing, Vallenot. I suspect everything. When you have told me all you know, we will talk it over. Continue.”

“On reaching the spot, we found a body of troops, who had been ordered by the Ministry to proceed there, guarding the approaches of the property. There was already collected a crowd of three or four hundred people, discussing the matter, without counting a score of journalists, who made more noise than all the others together. They were complaining that they were not allowed to visit the spot where the explosion had taken place among the still smoking ruins of the villa. But there was in command a stern little lieutenant, who, in quite military fashion, had maintained order. Probably the press will be against us, but in the mean time we shall not have been interrupted; and that is something to be thankful for. Inside, there was only the secretary of the Prefecture of Police and the head of the detective force. My agent and I had come at the right moment. The researches were just beginning—”

“Where? In the house?”

“On the site of what had been the house, and which now offered to the gaze nothing but a gaping hole, at the bottom of which appeared a cellar, the vaults of which had been burst open. A staved-in barrel of wine formed a red pool on the floor. Not a trace of the staircase remained. The very steps had disappeared, and the stones were broken up into fragments as large as pigeons’ eggs. Never should I have thought such a crumbling possible. Wonderful to relate, one side of a wall which must have belonged to a wash-house remained standing, along with a narrow window, in the iron bars of which a cloth-rag was waving. We were all staring at this solitary vestige of the disaster, when the chief of the detective force cautiously approached the spot. Raising his stick, he touched the shapeless rag hanging there, picked it up from the ground with an exclamation of surprise, and exposed it to our gaze. It was a human arm, still covered with both coat and shirt sleeves, cut off at the elbow, and covered with blood, the hand quite black.”

“Most extraordinary!” exclaimed the Minister.

“Rather sinister, General,” continued Colonel Vallenot. “I have seen hundreds of men killed on the field of battle, and thousands of wounded carried off in ambulances. At Gravelotte, I saw the head of the captain of my squadron roll at my feet, and the eyes wink repeatedly in the dust. It had been carried off by the bursting of a shell. In Tonkin I have found soldiers cut in four, their faces still grinning in spite of their torture. But never have I been so impressed as I was by this human arm, the sole remaining vestige of the drama we were trying to understand. The Government agent was the first to regain his sang froid, and he said, ‘Gentlemen, this is an important piece of evidence. This arm has evidently been hurled across these bars by the explosion. But to whom did it belong? Is it one of the ill-fated General de Trémont’s arms?’ ‘The General did not live alone in the villa,’ observed the detective. ‘There was a cook and a man-servant. Let us at once eliminate the supposition of the cook. This is a man’s arm; accordingly, it belonged either to the General or to his valet. Unless—’ There was a silence. The Government agent turned towards him and said, ‘Well, finish. Unless it belongs to the author of the catastrophe himself.’”

“Ah!” said the Minister; “then he, too, thought the affair might be the result of a crime.”

“Yes, General; and, as he spoke, he examined with the most minute attention the smutty, blackened hand. Carefully separating the fingers, he drew from the fourth finger a ring, which none of us had noticed; and, holding it aloft in triumph, said, ‘The question is decided, if this ring belongs to the General. If not, we still doubtless possess a valuable piece of circumstantial evidence, which will permit us to unravel the mystery.’”

“A ring! The deuce! I never remember seeing Trémont wearing a ring! No! I would take my oath on it. He never wore an ornament of any kind in his life, much less a ring. It would have been absurd in a man who was in the habit of handling acids from morning to night! No metal would have resisted the oxidising action of the substances he used in his experiments. But what kind of a ring was it?”

“An engagement ring, General. When rubbed with a glove-skin, the gold circle shone out, freed from the soot which tarnished it. Our agent fingered it a moment, then pressed it with his nail, and the ring separated in two. ‘Look here, gentlemen!’ he exclaimed. ‘There are letters engraved in the interior. Whatever happens, we now hold a clue.’”

“This fellow has, indeed, proved himself very clever, Vallenot,” said the Minister. “Up to the present, I find that he is the only one who has shown any initiative. I must remember it.”

“Wait a little, General. I have not yet reached the end. The Government agent had taken up the engagement ring, and was examining it. He finally placed it coolly in his pocket, with the words, ‘We will look into this later on.’ And there we all stood, rather discountenanced by the strange intervention of the magistrate in leaving our curiosity thus disappointed. On due reflection, perhaps he was right in postponing for a more thorough examination the information destined to result from this discovery, in not publishing proofs which might be of supreme importance. Still, if he wished to keep the secret of his investigations, he was disappointed, for at that very moment our agent, pursuing his inquiries, had removed the double sleeve, and laid bare the naked arm. This time it was no longer possible to conceal what he had found. On the forearm, between the wrist and the bleeding end, a blue tattooing appeared, representing a heart surrounded with flames, around which could be read the words ‘Hans and Minna,’ and beneath the German word ‘Immer,’ signifying ‘Always.’ ‘Gentlemen,’ said the Government agent, fixing his eyeglass, ‘I demand of you the utmost discretion. A single word on what we have just discovered might have the most serious consequences. We may be in presence of an anarchist plot, or be obliged to suspect foreign interference. The affair is assuming quite unexpected proportions. In all probability a crime has been committed.’”

“The deuce!” exclaimed the Minister. “I say, Vallenot, this is becoming serious! Perhaps we ought at once to inform the President of the Board of—”

“The secretary of the Prefect of Police must have done so already. As soon as he saw how matters were turning, he did not wait for the end of the inquiry, but immediately rode off to the Place Beauvau.”

“The first thing to do is to prevent the press from saying anything silly. If we have a crow to pick with foreign agents, for Trémont’s investigations were suspected in Europe, it is of the highest importance that no suspicions be aroused, so that we may try to seize the authors of this guilty attempt.”

“That is what we thought, General, and, consequently, all arrangements have at once been taken. It was absolutely necessary to throw public opinion on a false scent. Accordingly, the theory of a chance accident was inevitable. It was at once decided that all communications made to the press should have this object in view. General de Trémont was rather eccentric, we must say, engaged in commercial chemical investigations, and it was his imprudence which had brought about the accident which has now cost him his life.”

“Poor Trémont! So fine a savant as he was! Well! well! State reasons must predominate. But it is hard to contribute in heaping calumnies on an old comrade!”

“Do not have such thoughts, General,” interrupted Colonel Vallenot, with a smile. “There are surprises in store for us which will, doubtless, lessen your regret.”

“What do you mean?” said the rough soldier, frowning. “You do not intend to utter calumnies against my friend from childhood, my comrade in war?”

“God forbid, General! I shall simply give you the facts on which you desired information. If I have the misfortune to displease you, you will not be angry with me; you are too just for that.”

“What is the meaning of this silence? Continue right to the end, Colonel; speak freely.”

“So I intend to do, General. Well, then, the secretary of the Prefect of Police had just undertaken to supply the version arranged by us to the numerous reporters waiting there, held in check by the line of troops, and to inform the Minister of the Interior, in case the police might have to be called in, when a great uproar arose from the direction of the village. A tumult of cries and shouts was heard. The lieutenant was preparing to go and see what was happening, when a man, breaking through the sentinels, ran up to us, bare-headed, with troubled countenance, and exclaiming, in tones of despair, ‘My master! O God! What has happened to the house? Not one stone left on another!’ Thereupon he halted, sank down on the ruins, and began to weep bitterly. We looked at him in silence, moved by his grief, and foreseeing some speedy enlightenment on the dark situation we were in. ‘Who are you, my friend?’ asked the Government agent. The man raised his head, passed his hand over his eyes to brush away his tears, and, raising up to us a countenance at once intelligent and determined, said, ‘The General’s head servant, sir, for the last twenty years. Ah! If I had been there, this disaster might perhaps have been avoided! At any rate, I would have died with him!’”

“It was Baudoin!” exclaimed the General. “The brave fellow had escaped! Ah! That is fortunate. We shall learn something from him!”

“Yes, General, but not the enlightenment we expected. Rather the contrary.”

“In what way the contrary?”

“I will explain. The night before, about six o’clock, the General was in his garden, strolling about, after working all day in the laboratory, when a telegram reached him from Vanves. He read it, continued his walk for a few minutes, with bowed head, as though in profound meditation, then he called Baudoin. ‘You must set out for Paris,’ he said to him. ‘I have an important order to give to my chemist, who lives in the Place de la Sorbonne. Give him this letter, then go to M. Baradier and pay him my respects. Then dine, and, if you like to spend the evening at the theatre, you may do so; here is a five franc piece. Return to-morrow morning with the chemicals.’

“Baudoin, who knew what it all meant, understood that the General wished him to leave the house for the whole night. He was anything but pleased at this, because, he said, it was not the first time that it had happened, and always under the same circumstances: the arrival of a telegram, and the dismissal immediately following.

“Still, the General did not give a holiday to the cook, with whom he was less cautious, as she was in the habit of going bed very early, which fact rendered any surveillance she might have exercised almost null. So the General needed to be alone from time to time. And he took care to send away the faithful servant, on whom he might have relied for the most complete discretion. What reason had he? This was what troubled Baudoin, and displeased him. So little was he accustomed to conceal his thoughts from his master that the latter noticed his sulky mood, and said to him: ‘What is the matter? Don’t you want me to send you to Paris? Are you to be pitied for the opportunity of going and enjoying yourself?’ ‘I don’t care about going to the theatre,’ Baudoin had said, ‘but I do about performing my duty.’ ‘Very well, you are doing your duty; you are obeying the order I have given you, to fetch for me some chemical products, dangerous to handle, but which I must have; besides, you are to call on my friend Baradier. Now go. I do not want you before to-morrow morning.’ ‘Very well, sir.’

“But Baudoin was anything but pleased, a secret anxiety troubled him. Proceeding to the kitchen, he said to the cook, ‘Last time the General sent me to Paris, what happened during the night? Did the General dine as usual? Did he shut himself up in his study, or did he go into the garden? At what time did he retire for the night? Did nothing happen out of the ordinary?’

“The woman said she knew nothing, she had noticed nothing unusual, and was very much astonished at his questions. He saw she was a thousand leagues from suspecting anything, so he did not press his questions. Still, although deeply respecting his master’s wishes, his interest in his welfare made him less strictly obedient, and he resolved to feign a departure, then take up a post outside, so that he might see what took place once the General was sure there was no inconvenient observer to be dreaded. The weather was exceedingly mild. Not a breath of air, and the gardens, filled with roses, shed forth exquisite odours as night approached.

“Baudoin, after dressing himself, went to take leave of his master, received from him a list of the chemical products to be purchased, a few lines for his friend Baradier, and then took his departure. He went straight to the station, dined in a small restaurant close by, and, after nightfall, returned towards the house of his master. He dared not enter the garden, as he was afraid he would be noticed by the General, so he slipped into a cottage garden, the owner of which was his friend, and concealed himself in a small hut used for storing tools.

“From this spot he could keep an eye on the approaches of the villa, and, along a thick hedge, come right up to the wall adjoining the General’s property. He sat down, lit his pipe, and waited. A few minutes before eight, the roll of a carriage was heard on the road. Baudoin, in ambush behind the hedge, was keeping a sharp look-out. By the light of the lantern he saw a brougham, drawn by two horses, pass by. Something told him that this carriage contained the persons the General was expecting. He ran along, right to the wall of the villa, and reached it the very moment the brougham came to a stop before the door. But he was not the only one on the look-out, for scarcely had the horses, still panting from the steep ascent, come to a halt, than the lofty form of the General showed itself through the darkness. At the same time, an impatient hand opened the door, and a man’s voice said, in foreign accents, ‘Ah! General, so you have come to meet us?’ M. de Trémont simply replied, ‘Is the Baroness there?’ ‘Certainly,’ replied the voice of a woman. ‘Could you imagine otherwise?’ The man was the first to descend. But the General gave him no time to help his companion to descend; he sprang forward with the eagerness of a lover, and, almost carrying off the lady in his arms, exclaimed, with extraordinary ardour, ‘Come, madame, you have nothing to fear—no one can see you.’ The man uttered a brutal laugh, and said, in guttural tones, ‘Do not trouble about me, I will follow you,’ and all three disappeared into the garden. Baudoin, astonished, had only time to place on the wall a ladder which happened to be there. As soon as he could look into his master’s garden, the alleys were empty, but the large window of the laboratory was shining through the darkness. The faithful fellow said to himself, ‘What is to be done? Enter the house? Play the spy on the General? Disobey his orders? For what reason? Has he not the right to receive any one he pleases? What am I thinking about? Is it likely that the people he receives are objects of suspicion? Their carriage is waiting at the door, a sign that they will not remain long, but will return to Paris immediately. Here I am, troubling my head for nothing in all probability! All I can do now is to obey my master.’ He descended the ladder, proceeded along the hedge, left the garden, and reached the railway. His master’s orders were now literally followed, except that the drug store was closed when he arrived there, and he was obliged to return the following morning. When he reached Vanves, he found the approaches to the General’s property occupied by a guard, the villa in ruins, and his master vanished from the scene of the catastrophe.”

Colonel Vallenot had finished. Profound silence, interrupted only by the twittering of the birds in the neighbouring trees, reigned in the Minister’s study. The old soldier, leaning forward on his desk, his head resting on his hand, was buried in reflection. After a short pause, he said, with a sigh—

“How surprising all this is! Doubtless here is the key of the whole matter. These two unknown characters, one with a foreign accent, coming mysteriously by night to see Trémont, and their visit followed by such a frightful cataclysm; what does it all mean? Is it an accident or a crime? And, if a crime, what motive inspired it?”

Rising, he crossed to the window, with anxious mien, then returned mechanically to his desk, resumed his seat, and, again fixing his eyes on the Colonel, said—

“Well! Vallenot, what happened after this honest fellow had finished his tale? What measures were taken?”

“A squad of soldiers from the fort had been sent for, and the ruins were carefully searched, under the supervision of the police. Nothing, however, was found. The destruction was too complete. With the exception of the side of the wall still standing, not a single piece of anything was left whole. Still, after a couple of hours’ examination of the débris, from which arose a very strong odour of fulminate of mercury, the diggers brought to light an iron chest, with broken hinges, the bottom of which was curiously pierced with thousands of holes as though with an auger.”

“That is one result of the explosion,” interrupted the Minister. “You are aware that we have in our shrapnels similar cases of rupture. It is quite possible the initial explosion took place in this chest. Has it been kept?”

“It was handed over to the Government agent.”

“We may need it again when we undertake an analysis of the substances which occasioned the deflagration. Finish your explanations. What became of the carriage stationed in front of the door?”

“The carriage must have left before the accident. There was not a trace of it on the road near the villa. The customs officers, on being interrogated, declared that a brougham, driven by two horses, returned to Paris about eleven o’clock. To the question, ‘Have you anything to declare?’ a female voice had replied, ‘Nothing.’ As for the explosion, the guard at the fort reports that it took place about three o’clock in the morning.”

“Then the man with the foreign accent had remained, after the departure of the carriage?”

“Most probably.”

“You are not certain?”

“I did not wait for the end of the investigations; I came away to inform you of what I had learnt, leaving behind me our agent, with orders to return here at once, after the final statement had been made.”

“Perhaps he is here now?”

Colonel Vallenot pressed the electric knob, and the usher appeared.

“Has Laforêt returned?”

“Yes, Colonel, a minute ago.”

“Send him here.”

Closing the door with considerable precaution, the agent, with firm step, a sonorous cough, and head raised in military fashion, as he stood at attention, appeared before his principals.

The Minister examined for a moment the man’s frank, martial face; then he asked briefly—

“Colonel Vallenot has reported all that had taken place up to the time of his departure from Vanves. Complete his version by telling us what you have learnt since. Take a seat, Vallenot.”

“Monsieur le Ministre,” said the agent, “I will come at once to the most important point: the body of General de Trémont has been found.”

“In the ruins?”

“In the garden. At first no one thought of searching beyond the house and the débris. It was whilst exploring the bushes that the body of the General was discovered, close to the entrance gate.”

“What! Had the explosion projected him so far?”

The agent replied—

“The body had not been projected by the explosion. It had remained on the very spot where it had been struck by a knife under the left shoulder-blade. The General was dead when the explosion took place, and certainly the explosion was caused by the assassin.”

“The man with the foreign accent? The companion of the lady the General called ‘Baroness’?”

The agent kept his countenance before these bold questions. For a moment he appeared to be reflecting; then he said—

“Yes, the one who has left his arm in the ruins of the villa, and who in forcing open the chest escaped death only by a miracle. The man named Hans, in short.”

“But what makes you say that he escaped death?” asked the Minister.

“Because I found tracks in the garden continued outside on the road he followed, leaving his blood behind at every step. The man must be endowed with indomitable energy to have had the strength to escape, mutilated as he was, to reach the fields, and there, doubtless, find some market cart or other to pick him up and carry him to Paris; but this is an additional inquiry to be made, and a track to be followed up.”

“In your opinion, then, it is the man who came with the woman who killed the General?”

“Yes, Monsieur le Ministre; most likely when the General was conducting them back to the carriage. The murder took place close to the gate. The sand is trodden down as though a struggle had taken place, and the body had been carried off behind the bushes. The traces of the trailing legs are quite visible. The woman probably helped. At any rate, once the murder accomplished, she must have left, whilst the man stayed behind. He robbed the General of his keys, which never left him, and which have not been found; in addition, he took his watch and portfolio, so that it might be believed that a murder, the motive of which was robbery, had been committed; then he entered the villa, and worked in the laboratory. It was with the laboratory that he had to do.”

“How do you know this?”

“From what Baudoin, his valet, said. It appears that, one day, whilst placing things in order, in the cabinet of the General, the latter entered on his way from the laboratory. He took a few paces in the room, rubbing his hands together; then he said almost to himself, ‘This time our fortune is made! What will Hans say?’ For a week the General had been working hard at an experiment, which had hitherto failed, and from which he expected great results. On different occasions, formerly, he had temporarily dismissed his valet, certainly with the object of receiving his mysterious guests at night.”

“Good; we will admit what you say regarding the man,” said the Minister, captivated by the explanations of his agent. “But, in your opinion, what shall we think of the rôle played by the woman?”

“That is much more evident, Monsieur le Ministre; both indications and proofs abound. The General de Trémont has been the victim of a too tender disposition. I know nothing of the General’s secrets or researches, though the journals have on different occasions spoken of his investigations. He was a member of the Academy of Science, and his reputation as a savant was fully established. Suppose for a moment that M. de Trémont had made a discovery of interest to the future of European armies, and that some one Power wished to obtain information as to the value of his invention—obtain possession of it, perhaps. Do we not know that women have been, only too often, the best political agents employed in our country? In spite of his age, the General remained very susceptible. A young woman, beautiful and intelligent, is placed in his path. He meets her by chance, falls in love with her. But the fair one is guarded; she is obliged to take great precautions. A complaisant friend, relation, perhaps, under the cover of science, facilitates the interviews by accompanying the lady, so as to throw some imaginary rival off the track. Whilst the old lover is paying his court, the benevolent companion, observes, takes his measures, skilfully questions, and obtains the confidence of the one to whom he is rendering a service. Passion lulls all fear, and a sweet smile and caressing eyes drive one to acts of folly. Then, one fine night, the General de Trémont, who has, doubtless, finished his discovery, is visited by the unknown couple. The woman tries to obtain the secret. She does not succeed. Then the man, as a last extremity, decides to strike. The General falls under the dagger; his accomplice takes to flight. The assassin returns with the keys, searches the laboratory, and tries to open the chest containing the precious products. But the dreaded powder, unskilfully handled, avenges its maker, and, in a terrible explosion, annihilates at the same time both formula and the one trying to steal it. This is how it is possible, Monsieur le Ministre, to make a guess at the events now occupying our attention. But—I do not wish to deceive myself—this is only conjecture. There may be other versions, more certain, if not more likely. What is an absolute fact is that General de Trémont has been assassinated, that the murderer was one of the two persons received that night at the villa, and that the explosion following on the crime has been caused by the imprudence of the man we may name Hans, who has been grievously wounded.”

The Minister and Colonel Vallenot looked at one another for a moment in silence. Then the Minister said to the agent—

“I thank you for your report, but do not trouble any further in the matter, which is in the hands of the police. If we have any additional investigations to make, I will send for you. Now go, and do not say a word to any one on the matter.”

Laforêt bowed, gave a military salute, and, with the same tranquil precision, left the room. The two principals sat there absorbed by what they had heard, going over once more all the details of this drama, which was becoming materially so clear, but remained morally so obscure. The precautions taken by the two accomplices appeared so perfect, that it was doubtful whether the truth could be learned concerning them. One hope remained—the wounded man, with his arm cut off, might be found, half-dead with exhaustion on the road. By questioning the inhabitants of the neighbourhood, the man might be discovered; doubtless the police were already on the track, and the most adroit detectives as well.

“You know, Vallenot, Trémont was my senior. He retired before the age limit, the more easily to devote his time to scientific research; as he had serious money difficulties.”

“And now,” said Colonel Vallenot, “we have reached the point I wished to come to, when I said, at the beginning of my report, that, after examining the material facts, we should deal with the moral considerations of this affair. The examination of facts is over. There has been the death of a man, probably an attempt at robbery, and finally, the complete destruction of an inhabited house. But under what conditions have all these criminal acts been accomplished?”

“I understand what you mean. You see in this affair something other than a criminal attempt. You suspect a plot of a special order, something very delicate, fastidious, dangerous even.”

“Yes, General, because in this case, we have not our hands quite free in the search of the causes, hindered as we are by diplomacy, by politics, and often even by such unexpected complicities that we are first obliged to beat about the bush, then to withdraw, and finally, give up all idea of proceeding with rigour. Shall I enumerate the affairs in which we have come to no certain issue for several years?”

“It is unnecessary, I am sufficiently well informed on the situation, and have a tolerably good idea of what you possess in the archives. How long have you been in the Ministry, Vallenot?”

“Ten years, occupying different positions, with intervals of service in the regiments. We have never ceased being exploited by other nations, with a skill, an audacity, and a perseverance, against which all our efforts have been in vain. The most important captures have always been effected by women. Accordingly, when the servant of General de Trémont spoke of this nocturnal lady-visitor, my suspicions were immediately aroused.”

“Explain yourself.”

“It is not the first time, General, that we have had to deal with this mysterious woman, who comes and passes away, leaving ruin and bloodshed in her train. Her manner of procedure is always the same: she fixes her mind on some one whom she knows to be in a position to give up to her some important secret or other, then she seduces him, until, in the end, he betrays it. Then, she casts him off, like useless débris. A creature to be dreaded, if I may judge by the results she has already obtained, and a powerful corruptress. No heart is proof against her alluring temptations. She artfully graduates the doses of her love-philtre; and the noblest minds, the most upright consciences, and the staunchest courage bend and capitulate at a sign from her. Do you remember the ill-fated Commandant Cominges, who blew out his brains, without anything being publicly known as to the reason? The woman had come along. Cominges had become her slave. A part of our mobilization had become known. Before killing himself, Cominges swore that the documents had been stolen from his dwelling, whilst he was absent with this woman. He had made the grave mistake of taking them from the office to work on them, and the still graver one of saying that they were in his possession. But the poor fellow had confidence in her. He was a man of honour, a gallant soldier. A pistol-shot settled the whole matter.”

“What was the woman’s name?”

“Madame Ferranti. She took most careful precautions in seeing Cominges, presumably on account of her family. One of our agents, however, was acquainted with her. Within six months he died by an accident. He was, one evening, travelling by rail from Auteuil. They found him dead under a tunnel. Doubtless he had leaned out too far from the carriage.”

“The deuce!”

“The following year the young Captain Fontenailles, a fine young fellow we were all fond of, was induced by a woman, whom his comrades called the ‘Ténébreuse,’ because no one of them ever saw her, to disclose certain confidences. Understanding the gravity of his conduct, he went to his superior and confessed everything. The latter succeeded in repairing the damage done by changing the key to the secret writings. Captain Fontenailles left for Tonkin, where he fell, fighting bravely, at the attack of Bae-Ninh. His fault was atoned for.”

“And the woman is always the same?”

“According to all these gentlemen. The Ferranti of Cominges was the Ténébreuse of Fontenailles. Then there was the Madame Gibson of the Aerostat affair, without speaking of several other cases only partially revealed. Always the same Ténébreuse, with the same method of procedure, corruption. In her train, ruin, tears, and blood.”

“How long has she been engaged in this work of intrigue?”

“Ten years, certainly, General; and under all these impersonations we have not been able to lay our hands on her. She is only known by her professional names.”

“What a deep-dyed scoundrel! We must try to cut short her career.”

“Nothing more difficult. Once the coup accomplished, she disappears, as does an eel, gliding about in the mud, in which it remains hidden until the water again becomes clear. She arranges in such a way as to cut off all communications behind her; that is her method. For instance, in this new affair, we shall have to struggle in the dark. Search will be made for some time, but no clue will be found. The accomplices, as well as the principal instigator of the crime, will now have got to earth. By degrees the search will calm down, and something else will be on the tapis. At any rate, it is in this way that the majority of these cases end, unless—”

“Unless? Ah! You still hope something may happen?”

“Unless this time the wounded accomplice affords us a trace. Let us merely hold one end of the conducting wire, and I promise you, General, we will arrive at some result or other, if only to avenge our poor comrades.”

“And to prevent the repetition of similar accidents. For, after all, Vallenot, you will agree with me that it is rather too much for foreign Powers to become acquainted with our most secret affairs, as though they were matter of discussion on the public thoroughfares.”

“We are as well acquainted with foreign affairs, General, as they are with ours,” said the Colonel with less sullen mien. “To sum up, there are always two at the game; it has ever been so. Ay, the very time, in 1812, when Russia was procuring information as to the efficiency of the Emperor’s troops, Caulaincourt sent to Napoleon the engraved copper plates of the map of Russia. I quote this fact of days gone by without alluding to contemporary events. But, taking everything into consideration, General, our secrets are scarcely secrets at all. If, in war, reliance were placed on nothing beyond mysterious preparations—”

“Then we should have to start by abolishing the press,” muttered the Minister.

“And that is impossible!” said Vallenot. “Still, in this special case before us, we must undertake the task of clearing the moral atmosphere, and employ every means possible, if we would succeed.”

“That concerns the legal authorities now.”

“Officially, General; but we also, on our side, may investigate, in a quiet way, and I have no doubt—”

“The lesson to be learned is that our officers are becoming too gallant!”

“If you know any means, General,” said Vallenot, with a laugh, “of suppressing that, please tell me.”

“To think of this old General! Sixty years old, too! True, he did not appear more than fifty! In what position does he leave his daughter?”

“General de Trémont was a widower?”

“Yes, that is his excuse! But he has a daughter, still at school. She is eighteen years old, and without dowry. Luckily, Baradier is there.”

“You mean Baradier and Graff, the bankers?”

“Certainly. Baradier fought in the war of 1870; he is a true patriot, and his son, Marcel, a fine young fellow, just out of the Central School, has been working with General de Trémont. Marcel Baradier was principally occupied in investigating vegetable dyes, connected with the woollen weaving manufactures his father owns in the Aube. But the General opened his laboratory to him, and probably informed him of his own investigations. We may learn a great deal from this young man, I think.”

“Is the Baradier family in good circumstances?”

“Very wealthy; their fortune daily increases from industrial and from banking operations. It is Graff, Baradier’s step-brother, who deals more specially with finance, whilst Baradier manages the works. Both, however, are busily employed all day long, and the millions roll in, notwithstanding the rivalry of the firm of Lichtenbach, who is a mortal enemy of Baradier and Graff.”

“Business rivalry?”

“More than that. Personal hatred, dating from long back, and madly fomented. They say that Lichtenbach formerly wished to marry Mademoiselle Graff, and that he has never been able to swallow the insult Graff inflicted on him by refusing the proposal and bestowing his sister’s hand on his friend Baradier. Between these two families there is a whole series of differences and grievances, which makes them implacable enemies.”

“Still, General, you see no relation between this hostility and the death of General de Trémont?”

“Not at all. Lichtenbach is a fervent Catholic, in close touch with the Orleanist party, and, in my opinion, incapable of a dishonourable action. Besides, what could it matter to him whether Trémont lived or died?”

“Might not the General’s investigations have a serious interest for the Lichtenbach firm?”

“Doubtless! But we are well aware that Trémont has been specially occupied within the last few weeks with the manufacture of a war powder, the formidable effects of which we have seen in the Vanves explosion. True, the powder in question might become a source of great profit by its possible application to industry in modified proportions. In mines, for instance, or the blasting of quarries, it would certainly have replaced dynamite. There would have been a fortune in such an application of the powder, and this Trémont was well aware of. Now it is all vanished in smoke, and the General has taken his secret with him.”

“Unless he had communicated it to the son of M. Baradier.”

“Ah! that would indeed be strange!”

Three o’clock struck; the Minister arose, and took up his hat, gloves, and stick.

“You are going, General?”

“Yes, I am going to speak to Baradier on the whole matter. Madame Baradier was particularly interested in Mademoiselle de Trémont. I intend to pay a visit of condolence, in person, to this young lady. Her father and myself were great friends, we made campaigns in Mexico and on the Loire together, whilst, on the retreat from Mans, Trémont saved all our lives, by an admirable battery arrangement in the rear of the army, which cut short the pursuit of the Prussians. A fine soldier! One who deserved to fall on the field of battle! But Fate decides such things. Everybody does not die the death he wishes! Well, I will see you to-morrow, Vallenot. And if you hear of anything fresh, ring me up on the telephone.”

The Colonel accompanied his principal right to the large staircase, saluted, and returned to the office.

CHAPTER II

In an old hotel situated at the end of a large courtyard, in the Rue de Provènce, has been established, for more than fifty years, the banking firm of Baradier and Graff. Following on the war of 1870, it was usual in business to designate this establishment under the company name of Alsace-Lorraine. They are ardent patriots, and never since the annexation have they returned to Metz. Still, they have never been willing to sell any of their land property in the lost provinces. They have kept a foot on the soil torn from France, as though they had no doubt they would return to it some day, like masters after a long and sorrowful absence. Baradier is a man of fifty-five years of age, stout and short, with ruddy, pleasant face lit up by light blue eyes. Graff is tall and thin, dark-complexioned, and of stern forbidding mien and glabrous countenance, the complete opposite of his ally, both physically and morally. For Baradier, with his engaging exterior, is an influential and practical man; whilst Graff, with his cold and reserved aspect, possesses the fancy and sensitiveness of a poet.

In other respects, admirably equipped, the imagination of the one moderated by the prudence of the other, and all rough points in the determination of the former being mitigated by the benevolent gentleness of the latter. In financial circles this fortunate want of similarity of disposition was well known. Never did a customer, after failing with Baradier, leave the house without calling at Graff’s office to appeal for his intervention, and obtaining a “just leave the matter to me, I will arrange it all” preliminary balm on the sore of displeasure, followed, in the majority of instances, by an arrangement profitable to both parties. For, in the long run, the two partners had reached such a point that they profited by the differences in their dispositions, and Baradier pretended to be altogether irreconcilable, well knowing that Graff would come in afterwards, and have the pleasure of arranging everything to suit all concerned.

Baradier, hearty and happy-looking, had two children, a son aged twenty-six and a daughter of eighteen, both admirably brought up by their mother. Graff, solemn and sentimental, had remained a bachelor. As Marcel Baradier said jokingly, he would be the best uncle in France in point of inheritance. In fact, Madame Baradier’s brother loves the two children as though they were his own, and every time Marcel commits some grave act of folly he always appeals to Uncle Graff to settle things, as his father is rather strict with him. Father and son, unfortunately, have often been on anything but good terms, for Marcel, reared in the lap of luxury, and early discovering the mercantile value of his name, has not always given his family all the satisfaction that might have been desired. “Nothing important,” said Uncle Graff; “merely money difficulties!”

It was so that the taciturn and modest banker, who would not have spent a farthing outside of his daily expenses on anything else than charity, called the debts which young Marcel periodically gave him the opportunity of paying. When his nephew comes for him at night, after dinner, before leaving for the club, where he goes to indulge in a game of cards, Uncle Graff knows at once his errand. He assumes his most gloomy aspect, sinks into his armchair, casts a veiled glance at his rather embarrassed heir, and, in sepulchral tones, demands—

“Well, what is it this time?”

Then, as Marcel develops his usual request—terribly bad luck at the races, or at baccarat, or some love difficulty—Graff looks at his sister’s son, and, without listening to a word, says to himself, What a handsome fellow! How could one with such a figure help getting into a scrape? He is popular everywhere by reason of his graciousness and amiability. He is only twenty-six, and is it not quite natural that he should enjoy himself while he is young? Why do Baradier and Graff engage in banking operations all day long, anxious as to what is happening at the London and Berlin Exchanges, as well as keeping an eye on the Bourse of Paris, if not for this charming and agreeable young fellow to enjoy himself whilst they are working? Well! Marcel, take your pleasure, and take my share as well, for am I not your steward? Off to the races in a fine turn-out, drawn by prancing horses, and take your place in the most exclusive society; your means, those of the firm of Baradier, will permit of all this. All the same, do not squander too much in gambling; do not wager in too extravagant a fashion, for this is an evil passion, and very harmful to those who recklessly give themselves up to it. In all things else do as you wish, and then come back and give your old uncle the pleasure of asking a service of him.

All these reflections, however, crowding into his mind, and giving him the most perfect satisfaction, Uncle Graff kept wisely to himself. Aloud, he said, in that Lorraine accent he had never succeeded in abandoning—

“How stupid you are, Marcel, to be swindled by a crowd of adventurers! A member of the firm of Baradier and Graff ought not to behave in this way. If your father knew he would be furious. What reply can I give him when he accuses me of encouraging your bad conduct? He is quite right, and I am wrong to give you money when you make such bad use of it. I shall finish by cutting off your allowance. Do you know how much you have received from me since the beginning of the year?”

And as the old bachelor pretended to turn the leaves of his cash-book, Marcel, terrified, exclaimed—

“Oh, Uncle Graff, it shall be the last time!”

“It is always the last time!” replied the old uncle. “Well, tell me all about it.”

And Marcel would enflame the old bachelor’s tender soul with his enthusiasm, and end by obtaining all he wanted.

Still, Uncle Graff had some excuse. Marcel did not neglect his work. Admirably endowed by nature, the young man, as though they were a mere pastime, had advanced considerably in his studies. He had opposed the General de Trémont, who wished him to enter the Polytechnic School, and afterwards the Artillery. He had preferred the Central and the General’s chemical laboratory. Under the supervision of his father’s friend, he had made interesting researches into mineral colouring matters, and given Baradier the pleasure of saying: “We employ in our works dyeing processes, invented by my son, and which are absolutely unique.”

It was one of Uncle Graff’s grand arguments when defending Marcel—

“You know very well that your son is a remarkable man, and that our manufactures owe much to him!” Whereupon Baradier would reply, furiously—

“Ah! If only he would be serious! He has every quality necessary, but he will not make use of his gifts. Our fine young fellow will work a month a year, and spend the other eleven in reckless folly!”

For all that, for some time past, Marcel seemed to have sobered down, or, rather, his mind was occupied in investigations of more than usual interest. He no longer appeared at the club, scarcely ever went out at nights, and, but for the fact that he still went to the races on Sundays, one might have imagined he had entirely changed his life. Both Baradier and Graff were equally surprised at this transformation; the father was pleased, the uncle uneasy at it. They had spoken on the matter to the General, who had said to them—

“He is an extraordinary young man; you will continually have surprises with him, but do not be anxious, he will turn out a fine man in the end. He has great gifts. Just now he is trying to discover some process of colour photography. Surprising results have already been obtained. Let him alone, do not hinder him, and you will see!”

Graff’s triumph was a brilliant, Baradier’s a quiet one. Marcel had not even noticed the effect caused on his family. He had almost completely quitted Paris. For three weeks he had been living at Troyes, at the Ars manufactory, shut up in his laboratory, only returning to embrace his mother, and give the General an account of the progress of his work. The old chemist and the young inventor then spent delightful days in verifying prescriptions and practising experiments. The one communicated his calculations in the dosings of powders, the other explained his superpositions of plates to obtain the perfect stereotypes he sought. Then they would lunch together, and the General, as warmhearted as the young man, would relate his former escapades, and envy the youth, whilst admiring the strength and intelligence of this fine young fellow before him, who combined so perfectly the capacity for study and pleasure at the same time.

In spite of the storms caused by Marcel’s caprices, life for Baradier and Graff would have flown along pleasantly enough had not destiny brought them in touch with Lichtenbach. Moses, the chief of the firm, son of a Jew marine-store dealer of Passy-sur-Moselle, had in past times been at school with Graff at Metz. Old Graff, who was a brewer, had dealings with Lichtenbach, “the rabbit-skin dealer,” as he called him jokingly, and sold him all his broken glasses and used-up barrels. He imagined him to be poor, and liked to give him the chance of earning a little money. Moses Lichtenbach might have been seen in the streets of Metz driving an old grey horse, harnessed to a waggon, in which the marine-store dealer piled up all kinds of goods and rubbish. He was a kind of wholesale rag-picker, who helped house-wives to get rid of utensils which were no longer of any use, and were becoming an encumbrance. He bought them cheap, but not for nothing. Sometimes, almost ashamed of loading him with corroded stove-pipes, broken shovels, worn-out carpets, and even old straw, or shavings, they would say to him, “Take it, Moses, for the trouble of carting it away.” He would reply, “No! no! Everything has some value or other; I pay little, but I pay.”

It was a point of honour with him to pay. Several people shrugged their shoulders, with a smile, as they said to themselves, “The old madman that he is! What use will he make of all that rubbish?” They were in the wrong. Everything had a value, as Moses affirmed, and this was proved when, after the war, the old man left Metz, and settled in Paris, in the rue de la Chaussee d’Antin, in a small shop, above the door of which he had painted the sign: “Lichtenbach, money-changer.” It was in this modest counter that the Passy dealer, leaving Lorraine, which had become part of the Empire, had commenced his new business, ceasing to buy and sell old iron in order to buy and sell money. But one grave event had happened, which had in no slight degree contributed to the exodus of the Lichtenbach family from Passy to Paris, and to the change of business.

The first cannon-shots of the war, fired at Forbach, had been, for the majority of the inhabitants of Metz and its environs, the signal for departure. The farmers and peasants strictly bound down to the land were the only ones to remain in the villages. All who were free of action had loaded the waggons with their trunks, and reached the towns, to shelter themselves from the enemy, whose approach was announced by defeats and disasters. The highways in the direction of Thionville, Metz, and Verdun were covered with carts and flocks. The majority of the fugitives made their way towards the interior, making forced marches, to escape the invasion, which, according to them, must, of necessity, halt, crushed before the strongholds of the East. Contrary to the general impulse, Moses, decided on leaving Passy, had not bent his steps towards the centre of France. Instead of moving away from the invader he had marched towards him, and leaving behind in the shop everything cumbersome and worthless, had reached Metz with six baggage waggons, carefully covered, and had settled in a small street near the cathedral, with his wife and son, Elias.

Moses had been well received. Through seeing him, along with his waggon and old horse, all over the town, everybody knew him. Some, more cunning than others, said, “Old Moses is a sly fellow. If Metz is besieged he will buy the broken fragments of German shells as old iron, and continue his business.” But they were wrong. Old iron was not now the end of Lichtenbach’s ambition. He had guessed that a stout siege and an energetic defence would take place, that victuals would soon become scarce for the town population, and that whoever had the disposal, at a given time, of special food products, might, by selling them at a high price, make a considerable profit.

Accordingly he had entered the town with his six waggons, whilst in his cellar were carefully stored quantities of brandy, coffee, sugar, ham, and a dozen barrels of salt. He had spent a portion of the ready money he possessed in procuring these stores, and had awaited results. Meanwhile, all the Lorraine youth left. The male population which had not become enrolled in the army, as being under age, undertook to resist the invaders. The old martial blood boiled in French hearts, and the young Graff, returned from the town hall, a cockade in his hat, when he met on the square Elias Lichtenbach, walking about smoking a pipe.

Scores of times, extending over long years, whilst old Moses was stationed at Graff’s door loading old iron, or buying the skins of goats or hares killed by the brewer the previous Sunday, had the two boys played together. Antoine carried off young Elias into the garden, and, between them, to the great wrath of Madame Graff, they would climb the wall and steal the fruit, still unripe. They often played at marbles, but in spite of Elias’s utmost efforts, he could never succeed in transferring his glass ones for Antoine’s agate ones. He was the only boy in the town he had not succeeded in exploiting. One day even Antoine proved himself the more cunning, and succeeded in getting Elias to take an old broken sword in exchange for six enormous marbles quite new. Moses was obliged to confess, with a feeling of humiliation, that the young Graff had proved himself more shrewd than the young Lichtenbach.

It must be stated that, on that occasion, Catherine Graff was present, and, with the object of dazzling his friend’s sister, Elias had shown unwonted generosity. This young girl had even then the power of troubling the young boy.

As he saw his former companion pass by, proud of his patriotic determination, Elias had taken the pipe from his mouth, and said—

“Where are you going, Antoine?”

“To join the 27th line regiment at Chalons.”

“What! Have you enlisted?”

“Yes, like every one else of my age. Are not you going to do the same?”

“I don’t know; my father has said nothing to me about it.”

“Are you to wait for your father’s orders before doing your duty?”

Elias scratched his head, whilst his whole face expressed uncertainty and embarrassment.

“But he needs me for the business.”

“France also needs you, and more urgently than your father.”

“I am only nineteen years old.”

“And I, not yet twenty.”

“Yes, you are right, I will go and speak to my father about it.”

“If I do not see you again, good-bye.”

“Good-bye, and good luck.”

Elias, in greater trouble than he had ever been before, made his way to his father’s shop, and found old Moses in the cellar in the act of bottling brandy. The son was warmly received by his father, and Lichtenbach, filling a goblet, held it out to his son and heir.

“Taste this cognac, it is very palatable! In a short time it will fetch twenty francs a litre; there will be only ourselves who will drink it for nothing, my son!”

“You will drink of it, perhaps, father,” said Elias, troubled. “But I—”

“What! You? What is the meaning of this?”

“Shall I be by your side when the cost of this good liquor has mounted to that price?”

“Well! Where will you be?”

“Where all the youths of the village are—in the army.”

“You in the army, Elias; what will you do there?”

“Fight, like the others.”

Old Moses, by the light of the candle, which lit the cellar, looked at his son in utter bewilderment. He could not believe his own ears. Still he said—

“Fight? Why fight?”

“To defend the country.”

“What country?”

“France, where I have lived and been brought up, whose language I speak, and where all our clients and friends are.”

Old Lichtenbach shook his head, and remained a moment without speaking. Then, in trenchant tones, he said—

“My son, we do business in this country, but we have not been born here. I was in Switzerland, with your mother, in Geneva, when you came into the world. My birthplace is Hanover, your mother’s Baden. Your name appears on no official register, and you are free to do what you like. We are German by birth, French by habit and everyday relations; we belong no more to one side than to the other. The best thing we can do is to keep out of the quarrel. What could we gain by fighting? Blows for you, pain and suffering for both of us. And how would it benefit any one, if Elias Lichtenbach were killed in battle, and old Moses were left to finish his life all alone? Does any one even know why all these people are fighting? Do they even know themselves? They have quarrelled, like tipplers on leaving the grog-shop after having absorbed more than is good for them. And now they fly at one another’s throats. What have the Germans done to you to make you want to fight them? What advantage will you gain from having defended the French?”

“But all the young men are off, father. Antoine Graff, whom I have just met, has received his papers.”

“He is a fool!”

“But the son of Rabbi Zacharias is also going.”

“Great good may he get from it!”

“To-morrow there will only be left in the town the aged and infirm. I shall be the only one remaining, and everybody will laugh me to scorn.”

Old Moses sighed as he said, “Yes, you have your full share of self-respect; you have been brought up in the schools of France, in which a great deal is related on the subject of honour. Listen, Elias, and remember all your life long, all this teaching is sheer nonsense. Honour consists in paying what one owes, and in meeting one’s bills when they fall due. Outside of that, believe me, everything is false. Patriotic legends have been invented to lead men to butchery and slaughter to the strains of the ‘Marseillaise.’ They consist merely of sounding words, with which mankind is deceived in the interests of rulers and states. One ought not to let one’s self be the dupe of such tricks and artifices. When it is all over, none of the sly rascals who have persuaded the rest to fight, and carefully kept out of the way themselves, will give you even a single word of pity for your misfortunes. I have seen the world, and I know life. Beware of enthusiasm, it is the most false and dangerous thing on earth.”

There was a moment’s silence in the dark cellar, where the countenances of the two men showed red in the flickering flames of the candle. The dripping of the brandy, as it fell into the tub beneath the barrel tap, was the only sound audible. The dark, cold air which enveloped Elias began to calm the ardour, with which he was burning a few minutes before. The old man continued after a moment’s silence—

“Besides, I well understand that you do not care to remain alone here when all your acquaintances are leaving the town. You shall leave, too. But there are other things for you to do than risk your skin, or try to endanger the lives of others. Great profits may now be made in food supplies. In a short time the whole of Alsace and Lorraine will be invaded. The armies will have to live—the French armies, I mean, for the Germans, who are the conquerors, will lack nothing. We must make it our duty to collect provisions on the side of Chalons, towards Paris. You are not yet of age, you owe nothing to any one; besides, the services you may render are a thousand times more important than those of these simpletons, who are intending to shoulder muskets. I will prove my confidence in you by giving you the means to show what you are worth. Come here; bring me the light.”

Moses went to one corner of the cellar. Removing a couple of barrels, he took up a spade, and, digging a hole in the ground, laid bare an iron-bound box. Raising it with considerable difficulty, he took from his pocket a bunch of keys, opened the lock, and showed his son the interior full of carefully arranged rolls. Tearing away the paper envelope of one of these rolls, he poured the contents into his son’s hands. They were twenty-franc gold pieces.

“Here,” said Moses, “are forty thousand francs in gold. You are strong enough to carry off the box. Early to-morrow morning you will take the train for Troyes. Deposit this money with Baradier, the banker, but do not accept either bank-notes or drafts. Before long gold will be at a premium, and you will benefit by the exchange. With the capital I now place at your disposal buy sheep and cattle, and offer to supply the management with beef and mutton. Owing to the disorder in which the invasion will throw agriculture, cattle will be sold at a loss of seventy-five per cent. In the embarrassment in which the army will find itself for victuals, the contractors will sell again at a profit of cent. per cent. Do you understand the affair? Then act according to these data. If you do, by contributing to feed the troops you will be of far more service than marching in red trousers, under the orders of a stupid corporal. You, too, will be defending your country. And do not forget to betake yourself to the drug-store to-night to proclaim it aloud.”

“But suppose some one asks me in what corps I am to serve, what reply shall I give?”

“You will say, ‘I am going to Rhetel. It will be settled there.’”

“Very well, father.”

“Take hold of one of the handles of the box, and help me to mount it to the shop.”

“Leave it to me, father.”

Whereupon, seizing in both his arms the heavy box, filled with gold, he raised it on his stout shoulder, and, preceded by Moses, who held aloft his candle to light the staircase, he bore away without flinching all his father’s fortune.

The double combination conceived by Lichtenbach succeeded, as all simple ideas do. Within Metz, besieged and filled with troops, stored provisions were not long in coming to a premium. The salt Moses thought of selling at a moderate price gave him a great surprise. It proved more valuable than sugar. The want of salt caused keen suffering to the soldiers, who had become disgusted with horseflesh. The brandy, largely adulterated, also sold well. Still the old man’s profits did not recompense him for lack of news of his heir. Elias’s last letter, delivered on the evening of the Battle of Borny, announced the young man’s arrival in Paris. He had left thirty thousand francs in gold with the firm of Baradier, at Troyes, and was preparing to make for Orleans, as he did not consider himself in safety in Paris, which would infallibly soon be blockaded.

He had introduced five thousand sheep into the town. But he did not consider it necessary to continue business with the Government, which was too economical and avaricious. After the 14th of August not a word did the old man receive. During those long, sleepless nights, whilst listening to the cannon of Saint Julien or of Plappeville thundering away at long intervals, the old man reflected bitterly that his son was very young and inexperienced, that he might be robbed, and that the sum he had entrusted to him represented twenty years’ wanderings along the roads of Lorraine, buying up all the old iron in the province. Still, he had the consolation of thinking that Elias was not taking part in the terrible and bloody battles, doleful and desperate tidings of which came across the outposts right to the besieged town. He saw his neighbours and clients pass along with bowed heads, wondering uneasily, and asking one another—

“What news? Have you heard anything of your son? Where is he? If only all our boys are not dead!”

He at least could reply, “I do not know,” with comparative assurance. But the others? Old Graff especially was an object of pity. He seemed as though he would go mad. One evening he had gone out bareheaded into the streets, when the weather was icy cold, saying to all he met, “If Antoine does not come back, I shall have been his murderer. Why did I send him to the war; he was not even of age? He ought to be here by my side. All this time they have been fighting around Paris. A presentiment comes to me that my son is dead!” and he wept bitterly. They were obliged to take him back home by force, whilst little Catherine hid herself behind her mother’s skirts. Moses congratulated himself for the prudent resolution he had imposed on Elias, though he did his best to lament with the rest on the dangers run by this brave and valiant band of youth gone out in defence of their country.

One evening, on returning home_y the inhabitants of the district around the cathedral found ambulance carriages in the streets and assistants carrying wounded men into private houses. No more beds were to be had at the hospitals. All the untenanted houses had been requisitioned, and now the military authorities appealed to the patriotism of the inhabitants of Metz for lodging the victims of the last sortie. A captain of light infantry belonging to the Guards had just been carried to the house of Moses, and Graff had taken in a captain of artillery, named M. de Trémont. As he was bringing back his battery from the hills of Servigny, the young officer had received a ball in the thigh.

Anxiety for the health of his patient, the remedies he needed, and other little attentions, caused a happy diversion to the ever-present anxiety of Antoine’s father. As he saw this handsome young officer, who had fought so heroically, and who under such solicitous care, was about to recover his health under his roof, Graff began to hope once more. He said to himself, “If my own son is wounded, why should not he also be so fortunate as Captain de Trémont? He has been brought a long distance, with his wounded thigh, but he will be quite well again in less than a couple of months. They do not all die who are wounded in war. I feel sure Antoine will come back now.” And his spirits returned with renewed hope. The captain, well cared for by Graff and his wife, was soon able to leave his bed, and after dinner, at night, he would relate to them his campaigns in Algeria and Mexico. He explained to his hosts the reasons why France was coming off the worst in this disastrous campaign, attributing all the advantages of the Germans to their remarkable organizing capacity, and the perfection of their artillery.

“You see, the whole future of war consists in war material. We have to give way before breech-loading cannons, which have, from the very first, given proof of a marked superiority over our grooved arms. The moral effect on our troops has been decisive. The first thing to be done after the war, will be to investigate a new kind of cannon and explosives of a terribly destructive power. The question of explosives will be of capital importance. This ought to be the main end of our efforts in the artillery.”

With remarkable clearness he explained all that modern chemistry offered in cunning combinations, such as would guarantee victory to that adversary which could most scientifically assure massacre and death. So, in the evening silence in that large town, besieged by the conquering enemy, the conquered were already engaged in thinking of preparations for revenge.

The siege came to an end, and all the brave soldiers who would have defended Metz to the death were surrendered alive to the enemy. The flags, a prey to famine, were carried off to form trophies of victory in Germany. Paris fell in her turn, then the final armies of France, driven back across the snow, stained with blood, not so tired of death as exhausted with the fight, stopped at the country’s call. And on that immense battlefield, two hundred leagues square, the victors’ shout of triumph mingled with the despairing cry of the vanquished. By degrees news arrived, bringing sorrow to some and joy to others. Among the brave young fellows who had gone forth to fight, so ardent and proud, many never returned, whilst the numbers of prisoners and wounded will never be known.

One morning, Graff, in the dining-room, was taking breakfast with his family and Captain de Trémont, who was still a convalescent in Metz, when the outside door was opened, a rapid step was heard on the staircase, and father, mother, and little Catherine, looked at one another with pale faces. Not a word was uttered as they listened tremblingly to this quick, seemingly joyful ascent. They had all been struck by the same thought; he who comes hastening to us in this way, without asking any questions, who enters as though he were master of the house, and mounts the well-known steps four at a time, must be Antoine! Before they had time to give expression to their thoughts the door opened, and a tall, bearded young man, so thin and terrible that they did not recognize him, but whose eyes were instantly flooded with tears, appeared before them.

“Father! Catherine! Mother!”

They all rose to their feet, mad with joy, for they could not mistake the voice, and the long-expected child for whom so many tears had been shed, was taken in their arms and covered with kisses, amid the cries and sobs, questions and exclamations, of parents and servants, whilst the Captain looked on with a smile at this family scene. Finally, Antoine escaped from their arms, and his first words were the following—

“Good heavens! How hungry I am!”

As he spoke he cast hungry looks on the coffee and cake with which the table was spread. In a trice he was seated there, and served and fed so well, that he was obliged to beg them to desist. Then explanations began, and long accounts of events, interspersed with questions as to the fate of such and such a one. He himself, after fighting at Sedan, had escaped by Mézières, reached the North, where, with Faidherbe, he had passed the whole campaign. He had not slept in a bed for three months. But he had fought at Pont-Noyelles, Bapaume, and Saint Quentin, and had been lucky enough to come out without a scratch, with the grade of sergeant-major; disgusted all the same, with the soldier’s profession for the rest of his life. His father said to him—

“Well, it is all over now! You shall never begin again. Our unhappy country is crushed. It will take a score of years to bring things to their former condition. Ah, my poor Antoine, how ill I have slept the last six months! I may say, with truth, I have not had a single hour’s peace of mind since you left. But here you are back again once more, and all is forgotten.”

Then the incidents of the campaign would begin again. Captain de Trémont questioned the young soldier on the details of the campaign in the North, and Antoine could not dwell too long on the valour of the calm and indefatigable Faidherbe, the bravery of his companions, and the services rendered by François Baradier, a volunteer like himself, the son of a banker of Troyes, who had saved his life, snatching him away from the hands of the Prussians of Manteufel on the evening of the battle of Bapaume, within a farm which the shells had set on fire, and where he was surrounded by a dozen of the enemy.

“He will come and see you—he promised me so—and you will appreciate such a fine brave fellow as he is.”

“Your rescuer? Certainly, he shall be welcome. But let me look at you, my poor child. Who would have recognized you? You look like a brigand! Had I met you in the street, I should have been afraid!”

All day long the Graffs were visited by whole lines of relations and friends, who had called to congratulate them, to admire the returned soldier, and to listen to the hundredth account of the episode of the Battle of Bapaume, whilst tumblers of beer and glasses of kirsch-wasser were served, bringing to their height the overwrought feelings of Graff, who was usually sober enough, though, on this occasion, he had completely lost his bearings.

The following morning fresh stirrings in the quarter. Elias Lichtenbach made his appearance in a cab. He looked well and hearty, and, after greeting his family, immediately entered into conference with the German authorities. The rumour soon spread that young Lichtenbach had been sent by the authorities of Bordeaux, and had become a person of importance during the war. In reality, his mission concerned the re-victualling of the army on the frontiers of the East. The delegate to the war, who appreciated the services rendered by Elias, his skill as an intermediary, and his facility in avoiding difficulties, had sent his agent to the enemy’s headquarters. He was now full of self-importance, and proudly looked down upon his compatriots, worn out by privation and hunger, though furious at defeat.

After the first few hours of astonishment full fling was given to curiosity. Where had Elias come from, looking so strong and well? Of all who had left at the same time as himself, he was the only one who had returned looking better than when he left. All the rest were pale and savage-looking. Inquiries were set afoot. At the very first question the representatives of the authorities replied, with circumspection, that M. Lichtenbach had rendered eminent service to the country, and that the delegate for the war considered him with the most benevolent esteem. What kind of service? It was young Baradier who, on reaching Metz, on a visit to Antoine and his family, began to throw light on the obscure conduct of the boasting Elias.

Sergeant Baradier, ruddy of complexion, full of life and vigour, was as firm in disposition as Antoine was gentle. His open frankness pleased everybody, and amongst all these good people he was immediately at his ease. Twenty-four hours had not passed before he was on very good terms with Captain de Trémont, and had grouped together all the volunteers of Metz to a banquet to celebrate their return. Elias had had the calm audacity to give in his name, like the rest, and had put in an appearance at the Hotel de l’Ours, to take part in the banquet. But his reception had been a cold one. All who were present, though in civil dress, as the German authorities had forbidden the uniform, knew in what regiments they had served, in what battles they had been wounded. Elias alone lost himself in vague explanations. He pretended to have been everywhere—with the armies at Chanzy and Bourbaki, at the camp of Conlie, and near Garibaldi. This gift of ubiquity astonished everybody. Sergeant Baradier undertook to give an explanation clearer than all those behind which Elias had sheltered himself.

“Are you not the Lichtenbach who did business with the firm of Baradier at Troyes?” he asked old Moses’ son, point-blank. “Is it not you who bought sheep in the Ardennes, and drove them through Belgium into France?”

“Yes, it is myself,” replied Elias, cautiously.

“Well! No wonder you have been everywhere during the war, since you were buying meat from every available spot, on behalf of the management.”

As Elias became agitated and turned pale, Baradier continued—

“Oh, I am not reproaching you, I am simply stating a fact. These gentlemen just now did not appear to understand the part you played. I am explaining it to them. M. Lichtenbach is a patriot in a fashion. Instead of fighting he undertook to feed the fighters. If not a glorious employment, it is, at least a useful one.”

“But I risked my life like the rest,” exclaimed Elias, red with anger. “Had the Germans caught me they would have shot me!”

“It is most extraordinary that they allowed you to move in and out so freely through their lines, for they did not generally show themselves over confident. The good reception, too, they gave you must have appeared very strange.”

“What do you mean!” exclaimed Elias.

“Simply what I say; nothing more,” replied Baradier, coldly. “But if you wish me to explain, I merely remark that remaining out of the reach of sabre cuts and musket shots, whilst others are fighting, being warm and comfortable, and deprived of nothing, whilst your companions are dying of cold and hunger, seeing in the misfortunes of one’s country only an opportunity of making a fortune, is not what one would call the height of heroism.”

“You insult me!”

“I am ready to give you satisfaction.”

“Good! you shall hear from me.”

“Do not cry out so loud; I can easily be found. I am staying with M. Graff, and am the son of M. Baradier, your banker at Troyes. Now we will change the subject.”

Immediately Elias found himself alone. Everybody turned their backs on him. Flinging on his adversary a look of hatred he left the room. As he closed the door he heard Graff exclaim—

“Now that there are none but good patriots left let us drink to the health of France!”

The following morning Baradier, accompanied by Captain de Trémont and his friend Graff, waited for Lichtenbach to put in an appearance. They waited in vain. The prudent Elias, having avoided wounds during the war, seemed quite determined not to run the risk of receiving any in times of peace. Still, as though by chance, M. Baradier at Troyes, received in his house a supplement of twenty Hessian hussars, to board and lodge, and old Graff was summoned thrice in a single week to reply to denunciations representing him as having spoken in insulting terms concerning the German army. Finally, Baradier received notice to leave Metz within twelve hours.

It was quite possible that chance alone might have caused the increase of the burden laid on the banker of Troyes, and the expulsion of Baradier might have been the consequence of the banquet, at which more was said than the circumstances warranted. But old Graff was convinced that his neighbour Lichtenbach’s son was an agent of the enemy, and that the rogue had simply turned informer against him. All the same, Elias bowed to him in the street with the greatest deference, and he always showed himself very polite to Antoine.

The quiet and taciturn heir to the firm of Graff avoided, as far as possible, his former companion. He did not openly break with him, his nature being opposed to violence of every kind. But very few words were spoken on either side, and he avoided transacting business with him. The firm Graff stored up large quantities of wool, which were sold to the manufacturers of Champagne and the Ardennes. The Baradiers, who had just bought a large factory at Ars, were great customers of theirs. Elias, who continued his father’s wholesale business, bought and sold everything in the nature of a business transaction, and had often made offers to the Graff for the wool of Germany. The latter had always declined his offers. Still, in spite of such evident ill-will, Elias was not discouraged, and, with that tenacity which is one of the virtues of his race, he periodically visited Graff and his son, in the hope of bringing off a bargain.

Thus, after two years spent by Mademoiselle Graff in one of the best boarding schools in Nancy, Elias, one fine morning, found himself in front of her in the garden, whilst waiting for Antoine. He was stupefied and completely dazzled. The child had become a young lady, tall and graceful, with dark eyes, light hair, and brilliant complexion. He dared not speak to her, and could only bow as she passed. On returning home he mentioned the incident to his father, and, with a wealth of biblical comparison, he depicted the maiden, like Rebecca appearing to Jacob. He left his father in no doubt that he was passionately in love, and that if, as the shepherd had served Laban, he should have to serve Graff, he would submit to it for love of the fair Elise.

Old Moses remarked that, being a Jew, and the Graffs being Christians, there was no chance of being accepted by them, without prejudice to the grievances they had manifested against him ever since the war. Elias replied that he could abjure his religion, and by his conversion give great prestige to the Catholic faith, that he had earned sufficient money, and that a young fellow of twenty-two years of age, who would place four hundred thousand francs on the table when the contract was signed was not a suitor to be thrown over so easily.

Moses warned his son that he was entering upon a perilous negotiation. He did not dissuade him from changing his religion, if he found any advantage in such a course, but he warned him that, whether as Christian or Jew, he would not obtain the hand of Mademoiselle Graff, and that he would gain nothing but the shame of his apostacy. Elias, however, had a will of iron; he astonished the archbishop by his determination, conciliated him by his piety and generosity, and, with remarkable skill, brought over to his interests all the high Catholic powers. At a time when German pietism was struggling in the conquered provinces, with a clergy of purely Protestant tendencies, the conversion of Elias was a political event.

Had Elias not been so well known he might have become popular. All the same, he met a thorough refusal at the hands of the Graff family, and, as though to intensify the insult offered to him, before six months the beautiful Elise married the former sergeant, Baradier. At the same time, a rumour spread abroad that the Graffs were leaving the town. Antoine followed his step-brother to Paris, and entered with him into the banking establishment of Baradier senior.

It was too much for Elias. He lost his sleep, and one day, after meeting the Graffs, who were being escorted to the station by all their friends, he returned home, and was taken suddenly ill. Old Moses, terrified, put his son to bed, summoned the doctor, and learnt that the new convert was at the point of death. A furious delirium had taken possession of him; during its course he negotiated fabulous bargains with imaginary buyers and sellers. A semblance of reason returned only when he poured forth floods of insults and threats against the Baradiers and the Graffs, whilst his father calmed him by saying—

“Yes, Elias, you shall have your revenge on these rascals! You shall ruin them! You shall crush them under your heel!”

Then a happy smile came over the patient’s lips; he slept a few hours, and awoke feeling much better. One may affirm that it was the intensity of his hatred that kept him from dying. Plans of revenge haunted his fevered brain, and when the doctor, in astonishment, declared that the young man was convalescent, the first words Elias uttered were, “All the better! Had I died, the Baradiers and Graff’s would have been too glad!”

To tell the truth, the latter paid not the slightest heed to the feelings of rancour they had so violently aroused. They had assumed the direction of the firm, had extended the business, and founded additional woollen factories. Marcel Baradier and his sister Amélie were born. Complete harmony seemed to exist in this happy family, when Elias Lichtenbach, his father having died, came to establish himself in Paris.

A singular metamorphosis had been wrought in him. The first time Baradier and his rival met at the Bourse the banker did not recognize Lichtenbach. He saw before him a thin, stooping man, almost bald, with cold, passionless eyes, hidden behind gold spectacles. His very voice had changed. M. Lichtenbach spoke little, said only what was absolutely essential, and remained impassive before the most important news. A contraction of the jaws alone betrayed his emotion, giving to his countenance a character of singular ferocity.

Lichtenbach’s connection with the firm of Baradier and Graff was full of meaning. He caused them to lose three hundred thousand francs in a single morning on a contract for wool, concluded at the Bourse of Troyes. Elias sold wool from Hungary at so low a rate that Baradier and Graff, who had speculated on a rise, were obliged to sell out rapidly to limit their risks. It was the first clear flash from the cloud. Henceforward an enemy, always on the watch, was ever ready to strike the Baradier firm in its most vulnerable part. Lichtenbach’s evil intentions, though concealed, were none the less certain.

When attacked they ingeniously defended themselves, took needful precautions, and trusted nothing to hazard. Lichtenbach was very powerful and dangerous. Left a widower, with one daughter, whom he had sent to the Sacre-Coeur, there to be brought up according to the principles of the most rigid devotion, Elias was a type of the renegade who had become more Christian than the Pope himself.

Still, if Lichtenbach was dreaded, he was received everywhere, and his influence in society was as secret as it was sure. He rendered priceless help to ruined families. Instead of aiming his financial batteries against the established Government, he divided his attempts, placed his hands on all the syndicates of Europe, and by means of the capital he collected caused diverse speculations not only to benefit himself, but all his friends in addition.

The simplicity of his life was extreme. He lived in a gloomy mansion in the Rue Barbet-de-Jouy, attended by servants from Lorraine, who spoke German better than French. He never received visitors, whilst a game of whist seemed to form his only distraction. It was at his office, right in front of the Bourse, that he received his clients. Although only forty-five years of age, he seemed to have lost all interest in the fair sex, as though all women were an object of terror for him. The little Duchess de Bernay, who, thanks to speculations conducted by Elias, had been able to pay her debts, one day said to her friend, the Marchioness de Premeur—

“I must find out what Lichtenbach really thinks. After all, the manner in which he treats us is almost humiliating.”

For some evenings, in the presence of all her friends, she flirted with Elias, without succeeding in thawing him. Then suddenly she ceased paying attention to him. To her companions’ ironical questions she replied, evasively—

“I have lost my time. It is no use.”

But it was noticed that her style of living changed; that she spent large sums of money, and that, according as she ceased joking with the financier, she became more and more settled in money matters. Elias, distant and silent as ever, continued to speculate in the four corners of the globe, to advise the Prince, manage his journal, and prove to the-firm of Baradier and Graff, as well as to those in any way connected with him, that the enmity he was nourishing would be with him as long as he lived.

CHAPTER III

On reaching the Rue de Provènce, the Minister of War descended from his brougham with the eagerness of a young man, crossed the court-yard, entered the offices, and, in loud tones, asked the office boy—

“Is M. Baradier in?”

The office-boy instinctively stood at attention, and replied—“Yes, General; I will announce you at once.”

The Minister, with nervous steps, strode to and fro in the ante-chamber, behind whose windows the Havas despatches gave the current rates of all the Exchanges of Europe. Suddenly a door opened, and a stout man with ruddy complexion entered the room with outstretched arms.

“Ah, it is you, General! What trouble you have taken! Just step into this room.”

The Minister entered, and as soon as the door was closed he exclaimed—

“Ah, my poor friends! How sad it all is!”

“We cannot get over the shock, Baradier and I,” said Graff, rolling forward an armchair. “Take a seat, General.”

“Who has told you the news?”

“Baudoin, who was sleeping here last night, and came in terrified this afternoon with the dismal tidings. What has happened down there? The whole circumstances are even more serious than the disaster itself. Graff and I have been questioning and discussing with one another, without succeeding in settling the frightful problem.”

“If only Marcel were here!” moaned Uncle Graff. “He would enlighten us. He is so well acquainted with Trémont’s life and habits, his weaknesses.”

“His weaknesses?” asked the Minister. “A woman? Is that what you mean?”

“Yes, General.”

“You are taking the paltry side of the matter,” said the old soldier, firmly. “It is no question of a mere passade. The affair before us is far more than a paltry intrigue. The woman—yes, indeed, she has had a rôle to play. But she has only been the agent, perhaps unwittingly, of an attempt, carefully thought out and boldly executed.”

“With what object?” asked Baradier. “Tell me everything, General. Let us communicate our suspicions to one another, in an attempt to throw light on the affair.”

“Ah! It is evident that the object of the attack was the discoveries made by Trémont. In this abominable plot, which has ended in the murder of a man we loved, a remarkable savant, I see—but do not let this go beyond the three of us here present—the hand of the foreigner.”

There was a moment’s silence. Baradier and Graff looked at one another, uneasily, and as though undecided. But the impetuous Baradier could not long keep to himself the idea working in his brain.

“We, too, General, seem to recognize in the blow which has fallen on our friend some hateful intention against him and against ourselves at once.”

“Baradier,” intervened Graff, “you are going too fast and too far! How can you risk such a charge, on suppositions alone?”

“Ah! You still hesitate!” exclaimed Baradier. “You are still bound down by scruples! The deuce! I feel there is treason and infamy in all this! I—Let me continue! I would swear that Lichtenbach is at the bottom of it all!”

“You have no right to speak in that way!” exclaimed Graff, rising to his feet and quivering with emotion. “How can you insinuate that a man against whom nothing can be said from either a professional or a moral point of view, is a party to a crime, simply because he is our enemy? It is abominable! We must give some place to justice!”

Baradier, boiling over with excitement, rose in his turn, and began to walk to and fro, speaking in snatches.

“For the last two hours, General, we have been disputing in this way, Graff and myself, and the only reply he can give me is that I am not just! As though that were a matter of concern when an imperious instinct cries out to you: ‘There is the culprit. He is not seen; he is well masked, cunningly concealed, and appears in nothing.’ Probably he will not be found out, but it is he all the same who has done the deed, because it was to his interest and hatred combined to do it! No! With his justice, humanity, and philanthropy, you can have no idea how stupid Graff is, at times!”

In spite of the gravity of the situation, the three friends burst into a loud laugh, and Graff, bending forward his great body, exclaimed—

“Thanks!”

The Minister then intervened to give a little order to the debate.

“Come, Baradier, explain yourself. As your brother-in-law says, vague presentiments are not sufficient to establish an accusation. Presumptions lead to investigations, and if guilt results from information obtained, then one may proceed. Besides, I will observe to you that the authorities have been notified, an examination has been commenced, and if you have proofs to furnish—”

“Impossible!” interrupted Baradier. “To you I have been telling my inmost thoughts; to an examining magistrate I would not repeat what I have just said.”

“Ah!” triumphed Graff; “what did I tell you?”

“For me to quit my reserve, such discoveries ought to be brought to light, that the proofs—moral as they are—upon which I lean, should have material coincidences. But do not think I am retreating. I will make inquiries, and if I find—”

“You will not find anything. If your suspicions are true, we have to deal with those who are stronger than ourselves.”

“We shall see about that!”

The General intervened again.

“Is this Lichtenbach, of whom you speak, the great merchant-prince who is allied with the clerico-royalist party?”

“Yes, the same man.”

“And you imagine him capable of a crime?”

“I believe he is capable of anything.”

“Doubtless you know that he is very influential with the Ministry, and obtains whatever he wishes.”

“He is very powerful everywhere; his arms stretch in all directions.”

“But what interest would he have in trying to circumvent Trémont, in the first place, and, afterwards, in bringing about his disappearance?”

“Well, General, what do you think of the investigations into explosives? Lichtenbach is at the head of the French syndicate of mining exploitations. In Russia, Austria, and Spain, he has considerable interests. Now, in the composition of a powder, easy to control in results, capable of being handled without harm, and of very moderate cost—and all these advantages were claimed by the Trémont powder, as was seen from the report read by the General, at the Academy of Science, six months ago—was there not something to tempt the covetousness of business men, ever on the look-out for progressive and remunerative processes? Trémont had received splendid offers, but had always refused even the initial overtures. Then he explained to Graff and myself his intention of promoting a company, the working of which should be exclusively French. It was a point of honour with him that his own country should profit from his discovery.”

“The fine fellow! Just like him!”

“He was well aware that he had found an opportunity of making a fortune, but he did not wish foreign money to have a hand in it. Besides, at the same time, he had almost completed his investigations into a new war-powder. He would not throw the commercial affair on the market until he had given his new explosive to the Government. He said to us: ‘Both powders at once. The one that will make me rich, and the one that will make us conquerors. In this way I shall be pardoned for the benefits I shall reap from the first, in favour of the prestige the second will give our Army.’”

“Yes; secret experiments had already taken place with his war-powder. Never had my colleagues or myself seen such destructive effects. Nothing could have resisted an artillery firing projectiles charged with this powder! And the secret has vanished in smoke! It is a great misfortune for France!”

A strange smile passed over Graff’s mouth, and, with a gesture of dissent, he said—

“Ah! Who knows?”

“What do you mean?”

“Yes, it is not absolutely certain that the secret is lost! Perhaps some one possesses the General’s formulæ in duplicate.”

“Who?” exclaimed the Minister.

Graff rubbed his hands together and replied—

“My nephew!”

“Marcel? Has he said anything to you?”

“Yes. A week ago.”

At these words Baradier turned pale. Turning to his brother-in-law, with a look of anguish, he exclaimed—

“Never let the slightest suspicion of this be known! Repeat to no one what you have just said! They have killed Trémont! Do you want them to kill my son?”

“Ah! Baradier, have you no courage left?” asked the General. “You are afraid of your shadow now. Do you imagine that, if your hypothesis be true, and I am much inclined to share it, those who have dealt the blow will be disposed to recommence without delay? We have time to act, and we are warned. Why the deuce should we be afraid? Just now, the authors of the crime have carefully gone to earth, for they can have no doubt that the police are on the look-out for them. Do not be alarmed, and let us speak frankly.”

“My dear General, if the possession of the secret of the powders has been fatal to Trémont, whom they thought simply of robbing, what is not to be feared for Marcel Baradier, if this terrible intrigue is conducted by the implacable enemy of all his family? They would have spared Trémont’s life, could they have obtained possession of his formulæ. Marcel can expect no pity, for it is Graff and myself—it is his own mother whom they will reach in striking him.”

“We shall be there to defend him,” said Graff, in trembling tones. “I am not an evil-disposed person, but still I feel myself capable of the utmost ferocity in preventing any harm befalling my nephew!”

“You understand,” said the General, “that if the police have no clue to your suspicions, I will take it upon myself to inform them.”

“It would be wiser not to do anything of the sort,” interrupted Baradier. “If, as we imagine, it is Lichtenbach who has directed the frightful plot, you may be certain beforehand that it will not be brought to light. Both he and his accomplices are free from all responsibility. The woman who appears to have acted as a decoy will have disappeared. The man whose arm has been torn off will be carefully attended to in some dark spot, perhaps abroad, and the coachman who accompanied the accomplices to Vanves is a trusted member of the band. Nothing will be discovered, you may be sure. The examining magistrate may prepare at once to shelve the whole affair.”

“I think as you do. But that is no reason for not making investigations. In the first place, if Lichtenbach is watched, perhaps some proof will be discovered. But all that concerns the police. We will change the subject. General de Trémont has left an only daughter, without support.”

“I beg your pardon, General. We will console her and pay her all possible attention.”

“Yes, my dear friend, I know the poor child may rely upon you. But she is without fortune. Trémont left very little property; his pension was almost all that he had.”

“Reassure yourself. She shall never lack anything. This very morning my wife went to her to the Sacre-Coeur, and brought her here. She shall stay with my daughter and be treated as though she bore my own name.”

“All the same, I will obtain for her a pension from the Ministry.”

“Certainly, if you wish; but it will simply be to ease your conscience. She will have every want fulfilled. I take charge of her as though she were my child.”

“Can I not speak to her? Is she in a fit state to receive me?”

“She is in great grief, but very calm. Graff will tell her that you are here.”

The uncle left the room. Baradier drew his chair nearer the General’s, as though afraid the walls would hear what he was about to say.

“Between you and myself—for Graff is too sentimental—is this a matter that concerns other countries?”

“How can we tell, so long as we have not laid our hands on the culprits? Even if they are found, how can we throw light on that question? We can never hope for absolute certainty in this respect, as foreign agents always keep themselves aloof from direct responsibility, and disclaim all connection with abroad, if they are caught. We shall never get beyond probabilities. Our artillery material and explosives are at present, and will long remain, a matter of anxiety to rival Powers. Our armaments are well known, though our projectiles are continually being perfected. It is certain that the artillery which made use of the Trémont powder would have had an overwhelming advantage. Hence the attempt against the inventor, evidently.”

“So you attach a great value to the formulæ discovered by the General?”

“A very great value. Its possession would render our country an immense service.”

Baradier became serious. Bowing his head, he continued resolutely—

“I am a good patriot, General. I fought for France to the very last hour of the war. All the Baradier family, Lorraines from Metz, went into voluntary exile so as not to live in the midst of our conquerors. If my country needed my life, I would not hesitate to give it up. I will do more, I will risk my son’s life. If Marcel knows Trémont’s secret, I give you my oath you shall have the powder.”

A flash of joy shone in the old soldier’s eyes. Stretching out his hand to Baradier, he exclaimed, in trembling tones—“Thank you. You are a brave soldier.”

At this moment the door opened, and the General gave a sonorous hum, and regained his composure. Madame Baradier and Mademoiselle de Trémont entered the room, followed by Graff. Still slender and graceful, Madame Baradier now showed a few silver threads among the beautiful blonde tresses of her youth. But her frank look and smiling lips revealed the young girl beloved of Elias Lichtenbach. Mademoiselle de Trémont, wearing a blue convent dress, slender and dark-complexioned, showed in her countenance, overwhelmed with grief, the charming grace of her sixteen years. Without the slightest awkwardness or hesitation, she walked straight to her father’s friend. At the first words the old soldier addressed her, however, her eyes filled with tears, which silently flowed unheeded down her cheeks. She listened with eager satisfaction to the consoling words of praise, consecrated to him who had just disappeared, and the silent nod she gave from time to time seemed an acquiescence of resignation and grief, in the bitterness of life now beginning for her.

Alas! she had scarcely known her father. A widower very soon after the birth of his daughter, he had been obliged to entrust her to the care of pious and devout women. She had scarcely ever tasted of the delights of home. Geneviève often tried, in vain, to recall the sound of her mother’s voice. How sad it was! She had never felt on her heart the caressing warmth of an ever-present affection. Isolation, in the midst of strangers, kind and benevolent though they were, had been her lot, right to the day on which death had broken the slender bond which still attached her to her father. And now what a sorrowful end, in this catastrophe, at once stupefying and terrible, which left her an orphan, and filled her mind with thoughts of violence and massacre!

She had not even the supreme consolation of thinking that the one she mourned had had a calm and peaceful death. As a soldier, he had not fallen on the field of battle; as a savant, he had not succumbed, a victim to his investigations. In a base and cowardly fashion, he had been assassinated by bandits. She heard the Minister telling her that she might rely on his protection. Stammering out her thanks, and blinded by tears, she left the room with Madame Baradier, almost heart-broken at being made to understand more vividly, from the expressions of condolence addressed to her, the extent of her loss.

The Minister, on leaving the room in his turn, found General de Trémont’s servant awaiting him in the antechamber. He looked with interest at the latter’s intelligent and energetic countenance.

“Well, my poor Baudoin, this is a great loss for us.”

“It is a great crime, General.”

“They had sent you away, my good fellow; but for that, all this would not have happened.”

“Ah, General, it is always the fair sex who ruin everything!”

“Come, come! Don’t say anything more on the subject.”

“Pardon me, General. I do not mention it from lack of deference for my poor master, but if attempts are not made to find the scoundrel, the woman who controlled the whole affair, nothing will be discovered, and my master will remain unavenged.”

“Do you know the woman?”

“Ah! If I had known her, I, too, should have been dead!”

Baradier, Graff, and the Minister looked at one another. What Baudoin had just said was so clear a confirmation of Baradier’s fears, concerning his son, that the threatening power of the mysterious woman instantly forced itself on the Minister’s thoughts. He was already so well acquainted personally, and through his predecessors, with these fortune-hunters, always in quest of a speculation or intrigue to work out, or a secret to be stolen, from the sellers of crosses of honour, to searchers of official desks. He could have named several of them. And the experience of the past: all these acts of imprudence and folly, were there to prove the truth of what the simple and devoted Baudoin now said. The Minister continued—

“I heard her voice, General, last night, and I will warrant that if she uttered a word in my hearing, I should recognize it.”

“Ah, a voice, my poor fellow, a voice heard for a single moment, uttering a few sentences only. How could one dare to accuse another on such feeble evidence? Do you know, there are voices so similar that one may be mistaken, even when one is familiar with their owners. If you have no other proof to give, my poor Baudoin, you had better say nothing at all.”

“We shall see, General.”

“Ah, you are obstinate!”

“A little, General.”

“Well, well! What can I do for you? You have been a good soldier, and a devoted servant. I imagine your master would have recommended me not to abandon you. Would you like to enter the office of the Ministry?”

“Thank you, General. M. Baradier has offered to take me into his office, and I have accepted. But if you would be good enough to—”

“Well, speak!”

“Could you please tell me the name of the Ministerial agent who has been conducting the investigations? He seemed to me a very intelligent man, and I should like to speak to him.”

“His name is Laforêt. But keep the name to yourself. I have sufficient confidence to mention it to you; still, it must not be generally known.”

“You may rely on my discretion, General. I will say nothing.”

“Well, good day!”

The Minister shook hands with Baradier and Graff, and rode away in his brougham. When the two partners returned into the hall, Baudoin, to whom they wished to speak, had disappeared.

As soon as he learnt the agent’s name, Baudoin had taken his hat, and, leaving the hotel by the servants’ exit, had made his way to the Ministry. On reaching the entrance he made inquiries. Being an old soldier, he knew how to speak to soldiers. The orderly he met in the hall pointed out to him the building he wished to enter, right at the end of the court, staircase C. There the porter had stopped him; no one could enter without authorization. He had none; he must accordingly ask for one.

“I simply wanted to speak to M. Laforêt.”

The porter looked at him with suspicion. Then he said—

“M. Laforêt? You will not find him at the Ministry, call at his private residence.”

“Where is that?”

“You must inquire.”

It was quite evident there was nothing to be gained here. Bowing, he thanked the porter and took his departure. In the Rue Saint-Dominique, at the corner of the Rue Martignac, he noticed a small café. He entered with the object of making inquiries, as the porter had recommended. Four customers, under the complaisant eye of the proprietor, were playing at cards. At the far end was a room, containing a billiard-table. The players could be seen, though indistinctly, each time they passed before the door. There appeared to be spectators present. Probably a pool was being contested.

“A bock. Is there a billiard academy here?”

“Ah, sir, we have some very fine players. Some of these gentlemen from the Ministry come every evening. M. Trousset, the head clerk, though an amateur, would be a match for the best players in Paris, and even from abroad!”

“Indeed! And may one watch the game?”

“If you wish, sir, I will carry the beer into the next room.”

Baudoin had already entered the billiard-room, which contained two tables. Taking a seat, he looked on. One of the players was a stout, jovial fellow, who accompanied his cannons with stale jokes. The other, a tall, thin dark-complexioned man, was Laforêt himself. Baudoin gave himself a slap on the thigh, took out a cigarette, and exclaimed to the astonishment of his neighbour—

“I am lucky this time!”

As he was looked at inquisitively, he said no more, but lit a cigarette, and began to sip his beer. The stout player said to his opponent, with a wink—

“The balls are in the corner; now for the final!”

Whereupon he made a series of seventeen cannons, and missed the eighteenth. Laforêt, without being disconcerted, took up the cue, but only scored five points. His adversary exclaimed—

“If I score fifteen now, I win the set.”

He won without the slightest effort, turned down his shirt-sleeves, put on his coat, and, holding out his hand to his opponent, said:

“No ill feeling?”

“None at all. You have played very well, M. Moussin,” said Laforêt. “My revenge next time.”

“Whenever you like.”

Laforêt, with perfect indifference, approached Baudoin, exclaiming in loud tones—

“Waiter, a bitter.”

Then, turning towards the General’s servant, he asked—

“Are you waiting for me?”

“Yes; so you recognized me?”

“That is my business. Anything fresh?”

“No; all the same, I wish to speak to you.”

“Good!”

The few loiterers gradually filed out into the other room, which was lighter and more pleasant in appearance. A few players alone remained, and Baudoin and Laforêt found themselves isolated.

“You may speak here, no one will pay any attention to us.”

“Well! This morning, when I saw you, in the presence of all the others, I had an impression that you were a man to be relied upon, and that, in case it were necessary to appeal to any one concerning something difficult or dangerous, one would run no risk with you of being left in the lurch. Am I mistaken?”

“No.”

“If I think rightly, you do not work under the same conditions as the agents in the service of the Prefecture, who are entirely allied to the Administration. You are, I suppose, a kind of volunteer of the police, at liberty to give information as you please, consequently free as regards initiative.”

Laforêt interrupted him.

“If you wish to speak to me on the Vanves affair, I must stop you at once. My principal ordered me not to take any further steps in the matter for the moment. The Public Prosecutor is in possession of the information. Every one to his own department. We shall not take up the matter again, provisionally.”

“But if I simply asked you to enlighten me on certain points?”

“One can always give advice.”

“Good! The police are about to make a search for the authors of the crime of which my master has been the victim. But I, also, should like to investigate.”

“There is no one to prevent you.”

“Ah! One must know how to go about it. One does not become a detective by instinct. Which end shall I begin with, to unravel the skein?”

“Come! Had your master any family?”

“A daughter.”

“She had no interest in wishing to be rid of him?”

“Not the slightest.”

“Had he any visitors?”

“Very few; he was so distrustful! The woman who called on him only came mysteriously by night, on which occasions he always sent me away.”

“That is the same woman who came last night?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know if M. de Trémont had any enemies?”

“No.”

“Was there any one who had reasons for injuring him?”

“In a certain sense, yes.”

“Why do you suspect this?”

“I judge from personal observation, confirmed by the conviction of one of my master’s friends.”

“A man who can offer good guarantees?”

“Perfect.”

“Very good! Search must be made in that direction.”

“If only you knew what difficulties I am likely to meet with.”

“That is the most interesting part about it. It is not very clever to arrest a coal-dealer who has been thrashing his wife in his shop, or a hair-dresser who has cut his lady’s throat with one of his razors! What excites one is the struggle and pursuit, the necessity of employing trickery and invention. We are men of imagination, and novelists often make us laugh by the poverty of their combinations.”

“That is because you like your profession. It is not so with me; I am not inquisitive. Were I not mad with grief at seeing my master, whom I was so fond of basely murdered, I should take good care not to meddle with other people’s affairs. But vengeance seems a kind of duty my master would impose on me, could he do so. Had he had time to think, the moment he was struck, he must have said to himself: ‘Ah! If only Baudoin were here he would defend me with his last breath.’ You see, I must find his murderers. I shall have no rest till I have succeeded in this pursuit.”

Laforêt had become thoughtful. After a moment’s hesitation, he said—

“You are a brave fellow. But you do not possess the qualities necessary for the unravelling of an affair like this one. You will spoil everything by putting on their guard the very people you suspect. Do not stir; just wait. Patience is the first duty of a detective. Time is a precious auxiliary. At first, a criminal is very cautious; he takes every precaution. By degrees, as his feeling of security increases, his prudence lessens, he trusts himself out of his lair once more, and it is then that there is a good chance of catching him. Instead of undertaking a campaign, remain inactive. If you have to deal with powerful and determined men, be sure they will keep a watch on you, in proportion to their unwillingness to be caught. You will do more for the success of your side by giving them to believe that you do not suspect them, than by plotting against them, without knowing how to out-trick them. Go back home, warn those who, like you, wish to avenge the General, and wait and see the trend of events. Be sure something will happen which will put you on their track. Then go ahead boldly. If ever you need me, come here about five o’clock. You will find me regularly at this hour. My principal may be disposed to allow me to co-operate with you.”

Baudoin rose from his seat.

“Very good. I will follow your advice. If you have anything to tell me, send to Messieurs Baradier and Graff.”

“The bankers of the Rue de Provènce?”

“Yes.”

“Strange! My principal has just gone to see them, on leaving the Ministry. I heard it from the coachman. Good! Everything will turn out for the best, when the right moment comes. Au revoir!”

The two men shook hands, and Baudoin returned home.

Marcel, summoned by wire, had just returned from Ars. He was closeted with his father and uncle. Walking to and fro about the room, he gave brief replies to the questions asked him. Tall and slender, of fair complexion, with long moustache, and blue eyes, he offered a perfect pattern of the Lorraine type, in its full purity and strength. He was a very fine-looking young fellow, and his Uncle Graff watched him with a glow of pride and satisfaction.

“Well, then, what did Trémont tell you, the last time you saw him?”

“From a scientific point of view, we spoke of nothing but my investigations on the subject of aniline.”

“Nothing concerning his powders?”

“He had already told me the results he had reached. I shared his opinion that the main difficulty was solved. In the composition of explosives there was nothing more to do besides introducing a few details of manipulation.”

“And you knew his formulæ?”

“I know every one of them.”

“You could prepare them?”

“Without the slightest difficulty.”

“That is what I was afraid of,” exclaimed Baradier, sorrowfully.

“What! Afraid of? But it is very lucky for us all. For Geneviève, for whom a fortune is assured; for the Army, which will possess the Trémont powder; and for the General’s memory, by reason of the glory attaching to so important a discovery.”

“Well, Marcel, I beg of you,” said Baradier, in trembling tones, “for the sake of us all, for the time being, not to breathe a word to any one concerning what you have just revealed to us. It is a matter of life or death. So long as those who have killed Trémont remain at large, and unpunished, there will be no safety for those who might be suspected of being in possession of his scientific secret. It was to rob him of this that the blow fell. In Heaven’s name, be very careful not to let it be known that you have been taken into the confidence of our friend.”

“Do not be uneasy,” said the young man, with a smile. “No one in the world knows, except my uncle and yourself. I feel no inclination to proclaim it on the housetops. But I cannot refuse to refrain from profiting by it, when the right time comes, even though there may be risks to run.”

“Nor do we. But let us continue our investigations. Trémont was very free with you. He spoke to you of his private life. He told you of his adventures in the early days of his military career.”

“Poor man! That was his only weakness. His heart remained as young as ever. His imagination was very inflammable, and he gave way to it with unparalleled facility. I was often obliged to stop him.”

“Did he mention nothing that had happened recently?”

“No; he appeared preoccupied and less expansive than usual. Probably he had been recommended to be very discreet, and his promise had been given. I must say that his passion for the fair sex rather disgusted me, and I gave no encouragement to tales which appeared to me unworthy of our friend’s noble mind. Latterly, therefore, finding him reserved and quiet, I did not encourage him to speak. I preferred him to say nothing on the subject.”

“What a pity! Just the time when his explanations would have been so useful.”

“It is always so!”

“Had he made no fresh male acquaintances? Was there no name you could catch?”

“He spoke to me of no one except a foreign savant, with whom he had struck up a friendship, and who seems to have been an extraordinary man. He suspected him of being a nihilist, and that worried him. But he spoke of him with the utmost admiration.”

“Was he a Russian?”

“I do not know. His name was Hans.”

“Hans!” exclaimed Baradier. “That was the name of the man whose arm was torn off! It is the name on the ring worn by the man who caused the explosion of the house at Vanves. This is the first flash of light.”

“So the General was acquainted with this Hans? Still, Hans is a German name!”

“Only a German Christian name. As you are aware, there are several Russians of German origin. If the Hans in question is the author of that catastrophe, the end he aimed at by obtaining access to the General might well be the possession of the formulæ of the explosive found by him. But then, how had he become acquainted with the discoveries the General kept strictly secret?”

Graff, who had not yet spoken, but had been listening in a reverie to the observations exchanged between his brother-in-law and his nephew, raised his hand, and slowly began, as though following the slender thread of a still fugitive idea—

“You are getting lost. The motives of the instigators of this crime—for, certainly, there are several of them—are of a much higher order than you imagine. You are looking for robbers trying to obtain possession of some exceedingly fruitful discovery, or of anarchists on the scent of some powerful means of extermination. All this is very vulgar and commonplace. You have to deal with criminals of a higher stamp. The care they took to rob Trémont after killing him prove that his murderers wished to throw one off the scent. When one has a house to pillage, he does not linger behind to steal a watch or a pocket-book. The mysterious proceedings of those who effected the coup are those of political conspirators, and the thing that gives the whole plot its special character is the presence of a woman. Every undertaking of interest to foreign politics, for the past century, has been carried on by women. From my point of view, this is in a large measure what must have taken place. One or several European States have been acquainted with the investigations carried on by Trémont. His communications to the Institute may have sufficed to give the alarm. Immediately, means have been sought for becoming intimate with him, or obtaining his confidence. Our friend’s nature has been studied, and a young woman, clever and beautiful, has been fastened on him, soon to serve as intermediary between the General and Hans. The latter is no Russian, but probably some native of Baden. The woman is a spy in the service of our enemies. The man, introduced into the premises by the woman, failed in his attempts to obtain, by trickery, Trémont’s secrets; accordingly he had recourse to violence. Be certain the whole coup was entered upon for interests far higher than you imagine. You see a Lichtenbach in the affair, and imagine that it is in his interests that Hans and the mysterious woman have been playing each a perilous game. You attach to him more importance than he deserves. You must seek higher, or rather not seek at all, for nothing will be found now.”

“I cannot deny,” replied Baradier, “that Graff’s explanation possesses some semblance of likelihood. Graff is a man of imagination, who often sees things that do not exist. Still, in the present circumstances, he would be a bold man who would say that he was mistaken. Perhaps his supposition and mine both contain part of the truth. What cannot be doubted is that the authors of this audacious plot are persons who will shrink before nothing. Accordingly we must be prudent, and not appear to suspect them, living in just our usual manner. Apparently we must abstain from all participation in the work of justice. If the police succeed we shall be satisfied, without having been involved in the affair. If they find nothing, as is very likely, then our turn will come. In my opinion clever and cool-headed criminals it is almost impossible to run to ground. It is only by their imprudence that they betray themselves. It is when they begin to be no longer on their guard that there is a chance of finding some clue to their guilt. So, after all, the most prudent and skilful plan will be to wait. Marcel will return to Ars—”

“Not until I have seen Geneviève.”

“Of course, you will dine and sleep here, and take the train to-morrow morning. Your mother and uncle will not be sorry to see a little of you.”

“And my father?” asked the young man, smiling.

“And your father. Now come along with me to see your mother. Graff, you are staying in the office?”

“For a few minutes. Then I return home, but will be back in time for dinner.”

Proceeding along an inner staircase, father and son reached the private rooms, and were astonished to find in the hall a tall footman waiting there.

“Your mother has visitors,” said Baradier. “How has that come about; to-day is not her reception day?”

They entered Madame Baradier’s small salon. There she sat, pensive, near the window, her needlework lying idly in her lap.

“What! You here?” said Baradier. “I thought you were receiving.”

“The visit is not for me.”

“What is the meaning of this? No one can have called for Amélie. Then it must be for Mademoiselle de Trémont?”

“You are right,” said Madame Baradier.

“What is the matter with you?” asked the banker. “There is something extraordinary going on. Explain.”

“It is, indeed, very extraordinary. It is a schoolmate of Geneviève, who has come especially from the convent to assure her of her sympathy and affection; a trusted servant came with her, since her father could not come in person.”

Baradier’s face turned crimson, as he asked with a frown—

“Then it is—?”

His wife did not give him time to continue. They understood one another at a glance.

“Yes, my dear, it is Mademoiselle Lichtenbach.”

A silence fell throughout the room. Marcel had gone straight to his mother, to embrace her. He now stood looking at his father, who, standing before the mantelpiece, was endeavouring to fathom the meaning of this unexpected visit.

“What is she like?” asked Marcel.

“I scarcely looked at her, I must confess, my child. When her name was announced I was very much astonished. Amélie and Geneviève were with me at the time. I left them in the salon as soon as Mademoiselle Lichtenbach entered. She appeared to me to be tall, and rather good looking. It was, however, her voice, a sweet, charming voice, which impressed me most favourably.”

“It is different from her father’s, then,” growled Baradier.

“And how long has she been here?”

“Half an hour, at least.”

“And my sister is with them?”

“She could not help staying with them, otherwise it would have been a show of hostility quite out of place. Parents’ enmities, I hope, form no necessary part of children’s inheritances.”

“Mother, what you are now saying is contrary to all poetical tradition. Look at Romeo and Juliet. What would become of literature were there no hereditary enmities? They form part and parcel of romantic stock-in-trade. The deuce! We must not diminish it, as it is becoming less and less quite fast enough!”

Baradier was not listening to his son; he remained still plunged in his own reflections. At last he murmured—

“What has she come for? Why has Lichtenbach permitted her to come?”

“Shall I go and ask her?” asked Marcel.

“Try to be serious, Marcel,” exclaimed the banker. “This is no matter for jest.”

“Oh, I know that well enough. I wonder what it is that upsets you so much? Here is my mother as pale as death, and yourself in a fever-heat, and all because a young girl has come to sympathize with her school-mate! There is something extraordinary going on.”

Baradier glanced sideways at his son, and replied in a tone of irritation—

“Don’t be such a fool, Marcel. You are incapable of understanding!”

Marcel bowed, in mock humility.

“Thanks! What do I owe you for that?”

But Baradier had no time to give way to his increasing irritation. The door of the salon opened, and Amélie appeared on the threshold.

“Mamma, Mademoiselle Lichtenbach would like to say good-bye to you before leaving.”

“She seems to be very well bred,” said Marcel, in low tones. “Are you going, mother? I will accompany you. I should like to see what she looks like.”

It was in vain that Baradier shouted to his son—

“Marcel, stay here; I forbid you!”

Already the young man, with a laugh, had slipped behind his mother into the salon.

“The young rascal will never have any common sense,” moaned Baradier. And he sat down in the seat his wife had just left, vaguely listening to the sound of voices, which now reached him.

At the very first glance Marcel Baradier noticed that Mademoiselle Lichtenbach was of a very elegant figure, with a countenance of great gentleness. On further examination he did not find her pretty. Her features were irregular, but her face was lit up by eyes of limpid blue, radiant with frankness and amiability. She was standing there, an upright and slender form, in her sombre school-dress, with the blue ribbon on her breast. On Madame Baradier introducing Marcel to her she made a respectful bow, and said in delightful accents—

“I could not take my leave, madame, without thanking you for your kind welcome. Mademoiselle de Trémont and myself are very fond of one another. For a year we have been close companions, and I sympathize with her present suffering, as though her loss were also mine. It is a great relief to me, now that we are obliged to separate, to know that she will be with one who loves her. I hope you will permit her to speak to you of me, so that she may not forget me too soon, and, perhaps, instil into your mind a little of the sympathy her heart feels for me.”

Marcel was still under the charm of the voice that uttered these gentle words, when those clear, luminous eyes fell on him. He returned the look with an inquisitive and, perhaps, rather bold glance, for she immediately turned aside. At the same time a slight blush, as though accompanied with a shudder, passed over her smiling face, which suddenly became serious.

“I must thank you, mademoiselle, for the sentiments you express regarding our dear Geneviève. For ourselves,” continued Madame Baradier, “rest assured we shall not endeavour to influence her in her affections.”

Mademoiselle Lichtenbach bowed, gave a graceful nod to Amélie, and, on passing in front of Marcel, heard the latter say to her, in troubled tones—

“Permit me, mademoiselle, to show you the way.”

Opening the door of the salon, and, taking the mantle the young girl had left in the hall, he placed it over her shoulders. Then, walking by her side, his mother and sister looking on in stupefaction, he descended the steps, followed by the footman. On reaching the bottom he said, with a charm full of grace—

“Mademoiselle de Trémont’s departure will doubtless make your stay at the convent seem rather sad to you now, mademoiselle?”

“Yes. I hope Geneviève will not forget me, but come and see me.”

“After all, probably you will not stay long yourself at the Sacre-Coeur.”

“I was like Mademoiselle de Trémont, alone with my father. Geneviève will find a mother in Madame Baradier, whilst I—”

She left the sentence unfinished. Marcel, however, well understood the sadness of her meaning—“I shall remain abandoned, as I have been all my life. My youthful years will pass away behind the sad walls of a convent, under the cold, methodical surveillance of nuns, most excellent persons, but incapable of giving me that warmth of affection I need to be happy. My friend is leaving me, and all the sweetness of my life is past.”

She looked so melancholy and resigned that Marcel was moved with pity at her grief. They had now reached the brougham, the door of which was held open by the footman.

“No, mademoiselle,” said Marcel. “Rest assured Geneviève de Trémont will not forget you.”

He fastened his eyes on Mademoiselle Lichtenbach’s face, which now, in feature, seemed delicate and charming in its modest grace; then, bowing, he added, in lower tones—

“I do not think you are one of those whose fate it is to be forgotten.”

Mademoiselle Lichtenbach smiled and bowed. Then, entering the carriage, she said to the servant—

“Drive back home.”

Not another word was exchanged, whilst the footman climbed to his seat, and the coachman put the reins in order. Marcel, with head uncovered, stood there on the footpath in the Rue de Provènce, looking through the window of the brougham at this young girl, who appeared so simple and attractive to him, though he had never seen her until an hour before. Mademoiselle Lichtenbach sat there with bowed head, while a smile played on her lips. The carriage started, and the charm was broken.

On returning to the house Marcel reflected: If the father is a rogue, the daughter, at any rate, is a very charming person. After all, she is not responsible for her father’s misdeeds. But all this has nothing to do with me. In all probability we shall never meet again, so she may be what she likes. All the same, he could not get over the idea that Mademoiselle Lichtenbach, daughter of the declared enemy of Baradier and Graff, was a very striking character.

“Well,” said his father, who was awaiting his return, “you show yourself very polite. You could not be more gallant to a princess.”

“Probably not,” said the young man, calmly.

“Will you have the goodness to explain why you show yourself so obliging towards the daughter of our enemy?”

“For the sole reason that she is the daughter of our enemy.”

“It may be very chivalrous on your part, but to me it appears stupid.”

“Do you intend to introduce the fair sex into your quarrels?”

“I should like to see how Lichtenbach would treat your mother and sister if ever they fell into his power!”

“Let us hope we may never experience it. Still, Baradier and Graff are not obliged to act like Lichtenbach. Ask my uncle what he thinks about it.”

“Oh, your uncle is too sentimental. For the last hour I have been trying to find motives for this intervention. Evidently Lichtenbach wishes to throw us off the scent by this demonstration of affection for Mademoiselle de Trémont, but it is this very thing which awakens my suspicions. Do you know what Barentin, of the Supreme Court, told me lately? Not twenty-five per cent. of the criminals are ever discovered, and then only by their own folly. The rich calculate, and are almost sure of impunity.”

“My dear father, if the whole might of the law cannot seize a murderer, how can you expect Baradier and Graff to succeed? We must be sensible, and not attempt impossibilities. We will do the best we can—you by protecting Mademoiselle de Trémont, and I by assuring her the fortune her father promised her. For the rest let us trust in Providence.”

“In Providence!” growled Baradier. “Trust rather in the devil! Attend to what I tell you, Marcel. Your mother, yourself, and myself are all involved in the quarrel between Lichtenbach and your uncle. Lichtenbach is one of those revengeful men who strike both their enemies and their enemies’ offspring. Trémont has met his fate; it will be our turn next.”

“No, father, our turn will never come,” said Marcel, energetically. “At the very first threat, the faintest attempt, I will go to Lichtenbach myself, and settle all our accounts with him at a single time. That I swear!”

Graff, clean shaven and elegantly attired, now entered the office. Baradier signed to his son to say no more, and all three mounted to the salon to join the ladies.

CHAPTER IV

In his study, soberly furnished, Elias Lichtenbach, seated in front of a large Louis Fourteenth bureau, was speaking in low tones, as though afraid of being heard, to a priest, lolling at ease in an enormous armchair. By the light of the setting sun, the sharp, bony face of the banker, with his keen eyes and thin, well-shaven lips, could be faintly distinguished. He was no longer the stout healthy-looking Elias of former days. The cares of life had withered the flower of youth on his cheeks, and wrinkled the once careless brow. The jaws were still pronounced, but hard and thin, like those of a powerful and ferocious man-eater. The hairy hands, long and grasping as they lay there on the desk, revealed unusual love of wealth. A black skull-cap covered Lichtenbach’s bald forehead. His visitor was a young and elegant ecclesiastic of graceful and intelligent mien. He spoke with a southern accent, which gave his voice a kind of hilarity in sound.

“It will be a very profitable undertaking. The property we have in view has no value whatever at present, nothing but waste land and marshes. The purchase will be effected in your name, and when we have signed an emphyteutic lease with you, we shall at once commence building. We want an advance of three hundred thousand francs.”

“There will be no difficulty there,” said Lichtenbach. “I have clients disposed to lend—”

“You need not go very far, eh?” said the young priest, with an ironical glance at the drawer of the desk, over which the banker spread his formidable hands.

“No, Monsieur l’Abbé, not very far, indeed; but, all the same, not here. It is a principle of mine never to advance money on securities which cannot immediately be realized. Now, the matter you have just been laying before me offers no actual guarantee. But that does not matter. You wish me to find the capital.”

“After all, this is the main point. Still, we have to rely on others than yourself. These gentlemen will not place their confidence lightly. They trust you, as they are certain of you, but they would not listen to strangers.”

“These gentlemen, as usual, will only have to deal with me,” said Lichtenbach, with deference. “I know what I owe them, and they will always find me at their service.”

“Then, as soon as the land is bought, and placed at our disposal, we immediately commence excavations, which will reveal the presence in the subsoil of the layers of ore I have been speaking to you about. At a bound the value of the land will be increased tenfold. You will sell back a small part of the ground, and with the profits, without further expenditure, we shall have paid for the establishment of our community.”

“If the tenor of the ore is such as you state, the exploitation, once granted to a company, will bring you in large revenues for several years.”

“That is what Monseigneur said on receiving the report of the engineer who undertook the soundings. Oh! we need a great deal of money to make the work a success,” sighed the young priest. “Our religion is attacked with such violence that if we do nothing but defend it we are lost. We must carry the war into the enemy’s territory.”

“That is my own opinion, Monsieur l’Abbé. As you see, my journal has zealously undertaken the campaign.”

“Yes, it is doing good; but your panache blanc is not sufficiently dogmatic as regards pure doctrine. Too much space is given to speculation and business enterprise. Your columns smack too much of the Bourse.”

“Monsieur l’Abbé,” replied Elias, roughly, “I do not possess, as these gentlemen do, the art of conducting business in a double-faced manner. But I will learn from them.”

“Come, do not play the jesuit, my dear Lichtenbach,” said the young priest, airily. “We appreciate your services; that you have had proof of, and shall have again. By-the-by, who is this wounded man we picked up yesterday at Issy? The poor fellow was in a bad way. He came under your recommendation.”

Elias turned pale. In tones of alarm he exclaimed—“Not so loud! Monsieur l’Abbé—not so loud! No one must suspect that—”

“Oh! what a state you are in! Rest assured. The Superior and myself alone were taken into the poor wretch’s confidence. After all, he said very little. He was completely exhausted by the efforts he had made in dragging himself to our door. It was four o’clock in the morning, and the whole brotherhood was at matins. It was, accordingly, possible to introduce the wounded man without any one seeing him. It was quite time, for, as soon as he was put to bed, he fainted away.”

“Who is attending to him?”

“Our Superior himself; he has a thorough knowledge of medicine. Besides, the arm was cut off as though by a thermo-cautery, and all that had to be done was to dress the wound. The man has given evidence of the most heroic courage. But now he is ravaged by fever, and he speaks.”

“What does he say?”

“A most extraordinary mixture of things. He mentions, in almost the same breath, a fortified camp in the Vosges, and a war powder possessed of extraordinary virtues. His object is to carry off the plans of the former, and obtain possession of the formula of the latter.”

“Does he mention no names?”

“Yes, the name of a woman, whom he calls Sophia, and sometimes the baroness. He consults and threatens her in turn. She appears to be his accomplice in some underhand work or other.”

“Has he expressed himself more clearly?”

“No, he beats about the bush, and it is impossible to understand his meaning. After all, you have nothing to fear.”

Elias gave a sigh of relief.

“Monsieur l’Abbé, I am not afraid for myself, but for others. I am engaged in great international relations, as you are aware. The interests entrusted to my care represent not merely immense capital, but a great number of human lives. It is accordingly my duty to be very prudent.”

The young priest gave a gesture of protest. His countenance assumed a serious expression.

“I do not want to hear anything about it, M. Lichtenbach. These gentlemen, as you are aware, are thorough Frenchmen. Everything that happens beyond the frontiers is foreign to them—I might almost say hostile. Outside of France, which we love with deep and enlightened tenderness, and wish to save from the corruption of revolution, we recognize only the Pope, Sovereign of all Catholics, and our chief, whom we blindly obey. Keep your secrets; we will respect them, as you are serving us. But do not expect from us any help in the success of enterprises which would not concur towards the triumph of the cause to which we are devoted—monarchy and religion. In all else you will find us neutral. That is all you may expect of us.”

“Have you been commissioned to tell me this?” asked Elias, in tones of anguish.

“No, my dear Lichtenbach; I was only to speak to you of the ground purchase.”

“Thanks, Monsieur l’Abbé. Tell them I will send my agent to-morrow to Grasse, to bring the matter to a conclusion, and that before the month is over we shall be in possession.”

“Very well!”

The young Abbé rose from his seat. He stopped, and, in negligent tones, said—

“Ah! I was forgetting. Have you heard of that frightful catastrophe which took place at Vanves? The explosion even shook the buildings here at Issy. Were you not acquainted with this General de Trémont?”

Lichtenbach looked paler and more sombre than ever, as he replied stammeringly—

“Yes, Monsieur l’Abbé, I knew him a long time ago.”

“It appears he was a dangerous maniac, dabbling with chemical experiments which were destined to kill him in time. A person of doubtful morality as well, according to public rumour, and who, even at his advanced age, gave himself up to the most degrading debauchery. He will not be missed. They say he was assassinated and robbed, before his house blew up. That is what comes of investigating in explosives! Well, au revoir, my dear Lichtenbach. When you come to see the patient give me due notice, and I will introduce you to him privately.”

Lichtenbach made no reply. He showed out his visitor with a semblance of respectful humility. Then he bowed, as to a superior, and said—

“Assure your friends, Monsieur l’Abbé, of my devotion to their interests.”

“Good! Though it is scarcely necessary,” replied the young priest, carelessly; and, slowly descending the staircase, he disappeared.

Lichtenbach, in thoughtful mood, returned to his study. It was now almost dark. Where the Abbé had just been sitting, a female form now sat stretched out in the armchair. A fresh, clear voice said—

“It is as dark as in an oven here, Lichtenbach; let us have a little light.”

“What! You are here, Baroness!” exclaimed the banker, eagerly.

“Yes, I have just arrived. Was that the little Abbé d’Escayrac you were just taking leave of?”

Lichtenbach had turned on the electric light, bringing into view the unceremonious visitor Elias had just called Baroness. She was a light-complexioned young woman, of exceeding beauty, with proud profile, blue eyes, intelligent forehead, though there was an expression of harshness in her small mouth, with its charming red lips, as well as in her strong chin. She was very elegantly clothed in black, and wore a hooded lace cloak. Patent leather shoes covered her charming feet.

“Have you been here long?” asked Elias abstractedly.

“No, I have only just come, I say. Your servant showed me into the salon, and I came in here when I heard your visitor leave. Do not be uneasy, I was not listening to what he said.”

“Oh! I have no need to be on my guard against you.”

“Yes, you mistrust me, as you do every one else. I do not blame you for it. It is a sign of prudence. Though, all the same, you have nothing to fear from me, and neither have I from you.”

“Oh! Baroness, you know that I belong to you, body and soul,” exclaimed Lichtenbach.

“Yes, yes, and you would not be sorry if the converse were true, would you?” interrupted the young woman, with a mocking smile.

The banker’s pale face lit up with passion; he drew near the Baroness, and, taking her hand within his own, said—

“And yet, Sophia, if you would only—”

Withdrawing her hand, she tossed her head with an air of disdain, and replied—

“Yes, but I will not, there!”

“Never?”

“Who can tell? If ever I am in great pecuniary difficulties, perhaps I may apply to you. Would you advance me money, Lichtenbach, if I needed any?”

As she spoke she looked at the banker with a bewitching glance and a smile full of promise. The latter, as soon as mention was made of money, regained possession of himself. Placing his hand on her lap, he said, in a tone of assurance—

“I will give you as much as you need.”

“You undertake a great deal. Take care! After all, there is no hurry; the time has not come yet.”

As she spoke, she drew back slightly from Lichtenbach’s presence. The latter sighed—

“Ah, Sophia, you are a terrible flirt—your only pleasure consists in making men mad.”

“I? You are dreaming, Lichtenbach. Have you ever seen me trouble about any man unless it were to my interest to do so? And yet you say such silly things. One would think you did not know me!”

“On the contrary, I know you well. Even better than you imagine, for there are portions of your short life-which, all the same, has gone through so many sensations—which you leave in a favourable light, so that I have understood them. You are very clever and bold. I, too, am very tenacious and patient, and have an instinctive knowledge of what it is useful for me to know, as well as the means of obtaining information. Accordingly, I am well aware what you are to-day, Baroness Grodsko. But I also know what you were before.”

Sophia’s eyes flashed, and her lips contracted, giving her face an aspect of terrible import. Looking boldly at Elias, she said, dryly—

“Ah, ah! Tell me all about it. I should be very pleased to know what you have learned about me. If it is true I will not deny it, upon my honour I will not. If false you may stop the wages of your informers. When one has spies in one’s pay one should always try to have reliable and intelligent ones.”

“Mine never deceive me; it is not to their interest to lie.”

“We shall see about that. Well—”

“Well, before becoming the wife of Baron Elmer Grodsko, a Hungarian nobleman, who quarrelled with his family in order to marry you, you were dancing and singing at the theatre of Belgrade, in a touring troupe, directed by an adventurer, half villain, half rogue, named Valaque. It was there that Baron Elmer, on his way from Varna, saw you, fell in love, and carried you off, after shooting down Escovisco, who pursued him with a poniard.”

The young woman’s lips quivered, as she said with a look of disdain—

“Then that is all you know? You cannot go back any further than the theatre of Belgrade, and the Escovisco affair? You are making much ado about very little!”

“Oh! I was proceeding in order. I could go back further, and tell you of the mysterious strange death of Madame Ferranti, a charitable lady of Trieste, who had taken you, almost dead with hunger, from the streets into her service. You were sixteen years of age. Your benefactresses had a son. On the day his mother died—she was said to have been poisoned, though there was no definite proof of this—young Ferranti left home with you, carrying off all the ready money, negotiable deeds, and jewels of his dead mother. Was it you or he who gave Madame Ferranti the cup of tea she drank before she fell asleep never to wake again?”

“Indeed it was neither he nor I. It was an old servant, who had been twenty years in their service. Besides, she confessed it, and as there was no proof against her, nor against any one else, she was released.”

“Whilst you set out for Venice, and had a pleasant time with your companion. Ah! He had a fine way of mourning for his mother, the young Ferranti! It was at the Café Florian, on the Place Saint-Marc, that, one evening when he was drunk, the young ninny picked a quarrel with an Austrian major, who, the following morning, on the Lido, ran six inches of steel into his body, killing him on the spot.”

“Quite true! Poor Ferranti! He was a handsome fellow, who waltzed divinely, but was too fond of absinthe. It was that which killed him, or rather the stoccata of Major Bruzelow—a fine man, whose moustaches went almost round his head, but as stupid as his sabre, and as dangerous. It was he who forced me to leave Venice, where I was enjoying myself so well! I could not even speak to a man without the Major challenging him. He would have called out the whole town; I was obliged to go.”

“The Austrian police had something to do with it, had they not?”

“I have always hated the Tedeschi, and they have always paid me back in the same coin!”

“So that you cannot return to Austria, even now?”

“No, all by reason of that fool of a Grodsko.”

“And what has become of this excellent Grodsko, who broke his mother’s heart all for your sake?”

“The excellent Grodsko spends the summer in Vienna, and the winter at Monte Carlo. Both winter and summer he gambles to pass the time, and when he has lost he drowns his disappointment in drink.”

“Does he always lose?”

“Yes, so he is always drinking.”

“Here are a few corpses already, if I know how to count, to your credit, without mentioning the grief, despair, and shame of others. You have lived a very exciting life, though you have scarcely yet reached the age of thirty.”

“I was twenty-eight last week,” rectified the Baroness, coldly.

“You have trampled on humanity as on a carpet to gain your objects: luxury, pleasure, domination. And here you are to-day more brilliant, better loved, and more powerful than ever, with a strength of will which shrinks before nothing, and a conscience ready for anything. Am I right?”

She looked boldly at Lichtenbach, then, drawing from her pocket a cigarette-case of chased silver, she took out an Oriental cigarette, which she lit with perfect coolness; then she replied in gentle tones—

“Quite right, though incomplete. I am far more to be dreaded than you imagine. You are well aware of it, but are afraid of displeasing me by depicting me as I really am. You are in the wrong. I have such a scorn for mankind that you cannot vex me by declaring me to be ready to profit by it, as though it were a piece of merchandise. In my opinion, men are no more interesting than cattle destined for slaughter. They serve to feed and enrich me; it is for that they toil and die. Apparently, it is their function, since they cannot escape this fate, and as soon as one disappears another offers to replace him. Are you going to say that I am a destroying flail? Possibly. All over the world there are beings born for work, sacrifice, and suffering; as there are others born irremediably for idleness, egoism, and enjoyment. It is nature which has made it so. To some instinct manifests itself, leading to servitude, to others leading to tyranny. Beings exploited and exploiting, beasts of burden and beasts of prey. Is not that the sole social classification founded on common sense? Look all around you, Lichtenbach, it is an invariable rule: a flock of simpletons led away, fleeced, and strangled by a few audacious individuals. Will you reproach me for being of the number of those who strangle, rather than of those who fleece? We are both at the same game, Lichtenbach; the only difference is, I am bold enough to confess it, whilst you are hypocritical enough to say nothing. Our object is the same—the exploitation of the human race for our greatest mutual profit and pleasure. There you are! If I am wrong, prove it to me now.”

She had spoken without raising her voice, and the calm tone in which these terrible theories had been expounded as they came from that charming mouth formed so strange a contrast with the ferocious cynicism of the confession that Lichtenbach, who, although he appeared to have no illusions left concerning his beautiful and dangerous partner, was placed for a moment out of countenance. He had very few scruples, this trafficker in all kinds of goods, who had commenced by despoiling his country in its hour of trial, and who continued speculating on social poverty and infamy. But now he found himself confronted by a creature more audacious and violent, if not more redoubtable, than himself, And he weighed in imagination the perils she might make him incur and the advantages she could bring him. This beautiful, intelligent, and unscrupulous woman was an admirable instrument. He knew what she was capable of, but he had no wish to run so great a risk as she ran without any need. The adventures which offered the Baroness Sophia her most certain means of existence were not open to him; other matters, those of a man on the eve of becoming a Deputy, perhaps a Minister, and those of this industrial cosmopolity, coining money with filth and blood. His coolness returned. He had said too much that was foolish at the beginning of the conversation. The time had come to mitigate the confidence of the beautiful Sophia, and to give her to understand that, between herself and himself, their existed a stout barrier of respectability and of millions of francs.

“On the whole, my dear Baroness,” he said, “there is some truth in what you have just said, though your manner of explaining yourself is rather exotic. Your pompous and declamatory cynicism is of the Orient. All you have declared a few moments ago may be summed up in a very few words; human inequality is unchangeable. There are fools and rogues. The first are exploited by the second, under the surveillance of the police and the control of the law. In your theory, you have not granted sufficient importance to police and law. I could not recommend you too strongly to pay more attention to them. They are one of the most important factors in the problem you are spending your life in solving. If you consider them as a neglectable quantity, one of these mornings you will receive a rude awakening.”

She smiled disdainfully—

“The small fish are caught in the meshes of the net, the large ones break through and escape. I am afraid of no thing or person except myself. I alone am capable of doing myself any harm. That, of course, I never think of doing.”

“Not just now. But you have gone through moments of anxiety. I heard that in London two years ago.”

A dark cloud came over Sophia’s brow. She suddenly flung her cigarette into the fire, and in changed accents, said—

“Yes, I have committed acts of folly, for I was in love. And a woman in love becomes as stupid as a man.”

“The object of your affections was an actor, I believe, the handsome Stevenson?”

“Yes, Richard Stevenson, the rival of Irving.”

“You were madly in love with him, but he played you false. Accordingly, one evening you found means to entice your rival on board a yacht you had hired, lying at anchor on the Thames. Since that time she was never heard of.”

“Ah! You are acquainted with that anecdote? Indeed you have been well informed. Do you also know that Stevenson, to whom in a fit of madness I had said that he would never see her again, beat me with his cane, and left me almost dead on the spot?”

“The stick presented to him by the Prince of Wales, doubtless. You must have felt highly flattered. It did not prevent you two days later from going to the Empire, and cheering your brutal persecutor.”

“Yes, I loved the wretch; but now, luckily, all that is over.”

Lichtenbach burst into a laugh.

“What have you done with the handsome Cesare Agostini?”

“Ah! He forms a mere pastime for me. I must interest myself in some one or other. That is no passion at all.”

“All the same, he costs you a great deal, I suppose?”

“Enormous sums! These Italians are terrible spendthrifts. This one knows one good way of making money, and ten better ways of spending it. In the first place, he is a gambler, and then, he cannot see a fine ring without buying it. But then, he has a few good qualities. He is no novice at either pistol or sword.”

“He is simply a bravo.”

“At your service, if there is any one you wish to be rid of.”

“Is he bold and intrepid?”

“Yes; but, above all, to be relied on. Try him, you will be well satisfied.”

Lichtenbach’s countenance grew dark, as it always did every time a subject was mentioned which did not please him, and he said in arrogant tones—

“Much obliged, but I do not deal in drama; comedy is sufficient for me.”

“Ah! You’re fond of a joke. You are still one of those good apostles who insinuate a crime, have it executed, and then exclaim in candid tones, ‘I have had nothing to do with it!’ Have you had nothing to do with this affair at Vanves, I should like to know?”

This time Elias became quite angry.

“Silence! What are you thinking of to cry out in such a loud voice? Are we the only ones in the house?”

She burst into a laugh.

“Well, well! You amuse me! For an hour you have been telling me my own history, without the slightest precaution, and when I make the slightest allusion to your’s you tremble with fear. You do not mind compromising me, but not yourself. Very kind of you.”

“My daughter is here, and I have no wish—”

“For her to know you under your real aspect. For you are a regular scoundrel, Lichtenbach, and of the very worst kind, one who wishes to keep up appearances, even with one’s accomplices. Do you think you can deceive me, eh? Your jesuitism has no affect on me; I am well acquainted with your lubricity. In the whole world there is no more villainous character than yourself, and yet you wish to be taken for a man of honour and virtue!”

Lichtenbach, pale with fear and anger, exclaimed—

“Baroness! Really, you wish to throw me into a passion.”

“Oh no, no! Now I will be very nice with you. Listen, my voice is a mere whisper. Lean over and listen. I need a hundred thousand francs to-night, to have Hans carried off to Geneva. He can bear the journey now. Cesare has gone to see him.”

“Do you think he will survive?” asked Lichtenbach.

“Yes. That vexes you? You would rather be well rid of him? Calm yourself, he would bite off his tongue rather than betray a companion. Besides, what does he know? That your interests were the same as ours, and that, had he found the formula for the explosive for commerce, you would have paid as much for them as those for whom we are working would have paid for the war explosive. The coup missed. Hans is maimed. But, thanks to me, you are free from all suspicion.”

Looking calmly at Elias, she said—

“A hundred thousand francs, on account.”

“On account?”

“Yes, on account. And do not waste any time. General de Trémont, whom you hated so strongly, has been killed for you. How much would you give for Baradier and Graff.”

“Nothing, nothing!” groaned Lichtenbach. “What crimes are these you are laying to my account? That I desired the death of General de Trémont and am anxious to harm Baradier and Graff? You are wandering! It is sheer madness! Certainly they are my enemies, and have done me a great deal of harm. But, commit a crime on that account! Never, never! If they were to die, ah! I should consider it as a divine providence, but hasten their last moments by a single hour or minute, I, great God!”

“Of Abraham, of Jacob, and of Moses! Yes, my fine renegade! My good Lichtenbach!” said the Baroness, with a look of scorn. “Yes, you are quite ready to accept the favours of providence, incarnated under the features of the Baroness Grodsko, but you will not take the initiative yourself. Hypocrisy again! You ask for nothing, but you accept all! Well, your unuttered prayer shall be granted!”

“Baroness! In the name of God, do not compromise me. Do not proceed without instructions.”

“Ah, ah! How terrified you are. You remind me of old Trémont when I handled his chemical products after dessert. ‘Don’t touch that, it is deadly!’ he would say. Meanwhile, I tried to take in wax the impress of the lock of the iron casket, which Hans succeeded in opening, but which cost him his arm. And all for nothing. The box exploded, and destroyed the secret in the midst of the flames. But some one has this secret, and I must find it out. Whatever it cost I will obtain possession of it!”

“What have you been promised for it?”

She looked at him, with a laugh.

“You are very inquisitive! Don’t think I shall tell you, however. Professional pride apart—for, after all, one does not care to fail in a mission of this importance—the affair is worth all the trouble I am taking. Meanwhile, my hundred thousand francs!”

Lichtenbach opened a drawer, took out ten bundles of bank-notes, and held them out to the Baroness.

“Here they are.”

“Thanks. Now, Lichtenbach, what would you say if it were young Marcel Baradier who was the depository of old Trémont’s formulæ?”

Elias sat up with renewed interest.

“What! What makes you think—”

“Ah, ah! Cannibal, you have just smelt human flesh, and have become quite young again in consequence.”

“Baroness, you will kill me with anguish.”

“Ah! Yes, you look as though you would die, indeed! Hate, Lichtenbach, hate is a far stronger sentiment than love, is it not?”

He made no reply. The only thing that was now of importance to him was the supposition Sophia had just given utterance to. He saw nothing, except that the son of his deadly enemy might possibly be in possession of this secret they were so anxious to fathom. If only it were possible! Suppose chance were to give him the opportunity of crushing the very people he hated with all his soul, and, at the same time, depriving them of a fortune. He asked the Baroness in eager tones—

“What makes you think the General took Marcel Baradier into his confidence?”

“In the first place, they saw one another constantly; the young man was admitted into his laboratory, a most exceptional favour. I know well he worked there with Trémont, who had entire confidence in him. However mysterious a man may be, however close and sullen, a fatal hour is sure to come, when he is forced to unburden himself. The General would never have imparted his plans to a man, even to his best friend, for he was as cunning as a fox. But, after dinner, with a good cigar between his lips, he felt strongly impelled to dazzle me, and as he could not do this either by his youth or his beauty, he attempted to win me over by his genius. In this way, on different occasions, he let slip several small incidents, which, collected and coordinated by a good memory, form a certainty.”

“Then all is not lost?”

“Nothing is ever lost.”

“Then what are you going to do, Baroness?”

“You shall know when it is to my interest to tell you.”

“You have no confidence in me?”

“Under what pretext should I have confidence in you? I know you only too well. You will serve me until the time comes when you find it more to your advantage to throw me over.”

“I!”

“You, Elias Lichtenbach; but that is all the same to me—I hold you now.”

“Do you hope to succeed?”

“I always hope to succeed. Look at me now, please.”

She threw back her head with a movement of voluptuous grace, which seemed to intensify her beauty a hundred-fold. She smiled, and her eyes and lips assumed an expression of passionate ardour, which sent a thrill through the veins of Lichtenbach. Who could resist this creature’s imperious power? She well knew the extent of her charm. At a sign from her men became changed into slaves. She was the magician who loosened human passions and appetites, and led lost creatures to folly, shame, and crime.

“Yes; you will succeed in whatever you undertake,” murmured Lichtenbach, fascinated by her charm.

“No exaggeration! I am not infallible, as you know, since Trémont escaped me. Still, I will do everything a human being can do to succeed. Have confidence, and keep calm, that is all I ask.”

A rolling of wheels was heard under the carriage gate, and a trampling of horses’ hoofs announced the return of Mademoiselle Lichtenbach.

“It is my daughter returning,” said the banker.

“Then she is at home for the present?”

“She wished to assist at the funeral of the General de Trémont, whose daughter is a friend of hers.”

A smile flitted across the lips of the Baroness.

“Chance or precaution?”

“Chance,” said Lichtenbach, coldly. “They are both at the Sacre-Coeur. They found themselves thrown together, and a mutual attachment sprang up.”

“And now that you know of it, you encourage this intimacy?”

“I never oppose my daughter.”

“That is true; I forgot. You are a good father, Lichtenbach. It is the last concession you have made to humanity. And it is there that you are still vulnerable. Take care!”

“My daughter is an angel, who prays for me. I dread nothing. She has her mother’s goodness and grace.”

“And she imagines you to be a good and honourable father. Suppose the day were to come when her eyes were opened about yourself?”

Elias stood upright in threatening attitude.

“Who could do that?”

“One of your enemies; you do not lack them now. Perhaps a friend; the world is so wicked.”

“His boldness would cost him dear!” growled Lichtenbach.

The Baroness arose. She walked about the room for a few seconds, as though undecided to leave. Then she asked—

“Before I go, could I see your daughter?”

Lichtenbach looked steadily at her, then he replied rudely—

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it is useless.”

“Are you afraid that I shall corrupt her by speaking a few words to her?”

“Perhaps.”

“Bravo! Well, you are frank now, at any rate.”

Lichtenbach raised himself to his full height, and, repaying Sophia in a single moment for all the insolent expressions she had been so prodigal with the last hour, said—

“Mademoiselle Lichtenbach can have nothing in common with the Baroness Grodsko.”

Sophia gave a gesture of indifference.

“Very well. As you please. Au revoir, Lichtenbach.”

She was going in the direction of the hall when he stopped her.

“Not that way.”

Opening a door, concealed behind some folds of tapestry, he said—

“Go down this staircase, you will meet no one.”

“There is no trap-dungeon at the bottom?” she asked, laughingly.

“No; there is only the concierge’s room.”

“Adieu. No ill will?”

“I should think not; you ought to be well satisfied. You carry away with you indulgences to the extent of a hundred thousand francs. Au revoir.”

She disappeared. He returned to his desk in dreamy mood. This woman, so dangerous and depraved, always disturbed him, though he knew her well.

A knock at the door threw him from his reverie. Rising to open it, an expression of pleasure came into his face. It was his daughter, who had come to see him.

“Am I not disturbing you?” she asked, with a shade of uneasiness in her voice.

“No, my darling, you never disturb me. Have you had a pleasant visit?”

“Very pleasant. They were all very kind to me.”

Lichtenbach said nothing; his eyes fell on the ground. He did not wish his daughter to catch their expression.

“Madeline is very fortunate to find such devoted friends in her trouble. Madame Baradier is an excellent lady. She is going to keep the poor girl with them. Although I am very sorry she is leaving the convent, since we shall be separated in future, I am very glad to know that she has found such good friends. It will be like a renewal of life for her.”

“You are so sympathetic, my little Marianne.”

“The blow which has struck Madeline is so terrible. Can anything more terrible happen to a child than to lose its parents? And when one has no longer one’s mother, as was the case with both of us.”

The young girl’s voice shook, tears stood in her eyes. Lichtenbach turned pale, but kept his eyes still fixed on the ground.

“It was this similarity of situation which, from the very first day, drew us together. Our common sorrow has been the source of our affection. It seemed to us that, as we were less loved than the rest we ought to be all the dearer to one another. She had for her father the same affection I have for you. It seems he was a great savant. Did you know him?”

He was obliged to reply. In tremulous tones he said—“No; I have only heard mention of him.”

“He was a very close friend of M. Baradier, and the godfather of his son Marcel. They all bewail his loss.”

Lichtenbach raised his eyes from the ground; he looked at his daughter with keen look—

“Who has told you all this?”

“Madame Baradier and Madeline.”

“You have spoken to Mademoiselle Baradier?”

“Yes; and to her mother as well.”

“And the son also, perhaps?”

The sudden harshness of tone in Lichtenbach’s questions troubled Marianne. She stopped astonished—

“But, papa, I assure you, everybody was exceedingly kind to me. M. Marcel Baradier accompanied me right to the carriage. Was it not quite natural?”

“Yes, yes, perfectly natural. Repeat to me all they said to you. Did they make no mention of me?”

“Not once. Your name was not even pronounced. I was surprised at that, for the Baradier family must know you. You formerly lived in the same town.”

“Yes, we lived in the same town, and left it together. But we did not travel the same road. For, I ought to tell you, there was no friendship between us. My father and the Graffs had been hostile to one another. Graff is Baradier’s brother-in-law.”

“But all this happened so long ago that it is doubtless forgotten.”

“No, my dear girl,” said Elias, solemnly. “Nothing is forgotten.”

“So you are not well disposed towards Madeline’s friends?”

“Had I been ill disposed, should I have permitted you to call on them?”

“Then it is they who wish you ill? That must be unjust on their part, for you are so good and kind. There must be some misunderstanding, and you do not know one another sufficiently.”

“It is not so, my child. We have long known one another very well, and have always been opposed to one another. You are grown up now, and in a position to learn what life has in store for you. Very well! From the Baradiers and Graffs you have nothing favourable to expect. Every time you have dealings with them be on your guard. I had made up my mind to enlighten you some day on the situation this inveterate hostility has created between us. To-day is as good a time as any. I permitted you to enter the house which has received Mademoiselle de Trémont that you might not be in a position to accuse me of having concealed from you the least fraction of truth. Now you have seen the Baradiers, and you are convinced that I can treat with them on equal terms. Your grandfather Lichtenbach suffered a great deal at their hands in days gone by. He was an honest man, who commenced life in a very humble way. They humiliated and tortured him. When I was a poor little trader they spread abroad all kinds of calumny and slander about me. But I repaid them for all their insolence to old Lichtenbach. All this happened before we had left Lorraine—long before you were born. Still, this kind of hatred leaves an almost indestructible ferment in the heart. Whatever goes back to days of childhood and youth remains graven more firmly in the memory than things that happen in mature life. The Baradiers and Graffs came to Paris, so did I at a later date. We have been separated by life more completely than by immense distances, for in this great city, from street to street, quarter to quarter, one is more separated than from province to province. And yet, we have never forgotten the past. The Baradiers and Graffs are the inveterate enemies of the Lichtenbachs. Keep that well in your mind, my child, and let it be the rule of your conduct under every circumstance in life.”

Marianne looked at her father uneasily.

“Then you wish me to espouse your quarrel?”

“God forbid! I love you too well to endanger your peace of mind, and I will do all I can to protect you from anything which might cause you pain and suffering. I have opened your eyes, for you must know how to discern, at a given moment, the causes of certain events, and the bearing of certain expressions. Leave to me the responsibility of assuring your security and happiness.”

“Can I go and see Madeline again?”

“Why should you? If you do not call on her what will prevent her coming to see you?”

“I shall be at the convent.”

“Not for ever.”

The young girl gave her father a beseeching look as she said—

“Ah! If you would only let me stay with you, how pleased I should be.”

Lichtenbach’s face lit up with an expression of joy and gladness.

“What would you do here?” he asked good humouredly.

“I would keep the house for you. There is great need of it, though I do not wish to criticize. A woman would not leave this fine mansion in so gloomy and so dismal-looking a condition. So little would be needed to arrange the rooms so as to make them comfortable and agreeable. Besides, you could devote yourself entirely to your own work, and you would see how much better everything would go. It is not a man’s rôle to give orders to servants. Would you not like to have some one about you who would ever be affectionately on the watch to attend to your every need and comfort? I am eighteen years old now; they no longer know what to teach me at the convent. Very soon it will be I who will be giving lessons to the pupils. Have I been born into the world to be a teacher at the Sacre-Cœur? You have a daughter; she does not belong to others, she is your own. Why don’t you keep her to yourself?”

As she spoke she flung her arms round him and pressed him to her breast, so that the paternal instinct of Elias warmed gently under the influence of her fond caresses. This man, harsh-natured and ferocious as he was, became filled with generous and tender sentiments as his child looked down upon him. A sigh escaped his lips.

“If I were to listen to you, should I not be doing something very imprudent? One should be alone and untrammelled if he wishes to remain strong and safe.”

“But what are you afraid of? To listen to you one would imagine you were in a state of war with enemies lying in ambush for you. Is life so full of dangers? Is there no protection in this world from one’s foes?”

Elias smiled.

“Simple upright minds never see anything threatening to be afraid of. They are blind. But sagacious observers look at everything with anxious, uneasy eyes, and see danger all around. Look at the sea; at the first glance all you can distinguish will be an immense sheet of water, azure-blue, the mirror of the sky, furrowed all over by vessels, and troubled by the winds. Then lean over, and try to pierce the ocean’s deep bed, and you will see frightful reefs, whose existence you never suspected, and terrible monsters ever on the watch. Débris and wrecks, the lamentable remains of ships and seamen, will prove to you that danger is ever present, that catastrophes are everyday events, and to avoid them, unceasing attention and prudence are needed. It is the same with society, which you believe trustworthy, and with life, which you judge so easy. The surface is smooth and attractive, but beneath everything is monstrous and terrifying. Still, I am here to watch over you, do not be uneasy. By my side you will be sheltered from danger, and as you wish to stay at home, my dear child, you shall do so. Your presence will be a consolation and a joy to me in the decline of life.”

Holding out his arms, she threw herself on his breast with a cry of gratitude. Lichtenbach, rather ashamed at having given way to such tender emotions, said briefly—

“Well, that is settled. I will send to the convent for your wardrobe and all your belongings, and you shall settle down here at once.”

“Oh, my dear father, it would scarcely be worth while to take back the few garments I have; they may be disposed of in charity. There are only a few personal souvenirs I should like to keep. You will give me some money, will you not, as a present for these excellent nuns who have taken such good care of me?”

“But you are rich, my darling,” said Elias, with a smile. “You have your mother’s fortune, which has been accumulating interest. Besides, I must give up my accounts to you.”

Marianne went up to her father, and, kissing him tenderly, said—

“This will serve as a receipt for everything!”

CHAPTER V

M. Mayeur, examining magistrate, was seated in his study, near the fireplace, whilst his clerk, in listless mood, was engaged in questioning one of the agents, charged with investigating the Vanves affair. M. Mayeur was terribly bored; he was accustomed to carry through sensational affairs, without giving himself much trouble. The results were obtained with regularity, and as though by enchantment. Chance seemed to favour him, and he was reputed to be the luckiest judge on the bench. He had become accustomed to his good fortune, so, when the Vanves affair had been placed in his hands, he gave a smile of satisfaction and confidence, whilst his clerk, rubbing together his hands, with a look of pity for the culprits, said—

“We shall not need to spend much time over this matter!”

And yet matters were dragging along slowly. For a whole week, M. Mayeur had multiplied his investigations, sent out detective after detective, summoned witnesses, and fulfilled judicial commissions. Nothing came of it all. As he expressed it, he was moving about in a thick fog, from which he could not escape. Every evening the Government agent sent for him, and asked in satirical accents—

“Well, Mayeur, where are we now?”

And the magistrate, accustomed as he was to success, found himself obliged to reply—

“Ah, sir, we are still on the look-out, but we have found nothing yet.”

“Ah, ah! The deuce! A week already flown since the crime was committed. Your chances are diminishing. In proportion as time passes, false tracks appear, and the scent becomes fainter. I expected a better result from you! As a rule, your inspiration is clearer.”

“But there is nothing whatever to take hold of—not the slightest clue in the cursed affair!”

“What! Nothing? You have the corpse of the victim, the house in ruins, and the arm of the assassin! What are you doing with this latter? It ought to reveal something.”

“For the present it is in the frigorific apparatus,” growled M. Mayeur. “But neither corpse, nor house, nor arm gives me the slightest results. An evil genius seems to have passed over everything, carrying with it death and mutilation, and leaving nothing behind. It is enough to drive one mad!”

“Gently, Mayeur, keep a cool head, whatever happens. Persevere. You have been spoiled by success, but do not be discouraged; at any moment light may flash on the whole affair, and clear up everything.”

What caused M. Mayeur the greatest chagrin was that he was perfectly aware of the secret pleasure his want of success gave all his colleagues. A magistrate who had failed in so important an investigation; how could he expect to be nominated to the Assize Court, contrary to all normal promotion, if he had no longer his invariable good luck as his supreme justification? And, seated in his study, with his back to the light, looking vacantly into the fire, whilst his clerk ran the risk of dislocating his jaw with too much gaping, M. Mayeur, to satisfy his conscience, in mournful accents, questioned one of his agents, who had returned after a fruitless search.

“So there was no trace of the wounded man having passed through the cottage gardens, nor on the road to Paris?”

“No, sir. I have visited all the inns frequented by the quarrymen and gardeners of the district. No one could give me any definite information. One would imagine the murderer had been annihilated by the explosion itself.”

“Nothing of the kind! He was tracked to within three hundred paces from the Trémont property, and there a trail of blood, quite visible, which he had left all the way, suddenly disappeared. Did he, at that spot, find his accomplices waiting for him? Was he carried off? How and where? Nothing but darkness and obscurity!”

“Those who committed the crime are not professional thieves, although the General has been robbed of objects of value he carried on his person. Accordingly, they will not be found so easily. That is where the whole difficulty comes in.”

The magistrate gave a gesture of discontent, as though to signify that he knew all that. Stroking his beard, he said, with a sigh—

“You may go now. Send me Baudoin, the General’s servant, whom I have sent for afresh.”

The agent bowed, and left the room. A moment after the door opened again, and the valet’s resolute, intelligent face appeared. He already sympathized with the clerk, who gave him a friendly nod. The magistrate said, in sulky tones—

“Take a seat, M. Baudoin. I have disturbed you once more, with the object of explaining certain details which I find incomprehensible.”

“Do not apologize, sir; it is no disturbance if it is for anything concerning the General. Ah! I should only be too happy if I could give you any efficient help in your task!”

How could this servant throw light on a mystery which he, Mayeur, could not succeed in unravelling? Well, it could not be helped. The clerk seemed overjoyed at his master’s humiliation. He had been worrying him long enough with his lack of capacity. A striking failure would make him less self-confident, and he would be a little more indulgent towards his subordinate, whom he always appeared to look upon as an imbecile. Fume away, my good master! That will not help you much. And the clerk gave another mighty yawn.

“This woman you saw leave the carriage at the door of the house—was she tall or short?”

“Rather tall. But as she was wrapped in a large mantle I could not say precisely. By the way in which she descended from the carriage, I should imagine she was rather slender in build.”

“And her companion?”

“Oh! her companion; I saw him distinctly. He was a strong man, with a thick beard, light-complexioned, and brutal in appearance. He wore a grey felt hat and a dark suit. His accent was foreign, and—”

“Do you think it is the man your master called Hans?” asked the magistrate.

“It could be no one else. The General received no one, except his friends, Messieurs Baradier and Graff. The people who came on different occasions at night to the villa must have been regular villains for him not to permit me to stay with him.”

“What do you consider the reason of this precaution on the part of M. de Trémont?”

“The fact that he would see me trying to fathom the plots of this lady and her acolyte.”

“Then, in your opinion, it is a feminine intrigue which is at the root of the matter?”

“Apparently, yes.”

“And in reality?”

“It was their object to steal from the General his formulæ for the manufacture of his new powders.”

“Then the woman was only an intermediary?”

“An intermediary, no. They well knew the General would never consent to a bargain. A bait, yes. I did not see the woman, but every time she came she left the General’s study impregnated with a peculiar perfume of a very captivating odour. Oh! I should recognize it amongst a hundred! The woman’s voice, too, was caressing and seductive. Ah! my poor master! She knew what power she had over him. That woman was capable of anything—of driving mad a brave warm-hearted man like my master, of pouring over him the poison of her looks and smiles, and having him cruelly killed for some cause I know nothing of. As for the man Hans, he was only an agent—a well-informed man, for the General respected his opinions, and could speak with him of his discoveries, but not of the same social position as his accomplice. He was an ordinary, even a rough individual. The woman’s prestige must have been demanded to have had him received by M. de Trémont, who was so aristocratic.”

“And you could never find out, by means of the cook, who remained in the house, what took place when you had left the house?”

“No, she was of a very dull intellect. Outside of her work, there was very little to be obtained from her. That is the reason M. de Trémont had no cause to mistrust her. All the same, she saw the woman on several occasions, and told me that she was a miracle of beauty—young, light-complexioned, with eyes that would have damned a saint. She spoke with the General in a foreign language. Now the General could only speak English and Italian.”

“Was your master rich?”

“No, sir, he had a very modest fortune—about twenty thousand francs income. But his discoveries were very valuable. And it was these the woman was aiming at. In all probability, whilst she was with the General, her accomplice was examining the papers and searching among the products.”

“You never found any paper dealing with the relations of the General with this woman?”

“Never.”

“What became of the telegrams the General received telling him of the arrival of his visitors?”

“The General burnt them himself. I saw him do it. Ah! Every precaution was taken by my brave master not to compromise the fair Baroness. God knows how he loved her! He trembled like a student at the idea of seeing her!”

“And yet he never gave up to her the secret of his discoveries?”

Baudoin’s face became serious.

“Ah! He was reserving his secret for France. I heard him say so more than once, after an experiment which satisfied him: ‘Baudoin, my good fellow, when our artillery has this powder, we shall no longer be afraid of any one.’ Certainly the General was passionately fond of this woman. But he loved his country far more, and between the two, he did not hesitate. Besides, that was certainly the cause of his death. They could not succeed in taking his secret by fair means, so they attempted to obtain possession of it by force.”

The clerk had ceased yawning; he was listening to Baudoin with sympathetic interest all the while he was writing his deposition. He wrote down the main outlines only, for it was the third time M. Mayeur was having the same thing repeated to him, as though he hoped to discover among expressions already heard, some special signification which would permit him to unravel the truth. And it was always this love intrigue, cloaking the criminal attempt, the bearing of which he could not succeed in gauging. Was it a matter that concerned international politics or was it mere spying? Or simply a bold attempt to seize a commercial product of considerable value? Still, before whatever hypothesis he stopped, there was obscurity with regard to cause, ignorance concerning details, an impenetrable mystery which maddened him, and which seemed as though it would compromise his career. Flinging himself back in his chair, he said—

“Yes, the criminals have taken great precautions. The General is dead, the servant, too, is dead, and you had been sent away. The wounded man has disappeared, as though buried in the bowels of the earth. And the unknown woman is mocking at our researches.”

Baudoin shook his head.

“So long as attempts are made to find her, she will hide, and nothing will be discovered. If the matter concerned me, I know what I should do.”

M. Mayeur, in his distress, flashed at the valet a look of curiosity. When he, the examining magistrate, so famous for a resourceful imagination, no longer knew what expedient to try, a simple witness pretended to understand the position, and point out the means to be followed. He was on the point of crushing him with official disdain, by telling him to trouble with what concerned him, when he thought that, after all, advice was not to be neglected, and he might despise it afterwards, if necessary. He accordingly asked, in mocking tones, to safeguard his dignity—

“Then, what would you do, M. Baudoin?”

“Please pardon me, sir, if what I say is foolish, but if the affair were in my hand, instead of sending out in every direction, seeking information everywhere, I would not stir a step. I should let it be known that I had given up the pursuit, and was engaged in something else. You must know what takes place in a barn, where there are mice. There is a general rush to the holes as soon as the sound of entering feet are heard. If you remain quiet, after a few moments the mice are seen to be risking out again, and playing about the floor as before. Well, I believe it would be the same in the present case. I beg pardon, if I interfere in the matter, but I, too, am bent on finding the rascals who killed my master, and if I can contribute towards their capture it will be the brightest day of my life.”

M. Mayeur no longer cast a disdainful glance at the General’s valet. He smiled at him in most amiable mood. For, in a flash he had furnished him with the means of taking advantage of the difficulty in this cursed affair. When the Government agent should say to him, that very evening—“Well, my dear Mayeur, where have you got to now? Nothing yet?” instead of replying in a tone of vexation, “Nothing at all,” thus confessing his inability to discover, and even the absence of grounds on which to found his researches, he would be able to reply: “This matter has been badly begun, I undertake to recommence everything ab ovo. We have to deal with rogues who are exceedingly cunning. I intend to change my plans entirely.” This time he would no longer appear incapable, as though he were entrusted with a task too difficult for his capacity. He would secure an honourable retreat, and gain time as well.

Resuming his stiff and formal gravity, he said—

“There will be plenty of time to act as you suggest. But I have still at my disposal many other means of throwing light on the subject.”

His clerk, pen in mouth, could not help laughing outright. When Mayeur was at bay, without a single idea in his head, befooled by the culprits when he had not the slightest idea where to look for them, he still pretended to “throw light on the subject.” Light on the subject! It was enough to make any one laugh! He gave Baudoin a wink, and noisily rattled his desk.

M. Mayeur, as though he guessed the secret hostility of his subordinate, said to him—

“Just go and see if Colonel Vallenot has come from the Ministry.”

The clerk stretched himself; showed Baudoin his cigarette-case, with a grimace which signified, “I’m just going to smoke one,” and left the room. M. Mayeur followed him, bolted the door, and returning to Baudoin, said—

“I would rather we were alone in discussing the subject I am engaged on. The slightest indiscretion in so delicate a matter might ruin everything. Just now you gave me a piece of advice which I might follow to advantage. Still, you did not tell me everything. You are better informed than you have yet shown. Perhaps they are only suspicions, still, I am sure you are quite determined to help justice in an energetic pursuit of your master’s murderers. Why have you not perfect confidence in me? We have the same object in view. Come, M. Baudoin, be frank and open. You imagine you have discovered some means of laying hands on the culprits?”

Baudoin raised his head, and looking fixedly at the magistrate, saw that he was in passionate earnest. He thought that he had really an ally in him, and that professional secrecy guaranteed his discretion, and accordingly made up his mind to speak.

“Well! yes, I have a means by which we shall lay our hands on the culprits.”

“What is it?”

“First of all, swear that what I am about to say shall not be repeated.”

“But—,” protested the judge.

“Take it or leave it,” declared Baudoin, bluntly. “I am risking my life and that of others as well. I shall say nothing, unless you give me your word of honour not to repeat to a living soul what I am going to entrust to you.”

“Not even to my chief?”

“Not a word to any one! Do you give me your promise?”

“Very well! I promise.”

“Well, then! as I told you before, in matters concerning scientific research, the General had confidence in no one except a young man whom he loved as though he were his own child, M. Baradier’s son. I have reason to believe that M. Marcel knows M. de Trémont’s formulæ. If, therefore, the villains we are on the look-out for have the slightest suspicion that they might in this direction try the coup which failed with the General, as soon as they are reassured as to the result of the present search, they will set to work afresh. It is there my task will begin. I am entering the service of M. Marcel, and I shall not leave him a single moment. Besides, I have a friend, who is accustomed to such work. I am taking him with me. The two of us are organizing a continual surveillance. If the plot recommences, we let it develop, and intervene at the critical moment. That is my plan. That is why I made bold, a few minutes ago, to advise you to give up the game, to all appearance. With villains like those with whom we have to deal, there may be a great deal of trouble. Now, you may do all that is necessary to give me a hand, and as soon as developments have come to a head, I will immediately lay the matter in your hands.”

The examining magistrate reflected for a moment, then said—

“All this is outside of legal precedent, but the situation is an exceptional one. Above everything, we must succeed! If we have to deal with determined criminals, as I imagine is the case, this is not their first attempt, and perhaps we shall capture a whole gang. Put into performance, therefore, the plan you have indicated, and, at the slightest difficulty, come to me, and I will summon all the forces of the law to your aid. You need simply show me the beginning of the thread, and I will go right to the end.”

“Good; you shall hear from me at the right time. Not another word, for here is your clerk returning.”

The clerk knocked at the closed door, and the magistrate opened it. Colonel Vallenot stood in the passage, and M. Mayeur addressed him—

“Come in, Colonel, take a seat.”

Turning towards Baudoin, he said—

“You may now retire, M. Baudoin; I don’t think I shall need you for some time to come. All the same, if you leave Paris, give M. Baradier your address, so that the summons I shall address to you may reach you in good time.”

Baudoin bowed to the magistrate, saluted the Colonel in military fashion, and left the room. When he was gone M. Mayeur returned to Vallenot, with a smile on his face; he could not allow his discouragement to appear in public.

“The Minister of War delivered a very solid speech last night in the House.”

“Yes; they try to mystify him, but he is able to defend himself. He knows what he is talking about, and a direct attack always succeeds with Parliamentarians.”

“Imperatoria brevitas,” sneered the magistrate.

After a short pause he asked in honeyed tones—

“Have your researches come to a point yet?”

The Colonel replied bluntly—

“Not at all; they are no further advanced than yours.”

M. Mayeur smiled faintly.

“Ah, ah! Then we make no progress?”

“If I were not afraid of offending you I should say that we were going backwards.”

“That appears to be exactly as the matter stands,” said Mayeur, with a look of intelligence.

“Ah! Have you obtained some clue at last?” asked Vallenot, perplexed.

“I am not in a position to explain, but have patience; a surprise is in store for you.”

“How delighted the chief will be! The whole affair has put him in such a nervous condition that the whole staff suffers in consequence. He is never out of a temper; one does not know how to manage him.”

“To return to our investigations abroad, what result have they given?”

“We have obtained the certainty that, if an attempt has been made to obtain possession of the formulæ of General de Trémont, the Triple Alliance has had nothing to do with it. Ever since the last espionage affair, the different Governments have given orders to their agents to observe the strictest reserve. If there really has been a plot it can only have been made by the English. You are well aware that their artillery is quite out of date, and they are trying to recover ground.”

“So there are nothing but suppositions; no proofs?”

“None whatever. In Paris, or, at any rate, in France, there are half a dozen women well known for their international intrigues, and who might have been suspected of having acted the rôle of the Baroness with the poor General de Trémont. Those known to have been in France have been strictly watched. Besides, the majority form part of our counter-espionage, and could have informed us, whilst still in the pay of another nation. So far as Hans is concerned, a police report from Lausanne announces the arrival in Geneva of a wounded man, whose arm has been amputated. He is from Baden, and is named Fichter. The accident took place in a wire mill in the neighbourhood of Besançon. Accordingly, he could not be at the same time in the Jura and at Vanves. All the same, the description of him corresponds exactly with that given by Baudoin. If this Fichter is the man we are seeking, the proprietor of the wire mill must have given accommodation certificates, or a substitution must have taken place on the way between the two men. All this is very improbable. So, you see, the matter is involved in greater obscurity than ever.”

“Yes, yes,” hummed the magistrate, who appeared so absent-minded that the Colonel looked at him in amazement.

“You take all this very calmly!” said Vallenot.

“What is the use of getting excited? It never serves any useful purpose.”

“Then you have not lost all hope?”

“Why should I?”

“The deuce!”

“Ah! my friend, success often comes at the very time you think everything is lost.”

“You magistrates are very lucky; it is not so in the Army. When you expect Grouchy it is always Blucher who comes!”

“Well, we shall see.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“Let the whole affair slide for some time. It is too premature to do anything yet.”

“In other words, you are shelving it?”

“Yes, I am shelving it provisionally.”

“Then you abandon the whole affair?”

The magistrate looked gravely at Vallenot and, to the profound amazement of his clerk, said humbly—

“I do, if no fresh incident happens.”

“Have I to inform the Minister of this?”

“Please do so. Tell him I am sorry, and wish I could have done better. That has been impossible. Still all is not lost, in my opinion. We shall see at a later date.”

The Colonel stood there rather disconcerted by this unexpected solution, and as he took his leave he shook his head, saying—

“A pleasant message you send me with. I shall be received like a dog in a game of skittles.”

“Nonsense! You are the favourite. I am off to the Government agent. He will not grumble; on the contrary, he will poke fun at me. Still no matter. He laughs best who laughs last!”

Shaking the Colonel by the hand, he conducted him to the passage, and returned to his office. He signed several sheets of paper handed to him by his clerk. The latter, devoured by curiosity, said—

“Then the matter is really finished, sir! Are you giving it up?”

“One cannot do what is impossible,” said Mayeur, negligently. “A house cannot be built without scaffolding. Here we have no grounds to work upon. I am not strong enough to invent what I am ignorant of. It is already difficult enough to obtain benefit from certain proof.”

A look of pity came over the clerk’s countenance. So long as the magistrate had manifested a tranquil assurance of success he had, in his conscience, violently criticized him. Now that his master showed himself modest and simple he disdained him. Nothing but a poor fellow, after all, who was very lucky when things went well, but gave up the struggle at the very first difficulties.

“Just put away that brief into my case. I am going to the Public Prosecutor’s office,” said the magistrate. “Afterwards you may go; it is five o’clock. I will see you to-morrow morning.”

Colonel Vallenot, meanwhile, was rolling away in a cab in the direction of the Ministry. On entering his chief’s ante-chamber he came across Baudoin, who was leaving the Minister’s cabinet. Stopping him, he said—

“You have just seen the General?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Is he in a good temper?”

“Yes, Colonel. You had better hurry, sir, if you wish to find him in.”

“What! He is going out?”

“I heard him say that he was going to the Chamber.”

“You had something to ask him, Baudoin?”

“No, Colonel. I wished simply to speak to him of the affair of General Trémont.”

“In what respect?”

“The magistrate makes no progress, and seems to me as though about to abandon the matter altogether.”

“You told this to the Minister?”

“Yes, not five minutes ago.”

“And how did he receive the communication?”

“He whistled softly; then said aloud, ‘After all, perhaps it is better so.’”

Colonel Vallenot looked at Baudoin, as though to make sure he was not making fun of him. Then he shrugged his shoulders, as though he did not understand, and declared, in vexed tones—

“Good! Good! Well, we will say no more about it.”

With a friendly gesture to the former soldier, he said—

“Good night, Baudoin. If you need anything send for me. We were all very fond of M. de Trémont.”

And he passed along, muttering to himself—

“Everybody I meet seems to have lost his head.”

Baudoin descended the large staircase. He went out into the street, after shaking hands with the concierge, and made his way towards the small café, where, in condescending fashion, Laforêt watched the billiard players, during the absinthe hour, eagerly playing pools. He was seated in his usual place, smoking his pipe, and speaking to a neighbour, a retired business man, who was telling him his domestic worries.

“Yes, sir; a woman who is always out of the house, and has never enough money. The vaults of the Bank would not suffice for her. And whenever I remonstrate with her she rouses the whole house with her cries. We cannot keep servants, for she will not pay them, and when she is not pleased, then there are blows! I have already been several times before the Justice of the Peace on her account. The life she leads me is a regular inferno!”

“Divorce her,” said Laforêt, curtly.

“But the greater part of our common stock is hers!”

“Then put up with her!”

“I can do it no longer.”

“Well, treat her as she treats her servants.”

“Ah! No! The deuce! She would pay me back in the same coin!”

Baudoin’s arrival interrupted the consultation. The unhappy tradesman arose, and said—

“The only place where I have a little quiet is here.”

“Well, that is something. Good-bye, sir. Consider me at your service if I can be of any use to you.”

Baudoin had taken a seat. Laforêt leaned over in his direction.

“Well, anything fresh?”

“Yes. I want you. But we had better leave here.”

The agent arose, took his stick, and left the café, accompanied by Baudoin.

“Where shall we go?”

“Where we shall be neither disturbed nor overheard.”

“Then come along with me.”

They proceeded along the banks of the Seine, and, on reaching a quay, Laforêt led the way down a flight of stone stairs leading to the embankment. Under the shade of the elms, which twisted their knotty boughs above the slimy, swift-flowing river, they sat down. On the opposite bank the gardens of the Tuileries exposed to view their lovely verdure. Lighters were unloading sand fifty yards on the left. Ferry-boats sped swiftly along, crowded with passengers, and the distant rolling of carriages formed a rumbling accompaniment to their words.

“Here we are certain that whatever we say will be heard by none other than the birds or the fishes,” said Laforêt. “This is the spot I recommend to you whenever you have any secrets to communicate to any one. There is not even a single fisherman about. Now then, what have you to tell?”

“Well, after three weeks’ researches, the examining magistrate is obliged to confess that he has not made the slightest progress. Clearly, if left to himself, he will never effect anything. Besides, the cleverest of them would have been no more fortunate. There is nothing to seize hold of. The culprits have plunged, and everything is quiet again. The upshot of the matter is that our magistrate is about to stop all investigations, and now I am free to go where I like, as I shall no longer have to spend all the day walking about the corridors of the Law Courts. Accordingly, I am leaving Paris.”

“Ah! Where are you going?”

“To stay with the son of my master, M. Baradier, who is at the works near Troyes, in Champagne. The district is called Ars, noted for alkaline springs and thermal waters, visited every summer by invalids.”

“Are you going to your master with the object of forgetting your troubles?”

“No! Rather to keep watch over him. Since I have been in the house I have spoken with his father, and learnt several things. M. Baradier is informed that his son has received communications from the General de Trémont, and now the famous formulæ can only be obtained from Marcel. M. Baradier, I believe, would give a large sum if his son had never entered the General’s laboratory. But that is a fact which cannot be undone. The only important thing now is to defend the young man. This trust has been confided to me. M. Baradier said to me: ‘Baudoin, Marcel is my only son, and although he is not so steady as he might be, I am all the same very fond of him. I do not want him to come to any harm. As soon as you are free go down to Ars, and do not leave him.’”

“But why does this young man, who is so rich, and of whom his family is so fond, shut himself up in a quiet provincial town? Why does he not stay in Paris?”

“For several reasons. The best one is that his father considers it more prudent for him to be at Ars than in Paris. Surveillance is more easy in the country. Besides, M. Marcel, from what I have learned, has been living rather too fast, and his father has cut off his supplies; but for his uncle Graff, the young heir would have nothing whatever. Just now he is desperately bent on finding a chemical process of wool-dyeing, and, though he is rather a hare-brained fellow, as the General called him, he has an extraordinary aptitude for scientific research, so that his work will be sufficient to keep him away from all kinds of distractions.”

“He is rather a strange character.”

“The finest young man you would meet anywhere. Generous and lively in disposition, not proud in the least. Ah! he will please you, I know, when you meet him.”

“Then I am to make his acquaintance?”

“Certainly.”

“In what way?”

“Listen. As soon as I learned that I could leave Paris I rushed off to the Minister to explain what I wanted to do, and asked him, if he wished the affair to succeed, to give me permission that you should come down to Ars whenever I need you.”