The woman of mystery

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.

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.

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.

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!”

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.”

“I must have permission first.”

“You have only to see Colonel Vallenot, who has received instructions, and he will give you your papers.”

“Good. And what shall I have to do afterwards?”

“According to circumstances. It is my firm conviction that the catastrophe of which my poor master has been the victim, is nothing but the beginning of a drama. Many important events will take place, and we must arrange so as to prevent them from being harmful to the intended victims. Serious interests are at stake. We shall probably have to deal with matters that are anything but attractive. But then, afterwards, everything will be cleared up. We must succeed. By the way, you must know how to disguise yourself.”

Laforêt smiled.

“Do not be uneasy on that score. I will be there at the rendezvous you appoint; but I will not vouch for your recognizing me when you see me.”

“That is all right, then. Unfortunately, I am not to be relied upon for playing a double rôle. But I can well maintain my own, which will be that of a watch-dog.”

“Then everything is settled?”

“So it seems. When I have a communication to make I will send my letter to the Ministry.”

“Very good. Now let us get back.”

Mounting the stone staircase, they reached the quay, and took leave of one another.

Laforêt made his way towards the Rue Saint Dominique; Baudoin crossed the Pont de la Concorde, and returned to the Rue de Provènce by the Rue de Richelieu and the boulevards. Messieurs Baradier and Graff were in their office, along with the cashier of the firm, who was making inquiries concerning the collection of debts. The cashier was saying—

“Do you know, gentlemen, that the ‘Commercial Explosives’ Company,’ of which M. Lichtenbach is chairman, is on its last legs? The shares have gone down considerably. It seems that there is an American company competing with them.”

“Yes, so I have heard,” said Graff. “The Americans have found a product of very simple composition, costing fifty per cent. less than dynamite. They have already taken very large orders for Australia and South Africa. That is the reason of the fall of the Lichtenbach Company.”

“Do not be uneasy, Bernard,” said Baradier to his cashier. “It will not affect Lichtenbach, but his shareholders. You have no more letters to be signed?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then, you may go now. Good night.”

“Good night, gentlemen.”

Baradier rose from his seat, and stood with his back to the fire.

“You see,” he said to his brother-in-law, “here we have a clear proof that Trémont has been killed as much to rob him of his commercial as of his military secret. Do you now understand how Lichtenbach would be interested in being in possession of the formulæ of an explosive which would be less costly than the American product, the discovery of which is ruining the French company, and would be as effective though a hundred times less in volume? For this is the real value of the discovery made by Trémont, and which Marcel has explained to me. Accordingly, if Lichtenbach, by some means or other, came into possession of the unknown formulæ, he would only have to take out a patent, and secretly buy back all the shares of the company which have now fallen so low. The day after he had swept everything before him he would sell to the company all property in the new explosive, and make millions at a single stroke, without speaking of the future success of the product.”

“Yes, it would be a fine coup worthy of him. He might give up to his confederates the profits from the war powder, for they would be little compared with those of the commercial product. Governments are not in the habit of remunerating philanthropists who afford them the means of marching triumphantly forward to a universal massacre.”

“Oh, don’t make any mistake. Marcel affirms that this discovery made by Trémont is followed by the most frightful results. It is a kind of paste, which, according to the way in which it is prepared, causes a formidable detonation or else burns, without the slightest noise, even when in water.”

“Greek fire?”

“Something like it. Or, rather, like an up-to-date cannon compared with one of the fourteenth century. Torpedoes loaded with this paste, and lit by means of a well-graduated mechanism, might at will envelop a ship in flames at a single moment.”

“That would mean the suppression of all naval supremacy!”

“Ah! You understand. Now, do you think there exists any real security for the possessor of such a secret? A State would have to be governed by angels if it did not use its utmost endeavours to procure this monstrous power of annihilating all its enemies and subduing all its rivals. This is why Trémont was put to death, and why I have lost my sleep at the thought that my son has openly worked with him and may be suspected of having possession of this mysterious agent of destruction and greatness.”

“Send him away from France, on a cruise.”

“He would be in much greater danger away from France. The place where he runs least risk is here among his friends. Ah! How glad I should be were he rid of this heavy burden! I have begged him to hand over the General’s formulæ to the Minister. It would have been announced in all the journals that Marcel Baradier had handed over to the Technical Committee of Explosives all notes relating to the experiments of General de Trémont. After that he would have been free, and no further risk would have been run. Do you know what reply he gave me?”

“No; tell me.”

“He said to me, with a smile, and in tones of calm assurance: ‘My dear father, the General’s powder is still lacking in one slight detail. I know what he intended to do, for he explained everything to me. Well, then, I will continue his experiments, and when everything is complete I will hand over the formulæ to the State, according to his clearly-expressed will, and form a company with the commerce explosive to enrich the General’s daughter.’”

“Does Marcel know what a risk he is running?” asked Graff.

“I became hoarse in telling him. But he is a Lorraine; he’s as obstinate as a mule. To all my arguments he offered an imperturbable resistance. ‘I alone,’ he said, ‘can manage the affair successfully. If I give the General’s notes to the Technical Committee, one of those sharp fellows on the Board will boast that he has made the discovery himself, and obtain all the credit for it. Unless he spoil the invention by absurd additions, which is at bottom a very likely thing. As for the commercial product, if I open my mouth before taking all necessary precautions, it will be stolen in an instant, and the General’s daughter will lose her fortune. For these reasons, and others, I do not intend to abandon the work I have begun.’

“‘But you are risking your life?’

“‘Is it so very precious? You spend your time in telling me I am a rascal, that I am ruining you, and shall bring your name into dishonour. Very good! You will be well rid of a guilty and unworthy son!’”

Graff struck his hands against one another.

“You see! That is the result of your harshness towards the poor child. How can you expect him to listen to you?”

“Ah! Leave me alone!” exclaimed Baradier, pale with anguish, “I am sufficiently worried with all this! You do not intend to make me responsible for it, into the bargain! I love Marcel as well as you do! The only difference is that I am not always fawning on him and giving him money! We should have been in a fine state had you been the only one to set him an example! All you did was to encourage his evil inclinations! If he has done wrong, it is all your fault!”

“Yes! I, who have set an example to him, and practised what I preached!” exclaimed Graff. “I being his evil genius, as everybody knows. Really, Baradier, I wonder if you have gone mad!”

Baradier walked excitedly about the room, then, returning to his brother-in-law, placed his hand on his shoulder, and said in trembling tones—

“You are right! I believe I am losing my senses. Pardon me, this anxiety has completely overwhelmed me. We have only Marcel, Graff. Think of what would become of us, if destiny willed it that—”

Graff rose quickly from his seat.

“Not another word! It is unlucky to predict disaster. We must not even admit that there is a disaster at all. Still, I cannot blame Marcel for doing what he considers his duty. Did he act otherwise, he would be neither a Baradier nor a Graff. He is acting very courageously. All the same we must keep watch over him, and defend him against his own folly.”

At that moment, a knock was heard at the study door. Baradier went to open it, and seeing Baudoin on the threshold, said—

“Ah! You have come at the right moment. First of all, tell us how things are going at the courts.”

“Everything is at a standstill, sir. The examining magistrate can find nothing. The culprits have left a vacuum behind them.”

“Well?”

“Well, M. Mayeur, in despair, unable to arrest the criminals, is simply stopping all investigations, and shelving the affair.”

“That’s a fine idea! Is it his own?”

“No, sir.”

“What fool could have suggested such a course?”

“I did.”

“I congratulate you. Now, the rascals who have killed your master, believing themselves sure of impunity, will recommence—”

“I am relying on their doing so!”

“But! Marcel? My son! What is to become of him? Have you even thought of such a thing?”

“I have thought of nothing else. Here I am free. If you will allow me, I will leave Paris this very night, and be at Ars about midnight. The news of the affair being abandoned will not appear in the journals for a couple of days. I shall have organized my surveillance by that time. I promise you nothing shall happen to M. Marcel, or, at any rate, they will have to begin with me.”

“Very reassuring!” growled Baradier. “But what can one do with such a madman as my son? He is in danger everywhere. Ah, the cursed powder! What need had Trémont to tell him of his inventions? If this explosive is as dangerous to those against whom it is used as it is to its inventors, there will be fine butcheries the next war.”

Baudoin philosophically paid no heed to these paternal recriminations.

He understood how correct they were, but could he do more than devote himself to the defence of him who might at any time, be so gravely threatened? When M. Baradier finally sat down, in consternation, Graff decided to speak in his turn.

“After all,” he said, “as the wine is drawn, we must drink it. The thing to guard against is not to poison one’s self with it. Forewarned is forearmed. The situation is not the same as it was for the General. With a little prudence it will be easy to make everything turn out right. Patience brings all things about.”

“Have you finished with your proverbs, which have no meaning whatever?” exclaimed Baradier, exasperated by his brother-in-law’s optimism. “Without so much palaver, all that is needed is to give Baudoin permission to summon the police in case he sees anything suspicious in Marcel’s surroundings. For my part, I have more confidence in armed might than in providence.”

“If you are interrupting me to say such nonsense,” replied Graff, “you might have held your peace. Let Marcel work on. The sooner he has finished the sooner he will be out of danger. Until that time, Baudoin, I entrust him to your care.”

“Do not be uneasy, Monsieur Graff. I will answer for him with my life. Besides, I am not trusting in myself alone. I am going to send for a companion, who in himself is worth a score of men. I need say no more. Trust to me.”

“Yes, my brave fellow, I will trust to you,” said Baradier.

“Very good,” said Baudoin, rubbing his hands. “Have you any message to send to M. Marcel?”

“Tell him to be very careful; give him our best love, and ask him to think of us at times.”

“By-the-bye, have you any money for the journey?”

“I have all I need, sir, thank you. Your servant, sir. Au revoir!”

Bowing, he left the room. Father and uncle remained behind, silent and grave, plunged in reverie. After a time Graff stood up and said—

“Nothing ill will happen. Of that I am sure. I feel it. You know I am never mistaken. In business, every time we have had a loss I have always had a very clear intuition of it beforehand. Be assured, Baradier, we shall come out of it without loss or damage.”

The anxious father replied—

“Heaven grant you may be right! But so long as there is a woman in it I cannot be at rest concerning Marcel. Ah! if it were only you or I, there would be no danger. But this young madman!”

“The oldest are not always the wisest. Look at Trémont.”

“Well, well. It is all in God’s hands!”

Holding out his hand to his brother-in-law—

“We will have no more quarrels; they serve no useful purpose, and only cause us pain!”

“Ah! Speak to me as harshly as you like!” exclaimed Graff, greatly moved. “It does not hurt me, and it relieves you! But be careful to say nothing to your wife. There is no occasion that she should worry herself about the matter.”

They left the office, and, as they crossed the court they saw Baudoin, portmanteau in hand, starting off, with alert and happy step, for the station.

Ars is a small town of six thousand inhabitants, a distance of four leagues from Troyes. On the manly declivities to the South stretch miles upon miles of vineyards. The mineral springs of Ars are distant half a mile from the town, on the road to Lusigny, as is also the thermal establishment.

It was whilst engaged in sounding for ore, in land which did not contain the slightest trace of it, that M. Reverend, chief engineer, unexpectedly discovered the alkaline and chalybeate waters, rivalling those of Plombieres and of Aix. But, after all, Ars is too near Paris for patients to have confidence in the healing virtues of its springs. It is frequented only by people of limited income, and hotel-keepers who are not in the habit of fleecing travellers. Near the forest of Bossicant, close by, a few villas, almost lost amid the trees, are every year placed at the disposal of wealthy invalids. These are modest-looking, quiet houses, offering their peace-loving guests nothing but the smiling solitudes of the forest. The weaving and spinning mills belonging to Messrs. Baradier and Graff are situated on the Barse, the rapid current of which turns the dynamos, which supply both light and motive-power. The private residence is separated from the works by a large court-yard and a beautiful garden. The road to Vandoeuvre passes in front of the house, whilst, on the other side of the road, through meadows in which large numbers of cattle are grazing all the year round, runs the railroad, past Chaumont, right to the German frontier. Ars is an important working centre. The quarries and mines give work to a large proportion of the male population.

Two hundred men, a hundred women, and a large number of children are employed at the works of Baradier and Graff. The manager of the establishment, M. Cardez, is a native of Lorraine, who came from Metz with his masters. He had married at Ars, and was now a widower with two grown-up sons, devoted to duty, and kind towards his workmen, but of a taciturn disposition, and ruling with almost military discipline. One of his sons is in the Army, the other assistant-manager in the works at La Barre.

A very good fellow, on the whole, whom Marcel Baradier, from his childhood, had been in the disrespectful habit of calling “the bear.” The “bear” and Marcel could never understand one another. There was the same distance between them as between Pascal, the inventor of the wheel-barrow, and the workman whose duty it was to roll it along the highway. Marcel likes Cardez well enough, though he is fond of poking fun at him. Cardez is very respectful towards the son of his master, though he deplores his light-heartedness and frivolity. The two might live together for years without the slightest affinity being manifested between them. As Marcel says, with a smile, the one is negative, the other positive. Cardez is none too glad at Marcel settling down at the works, for his presence is a cause of trouble for the workmen. The master’s son is too ready to listen to their complaints, and discipline suffers in consequence. The military order no longer reigns, and Cardez, more bearish than ever, never ceases railing at what he calls “the encouragement given to the rebellious instincts of the workmen.”

Marcel’s researches in the colouring of cloth leave the director sceptical. He considers there is no necessity to change a system which has succeeded so well for so many years. A dye-shed always seemed useless to him. The raw thread, which brought so ready a sale, was quite sufficient for their requirements. All these new inventions, costing so dear, only served, in his mind, to introduce an element of trouble into the working of a business already prosperous. The laboratory at the end of the garden, in an isolated pavilion, was the object of raillery on the part of the director, who called it “the Capernaum.”

Since Marcel had come to settle at Ars, contrary to his usual habit, he scarcely ever appeared at the works. He shut himself up in the “Capernaum,” or went off in search of recreation, with a gun and his dog, into the forest of Bossicant. Baradier and Graff owned two hundred acres of waste land, very picturesque, and abounding in game. Certain of the uplands of Bossicant remind one of Scotland, in point of wild, picturesque view, dry, arid heather, and the clear freshness of the invigorating air.

Half-way down the hollow rose a villa, in the form of a chalet, buried in the trees—a red spot in the midst of so much surrounding verdure. It was gloomy and silent, and almost always uninhabited, by reason of its distance from the town, and proximity to the wood. One morning, as he passed by this villa, Marcel was surprised to see that the shutters were down, and that a servant was busily sweeping in front of the door. She was rather elegantly dressed, and appeared to be a stranger in the district, doubtless attending to some invalid who had come to effect a cure. Marcel was not inquisitive, and went his way.

It was three o’clock when he reached the plain, which he began to cross with careless steps. The movements of his dog, however, drew his attention. He slipped a couple of cartridges into his gun, and mounted to the side of the slope. After a moment’s interval, on climbing the opposite bank, Marcel saw a rabbit bent on reaching the open. He took aim, pulled the trigger, and the rabbit rolled over to the foot of the descent. The dog was not far away; he seized the dead animal by the back, and brought him to his master.

Marcel relieved the dog, placed the game in a light bag he carried over his shoulder, uncocked his gun, and, considering that he had done enough damage for the time being, sat down on the sand, at the foot of a fir tree, and looked dreamily away at the distant forests in the east. A delightful torpor, induced by the dull silence of the woods, took possession of his body, whilst his more active thoughts, as though freed from all material bond, began to dwell on his past life. He saw again the house in the Rue de Provènce, in which his father and his uncle Graff had quarrelled so often about him; and his mother’s salon, where Amélie, seated near Mademoiselle de Trémont, dressed in deep black, was quietly working.

Suddenly his reveries were interrupted by a bark of his dog. The pattering step of some animal or other made him turn his head, and there, close by, he saw a small terrier, no larger than his two fists, a silk ribbon tied in a knot round his neck, advancing in his direction. A little farther away, a woman, dressed in black, slowly followed. He had no time to examine the newcomer, for the little dog, with a furious yelp, leaped towards the other, with the unthinking audacity of a rat attacking a tiger. A gentle voice exclaimed, “Bob!” It was of no use. Marcel’s dog stood up against his tiny adversary, and rolled him over into the dust.

“Bob! Oh, Mon Dieu!” exclaimed his mistress, anxiously, as she rushed to the spot.

Marcel heard the cry, saw a pair of beautiful eyes, and, without waiting longer, bounded forth, and seized his dog by the skin of his neck, flinging him over on to the ground. Then, picking up the terrier, still panting with the shock, but quite uninjured, he exhibited him to the lady, with a smile—

“Do not be anxious, madame; your savage little animal is safe and sound. Still, we were only just in time. Please excuse us, and take into account that we were not the aggressors.”

The lady put the dog under her arm, gave him a gentle tap, saying, in scolding tones—

“Oh! Che bestia! A fly trying to devour a wolf!”

Marcel could now see her at leisure, as she was tenderly scolding her terrier, and he stood there, filled with admiration at the gentle beauty of the unknown lady. Her face was of a perfect oval, surrounded by golden hair; her dark eyes were languishing and gentle, whilst she had the chaste and timid mien of a young girl. All the same, she was dressed in mourning, like a widow. Fixing her eyes on Marcel, she said, in quiet, gracious accents—

“A thousand thanks, sir, for your timely intervention. I am sorry for your poor dog, which did quite right in defending itself.”

“There can be no comparison, madame,” said Marcel, “between this charming little animal of yours and this large-pawed dog of mine, accustomed to brambles and thorns. I am sorry I have stopped your walk, but now you may continue in perfect safety; I will chain up my dog.”

The young woman bowed her head in token of thanks.

“If I am trespassing on your property, I beg you to excuse me. I am a stranger, and have only been in these parts the last two days. I am acquainted with no one to inform me as to what I have a right to do.”

“Here, madame, you may do as you please. Doubtless you are living at the Villa de la Cavée?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then these woods are easily within your reach. There are very few passers-by, and you may come whenever you wish.”

She murmured, in constrained accents, “A thousand thanks.”

Thereupon she moved away at a slow pace. Marcel stood there motionless, unable to remove his eyes from the ravishing figure, now slowly disappearing from view. Then he whistled for his dog, stroked him gently, as though to atone for his rough treatment a few moments previously, and returned, in pensive mood, to the works. After dinner he strolled about the garden, smoking, till nine o’clock; then, completely tired out, retired to rest for the night.

The following morning he spent all his time in the laboratory. Suddenly the door opened, and Baudoin appeared.

“Holla! You here?” said the young man. “Has my father sent you?”

“Yes, sir. I am requested by all the family to convey to you their best love. Besides, I have come to stay by your side.”

“For what purpose?”

“To be your servant.”

“Very good, Baudoin; make yourself at home. Your presence will be very useful here, in making things go all right. The inhabitants of this district are fine people on the whole, but not over-intelligent.”

“We will put all that in order for you.”

He walked round the laboratory, looking attentively at the objects on the table, and the alembics, with their copper spirals, on the stove.

“So it is here that you are working! Who arranges things in this laboratory?”

“No one enters the place but myself.”

“So I see. However, I will clean your utensils; I know how to go about it. Are you working at the General’s formulæ?”

“Not yet; I have had other things to attend to. Still, I intend to commence shortly. I am very glad you have come, for you will be at hand, in case I want any help. See here, Baudoin, these are blue, pink, and green dyes which I have fixed lately. They are capable of giving wool an unchangeable colour.”

As he spoke, he handled hanks of a strong and harmonious shade, stretching them out before the light of day, and showing all their reflections.

“Our poor General put this idea into my head. Ah! if he had only contented himself with undertaking industrial researches, we should still have had him alive and well among us, and in possession of a large fortune. But he disdained such productive discoveries; he thought only of the State. He would work for nothing else.”

“After serving it so long, M. Marcel, it was second nature with him.”

“Well, well, Baudoin! Settle down here, and commence your duties this very night.”

Marcel stayed behind in the laboratory, inactive, as though some dull preoccupation would give him no peace. He sat down in a large leather armchair he had gaily baptized the “alchemist’s armchair,” and, with open window to allow the sun to enter, he sat there in a reverie, until five o’clock struck.

He went down into the garden, walked past beds of rose-trees, and halted by the banks of the river, watching in the crystal waters a jack chasing a shoal of roaches, which, to escape the dreaded pursuit, leapt out of the water, like silver arrows. The clock at the entrance, as it struck, disturbed his thoughts, and he saw approaching him, and preceded by the porter, a tall, elegantly dressed young man, of very handsome features and blue eyes. As he drew near he took off his hat, bowed with considerable deference, and said, in a sing-song Italian accent—

“Have I the pleasure of addressing M. Marcel Baradier?”

“That is my name, sir,” said Marcel, examining the stranger with a sudden interest. “To what do I owe the honour of this visit!”

The young man gave a sidelong glance to assure himself that the porter had left the room, then, in haughty tones, said—

“As I have no one to present me, allow me to introduce myself. I am Count Cesare Agostini, of the Princes of Briviesca. I live at the Villa de la Cavée with my sister, and I have called to thank you for the kindness with which, yesterday, you—”

“What I did, sir, was merely natural; it was quite by chance that I met your sister. She is a stranger in these parts, and appeared to be sad, and in search of rest and quiet. All I did was to simply comply with her wishes so far as I could.”

Count Cesare bowed gracefully; a cloud came over his handsome face, and in accents of sadness he continued—

“My sister is, indeed, very sad; she has had a great deal of trouble. She has spent her strength in attending to the needs of a husband far older than herself, and whom she had the misfortune to lose some time ago. With the object of regaining her health, she has come into this valley, to seek calm and quiet. The waters of Ars, too, have been well recommended to us. But it is chiefly fresh air my sister needs, after being confined for long months by the bedside of a dying man.”

The handsome Italian several times shook his head, and said—

“Oh, it is very sad, very sad indeed!”

“And you have come from Italy with your sister?” asked Marcel.

“No,” said Cesare. “Madame Vignola was living in Paris, where I have recently been to see her. We intend to return to Naples, and settle down. Not before autumn, however. Yes, it is very sad indeed!”

Marcel saw that the Count Cesare did not appear to wish to take his leave, and, as he was interested in what he related, he led the way to a green arbour, with rustic seats, sheltered from the rays of the setting sun.

“Will you take a seat, sir?”

The Italian chose an armchair, and drew from his pocket a gold cigarette-case, which he held out to Marcel. “A cigarette?”

“Willingly.”

They began to smoke, and the tobacco seemed to render Cesare even more loquacious.

“This villa where my sister now lives is far from the village. Is the country round here quite safe?”

“Perfectly safe. Your sister will have nothing to fear from any one.”

“All the better! I myself am not staying here long. My business takes me back to Paris, and the idea of leaving her alone with a chamber-maid and a servant-girl whom I do not know makes me very anxious, that I will not deny. Is Ars always so quiet as at present?”

“Always, at this time of the year. The season begins in June, and it is now only April. In a few months the hotels will be filled, and the roads overrun by all the stage waggons in the district. That is the time I shall choose for going away.”

“You do not stay here the whole year round?”

“No; I only call here at rare intervals. My home is at Paris; I am at Ars on business.”

“Your works are very large?”

“One of the largest in the department. My grandfather founded the industry. It is the cradle of our family and the source of our fortune. Accordingly, my father, who is a banker, could never make up his mind to give it up, although he has far greater interests in other enterprises.”

“I see he has trusted to you the responsibility of managing the works.”

“Oh no. My father is represented by a director. I am simply the master’s son, and interfere in no way with the weaving. Here I have a laboratory, in which I undertake chemical experiments. But all the people in this district will tell you that I am an amateur, anything but serious, and that I spend more money on experiments than my pretended discoveries will ever bring me.”

As he spoke he laughed gaily. The handsome Italian joined, and said, in his sing-song voice—

“Rich men’s eldest sons are always ill-judged. When one is wealthy it is extremely difficult to get one’s self considered as a serious worker. Because one has no need of money, people are only too ready to conclude that one is incapable of earning any. And yet, why should not a rich man be a genius?”

“Ah, sir, then what would become of other poor wretches?”

“So you pretend, yourself,” said the Count, with a graceful wave of the hand, “to despise these investigations, though they probably interest you greatly?”

“Almost as much as the experiments of a dyer. I have woollen stuffs steeped in coloured vats, and I try to fix the tints indelibly, so that the stuff sold in future will not become discoloured under the influence of either light, rain, or wind. The tapestries placed on furniture or walls, nowadays, are scarcely in their places than they have to be taken down—they are already quite faded. All the same, the stuffs of former times lasted, and exist even now. Our ancestors were in possession of dyeing processes superior to ours, and yet modern chemistry offers us mighty resources. That is what I am working at, sir. It is very commonplace, as you see.”

“Evidently, it is not the philosopher’s stone! Still, all researches have their value. Have you obtained satisfactory results?”

Marcel bowed in mock humility.

“You are very polite, sir, but you wish to take advantage of my vanity. Inventors always like to speak of their investigations, you are thinking; and I wish to repay this gentleman for the kindness he has shown my sister. But it would doubtless serve you right if I bored you with my discoveries, took your curiosity seriously, and showed you my samples.”

The Italian bent down his head, and, in contrite tones, said—

“I am indeed sorry you imagined I was not sincere. All you have told me interests me greatly. Doubtless I am not so frivolous as your compatriots, and since you appear to defy me examining your results, with satisfaction to myself, I now ask you to have the kindness to show me them, unless you were joking, in which case I should not have understood you, as I do not always seize all the finesse of your language. In which case I must ask you to pardon me.”

“Indeed, I was not jesting; I was perfectly serious,” said Marcel, gaily. “I still believe you will be punished for your curiosity. But since you insist, follow me; I will show you my laboratory.”

“Many thanks!” exclaimed Cesare. “I was afraid I should vex you.”

“In what way? You would believe in the most marvellous things, did I not show you my poor results. Take care not to soil yourself; everything here is not perfectly clean.”

Opening the door of the summer-house, he introduced the Count into the panelled room, leading to the laboratory, and which he used as a workroom. A blush mounted to Cesare’s temples. He looked eagerly around. On a Louis XVI. bureau, leaning against the wall, were scattered some papers covered with figures. A half-opened drawer exhibited boxes of different sizes and colours, carefully labelled. A massive table supported wide-mouthed jars, on the rough glass of which could be read the indications: sulphuric acid, nitro-benzine, picric acid, and a whole series of chlorates. The Italian, pointing to the table, said—

“Ah! Here are some chemicals you do not make use of for your dyes!”

“No,” said Marcel, evasively; “those are for something else.”

And, as his visitor drew near, stretching out his hand towards one of the wide-mouthed jars—

“Do not touch these jars—they are dangerous. If, by any chance, you were to upset the contents, both yourself and myself might find ourselves in a very disagreeable position. Come this way!”

Opening the door of the laboratory, he bade him take a seat in the alchemist’s armchair, by the window, as he said—

“Here you may smoke, if you like, without danger; there is nothing explosive here.”

“Whilst in the next room?” asked the Italian, carelessly.

“In the next room, if you threw down a match in the wrong place, you might explode the whole works!”

“Diavolo! Then I will stop smoking even here, my dear sir, for I have no wish to leave the place by way of the roof.”

He patiently examined Marcel’s fine samples of dyed wool. Apparently he was listening attentively, but his awakened intelligence, his piercing eyes under his half-closed eyelids were busied with that “something else,” of which Marcel had spoken so briefly. But nothing in the laboratory appeared to have any reference to that mysterious task, which demanded the manipulation of such dangerous products.

“I should like you,” said the Italian, “to give me some of these beautiful cloths, of such a rich and harmonious colouring. I will take them to my sister, who can embroider like a fairy. She will start some magnificent piece of work, which will sooth her solitude, and thus you will see the effect of your colours, artistically employed.”

“If you will permit me, I will bring them myself,” said Marcel.

“As you please. We are always at home about five o’clock. But do not delay, for I shall soon be leaving the neighbourhood.”

“Very well! To-morrow, if that will not inconvenience you?”

“Not at all. To-morrow, then.”

The Italian rose from his seat. He walked round the laboratory, and drew near the window overlooking the river.

“Ah! You are close to the water here. You might even fish from the window, without descending into the garden. Are you not afraid of some one entering the laboratory? A few marauders in a boat could enter the summer-house.”

“Who would ever think of such a thing!” exclaimed Marcel. “Besides, as is well known, there is nothing to take. And, then, the inhabitants of this district are very honest people.”

“But have you no foreign employees at the works?”

“Very seldom. A few from Belgium or from Luxembourg. As few as possible, for they are difficult to deal with.”

“You do not live in this summer-house? You never sleep here?”

“No; there is no convenience—simply a barn above the ground floor, that is all. I live in the house opposite the manager’s. It is small, but very comfortable. My uncle Graff lived there several months.”

“You are very fortunate to have family relations,” said Cesare, in sorrowful tones. “My sister and I are alone—private dissensions have alienated us from the Briviescas. M. Vignola had no relations. We are obliged to be all in all to one another.”

“Your sister is a young and charming lady. She may marry again.”

“She never thinks of it. After all the sorrow caused by her union with M. Vignola, she aspires after nothing but peace and rest. Oh, she has suffered so much! The diseased and unhappy Vignola was madly jealous. He. could not endure his wife to be absent from him a single hour. He must have her constantly before his eyes. He left her a great fortune at his death. Poor compensation for all the tortures he inflicted on her! But now he is dead. Peace to his memory!”

“Your sister has no children?”

“No, sir; that is her greatest sorrow.”

The image of the young woman, in deep mourning, walking sorrowfully about the woods, was evoked in Marcel’s imagination. Very pretty to be inconsolate at the loss of an old husband! How old could she be? Twenty-five years, perhaps, at the most, and no knowledge of life except grief and sadness. Cesare arose, and took his leave. Marcel accompanied him across the garden to the gate, and there said, with a cordial smile—

“Till to-morrow, then, sir, my respectful homage to your sister.”

When he had gone, Marcel made his way towards the works, when he saw M. Cardez coming in his direction, even redder than usual, and with a dark frown on his brow.

“Ah, M. Marcel, I was calling to see you! I have a great deal of worry, and am indeed very pleased that you are here, so that you may understand yourself, and inform Messieurs Baradier and Graff.”

“What is the matter?”

“The fact is, the dyers are not pleased with their working hours, and threaten to come out on strike.”

“Ah! That is something fresh.”

“Fresh? No, it has been coming on for more than three weeks; the plot has only been developing. I was in hopes that, summer coming on, and the hours of daylight being more numerous, some arrangement might be reached. Now there is another cause of grievance. Instead of working more, they want to work less and earn more!”

“Ah! Are their claims justified?”

The manager, standing upright, cast a look of indignation on the son of his master.

“Are workmen’s claims ever justified? This class of people have only one programme: the minimum of work and the maximum of wages.”

“After all,” said Marcel, calmly, “they are only like other men.”

“Ah, sir, let their ringleaders talk in that way; do not speak so yourself.”

“Why not?”

“Because, with philanthropic theories, and laisser-aller tendencies, we should soon be no longer masters of our own works; they would put us out of doors.”

Marcel looked gravely at the manager, and replied—

“My opinion is entirely opposed to yours. I think that if workmen were treated as partners they would work better and keep better discipline. There is a huge misunderstanding between Capital and Labour. They treat one another as enemies, when they ought to proceed in concerted action, like allies.”

“Eh? That is downright Socialism.”

“No! It is simply co-operation.”

“And do you know,” said Cardez, looking slily at Marcel, “what is the principal reason of the discontent of the dyers?”

“The principal reason? Then the grievances they have manifested are only a pretext?”

“Nothing more. These workmen, in whose lot you are so interested, are full of deceit and treachery; they never show their real motives. Well, the dyers, in their secret meetings, rail at your inventions—they are displeased with your new dyeing processes!”

“Ah! The fools!”

An expression of triumph appeared on Cardez’s ill-tempered face.

“What did I tell you! Here are processes they are not yet acquainted with; and they maintain that your object is to simplify the workmanship, and, consequently, to do without workmen. Now they want to strike, to obtain concessions regarding both work and wages.”

“They have been ill-advised. When the real state of things is explained they will easily understand. Then they will see that, far from injuring them, the improvements I shall introduce into the manufacture are entirely to their advantage.”

“They will never admit that.”

“Suppose I prove it to them?”

“Their ringleaders will prove the contrary.”

“Who are these ringleaders?”

“A few Belgians.”

“Send them away.”

“Ah, that would be very imprudent! Better have patience, and try to come to an understanding. These men are from the Wallon district, and when they have drunk one glass of brandy too many you may fear anything at their hands. It was one of these Belgians who struck the overseer with a knife last year. They are good workmen, but terribly exacting and disagreeable. There is nothing to fear for the present. They want an eye keeping on them. Now, if you would like to call them together and speak to them, you will see what you can make of the matter.”

He spoke in sneering tones. Marcel well understood that the manager, speaking from experience, was thinking: Have a little experience of these brutes, my young novice, and you will learn to know them. Speak to them nicely, explaining that it is to their advantage to work without grumbling, so that you may have a fine profit at the year’s end, whilst they have had the greatest difficulty to make ends meet. Try to obtain their approval. Afterwards, come and tell me what result you have obtained. Unless you give them the works, and capital to keep it going, perhaps even guaranteeing them dividends, you will never make them satisfied!

Marcel would not discuss any longer with Cardez. He did not consider it necessary to weaken the authority of the manager at such a critical moment. He determined to give him all possible help to avoid the difficulties he foresaw.

“You may be sure, M. Cardez, that if I can do anything to help you, you have only to mention it. It is possible we may not have the same ideas on the way of settling Labour difficulties. Still, it is of no use waiting till the house is on fire before discussing the fire-brigade system by which the conflagration may most surely be extinguished. The best thing to do is to use the means nearest at hand. Consequently, do as you think best. Have you informed my father of the matter?”

“No; indeed, I am not in the habit of tormenting my masters with an account of the difficulties of the works here. There will be plenty of time, in case things become more serious.”

“Very good; we will wait.”

At that hour the Count Cesare Agostini reached the Villa de la Cavée, and after traversing the garden he entered a small salon on the ground floor, where the young lady, in mourning, lolling on an easy-chair, was lazily reading a novel. The setting sun, entering through the window, shed his golden rays on the reader’s face. She was no longer the melancholy and timid widow Marcel had met in the woods. Her hair, thrown back on to her forehead, gave her delicate profile a look of audacious pride. On hearing Cesare enter the room, she flung down her book, rose eagerly to her feet, and, in joyous tones, said—

“Well, caro mio, you are back at last! Are you satisfied with your mission?”

“As far as one can be. I have seen your pigeon. He actually holds out the wing, without being asked. You will obtain no merit in plucking such a confiding youth, Sophia.”

She laughed outright.

“Never mind merit! I can do without glory. Success will suffice for me. So you found the ground well prepared?”

“I am afraid distractions are sadly lacking in this district, and that our appearance in the woods has already produced its effect on Marcel.”

“Then he will come?”

“Yes; and not later than to-morrow. I told him I was going away. Consequently you will have the field free to do as you please. Do not let this affair lag; you have your revenge to take.”

“Ah, mio caro, the coup missed the first time, all through Hans’ stupid obstinacy. Had he left me to act as I pleased, the General would finally have offered me his formulæ on a silver plate, and kneeling into the bargain. Hans wished to rush everything through, and old Trémont, infatuated as he was, became distrustful. Sorry adventure, in which our friend lost his arm, and almost all of us just missed being compromised. The most stupid part of it was that the General had said to Hans, as he pointed out to him the steel box—a fine box of Fichet’s, supplied with one of those admirable locks, so very complicated, but which are of no use whatever: ‘Look here, my friend, it is impossible to open this without my permission. All my secrets are inside. On raising this lid all my formula would be found. But then one must know how to do it; otherwise one may die in the attempt.’ Ah, ah! Old Trémont spoke the truth! He had made his box into a kind of reversing bomb. One must know how to handle it. Hans perceived the necessity of this. All the same, he distrusted himself. He had taken the precaution to go out on to the perron of the house, and there he tried to open the box. Ah, caro mio, when the explosion took place the very earth trembled! I had already returned to Paris in the carriage. The vibration was so great that the very windows of the brougham shook. I thought to myself: There, Hans has smashed up everything! I had no idea I was so near the truth, for the house was entirely destroyed. I cannot possibly understand how Hans, who had succeeded in opening the lock of the box, and who, lying on the ground a score of yards away, behind a tree, drew off the lid with a cord, justly dreading some devilish trick or other, was not completely blown to pieces.”

“But since the lock was opened, how was the explosion produced?”

“It was when the lid was raised that the explosion happened. Did the box overturn? It was a very heavy one. Was there some special manner of placing it, when removing the lid, to prevent a prime of fulminate going off? Was it clock-work, arranged in a certain manner? All is mere conjecture. What is certain enough is that, in a second, box, formulæ, powders, house, Hans’ arm, and all our hopes disappeared at the same time. Our friend must have shown extraordinary energy not to have been surprised by all the people who came running up from all directions. You may believe me when I say that, so long as I was not assured that he was out of danger, I felt very anxious.”

“Ah, you are an intelligent woman, Sophia—really clever and brave! Now we must make amends for a preliminary defeat, and nonplus this young booby of a Marcel.”

“Just leave the matter to me. He seemed a very nice young fellow.”

“You are right; but don’t go and fall in love with him, whatever you do.”

She burst into a laugh.

“I have other things to attend to. Besides, Cesare, is it so easy to find a rival to yourself?”

The handsome Italian shook his head.

“You are so strange, Sophia, whatever is difficult is the very thing to tempt you.”

“A scene of jealousy between you and me, Cesare!” said Sophia, ironically. “Do we not know one another well enough to be blasés as regards our mutual qualities and failings? Shall I be jealous, the day I have married you to Lichtenbach’s wealthy daughter? Just close your eyes, and leave me free to act. Besides, if you acted otherwise, that would be all of no use. You are well aware that I have never done anything that did not please me, even with personages far more redoubtable than yourself.”

“Come, come, Sophia, do not get excited! If I do not stop you, you will be threatening me in a minute. Ah, you have a will of iron!”

“Yes; and just now it is my will to completely subjugate this young Baradier.”

“Poor fellow, you will succeed only too easily!”

“Ah! Now you are going to pity him, are you?”

They both laughed outright. Then the young woman asked—

“Have you visited the dwelling?”

“Yes. I have also obtained an entrance into the laboratory without the slightest effort.”

“Did you see anything special?”

“A number of spiders’ webs, several broken phials, and tubs of various colours, in which pieces of cloth were soaking.”

“Nothing resembling the powders we are in search of?”

“Nothing whatever. I must say that, in one of the rooms of the summer-house, the young man charitably warned me that if I touched a single one of the flagons lying on the table some catastrophe might result. Accordingly, it is there he manipulates his products, or, at any rate, conceals them. In the next room there is nothing suspicious. He said to me: ‘Here you may smoke, if you like, and that without the slightest danger.’”

“That is worth knowing.”

“Do you think of going to see him?”

“I think of nothing and of everything. Does one ever know what means will have to be employed in the performance of anything? Wisdom consists in preparing several, so as not to be caught unexpectedly. I have undertaken to obtain possession of and hand over the formulæ of the General de Trémont. For me, it is a matter of self-respect, as well as a question of interest. I will not admit that I cannot succeed in anything I undertake. Our friends abroad would consider me as having depreciated in ability if I failed, and you know what their support is worth to me. So long as my influence lasts, the Baron Grodsko will remain aloof, and not trouble about me. If my protection were to cease to-morrow, Heaven knows what sort of account I should have to give him!”

Cesare looked at the young woman in surprise.

“Ah! You are almost overcome with emotion. Are you afraid of him?”

Sophia became serious.

“I am afraid of no one in the world, as you know. Still, Grodsko is a terrible man, especially when he is not drunk.”

“But then he is always drinking. Is it because he likes drink?”

“No! It is to forget,”

“Forget what? You?”

“Perhaps.”

“He was passionately fond of you, I suppose?”

“So were all the other men.”

“Is it long since you saw him?”

“Some years.”

“And he is still at Monte Carlo?”

“In the winter. During the summer he lives at Vienna.”

“And he drinks both at Monte Carlo and in Vienna?”

“Yes, and gambles as well. He has a way of drinking which leaves his brain perfectly clear, so that he is able to play.”

“Does he win?”

“Often. But then, what does that matter to him?”

“Then he is so rich that he is indifferent to his winnings? Lucky man!”

“Grodsko is proprietor of a whole district in Moravia. He owns forests, mountains, and villages. His forests furnish the finest pines in Europe. The mountains are bored through and through with mines from which copper and tin are extracted. As for villages, Grodsko, with the peasants on his domains, could, in case of war, furnish a couple of regiments.”

“And you left this nabob?”

“Yes, for a young man, who had nothing but his beauty to recommend him.”

“What did Grodsko say to that?”

“He said nothing, he set out in our pursuit, overtook us, and killed my companion.”

“Whilst you?”

“I had reached the frontier when Grodsko came up to me.”

“And there followed—”

“An explanation, in the course of which, as he dared to raise his hand against me, I planted in his arm one of the knives lying on the table, on which I had just finished lunch.”

“What exquisite relations you had with one another! And did that satisfy him?”

“No. He bound me with cords and took me back to Vienna in his carriage. There I succeeded in escaping from him, thanks to certain irresistible influences. It cost me very dear to regain my liberty. Still, from that day I had no longer anything to fear, and could travel all over the world as I pleased.”

“What was the name of the great personage who rendered you this service?”

Sophia looked at the handsome Italian mockingly; she clacked her fingers as though they were castanets, and replied—

“If any one asks you, you will say you know nothing about it?”

“Then you have no confidence in me, Sophia?”

“I have confidence in no one, scarcely in myself. Acknowledge that I am frank with you. I might tell you all kinds of tales—that it was the minister of police, or an archduke, or a foreign ambassador, or all three combined, who set me free. Be assured, all the same, that I have contracted obligations towards those who served me, and whom I am serving in my turn.”

“Whatever obligations you are under to them, they have done a very good stroke of business in obtaining such an ally as yourself. Is there another so good in the whole world? You have the genius of corruption, and I do not think there is a conscience anywhere strong enough to resist you. If seductive charm is needed, you will succeed in everything you undertake. Ah, your power is indeed very great and terrible!”

Sophia smiled bitterly, she raised her head, and her countenance assumed a threatening expression.

“All my power consists in my scorn of humanity. I believe men are capable of everything. The sole question is to find the way to make them act. I have seen men, though heroes in the face of death, turn pale and trembling at the idea of being deprived of their pleasures. The most rigid from the point of view of honour, brought into contact with poverty, become accessible to the basest compromises. To turn an honest man into a thief, all that is needed is a woman’s smile. To make the mildest of men shed the blood of another, you need simply arouse his jealousy. These poor wretches who people the earth act, and are unconscious of the influence inspiring them. Men are like puppets, the strings of which are held by firm, audacious hands, whilst they accomplish the most sublime or the most infamous actions at will. And all this, merely through some favourable or perverse influence, a string pulled on one side or the other. And man, irresponsible agent of a destiny he is unable to modify, is treated as a hero or a brigand, carried aloft in triumph or flung into the gutter.”

“But virtue, Sophia, the love of right?”

“Mere accidents, my friend. Do not make them into general rules. The majority of people are virtuous because they have never had the opportunity of being rascals. But have no doubt that they would have been, and very successful ones, with the greatest ease. The human soul, Cesare, is a ground ready prepared for vice and crime. It is simply a question of what seed you intend to sow there. Very well! I am a sower, as you have said. I excel in growing the fruit of corruption. Young Marcel Baradier is now going to be my experiment field.”

“Great good may it do him!”

“Had he been content with the profession of a banker, or the business of a cotton manufacturer, nothing of what is now being prepared would have happened; he would have lived a happy, quiet life. But he has dabbled in chemistry, and that has spoiled everything.”

The sun had sunk behind the hill, and the small room was quite dark. Sophia and Cesare could no longer distinguish one another. At last the young woman arose from her seat, and said—

“Come, we have had sufficient philosophy. What does all that prove? They are nothing but mere words. Fortune does not come to those who speak, but to those who act.”

After Baudoin had been a fortnight at the works, he was astonished to find that Marcel had passed from a state of perfect calm to one of extreme agitation. The young man, who spent the greater part of his time in the summer-house, either working or indulging in day-dreams, had suddenly begun to leave the laboratory after lunch, and did not return before night set in. A more significant fact was that Marcel’s appearance had changed as well as his habits. Instead of a country costume—soft felt hat and heavy shoes—a quiet, refined elegance now characterized him. The expression of his countenance, too, was far different from the one he had assumed previously; his eyes shone more brightly, even his voice sounded more vibrating. Baudoin thought, “There is a woman at the bottom of all this.”

He had had experience when with the General de Trémont, and was well acquainted with that tension of the nerves which enters into the slightest movements. He knew the meaning of that satisfied little humming and that firm step on the floor, of conquering though feverish sound. There was a woman at the bottom of it, without the slightest doubt. Baudoin felt anxious. In that quiet country district, how had his master found the opportunity of falling into a passion? He instituted a discreet inquiry.

He had made the acquaintance of the landlord of the Golden Lion, the principal hotel of Ars, a former cook, who had served in the Army, and proudly wore at his buttonhole, on Sundays, a blue and yellow ribbon, brought from Tonkin. Whilst drinking a bitter, Baudoin chatted with him, and listened to all the local gossip he retailed. He questioned him: Were there any strangers in the district? Did his hotel contain any fresh arrivals? Had any fair ladies been seen lately in the town?

All these questions received categoric replies. No one staying with him or anywhere in Ars could be suspected by any stretch of imagination of having disturbed Marcel’s peace of mind. The only thing to do was to make inquiries in the outskirts.

“A young gentleman and a young lady,” said the landlord, “are staying at the Villa de la Cavée. But they are in mourning, and never visit the town, but live in very retired fashion. They have hired carriages on three occasions, for driving in the environs. The young lady has never shown herself at Ars, and I could not say whether she is pretty or ugly. My coachman, who drove them, said that they look very sad, and speak very politely to one another. He thinks they are brother and sister. At any rate, they are not French.”

Baudoin could obtain nothing more. This, however, was quite sufficient, and he determined to secretly watch his master, to try to find out the object of his walks. The fact that the young Jady was very sorrowful and in mourning seemed no reason to him why his master should not fall in love with her. On the contrary; besides, he had an instinctive distrust of foreigners who passed as brother and sister.

The following day, his friend of the Golden Lion said to him—

“I have some news for you regarding the people at the villa. The young man left this morning. He was driven to the railway, and is going to Paris; his luggage was registered by the coachman. The young lady is now alone.”

That evening Baudoin noticed that his master returned home later than usual, and on the coat he flung off he discovered small pieces of moss, as though Marcel had been seated in the woods. The following day, about two o’clock, the young man went out as usual. Baudoin, who had made arrangements to keep a watch on him, starting out before him, waited for him at the bottom of the Cavée, to make certain that he had proceeded in that direction. Seated under the arbour of an inn, close to the town, he did not lose sight of the Ars road, which mounts towards the woods of Bossicant. After waiting half an hour, he saw Marcel, wearing a grey suit, and with a new straw hat on his head, come along, at a brisk pace, his stick under his arm, and his face lit up with pleasure.

“Ah, my friend,” said Baudoin to himself, “you are on the way to meet your lady-love! You would not be stepping out at such a brisk pace were your mission merely to gather herbs on the hills.”

He allowed the young man to go on ahead, then he followed him with infinite precautions. Marcel was, indeed, going in the direction of the villa. Since he had been introduced to Madame Vignola, the whole tenor of his life had changed. He no longer thought either of chemistry, of the works, or even of his family. There was nothing in the world for him except the ravishing Italian. Could his uncle Graff have seen him, he would have said, “Ah, caught again! He has lost his head and his heart once more!” The fact was, he well knew that feverish state, which rendered Marcel incapable of thinking of anything else than his inamorata, and capable of the greatest acts of madness in the pursuit.

But the special sign of love with this inflammable young fellow was the reasoning rigour with which he pursued the conquest of the loved one. He was an engineer and a mathematician even in his passion, neglecting nothing, and profiting by everything to advance his cause, and the court he paid was a veritable siege.

Madame Vignola had only needed half a day, spent with Marcel, in her brother’s presence, to obtain sole possession of the young man’s mind. She had shown herself so charming and modest, and so cajoling, and chaste, that Cesare, who was, all the same, well aware what this remarkable actress was capable of, was quite stupefied at the result. The art of deception reaching such a stage of perfection became real genius. In dilettante fashion the handsome Italian had followed the progressive phases of his pretended sister’s manoeuvring. The two hours Marcel had passed at the villa had sped away like a flash of lightning. And the young swain, already love-smitten, had been obliged to retire, when he thought he had only been there a few moments.

True, Madame Vignola, at her brother’s request, had seated herself at the piano, and, with penetrating and expressive tones, had sung a few Dalmatian airs in true artistic style. Marcel, an excellent musician himself, had accompanied the young woman, and afterwards offered some musical scores he kept at Ars as a distraction for the solitary evenings he often spent there. At his earnest request, Cesare had postponed his departure, and the following afternoon had been spent in the woods of Bossicant wandering along the narrow alleys, breathing the keen fresh air of the plain, and chatting in friendly fashion. That evening Cesare had pointed with a smile to his sister’s animated and healthy looking countenance, saying to Marcel—

“You see what good it does her to have change and distraction. You would scarcely take her to be the same person. Ah! If only she could forget her grief every day in the same way, her usual health and good spirits would quickly come back.”

“Then stay on; why should you go away?” asked Marcel.

“Ah! It is not I who can give her the distraction she needs,” said the handsome Italian, heedlessly.

A moment later he appeared to regret having spoken so frankly.

“It is much easier for strangers, you see, than for intimates to obtain a fortunate change in the dispositions of people who suffer.”

“But your sister is not suffering! Look with what an alert and supple step she is walking there, in front of us.”

“Yes; but just now her nerves sustain her. This very night she will relapse into a feeling of melancholy, and be completely prostrated. I shall not be able to draw a single word from her.”

“If you would authorize me to call and see her, and she also would permit me, I should find great pleasure in her company.”

The Italian grasped Marcel effusively by the hand.

“I do not know how to thank you for your kindness. But it would be expecting too much from you. Poor Anetta would quickly tire out your patience. She is a capricious child. You do not know her yet.”

They had no opportunity to continue, for Madame Vignola turned towards them a questioning look, which asked—

“What are you two plotting there?”

“Count Cesare, madame, is handing over to me his authority over you during his absence,” said Marcel, gaily. “He is making me responsible for your state of mind. Accordingly, from to-morrow, I am in charge of your good or bad temper. But you must be willing to put up with my tyranny.”

Her countenance became grave; in low but fascinating tones she said—

“Yes, he is right. You must not leave me. When I am alone all kinds of gloomy thoughts come into my head. Be a friend to me. Cesare will not be long away, and then we will resume our walks in the woods. Until then, call for me at the villa; you will always be welcome.”

Count Agostini had left, and Marcel, by invitation, was now calling at the Cavée. The nearer he drew the faster became his pace, and his temples were quite flushed. On reaching the villa he suddenly slackened his steps, for he had heard Madame Vignola’s voice. She was alone in the salon, the windows were open, and the passionate melody, in which both art and sentiment were wonderfully blended, had filled Marcel’s soul with a keen jealousy. It was the “Gipsies’ Cantilena,” by Marackzy, the great Hungarian artist, who died of grief when in full possession of his genius and glory—

“Viens sur ma levre parfumée,
Rose fremissante et pamée,
Trempée encore des pleurs d’amour,
Cueillir le baiser, dont la flamme
Fera de mon cœur a ton âme
Jaillir. . . . ”

The song stopped suddenly, as though the voice were broken by sobs. It seemed to Marcel that the singer’s very heart had broken under the influence of some mysterious grief. Unable to contain himself, he rushed through the garden, and reached the salon. Madame Vignola was still seated at the piano. She was weeping bitterly, her beautiful pale face leaning on her hand. At the sight Marcel gave a cry of pain, which made the young woman suddenly look up. Holding out her hand to Marcel, apparently ashamed at being thus surprised, she said—

“Pardon me. I ought never to sing when I am alone. These harmonious strains agitate me, and recall to my mind souvenirs that are too painful.”

“Mon Dieu! What is the matter? Have confidence in me.”

“No, no! Do not ask me.”

Closing the piano, and summoning a smile to her face, she said—

“Let us talk about you, not about me.”

She looked at Marcel, and said, in tones of affectionate reproof—

“How warm you are! You have been walking too fast, and the hill is so steep! It will be my turn to scold if you do not act sensibly. Now come out into the garden.”

He quietly followed her. They walked along the small alleys of the tiny garden, then seated themselves under the shade of the blossoming lilacs, where they entered into a chat, talking of everything except of what they really thought.

On the road, Baudoin had not lost sight of his master. When Marcel had entered the villa the servant had approached with considerable precaution. Madame Vignola’s singing had stopped as soon as Marcel appeared, so that Baudoin had heard nothing. He took good care not to pass in front of the door, but followed a footpath along the wall which continued in the direction of the wood, along a high copse crowned with large trees. On reaching the thicket he climbed the slope, and, concealed behind a bush, was able to catch a glimpse of the garden. The lilacs, under which Anetta and Marcel were chatting, grew at the foot of the mound which Baudoin had chosen as his observatory. There they were, seated with their backs towards him, about thirty yards away.

Baudoin reflected. Who can this woman dressed in black be? She looks young, and of very good figure. Marcel loses no time once he sets out on a campaign. But perhaps all preliminaries have been facilitated for him? What is this young stranger doing here, and what interest is it of hers to place herself in immediate communication with M. Marcel? What are they speaking of, there, under my very eyes? Certainly it cannot be business. Then love must be the bait at the end of the line. The hook is well concealed, and will appear at the right moment.

During this monologue the two friends continued their conversation. They sat there, near one another, but the sound of their words did not reach Baudoin. At the end of an hour they stood upright, and the young woman turned round so as to face Baudoin. He examined her with astonishment and admiration, for seldom had he seen a more beautiful face. He was obliged to acknowledge that he had never seen her hitherto. After all, what resemblance had he expected? The “other” woman, the one of Vanves, he had seen only in the shadow of night, and so as to render it impossible to recognize her again. The only clues he possessed were that characteristic favourite perfume of hers, and the sound of her voice, which still vibrated in his ears.

He thought, “If I could only hear her speak! A single sentence would be sufficient to enable me to recognize her.” His heart leaped with joy, for the couple were now slowly walking along the circular alley which passed close to the foot of the mound not a dozen steps from where Baudoin was concealed. They were speaking to one another without the slightest suspicion that any one was listening. The former soldier, like a hunter on the watch, who sees his long-expected quarry approach, with beating heart and slightly dimmed eyes, listened with all the attention he was capable of. He heard Marcel say—

“Now that you are free, do you intend to take up these former plans of yours?”

And the woman, in caressing tones, but with an Italian accent, replied—

“What is the use? I am now quite old. I am twenty-seven years of age. Artistic triumphs would have no value for me now. Sing in a theatre, in public;—be the object of everybody’s gaze? Oh no. I no longer think of such a thing.”

“And yet you would obtain a great success!”

“For whom?”

They passed by, and Baudoin was obliged to confess to himself that this woman in mourning had not the same voice as the “other,” the one who had brought death with her. He saw the two promenaders disappear into the house, then he heard the clear tones of the piano, and the pure vibrating voice of the young woman arose, filling the silence of the woods with its melodious accents. Thereupon Baudoin descended the mound, and returned to Ars preoccupied and reflective. As he passed in front of the post-office he entered and wrote the following despatch:—

“Laforêt, War Office, rue Saint Dominique, Paris. Come to Ars, near Troyes. Ask for me at works. Baudoin.”

After paying he watched the transmission of his telegram, and, slightly relieved, returned home. At seven o’clock Marcel arrived. He dined without uttering a single word, and immediately afterwards retired into the laboratory, where Baudoin heard him pacing to and fro, far into the night.

Meanwhile Madame Vignola, seated in her small salon, an Oriental cigarette between her lips, was cutting a pack of cards under the complaisant looks of her chambermaid. The latter, a confidential companion rather than a servant, was a small, dark-complexioned woman, whom Sophia had had with her for the last ten years. Her name was Milona, but she was always called Milo. She had been born in the Carpathians, in the midst of a gipsy encampment. Her mother had died by the side of a ditch, leaving her, at the age of twelve, quite alone, and exposed to the attentions of a villain of the band, who had been smitten with the precocious grace of the child.

Sophia, as she passed through Trieste, in the course of her adventurous life, had been present, in the court of the inn where she had put up, at a quarrel between Milona and her ferocious suitor. The little one boldly opposed the zingaro, who wished to compel her to follow him, and to his loud-voiced threats uttered in the Romany tongue, she replied by a determined denial and a flashing look of defiance. The whole band, the only relations Milona knew, supported the young bandit’s pretensions. But Milona continued her refusal, when the chief of the band, an old man with grey beard and white curly hair, a regular patriarch, whose chief business was to steal poultry from the villages they traversed, tried to reason with the young girl.

Sophia, with her elbows resting on the window-sill, was enjoying the sight, and a feeling of sympathy came over her for this proud child who would not submit to the man’s tyranny. She appeared to understand the language these gipsies spoke, and smiled at the highly-coloured expressions of their speech.

“Milona,” said the venerable poultry-thief, “you are not acting aright. You refuse Zambo, who belongs to the tribe, and loves you well, because you have been listening to this little Hungarian hussar who has lately been making love to you. And yet you are well aware that he is a dog, an enemy of our race, who will soon tire of you, and leave you all alone. It was to me your mother left you when she died. I have paid for your training and food, taught you to tell fortunes, and all about chieromancy and the composition of love philtres. Will you be ungrateful and refuse to be the wife of my little nephew Zambo?”

“I do not love him,” said the girl, dryly.

“But he loves you.”

“That does not matter to me.”

“But if you resist him, he will kill you.”

“That is my business!”

“Do you intend to leave us, then?”

“Yes. I am tired of living on robbery, and being clothed in rags!”

“Then pay for your freedom.”

“I have no money. Wait, and some day the hussar will give me my hands full of money.”

At these words, Zambo gave a terrible imprecation, and leapt towards the child with the words—

“That is the last word you shall ever speak!”

And, brandishing a long dagger, he threw himself on Milona. At that critical moment the Baroness Sophia gave a shrill, whistling sound, which drew the attention of the whole band, and speaking in their own tongue, she said—

“That is quite enough. I intend to send for the police. You, old man, would you like to sell the girl?”

“Yes, your ladyship.”

“How much?”

“Twenty golden ducats.”

“You thief!”

“I cannot take less, your Excellency!”

A purse fell into the courtyard at the patriarch’s feet. He picked it up with the rapidity of a juggler, counted the money, and, after bowing to the Baroness, said to Milona—

“Thank your noble benefactress. She has paid; you are free!”

“Come up here, little one,” said Sophia.

Immediately Milona, followed by the imprecations of her disconcerted lover, flew into the inn. The window of the Baroness was closed, and the gipsies, with vehement words and exaggerated gestures, tried to give Zambo to understand that girls were far less rare than ducats, and that, though his love remained to him on account, the till of the troupe would be filled for a whole year. Ever since this strange introduction, Milona had become attached, with a wild and savage affection, to her deliverer. She had served her indefatigably, and, with the exception of those terrible secrets which Sophia entrusted to no one, she knew the life-story of her mistress.

Sophia exhaled a puff of blue smoke, and hesitated before the combination of her cards—

“King of hearts, nine of spades, and knave of clubs,” said Milona, calmly, her finger pointing to the spotted cards. “And then, queen of clubs, knave of hearts, and seven of spades. Still the same reply. You will not succeed!”

Sophia raised her bold though beautiful eyes up to her companion, and, in her ordinary accents, which were different from those in which she spoke Italian, said—

“I must succeed, I tell you, I must, Milona: do you hear?”

“Shall we try the water test?”

“Yes, we have not tried it for some considerable time.” Milona took a crystal cup filled with flowers. She threw the bouquet on to the floor, and after extinguishing the wax candles in the chandelier, with one single exception, placed the cup on the table in such a way that the light might fall upon it from behind. Then, drawing out one of the long gold pins which fastened her hair, she crouched down on a stool, dipped the metal stem into the vase, and commenced a strange chant. In the water, through which the light penetrated, irisated eddies formed, and the two women attentively watched the broken fugitive lines, the tiny drops sparkling like diamonds, and the brilliant spirals of the water stirred to motion by the gold needle. Milona sang—

“Water is nought but trouble and mystery, light is certainty and truth. Let the light penetrate the water, and cause its secrets to be revealed. Turn, needle; shine, ray; water, divide.”

“Look, Milo, look!” exclaimed Sophia, excitedly. “The water is turning red, it seems to be turning into blood!”

Milona continued her chant—

“Blood is strength and life. The blood of the brain is victory. The blood of the heart is love. Turn, needle; redden, blood. Grant us victory and love!”

Sophia, on her knees by the side of the table, was anxiously watching with ardent eyes the crystal vase in which the water was whirling round under the impulse given to it by the gold needle.

“Look! Look again!” she exclaimed. “The water is turning green! It is shining like an emerald!”

“The emerald is the colour of hope, and hope is the joy of life. Turn, needle; water, become glaucous, like the eyes of the sirens, whom a man follows to his death!”

Milona withdrew the gold needle. The water, again restored to a state of calm, after having ceased turning around the sides of the crystal vase, first assumed a greyish tint, then turned to a dark colour.

“Milo,” exclaimed Sophia, in dismay, “the water is black! It is a sign of mourning! Who is to die?”

The servant, without replying, relit the candles, took the crystal vase and threw out of the window the water which had just been used for the experiment; then, in anger, she spat out into the night—

“May he die who opposes you!” she said fiercely. “Fate announces love, happiness, and death. You have the privilege of not continuing the enterprise you have begun. The spotted cards say you will not succeed. The water predicts death! For whom? That we cannot learn. Stop, there is still time.”

Sophia walked silently to and fro in the salon, then halted in front of Milona, who sat there, in pensive calm.

“Do you believe in these predictions of yours?”

“I do.”

Sophia lit a cigarette.

“What is the use of being superior in thought and courage, of a bold audacity that recognizes no obstacle, if one acts with the weak cowardice of an ordinary mortal? It is only in whatever is difficult, if not impossible, Milo, that there is any interest. How can one live like a common citizen when one possesses the soul of a sovereign of mankind? No! Cost what it may, one must follow one’s instinct, give evidence of one’s will. You know me, Milo; you know that I give way before no obstacle, once my resolution is taken. Why did you say to me just now, ‘Renounce what you are undertaking; there is still time?’”

“And you,” said Milona, gravely, “since you are so firm in your plans, why do you consult cards, and ask the water to lay bare to you its secret?”

Sophia smiled.

“What you say is just. But, after all, little one, mortals are only human; that is to say, beings accessible to fear and superstition. Don’t you know that doctors—who, after all, are well aware how precarious and powerless is their art—call other doctors to their bedsides when they are ill? A concession to human frailty, Milo. Still, people do not think any the worse of them.”

“And is all this in honour of the young man who has been coming here every day since the Agostini first brought him?”

“The Agostini, as you disrespectfully call him, brought me this young man because I ordered him to do so. Do you not know that he obeys me without discussion?”

“Oh, he will never discuss. But, some day or other, he may no longer obey.”

“Poor Cesare is no favourite of yours,” said Sophia, gaily.

“He is false, and a coward as well. If ever he tries to strike you, it will be in the back.”

“But he loves me.”

“And do you return his affection?”

“Perhaps; though I am not very sure of it. Why do you call him a coward? You are well aware that he fought a duel at Palermo with the Marquis Belverani.”

“Because he knew he was the stronger or the more skilful, and the other had struck him in the presence of fifty people at the club, after accusing him of having cheated at cards. And it was quite true; he did cheat!”

“No one will ever say so again, now that he has killed a man for that very reason! Besides, the proof that he does not cheat is that he always loses.”

“You know something about it?”

“Ah, what should I do with my money if I did not give it to him?”

“You are right. Money is vile; it should serve no other purpose than to satisfy one’s caprices. Its only value is in the pleasures it procures; in itself it is worth no more than the pebbles lying at one’s feet. Will the young man who comes now give it you or receive it from you?”

“I do not think he would accept it, Milo,” said Sophia, laughing. “You are a regular barbarian, and incapable of understanding anything beyond bribery. There are honest people on earth, little one, and they cannot be paid for obtaining from them what one wishes. Other seductive means must be employed.”

“Ah, that is why you sing when he is here! You will make him mad, like all the others. And yet he looks so gentle and charming!”

“That is true, but he is our enemy, Milo; and if he were to discover who I am, and what I wish to obtain from him, I should run the most terrible danger.”

“So the Agostini has brought him here to ruin him?”

“In a way.”

“And he already loves you? Ah, your power over men is irresistible. Take care, however, or some fine day you will be caught in your turn. Then it will be terrible for you!”

“I have loved, as you well know. Love has nothing new to teach me.”

“Your heart has never been touched, for all those you have loved have been your victims. Sincere and pure love is no assassin. It is a protection and self-sacrifice. Up to the present, however, you have had to deal with none but fortune-hunters, and it was pure justice to treat them as they had been in the habit of treating their own victims. The day you show the Agostini to the door, you may summon me to open it for him. I will do it most gladly!”

“That day has not come yet.”

“What a pity!”

Sophia gave a weary toss of the head, and Milona understood that she must cease this light jesting tone. She said—

“I am going to close all the shutters, mistress, do you need me any longer?”

“No, I am going to write. You will hear me when I retire to rest.”

Seating herself in front of the table, she took an elegant blotting-pad and began to trace, on perfumed paper, in a large masculine hand, the following lines:—

“My dear Cesare,

“Since you left me, I have not been wasting my time, nor have you, I imagine, been inactive. Let me know how your Lichtenbach affair is progressing. Here everything is going along smoothly. Our young Marcel came to-day, overflowing with enthusiasm, and surprised me singing the most plaintive songs imaginable. Milona, who was on the look-out for him, had signalled to me his approach, and I played the rôle of despair with extraordinary success. He seemed frantic with grief at seeing my tears flow. You know that I can weep at will, and that in the most seductive fashion. I led him away into the garden, and there, made him talk about himself. He is a regular child, of most disconcerting simplicity, and so frank and open that you would smile. To tell the truth, there will be no merit in triumphing over such innocence. This lamb will hold out his neck to the sacrificial knife. And we shall have our formula willingly handed over, or I am greatly mistaken. Besides, I am enjoying a delightful rest in this abandoned spot, and never suffer from ennui, even for a single moment. In the midst of such an adventurous life, it is long since I had time for reflection, and now I am astonished at the result. The joys and pleasures for which I have sacrificed everything hitherto, form, I am afraid, only one of the phases of life. There is another I did not suspect, far more seductive and beautiful. This afternoon, as I was listening to young Marcel speaking to me of his father, his mother, and sister, with such tender and delicate affection, a feeling of sadness came over me. These are all good, honest people. They are happy in a mutual love, and would be ready to undergo the greatest sacrifices for one another. And, although nothing could be simpler, more upright and monotonous than their existence, it cannot be disputed that they find happiness in it.

“It is this lamb of a Marcel, who is the scapegrace of the family. From time to time his father threatens him with his malediction, and the poor fellow is very repentant for a whole week. He comes and buries himself at Ars, like an anchorite in the desert. During his penance he works in the laboratory, eats the most ill-cooked food imaginable, and has quarrels with the manager of the works, who seems to be a disagreeable fellow to deal with. It is during these periods of repentance that the interesting discoveries on the dyeing of wools and other industrial stuffs—which, it appears, have a certain value, as he explains to me in rather too much detail for my liking—have been due.

“But, after all, he is a very fine fellow. He actually asked me how old I was! He does not imagine that I am older than himself, and I should not be astonished in the slightest, if he were to cherish the idea of marrying me. I lead him by a thread—he neither feels nor sees—on towards absolute slavery. Then, after he has delivered up to me his secret, as all the rest have done, I shall disappear. Once the mourning weeds of Mme. Vignola flung aside, I shall again become the Baroness Sophia, in which character I challenge my lover to recognize the plaintive sorrowful widow he is paying court to just now. So, you see, I am not neglecting business matters. I hope you are doing the same on your side. The little Lichtenbach heiress will be a multi-millionaire; that is well worth the trouble of whispering words of love into her ear.

“A thousand kisses, Cesare. Sempre t’amero.

“Sophia.”

She sealed the letter, took up a cigarette, and was preparing to retire to rest, when three slight taps on the shutters sent a shudder through her veins. She listened, an anxious frown on her face, and, after a moment’s interval, the taps were repeated. Opening a drawer, she seized a revolver, and, walking deliberately to the window, half opened it, and, speaking through the closed shutter, said in Italian accents—

“Who is there?”

A voice replied in muffled tones, “It is I—Hans; there is nothing to fear, Sophia.”

A slight pallor came over her face, but she placed back the revolver in the drawer, and, without replying, left the salon. On reaching the outside door she drew the bolts, and noiselessly opened the door. A tall man entered. Without the exchange of a single word, she led the way to the salon, then carefully closed the door. The man removed the felt hat which covered his head, displaying a bold, rough countenance. He was a man of athletic build, and very broad-shouldered, whilst a reddish beard covered the lower portion of his face.

Taking a seat, he cast a keen look at Sophia, and said—

“Who is with you, here?”

“Milona.”

“Where is Agostini?”

“In Paris. And where have you come from?”

“From Geneva. Lichtenbach sent me your address.”

“How did you enter?”

“Over the wall.”

“With your wounded arm?”

“My arm is healed.”

As he spoke he extended it with a threatening smile. The arm was indeed whole. A glove covered the hand. He continued—

“The Swiss are very fine mechanics. They have made for me a jointed fore-arm which works like a natural one. The hand is of steel. It is the best fisticuff imaginable. A blow from that hand, Sophia, would kill a man.” With a sigh he continued. “But, after all, this arm is not worth the one I have lost. Still, those who have mutilated me shall pay for my flesh and blood.”

As he spoke his face assumed a ferocious expression, and he ground his teeth savagely. Sophia, in grave accents, replied—

“Have you not already been paid? At the time you were struck, the General de Trémont was dead. Perhaps it was he who was taking his vengeance on you!”

“The old fool! He had only to accede to your request when you were inducing him to tell you the secret of his safe. Then nothing would have happened!”

“Hans, it all happened because you were in too great a hurry. You destroyed all my combinations through your brutality. Had you merely given me another week the poor fool would have given up to me his secret, his honour, and everything else. Your intervention put him on his guard; he recovered from his torpor, and all was lost!”

“No reproaches, please. This mistake has cost me dearly enough. Now, how do matters stand here?”

“If you will leave me to act in my own way, I shall succeed.”

“Good! Good! I, too, am preparing a slight diversion, which will be of use. Besides, it will please Lichtenbach.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“Stir up the workmen at the manufactory.”

“Then you intend to make a tool of socialism?”

“Certainly. In it lies the future of society. The thoughtless, brutal mob, under the sway of a few bold leaders, will obtain for themselves universal dominion and rule.”

“How long will this be your rule of conduct?”

“Until everything in this execrably rotten society is destroyed.”

“What will you put in its place?”

“That is the secret of time. The revolution will tell it to us.”

“I hate your opinions as well as those who maintain them.”

“I know, I know,” interrupted Hans, with a loud laugh. “You are an aristocrat, Sophia, and equality is not to your liking. You must have luxury and superiority always around you. But how do you know that we shall not give them to you? We aim at levelling, but it is the levelling of those who rise above us. Have you ever seen a flock of sheep without a shepherd and his dog to guide them? Then how could nations live without a head? The great thing is to command. For this power must be snatched from the hands of those who now have it, by means of certain privileges we pretend to suppress because we do not enjoy them. Once power is in our hands, torrents of blood will have to be shed before it can be taken from us. Who would try to do so? Only revolutionists have any energy left, for they alone are governed by passion. Revolution is the only means of succeeding rapidly. To-day I am nothing; in the near future I intend to be everything. To attain to my object I suppress everything in my way. This is the meaning, expressed briefly, of all the burlesque rigmarole uttered by these apostles of humanity. Their love and thoughts are entirely for themselves. And that suffices.”

Sophia laughed aloud.

“They are mere brigands. You are another, but you must take care, Hans, for those you dream of spoiling will not let themselves be robbed so easily as you think. They have invented the police, a tolerably effective safeguard. But what are you preparing for these poor Baradiers and Graffs?”

“For the past fortnight I have been exciting the workmen by means of my agents. I am going to turn their works upside down. That will divert their attention, for they are far too wide awake concerning what we are doing. I do not know who is informing the sly rogues, but they seem to understand Lichtenbach’s game with the greatest ease.”

“Lichtenbach is such a coward! He has done something stupid again. I have sent Cesare to him, quite as much to keep a watch over him as to pay court to his daughter. But you cannot put courage into the heart of a coward.”

“It seems the shares of the Explosives Company had fallen so favourably, thanks to the bear system undertaken by Lichtenbach, that the re-purchase was on the point of being effected under the most favourable conditions. Suddenly, without apparent reason, the brokers began to buy in enormous quantities on the Stock Exchange, and the shares rose by leaps and bounds. Lichtenbach held firm, but he had to deal with some one superior to himself. The threatening ruin was checked. He, personally, has lost a pile of money at the liquidation. And, from information received, it is the Baradiers and Graffs who have formed a syndicate, along with a large number of shareholders belonging to the threatened Company, with the object of checking the too complete depreciation of the shares. There is a rumour in business circles that, thanks to a new patent, you understand, Sophia, the prosperity of the affair is assured for the future. That is why I am here; direct competition against Lichtenbach means a challenge to us. The war has begun; it must be maintained, and the victory won. You all appear to me to be doing nothing but play here.”

“Now, Hans, nothing rash this time,” said Sophia, firmly. “We are going along very well; take care not to spoil everything again. You have only one arm left to lose, my dear friend. Do not attempt too much.”

Hans’ features contracted.

“You are in a very gay humour, Sophia. I have only one arm, true; but it is the better one of the two, make no mistake. Little chance for him who comes within its reach!”

“So you have come to settle down here?”

“With your permission.”

“You will be greatly in my way.”

“Do not be anxious. I shall only be out-of-doors at night time. It is not to my interest to be seen in the open daylight. Darkness suits me better. You attend to your business, and I will attend to mine. All I ask of you is a room up in the garret, where I may write and sleep during the daytime. Milona alone will know that I am here. We can have entire confidence in her.”

“Entire, unless there is harm threatening to myself.”

“Who would think of doing you any harm? Not I, at any rate, so long as we have the same end in view.”

They exchanged looks, and in their eyes could be read the memory of long-standing complicity and collusion. Sophia was the first to avert her glance, which she did with a sign of acquiescence.

“Then follow me.”

She opened the door, and showed the way to the man who appeared to her an object of mingled dread and hate.

Baudoin had just finished arranging everything in the summer-house where Marcel lived, when he heard his name called by the concierge of the works. On showing himself at the window, the concierge bowed with deference, and said—

“M. Baudoin, some one wishes to speak to you at the gate.”

“Good; I will be down in a moment.”

It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and, as Marcel had just set out in the direction of the woods, Baudoin was alone in the house. He had just placed the furniture in order, and now, after closing the window, he took off his apron, and went out into the courtyard. On reaching the entrance to the works, he saw standing in the street a ruddy-faced man, with untrimmed beard, dressed like a workman, and wearing a pair of large rough shoes. The concierge disdainfully pointed out the man, and said—

“There he is!”

At the same moment the man turned round, and, seeing Baudoin, came up with smiling face and extended hands. Baudoin, astonished, watched him draw near, ransacking his memory, but unable to call to mind if he had ever seen him before. He said to himself, “Who the deuce can it be? Some one who has made a mistake!” On coming close up to him, the man said—

“Good day, M. Baudoin.”

Then Baudoin recognized Laforêt. Taking him by the arm, he conducted him along the garden wall in the direction of the main road; then, sure that he would be out of the hearing of any one, he said—.

“So you are here at last! What a perfect disguise! I had no idea who you were till you spoke.”

“We must not remain in the open air, for no one must see us together. Is there no small inn where we can talk?”

“Certainly; come with me to the Soleil d’Or. I know the landlord; he will let us have a small room to ourselves, where we shall not be disturbed. He is an old soldier, and to be relied upon.”

“Very good!”

Seated before a bottle of beer, the two men began their confidential talk—

^“It was quite time you came,” said Baudoin. “There is something new at last. M. Marcel’s solitude has been broken in upon by two strangers, who pass as brother and sister, jabber away in Italian, and who, from the very first week of their stay here, have found means of entering into friendly relations with my master.”

^“What kind of a woman is she?”

“Ah, unless I am mistaken, she is a very cunning woman, like the one who called to see my poor General, and tricked him so cleverly.”

“And the man?”

“A foreigner. His first appearance. He calls himself a count, but he is probably a mere fortune-hunter. A handsome-looking fellow, though I have only seen him at a distance.”

“And the sister?”

“A splendid woman! Light-complexioned, with hair arranged in Madonna fashion. The most innocent, harmless-looking creature imaginable! In deep mourning, reminding one of ‘Mignon’ bewailing her country. What is her object in coming here just at this time?”

“We will do our best to throw some light on the matter if possible.”

“I can do nothing, you understand, for I am too well known here. At the very first sign of activity I gave, it would be equivalent to saying to these people, ‘Look out, I am watching you.’ They would be at once on their guard, and the game would be over! I have already hazarded a rather risky examination of the house in which they live, and the surroundings. But I cannot recommence without running the risk of being caught by M. Marcel; and, if he questioned me, what reply could I give him? To warn him of the toils being skilfully drawn around him would be to cut short the intrigue now in preparation, and which, in all probability, will give us an opportunity of laying hands on the villains we are on the look-out for. And not to warn him is to leave him exposed to the greatest dangers! I have been thinking of all this for some days, and the more I reflect, the more I hesitate. Accordingly I was very anxious to see you, as you can give me your advice in the first place, and afterwards we can deliberate as to the best means of defending M. Marcel in case he comes to be threatened.”

“We must proceed methodically. Where is this house situated?”

“Oh, it is very easy to recognize! It is half-way between Ars and the woods of Bossicant, and is named the Villa de la Cavée. Impossible to make a mistake, for it stands all alone.”

“To-morrow morning I will take up my post at the door.”

“How?”

“That is my business. You will see how it is possible to keep a watch over people without appearing to do so.”

“But there is no house for more than half a mile around.”

“That will make no difference. How does the lady live?”

“Very quietly. She never leaves the house, except to take a walk in the wood. Until lately, alone, or with her brother, but now with my master.”

“Then he is bitten?”

“Very badly.”

“Good!”

“And what, in your opinion, must we do as regards M. Marcel?”

“Nothing.”

“Not even warn him of his danger?”

“Under no pretext. What danger does he run? I will keep watch over him outside, and you will look after him inside. No one has any interest in threatening him. If, as is very probable, according to usual tactics, a pretty woman has been told off to try to catch him, all he risks is falling in love with a worthless creature. Will it be the first time this will happen to him? You do not think so, nor do I. Meanwhile, we will set a few caltrops to try and catch our freebooters. Are you sure it is not the same woman who came to Vanves?”

“She has neither the same voice nor the same accent. But then, can one be certain of anything when one has to deal with people of such cunning? As for the man, I can answer that it is not he, for I saw the man at Vanves. He was a head taller than this tom-tit of an Italian. His speech, too, was very peculiar. Oh! I should at once recognize the man who killed my General! And if ever he comes within my reach—”

As he spoke his fists were tightly clenched, and a fierce glare shone in his eyes. Laforêt calmed him by saying—

“Do not get angry! Especially in the matter now engaging our attention; we must keep cool heads. Suppose you suddenly found yourself in front of this man, what would you do?”

“I would seize him by the throat, and he should not escape, that I would swear to before God!”

“What folly! Your duty would be to pretend not to recognize him. You could follow him, find out where he lives, and keep a watch over him, so that we might capture both himself and his accomplices. My dear Baudoin, let us agree at once to some such course beforehand. For if we act in too sentimental a fashion, we shall fail utterly.”

Baudoin sighed—

“You are right; still, it would be very hard for me to keep my fingers away from the rascal’s skin! But then, you have had experience; I will obey you.”

“Well, then, let us find some means of correspondence. For the future we must not be seen to have any communications with one another. See here; when I have anything to say to you I will go to the entrance door of the works, and write on the top of the gate on the left side the day and hour of the rendezvous in red pencil. For instance: ‘Tuesday, 4 o’clock.’ Then you will arrange to come round to this inn, where you will find me. If you wish to speak to me you will do the same on the other pillar on the right of the gate. I shall pass by every morning and evening to see if the rendezvous has to take place that evening or not.”

“Very good.”

“Then good-bye for the moment. When we leave here we no longer know one another. I will go now, and leave you to pay. Good luck, and keep cool!”

“I will, if possible.”

At that very hour Marcel was walking to and fro in the woods with Madame Vignola. The small terrier was running about along the path, which was so narrow that the young man and his fair companion were brought into close proximity to avoid the shooting branches which invaded the way. A feeling of languor seemed to emanate from the earth, gently warmed by the early spring sun. On reaching the edge of the plateau they halted by a rocky ledge overshadowed by large ash-trees.

The whole valley of Ars lay before them. The tile roofs of the works, the large chimney-steeple with its plume of black smoke, and the church and houses capriciously grouped, formed a smiling and delightful picture. The young woman pointed out with the end of her parasol the different parts of the panorama, and Marcel named all the points of interest visible. It was a kind of taking possession of the country under the auspices of Marcel. He said to her, with a smile—

“You are asking questions, as though you intended to settle down in these parts.”

“It is a custom of mine,” she said. “I like to know where I am, and to make inquiries about the district. Things have no meaning or interest for me unless I know their names and purposes. For instance, you point out to me down there a railway line which passes into the plain. To the fact that it is a railway I am absolutely indifferent; you add, it is the line running from Troyes to the frontier, viâ Belfort. Immediately my mind begins to work, and the precise representation given by the thing attaches my mind to the thing itself. As you see, I am of anything but a poetic nature.”

“You appear to me to have an extraordinary intelligence.”

“And one which is not of a very feminine nature, now confess.”

“True, I find you anything but silly or fickle in disposition. But I give you credit for a good quality.”

“In any case, confess that it is not a graceful one.”

“Oh! You have so many others!”

“I did not ask you for a compliment.”

“You must accept it now, all the same.”

She looked at him with an air of simple content, then shook her head.

“That is not right of you; you have broken our agreement. It was understood between us that you should treat me as a companion, in return for which I would allow you to accompany me in my walks, and call on me unceremoniously. But you are a Frenchman, and it is impossible for you to give up all pretensions to gallantry.”

“Would an Italian have stayed so long in your company without telling you how charming you are?”

“Yes, if I had forbidden him to speak of such things. But he would have thought the more!”

“How can you tell?” said Marcel, eagerly. “Do you think I am indifferent because, obeying you too well, I have addressed to you nothing but simple expressions of cold courtesy? Do not judge my feelings by my words; they are very different from one another.”

“You have only known me for a week.”

“Is a longer time needed to love for ever?”

“For ever! What an engagement to make! And so quickly decided on!”

“And so easy to keep when one first sees and afterwards comes to know you!”

“And which can have no result, as I must soon leave, and go away far from—”

“What need is there for you to follow out plans formed during the early days of sadness and solitude? Is it wise to decide for a whole lifetime in a single moment at your age, and with such a store of future compensations to draw upon? At the age of twenty-four to think that everything is lost, because destiny has separated you from a husband old enough to have been your father? Your life has only just begun, at the very time you think it is all over.”

“Yes, my brother has often said the same thing to me. That is the usual way of looking at things. New tenderness to replace a dying affection. But then, how wretched to lend one’s self to such social arrangements, and undergo such an unexpected fate! And yet a heart cannot be swept out like a room for new tenants. The memories of the one who occupied it cannot be so speedily effaced; they remain. And is it not a kind of profanation for a delicate soul to allow itself to cherish a new affection, when it imagined the light had vanished for ever?”

“I will reply in your own words: ‘For ever! What an engagement to make! And so lightly decided on!’ Can you be sure of keeping it? Let the world wag along. Your decision will not alter anything. There is nothing definite in this world, not even the sincerest grief.”

She stood there silent for some time with downcast eyes. Her companion admired the graceful curves of her supple form, and the youthful grace that appeared on the beautiful countenance. She seemed scarcely twenty years of age. Her cheeks had all the appearance of a tempting and savoury fruit, Finally she continued, with a sigh—

“If I listened to your protestations, what trouble should I be preparing for myself in the future? You are not dependent on yourself, as I am, for I have only a brother, though, after all, he is very indulgent towards me. You have a family which will claim you. When you leave this district where will you go?”

“I shall return to Paris, where I generally live. What prevents you taking up your abode there also? Your interests are in Italy? What then? Your brother will look after them, and you will have nothing to do but consider your own happiness.”

“Paris frightens me. That immense stir and commotion troubles me, and I imagine it would be impossible to live there in calm and quiet.”

“What a mistake you make! The excitement of Paris life is very deceptive; it is only the surface that is troubled. Its depths, as in those of the sea, are quiet and peaceful, and the storms on the surface never disturb them. In Paris itself are peaceful corners, filled with verdure, light, and flowers, where a happy and gentle life may be passed. We would find such a spot for you, chosen with tenderest care, and there you would learn to spend your time free from melancholy and feverish anxiety. Far from noise and distraction of every kind, within easy reach of the utmost refinements of taste and intellectual pleasures, you will find out the most precious thing in the world: a quiet home, embellished by a love at once sincere and tender.”

“That is a very seductive picture you have drawn, and you know how to present it in the best light. Is there a touch of the fairy about you? Are you in possession of an enchanter’s wand, to be able thus to dispose of the destiny of others? You summon up characters and scenes to suit your fancy. Were I to listen to you, would you be free to realize your programme? To me you appear to be building castles in the air. What would your parents and friends say of this arrangement?”

“Oh! they would accept it, there is not the slightest doubt of that. If you only knew how fond they are of me, and how joyfully they would welcome anything giving proof of moderation and wisdom on my part! My father, though rough to outward appearance, is the finest man in the world. He is anxious about my doings, only because of his affection for me, and his anxiety regarding my future welfare. He never gave the least sign of egoism, even when we quarrelled. His own pleasure and peace of mind, even, were subordinated to my interests. Only when he saw that some action of mine which he judged harmful—would injure me in some way, did his anger burst forth against me. He loves me so well that, were he certain my happiness might be assured under honourable conditions, he would sacrifice his own without the slightest hesitation. As for my mother, she is the very embodiment of virtue and goodness.”

She bit her lips, and answered with sudden harshness, as though tired of listening to this wealth of praise.

“Very fine sentiments, indeed! Then you are not a dutiful son if you have not been in perfect accord with such loving parents.”

“I have not been undutiful, though not always reasonable.”

“Then what has been lacking to make you so?”

“A serious love.”

Raising a delicate finger, with threatening gesture, to Marcel, she said—

“I am afraid you are anything but a model of virtue!”

“Do not judge me ill for having spoken so frankly. That would be neither benevolent or just. For, really, you would form a false idea of me.”

She continued, gaily—

“Come! I see that you are quite a model, after all!”

“Now, you are joking! How changing is your mood! How can one hope to get the better of you?”

“Ah! my dear sir, did you think that a single word or look would suffice to seduce me? If so, I am more rebellious than you imagined. Did you suppose that the influence of spring, amid this charming scenery, an inactive solitude, and the length of the evenings, joined to your own particular qualities, would have induced me to fall down at your feet? You are going rather too fast. My melancholy mood cannot accommodate itself to such a rapid change! There, now, don’t look so down-hearted; I am speaking to you very gently. Had I wished I might have assumed an offended attitude, for, after all, you offer me your heart without taking the slightest precaution. Still, in this out-of-the-way place one cannot help feeling nearer the simplicity of nature. It is easy to return to habits and manners that are almost primitive, even without troubling concerning forms and customs, and saying what one really thinks and feels. I will forgive you, on condition you do not recommence.”

Astonished at hearing the young woman speak in such a vivacious tone of raillery, Marcel wondered if she were really the same sorrowful languishing widow whose tender melodies were so often broken by sobs. Her face sparkled with a malicious harshness, and those caressing eyes of hers belied the coldness of her words. She offered so irritating a mixture of decency and profligacy, of modesty and sensuality, that Marcel no longer knew what to think. Suddenly the church-bell of Ars began to toll the evening Angelus, changing the trend of their thoughts. The young woman suddenly stood upright, exclaiming—

“Six o’clock already! How time passes! They will wonder what has become of me.”

“But you are quite alone!”

“My servant—”

“That extraordinary creature you call Milo.”

“Do not speak ill of her; she likes you.”

“Thanks for the favour!”

“Oh! she is not fond of everybody. With you, however, she is like my dog, which licks your hand; he does not treat everybody the same way!”

“Yes, I may charm the servant and the dog, but the mistress disdains me.”

“Oh! the mistress. She is the one who orders, and the others obey.”

“Then I will obey.”

Giving him a charming smile, she summoned to her the little terrier, which was hid among the heather, and, walking slowly by Marcel’s side, returned in the direction of the villa. On approaching the gate they saw a man engaged in arranging on the road a pile of stones discharged from a tumbrel that very morning. A large sledge-hammer lay near his vest under a straw covering. Politely raising his cap to the two passers-by, and without appearing to bestow any further heed on them, he continued his task. Madame Vignola seemed vexed at this installation so near her home. She looked carefully at the man, and, as soon as the garden gate was closed, asked—

“What does that person intend to do there?”

“He seems to be engaged in breaking stones,” said Marcel. “Most likely a journeyman who will be working on the road for some time.”

“Will he stay here long?”

“A few days, perhaps.”

“He has a villainous-looking face. Is there nothing to fear from such people?”

“Nothing whatever, except the sound of their hammers breaking the stones. But you will not hear that from the house.”

Madame Vignola did not appear to be quite satisfied by what Marcel said. A look of anxiety shaded her brow.

“If the presence of this poor fellow disturbs you so much,” said the young man, “would you like me to request the authorities to have him removed? He will be sent to work a few hundred yards away. I have sufficient influence to obtain this change.”

“Do nothing of the kind. I shall get accustomed to his presence. After all, he has his living to earn.”

She held out her hand to Marcel, with a smile. Holding it for a moment within his own, he said, softly—“You are not angry with me?”

“No.”

“You will allow me to return to-morrow?”

“Yes, I should like you to do so.”

“And you will allow me to tell you that I love you?”

“If it gives you pleasure to do so.”

They said nothing more; night was falling, and a gentle obscurity was overshadowing all nature. Still, they were less alone than on the plain of Bossicant, and it was, perhaps, this very fact which rendered them more audacious. Marcel drew near to himself the young woman, without the slightest resistance on her part. The tissue of her black dress came in contact with Marcel’s shoulder. A kind of fever seized him, and for a moment he lost all notion of the surrounding world.

A cry of pain, and an effort of resistance, recalled him to himself. He saw Anetta fleeing towards the house. On the threshold she halted, looked at him for a moment, as though trying to find something to say to him. He took a step forward, but she stopped him with a gesture. Placing his fingers to his lips, he sent a kiss to the enchantress who had so completely gained possession of his heart, and took his departure.

A disagreeable surprise awaited him on his arrival at the works. The gates, usually open, were now closed, and small knots of men were collected in the street. They removed as he approached, only to form again a little further distant. What the manager had told him a few days previously concerning the evil dispositions of the workmen returned to his mind. In his eagerness to overcome his love difficulties he had forgotten business worries. Going up to the concierge, he asked—

“What is the matter here? Why are the gates closed? What is the meaning of all these people in the streets?”

“Ah! M. Marcel, there are troubles with the workmen. They went on strike at three o’clock to-day, and are scattered about in the cafés and inns, along with the strikers from the Troyes works, who have turned their heads.”

“No damage has been done?”

“No, M. Marcel. But the manager has been looking for you everywhere.”

“I will go at once and speak to him.”

He made his way towards the office. Through the closed shutters a ray of light announced the presence of M. Cardez in his study. Marcel entered. The manager was seated before his desk writing. On seeing the son of his master he rose at once, and, without waiting to be questioned, began—

“Well! what did I tell you, M. Baradier? Here they are in open revolt! And that without the slightest plausible reason! Simply to do as their comrades! Their heads have been turned by the leaders of the strike. I have reasoned and talked gently to them, but all in vain; they are nothing but machines! Ah! you are interested in the workers, now you will learn to know them!”

“What measures have you taken?”

“I have closed the doors, so that no one may enter without our permission, or without incurring a penal responsibility. Now I am expecting a delegation of the workmen.”

“Under what pretext have they ceased work?”

“They demand the suppression of sweeping and lighting, the supply of needles at a lower price.”

“Is the demand a just one?”

“It is something quite new.”

“But is it just?”

“Mon Dieu! Concessions might, doubtless, be granted, but then others would immediately be made. Their grievances would never come to an end. We are only at the beginning. Is it wise to yield all at once?”

“Why not give them the impression that we wish them well?”

“They would look upon it as a sign of weakness.”

Marcel remained pensive.

“So the weavers of Troyes are on strike, and are inciting our workmen to follow their example?”

“They were at Sainte-Savine yesterday, and to-day they are at Ars. They made sufficient noise; you must have been very busy not to have heard them.”

“I was away from home,” said Marcel, embarrassed.

“All the same had you been here; that would have made no difference; their plan of action is fixed. They would have insulted you, as they did me, that is all.”

“Insulted?” exclaimed Marcel.

“Listen.”

A vague sound was heard breaking the silence of the night. The harsh untrained voices of the mob were heard singing a kind of workmen’s Marseillaise—

“Les patrons, les damnés patrons,
Un beau matin, nous les verrons
Accrochés au bout d’une branche!
En se sentant morts a moitié,
C’est alors qu’ils crieront pitié!
Mais nous leur repondrons: Dimanche!
Retroussez vos manches, luron!
Bientôt va commencer la danse.
Ayons la victoire, ou mourons
Pour notre indépendance!
      Ayons la victoire, ou mourons
      Pour notre indépendance!”

A shrill clamour, mingled with the shrieks of women and children, followed this threatening refrain; then came a formidable hooting—

“Down with Cardez! Down with the manager! To the gallows with him!”

“Do you hear them?” said Cardez. “The gallows, indeed! And what have I done to them? Simply exact from them a conscientious amount of work, and respect for the regulations. The gallows! If they think they can frighten me with their threats they are mistaken. An old soldier like myself cannot be intimidated so easily. Besides, these are nothing but idle cries; no deeds will follow!”

“Have you written to my father and uncle?” asked Marcel.

“I have telephoned to them. They must, by this time, have entered into relations with the prefect to insure the protection of the works, and respect for the rights of labour. But for that troops will be needed, and no one can tell how far things will go with people of the character of these Champagne fools. We have a loyal police at Ars, who are well known and respected. I think that ought to be sufficient.”

“Are you afraid of a conflict?”

“I am afraid of nothing, but I am obliged to take every precaution. Our Ars workmen, as I said, are more noisy than evil-intentioned. But there are strangers who have incited them to action, and it is with them that we shall have to deal.”

“A mob is a brute force, both blind and deaf. You cannot undeceive a hundred men. If they all clamour aloud at once, how can any possible understanding be reached?”

“That is what leaders of strikes rely upon! Tumult and violence. To-morrow I shall receive a delegation of workmen, with whom, I hope, it will be possible to come to reasonable terms.”

“I will help you.”

“If you wish.”

“Will there be any hostile manifestation this evening?”

“No. Not before to-morrow.”

“Then I will go and dine. Good night.”

Baudoin was waiting for him. In serving his meal the devoted servant, to whom Marcel permitted a certain amount of familiarity, lingered near the table instead of returning to the kitchen. He looked carefully at his master, and seemed to wish to read his secret impressions on his face. Never had the young man been so silent and preoccupied as during the past few days. In solitude he lived over again the hours he had spent in the company of the beautiful Italian, and never appeared tired of thinking about her. Not a word did he say, but his countenance was illumined by an inner radiance. Still, in spite of his absentmindedness, Baudoin’s persistence in standing there before him, like a note of interrogation, struck Marcel at last. Looking at him for a moment, he said—

“What is the matter with you, this evening, Baudoin? You seem quite agitated.”

“One might be so with less cause. You are aware, sir, that the employees have assumed a very threatening attitude?”

“Well! Are you afraid?”

“No, indeed, sir, not for myself, at any rate!”

“For whom, then?”

“For yourself, sir. When I left Paris M. Baradier gave me precise orders to protect you from all harm. If anything were to happen I should not know what to do. That is what agitates me, as you say, sir.”

“There is nothing to do, Baudoin, except wait.”

“I beg your pardon, sir, there is something far preferable to that—that is, to take the first train back to Paris.”

“And leave my father’s works exposed to the violence of his workmen?”

“M. Baradier’s works are doubtless very precious, but not so precious as his son.”

“Do not be uneasy, Baudoin; no one will harm either the son or the works. The deuce! Are there no laws in existence? The people of Ars are not savages.”

“Neither are the people of Troyes, nor those of Sainte-Savine, savages, and yet, this very morning, they destroyed everything at the works of Messrs. Tirot and Malapeyre.”

“Hard masters!”

“The question is not whether they are hard or lenient masters, but simply whether they are masters at all. Your presence here, sir, is not absolutely necessary. It would be better if you would go and spend a week in Paris.”

“They would say that I had run away. And old Cardez, who is none too fond of me, will say that I am good for nothing except making chemical experiments! That, when the works are to be defended, I am no longer to be found. No, no! Chance has brought me here, and chance will keep me. I shall even try to arrange everything for the general good.”

“Then you will take all necessary precautions, sir?”

“What precautions?”

“A good revolver on your person, in the first place.”

“What an idea! What would be the use of a revolver, Baudoin? If I have to deal with a crowd of men, I could not attempt to defend myself. With one or two men only, I shall run no danger.”

“At any rate, if you have anything important here, sir, it might be useful to put it in safety.”

They looked at one another in silence. Marcel had understood what the General’s servant meant. He became very serious.

“You allude to the powders, I suppose, Baudoin?”

“Yes, sir, I am aware that you possess the formulæ. Can nothing be stolen which would place the one who should be audacious enough to attempt the coup, in possession of the secret?”

“The powders, even the formulæ might be stolen, Baudoin, without the secret being discovered. There is a peculiar trick of manipulation the General revealed to me, which alone constitutes the real value of the discovery.”

“All the same, it was to obtain possession of the formulæ that my master was killed.”

“No, Baudoin, he was killed because he refused to tell the proportions of the ingredients. It was madness at finding himself deceived that inspired the murderer’s arm. He imagined he could substitute his own for the genius of the inventor, and find out the mixtures himself. He wished to storm the mystery and brutalize science. It was then the General was struck.”

“Is it not possible he may try again?”

“Is he even alive? Come, Baudoin, are you attempting to discover some relation, however far-fetched, between these disturbances, which are putting the whole district in commotion, and this powder affair?”

“I know nothing; but I am on my guard against everything that appears of a suspicious nature. There are strangers in the works. It is they who lead the strikers. Strangers were also in the powder affair. Mon Dieu! I may be stupid, sir, but I would give a great deal to be safe back in Paris with you.”

“You are very imaginative, Baudoin.”

“Well, then, as I see you are determined to pay no attention to what I say, I should be glad, sir, if you would give me the key of the laboratory. I will keep watch by day, and sleep there by night. In that way I shall be more completely at ease.”

“Very well, Baudoin. You will find the key in my room, over the mantelpiece. If that will restore your peace of mind, it is easy enough.”

“That will not restore my peace of mind entirely, sir; but, at any rate, it will give me a certain amount of satisfaction.”

The dinner being now at an end, Marcel went out for a stroll in the garden and along the river bank. It was a cool evening, and the stars shone forth in undimmed brilliancy. At times a dull, rumbling sound was heard coming from the inns and cafés of the town, where the workmen were celebrating the strike in numerous bumpers. A feeling of sadness came over Marcel at the thought of the women and children awaiting in their poor dwellings the return of the father for the evening meal, whilst the latter, under the persuasion of raillery or threats, lingered before the table covered with glasses, and drinking the most poisonous and maddening liquors imaginable. What wretchedness would result from this interruption of work! The paltry savings of the thrifty would vanish, the debts of the improvident would increase. And the net result of all this tumult and agitation, excited by hypocritical leaders, would be nothing but severity and rancour.

Turning aside his thoughts from these evils, to which he could see no remedy, he directed them to the Villa de la Cavée. There, at the same time as himself, Anetta would be walking to and fro in the garden. He pictured her passing down the winding alley in dreamy solitude. What could she be thinking of, if not of himself; whose heart was filled with her memory? Were they not united in soul, and was not that delicious kiss a proof of her affection. A thrill of pleasure came over him in the silence of the night, and he thought to himself, “Suppose I were to pay her a visit now? She does not expect me, true. What would she think of my eagerness to see her again? Would not the untimely hour, and the isolation she is in, make her consider my visit offensive? The more defenceless she is, ought I not the more to respect her? Ah! She loves me, I feel it. Am I on the point of spoiling by my rashness all the happiness the future has in store for me?”

In his tenderness Marcel was anxiously solicitous of sparing the susceptibilities of her who had set the terrible trap in which he was hopelessly caught. Had he been able to penetrate into the Villa de la Cavée, and reach the salon unperceived, he would have heard Sophia and her Dalmatian servant exchanging their impressions; whilst, seated astraddle on a chair, the terrible Hans was listening to them, smoking the while, and with an expression of ironical contempt on his face.

“After all, madame, what will you do with this poor young man when you have obtained from him what you want?”

“Oh, that will not trouble me! He is very agreeable and charming, and will doubtless bewail my departure. But he has not yet reached the point I wish to bring him to.”

“What we chemists call the incandescence point,” said Hans, harshly. “We know what that is, Sophia, when you have a hand in the matter. For young Zypiatine it was the moment when, in his madness, he handed over the secrets concerning the concentration on the frontiers of Afghanistan; for poor Stenheim, the hour when he stole from the War Office the plan of defence of Herzegovina, and for our friend, the handsome Cesare Agostini—”

“Don’t speak of Cesare,” interrupted the young woman, frowning.

“Why not, indeed? The coup he effected was a very fine one. Were he to attempt to cross the Italian frontier I believe he would be sent to rot in the darkest fortress of Sardinia. For he is not one of those whom they risk passing judgment on, even in private; he knows rather too much. Certainly, this fair-complexioned young fellow from Champagne you are now preparing to shear, is a pascal lamb compared with the dangerous characters you have hitherto led to their ruin without the slightest compunction. All the same, you must beware, Sophia; I know you well. You are not quite at your ease just now, you have become silent and dreamy—preoccupied, in fact; not a good sign at all! Are you on the point of doing something stupid?”

Sophia shuddered. Fixing her eyes full on Hans, she asked suddenly—

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, ah! Now you are interested. I am not surprised. You are too intelligent to form any illusions regarding yourself. You must have noticed that something abnormal is taking place in your mind. The other day there was something in your way of saying that no harm whatever should come to the young Baradier, which gave me serious grounds for reflection. This very evening, on returning home, I saw you in a state of languor anything but natural to so practical a woman as you are. Usually, after playing a rôle, you resume your ordinary expression and clear directness of speech, as though, after removing a mask, you had become your own self once more. This time it is not the same. You are under the sway of external influences. In short, to sum up, you seem to me as though about to fall in love with this young Baradier!”

“I!” exclaimed Sophia, almost angrily.

“Yes, you, Sophia, Baroness Grodsko, known here under the name of Madame Vignola. Now listen, my dear, such an occurrence would be an out-and-out act of stupidity!”

“You are mad, Hans!”

“I shall only be too glad if I am mistaken. But I have a very keen intuition! We all have our little weaknesses, Sophia, and I should not wonder in the least if this young man pleased you. But I should be very much astonished if you thought of attaching yourself really to him, for nothing would be more dangerous to us, or to him, or even to yourself. If you could keep the young Marcel from the works for a short time I will not deny that such a course would serve my purpose. But no passion, remember, just a passing fancy. Keep him in the villa just long enough to enable us to execute our plans. That is how I understand things.”

“As I, also,” said the young woman, coldly.

“Very good. If you can keep a cool head and heart, there is nothing to fear and everything to hope for. You hear that, Milo. If your mistress shows any inclination to go astray, you will be there to remind her of her engagements.”

“My duty is to obey her,” said Milona, with scowling look, “and not to order. As for you, never presume to order me to do anything.”

“Why not, if you please, my young savage?”

“Because a girl like myself is willing to give up her liberty for the sake of one she loves, but she will not serve one she detests.”

“That means simply that we are not friends, my little one,” jeered Hans, with a loud laugh. “As you please; I will not force you to like me.”

Milona gave him a steady look, and shrugged her shoulders, pronouncing a few words in an uncouth tongue. She then left the room.

“What did she say in that Romany tongue of hers?”

“She said, ‘Son of a she-wolf, may you die of a burning fever without any one at hand to give you a glass of water.’”

“Many thanks for her gracious wishes. Some day my stick shall make the acquaintance of your back, charming creature.”

“Do not think of such a thing, Hans, she would repay you with dagger-blows!”

“What delightful relations! But you know well that I am afraid of no one. Now let us speak of something more serious. Have you heard from Cesare?”

“He writes to say that he is back from London, where business matters are progressing well. As you are aware, our English friends are very practical. They have launched a company with a capital of fifty million francs. They will need a whole territory for their money, and they will certainly succeed.”

“Assuredly. When one’s calculations are based on human folly and incredulity, failure is impossible. That is why business matters possess so little interest.”

“At the bottom, you have no esteem for anything but force and might. Your temperament is that of a condottiere of the fourteenth century. You have been let loose in this coward society of ours, there is no scope for your talents in such a restricted civilization as the present. Come, Hans, since we are speaking to one another to-night, with apparent frankness, who are you, and where do you come from? It is five years since I first met you, and yet I know you no better than I did the first day. We have mutual interests, and yet I have no hold on you. You are generally called Hans, but sometimes Fichter; although you look like a German, you can speak both Russian and Spanish admirably. I have known you to accomplish the most abominable actions, and yet you are never cruel without necessity. You attempt to obtain possession of huge sums of money, though your style of living is anything but extravagant. Where do all your resources go to? What end have you in view? What is this mysterious task you are engaged on, for the little you accomplish with us is only a small part of your work? You have trusty companions who do not belong to us. Suddenly you disappear, to accomplish some work or other we know nothing about. I sometimes suspect that we are merely tools in your hands, and are collaborating, without the faintest suspicion of it, in the execution of some far-reaching plan which embraces the whole of humanity. At times, I wonder if you are not the visible head of some enormous and terrible international federation, which, at a given moment, and everywhere at the same time, will set the revolution aflame.”

Hans smiled, shook his head approvingly, and then said in railing tones—

“Women are far better than men, after all, for being possessed of delicate tact and a clear perception of things. Ah! So you have wondered who I really was, Sophia? Well, well! my dear, you are more inquisitive than either Lichtenbach or Agostini, without speaking of the rest, for not one of them ever attempted to find out what I was unwilling to show. Good! Sophia, good! I am interested in you, my child, for you are no fool.”

Rising, he took the young woman by the waist, drew her to himself, and gave her a friendly kiss on the forehead. Then, looking at her steadfastly as though to force his words to enter her brain, he said—

“If you attempt to make a psychological study of me you will lose your time, Sophia. Know that I am Hans Fichter to you, and shall never be any other. All the same, do not forget that I am not really Hans Fichter. You have sought my personality with amusing clear-sightedness, but you will never discover it, and that is very lucky for you, otherwise you would not survive your discovery a single moment. Yes, my child, I have too many people around me, interested in my freedom of action, for any one, who thought of playing the spy on me, to be permitted to live. Do not imagine, however, that I am a kind of evil genius, a master of rebel souls, or the arbiter of future social transformations. If you did you would be on the wrong track. My power is great, but not sovereign. I am one of the numerous soldiers of a cause which will triumph in time, and I bow to no master!”

“Hans!” exclaimed Sophia; “you speak like the nihilists of my own country. I knew a young student, named Sewenikof, who propagated nihilist literature among the Moujiks in Moscow, and spoke in almost the same tones as you are using now. One day he disappeared.”

“Yes, my child, as you will disappear if you repeat a single word, however seemingly simple and inoffensive, of what I have just said. Your Sewenikof, whom I have never met, but whom I know, after all, as though I saw him, was merely an instigator, an agent who has been suppressed. That kind of thing happens every day. Be careful, Sophia. I am very fond of you, and should be sorry if any trouble befell you. All the same, I should be unable to do anything. Now it is time to say good night.”

“You are going to bed?”

“No. I have a rendezvous with my men at Ars. Have you not heard them shouting themselves hoarse all day long, fools as they are? What a pack of simpletons! These people have no idea that they are hurling threats and imprecations simply because such a course suits my convenience.”

“Be prudent yourself, Hans.”

“Ah! This is nothing more than child’s play for me!”

Lighting a cigar, he took his leave. The garden was dark. He proceeded, without the slightest noise, along the edge of the turf; gliding along like a shadow. On reaching the gate he opened it noiselessly, and remained there a moment against the wood panel, so as not to be noticed from the road. Then he looked all around, as though possessed of the faculty of seeing in the darkness. After a moment’s hesitation he set out in the direction of Ars. It would have been impossible for any one coming behind him to believe that he had come from the garden of the villa.

When he had advanced a hundred yards the branches of a bush silently separated on the opposite side of the road, and another man, in his turn, appeared. He was the stone-breaker who had been working for the past few days at the Cavée. Walking along in step with Hans, he, too, made his way towards the town.

On leaving Marcel, Baudoin, after obtaining permission to keep watch over the laboratory, had gone out on to the main road. It was dark. Taking his pipe, he filled it with tobacco, then halting near the pillar which served for Laforêt’s correspondence, he struck a match. By the light he examined the plaster, and discovered the following inscription in red pencil, “This evening. Nine.” The old soldier lit his pipe, looked at his watch, and muttered to himself—

“Nine o’clock to-night. At last! I will go and wait for him.”

He made his way towards the inn, which was no longer dark and silent as usual. A vivid light shone through the glass on the door, and a rumbling sound arose from the bar. Baudoin drew near one of the windows on the ground floor, and listened through the shutters. A voice, as of some one delivering a discourse, could be heard, interspersed from time to time with shouts and exclamations. At one time it sounded louder and more violent, and a thunder of applause rang through the room, as though all the tables had been struck at one and the same time by the robust fists of the men present.

“The deuce!” said Baudoin; “this place does not seem very safe for one belonging to the master’s household. The strikers have met at the Soleil d’Or, and they appear to be paying favourable attention to one of their usual haranguers.”

Making the round of the house, he reached the door of the courtyard, and looked around for an entrance into the kitchen, where he expected to find his friend the innkeeper. A hand was placed on his shoulder. Turning round, he recognized Laforêt, who had arrived, noiselessly, and was standing by his side.

“I was watching you,” said the agent. “The place is full. I was convinced you would enter this way. We must not stay in the middle of the courtyard. Many eyes to-night are on the watch around us.”

“Where shall we go?”

“Come along into my room.”

An outer staircase led to a wood corridor, running along the first floor, and continued right to the top story. It was right under the roof that Laforêt had taken a room, the wretchedest in the whole establishment, and quite in accordance with the condition of a poor labourer. Opening his door, he signed to Baudoin to take a seat on the bed; then, raising the skylight, he looked along the roof to make sure no one was watching. Dropping the iron sash, he said in low tones—

“Speak close to my ear. There are rooms on either side of this. The partitions are very thin, and it is possible to hear everything that is said.”

“What have you summoned me for?” whispered Baudoin.

“Because I have news from the Cavée. The lady is no longer alone. There is a man in the house.”

“What kind of a man? A dark, handsome young fellow, who speaks Italian?”

“No; tall, strong-looking, and light-complexioned, with a thick beard, and speaking with a kind of German accent.”

Baudoin’s eyes shone. He vigorously grasped Laforêt’s hand, and, in trembling tones, asked—

“Did you see him?”

“Yes, as distinctly as I see you.”

“Had he both arms?”

“He has both arms.”

Baudoin gave a sigh of disappointment.

“Then it is not he! Ah! For a moment I hoped—”

“That it was the man of Vanves? Could you recognize him if he were shown to you?”

“Perhaps not, for I never saw him except in the dark, but if I heard him speak, yes, without the slightest doubt, I should recognize his voice from among a thousand.”

“Very well! I hope I shall be able to give you satisfaction; the man is here.”

“In the inn?”

“In a room on the first floor with three others, the ringleaders, who were summoned from the common room when he arrived. He himself has no relations with the mass of the workmen; he communicates only with the staff. I shadowed him from the villa to this very spot. The cunning rascal forced me to keep my wits about me. He changed direction three times, and twice tried to throw me on a false scent. One would have thought he felt me close at his heels, though I followed him with the utmost precaution. He went to the Café de la Gare, where he drank a bitter; then he left by the servants’ door, after entering by the front. I suspected the trick, so I went round to the back. Then he went to the station itself, crossed the waiting-room, and reached the platform. He walked the whole length, right on to the storeroom; there he found an open gate, through which he entered the town, and came straight to the Soleil d’Or. At this very moment he is beneath us, holding a conference with his confederates.”

“How will you manage to give me an opportunity of hearing him?” whispered Baudoin.

“You will see shortly. But, first of all, what does the rascal want at the Villa de la Cavée?”

“Well, you see, it has reference to M. Marcel, that I would swear to. There is trouble in the air. Why are the works in this condition when there has never, hitherto, been the slightest difference between the kindest of masters and the best-treated of workmen? The same thing is at the bottom of it all. When I summoned you I knew what I was doing. This Italian is here for M. Marcel, and so is this new arrival, and everything has been planned by the villains who killed the General!”

“Well! We will throw some light on the matter. If I can succeed in laying hands on this gang the Minister of War will be delighted. After all, Baudoin, if you are not mistaken, this affair is simply the result of the attempt at Vanves. We have to deal with a whole company, and an experienced one, too, which has already had a crow to pick with us. Follow me.”

Raising the sash, he placed one foot on a chair, and mounted on to the roof. Baudoin imitated him. A large leaden pipe surrounded the building. This they followed until they reached the front, overlooking the courtyard twenty feet below. Laforêt pointed out to his companion a small zinc roof below the first floor. It was the covering of a shed, used as a saddle-room.

“Now, then, our friends are in the room where you see that lighted window above this roof. If you can get there unnoticed, and without making the slightest noise, you may see from the roof into the interior; certainly you could hear.”

Baudoin leaned over into the courtyard, looking for some means of descending.

“How can I get there? Twenty feet and no ladder.”

Laforêt pointed to something projecting from the angle of the wall.

“That is a cast-iron pipe used for the drains.”

“You are right! Come along!”

“Put your shoes in your pocket.”

After doing so the agent seized hold of the leaden pipe with his hands, and separating his knees in the angle of the wall to protect himself by the friction, he silently began to descend. Baudoin, leaning over the roof, watched the operation with anxious curiosity. He was not afraid that Laforêt would be found lacking in strength or agility, but was wondering if the pipe would prove solid. Suppose the attaching cramp-irons became loose, both pipe and man would fall to the ground with a terrible clatter. The alarm would be raised, and the consequences of such an accident might be disastrous. But his anxiety did not last long. At the end of a few seconds Laforêt had reached the roof, and was lying there extended at full length.

Baudoin thereupon followed suit. On reaching the bottom of the window, where the meeting was being held, he knelt down and looked. Through the muslin of the curtain the human forms appeared indistinct, like the silhouettes of a badly-focused magic-lantern. According to the position he was in, and his distance from the light, each of the three men assembled appeared either like a giant or a dwarf. One of them had risen from his seat, and was walking to and fro. According as he approached or went away from the window, a voice, distinct or indistinct, reached Laforêt’s ears. The latter, without turning round, drew Baudoin nearer, and whispered in his ear—

“It is difficult to see, but you may hear. Come a little nearer and listen.”

Baudoin obeyed, and listened attentively in the effort to discover the object of his keen curiosity. It was not the man who was walking to and fro whose voice could now be heard. It was rather the voice of some one seated near a table, who appeared to be examining some papers. Difficult as it was to find any meaning in what was said, all the same certain expressions reached them, “No use using violence—nothing would result. Alarm the workmen. Excite the attention of the authorities.” All the same, it was easy to understand that he was not of the same mind as the man on his feet, who appeared to be pacing to and fro with downcast head, as though impatiently submitting to opposition. Suddenly the walker stopped, and in harsh tones said—

“It shall be as I wish!”

The other replied, though, on account of the distance, only a few broken phrases reached the listeners.

“General interest; unfavourable opinions.”

The man on his feet resumed his walk, and was listening to his opponent.

Once more he stopped, and said—

“It shall be as I wish, I tell you.”

Laforêt whispered—

“Is he the man? Do you recognize the voice?”

“No!” said Baudoin, anxiously. “I don’t recognize it at all.”

The man seated before the table thereupon folded up his papers, and put them in his pocket, with the words—“Then there is nothing to do but obey!”

The other thereupon went up to the table, laid his hand on the shoulder of his opponent who had capitulated, and said in joyful accents—

“That’s right! You were a long time before you would give in! Now we must set to work. No one will repent the decision reached!”

And he burst into a loud laugh.

Laforêt felt the hand of his companion shake, and, at the same time, Baudoin murmured in accents of frightful anguish—

“It is he—yes, that is the man; I recognize his laugh!”

He gave a gesture of anger, but Laforêt immediately restrained him.

“Listen once more! Make sure that you are not mistaken!”

“It is he! I cannot be mistaken! Ah! that laugh of his; just as I heard it on the night of the crime, when he descended from the carriage.”

“Well, then, we know all we want. We must not stay any longer here; it is useless to risk any unnecessary danger.”

Thereupon he glided down to the edge of the zinc roof. Baudoin followed him, and the two men put on their shoes and reached the courtyard. There they halted. The door of the inn was closed, but Laforêt knew how to deal with locks, and, a second later, his companion and himself were in the open street.

“What are you going to do now?” said Baudoin. “The police are at hand. Will you hesitate to lock up this villain at once?”

“Good!” said Laforêt. “That is one solution. And afterwards?”

“What do you mean—afterwards?”

“Nothing is easier than to take him. We need only wait till he leaves the inn, and then carry him off to the police! But what then?”

“Of course he will be accused of the crime committed at Vanves; then he will be tried, convicted, and finally condemned.”

“Indeed! Convicted? You think so? Such a man as the one with whom we have to deal? Take him unawares? Could he not easily find an alibi to prove that he was five hundred miles away from Vanves on the night of the crime? Even yourself, five minutes ago, hesitated about recognizing him. And then, whilst we have this bird safe under lock and bolt, only to be obliged, later on, to set him at liberty, perhaps, all the others will take to flight. That will be a fine end to everything!”

“All the same, we cannot fold our arms quietly, and let this rascal get off scot-free?”

“The villain is plotting something here, and the play must not be interrupted at the very moment the principal character is about to enter on the stage. What about the beautiful lady of the Cavée and her pretended brother? And all these rascals who are just now doing their best to ruin the works of Baradier and Graff? Do you not think of them? Should we let them know that the whole affair is over and their plot discovered?”

“But we cannot remain inactive spectators in all this?”

“Spectators, yes, for the moment. Inactive, never! I did not come from Paris to Ars simply for the purpose of breaking stones on the road. I am engaged in my profession, and I intend the whole affair to be successful.”

“But can I not, at least, warn M. Marcel?”

“Under no pretext! His first impulse would be to have a frightful scene with his lady-love, and everything would be ruined. In the name of Heaven, let us keep those who are under the influence of passion out of our confidence! From them you may expect nothing but the most utter folly!”

“But suppose Marcel falls into some trap or other?”

“Have no fear for him. He will come out of it all right. For my part, I intend to shadow our man, and shall not let him give me the slip until I have everything necessary for giving him up to the magistrate in Paris, who is extremely mortified at his failure in this affair. Do you agree?”

“I must do so, I suppose.”

“Then we will each attend to our own business.”

They shook hands, and separated in the darkness of the night. The illuminated inn rang with shouts and exclamations, alternating with the cadence of mugs of beer, as they struck the wooden tables. Away in the distance the factory raised its sombre bulk under the star-lit sky. At the very moment Baudoin passed in front of the concierge’s room, the latter stopped him, and, in joyful tones, said—

“M. Graff has just arrived!”

Uncle Graff, uneasy at what Cardez had telephoned, had not hesitated, but had left Baradier to continue an important operation at the Bourse on the shares of the Explosives Company, and, taking the train, had made straight for the works. Marcel, who was taking a walk by the riverside, had seen the worthy uncle come along the flower-beds, and had rushed joyfully forward to meet him.

“What! Is it you, Uncle Graff?”

“Yes, my nephew, I wanted to see for myself what is taking place here. I have just had a talk with Cardez, and at present I know how matters stand. Now, let us speak of yourself. How are you getting along, and what are you doing? I don’t want to find fault, but you send us very little news. Your mother is anything but pleased, and said to me only last night, ‘He no longer thinks of us; he loves us no more.’”

“I! Not think of you all!” said Marcel.

“How can your poor mother have any illusion on the subject? Certainly, you do not spoil her! Ah! I well know that children do not live for their parents, but for themselves. All the same, they might do a little, from time to time, for those who have brought them up and loved them from childhood.”

“Oh, uncle! What you say pains me very much!” said Marcel, penitently. “Has my silence been interpreted in this way? To obey my father I have come to bury myself at Ars for several weeks. I think I have given him sufficient pledges of my good intentions, in spite of a few silly escapades I have been guilty of.”

“Debts amounting to three hundred thousand francs, my little Marcel, without counting what I often gave you unknown to your parents, eh?”

“Ah! Uncle Graff, why return to discuss such matters?”

“Yes, you forget them very soon, don’t you?”

Marcel smiled.

“You are a very indulgent uncle; you know what young men are!”

“All the same, I have never been young! Ah! Marcel, I should have adored pleasure and luxury had I not looked as solemn as a churchwarden.”

“So you gave yourself up to finance, and succeeded brilliantly! My good uncle, it is you who pay when your spendthrift of a nephew is in difficulties! All the same, I am very fond of you, Uncle Graff.”

He had taken him by the shoulders, and was embracing him with warmth. The old man, his eyes filled with tears, looked tenderly at the handsome young fellow by his side. He coughed to conceal his emotion, and said—

“Yes, I know you are fond of me. Well, well! Promise me that you will write a nice little letter to your mother.”

“I promise, Uncle Graff, I will write to-morrow morning, and one to my father into the bargain.”

“That is right! By the way, things don’t seem to be going along very well here! Are these rascally strikers going to ruin our workmen?”

“There is every appearance of it. Cardez has not sufficient tact; he is too straightforward in his talk. A fine man, in reality, but one who appears to act too tyrannically.”

“I will attend to the matter myself. To-morrow I will see the syndicate. And you—what are you doing? Has your work been progressing?”

“Considerably. I have discovered the pale green and the golden yellow I have been looking for. You shall see my samples.”

“And the other affair?”

Lowering his voice, he asked in anxious tones—

“The powders?”

“The formulæ have been tested, and their success is assured.”

“Have you made any experiments?”

“Yes, Uncle Graff, and they have been terrible in their simplicity. I set off, carrying a small piece of the commerce-explosive, in the direction of Bossicant; I placed it all around the roots of a huge oak. After igniting it, the immense tree, without noise or smoke, lay there level with the ground, lying in the heather, as though cut down by a giant scythe.”

“No one saw you?”

“No one. The following morning the gamekeeper said, ‘Ah, M. Marcel, what a loss we have had! The old oak of the flat Mare was struck to the ground last night by the storm. It is strange how those old trees go; but the wind is a famous wood-cutter!’ In fact, it would be impossible to form any idea of the destructive force of this powder. I wished to test it once more, and this time in the breaking up of a rock. Going to the old stone quarry on the Sainte-Savine road I placed a squib in an excavation. There were three hundred yards of earth and sand-stone to explode. When night came I set fire to it, and withdrew. There would be no one passing in the neighbourhood till morning came; accordingly I feared no accident. The detonation was extremely feeble, and I was only half a mile away. In fact, I scarcely heard it. The following morning I returned to judge of the result. It was terrible! The whole cube had been lifted, and a hole six yards deep had been dug out in the shape of a funnel. With a sufficient charge I would wager that a mountain could be blown into the air! See here, Uncle Graff, if the Spaniards took it into their heads to destroy Gibraltar they would succeed with this powder. What a fine sight it would be, that huge mass, rocks, parapets, casemates, cannons, and all the rest, thundering down into the sea!”

“Have you drawn up your formulæ?”

“No, not yet.”

“Well, draw them up, and give them to me. I will take them away with me to Paris, and deposit them at the Patents Office. The time is come to make use of them.”

“You shall have them to-morrow morning, Uncle Graff. It is a mere trifle.”

“You see, your father and myself have for some time been putting into execution a plan, the consequences of which are far-reaching. Baradier, who has a fine intuition for business, has found out Lichtenbach’s plans. The old rascal caused several shares in the explosives to be sold at a loss, and brought the stock down to nothing. We were wondering why the depreciation kept getting greater and greater, when chance afforded us the proof that it was Lichtenbach who was plotting to ruin the company, so as to reconstitute it to his profit. He had seven or eight stockbrokers under his orders. One of them, however, committed an indiscretion, which placed us immediately in possession of the secret. Then your father, equal to the emergency, did not hesitate, but bought up all Lichtenbach was selling, and after the fall had reached the limit, the rise began. At this moment we hold two hundred thousand shares in the explosives, bought at a very low price, and which to-morrow, in case the patent of the new powder is acquired by the company, will rise above par. It is a formidable party stroke. If we succeed, the fortune of the family is increased tenfold. We shall have directed against Lichtenbach the attack he wished to inflict on the Explosives shareholders. He will lose on what we gain, and this time I think we shall have finished with him.”

“Very well! Uncle Graff, you shall have the formulæ to-morrow, and you may do what you please with them.”

“It will be a fortune for Mademoiselle de Trémont, and one for ourselves into the bargain.”

“Ah! Are you not rich enough?”

“Yes. But your father is ambitious. He wants the maximum in everything, and affirms that there is no reason why French fortunes should not be as great as those of the Americans.”

“Ah! The Vanderbilts and the Astors! What a weakness to think of such things!”

“My young friend, you cannot understand this intoxication of success which takes possession of the calmest and most level-headed of men. You know well enough that your father is very simple in his tastes, and spends less money than you do. But it is no longer a matter of pleasure; it is a question of arithmetic.”

“Yes, I know. But it is precisely there that the harm lies. It would be far better if he were not so rich, and spent more money. What weapons you place in the hands of these socialists, who are, at this very moment, causing us so much trouble! How can you justify in their eyes such a piling-up of capital at the disposal of one individual whilst the generality of men toil and suffer from all kinds of privations? You see, Uncle Graff; the sole excuse of wealthy men is that they spend a great deal, so as to throw their superabundant riches into general circulation. It would give me pleasure to see my father fling money out of the window, since he has so much. Those in the street would pick it up, and their momentary wretchedness would be relieved, at any rate. I should be glad if he would order statues of sculptors, and pictures of artists, and set rolling all the wealth now being piled up in the safes. How can you expect me to be interested in the shares of such and such a company? What does this paper represent in my eyes, if not the labour of a whole crowd of workmen, who toil and sweat to produce dividends which will enrich the shareholders? Uncle Graff, all this is neither moral nor just, nor even human! And I believe that a prodigal son like myself is the just ransom, from a social point of view, of a treasure-hoarder like my father.”

“But consider, my little Marcel, your father’s work enriches, and his wealth strengthens the country. It is the resources of the rich which keep up the vigour of a nation in time of national peril. Your father is a citizen useful by reason of his wealth, just as an inventor is by his genius, or a general by his talent for war. It is your father who will give the inventor funds to perfect his invention, and who will pay for the improved cannons and guns of the soldier. Every man has his function in life, as in society. And, I can assure you, your father is not one of the most despicable.”

“Uncle Graff, I speak sentiment to you, and you reply with political economy. It is impossible for us to come to an agreement. We are both right, only we are not speaking of the same thing.”

“Neither are we of the same generation. Ideas change several times in a single century, and one generation does not reason like the following. Your father and I have seen the war of 1870, invasion and ruin on every side, and we remember what a ransom we had to pay. That has made us parsimonious for the rest of our days. You came into the world only when prosperity had returned; you have been brought up under the breath of Republican ideas. Your thoughts are quite different from ours; you are an advocate for equality. We are nothing of the kind. My father inspired in me respect for caste. I have less consideration for a tradesman than for a mill-proprietor, more respect for a lawyer, a magistrate, or a notary, than for a painter or man of letters. It is my nature. I cannot change if I would. I am well aware that ideas are changing all round me, but I shall die impenitent. Your generation has no bump of veneration as ours had. You consider yourself on the same footing as an elderly man, famous and respected, and you treat him on the most familiar terms. That is something which would be impossible for me, any more than I should expect the foreman at the works to look upon me as his equal, and pat me familiarly on the shoulder. Possibly you and your companions may be right, but I don’t think so. At any rate we shall see what your children will be like, if you have any, for even family life is another institution quite out of fashion now.”

“Well, uncle, you have a very effective way of discussing, without giving yourself any pretensions! Father would long ago have called me a fool, without offering the slightest argument. With you, it is different, and when I listen to you I am by no means sure that I am right. Besides, you are so kind and tolerant, Uncle Graff, that I do not feel myself capable of resisting you for any length of time!”

“Ah, you little rogue! Now you are flattering me; you know how to make me do as you wish. At bottom you are a sly fox, and I believe you trick the lot of us!”

“Oh! Uncle Graff!”

“Come now, you are not so nice as that for nothing,” said the old bachelor, with a laugh. “What is it you want me to do for you now?”

“Nothing, upon my word, uncle. I am perfectly sincere in everything I have just said!”

“Then you are conducting yourself very well just now.”

Marcel raised his eyes, and said calmly—

“How could I do anything else here?”

“Ah! Do you think you could not find an opportunity if you wanted? I really believe that if you were thrown on to a desert island you would find means to fall in love and get into debt, even there!”

“But who would pay them if my Uncle Graff were not at hand?”

“You are jesting with me, you rascal!”

“No, I am quite serious. I never leave my laboratory except for a walk in the woods; and I have not spent twenty-five francs since I came here.”

A violent clamour, coming from the direction of the town, cut short the conversation. A light shone in the sky. Songs, at the same time as a dull tramp of a marching band, were heard on the road. And the workmen’s Marseillaise, shouted out by hundreds of voices, again broke the silence. On leaving the inn the workmen, accompanied by their wives, were marching through the sleeping town, hurling out against the startled citizens threats of revolt and violence. Marcel and his uncle Graff, halting there in the garden, listened, and watched the shouting mob as it passed by, waving in the air torches made of pine branches. It was the smoke and flame hovering above a crowd which was hurling imprecations against the masters.

Uncle Graff pointed to the street, and said—

“You hear what these people are saying. ‘All the masters shall be strung up!’ And yet there is not one of them who, were he ill or infirm, would not have the right to rely on us to mitigate his suffering. We have given them workmen’s dwellings where they are lodged, schools where their children are educated, hospitals where they are treated with every attention when ill, and co-operative societies where they may buy everything at cheap rates. There is only the public-house we have been unwilling to give them, and it is there they go, to become filled with sentiments of hatred against us! It is alcohol which is their master, and he is a pitiless tyrant who will give them no mercy!”

The end of the column had just passed. Whether it was that they had seen the two men in the garden, or they simply wished to fling to the winds their cries of rebellion and rancour, these latter, the most intoxicated and miserable of them all, screamed forth in a shrill chorus, “Down with the masters! Down with exploiters!” Then silence was restored by degrees. Uncle Graff sadly shook his head, and said—

“Come along, exploiter, let us turn in!”

And they made their way towards the house.

The following morning Uncle Graff was up early. He hunted up Cardez, to come to some arrangement with him; Marcel made his way to the laboratory. He had promised the powder formula, and he wished to draw it up at his leisure, As he entered he found Baudoin arranging the chemical utensils. He admired the unwonted order reigning in the capharnaum.

“Ah, that is better!” said he; “here is a room which has not been so clean for several weeks. The dust cannot know what it all means to be disturbed in this way. But you must take care, Baudoin, not to touch a single product. There are some very dangerous ones here.”

“Ah, sir, I know all about them; I handled any quantity of products during my poor General’s lifetime. I always obeyed the orders he gave me. And after what has taken place at Vanves, I am not likely to risk handling them.”

“You have been sleeping in the summer-house, Baudoin?”

“Yes, M. Marcel, I have arranged a bed very comfortably in the attic. Now, I am no longer uneasy. Still, so long as there are doubtful characters in the neighbourhood, I shall sleep with one eye open.”

“In my opinion, the people to whom you allude have intentions on the works rather than on the laboratory.”

“I cannot tell, M. Marcel. There are sufficient mixed characters in the company which has come here the last few days.”

“One would imagine you had discovered something extraordinary.”

Baudoin bent his head. He was afraid he had said too much, and recalled to mind Laforêt’s prudent advice.

“Oh! I am not clever enough for that; but I warn you, M. Marcel, to be on your guard. Have confidence in no one—in no one!”

He left the room, leaving Marcel astonished at his persistence. What was the meaning of this mysterious warning his servant kept giving him? Did he know more than he meant to tell? To whom did he allude when he said, ‘In no one.’ The beautiful and charming silhouette of Madame Vignola sprang up in his imagination. Was it of her that he ought to be on his guard? He pictured her again in her dreamy, careless attitude, promenading sorrowfully in the woods of Bossicant. What had he to fear from her? What danger could she make him incur, except that of adoring her without obtaining a return of affection? There, indeed, was a very grave and serious peril! It was the most dreadful he could imagine just then, and one against which he felt himself utterly helpless. To love, without obtaining love in return! What would become of him if such a misfortune befell him? He could not think of it without a kind of distraction, so long as the young woman was mistress of his heart and mind. For a few moments he walked up and down the laboratory with anxious mien, and only halted when he heard the door open. It was Uncle Graff.

“You know we have to meet the syndicate of workmen this morning, at ten o’clock?”

“Yes; I have not forgotten.”

“What is the matter with you? You do not appear at your ease. Is there anything that troubles you?”

“Nothing whatever; it is simply this distressing situation that makes me anxious. Now that you have spoken to Cardez, uncle, what is it the workmen want?”

“Oh, several things! In the first place, less work and more pay. Afterwards, themselves to nominate their own overseer. To have personal administration of the pension and assistance funds. To submit to no stoppage of wages for insurance against accidents. Mon Dieu! On all these points some understanding may be reached, and I am quite disposed to meet them half way. But there is on the point of being formulated a final demand which may render all conciliation impossible.”

“What is that!”

“They will demand the dismissal of Cardez, who is accused by the workmen of being extremely severe in enforcing the regulations.”

“Dismiss the director? To-morrow they will want to send us away also.”

“Ah, my nephew, is not that the collectivist doctrine, pure and simple? The works to the workers, the land to the tillers—that is to say, the dispossession of the master and the landlord. We are advancing in that direction.”

Marcel said coldly—

“We cannot give way on these points. Abdicate all authority, be no longer master in one’s own house? At no price and under no pretext. Be kind to the workmen, certainly! But be their dupe, never!”

“Come,” said Uncle Graff, with a smile, “do not get excited. You always go to extremes. Yesterday all fire and flame; this morning full of reactionary energy. You must keep to the golden mean as I do. I still have hopes of seeing the triumph of reason and common sense. But I should like to obtain one thing from you.”

“What is that?”

“That you go out for a stroll instead of being present at the meeting.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Marcel; “that is not your own idea, Uncle Graff. It is Cardez who has given you this hint.”

“Well! I confess you are right. He mistrusts your impetuosity, and is afraid you cannot keep perfect possession of yourself. He knows what your opinions are.”

“The fool! Let him trouble himself with his own opinions! After having alienated our workmen by useless reforms, how can he have the assurance to ask that the son of his master should not be present at a debate in which his own interests, both material and moral, are engaged? And he thinks I shall submit to this eviction? Decidedly, he knows me very little!”

“But if I myself asked you not to come to the meeting!”

“For what reason?”

Uncle Graff hesitated a moment, but finally decided to speak.

“I did not wish to tell you all my reasons. This morning’s debate may cause grave disorders. We have been informed that the workmen, who have been worked up to a high pitch, will admit of no refusal to their demands. In short, it is feared violent measures will be resorted to.”

“Very good! The greater reason I should be there!”

“If I consent, think what responsibility I assume in your father’s eyes!”

“But what do you think I should do?”

“You would do well to take the next train for Paris.”

“And leave you to resist these madmen, all alone? You have a fine opinion of me, indeed!”

“Come, now, Marcel, do not get angry. I am an old man, and command a certain amount of respect. It will be easy for me to keep out of a quarrel, but it will be no easy matter to keep an eye on you. To tell the truth, you would be greatly in the way. Here, you have no official standing; you are simply an inventor, and there is a whole group of workmen who regard you with no kindly feelings on account of your investigations in dyeing. They pretend that it is your intention to take away their living by manufacturing with the machine what they now do by hand. I assure you, Marcel, I have good reasons for keeping you away, and, if you are reasonable, you will obey me.”

“Well, Uncle Graff, I am not reasonable. That you have long known; on many occasions have I proved it, and I will prove it once again to-day. I don’t care what people think. I will keep close to your side, without giving you any cause for trouble. But I will be present, because it is both my duty and my right. Besides, if I did not come, some time after you would say to yourself; ‘After all, he obeyed me very readily. My young nephew is bent on pleasure only, and is quite willing to keep out of the way when there is danger in the air.’”

As the old man listened to his nephew the look of anxiety, by degrees, disappeared from his countenance. Doubtless he blamed him for his unwillingness to obey him, but approved of his showing himself at once determined, devoted, and affectionate. Oh yes, affectionate above all! In the bachelor’s tender heart Marcel’s protests found a delightful echo. He felt himself loved by this nephew of his, whom he himself loved as though he were his own son, and all his discontent melted away in an exquisite sensation of happiness. Still, he would not confess to a satisfaction so little in accord with his expressed wishes. He gave himself an angry and displeased mien; but a smile shone in his eyes as he murmured—

“Very good! I cannot force you. As you please! If anything happens through you we shall know whose fault it is!”

“Uncle Graff, we will perish together!” exclaimed the young man, gaily. “What more brilliant end could I hope for! What a glorious item of news for the journals!”

“That would be the last straw!”

“What precautions are you going to take to prevent our being devoured by the popular lion?”

“None whatever! I am convinced that a display of force would effect no useful end. Accordingly, I begged the authorities not to disturb themselves. They wished to send us out the dragoons! Why not the artillery at once?”

“And who are the delegates to whom we shall have to reply?”

“There are eight of them. But it is the famous Balestrier who is at their head and acts as their mouthpiece.”

“He is a very intelligent fellow, only he reads too many books beyond his power of comprehension.”

“The rest are honest enough, but they have been incited to revolt by their companions at Troyes, and I am afraid I shall find them more violent than they are naturally disposed to be. They assume an attitude and play a rôle.”

“We will judge them by their actions.”

Pointing out to his uncle on the laboratory table a glass recipient of moderate size, Marcel said—

“Look at this jar, Uncle Graff. If I were to throw a lighted match into it, in a moment I could annihilate all these ill-advised strikers.”

“Then that is the famous powder?”

“Yes.”

“Show it me.”

Marcel took the jar, removed the stopper, and poured into his hand a few small brown shavings. An odour of camphor spread throughout the room.

“It is the war powder in flakes, but I intend to manufacture it in pastilles. Then it will resemble an ordinary button without holes. In flakes it is more convenient for charging large projectiles. In pastilles it will be better suited for cartridge sockets. Non-compressed it burns like German tinder, with a smell of disinfecting powder, and entirely without smoke. Would you like to see it?”

“No!” said Uncle Graff, eagerly. “I do not care to see you handling such substances. One never knows! They might explode without any one expecting it!”

“Impossible! Besides, as this powder smells of camphor it might be placed with one’s clothes during the summer to prevent the moths from spoiling them.”

He laughed aloud. Uncle Graff, slightly reassured, forced him to place the bottle back on to the table.

“And the commerce powder?”

“I have none manufactured. But the formula is already there in the drawer.”

“With this formula Trémont’s discovery may be exploited?”

“Certainly, on condition one knows how to make use of it. But that is my secret, which I shall reveal only at the moment the exploitation commences. The different kinds of products employed, with their dosings, are specified.”

Opening a drawer he took out a sheet of paper, at the head of which were written the words: Powder Formula. No. I. Then followed lines of abbreviated words, with figures.

“Leave it in this drawer; I do not need it just now. You will give it me this evening, after the conference. Then I will write to your father and send on the paper to him.”

“As you please,” said Marcel.

Placing back the paper he shut the drawer. Uncle Graff left the room saying—

“I am going to see Cardez; if you want me you will find me with him.”

Marcel, left all alone, walked up and down the laboratory, then drew near the open window, and looked out on to the river flowing beneath. A fisherman was sitting there in a boat, moored in the middle of the stream, engaged in throwing baked grain as bait into the water all around him. A large straw hat covered his head, whilst the wind blew out his grey smock-frock into the form of a balloon. He did not appear even to see Marcel, but filled his pipe with tobacco, lit it, and began to throw out his line, at the end of which was a ball of worms as bait. After a few moments a bite came, he struck adroitly, and landed a small silver-bellied fish in the boat. Marcel, interested, sat and watched from the window-ledge. After watching for a good quarter of an hour, the fisher, in his smock-frock, who, by the way, appeared to have the best of luck, the door of the laboratory opened, and Baudoin appeared. He seemed embarrassed, but came straight up to his master, and said, in tones of seeming regret—

“Monsieur Marcel, there is some one at the porter’s lodge who is asking for you.”

“Who is it?”

Baudoin said, with a wry grimace—

“A kind of chambermaid.”

Marcel arose eagerly. He thought, “It is Milona, sent by Madame Vignola. Something has happened.” In a trice he was out of the room.

Baudoin followed him with ill-pleased look.

“How he runs off to meet her! Ah, that crafty woman holds him tight indeed! And this servant, who looks like a gipsy! This kind of company does not inspire confidence in one!”

Marcel, on reaching the porter’s lodge, had found Milona there, as he had conjectured. Drawing her aside, he asked anxiously—

“No harm has befallen Madame Vignola?”

“No; I am with her all the time. But my mistress is uneasy for your sake. She heard cries and threats, and saw flashes of light through the darkness of the night. She well knows what these mad acts of folly committed by an angry mob mean, and would like to see you and have you explain the meaning of all this tumult.”

“May I go to her at once?”

“She is expecting you every minute.”

He gave a gesture expressive of the joy he felt.

“Then start back at once. We must not be seen crossing the plain together. In a few minutes I will follow you. Tell this to your mistress.”

Milona bowed with a kind of haughty deference. With a tender look at the young man she said—

“Do not tarry; she is never happy except when you are there!”

Marcel stifled a cry of joy.

“Oh, Milona! What has she told you?”

“Nothing. But even had she taken me into her confidence I would not betray her. All the same, I see the difference between when she is alone and when you are with her. She is not the same at all. Come! She was in tears all the morning.”

With a bow, she placed her fingers to her lips and withdrew.

Marcel watched her take her departure. His heart beat wildly; flashes of light seemed to pass before his eyes. He had forgotten everything—works, strikes, danger, Uncle Graff, and his good resolutions. Now he thought of nothing but the radiant blonde awaiting him in that solitary villa, for which he set off with all the ardour of youth and love.

In the dimly-lit salon Marcel and Madame Vignola were seated chatting near the window. It was ten o’clock. In the clear blue sky the sun shone brightly, and its warm rays breaking through the branches of the trees came with caressing gentleness to the lovers. Madame Vignola was saying in grave accents—

“Even in this out-of-the-way little place, right in the midst of the forest and far away from the rush of town life, there is no perfect peace and calm.”

“You seem to have no luck. Never before have the inhabitants of Ars shown themselves so turbulent. Generally they are quite peaceable and harmless creatures. If they have any claims to make they do it with moderation and politeness, sure, in advance, of obtaining what they want. I do not know what madness has come over them!”

Madame Vignola smiled.

“Doubtless they have listened to bad counsel and advice. But that is of little importance. The main thing is that you are not exposed to the violence of these madmen. When I heard them last night shouting out their threats of death I trembled.”

“Then you do take a certain amount of interest in me?”

“Can you ask me such a question?”

Passionately he seized hold of a dainty hand, which she made no attempt to withdraw.

“Well, now, listen, Anetta. I cannot understand how I have been able to find any joy in life before I knew you. I seem to myself only to have been alive the last month.”

Graciously raising her hand with threatening gesture, she said—

“Not another word! I know you have been anything but perfect. Don’t try to deceive me like all the others you have said you were in love with.”

“Oh! I have never been in love before. That I understand well enough now!”

“Marcel, for pity’s sake, be quite frank with me. I have gone through such suffering hitherto, but that was because my heart was untouched. I am afraid of suffering now, as I shall love—”

“No, have confidence in me. I will make you forget all your past sorrow. You are so young, and the future may yet be so bright for you. I want you all to myself. Once your mourning over you will again become mistress of your own destiny, and if you will authorize me to speak to your brother—”

The young woman gave a gesture of fright.

“To Cesare? Do nothing of the kind. You do not know him! In a moment he would become your most bitter enemy!”

“Why so?”

“Ah! It is sad to think of and even sadder to mention. Cesare is without fortune, and I have been left a wealthy widow by M. Vignola. Were I to leave my brother, and cease to be free, he would be absolutely without resource. How could I induce him to accept a modest station in life? He is already unhappy, indeed, at not being able to do honour to his birth, for we are descended from a princely family. The Briviescas formerly reigned in Padua. An Agostini was ruler of Parma. But ruin came, and Count Cesare receives only the pay of a captain of cavalry. A sorry position for a man of his disposition! Accordingly, ever since I have been a widow he has undertaken the direction of my property. He finds it to his advantage, I believe, and I am well pleased that it is so. For he is very kind, and I am fond of him.”

“In that case give him what belongs to you. Have I any need of your fortune? I only want yourself! Leave Count Cesare all your possessions. I, too, shall be rich, and if I wished I could restore to you to-morrow more than all you would have sacrificed in becoming mine.”

She seemed astonished. A light shone in her beautiful eyes as she said—

“Tell me how?”

No suspicion came across his mind. He saw nothing but that exquisite mouth and those gentle eyes which questioned him so eloquently.

“I am in possession of a commercial secret calculated to bring about a complete revolution in the economic conditions of work in mines. The assured profit will not belong to me entirely, but I shall have my share of it. That sole share alone will be immense. They can do nothing without me, for I alone know the secret of the process of manufacturing the powder. A company will be formed to exploit the patents of this discovery. All this means fortune—you hear, Anetta?—an immediate and enormous fortune.”

“Oh! continue! Tell me all, my dear friend.”

“You are the first to whom I have said so much. But, then, can I conceal anything from you? Were you to ask me for my very honour I would sacrifice it for your sake. Besides, what have I to fear from one so kind and disinterested? Yes, I am the possessor of a glorious and powerful secret. The glory of the discovery will belong to the inventor, and I shall be happy to have helped in making him world-famed. To those who have organized and rendered his work practicable will belong an incalculable financial power.”

Madame Vignola interrupted Marcel.

“But suppose you were to disappear—suppose some misfortune happened you; in these noisy street quarrels of the strikers you might be struck to the ground. Then what would become of this invention of yours? Probably you have given no more thought to the protection of your secret than you have to that of your life.”

As she spoke she pressed him to her heart, a look of anguish overshadowing her face. Her looks seemed to burn into Marcel’s brain as she gently passed her hand over his brow.

“No!” he said. “Do not deceive yourself. I took the precaution this very morning to write out the formulæ of this wonderful invention.”

“You have it on your person?” she asked in terrified accents.

“No, do not be anxious, dearest; I left it in my laboratory. It cannot be destroyed now. My Uncle Graff would take it from the drawer of my desk in case anything were to befall me. But I love you, and nothing can possibly happen to me. I must succeed and triumph if you love me!”

With a gesture expressive of infinite content, she said—

“Can you doubt it, after what I have said? How could I help loving one so fervent and capricious as you are? It is this youthful folly of yours which pleased me from the beginning. You are so different from those with whom I have hitherto lived. My early life was passed with my old parents, who were very strict and severe with me, in a cold and gloomy house in Milan. Then my husband, though so kind and anxious to please me, could not bring his cold and reasoning habits into harmony with my youth and inexperience. Sorrow and ennui were my daily portion. It seems that I have only awakened to life from this very day, as though I had all my life been like the sleeping princess in the fairy tale. You have appeared before me, and now my eyes open to the light of day, my ears listen to your tender, loving words, and with inexpressible delight I awake to a new birth of happiness.”

The most accomplished actress could not have more artfully uttered such ravishing words as these which fell from the lips of the beautiful temptress. Turning aside her face, as though to conceal her blushes, her lithe form seemed to quiver with delight. He, maddened by this confession, and burning with the passion this redoubtable enchantress knew so well how to inspire, dropped his fevered head on Anetta’s shoulder. His reason seemed to leave him as he murmured—

“I adore you!”

At this moment she turned her head to look at him, perhaps to reply. Their lips met, and united in a burning kiss. Suddenly, above the green expanse of forest, in the midst of the calm in which the peaceful house was wrapped, rose a shout which grew louder and louder, whilst the clang of an alarm-bell could be distinctly heard. Anetta exclaimed—

“What is that?”

Marcel listened attentively.

“It sounds like shouts and cries for help coming from the direction of Ars.”

He rushed towards the window, and, already trembling with secret anguish, exclaimed—

“It is the alarm-bell! Perhaps the works are on fire! Mon Dieu! What can be the matter? You are well aware to what risks we were exposed at Ars, and I am afraid that matters have taken a turn for the worse in my absence.”

Madame Vignola opened the door, and called—

“Milo.”

The servant appeared. Without waiting to be questioned, she said—

“There is something wrong at Ars, madame. Bells are ringing, and a black cloud of smoke is rising above the trees. It might be possible to see from the roof.”

“I will mount at once!” exclaimed Marcel.

“I will follow you. Go with him,” she said to Milona.

But instead of keeping her word the young woman entered the small office where she was in the habit of writing her letters, took up a sheet of paper, and traced a few rapid lines. Steps could already be heard on the staircase. Marcel, pale and agitated, appeared before her.

“The fire must have caught the works. Oh, Anetta, I have forgotten everything by your side! Good-bye, I must rush off at once.”

“Marcel, do not forget that you are mine.”

With a look of fright she pressed him in her arms, and held him back.

“Darling, I must go. What would they think of me? I will return to-night. Let me go now.”

“Very well. But Milona will follow you, and bring me back the news. Promise me you will be very careful.”

A final kiss, and he was already in the garden. Anetta turned to the servant and handed to her the note she had just written.

“Run to Ars. On the river, in a boat, you will see Hans, dressed like a peasant. Give him this paper, and return at once. Go, Milo! This time we shall succeed.”

“And the young man, madame—what will you do with him?”

A look of anxiety came over her brow.

“I cannot tell yet, Milo. I believe I love him.”

The servant smiled faintly as she said—

“Poor fellow! What a pity!”

And, without another word, she disappeared.

Marcel was running towards the works. At the first turn of the road the whole town lay before his eyes. From the Supply Stores a lofty column of black smoke mounted towards the sky, and flames were beginning to break through the roof.

“Ah, the wretches!” exclaimed the young man. “They have set the place on fire! And Uncle Graff? Mon Dieu! if only he is safe and sound!”

Young and vigorous, spurred on by fear and anger, he ran along faster than ever. A mass of onlookers was standing in the street, kept in check by the police. Marcel rushed through them like a bullet and entered the yard, perspiring and out of breath. Workmen were manipulating the fire-engine belonging to the works. On seeing their master’s son arrive they exclaimed eagerly—

“Ah, M. Marcel! You have come at last!”

“How did the fire happen?” exclaimed the young man panting for breath.

No one replied. They were two hundred; he was alone. All the same he exclaimed, in angry tones—

“So it is you, rascals, you who have set fire to the works which afforded you your only means of livelihood?”

They protested noisily.

“No, M. Marcel, we did not do it! We set forth our demands, but we did not enforce them by such villainous means. There are strangers about. We had nothing to do with it.”

“Where is my uncle Graff?”

Terror-stricken, a foreman advanced—

“Ah, M. Marcel, we could not prevent him entering.”

“Entering where?”

“Into the managing department, with M. Cardez and your servant. They wanted to find the account books, etc.”

“But the managing department is on fire!” shrieked the young man, in despair. “If you could not prevent them going, you might at least have accompanied them.”

A crash was now heard coming from the burning building. Millions of sparks shot forth into the air, and a black dust filled the sky. It was the roof of the stores, which had fallen in.

“How can we reach them now?” said the overseer, anxiously. “They are caught between the weaving department and the stores. The fire is all over the place now.”

“By the roof.”

The workman shook his head discouragingly.

“Who will dare to go?”

“I will!”

“But it means death!”

“Well, I will risk it with them!”

“We will not let you go. What would your father say?”

“What would he say if I did not go?”

Scarcely knowing what he was doing, Marcel seized hold of a hatchet, and rushed into the works. A violent biting sensation of heat seized him by the throat, but he did not halt. He mounted the staircase leading to the door of the book-keeping department. Here he was forced to stop. Before him was a wall of flames. Climbing higher, he came out on the roof, ran along a drain-pipe, entered the loft, which was filled with smoke, and, almost suffocated, reached that part of the building which lay above the offices. The fire had not reached them. He halted. If Cardez and Uncle Graff were in the book-keeping compartment they were surrounded on every side by the fire. Accordingly, they could only effect an escape either from above or below. Without the slightest hesitation he began to cut away at the floor. Suddenly he heard his name called from the roof. Without stopping he shouted back—

“This way! In the loft!”

It was the overseer and three of the workmen, who had followed with picks and levers. They set to work. Marcel, with his hatchet, seemed possessed of the strength of ten men; the beams appeared to fall away like reeds before the blows he dealt. Bricks and plaster were flying in all directions. At last a hole was made in the floor, and Marcel, lying flat on the ground, shouted with all his might—

“Uncle Graff, Cardez, Baudoin—are you there?”

A stifled voice replied—

“Ah! This is you, Marcel. Yes, we are here. Be quick; we are almost exhausted. The smoke is suffocating us. We cannot open the window on account of the flames.”

“Take care of yourselves!”

Seizing the lever he gave a powerful lift, which considerably enlarged the hole. Then he saw the smoke rise as though by an escape-flue. There appeared in full view the three men, who had not let go their books and registers, stolidly awaiting deliverance or death. It was deliverance that came. A rope was lowered down the hole.

“Baudoin, fasten my uncle firmly under the arms with this rope. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Pull away, my men!”

The rope, hoisted by impatient arms, was drawn up, and Uncle Graff, black with dirt and smoke, trembling, and scarcely able to breathe, though perfectly happy, was pressed in Marcel’s arms, whilst tears flowed down their cheeks, though not a word was uttered. Cardez and Baudoin were hoisted up in the same way.

“By the way,” said Marcel, “is there anything else you want from the office? I will go down, if you like.”

“No!” exclaimed Uncle Graff; finding his voice; “we have all the books we want. That is sufficient! The place is insured, so there is nothing more to do.”

“Then we must beat a retreat at once,” exclaimed Marcel. “The smoke is getting denser here.”

Marcel, helping along his uncle, made his way to the drain-pipe. From the yard they were seen returning safe and sound. An immense shout arose, almost deafening the roar of the flames. They reached the works, where the firemen had already taken up their positions with the object of preserving the buildings still intact. Once in the yard Uncle Graff sank down on a bale of wool, turned pale, and almost fainted. He had come to the end of his strength.

“A glass of water!” exclaimed Marcel.

In a moment a decanter was in his hand. No matter what he had asked for, his demand would have been immediately obeyed. Full of respect before courage and devotion, the mob regarded him with indulgent and reverent tenderness. The very men who had cried out only the night before, “Down with the masters!” were ready to shout out, Hurrah for M. Marcel! The reason was that he had just performed a feat none of them had had courage to attempt, and in their inmost souls they were conscious that he was braver and better than themselves, and, accordingly, they felt nothing but admiration for him.

“Cardez, take these registers and the money home,” said Marcel. “We will go to my home, Uncle Graff. You must try to regain your strength completely.”

“No! I feel better already. I can breathe more freely. Ah, Marcel, you came just in time. Another quarter of an hour and you would have found us all dead.”

“I was miserable at the thought that I was not with you all the time.”

“Had you been with us everything would have been lost! We were dying. Your absence was quite providential! But for that, all would have been over with us!”

“But how did it all happen?”

“We cannot understand anything yet! For an hour we had been discussing with the delegates, and I must say the peaceful settlement of the strike seemed very doubtful, when we were suddenly interrupted by shouts of ‘Fire! Fire!’ The workmen assembled in the yard awaiting the delegates had just seen a dense cloud of smoke issue from the stores. To tell the truth, they were ill-disposed towards us. When we crossed the yard on the way to the office they received us with a hostile silence. Not a head was uncovered. Veritable enemies on our own ground! In a moment the fire effected a complete change. They became like madmen when they saw the works burning. At bottom these workmen are not evil-disposed, for they rushed forth from every direction, shouting out, ‘To the pumps!’ When they saw me appear with Cardez they shouted: ‘M. Graff, this is not our work!’ A moment after one of the strangers, who has been here only a week, a native of Luxembourg, named Verstraet, being caught prowling about the works, they half killed him, accusing him of being the incendiary. We were obliged to tear him from their hands.”

Marcel listened with gloomy interest to this recital. He associated the fire with the strange fears, manifested on different occasions by Baudoin, respecting the safety of the laboratory. He heard the servant say, “Just now, there are men here whose appearance is anything but prepossessing.” The workmen also spoke vaguely about strangers. Everything was wrapped in mystery. Instinctively, Marcel felt himself enveloped in a network of threats and hatred. Was it still this secret of the General de Trémont, which brought disaster on all those who possessed it? Looking round for Baudoin, he found that he had disappeared. The fire was raging less fiercely, for the torrents of water poured on the stores had extinguished the bales of wool. The works themselves did not seem to have suffered to any considerable extent; the loss was only partial. The captain of the Ars fire brigade, a plumber by trade, came out from the rest and stood there, hot and panting, with cap in hand, before M. Graff and Cardez.

“Well, gentlemen, we shall come out of this affair better than we might have expected. At present, more than two-thirds of the works are safe. We may take our breath a little. It has been warm work, indeed, the last hour!”

“Yes. But for M. Marcel,” said Cardez, “we should not be speaking to you at this moment, M. Prevost.”

“That was a very noble act of his,” said the captain. “Ah! neither my men nor myself had thought of doing as he did. There was courage enough in us, but we should not have thought of piercing a hole in the roof. He did not lose his head; and that was the main thing.”

Just at that moment, a voice quivering with anguish, was heard, and Marcel, pale and excited, came rushing from the laboratory, exclaiming—

“Uncle Graff. Come here, quick!”

“What is the matter?” asked Cardez.

“Stay here! My uncle only!” said the young man. Monsieur Graff immediately went up to his nephew. Baudoin was already on the threshold guarding the entrance.

“Come in! Mon Dieu! Come in!” said Marcel, pushing the old man before him. “Baudoin, shut the door and place the key inside.”

“What is the matter now?” exclaimed the old man.

“Look!”

Standing there on the threshold of the capharnaum, the three men looked around in bewildered astonishment. All the signs of a desperate fight had thrown the room into the utmost disorder. A curtain, half torn from the window still open on the river, was hanging from its broken pole. Jars, retorts, and alembics of every description crushed to pieces lay scattered about the floor. On the table was a large clot of blood, still wet, as though some one had there met his death. The paper everywhere was splashed over with large red spots, and the drawer of the table lay wide open before their eyes.

“What has taken place here?” asked Uncle Graff, in low tones.

“Look in the drawer, Uncle Graff,” said Marcel. “Try to find the formula I placed there before your eyes.”

“Well!”

“It is there no longer! It has been stolen! Look for the flagon containing the war powder, which was on the table. Disappeared!”

“Stolen? By whom?”

“Perhaps by the same person who set fire to the works? Whose blood is that on the floor? Uncle Graff, we have brought about our heads a terrible stream of enemies. Think of what has happened concerning the inventions of M. de Trémont. There has been a whole band of rascals at work for months, bent on stealing these secrets at whatever cost, and in face of the greatest difficulties! My father guessed this, for it was with the utmost trouble that I succeeded in obtaining his permission to continue this discovery. Baudoin knew it, for he asked my permission to keep watch in the laboratory. It was the excitement caused by the fire which forced him to quit his post; doubtless, had he stayed here, he, too, would have lost his life. But whose blood is this that has been shed?”

“Come, my child, do calm yourself,” said the old man, alarmed at the increasing agitation of his nephew. “Speak, Baudoin, tell us all you know.”

“Monsieur Graff, I know who has fallen here, and I know, too, whose hand struck the blow. The victim is a man devoted to our cause, who, from the very first, had scented the culprits. He could not help the robbery being committed, and, had he not been killed, he would certainly have arrested the thief.”

“And who is the man who struck him?”

“Ah! This is by no means the first attempt. He is a determined villain; all the troubles in the district have been caused by this man. It is he who started the conflagration. He who stabbed General de Trémont. It is the man of Vanves. In a word, it is Hans!”

“How do you know this?”

“Because I have seen him. Laforêt, whom I had sent for to keep a watch on these people whom I suspected, and who has doubtless paid with his life for his zeal and devotion, followed him last night, and we both spent part of the night in tracking his movements. We were present at his conferences with the leaders of the strike at the Soleil d’Or. We heard him give his orders to his acolytes. It is he our unhappy workmen obeyed, without knowing it, seduced as they were by the rabid language of the leaders. This is the villain who, secretly, and from a distance, directed the riot, and set fire to the works!”

“But how could he know that the written formula was in the table of the laboratory? Why did he come here?”

“He came here because I ran off to the fire and left my post. He has, somehow or other, received precise information.”

Baudoin stopped. He gave his young master a look of anguish.

“Ah, Monsieur Marcel, must I speak? Will you pardon me?”

Marcel turned pale. All the same he said, in firm tones—

“Speak. I insist upon it.”

“Well, then, this man, for the past week, has been living at the Villa de la Cavée.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Marcel. “Hans! This villain?”

“Monsieur Marcel,” resumed Baudoin, bravely, but with infinite sadness, “I have seen him there myself. Laforêt has been watching him for a whole week. He lived in the attic, and only went out at nights.”

“And I never suspected anything!” exclaimed the young man, in stupefied grief. “Then who is this woman who has been there the last six weeks? What is this atrocious farce she has been playing with me?”

“Ah!” exclaimed Uncle Graff. “A woman! Another woman? Incorrigible child!”

Marcel, seated by the table on a stool, his head in his hands, was endeavouring to collect his ideas. He was falling from a pure heaven of delight in which he had been living into the degradation of blood and crime.

“Come, it is impossible!” he continued, with trembling voice. “Why should she have deceived me so atrociously? Was there any need to make me so madly in love with her? No, I cannot believe her guilty; she never lied once to me. Her very looks were frank and true. No, no! You are mistaken; you are heaping calumny on her! Even though the man be a villain, she, at least, is no accomplice of his. She is his victim, as we all are. If they tried to harm me, she had not the strength or the authority to resist. And if she knows what has happened, she is lamenting it all, as we are, this very moment.”

His desperate protests were stifled by sobs, and, leaning his head on the blood-stained table, he wept bitterly. His uncle respected his grief, and, taking Baudoin to the window, he said to him, in subdued tones—

“In your opinion, who has been in the laboratory after you left it?”

“Laforêt, who was keeping watch over our man, must have followed him to this very spot. During the tumult caused by the fire Hans entered the yard of the works, and went right to the summer-house. Laforêt must have surprised him whilst he was examining the drawer. A terrible struggle must then have taken place between Hans, who is a giant in form, and Laforêt, who is very muscular. Hans doubtless made use of some arm or other to rid him of his adversary. Laforêt, killed outright, or stunned, fell on the table, thereupon Hans seized him and dragged him to the window. He became entangled with the curtain, which has been torn away; the weight must have been a heavy one, for the pole is broken.”

“And afterwards?” asked M. Graff, anxiously.

“Afterwards Hans flung the ill-fated Laforêt out of the window. The current has carried him off. Probably he will be picked up in the sluice of the mill of Sainte-Savine.”

“And the woman, Baudoin?” whispered the old man.

“Ah, Monsieur Graff, I do not know if she is the woman of Vanves or not. Both the scent she uses and her voice are different. But a voice may be modified, and a perfume changed. What remains unchanging is villainous skill and seductive charm. This one has all that is needed to madden a man—beauty, distinction, grace. Look at M. Marcel there, in tears. It is neither crime nor theft that has brought him into that state. It is the grief caused by suspecting the one he adores, and the fear that he may now be under the obligation of hating her.”

“Poor fellow! He, at least, did not deserve to suffer. He has been very brave. But for him, Baudoin, we should not now be in the land of the living.”

“True; and but for this wretched woman all this trouble would have been avoided. She well knows what she has done, and with whom she has had to deal. It is not you she would have undertaken to corrupt. She would have known beforehand that your calm and tranquil reason would have guarded you from her attacks. But with the General and M. Marcel it was different. Oh, M. Graff, she has made no mistake! Had she had either the necessary time or desire both the old and the young man would have given up their secret of their own accord.”

Uncle Graff, astonished at such clear-sightedness, looked at Baudoin with considerable interest.

“Ah, sir, you are astonished at hearing me speak in this way. But what I have said is not an invention. My General, on those days when he was master of himself, spoke to me in similar terms. He accused and blamed himself, well knowing how weak he was.”

“And his weakness brought him to his death. Let us consider ourselves fortunate that Marcel has not been treated so harshly. The poor fellow suffers; he is unhappy. But, then, he is only twenty-five years of age, and in one’s youth no sorrow lasts long. But if these rascals had killed him? Ah, his father seemed to guess the danger he ran! He imagined his son would be safer at Ars, in the midst of the workmen, but you see how mistaken he has been.”

“Ah! But, after all, this woman knew how to track him. And in this quiet spot her power was more manifest than ever.”

“What will she do now?”

“Disappear with her acolytes.”

“Are there many of them?”

“There is a pretended brother, a handsome, dark-complexioned young fellow; the servant, who called this morning for M. Marcel; and then Hans, without counting those we know nothing about. A whole band, you may be certain. Sir, not a single act of rascality or treachery happens in the country without those rascals having a hand in it. Laforêt told me so himself: ‘France is exploited by foreigners. The Government will do for strangers what they will not do for Frenchmen. If only an individual offers himself, speaking with a foreign accent, and wearing a many-coloured decoration, all kinds of privileges are showered upon him.’ We are a set of ninnies and simpletons, M. Graff, though we imagine ourselves very clever.”

Marcel drew near. During the past few minutes his face seemed to have become quite furrowed.

“Uncle Graff,” he said, “the present is not the time for lamenting. We must act at once. Perhaps we may still come across the bold scoundrel who has been here. We must give a description of him to the police. For myself, I shall go to the villa and find out the whole truth.”

“We know very little, Marcel, about the people with whom we have to deal if we can think they have lost a single second in escaping.”

“How can they imagine they are even suspected?”

“The coup is effected; all they need do now will be to clear off!”

Marcel gave a gesture of protest.

“Yes,” continued the old man, gently. “You are asking why she could have gone? How could she have taken her departure without seeing me again? My poor child, you are still under the effect of the delusion practised on you! You cannot yet understand that all the tenderness she lavished on you was calculated, interested in its nature, that, in short, you were only a victim. And you still expect her to be waiting for you. Well! we will all go and see, my child. Then we shall know the value of the promises by which you have allowed yourself to be deceived. Meanwhile we must inform the authorities. Take my advice, and say nothing about the powders. We must speak of the murder only. Our man will be caught just as easily, if he is to be caught at all, which I very much doubt. We will keep our secret in the background. Ah! We have to deal with enemies stronger than ourselves! Do not reproach yourself in any way. Everything was too well arranged. In one way or another, you were bound to succumb. Luckily, your life is out of danger.”

“Thanks, Uncle Graff, you do your best to console me. But I shall never forgive myself, in case you are right. Come along.”

They descended into the yard. The fire had been extinguished, and the pumps were now silent, with the exception of the one belonging to the works, which was still dashing water on the ruins. On their approach, the crowd of workmen stood there in respectful silence, all heads uncovered. This misfortune had kindled renewed sympathy with their masters, and their devotion enjoined an attitude of respect. Cardez came forward, and said—

“Monsieur Graff, the workmen want you to speak to them. They do not wish to remain suspected.”

Graff advanced, and said in grave accents—

“My friends, I know you too well to accuse you of the crime which has been committed here. I am well aware that you are hot-headed, but you are very honest all the same. Besides, what would have been the use of such wilful destruction, if not to throw you on to the streets and cause you to die of hunger? The very moment the fire broke out, your delegates and ourselves were on the point of coming to a mutual understanding. After the good will you have just given proof of, in uniting to save the works, I can only admit of one solution, the one most favourable to you. Accordingly, I grant you your demands.”

An immense cheer of mingled joy and gratitude burst from five hundred throats. Caps were waved high in the air. Graff raised his hand; silence was instantly restored.

“I beg you to remember that it is to the manager quite as much as to myself that you owed this result. If he is severe in point of discipline, it is because he feels it to be necessary in the interest of the work. But no one is a stauncher upholder of your interests than your excellent director.”

“Hurrah for M. Cardez!”

Uncle Graff smiled.

“Come, come! You are like overgrown children! Yesterday you wanted to hang him. And myself into the bargain! To-day you receive him with shouts of joy. And it is at this moment that you are more just and reasonable. Remember what has taken place. And next time you have any demands to make, do not begin by threats of murder. Now, go home, all of you, and to-morrow morning, at the usual hour, we shall expect you back at work!”

The crowd melted away in respectful silence. With its usual fickleness it now showered blessings on those it had formerly cursed. Obeying its instincts, which are always generous and kind when left to develop freely, it congratulated itself on the happy ending of a day which might have been so tragic, and now withdrew, delighted at the prospect of resuming the labour it had contemptibly looked upon as utter slavery.

Whilst Milona was running in the direction of Ars, her mistress returned quietly to the salon. Flinging herself on the sofa, she abandoned herself to a delightful reverie. What a difference she found between Cesare Agostini and Marcel! A feeling of nausea came over her when she compared them with one another. The complaisant and needy lover, who always knew when to close his eyes, when some mysterious interests of his were at stake, and this tender, sincere lover, who thought of nothing but her happiness, and sacrificed for that his own.

She remembered Hans’ sarcastic remarks, “Take care you are not caught in your own net, and fall in love with this young man.” Had he then read her inmost thoughts, this dread accomplice of hers, who trampled humanity under foot, and who had no more respect for joy and happiness than the hail has for the harvest? Suppose it were so? Had she not the right to do as she wished? Was she a slave, linked to obscure and threatening adventurers engaged in some formidable though tremendous task? Or was there equality for both them and herself, in danger, success, and pleasure alike? Who could compel her to do what was displeasing to her—above all, who would dare to attempt it? She knew she was as dangerous as any of them, and they, too, were well aware how powerful and audacious she was. If it were necessary to try conclusions with them, they would see who would come out the winner.

She smiled, and her face shone with the light of a glorious graciousness. In that young woman, with those delicate, refined features, who would have discovered the bold, sarcastic Sophia Grodsko? What would Lichtenbach have said, had he seen her, and what would all those have thought who had known her, so faithless and vice-stained, fatal to all who had loved her, and whom she had led on to ruin, dishonour, or death? A young man, the least remarkable of all she had hitherto met, in all probability, had obtained the triumph of making her uneasy and anxious at the thought of what might become of him. Following him in imagination, on his way back to the town, she wondered if it would not have been better to have kept him by her side, instead of allowing him to rush off to the burning works, and especially towards the spot where Hans was watching—Hans, more to be dreaded than all the other scourges combined.

She rose, and, already repenting of having shown such a lack of decision, she was deliberating whether or not she ought, herself, to go to Ars, and find out what was taking place there. Prudence checked the impulse. All the same, she mounted to the second floor of the villa, on to a balcony from which a view of the valley could be obtained beyond the trees. There she quickly saw that the danger, if there had been any, had lessened. The smoke was disappearing, not a single flame was to be seen, and the hubbub from the town had calmed down, whilst even the church bell had ceased ringing. She was about to descend, when she saw Milona open the garden gate. The servant was coming along the alley with rapid and uneasy steps. Sophia had a presentiment that she was the bearer of bad news, and gave a sharp, low whistle. Milo mounted the steps all out of breath, and came straight to her mistress—

“I have performed your commission,” she said. “I found Hans. He read your note, and placed it back in my hands. Here it is.”

“Good. That is not all. What is the matter?”

“Agostini is close behind me. He has just landed at Ars.”

Sophia frowned. A slight blush mounted to her cheeks. Taking a match, she lit it, and set fire to the paper Milona had handed to her. Thoughtfully, she watched the ashes fly away in the wind. Then she asked—

“How is he coming here?”

“In a cab. Listen, you may hear the horse’s hoofs already.”

The cab stopped in front of the door, and Cesare descended. The cabman waited. Sophia slowly descended the staircase, and found herself in the hall, to receive the handsome Italian. He advanced with shining eyes and eager gait. Carelessly, and with an air of indifference, she held out her hand.

“Well, well! my dear,” said he. “Is this the way you receive me after a fortnight’s absence?”

“Silence!” she said firmly; “this is no time for nonsense. Hans at this very moment is doubtless risking his life to obtain possession of the powders.”

“Have you then succeeded with our young victim?”

“You may see for yourself. There will be more to learn later on.”

“Diavolo!”

Rushing from the room, he exclaimed—

“Milo, tell the cabman to wait.”

He returned—

“Who knows if we shall not need him shortly? As I passed by I saw the town was in the greatest commotion imaginable, and that the works were on fire. Is this accident an invention of yours?”

“I believe Hans arranged the whole affair.”

“Gay disposition, Hans! He is fond of an attractive mise en scene. But I should be glad to have a little lunch; I left Paris quite hurriedly.”

“Milona will serve you.”

They passed into the dining-room. The table was set, and Cesare took a seat.

“Come and talk to me, my beautiful Sophia. Time has weighed heavy on my hands since last I saw you. I have vainly sought for distractions.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Ah! Trying to win a little money at cards. A kind of fatality seems to pursue me, my bad luck never leaves me, and I cannot touch a card without losing.”

“You have lost much?”

“Too much! I so easily get excited, you know.”

“Well, how much?” asked Sophia, impatiently.

The handsome Italian replied with a smile—

“Nothing at all, cara; I had the money!”

“Who gave it you?”

“Lichtenbach. I was obliged to accustom him to my little fancies. When he becomes my father-in-law I shall appeal to him rather often.”

“Take care. He may tire.”

“He will not be allowed to do so.”

“His resources are not inexhaustible.”

“You are jesting. I am well acquainted with the source of his wealth.”

“Indeed! Who has been informing you?”

“A relation of mine, the Very Reverend Monsignor Boldi, whom I saw in Paris a few days ago. Lichtenbach, in addition to his wealth, is a church trustee. I no longer wonder at the influence he wields. He has the disposal of immense sums, and of almost limitless power. But he is not a man of action. He is always hesitating and trembling. Had you seen how terrified he was when I alluded to his position as a kind of ecclesiastical banker, you would have laughed outright. Ah! cara, his brow was covered with perspiration. Whatever can he be afraid of?”

“From his constituents, nothing. From you, everything. That he doubtless guessed at once.”

“Oh! Mon Dieu! All that trouble for such a trifle! A mere bagatelle of forty thousand francs. That cursed baccarat! But Lichtenbach never plays, except on the Bourse. And there he always wins!”

“Question!”

“Ah! Can he, too, be cursed with bad luck?”

“We are now doing our best to arrange matters so that he may have nothing but good luck!”

“The powder affair?”

“Yes. Listen, what is that?”

A sound was heard outside. Taking from a cupboard a small revolver, she slipped it into her pocket, and said—“Are you armed?”

“I am always armed. What are you afraid of?”

“Wait!”

In the silence a curious whistling sound was heard. Sophia’s features relaxed.

“It is Hans!”

A rapid step was heard on the sand of the alley. The door of the salon opened, and Milona made her appearance, followed by the colossus. He was still clothed in his mean-looking fisher’s costume. Flinging his hat on the ground, he removed his blouse and his huge shoes, without the slightest thought of Sophia’s presence, and exclaimed—

“Milo, my clothes.”

Placing on the table a glass recipient and a sheet of paper, he said, with a grimace—

“Here it is!”

“Then you have succeeded at last?”

Sophia and Cesare approached with a kind of respect, and saw through the jar the brownish shavings of the powder which had already cost so much blood!

“Yes, here it is! This small phial and this piece of paper again represent the life of a man.”

“You were surprised in the act?”

“Yes. And I have killed again.”

“Who is the victim this time?” exclaimed Sophia, pale as death.

“Do not alarm yourself, my dear; it is not your turtledove.”

He gave Cesare a glance, which immediately put the Italian on the alert. His light, careless attitude disappeared, and a cold, hard look came into his face.

“It was a troublesome fellow I have had on my track for several days,” continued Hans. “A Government spy. It was not the first time we had met, either. He almost caught me three years ago at Lyons, in the affair of the Sergeant-Major. I took good note of him at the time, and his account is now settled!”

“But will his murder not be discovered?”

“What then? We must clear off at once; the authorities never trouble about detectives, that you know very well. This one will undergo a curing process, with his broken head, in the river, until he is fished out. Meanwhile, we shall be on the other side of the frontier.”

Milona entered, carrying a suit of elegant-looking clothes, a grey felt hat, and yellow shoes. Unceremoniously, Hans dressed himself.

“The cabman is at the door. Did he see you enter?” asked Sophia.

“No. I am not such a fool as to show myself to him. It was very convenient to come along the end of the garden, where the wall is conveniently low. I am returning the same way, and I would advise you, my children, to vacate this place as soon as possible. As you are aware, we are due shortly in Venice. The first who arrives will wait for the rest. There, I again become Major Fraser.”

Placing in a leather bag his glass recipient and the folded paper, he shook hands with Agostini, smiled familiarly to Sophia, and disappeared as he had come. The Italian gave a kick at Hans’ cast-off clothes, and said—

“Milo, all this must disappear, my child.”

“In the kitchen fire,” said the Dalmatian, gravely.

“And you, Sophia, what do you intend to do? You have heard what our noble friend has just said. In my opinion, the best thing we can do is to start at once.”

The young woman made no reply. She passed into the salon with slow, steady steps, as though laboriously seeking the right form to explain her meaning. Sitting down, she took a cigarette, and, looking at the handsome Italian standing before her, said—

“Yes, indeed, I do think you would do well to start off. There is no reason for you to stay here. As for myself, a sudden disappearance would excite suspicion; it would, in fact, be a very tactless thing to do.”

“But will you not be suspected if you remain behind? Will no action be taken against you?”

“I? Suspected? In what way? Who could suspect me? Have I done anything whatever calculated to excite mistrust? There has been no one here except Marcel Baradier; he alone knows me.”

“But doubtless he gave you the information by the help of which Hans succeeded in his enterprise.”

“He did certainly give it me, a couple of hours ago. The execution has been concomitant with the revelation, so to speak. By what miracle could I, who have not stirred from here, have informed the one who entered the laboratory, and rid himself of his spy? This latter will not speak, as he is dead! The laboratory will be found ransacked and in disorder. Very good! Have there not taken place to-day, at the works, sufficient events in which several rascals have been implicated, without there being any need to charge me with a deed so much more likely to have been wrought by any of them? If I leave I shall be suspected. Why have I taken to flight? How is it I have left no explanation of my departure? What has become of me? Then, afterwards, what and who am I? Whilst if I remain quietly here with Milona, Marcel returns, finds me serene and calm, and everything is safe. Is the arrangement not a good one?”

Cesare smiled, and, in ironical tones, said—

“Very good, indeed; too good, in fact!”

Sophia frowned.

“What do you mean?”

Drawing near her, with subtle grace, and still bent on adopting gentle means, he said—

“Have you no longer confidence in me, cara? Why are you trying to deceive me?”

“In what way, may I ask?”

“You are not telling me the truth. This is the first time you have played me false, Sophia.”

She bit her lips, and turned slightly pale.

“My dear Cesare, do not ask so many questions. Do as I tell you, as you have always done hitherto. You have never found it a bad policy, have you? Very well, continue as before.”

“No!”

This refusal rang out sharp as a lash.

“Ah! Might I be permitted to know the reasons influencing you?”

“They are the same as yours. You will not come with me on account of this young Marcel Baradier. But it is on that very account that I am bent on your accompanying me.”

“Can you be jealous?”

“I am.”

“That is something quite novel; and I must confess I am greatly surprised!”

“It is diversity of sensations which gives a charm to life!”

“Then you think—”

“That this fair-complexioned young fellow has pleased you more than was agreed upon in our programme. Now, though I was disposed to allow you to practice your wiles on him, in the interests of business, I no longer feel inclined to permit you to flirt with him for art’s sake. The play is over, let us drop the curtain without continuing the love scene in the green-room.”

“You are a very practical lover, Cesare.”

“Did you not know that before?”

“I have been very generous to you.”

“Many thanks.”

“And now I intend to act as I please, and to-day I cannot obey you.”

They looked at one another like two wrestlers about to come to close quarters. Cesare’s eyes sparkled with anger, while Sophia stood there calm, with lowered eyelids, as though unwilling to meet his look. The Italian, with an effort, controlled himself, and speaking with affected gaiety, said—

“Come, cara, let us not quarrel. We have every possible reason to be indulgent with one another; have we not been acquainted so long? Tell me what you have resolved on. I will do all I can to further your wishes. Is it a week’s liberty you want? When that length of time has elapsed will you promise to come to Venice? Mon Dieu! We may well be complaisant with one another. I will imagine I am nothing more than the brother of Madame Vignola, and will bear you no ill-feeling; that I promise. Will that satisfy you?”

She replied with a sigh—

“I do not know.”

“But I must know.”

“How can you be so stupid, Cesare, as to speak to the Baroness Grodsko as you would to any other woman? One would think you had forgotten what she is when some fancy takes possession of her. My poor friend, I am sorry for you; Lichtenbach’s company must have spoiled you. You must stop seeing him; he has turned you into a mere bourgeois!”

“You are jesting with me?”

“No!”

“You refuse to promise to come and rejoin me?”

“When I left Zypiatine, was he ever a source of annoyance to me?”

“Then you confess you wish to leave me?” exclaimed the Italian, pale with anger.

“You will know later, my friend. At present I have not the slightest wish to see you again.”

“Ah! Now you are speaking frankly. Do you forget that we have several secrets in common?”

“No; nor do I forget there is no obligation for you to remember them.”

“That means?”

Sophia raised her eyelids, and flashed a look on Agostini which astonished him.

“It means that if for my own safety your disappearance were necessary, your life would be very cheap.”

“You threaten me with death?”

“Fool! You are well aware that if you breathed a single word calculated to throw light on our enterprises, there are at least five persons who would kill you at once.”

“But the affairs of the association are not your affairs, and you know that I am acquainted with the ones as well as with the others.”

“Listen, Cesare; people like ourselves ought to be agreed in everything we do, if we wish to run no risk of ruin. The slightest discord places us at the mercy of our enemies. We must serve one another with the greatest self-sacrifice. Every selfish demand detracts from the force necessary to common success.”

“Ah! Do you pretend to impose an apathetic indifference on people who live with an intensity a hundred times greater than the rest of mankind? You forget that I love you, and I will submit to no rivalry, Sophia.”

“And how will you compel me to obey your wishes, may I ask?”

“In the simplest manner imaginable. I will inform Marcel Baradier of your life before you gave up your whole existence to international investigations and diplomatic intrigues, and we shall see if his love for you will survive, for instance, an account of the incident of Segovia.”

Sophia turned so pale that Cesare was afraid of the impression he had produced. Grinding her teeth, and stamping about the room like a wild beast at bay, she seized upon the revolver she had taken up on the arrival of Hans, and, levelling it at the head of the Italian, said—

“Ah, you villain; never again shall you betray a single human being!”

With extraordinary agility, Agostini leapt on to her, dashed her arm upwards, so that the shot could not reach him, and pitilessly twisting her beautiful white wrist, he took possession of the revolver, which he calmly placed in his pocket. Then looking resolutely at Sophia, he said—

“Now let the dagger have a turn!”

She fell into a chair.

“You dog! To dare to raise your hand against me! You shall be punished for it.”

“Good! But we cannot lose our time with such nonsense. Can it be admitted that the man the Countess Grodsko has chosen as her companion will submit to being fooled like the veriest ninny? You may hate me if you like, Sophia, but you shall not despise me! This is the first time we have tested our strength against one another, and as you see, I have not been found to be the weaker. Do not recommence the struggle; if you do, I shall treat you without the slightest gallantry?”

Shaking her head, and looking at her bruised hand, she said, submissively—

“You have hurt me, Cesare!”

“Whose fault is it? Upon my word, I believe you were mad, for a moment. You brave me, all for the sake of this young fop! Do you know I am going to kill him?”

“I forbid you!” said Sophia, emphatically.

“I shall be delighted to obey you,” he said gallantly. “There is this difference between us, that I am dominated by respectful attentions towards you, and treat you like a sovereign, whilst you, by your language and your attitude, wish to reduce me to the rank of a lackey! Is that just?”

She made no reply. He walked to and fro for a short time, then drawing nearer said—

“Never have I seen you in such a passion before. What in the world can this young fellow have taught you? For the future I shall not be able to trust you at all, though hitherto I have had the most complete confidence in you! Is it possible that just now you thought of blowing out my brains? Afterwards, what would you have done with my body? Your Marcel would have arrived. He would have found the floor stained with blood, and my corpse lying in the middle of the salon! How would you have explained the matter to him? You see, Sophia, it was a fit of madness which came over you. And all for what? Place in the balance these love-dreams of yours, weigh them against the immense interests in which you have a part, and decide whether the former weigh down the latter? Really, women must at times be mad for one like yourself to give way to such acts of extravagance!”

He gave her a side-long glance as he spoke, but the expression on her face did not appear to satisfy him, so he continued—

“We neither have nor can have strength, unless we support one another. I rely on your beauty, and you ought to be proud of my skill and courage. Wherever we pass, it is your rôle to charm and please, and mine to defend you. Have I ever failed in my duty? When Colonel de Bredmann, last year in Vienna, spoke of you in a manner you considered derogatory, did I hesitate to challenge him the following day, and drive six inches of cold steel through his throat in the Prater? I must confess that you, with charming generosity, enabled me to support the run of ill-luck which always overtook me at the club. Mutual exchange—you, of money; and myself, of respect. Meanwhile, we carried on our affairs. And with what success? Do you remember? Was it not better than quarrelling? Come, Sophia, don’t look so gloomy; I know your feelings are bitter, but don’t let them be more bitter than my own. Diavolo! Wake up and speak. Give me an answer.”

Appearing to shake off the feeling of numbness which had come over her, she once more looked at her reddened fingers, and said, with a strange smile—

“Very well! Order, since it is you who are the master!”

With displeased air, he replied—

“No! Don’t adopt such an attitude! Now you are acting the part of a resigned victim! You must act according to your own free will and pleasure. I think I have proved to your satisfaction that you are turning your back on the right path, and that it is time to turn round. Am I not right?”

“One is never right when one is the stronger!”

“That is a woman’s reply. Well, Sophia, I am very sorry, but I will not assume this advantage of imposing on you any resolution whatever. I leave you free to do as you wish. Stay or go as you like. For my part, I must go; I do not feel inclined to let myself be caught in this house like a fox in a poultry-yard. I will give you ten minutes while you make up your mind and prepare your luggage. I will smoke a cigarette in the garden. Decide your future for yourself.”

He left the room. A flash of hate shone in Sophia’s eyes. She arose, gave a sigh of despair, and then murmured—

“He is right!”

She called for Milona. The servant appeared.

“The trunk at once. We are leaving,” she said briefly.

“Good, madame.”

Sophia sat down before a small desk, took up a sheet of writing-paper edged with black, and wrote—

“My dear Marcel,

“When you return to the villa I shall no longer be here to receive you. My brother, to whom I have been denounced by some person unknown, has arrived in a passion, and is taking me far away. Never try to see me again. Keep the remembrance of my kisses ever fresh in your heart. I am carrying off the delicious flavour of yours on my lips. Good-bye.

“Yours with life-long regret,
“ANETTA.”

Sealing the envelope, she placed it in full view on the table of the salon, and, after looking all around, she went out into the small garden. Cesare was walking to and fro, along the alley, where she had spent so many hours by Marcel’s side. She sighed deeply. But her mind was made up, and she was not a woman to draw back.

“Well?” asked the Italian.

“Well, you have convinced me; I will accompany you.”

“Very good. Now you are yourself again. It was only a momentary weakness which came over you.”

“Indeed, I was mad,” she said, mockingly. “Just think, I was in love with this young Baradier.”

“That I can well understand,” he conceded graciously. “He is a charming young fellow. But everything comes to an end. And since, thanks to this intrigue, you have obtained the result so ardently followed up by Hans, the only thing we can now do is to quit. And that is what you are now doing, with your usual good sense. Just now you surprised me, I must confess, by your resistance. This is the first time I have ever seen you sentimental. This fit of idyllic tenderness seemed quite incomprehensible to me. Now, can you explain to me what has taken place?”

“Oh! It is very simple. In this young Marcel I found a love and affection at once simple and disinterested, quite refreshing. It seemed as though I were in a thirsty desert, and came upon a limpid spring, at which no one had drunk previously. I stopped at the edge, looked into the crystal water, and the reflected image was so different from myself, that I stood there astonished and delighted. I thought I was about to find tranquil rest, and a delightful regeneration, and cease being the Sophia who had gone through so many adventures, to become a simple harmless woman in the eyes of a love-stricken swain. Perhaps my mouth would forget its lying, and my eyes their deceit and fascination! What a dream! And how near realization! What unexpected happiness, ruined in a moment by your reappearance. Ah! I have cursed you, Cesare, and Hans as well! But what can I do, how can I tear myself away from my destiny? It was the height of madness for me to think that a sincere love could unfold in my heart, as though a wild floweret of the open fields could spring up in a marsh! Come, let us think no more of all this. Society shall pay the price of my disillusion!”

“Now you are speaking sensibly. But all you have been telling me is most deplorably romantic. To think of your settling down in a village like the Dame aux Camelias to live on new-laid eggs with Armand Duval! How ridiculous! Ah! Here is Milona with your hat and cloak.”

“Ask the coachman to mount the luggage.”

Sophia, apparently impassive, watched her trunk and bags change position. As Cesare stood at the garden-gate calling her, she looked around for the last time, raised her hands to her lips, and to all she associated with Marcel—green trees, forms on which they had sat, birds that had sung above their heads, sky which had shone on their happiness—she sent a rapid kiss.

“Are you ready?” asked the Italian.

“Here I am.”

“We will not leave by Ars, the town is in too great a commotion. This worthy coachman will drive us to Saint-Savine, where we will take the express for Paris.”

“As you like.”

“Come along, then, quick!”

She mounted the open carriage. Milona took up a position opposite her mistress. A lash of the whip, a sound of bells, and at the turn of the road everything was out of view.

It was four o’clock when Uncle Graff, after arranging for the search for Laforêt, and giving orders for the management of the works, in short arranging for whatever was absolutely pressing, came for his nephew to go with him to the Villa de la Cavée. Baudoin, with a trusty revolver in his pocket, went on in front as a scout. Marcel and his uncle followed, a hundred yards behind. The excitement of the struggle and danger was now past, and they were beginning to examine the position more coolly.

It was not a brilliant one. The boldness and violence of their enemies had been manifested with too few precautions, for the utmost excesses were to be dreaded at their hands in case the struggle were continued. Now, at this moment, they appeared to be on the point of triumph. They had just obtained possession of the scientific treasure, the commercial application of which would assure them an enormous fortune. How exultant they must feel, accordingly! But then, on the other hand, how disconcerted they would be on attempting to utilize the stolen formula! As Marcel had said, to obtain the explosive in its full power, and with its special destructive qualities, a particular manipulation, a twist of the hand, so to speak, discovered by General de Trémont, was necessary. They might try to apply the formula; but if they did not know how to handle the different doses, their hopes would fail of realization. Now the thief-assassin, who had found his way into the laboratory, had carried off the precious document, but would it not remain utterly worthless, like the golden crown in the legend, which changed into a dry leaf?

Uncle Graff was meditating on all this as he walked by Marcel’s side. He said nothing to the young man. What was the use? It was also certain that the villains, bent as they were on obtaining the secret, had already killed two men and set fire to the works to accomplish their object. Granting that they had once more failed, would they not recommence the struggle, and purchase victory at the cost of no matter what sacrifices? Under these conditions there was no drawing back; they must risk much to try and check an offensive return, and not hesitate in case the unknown beauty were an accomplice in the crimes already committed; it must be their object to keep her in view, question her, and if need be, deliver her into the hands of justice in order to try and throw light on this dark and dangerous affair.

They reached the wood, and, the house being no more than a hundred yards distant, Baudoin, who had waited for them, said—

“I will go all round the garden, and bear off in the direction of the wood, so that, if any one tries to escape, I may be able to cut off his retreat.”

“No,” said Marcel. “Let us remain together.”

Just at that moment an old woman appeared before them, dragging a faggot of decayed wood.

She smiled with her toothless mouth, and, stopping to take breath, said—

“Is it the young lady of the villa you want to see? If so—”

“Well?” said Marcel.

“You will not find her here. An hour ago she went away in a cab with all her luggage, in the direction of Sainte-Savine. Cacheu, of the Lion d’Or, drove the cab himself.”

“Gone?” exclaimed Marcel, stupefied.

“So it seems,” said Uncle Graff. “The coup is effected.”

“Impossible!”

“Poor young man! His walks with the young lady were very agreeable,” muttered the old woman.

She shook her head, encircled with a kerchief, accepted the two-franc piece Uncle Graff slipped into her hand, and walked slowly away, in the direction of the town, dragging her faggot along the road.

Marcel had already entered the villa. On the threshold his heart seemed almost to stop beating. The door remained open, as though, in the hurry of flight, they had not had time to close it, or rather, as though she had left nothing behind worth keeping. Crossing the garden, he entered the hall, and called—

“Milona! Anetta!”

No reply came; nothing but silence and darkness. Entering the salon, he saw a letter lying on the table. Tearing it open, he rapidly ran over the contents, sat down to read it once more, finally understood it, and sat there, with bowed head and throbbing brow, as though in the presence of a terrible disaster. There Uncle Graff found him. He had gone over the whole house, and acquired the certainty that it was abandoned. Baudoin was seated in the garden. Seeing his nephew’s anguish and the pallor of his countenance, the old man’s heart melted; he placed his hand affectionately on the young man’s head, softly stroked his hair, and seeing the letter pressed between his passive fingers, asked—

“Has she written to you?”

At these words, simple though they were, his fugitive love seemed almost reinstated in his eyes, as he felt that she had not forgotten him, and Marcel burst into sobs as he silently held out the paper and hid his face in his hands. Uncle Graff drew near the window and read the letter, after which he stood there in a reverie. Marcel, regaining possession of himself to defend the one he loved, finally rose from his seat, and said in supplicating accents—

“Uncle Graff, is this the letter of a woman who lies? Do not her protests appear sincere to you? Has she the faintest complicity in the crimes committed? Do you accuse her of having deceived me? Is she not rather a victim undergoing a rigorous tyranny at the hands of the very monsters who threaten us? This letter, Uncle Graff, this letter—does it not breathe despair in every line? Is it not a confirmation of her love for me?”

“The letter appears to be sincere,” said the old man, calmly. “I cannot but recognize that grief is evident in every word, and that the one who wrote it was evidently acting under compulsion when she left the house. That is a proof that she loves you, and regrets your absence. But is that a proof that she is not guilty, and the accomplice of the rest?”

“Oh, Uncle Graff, do you think it possible?”

“I do, and I am afraid it is so, my dear Marcel, and that would be more serious than anything else, for, if this woman loves you—and how could she help loving you, my dear child, once she knows you—ah, if this woman loves you, my anxiety will become greater than ever. For she might try to see you again, and then—”

A light of hope illumined Marcel’s face.

“Ah, if only that could be!”

“Marcel, you see what grounds I had for fear. At the very thought of seeing her again you at once become radiant with joy. And yet she is a rascal, there is not the slightest doubt of it. I will not dispute her charms, since she has obtained such control over you; but she is very dangerous all the same, for, in short, suppose she were the woman of Vanves?”

“Impossible!”

“Do not say impossible. You know nothing about it. These women, you see, are terrible creatures. In matters like the one now engaging our attention they are a kind of female Proteus, capable of assuming all forms, even the most diverse and disconcerting, to deceive their enemies and allay suspicion. Cosmopolitan adventuresses, living on human folly; spies, on the track of State secrets; corruptresses, sufficiently fascinating to obtain the mastery over all consciences. You are aware that these women are insinuating and of plausible manners, generally very beautiful. And this one—”

“Oh! No, no!”

Uncle Graff insisted authoritatively.

“This one, very clever and dangerous, more dangerous than the rest, even, has played her rôle with you, whilst satisfying her caprice at the same time. Come, Marcel, be reasonable; do not blind yourself. Why was the man of Vanves concealed here? Why have the powders been removed from the laboratory, and why is the house deserted, now that the burglary is accomplished? It is not a mere departure, it is a flight. Consider the rapidity and suddenness of the resolution reached. This morning only she had no thought of it, or, rather, in that case she deceived you, since she said nothing about it, and was to receive you to-night. Crime and duplicity are manifest everywhere. You have been deceived by words of tenderness, whilst the others, her accomplices, were stealing and murdering.”

Marcel gave a movement expressive of anger.

“If only I had the proof of this!”

Uncle Graff looked at him fixedly.

“Well, what would you do?”

“Ah! I would have my revenge, that I swear! All my love would turn into hate. If my heart has been deceived with lying words, I would tear it out of my breast, rather than cherish a poisoned love! If that woman was not a victim, she would be a monster. And, by what I hold most sacred in existence, I would punish her!”

The old man looked at his nephew with considerable satisfaction.

“Oh! Mon Dieu! We don’t ask you to do that! Simply forget her. Above all, make up your mind not to fall into her toils again, if ever you meet her.”

At that moment the door opened, and Baudoin appeared. Holding a book in his hand, he approached mysteriously, and said—

“It is useful to make a thorough search. One can never examine too well.”

He laughed as he spoke and held the book aloft—

“Had I done nothing but cast a careless glance over the lady’s bed-chamber, I should not have found this.”

“What is it?” asked Graff.

“A book—a simple book.”

Marcel took it up, looked at the title, and said—

“Yes, it is a book she has been reading lately.”

“Oh! the book in itself signifies nothing,” said Baudoin. “It had fallen down by the side of the bed nearest the wall. In a hurry of departure she did not see it, and it was left there. But there was something between these leaves.”

Baudoin took between his fingers a piece of paper, and showed it to his masters.

“This envelope, torn in two, and folded to serve as a book-mark. To whom does it belong, if not to the one who has been making use of it? Now on the folded part, there is a line of writing and an address.”

“An address?”

“Look!”

He handed the paper to Marcel, and on the small band, concealed by the folding, the young man read aloud the name: “Madame la Baronne Grodsko.” The bottom of the envelope, on which was doubtless written the street, number and town, had disappeared. On the top, however, a large stamp contained the postmark: “Wien, April 18.”

The rest was effaced.

“Baroness Grodsko,” repeated Marcel. “But her name was Anetta Vignola.”

“Ah!” said Uncle Graff; “these women change their names as easily as their dresses. She has only kept this envelope from the most incredible and imprudent carelessness. And how is it this letter, which came from Vienna a fortnight ago, is now here? It must have been forwarded under another envelope to the name and address she assumed here!”

Baudoin then remarked—

“Perhaps I may be permitted to state that the woman who called on my master on the night of the crime was addressed by him as Baronne—”

Marcel turned pale.

“True,” he murmured, in a low tone. “But what relation is there between Anetta Vignola and the Baroness Grodsko?”

“That is what we must discover, for it is the clue which may guide us through the darkness in which we are now groping. Courage, my child; if this woman is the same who has committed such infamous actions—”

“Ah! Uncle Graff, in that case I should feel no pity whatever for her.”

The uncle shook his nephew’s hand, in sympathetic approval.

“Now, there is nothing more for us to do here. The house has delivered up to us part of its secret. The rest we must seek elsewhere.”

The three men went out into the garden, after carefully closing the doors, and slowly returned to Ars.

Lichtenbach was sitting in his study, listening to young Vernot, his broker, who was speaking with the utmost volubility.

“Baradier and Graff will not long be able to maintain their position on the Explosives now. It has already been remarked at the Bourse that they have not reduced their stock. The coming liquidation will be a decisive one; or else they will remain firm; then what a bankruptcy it will be! Or they may sell everything. What a fall that will mean!”

A faint smile came over the banker’s lips.

“I should like to see that!”

“Man Dieu! My dear master, I cannot conceal from you the fact that, in business circles they say it is a duel between the firm of Baradier and Graff and the firm of Lichtenbach. One of the two will go under.”

“I know it; but I have no fear.”

“I have negotiated this affair for you, so I know our mode of action. Hitherto it has been an admirable one. To sum up in a word, you have sold what the Baradiers have bought.”

“Yes, my friend, and I have their money, as they have my vouchers. Now, Vernot, be wideawake as to what is about to happen. The explosives, which are now at their highest price, will rapidly fall to the very lowest.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely certain.”

“Why?”

“Because a rival company is being formed, which is in possession of the patents of a product destined to replace, within a very short time, all the mining powders and other dynamites hitherto employed, and which will cost fifty per cent. less in commerce. What do you say to that?”

“It will be a crushing blow!”

“You are right. Read my journal to-night; it will contain the first article of a series destined to set forth before the world this new discovery. In two months from now I wish to see Baradier and Graff bankrupt!”

“Oh, they have a long purse to draw on,”

“We shall see about that.”

“So now you engage me to sell?”

“From to-morrow sell as fast as you can. There will be a gain of five hundred francs per share. You will see the movement begin. All my personal orders will be executed on foreign Exchanges. Profit by this opportunity.”

“I shall not be likely to forget.”

“Now go. My daughter is expecting me, and I am punctual in my habits.”

“My dear master, many thanks, and my respectful compliments.”

The stockbroker left the room. Lichtenbach did not even rise from his seat to accompany him to the door. He was thinking. From Venice a letter had reached him which, on the one hand, caused him great satisfaction, and, on the other, brought him a certain amount of uneasiness. Sophia Grodsko had written to him: “The war powder is a triumphant success. Experiments made at Spezzia and Trieste have given prodigious results with marine cannons. Plates of Siemens steel a foot thick are pierced like sheets of paper. We have received two million francs, the rest will come afterwards. The affair is big with magnificent results. Things are not progressing so well with the commerce powder. Hans has been at work for the last fortnight at Swalbach with Prunier, from Zurich. He has been disappointed. All the attempts have been unsatisfactory. They have manipulated the product in different manners, but no result has been obtained. The explosive is worth no more than dynamite. True it is not so dear, but we are far from what we hoped, and from what must actually be the case. There must be some secret or other in the fabrication of the powder unknown to us. Hans is trying to find it, and has not abandoned all hopes of doing so. But, up to the present, fiasco. Don’t be discouraged, but thank me for telling you the exact truth. Agostini sends you his best wishes, and informs you that you will shortly receive your brevet of baron.”

Lichtenbach growled.

“Baron! That will be of some use to me, indeed, if this affair fails.”

Rising, he gave a gesture of defiance.

“It will not fail! Hans is a skilful chemist. He will find out the secret. Besides, if need be I will retrace my steps. They will not catch me so easily, altogether unprepared.”

He smiled. His daughter entered the room. She was no longer the little schoolgirl, dressed in the blue convent robe, but an elegant and graceful Parisienne. The banker looked at her with considerable satisfaction.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, father. It was agreed we should start at four o’clock.”

“And where are you taking me?”

“To the Charity Bazaar in favour of the Alsace-Lorraine orphans. You must come.”

“I might have sent a cheque.”

“But I must be there. Madame Sainte-Alix has charge of a stall, along with several of my old school companions. I promised to be there.”

“Well, let us start.”

They set off. The sale took place in the Agricultural Hall of France. All over the walls hung groups of flags, whilst above a verdant groove stood a marble bust representing Alsace, with a mourning sash flung across the breast. The wife of a Deputy from the Vosges, surrounded by a group of ladies belonging to official circles, performed the honours. A large double sofa occupied the middle of the room, between two rows of stalls, in which the most aristocratic families of Alsace and Lorraine were represented by white haired grandmothers who had never been willing to acknowledge the conquest of these two lost provinces, and elegant young ladies, smiling and careless, educated or born in exile, and finding France beautiful, and life pleasant, even though it were passed far from their native soil.

Lichtenbach and Marianne were warmly received immediately they entered the room. Here the financier’s prestige and the influence of the journal proprietor could be exercised in uninterrupted sovereignty. Nothing but smiles on every side. The more republican one’s opinions, the more unctuous was the respect lavished on Lichtenbach, the reactionary. Marianne, timid and anxious, was looking for the stall presided over by Madame Sainte-Alix.

A young attendant, anxious to serve so rich an heiress, placed himself under the young girl’s orders, and Marianne passed through the crowd of buyers and sellers until she reached the stall where her old companions were selling children’s clothing at five times its real value, and that without the slightest difficulty. Geneviève de Trémont, dressed in mourning, presided over the hosiery department. After exchanging a friendly greeting she asked—

“Are you all alone?”

“Oh no. My father has stayed behind for a moment to speak to the wife of a Senator.”

“He is going to leave you here for some time?”

“I do not know. Perhaps it would not be convenient for him to return for me.”

Turning towards the nun presiding at the cash-box, she said—

“Are you pleased with the result of your sales, madame?”

“We have made three thousand francs since noon, my child. But it will soon be five o’clock. In an hour everything will be over. We have still a third of our stock left.”

“Very well. Send me everything you have not sold to-night,” said the young girl, simply.

“Ah, my child, how grateful I feel to you. But what will your father think?”

Mademoiselle Lichtenbach smiled calmly.

“My father? He never opposes my wishes. Besides, I am rich.”

She exhibited a purse full of gold.

“And, if that is not sufficient, papa will make me an advance.”

“Ha, look in front!” said Geneviève de Trémont. “There is Amélie at the stall of Madame Baradier.”

Marianne blushed. She remembered what her father had said regarding their quarrels with the Baradiers and Graffs, and felt considerably embarrassed in consequence. What kind of relations could be set up between these hostile families? Suddenly the smiling face of Marcel Baradier awoke in her memory. The hostility of the parents could not bind the children, since he had so graciously received Lichtenbach’s daughter when she had called at the Rue de Provènce. Turning her eyes in the direction of Geneviève, she recognized the one of whom she was thinking, near the counter where Madame Baradier and Amélie were selling. He smiled as he talked to an old man who was purchasing a porcelain vase of a very ugly pattern. After the bargain was struck he took it from his hands, placed it gaily back again on to the stall, and said, in tones sufficiently loud to be heard by Marianne—

“This is the third time, Uncle Graff, that we have sold it, and it has been left behind. People don’t object to paying for it, but it is so frightful that no one will decide to carry it off.”

The old man put back his purse into his pocket and said—

“Now, where is the stall of Mademoiselle de Trémont?”

“We will go there together. The very thing you want, uncle. Trousseau and baby linen. Indispensable for bachelors!”

“You rogue!”

They crossed the room. Suddenly Marcel became very grave; he had recognized Mademoiselle Lichtenbach. She, too, had seen him approach, and, trembling, had not had the courage to look him in the face. Uncle Graff, with his usual good nature, said—

“Well, Mademoiselle Geneviève, what are you going to sell me? Children’s hoods? How much a dozen?”

“Sixty francs, as it is you, Monsieur Graff. And you can leave them with us if you like.”

“Certainly. It would be too much trouble to carry them all off.”

“What you leave us we will give to the Sainte-Enfance institution. After you have finished, if there is anything which remains one of our friends has promised to buy it up.”

“Who is she?”

“Mademoiselle Marianne Lichtenbach.”

Graff started. His face changed expression, and he said—

“The daughter of—”

As he took a step backwards he heard a gentle voice say—

“On the ground of charity there are no enemies, only competitors as to who shall do the most good.”

“You are quite right, mademoiselle,” replied the old man, with a bow. “And I will immediately put your precept into practice.”

Leaning towards the nun, he asked calmly—

“How much for the contents of the stall?”

“My dear sir,” stammered Madame Sainte-Alix, astonished.

“Is two thousand francs enough?”

“Oh, that’s nothing! I will give four thousand!”

And Count Cesare Agostini, smiling and elegant, appeared by the side of Mademoiselle Lichtenbach.

“Our father has sent me to you, mademoiselle,” he said, with a bow. “He will be here in a moment, and, really, he would not have tolerated that any one should rob you of the honour of your generosity at so moderate a price.”

Glancing around at those present, and recognizing Marcel he affected a joyful surprise.

“Ah! Monsieur Baradier! I am delighted to meet you. We have had a great deal of trouble since last I saw you. I heard all about it on my return to call for my sister. I greatly regretted not being able to stay and tell you how sorry we felt for you. You were so kind and gracious to us in that quiet country place.”

He spoke without the slightest hesitation, and with a boldness which stupefied Marcel. As he looked at Agostini he wondered whether he were not dreaming—whether this calm, phlegmatic person speaking to him at this charity bazaar in the heart of Paris, without even thinking of escape, was indeed the man he suspected of having mystified him at Ars, of being, doubtless, the accomplice of murderers and incendiaries; at the very least in collusion with this enigmatical woman whose memory still filled his heart. He listened with astonishment, and replied—

“And your sister, Madame Vignola?”

“Ah! Poor Anetta!” interrupted Cesare. “She is at Venice, engaged in troublesome family affairs. But she will probably come to Paris this summer to assist at my marriage.”

“Ah! You are about to be married, Count?”

“Yes, M. Lichtenbach has given his consent at last.”

This news of the marriage of Agostini into the Lichtenbach family produced an electric effect. Marcel immediately regained full possession of his faculties.

Looking at the Italian from head to foot, he said ironically—

“Ah! you are about to enter the family of M. Lichtenbach. It was to be, and it would have been a pity could it not have taken place!”

“I do not understand very well,” replied Cesare.

“Yes, you understand perfectly. And if you wish further information ask for it from your sister.”

“These are strange words,” said the Italian, arrogantly.

“Every one does as well as he can; all men have not the privilege of being strange in their actions.”

Agostini was about to reply, and the two men stood threateningly in front of one another, when a hand was laid on the Italian’s arm, and the voice of Mademoiselle Lichtenbach was heard saying—

“Monsieur le Comte, will you come this way, please? My father is looking for you.”

Cesare gave Marcel a defiant glance. Then, turning with flattering humility to the young girl, he said—

“Your slightest wish shall be obeyed, mademoiselle. But I shall see this gentleman again, and—”

“I forbid you!”

“Very good.”

Lichtenbach came up to them. He passed in front of Graff, without appearing to see him.

“What is this they are telling me, Count?” he said, addressing Agostini. “You have been bidding up to four thousand francs for the contents of this stall? What a trifling sum! You must have had some very sorry competitors against you!”

An expression of disdain came over his face as he looked round on Marcel and Uncle Graff.

“Formerly my opponents were more tenacious. The struggle for gold has considerably cooled them down.”

Turning towards the nun he wrote a few lines on a piece of paper, saying—

“Here, madame, is a cheque for ten thousand francs.”

“What shall I give you in return?” asked Madame Sainte-Alix, stupefied.

“Your prayers,” said Elias, humbly.

A group had formed round the stall, and a murmur of approving admiration reached the ears of Lichtenbach. Agostini exclaimed, with emphasis—

“This is a magnificent gift!”

“Come along, my daughter,” said Elias.

Marianne kissed Geneviève de Trémont, and, lowering her head, so as not to see Marcel, followed her father and Agostini. As she passed in front of Graff she heard him say—

“Ten thousand francs’ worth of prayers! At a franc per villainous trick he has committed he loses nothing!”

The old man had not time to further exhibit his bad temper, for Marcel interrupted him—

“Not so loud, Uncle Graff; his daughter might hear you. Poor child; it is not her fault!”

Marianne felt sad at heart, and, more afflicted at the nephew’s humiliating indulgence towards herself than at his uncle’s scorn for her father, she left the room.

Since his return to Paris, Marcel had been restored to the good graces of M. Baradier. Graff’s story of the conflagration at the works, and the rescue effected by his nephew, had touched the old man’s heart. The danger incurred by his brother-in-law, Cardez, and Baudoin, had made him quiver with anxiety; the intervention of his son at the critical moment, when even the bravest among the workmen drew back from the danger, had aroused his enthusiasm. He had taken Marcel in his arms, and said to Madame Baradier and Amélie, who were sitting there in tears—

“You seem quite astonished. Did you think this child, on account of a few silly escapades, was not a fine and brave fellow, after all? For my part I was sure, if the opportunity occurred, he would act as nobly as he has done! It is because I knew what he was capable of that I treated him harshly when he went astray. But, after all, he is a Baradier!”

The same evening, alone with his wife, he said—

“Indeed, I am very well pleased with Marcel. Graff has told me things concerning him which have touched me very much. I am beginning to hope that, once the passion and giddiness of youth is over, he will turn out a remarkable man. All he lacks is a certain amount of order. But that will come in time. He is both intelligent and warm-hearted. Now, it is time he thought of marrying.”

“He is only twenty-five years of age.”

“The very best age imaginable. One’s happiness in life is assured when one finds a good partner and marries young, as I did. What kind of attitude does he show with regard to Geneviève?”

“He treats her like a sister, neither more nor less.”

“Not the slightest sign of flirtation?”

“I believe she has a faint liking for him, but I know nothing about his feelings for her.”

“Ask Amélie a few discreet questions.”

“I will think of it.”

Marcel’s mind was occupied with things entirely different. He thought of everything except marriage. His return home appeared very pleasant, for he was very fond of his parents. Perhaps the exile’s son, more than another, possessed a liking for home. He had so often heard his father and uncle regret the old home at Metz, their friends and customs of former times, that the bonds which attached him to his father’s house were very strong, and when away from them all something essential seemed to be lacking in his life. Doubtless this something was his father’s affectionate chiding and his mother’s consoling smile.

Since his return he spent almost the whole of his time out of the office; went out very little at nights, and worked away at a task known to no one except Uncle Graff. M. Baradier, greatly troubled at the turn of events the Explosives had taken, expressed his anxiety to no one but his partner. Uncle Graff, however, calmly replied—

“We must keep wide-awake, but we need not exaggerate the danger. Everything will come out right in the end, that I am sure of.”

“Eh! Do you expect a miracle?” murmured Baradier. “These Explosives shares continue to go down, in spite of all our efforts. Yesterday there was a rumour out on the Bourse that a patent had just been taken, in Germany, England, and France, by an Englishman named Dalgetty, for some marvellous powder or other superior to dynamite. They go so far as to state that this substance is so manageable and harmless, in spite of its destructive power, that they expect to make use of it for engine power. That would mean the suppression of steam, gas and petroleum. A complete revolution. If a quarter of all this is true we are ruined! Doubtless it is an application of Trémont’s formulæ, and Dalgetty is the dummy of the villains who stole them.”

“Possibly,” murmured Graff, calmly.

“And you can find nothing else to say?” exclaimed Baradier, furiously. “You resign yourself to all this robbery and murder?”

“No; I am simply waiting for the Dalgetty powder in use. It may be the Trémont explosive, but then, on the other hand, it may be something entirely different, and in that case worth nothing at all.”

“But suppose we are ruined in the meantime?”

“We shall obtain the upper hand in the long run.”

“But it is this villain of a Lichtenbach who is leading the campaign against us. This is what I am informed from both London and Brussels.”

“Give him his head. The farther he goes the greater will be his fall.”

“I should like to know the cause of your confidence.”

“It is Marcel, your son, who is stronger in himself, than Trémont, yourself, myself, and all the others. You will see.”

“But, after all, cannot you tell me?”

“No, I will say nothing. Let Dalgetty go ahead, and the shares continue to lower. Above all else, do not sell. He laughs best who laughs last.”

The calm assurance of Uncle Graff had its due impression on Baradier at the time. But afterwards, in his study, in front of his correspondence, which brought him nothing but bad news, fear again took possession of him. He was aware that Marcel was working hard. He saw him start every morning for the laboratory of the Arts-et-Métiers. But what was he engaged in? Doubtless some improvement of the Trémont powder; perhaps simply the exact doses of the products. How could he prove, after all, that he knew the dosing, which was the General’s invention? And Baradier, red and excited, would take up his hat and go out for a walk, to avoid a congestion.

At night, when they were dining, he again saw Marcel in the salon, seated between his mother and sister, or playing the piano with Geneviève de Trémont. He was an excellent musician, this son on whom Nature had lavished such gifts. And Uncle Graff, a passionate melomaniac, lay stretched out in an armchair, listening, in delighted ecstasy, to some lied of Schubert or a concerto by Schumann. He pointed out to Baradier, who had entered the room on tip-toe, the charming picture of these two young people playing duets together, and murmured—

“What a fine couple. She is dark; he is fair. Perfect match. And as their fortune—the General’s powder.”

“Nothing but smoke!” growled Baradier.

“No, it does not give any,” laughed Uncle Graff.

In his partner’s feeling of security, though he was mistrustful enough in business matters, there was a kind of unconsciousness which astonished Baradier. Evidently Marcel was preparing something extraordinary, which Graff was well aware of and which promised to have extraordinary results. But what was it? Besides, with rascals who went about everywhere carrying into action their murderous plans, under the indulgent regard of the Government, was one sure of anything? Accordingly he fumed and raged, but that in itself was something, and kept him occupied.

Baudoin, on his part, had not remained inactive. His first visit had been to Colonel Vallenot. He had found him at the War Office, busily engaged on a question the Minister was to receive from a socialist Deputy, who complained that anarchist journals were not permitted in barracks. How could the people be educated if the soldier were refused the right of knowing why it was his duty to despise his superiors? The good Colonel had bristled up like a wild boar. Only the night before he had been abused by his superior, who, greatly worried, himself, had passed on his ill-temper to the other, and so it descended from grade to grade right down to the concierge. The latter had given a drubbing to his dog, which had been at a loss to understand the reason for this treatment. It was the only difference between the animal and the functionaries.

“What is it you want?” growled Colonel Vallenot to Baudoin, as he saluted. “To see the Minister? Well, you are lucky. If you go in there I will not guarantee your safe exit. And, then, what is it you want to tell him? That the agent he had placed at your disposal has disappeared? It is now three weeks since we heard from him.”

“I have brought you news of him.”

“Ah! What is the matter?”

“He is dead.”

“The deuce! How did that happen!”

“He has been killed.”

“Who has killed him?”

“The same who killed General de Trémont.”

“What was his object?”

“The same as before—to obtain possession of my master’s secrets.”

“Was he successful?”

“Yes.”

“So now he is in possession of the powder formula?”

“He is.”

“Well, this is a fine business. We suspected something of the kind, for we have received notice from abroad that experiments have been made with smokeless powder of extraordinary power.”

“That is the one.”

Colonel Vallenot had forgotten all about the Deputy’s question. He pulled and twisted his moustache furiously. Finally he asked—

“When was poor Laforêt murdered?”

“Nearly a fortnight ago. But it was only later that we had the proof of his death. The poor fellow had been flung into the river, and the current had carried him into a millrace. He remained several days fastened to some piles under water, and it is only just recently that his body mounted to the surface. It was taken out, recognized, and buried as was fitting for an old soldier and an honest man. Now he is lying under the green turf of the cemetery of Ars.”

“And his murderers?”

“Ah, that is what I have come to speak to the Minister about. I know the villains.”

Vallenot sat upright.

“Those spies! You know who they are?”

“And you, also, Colonel, without doubt, for this is not their first attempt. The Minister, before now, has had a crow to pick with them. They are professionals in treason!”

The Colonel rose, and, with changed expression, said—

“Ah! Here, at any rate, is something which will distract him! I will risk entering his room without being summoned. Yes, it is possible such news may restore him to good humour again. Wait for me here.”

Opening a door, he left the room. Baudoin, standing near the mantel-piece, stood there a few minutes ‘attentively listening to the hum of voices which proceeded from the next room; then suddenly the door opened, and a voice called—

“Baudoin!”

The old soldier advanced, and, on reaching the threshold of the study, he saw the Minister standing there, a frown on his face, which was even redder than usual.

“Come in!” he said.

Baudoin entered. The General, who wore a black frock-coat and grey trousers, was striding to and fro. Vallenot stood waiting in the embrasure of the window.

“The Colonel informs me that you have very important news to relate concerning the death of M. de Trémont and my agent.”

“Yes, General.”

“You think you know the rascals who have committed these murders?”

“Yes, General.”

“Tell me all about it.”

“I must ask permission to speak in the presence of no one but yourself. It is a secret which interests the lives of those who are too dear to me to warrant my entrusting it to any other than yourself.”

“Not even to Colonel Vallenot?”

“A secret which belongs to several persons,” said Baudoin, coldly, “is no longer a secret. I will tell it either to the Colonel or to yourself.”

“Very good, my friend, you are right. Will you retire, Colonel Vallenot? This good fellow means no offence. I approve of his thoughtfulness.”

Vallenot smiled and saluted. It was evident he would gladly have stayed. But his chief had given the order. A quarter of an hour later the telephone bell rang. Placing the apparatus to his ear, he heard the Minister call out—

“Bring me File Z, No. 3, from the secret press.”

Vallenot opened a large iron safe, and took out a yellow bundle of papers, which he carried into his chief’s room. Baudoin was standing before the desk, and the General was attentively listening to him. Vallenot withdrew. Another interval for a quarter of an hour, then a fresh ring at the telephone—

“Send me Captain Rimbert, who had charge of the Valance affair.”

Vallenot murmured—

“The deuce! There is something in the wind here!”

Ringing for his office-boy, he gave the order and waited patiently. Half an hour passed, then the study-door opened, and Baudoin, conducted by the General himself, appeared. The latter now appeared satisfied, and said—

“Very good, Baudoin; so it is understood?”

“Yes, General.”

“You will request M. Marcel Baradier to call on me?”

“Yes, General.”

“And if you hear of anything, let me know of it at once.”

“Yes, General.”

“Good day. Come in, Vallenot.”

Baudoin left the room. The Minister returned to his study, where the young Captain Rimbert stood waiting.

“Colonel, will you kindly make out a resumé of the Espurzheim and Vicomte de Fontenailles affairs. I believe we are on the point of laying our hands on this crafty woman who so completely tricked all my predecessors, and mystified myself two years ago. Ah! If I can have my revenge it shall be a complete one!”

“Then we have to deal with the woman who has successively borne the name of Madame Ferranti, with Espurzheim, . . . ” said the Colonel.

“And of Countess de Vervelde, with poor Fontenailles,” added Captain Rimbert.

“And finally of La Ténébreuse,” summed up the Minister.

“Oh! What trouble and money the wretch has cost us without our succeeding in laying hands on her!”

“Well, gentlemen, we will try not to fail this time. Prepare the notes I requested, Colonel. And you, Captain Rimbert, not a word!”

Both Colonel and Captain left the room. The Minister rubbed his hands with satisfaction. Meanwhile Baudoin had made his way along the quays, and reached the Law Courts as four o’clock was striking. Crossing the large entrance hall, he mounted to the second floor, and stopped in front of M. Mayeur’s study. The attendant was an old friend of his, and welcomed him cordially—

“Holloa! you here?” he asked. “Have you come as witness in another affair?”

“No. I simply wish to speak to the magistrate. Is he engaged?”

“Always! Just now it is a gang of oil-painting thieves, who have been overhauling the hotel of a marquis in the Champs-Elysées.”

“Can I speak to him?”

“As soon as he rings, I will tell him you are here. Ah, he is in no amiable mood. He and the attorney seem to be quarrelling all the time!”

The bell rang, a door opened, and three men of slouching gait, regular types of Parisian blackguards devoured by absinthe, advanced, casting sly, searching looks in every direction. But there were neither doors nor windows by which they could gain the open-air, so they quietly continued their route.

The attendant said—

“M. Baudoin, will you come in now? M. Mayeur is disengaged.”

The old soldier entered the study. The registrar looked at him as he passed with a certain amount of curiosity. M. Mayeur smilingly pointed to a chair, placed his papers in order, and, turning to the clerk, said—

“You may go now. Put all the files in order. Goodbye.”

The clerk gave a grimace, which might at will have been taken as a mark of politeness or of insolence, and withdrew. M. Mayeur, doubtless tired of questioning, looked steadily at Baudoin, and invited him to explain himself.

“I undertook, monsieur, to inform you of whatever fresh might happen concerning the Vanves affair. I have come to keep my promise.”

“Has something taken place of a nature to throw light on the affair?”

“A great deal has happened.”

“What?”

“A fire, a murder, and a robbery!”

M. Mayeur’s face lit up.

“And where have these crimes been committed?”

“At Ars, in the Aube.”

The magistrate’s countenance darkened, as though the inner light which had just illumined it had died away. He said—

“In the Aube? That is not within our jurisdiction, and does not concern us.”

“I beg your pardon; it concerns us very much. For the people who have committed these crimes have also the Vanves affair to their credit, and it is for this affair, of which the other is only the consequence, that they are wanted.”

“Then you know them?”

“I do.”

“And you know where to lay hands on them?”

“No. But I can tell you how to do so.”

“So the affair we were so unfortunately obliged to shelve a couple of months ago is about to recommence? Perhaps this time we shall be able to reach a satisfactory conclusion!”

“I maintain without the slightest hesitation that we shall succeed if you will do your duty.”

“I?” exclaimed M. Mayeur, his face purple with agitation. “I! After all the trouble I have had, and the humiliation I have endured.”

He felt that he was giving himself away. The passionate and ardent nature of the man disappeared, and the calm, cold nature of the magistrate resumed sway.

With a sigh, he said—

“Tell me everything in detail.”

Baudoin resumed one by one all the events that had taken place at Ars. He depicted the character of Madame Vignola, and of Agostini, and finally explained the dreaded intervention of Hans. Motionless, the magistrate listened, taking short notes from time to time. The time sped swiftly along, the sun as it sank tinged with a ruddy glow the waters of the Seine, and the veil of darkness had fallen when the magistrate ceased listening, and began to question.

“So this Cesare Agostini is in Paris?”

“M. Graff, M. Marcel’s uncle, has seen him, and M. Marcel has spoken to him. It appears he is engaged to the daughter of M. Lichtenbach, the banker.”

“Lichtenbach? A man in his position, with his fortune and relations? Is it possible?”

“You will see. If you wish to know where Agostini lives, set a watch over Lichtenbach. They are hand and glove with one another.”

“And the woman Vignola?”

“Agostini will take you to her abode. And when you have the Vignola, you come to Hans, and the rest of the accomplices, if there are any. And I believe there is a whole gang of them!”

“And what will M. Marcel Baradier do?”

“Do not trouble about him; he does not wish to appear in the matter. A mere question of scruples!”

“But suppose some attempt is made against him? Does he not wish me to take precautions to assure his safety?”

“No. He is strong enough to protect himself. Besides I am with him.”

“And so was Laforêt.”

“Yes, that is true; still, it is my master’s wish—do not do any more than he asks you to undertake. I think you will be well pleased with the result. That has cost dear enough! But if we can obtain vengeance for the murder of my General and poor Laforêt we shall be quits!”

“Very well,” said the magistrate. “If I need you, M. Baudoin, where can I find you?”

“I am living with my master, M. Baradier.”

“Good. Now that you have been working so well, it is my turn. This gang will find that they have not been mocking at justice with impunity.”

“Ah! This has been going on a considerable time, from what I understand at the War Office.”

“I shall put myself into relations with that Office; we will act in co-operation. Keep your courage up, and have good hopes, M. Baudoin; the affair is about to start afresh.”

Baudoin, conducted to the door by the magistrate, went out into the passage, shook hands with the attendant, and left the building. Returning straight to the Rue de Provènce, he mounted to Marcel’s rooms.

This evening he was seated in a small salon examining with minute care the plan for a machine at which he was working. On seeing Baudoin enter he placed the diagram on the table, looked at his visitor, and said—

“You have just left?”

“Yes, M. Marcel.”

“You have seen the Minister?”

“Yes. At the very first words I uttered he was all attention. He wishes to see you, and affirms that the lady in question is a spy of the most dangerous category, who has had the police on her tracks for the past six years. That woman must have a number of crimes on her conscience.”

“That is not what I asked you,” said Marcel. “Are they going to take measures to keep a watch on Agostini and his companions? If so—”

“The Minister told me that was the business of the Detective Department, and advised me to see Mr. Mayeur. I have just left him. Ah! he will not allow the affair to lag.”

“Good!”

The tinkling of a bell in the yard interrupted the conversation. It was the signal for dinner, which, from time immemorial, had thus been announced every evening, as is the custom in the provinces. Marcel took off his coat, and replaced it by another, after which he made his way to the salon. On entering, his father, Uncle Graff, the two young ladies, and Madame Baradier, were already waiting before passing into the dining-room. More comfort than luxury was evident everywhere; not the slightest sign of ostentation was manifest. Usually, dinner was the time when all the company related the events of the day. This evening one would have thought that nobody wished to speak. All the same, Graff, when the joint was brought on the table, risked the remark—

“The Bourse has been firmer to-day.”

“No great improvement!” growled Baradier.

A deeper silence than before followed. But Uncle Graff had the patience of a Lorraine, and he continued after a while—

“I have received a letter from Cardez, in which he says they have reached the second floor of the new building. The Assurance Company has paid the claim. After all, everything has turned out for the best.”

“Are the workmen quiet now?” asked Madame Baradier.

“Poor creatures! They were sorry for what they had done. But they were not responsible. It was the leaders of the strike! The deuce take them!”

“Have they fixed upon a larger building-site for a new steam-engine?” asked Baradier, who forgot his bad temper as soon as business was on the tapis.

“Father,” interrupted Marcel, “I should advise you to postpone this plan of yours. Something might happen which would cause the system of power employed in the works to be radically changed. Better wait a little.”

“Mere idle fancies and whims! Some wild impracticable invention, I suppose.”

“No,” replied the young man, with warmth. “No idle fancy at all! My dear Geneviève, it would cover your father’s name with glory, for it was he who had the idea of this invention first, and, indeed, if it is realizable, as I believe will be found to be the case, it will bear his name.”

“Then this is something at which you have been working the last month?” asked Baradier, inquisitively.

“The last two years, father. It is on this application of the regulated explosive power of the Trémont powder—you understand, regulated, that is the point—that I have been working with the General. We were on the point of success when he disappeared. But I was in possession of all the plans, sketches, and calculations we made together, and I have continued the work all alone.”

“And you think you have succeeded?”

“I do.”

“And what result will you attain with your machine?”

“A substitute for coal, petroleum, and even electricity, in the production of force. That is to say, the suppression of magazines in war vessels, permitting them to increase to an indefinite extent their sphere of action. There would be no necessity for locomotives to be supplied with a tender, and in all industries coal need only be used for metallurgic and heating purposes.”

“Oh, oh!” said Baradier. “And what will you put in the place of coal, petroleum, and electricity?”

“That, my dear father, is what I will tell you the day the patents have been taken all over the world.”

“When will you take them?”

“To-morrow, if you will advance me the forty thousand francs necessary.”

“I will give you them,” exclaimed Uncle Graff, with warmth. “I have confidence in you.”

“Who says I am not ready to advance the sum myself?” resumed Baradier. “I would do it merely to honour the memory of Trémont.”

“Very good, father; I warrant you have never advanced money at better interest,” said Marcel, joyfully. “It is a discovery calculated to completely change the methods of commerce, and yet it is the simplest thing in the world!”

“Like all good inventions!”

Baradier remained silent for a moment, and then said—

“But the invention of this machine is connected with the discovery of the Trémont powders?”

“Yes, father.”

“And the powders have been stolen?”

A sad smile passed over Marcel’s lips.

“Yes, father, the powders have been stolen. The war powder, for instance, and it is very unfortunate. For the General intended to present France with this marvellous product, which would have assured for our army a supremacy of several years over the other Powers of Europe. Then you know what would have happened; foreigners would have set to work, and either discovered or bought our secret, and equilibrium again have been restored. There will be no superiority for any one, since the formula of the Trémont war-powder will be given by me to-morrow to the War Office. That will establish equality. And if there is war, valour and intelligence will have to undertake the victory. As for the business powder, that is another matter. They may have stolen the formula, even manufactured it themselves, but I defy them to find the means of using it for its destined purpose.”

“There is a secret about it?”

“Yes, which I discovered quite by chance when working with the General. That is the peculiarity of this powder, which, under ordinary conditions, is destructive enough, being ignited by simple friction—in a word, very dangerous to use; but which, employed according to our method, is under perfect control, and regulates its dynamic effects, even to the movement of a pendulum, according to my pleasure.”

All present were listening attentively, thinking of the importance of this discovery, and the wretched fate of its initiator. M. Baradier said—

“To-morrow you shall have your money. If the affair is worth merely the hundredth part of what you claim, Geneviève will be rich and Trémont world-famed.”

“As for the Explosives Company,” added Graff, “it is in a bad way. Lichtenbach is likely to have met his match at last!”

It was five months since Marcel had solemnly promised his father to break with his giddy companions, give up his fast life, and no longer set foot in the club, but, instead of all this, to work and obliterate the acts of folly he had previously committed. Scrupulously keeping his word, he withdrew to Ars, and only seldom appeared in Paris. So well had he worked that the result of his efforts were manifest. The Minister, after the conversation he had had with Marcel, had expressed himself to Baradier, concerning the young savant, in such terms that the father was quite disarmed. All these deprivations of rights, which he had patiently submitted to, were now removed, and, not without considerable satisfaction, this fine young fellow of twenty-six years of age had resumed his former habits.

The first time he appeared at the club he had been welcomed with open arms by his companions, young and old alike.

“What has become of you; we have seen nothing of you for several months! Probably you have been travelling?”

Marcel replied that he had indeed been away from Paris, but added that he had been thinking seriously concerning gambling, and had determined to give up baccarat.

“How often have I heard you talk in that way,” said the Baron de Vergins. “All the same, you could not resist the temptation to play if you were in front of the baccarat-table a single quarter of an hour!”

“Come along, then, and you will see.”

They passed into the large room. Beneath the ceiling floated a grey mist of tobacco smoke, like a fog.

On either side of the room was a green table, around which thronged a crowd of sour-visaged punters.

“Ah! You have two baccarat-tables now,” remarked Marcel.

“Yes; it is an innovation. At the one the minimum stake is a louis; at the other, it is ten francs. So that, when a punter has had a run of ill-luck at the large table, he goes to the small one to try and recoup, with the privilege of returning afterwards to the other, to lose once more what he may have won.”

“Very ingenious. A double sieve from which nothing escapes!”

He approached the large table, and his look immediately became fixed. In front of him, dealing the bank, he had just recognized Agostini. Impassive and smiling, a flower at his buttonhole, he gracefully distributed the cards at both tables. He did not see Marcel. With his sing-song voice he called out—

“Cards!”

Marcel, addressing the Baron de Vergins, asked—

“Who is the banker?”

“Count Cesare Agostini.”

“Newly joined the club?”

“For a time. Agreeable fellow, good fencer, and reckless player.”

“Is he lucky?”

“Ah, no. He has very bad luck. Loses more than any one else, in fact.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“He was introduced by the Prince de Cystriano and M. Beltrand. The Agostini family is well known; they are the younger branch of the great Italian family, the dukes of Briviesca.”

“Why do they receive so many foreigners at the club?” asked Marcel, with a displeased air.

“Ah, my dear friend, the club lives on them, so to speak. I know they make themselves as much at home here as at their hotel. It is not very pleasant for us. But what is there to be done? The establishment must be kept going.”

“Has he any relations in Paris?” asked Marcel. “A sister?”

“No; he is unmarried, and has never been seen in the company of a lady.”

Marcel changed the conversation, made an excuse for leaving his companion, and went to the writing-room. Taking up a directory, he found a recent indication, handwritten as follows: “Count Cesare Agostini, 7 Rue du Colisée.” It was something to know this address, though what he wanted was information respecting that mysterious woman, Anetta or Sophia, Madame Vignola or the Baroness Grodsko. What was Agostini to him besides that infinitely charming creature, who had suddenly become metamorphosed into a most dangerous monster. Her brother, really? Her accomplice, without the slightest doubt. That was what he wished to know, and, at the risk of the greatest danger, he was determined to have his doubts removed.

He had taken a seat in a large armchair, the back of which, turned towards the door, almost entirely concealed him. Two members of the club were writing letters. The quiet of this retired spot, the ticking of the timepiece, seemed to numb his faculties. The murmur of distant voices lulled him into a reverie.

Suddenly a quiver ran over him, and he listened attentively. The voice of Agostini had just joined in the conversation.

“I have again lost two thousand louis. With the thousand yesterday, it is quite enough.”

He laughed, and one of his companions said—

“You ought to hold off for a few days, Agostini! It is useless being obstinate against ill-luck.”

“But if I did not play, what should I do? It is my only distraction.”

“That was a beautiful lady, at the opera, to whom you introduced Colonel Derbaut the other night.”

Marcel’s heart seemed to stop beating. He had a presentiment that the woman in question was the one who was engaging his own attention so strongly. He could not hear Agostini’s reply, and the other continued—

“If she is no more than a compatriot of yours, I should be pleased to make her acquaintance.”

Agostini laughed, but made no promise. And Marcel said to himself: “His compatriot? An Italian? It is Anetta, I am sure of it. What is she doing here with this villain? The army once more in danger, for she has made the acquaintance of Colonel Derbaut, a staff-officer.” Meanwhile, he had lost the thread of the conversation, but a second sentence told him all that was necessary—

“Very good! To-night, at the opera?”

“Agreed!”

Silence was restored. The members of the club continued their correspondence. Marcel rose from his seat, sure that he was about to meet the pretended sister of Agostini. She was not in Italy, as the adventurer had had the audacity to tell him at the charity sale. She was in Paris and, without thinking of the past, engaged on some fresh intrigue. Along whatever path she travelled she sowed corruption, infamy, and death.

Suddenly in Marcel’s memory arose the smiling, tender image of Madame Vignola with that bewitching smile, and those clear, limpid eyes. Was it possible that such a creature should be a monster? If so, then one greatly to be dreaded!

How can one help trusting in that exquisite gentleness which pervaded her whole person? And yet, had she not betrayed him? Had she not revealed the presence of the secret documents in the laboratory? And that, too, with marvellous rapidity, and a skill scarcely compatible with honesty. He would have liked to free her from every suspicion which hung over her; but was it possible?

Leaving the club, he returned to the bank, and, entering his father’s study, found his uncle Graff, attentively reading an evening paper. The old man arose on seeing his nephew enter, and, holding the printed sheet out to him, said—

“See here, Marcel, here is an article on this affair of ours. It is a report of a meeting of the Academy of Science, where Professor Marigot read his notice on the Trémont powder.”

Marcel carelessly took the journal. Without even glancing at it, he laid it on the desk.

“Is that all the interest you take in the matter?” exclaimed the uncle. “You are not inquisitive about the effect produced by Marigot’s official communication? Very well, I will tell you what he says. The Globe has given up a whole column to the discovery, which it states is an important one, and it predicts, within a short date, a revolution in the use of motive power. On the other hand, the Panache Blanc, Lichtenbach’s journal, is dead against the invention, which it qualifies as a shamefaced imitation, insinuating that it is simply the Dalgetty process, without the slightest change in the doses of the products.”

“What a brazen falsehood!” Marcel exclaimed, unable to restrain himself.

“Here is something better. At the Bourse a rumour has got abroad that the Explosives Company is in possession of the Trémont patents, and the shares have begun to mount, in spite of the desperate efforts of the bears. Accordingly, our situation is saved, and, on the other hand, that of Lichtenbach seems to be in a terrible pass!”

“You do not expect me to get excited over that?”

“I do not, indeed. But your father, who for the past three months has hardly been able to sleep, is now happy and smiling. He has just gone to Aubervilliers to examine a plot of land, covering seven acres, which has been offered to us, and which would be the very spot for constructing the works necessary. He is especially pleased at owing this result to you. Though not very expansive, he is enthusiastic and warm-hearted, and exceedingly proud to be obliged to confess that you are so gifted. Up to the present, it is Trémont that has been mentioned, but, when it is known that it is you who brought the affair to its completion, and your name is in everybody’s mouth, as soon will be the case, then you will see your father expand.”

Marcel made no reply. He walked to and fro in the study, with so absent-minded an air that Graff exclaimed—

“What a strange fellow you are! And yet you must be well pleased with what I have been telling you. Though you will scarcely listen to me. What is the matter with you?”

The young man shook his head, and, with an attempt at a smile, said—

“There is nothing the matter with me, Uncle Graff. What do you expect me to say?”

“Ah! Perhaps you have no suspicion of the plans Baradier has been forming for you. He explained them to me this very morning. We are going to put Marcel at the head of the works as director. At the same time he shall be one of the managing directors of the Explosives Company we are about to completely reorganize. You see, Marcel, you are about to play a very important rôle in life at twenty-six years of age. And your father added, ‘If he will marry, I shall no longer have anything to wish for. He will have satisfied me in everything.’ What do you think of the idea? I believe he was thinking of Geneviève de Trémont. What will your reply be?”

Marcel replied quietly—

“Nothing whatever, Uncle Graff.”

The old man touched Marcel on the shoulder, and, looking attentively at him, said—

“I do not understand you, Marcel; there is something you are hiding from me. Have you seen the woman of Ars again?”

This time, the young man broke out—

“No, I have not seen her; but I know she is in Paris. I know where I shall see her this evening. Uncle Graff, I intend to have the key to this living enigma.”

“Ah! My child, there is no enigma; she is simply a villain, nothing more! How anxious you make me in still troubling yourself with this woman! Take care! You know how dangerous she and her companions are. Remember the poor General, and this brave fellow killed at Ars. Just inform the police, she will be arrested, and all will be over.”

“If I were certain she were as guilty as you suspect her to be, I would do so. Though it is not very gallant to give up a woman.”

“What! Chivalry with such people?”

“But I have my doubts, Uncle Graff. I cannot make up my mind to condemn her unheard.”

“Yes! In a word, you wish to see her again. Don’t tell me any idle stories; I am not so stupid as to be taken in by them. She still holds you in her power. And you are about to risk being murdered, in some dark corner or other, for the pleasure of being deceived once more by such a traitress.”

“Uncle Graff, no one will kill me at the opera. It is there I rely on seeing her to-night.”

“Are you in earnest?”

“Have you disposed of your orchestra stall?”

“No.”

“Very well, give it to me.”

“Promise me you will do nothing extravagant, and that if this woman wants you to accompany her, you will not do so.”

“No; I cannot promise that. But I will be on my guard all the same. Agostini shall not knock me over like a pigeon.”

“Take a good revolver with you.”

“Certainly.”

“Ah! Mon Dieu! And I was feeling so happy!” groaned the old man. “Suppose you take Baudoin with you?”

“Under no pretext. Be assured, however, I am running no risk this time. Later on, we shall see.”

The arrival of Baradier cut the conversation short. Marcel returned home to dress before dinner.

That evening the Walkyrie was being given at the opera. When Marcel reached his stall, the second act was commencing. The domestic troubles of Wotan, the Scandinavian Jupiter, with Fricka, a real Juno without her peacock, possessed only a slight interest for the young man. Turning round, he leaned his elbow on the back of his stall, and looked about him. Slowly, the boxes began to fill, as though the subscribers had only decided to come at all because they had paid dearly for the privilege. Up above in the amphitheatre was a sea of eager faces turned on to the stage. There was the real amateur and artistic public.

But Marcel was not looking for critical observations as to the musical capacity of the different auditors of a masterly piece, rather for the face of a woman. Nowhere could he catch a glimpse of the beautiful profile of Madame Vignola. Two side boxes on the right of the actors still remained unoccupied. And Marcel, again turning towards the stage, kept a watch on them.

Towards the end of the act the sound of an opening door drew his attention. He saw a light appear in one of the side boxes, then a vague uncertain form appeared in its velvet frame. The door closed again, the background again darkened, and a woman, clothed in white, décolleté, and wearing a necklace of beautiful pearls, came to the front of the box. As her face was turned away from Marcel he could not distinguish her features. Still, what relation could there be between this vigorous brunette and the blonde and languishing Anetta? Strength, where he had found grace. No. This could not be the one.

As the curtain fell amidst a tempest of cheers, and the artists reappeared on the stage to bow their acknowledgments, the lady turned round, in such a way as to face Marcel, who, stupefied, recognized the look of the one he loved. He might have been mistaken in everything else, but not in the languishing look which formed so delightful a contrast with that mocking smile and imperious brow. He examined her attentively, without her being aware that she was observed. But what grief he felt at being obliged to recognize her in such a disguise!

Was not the very fact of this metamorphosis, the most complete of confessionals? Why, if not to disarm curiosity, these changes, in head-dress, in the colour of the hair, and the expression of the face? What was this comedy she was playing, and when? Was it at Ars that she was painted and disguised, or at the opera?

Marcel arose. All around him were leaving their seats. Madame Vignola was no longer in front of the box. Marcel counted the number of boxes. This one was the fourth after the passage. Standing behind a column, he kept watch.

This self-imposed waiting seemed interminable to him. The passers-by irritated him, he replied to a few bows, but avoided shaking hands with any one. Finally, the door of the box opened, and Agostini and an elderly man, wearing the rosette of the Legion d’Honneur, appeared. The count and his companion made their way towards the grand staircase, before Marcel, who had his back turned to them, and disappeared. Then the young man opened the door of the box, and entered.

The spectator was seated on the sofa. Marcel closed the door, and walked up to her. Turning her head, she looked at the intruder, and said, without the faintest agitation—

“You are in the wrong box, sir.”

He replied ironically—

“No, madame, there is no mistake, if I am in the presence of Madame Vignola, unless you are the Baroness Grodsko.”

At these words, the young woman’s face appeared frightfully agitated. Her eyes turned pale, and her lips trembled.

“Whose name is that you have uttered?” she murmured, in unsteady accents.

“Evidently one of your own! So far as I can judge, you change names, according to circumstances, just as you change faces, according to the men you associate with.”

“I do not understand what you mean. Once more I say, you are mistaken, retire.”

“No! I shall wait here till Count Agostini returns. We will have an explanation in his presence. He, at any rate, will not be able to deny his identity. And that will help to establish yours.”

Rising from her seat, and no longer taking the trouble to deny, she said—

“And he will kill you! Wretched man, leave here at once, without a moment’s delay. You do not know what dangers you are running!”

“I know them quite well. General Trémont is dead, Laforêt, the police agent, is dead, and so, doubtless, are many others who have resisted your fancies or intrigues. And if I, too, do not yield, you will try to compass my death also. But, before that happens, I will know who and what you are.”

The woman’s countenance darkened. Raising her beautiful arm, she said in tragic tones—

“Do not attempt it! You will never succeed!”

“Still, I have made a beginning,” he said madly. “Spy—thief—actress; yes, actress even in love!”

She did not appear to have heard the other insults he hurled at her, but from this last one, she recoiled. Blushing, she seized Marcel by the arm, and fixed on him a pair of eyes which seemed to flame with passion.

“No! I have not lied! Don’t believe that of me! Do not accuse me of having been false in love. I did love you! Can you think otherwise? Accuse me of whatever you wish, it matters little to me! We shall never see one another again, you hear!—never see one another again in this world. Therefore, believe what I now swear to you: I loved you; I still love you! I have never loved any one as I have loved you, and that is why I shall never see you again. Do not attempt to understand or to fathom my secrets; they would cause your death. Content yourself with what you know of me, and with the fact that you have not paid for it with your life. Become blind when I pass by your side; deaf, whenever my name is mentioned. Do not enter the darkness in which I am shrouded. Oh! Marcel, my loved one, go away, do not suspect me of having lied to you. Clasped in your arms, your lips pressed against mine, I told the truth, I—”

She stopped. Tears shone in her eyes, and her beautiful arms are flung around Marcel’s neck. He felt himself pressed to her throbbing bosom, the fire of her eyes blinded him, and he shuddered at the contact of that ardent mouth pressed to his own in a delirium of delight. Amid her sighs, he heard the word “Adieu!” and found himself near the door. There, her embrace relaxed, and he stood dazed and maddened in the passage, amidst the spectators who were returning to their seats. Taking up his coat, and staggering along like a man intoxicated, he obeyed his mysterious love, and left the theatre.

He no longer doubted. That cry, “I love you still!” was sincere. She was not lying when she confessed her love. Besides, why had she driven him away from her, if not inspired by the passionate fright of the woman who trembles lest her loved one meet his death. Then it was some strange will, superior to her own, which had compelled her to fascinate him, and which was again controlling her in the performance of some dark, mysterious deed or other! That he was, and must remain, ignorant of.

On reaching the Place de l’Opéra, he felt calmer. The open air did him good. But the memory of those glorious eyes, and that quivering voice, as she held him in her arms, came back to him with painful intensity. Ah! What a woman!

But she was a monster of corruption and depravity. He had told her so without the slightest protest. She was, beyond doubt, an accomplice in several murders; perhaps even that white and delicate hand of hers had itself been stained in blood! She was the secret agent of threatening hostility and venal treason. Her beauty, grace, and intelligence were so many attractions which served to captivate her dupes. Her love was only a means to an end.

A feeling of revolt came over him. He said to himself, “Really, I am too much of a coward. The attraction this woman exercises over me is taking away my moral faculty! At the very moment she appears in such a despicable light before me, I yet love her. And yet, I scarcely know her. She loved me; that is the reason she left me, unwilling as she was to ruin me!” He laughed in a nervous fashion, and thought, “Very soon, I shall be obliged to feel grateful towards her! And yet she is an infamous wretch. Yes; but how beautiful!”

A prey to these contradictory thoughts, he reached the Rue de Provènce, and immediately retired to rest. The following morning, when he awoke, he was astonished to find his uncle Graff at his bedside. It was eight o’clock. He had had a dreamless sleep. The old man, feeling uneasy, had been turning over and over in his bed, and, at daybreak, had not been able to resist the desire of making sure that nothing had happened to Marcel. For some time he had been watching his nephew sleep, and now he wished to question him, but, finding him silent, or evasive in his answers, he abandoned all hope of learning anything just then, and called on Baradier for a cup of coffee. He had left his room, fasting, and was dying of hunger.

The same morning, in Lichtenbach’s study, about ten o’clock, Agostini and Hans were engaged in a tête-à-tête with the banker. Count Cesare was sitting in dreamy attitude, smoking a cigarette. Hans, impassive, was listening to Elias, who was speaking in even a duller voice than usual.

“The situation is certainly serious for you,” he was saying, “but for me it is becoming very grave. Relying on your information, I undertook a bear campaign, which was to place the Explosives Company in my hands, by permitting of my redeeming the shares for a mere trifle. It happens that my closest rivals, and deadly enemies, the firm of Baradier and Graff, have undertaken the counter-part of my operations, and all my efforts to shake them off have been unavailing. Then, I did not understand the causes of their firmness, but now I do. The notice read at the Academy of Science gives me the key to their calculations. They are in possession of the secret you have failed to find. They are in a position to exploit the Trémont powder, and the Dalgetty patent is worth nothing! This is the net result of all your intrigues. You have indeed something to be proud of!”

“What will all this cost you?” asked Agostini, coldly.

“How much will it cost me?” exclaimed the banker, furiously. “Almost all I possess! You seem to look at things in a very philosophical light! It is easy to say to a man one has ruined, ‘How much has it cost you?’ Can I rely on my physical attractions? To have money I must work, and it has been so with me for the past forty years!”

“Come, Lichtenbach,” said Hans, “don’t cry about it. We are aware that you will lose considerably, in case the affair does not succeed. But there will be something left. I will offer you ten million francs for whatever remains, if you like!”

“Stupid rogues as you are!” exclaimed Elias. “You are speaking of what you know nothing about! This filthy affair of yours, managed by such silly dolts, has cost me the labour of half my life, and even more—my pride! For I, who have always had the upper hand of Baradier and Graff, am now at their mercy. Your famous Sophia has, indeed, been brilliant in this matter! A man-eater who has never failed. A flower of rottenness, one need only breathe to be intoxicated, such corrupting ferments does she exhale! A simple young man is given into her hands; a mere child’s-play for her, and here she remains, inactive and powerless, either unable or unwilling to make him give up his secret. Meanwhile, I have been losing all my money. You idiots! You stupid rascals! Will you give me back my money? I know of nothing in the world more despicable than an imbecile bandit! And that is what you are, both of you, and your Sophia into the bargain!”

Hans’ countenance remained unchanged. Agostini, with sombre look, flung away his cigarette, and said—

“There is some truth in what you say, Lichtenbach, so I will overlook your insolent words. But for that, I would have made you pay dearly for what you have just said.”

“Not another word!” growled Lichtenbach. “I defy you!”

“You will be foolish to do so,” continued the Italian. “A Count Cesare Agostini will not receive a gratuitous insult from a Lichtenbach.”

“Gratuitous? Indeed!”

“Come! Peace!” said Hans, in tones of authority. “We are not here to exchange compliments with one another, but to find some solution to the difficulty. It is true the Baroness has failed. We know the reason now, when it is too late. She has been stupid enough to fall in love with this young man, and has only half accomplished her mission. When she led him on to talk confidentially to her, she was afraid that he would despise her later on. To sum up, the coup failed. The young man is now on his guard; he will say nothing more, unless I undertake, as a last resource, to question him. For the present, however, the situation is as follows: We possess an excellent patent, similar, as regards the composition of the powder, to the one taken under the name of Trémont. But we are in ignorance of the trick of working it. Our powder is a brutal explosive. The Trémont powder is graduated in action. There is the real value of the discovery. Under these conditions, Dalgetty could establish a claim, and accuse of counterfeit the exploiters of the Trémont patent, which was taken out after ours. The result—scandal, trial, blackmailing. This is the line we must follow, and it may serve as a means for a settlement.”

“In what way?” asked Lichtenbach, interested.

“By sending a trusty ambassador to Baradier and Graff to offer them terms of peace.”

“They will not accept!”

“How do you know? It all depends on the manner in which the proposal is made; you may have to concede to them both material and moral advantages, in order to reach a fusion of the two affairs.”

“That would mean safety, and even triumph!” exclaimed Lichtenbach. “Just let me get them into my power, and they shall not escape so easily!”

“Then I will rely upon you! Ah! You sly rogue, you have come back to life again.”

“The fact is, the idea of being their dupe was killing me! The whole of my life would have been spent in vain! Ever since I have been in Paris, I have only had one desire—to injure them! Give up this joy! I could not! Whom shall I send them?”

“A priest,” insinuated Agostini.

“The Abbé d’Escayrac, if he would do me this service! Fine idea! He well knows how to lull one’s conscience by moulding a man’s intelligence to his will. But what can we offer Baradier and Graff?”

“Anything you imagine they might decently accept. What will it cost you? Have you not a daughter? She has been carefully brought up, and is of an amiable disposition, so I am told.”

“Well!”

“Offer her to young Baradier, with an enormous dowry. If Sophia were only willing, she would arrange the matter well enough!”

This time, Agostini manifested symptoms of violent discontent. He brought his hand down forcibly on the table, and, looking at the others with murderous eyes, said—

“And what is to become of me in this combination? Are you forgetting that Mademoiselle Lichtenbach is my affianced wife?”

“The engagement can easily be broken,” replied Hans, coldly.

“Do you intend to jest with me?”

“I never jest with any one to no purpose.”

“Then you are seriously thinking of overthrowing all my plans?”

“What use will your plans be to you, if Lichtenbach is ruined? Besides, you silly fellow, do you think Elias is a man likely to trouble himself with you, if you are no longer of any use to him? Already you have gone down several notches in his esteem. If an arrangement has to be made with you, we will offer you money. I know where to find it.”

The handsome Italian laid his hand on his heart.

“And what compensation will be large enough to satisfy me?”

“Ah, ah!” jeered Hans. “We are well aware that your conscience is as tender as it is delicate!”

Lichtenbach, who had remained silent, after hearing the suggestion concerning his daughter, now said—

“A Baradier marry a Lichtenbach! Is it possible? Never would the Graffs and Baradiers consent to such a thing! For my own part, I ought to protest with all my might against such a proposal.”

He remained silent, as though absorbed in thought, and then said slowly—

“Still, my daughter is well worthy of entering such a family. They are honest people, after all! And she is a charming and proud child. If only they would consent! My daughter would be certain of a happy future. She would have a peaceful and tranquil life. These Baradiers are honest and respectable, after all! If they would receive my daughter as their own, they would treat her well, and she would not be the prey of an adventurer! True, I hate them, and wish to do them harm, for all the humiliations they have inflicted on me. But if they would accept my daughter!”

A tear shone on the cheek of this hardened man—a tear more precious than a diamond, for it owed its source to a father’s love. Hans interrupted the scene; he was not a man to understand such tender feelings.

“So you adopt my plan? You will make an attempt at conciliation with our opponents. Offer them what you like, that is your own affair, and if we succeed, we will unite the two patents. You alone carry on the transaction, though, naturally, you reserve us our share. You see, this young Count Cesare might turn out troublesome. Is it agreed upon?”

“Yes.”

Hans and Agostini took their leave. Elias walked to and fro about his study, then he proceeded to his daughter’s room. Marianne was seated near the window overlooking the garden, working. She rose on seeing her father appear. Wearing a blue dressing-gown ornamented with quipure lace, her fair hair tied up in bands, she had about her a kind of virgin gentleness, which caused her father’s heart to swell with love and tenderness. Sitting by her side, he drew her near to himself, and entered into conversation.

“You have now been settled down here some considerable time. Are you satisfied? Is everything progressing as you wish?”

“Yes, father, I should be very ungrateful if I were not satisfied. You let me do whatever I want. But I hope you are well pleased yourself, also.”

“Certainly, little one, and I wish us always to remain so. But, you know, some day we shall be obliged to separate.”

Marianne looked serious; her smile vanished.

“A day in the distant future, father; there is no hurry.”

“You will marry. Would you not like to be married?”

“That will depend on the husband.”

A silence followed. The controller of men felt ill at ease before this child, whose future he had disposed of by calculation. He did not dare speak to her of Agostini, whom he had introduced to her, and praised in her presence only the night before. It was Marianne who took it upon herself to explain the precise situation of things.

“I am rather troubled, I confess, at the favour you accord this young Italian count, and at the way in which you speak to me of him.”

“My dear child!” exclaimed Lichtenbach.

“No! Let me continue,” interrupted Marianne. “Afterwards you may praise your candidate as much as you like. But allow me to speak to you quite freely. Your protegé’s conduct and habits make me uneasy. He does not seem to me frank; he is too polite, and full of compliments. There is something suspicious about this man who is always smiling and flattering. Besides, his voice has no genuine ring about it. His cold, cruel looks belie his handsome face and gentle words. Lastly, dear father, he is a foreigner. Are there no more Frenchmen to marry in France that one should be obliged to look for a fiancé for one’s daughter on the other side of the frontier? He is a count, but I have no ambition in that direction. He does not work, and I should not care to marry any one without business of any kind. Papa, if you wish to please me and consult my tastes, you will choose another suitor. Your daughter is something to you—that you have often given me to understand; you have, perhaps, insisted rather too much on the fact, for I might have formed too good an opinion of myself. Luckily, I am reasonable and modest in my demands. Do not marry me to an idle man, who is also ambitious and wicked. If you want me to be free from anxiety, send away this handsome Italian. He is not the man for me!”

Lichtenbach smiled good-humouredly and said—“Then who is?”

Marianne blushed, but made no reply.

“Ah, ah!” continued Lichtenbach. “So there is a secret, is there? Better tell your father all about it, little one. Have you met some one you like, my dear? Tell me everything; don’t be afraid. You know very well I will do nothing opposed to your wishes. If you do not like Agostini, why did you not tell me so sooner? Come, now, tell me all!”

With downcast head she said—

“No, no! It is useless. I have only one wish—to stay by your side just as I am. I shall be very happy.”

“You are not telling me the truth,” exclaimed Lichtenbach, excitedly. “You must tell me what you mean. Do you imagine there are difficulties in the way? Yes? Of what kind? Is it some one I know?”

“Let us say nothing more on the subject, father,” said Marianne. “I was wrong in introducing the subject. It can be nothing but a painful one for both yourself and myself. You had given me warning. But it was too late. The subject shall never be brought up again between us; that I promise you.”

“You could not speak to me otherwise if it were my greatest enemy. Is it so?”

He did not utter the name of Baradier, but Marianne read it upon his lips. She raised her eyes up to her father’s face, as though to ask pardon from him for what he must consider a kind of treason. She did not, however, find in his countenance that angry and threatening expression she dreaded to see there. He was passive and calm, and sat there for a moment without uttering a word. Then, in accents of great deliberation, he asked—

“We are thinking of Marcel Baradier, are we not? Yes, it must be he. I was wrong to let you visit Geneviève de Trémont. That was very imprudent on my part. However, it cannot be helped now. We must try to arrange matters.”

“Arrange matters!” stammered Marianne.

“Yes, my dear child. We must make an attempt. I would do anything to make you happy.”

“Forget your bitter feelings of the past?”

“I will try to make the Baradiers forget theirs.”

“Oh, father, dear father!”

She flung her arms around his neck with such a burst of joy, that Lichtenbach turned pale with shame. For the first time in his life, he had a very clear impression of the significance of a cowardly action, doubtless, because his victim in this case was his own daughter. At the same time, he felt that the evil deeds of a whole lifetime accumulate, and that, at some time or other, the interest must be paid, in humiliation and suffering. He looked at Marianne tenderly, and said, in accents of sincerity—

“Ah! is it so serious as that? Very well, my child, I will do everything possible to make you happy.”

After kissing her, he returned to his room, ordered his carriage, and drove away to call on the Abbé d’Escayrac.

About five o’clock Madame Baradier had just returned, and was reading in her small salon; her daughter, Amélie, and Geneviève de Trémont were working at the table, chatting pleasantly the while, when the servant entered, and said—

“There is a priest here, who wishes to speak to you, madame.”

Madame Baradier, lady patroness of several charitable institutions, was continually receiving appeals to her generosity. She made no distinction between the clergy and the laity, but received all with equal benevolence. Accordingly, she ordered the visitor to be showed in. The first glance she gave him showed her a fine, intelligent face, the general aspect being rather that of a fashionable and carefully dressed priest. The first words he uttered confirmed this judgment—

“Madame,” said the visitor, “I am the Abbé d’Escayrac, secretary of the Issy establishment, which is under the lofty patronage of the Bishop of Andropolis.”

“Superior of the Absolutionists, unless I am mistaken.”

“You are not mistaken, madame.”

“What can I do for your work, Monsieur l’Abbé?”

“You can do much, madame. But, first of all,”—here the Abbé lowered his voice—“I have information of special importance to communicate to you, and it might be better, if you have no objection, if we were alone.”

“As you please, Monsieur l’Abbé.”

The two girls had been well brought up. On a look from Madame Baradier, they arose, bowed, and left the room.

“You may now speak freely, Monsieur l’Abbé.”

“I am well aware, madame, how you are animated by a sincere Christian fervour,” continued the priest, “and it is on the certainty that all apostolic work must receive your cordial assistance that my mission is based. As you know, we are devoted heart and soul to the service of the poor. Poverty and misery, nay, even vice itself, have an exclusive claim on our interest and attention. To us a criminal is a brother we try to restore to the path of virtue, just as we use our best efforts to save a sick man. In this way a vast amount of misfortune and crime is revealed to us. We are the confidents of the most painful of physical vices, the most lamentable of moral back-slidings. We offer help to all, without exception, and often serve as intermediaries between those who have the power to punish and those who wish to be spared. We are never deaf to repentance, and try to turn it to the advantage of our holy religion.”

He spoke with grave earnestness, and an insinuating voice, turning on one side the obstacles in the way, preparing his ground, and gradually attempting to win over to his side the intelligence of the wife, so as to make of her an ally against the husband. Madame Baradier, astonished at this lengthy introduction, was beginning to wonder what was the meaning of it all, so she asked—

“Is it pecuniary help you want, Monsieur l’Abbé? If so, you will find us very sympathetically disposed towards your work.”

“We shall be very grateful, madame, for whatever you may do for us, but money is not at present the object of my visit. Recently, we have founded in the Var an important establishment, where we propose, in imitation of other powerful religious orders, to open a business establishment. To facilitate our efforts, we have received very important assistance. We are full of gratitude towards those who have helped us, and, the opportunity of doing them a service now offering itself, I, your humble servant, have been appointed to bring to you a message of conciliation from a man who, for many years, has been in a state of hostility with your family, but who now wishes to end his life in concord and peace.”

Madame Baradier, for the last few minutes, had been manifesting serious symptoms of uneasiness. She saw that the interview was assuming a form which did not please her; accordingly, she cut short the speech of the amiable Abbé, and said—

“Will you kindly tell me what you wish, Monsieur l’Abbé? The man’s name will, I believe, explain the affair far better.”

The young priest smiled; and, with the suppliant look of a martyr, he said—

“I am a minister of charity and pardon, madame. The man’s name is M. Lichtenbach.”

“I suspected it.”

“Am I to imagine that his personality will render all understanding impossible, even in the interests of religion?”

“It is not my place to form such a resolution, Monsieur l’Abbé. I cannot forget that there are in this house two men who are alone entitled to reply: my husband and my brother. Permit me to call them.”

“I am at your disposal, madame.”

“No. Monsieur l’Abbé, do not speak so. Whatever happens, be sure that we all rightly appreciate the mission of conciliation you have accepted. We shall not confound the mission with its agent.”

Bowing to the priest, she left the room. The Abbé remained motionless in his armchair, buried in thought. He was fulfilling a mission useful to his order in a double sense. No preoccupation foreign to his religious duties troubled him. He rightly appreciated Elias, but the evangelical spirit would not allow him to neglect the salvation of even the most despicable of men. Had not Christ permitted the kiss of Judas? Did not the Holy Father lave the feet of the filthiest of beggars? Besides, the interests of the Church inspired him. The door opened, and Graff appeared. Coming up to the young Abbé, he bowed—

“My sister, Madame Baradier, has just informed me of your presence, Monsieur l’Abbé. My brother-in-law, Barassin, is busy in the office, and begs to be excused. Besides, I have full permission to act as I think best. Will you explain?”

“Has not Madame Baradier told you?”

“In a few hasty words. You are sent by Lichtenbach? Good! That does not astonish us in the least. So long as he was the stronger, he did us all the harm he could. Now that we have the upper hand, he is trying to stop the game. Let us hear what he wants.”

M. d’Escayrac smiled.

“It is pleasant to talk to you, monsieur; one knows at once where one is going.”

“Very well, Monsieur l’Abbé; since you know, proceed at once to facts.”

“By chance, your firm and that of Lichtenbach have met on the same ground concerning the exploitation of a patent.”

“You call that chance? Good! Good! As for the ‘same ground,’ there is some truth in that, since, in order to obtain the patent in question, they have exploded a house, that of one of our friends; set fire to a manufactory, our own; assassinated two men, and risked killing several others. It is a ‘ground’ sprinkled with blood, Monsieur l’Abbé! But, still, it is that abominable ‘same ground!’”

The priest crossed his hands with an expression of horror.

“Monsieur, I knew nothing of what you are now revealing to me. Were it any one but yourself who were speaking, I should think he had taken leave of his senses. It is impossible that the man, in whose name I am here, should have committed the frightful acts you now reproach him with.”

“Let us understand one another,” replied Uncle Graff, eagerly. “I do not accuse Lichtenbach of having shed blood. He is incapable of it for several reasons, the best of which is that he would not dare to do such a thing. But the patent of which you speak has been obtained by the means I have just informed you of. Monsieur l’Abbé, you have been beguiled into a disagreeable enterprise. Still, in us you have to deal with those who have too much respect for religion for you to need to fear any responsibility. You may explain yourself without any further beating about the bush. Whatever may be said between us will not be repeated. After all, this interview may have some useful result, who knows?”

“I have no doubt whatever of that,” said the Abbé, considerably troubled all the same. “Oh, monsieur, how pleased I am to have to discuss the interests entrusted to my charge with so benevolent a man as yourself! God be praised! If possible, we will bring about a perfect understanding. If only you knew what I myself dread! In very truth, M. Lichtenbach is not so responsible for all that has happened as you suppose. He is not his own master in this matter; he has to deal with powerful personages, who will not lay down their arms, and who, I am afraid, will have recourse to the most extreme measures to obtain the supremacy over you.”

“We have nothing to fear!”

“There are poisoned weapons which will kill even the most invulnerable. Be on your guard, monsieur, against the plots to which your adversaries at bay may have recourse. I speak to you in all sincerity. I was not aware of the past, but I have been terrified at the glimpse into the future that has been permitted me.”

“By whom? Lichtenbach?”

“Oh! He was terrified himself; and begged me to come and speak to you, simply knowing me to be one whose character could offer him sufficient guarantee for discretion. I can assure you that in him you no longer have an enemy to deal with. Of that he is ready to give you whatever proof you wish.”

“He is deceiving you, Monsieur l’Abbé. You have been his dupe, and know him well. What does he want?”

“He proposes the complete fusion of the two enterprises by the exploitation of the two patents. Though the Dalgetty is previous to the Trémont patent, the two discoveries, being almost similar, shall be considered as equal.”

“What is that?” exclaimed Uncle Graff. “Lichtenbach is, indeed, very kind. One is genuine, the other counterfeit. The Trémont patent is the result of work and intelligence; the Dalgetty patent is the result of fraud and theft.”

“My dear sir,” exclaimed the Abbé, uneasily, “official declarations are a guarantee of faith. One cannot go against facts. The Dalgetty was taken out by an English company before the Trémont.”

“And how does that affect us? The Dalgetty has no value; those who have sent you here are well aware of that fact. We have them in our power, I tell you; they can do nothing. Their patent is not worth the money they have spent in taking it out. For months past Lichtenbach and ourselves have been adversaries over the Explosives Company. We hold the right end, that he well knows. He will soon have to undertake a liquidation. And then?”

“He offers to stop his bear operations.”

“He cannot continue them any longer.”

“He will take at half price the shares of the Explosives of which you are the holders, and pay for them at once.”

“I dare say he will; they will rise at a leap to two hundred francs each!”

“He is ready to offer you a pledge of his frank and, henceforth, invariable co-operation. If, in your family, you had a person belonging to his family, if an alliance united your common interests, would you not consider that an absolute guarantee of his sincere cessation of enmity against you?”

Graff turned pale, but succeeded in mastering his emotions, and, wishing to know his opponent’s inmost thoughts, he said—

“Who is the person in question on Lichtenbach’s side?”

“Mademoiselle Marianne, his daughter.”

“And on ours?”

“Your nephew, M. Baradier.”

“So these two would be married, and Baradier, Graff, and Lichtenbach would form one single family.”

“I do not know whether or not you are acquainted with Mademoiselle Lichtenbach. She is a charming young lady, brought up under the loftiest religious influences, and calculated to offer your nephew the most serious guarantees of happiness possible. It would be a joy to us to have contributed to the reconciliation of former enemies, separated by quarrels, which might, doubtless, easily be forgotten in the midst of general satisfaction. Concord and peace instead of enmity; no more fears or threats. One common and complete prosperity! Come, my dear sir, pronounce the words of redemption and hope, make an effort over your pride, and give the world an example of gentleness and charity.”

Graff had silently listened to the priest’s earnest pleading. His bent forehead and closed eyes gave the Abbé d’Escayrac to believe that his words were having their due effect on the old man’s thoughts. There was a moment’s silence. Then the uncle looked the Abbé straight in the face, and, in firm tones, said—

“Monsieur l’Abbé, in the cemetery of Metz, there are Graffs who would leap from their tombs if one of their descendants were to demean himself so far as to marry the daughter of a Lichtenbach!”

“Monsieur!” exclaimed the Abbé in surprise.

“Then you do not know the Baradiers and Graffs, or you would not propose to them an alliance with a Lichtenbach? Do you know who Lichtenbach is? Between Lorraine and Paris, there is not a mile of ground which has not been strewn with French blood, on account of this wretch. A spy, to lead the enemy to victory; food-supplier to the foe; when our troops were dying of hunger, he fattened on war, and enriched himself on treason. He sold his brothers of France—the Jews, who fought in our ranks and died like brave soldiers, double Judas as he was! And after receiving the reward for his treason, he turned Christian, and set about defiling another religion, by the disgusting intransigence of his apostate zeal! There you have a picture of Lichtenbach, Monsieur l’Abbé. Must I now tell you who Graff and Baradier are?”

“Oh, I know well, my dear sir! Your honour and patriotism are universally respected. But what animosity and rancour! Is this what I shall have to tell the one who sent me?”

“Tell him he is an impudent rascal for having charged such a man as yourself with such a mission. Tell him our scorn for him is only equalled by his hatred against us. Assure him we have not the slightest fear. If he wishes to slander us, we will pay him back in the same coin; if he dares to strike us, we will defend ourselves. In the latter case, let him be careful!”

“Monsieur!” said the Abbé, in tones of entreaty. “Reflect? Anger is a bad counsellor.”

“Monsieur l’Abbé, I am perfectly calm. You do not know me. I never give way to passion. If I did, the result would be terrible. But a great deal would be needed to bring about such a state of things!”

“Must I then leave you without obtaining any result? I am well aware that you are exposed to the most terrible dangers.”

“I thank you for warning us. We shall be on our guard.”

“Is that your last word?”

“No, Monsieur l’Abbé. Never has a priest entered this house without taking away, for himself and his work, a testimony of our respectful deference and humble piety.”

Graff took from his pocket a cheque-book, wrote a few words, and, handing the piece of paper to his visitor, said—

“For your poor parishioners, Monsieur l’Abbé.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the priest. “This is princely liberality. I will pray for you, monsieur, with all my heart.”

“Thanks, Monsieur l’Abbé,” said Graff, with a smile. “But pray, above all, for Lichtenbach.”

And, opening the door, he conducted the priest out.

That same evening, about nine o’clock, after dinner, Lichtenbach descended from his brougham, close to the entrance of the Boulevard Maillat. It was a brilliant night, and the groves in the Bois, under the silvery light of the moon, raised their dark masses against the horizon. The banker hurried along, not without some anxiety, for the spot was a deserted one, and a likely haunt of undesirable characters. After walking about a hundred yards, he halted in front of the ivy-covered gate of a villa, and knocked. A few seconds passed, then a small door turned on its hinges, and a woman appeared. It was Milona. Recognizing the banker, she stepped backwards, without uttering a word, and led the way into a garden in front of the house.

“Is madame at home?” asked Elias.

“She is expecting you,” said the Dalmatian, in guttural accents.

“Good. Have the others arrived?”

“Yes; an hour ago.”

They proceeded along a flower-bed, the flowers of which gave out fragrant odours on to the night air. The servant mounted a flight of steps, followed by Lichtenbach. On reaching a dark ante-chamber, Lichtenbach handed his overcoat and hat to Milona, who opened a door, and out of the darkness he passed suddenly into the light of the salon, the windows and curtains of which were hermetically closed. Seated at a table, Hans and Agostini were playing at piquet and drinking grog. On a divan Sophia reclined, in an elegant white deshabillé. The two men scarcely raised their heads on hearing Lichtenbach enter. The Baroness slowly sat upright, nodded graciously, and said—

“Sit down by my side. They are finishing their game. How did you come? I did not hear the wheels of your carriage.”

“I left it near the Porte Maillot.”

“What precautions! Can you not trust your coachman?”

“I trust no one.”

“And suppose some night prowler had struck you to the ground, to teach you not to walk about alone at night in these parts?”

Elias raised the butt-end of a revolver from his pocket, and said—

“I should have been able to speak to him in his own language.”

“I see; then you never travel without an interpreter?”

“I cannot let myself be murdered for a paltry twenty francs; it would be altogether too stupid!”

The conversation was interrupted by an exclamation from Cesare, who, in a passion, threw the cards down on to the table. Hans laughed to himself, and made a rapid calculation on a piece of paper.

“That makes thirty-five louis for you to pay. You have lost fourteen hundred points!”

“It is enough to make one believe in the Evil Eye!” growled the handsome Italian. “Ever since this Marcel Baradier cast his eyes on me, I cannot touch a single card without losing, at no matter what game!”

Glancing angrily in the direction of Sophia, he said—

“This must come to an end!”

“Come, now, peace!” ordered Hans, authoritatively. “What noise you make for nothing at all! What news have you, father money-bags? Has your jesuit d’Escayrac seen our friends?”

“He has. They refuse.”

“Refuse what? Be precise. Your daughter or our affair?”

Elias changed colour, and his eyes flashed. However, neither anger nor chagrin appeared from his voice.

“They refuse both alliance with me and co-operation with you. Everything, in short!”

“Donnerwetter!” growled Hans. “Are they mad?”

“No; they are aware that you have nothing, and they have everything. This they prove by sending us about our business.”

“You take all this very calmly,” exclaimed Count Cesare. “I have seen you less resigned than you now appear.”

“I am not in the habit of fighting windmills. You have tricked me into an absurd and dangerous business; now I am simply leaving it, that is all.”

“Leaving your feathers behind.”

“As you say. But as few as possible. I have already turned round about and effected a counter-operation.”

“You rogue! You will end by earning money, where we lose everything!” replied Agostini, pale with anger.

“If I do so, it is because I am not so stupid as you, who can do nothing but spend it.”

Hans burst into a laugh. As Agostini seemed to be on the point of losing his temper, he laid his hand on his arm, and forced him to keep his seat.

“Old money-bags is right; but we must not act like horses when there is no hay in the rack, and begin to fight. Let us study the situation, and see what can be done. First of all, what does the beauty say? Up to the present she has not spoken a word. Still, she must have an opinion on the matter; we will allow her to give it first.”

The Baroness appeared to awake from a reverie, and she said, in disdainful tones—

“It is not my custom desperately to follow up badly-conceived operations. You know what I have always told you since the Vanves night: that there was an evil spell over the whole affair. You will arrive at no successful end. After all, you have obtained half of what you wanted—the war powder. Follow the example Lichtenbach sets you. Give it up, and pass on to something else.”

“Something else, indeed!” growled Hans. “No, I shall not let go an affair which has cost me so dear. Some one must pay me for the arm I have lost!”

“Well, what plan have you to offer?” asked the Baroness, impatiently.

“You will arrange to strike up a fresh acquaintance with Marcel Baradier. Bring me the young man here one of these evenings. He knows the secret of the manufacture, and he shall either give it up to you of his own free will, or I will undertake to force him to do so.”

Lichtenbach’s hands trembled nervously. Sophia remained impassive.

“Well, what do you say to my proposal?” asked Hans, in jovial tones.

“I will have nothing further to do with the matter!” declared the Baroness.

“Ah! take care!” exclaimed Agostini. “I know why you refuse to help us against young Marcel. You are afraid for him. That is the difficulty.”

“And what if it were so?”

Hans made no reply. He appeared to reflect deeply. Then, with feigned good temper, he said—

“After all, you may be right. In any case, we can do nothing without you.”

Lichtenbach heaved a sigh of satisfaction. The conciliating attitude suddenly assumed by Hans seemed to be full of meaning. Wishing to know what this terrible partner of his really thought, he judged it useful to dissimulate his own ideas.

“Come, we will say nothing more on the matter! What this affair has cost me I will pass through the profit and loss account. Still, it is a pity we could not find that secret trick of manipulation. There was a great deal of money to be earned by it, after all!”

Hans bit his lips, but made no reply; whilst Agostini turned gracefully round to Lichtenbach, and said—

“And my marriage? What is to become of it?”

“What has become of this affair of ours,” replied Elias, roughly, “nothing. The one fell with the other! My fine fellow, you have no longer a prospective dot. I took you with the Trémont powder, and the only powder now left is blinding dust!”

“Ah! You treat me in this way. I may give you reason to repent it!”

“And if I wished, you would not be allowed in France another twenty-four hours. Let us be going,” added Lichtenbach; “it is already late.”

“We will accompany you to the toll-gate, for fear something may happen to you. This quarter is not very safe at nights. Good night, Sophia.”

“Good night.”

She held out her white hand, which her dreaded ally touched with that iron hand of his, covered with a glove.

“May I not stay a few minutes, Sophia?” asked Agostini.

“No,” said the Baroness, emphatically. “Good night!”

Ringing the bell, Milona appeared.

“Show these gentlemen out, Milo.”

Silently they left the house, preceded by the Dalmatian, who held a round lantern to light the way through the sinuous turnings of the path leading to the little ivy-covered door. This she opened, and then disappeared. They proceeded along the Avenue Maillot in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts. Suddenly Hans stopped, and said, in low accents—

“Sophia is tricking us. But things shall not happen as she imagines. I pretended to give way, the better to deceive her. Now this is what we will do. Cesare will send a letter in a disguised hand-writing to young Marcel Baradier, fixing a rendezvous at the Boulevard Maillot about ten o’clock at night. I shall be there to receive him, with others on whom I can rely, and I will undertake to introduce the pigeon into the dovecot. Once there, Sophia must be forced to employ her wiles, whether she will or not. It is the same plan I mentioned just now, and which she refused. The only difference is that I do not ask for her permission before putting it into practice.”

“But suppose Baradier does not come?” said Cesare.

“What? Not come? Can you imagine that he would not come to a rendezvous fixed by the Baroness? He will fly to it at once. And when we have him!”

“What will you do?” asked Lichtenbach, in quivering accents.

“That is my own business. Just trust to me to loosen this young man’s tongue!”

“Violence?”

“A mode of persuasion he cannot resist.”

“And suppose he denounces you on leaving the house?”

“If only he will speak beforehand he will have plenty of time to say what he wishes afterwards.”

Lichtenbach shuddered. He felt that Hans had made up his mind to kill Marcel Baradier, and that the bandit was pursuing a double end: possession of the secret, and revenge for his mutilation.

“For the future,” he said, “I will have nothing more to do with your actions, in which I repudiate all share. I do not wish even to know the result of your attempt. You seem to have gone mad!”

“Ah! don’t think we ever relied on you for anything else than an advance of funds?” said Count Cesare, jeeringly. “To us you have been the hen which laid the golden eggs; now that you have stopped laying, go your own way!”

“No tricks with us, Lichtenbach,” said Hans. “If we succeed, the Dalgetty patent will have its full effect, you know; consequently you will share in the profits. What you say now is only another instance of your hypocrisy; you reject the responsibility, but are willing to accept the profits. Very well, my friend, you shall have them!”

They had reached the spot where Lichtenbach’s carriage stood. Agostini gracefully opened the door, saying—

“Good night, my prince, pleasant dreams!”

Meanwhile, M. Mayeur had acted in accordance with information received from Baudoin and Colonel Vallenot. For a week now he had known the details of Count Cesare’s life. Of very good birth, belonging to an illustrious family, Signor Agostini had been obliged to leave the Italian army after an affair of honour.

Concerning Hans, nothing could be discovered. The Baroness had been tracked, through Agostini, to her rooms in the Boulevard Maillot. The hotel had been let furnished. She lived very quietly, under the name of Madame de Frilas. M. Mayeur had sent an intelligent agent to the Baron Grodsko at Nice, and obtained from him full information concerning her.

Provided with his notes, M. Mayeur had returned to the War Office to communicate them to Colonel Vallenot, and ask of him the result of his personal investigations. Introduced at once into the Minister’s cabinet, the magistrate had seen the results of his examination confirmed by supplementary details. In proportion as light was thrown on the personality of the different actors in the drama, the gravity of the affair became more and more evident. They discovered, beyond the faintest shadow of doubt, that they had to deal with an association of international espionage, which had been working for at least ten years on behalf of foreign governments, probably exploiting them in turn, and betraying them to the profit of one another.

It was possible that the whole of Europe had been duped by these clever rascals. The least false step might alarm the culprits and cause them to disappear! M. Mayeur grew pale at the restraint placed on him. But how was it possible to neglect such imperious political necessities? Colonel Vallenot was the first to speak out clearly on the subject—

“From this moment, General, it is certain we hold the Ténébreuse, as our agents call her. This is the woman of whom I spoke to you at the outset of our investigations some months ago, the one involved in the Cominges, Fontenailles affairs, etc. We have only to order, and she is in our power. Is it possible that we can let her escape?”

“It is these deuced formalists, with their politics!” growled the old chief. “If the matter were in my hands it should not be allowed to linger in this way. These lawyers and quibblers astonish me! I only regain possession of myself when in the midst of my officers. What do you say, Monsieur le Juge?”

At that moment the door opened, and the porter brought a card to Colonel Vallenot. The latter handed it to the Minister, who exclaimed—

“Marcel Baradier! Show him in!”

The young man entered, bowed, and, addressing the General, said—

“I undertook, General, to keep you au courant of anything fresh that might happen. I have come to keep my promise.”

“Very good, my friend, explain.”

“This morning, General, I received this letter.”

He placed on the desk a sheet of paper, which the Minister examined attentively.

“No date, very common paper, an evidently counterfeit handwriting, and no signature. Now let us see what it says: ‘If you wish to see once more the one who still loves you, go to-night, at ten o’clock, to the Place de l’Etoile, at the corner of the Avenue Hoche. A carriage will be stationed there. Enter it, the coachman will ask no questions, and will take you where you are expected.’”

“Good. The classic mode of procedure, except that you are not asked to submit to having your eyes bandaged. What have you made up your mind to do?”

“I shall go to the rendezvous.”

“Ah, ah! Without the slightest apprehension?”

“That is another matter, General. All the same, I shall go. I am determined to have the solution to this enigma.”

The magistrate interrupted him in gentle tones—

“Permit me to remark, monsieur, that this resolution of yours is an exceedingly imprudent one. Ninety-nine chances to a hundred they are attempting to entrap you. Do not add to our trouble by exposing yourself to danger for an uncertain result.”

“If it is she who has written to me, I have nothing to fear.”

“The deuce!” exclaimed the General. “You are very affirmative!”

Marcel replied gently—

“You may have concerning this woman whatever opinion your information has permitted you to form. False with the others, she was truthful to me. She betrayed the rest. To me she has been faithful and devoted.”

“Listen!” exclaimed the General. “He is convinced of the truth of what he says. She persuades each and every one of them that she is sincere, and they all believe her!”

“I will run the risk!”

The old soldier brought down his fist on to the desk—

“Well, you are a brave fellow! I like this obstinacy, Vallenot. The deuce take me if I would not have done the same thing at his age. Well, it is understood, go to the rendezvous. But we, too, shall take precautionary measures to protect and defend you, if necessary.”

“Oh! General, do nothing whatever, please! The slightest intervention would ruin everything! If it is really Sophia who has written the letter, I have no need of an escort or protection of any kind. If it is a trap, those who have prepared it have their eyes open, and will notice all your preparations.”

“Do you know where the lady lives?” asked the magistrate.

“No, sir; as you see, no address is given in the letter.”

M. Mayeur then said in measured tones—

“My dear sir, your reasons are not bad ones at all. True, I have recommended you to be prudent, but if you will go to the rendezvous, go. Still, as we must always look at things from a practical standpoint, what result do you expect to obtain?”

“Monsieur,” said Marcel, gravely; “General de Trémont was my friend; his death has not been avenged. Our works have been fired; my uncle Graff, my servant, and myself were almost burnt alive. This crime has not been punished, any more than the assassination of Laforêt. I intend to throw light on all these facts, though it be at the peril of my life.”

“Very good, sir, all I can do is to wish you good luck.”

Marcel bowed and shook hands with the three men.

“He is a true Baradier! But he is too venturesome!”

As soon as the door was closed, M. Mayeur rose from his seat, exclaiming—.

“Here is an opportunity, General, to seize all these rascals at once. Of course, you know as well as I do that it is their object to entice M. Baradier into the house in the Boulevard Maillot, and there force him to give up his secret. Just now you said that these villains must be induced to resist, and then massacred. Without going to that extremity, we have now an opportunity of simplifying the whole proceedings.”

“But you promised Marcel you would not interfere!” said Colonel Vallenot.

“I don’t intend to interfere. He shall do as he likes. But I cannot take no interest in these preparations, nor will I, like young Baradier, be chivalrous with bandits. This is my plan: The rendezvous is for ten o’clock. You know the situation of the Boulevard Maillot; there is a ditch separating it from the Bois de Boulogne. A splendid hiding-place to hide a posse of police entering by the wood. I know a detective officer who is as intelligent as he is determined. I shall give him instructions to post himself there, and keep watch. In case M. Baradier is right, and there is nothing to fear, my men will simply have passed a night in the open-air. If he is mistaken then the danger will be a real one. You heard him say that he would be armed and ready to defend himself. At the first cry or shot my men will invade the house. If they are threatened they resist, if they are struck they will fire. Whether diplomacy wishes or not, if the villains are caught in the act the matter must take its course.”

“Whatever happens, do not let young Baradier be killed, and above all try to lay hands on the woman.”

“What do you think of the plan, General?”

The old soldier looked at the magistrate, then at Vallenot. He noticed the impassive countenance of the latter, and replied—

“You need not ask for my advice. All these judicial operations are out of my province. Act as you think best; I have nothing to say.”

The magistrate shook his head, with a mocking smile; then, taking up his hat, he said—

“Ah, I know what you mean! So long as the affair is not over, no one wishes to have anything to do with it. If it succeeds, then I shall be the only one to be left out of it all. But that matters little. It is my duty, and I will not hesitate. Your servant, General.”

And he left the room accompanied by Colonel Vallenot.

It was about half-past nine, and Uncle Graff had dined in the Rue de Provènce as usual. Baudoin approached him, and whispered in his ear—

“Two ladies have called, and one of them wishes to speak to M. Marcel.”

“What kind of a woman is she?” asked the uncle.

“A very respectable-looking person, sir. The other must be a governess or a lady’s maid.”

“Where are they?”

“In the ante-chamber.”

“Turn on the electricity in my room, and show them in.”

Baudoin did as he was ordered. Uncle Graff continued his descent, murmuring to himself—

“Another of Marcel’s escapades! I wonder what it is this time.”

On approaching his room he saw, standing by the door, a young lady dressed in black, and wearing a veil. Uncle Graff’s first impression was a favourable one. Pointing to a seat, he said kindly—

“My nephew, madame, is not at home. Cannot I—”

He was not allowed to finish the sentence. The young lady said in beseeching tones—

“Monsieur, it is a question of life or death.”

“For whom?” asked Uncle Graff, anxiously.

“For your nephew!”

“How have you been informed of this? And who are you?”

The visitor replied immediately—

“I am Mademoiselle Lichtenbach, monsieur, and I place myself entirely at your disposal.”

As she spoke she removed her veil. Uncle Graff, stupefied, recognized the daughter of his enemy. She was pale and trembling, but resolute.

“Who has sent you?” he asked.

“My father! He thought that if he came himself, perhaps you would not receive him. At this very moment, perhaps, your nephew is running the most serious danger. My father, who has just received news of it, begged me to come and tell you.”

“But how did he receive his information?” asked Graff, suspiciously.

“Ah, monsieur! begin by taking the necessary measures to help M. Marcel,” said Marianne, eagerly. “Afterwards you may ask what questions you please.”

“At whose hands lies the peril?”

“At the hands of the same band which killed General de Trémont. My father has been informed of these intrigues. Act without losing a moment.”

“But what can we do?” exclaimed Uncle Graff, carried away by the young lady’s eagerness.

“I will explain to you. Wait a moment.”

Passing her hand over her forehead, she said in piteous accents—

“Yes, that was it. A woman he knew at Ars.”

“The Italian?”

“Yes, doubtless. He loved her, and they knew he would be pleased to see her again.”

She paused. The pallor of her face increased. What she was relating seemed to torture her.

“So they wrote to him to fix a rendezvous. And they are expecting him this very evening, in a solitary out-of-the-way house. But he will not find the one he expects to meet, but, instead, a band of villains, determined to employ the most violent measures to force him to reveal a secret that they cannot fathom. Now do you understand?”

“Yes. ‘Where is this house?”

“See, here is the address written on this piece of paper.”

Graff read—

“Boulevard Maillot, 16 bis. And you say that he was expected there about ten o’clock?”

As though in obedience to his words, the timepiece struck the hour at the very instant.

Graff rang the bell. Baudoin appeared.

“Quick, Baudoin, a carriage! You will accompany me. Have you a good revolver?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then bring it with you. Do not say a word to any one. I will rejoin you in the yard. Ten o’clock! We will be there, all the same, and if they have harmed the child, let them beware!”

Baudoin had already left the room. Marianne, motionless, watched Uncle Graff make his preparations. He took up a bundle of bank-notes, a revolver, and a heavy steel-headed stick. Then he appeared to remember that Mademoiselle Lichtenbach was in the room. Coming up to her, he said kindly—

“My child, I thank you for the service.”

“Oh, monsieur!” exclaimed Marianne, her eyes gleaming with suppressed tears; “save him, that is the main thing!”

“He shall be informed, mademoiselle, of what you have risked for his sake. I know what this errand must have cost you.”

Marianne smiled sadly.

“I am returning to-morrow to the convent, doubtless for ever. Life is full of sadness and pain.”

Graff waited no longer, but rushed out into the street, as the brougham of Mademoiselle Lichtenbach vanished in the distance. Baudoin was standing near the cab. Graff leapt into the carriage and said—

“To the Porte Maillot! You, Baudoin, mount with me. I want to speak to you.”

Marcel had never felt so calm as on the evening he made his way towards the Place de l’Etoile.

When he entered the carriage it immediately started off along the Avenue de la Grande-Armée, wheeled round at the Porte Maillot, and, after a two minutes’ further run, came to a halt in a dark-looking avenue, near a garden gate. Marcel stepped out, and the carriage disappeared. A small door, hidden in the ivy, was now opened, and a valet in livery appeared. Marcel followed him in the direction of a house which raised its sombre mass in front. A single light shone from a window on the first floor. Mounting a flight of steps, he entered an ante-chamber. Suddenly an exclamation was heard in the next apartment, a rapid step was heard, a door overhung with tapestry was flung open, and Sophia, her face convulsed by the violence of her emotion, appeared. Her looks expressed the terror she felt, but not a word did she utter. Taking Marcel by the wrist, she drew him into the room she had just left—a bedroom—quickly turned the key in the lock, bolted another door, and, seizing the young man in her arms, whispered in his ear—

“Wretched man that you are! How did you come here?”

At the same time, and without appearing to be able to help herself, her lips sought Marcel’s neck, and she kissed him with a delirious rapture.

“Then it was not you who summoned me?”

“I! Grand Dieu! I would give ten years of my life if you were anywhere but in this house at this moment. Ah! the wretches! They have deceived me!”

“Who are the wretches you speak of?” asked Marcel, firmly.

“Ah! Do not question me! I cannot, must not, speak!”

“Are you jesting?” said Marcel, ironically.

“Poor child! You do not know them!”

“Madame, is your brother among them?”

She laid her hands on his mouth, those beautiful white hands, and he remained silent. Then, clasping him to her breast with passionate ardour, her eyes filled with tears—she stammered out—

“Oh! Marcel, Marcel!”

A sudden pallor came over her; she clung to him to prevent herself from falling, and her shapely head, with its wealth of raven hair, lay on the shoulder of the one she loved with hopeless passion.

A sharp knock on the door brought them back to the reality of life.

“Listen!” said Sophia.

She drew near the door, asked a short question in a foreign language, and received an immediate reply. Apparently reassured, she opened the door, saying to Marcel—

“It is Milo.”

Milona entered, and the door was carefully closed again.

“Have they sent you?” asked Sophia.

“Yes, mistress.”

“What do they want?”

“To come to an understanding with you.”

“I shall not go.”

“They have provided for that contingency.”

“Well?”

“They have told me to repeat to you their demands from the young master.”

“Silence! I do not wish him to know them!”

“Would you rather they mount the stairs and kill him?”

A deep silence followed. Sophia twisted about her arms, and groaned in despair. Her beautiful features were convulsed by powerless rage and exasperated dismay. Grinding her teeth, she flew to the mantel-piece, seized a short, sharp dagger, which she brandished aloft with a terrible skill.

“Milo, you will not abandon me?”

“Never! I will die for you, that you know well!”

“Marcel is armed; so we are three! Oh! I will defend him with my last breath!”

“Against them?” said Milona. “Can you hope to do such a thing? It would be impossible to resist them. They are all waiting below, in the dining-room, ready for anything!”

“Oh! Mon Dieu! How mad I am! Do I not know them? Oh! Marcel, why did you place yourself at their mercy?”

Flinging her poniard on to the ground, she sat down, overcome with emotion, buried her head in her hands, and burst into tears. Marcel, turning to the Dalmatian, asked, in calm accents—

“Tell me, in a word, what it is they want from me?”

Milona cast a questioning glance at her mistress. As Sophia made no sign, the servant explained—

“They want the famous secret, which will give value to the powder they stole from you!”

Marcel smiled, and then frowned in disdain.

“Ah! that is what is puzzling them. I am glad to know that they have not succeeded in discovering what they were so interested in knowing. Milona, you may tell them that they will never learn it from me!”

“We shall see about that before long!” exclaimed Agostini, passionately, from behind the door.

“Ah! you are listening, you villain?” said Marcel, in vibrating tones. “I am very pleased to know it, for such a procedure simplifies things considerably! Tell your acolytes that I am not afraid of them; I have in my hand a revolver which will answer for the lives of six men. If they like, I will open the door, and the dance shall begin.”

“Take time for reflection!” replied a deep, guttural voice—that of Hans. “Do not do anything stupid!”

“Who is that?” asked Marcel. “He does not appear so stupid as the others.”

“One would think you know us!” railed the bandit. “Patience! We will give you half an hour in which to decide. If, within thirty minutes, you have not given us satisfaction, I will undertake to make you speak. The night is damp—there is a good fire below!”

Steps were now heard descending the staircase. Milona silently left the room, and Marcel and Sophia remained alone. The time-piece pointed to ten minutes past ten.

“You heard them,” said Sophia. “Now you know what they propose to do. They want your secret.”

“Very well! I have told them they shall not have it!”

Looking at the young woman, he saw that a shudder came over her. Laying his hand on her shoulder, he added—

“But I wish to know yours.”

“Mine?” exclaimed the young woman, with a terrified gesture.

“Yes! Who and what are you?”

She smiled sadly.

“A broken-hearted woman who loves you!”

“Empty words! You say you love me. The only proof of this confession I ask for is that you be sincere with me.”

Hiding her face in her hands, she exclaimed—

“Never! You would hate me if I told you!”

“Then it is true that you are the most abominable creature on earth?”

“Oh! my darling, do not insult me!”

“You will not speak? Then I will ask your accomplices downstairs. I imagine it will be a pleasure to them to give me information about you.”

He started towards the door. She leapt forward. “Madman! You do not know the danger you are running! Stay here by my side.”

He looked steadily into her eyes, and asked again—“Who are you?”

She groaned.

“Why are you so pitiless?”

“If you do not speak, it is because you are well aware that my scorn for you would be so great, that nothing but disgust would remain in my memory from this past happiness!”

She stood up, and proudly answered—

“Poor Marcel, you are mistaken—you would still love me. If I pleased, nothing could withdraw you from me!”

She looked at him as she spoke, and under the influence of her glance Marcel felt all his resolutions melt away, a feeling of languor came over him, and he lost the faculty of will-power.

“Death is all around us,” she whispered. “Let us forget everything. Do not think any more, my love—leave your poor tortured heart in peace.”

Suddenly a sound of footsteps was heard throughout the house, and cries coming from outside. Then came a sound as though a door had been torn from its hinges, followed by a revolver-shot. At the same time was heard a voice, which Marcel knew well.

“Help! Baudoin, help!”

Then another shot, followed by a volley of oaths. Marcel, on his feet, exclaimed—

“It is my uncle Graff! Mon Dieu! They are killing him!”

“Stay here, do not stir!” said Sophia, in beseeching tones.

He made no reply, but rushed forward into the corridor, found the staircase, and, in the semi-darkness, saw in the hall, on the ground floor, a group of three men, in a hand-to-hand conflict with Graff, who, half-stifled, and encircled by their arms, was trying in vain to make use of his revolver. In front of the entrance-door Hans and Baudoin were engaged in a fierce struggle. The brave servant had his forehead gashed open, and the blood was flowing freely, but he had obtained a firm hold on his terrible opponent, and succeeded in holding him harmless for the moment.

Standing above the balustrade, Marcel took aim at one of the three men who were strangling his uncle. A flash followed, and the man fell. At the same moment a shot was heard behind Marcel, and a ball whizzed past his ear. Turning round, he found himself face to face with Agostini, who was preparing to repeat the shot. With a sudden blow he dashed aside the weapon, seized the Italian by the waist, and, his strength doubled by the fury and rage which now possessed him, raised him in the air, and flung him over the rails of the staircase.

At this exploit, Hans, powerless to strike Marcel, who was descending the steps four at a time, gave a howl of fury. He shook Baudoin with such energy that he forced him to abandon his hold. Then he placed him under his knee, and his iron arm was already raised to deal the deathblow, when Marcel rushed to the rescue with a terrible blow in the body, which hurled the colossus to the ground. He immediately rose to his feet, however, and, taking up a position in a corner, shouted out aloud—

“Help! Here, you others! Help!”

But the others had by this time too much to do. The police, attracted by the firing, invaded the house. Uncle Graff, at liberty, now came up with his revolver. But Baudoin, in hoarse tones, exclaimed—

“Monsieur Graff, leave him to me—he is mine! It is he who killed my General!”

He then took from the old man’s hand his steel-headed stick, disdaining a firearm, which would have made the combat unequal, and fell upon Hans. The bandit swore frightfully on seeing that all was lost; he struck a blow with his iron fist, but Baudoin lightly stepped aside. Then the stick whizzed through the air, and the steel head descended. Hans, struck on the temple, rolled over the flag-stones, and fell like an ox to the ground. This was a signal for a general rout. The three men who still resisted now leapt through the open windows, and vanished like shadows into the garden.

“All escape is cut off; do not trouble about them,” exclaimed the head detective. “Let us see after the wounded and the dead.”

Uncle Graff wished to take Marcel into his arms, question him, and assure himself that he was safe and sound; but, on turning round, he found Baudoin wiping away with his handkerchief the blood and perspiration flowing from his forehead. Marcel, as soon as the issue of the struggle left no room for doubt, had immediately thought of Sophia. Now that danger for him had disappeared, it loomed forth with a terrible aspect for her. The police, who had restored the situation by intervening to save him, would now appear on the scene for her ruin. He mounted the stairs more quickly than he had descended, for he felt that the time in which anything could be done was short indeed.

Rushing into the room, the door of which was still open, he drew the bolts on Sophia with as much fear and solicitude as she had drawn them on himself. She had remained standing, leaning pensively against the mantelpiece, as though devoid of interest in what was taking place on the floor beneath. Milona stood by her side; she had doubtless told her of the defeat of her companions. Marcel, in terrified ardour, rushed up to her.

“The house is in the hands of the police, do you not know? Why are you still here?”

“I was waiting for you,” replied Sophia, calmly. “But it means ruin to you!”

“How does that affect you?”

“I will not consent to it! I cannot endure the idea that you should suffer threatenings and torture for having defended me.”

A light came into Sophia’s face.

“Then will you still allow me to see you?”

He replied, firmly—

“Impossible! After what has taken place between us, I must never see you again! I cannot, I must not! For your own sake!”

Her tranquil, careless look returned.

“Then leave me to my fate!”

“No! I will not do that! You, ruined on my account, when— Will you torture my thoughts by the frightful memory of the past?”

“Oh, Marcel, if I could only please you! If you would only love me! How dearly I would pay you for such happiness!”

She smiled. Tears filled her eyes, and she looked so beautiful that a shudder ran through his whole body. Turning aside, he said—

“Wretched woman! what will become of you?”

She showed him a ring, the bezel of which was made of a bead of chased gold.

“Look at this bead of gold; it contains liberty and death at the same time. Pour its contents into a glass of water, and all is over, without suffering.”

She stretched out her hand towards a tray containing a bowl of water and a glass.

“I forbid you!” cried Marcel, dismayed.

She looked at him with a terrible intensity, whilst her face shone with superhuman ardour.

“Nothing without you!” she said. “Everything with you! Decide!”

“Impossible!”

With a sorrowful smile, she continued—

“Reflect! You know what I am. If you wish, I will live, but only to be yours. I will come whenever you want me, and will not trouble you in any way. Oh! every expiation and sacrifice, every grief and pain imaginable, to be yours once more!”

Steps were heard mounting the staircase. Marcel, terror-struck, said—

“They are coming! They will take you! If you wish to save your life, leave the room at once!”

“Let them come! They will only take me if I am willing. I have nothing to fear from any other than yourself. Do you wish me to live? Swear that you will see me again!”

At that supreme moment the pale faces of General de Trémont and poor Laforêt, of Agostini, dead, and Hans, lying on the blood-stained stone, rose before Marcel’s imagination, and an insurmountable horror came over him. He bent his head without a word. A slight noise of something touching glass caused him to look up. He saw Sophia drinking the poison. Rushing up, he dashed from her hands the empty glass. Smiling, she said—

“Too late!”

“Open! Open!” exclaimed several voices behind the door.

Sophia found sufficient strength to say—

“Open now, Milona!”

The Dalmatian obeyed. A veil came over Sophia’s eyes, her cheeks turned deadly pale. Milona, terrified, fell to the ground, her dark, dishevelled hair falling round her face like a funeral veil.

“Where is the woman?” shouted M. Mayeur from the staircase, as he came on the scene, panting and triumphant. “She has not been allowed to escape, I hope!”

He appeared, accompanied by Graff, and stood, as though petrified, on the threshold.

Marcel, pointing to Sophia, who had just breathed her last, said—

“Here she is!”

The Ténébreuse, ever elusive, had this time taken refuge in the darkness of eternal night.

The affray of the Boulevard Maillot was prudently passed over as a drama founded on jealousy. Two men quarrelling over a woman, and the rivals killing one another over the corpse of the fair one—such was the account furnished to the reporters. Imagination did the rest. Paris dwelt with passionate interest for twelve hours on this magnificent butchery, the horrors of which were described all the better from the fact that no one had been admitted to see them. M. Mayeur alone made a complete search all over the house, but discovered nothing calculated to throw any light on the identity of Hans. Neither the anthropometric service nor the most experienced detectives could find out the slightest indication as to the mysterious personality of the dreaded bandit. Certainly he was the same man whose arm had been carried off at Vanves, when he had appeared there with Sophia, on the evening the General’s house had been destroyed. But what was he besides? The international police, on being questioned, said nothing. Either they knew nothing, or were unwilling to give information.

Sophia and Agostini were identified. The Princes of Briviesca undertook to inform the magistrate concerning the one member of their family they were well pleased to see themselves rid of. Count Grodsko could relate nothing more than he had already told to the agent who had questioned him at Monte Carlo. The examining magistrate enraged at finding nothing, thought for a moment of bringing a charge against Lichtenbach. He summoned him to his study, questioned him, and tried to obtain from Baradier and Graff revelations concerning him. But the former would not impeach, as was expected, their old enemy. Rivalry in business affairs, quibbles in banking relations, but nothing legally guilty. If a charge could be brought on these heads, then they would be obliged to surround the Place de la Bourse, from twelve to three every day, and arrest all who were raising those frightful cries beneath its columns. Besides, the highest circles had immediately interceded in favour of Lichtenbach, and the examining magistrate saw at once that he was on a wrong track. Accordingly, this time the Vanves affair was definitely shelved, and classed amongst the legal mysteries of the year.

But though these tragic events were not destined to have any material consequences for Lichtenbach, serious moral results rapidly followed. Within a week following the death of Agostini and Sophia, Mademoiselle Lichtenbach entered the Convent des Augustines of the Rue Saint Jacques. She had had a two-hours’ conversation with her father. Pale, but determined, she was seen to leave her father’s study. Elias followed her, trembling, and with bowed head, tears streaming down his cheeks. On the landing he tried to stop his daughter, and stretched out his hands beseechingly as he stammered—

“My child, do not be inexorable; have pity on me!”

Marianne bowed her head as she replied—

“I wish I could, father; but how will you redeem the past?”

Without turning round, she descended the stone staircase, at the foot of which the carriage was waiting to conduct her to the Rue Saint Jacques. A moan of pain escaped the old man’s lips as he leaned over the iron balustrade. For a moment he seemed as though he would fling himself over. Then he cried out in heart-piercing accents—

“Marianne! Marianne!”

She raised her head. Stretching out his hands, he groaned—

“You are the only one I have left in the world! Will you forget your father?”

The young girl shook her head sadly, but did not give in. What terrible explanation could have taken place between father and daughter? What had Lichtenbach been forced to confess, for Marianne to show herself so inexorable? She made the sign of the cross, as though to strengthen her fainting heart. The pallor of her face increased, though she replied in firm accents—

“I shall not forget you, father. I will pray for you.”

She mounted the carriage, a rolling of wheels was heard, then followed a long silence. Lichtenbach returned slowly to his room, and sank down in a reverie.

All the same, he did not give up business. On the contrary, he seemed to show a greater ardour than before for finance. His position on the Explosives settled, he regained the ground he had lost by a formidable campaign on gold mines. Never had his speculations been more brilliant or lucky than they were during the six months following his daughter’s departure. One would have thought that his grief had brought him good fortune, for everything succeeded which he undertook. All the same, nothing seemed to give him pleasure, and he changed greatly in physique. No longer could he mount the steps of the Bourse without halting for breath. Society had no further attractions for him.

One winter evening, the valet de chambre, as he entered his master’s room, found Elias leaning over his desk, apparently asleep. Calling him by name, he received no reply. Terrified, he drew nearer, and touched his master. The banker remained motionless, whilst his hand clasped a short letter from his daughter. The few words he had been reading were still moist with the tears he had shed. He was dead, a victim to the only sentiment by which he had ever been vulnerable; the love of a father.

Six months later, at twilight, in the study of the Rue de Provènce, Uncle Graff and Marcel were seated together. After signing all the letters for the evening’s post, Baradier had retired to his own room.

The darkness gradually deepened, and uncle and nephew, seated in their armchairs, without a word, looked like vague, uncertain silhouettes. The clerks had all left, and silence reigned around.

“Are you asleep, Uncle Graff?” asked Marcel.

“No; I was just thinking.”

“What about?”

“About all that has happened the past twelve months. It is no mere trifle!”

“No, indeed. And what is the result of your reflections?”

“That we have had the most extraordinary luck; we had to deal with enemies who seemed destined to triumph over us time after time; and that we have manifestly been protected by a divine providence.”

“Uncle Graff, you are rather illogical; extraordinary luck on the one hand, and divine providence on the other. They do not go very well together.”

“Oh, you are too sceptical. It is your generation which makes you so. You no longer believe in anything.”

“I do not believe in chance, no!” said Marcel, ironically. Then he added, in tones of sudden gravity, “But I believe in the firm, steadfast will of human beings. If we have been protected, as you say truly enough, it is because it was so willed. But for that—”

Silence followed. The darkness had now become complete.

“It was so willed,” repeated Uncle Graff. “You are alluding to that woman?”

“I am alluding to ‘that woman.’ It was she who defeated the plans of her acolytes, and saved me.”

“Because she loved you?”

“Because she loved me.”

“Well, then, tell me what passed between you for a woman of this stamp to sacrifice herself for a man she first intended to dupe, and afterwards to rob. For you cannot doubt the fact that she had plans concerning you?”

“I am quite aware of the fact.”

“She had had considerable experience in life, and yet—”

“And yet she fell in love with a young man like myself. Well, probably because I was a change from all her other acquaintances. A cup of milk to a drunken man, for instance.”

“And she killed herself for your sake, under your very eyes?”

“Yes, Uncle Graff, because I would not promise to see her again.”

“And yet you loved her?”

“I both loved and hated her. Had I seen her again she would have obtained renewed dominion over me and ruined me. I determined it should not be so.”

Uncle Graff sighed—

“And do you sometimes think of this woman?”

“Always.”

“Do you know what you ought to do now, if you wish to turn over a new leaf?”

“I know very well, my father spoke to me yesterday. And it is doubtless because I received his overtures coolly, that you are now returning to the same subject.”

“You are right, my child. If you would only marry, now that you are reasonable and settled in life.”

“Marry Geneviève de Trémont?”

“Yes. She is the wife your father and mother have always intended for you. It would give them great pleasure, if you would marry her.”

After a moment’s silence, Marcel said—

“When Mademoiselle Lichtenbach came to warn you that a snare had been set for me, was she excited?”

“Greatly excited.”

“And you thought, when you saw her, that this extraordinary emotion was caused by some special interest she took in myself. At any rate, you said so to me.”

“Certainly. I promised I would tell you. Besides, the child pleased me. She was anything but commonplace. And her determination the following morning confirmed the good opinion I had formed of her.”

“Her resolve to enter the convent?”

“You are right.”

“In a word, then, Mademoiselle Lichtenbach has abjured the world for my sake. This child will have been recompensed for her devoted tenderness by the loss of everything happy and pleasant life had in store for her; and she is now destined to die poor; wearing a nun’s robe, with shorn hair, attending to the wants of the destitute?”

“Yes.”

“Uncle Graff, in your opinion, are children responsible for the misdeeds of their parents?”

The old man did not reply.

“You do not reply,” urged Marcel. “My question troubles you?”

“It troubles me greatly. One day, in this very room, I told an envoy of Lichtenbach’s, who made us an offer of the hand of his daughter for you, that all the Graffs would rise in their graves if a Baradier were to marry a Lichtenbach.”

“What!” exclaimed Marcel, greatly agitated. “Such an offer has been made, and you never informed me of it?”

“What would have been the use? You know how we felt just then for me to have given such an emphatic and stupid reply. Your father—Oh! I believe he would have preferred to see you in your grave rather than married to a Lichtenbach. Just think of it! The General had just been killed—the works were still in flames! No, no! It was impossible.”

“But now, Uncle Graff?”

“What! Can you think of such a thing?” asked the sentimental old fellow, in trembling accents.

“I think of it so much,” said Marcel, firmly, “that if Mademoiselle Lichtenbach does not consent to become my wife I will never marry another.”

At that moment a slight sound was heard, and the door closed.

“Who is there?” asked Graff, eagerly.

“Do not excite yourself,” said the voice of Baradier.

“Were you listening?”

“No; I have just come. But I heard your last words. How long are you going to remain in this darkness?”

At the same moment he turned on the electric light. The three men looked at one another for a moment; they were very grave and serious, but a look of contentment was visible on their countenances. Baradier did not bow his head with that obstinate mien his son and brother-in-law knew so well. He was perfectly self-possessed. Sitting down at his desk, he said—

“What difference would there be between us and mere nobodies or good-for-nothings if we were incapable of showing gratitude? It is not sufficient to appear honest and delicate in the eyes of the world—one must be without the slightest reproach before one’s own conscience.”

He fixed on his son a look of perfect satisfaction, though his face paled with the emotion which had taken possession of him.

“Marcel has spoken like a real Baradier or Graff. We must do as he has said.”

At these simple words the three men quivered, consecrating as they did their successor with the worthy renown of his predecessors. Tears of joy and pride shone in his uncle’s eyes. Marcel, without a word, flung himself into his father’s arms.

THE END

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