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 satisfiedby 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 verronsAccrochés 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 mouronsPour notre indépendance!Ayons la victoire, ou mouronsPour notre indépendance!”
“Les patrons, les damnés patrons,Un beau matin, nous les verronsAccrochés 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 mouronsPour notre indépendance!Ayons la victoire, ou mouronsPour 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 longerto 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 thecoup, 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 andmaddening 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 pooryoung 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? Thecouphe 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 notsurprised. 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 arôle, 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 launcheda 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 acondottiereof 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, andeverywhere 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.
Onleaving 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 tobe 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 verymoment 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 wouldgive 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 committedat 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 thesubject? 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 thispowder. 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 asto 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, andspent 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 replywith 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 ofrevolt 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 thechemical 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, ‘Inno 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? Andhe 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!”