“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 youau courantof 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.
Itwas 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, andburst 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 remainedalone. 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 awarethat 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 ideathat 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.
Theaffray 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 magistrateenraged 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 amoment 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, thevalet 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 wehave 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 merenobodies 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.