Chapter V

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

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

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

Madame Vignola smiled.

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

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

“Can you ask me such a question?”

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

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

Graciously raising her hand with threatening gesture, she said—

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

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

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

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

The young woman gave a gesture of fright.

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

“Why so?”

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

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

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

“Tell me how?”

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

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

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

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

Madame Vignola interrupted Marcel.

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

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

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

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

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

With a gesture expressive of infinite content, she said—

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

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

“I adore you!”

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

“What is that?”

Marcel listened attentively.

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

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

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

Madame Vignola opened the door, and called—

“Milo.”

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

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

“I will mount at once!” exclaimed Marcel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A look of anxiety came over her brow.

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

The servant smiled faintly as she said—

“Poor fellow! What a pity!”

And, without another word, she disappeared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They protested noisily.

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

“Where is my uncle Graff?”

Terror-stricken, a foreman advanced—

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

“Entering where?”

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

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

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

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

“By the roof.”

The workman shook his head discouragingly.

“Who will dare to go?”

“I will!”

“But it means death!”

“Well, I will risk it with them!”

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

“What would he say if I did not go?”

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

“This way! In the loft!”

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

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

A stifled voice replied—

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

“Take care of yourselves!”

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

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

“Yes.”

“Pull away, my men!”

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

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

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

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

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

“A glass of water!” exclaimed Marcel.

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

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

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

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

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

“But how did it all happen?”

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

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

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

“Yes. But for M. Marcel,” said Cardez, “we should not be speaking to you at this moment, M. Prevost.”

“That was a very noble act of his,” said the captain. “Ah! neither my men nor myself had thought of doing as he did. There was courage enough in us, but we should not have thought of piercing a hole in the roof. He did not lose his head; and that was the main thing.”

Just at that moment, a voice quivering with anguish, was heard, and Marcel, pale and excited, came rushing from the laboratory, exclaiming—

“Uncle Graff. Come here, quick!”

“What is the matter?” asked Cardez.

“Stay here! My uncle only!” said the young man. Monsieur Graff immediately went up to his nephew. Baudoin was already on the threshold guarding the entrance.

“Come in! _Mon Dieu_! Come in!” said Marcel, pushing the old man before him. “Baudoin, shut the door and place the key inside.”

“What is the matter now?” exclaimed the old man.

“Look!”

Standing there on the threshold of the capharnaum, the three men looked around in bewildered astonishment. All the signs of a desperate fight had thrown the room into the utmost disorder. A curtain, half torn from the window still open on the river, was hanging from its broken pole. Jars, retorts, and alembics of every description crushed to pieces lay scattered about the floor. On the table was a large clot of blood, still wet, as though some one had there met his death. The paper everywhere was splashed over with large red spots, and the drawer of the table lay wide open before their eyes.

“What has taken place here?” asked Uncle Graff, in low tones.

“Look in the drawer, Uncle Graff,” said Marcel. “Try to find the formula I placed there before your eyes.”

“Well!”

“It is there no longer! It has been stolen! Look for the flagon containing the war powder, which was on the table. Disappeared!”

“Stolen? By whom?”

“Perhaps by the same person who set fire to the works? Whose blood is that on the floor? Uncle Graff, we have brought about our heads a terrible stream of enemies. Think of what has happened concerning the inventions of M. de Trémont. There has been a whole band of rascals at work for months, bent on stealing these secrets at whatever cost, and in face of the greatest difficulties! My father guessed this, for it was with the utmost trouble that I succeeded in obtaining his permission to continue this discovery. Baudoin knew it, for he asked my permission to keep watch in the laboratory. It was the excitement caused by the fire which forced him to quit his post; doubtless, had he stayed here, he, too, would have lost his life. But whose blood is this that has been shed?”

“Come, my child, do calm yourself,” said the old man, alarmed at the increasing agitation of his nephew. “Speak, Baudoin, tell us all you know.”

“Monsieur Graff, I know who has fallen here, and I know, too, whose hand struck the blow. The victim is a man devoted to our cause, who, from the very first, had scented the culprits. He could not help the robbery being committed, and, had he not been killed, he would certainly have arrested the thief.”

“And who is the man who struck him?”

“Ah! This is by no means the first attempt. He is a determined villain; all the troubles in the district have been caused by this man. It is he who started the conflagration. He who stabbed General de Trémont. It is the man of Vanves. In a word, it is Hans!”

“How do you know this?”

“Because I have seen him. Laforêt, whom I had sent for to keep a watch on these people whom I suspected, and who has doubtless paid with his life for his zeal and devotion, followed him last night, and we both spent part of the night in tracking his movements. We were present at his conferences with the leaders of the strike at the Soleil d’Or. We heard him give his orders to his acolytes. It is he our unhappy workmen obeyed, without knowing it, seduced as they were by the rabid language of the leaders. This is the villain who, secretly, and from a distance, directed the riot, and set fire to the works!”

“But how could he know that the written formula was in the table of the laboratory? Why did he come here?”

“He came here because I ran off to the fire and left my post. He has, somehow or other, received precise information.”

Baudoin stopped. He gave his young master a look of anguish.

“Ah, Monsieur Marcel, must I speak? Will you pardon me?”

Marcel turned pale. All the same he said, in firm tones—

“Speak. I insist upon it.”

“Well, then, this man, for the past week, has been living at the Villa de la Cavée.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Marcel. “Hans! This villain?”

“Monsieur Marcel,” resumed Baudoin, bravely, but with infinite sadness, “I have seen him there myself. Laforêt has been watching him for a whole week. He lived in the attic, and only went out at nights.”

“And I never suspected anything!” exclaimed the young man, in stupefied grief. “Then who is this woman who has been there the last six weeks? What is this atrocious farce she has been playing with me?”

“Ah!” exclaimed Uncle Graff. “A woman! Another woman? Incorrigible child!”

Marcel, seated by the table on a stool, his head in his hands, was endeavouring to collect his ideas. He was falling from a pure heaven of delight in which he had been living into the degradation of blood and crime.

“Come, it is impossible!” he continued, with trembling voice. “Why should she have deceived me so atrociously? Was there any need to make me so madly in love with her? No, I cannot believe her guilty; she never lied once to me. Her very looks were frank and true. No, no! You are mistaken; you are heaping calumny on her! Even though the man be a villain, she, at least, is no accomplice of his. She is his victim, as we all are. If they tried to harm me, she had not the strength or the authority to resist. And if she knows what has happened, she is lamenting it all, as we are, this very moment.”

His desperate protests were stifled by sobs, and, leaning his head on the blood-stained table, he wept bitterly. His uncle respected his grief, and, taking Baudoin to the window, he said to him, in subdued tones—

“In your opinion, who has been in the laboratory after you left it?”

“Laforêt, who was keeping watch over our man, must have followed him to this very spot. During the tumult caused by the fire Hans entered the yard of the works, and went right to the summer-house. Laforêt must have surprised him whilst he was examining the drawer. A terrible struggle must then have taken place between Hans, who is a giant in form, and Laforêt, who is very muscular. Hans doubtless made use of some arm or other to rid him of his adversary. Laforêt, killed outright, or stunned, fell on the table, thereupon Hans seized him and dragged him to the window. He became entangled with the curtain, which has been torn away; the weight must have been a heavy one, for the pole is broken.”

“And afterwards?” asked M. Graff, anxiously.

“Afterwards Hans flung the ill-fated Laforêt out of the window. The current has carried him off. Probably he will be picked up in the sluice of the mill of Sainte-Savine.”

“And the woman, Baudoin?” whispered the old man.

“Ah, Monsieur Graff, I do not know if she is the woman of Vanves or not. Both the scent she uses and her voice are different. But a voice may be modified, and a perfume changed. What remains unchanging is villainous skill and seductive charm. This one has all that is needed to madden a man—beauty, distinction, grace. Look at M. Marcel there, in tears. It is neither crime nor theft that has brought him into that state. It is the grief caused by suspecting the one he adores, and the fear that he may now be under the obligation of hating her.”

“Poor fellow! He, at least, did not deserve to suffer. He has been very brave. But for him, Baudoin, we should not now be in the land of the living.”

“True; and but for this wretched woman all this trouble would have been avoided. She well knows what she has done, and with whom she has had to deal. It is not you she would have undertaken to corrupt. She would have known beforehand that your calm and tranquil reason would have guarded you from her attacks. But with the General and M. Marcel it was different. Oh, M. Graff, she has made no mistake! Had she had either the necessary time or desire both the old and the young man would have given up their secret of their own accord.”

Uncle Graff, astonished at such clear-sightedness, looked at Baudoin with considerable interest.

“Ah, sir, you are astonished at hearing me speak in this way. But what I have said is not an invention. My General, on those days when he was master of himself, spoke to me in similar terms. He accused and blamed himself, well knowing how weak he was.”

“And his weakness brought him to his death. Let us consider ourselves fortunate that Marcel has not been treated so harshly. The poor fellow suffers; he is unhappy. But, then, he is only twenty-five years of age, and in one’s youth no sorrow lasts long. But if these rascals had killed him? Ah, his father seemed to guess the danger he ran! He imagined his son would be safer at Ars, in the midst of the workmen, but you see how mistaken he has been.”

“Ah! But, after all, this woman knew how to track him. And in this quiet spot her power was more manifest than ever.”

“What will she do now?”

“Disappear with her acolytes.”

“Are there many of them?”

“There is a pretended brother, a handsome, dark-complexioned young fellow; the servant, who called this morning for M. Marcel; and then Hans, without counting those we know nothing about. A whole band, you may be certain. Sir, not a single act of rascality or treachery happens in the country without those rascals having a hand in it. Laforêt told me so himself: ‘France is exploited by foreigners. The Government will do for strangers what they will not do for Frenchmen. If only an individual offers himself, speaking with a foreign accent, and wearing a many-coloured decoration, all kinds of privileges are showered upon him.’ We are a set of ninnies and simpletons, M. Graff, though we imagine ourselves very clever.”

Marcel drew near. During the past few minutes his face seemed to have become quite furrowed.

“Uncle Graff,” he said, “the present is not the time for lamenting. We must act at once. Perhaps we may still come across the bold scoundrel who has been here. We must give a description of him to the police. For myself, I shall go to the villa and find out the whole truth.”

“We know very little, Marcel, about the people with whom we have to deal if we can think they have lost a single second in escaping.”

“How can they imagine they are even suspected?”

“The _coup_ is effected; all they need do now will be to clear off!”

Marcel gave a gesture of protest.

“Yes,” continued the old man, gently. “You are asking why she could have gone? How could she have taken her departure without seeing me again? My poor child, you are still under the effect of the delusion practised on you! You cannot yet understand that all the tenderness she lavished on you was calculated, interested in its nature, that, in short, you were only a victim. And you still expect her to be waiting for you. Well! we will all go and see, my child. Then we shall know the value of the promises by which you have allowed yourself to be deceived. Meanwhile we must inform the authorities. Take my advice, and say nothing about the powders. We must speak of the murder only. Our man will be caught just as easily, if he is to be caught at all, which I very much doubt. We will keep our secret in the background. Ah! We have to deal with enemies stronger than ourselves! Do not reproach yourself in any way. Everything was too well arranged. In one way or another, you were bound to succumb. Luckily, your life is out of danger.”

“Thanks, Uncle Graff, you do your best to console me. But I shall never forgive myself, in case you are right. Come along.”

They descended into the yard. The fire had been extinguished, and the pumps were now silent, with the exception of the one belonging to the works, which was still dashing water on the ruins. On their approach, the crowd of workmen stood there in respectful silence, all heads uncovered. This misfortune had kindled renewed sympathy with their masters, and their devotion enjoined an attitude of respect. Cardez came forward, and said—

“Monsieur Graff, the workmen want you to speak to them. They do not wish to remain suspected.”

Graff advanced, and said in grave accents—

“My friends, I know you too well to accuse you of the crime which has been committed here. I am well aware that you are hot-headed, but you are very honest all the same. Besides, what would have been the use of such wilful destruction, if not to throw you on to the streets and cause you to die of hunger? The very moment the fire broke out, your delegates and ourselves were on the point of coming to a mutual understanding. After the good will you have just given proof of, in uniting to save the works, I can only admit of one solution, the one most favourable to you. Accordingly, I grant you your demands.”

An immense cheer of mingled joy and gratitude burst from five hundred throats. Caps were waved high in the air. Graff raised his hand; silence was instantly restored.

“I beg you to remember that it is to the manager quite as much as to myself that you owed this result. If he is severe in point of discipline, it is because he feels it to be necessary in the interest of the work. But no one is a stauncher upholder of your interests than your excellent director.”

“Hurrah for M. Cardez!”

Uncle Graff smiled.

“Come, come! You are like overgrown children! Yesterday you wanted to hang him. And myself into the bargain! To-day you receive him with shouts of joy. And it is at this moment that you are more just and reasonable. Remember what has taken place. And next time you have any demands to make, do not begin by threats of murder. Now, go home, all of you, and to-morrow morning, at the usual hour, we shall expect you back at work!”

The crowd melted away in respectful silence. With its usual fickleness it now showered blessings on those it had formerly cursed. Obeying its instincts, which are always generous and kind when left to develop freely, it congratulated itself on the happy ending of a day which might have been so tragic, and now withdrew, delighted at the prospect of resuming the labour it had contemptibly looked upon as utter slavery.