Chapter I

WHILST Milona was running in the direction of Ars, her mistress returned quietly to the salon. Flinging herself on the sofa, she abandoned herself to a delightful reverie. What a difference she found between Cesare Agostini and Marcel! A feeling of nausea came over her when she compared them with one another. The complaisant and needy lover, who always knew when to close his eyes, when some mysterious interests of his were at stake, and this tender, sincere lover, who thought of nothing but her happiness, and sacrificed for that his own.

She remembered Hans’ sarcastic remarks, “Take care you are not caught in your own net, and fall in love with this young man.” Had he then read her inmost thoughts, this dread accomplice of hers, who trampled humanity under foot, and who had no more respect for joy and happiness than the hail has for the harvest? Suppose it were so? Had she not the right to do as she wished? Was she a slave, linked to obscure and threatening adventurers engaged in some formidable though tremendous task? Or was there equality for both them and herself, in danger, success, and pleasure alike? Who could compel her to do what was displeasing to her—above all, who would dare to attempt it? She knew she was as dangerous as any of them, and they, too, were well aware how powerful and audacious she was. If it were necessary to try conclusions with them, they would see who would come out the winner.

She smiled, and her face shone with the light of a glorious graciousness. In that young woman, with those delicate, refined features, who would have discovered the bold, sarcastic Sophia Grodsko? What would Lichtenbach have said, had he seen her, and what would all those have thought who had known her, so faithless and vice-stained, fatal to all who had loved her, and whom she had led on to ruin, dishonour, or death? A young man, the least remarkable of all she had hitherto met, in all probability, had obtained the triumph of making her uneasy and anxious at the thought of what might become of him. Following him in imagination, on his way back to the town, she wondered if it would not have been better to have kept him by her side, instead of allowing him to rush off to the burning works, and especially towards the spot where Hans was watching—Hans, more to be dreaded than all the other scourges combined.

She rose, and, already repenting of having shown such a lack of decision, she was deliberating whether or not she ought, herself, to go to Ars, and find out what was taking place there. Prudence checked the impulse. All the same, she mounted to the second floor of the villa, on to a balcony from which a view of the valley could be obtained beyond the trees. There she quickly saw that the danger, if there had been any, had lessened. The smoke was disappearing, not a single flame was to be seen, and the hubbub from the town had calmed down, whilst even the church bell had ceased ringing. She was about to descend, when she saw Milona open the garden gate. The servant was coming along the alley with rapid and uneasy steps. Sophia had a presentiment that she was the bearer of bad news, and gave a sharp, low whistle. Milo mounted the steps all out of breath, and came straight to her mistress—

“I have performed your commission,” she said. “I found Hans. He read your note, and placed it back in my hands. Here it is.”

“Good. That is not all. What is the matter?”

“Agostini is close behind me. He has just landed at Ars.”

Sophia frowned. A slight blush mounted to her cheeks. Taking a match, she lit it, and set fire to the paper Milona had handed to her. Thoughtfully, she watched the ashes fly away in the wind. Then she asked—

“How is he coming here?”

“In a cab. Listen, you may hear the horse’s hoofs already.”

The cab stopped in front of the door, and Cesare descended. The cabman waited. Sophia slowly descended the staircase, and found herself in the hall, to receive the handsome Italian. He advanced with shining eyes and eager gait. Carelessly, and with an air of indifference, she held out her hand.

“Well, well! my dear,” said he. “Is this the way you receive me after a fortnight’s absence?”

“Silence!” she said firmly; “this is no time for nonsense. Hans at this very moment is doubtless risking his life to obtain possession of the powders.”

“Have you then succeeded with our young victim?”

“You may see for yourself. There will be more to learn later on.”

“Diavolo!”

Rushing from the room, he exclaimed—

“Milo, tell the cabman to wait.”

He returned—

“Who knows if we shall not need him shortly? As I passed by I saw the town was in the greatest commotion imaginable, and that the works were on fire. Is this accident an invention of yours?”

“I believe Hans arranged the whole affair.”

“Gay disposition, Hans! He is fond of an attractive _mise en scene_. But I should be glad to have a little lunch; I left Paris quite hurriedly.”

“Milona will serve you.”

They passed into the dining-room. The table was set, and Cesare took a seat.

“Come and talk to me, my beautiful Sophia. Time has weighed heavy on my hands since last I saw you. I have vainly sought for distractions.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Ah! Trying to win a little money at cards. A kind of fatality seems to pursue me, my bad luck never leaves me, and I cannot touch a card without losing.”

“You have lost much?”

“Too much! I so easily get excited, you know.”

“Well, how much?” asked Sophia, impatiently.

The handsome Italian replied with a smile—

“Nothing at all, cara; I had the money!”

“Who gave it you?”

“Lichtenbach. I was obliged to accustom him to my little fancies. When he becomes my father-in-law I shall appeal to him rather often.”

“Take care. He may tire.”

“He will not be allowed to do so.”

“His resources are not inexhaustible.”

“You are jesting. I am well acquainted with the source of his wealth.”

“Indeed! Who has been informing you?”

“A relation of mine, the Very Reverend Monsignor Boldi, whom I saw in Paris a few days ago. Lichtenbach, in addition to his wealth, is a church trustee. I no longer wonder at the influence he wields. He has the disposal of immense sums, and of almost limitless power. But he is not a man of action. He is always hesitating and trembling. Had you seen how terrified he was when I alluded to his position as a kind of ecclesiastical banker, you would have laughed outright. Ah! cara, his brow was covered with perspiration. Whatever can he be afraid of?”

“From his constituents, nothing. From you, everything. That he doubtless guessed at once.”

“Oh! _Mon Dieu_! All that trouble for such a trifle! A mere bagatelle of forty thousand francs. That cursed baccarat! But Lichtenbach never plays, except on the Bourse. And there he always wins!”

“Question!”

“Ah! Can he, too, be cursed with bad luck?”

“We are now doing our best to arrange matters so that he may have nothing but good luck!”

“The powder affair?”

“Yes. Listen, what is that?”

A sound was heard outside. Taking from a cupboard a small revolver, she slipped it into her pocket, and said—“Are you armed?”

“I am always armed. What are you afraid of?”

“Wait!”

In the silence a curious whistling sound was heard. Sophia’s features relaxed.

“It is Hans!”

A rapid step was heard on the sand of the alley. The door of the salon opened, and Milona made her appearance, followed by the colossus. He was still clothed in his mean-looking fisher’s costume. Flinging his hat on the ground, he removed his blouse and his huge shoes, without the slightest thought of Sophia’s presence, and exclaimed—

“Milo, my clothes.”

Placing on the table a glass recipient and a sheet of paper, he said, with a grimace—

“Here it is!”

“Then you have succeeded at last?”

Sophia and Cesare approached with a kind of respect, and saw through the jar the brownish shavings of the powder which had already cost so much blood!

“Yes, here it is! This small phial and this piece of paper again represent the life of a man.”

“You were surprised in the act?”

“Yes. And I have killed again.”

“Who is the victim this time?” exclaimed Sophia, pale as death.

“Do not alarm yourself, my dear; it is not your turtledove.”

_He_ gave Cesare a glance, which immediately put the Italian on the alert. His light, careless attitude disappeared, and a cold, hard look came into his face.

“It was a troublesome fellow I have had on my track for several days,” continued Hans. “A Government spy. It was not the first time we had met, either. He almost caught me three years ago at Lyons, in the affair of the Sergeant-Major. I took good note of him at the time, and his account is now settled!”

“But will his murder not be discovered?”

“What then? We must clear off at once; the authorities never trouble about detectives, that you know very well. This one will undergo a curing process, with his broken head, in the river, until he is fished out. Meanwhile, we shall be on the other side of the frontier.”

Milona entered, carrying a suit of elegant-looking clothes, a grey felt hat, and yellow shoes. Unceremoniously, Hans dressed himself.

“The cabman is at the door. Did he see you enter?” asked Sophia.

“No. I am not such a fool as to show myself to him. It was very convenient to come along the end of the garden, where the wall is conveniently low. I am returning the same way, and I would advise you, my children, to vacate this place as soon as possible. As you are aware, we are due shortly in Venice. The first who arrives will wait for the rest. There, I again become Major Fraser.”

Placing in a leather bag his glass recipient and the folded paper, he shook hands with Agostini, smiled familiarly to Sophia, and disappeared as he had come. The Italian gave a kick at Hans’ cast-off clothes, and said—

“Milo, all this must disappear, my child.”

“In the kitchen fire,” said the Dalmatian, gravely.

“And you, Sophia, what do you intend to do? You have heard what our noble friend has just said. In my opinion, the best thing we can do is to start at once.”

The young woman made no reply. She passed into the salon with slow, steady steps, as though laboriously seeking the right form to explain her meaning. Sitting down, she took a cigarette, and, looking at the handsome Italian standing before her, said—

“Yes, indeed, I do think you would do well to start off. There is no reason for you to stay here. As for myself, a sudden disappearance would excite suspicion; it would, in fact, be a very tactless thing to do.”

“But will you not be suspected if you remain behind? Will no action be taken against you?”

“I? Suspected? In what way? Who could suspect me? Have I done anything whatever calculated to excite mistrust? There has been no one here except Marcel Baradier; he alone knows me.”

“But doubtless he gave you the information by the help of which Hans succeeded in his enterprise.”

“He did certainly give it me, a couple of hours ago. The execution has been concomitant with the revelation, so to speak. By what miracle could I, who have not stirred from here, have informed the one who entered the laboratory, and rid himself of his spy? This latter will not speak, as he is dead! The laboratory will be found ransacked and in disorder. Very good! Have there not taken place to-day, at the works, sufficient events in which several rascals have been implicated, without there being any need to charge me with a deed so much more likely to have been wrought by any of them? If I leave I shall be suspected. Why have I taken to flight? How is it I have left no explanation of my departure? What has become of me? Then, afterwards, what and who am I? Whilst if I remain quietly here with Milona, Marcel returns, finds me serene and calm, and everything is safe. Is the arrangement not a good one?”

Cesare smiled, and, in ironical tones, said—

“Very good, indeed; too good, in fact!”

Sophia frowned.

“What do you mean?”

Drawing near her, with subtle grace, and still bent on adopting gentle means, he said—

“Have you no longer confidence in me, cara? Why are you trying to deceive me?”

“In what way, may I ask?”

“You are not telling me the truth. This is the first time you have played me false, Sophia.”

She bit her lips, and turned slightly pale.

“My dear Cesare, do not ask so many questions. Do as I tell you, as you have always done hitherto. You have never found it a bad policy, have you? Very well, continue as before.”

“No!”

This refusal rang out sharp as a lash.

“Ah! Might I be permitted to know the reasons influencing you?”

“They are the same as yours. You will not come with me on account of this young Marcel Baradier. But it is on that very account that I am bent on your accompanying me.”

“Can you be jealous?”

“I am.”

“That is something quite novel; and I must confess I am greatly surprised!”

“It is diversity of sensations which gives a charm to life!”

“Then you think—”

“That this fair-complexioned young fellow has pleased you more than was agreed upon in our programme. Now, though I was disposed to allow you to practice your wiles on him, in the interests of business, I no longer feel inclined to permit you to flirt with him for art’s sake. The play is over, let us drop the curtain without continuing the love scene in the green-room.”

“You are a very practical lover, Cesare.”

“Did you not know that before?”

“I have been very generous to you.”

“Many thanks.”

“And now I intend to act as I please, and to-day I cannot obey you.”

They looked at one another like two wrestlers about to come to close quarters. Cesare’s eyes sparkled with anger, while Sophia stood there calm, with lowered eyelids, as though unwilling to meet his look. The Italian, with an effort, controlled himself, and speaking with affected gaiety, said—

“Come, cara, let us not quarrel. We have every possible reason to be indulgent with one another; have we not been acquainted so long? Tell me what you have resolved on. I will do all I can to further your wishes. Is it a week’s liberty you want? When that length of time has elapsed will you promise to come to Venice? _Mon Dieu_! We may well be complaisant with one another. I will imagine I am nothing more than the brother of Madame Vignola, and will bear you no ill-feeling; that I promise. Will that satisfy you?”

She replied with a sigh—

“I do not know.”

“But I must know.”

“How can you be so stupid, Cesare, as to speak to the Baroness Grodsko as you would to any other woman? One would think you had forgotten what she is when some fancy takes possession of her. My poor friend, I am sorry for you; Lichtenbach’s company must have spoiled you. You must stop seeing him; he has turned you into a mere bourgeois!”

“You are jesting with me?”

“No!”

“You refuse to promise to come and rejoin me?”

“When I left Zypiatine, was he ever a source of annoyance to me?”

“Then you confess you wish to leave me?” exclaimed the Italian, pale with anger.

“You will know later, my friend. At present I have not the slightest wish to see you again.”

“Ah! Now you are speaking frankly. Do you forget that we have several secrets in common?”

“No; nor do I forget there is no obligation for you to remember them.”

“That means?”

Sophia raised her eyelids, and flashed a look on Agostini which astonished him.

“It means that if for my own safety your disappearance were necessary, your life would be very cheap.”

“You threaten me with death?”

“Fool! You are well aware that if you breathed a single word calculated to throw light on our enterprises, there are at least five persons who would kill you at once.”

“But the affairs of the association are not your affairs, and you know that I am acquainted with the ones as well as with the others.”

“Listen, Cesare; people like ourselves ought to be agreed in everything we do, if we wish to run no risk of ruin. The slightest discord places us at the mercy of our enemies. We must serve one another with the greatest self-sacrifice. Every selfish demand detracts from the force necessary to common success.”

“Ah! Do you pretend to impose an apathetic indifference on people who live with an intensity a hundred times greater than the rest of mankind? You forget that I love you, and I will submit to no rivalry, Sophia.”

“And how will you compel me to obey your wishes, may I ask?”

“In the simplest manner imaginable. I will inform Marcel Baradier of your life before you gave up your whole existence to international investigations and diplomatic intrigues, and we shall see if his love for you will survive, for instance, an account of the incident of Segovia.”

Sophia turned so pale that Cesare was afraid of the impression he had produced. Grinding her teeth, and stamping about the room like a wild beast at bay, she seized upon the revolver she had taken up on the arrival of Hans, and, levelling it at the head of the Italian, said—

“Ah, you villain; never again shall you betray a single human being!”

With extraordinary agility, Agostini leapt on to her, dashed her arm upwards, so that the shot could not reach him, and pitilessly twisting her beautiful white wrist, he took possession of the revolver, which he calmly placed in his pocket. Then looking resolutely at Sophia, he said—

“Now let the dagger have a turn!”

She fell into a chair.

“You dog! To dare to raise your hand against me! You shall be punished for it.”

“Good! But we cannot lose our time with such nonsense. Can it be admitted that the man the Countess Grodsko has chosen as her companion will submit to being fooled like the veriest ninny? You may hate me if you like, Sophia, but you shall not despise me! This is the first time we have tested our strength against one another, and as you see, I have not been found to be the weaker. Do not recommence the struggle; if you do, I shall treat you without the slightest gallantry?”

Shaking her head, and looking at her bruised hand, she said, submissively—

“You have hurt me, Cesare!”

“Whose fault is it? Upon my word, I believe you were mad, for a moment. You brave me, all for the sake of this young fop! Do you know I am going to kill him?”

“I forbid you!” said Sophia, emphatically.

“I shall be delighted to obey you,” he said gallantly. “There is this difference between us, that I am dominated by respectful attentions towards you, and treat you like a sovereign, whilst you, by your language and your attitude, wish to reduce me to the rank of a lackey! Is that just?”

She made no reply. He walked to and fro for a short time, then drawing nearer said—

“Never have I seen you in such a passion before. What in the world can this young fellow have taught you? For the future I shall not be able to trust you at all, though hitherto I have had the most complete confidence in you! Is it possible that just now you thought of blowing out my brains? Afterwards, what would you have done with my body? Your Marcel would have arrived. He would have found the floor stained with blood, and my corpse lying in the middle of the salon! How would you have explained the matter to him? You see, Sophia, it was a fit of madness which came over you. And all for what? Place in the balance these love-dreams of yours, weigh them against the immense interests in which you have a part, and decide whether the former weigh down the latter? Really, women must at times be mad for one like yourself to give way to such acts of extravagance!”

He gave her a side-long glance as he spoke, but the expression on her face did not appear to satisfy him, so he continued—

“We neither have nor can have strength, unless we support one another. I rely on your beauty, and you ought to be proud of my skill and courage. Wherever we pass, it is your _rôle_ to charm and please, and mine to defend you. Have I ever failed in my duty? When Colonel de Bredmann, last year in Vienna, spoke of you in a manner you considered derogatory, did I hesitate to challenge him the following day, and drive six inches of cold steel through his throat in the Prater? I must confess that you, with charming generosity, enabled me to support the run of ill-luck which always overtook me at the club. Mutual exchange—you, of money; and myself, of respect. Meanwhile, we carried on our affairs. And with what success? Do you remember? Was it not better than quarrelling? Come, Sophia, don’t look so gloomy; I know your feelings are bitter, but don’t let them be more bitter than my own. Diavolo! Wake up and speak. Give me an answer.”

Appearing to shake off the feeling of numbness which had come over her, she once more looked at her reddened fingers, and said, with a strange smile—

“Very well! Order, since it is you who are the master!”

With displeased air, he replied—

“No! Don’t adopt such an attitude! Now you are acting the part of a resigned victim! You must act according to your own free will and pleasure. I think I have proved to your satisfaction that you are turning your back on the right path, and that it is time to turn round. Am I not right?”

“One is never right when one is the stronger!”

“That is a woman’s reply. Well, Sophia, I am very sorry, but I will not assume this advantage of imposing on you any resolution whatever. I leave you free to do as you wish. Stay or go as you like. For my part, I must go; I do not feel inclined to let myself be caught in this house like a fox in a poultry-yard. I will give you ten minutes while you make up your mind and prepare your luggage. I will smoke a cigarette in the garden. Decide your future for yourself.”

He left the room. A flash of hate shone in Sophia’s eyes. She arose, gave a sigh of despair, and then murmured—

“He is right!”

She called for Milona. The servant appeared.

“The trunk at once. We are leaving,” she said briefly.

“Good, madame.”

Sophia sat down before a small desk, took up a sheet of writing-paper edged with black, and wrote—

“MY DEAR MARCEL,

“When you return to the villa I shall no longer be here to receive
you. My brother, to whom I have been denounced by some person
unknown, has arrived in a passion, and is taking me far away. Never
try to see me again. Keep the remembrance of my kisses ever fresh in
your heart. I am carrying off the delicious flavour of yours on my
lips. Good-bye.

“Yours with life-long regret,
“ANETTA.”

Sealing the envelope, she placed it in full view on the table of the salon, and, after looking all around, she went out into the small garden. Cesare was walking to and fro, along the alley, where she had spent so many hours by Marcel’s side. She sighed deeply. But her mind was made up, and she was not a woman to draw back.

“Well?” asked the Italian.

“Well, you have convinced me; I will accompany you.”

“Very good. Now you are yourself again. It was only a momentary weakness which came over you.”

“Indeed, I was mad,” she said, mockingly. “Just think, I was in love with this young Baradier.”

“That I can well understand,” he conceded graciously. “He is a charming young fellow. But everything comes to an end. And since, thanks to this intrigue, you have obtained the result so ardently followed up by Hans, the only thing we can now do is to quit. And that is what you are now doing, with your usual good sense. Just now you surprised me, I must confess, by your resistance. This is the first time I have ever seen you sentimental. This fit of idyllic tenderness seemed quite incomprehensible to me. Now, can you explain to me what has taken place?”

“Oh! It is very simple. In this young Marcel I found a love and affection at once simple and disinterested, quite refreshing. It seemed as though I were in a thirsty desert, and came upon a limpid spring, at which no one had drunk previously. I stopped at the edge, looked into the crystal water, and the reflected image was so different from myself, that I stood there astonished and delighted. I thought I was about to find tranquil rest, and a delightful regeneration, and cease being the Sophia who had gone through so many adventures, to become a simple harmless woman in the eyes of a love-stricken swain. Perhaps my mouth would forget its lying, and my eyes their deceit and fascination! What a dream! And how near realization! What unexpected happiness, ruined in a moment by your reappearance. Ah! I have cursed you, Cesare, and Hans as well! But what can I do, how can I tear myself away from my destiny? It was the height of madness for me to think that a sincere love could unfold in my heart, as though a wild floweret of the open fields could spring up in a marsh! Come, let us think no more of all this. Society shall pay the price of my disillusion!”

“Now you are speaking sensibly. But all you have been telling me is most deplorably romantic. To think of your settling down in a village like the Dame aux Camelias to live on new-laid eggs with Armand Duval! How ridiculous! Ah! Here is Milona with your hat and cloak.”

“Ask the coachman to mount the luggage.”

Sophia, apparently impassive, watched her trunk and bags change position. As Cesare stood at the garden-gate calling her, she looked around for the last time, raised her hands to her lips, and to all she associated with Marcel—green trees, forms on which they had sat, birds that had sung above their heads, sky which had shone on their happiness—she sent a rapid kiss.

“Are you ready?” asked the Italian.

“Here I am.”

“We will not leave by Ars, the town is in too great a commotion. This worthy coachman will drive us to Saint-Savine, where we will take the express for Paris.”

“As you like.”

“Come along, then, quick!”

She mounted the open carriage. Milona took up a position opposite her mistress. A lash of the whip, a sound of bells, and at the turn of the road everything was out of view.

It was four o’clock when Uncle Graff, after arranging for the search for Laforêt, and giving orders for the management of the works, in short arranging for whatever was absolutely pressing, came for his nephew to go with him to the Villa de la Cavée. Baudoin, with a trusty revolver in his pocket, went on in front as a scout. Marcel and his uncle followed, a hundred yards behind. The excitement of the struggle and danger was now past, and they were beginning to examine the position more coolly.

It was not a brilliant one. The boldness and violence of their enemies had been manifested with too few precautions, for the utmost excesses were to be dreaded at their hands in case the struggle were continued. Now, at this moment, they appeared to be on the point of triumph. They had just obtained possession of the scientific treasure, the commercial application of which would assure them an enormous fortune. How exultant they must feel, accordingly! But then, on the other hand, how disconcerted they would be on attempting to utilize the stolen formula! As Marcel had said, to obtain the explosive in its full power, and with its special destructive qualities, a particular manipulation, a twist of the hand, so to speak, discovered by General de Trémont, was necessary. They might try to apply the formula; but if they did not know how to handle the different doses, their hopes would fail of realization. Now the thief-assassin, who had found his way into the laboratory, had carried off the precious document, but would it not remain utterly worthless, like the golden crown in the legend, which changed into a dry leaf?

Uncle Graff was meditating on all this as he walked by Marcel’s side. He said nothing to the young man. What was the use? It was also certain that the villains, bent as they were on obtaining the secret, had already killed two men and set fire to the works to accomplish their object. Granting that they had once more failed, would they not recommence the struggle, and purchase victory at the cost of no matter what sacrifices? Under these conditions there was no drawing back; they must risk much to try and check an offensive return, and not hesitate in case the unknown beauty were an accomplice in the crimes already committed; it must be their object to keep her in view, question her, and if need be, deliver her into the hands of justice in order to try and throw light on this dark and dangerous affair.

They reached the wood, and, the house being no more than a hundred yards distant, Baudoin, who had waited for them, said—

“I will go all round the garden, and bear off in the direction of the wood, so that, if any one tries to escape, I may be able to cut off his retreat.”

“No,” said Marcel. “Let us remain together.”

Just at that moment an old woman appeared before them, dragging a faggot of decayed wood.

She smiled with her toothless mouth, and, stopping to take breath, said—

“Is it the young lady of the villa you want to see? If so—”

“Well?” said Marcel.

“You will not find her here. An hour ago she went away in a cab with all her luggage, in the direction of Sainte-Savine. Cacheu, of the Lion d’Or, drove the cab himself.”

“Gone?” exclaimed Marcel, stupefied.

“So it seems,” said Uncle Graff. “The _coup_ is effected.”

“Impossible!”

“Poor young man! His walks with the young lady were very agreeable,” muttered the old woman.

She shook her head, encircled with a kerchief, accepted the two-franc piece Uncle Graff slipped into her hand, and walked slowly away, in the direction of the town, dragging her faggot along the road.

Marcel had already entered the villa. On the threshold his heart seemed almost to stop beating. The door remained open, as though, in the hurry of flight, they had not had time to close it, or rather, as though she had left nothing behind worth keeping. Crossing the garden, he entered the hall, and called—

“Milona! Anetta!”

No reply came; nothing but silence and darkness. Entering the salon, he saw a letter lying on the table. Tearing it open, he rapidly ran over the contents, sat down to read it once more, finally understood it, and sat there, with bowed head and throbbing brow, as though in the presence of a terrible disaster. There Uncle Graff found him. He had gone over the whole house, and acquired the certainty that it was abandoned. Baudoin was seated in the garden. Seeing his nephew’s anguish and the pallor of his countenance, the old man’s heart melted; he placed his hand affectionately on the young man’s head, softly stroked his hair, and seeing the letter pressed between his passive fingers, asked—

“Has she written to you?”

At these words, simple though they were, his fugitive love seemed almost reinstated in his eyes, as he felt that she had not forgotten him, and Marcel burst into sobs as he silently held out the paper and hid his face in his hands. Uncle Graff drew near the window and read the letter, after which he stood there in a reverie. Marcel, regaining possession of himself to defend the one he loved, finally rose from his seat, and said in supplicating accents—

“Uncle Graff, is this the letter of a woman who lies? Do not her protests appear sincere to you? Has she the faintest complicity in the crimes committed? Do you accuse her of having deceived me? Is she not rather a victim undergoing a rigorous tyranny at the hands of the very monsters who threaten us? This letter, Uncle Graff, this letter—does it not breathe despair in every line? Is it not a confirmation of her love for me?”

“The letter appears to be sincere,” said the old man, calmly. “I cannot but recognize that grief is evident in every word, and that the one who wrote it was evidently acting under compulsion when she left the house. That is a proof that she loves you, and regrets your absence. But is that a proof that she is not guilty, and the accomplice of the rest?”

“Oh, Uncle Graff, do you think it possible?”

“I do, and I am afraid it is so, my dear Marcel, and that would be more serious than anything else, for, if this woman loves you—and how could she help loving you, my dear child, once she knows you—ah, if this woman loves you, my anxiety will become greater than ever. For she might try to see you again, and then—”

A light of hope illumined Marcel’s face.

“Ah, if only that could be!”

“Marcel, you see what grounds I had for fear. At the very thought of seeing her again you at once become radiant with joy. And yet she is a rascal, there is not the slightest doubt of it. I will not dispute her charms, since she has obtained such control over you; but she is very dangerous all the same, for, in short, suppose she were the woman of Vanves?”

“Impossible!”

“Do not say impossible. You know nothing about it. These women, you see, are terrible creatures. In matters like the one now engaging our attention they are a kind of female Proteus, capable of assuming all forms, even the most diverse and disconcerting, to deceive their enemies and allay suspicion. Cosmopolitan adventuresses, living on human folly; spies, on the track of State secrets; corruptresses, sufficiently fascinating to obtain the mastery over all consciences. You are aware that these women are insinuating and of plausible manners, generally very beautiful. And this one—”

“Oh! No, no!”

Uncle Graff insisted authoritatively.

“This one, very clever and dangerous, more dangerous than the rest, even, has played her _rôle_ with you, whilst satisfying her caprice at the same time. Come, Marcel, be reasonable; do not blind yourself. Why was the man of Vanves concealed here? Why have the powders been removed from the laboratory, and why is the house deserted, now that the burglary is accomplished? It is not a mere departure, it is a flight. Consider the rapidity and suddenness of the resolution reached. This morning only she had no thought of it, or, rather, in that case she deceived you, since she said nothing about it, and was to receive you to-night. Crime and duplicity are manifest everywhere. You have been deceived by words of tenderness, whilst the others, her accomplices, were stealing and murdering.”

Marcel gave a movement expressive of anger.

“If only I had the proof of this!”

Uncle Graff looked at him fixedly.

“Well, what would you do?”

“Ah! I would have my revenge, that I swear! All my love would turn into hate. If my heart has been deceived with lying words, I would tear it out of my breast, rather than cherish a poisoned love! If that woman was not a victim, she would be a monster. And, by what I hold most sacred in existence, I would punish her!”

The old man looked at his nephew with considerable satisfaction.

“Oh! _Mon Dieu_! We don’t ask you to do that! Simply forget her. Above all, make up your mind not to fall into her toils again, if ever you meet her.”

At that moment the door opened, and Baudoin appeared. Holding a book in his hand, he approached mysteriously, and said—

“It is useful to make a thorough search. One can never examine too well.”

He laughed as he spoke and held the book aloft—

“Had I done nothing but cast a careless glance over the lady’s bed-chamber, I should not have found this.”

“What is it?” asked Graff.

“A book—a simple book.”

Marcel took it up, looked at the title, and said—

“Yes, it is a book she has been reading lately.”

“Oh! the book in itself signifies nothing,” said Baudoin. “It had fallen down by the side of the bed nearest the wall. In a hurry of departure she did not see it, and it was left there. But there was something between these leaves.”

Baudoin took between his fingers a piece of paper, and showed it to his masters.

“This envelope, torn in two, and folded to serve as a book-mark. To whom does it belong, if not to the one who has been making use of it? Now on the folded part, there is a line of writing and an address.”

“An address?”

“Look!”

He handed the paper to Marcel, and on the small band, concealed by the folding, the young man read aloud the name: “Madame la Baronne Grodsko.” The bottom of the envelope, on which was doubtless written the street, number and town, had disappeared. On the top, however, a large stamp contained the postmark: “Wien, April 18.”

The rest was effaced.

“Baroness Grodsko,” repeated Marcel. “But her name was Anetta Vignola.”

“Ah!” said Uncle Graff; “these women change their names as easily as their dresses. She has only kept this envelope from the most incredible and imprudent carelessness. And how is it this letter, which came from Vienna a fortnight ago, is now here? It must have been forwarded under another envelope to the name and address she assumed here!”

Baudoin then remarked—

“Perhaps I may be permitted to state that the woman who called on my master on the night of the crime was addressed by him as Baronne—”

Marcel turned pale.

“True,” he murmured, in a low tone. “But what relation is there between Anetta Vignola and the Baroness Grodsko?”

“That is what we must discover, for it is the clue which may guide us through the darkness in which we are now groping. Courage, my child; if this woman is the same who has committed such infamous actions—”

“Ah! Uncle Graff, in that case I should feel no pity whatever for her.”

The uncle shook his nephew’s hand, in sympathetic approval.

“Now, there is nothing more for us to do here. The house has delivered up to us part of its secret. The rest we must seek elsewhere.”

The three men went out into the garden, after carefully closing the doors, and slowly returned to Ars.