Chapter II

LICHTENBACH was sitting in his study, listening to young Vernot, his broker, who was speaking with the utmost volubility.

“Baradier and Graff will not long be able to maintain their position on the Explosives now. It has already been remarked at the Bourse that they have not reduced their stock. The coming liquidation will be a decisive one; or else they will remain firm; then what a bankruptcy it will be! Or they may sell everything. What a fall that will mean!”

A faint smile came over the banker’s lips.

“I should like to see that!”

“_Man Dieu_! My dear master, I cannot conceal from you the fact that, in business circles they say it is a duel between the firm of Baradier and Graff and the firm of Lichtenbach. One of the two will go under.”

“I know it; but I have no fear.”

“I have negotiated this affair for you, so I know our mode of action. Hitherto it has been an admirable one. To sum up in a word, you have sold what the Baradiers have bought.”

“Yes, my friend, and I have their money, as they have my vouchers. Now, Vernot, be wideawake as to what is about to happen. The explosives, which are now at their highest price, will rapidly fall to the very lowest.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely certain.”

“Why?”

“Because a rival company is being formed, which is in possession of the patents of a product destined to replace, within a very short time, all the mining powders and other dynamites hitherto employed, and which will cost fifty per cent. less in commerce. What do you say to that?”

“It will be a crushing blow!”

“You are right. Read my journal to-night; it will contain the first article of a series destined to set forth before the world this new discovery. In two months from now I wish to see Baradier and Graff bankrupt!”

“Oh, they have a long purse to draw on,”

“We shall see about that.”

“So now you engage me to sell?”

“From to-morrow sell as fast as you can. There will be a gain of five hundred francs per share. You will see the movement begin. All my personal orders will be executed on foreign Exchanges. Profit by this opportunity.”

“I shall not be likely to forget.”

“Now go. My daughter is expecting me, and I am punctual in my habits.”

“My dear master, many thanks, and my respectful compliments.”

The stockbroker left the room. Lichtenbach did not even rise from his seat to accompany him to the door. He was thinking. From Venice a letter had reached him which, on the one hand, caused him great satisfaction, and, on the other, brought him a certain amount of uneasiness. Sophia Grodsko had written to him: “The war powder is a triumphant success. Experiments made at Spezzia and Trieste have given prodigious results with marine cannons. Plates of Siemens steel a foot thick are pierced like sheets of paper. We have received two million francs, the rest will come afterwards. The affair is big with magnificent results. Things are not progressing so well with the commerce powder. Hans has been at work for the last fortnight at Swalbach with Prunier, from Zurich. He has been disappointed. All the attempts have been unsatisfactory. They have manipulated the product in different manners, but no result has been obtained. The explosive is worth no more than dynamite. True it is not so dear, but we are far from what we hoped, and from what must actually be the case. There must be some secret or other in the fabrication of the powder unknown to us. Hans is trying to find it, and has not abandoned all hopes of doing so. But, up to the present, fiasco. Don’t be discouraged, but thank me for telling you the exact truth. Agostini sends you his best wishes, and informs you that you will shortly receive your brevet of baron.”

Lichtenbach growled.

“Baron! That will be of some use to me, indeed, if this affair fails.”

Rising, he gave a gesture of defiance.

“It will not fail! Hans is a skilful chemist. He will find out the secret. Besides, if need be I will retrace my steps. They will not catch me so easily, altogether unprepared.”

He smiled. His daughter entered the room. She was no longer the little schoolgirl, dressed in the blue convent robe, but an elegant and graceful Parisienne. The banker looked at her with considerable satisfaction.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes, father. It was agreed we should start at four o’clock.”

“And where are you taking me?”

“To the Charity Bazaar in favour of the Alsace-Lorraine orphans. You must come.”

“I might have sent a cheque.”

“But I must be there. Madame Sainte-Alix has charge of a stall, along with several of my old school companions. I promised to be there.”

“Well, let us start.”

They set off. The sale took place in the Agricultural Hall of France. All over the walls hung groups of flags, whilst above a verdant groove stood a marble bust representing Alsace, with a mourning sash flung across the breast. The wife of a Deputy from the Vosges, surrounded by a group of ladies belonging to official circles, performed the honours. A large double sofa occupied the middle of the room, between two rows of stalls, in which the most aristocratic families of Alsace and Lorraine were represented by white haired grandmothers who had never been willing to acknowledge the conquest of these two lost provinces, and elegant young ladies, smiling and careless, educated or born in exile, and finding France beautiful, and life pleasant, even though it were passed far from their native soil.

Lichtenbach and Marianne were warmly received immediately they entered the room. Here the financier’s prestige and the influence of the journal proprietor could be exercised in uninterrupted sovereignty. Nothing but smiles on every side. The more republican one’s opinions, the more unctuous was the respect lavished on Lichtenbach, the reactionary. Marianne, timid and anxious, was looking for the stall presided over by Madame Sainte-Alix.

A young attendant, anxious to serve so rich an heiress, placed himself under the young girl’s orders, and Marianne passed through the crowd of buyers and sellers until she reached the stall where her old companions were selling children’s clothing at five times its real value, and that without the slightest difficulty. Geneviève de Trémont, dressed in mourning, presided over the hosiery department. After exchanging a friendly greeting she asked—

“Are you all alone?”

“Oh no. My father has stayed behind for a moment to speak to the wife of a Senator.”

“He is going to leave you here for some time?”

“I do not know. Perhaps it would not be convenient for him to return for me.”

Turning towards the nun presiding at the cash-box, she said—

“Are you pleased with the result of your sales, madame?”

“We have made three thousand francs since noon, my child. But it will soon be five o’clock. In an hour everything will be over. We have still a third of our stock left.”

“Very well. Send me everything you have not sold to-night,” said the young girl, simply.

“Ah, my child, how grateful I feel to you. But what will your father think?”

Mademoiselle Lichtenbach smiled calmly.

“My father? He never opposes my wishes. Besides, I am rich.”

She exhibited a purse full of gold.

“And, if that is not sufficient, papa will make me an advance.”

“Ha, look in front!” said Geneviève de Trémont. “There is Amélie at the stall of Madame Baradier.”

Marianne blushed. She remembered what her father had said regarding their quarrels with the Baradiers and Graffs, and felt considerably embarrassed in consequence. What kind of relations could be set up between these hostile families? Suddenly the smiling face of Marcel Baradier awoke in her memory. The hostility of the parents could not bind the children, since he had so graciously received Lichtenbach’s daughter when she had called at the Rue de Provènce. Turning her eyes in the direction of Geneviève, she recognized the one of whom she was thinking, near the counter where Madame Baradier and Amélie were selling. He smiled as he talked to an old man who was purchasing a porcelain vase of a very ugly pattern. After the bargain was struck he took it from his hands, placed it gaily back again on to the stall, and said, in tones sufficiently loud to be heard by Marianne—

“This is the third time, Uncle Graff, that we have sold it, and it has been left behind. People don’t object to paying for it, but it is so frightful that no one will decide to carry it off.”

The old man put back his purse into his pocket and said—

“Now, where is the stall of Mademoiselle de Trémont?”

“We will go there together. The very thing you want, uncle. _Trousseau_ and baby linen. Indispensable for bachelors!”

“You rogue!”

They crossed the room. Suddenly Marcel became very grave; he had recognized Mademoiselle Lichtenbach. She, too, had seen him approach, and, trembling, had not had the courage to look him in the face. Uncle Graff, with his usual good nature, said—

“Well, Mademoiselle Geneviève, what are you going to sell me? Children’s hoods? How much a dozen?”

“Sixty francs, as it is you, Monsieur Graff. And you can leave them with us if you like.”

“Certainly. It would be too much trouble to carry them all off.”

“What you leave us we will give to the Sainte-Enfance institution. After you have finished, if there is anything which remains one of our friends has promised to buy it up.”

“Who is she?”

“Mademoiselle Marianne Lichtenbach.”

Graff started. His face changed expression, and he said—

“The daughter of—”

As he took a step backwards he heard a gentle voice say—

“On the ground of charity there are no enemies, only competitors as to who shall do the most good.”

“You are quite right, mademoiselle,” replied the old man, with a bow. “And I will immediately put your precept into practice.”

Leaning towards the nun, he asked calmly—

“How much for the contents of the stall?”

“My dear sir,” stammered Madame Sainte-Alix, astonished.

“Is two thousand francs enough?”

“Oh, that’s nothing! I will give four thousand!”

And Count Cesare Agostini, smiling and elegant, appeared by the side of Mademoiselle Lichtenbach.

“Our father has sent me to you, mademoiselle,” he said, with a bow. “He will be here in a moment, and, really, he would not have tolerated that _any_ one should rob you of the honour of your generosity at so moderate a price.”

Glancing around at those present, and recognizing Marcel he affected a joyful surprise.

“Ah! Monsieur Baradier! I am delighted to meet you. We have had a great deal of trouble since last I saw you. I heard all about it on my return to call for my sister. I greatly regretted not being able to stay and tell you how sorry we felt for you. You were so kind and gracious to us in that quiet country place.”

He spoke without the slightest hesitation, and with a boldness which stupefied Marcel. As he looked at Agostini he wondered whether he were not dreaming—whether this calm, phlegmatic person speaking to him at this charity bazaar in the heart of Paris, without even thinking of escape, was indeed the man he suspected of having mystified him at Ars, of being, doubtless, the accomplice of murderers and incendiaries; at the very least in collusion with this enigmatical woman whose memory still filled his heart. He listened with astonishment, and replied—

“And your sister, Madame Vignola?”

“Ah! Poor Anetta!” interrupted Cesare. “She is at Venice, engaged in troublesome family affairs. But she will probably come to Paris this summer to assist at my marriage.”

“Ah! You are about to be married, Count?”

“Yes, M. Lichtenbach has given his consent at last.”

This news of the marriage of Agostini into the Lichtenbach family produced an electric effect. Marcel immediately regained full possession of his faculties.

Looking at the Italian from head to foot, he said ironically—

“Ah! you are about to enter the family of M. Lichtenbach. It was to be, and it would have been a pity could it not have taken place!”

“I do not understand very well,” replied Cesare.

“Yes, you understand perfectly. And if you wish further information ask for it from your sister.”

“These are strange words,” said the Italian, arrogantly.

“Every one does as well as he can; all men have not the privilege of being strange in their actions.”

Agostini was about to reply, and the two men stood threateningly in front of one another, when a hand was laid on the Italian’s arm, and the voice of Mademoiselle Lichtenbach was heard saying—

“Monsieur le Comte, will you come this way, please? My father is looking for you.”

Cesare gave Marcel a defiant glance. Then, turning with flattering humility to the young girl, he said—

“Your slightest wish shall be obeyed, mademoiselle. But I shall see this gentleman again, and—”

“I forbid you!”

“Very good.”

Lichtenbach came up to them. He passed in front of Graff, without appearing to see him.

“What is this they are telling me, Count?” he said, addressing Agostini. “You have been bidding up to four thousand francs for the contents of this stall? What a trifling sum! You must have had some very sorry competitors against you!”

An expression of disdain came over his face as he looked round on Marcel and Uncle Graff.

“Formerly my opponents were more tenacious. The struggle for gold has considerably cooled them down.”

Turning towards the nun he wrote a few lines on a piece of paper, saying—

“Here, madame, is a cheque for ten thousand francs.”

“What shall I give you in return?” asked Madame Sainte-Alix, stupefied.

“Your prayers,” said Elias, humbly.

A group had formed round the stall, and a murmur of approving admiration reached the ears of Lichtenbach. Agostini exclaimed, with emphasis—

“This is a magnificent gift!”

“Come along, my daughter,” said Elias.

Marianne kissed Geneviève de Trémont, and, lowering her head, so as not to see Marcel, followed her father and Agostini. As she passed in front of Graff she heard him say—

“Ten thousand francs’ worth of prayers! At a franc per villainous trick he has committed he loses nothing!”

The old man had not time to further exhibit his bad temper, for Marcel interrupted him—

“Not so loud, Uncle Graff; his daughter might hear you. Poor child; it is not her fault!”

Marianne felt sad at heart, and, more afflicted at the nephew’s humiliating indulgence towards herself than at his uncle’s scorn for her father, she left the room.

Since his return to Paris, Marcel had been restored to the good graces of M. Baradier. Graff’s story of the conflagration at the works, and the rescue effected by his nephew, had touched the old man’s heart. The danger incurred by his brother-in-law, Cardez, and Baudoin, had made him quiver with anxiety; the intervention of his son at the critical moment, when even the bravest among the workmen drew back from the danger, had aroused his enthusiasm. He had taken Marcel in his arms, and said to Madame Baradier and Amélie, who were sitting there in tears—

“You seem quite astonished. Did you think this child, on account of a few silly escapades, was not a fine and brave fellow, after all? For my part I was sure, if the opportunity occurred, he would act as nobly as he has done! It is because I knew what he was capable of that I treated him harshly when he went astray. But, after all, he is a Baradier!”

The same evening, alone with his wife, he said—

“Indeed, I am very well pleased with Marcel. Graff has told me things concerning him which have touched me very much. I am beginning to hope that, once the passion and giddiness of youth is over, he will turn out a remarkable man. All he lacks is a certain amount of order. But that will come in time. He is both intelligent and warm-hearted. Now, it is time he thought of marrying.”

“He is only twenty-five years of age.”

“The very best age imaginable. One’s happiness in life is assured when one finds a good partner and marries young, as I did. What kind of attitude does he show with regard to Geneviève?”

“He treats her like a sister, neither more nor less.”

“Not the slightest sign of flirtation?”

“I believe she has a faint liking for him, but I know nothing about his feelings for her.”

“Ask Amélie a few discreet questions.”

“I will think of it.”

Marcel’s mind was occupied with things entirely different. He thought of everything except marriage. His return home appeared very pleasant, for he was very fond of his parents. Perhaps the exile’s son, more than another, possessed a liking for home. He had so often heard his father and uncle regret the old home at Metz, their friends and customs of former times, that the bonds which attached him to his father’s house were very strong, and when away from them all something essential seemed to be lacking in his life. Doubtless this something was his father’s affectionate chiding and his mother’s consoling smile.

Since his return he spent almost the whole of his time out of the office; went out very little at nights, and worked away at a task known to no one except Uncle Graff. M. Baradier, greatly troubled at the turn of events the Explosives had taken, expressed his anxiety to no one but his partner. Uncle Graff, however, calmly replied—

“We must keep wide-awake, but we need not exaggerate the danger. Everything will come out right in the end, that I am sure of.”

“Eh! Do you expect a miracle?” murmured Baradier. “These Explosives shares continue to go down, in spite of all our efforts. Yesterday there was a rumour out on the Bourse that a patent had just been taken, in Germany, England, and France, by an Englishman named Dalgetty, for some marvellous powder or other superior to dynamite. They go so far as to state that this substance is so manageable and harmless, in spite of its destructive power, that they expect to make use of it for engine power. That would mean the suppression of steam, gas and petroleum. A complete revolution. If a quarter of all this is true we are ruined! Doubtless it is an application of Trémont’s formulæ, and Dalgetty is the dummy of the villains who stole them.”

“Possibly,” murmured Graff, calmly.

“And you can find nothing else to say?” exclaimed Baradier, furiously. “You resign yourself to all this robbery and murder?”

“No; I am simply waiting for the Dalgetty powder in use. It may be the Trémont explosive, but then, on the other hand, it may be something entirely different, and in that case worth nothing at all.”

“But suppose we are ruined in the meantime?”

“We shall obtain the upper hand in the long run.”

“But it is this villain of a Lichtenbach who is leading the campaign against us. This is what I am informed from both London and Brussels.”

“Give him his head. The farther he goes the greater will be his fall.”

“I should like to know the cause of your confidence.”

“It is Marcel, your son, who is stronger in himself, than Trémont, yourself, myself, and all the others. You will see.”

“But, after all, cannot you tell me?”

“No, I will say nothing. Let Dalgetty go ahead, and the shares continue to lower. Above all else, do not sell. He laughs best who laughs last.”

The calm assurance of Uncle Graff had its due impression on Baradier at the time. But afterwards, in his study, in front of his correspondence, which brought him nothing but bad news, fear again took possession of him. He was aware that Marcel was working hard. He saw him start every morning for the laboratory of the Arts-et-Métiers. But what was he engaged in? Doubtless some improvement of the Trémont powder; perhaps simply the exact doses of the products. How could he prove, after all, that he knew the dosing, which was the General’s invention? And Baradier, red and excited, would take up his hat and go out for a walk, to avoid a congestion.

At night, when they were dining, he again saw Marcel in the salon, seated between his mother and sister, or playing the piano with Geneviève de Trémont. He was an excellent musician, this son on whom Nature had lavished such gifts. And Uncle Graff, a passionate melomaniac, lay stretched out in an armchair, listening, in delighted ecstasy, to some _lied_ of Schubert or a concerto by Schumann. He pointed out to Baradier, who had entered the room on tip-toe, the charming picture of these two young people playing duets together, and murmured—

“What a fine couple. She is dark; he is fair. Perfect match. And as their fortune—the General’s powder.”

“Nothing but smoke!” growled Baradier.

“No, it does not give any,” laughed Uncle Graff.

In his partner’s feeling of security, though he was mistrustful enough in business matters, there was a kind of unconsciousness which astonished Baradier. Evidently Marcel was preparing something extraordinary, which Graff was well aware of and which promised to have extraordinary results. But what was it? Besides, with rascals who went about everywhere carrying into action their murderous plans, under the indulgent regard of the Government, was one sure of anything? Accordingly he fumed and raged, but that in itself was something, and kept him occupied.

Baudoin, on his part, had not remained inactive. His first visit had been to Colonel Vallenot. He had found him at the War Office, busily engaged on a question the Minister was to receive from a socialist Deputy, who complained that anarchist journals were not permitted in barracks. How could the people be educated if the soldier were refused the right of knowing why it was his duty to despise his superiors? The good Colonel had bristled up like a wild boar. Only the night before he had been abused by his superior, who, greatly worried, himself, had passed on his ill-temper to the other, and so it descended from grade to grade right down to the concierge. The latter had given a drubbing to his dog, which had been at a loss to understand the reason for this treatment. It was the only difference between the animal and the functionaries.

“What is it you want?” growled Colonel Vallenot to Baudoin, as he saluted. “To see the Minister? Well, you are lucky. If you go in there I will not guarantee your safe exit. And, then, what is it you want to tell him? That the agent he had placed at your disposal has disappeared? It is now three weeks since we heard from him.”

“I have brought you news of him.”

“Ah! What is the matter?”

“He is dead.”

“The deuce! How did that happen!”

“He has been killed.”

“Who has killed him?”

“The same who killed General de Trémont.”

“What was his object?”

“The same as before—to obtain possession of my master’s secrets.”

“Was he successful?”

“Yes.”

“So now he is in possession of the powder formula?”

“He is.”

“Well, this is a fine business. We suspected something of the kind, for we have received notice from abroad that experiments have been made with smokeless powder of extraordinary power.”

“That is the one.”

Colonel Vallenot had forgotten all about the Deputy’s question. He pulled and twisted his moustache furiously. Finally he asked—

“When was poor Laforêt murdered?”

“Nearly a fortnight ago. But it was only later that we had the proof of his death. The poor fellow had been flung into the river, and the current had carried him into a millrace. He remained several days fastened to some piles under water, and it is only just recently that his body mounted to the surface. It was taken out, recognized, and buried as was fitting for an old soldier and an honest man. Now he is lying under the green turf of the cemetery of Ars.”

“And his murderers?”

“Ah, that is what I have come to speak to the Minister about. I know the villains.”

Vallenot sat upright.

“Those spies! You know who they are?”

“And you, also, Colonel, without doubt, for this is not their first attempt. The Minister, before now, has had a crow to pick with them. They are professionals in treason!”

The Colonel rose, and, with changed expression, said—

“Ah! Here, at any rate, is something which will distract him! I will risk entering his room without being summoned. Yes, it is possible such news may restore him to good humour again. Wait for me here.”

Opening a door, he left the room. Baudoin, standing near the mantel-piece, stood there a few minutes ‘attentively listening to the hum of voices which proceeded from the next room; then suddenly the door opened, and a voice called—

“Baudoin!”

The old soldier advanced, and, on reaching the threshold of the study, he saw the Minister standing there, a frown on his face, which was even redder than usual.

“Come in!” he said.

Baudoin entered. The General, who wore a black frock-coat and grey trousers, was striding to and fro. Vallenot stood waiting in the embrasure of the window.

“The Colonel informs me that you have very important news to relate concerning the death of M. de Trémont and my agent.”

“Yes, General.”

“You think you know the rascals who have committed these murders?”

“Yes, General.”

“Tell me all about it.”

“I must ask permission to speak in the presence of no one but yourself. It is a secret which interests the lives of those who are too dear to me to warrant my entrusting it to any other than yourself.”

“Not even to Colonel Vallenot?”

“A secret which belongs to several persons,” said Baudoin, coldly, “is no longer a secret. I will tell it either to the Colonel or to yourself.”

“Very good, my friend, you are right. Will you retire, Colonel Vallenot? This good fellow means no offence. I approve of his thoughtfulness.”

Vallenot smiled and saluted. It was evident he would gladly have stayed. But his chief had given the order. A quarter of an hour later the telephone bell rang. Placing the apparatus to his ear, he heard the Minister call out—

“Bring me File Z, No. 3, from the secret press.”

Vallenot opened a large iron safe, and took out a yellow bundle of papers, which he carried into his chief’s room. Baudoin was standing before the desk, and the General _was_ attentively listening to him. Vallenot withdrew. Another interval for a quarter of an hour, then a fresh ring at the telephone—

“Send me Captain Rimbert, who had charge of the Valance affair.”

Vallenot murmured—

“The deuce! There is something in the wind here!”

Ringing for his office-boy, he gave the order and waited patiently. Half an hour passed, then the study-door opened, and Baudoin, conducted by the General himself, appeared. The latter now appeared satisfied, and said—

“Very good, Baudoin; so it is understood?”

“Yes, General.”

“You will request M. Marcel Baradier to call on me?”

“Yes, General.”

“And if you hear of anything, let me know of it at once.”

“Yes, General.”

“Good day. Come in, Vallenot.”

Baudoin left the room. The Minister returned to his study, where the young Captain Rimbert stood waiting.

“Colonel, will you kindly make out a _resumé_ of the Espurzheim and Vicomte de Fontenailles affairs. I believe we are on the point of laying our hands on this crafty woman who so completely tricked all my predecessors, and mystified myself two years ago. Ah! If I can have my revenge it shall be a complete one!”

“Then we have to deal with the woman who has successively borne the name of Madame Ferranti, with Espurzheim, . . . ” said the Colonel.

“And of Countess de Vervelde, with poor Fontenailles,” added Captain Rimbert.

“And finally of La Ténébreuse,” summed up the Minister.

“Oh! What trouble and money the wretch has cost us without our succeeding in laying hands on her!”

“Well, gentlemen, we will try not to fail this time. Prepare the notes I requested, Colonel. And you, Captain Rimbert, not a word!”

Both Colonel and Captain left the room. The Minister rubbed his hands with satisfaction. Meanwhile Baudoin had made his way along the quays, and reached the Law Courts as four o’clock was striking. Crossing the large entrance hall, he mounted to the second floor, and stopped in front of M. Mayeur’s study. The attendant was an old friend of his, and welcomed him cordially—

“Holloa! you here?” he asked. “Have you come as witness in another affair?”

“No. I simply wish to speak to the magistrate. Is he engaged?”

“Always! Just now it is a gang of oil-painting thieves, who have been overhauling the hotel of a marquis in the Champs-Elysées.”

“Can I speak to him?”

“As soon as he rings, I will tell him you are here. Ah, he is in no amiable mood. He and the attorney seem to be quarrelling all the time!”

The bell rang, a door opened, and three men of slouching gait, regular types of Parisian blackguards devoured by absinthe, advanced, casting sly, searching looks in every direction. But there were neither doors nor windows by which they could gain the open-air, so they quietly continued their route.

The attendant said—

“M. Baudoin, will you come in now? M. Mayeur is disengaged.”

The old soldier entered the study. The registrar looked at him as he passed with a certain amount of curiosity. M. Mayeur smilingly pointed to a chair, placed his papers in order, and, turning to the clerk, said—

“You may go now. Put all the files in order. Goodbye.”

The clerk gave a grimace, which might at will have been taken as a mark of politeness or of insolence, and withdrew. M. Mayeur, doubtless tired of questioning, looked steadily at Baudoin, and invited him to explain himself.

“I undertook, monsieur, to inform you of whatever fresh might happen concerning the Vanves affair. I have come to keep my promise.”

“Has something taken place of a nature to throw light on the affair?”

“A great deal has happened.”

“What?”

“A fire, a murder, and a robbery!”

M. Mayeur’s face lit up.

“And where have these crimes been committed?”

“At Ars, in the Aube.”

The magistrate’s countenance darkened, as though the inner light which had just illumined it had died away. He said—

“In the Aube? That is not within our jurisdiction, and does not concern us.”

“I beg your pardon; it concerns us very much. For the people who have committed these crimes have also the Vanves affair to their credit, and it is for this affair, of which the other is only the consequence, that they are wanted.”

“Then you know them?”

“I do.”

“And you know where to lay hands on them?”

“No. But I can tell you how to do so.”

“So the affair we were so unfortunately obliged to shelve a couple of months ago is about to recommence? Perhaps this time we shall be able to reach a satisfactory conclusion!”

“I maintain without the slightest hesitation that we shall succeed if you will do your duty.”

“I?” exclaimed M. Mayeur, his face purple with agitation. “I! After all the trouble I have had, and the humiliation I have endured.”

He felt that he was giving himself away. The passionate and ardent nature of the man disappeared, and the calm, cold nature of the magistrate resumed sway.

With a sigh, he said—

“Tell me everything in detail.”

Baudoin resumed one by one all the events that had taken place at Ars. He depicted the character of Madame Vignola, and of Agostini, and finally explained the dreaded intervention of Hans. Motionless, the magistrate listened, taking short notes from time to time. The time sped swiftly along, the sun as it sank tinged with a ruddy glow the waters of the Seine, and the veil of darkness had fallen when the magistrate ceased listening, and began to question.

“So this Cesare Agostini is in Paris?”

“M. Graff, M. Marcel’s uncle, has seen him, and M. Marcel has spoken to him. It appears he is engaged to the daughter of M. Lichtenbach, the banker.”

“Lichtenbach? A man in his position, with his fortune and relations? Is it possible?”

“You will see. If you wish to know where Agostini lives, set a watch over Lichtenbach. They are hand and glove with one another.”

“And the woman Vignola?”

“Agostini will take you to her abode. And when you have the Vignola, you come to Hans, and the rest of the accomplices, if there are any. And I believe there is a whole gang of them!”

“And what will M. Marcel Baradier do?”

“Do not trouble about him; he does not wish to appear in the matter. A mere question of scruples!”

“But suppose some attempt is made against him? Does he not wish me to take precautions to assure his safety?”

“No. He is strong enough to protect himself. Besides I am with him.”

“And so was Laforêt.”

“Yes, that is true; still, it is my master’s wish—do not do any more than he asks you to undertake. I think you will be well pleased with the result. That has cost dear enough! But if we can obtain vengeance for the murder of my General and poor Laforêt we shall be quits!”

“Very well,” said the magistrate. “If I need you, M. Baudoin, where can I find you?”

“I am living with my master, M. Baradier.”

“Good. Now that you have been working so well, it is my turn. This gang will find that they have not been mocking at justice with impunity.”

“Ah! This has been going on a considerable time, from what I understand at the War Office.”

“I shall put myself into relations with that Office; we will act in co-operation. Keep your courage up, and have good hopes, M. Baudoin; the affair is about to start afresh.”

Baudoin, conducted to the door by the magistrate, went out into the passage, shook hands with the attendant, and left the building. Returning straight to the Rue de Provènce, he mounted to Marcel’s rooms.

This evening he was seated in a small salon examining with minute care the plan for a machine at which he was working. On seeing Baudoin enter he placed the diagram on the table, looked at his visitor, and said—

“You have just left?”

“Yes, M. Marcel.”

“You have seen the Minister?”

“Yes. At the very first words I uttered he was all attention. He wishes to see you, and affirms that the lady in question is a spy of the most dangerous category, who has had the police on her tracks for the past six years. That woman must have a number of crimes on her conscience.”

“That is not what I asked you,” said Marcel. “Are they going to take measures to keep a watch on Agostini and his companions? If so—”

“The Minister told me that was the business of the Detective Department, and advised me to see Mr. Mayeur. I have just left him. Ah! he will not allow the affair to lag.”

“Good!”

The tinkling of a bell in the yard interrupted the conversation. It was the signal for dinner, which, from time immemorial, had thus been announced every evening, as is the custom in the provinces. Marcel took off his coat, and replaced it by another, after which he made his way to the salon. On entering, his father, Uncle Graff, the two young ladies, and Madame Baradier, were already waiting before passing into the dining-room. More comfort than luxury was evident everywhere; not the slightest sign of ostentation was manifest. Usually, dinner was the time when all the company related the events of the day. This evening one would have thought that nobody wished to speak. All the same, Graff, when the joint was brought on the table, risked the remark—

“The Bourse has been firmer to-day.”

“No great improvement!” growled Baradier.

A deeper silence than before followed. But Uncle Graff had the patience of a Lorraine, and he continued after a while—

“I have received a letter from Cardez, in which he says they have reached the second floor of the new building. The Assurance Company has paid the claim. After all, everything has turned out for the best.”

“Are the workmen quiet now?” asked Madame Baradier.

“Poor creatures! They were sorry for what they had done. But they were not responsible. It was the leaders of the strike! The deuce take them!”

“Have they fixed upon a larger building-site for a new steam-engine?” asked Baradier, who forgot his bad temper as soon as business was on the tapis.

“Father,” interrupted Marcel, “I should advise you to postpone this plan of yours. Something might happen which would cause the system of power employed in the works to be radically changed. Better wait a little.”

“Mere idle fancies and whims! Some wild impracticable invention, I suppose.”

“No,” replied the young man, with warmth. “No idle fancy at all! My dear Geneviève, it would cover your father’s name with glory, for it was he who had the idea of this invention first, and, indeed, if it is realizable, as I believe will be found to be the case, it will bear his name.”

“Then this is something at which you have been working the last month?” asked Baradier, inquisitively.

“The last two years, father. It is on this application of the regulated explosive power of the Trémont powder—you understand, regulated, that is the point—that I have been working with the General. We were on the point of success when he disappeared. But I was in possession of all the plans, sketches, and calculations we made together, and I have continued the work all alone.”

“And you think you have succeeded?”

“I do.”

“And what result will you attain with your machine?”

“A substitute for coal, petroleum, and even electricity, in the production of force. That is to say, the suppression of magazines in war vessels, permitting them to increase to an indefinite extent their sphere of action. There would be no necessity for locomotives to be supplied with a tender, and in all industries coal need only be used for metallurgic and heating purposes.”

“Oh, oh!” said Baradier. “And what will you put in the place of coal, petroleum, and electricity?”

“That, my dear father, is what I will tell you the day the patents have been taken all over the world.”

“When will you take them?”

“To-morrow, if you will advance me the forty thousand francs necessary.”

“I will give you them,” exclaimed Uncle Graff, with warmth. “I have confidence in you.”

“Who says I am not ready to advance the sum myself?” resumed Baradier. “I would do it merely to honour the memory of Trémont.”

“Very good, father; I warrant you have never advanced money at better interest,” said Marcel, joyfully. “It is a discovery calculated to completely change the methods of commerce, and yet it is the simplest thing in the world!”

“Like all good inventions!”

Baradier remained silent for a moment, and then said—

“But the invention of this machine is connected with the discovery of the Trémont powders?”

“Yes, father.”

“And the powders have been stolen?”

A sad smile passed over Marcel’s lips.

“Yes, father, the powders have been stolen. The war powder, for instance, and it is very unfortunate. For the General intended to present France with this marvellous product, which would have assured for our army a supremacy of several years over the other Powers of Europe. Then you know what would have happened; foreigners would have set to work, and either discovered or bought our secret, and equilibrium again have been restored. There will be no superiority for any one, since the formula of the Trémont war-powder will be given by me to-morrow to the War Office. That will establish equality. And if there is war, valour and intelligence will have to undertake the victory. As for the business powder, that is another matter. They may have stolen the formula, even manufactured it themselves, but I defy them to find the means of using it for its destined purpose.”

“There is a secret about it?”

“Yes, which I discovered quite by chance when working with the General. That is the peculiarity of this powder, which, under ordinary conditions, is destructive enough, being ignited by simple friction—in a word, very dangerous to use; but which, employed according to our method, is under perfect control, and regulates its dynamic effects, even to the movement of a pendulum, according to my pleasure.”

All present were listening attentively, thinking of the importance of this discovery, and the wretched fate of its initiator. M. Baradier said—

“To-morrow you shall have your money. If the affair is worth merely the hundredth part of what you claim, Geneviève will be rich and Trémont world-famed.”

“As for the Explosives Company,” added Graff, “it is in a bad way. Lichtenbach is likely to have met his match at last!”