Chapter III

IT was five months since Marcel had solemnly promised his father to break with his giddy companions, give up his fast life, and no longer set foot in the club, but, instead of all this, to work and obliterate the acts of folly he had previously committed. Scrupulously keeping his word, he withdrew to Ars, and only seldom appeared in Paris. So well had he worked that the result of his efforts were manifest. The Minister, after the conversation he had had with Marcel, had expressed himself to Baradier, concerning the young savant, in such terms that the father was quite disarmed. All these deprivations of rights, which he had patiently submitted to, were now removed, and, not without considerable satisfaction, this fine young fellow of twenty-six years of age had resumed his former habits.

The first time he appeared at the club he had been welcomed with open arms by his companions, young and old alike.

“What has become of you; we have seen nothing of you for several months! Probably you have been travelling?”

Marcel replied that he had indeed been away from Paris, but added that he had been thinking seriously concerning gambling, and had determined to give up baccarat.

“How often have I heard you talk in that way,” said the Baron de Vergins. “All the same, you could not resist the temptation to play if you were in front of the baccarat-table a single quarter of an hour!”

“Come along, then, and you will see.”

They passed into the large room. Beneath the ceiling floated a grey mist of tobacco smoke, like a fog.

On either side of the room was a green table, around which thronged a crowd of sour-visaged punters.

“Ah! You have two baccarat-tables now,” remarked Marcel.

“Yes; it is an innovation. At the one the minimum stake is a louis; at the other, it is ten francs. So that, when a punter has had a run of ill-luck at the large table, he goes to the small one to try and recoup, with the privilege of returning afterwards to the other, to lose once more what he may have won.”

“Very ingenious. A double sieve from which nothing escapes!”

He approached the large table, and his look immediately became fixed. In front of him, dealing the bank, he had just recognized Agostini. Impassive and smiling, a flower at his buttonhole, he gracefully distributed the cards at both tables. He did not see Marcel. With his sing-song voice he called out—

“Cards!”

Marcel, addressing the Baron de Vergins, asked—

“Who is the banker?”

“Count Cesare Agostini.”

“Newly joined the club?”

“For a time. Agreeable fellow, good fencer, and reckless player.”

“Is he lucky?”

“Ah, no. He has very bad luck. Loses more than any one else, in fact.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“He was introduced by the Prince de Cystriano and M. Beltrand. The Agostini family is well known; they are the younger branch of the great Italian family, the dukes of Briviesca.”

“Why do they receive so many foreigners at the club?” asked Marcel, with a displeased air.

“Ah, my dear friend, the club lives on them, so to speak. I know they make themselves as much at home here as at their hotel. It is not very pleasant for us. But what is there to be done? The establishment must be kept going.”

“Has he any relations in Paris?” asked Marcel. “A sister?”

“No; he is unmarried, and has never been seen in the company of a lady.”

Marcel changed the conversation, made an excuse for leaving his companion, and went to the writing-room. Taking up a directory, he found a recent indication, handwritten as follows: “Count Cesare Agostini, 7 Rue du Colisée.” It was something to know this address, though what he wanted was information respecting that mysterious woman, Anetta or Sophia, Madame Vignola or the Baroness Grodsko. What was Agostini to him besides that infinitely charming creature, who had suddenly become metamorphosed into a most dangerous monster. Her brother, really? Her accomplice, without the slightest doubt. That was what he wished to know, and, at the risk of the greatest danger, he was determined to have his doubts removed.

He had taken a seat in a large armchair, the back of which, turned towards the door, almost entirely concealed him. Two members of the club were writing letters. The quiet of this retired spot, the ticking of the timepiece, seemed to numb his faculties. The murmur of distant voices lulled him into a reverie.

Suddenly a quiver ran over him, and he listened attentively. The voice of Agostini had just joined in the conversation.

“I have again lost two thousand louis. With the thousand yesterday, it is quite enough.”

He laughed, and one of his companions said—

“You ought to hold off for a few days, Agostini! It is useless being obstinate against ill-luck.”

“But if I did not play, what should I do? It is my only distraction.”

“That was a beautiful lady, at the opera, to whom you introduced Colonel Derbaut the other night.”

Marcel’s heart seemed to stop beating. He had a presentiment that the woman in question was the one who was engaging his own attention so strongly. He could not hear Agostini’s reply, and the other continued—

“If she is no more than a compatriot of yours, I should be pleased to make her acquaintance.”

Agostini laughed, but made no promise. And Marcel said to himself: “His compatriot? An Italian? It is Anetta, I am sure of it. What is she doing here with this villain? The army once more in danger, for she has made the acquaintance of Colonel Derbaut, a staff-officer.” Meanwhile, he had lost the thread of the conversation, but a second sentence told him all that was necessary—

“Very good! To-night, at the opera?”

“Agreed!”

Silence was restored. The members of the club continued their correspondence. Marcel rose from his seat, sure that he was about to meet the pretended sister of Agostini. She was not in Italy, as the adventurer had had the audacity to tell him at the charity sale. She was in Paris and, without thinking of the past, engaged on some fresh intrigue. Along whatever path she travelled she sowed corruption, infamy, and death.

Suddenly in Marcel’s memory arose the smiling, tender image of Madame Vignola with that bewitching smile, and those clear, limpid eyes. Was it possible that such a creature should be a monster? If so, then one greatly to be dreaded!

How can one help trusting in that exquisite gentleness which pervaded her whole person? And yet, had she not betrayed him? Had she not revealed the presence of the secret documents in the laboratory? And that, too, with marvellous rapidity, and a skill scarcely compatible with honesty. He would have liked to free her from every suspicion which hung over her; but was it possible?

Leaving the club, he returned to the bank, and, entering his father’s study, found his uncle Graff, attentively reading an evening paper. The old man arose on seeing his nephew enter, and, holding the printed sheet out to him, said—

“See here, Marcel, here is an article on this affair of ours. It is a report of a meeting of the Academy of Science, where Professor Marigot read his notice on the Trémont powder.”

Marcel carelessly took the journal. Without even glancing at it, he laid it on the desk.

“Is that all the interest you take in the matter?” exclaimed the uncle. “You are not inquisitive about the effect produced by Marigot’s official communication? Very well, I will tell you what he says. The _Globe_ has given up a whole column to the discovery, which it states is an important one, and it predicts, within a short date, a revolution in the use of motive power. On the other hand, the _Panache Blanc_, Lichtenbach’s journal, is dead against the invention, which it qualifies as a shamefaced imitation, insinuating that it is simply the Dalgetty process, without the slightest change in the doses of the products.”

“What a brazen falsehood!” Marcel exclaimed, unable to restrain himself.

“Here is something better. At the Bourse a rumour has got abroad that the Explosives Company is in possession of the Trémont patents, and the shares have begun to mount, in spite of the desperate efforts of the bears. Accordingly, our situation is saved, and, on the other hand, that of Lichtenbach seems to be in a terrible pass!”

“You do not expect me to get excited over that?”

“I do not, indeed. But your father, who for the past three months has hardly been able to sleep, is now happy and smiling. He has just gone to Aubervilliers to examine a plot of land, covering seven acres, which has been offered to us, and which would be the very spot for constructing the works necessary. He is especially pleased at owing this result to you. Though not very expansive, he is enthusiastic and warm-hearted, and exceedingly proud to be obliged to confess that you are so gifted. Up to the present, it is Trémont that has been mentioned, but, when it is known that it is you who brought the affair to its completion, and your name is in everybody’s mouth, as soon will be the case, then you will see your father expand.”

Marcel made no reply. He walked to and fro in the study, with so absent-minded an air that Graff exclaimed—

“What a strange fellow you are! And yet you must be well pleased with what I have been telling you. Though you will scarcely listen to me. What is the matter with you?”

The young man shook his head, and, with an attempt at a smile, said—

“There is nothing the matter with me, Uncle Graff. What do you expect me to say?”

“Ah! Perhaps you have no suspicion of the plans Baradier has been forming for you. He explained them to me this very morning. We are going to put Marcel at the head of the works as director. At the same time he shall be one of the managing directors of the Explosives Company we are about to completely reorganize. You see, Marcel, you are about to play a very important _rôle_ in life at twenty-six years of age. And your father added, ‘If he will marry, I shall no longer have anything to wish for. He will have satisfied me in everything.’ What do you think of the idea? I believe he was thinking of Geneviève de Trémont. What will your reply be?”

Marcel replied quietly—

“Nothing whatever, Uncle Graff.”

The old man touched Marcel on the shoulder, and, looking attentively at him, said—

“I do not understand you, Marcel; there is something you are hiding from me. Have you seen the woman of Ars again?”

This time, the young man broke out—

“No, I have not seen her; but I know she is in Paris. I know where I shall see her this evening. Uncle Graff, I intend to have the key to this living enigma.”

“Ah! My child, there is no enigma; she is simply a villain, nothing more! How anxious you make me in still troubling yourself with this woman! Take care! You know how dangerous she and her companions are. Remember the poor General, and this brave fellow killed at Ars. Just inform the police, she will be arrested, and all will be over.”

“If I were certain she were as guilty as you suspect her to be, I would do so. Though it is not very gallant to give up a woman.”

“What! Chivalry with such people?”

“But I have my doubts, Uncle Graff. I cannot make up my mind to condemn her unheard.”

“Yes! In a word, you wish to see her again. Don’t tell me any idle stories; I am not so stupid as to be taken in by them. She still holds you in her power. And you are about to risk being murdered, in some dark corner or other, for the pleasure of being deceived once more by such a traitress.”

“Uncle Graff, no one will kill me at the opera. It is there I rely on seeing her to-night.”

“Are you in earnest?”

“Have you disposed of your orchestra stall?”

“No.”

“Very well, give it to me.”

“Promise me you will do nothing extravagant, and that if this woman wants you to accompany her, you will not do so.”

“No; I cannot promise that. But I will be on my guard all the same. Agostini shall not knock me over like a pigeon.”

“Take a good revolver with you.”

“Certainly.”

“Ah! _Mon Dieu_! And I was feeling so happy!” groaned the old man. “Suppose you take Baudoin with you?”

“Under no pretext. Be assured, however, I am running no risk this time. Later on, we shall see.”

The arrival of Baradier cut the conversation short. Marcel returned home to dress before dinner.

That evening the _Walkyrie_ was being given at the opera. When Marcel reached his stall, the second act was commencing. The domestic troubles of Wotan, the Scandinavian Jupiter, with Fricka, a real Juno without her peacock, possessed only a slight interest for the young man. Turning round, he leaned his elbow on the back of his stall, and looked about him. Slowly, the boxes began to fill, as though the subscribers had only decided to come at all because they had paid dearly for the privilege. Up above in the amphitheatre was a sea of eager faces turned on to the stage. There was the real amateur and artistic public.

But Marcel was not looking for critical observations as to the musical capacity of the different auditors of a masterly piece, rather for the face of a woman. Nowhere could he catch a glimpse of the beautiful profile of Madame Vignola. Two side boxes on the right of the actors still remained unoccupied. And Marcel, again turning towards the stage, kept a watch on them.

Towards the end of the act the sound of an opening door drew his attention. He saw a light appear in one of the side boxes, then a vague uncertain form appeared in its velvet frame. The door closed again, the background again darkened, and a woman, clothed in white, _décolleté_, and wearing a necklace of beautiful pearls, came to the front of the box. As her face was turned away from Marcel he could not distinguish her features. Still, what relation could there be between this vigorous brunette and the blonde and languishing Anetta? Strength, where he had found grace. No. This could not be the one.

As the curtain fell amidst a tempest of cheers, and the artists reappeared on the stage to bow their acknowledgments, the lady turned round, in such a way as to face Marcel, who, stupefied, recognized the look of the one he loved. He might have been mistaken in everything else, but not in the languishing look which formed so delightful a contrast with that mocking smile and imperious brow. He examined her attentively, without her being aware that she was observed. But what grief he felt at being obliged to recognize her in such a disguise!

Was not the very fact of this metamorphosis, the most complete of confessionals? Why, if not to disarm curiosity, these changes, in head-dress, in the colour of the hair, and the expression of the face? What was this comedy she was playing, and when? Was it at Ars that she was painted and disguised, or at the opera?

Marcel arose. All around him were leaving their seats. Madame Vignola was no longer in front of the box. Marcel counted the number of boxes. This one was the fourth after the passage. Standing behind a column, he kept watch.

This self-imposed waiting seemed interminable to him. The passers-by irritated him, he replied to a few bows, but avoided shaking hands with any one. Finally, the door of the box opened, and Agostini and an elderly man, wearing the rosette of the Legion d’Honneur, appeared. The count and his companion made their way towards the grand staircase, before Marcel, who had his back turned to them, and disappeared. Then the young man opened the door of the box, and entered.

The spectator was seated on the sofa. Marcel closed the door, and walked up to her. Turning her head, she looked at the intruder, and said, without the faintest agitation—

“You are in the wrong box, sir.”

He replied ironically—

“No, madame, there is no mistake, if I am in the presence of Madame Vignola, unless you are the Baroness Grodsko.”

At these words, the young woman’s face appeared frightfully agitated. Her eyes turned pale, and her lips trembled.

“Whose name is that you have uttered?” she murmured, in unsteady accents.

“Evidently one of your own! So far as I can judge, you change names, according to circumstances, just as you change faces, according to the men you associate with.”

“I do not understand what you mean. Once more I say, you are mistaken, retire.”

“No! I shall wait here till Count Agostini returns. We will have an explanation in his presence. He, at any rate, will not be able to deny his identity. And that will help to establish yours.”

Rising from her seat, and no longer taking the trouble to deny, she said—

“And he will kill you! Wretched man, leave here at once, without a moment’s delay. You do not know what dangers you are running!”

“I know them quite well. General Trémont is dead, Laforêt, the police agent, is dead, and so, doubtless, are many others who have resisted your fancies or intrigues. And if I, too, do not yield, you will try to compass my death also. But, before that happens, I will know who and what you are.”

The woman’s countenance darkened. Raising her beautiful arm, she said in tragic tones—

“Do not attempt it! You will never succeed!”

“Still, I have made a beginning,” he said madly. “Spy—thief—actress; yes, actress even in love!”

She did not appear to have heard the other insults he hurled at her, but from this last one, she recoiled. Blushing, she seized Marcel by the arm, and fixed on him a pair of eyes which seemed to flame with passion.

“No! I have not lied! Don’t believe that of me! Do not accuse me of having been false in love. I did love you! Can you think otherwise? Accuse me of whatever you wish, it matters little to me! We shall never see one another again, you hear!—never see one another again in this world. Therefore, believe what I now swear to you: I loved you; I still love you! I have never loved any one as I have loved you, and that is why I shall never see you again. Do not attempt to understand or to fathom my secrets; they would cause your death. Content yourself with what you know of me, and with the fact that you have not paid for it with your life. Become blind when I pass by your side; deaf, whenever my name is mentioned. Do not enter the darkness in which I am shrouded. Oh! Marcel, my loved one, go away, do not suspect me of having lied to you. Clasped in your arms, your lips pressed against mine, I told the truth, I—”

She stopped. Tears shone in her eyes, and her beautiful arms are flung around Marcel’s neck. He felt himself pressed to her throbbing bosom, the fire of her eyes blinded him, and he shuddered at the contact of that ardent mouth pressed to his own in a delirium of delight. Amid her sighs, he heard the word “Adieu!” and found himself near the door. There, her embrace relaxed, and he stood dazed and maddened in the passage, amidst the spectators who were returning to their seats. Taking up his coat, and staggering along like a man intoxicated, he obeyed his mysterious love, and left the theatre.

He no longer doubted. That cry, “I love you still!” was sincere. She was not lying when she confessed her love. Besides, why had she driven him away from her, if not inspired by the passionate fright of the woman who trembles lest her loved one meet his death. Then it was some strange will, superior to her own, which had compelled her to fascinate him, and which was again controlling her in the performance of some dark, mysterious deed or other! That he was, and must remain, ignorant of.

On reaching the Place de l’Opéra, he felt calmer. The open air did him good. But the memory of those glorious eyes, and that quivering voice, as she held him in her arms, came back to him with painful intensity. Ah! What a woman!

But she was a monster of corruption and depravity. He had told her so without the slightest protest. She was, beyond doubt, an accomplice in several murders; perhaps even that white and delicate hand of hers had itself been stained in blood! She was the secret agent of threatening hostility and venal treason. Her beauty, grace, and intelligence were so many attractions which served to captivate her dupes. Her love was only a means to an end.

A feeling of revolt came over him. He said to himself, “Really, I am too much of a coward. The attraction this woman exercises over me is taking away my moral faculty! At the very moment she appears in such a despicable light before me, I yet love her. And yet, I scarcely know her. She loved me; that is the reason she left me, unwilling as she was to ruin me!” He laughed in a nervous fashion, and thought, “Very soon, I shall be obliged to feel grateful towards her! And yet she is an infamous wretch. Yes; but how beautiful!”

A prey to these contradictory thoughts, he reached the Rue de Provènce, and immediately retired to rest. The following morning, when he awoke, he was astonished to find his uncle Graff at his bedside. It was eight o’clock. He had had a dreamless sleep. The old man, feeling uneasy, had been turning over and over in his bed, and, at daybreak, had not been able to resist the desire of making sure that nothing had happened to Marcel. For some time he had been watching his nephew sleep, and now he wished to question him, but, finding him silent, or evasive in his answers, he abandoned all hope of learning anything just then, and called on Baradier for a cup of coffee. He had left his room, fasting, and was dying of hunger.

The same morning, in Lichtenbach’s study, about ten o’clock, Agostini and Hans were engaged in a _tête-à-tête_ with the banker. Count Cesare was sitting in dreamy attitude, smoking a cigarette. Hans, impassive, was listening to Elias, who was speaking in even a duller voice than usual.

“The situation is certainly serious for you,” he was saying, “but for me it is becoming very grave. Relying on your information, I undertook a bear campaign, which was to place the Explosives Company in my hands, by permitting of my redeeming the shares for a mere trifle. It happens that my closest rivals, and deadly enemies, the firm of Baradier and Graff, have undertaken the counter-part of my operations, and all my efforts to shake them off have been unavailing. Then, I did not understand the causes of their firmness, but now I do. The notice read at the Academy of Science gives me the key to their calculations. They are in possession of the secret you have failed to find. They are in a position to exploit the Trémont powder, and the Dalgetty patent is worth nothing! This is the net result of all your intrigues. You have indeed something to be proud of!”

“What will all this cost you?” asked Agostini, coldly.

“How much will it cost me?” exclaimed the banker, furiously. “Almost all I possess! You seem to look at things in a very philosophical light! It is easy to say to a man one has ruined, ‘How much has it cost you?’ Can I rely on my physical attractions? To have money I must work, and it has been so with me for the past forty years!”

“Come, Lichtenbach,” said Hans, “don’t cry about it. We are aware that you will lose considerably, in case the affair does not succeed. But there will be something left. I will offer you ten million francs for whatever remains, if you like!”

“Stupid rogues as you are!” exclaimed Elias. “You are speaking of what you know nothing about! This filthy affair of yours, managed by such silly dolts, has cost me the labour of half my life, and even more—my pride! For I, who have always had the upper hand of Baradier and Graff, am now at their mercy. Your famous Sophia has, indeed, been brilliant in this matter! A man-eater who has never failed. A flower of rottenness, one need only breathe to be intoxicated, such corrupting ferments does she exhale! A simple young man is given into her hands; a mere child’s-play for her, and here she remains, inactive and powerless, either unable or unwilling to make him give up his secret. Meanwhile, I have been losing all my money. You idiots! You stupid rascals! Will you give me back my money? I know of nothing in the world more despicable than an imbecile bandit! And that is what you are, both of you, and your Sophia into the bargain!”

Hans’ countenance remained unchanged. Agostini, with sombre look, flung away his cigarette, and said—

“There is some truth in what you say, Lichtenbach, so I will overlook your insolent words. But for that, I would have made you pay dearly for what you have just said.”

“Not another word!” growled Lichtenbach. “I defy you!”

“You will be foolish to do so,” continued the Italian. “A Count Cesare Agostini will not receive a gratuitous insult from a Lichtenbach.”

“Gratuitous? Indeed!”

“Come! Peace!” said Hans, in tones of authority. “We are not here to exchange compliments with one another, but to find some solution to the difficulty. It is true the Baroness has failed. We know the reason now, when it is too late. She has been stupid enough to fall in love with this young man, and has only half accomplished her mission. When she led him on to talk confidentially to her, she was afraid that he would despise her later on. To sum up, the _coup_ failed. The young man is now on his guard; he will say nothing more, unless I undertake, as a last resource, to question him. For the present, however, the situation is as follows: We possess an excellent patent, similar, as regards the composition of the powder, to the one taken under the name of Trémont. But we are in ignorance of the trick of working it. Our powder is a brutal explosive. The Trémont powder is graduated in action. There is the real value of the discovery. Under these conditions, Dalgetty could establish a claim, and accuse of counterfeit the exploiters of the Trémont patent, which was taken out after ours. The result—scandal, trial, blackmailing. This is the line we must follow, and it may serve as a means for a settlement.”

“In what way?” asked Lichtenbach, interested.

“By sending a trusty ambassador to Baradier and Graff to offer them terms of peace.”

“They will not accept!”

“How do you know? It all depends on the manner in which the proposal is made; you may have to concede to them both material and moral advantages, in order to reach a fusion of the two affairs.”

“That would mean safety, and even triumph!” exclaimed Lichtenbach. “Just let me get them into my power, and they shall not escape so easily!”

“Then I will rely upon you! Ah! You sly rogue, you have come back to life again.”

“The fact is, the idea of being their dupe was killing me! The whole of my life would have been spent in vain! Ever since I have been in Paris, I have only had one desire—to injure them! Give up this joy! I could not! Whom shall I send them?”

“A priest,” insinuated Agostini.

“The Abbé d’Escayrac, if he would do me this service! Fine idea! He well knows how to lull one’s conscience by moulding a man’s intelligence to his will. But what can we offer Baradier and Graff?”

“Anything you imagine they might decently accept. What will it cost you? Have you not a daughter? She has been carefully brought up, and is of an amiable disposition, so I am told.”

“Well!”

“Offer her to young Baradier, with an enormous dowry. If Sophia were only willing, she would arrange the matter well enough!”

This time, Agostini manifested symptoms of violent discontent. He brought his hand down forcibly on the table, and, looking at the others with murderous eyes, said—

“And what is to become of me in this combination? Are you forgetting that Mademoiselle Lichtenbach is my affianced wife?”

“The engagement can easily be broken,” replied Hans, coldly.

“Do you intend to jest with me?”

“I never jest with any one to no purpose.”

“Then you are seriously thinking of overthrowing all my plans?”

“What use will your plans be to you, if Lichtenbach is ruined? Besides, you silly fellow, do you think Elias is a man likely to trouble himself with you, if you are no longer of any use to him? Already you have gone down several notches in his esteem. If an arrangement has to be made with you, we will offer you money. I know where to find it.”

The handsome Italian laid his hand on his heart.

“And what compensation will be large enough to satisfy me?”

“Ah, ah!” jeered Hans. “We are well aware that your conscience is as tender as it is delicate!”

Lichtenbach, who had remained silent, after hearing the suggestion concerning his daughter, now said—

“A Baradier marry a Lichtenbach! Is it possible? Never would the Graffs and Baradiers consent to such a thing! For my own part, I ought to protest with all my might against such a proposal.”

He remained silent, as though absorbed in thought, and then said slowly—

“Still, my daughter is well worthy of entering such a family. They are honest people, after all! And she is a charming and proud child. If only they would consent! My daughter would be certain of a happy future. She would have a peaceful and tranquil life. These Baradiers are honest and respectable, after all! If they would receive my daughter as their own, they would treat her well, and she would not be the prey of an adventurer! True, I hate them, and wish to do them harm, for all the humiliations they have inflicted on me. But if they would accept my daughter!”

A tear shone on the cheek of this hardened man—a tear more precious than a diamond, for it owed its source to a father’s love. Hans interrupted the scene; he was not a man to understand such tender feelings.

“So you adopt my plan? You will make an attempt at conciliation with our opponents. Offer them what you like, that is your own affair, and if we succeed, we will unite the two patents. You alone carry on the transaction, though, naturally, you reserve us our share. You see, this young Count Cesare might turn out troublesome. Is it agreed upon?”

“Yes.”

Hans and Agostini took their leave. Elias walked to and fro about his study, then he proceeded to his daughter’s room. Marianne was seated near the window overlooking the garden, working. She rose on seeing her father appear. Wearing a blue dressing-gown ornamented with quipure lace, her fair hair tied up in bands, she had about her a kind of virgin gentleness, which caused her father’s heart to swell with love and tenderness. Sitting by her side, he drew her near to himself, and entered into conversation.

“You have now been settled down here some considerable time. Are you satisfied? Is everything progressing as you wish?”

“Yes, father, I should be very ungrateful if I were not satisfied. You let me do whatever I want. But I hope you are well pleased yourself, also.”

“Certainly, little one, and I wish us always to remain so. But, you know, some day we shall be obliged to separate.”

Marianne looked serious; her smile vanished.

“A day in the distant future, father; there is no hurry.”

“You will marry. Would you not like to be married?”

“That will depend on the husband.”

A silence followed. The controller of men felt ill at ease before this child, whose future he had disposed of by calculation. He did not dare speak to her of Agostini, whom he had introduced to her, and praised in her presence only the night before. It was Marianne who took it upon herself to explain the precise situation of things.

“I am rather troubled, I confess, at the favour you accord this young Italian count, and at the way in which you speak to me of him.”

“My dear child!” exclaimed Lichtenbach.

“No! Let me continue,” interrupted Marianne. “Afterwards you may praise your candidate as much as you like. But allow me to speak to you quite freely. Your _protegé’s_ conduct and habits make me uneasy. He does not seem to me frank; he is too polite, and full of compliments. There is something suspicious about this man who is always smiling and flattering. Besides, his voice has no genuine ring about it. His cold, cruel looks belie his handsome face and gentle words. Lastly, dear father, he is a foreigner. Are there no more Frenchmen to marry in France that one should be obliged to look for a _fiancé_ for one’s daughter on the other side of the frontier? He is a count, but I have no ambition in that direction. He does not work, and I should not care to marry any one without business of any kind. Papa, if you wish to please me and consult my tastes, you will choose another suitor. Your daughter is something to you—that you have often given me to understand; you have, perhaps, insisted rather too much on the fact, for I might have formed too good an opinion of myself. Luckily, I am reasonable and modest in my demands. Do not marry me to an idle man, who is also ambitious and wicked. If you want me to be free from anxiety, send away this handsome Italian. He is not the man for me!”

Lichtenbach smiled good-humouredly and said—“Then who is?”

Marianne blushed, but made no reply.

“Ah, ah!” continued Lichtenbach. “So there is a secret, is there? Better tell your father all about it, little one. Have you met some one you like, my dear? Tell me everything; don’t be afraid. You know very well I will do nothing opposed to your wishes. If you do not like Agostini, why did you not tell me so sooner? Come, now, tell me all!”

With downcast head she said—

“No, no! It is useless. I have only one wish—to stay by your side just as I am. I shall be very happy.”

“You are not telling me the truth,” exclaimed Lichtenbach, excitedly. “You must tell me what you mean. Do you imagine there are difficulties in the way? Yes? Of what kind? Is it some one I know?”

“Let us say nothing more on the subject, father,” said Marianne. “I was wrong in introducing the subject. It can be nothing but a painful one for both yourself and myself. You had given me warning. But it was too late. The subject shall never be brought up again between us; that I promise you.”

“You could not speak to me otherwise if it were my greatest enemy. Is it so?”

He did not utter the name of Baradier, but Marianne read it upon his lips. She raised her eyes up to her father’s face, as though to ask pardon from him for what he must consider a kind of treason. She did not, however, find in his countenance that angry and threatening expression she dreaded to see there. He was passive and calm, and sat there for a moment without uttering a word. Then, in accents of great deliberation, he asked—

“We are thinking of Marcel Baradier, are we not? Yes, it must be he. I was wrong to let you visit Geneviève de Trémont. That was very imprudent on my part. However, it cannot be helped now. We must try to arrange matters.”

“Arrange matters!” stammered Marianne.

“Yes, my dear child. We must make an attempt. I would do anything to make you happy.”

“Forget your bitter feelings of the past?”

“I will try to make the Baradiers forget theirs.”

“Oh, father, dear father!”

She flung her arms around his neck with such a burst of joy, that Lichtenbach turned pale with shame. For the first time in his life, he had a very clear impression of the significance of a cowardly action, doubtless, because his victim in this case was his own daughter. At the same time, he felt that the evil deeds of a whole lifetime accumulate, and that, at some time or other, the interest must be paid, in humiliation and suffering. He looked at Marianne tenderly, and said, in accents of sincerity—

“Ah! is it so serious as that? Very well, my child, I will do everything possible to make you happy.”

After kissing her, he returned to his room, ordered his carriage, and drove away to call on the Abbé d’Escayrac.