Chapter VI

THE affray of the Boulevard Maillot was prudently passed over as a drama founded on jealousy. Two men quarrelling over a woman, and the rivals killing one another over the corpse of the fair one—such was the account furnished to the reporters. Imagination did the rest. Paris dwelt with passionate interest for twelve hours on this magnificent butchery, the horrors of which were described all the better from the fact that no one had been admitted to see them. M. Mayeur alone made a complete search all over the house, but discovered nothing calculated to throw any light on the identity of Hans. Neither the anthropometric service nor the most experienced detectives could find out the slightest indication as to the mysterious personality of the dreaded bandit. Certainly he was the same man whose arm had been carried off at Vanves, when he had appeared there with Sophia, on the evening the General’s house had been destroyed. But what was he besides? The international police, on being questioned, said nothing. Either they knew nothing, or were unwilling to give information.

Sophia and Agostini were identified. The Princes of Briviesca undertook to inform the magistrate concerning the one member of their family they were well pleased to see themselves rid of. Count Grodsko could relate nothing more than he had already told to the agent who had questioned him at Monte Carlo. The examining magistrate enraged at finding nothing, thought for a moment of bringing a charge against Lichtenbach. He summoned him to his study, questioned him, and tried to obtain from Baradier and Graff revelations concerning him. But the former would not impeach, as was expected, their old enemy. Rivalry in business affairs, quibbles in banking relations, but nothing legally guilty. If a charge could be brought on these heads, then they would be obliged to surround the Place de la Bourse, from twelve to three every day, and arrest all who were raising those frightful cries beneath its columns. Besides, the highest circles had immediately interceded in favour of Lichtenbach, and the examining magistrate saw at once that he was on a wrong track. Accordingly, this time the Vanves affair was definitely shelved, and classed amongst the legal mysteries of the year.

But though these tragic events were not destined to have any material consequences for Lichtenbach, serious moral results rapidly followed. Within a week following the death of Agostini and Sophia, Mademoiselle Lichtenbach entered the Convent des Augustines of the Rue Saint Jacques. She had had a two-hours’ conversation with her father. Pale, but determined, she was seen to leave her father’s study. Elias followed her, trembling, and with bowed head, tears streaming down his cheeks. On the landing he tried to stop his daughter, and stretched out his hands beseechingly as he stammered—

“My child, do not be inexorable; have pity on me!”

Marianne bowed her head as she replied—

“I wish I could, father; but how will you redeem the past?”

Without turning round, she descended the stone staircase, at the foot of which the carriage was waiting to conduct her to the Rue Saint Jacques. A moan of pain escaped the old man’s lips as he leaned over the iron balustrade. For a moment he seemed as though he would fling himself over. Then he cried out in heart-piercing accents—

“Marianne! Marianne!”

She raised her head. Stretching out his hands, he groaned—

“You are the only one I have left in the world! Will you forget your father?”

The young girl shook her head sadly, but did not give in. What terrible explanation could have taken place between father and daughter? What had Lichtenbach been forced to confess, for Marianne to show herself so inexorable? She made the sign of the cross, as though to strengthen her fainting heart. The pallor of her face increased, though she replied in firm accents—

“I shall not forget you, father. I will pray for you.”

She mounted the carriage, a rolling of wheels was heard, then followed a long silence. Lichtenbach returned slowly to his room, and sank down in a reverie.

All the same, he did not give up business. On the contrary, he seemed to show a greater ardour than before for finance. His position on the Explosives settled, he regained the ground he had lost by a formidable campaign on gold mines. Never had his speculations been more brilliant or lucky than they were during the six months following his daughter’s departure. One would have thought that his grief had brought him good fortune, for everything succeeded which he undertook. All the same, nothing seemed to give him pleasure, and he changed greatly in physique. No longer could he mount the steps of the Bourse without halting for breath. Society had no further attractions for him.

One winter evening, the _valet de chambre_, as he entered his master’s room, found Elias leaning over his desk, apparently asleep. Calling him by name, he received no reply. Terrified, he drew nearer, and touched his master. The banker remained motionless, whilst his hand clasped a short letter from his daughter. The few words he had been reading were still moist with the tears he had shed. He was dead, a victim to the only sentiment by which he had ever been vulnerable; the love of a father.

Six months later, at twilight, in the study of the Rue de Provènce, Uncle Graff and Marcel were seated together. After signing all the letters for the evening’s post, Baradier had retired to his own room.

The darkness gradually deepened, and uncle and nephew, seated in their armchairs, without a word, looked like vague, uncertain silhouettes. The clerks had all left, and silence reigned around.

“Are you asleep, Uncle Graff?” asked Marcel.

“No; I was just thinking.”

“What about?”

“About all that has happened the past twelve months. It is no mere trifle!”

“No, indeed. And what is the result of your reflections?”

“That we have had the most extraordinary luck; we had to deal with enemies who seemed destined to triumph over us time after time; and that we have manifestly been protected by a divine providence.”

“Uncle Graff, you are rather illogical; extraordinary luck on the one hand, and divine providence on the other. They do not go very well together.”

“Oh, you are too sceptical. It is your generation which makes you so. You no longer believe in anything.”

“I do not believe in chance, no!” said Marcel, ironically. Then he added, in tones of sudden gravity, “But I believe in the firm, steadfast will of human beings. If we have been protected, as you say truly enough, it is because it was so willed. But for that—”

Silence followed. The darkness had now become complete.

“It was so willed,” repeated Uncle Graff. “You are alluding to that woman?”

“I am alluding to ‘that woman.’ It was she who defeated the plans of her acolytes, and saved me.”

“Because she loved you?”

“Because she loved me.”

“Well, then, tell me what passed between you for a woman of this stamp to sacrifice herself for a man she first intended to dupe, and afterwards to rob. For you cannot doubt the fact that she had plans concerning you?”

“I am quite aware of the fact.”

“She had had considerable experience in life, and yet—”

“And yet she fell in love with a young man like myself. Well, probably because I was a change from all her other acquaintances. A cup of milk to a drunken man, for instance.”

“And she killed herself for your sake, under your very eyes?”

“Yes, Uncle Graff, because I would not promise to see her again.”

“And yet you loved her?”

“I both loved and hated her. Had I seen her again she would have obtained renewed dominion over me and ruined me. I determined it should not be so.”

Uncle Graff sighed—

“And do you sometimes think of this woman?”

“Always.”

“Do you know what you ought to do now, if you wish to turn over a new leaf?”

“I know very well, my father spoke to me yesterday. And it is doubtless because I received his overtures coolly, that you are now returning to the same subject.”

“You are right, my child. If you would only marry, now that you are reasonable and settled in life.”

“Marry Geneviève de Trémont?”

“Yes. She is the wife your father and mother have always intended for you. It would give them great pleasure, if you would marry her.”

After a moment’s silence, Marcel said—

“When Mademoiselle Lichtenbach came to warn you that a snare had been set for me, was she excited?”

“Greatly excited.”

“And you thought, when you saw her, that this extraordinary emotion was caused by some special interest she took in myself. At any rate, you said so to me.”

“Certainly. I promised I would tell you. Besides, the child pleased me. She was anything but commonplace. And her determination the following morning confirmed the good opinion I had formed of her.”

“Her resolve to enter the convent?”

“You are right.”

“In a word, then, Mademoiselle Lichtenbach has abjured the world for my sake. This child will have been recompensed for her devoted tenderness by the loss of everything happy and pleasant life had in store for her; and she is now destined to die poor; wearing a nun’s robe, with shorn hair, attending to the wants of the destitute?”

“Yes.”

“Uncle Graff, in your opinion, are children responsible for the misdeeds of their parents?”

The old man did not reply.

“You do not reply,” urged Marcel. “My question troubles you?”

“It troubles me greatly. One day, in this very room, I told an envoy of Lichtenbach’s, who made us an offer of the hand of his daughter for you, that all the Graffs would rise in their graves if a Baradier were to marry a Lichtenbach.”

“What!” exclaimed Marcel, greatly agitated. “Such an offer has been made, and you never informed me of it?”

“What would have been the use? You know how we felt just then for me to have given such an emphatic and stupid reply. Your father—Oh! I believe he would have preferred to see you in your grave rather than married to a Lichtenbach. Just think of it! The General had just been killed—the works were still in flames! No, no! It was impossible.”

“But now, Uncle Graff?”

“What! Can you think of such a thing?” asked the sentimental old fellow, in trembling accents.

“I think of it so much,” said Marcel, firmly, “that if Mademoiselle Lichtenbach does not consent to become my wife I will never marry another.”

At that moment a slight sound was heard, and the door closed.

“Who is there?” asked Graff, eagerly.

“Do not excite yourself,” said the voice of Baradier.

“Were you listening?”

“No; I have just come. But I heard your last words. How long are you going to remain in this darkness?”

At the same moment he turned on the electric light. The three men looked at one another for a moment; they were very grave and serious, but a look of contentment was visible on their countenances. Baradier did not bow his head with that obstinate mien his son and brother-in-law knew so well. He was perfectly self-possessed. Sitting down at his desk, he said—

“What difference would there be between us and mere nobodies or good-for-nothings if we were incapable of showing gratitude? It is not sufficient to appear honest and delicate in the eyes of the world—one must be without the slightest reproach before one’s own conscience.”

He fixed on his son a look of perfect satisfaction, though his face paled with the emotion which had taken possession of him.

“Marcel has spoken like a real Baradier or Graff. We must do as he has said.”

At these simple words the three men quivered, consecrating as they did their successor with the worthy renown of his predecessors. Tears of joy and pride shone in his uncle’s eyes. Marcel, without a word, flung himself into his father’s arms.

* * * * *

THE END

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