Chapter I

ARS is a small town of six thousand inhabitants, a distance of four leagues from Troyes. On the manly declivities to the South stretch miles upon miles of vineyards. The mineral springs of Ars are distant half a mile from the town, on the road to Lusigny, as is also the thermal establishment.

It was whilst engaged in sounding for ore, in land which did not contain the slightest trace of it, that M. Reverend, chief engineer, unexpectedly discovered the alkaline and chalybeate waters, rivalling those of Plombieres and of Aix. But, after all, Ars is too near Paris for patients to have confidence in the healing virtues of its springs. It is frequented only by people of limited income, and hotel-keepers who are not in the habit of fleecing travellers. Near the forest of Bossicant, close by, a few villas, almost lost amid the trees, are every year placed at the disposal of wealthy invalids. These are modest-looking, quiet houses, offering their peace-loving guests nothing but the smiling solitudes of the forest. The weaving and spinning mills belonging to Messrs. Baradier and Graff are situated on the Barse, the rapid current of which turns the dynamos, which supply both light and motive-power. The private residence is separated from the works by a large court-yard and a beautiful garden. The road to Vandoeuvre passes in front of the house, whilst, on the other side of the road, through meadows in which large numbers of cattle are grazing all the year round, runs the railroad, past Chaumont, right to the German frontier. Ars is an important working centre. The quarries and mines give work to a large proportion of the male population.

Two hundred men, a hundred women, and a large number of children are employed at the works of Baradier and Graff. The manager of the establishment, M. Cardez, is a native of Lorraine, who came from Metz with his masters. He had married at Ars, and was now a widower with two grown-up sons, devoted to duty, and kind towards his workmen, but of a taciturn disposition, and ruling with almost military discipline. One of his sons is in the Army, the other assistant-manager in the works at La Barre.

A very good fellow, on the whole, whom Marcel Baradier, from his childhood, had been in the disrespectful habit of calling “the bear.” The “bear” and Marcel could never understand one another. There was the same distance between them as between Pascal, the inventor of the wheel-barrow, and the workman whose duty it was to roll it along the highway. Marcel likes Cardez well enough, though he is fond of poking fun at him. Cardez is very respectful towards the son of his master, though he deplores his light-heartedness and frivolity. The two might live together for years without the slightest affinity being manifested between them. As Marcel says, with a smile, the one is negative, the other positive. Cardez is none too glad at Marcel settling down at the works, for his presence is a cause of trouble for the workmen. The master’s son is too ready to listen to their complaints, and discipline suffers in consequence. The military order no longer reigns, and Cardez, more bearish than ever, never ceases railing at what he calls “the encouragement given to the rebellious instincts of the workmen.”

Marcel’s researches in the colouring of cloth leave the director sceptical. He considers there is no necessity to change a system which has succeeded so well for so many years. A dye-shed always seemed useless to him. The raw thread, which brought so ready a sale, was quite sufficient for their requirements. All these new inventions, costing so dear, only served, in his mind, to introduce an element of trouble into the working of a business already prosperous. The laboratory at the end of the garden, in an isolated pavilion, was the object of raillery on the part of the director, who called it “the Capernaum.”

Since Marcel had come to settle at Ars, contrary to his usual habit, he scarcely ever appeared at the works. He shut himself up in the “Capernaum,” or went off in search of recreation, with a gun and his dog, into the forest of Bossicant. Baradier and Graff owned two hundred acres of waste land, very picturesque, and abounding in game. Certain of the uplands of Bossicant remind one of Scotland, in point of wild, picturesque view, dry, arid heather, and the clear freshness of the invigorating air.

Half-way down the hollow rose a villa, in the form of a chalet, buried in the trees—a red spot in the midst of so much surrounding verdure. It was gloomy and silent, and almost always uninhabited, by reason of its distance from the town, and proximity to the wood. One morning, as he passed by this villa, Marcel was surprised to see that the shutters were down, and that a servant was busily sweeping in front of the door. She was rather elegantly dressed, and appeared to be a stranger in the district, doubtless attending to some invalid who had come to effect a cure. Marcel was not inquisitive, and went his way.

It was three o’clock when he reached the plain, which he began to cross with careless steps. The movements of his dog, however, drew his attention. He slipped a couple of cartridges into his gun, and mounted to the side of the slope. After a moment’s interval, on climbing the opposite bank, Marcel saw a rabbit bent on reaching the open. He took aim, pulled the trigger, and the rabbit rolled over to the foot of the descent. The dog was not far away; he seized the dead animal by the back, and brought him to his master.

Marcel relieved the dog, placed the game in a light bag he carried over his shoulder, uncocked his gun, and, considering that he had done enough damage for the time being, sat down on the sand, at the foot of a fir tree, and looked dreamily away at the distant forests in the east. A delightful torpor, induced by the dull silence of the woods, took possession of his body, whilst his more active thoughts, as though freed from all material bond, began to dwell on his past life. He saw again the house in the Rue de Provènce, in which his father and his uncle Graff had quarrelled so often about him; and his mother’s salon, where Amélie, seated near Mademoiselle de Trémont, dressed in deep black, was quietly working.

Suddenly his reveries were interrupted by a bark of his dog. The pattering step of some animal or other made him turn his head, and there, close by, he saw a small terrier, no larger than his two fists, a silk ribbon tied in a knot round his neck, advancing in his direction. A little farther away, a woman, dressed in black, slowly followed. He had no time to examine the newcomer, for the little dog, with a furious yelp, leaped towards the other, with the unthinking audacity of a rat attacking a tiger. A gentle voice exclaimed, “Bob!” It was of no use. Marcel’s dog stood up against his tiny adversary, and rolled him over into the dust.

“Bob! Oh, _Mon Dieu_!” exclaimed his mistress, anxiously, as she rushed to the spot.

Marcel heard the cry, saw a pair of beautiful eyes, and, without waiting longer, bounded forth, and seized his dog by the skin of his neck, flinging him over on to the ground. Then, picking up the terrier, still panting with the shock, but quite uninjured, he exhibited him to the lady, with a smile—

“Do not be anxious, madame; your savage little animal is safe and sound. Still, we were only just in time. Please excuse us, and take into account that we were not the aggressors.”

The lady put the dog under her arm, gave him a gentle tap, saying, in scolding tones—

“Oh! _Che bestia_! A fly trying to devour a wolf!”

Marcel could now see her at leisure, as she was tenderly scolding her terrier, and he stood there, filled with admiration at the gentle beauty of the unknown lady. Her face was of a perfect oval, surrounded by golden hair; her dark eyes were languishing and gentle, whilst she had the chaste and timid mien of a young girl. All the same, she was dressed in mourning, like a widow. Fixing her eyes on Marcel, she said, in quiet, gracious accents—

“A thousand thanks, sir, for your timely intervention. I am sorry for your poor dog, which did quite right in defending itself.”

“There can be no comparison, madame,” said Marcel, “between this charming little animal of yours and this large-pawed dog of mine, accustomed to brambles and thorns. I am sorry I have stopped your walk, but now you may continue in perfect safety; I will chain up my dog.”

The young woman bowed her head in token of thanks.

“If I am trespassing on your property, I beg you to excuse me. I am a stranger, and have only been in these parts the last two days. I am acquainted with no one to inform me as to what I have a right to do.”

“Here, madame, you may do as you please. Doubtless you are living at the Villa de la Cavée?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then these woods are easily within your reach. There are very few passers-by, and you may come whenever you wish.”

She murmured, in constrained accents, “A thousand thanks.”

Thereupon she moved away at a slow pace. Marcel stood there motionless, unable to remove his eyes from the ravishing figure, now slowly disappearing from view. Then he whistled for his dog, stroked him gently, as though to atone for his rough treatment a few moments previously, and returned, in pensive mood, to the works. After dinner he strolled about the garden, smoking, till nine o’clock; then, completely tired out, retired to rest for the night.

The following morning he spent all his time in the laboratory. Suddenly the door opened, and Baudoin appeared.

“Holla! You here?” said the young man. “Has my father sent you?”

“Yes, sir. I am requested by all the family to convey to you their best love. Besides, I have come to stay by your side.”

“For what purpose?”

“To be your servant.”

“Very good, Baudoin; make yourself at home. Your presence will be very useful here, in making things go all right. The inhabitants of this district are fine people on the whole, but not over-intelligent.”

“We will put all that in order for you.”

He walked round the laboratory, looking attentively at the objects on the table, and the alembics, with their copper spirals, on the stove.

“So it is here that you are working! Who arranges things in this laboratory?”

“No one enters the place but myself.”

“So I see. However, I will clean your utensils; I know how to go about it. Are you working at the General’s formulæ?”

“Not yet; I have had other things to attend to. Still, I intend to commence shortly. I am very glad you have come, for you will be at hand, in case I want any help. See here, Baudoin, these are blue, pink, and green dyes which I have fixed lately. They are capable of giving wool an unchangeable colour.”

As he spoke, he handled hanks of a strong and harmonious shade, stretching them out before the light of day, and showing all their reflections.

“Our poor General put this idea into my head. Ah! if he had only contented himself with undertaking industrial researches, we should still have had him alive and well among us, and in possession of a large fortune. But he disdained such productive discoveries; he thought only of the State. He would work for nothing else.”

“After serving it so long, M. Marcel, it was second nature with him.”

“Well, well, Baudoin! Settle down here, and commence your duties this very night.”

Marcel stayed behind in the laboratory, inactive, as though some dull preoccupation would give him no peace. _He_ sat down in a large leather armchair he had gaily baptized the “alchemist’s armchair,” and, with open window to allow the sun to enter, he sat there in a reverie, until five o’clock struck.

He went down into the garden, walked past beds of rose-trees, and halted by the banks of the river, watching in the crystal waters a jack chasing a shoal of roaches, which, to escape the dreaded pursuit, leapt out of the water, like silver arrows. The clock at the entrance, as it struck, disturbed his thoughts, and he saw approaching him, and preceded by the porter, a tall, elegantly dressed young man, of very handsome features and blue eyes. As he drew near he took off his hat, bowed with considerable deference, and said, in a sing-song Italian accent—

“Have I the pleasure of addressing M. Marcel Baradier?”

“That is my name, sir,” said Marcel, examining the stranger with a sudden interest. “To what do I owe the honour of this visit!”

The young man gave a sidelong glance to assure himself that the porter had left the room, then, in haughty tones, said—

“As I have no one to present me, allow me to introduce myself. I am Count Cesare Agostini, of the Princes of Briviesca. I live at the Villa de la Cavée with my sister, and I have called to thank you for the kindness with which, yesterday, you—”

“What I did, sir, was merely natural; it was quite by chance that I met your sister. She is a stranger in these parts, and appeared to be sad, and in search of rest and quiet. All I did was to simply comply with her wishes so far as I could.”

Count Cesare bowed gracefully; a cloud came over his handsome face, and in accents of sadness he continued—

“My sister is, indeed, very sad; she has had a great deal of trouble. She has spent her strength in attending to the needs of a husband far older than herself, and whom she had the misfortune to lose some time ago. With the object of regaining her health, she has come into this valley, to seek calm and quiet. The waters of Ars, too, have been well recommended to us. But it is chiefly fresh air my sister needs, after being confined for long months by the bedside of a dying man.”

The handsome Italian several times shook his head, and said—

“Oh, it is very sad, very sad indeed!”

“And you have come from Italy with your sister?” asked Marcel.

“No,” said Cesare. “Madame Vignola was living in Paris, where I have recently been to see her. We intend to return to Naples, and settle down. Not before autumn, however. Yes, it is very sad indeed!”

Marcel saw that the Count Cesare did not appear to wish to take his leave, and, as he was interested in what he related, he led the way to a green arbour, with rustic seats, sheltered from the rays of the setting sun.

“Will you take a seat, sir?”

The Italian chose an armchair, and drew from his pocket a gold cigarette-case, which he held out to Marcel. “A cigarette?”

“Willingly.”

They began to smoke, and the tobacco seemed to render Cesare even more loquacious.

“This villa where my sister now lives is far from the village. Is the country round here quite safe?”

“Perfectly safe. Your sister will have nothing to fear from any one.”

“All the better! I myself am not staying here long. My business takes me back to Paris, and the idea of leaving her alone with a chamber-maid and a servant-girl whom I do not know makes me very anxious, that I will not deny. Is Ars always so quiet as at present?”

“Always, at this time of the year. The season begins in June, and it is now only April. In a few months the hotels will be filled, and the roads overrun by all the stage waggons in the district. That is the time I shall choose for going away.”

“You do not stay here the whole year round?”

“No; I only call here at rare intervals. My home is at Paris; I am at Ars on business.”

“Your works are very large?”

“One of the largest in the department. My grandfather founded the industry. It is the cradle of our family and the source of our fortune. Accordingly, my father, who is a banker, could never make up his mind to give it up, although he has far greater interests in other enterprises.”

“I see he has trusted to you the responsibility of managing the works.”

“Oh no. My father is represented by a director. I am simply the master’s son, and interfere in no way with the weaving. Here I have a laboratory, in which I undertake chemical experiments. But all the people in this district will tell you that I am an amateur, anything but serious, and that I spend more money on experiments than my pretended discoveries will ever bring me.”

As he spoke he laughed gaily. The handsome Italian joined, and said, in his sing-song voice—

“Rich men’s eldest sons are always ill-judged. When one is wealthy it is extremely difficult to get one’s self considered as a serious worker. Because one has no need of money, people are only too ready to conclude that one is incapable of earning any. And yet, why should not a rich man be a genius?”

“Ah, sir, then what would become of other poor wretches?”

“So you pretend, yourself,” said the Count, with a graceful wave of the hand, “to despise these investigations, though they probably interest you greatly?”

“Almost as much as the experiments of a dyer. I have woollen stuffs steeped in coloured vats, and I try to fix the tints indelibly, so that the stuff sold in future will not become discoloured under the influence of either light, rain, or wind. The tapestries placed on furniture or walls, nowadays, are scarcely in their places than they have to be taken down—they are already quite faded. All the same, the stuffs of former times lasted, and exist even now. Our ancestors were in possession of dyeing processes superior to ours, and yet modern chemistry offers us mighty resources. That is what I am working at, sir. It is very commonplace, as you see.”

“Evidently, it is not the philosopher’s stone! Still, all researches have their value. Have you obtained satisfactory results?”

Marcel bowed in mock humility.

“You are very polite, sir, but you wish to take advantage of my vanity. Inventors always like to speak of their investigations, you are thinking; and I wish to repay this gentleman for the kindness he has shown my sister. But it would doubtless serve you right if I bored you with my discoveries, took your curiosity seriously, and showed you my samples.”

The Italian bent down his head, and, in contrite tones, said—

“I am indeed sorry you imagined I was not sincere. All you have told me interests me greatly. Doubtless I am not so frivolous as your compatriots, and since you appear to defy me examining your results, with satisfaction to myself, I now ask you to have the kindness to show me them, unless you were joking, in which case I should not have understood you, as I do not always seize all the finesse of your language. In which case I must ask you to pardon me.”

“Indeed, I was not jesting; I was perfectly serious,” said Marcel, gaily. “I still believe you will be punished for your curiosity. But since you insist, follow me; I will show you my laboratory.”

“Many thanks!” exclaimed Cesare. “I was afraid I should vex you.”

“In what way? You would believe in the most marvellous things, did I not show you my poor results. Take care not to soil yourself; everything here is not perfectly clean.”

Opening the door of the summer-house, he introduced the Count into the panelled room, leading to the laboratory, and which he used as a workroom. A blush mounted to Cesare’s temples. He looked eagerly around. On a Louis XVI. bureau, leaning against the wall, were scattered some papers covered with figures. A half-opened drawer exhibited boxes of different sizes and colours, carefully labelled. A massive table supported wide-mouthed jars, on the rough glass of which could be read the indications: sulphuric acid, nitro-benzine, picric acid, and a whole series of chlorates. The Italian, pointing to the table, said—

“Ah! Here are some chemicals you do not make use of for your dyes!”

“No,” said Marcel, evasively; “those are for something else.”

And, as his visitor drew near, stretching out his hand towards one of the wide-mouthed jars—

“Do not touch these jars—they are dangerous. If, by any chance, you were to upset the contents, both yourself and myself might find ourselves in a very disagreeable position. Come this way!”

Opening the door of the laboratory, he bade him take a seat in the alchemist’s armchair, by the window, as he said—

“Here you may smoke, if you like, without danger; there is nothing explosive here.”

“Whilst in the next room?” asked the Italian, carelessly.

“In the next room, if you threw down a match in the wrong place, you might explode the whole works!”

“Diavolo! Then I will stop smoking even here, my dear sir, for I have no wish to leave the place by way of the roof.”

He patiently examined Marcel’s fine samples of dyed wool. Apparently he was listening attentively, but his awakened intelligence, his piercing eyes under his half-closed eyelids were busied with that “something else,” of which Marcel had spoken so briefly. But nothing in the laboratory appeared to have any reference to that mysterious task, which demanded the manipulation of such dangerous products.

“I should like you,” said the Italian, “to give me some of these beautiful cloths, of such a rich and harmonious colouring. I will take them to my sister, who can embroider like a fairy. She will start some magnificent piece of work, which will sooth her solitude, and thus you will see the effect of your colours, artistically employed.”

“If you will permit me, I will bring them myself,” said Marcel.

“As you please. We are always at home about five o’clock. But do not delay, for I shall soon be leaving the neighbourhood.”

“Very well! To-morrow, if that will not inconvenience you?”

“Not at all. To-morrow, then.”

The Italian rose from his seat. He walked round the laboratory, and drew near the window overlooking the river.

“Ah! You are close to the water here. You might even fish from the window, without descending into the garden. Are you not afraid of some one entering the laboratory? A few marauders in a boat could enter the summer-house.”

“Who would ever think of such a thing!” exclaimed Marcel. “Besides, as is well known, there is nothing to take. And, then, the inhabitants of this district are very honest people.”

“But have you no foreign employees at the works?”

“Very seldom. A few from Belgium or from Luxembourg. As few as possible, for they are difficult to deal with.”

“You do not live in this summer-house? You never sleep here?”

“No; there is no convenience—simply a barn above the ground floor, that is all. I live in the house opposite the manager’s. It is small, but very comfortable. My uncle Graff lived there several months.”

“You are very fortunate to have family relations,” said Cesare, in sorrowful tones. “My sister and I are alone—private dissensions have alienated us from the Briviescas. M. Vignola had no relations. We are obliged to be all in all to one another.”

“Your sister is a young and charming lady. She may marry again.”

“She never thinks of it. After all the sorrow caused by her union with M. Vignola, she aspires after nothing but peace and rest. Oh, she has suffered so much! The diseased and unhappy Vignola was madly jealous. He. could not endure his wife to be absent from him a single hour. He must have her constantly before his eyes. He left her a great fortune at his death. Poor compensation for all the tortures he inflicted on her! But now he is dead. Peace to his memory!”

“Your sister has no children?”

“No, sir; that is her greatest sorrow.”

The image of the young woman, in deep mourning, walking sorrowfully about the woods, was evoked in Marcel’s imagination. Very pretty to be inconsolate at the loss of an old husband! How old could she be? Twenty-five years, perhaps, at the most, and no knowledge of life except grief and sadness. Cesare arose, and took his leave. Marcel accompanied him across the garden to the gate, and there said, with a cordial smile—

“Till to-morrow, then, sir, my respectful homage to your sister.”

When he had gone, Marcel made his way towards the works, when he saw M. Cardez coming in his direction, even redder than usual, and with a dark frown on his brow.

“Ah, M. Marcel, I was calling to see you! I have a great deal of worry, and am indeed very pleased that you are here, so that you may understand yourself, and inform Messieurs Baradier and Graff.”

“What is the matter?”

“The fact is, the dyers are not pleased with their working hours, and threaten to come out on strike.”

“Ah! That is something fresh.”

“Fresh? No, it has been coming on for more than three weeks; the plot has only been developing. I was in hopes that, summer coming on, and the hours of daylight being more numerous, some arrangement might be reached. Now there is another cause of grievance. Instead of working more, they want to work less and earn more!”

“Ah! Are their claims justified?”

The manager, standing upright, cast a look of indignation on the son of his master.

“Are workmen’s claims ever justified? This class of people have only one programme: the minimum of work and the maximum of wages.”

“After all,” said Marcel, calmly, “they are only like other men.”

“Ah, sir, let their ringleaders talk in that way; do not speak so yourself.”

“Why not?”

“Because, with philanthropic theories, and _laisser-aller_ tendencies, we should soon be no longer masters of our own works; they would put us out of doors.”

Marcel looked gravely at the manager, and replied—

“My opinion is entirely opposed to yours. I think that if workmen were treated as partners they would work better and keep better discipline. There is a huge misunderstanding between Capital and Labour. They treat one another as enemies, when they ought to proceed in concerted action, like allies.”

“Eh? That is downright Socialism.”

“No! It is simply co-operation.”

“And do you know,” said Cardez, looking slily at Marcel, “what is the principal reason of the discontent of the dyers?”

“The principal reason? Then the grievances they have manifested are only a pretext?”

“Nothing more. These workmen, in whose lot you are so interested, are full of deceit and treachery; they never show their real motives. Well, the dyers, in their secret meetings, rail at your inventions—they are displeased with your new dyeing processes!”

“Ah! The fools!”

An expression of triumph appeared on Cardez’s ill-tempered face.

“What did I tell you! Here are processes they are not yet acquainted with; and they maintain that your object is to simplify the workmanship, and, consequently, to do without workmen. Now they want to strike, to obtain concessions regarding both work and wages.”

“They have been ill-advised. When the real state of things is explained they will easily understand. Then they will see that, far from injuring them, the improvements I shall introduce into the manufacture are entirely to their advantage.”

“They will never admit that.”

“Suppose I prove it to them?”

“Their ringleaders will prove the contrary.”

“Who are these ringleaders?”

“A few Belgians.”

“Send them away.”

“Ah, that would be very imprudent! Better have patience, and try to come to an understanding. These men are from the Wallon district, and when they have drunk one glass of brandy too many you may fear anything at their hands. It was one of these Belgians who struck the overseer with a knife last year. They are good workmen, but terribly exacting and disagreeable. There is nothing to fear for the present. They want an eye keeping on them. Now, if you would like to call them together and speak to them, you will see what you can make of the matter.”

He spoke in sneering tones. Marcel well understood that the manager, speaking from experience, was thinking: Have a little experience of these brutes, my young novice, and you will learn to know them. Speak to them nicely, explaining that it is to their advantage to work without grumbling, so that you may have a fine profit at the year’s end, whilst they have had the greatest difficulty to make ends meet. Try to obtain their approval. Afterwards, come and tell me what result you have obtained. Unless you give them the works, and capital to keep it going, perhaps even guaranteeing them dividends, you will never make them satisfied!

Marcel would not discuss any longer with Cardez. He did not consider it necessary to weaken the authority of the manager at such a critical moment. He determined to give him all possible help to avoid the difficulties he foresaw.

“You may be sure, M. Cardez, that if I can do anything to help you, you have only to mention it. It is possible we may not have the same ideas on the way of settling Labour difficulties. Still, it is of no use waiting till the house is on fire before discussing the fire-brigade system by which the conflagration may most surely be extinguished. The best thing to do is to use the means nearest at hand. Consequently, do as you think best. Have you informed my father of the matter?”

“No; indeed, I am not in the habit of tormenting _my_ masters with an account of the difficulties of the works here. There will be plenty of time, in case things become more serious.”

“Very good; we will wait.”

At that hour the Count Cesare Agostini reached the Villa de la Cavée, and after traversing the garden he entered a small salon on the ground floor, where the young lady, in mourning, lolling on an easy-chair, was lazily reading a novel. The setting sun, entering through the window, shed his golden rays on the reader’s face. She was no longer the melancholy and timid widow Marcel had met in the woods. Her hair, thrown back on to her forehead, gave her delicate profile a look of audacious pride. On hearing Cesare enter the room, she flung down her book, rose eagerly to her feet, and, in joyous tones, said—

“Well, _caro mio_, you are back at last! Are you satisfied with your mission?”

“As far as one can be. I have seen your pigeon. He actually holds out the wing, without being asked. You will obtain no merit in plucking such a confiding youth, Sophia.”

She laughed outright.

“Never mind merit! I can do without glory. Success will suffice for me. So you found the ground well prepared?”

“I am afraid distractions are sadly lacking in this district, and that our appearance in the woods has already produced its effect on Marcel.”

“Then he will come?”

“Yes; and not later than to-morrow. I told him I was going away. Consequently you will have the field free to do as you please. Do not let this affair lag; you have your revenge to take.”

“Ah, _mio caro_, the _coup_ missed the first time, all through Hans’ stupid obstinacy. Had he left me to act as I pleased, the General would finally have offered me his formulæ on a silver plate, and kneeling into the bargain. Hans wished to rush everything through, and old Trémont, infatuated as he was, became distrustful. Sorry adventure, in which our friend lost his arm, and almost all of us just missed being compromised. The most stupid part of it was that the General had said to Hans, as he pointed out to him the steel box—a fine box of Fichet’s, supplied with one of those admirable locks, so very complicated, but which are of no use whatever: ‘Look here, my friend, it is impossible to open this without my permission. All my secrets are inside. On raising this lid all my formula would be found. But then one must know how to do it; otherwise one may die in the attempt.’ Ah, ah! Old Trémont spoke the truth! He had made his box into a kind of reversing bomb. One must know how to handle it. Hans perceived the necessity of this. All the same, he distrusted himself. He had taken the precaution to go out on to the perron of the house, and there he tried to open the box. Ah, _caro mio_, when the explosion took place the very earth trembled! I had already returned to Paris in the carriage. The vibration was so great that the very windows of the brougham shook. I thought to myself: There, Hans has smashed up everything! I had no idea I was so near the truth, for the house was entirely destroyed. I cannot possibly understand how Hans, who had succeeded in opening the lock of the box, and who, lying on the ground a score of yards away, behind a tree, drew off the lid with a cord, justly dreading some devilish trick or other, was not completely blown to pieces.”

“But since the lock was opened, how was the explosion produced?”

“It was when the lid was raised that the explosion happened. Did the box overturn? It was a very heavy one. Was there some special manner of placing it, when removing the lid, to prevent a prime of fulminate going off? Was it clock-work, arranged in a certain manner? All is mere conjecture. What is certain enough is that, in a second, box, formulæ, powders, house, Hans’ arm, and all our hopes disappeared at the same time. Our friend must have shown extraordinary energy not to have been surprised by all the people who came running up from all directions. You may believe me when I say that, so long as I was not assured that he was out of danger, I felt very anxious.”

“Ah, you are an intelligent woman, Sophia—really clever and brave! Now we must make amends for a preliminary defeat, and nonplus this young booby of a Marcel.”

“Just leave the matter to me. He seemed a very nice young fellow.”

“You are right; but don’t go and fall in love with him, whatever you do.”

She burst into a laugh.

“I have other things to attend to. Besides, Cesare, is it so easy to find a rival to yourself?”

The handsome Italian shook his head.

“You are so strange, Sophia, whatever is difficult is the very thing to tempt you.”

“A scene of jealousy between you and me, Cesare!” said Sophia, ironically. “Do we not know one another well enough to be _blasés_ as regards our mutual qualities and failings? Shall I be jealous, the day I have married you to Lichtenbach’s wealthy daughter? Just close your eyes, and leave me free to act. Besides, if you acted otherwise, that would be all of no use. You are well aware that I have never done anything that did not please me, even with personages far more redoubtable than yourself.”

“Come, come, Sophia, do not get excited! If I do not stop you, you will be threatening me in a minute. Ah, you have a will of iron!”

“Yes; and just now it is my will to completely subjugate this young Baradier.”

“Poor fellow, you will succeed only too easily!”

“Ah! Now you are going to pity him, are you?”

They both laughed outright. Then the young woman asked—

“Have you visited the dwelling?”

“Yes. I have also obtained an entrance into the laboratory without the slightest effort.”

“Did you see anything special?”

“A number of spiders’ webs, several broken phials, and tubs of various colours, in which pieces of cloth were soaking.”

“Nothing resembling the powders we are in search of?”

“Nothing whatever. I must say that, in one of the rooms of the summer-house, the young man charitably warned me that if I touched a single one of the flagons lying on the table some catastrophe might result. Accordingly, it is there he manipulates his products, or, at any rate, conceals them. In the next room there is nothing suspicious. He said to me: ‘Here you may smoke, if you like, and that without the slightest danger.’”

“That is worth knowing.”

“Do you think of going to see him?”

“I think of nothing and of everything. Does one ever know what means will have to be employed in the performance of anything? Wisdom consists in preparing several, so as not to be caught unexpectedly. I have undertaken to obtain possession of and hand over the formulæ of the General de Trémont. For me, it is a matter of self-respect, as well as a question of interest. I will not admit that I cannot succeed in anything I undertake. Our friends abroad would consider me as having depreciated in ability if I failed, and you know what their support is worth to me. So long as my influence lasts, the Baron Grodsko will remain aloof, and not trouble about me. If my protection were to cease to-morrow, Heaven knows what sort of account I should have to give him!”

Cesare looked at the young woman in surprise.

“Ah! You are almost overcome with emotion. Are you afraid of him?”

Sophia became serious.

“I am afraid of no one in the world, as you know. Still, Grodsko is a terrible man, especially when he is not drunk.”

“But then he is always drinking. Is it because he likes drink?”

“No! It is to forget,”

“Forget what? You?”

“Perhaps.”

“He was passionately fond of you, I suppose?”

“So were all the other men.”

“Is it long since you saw him?”

“Some years.”

“And he is still at Monte Carlo?”

“In the winter. During the summer he lives at Vienna.”

“And he drinks both at Monte Carlo and in Vienna?”

“Yes, and gambles as well. He has a way of drinking which leaves his brain perfectly clear, so that he is able to play.”

“Does he win?”

“Often. But then, what does that matter to him?”

“Then he is so rich that he is indifferent to his winnings? Lucky man!”

“Grodsko is proprietor of a whole district in Moravia. He owns forests, mountains, and villages. His forests furnish the finest pines in Europe. The mountains are bored through and through with mines from which copper and tin are extracted. As for villages, Grodsko, with the peasants on his domains, could, in case of war, furnish a couple of regiments.”

“And you left this nabob?”

“Yes, for a young man, who had nothing but his beauty to recommend him.”

“What did Grodsko say to that?”

“He said nothing, he set out in our pursuit, overtook us, and killed my companion.”

“Whilst you?”

“I had reached the frontier when Grodsko came up to me.”

“And there followed—”

“An explanation, in the course of which, as he dared to raise his hand against me, I planted in his arm one of the knives lying on the table, on which I had just finished lunch.”

“What exquisite relations you had with one another! And did that satisfy him?”

“No. He bound me with cords and took me back to Vienna in his carriage. There I succeeded in escaping from him, thanks to certain irresistible influences. It cost me very dear to regain my liberty. Still, from that day I had no longer anything to fear, and could travel all over the world as I pleased.”

“What was the name of the great personage who rendered you this service?”

Sophia looked at the handsome Italian mockingly; she clacked her fingers as though they were castanets, and replied—

“If any one asks you, you will say you know nothing about it?”

“Then you have no confidence in me, Sophia?”

“I have confidence in no one, scarcely in myself. Acknowledge that I am frank with you. I might tell you all kinds of tales—that it was the minister of police, or an archduke, or a foreign ambassador, or all three combined, who set me free. Be assured, all the same, that I have contracted obligations towards those who served me, and whom I am serving in my turn.”

“Whatever obligations you are under to them, they have done a very good stroke of business in obtaining such an ally as yourself. Is there another so good in the whole world? You have the genius of corruption, and I do not think there is a conscience anywhere strong enough to resist you. If seductive charm is needed, you will succeed in everything you undertake. Ah, your power is indeed very great and terrible!”

Sophia smiled bitterly, she raised her head, and her countenance assumed a threatening expression.

“All my power consists in my scorn of humanity. I believe men are capable of everything. The sole question is to find the way to make them act. I have seen men, though heroes in the face of death, turn pale and trembling at the idea of being deprived of their pleasures. The most rigid from the point of view of honour, brought into contact with poverty, become accessible to the basest compromises. To turn an honest man into a thief, all that is needed is a woman’s smile. To make the mildest of men shed the blood of another, you need simply arouse his jealousy. These poor wretches who people the earth act, and are unconscious of the influence inspiring them. Men are like puppets, the strings of which are held by firm, audacious hands, whilst they accomplish the most sublime or the most infamous actions at will. And all this, merely through some favourable or perverse influence, a string pulled on one side or the other. And man, irresponsible agent of a destiny he is unable to modify, is treated as a hero or a brigand, carried aloft in triumph or flung into the gutter.”

“But virtue, Sophia, the love of right?”

“Mere accidents, my friend. Do not make them into general rules. The majority of people are virtuous because they have never had the opportunity of being rascals. But have no doubt that they would have been, and very successful ones, with the greatest ease. The human soul, Cesare, is a ground ready prepared for vice and crime. It is simply a question of what seed you intend to sow there. Very well! I am a sower, as you have said. I excel in growing the fruit of corruption. Young Marcel Baradier is now going to be my experiment field.”

“Great good may it do him!”

“Had he been content with the profession of a banker, or the business of a cotton manufacturer, nothing of what is now being prepared would have happened; he would have lived a happy, quiet life. But he has dabbled in chemistry, and that has spoiled everything.”

The sun had sunk behind the hill, and the small room was quite dark. Sophia and Cesare could no longer distinguish one another. At last the young woman arose from her seat, and said—

“Come, we have had sufficient philosophy. What does all that prove? They are nothing but mere words. Fortune does not come to those who speak, but to those who act.”