Chapter II

AFTER Baudoin had been a fortnight at the works, he was astonished to find that Marcel had passed from a state of perfect calm to one of extreme agitation. The young man, who spent the greater part of his time in the summer-house, either working or indulging in day-dreams, had suddenly begun to leave the laboratory after lunch, and did not return before night set in. A more significant fact was that Marcel’s appearance had changed as well as his habits. Instead of a country costume—soft felt hat and heavy shoes—a quiet, refined elegance now characterized him. The expression of his countenance, too, was far different from the one he had assumed previously; his eyes shone more brightly, even his voice sounded more vibrating. Baudoin thought, “There is a woman at the bottom of all this.”

He had had experience when with the General de Trémont, and was well acquainted with that tension of the nerves which enters into the slightest movements. He knew the meaning of that satisfied little humming and that firm step on the floor, of conquering though feverish sound. There was a woman at the bottom of it, without the slightest doubt. Baudoin felt anxious. In that quiet country district, how had his master found the opportunity of falling into a passion? He instituted a discreet inquiry.

He had made the acquaintance of the landlord of the Golden Lion, the principal hotel of Ars, a former cook, who had served in the Army, and proudly wore at his buttonhole, on Sundays, a blue and yellow ribbon, brought from Tonkin. Whilst drinking a bitter, Baudoin chatted with him, and listened to all the local gossip he retailed. He questioned him: Were there any strangers in the district? Did his hotel contain any fresh arrivals? Had any fair ladies been seen lately in the town?

All these questions received categoric replies. No one staying with him or anywhere in Ars could be suspected by any stretch of imagination of having disturbed Marcel’s peace of mind. The only thing to do was to make inquiries in the outskirts.

“A young gentleman and a young lady,” said the landlord, “are staying at the Villa de la Cavée. But they are in mourning, and never visit the town, but live in very retired fashion. They have hired carriages on three occasions, for driving in the environs. The young lady has never shown herself at Ars, and I could not say whether she is pretty or ugly. My coachman, who drove them, said that they look very sad, and speak very politely to one another. He thinks they are brother and sister. At any rate, they are not French.”

Baudoin could obtain nothing more. This, however, was quite sufficient, and he determined to secretly watch his master, to try to find out the object of his walks. The fact that the young Jady was very sorrowful and in mourning seemed no reason to him why his master should not fall in love with her. On the contrary; besides, he had an instinctive distrust of foreigners who passed as brother and sister.

The following day, his friend of the Golden Lion said to him—

“I have some news for you regarding the people at the villa. The young man left this morning. He was driven to the railway, and is going to Paris; his luggage was registered by the coachman. The young lady is now alone.”

That evening Baudoin noticed that his master returned home later than usual, and on the coat he flung off he discovered small pieces of moss, as though Marcel had been seated in the woods. The following day, about two o’clock, the young man went out as usual. Baudoin, who had made arrangements to keep a watch on him, starting out before him, waited for him at the bottom of the Cavée, to make certain that he had proceeded in that direction. Seated under the arbour of an inn, close to the town, he did not lose sight of the Ars road, which mounts towards the woods of Bossicant. After waiting half an hour, he saw Marcel, wearing a grey suit, and with a new straw hat on his head, come along, at a brisk pace, his stick under his arm, and his face lit up with pleasure.

“Ah, my friend,” said Baudoin to himself, “you are on the way to meet your lady-love! You would not be stepping out at such a brisk pace were your mission merely to gather herbs on the hills.”

He allowed the young man to go on ahead, then he followed him with infinite precautions. Marcel was, indeed, going in the direction of the villa. Since he had been introduced to Madame Vignola, the whole tenor of his life had changed. He no longer thought either of chemistry, of the works, or even of his family. There was nothing in the world for him except the ravishing Italian. Could his uncle Graff have seen him, he would have said, “Ah, caught again! He has lost his head and his heart once more!” The fact was, he well knew that feverish state, which rendered Marcel incapable of thinking of anything else than his inamorata, and capable of the greatest acts of madness in the pursuit.

But the special sign of love with this inflammable young fellow was the reasoning rigour with which he pursued the conquest of the loved one. He was an engineer and a mathematician even in his passion, neglecting nothing, and profiting by everything to advance his cause, and the court he paid was a veritable siege.

Madame Vignola had only needed half a day, spent with Marcel, in her brother’s presence, to obtain sole possession of the young man’s mind. She had shown herself so charming and modest, and so cajoling, and chaste, that Cesare, who was, all the same, well aware what this remarkable actress was capable of, was quite stupefied at the result. The art of deception reaching such a stage of perfection became real genius. In dilettante fashion the handsome Italian had followed the progressive phases of his pretended sister’s manoeuvring. The two hours Marcel had passed at the villa had sped away like a flash of lightning. And the young swain, already love-smitten, had been obliged to retire, when he thought he had only been there a few moments.

True, Madame Vignola, at her brother’s request, had seated herself at the piano, and, with penetrating and expressive tones, had sung a few Dalmatian airs in true artistic style. Marcel, an excellent musician himself, had accompanied the young woman, and afterwards offered some musical scores he kept at Ars as a distraction for the solitary evenings he often spent there. At his earnest request, Cesare had postponed his departure, and the following afternoon had been spent in the woods of Bossicant wandering along the narrow alleys, breathing the keen fresh air of the plain, and chatting in friendly fashion. That evening Cesare had pointed with a smile to his sister’s animated and healthy looking countenance, saying to Marcel—

“You see what good it does her to have change and distraction. You would scarcely take her to be the same person. Ah! If only she could forget her grief every day in the same way, her usual health and good spirits would quickly come back.”

“Then stay on; why should you go away?” asked Marcel.

“Ah! It is not I who can give her the distraction she needs,” said the handsome Italian, heedlessly.

A moment later he appeared to regret having spoken so frankly.

“It is much easier for strangers, you see, than for intimates to obtain a fortunate change in the dispositions of people who suffer.”

“But your sister is not suffering! Look with what an alert and supple step she is walking there, in front of us.”

“Yes; but just now her nerves sustain her. This very night she will relapse into a feeling of melancholy, and be completely prostrated. I shall not be able to draw a single word from her.”

“If you would authorize me to call and see her, and she also would permit me, I should find great pleasure in her company.”

The Italian grasped Marcel effusively by the hand.

“I do not know how to thank you for your kindness. But it would be expecting too much from you. Poor Anetta would quickly tire out your patience. She is a capricious child. You do not know her yet.”

They had no opportunity to continue, for Madame Vignola turned towards them a questioning look, which asked—

“What are you two plotting there?”

“Count Cesare, madame, is handing over to me his authority over you during his absence,” said Marcel, gaily. “He is making me responsible for your state of mind. Accordingly, from to-morrow, I am in charge of your good or bad temper. But you must be willing to put up with my tyranny.”

Her countenance became grave; in low but fascinating tones she said—

“Yes, he is right. You must not leave me. When I am alone all kinds of gloomy thoughts come into my head. Be a friend to me. Cesare will not be long away, and then we will resume our walks in the woods. Until then, call for me at the villa; you will always be welcome.”

Count Agostini had left, and Marcel, by invitation, was now calling at the Cavée. The nearer he drew the faster became his pace, and his temples were quite flushed. On reaching the villa he suddenly slackened his steps, for he had heard Madame Vignola’s voice. She was alone in the salon, the windows were open, and the passionate melody, in which both art and sentiment were wonderfully blended, had filled Marcel’s soul with a keen jealousy. It was the “Gipsies’ Cantilena,” by Marackzy, the great Hungarian artist, who died of grief when in full possession of his genius and glory—

“Viens sur ma levre parfumée,
Rose fremissante et pamée,
Trempée encore des pleurs d’amour,
Cueillir le baiser, dont la flamme
Fera de mon cœur a ton âme
Jaillir. . . . ”

The song stopped suddenly, as though the voice were broken by sobs. It seemed to Marcel that the singer’s very heart had broken under the influence of some mysterious grief. Unable to contain himself, he rushed through the garden, and reached the salon. Madame Vignola was still seated at the piano. She was weeping bitterly, her beautiful pale face leaning on her hand. At the sight Marcel gave a cry of pain, which made the young woman suddenly look up. Holding out her hand to Marcel, apparently ashamed at being thus surprised, she said—

“Pardon me. I ought never to sing when I am alone. These harmonious strains agitate me, and recall to my mind souvenirs that are too painful.”

“_Mon Dieu_! What is the matter? Have confidence in me.”

“No, no! Do not ask me.”

Closing the piano, and summoning a smile to her face, she said—

“Let us talk about you, not about me.”

She looked at Marcel, and said, in tones of affectionate reproof—

“How warm you are! You have been walking too fast, and the hill is so steep! It will be my turn to scold if you do not act sensibly. Now come out into the garden.”

He quietly followed her. They walked along the small alleys of the tiny garden, then seated themselves under the shade of the blossoming lilacs, where they entered into a chat, talking of everything except of what they really thought.

On the road, Baudoin had not lost sight of his master. When Marcel had entered the villa the servant had approached with considerable precaution. Madame Vignola’s singing had stopped as soon as Marcel appeared, so that Baudoin had heard nothing. He took good care not to pass in front of the door, but followed a footpath along the wall which continued in the direction of the wood, along a high copse crowned with large trees. On reaching the thicket he climbed the slope, and, concealed behind a bush, was able to catch a glimpse of the garden. The lilacs, under which Anetta and Marcel were chatting, grew at the foot of the mound which Baudoin had chosen as his observatory. There they were, seated with their backs towards him, about thirty yards away.

Baudoin reflected. Who can this woman dressed in black be? She looks young, and of very good figure. Marcel loses no time once he sets out on a campaign. But perhaps all preliminaries have been facilitated for him? What is this young stranger doing here, and what interest is it of hers to place herself in immediate communication with M. Marcel? What are they speaking of, there, under my very eyes? Certainly it cannot be business. Then love must be the bait at the end of the line. The hook is well concealed, and will appear at the right moment.

During this monologue the two friends continued their conversation. They sat there, near one another, but the sound of their words did not reach Baudoin. At the end of an hour they stood upright, and the young woman turned round so as to face Baudoin. _He_ examined her with astonishment and admiration, for seldom had he seen a more beautiful face. He was obliged to acknowledge that he had never seen her hitherto. After all, what resemblance had he expected? The “other” woman, the one of Vanves, he had seen only in the shadow of night, and so as to render it impossible to recognize her again. The only clues he possessed were that characteristic favourite perfume of hers, and the sound of her voice, which still vibrated in his ears.

He thought, “If I could only hear her speak! A single sentence would be sufficient to enable me to recognize her.” His heart leaped with joy, for the couple were now slowly walking along the circular alley which passed close to the foot of the mound not a dozen steps from where Baudoin was concealed. They were speaking to one another without the slightest suspicion that any one was listening. The former soldier, like a hunter on the watch, who sees his long-expected quarry approach, with beating heart and slightly dimmed eyes, listened with all the attention he was capable of. He heard Marcel say—

“Now that you are free, do you intend to take up these former plans of yours?”

And the woman, in caressing tones, but with an Italian accent, replied—

“What is the use? I am now quite old. I am twenty-seven years of age. Artistic triumphs would have no value for me now. Sing in a theatre, in public;—be the object of everybody’s gaze? Oh no. I no longer think of such a thing.”

“And yet you would obtain a great success!”

“For whom?”

They passed by, and Baudoin was obliged to confess to himself that this woman in mourning had not the same voice as the “other,” the one who had brought death with her. He saw the two promenaders disappear into the house, then he heard the clear tones of the piano, and the pure vibrating voice of the young woman arose, filling the silence of the woods with its melodious accents. Thereupon Baudoin descended the mound, and returned to Ars preoccupied and reflective. As he passed in front of the post-office he entered and wrote the following despatch:—

“Laforêt, War Office, rue Saint Dominique, Paris. Come to Ars, near Troyes. Ask for me at works. Baudoin.”

After paying he watched the transmission of his telegram, and, slightly relieved, returned home. At seven o’clock Marcel arrived. He dined without uttering a single word, and immediately afterwards retired into the laboratory, where Baudoin heard him pacing to and fro, far into the night.

Meanwhile Madame Vignola, seated in her small salon, an Oriental cigarette between her lips, was cutting a pack of cards under the complaisant looks of her chambermaid. The latter, a confidential companion rather than a servant, was a small, dark-complexioned woman, whom Sophia had had with her for the last ten years. Her name was Milona, but she was always called Milo. She had been born in the Carpathians, in the midst of a gipsy encampment. Her mother had died by the side of a ditch, leaving her, at the age of twelve, quite alone, and exposed to the attentions of a villain of the band, who had been smitten with the precocious grace of the child.

Sophia, as she passed through Trieste, in the course of her adventurous life, had been present, in the court of the inn where she had put up, at a quarrel between Milona and her ferocious suitor. The little one boldly opposed the zingaro, who wished to compel her to follow him, and to his loud-voiced threats uttered in the Romany tongue, she replied by a determined denial and a flashing look of defiance. The whole band, the only relations Milona knew, supported the young bandit’s pretensions. But Milona continued her refusal, when the chief of the band, an old man with grey beard and white curly hair, a regular patriarch, whose chief business was to steal poultry from the villages they traversed, tried to reason with the young girl.

Sophia, with her elbows resting on the window-sill, was enjoying the sight, and a feeling of sympathy came over her for this proud child who would not submit to the man’s tyranny. She appeared to understand the language these gipsies spoke, and smiled at the highly-coloured expressions of their speech.

“Milona,” said the venerable poultry-thief, “you are not acting aright. You refuse Zambo, who belongs to the tribe, and loves you well, because you have been listening to this little Hungarian hussar who has lately been making love to you. And yet you are well aware that he is a dog, an enemy of our race, who will soon tire of you, and leave you all alone. It was to me your mother left you when she died. I have paid for your training and food, taught you to tell fortunes, and all about chieromancy and the composition of love philtres. Will you be ungrateful and refuse to be the wife of my little nephew Zambo?”

“I do not love him,” said the girl, dryly.

“But he loves you.”

“That does not matter to me.”

“But if you resist him, he will kill you.”

“That is my business!”

“Do you intend to leave us, then?”

“Yes. I am tired of living on robbery, and being clothed in rags!”

“Then pay for your freedom.”

“I have no money. Wait, and some day the hussar will give me my hands full of money.”

At these words, Zambo gave a terrible imprecation, and leapt towards the child with the words—

“That is the last word you shall ever speak!”

And, brandishing a long dagger, he threw himself on Milona. At that critical moment the Baroness Sophia gave a shrill, whistling sound, which drew the attention of the whole band, and speaking in their own tongue, she said—

“That is quite enough. I intend to send for the police. You, old man, would you like to sell the girl?”

“Yes, your ladyship.”

“How much?”

“Twenty golden ducats.”

“You thief!”

“I cannot take less, your Excellency!”

A purse fell into the courtyard at the patriarch’s feet. He picked it up with the rapidity of a juggler, counted the money, and, after bowing to the Baroness, said to Milona—

“Thank your noble benefactress. She has paid; you are free!”

“Come up here, little one,” said Sophia.

Immediately Milona, followed by the imprecations of her disconcerted lover, flew into the inn. The window of the Baroness was closed, and the gipsies, with vehement words and exaggerated gestures, tried to give Zambo to understand that girls were far less rare than ducats, and that, though his love remained to him on account, the till of the troupe would be filled for a whole year. Ever since this strange introduction, Milona had become attached, with a wild and savage affection, to her deliverer. She had served her indefatigably, and, with the exception of those terrible secrets which Sophia entrusted to no one, she knew the life-story of her mistress.

Sophia exhaled a puff of blue smoke, and hesitated before the combination of her cards—

“King of hearts, nine of spades, and knave of clubs,” said Milona, calmly, her finger pointing to the spotted cards. “And then, queen of clubs, knave of hearts, and seven of spades. Still the same reply. You will not succeed!”

Sophia raised her bold though beautiful eyes up to her companion, and, in her ordinary accents, which were different from those in which she spoke Italian, said—

“I must succeed, I tell you, I must, Milona: do you hear?”

“Shall we try the water test?”

“Yes, we have not tried it for some considerable time.” Milona took a crystal cup filled with flowers. She threw the bouquet on to the floor, and after extinguishing the wax candles in the chandelier, with one single exception, placed the cup on the table in such a way that the light might fall upon it from behind. Then, drawing out one of the long gold pins which fastened her hair, she crouched down on a stool, dipped the metal stem into the vase, and commenced a strange chant. In the water, through which the light penetrated, irisated eddies formed, and the two women attentively watched the broken fugitive lines, the tiny drops sparkling like diamonds, and the brilliant spirals of the water stirred to motion by the gold needle. Milona sang—

“Water is nought but trouble and mystery, light is certainty and truth. Let the light penetrate the water, and cause its secrets to be revealed. Turn, needle; shine, ray; water, divide.”

“Look, Milo, look!” exclaimed Sophia, excitedly. “The water is turning red, it seems to be turning into blood!”

Milona continued her chant—

“Blood is strength and life. The blood of the brain is victory. The blood of the heart is love. Turn, needle; redden, blood. Grant us victory and love!”

Sophia, on her knees by the side of the table, was anxiously watching with ardent eyes the crystal vase in which the water was whirling round under the impulse given to it by the gold needle.

“Look! Look again!” she exclaimed. “The water is turning green! It is shining like an emerald!”

“The emerald is the colour of hope, and hope is the joy of life. Turn, needle; water, become glaucous, like the eyes of the sirens, whom a man follows to his death!”

Milona withdrew the gold needle. The water, again restored to a state of calm, after having ceased turning around the sides of the crystal vase, first assumed a greyish tint, then turned to a dark colour.

“Milo,” exclaimed Sophia, in dismay, “the water is black! It is a sign of mourning! Who is to die?”

The servant, without replying, relit the candles, took the crystal vase and threw out of the window the water which had just been used for the experiment; then, in anger, she spat out into the night—

“May he die who opposes you!” she said fiercely. “Fate announces love, happiness, and death. You have the privilege of not continuing the enterprise you have begun. The spotted cards say you will not succeed. The water predicts death! For whom? That we cannot learn. Stop, there is still time.”

Sophia walked silently to and fro in the salon, then halted in front of Milona, who sat there, in pensive calm.

“Do you believe in these predictions of yours?”

“I do.”

Sophia lit a cigarette.

“What is the use of being superior in thought and courage, of a bold audacity that recognizes no obstacle, if one acts with the weak cowardice of an ordinary mortal? It is only in whatever is difficult, if not impossible, Milo, that there is any interest. How can one live like a common citizen when one possesses the soul of a sovereign of mankind? No! Cost what it may, one must follow one’s instinct, give evidence of one’s will. You know me, Milo; you know that I give way before no obstacle, once my resolution is taken. Why did you say to me just now, ‘Renounce what you are undertaking; there is still time?’”

“And you,” said Milona, gravely, “since you are so firm in your plans, why do you consult cards, and ask the water to lay bare to you its secret?”

Sophia smiled.

“What you say is just. But, after all, little one, mortals are only human; that is to say, beings accessible to fear and superstition. Don’t you know that doctors—who, after all, are well aware how precarious and powerless is their art—call other doctors to their bedsides when they are ill? A concession to human frailty, Milo. Still, people do not think any the worse of them.”

“And is all this in honour of the young man who has been coming here every day since the Agostini first brought him?”

“The Agostini, as you disrespectfully call him, brought me this young man because I ordered him to do so. Do you not know that he obeys me without discussion?”

“Oh, he will never discuss. But, some day or other, he may no longer obey.”

“Poor Cesare is no favourite of yours,” said Sophia, gaily.

“He is false, and a coward as well. If ever he tries to strike you, it will be in the back.”

“But he loves me.”

“And do you return his affection?”

“Perhaps; though I am not very sure of it. Why do you call him a coward? You are well aware that he fought a duel at Palermo with the Marquis Belverani.”

“Because he knew he was the stronger or the more skilful, and the other had struck him in the presence of fifty people at the club, after accusing him of having cheated at cards. And it was quite true; he did cheat!”

“No one will ever say so again, now that he has killed a man for that very reason! Besides, the proof that he does not cheat is that he always loses.”

“You know something about it?”

“Ah, what should I do with my money if I did not give it to him?”

“You are right. Money is vile; it should serve no other purpose than to satisfy one’s caprices. Its only value is in the pleasures it procures; in itself it is worth no more than the pebbles lying at one’s feet. Will the young man who comes now give it you or receive it from you?”

“I do not think he would accept it, Milo,” said Sophia, laughing. “You are a regular barbarian, and incapable of understanding anything beyond bribery. There are honest people on earth, little one, and they cannot be paid for obtaining from them what one wishes. Other seductive means must be employed.”

“Ah, that is why you sing when he is here! You will make him mad, like all the others. And yet he looks so gentle and charming!”

“That is true, but he is our enemy, Milo; and if he were to discover who I am, and what I wish to obtain from him, I should run the most terrible danger.”

“So the Agostini has brought him here to ruin him?”

“In a way.”

“And he already loves you? Ah, your power over men is irresistible. Take care, however, or some fine day you will be caught in your turn. Then it will be terrible for you!”

“I have loved, as you well know. Love has nothing new to teach me.”

“Your heart has never been touched, for all those you have loved have been your victims. Sincere and pure love is no assassin. It is a protection and self-sacrifice. Up to the present, however, you have had to deal with none but fortune-hunters, and it was pure justice to treat them as they had been in the habit of treating their own victims. The day you show the Agostini to the door, you may summon me to open it for him. I will do it most gladly!”

“That day has not come yet.”

“What a pity!”

Sophia gave a weary toss of the head, and Milona understood that she must cease this light jesting tone. She said—

“I am going to close all the shutters, mistress, do you need me any longer?”

“No, I am going to write. You will hear me when I retire to rest.”

Seating herself in front of the table, she took an elegant blotting-pad and began to trace, on perfumed paper, in a large masculine hand, the following lines:—

“MY DEAR CESARE,

“Since you left me, I have not been wasting my time, nor have you, I
imagine, been inactive. Let me know how your Lichtenbach affair is
progressing. Here everything is going along smoothly. Our young
Marcel came to-day, overflowing with enthusiasm, and surprised me
singing the most plaintive songs imaginable. Milona, who was on the
look-out for him, had signalled to me his approach, and I played the
_rôle_ of despair with extraordinary success. He seemed frantic with
grief at seeing my tears flow. You know that I can weep at will, and
that in the most seductive fashion. I led him away into the garden,
and there, made him talk about himself. He is a regular child, of
most disconcerting simplicity, and so frank and open that you would
smile. To tell the truth, there will be no merit in triumphing over
such innocence. This lamb will hold out his neck to the sacrificial
knife. And we shall have our formula willingly handed over, or I am
greatly mistaken. Besides, I am enjoying a delightful rest in this
abandoned spot, and never suffer from _ennui_, even for a single
moment. In the midst of such an adventurous life, it is long since I
had time for reflection, and now I am astonished at the result. The
joys and pleasures for which I have sacrificed everything hitherto,
form, I am afraid, only one of the phases of life. There is another I
did not suspect, far more seductive and beautiful. This afternoon, as
I was listening to young Marcel speaking to me of his father, his
mother, and sister, with such tender and delicate affection, a
feeling of sadness came over me. These are all good, honest people.
They are happy in a mutual love, and would be ready to undergo the
greatest sacrifices for one another. And, although nothing could be
simpler, more upright and monotonous than their existence, it cannot
be disputed that they find happiness in it.

“It is this lamb of a Marcel, who is the scapegrace of the family.
From time to time his father threatens him with his malediction, and
the poor fellow is very repentant for a whole week. He comes and
buries himself at Ars, like an anchorite in the desert. During his
penance he works in the laboratory, eats the most ill-cooked food
imaginable, and has quarrels with the manager of the works, who seems
to be a disagreeable fellow to deal with. It is during these periods
of repentance that the interesting discoveries on the dyeing of wools
and other industrial stuffs—which, it appears, have a certain value,
as he explains to me in rather too much detail for my liking—have
been due.

“But, after all, he is a very fine fellow. He actually asked me how
old I was! He does not imagine that I am older than himself, and I
should not be astonished in the slightest, if he were to cherish the
idea of marrying me. I lead him by a thread—he neither feels nor
sees—on towards absolute slavery. Then, after he has delivered up to
me his secret, as all the rest have done, I shall disappear. Once the
mourning weeds of Mme. Vignola flung aside, I shall again become the
Baroness Sophia, in which character I challenge my lover to recognize
the plaintive sorrowful widow he is paying court to just now. So, you
see, I am not neglecting business matters. I hope you are doing the
same on your side. The little Lichtenbach heiress will be a
multi-millionaire; that is well worth the trouble of whispering words
of love into her ear.

“A thousand kisses, Cesare. _Sempre t’amero_.

“SOPHIA.”

She sealed the letter, took up a cigarette, and was preparing to retire to rest, when three slight taps on the shutters sent a shudder through her veins. She listened, an anxious frown on her face, and, after a moment’s interval, the taps were repeated. Opening a drawer, she seized a revolver, and, walking deliberately to the window, half opened it, and, speaking through the closed shutter, said in Italian accents—

“Who is there?”

A voice replied in muffled tones, “It is I—Hans; there is nothing to fear, Sophia.”

A slight pallor came over her face, but she placed back the revolver in the drawer, and, without replying, left the salon. On reaching the outside door she drew the bolts, and noiselessly opened the door. A tall man entered. Without the exchange of a single word, she led the way to the salon, then carefully closed the door. The man removed the felt hat which covered his head, displaying a bold, rough countenance. He was a man of athletic build, and very broad-shouldered, whilst a reddish beard covered the lower portion of his face.

Taking a seat, he cast a keen look at Sophia, and said—

“Who is with you, here?”

“Milona.”

“Where is Agostini?”

“In Paris. And where have you come from?”

“From Geneva. Lichtenbach sent me your address.”

“How did you enter?”

“Over the wall.”

“With your wounded arm?”

“My arm is healed.”

As he spoke he extended it with a threatening smile. The arm was indeed whole. A glove covered the hand. He continued—

“The Swiss are very fine mechanics. They have made for me a jointed fore-arm which works like a natural one. The hand is of steel. It is the best fisticuff imaginable. A blow from that hand, Sophia, would kill a man.” With a sigh he continued. “But, after all, this arm is not worth the one I have lost. Still, those who have mutilated me shall pay for my flesh and blood.”

As he spoke his face assumed a ferocious expression, and _he_ ground his teeth savagely. Sophia, in grave accents, replied—

“Have you not already been paid? At the time you were struck, the General de Trémont was dead. Perhaps it was he who was taking his vengeance on you!”

“The old fool! He had only to accede to your request when you were inducing him to tell you the secret of his safe. Then nothing would have happened!”

“Hans, it all happened because you were in too great a hurry. You destroyed all my combinations through your brutality. Had you merely given me another week the poor fool would have given up to me his secret, his honour, and everything else. Your intervention put him on his guard; he recovered from his torpor, and all was lost!”

“No reproaches, please. This mistake has cost me dearly enough. Now, how do matters stand here?”

“If you will leave me to act in my own way, I shall succeed.”

“Good! Good! I, too, am preparing a slight diversion, which will be of use. Besides, it will please Lichtenbach.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“Stir up the workmen at the manufactory.”

“Then you intend to make a tool of socialism?”

“Certainly. In it lies the future of society. The thoughtless, brutal mob, under the sway of a few bold leaders, will obtain for themselves universal dominion and rule.”

“How long will this be your rule of conduct?”

“Until everything in this execrably rotten society is destroyed.”

“What will you put in its place?”

“That is the secret of time. The revolution will tell it to us.”

“I hate your opinions as well as those who maintain them.”

“I know, I know,” interrupted Hans, with a loud laugh. “You are an aristocrat, Sophia, and equality is not to your liking. You must have luxury and superiority always around you. But how do you know that we shall not give them to you? We aim at levelling, but it is the levelling of those who rise above us. Have you ever seen a flock of sheep without a shepherd and his dog to guide them? Then how could nations live without a head? The great thing is to command. For this power must be snatched from the hands of those who now have it, by means of certain privileges we pretend to suppress because we do not enjoy them. Once power is in our hands, torrents of blood will have to be shed before it can be taken from us. Who would try to do so? Only revolutionists have any energy left, for they alone are governed by passion. Revolution is the only means of succeeding rapidly. To-day I am nothing; in the near future I intend to be everything. To attain to my object I suppress everything in my way. This is the meaning, expressed briefly, of all the burlesque rigmarole uttered by these apostles of humanity. Their love and thoughts are entirely for themselves. And that suffices.”

Sophia laughed aloud.

“They are mere brigands. You are another, but you must take care, Hans, for those you dream of spoiling will not let themselves be robbed so easily as you think. They have invented the police, a tolerably effective safeguard. But what are you preparing for these poor Baradiers and Graffs?”

“For the past fortnight I have been exciting the workmen by means of my agents. I am going to turn their works upside down. That will divert their attention, for they are far too wide awake concerning what we are doing. I do not know who is informing the sly rogues, but they seem to understand Lichtenbach’s game with the greatest ease.”

“Lichtenbach is such a coward! He has done something stupid again. I have sent Cesare to him, quite as much to keep a watch over him as to pay court to his daughter. But you cannot put courage into the heart of a coward.”

“It seems the shares of the Explosives Company had fallen so favourably, thanks to the bear system undertaken by Lichtenbach, that the re-purchase was on the point of being effected under the most favourable conditions. Suddenly, without apparent reason, the brokers began to buy in enormous quantities on the Stock Exchange, and the shares rose by leaps and bounds. Lichtenbach held firm, but he had to deal with some one superior to himself. The threatening ruin was checked. He, personally, has lost a pile of money at the liquidation. And, from information received, it is the Baradiers and Graffs who have formed a syndicate, along with a large number of shareholders belonging to the threatened Company, with the object of checking the too complete depreciation of the shares. There is a rumour in business circles that, thanks to a new patent, you understand, Sophia, the prosperity of the affair is assured for the future. That is why I am here; direct competition against Lichtenbach means a challenge to us. The war has begun; it must be maintained, and the victory won. You all appear to me to be doing nothing but play here.”

“Now, Hans, nothing rash this time,” said Sophia, firmly. “We are going along very well; take care not to spoil everything again. You have only one arm left to lose, my dear friend. Do not attempt too much.”

Hans’ features contracted.

“You are in a very gay humour, Sophia. I have only one arm, true; but it is the better one of the two, make no mistake. Little chance for him who comes within its reach!”

“So you have come to settle down here?”

“With your permission.”

“You will be greatly in my way.”

“Do not be anxious. I shall only be out-of-doors at night time. It is not to my interest to be seen in the open daylight. Darkness suits me better. You attend to your business, and I will attend to mine. All I ask of you is a room up in the garret, where I may write and sleep during the daytime. Milona alone will know that I am here. We can have entire confidence in her.”

“Entire, unless there is harm threatening to myself.”

“Who would think of doing you any harm? Not I, at any rate, so long as we have the same end in view.”

They exchanged looks, and in their eyes could be read the memory of long-standing complicity and collusion. Sophia was the first to avert her glance, which she did with a sign of acquiescence.

“Then follow me.”

She opened the door, and showed the way to the man who appeared to her an object of mingled dread and hate.