Chapter IV

ON leaving Marcel, Baudoin, after obtaining permission to keep watch over the laboratory, had gone out on to the main road. It was dark. Taking his pipe, he filled it with tobacco, then halting near the pillar which served for Laforêt’s correspondence, he struck a match. By the light he examined the plaster, and discovered the following inscription in red pencil, “This evening. Nine.” The old soldier lit his pipe, looked at his watch, and muttered to himself—

“Nine o’clock to-night. At last! I will go and wait for him.”

He made his way towards the inn, which was no longer dark and silent as usual. A vivid light shone through the glass on the door, and a rumbling sound arose from the bar. Baudoin drew near one of the windows on the ground floor, and listened through the shutters. A voice, as of some one delivering a discourse, could be heard, interspersed from time to time with shouts and exclamations. At one time it sounded louder and more violent, and a thunder of applause rang through the room, as though all the tables had been struck at one and the same time by the robust fists of the men present.

“The deuce!” said Baudoin; “this place does not seem very safe for one belonging to the master’s household. The strikers have met at the Soleil d’Or, and they appear to be paying favourable attention to one of their usual haranguers.”

Making the round of the house, he reached the door of the courtyard, and looked around for an entrance into the kitchen, where he expected to find his friend the innkeeper. A hand was placed on his shoulder. Turning round, he recognized Laforêt, who had arrived, noiselessly, and was standing by his side.

“I was watching you,” said the agent. “The place is full. I was convinced you would enter this way. We must not stay in the middle of the courtyard. Many eyes to-night are on the watch around us.”

“Where shall we go?”

“Come along into my room.”

An outer staircase led to a wood corridor, running along the first floor, and continued right to the top story. It was right under the roof that Laforêt had taken a room, the wretchedest in the whole establishment, and quite in accordance with the condition of a poor labourer. Opening his door, he signed to Baudoin to take a seat on the bed; then, raising the skylight, he looked along the roof to make sure no one was watching. Dropping the iron sash, he said in low tones—

“Speak close to my ear. There are rooms on either side of this. The partitions are very thin, and it is possible to hear everything that is said.”

“What have you summoned me for?” whispered Baudoin.

“Because I have news from the Cavée. The lady is no longer alone. There is a man in the house.”

“What kind of a man? A dark, handsome young fellow, who speaks Italian?”

“No; tall, strong-looking, and light-complexioned, with a thick beard, and speaking with a kind of German accent.”

Baudoin’s eyes shone. He vigorously grasped Laforêt’s hand, and, in trembling tones, asked—

“Did you see him?”

“Yes, as distinctly as I see you.”

“Had he both arms?”

“He has both arms.”

Baudoin gave a sigh of disappointment.

“Then it is not he! Ah! For a moment I hoped—”

“That it was the man of Vanves? Could you recognize him if he were shown to you?”

“Perhaps not, for I never saw him except in the dark, but if I heard him speak, yes, without the slightest doubt, I should recognize his voice from among a thousand.”

“Very well! I hope I shall be able to give you satisfaction; the man is here.”

“In the inn?”

“In a room on the first floor with three others, the ringleaders, who were summoned from the common room when he arrived. He himself has no relations with the mass of the workmen; he communicates only with the staff. I shadowed him from the villa to this very spot. The cunning rascal forced me to keep my wits about me. He changed direction three times, and twice tried to throw me on a false scent. One would have thought he felt me close at his heels, though I followed him with the utmost precaution. He went to the Café de la Gare, where he drank a bitter; then he left by the servants’ door, after entering by the front. I suspected the trick, so I went round to the back. Then he went to the station itself, crossed the waiting-room, and reached the platform. He walked the whole length, right on to the storeroom; there he found an open gate, through which he entered the town, and came straight to the Soleil d’Or. At this very moment he is beneath us, holding a conference with his confederates.”

“How will you manage to give me an opportunity of hearing him?” whispered Baudoin.

“You will see shortly. But, first of all, what does the rascal want at the Villa de la Cavée?”

“Well, you see, it has reference to M. Marcel, that I would swear to. There is trouble in the air. Why are the works in this condition when there has never, hitherto, been the slightest difference between the kindest of masters and the best-treated of workmen? The same thing is at the bottom of it all. When I summoned you I knew what I was doing. This Italian is here for M. Marcel, and so is this new arrival, and everything has been planned by the villains who killed the General!”

“Well! We will throw some light on the matter. If I can succeed in laying hands on this gang the Minister of War will be delighted. After all, Baudoin, if you are not mistaken, this affair is simply the result of the attempt at Vanves. We have to deal with a whole company, and an experienced one, too, which has already had a crow to pick with us. Follow me.”

Raising the sash, he placed one foot on a chair, and mounted on to the roof. Baudoin imitated him. A large leaden pipe surrounded the building. This they followed until they reached the front, overlooking the courtyard twenty feet below. Laforêt pointed out to his companion a small zinc roof below the first floor. It was the covering of a shed, used as a saddle-room.

“Now, then, our friends are in the room where you see that lighted window above this roof. If you can get there unnoticed, and without making the slightest noise, you may see from the roof into the interior; certainly you could hear.”

Baudoin leaned over into the courtyard, looking for some means of descending.

“How can I get there? Twenty feet and no ladder.”

Laforêt pointed to something projecting from the angle of the wall.

“That is a cast-iron pipe used for the drains.”

“You are right! Come along!”

“Put your shoes in your pocket.”

After doing so the agent seized hold of the leaden pipe with his hands, and separating his knees in the angle of the wall to protect himself by the friction, he silently began to descend. Baudoin, leaning over the roof, watched the operation with anxious curiosity. He was not afraid that Laforêt would be found lacking in strength or agility, but was wondering if the pipe would prove solid. Suppose the attaching cramp-irons became loose, both pipe and man would fall to the ground with a terrible clatter. The alarm would be raised, and the consequences of such an accident might be disastrous. But his anxiety did not last long. At the end of a few seconds Laforêt had reached the roof, and was lying there extended at full length.

Baudoin thereupon followed suit. On reaching the bottom of the window, where the meeting was being held, he knelt down and looked. Through the muslin of the curtain the human forms appeared indistinct, like the silhouettes of a badly-focused magic-lantern. According to the position he was in, and his distance from the light, each of the three men assembled appeared either like a giant or a dwarf. One of them had risen from his seat, and was walking to and fro. According as he approached or went away from the window, a voice, distinct or indistinct, reached Laforêt’s ears. The latter, without turning round, drew Baudoin nearer, and whispered in his ear—

“It is difficult to see, but you may hear. Come a little nearer and listen.”

Baudoin obeyed, and listened attentively in the effort to discover the object of his keen curiosity. It was not the man who was walking to and fro whose voice could now be heard. It was rather the voice of some one seated near a table, who appeared to be examining some papers. Difficult as it was to find any meaning in what was said, all the same certain expressions reached them, “No use using violence—nothing would result. Alarm the workmen. Excite the attention of the authorities.” All the same, it was easy to understand that he was not of the same mind as the man on his feet, who appeared to be pacing to and fro with downcast head, as though impatiently submitting to opposition. Suddenly the walker stopped, and in harsh tones said—

“It shall be as I wish!”

The other replied, though, on account of the distance, only a few broken phrases reached the listeners.

“General interest; unfavourable opinions.”

The man on his feet resumed his walk, and was listening to his opponent.

Once more he stopped, and said—

“It shall be as I wish, I tell you.”

Laforêt whispered—

“Is he the man? Do you recognize the voice?”

“No!” said Baudoin, anxiously. “I don’t recognize it at all.”

The man seated before the table thereupon folded up his papers, and put them in his pocket, with the words—“Then there is nothing to do but obey!”

The other thereupon went up to the table, laid his hand on the shoulder of his opponent who had capitulated, and said in joyful accents—

“That’s right! You were a long time before you would give in! Now we must set to work. No one will repent the decision reached!”

And he burst into a loud laugh.

Laforêt felt the hand of his companion shake, and, at the same time, Baudoin murmured in accents of frightful anguish—

“It is he—yes, that is the man; I recognize his laugh!”

He gave a gesture of anger, but Laforêt immediately restrained him.

“Listen once more! Make sure that you are not mistaken!”

“It is he! I cannot be mistaken! Ah! that laugh of his; just as I heard it on the night of the crime, when he descended from the carriage.”

“Well, then, we know all we want. We must not stay any longer here; it is useless to risk any unnecessary danger.”

Thereupon he glided down to the edge of the zinc roof. Baudoin followed him, and the two men put on their shoes and reached the courtyard. There they halted. The door of the inn was closed, but Laforêt knew how to deal with locks, and, a second later, his companion and himself were in the open street.

“What are you going to do now?” said Baudoin. “The police are at hand. Will you hesitate to lock up this villain at once?”

“Good!” said Laforêt. “That is one solution. And afterwards?”

“What do you mean—afterwards?”

“Nothing is easier than to take him. We need only wait till he leaves the inn, and then carry him off to the police! But what then?”

“Of course he will be accused of the crime committed at Vanves; then he will be tried, convicted, and finally condemned.”

“Indeed! Convicted? You think so? Such a man as the one with whom we have to deal? Take him unawares? Could he not easily find an alibi to prove that he was five hundred miles away from Vanves on the night of the crime? Even yourself, five minutes ago, hesitated about recognizing him. And then, whilst we have this bird safe under lock and bolt, only to be obliged, later on, to set him at liberty, perhaps, all the others will take to flight. That will be a fine end to everything!”

“All the same, we cannot fold our arms quietly, and let this rascal get off scot-free?”

“The villain is plotting something here, and the play must not be interrupted at the very moment the principal character is about to enter on the stage. What about the beautiful lady of the Cavée and her pretended brother? And all these rascals who are just now doing their best to ruin the works of Baradier and Graff? Do you not think of them? Should we let them know that the whole affair is over and their plot discovered?”

“But we cannot remain inactive spectators in all this?”

“Spectators, yes, for the moment. Inactive, never! I did not come from Paris to Ars simply for the purpose of breaking stones on the road. I am engaged in my profession, and I intend the whole affair to be successful.”

“But can I not, at least, warn M. Marcel?”

“Under no pretext! His first impulse would be to have a frightful scene with his lady-love, and everything would be ruined. In the name of Heaven, let us keep those who are under the influence of passion out of our confidence! From them you may expect nothing but the most utter folly!”

“But suppose Marcel falls into some trap or other?”

“Have no fear for him. He will come out of it all right. For my part, I intend to shadow our man, and shall not let him give me the slip until I have everything necessary for giving him up to the magistrate in Paris, who is extremely mortified at his failure in this affair. Do you agree?”

“I must do so, I suppose.”

“Then we will each attend to our own business.”

They shook hands, and separated in the darkness of the night. The illuminated inn rang with shouts and exclamations, alternating with the cadence of mugs of beer, as they struck the wooden tables. Away in the distance the factory raised its sombre bulk under the star-lit sky. At the very moment Baudoin passed in front of the concierge’s room, the latter stopped him, and, in joyful tones, said—

“M. Graff has just arrived!”

Uncle Graff, uneasy at what Cardez had telephoned, had not hesitated, but had left Baradier to continue an important operation at the Bourse on the shares of the Explosives Company, and, taking the train, had made straight for the works. Marcel, who was taking a walk by the riverside, had seen the worthy uncle come along the flower-beds, and had rushed joyfully forward to meet him.

“What! Is it you, Uncle Graff?”

“Yes, my nephew, I wanted to see for myself what is taking place here. I have just had a talk with Cardez, and at present I know how matters stand. Now, let us speak of yourself. How are you getting along, and what are you doing? I don’t want to find fault, but you send us very little news. Your mother is anything but pleased, and said to me only last night, ‘He no longer thinks of us; he loves us no more.’”

“I! Not think of you all!” said Marcel.

“How can your poor mother have any illusion on the subject? Certainly, you do not spoil her! Ah! I well know that children do not live for their parents, but for themselves. All the same, they might do a little, from time to time, for those who have brought them up and loved them from childhood.”

“Oh, uncle! What you say pains me very much!” said Marcel, penitently. “Has my silence been interpreted in this way? To obey my father I have come to bury myself at Ars for several weeks. I think I have given him sufficient pledges of my good intentions, in spite of a few silly escapades I have been guilty of.”

“Debts amounting to three hundred thousand francs, my little Marcel, without counting what I often gave you unknown to your parents, eh?”

“Ah! Uncle Graff, why return to discuss such matters?”

“Yes, you forget them very soon, don’t you?”

Marcel smiled.

“You are a very indulgent uncle; you know what young men are!”

“All the same, I have never been young! Ah! Marcel, I should have adored pleasure and luxury had I not looked as solemn as a churchwarden.”

“So you gave yourself up to finance, and succeeded brilliantly! My good uncle, it is you who pay when your spendthrift of a nephew is in difficulties! All the same, I am very fond of you, Uncle Graff.”

He had taken him by the shoulders, and was embracing him with warmth. The old man, his eyes filled with tears, looked tenderly at the handsome young fellow by his side. He coughed to conceal his emotion, and said—

“Yes, I know you are fond of me. Well, well! Promise me that you will write a nice little letter to your mother.”

“I promise, Uncle Graff, I will write to-morrow morning, and one to my father into the bargain.”

“That is right! By the way, things don’t seem to be going along very well here! Are these rascally strikers going to ruin our workmen?”

“There is every appearance of it. Cardez has not sufficient tact; he is too straightforward in his talk. A fine man, in reality, but one who appears to act too tyrannically.”

“I will attend to the matter myself. To-morrow I will see the syndicate. And you—what are you doing? Has your work been progressing?”

“Considerably. I have discovered the pale green and the golden yellow I have been looking for. You shall see my samples.”

“And the other affair?”

Lowering his voice, he asked in anxious tones—

“The powders?”

“The formulæ have been tested, and their success is assured.”

“Have you made any experiments?”

“Yes, Uncle Graff, and they have been terrible in their simplicity. I set off, carrying a small piece of the commerce-explosive, in the direction of Bossicant; I placed it all around the roots of a huge oak. After igniting it, the immense tree, without noise or smoke, lay there level with the ground, lying in the heather, as though cut down by a giant scythe.”

“No one saw you?”

“No one. The following morning the gamekeeper said, ‘Ah, M. Marcel, what a loss we have had! The old oak of the flat Mare was struck to the ground last night by the storm. It is strange how those old trees go; but the wind is a famous wood-cutter!’ In fact, it would be impossible to form any idea of the destructive force of this powder. I wished to test it once more, and this time in the breaking up of a rock. Going to the old stone quarry on the Sainte-Savine road I placed a squib in an excavation. There were three hundred yards of earth and sand-stone to explode. When night came I set fire to it, and withdrew. There would be no one passing in the neighbourhood till morning came; accordingly I feared no accident. The detonation was extremely feeble, and I was only half a mile away. In fact, I scarcely heard it. The following morning I returned to judge of the result. It was terrible! The whole cube had been lifted, and a hole six yards deep had been dug out in the shape of a funnel. With a sufficient charge I would wager that a mountain could be blown into the air! See here, Uncle Graff, if the Spaniards took it into their heads to destroy Gibraltar they would succeed with this powder. What a fine sight it would be, that huge mass, rocks, parapets, casemates, cannons, and all the rest, thundering down into the sea!”

“Have you drawn up your formulæ?”

“No, not yet.”

“Well, draw them up, and give them to me. I will take them away with me to Paris, and deposit them at the Patents Office. The time is come to make use of them.”

“You shall have them to-morrow morning, Uncle Graff. It is a mere trifle.”

“You see, your father and myself have for some time been putting into execution a plan, the consequences of which are far-reaching. Baradier, who has a fine intuition for business, has found out Lichtenbach’s plans. The old rascal caused several shares in the explosives to be sold at a loss, and brought the stock down to nothing. We were wondering why the depreciation kept getting greater and greater, when chance afforded us the proof that it was Lichtenbach who was plotting to ruin the company, so as to reconstitute it to his profit. He had seven or eight stockbrokers under his orders. One of them, however, committed an indiscretion, which placed us immediately in possession of the secret. Then your father, equal to the emergency, did not hesitate, but bought up all Lichtenbach was selling, and after the fall had reached the limit, the rise began. At this moment we hold two hundred thousand shares in the explosives, bought at a very low price, and which to-morrow, in case the patent of the new powder is acquired by the company, will rise above par. It is a formidable party stroke. If we succeed, the fortune of the family is increased tenfold. We shall have directed against Lichtenbach the attack he wished to inflict on the Explosives shareholders. He will lose on what we gain, and this time I think we shall have finished with him.”

“Very well! Uncle Graff, you shall have the formulæ to-morrow, and you may do what you please with them.”

“It will be a fortune for Mademoiselle de Trémont, and one for ourselves into the bargain.”

“Ah! Are you not rich enough?”

“Yes. But your father is ambitious. He wants the maximum in everything, and affirms that there is no reason why French fortunes should not be as great as those of the Americans.”

“Ah! The Vanderbilts and the Astors! What a weakness to think of such things!”

“My young friend, you cannot understand this intoxication of success which takes possession of the calmest and most level-headed of men. You know well enough that your father is very simple in his tastes, and spends less money than you do. But it is no longer a matter of pleasure; it is a question of arithmetic.”

“Yes, I know. But it is precisely there that the harm lies. It would be far better if he were not so rich, and spent more money. What weapons you place in the hands of these socialists, who are, at this very moment, causing us so much trouble! How can you justify in their eyes such a piling-up of capital at the disposal of one individual whilst the generality of men toil and suffer from all kinds of privations? You see, Uncle Graff; the sole excuse of wealthy men is that they spend a great deal, so as to throw their superabundant riches into general circulation. It would give me pleasure to see my father fling money out of the window, since he has so much. Those in the street would pick it up, and their momentary wretchedness would be relieved, at any rate. I should be glad if he would order statues of sculptors, and pictures of artists, and set rolling all the wealth now being piled up in the safes. How can you expect me to be interested in the shares of such and such a company? What does this paper represent in my eyes, if not the labour of a whole crowd of workmen, who toil and sweat to produce dividends which will enrich the shareholders? Uncle Graff, all this is neither moral nor just, nor even human! And I believe that a prodigal son like myself is the just ransom, from a social point of view, of a treasure-hoarder like my father.”

“But consider, my little Marcel, your father’s work enriches, and his wealth strengthens the country. It is the resources of the rich which keep up the vigour of a nation in time of national peril. Your father is a citizen useful by reason of his wealth, just as an inventor is by his genius, or a general by his talent for war. It is your father who will give the inventor funds to perfect his invention, and who will pay for the improved cannons and guns of the soldier. Every man has his function in life, as in society. And, I can assure you, your father is not one of the most despicable.”

“Uncle Graff, I speak sentiment to you, and you reply with political economy. It is impossible for us to come to an agreement. We are both right, only we are not speaking of the same thing.”

“Neither are we of the same generation. Ideas change several times in a single century, and one generation does not reason like the following. Your father and I have seen the war of 1870, invasion and ruin on every side, and we remember what a ransom we had to pay. That has made us parsimonious for the rest of our days. You came into the world only when prosperity had returned; you have been brought up under the breath of Republican ideas. Your thoughts are quite different from ours; you are an advocate for equality. We are nothing of the kind. My father inspired in me respect for caste. I have less consideration for a tradesman than for a mill-proprietor, more respect for a lawyer, a magistrate, or a notary, than for a painter or man of letters. It is my nature. I cannot change if I would. I am well aware that ideas are changing all round me, but I shall die impenitent. Your generation has no bump of veneration as ours had. You consider yourself on the same footing as an elderly man, famous and respected, and you treat him on the most familiar terms. That is something which would be impossible for me, any more than I should expect the foreman at the works to look upon me as his equal, and pat me familiarly on the shoulder. Possibly you and your companions may be right, but I don’t think so. At any rate we shall see what your children will be like, if you have any, for even family life is another institution quite out of fashion now.”

“Well, uncle, you have a very effective way of discussing, without giving yourself any pretensions! Father would long ago have called me a fool, without offering the slightest argument. With you, it is different, and when I listen to you I am by no means sure that I am right. Besides, you are so kind and tolerant, Uncle Graff, that I do not feel myself capable of resisting you for any length of time!”

“Ah, you little rogue! Now you are flattering me; you know how to make me do as you wish. At bottom you are a sly fox, and I believe you trick the lot of us!”

“Oh! Uncle Graff!”

“Come now, you are not so nice as that for nothing,” said the old bachelor, with a laugh. “What is it you want me to do for you now?”

“Nothing, upon my word, uncle. I am perfectly sincere in everything I have just said!”

“Then you are conducting yourself very well just now.”

Marcel raised his eyes, and said calmly—

“How could I do anything else here?”

“Ah! Do you think you could not find an opportunity if you wanted? I really believe that if you were thrown on to a desert island you would find means to fall in love and get into debt, even there!”

“But who would pay them if my Uncle Graff were not at hand?”

“You are jesting with me, you rascal!”

“No, I am quite serious. I never leave my laboratory except for a walk in the woods; and I have not spent twenty-five francs since I came here.”

A violent clamour, coming from the direction of the town, cut short the conversation. A light shone in the sky. Songs, at the same time as a dull tramp of a marching band, were heard on the road. And the workmen’s Marseillaise, shouted out by hundreds of voices, again broke the silence. On leaving the inn the workmen, accompanied by their wives, were marching through the sleeping town, hurling out against the startled citizens threats of revolt and violence. Marcel and his uncle Graff, halting there in the garden, listened, and watched the shouting mob as it passed by, waving in the air torches made of pine branches. It was the smoke and flame hovering above a crowd which was hurling imprecations against the masters.

Uncle Graff pointed to the street, and said—

“You hear what these people are saying. ‘All the masters shall be strung up!’ And yet there is not one of them who, were he ill or infirm, would not have the right to rely on us to mitigate his suffering. We have given them workmen’s dwellings where they are lodged, schools where their children are educated, hospitals where they are treated with every attention when ill, and co-operative societies where they may buy everything at cheap rates. There is only the public-house we have been unwilling to give them, and it is there they go, to become filled with sentiments of hatred against us! It is alcohol which is their master, and he is a pitiless tyrant who will give them no mercy!”

The end of the column had just passed. Whether it was that they had seen the two men in the garden, or they simply wished to fling to the winds their cries of rebellion and rancour, these latter, the most intoxicated and miserable of them all, screamed forth in a shrill chorus, “Down with the masters! Down with exploiters!” Then silence was restored by degrees. Uncle Graff sadly shook his head, and said—

“Come along, exploiter, let us turn in!”

And they made their way towards the house.

The following morning Uncle Graff was up early. He hunted up Cardez, to come to some arrangement with him; Marcel made his way to the laboratory. He had promised the powder formula, and he wished to draw it up at his leisure, As he entered he found Baudoin arranging the chemical utensils. He admired the unwonted order reigning in the capharnaum.

“Ah, that is better!” said he; “here is a room which has not been so clean for several weeks. The dust cannot know what it all means to be disturbed in this way. But you must take care, Baudoin, not to touch a single product. There are some very dangerous ones here.”

“Ah, sir, I know all about them; I handled any quantity of products during my poor General’s lifetime. I always obeyed the orders he gave me. And after what has taken place at Vanves, I am not likely to risk handling them.”

“You have been sleeping in the summer-house, Baudoin?”

“Yes, M. Marcel, I have arranged a bed very comfortably in the attic. Now, I am no longer uneasy. Still, so long as there are doubtful characters in the neighbourhood, I shall sleep with one eye open.”

“In my opinion, the people to whom you allude have intentions on the works rather than on the laboratory.”

“I cannot tell, M. Marcel. There are sufficient mixed characters in the company which has come here the last few days.”

“One would imagine you had discovered something extraordinary.”

Baudoin bent his head. He was afraid he had said too much, and recalled to mind Laforêt’s prudent advice.

“Oh! I am not clever enough for that; but I warn you, M. Marcel, to be on your guard. Have confidence in no one—in no one!”

He left the room, leaving Marcel astonished at his persistence. What was the meaning of this mysterious warning his servant kept giving him? Did he know more than he meant to tell? To whom did he allude when he said, ‘In no one.’ The beautiful and charming silhouette of Madame Vignola sprang up in his imagination. Was it of her that he ought to be on his guard? He pictured her again in her dreamy, careless attitude, promenading sorrowfully in the woods of Bossicant. What had he to fear from her? What danger could she make him incur, except that of adoring her without obtaining a return of affection? There, indeed, was a very grave and serious peril! It was the most dreadful he could imagine just then, and one against which he felt himself utterly helpless. To love, without obtaining love in return! What would become of him if such a misfortune befell him? He could not think of it without a kind of distraction, so long as the young woman was mistress of his heart and mind. For a few moments he walked up and down the laboratory with anxious mien, and only halted when he heard the door open. It was Uncle Graff.

“You know we have to meet the syndicate of workmen this morning, at ten o’clock?”

“Yes; I have not forgotten.”

“What is the matter with you? You do not appear at your ease. Is there anything that troubles you?”

“Nothing whatever; it is simply this distressing situation that makes me anxious. Now that you have spoken to Cardez, uncle, what is it the workmen want?”

“Oh, several things! In the first place, less work and more pay. Afterwards, themselves to nominate their own overseer. To have personal administration of the pension and assistance funds. To submit to no stoppage of wages for insurance against accidents. _Mon Dieu_! On all these points some understanding may be reached, and I am quite disposed to meet them half way. But there is on the point of being formulated a final demand which may render all conciliation impossible.”

“What is that!”

“They will demand the dismissal of Cardez, who is accused by the workmen of being extremely severe in enforcing the regulations.”

“Dismiss the director? To-morrow they will want to send us away also.”

“Ah, my nephew, is not that the collectivist doctrine, pure and simple? The works to the workers, the land to the tillers—that is to say, the dispossession of the master and the landlord. We are advancing in that direction.”

Marcel said coldly—

“We cannot give way on these points. Abdicate all authority, be no longer master in one’s own house? At no price and under no pretext. Be kind to the workmen, certainly! But be their dupe, never!”

“Come,” said Uncle Graff, with a smile, “do not get excited. You always go to extremes. Yesterday all fire and flame; this morning full of reactionary energy. You must keep to the golden mean as I do. I still have hopes of seeing the triumph of reason and common sense. But I should like to obtain one thing from you.”

“What is that?”

“That you go out for a stroll instead of being present at the meeting.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Marcel; “that is not your own idea, Uncle Graff. It is Cardez who has given you this hint.”

“Well! I confess you are right. He mistrusts your impetuosity, and is afraid you cannot keep perfect possession of yourself. He knows what your opinions are.”

“The fool! Let him trouble himself with his own opinions! After having alienated our workmen by useless reforms, how can he have the assurance to ask that the son of his master should not be present at a debate in which his own interests, both material and moral, are engaged? And he thinks I shall submit to this eviction? Decidedly, he knows me very little!”

“But if I myself asked you not to come to the meeting!”

“For what reason?”

Uncle Graff hesitated a moment, but finally decided to speak.

“I did not wish to tell you all my reasons. This morning’s debate may cause grave disorders. We have been informed that the workmen, who have been worked up to a high pitch, will admit of no refusal to their demands. In short, it is feared violent measures will be resorted to.”

“Very good! The greater reason I should be there!”

“If I consent, think what responsibility I assume in your father’s eyes!”

“But what do you think I should do?”

“You would do well to take the next train for Paris.”

“And leave you to resist these madmen, all alone? You have a fine opinion of me, indeed!”

“Come, now, Marcel, do not get angry. I am an old man, and command a certain amount of respect. It will be easy for me to keep out of a quarrel, but it will be no easy matter to keep an eye on you. To tell the truth, you would be greatly in the way. Here, you have no official standing; you are simply an inventor, and there is a whole group of workmen who regard you with no kindly feelings on account of your investigations in dyeing. They pretend that it is your intention to take away their living by manufacturing with the machine what they now do by hand. I assure you, Marcel, I have good reasons for keeping you away, and, if you are reasonable, you will obey me.”

“Well, Uncle Graff, I am not reasonable. That you have long known; on many occasions have I proved it, and I will prove it once again to-day. I don’t care what people think. I will keep close to your side, without giving you any cause for trouble. But I will be present, because it is both my duty and my right. Besides, if I did not come, some time after you would say to yourself; ‘After all, he obeyed me very readily. My young nephew is bent on pleasure only, and is quite willing to keep out of the way when there is danger in the air.’”

As the old man listened to his nephew the look of anxiety, by degrees, disappeared from his countenance. Doubtless he blamed him for his unwillingness to obey him, but approved of his showing himself at once determined, devoted, and affectionate. Oh yes, affectionate above all! In the bachelor’s tender heart Marcel’s protests found a delightful echo. He felt himself loved by this nephew of his, whom he himself loved as though he were his own son, and all his discontent melted away in an exquisite sensation of happiness. Still, he would not confess to a satisfaction so little in accord with his expressed wishes. He gave himself an angry and displeased mien; but a smile shone in his eyes as he murmured—

“Very good! I cannot force you. As you please! If anything happens through you we shall know whose fault it is!”

“Uncle Graff, we will perish together!” exclaimed the young man, gaily. “What more brilliant end could I hope for! What a glorious item of news for the journals!”

“That would be the last straw!”

“What precautions are you going to take to prevent our being devoured by the popular lion?”

“None whatever! I am convinced that a display of force would effect no useful end. Accordingly, I begged the authorities not to disturb themselves. They wished to send us out the dragoons! Why not the artillery at once?”

“And who are the delegates to whom we shall have to reply?”

“There are eight of them. But it is the famous Balestrier who is at their head and acts as their mouthpiece.”

“He is a very intelligent fellow, only he reads too many books beyond his power of comprehension.”

“The rest are honest enough, but they have been incited to revolt by their companions at Troyes, and I am afraid I shall find them more violent than they are naturally disposed to be. They assume an attitude and play a _rôle_.”

“We will judge them by their actions.”

Pointing out to his uncle on the laboratory table a glass recipient of moderate size, Marcel said—

“Look at this jar, Uncle Graff. If I were to throw a lighted match into it, in a moment I could annihilate all these ill-advised strikers.”

“Then that is the famous powder?”

“Yes.”

“Show it me.”

Marcel took the jar, removed the stopper, and poured into his hand a few small brown shavings. An odour of camphor spread throughout the room.

“It is the war powder in flakes, but I intend to manufacture it in pastilles. Then it will resemble an ordinary button without holes. In flakes it is more convenient for charging large projectiles. In pastilles it will be better suited for cartridge sockets. Non-compressed it burns like German tinder, with a smell of disinfecting powder, and entirely without smoke. Would you like to see it?”

“No!” said Uncle Graff, eagerly. “I do not care to see you handling such substances. One never knows! They might explode without any one expecting it!”

“Impossible! Besides, as this powder smells of camphor it might be placed with one’s clothes during the summer to prevent the moths from spoiling them.”

He laughed aloud. Uncle Graff, slightly reassured, forced him to place the bottle back on to the table.

“And the commerce powder?”

“I have none manufactured. But the formula is already there in the drawer.”

“With this formula Trémont’s discovery may be exploited?”

“Certainly, on condition one knows how to make use of it. But that is my secret, which I shall reveal only at the moment the exploitation commences. The different kinds of products employed, with their dosings, are specified.”

Opening a drawer he took out a sheet of paper, at the head of which were written the words: Powder Formula. No. I. Then followed lines of abbreviated words, with figures.

“Leave it in this drawer; I do not need it just now. You will give it me this evening, after the conference. Then I will write to your father and send on the paper to him.”

“As you please,” said Marcel.

Placing back the paper he shut the drawer. Uncle Graff left the room saying—

“I am going to see Cardez; if you want me you will find me with him.”

Marcel, left all alone, walked up and down the laboratory, then drew near the open window, and looked out on to the river flowing beneath. A fisherman was sitting there in a boat, moored in the middle of the stream, engaged in throwing baked grain as bait into the water all around him. A large straw hat covered his head, whilst the wind blew out his grey smock-frock into the form of a balloon. He did not appear even to see Marcel, but filled his pipe with tobacco, lit it, and began to throw out his line, at the end of which was a ball of worms as bait. After a few moments a bite came, he struck adroitly, and landed a small silver-bellied fish in the boat. Marcel, interested, sat and watched from the window-ledge. After watching for a good quarter of an hour, the fisher, in his smock-frock, who, by the way, appeared to have the best of luck, the door of the laboratory opened, and Baudoin appeared. He seemed embarrassed, but came straight up to his master, and said, in tones of seeming regret—

“Monsieur Marcel, there is some one at the porter’s lodge who is asking for you.”

“Who is it?”

Baudoin said, with a wry grimace—

“A kind of chambermaid.”

Marcel arose eagerly. He thought, “It is Milona, sent by Madame Vignola. Something has happened.” In a trice he was out of the room.

Baudoin followed him with ill-pleased look.

“How he runs off to meet her! Ah, that crafty woman holds him tight indeed! And this servant, who looks like a gipsy! This kind of company does not inspire confidence in one!”

Marcel, on reaching the porter’s lodge, had found Milona there, as he had conjectured. Drawing her aside, he asked anxiously—

“No harm has befallen Madame Vignola?”

“No; I am with her all the time. But my mistress is uneasy for your sake. She heard cries and threats, and saw flashes of light through the darkness of the night. She well knows what these mad acts of folly committed by an angry mob mean, and would like to see you and have you explain the meaning of all this tumult.”

“May I go to her at once?”

“She is expecting you every minute.”

He gave a gesture expressive of the joy he felt.

“Then start back at once. We must not be seen crossing the plain together. In a few minutes I will follow you. Tell this to your mistress.”

Milona bowed with a kind of haughty deference. With a tender look at the young man she said—

“Do not tarry; she is never happy except when you are there!”

Marcel stifled a cry of joy.

“Oh, Milona! What has she told you?”

“Nothing. But even had she taken me into her confidence I would not betray her. All the same, I see the difference between when she is alone and when you are with her. She is not the same at all. Come! She was in tears all the morning.”

With a bow, she placed her fingers to her lips and withdrew.

Marcel watched her take her departure. His heart beat wildly; flashes of light seemed to pass before his eyes. He had forgotten everything—works, strikes, danger, Uncle Graff, and his good resolutions. Now he thought of nothing but the radiant blonde awaiting him in that solitary villa, for which he set off with all the ardour of youth and love.