“Will he stay here long?” “A few days, perhaps.” “He has a villainous-looking face. Is there nothing to fear from such people?” “Nothing whatever, except the sound of their hammers breaking the stones. But you will not hear that from the house.” Madame Vignola did not appear to be quite satisfied by what Marcel said. A look of anxiety shaded her brow. “If the presence of this poor fellow disturbs you so much,” said the young man, “would you like me to request the authorities to have him removed? He will be sent to work a few hundred yards away. I have sufficient influence to obtain this change.” “Do nothing of the kind. I shall get accustomed to his presence. After all, he has his living to earn.” She held out her hand to Marcel, with a smile. Holding it for a moment within his own, he said, softly—“You are not angry with me?” “No.” “You will allow me to return to-morrow?” “Yes, I should like you to do so.” “And you will allow me to tell you that I love you?” “If it gives you pleasure to do so.” They said nothing more; night was falling, and a gentle obscurity was overshadowing all nature. Still, they were less alone than on the plain of Bossicant, and it was, perhaps, this very fact which rendered them more audacious. Marcel drew near to himself the young woman, without the slightest resistance on her part. The tissue of her black dress came in contact with Marcel’s shoulder. A kind of fever seized him, and for a moment he lost all notion of the surrounding world. A cry of pain, and an effort of resistance, recalled him to himself. He saw Anetta fleeing towards the house. On the threshold she halted, looked at him for a moment, as though trying to find something to say to him. He took a step forward, but she stopped him with a gesture. Placing his fingers to his lips, he sent a kiss to the enchantress who had so completely gained possession of his heart, and took his departure. A disagreeable surprise awaited him on his arrival at the works. The gates, usually open, were now closed, and small knots of men were collected in the street. They removed as he approached, only to form again a little further distant. What the manager had told him a few days previously concerning the evil dispositions of the workmen returned to his mind. In his eagerness to overcome his love difficulties he had forgotten business worries. Going up to the concierge, he asked— “What is the matter here? Why are the gates closed? What is the meaning of all these people in the streets?” “Ah! M. Marcel, there are troubles with the workmen. They went on strike at three o’clock to-day, and are scattered about in the cafés and inns, along with the strikers from the Troyes works, who have turned their heads.” “No damage has been done?” “No, M. Marcel. But the manager has been looking for you everywhere.” “I will go at once and speak to him.”