“I know nothing; but I am on my guard against everything that appears of a suspicious nature. There are strangers in the works. It is they who lead the strikers. Strangers were also in the powder affair. _Mon Dieu_! I may be stupid, sir, but I would give a great deal to be safe back in Paris with you.” “You are very imaginative, Baudoin.” “Well, then, as I see you are determined to pay no attention to what I say, I should be glad, sir, if you would give me the key of the laboratory. I will keep watch by day, and sleep there by night. In that way I shall be more completely at ease.” “Very well, Baudoin. You will find the key in my room, over the mantelpiece. If that will restore your peace of mind, it is easy enough.” “That will not restore my peace of mind entirely, sir; but, at any rate, it will give me a certain amount of satisfaction.” The dinner being now at an end, Marcel went out for a stroll in the garden and along the river bank. It was a cool evening, and the stars shone forth in undimmed brilliancy. At times a dull, rumbling sound was heard coming from the inns and cafés of the town, where the workmen were celebrating the strike in numerous bumpers. A feeling of sadness came over Marcel at the thought of the women and children awaiting in their poor dwellings the return of the father for the evening meal, whilst the latter, under the persuasion of raillery or threats, lingered before the table covered with glasses, and drinking the most poisonous and maddening liquors imaginable. What wretchedness would result from this interruption of work! The paltry savings of the thrifty would vanish, the debts of the improvident would increase. And the net result of all this tumult and agitation, excited by hypocritical leaders, would be nothing but severity and rancour. Turning aside his thoughts from these evils, to which he could see no remedy, he directed them to the Villa de la Cavée. There, at the same time as himself, Anetta would be walking to and fro in the garden. He pictured her passing down the winding alley in dreamy solitude. What could she be thinking of, if not of himself; whose heart was filled with her memory? Were they not united in soul, and was not that delicious kiss a proof of her affection. A thrill of pleasure came over him in the silence of the night, and he thought to himself, “Suppose I were to pay her a visit now? She does not expect me, true. What would she think of my eagerness to see her again? Would not the untimely hour, and the isolation she is in, make her consider my visit offensive? The more defenceless she is, ought I not the more to respect her? Ah! She loves me, I feel it. Am I on the point of spoiling by my rashness all the happiness the future has in store for me?”