“Ah, Monsieur Graff, I do not know if she is the woman of Vanves or not. Both the scent she uses and her voice are different. But a voice may be modified, and a perfume changed. What remains unchanging is villainous skill and seductive charm. This one has all that is needed to madden a man—beauty, distinction, grace. Look at M. Marcel there, in tears. It is neither crime nor theft that has brought him into that state. It is the grief caused by suspecting the one he adores, and the fear that he may now be under the obligation of hating her.” “Poor fellow! He, at least, did not deserve to suffer. He has been very brave. But for him, Baudoin, we should not now be in the land of the living.” “True; and but for this wretched woman all this trouble would have been avoided. She well knows what she has done, and with whom she has had to deal. It is not you she would have undertaken to corrupt. She would have known beforehand that your calm and tranquil reason would have guarded you from her attacks. But with the General and M. Marcel it was different. Oh, M. Graff, she has made no mistake! Had she had either the necessary time or desire both the old and the young man would have given up their secret of their own accord.” Uncle Graff, astonished at such clear-sightedness, looked at Baudoin with considerable interest. “Ah, sir, you are astonished at hearing me speak in this way. But what I have said is not an invention. My General, on those days when he was master of himself, spoke to me in similar terms. He accused and blamed himself, well knowing how weak he was.” “And his weakness brought him to his death. Let us consider ourselves fortunate that Marcel has not been treated so harshly. The poor fellow suffers; he is unhappy. But, then, he is only twenty-five years of age, and in one’s youth no sorrow lasts long. But if these rascals had killed him? Ah, his father seemed to guess the danger he ran! He imagined his son would be safer at Ars, in the midst of the workmen, but you see how mistaken he has been.” “Ah! But, after all, this woman knew how to track him. And in this quiet spot her power was more manifest than ever.” “What will she do now?” “Disappear with her acolytes.” “Are there many of them?” “There is a pretended brother, a handsome, dark-complexioned young fellow; the servant, who called this morning for M. Marcel; and then Hans, without counting those we know nothing about. A whole band, you may be certain. Sir, not a single act of rascality or treachery happens in the country without those rascals having a hand in it. Laforêt told me so himself: ‘France is exploited by foreigners. The Government will do for strangers what they will not do for Frenchmen. If only an individual offers himself, speaking with a foreign accent, and wearing a many-coloured decoration, all kinds of privileges are showered upon him.’ We are a set of ninnies and simpletons, M. Graff, though we imagine ourselves very clever.”