“Marcel, you see what grounds I had for fear. At the very thought of seeing her again you at once become radiant with joy. And yet she is a rascal, there is not the slightest doubt of it. I will not dispute her charms, since she has obtained such control over you; but she is very dangerous all the same, for, in short, suppose she were the woman of Vanves?” “Impossible!” “Do not say impossible. You know nothing about it. These women, you see, are terrible creatures. In matters like the one now engaging our attention they are a kind of female Proteus, capable of assuming all forms, even the most diverse and disconcerting, to deceive their enemies and allay suspicion. Cosmopolitan adventuresses, living on human folly; spies, on the track of State secrets; corruptresses, sufficiently fascinating to obtain the mastery over all consciences. You are aware that these women are insinuating and of plausible manners, generally very beautiful. And this one—” “Oh! No, no!” Uncle Graff insisted authoritatively. “This one, very clever and dangerous, more dangerous than the rest, even, has played her _rôle_ with you, whilst satisfying her caprice at the same time. Come, Marcel, be reasonable; do not blind yourself. Why was the man of Vanves concealed here? Why have the powders been removed from the laboratory, and why is the house deserted, now that the burglary is accomplished? It is not a mere departure, it is a flight. Consider the rapidity and suddenness of the resolution reached. This morning only she had no thought of it, or, rather, in that case she deceived you, since she said nothing about it, and was to receive you to-night. Crime and duplicity are manifest everywhere. You have been deceived by words of tenderness, whilst the others, her accomplices, were stealing and murdering.” Marcel gave a movement expressive of anger. “If only I had the proof of this!” Uncle Graff looked at him fixedly. “Well, what would you do?” “Ah! I would have my revenge, that I swear! All my love would turn into hate. If my heart has been deceived with lying words, I would tear it out of my breast, rather than cherish a poisoned love! If that woman was not a victim, she would be a monster. And, by what I hold most sacred in existence, I would punish her!” The old man looked at his nephew with considerable satisfaction. “Oh! _Mon Dieu_! We don’t ask you to do that! Simply forget her. Above all, make up your mind not to fall into her toils again, if ever you meet her.” At that moment the door opened, and Baudoin appeared. Holding a book in his hand, he approached mysteriously, and said— “It is useful to make a thorough search. One can never examine too well.” He laughed as he spoke and held the book aloft— “Had I done nothing but cast a careless glance over the lady’s bed-chamber, I should not have found this.” “What is it?” asked Graff. “A book—a simple book.” Marcel took it up, looked at the title, and said—