She mounted the carriage, a rolling of wheels was heard, then followed a long silence. Lichtenbach returned slowly to his room, and sank down in a reverie. All the same, he did not give up business. On the contrary, he seemed to show a greater ardour than before for finance. His position on the Explosives settled, he regained the ground he had lost by a formidable campaign on gold mines. Never had his speculations been more brilliant or lucky than they were during the six months following his daughter’s departure. One would have thought that his grief had brought him good fortune, for everything succeeded which he undertook. All the same, nothing seemed to give him pleasure, and he changed greatly in physique. No longer could he mount the steps of the Bourse without halting for breath. Society had no further attractions for him. One winter evening, the _valet de chambre_, as he entered his master’s room, found Elias leaning over his desk, apparently asleep. Calling him by name, he received no reply. Terrified, he drew nearer, and touched his master. The banker remained motionless, whilst his hand clasped a short letter from his daughter. The few words he had been reading were still moist with the tears he had shed. He was dead, a victim to the only sentiment by which he had ever been vulnerable; the love of a father. Six months later, at twilight, in the study of the Rue de Provènce, Uncle Graff and Marcel were seated together. After signing all the letters for the evening’s post, Baradier had retired to his own room. The darkness gradually deepened, and uncle and nephew, seated in their armchairs, without a word, looked like vague, uncertain silhouettes. The clerks had all left, and silence reigned around. “Are you asleep, Uncle Graff?” asked Marcel. “No; I was just thinking.” “What about?” “About all that has happened the past twelve months. It is no mere trifle!” “No, indeed. And what is the result of your reflections?” “That we have had the most extraordinary luck; we had to deal with enemies who seemed destined to triumph over us time after time; and that we have manifestly been protected by a divine providence.” “Uncle Graff, you are rather illogical; extraordinary luck on the one hand, and divine providence on the other. They do not go very well together.” “Oh, you are too sceptical. It is your generation which makes you so. You no longer believe in anything.” “I do not believe in chance, no!” said Marcel, ironically. Then he added, in tones of sudden gravity, “But I believe in the firm, steadfast will of human beings. If we have been protected, as you say truly enough, it is because it was so willed. But for that—” Silence followed. The darkness had now become complete. “It was so willed,” repeated Uncle Graff. “You are alluding to that woman?” “I am alluding to ‘that woman.’ It was she who defeated the plans of her acolytes, and saved me.” “Because she loved you?” “Because she loved me.”