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her abominable conduct! Then he stopped a passing cab and pushed Gerard

inside it saying, "You can set me down at my door."

"But she's left us the carriage!" shouted Duthil, who was already

consoled, and inwardly laughed at the termination of it all. "Come here,

there's plenty of room for three. No? you prefer the cab? Well, just as

you like, you know."

For his part he gaily climbed into the landau and drove off lounging on

the cushions, while the Baron, in the jolting old cab, vented his rage

without a word of interruption from Gerard, whose face was hidden by the

darkness. To think of it! that she, whom he had overwhelmed with gifts,

who had already cost him two millions of francs, should in this fashion

insult him, the master who could dispose both of fortunes and of men!

Well, she had chosen to do it, and he was delivered! Then Duvillard drew

a long breath like a man released from the galleys.

For a moment Pierre watched the two vehicles go off; and then took his

own way under the trees, so as to shelter himself from the rain until a

vacant cab should pass. Full of distress and battling thoughts he had

begun to feel icy cold. The whole monstrous night of Paris, all the

debauchery and woe that sobbed around him made him shiver. Phantom-like

women who, when young, had led lives of infamy in wealth, and who now,

old and faded, led lives of infamy in poverty, were still and ever

wandering past him in search of bread, when suddenly a shadowy form

grazed him, and a voice murmured in his ear: "Warn your brother, the

police are on Salvat's track, he may be arrested at any moment."

The shadowy figure was already going its way, and as a gas ray fell upon

it, Pierre thought that he recognised the pale, pinched face of Victor

Mathis. And at the same time, yonder in Abbe Rose's peaceful dining-room,

he fancied he could again see the gentle face of Madame Mathis, so sad

and so resigned, living on solely by the force of the last trembling hope

which she had unhappily set in her son.

III. PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT

ALREADY at eight o'clock on that holiday-making mid-Lent Thursday, when

all the offices of the Home Department were empty, Monferrand, the

Minister, sat alone in his private room. A single usher guarded his door,

and in the first ante-chamber there were only a couple of messengers.

The Minister had experienced, on awaking, the most unpleasant of

emotions. The "Voix du Peuple," which on the previous day had revived the

African Railway scandal, by accusing Barroux of having pocketed 20,000

francs, had that morning published its long-promised list of the

bribe-taking senators and deputies. And at the head of this list

Monferrand had found his own name set down against a sum of 80,000

francs, while Fonsegue was credited with 50,000. Then a fifth of the

latter amount was said to have been Duthil's share, and Chaigneux had

contented himself with the beggarly sum of 3,000 francs--the lowest price

paid for any one vote, the cost of each of the others ranging from 5 to

20,000.

It must be said that there was no anger in Monferrand's emotion. Only he

had never thought that Sagnier would carry his passion for uproar and

scandal so far as to publish this list--a page which was said to have

been torn from a memorandum book belonging to Duvillard's agent, Hunter,

and which was covered with incomprehensible hieroglyphics that ought to

have been discussed and explained, if, indeed, the real truth was to be

arrived at. Personally, Monferrand felt quite at ease, for he had written

nothing, signed nothing, and knew that one could always extricate oneself

from a mess by showing some audacity, and never confessing. Nevertheless,

what a commotion it would all cause in the parliamentary duck-pond. He at

once realised the inevitable consequences, the ministry overthrown and

swept away by this fresh whirlwind of denunciation and tittle-tattle.

Mege would renew his interpellation on the morrow, and Vignon and his

friends would at once lay siege to the posts they coveted. And he,

Monferrand, could picture himself driven out of that ministerial sanctum

where, for eight months past, he had been taking his ease, not with any

foolish vainglory, but with the pleasure of feeling that he was in his

proper place as a born ruler, who believed he could tame and lead the

multitude.

Having thrown the newspapers aside with a disdainful gesture, he rose and

stretched himself, growling the while like a plagued lion. And then he

began to walk up and down the spacious room, which showed all the faded

official luxury of mahogany furniture and green damask hangings. Stepping

to and fro, with his hands behind his back, he no longer wore his usual

fatherly, good-natured air. He appeared as he really was, a born

wrestler, short, but broad shouldered, with sensual mouth, fleshy nose

and stern eyes, that all proclaimed him to be unscrupulous, of iron will

and fit for the greatest tasks. Still, in this case, in what direction

lay his best course? Must he let himself be dragged down with Barroux?

Perhaps his personal position was not absolutely compromised? And yet how

could he part company from the others, swim ashore, and save himself

while they were being drowned? It was a grave problem, and with his

frantic desire to retain power, he made desperate endeavours to devise

some suitable manoeuvre.

But he could think of nothing, and began to swear at the virtuous fits of

that silly Republic, which, in his opinion, rendered all government

impossible. To think of such foolish fiddle-faddle stopping a man of his

acumen and strength! How on earth can one govern men if one is denied the

use of money, that sovereign means of sway? And he laughed bitterly; for

the idea of an idyllic country where all great enterprises would be

carried out in an absolutely honest manner seemed to him the height of

absurdity.

At last, however, unable as he was to come to a determination, it

occurred to him to confer with Baron Duvillard, whom he had long known,

and whom he regretted not having seen sooner so as to urge him to

purchase Sagnier's silence. At first he thought of sending the Baron a

brief note by a messenger; but he disliked committing anything to paper,

for the veriest scrap of writing may prove dangerous; so he preferred to

employ the telephone which had been installed for his private use near

his writing-table.

"It is Baron Duvillard who is speaking to me?... Quite so. It's I, the

Minister, Monsieur Monferrand. I shall be much obliged if you will come

to see me at once.... Quite so, quite so, I will wait for you."

Then again he walked to and fro and meditated. That fellow Duvillard was

as clever a man as himself, and might be able to give him an idea. And he

was still laboriously trying to devise some scheme, when the usher

entered saying that Monsieur Gascogne, the Chief of the Detective Police,

particularly wished to speak to him. Monferrand's first thought was that

the Prefecture of Police desired to know his views respecting the steps

which ought to be taken to ensure public order that day; for two mid-Lent

processions--one of the Washerwomen and the other of the Students--were

to march through Paris, whose streets would certainly be crowded.

"Show Monsieur Gascogne in," he said.

A tall, slim, dark man, looking like an artisan in his Sunday best, then

stepped into the ministerial sanctum. Fully acquainted with the

under-currents of Paris life, this Chief of the Detective Force had a

cold dispassionate nature and a clear and methodical mind.

Professionalism slightly spoilt him, however: he would have possessed

more intelligence if he had not credited himself with so much.

He began by apologising for his superior the Prefect, who would certainly

have called in person had he not been suffering from indisposition.

However, it was perhaps best that he, Gascogne, should acquaint Monsieur

le Ministre with the grave affair which brought him, for he knew every

detail of it. Then he revealed what the grave affair was.

"I believe, Monsieur le Ministre, that we at last hold the perpetrator of

the crime in the Rue Godot-de-Mauroy."

At this, Monferrand, who had been listening impatiently, became quite

impassioned. The fruitless searches of the police, the attacks and the

jeers of the newspapers, were a source of daily worry to him. "Ah!--Well,

so much the better for you Monsieur Gascogne," he replied with brutal

frankness. "You would have ended by losing your post. The man is

arrested?"

"Not yet, Monsieur le Ministre; but he cannot escape, and it is merely an

affair of a few hours."

Then the Chief of the Detective Force told the whole story: how Detective

Mondesir, on being warned by a secret agent that the Anarchist Salvat was

in a tavern at Montmartre, had reached it just as the bird had flown;

then how chance had again set him in presence of Salvat at a hundred

paces or so from the tavern, the rascal having foolishly loitered there

to watch the establishment; and afterwards how Salvat had been stealthily

shadowed in the hope that they might catch him in his hiding-place with

his accomplices. And, in this wise, he had been tracked to the

Porte-Maillot, where, realising, no doubt, that he was pursued, he had

suddenly bolted into the Bois de Boulogne. It was there that he had been

hiding since two o'clock in the morning in the drizzle which had not

ceased to fall. They had waited for daylight in order to organise a

_battue_ and hunt him down like some animal, whose weariness must

necessarily ensure capture. And so, from one moment to another, he would

be caught.

"I know the great interest you take in the arrest, Monsieur le Ministre,"

added Gascogne, "and it occurred to me to ask your orders. Detective

Mondesir is over there, directing the hunt. He regrets that he did not

apprehend the man on the Boulevard de Rochechouart; but, all the same,

the idea of following him was a capital one, and one can only reproach

Mondesir with having forgotten the Bois de Boulogne in his calculations."

Salvat arrested! That fellow Salvat whose name had filled the newspapers

for three weeks past. This was a most fortunate stroke which would be

talked of far and wide! In the depths of Monferrand's fixed eyes one

could divine a world of thoughts and a sudden determination to turn this

incident which chance had brought him to his own personal advantage. In

his own mind a link was already forming between this arrest and that

African Railways interpellation which was likely to overthrow the

ministry on the morrow. The first outlines of a scheme already rose

before him. Was it not his good star that had sent him what he had been

seeking--a means of fishing himself out of the troubled waters of the

approaching crisis?

"But tell me, Monsieur Gascogne," said he, "are you quite sure that this

man Salvat committed the crime?"

"Oh! perfectly sure, Monsieur le Ministre. He'll confess everything in

the cab before he reaches the Prefecture."

Monferrand again walked to and fro with a pensive air, and ideas came to

him as he spoke on in a slow, meditative fashion. "My orders! well, my

orders, they are, first, that you must act with the very greatest

prudence. Yes, don't gather a mob of promenaders together. Try to arrange

things so that the arrest may pass unperceived--and if you secure a

confession keep it to yourself, don't communicate it to the newspapers.

Yes, I particularly recommend that point to you, don't take the

newspapers into your confidence at all--and finally, come and tell me

everything, and observe secrecy, absolute secrecy, with everybody else."

Gascogne bowed and would have withdrawn, but Monferrand detained him to

say that not a day passed without his friend Monsieur Lehmann, the Public

Prosecutor, receiving letters from Anarchists who threatened to blow him

up with his family; in such wise that, although he was by no means a

coward, he wished his house to be guarded by plain-clothes officers. A

similar watch was already kept upon the house where investigating

magistrate Amadieu resided. And if the latter's life was precious, that

of Public Prosecutor Lehmann was equally so, for he was one of those

political magistrates, one of those shrewd talented Israelites, who make

their way in very honest fashion by invariably taking the part of the

Government in office.

Then Gascogne in his turn remarked: "There is also the Barthes affair,

Monsieur le Ministre--we are still waiting. Are we to arrest Barthes at

that little house at Neuilly?"

One of those chances which sometimes come to the help of detectives and

make people think the latter to be men of genius had revealed to him the

circumstance that Barthes had found a refuge with Abbe Pierre Froment.

Ever since the Anarchist terror had thrown Paris into dismay a warrant

had been out against the old man, not for any precise offence, but simply

because he was a suspicious character and might, therefore, have had some

intercourse with the Revolutionists. However, it had been repugnant to

Gascogne to arrest him at the house of a priest whom the whole district

venerated as a saint; and the Minister, whom he had consulted on the

point, had warmly approved of his reserve, since a member of the clergy

was in question, and had undertaken to settle the affair himself.

"No, Monsieur Gascogne," he now replied, "don't move in the matter. You

know what my feelings are, that we ought to have the priests with us and

not against us--I have had a letter written to Abbe Froment in order that

he may call here this morning, as I shall have no other visitors. I will

speak to him myself, and you may take it that the affair no longer

concerns you."

Then he was about to dismiss him when the usher came back saying that the

President of the Council was in the ante-room.*

* The title of President of the Council is given to the French