“Yes; I read the newspaper accounts during my convalescence,” replied Madame Clemenceau.

“Then you fell in love with your husband because of his cannon,” said Hedwig, laughing.  “I do not see what connection there is between them, and, in fact,” reflecting a little and suddenly laughing more loudly, “I hear that cannons produce breaches rather than re-union.  Well, after all, if cannons do not further love, its a friend to glory and riches!  The Emperor, some of our visitors said, is very fond of artillery, and he will give master immense contracts from the report of the examining committee being so favorable.”

“Really, Hedwig, you are becoming quite learned from the association with scientists.  What long words you use!

“That’s nothing,” said the servant, complacently.

“There is no word difficult in French to a German. but I can tell you that, as we cannot live on air, and these promises do not bear present fruit, master has been forced to sell this house.”

“Eh! why is that?  I like the place well enough.”

“You were not here to be consulted, madame, and, we wanted the money.  Master does not wish to be obliged to M. Daniels and, besides, he, too, does not get in the cash for his company any too rapidly.  Master ran into debt while making his guns and cannon, and we have been pinched for ready money.”

“I am glad to hear it!” ejaculated Cesarine, without spitefulness, and with more sincerity than she had spoken previously.

The girl stared without understanding.

“I have money—­cash—­to help him, and it will be far more proper for him to be obliged to his wife than to strangers.  Besides, I should not tax him with usurious interest,” she said maliciously.

“Money, madame,” said the servant with her widely opened eyes still more distending.

“I have two hundred thousand francs, that is, nearly as many marks, coming from my good uncle who is a little late in doing me a kindness—­but my attention touched him.  But do I not hear steps—­somebody at last moving in the house?”

“Very likely,” replied the servant tranquilly, “but nobody will come in here, before master has breakfast.  Since he stores his secrets in that chest, and no company drops in, this is a hermitage.  Mademoiselle Rebecca is not one of the prying sort.”

Madame Clemenceau, who had risen with more nervous anxiety than she cared to display to the servants, stood by her chair, looking toward the door.

“Has he talked about me, sometimes?”

“Master? never—­not before me, anyway, madame.”

“Yet you gave him the telegram that explained all?”

“Yes, madame; but not until some time after your departure and when master had returned from a promenade alone.  I know he was alone, because M. Antonino was racing about to show him some of his wonderful experiments.”

Beyond a doubt, it was Clemenceau who had stood witness to the tragedy in the meadow.  Hence his inattention to the Russian’s despatch, which he naturally would disbelieve, and probably to her prolonged absence.