I was surprised, because, frankly, I had never thought Rouletabille much given to piety. When he looked up, I noticed that his eyes were full of tears, a fact that he made no effort to hide, being too absorbed in his prayers and in his evident grief. But what grief could thus take possession of him on this of all days? Should not he, of all men, be rejoicing at the happiness of Robert Darzac and Mathilde Stangerson, a happiness which, in great measure, they owed to him and in which, consequently, he could take a legitimate pride? Perhaps the tears were tears of happiness, but somehow I did not think so, and as it was clear that he wished to remain alone and unobserved, I did not disturb his meditations.

A moment or two later, Mathilde Stangerson herself came into the church, leaning on her father’s arm. Robert Darzac was walking behind them. How changed he was! The drama at Glandier had left indelible traces on all three. But, strange to say, Mlle Stangerson seemed more beautiful than ever. It is true that she had lost some of her statuesque magnificence, the marmoreal air of an antique divinity, and that cold beauty which had drawn all eyes to her when she was obliged to attend official functions with her father.

It would seem that the tardy expiation of a youthful folly, bringing with it, as it did, a crisis of despair, had broken the stony mask behind which lay a nature at once delicate and tender. And it was this hitherto undiscovered character which was now uppermost; it shone in her serene face and in her sad, yet happy, eyes. They suddenly clouded, however, as, looking round, she evidently failed to find the object of her search. When, however, she discovered Rouletabille behind his pillar, her eyes again became serene, and, once more completely in command of herself, she smiled divinely at the young man. And we, in turn, watching the little scene, smiled too.

‘If you ask me, she still has the look of a madwoman!’

I turned suddenly to see who had made this abominable remark. It was Brignolles, a poor, feeble sort of a chap, whom Robert Darzac had, out of the goodness of his heart, taken on as an assistant at his laboratory at the Sorbonne.

Brignolles was vaguely related to the bridegroom. He was the only one of Darzac’s relatives that I had ever heard of. Darzac’s father and mother had long since died. He came from the south originally and, if he had relatives, he had evidently lost all contact with them in order to give himself over entirely to his work, satisfying his natural need for companionship and affection in his close relationship with Professor Stangerson and his daughter.

On arriving in Paris from Provence, Brignolles had gone straight to Darzac, and, making known his relationship, or his alleged relationship, had succeeded in persuading Darzac to give him the job I mentioned. Since Darzac was at the time overworked and only just recovering from the effects of the Glandier affair and the subsequent trial, he readily welcomed any assistance. It was expected that the help thus furnished would somewhat relieve Darzac and enable him to make more rapid progress towards a complete recovery.

However, it became clear that although Darzac did work less after his relative’s arrival, his health grew steadily worse. The arrival of Brignolles had equally unfortunate consequences for the laboratory: two serious accidents took place one after the other, during ordinarily harmless experiments. The first was caused when a Geissler tube exploded at a moment when it could easily have caused Darzac grave injury, though, fortunately, it did not; the second was caused by the explosion of an oil lamp – the result of sheer stupidity – just as Darzac was leaning over it. Again, no great harm resulted, but the Professor was within an inch of losing his eyesight, indeed, his eyes were badly affected for some time afterwards.

The Glandier business had, I admit, left me in a state of mind which caused me to regard the simplest occurrences with suspicion. I happened to be present on the occasion of the second accident just referred to, and afterwards, when Brignolles offered to accompany the Professor to the surgery to have his wounds attended to, I rather brusquely told him to stay where he was.

On the way to the surgery, Darzac asked me why I had been so sharp with Brignolles. I replied that his manner displeased and irritated me, and that I felt especially annoyed that day, since I felt that the accident had been entirely due to carelessness on Brignolles’ part. Darzac asked me how I could possibly think such a thing and laughed the matter off. He took the affair in a less lighthearted manner, however, when the doctor, having examined his injuries, assured him that it was a miracle that he had not lost his sight.

Perhaps the uneasiness which Brignolles aroused in me was groundless. In any case, there were no more accidents. However irrational it may have seemed, I nevertheless held Brignolles responsible for Darzac’s slow recovery. When winter came, Darzac appeared to get worse, and we finally persuaded him to go south. The doctors advised San Remo, and Darzac wrote from there after a week’s absence to say that he was feeling remarkably better. ‘Here I can breathe,’ he wrote, ‘in Paris I suffocate.’

This letter revived my unease, and I spoke to Rouletabille about it. He, too, had remarked on the odd fact that M.