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Updated: May 20, 2025
Febrer recognized the old woman. She was the Ironworker's aunt, the one-eyed woman of whom the Little Chaplain had told him, the sole companion of the Ironworker in his wild solitude.
Her friends, seeing her come with this queenly retinue, paled with envy. The suitors besieged her, endeavoring to extract some word, some sign of preference, but she replied with astonishing discretion, keeping them all on the same footing, avoiding fatal clashes which might suddenly arouse the aggressive youths, who were always heavily armed. "And how about the Ironworker?" asked Don Jaime.
He smilingly looked at his watch. "Well," he said, "I choose this design. Make it so. Good evening." He turned away. Beloiseau called after him, but the man of God kept straight on. The ironworker loitered back to where the chosen pattern lay, and stood over it still thinking of Chester. Presently a soft voice sounded so close by that he turned abruptly.
"A thousan' time'," the ironworker replied, mused a bit, and added: "My frien', you are a so patient listener as I never see. Biccause I know you are all that time waiting for a differen' story. And now I shall tell you that?" "Yes, however it hits me I've got to know it." "Well, after that, a year and half, I am born. I grow up.
He settled for a time at Collet-de-Deze, from which his other brother had been expelled, and there he carried on the trade of an ironworker and blacksmith.
Febrer noticed that the two officers pretended to ignore the presence of the Ironworker. They acted as if they did not recognize him; they turned their backs, making visible display of paying no attention to him. Pèp spoke to Febrer in a low voice, with an accent of admiration.
Some of the youths smiled with a wicked expression when they took their places, as if rejoicing in advance over something extraordinary. Others, more serious, showed in their faces the noble disgust of those who fear to witness an inevitable evil deed. The Ironworker remained impassive in one of the farthest corners, shrinking down so as to remain unnoticed among his comrades.
He held his revolver in his right hand, nervously clutching the breech, caressing the trigger with a feverish finger, eager to fire. Was no one following him? Did not the Ironworker or any of his other enemies lurk behind him? Time passed, and no one appeared. The wild vegetation around him, enlarged by shadow and by mystery, seemed to laugh sarcastically at his anger.
The Ironworker's coolness was exasperating, but at the same time his calmly turning his back, confident that the señor of the tower was incapable of taking advantage of this situation to fire a treacherous shot, inspired a vague gratitude. The hammer ceased ringing. When Febrer looked again in the direction of the shed he did not see the Ironworker.
This question now presents itself to the invaders. It serves as the keynote for future action. "Let's find it," suggests the ironworker. And the search of the mansion is begun. Anticipating that the crowd might demand the body of the multi-millionaire, his faithful attendants have hurriedly removed it to the top of the building. It is concealed in the apartments of the chief butler.
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