Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17)

by Maurice Leblanc

  The whole incident did not take ten seconds.

  Yvonne, in her trepidation, ran to her bedroom, seized a wrap and went to the door. The door was locked; and there was no key in the lock.

  She hurried back to the boudoir. The door of the boudoir also was locked.

  Then, suddenly, the image of her husband appeared before her, that gloomy face which no smile ever lit up, those pitiless eyes in which, for years, she had felt so much hatred and malice.

  “It’s he ... it’s he!” she said to herself. “He has taken the child.... Oh, it’s horrible!”

  She beat against the door with her fists, with her feet, then flew to the mantelpiece and pressed the bell fiercely.

  The shrill sound rang through the house from top to bottom. The servants would be sure to come. Perhaps a crowd would gather in the street. And, impelled by a sort of despairing hope, she kept her finger on the button.

  A key turned in the lock.... The door was flung wide open. The count appeared on the threshold of the boudoir. And the expression of his face was so terrible that Yvonne began to tremble.

  He entered the room. Five or six steps separated him from her. With a supreme effort, she tried to stir, but all movement was impossible; and, when she attempted to speak, she could only flutter her lips and emit incoherent sounds. She felt herself lost. The thought of death unhinged her. Her knees gave way beneath her and she sank into a huddled heap, with a moan.

  The count rushed at her and seized her by the throat:

  “Hold your tongue ... don’t call out!” he said, in a low voice. “That will be best for you!...”

  Seeing that she was not attempting to defend herself, he loosened his hold of her and took from his pocket some strips of canvas ready rolled and of different lengths. In a few minutes, Yvonne was lying on a sofa, with her wrists and ankles bound and her arms fastened close to her body.

  It was now dark in the boudoir. The count switched on the electric light and went to a little writing-desk where Yvonne was accustomed to keep her letters. Not succeeding in opening it, he picked the lock with a bent wire, emptied the drawers and collected all the contents into a bundle, which he carried off in a cardboard file:

  “Waste of time, eh?” he grinned. “Nothing but bills and letters of no importance.... No proof against you.... Tah! I’ll keep my son for all that; and I swear before Heaven that I will not let him go!”

  As he was leaving the room, he was joined, near the door, by his man Bernard. The two stopped and talked, in a low voice; but Yvonne heard these words spoken by the servant:

  “I have had an answer from the working jeweller. He says he holds himself at my disposal.”

  And the count replied:

  “The thing is put off until twelve o’clock midday, to-morrow. My mother has just telephoned to say that she could not come before.”

  Then Yvonne heard the key turn in the lock and the sound of steps going down to the ground-floor, where her husband’s study was.

  She long lay inert, her brain reeling with vague, swift ideas that burnt her in passing, like flames. She remembered her husband’s infamous behaviour, his humiliating conduct to her, his threats, his plans for a divorce; and she gradually came to understand that she was the victim of a regular conspiracy, that the servants had been sent away until the following evening by their master’s orders, that the governess had carried off her son by the count’s instructions and with Bernard’s assistance, that her son would not come back and that she would never see him again.

  “My son!” she cried. “My son!...”

  Exasperated by her grief, she stiffened herself, with every nerve, with every muscle tense, to make a violent effort. And she was astonished to find that her right hand, which the count had fastened too hurriedly, still retained a certain freedom.

  Then a mad hope invaded her; and, slowly, patiently, she began the work of self-deliverance.

  It was long in the doing. She needed a deal of time to widen the knot sufficiently and a deal of time afterward, when the hand was released, to undo those other bonds which tied her arms to her body and those which fastened her ankles.

  Still, the thought of her son sustained her; and the last shackle fell as the clock struck eight. She was free!

  She was no sooner on her feet than she flew to the window and flung back the latch, with the intention of calling the first passer-by. At that moment a policeman came walking along the pavement. She leant out. But the brisk evening air, striking her face, calmed her. She thought of the scandal, of the judicial investigation, of the cross-examination, of her son. O Heaven! What could she do to get him back? How could she escape? The count might appear at the least sound. And who knew but that, in a moment of fury ...?

  She shivered from head to foot, seized with a sudden terror. The horror of death mingled, in her poor brain, with the thought of her son; and she stammered, with a choking throat:

  “Help!... Help!...”

  She stopped and said to herself, several times over, in a low voice, “Help!... Help!...” as though the word awakened an idea, a memory within her, and as though the hope of assistance no longer seemed to her impossible. For some minutes she remained absorbed in deep meditation, broken by fears and starts. Then, with an almost mechanical series of movements, she put out her arm to a little set of shelves hanging over the writing-desk, took down four books, one after the other, turned the pages with a distraught air, replaced them and ended by finding, between the pages of the fifth, a visiting-card on which her eyes spelt the name:

  HORACE VELMONT,

  followed by an address written in pencil:

  CERCLE DE LA RUE ROYALE.

  And her memory conjured up the strange thing which that man had said to her, a few years before, in that same house, on a day when she was at home to her friends:

  “If ever a danger threatens you, if you need help, do not hesitate; post this card, which you see me put into this book; and, whatever the hour, whatever the obstacles, I will come.”

  With what a curious air he had spoken these words and how well he had conveyed the impression of certainty, of strength, of unlimited power, of indomitable daring!

  Abruptly, unconsciously, acting under the impulse of an irresistible determination, the consequences of which she refused to anticipate, Yvonne, with the same automatic gestures, took a pneumatic-delivery envelope, slipped in the card, sealed it, directed it to “Horace Velmont, Cercle de la Rue Royale” and went to the open window. The policeman was walking up and down outside. She flung out the envelope, trusting to fate. Perhaps it would be picked up, treated as a lost letter and posted.

  She had hardly completed this act when she realized its absurdity. It was mad to suppose that the message would reach the address and madder still to hope that the man to whom she was sending could come to her assistance, “whatever the hour, whatever the obstacles.”

  A reaction followed which was all the greater inasmuch as the effort had been swift and violent. Yvonne staggered, leant against a chair and, losing all energy, let herself fall.

  The hours passed by, the dreary hours of winter evenings when nothing but the sound of carriages interrupts the silence of the street. The clock struck, pitilessly. In the half-sleep that numbed her limbs, Yvonne counted the strokes. She also heard certain noises, on different floors of the house, which told her that her husband had dined, that he was going up to his room, that he was going down again to his study. But all this seemed very shadowy to her; and her torpor was such that she did not even think of lying down on the sofa, in case he should come in....

  The twelve strokes of midnight.... Then half-past twelve ... then one.... Yvonne thought of nothing, awaiting the events which were preparing and against which rebellion was useless. She pictured her son and herself as one pictures those beings who have suffered much and who suffer no more and who take each other in their loving arms. But a nightmare shattered this dream. For now those two beings were to be torn asunder; and she had the awful f
eeling, in her delirium, that she was crying and choking....

  She leapt from her seat. The key had turned in the lock. The count was coming, attracted by her cries. Yvonne glanced round for a weapon with which to defend herself. But the door was pushed back quickly and, astounded, as though the sight that presented itself before her eyes seemed to her the most inexplicable prodigy, she stammered:

  “You!... You!...”

  A man was walking up to her, in dress-clothes, with his opera-hat and cape under his arm, and this man, young, slender and elegant, she had recognized as Horace Velmont.

  “You!” she repeated.

  He said, with a bow:

  “I beg your pardon, madame, but I did not receive your letter until very late.”

  “Is it possible? Is it possible that this is you ... that you were able to ...?”

  He seemed greatly surprised:

  “Did I not promise to come in answer to your call?”

  “Yes ... but ...”

  “Well, here I am,” he said, with a smile.

  He examined the strips of canvas from which Yvonne had succeeded in freeing herself and nodded his head, while continuing his inspection:

  “So those are the means employed? The Comte d’Origny, I presume?... I also saw that he locked you in.... But then the pneumatic letter?... Ah, through the window!... How careless of you not to close it!”

  He pushed both sides to. Yvonne took fright:

  “Suppose they hear!”

  “There is no one in the house. I have been over it.”

  “Still ...”

  “Your husband went out ten minutes ago.”

  “Where is he?”

  “With his mother, the Comtesse d’Origny.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Oh, it’s very simple! He was rung up by telephone and I awaited the result at the corner of this street and the boulevard. As I expected, the count came out hurriedly, followed by his man. I at once entered, with the aid of special keys.”

  He told this in the most natural way, just as one tells a meaningless anecdote in a drawing-room. But Yvonne, suddenly seized with fresh alarm, asked:

  “Then it’s not true?... His mother is not ill?... In that case, my husband will be coming back....”

  “Certainly, the count will see that a trick has been played on him and in three quarters of an hour at the latest....”

  “Let us go.... I don’t want him to find me here.... I must go to my son....”

  “One moment....”

  “One moment!... But don’t you know that they have taken him from me?... That they are hurting him, perhaps?...”

  With set face and feverish gestures, she tried to push Velmont back. He, with great gentleness, compelled her to sit down and, leaning over her in a respectful attitude, said, in a serious voice:

  “Listen, madame, and let us not waste time, when every minute is valuable. First of all, remember this: we met four times, six years ago.... And, on the fourth occasion, when I was speaking to you, in the drawing-room of this house, with too much — what shall I say? — with too much feeling, you gave me to understand that my visits were no longer welcome. Since that day I have not seen you. And, nevertheless, in spite of all, your faith in me was such that you kept the card which I put between the pages of that book and, six years later, you send for me and none other. That faith in me I ask you to continue. You must obey me blindly. Just as I surmounted every obstacle to come to you, so I will save you, whatever the position may be.”

  Horace Velmont’s calmness, his masterful voice, with the friendly intonation, gradually quieted the countess. Though still very weak, she gained a fresh sense of ease and security in that man’s presence.

  “Have no fear,” he went on. “The Comtesse d’Origny lives at the other end of the Bois de Vincennes. Allowing that your husband finds a motor-cab, it is impossible for him to be back before a quarter-past three. Well, it is twenty-five to three now. I swear to take you away at three o’clock exactly and to take you to your son. But I will not go before I know everything.”

  “What am I to do?” she asked.

  “Answer me and very plainly. We have twenty minutes. It is enough. But it is not too much.”

  “Ask me what you want to know.”

  “Do you think that the count had any ... any murderous intentions?”

  “No.”

  “Then it concerns your son?”

  “Yes.”

  “He is taking him away, I suppose, because he wants to divorce you and marry another woman, a former friend of yours, whom you have turned out of your house. Is that it? Oh, I entreat you, answer me frankly! These are facts of public notoriety; and your hesitation, your scruples, must all cease, now that the matter concerns your son. So your husband wished to marry another woman?

  “Yes.”

  “The woman has no money. Your husband, on his side, has gambled away all his property and has no means beyond the allowance which he receives from his mother, the Comtesse d’Origny, and the income of a large fortune which your son inherited from two of your uncles. It is this fortune which your husband covets and which he would appropriate more easily if the child were placed in his hands. There is only one way: divorce. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what has prevented him until now is your refusal?”

  “Yes, mine and that of my mother-in-law, whose religious feelings are opposed to divorce. The Comtesse d’Origny would only yield in case ...”

  “In case ...?”

  “In case they could prove me guilty of shameful conduct.”

  Velmont shrugged his shoulders:

  “Therefore he is powerless to do anything against you or against your son. Both from the legal point of view and from that of his own interests, he stumbles against an obstacle which is the most insurmountable of all: the virtue of an honest woman. And yet, in spite of everything, he suddenly shows fight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that, if a man like the count, after so many hesitations and in the face of so many difficulties, risks so doubtful an adventure, it must be because he thinks he has command of weapons ...”

  “What weapons?”

  “I don’t know. But they exist ... or else he would not have begun by taking away your son.”

  Yvonne gave way to her despair:

  “Oh, this is horrible!... How do I know what he may have done, what he may have invented?”

  “Try and think.... Recall your memories.... Tell me, in this desk which he has broken open, was there any sort of letter which he could possibly turn against you?”

  “No ... only bills and addresses....”

  “And, in the words he used to you, in his threats, is there nothing that allows you to guess?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Still ... still,” Velmont insisted, “there must be something.” And he continued, “Has the count a particularly intimate friend ... in whom he confides?”

  “No.”

  “Did anybody come to see him yesterday?”

  “No, nobody.”

  “Was he alone when he bound you and locked you in?”

  “At that moment, yes.”

  “But afterward?”

  “His man, Bernard, joined him near the door and I heard them talking about a working jeweller....”

  “Is that all?”

  “And about something that was to happen the next day, that is, to-day, at twelve o’clock, because the Comtesse d’Origny could not come earlier.”

  Velmont reflected:

  “Has that conversation any meaning that throws a light upon your husband’s plans?”

  “I don’t see any.”

  “Where are your jewels?”

  “My husband has sold them all.”

  “You have nothing at all left?”

  “No.”

  “Not even a ring?”

  “No,” she said, showing her hands, “none except this.”

  “Whi
ch is your wedding-ring?”

  “Which is my ... wedding — ...”

  She stopped, nonplussed. Velmont saw her flush as she stammered:

  “Could it be possible?... But no ... no ... he doesn’t know....”

  Velmont at once pressed her with questions and Yvonne stood silent, motionless, anxious-faced. At last, she replied, in a low voice:

  “This is not my wedding-ring. One day, long ago, it dropped from the mantelpiece in my bedroom, where I had put it a minute before and, hunt for it as I might, I could not find it again. So I ordered another, without saying anything about it ... and this is the one, on my hand....”

  “Did the real ring bear the date of your wedding?”

  “Yes ... the 23rd of October.”

  “And the second?”

  “This one has no date.”

  He perceived a slight hesitation in her and a confusion which, in point of fact, she did not try to conceal.

  “I implore you,” he exclaimed, “don’t hide anything from me.... You see how far we have gone in a few minutes, with a little logic and calmness.... Let us go on, I ask you as a favour.”

  “Are you sure,” she said, “that it is necessary?”

  “I am sure that the least detail is of importance and that we are nearly attaining our object. But we must hurry. This is a crucial moment.”

  “I have nothing to conceal,” she said, proudly raising her head. “It was the most wretched and the most dangerous period of my life. While suffering humiliation at home, outside I was surrounded with attentions, with temptations, with pitfalls, like any woman who is seen to be neglected by her husband. Then I remembered: before my marriage, a man had been in love with me. I had guessed his unspoken love; and he has died since. I had the name of that man engraved inside the ring; and I wore it as a talisman. There was no love in me, because I was the wife of another. But, in my secret heart, there was a memory, a sad dream, something sweet and gentle that protected me....”