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

by Maurice Leblanc

  She was greatly surprised to see him smile:

  “What’s the matter? Why, my dearest, how happy you look!”

  He began to laugh and this time, drawing her to him with a masterful air that admitted of no denial, he kissed her hair and her forehead and her cheeks and her lips; and he said:

  “I am laughing because there is nothing to do but to laugh and kiss you. I am laughing also because I have been imagining so many silly things. Yes, just think, at that supper last night, I saw you from a distance . . . and I suffered agonies: I accused you of I don’t know what. . . . Oh, what a fool I was!”

  She could not understand his gaiety; and she said again:

  “How happy you are! How can you be so happy?”

  “There is no reason why I should not be,” said Paul, still laughing.

  “Come, look at things as they are: you and I are meeting after unheard-of misfortunes. We are together; nothing can separate us; and you wouldn’t have me be glad?”

  “Do you mean to say that nothing can separate us?” she asked, in a voice quivering with anxiety.

  “Why, of course! Is that so strange?”

  “You are staying with me? Are we to live here?”

  “No, not that! What an idea! You’re going to pack up your things at express speed and we shall be off.”

  “Where to?”

  “Where to? To France, of course. When you think of it, that’s the only country where one’s really comfortable.”

  And, when she stared at him in amazement, he said:

  “Come, let’s hurry. The car’s waiting; and I promised Bernard — yes, your brother Bernard — that we should be with him to-night. . . . Are you ready? But why that astounded look? Do you want to have things explained to you? But, my very dearest, it will take hours and hours to explain everything that’s happened to yourself and me. You’ve turned the head of an imperial prince . . . and then you were shot . . . and then . . . and then . . . Oh, what does it all matter? Must I force you to come away with me?”

  All at once she understood that he was speaking seriously; and, without taking her eyes from him, she asked:

  “Is it true? Are we free?”

  “Absolutely free.”

  “We’re going back to France?”

  “Immediately.”

  “We have nothing more to fear?”

  “Nothing.”

  The tension from which she was suffering suddenly relaxed. She in her turn began to laugh, yielding to one of those fits of uncontrollable mirth which find vent in every sort of childish nonsense. She could have sung, she could have danced for sheer joy. And yet the tears flowed down her cheeks. And she stammered:

  “Free! . . . it’s all over! . . . Have I been through much? . . . Not at all! . . . Oh, you know that I had been shot? Well, I assure you, it wasn’t so bad as all that. . . . I will tell you about it and lots of other things. . . . And you must tell me, too. . . . But how did you manage? You must be cleverer than the cleverest, cleverer than the unspeakable Conrad, cleverer than the Emperor! Oh, dear, how funny it is, how funny! . . .”

  She broke off and, seizing him forcibly by the arm, said:

  “Let us go, darling. It’s madness to remain another second. These people are capable of anything. They look upon no promise as binding. They are scoundrels, criminals. Let’s go. . . . Let’s go. . . .”

  They went away.

  Their journey was uneventful. In the evening, they reached the lines on the front, facing Èbrecourt.

  The officer on duty, who had full powers, had a reflector lit and himself, after ordering a white flag to be displayed, took Élisabeth and Paul to the French officer who came forward.

  The officer telephoned to the rear. A motor car was sent; and, at nine o’clock, Paul and Élisabeth pulled up at the gates of Ornequin and Paul asked to have Bernard sent for. He met him half-way:

  “Is that you, Bernard?” he said. “Listen to me and don’t let us waste a minute. I have brought back Élisabeth. Yes, she’s here, in the car. We are off to Corvigny and you’re coming with us. While I go for my bag and yours, you give instructions to have Prince Conrad closely watched. He’s safe, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then hurry. I want to get at the woman whom you saw last night as she was entering the tunnel. Now that she’s in France, we’ll hunt her down.”

  “Don’t you think, Paul, that we should be more likely to find her tracks by ourselves going back into the tunnel and searching the place where it opens at Corvigny?”

  “We can’t afford the time. We have arrived at a phase of the struggle that demands the utmost haste.”

  “But, Paul, the struggle is over, now that Élisabeth is saved.”

  “The struggle will never be over as long as that woman lives.”

  “Well, but who is she?”

  Paul did not answer.

  At ten o’clock they all three alighted outside the station at Corvigny. There were no more trains. Everybody was asleep. Paul refused to be put off, went to the military guard, woke up the adjutant, sent for the station-master, sent for the booking-clerk and, after a minute inquiry, succeeded in establishing the fact that on that same Monday morning a woman supplied with a pass in the name of Mme. Antonin had taken a ticket for Château-Thierry. She was the only woman traveling alone. She was wearing a Red Cross uniform. Her description corresponded at all points with that of the Comtesse Hermine.

  “It’s certainly she,” said Paul, when they had taken their rooms for the night at the hotel near the station. “There’s no doubt about it. It’s the only way she could go from Corvigny. And it’s the way that we shall go to-morrow morning, at the same time that she did. I hope that she will not have time to carry out the scheme that has brought her to France. In any case, this is a great opportunity; and we must make the most of it.”

  “But who is the woman?” Bernard asked again.

  “Who is she? Ask Élisabeth to tell you. We have an hour left in which to discuss certain details and then we must go to bed. We need rest, all three of us.”

  They started on the Tuesday morning. Paul’s confidence was unshaken. Though he knew nothing of the Comtesse Hermine’s intentions, he felt sure that he was on the right road. And, in fact, they were told several times that a Red Cross nurse, traveling first-class and alone, had passed through the same stations on the day before.

  They got out at Château-Thierry late in the afternoon. Paul made his inquiries. On the previous evening, the nurse had driven away in a Red Cross motor car which was waiting at the station. This car, according to the papers carried by the driver, belonged to one of the ambulances working to the rear of Soissons; but the exact position of the ambulance was not known.

  This was near enough for Paul, however. Soissons was in the battle line.

  “Let’s go to Soissons,” he said.

  The order signed by the commander-in-chief which he had on him gave him full power to requisition a motor car and to enter the fighting zone. They reached Soissons at dinner-time.

  The outskirts, ruined by the bombardment, were deserted. The town itself seemed abandoned for the greater part. But as they came nearer to the center a certain animation prevailed in the streets. Companies of soldiers passed at a quick pace. Guns and ammunition wagons trotted by. In the hotel to which they went on the Grande Place, a hotel containing a number of officers, there was general excitement, with much coming and going and even a little disorder.

  Paul and Bernard asked the reason. They were told that, for some days past, we had been successfully attacking the slopes opposite Soissons, on the other side of the Aisne. Two days before, some battalions of light infantry and African troops had taken Hill 132 by assault. On the following day, we held the positions which we had won and carried the trenches on the Dent de Crouy. Then, in the course of the Monday night at a time when the enemy was delivering a violent counter-attack, a curious thing happened. The Aisne, which was swollen as the result of the heavy rains
, overflowed its banks and carried away all the bridges at Villeneuve and Soissons.

  The rise of the Aisne was natural enough; but, high though the river was, it did not explain the destruction of the bridges; and this destruction, coinciding with the German counter-attack and apparently due to suspect reasons which had not yet been cleared up, had complicated the position of the French troops by making the dispatch of reinforcements almost impossible. Our men had held the hill all day, but with difficulty and with great losses. At this moment, a part of the artillery was being moved back to the right bank of the Aisne.

  Paul and Bernard did not hesitate in their minds for a second. In all this they recognized the Comtesse Hermine’s handiwork. The destruction of the bridges, the German attacks, those two incidents which happened on the very night of her arrival were, beyond a doubt, the outcome of a plan conceived by her, the execution of which had been prepared for the time when the rains were bound to swell the river and proved the collaboration existing between the countess and the enemy’s staff.

  Besides, Paul remembered the sentences which she had exchanged with Karl the spy outside the door of Prince Conrad’s villa:

  “I am going to France . . . everything is ready. The weather is in our favor; and the staff have told me. . . . So I shall be there to-morrow evening; and it will only need a touch of the thumb. . . .”

  She had given that touch of the thumb. All the bridges had been tampered with by Karl or by men in his pay and had now broken down.

  “It’s she, obviously enough,” said Bernard. “And, if it is, why look so anxious? You ought to be glad, on the contrary, because we are now positively certain of laying hold of her.”

  “Yes, but shall we do so in time? When she spoke to Karl, she uttered another threat which struck me as much more serious. As I told you, she said, ‘Luck is turning against us. If I succeed, it will be the end of the run on the black.’ And, when the spy asked her if she had the Emperor’s consent, she answered that it was unnecessary and that this was one of the undertakings which one doesn’t talk about. You understand, Bernard, it’s not a question of the German attack or the destruction of the bridges: that is honest warfare and the Emperor knows all about it. No, it’s a question of something different, which is intended to coincide with other events and give them their full significance. The woman can’t think that an advance of half a mile or a mile is an incident capable of ending what she calls the run on the black. Then what is at the back of it all? I don’t know; and that accounts for my anxiety.”

  Paul spent the whole of that evening and the whole of the next day, Wednesday the 13th, in making prolonged searches in the streets of the town or along the banks of the Aisne. He had placed himself in communication with the military authorities. Officers and men took part in his investigations. They went over several houses and questioned a number of the inhabitants.

  Bernard offered to go with him; but Paul persisted in refusing:

  “No. It is true, the woman doesn’t know you; but she must not see your sister. I am asking you therefore to stay with Élisabeth, to keep her from going out and to watch over her without a moment’s intermission, for we have to do with the most terrible enemy imaginable.”

  The brother and sister therefore passed the long hours of that day with their faces glued to the window-panes. Paul came back at intervals to snatch a meal. He was quivering with hope.

  “She’s here,” he said. “She must have left those who were with her in the motor car, dropped her nurse’s disguise and is now hiding in some hole, like a spider behind its web. I can see her, telephone in hand, giving her orders to a whole band of people, who have taken to earth like herself and made themselves invisible like her. But I am beginning to perceive her plan and I have one advantage over her, which is that she believes herself in safety. She does not know that her accomplice, Karl, is dead. She does not know of Élisabeth’s release. She does not know of our presence here. I’ve got her, the loathsome beast, I’ve got her.”

  The news of the battle, meanwhile, was not improving. The retreating movement on the left bank continued. At Crouy, the severity of their losses and the depth of the mud stopped the rush of the Moroccan troops. A hurriedly-constructed pontoon bridge went drifting down-stream.

  When Paul made his next appearance, at six o’clock in the evening, there were a few drops of blood on his sleeve. Élisabeth took alarm.

  “It’s nothing,” he said, with a laugh. “A scratch; I don’t know how I got it.”

  “But your hand; look at your hand. You’re bleeding!”

  “No, it’s not my blood. Don’t be frightened. Everything’s all right.”

  Bernard said:

  “You know the commander-in-chief came to Soissons this morning.”

  “Yes, so it seems. All the better. I should like to make him a present of the spy and her gang. It would be a handsome gift.”

  He went away for another hour and then came back and had dinner.

  “You look as though you were sure of things now,” said Bernard.

  “One can never be sure of anything. That woman is the very devil.”

  “But you know where she’s hiding?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what are you waiting for?”

  “I’m waiting for nine o’clock. I shall take a rest till then. Wake me up at a little before nine.”

  The guns never ceased booming in the distant darkness. Sometimes a shell would fall on the town with a great crash. Troops passed in every direction. Then there would be brief intervals of silence, in which the sounds of war seemed to hang in suspense; and it was those minutes which perhaps were most formidable and significant.

  Paul woke of himself. He said to his wife and Bernard:

  “You know, you’re coming, too. It will be rough work, Élisabeth, very rough work. Are you certain that you’re equal to it?”

  “Oh, Paul . . . But you yourself are looking so pale.”

  “Yes,” he said, “it’s the excitement. Not because of what is going to happen. But, in spite of all my precautions, I shall be afraid until the last moment that the adversary will escape. A single act of carelessness, a stroke of ill-luck that gives the alarm . . . and I shall have to begin all over again. . . . Never mind about your revolver, Bernard.”

  “What!” cried Bernard. “Isn’t there going to be any fighting in this expedition of yours?”

  Paul did not reply. According to his custom, he expressed himself during or after action. Bernard took his revolver.

  The last stroke of nine sounded as they crossed the Grande Place, amid a darkness stabbed here and there by a thin ray of light issuing from a closed shop. A group of soldiers were massed in the forecourt of the cathedral, whose shadowy bulk they felt looming overhead.

  Paul flashed the light from an electric lamp upon them and asked the one in command:

  “Any news, sergeant?”

  “No, sir. No one has entered the house and no one has gone out.”

  The sergeant gave a low whistle. In the middle of the street, two men emerged from the surrounding gloom and approached the group.

  “Any sound in the house?”

  “No, sergeant.”

  “Any light behind the shutters?”

  “No, sergeant.”

  Then Paul marched ahead and, while the others, in obedience to his instructions, followed him without making the least noise, he stepped on resolutely, like a belated wayfarer making for home.

  They stopped at a narrow-fronted house, the ground-floor of which was hardly distinguishable in the darkness of the night. Three steps led to the door. Paul gave four sharp taps and, at the same time, took a key from his pocket and opened the door.

  He switched on his electric lamp again in the passage and, while his companions continued as silent as before, turned to a mirror which rose straight from the flagged floor. He gave four little taps on the mirror and then pushed it, pressing one side of it. It masked the aperture of a staircase which led to
the basement; and Paul sent the light of his lantern down the well.

  This appeared to be a signal, the third signal agreed upon, for a voice from below, a woman’s voice, but hoarse and rasping in its tones, asked:

  “Is that you, Daddy Walter?”

  The moment had come to act. Without answering, Paul rushed down the stairs, taking four steps at a time. He reached the bottom just as a massive door was closing, almost barring his access to the cellar.

  He gave a strong push and entered.

  The Comtesse Hermine was there, in the semi-darkness, motionless, hesitating what to do.

  Then suddenly she ran to the other end of the cellar, seized a revolver on the table, turned round and fired.

  The hammer clicked, but there was no report.

  She repeated the action three times; and the result, was three times the same.

  “It’s no use going on,” said Paul, with a laugh. “The charge has been removed.”

  The countess uttered a cry of rage, opened the drawer of the table and, taking another revolver, pulled the trigger four times, without producing a sound.

  “You may as well drop it,” laughed Paul. “This one has been emptied, too; and so has the one in the other drawer: so have all the firearms in the house, for that matter.”

  Then, when she stared at him in amazement, without understanding, dazed by her own helplessness, he bowed and introduced himself, just in two words, which meant so much:

  “Paul Delroze.”

  CHAPTER XIX. HOHENZOLLERN

  THE CELLAR, THOUGH smaller, looked like one of those large vaulted basement halls which prevail in the Champagne district. Walls spotlessly clean, a smooth floor with brick paths running across it, a warm atmosphere, a curtained-off recess between two wine vats, chairs, benches and rugs all went to form not only a comfortable abode, out of the way of the shells, but also a safe refuge for any one who stood in fear of indiscreet visits.

  Paul remembered the ruins of the old lighthouse on the bank of the Yser and the tunnel from Ornequin to Èbrecourt. So the struggle was still continuing underground: a war of trenches and cellars, a war of spying and trickery, the same unvarying, stealthy, disgraceful, suspicious, criminal methods.