“Such as relations with Essarès Bey?” asked Don Luis, carelessly. “Or his plans concerning Patrice Belval?”
“Heaps of things,” said the porter, after a further hesitation. “He is one of the best of men, does a lot of good and used to employ me in distributing his local charity. And just now again he was risking his life for Mme. Essarès.”
“One more word. Had you seen him since Essarès Bey’s death?”
“No, it was the first time. He arrived a little before one o’clock. He was out of breath and spoke in a low voice, listening to the sounds of the street outside: ‘I’ve been followed,’ said he; ‘I’ve been followed. I could swear it.’ ‘By whom?’ said I. ‘You don’t know him,’ said he. ‘He has only one hand, but he wrings your neck for you.’ And then he stopped. And then he began again, in a whisper, so that I could hardly hear: ‘Listen to me, you’re coming with me. We’re going to fetch a lady, Mme. Essarès. They want to kill her. I’ve hidden her all right, but she’s fainted: we shall have to carry her. . . . Or no, I’ll go alone. I’ll manage. But I want to know, is my room still free?’ I must tell you, he has a little lodging here, since the day when he too had to hide himself. He used to come to it sometimes and he kept it on in case he might want it, for it’s a detached lodging, away from the other tenants.”
“What did he do after that?” asked Patrice, anxiously.
“After that, he went away.”
“But why isn’t he back yet?”
“I admit that it’s alarming. Perhaps the man who was following him has attacked him. Or perhaps something has happened to the lady.”
“What do you mean, something happened to the lady?”
“I’m afraid something may have. When he first showed me the way we should have to go to fetch her, he said, ‘Quick, we must hurry. To save her life, I had to put her in a hole. That’s all very well for two or three hours. But, if she’s left longer, she will suffocate. The want of air . . .”
Patrice had leapt upon the old man. He was beside himself, maddened at the thought that Coralie, ill and worn-out as she was, might be at the point of death in some unknown place, a prey to terror and suffering.
“You shall speak,” he cried, “and this very minute! You shall tell us where she is! Oh, don’t imagine that you can fool us any longer! Where is she? You know! He told you!”
He was shaking M. Vacherot by the shoulders and hurling his rage into the old man’s face with unspeakable violence.
Don Luis, on the other hand, stood chuckling.
“Splendid, captain,” he said, “splendid! My best compliments! You’re making real progress since I joined forces with you. M. Vacherot will go through fire and water for us now.”
“Well, you see if I don’t make the fellow speak,” shouted Patrice.
“It’s no use, sir,” declared the porter, very firmly and calmly. “You have deceived me. You are enemies of M. Siméon’s. I shall not say another word that can give you any information.”
“You refuse to speak, do you? You refuse to speak?”
In his exasperation Patrice drew his revolver and aimed it at the man:
“I’m going to count three. If, by that time, you don’t make up your mind to speak, you shall see the sort of man that Captain Belval is!”
The porter gave a start:
“Captain Belval, did you say? Are you Captain Belval?”
“Ah, old fellow, that seems to give you food for thought!”
“Are you Captain Belval? Patrice Belval?”
“At your service; and, if in two seconds from this you haven’t told me . . .”
“Patrice Belval! And you are M. Siméon’s enemy? And you want to . . . ?”
“I want to do him up like the cur he is, your blackguard of a Siméon . . . and you, his accomplice, with him. A nice pair of rascals! . . . Well, have you made up your mind?”
“Unhappy man!” gasped the porter. “Unhappy man! You don’t know what you’re doing. Kill M. Siméon! You? You? Why, you’re the last man who could commit a crime like that!”
“What about it? Speak, will you, you old numskull!”
“You, kill M. Siméon? You, Patrice? You, Captain Belval? You?”
“And why not? Speak, damn it! Why not?”
“You are his son.”
All Patrice’s fury, all his anguish at the thought that Coralie was in Siméon’s power or else lying in some pit, all his agonized grief, all his alarm: all this gave way, for a moment, to a terrible fit of merriment, which revealed itself in a long burst of laughter.
“Siméon’s son! What the devil are you talking about? Oh, this beats everything! Upon my word, you’re full of ideas, when you’re trying to save him! You old ruffian! Of course, it’s most convenient: don’t kill that man, he’s your father. He my father, that putrid Siméon! Siméon Diodokis, Patrice Belval’s father! Oh, it’s enough to make a chap split his sides!”
Don Luis had listened in silence. He made a sign to Patrice:
“Will you allow me to clear up this business, captain? It won’t take me more than a few minutes; and that certainly won’t delay us.” And, without waiting for the officer’s reply, he turned to the old man and said slowly, “Let’s have this out, M. Vacherot. It’s of the highest importance. The great thing is to speak plainly and not to lose yourself in superfluous words. Besides, you have said too much not to finish your revelation. Siméon Diodokis is not your benefactor’s real name, is it?”
“No, that’s so.”
“He is Armand Belval; and the woman who loved him used to call him Patrice?”
“Yes, his son’s name.”
“Nevertheless, this Armand Belval was a victim of the same murderous attempt as the woman he loved, who was Coralie Essarès’ mother?”
“Yes, but Coralie Essarès’ mother died; and he did not.”
“That was on the fourteenth of April, 1895.”
“The fourteenth of April, 1895.”
Patrice caught hold of Don Luis’ arm:
“Come,” he spluttered, “Coralie’s at death’s door. The monster has buried her. That’s the only thing that matters.”
“Then you don’t believe that monster to be your father?” asked Don Luis.
“You’re mad!”
“For all that, captain, you’re trembling! . . .”
“I dare say, I dare say, but it’s because of Coralie. . . . I can’t even hear what the man’s saying! . . . Oh, it’s a nightmare, every word of it! Make him stop! Make him shut up! Why didn’t I wring his neck?”
He sank into a chair, with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. It was really a horrible moment; and no catastrophe would have overwhelmed a man more utterly.
Don Luis looked at him with feeling and then turned to the porter:
“Explain yourself, M. Vacherot,” he said. “As briefly as possible, won’t you? No details. We can go into them later. We were saying, on the fourteenth of April, 1895 . . .”
“On the fourteenth of April, 1895, a solicitor’s clerk, accompanied by the commissary of police, came to my governor’s, close by here, and ordered two coffins for immediate delivery. The whole shop got to work. At ten o’clock in the evening, the governor, one of my mates and I went to the Rue Raynouard, to a sort of pavilion or lodge, standing in a garden.”
“I know. Go on.”
“There were two bodies. We wrapped them in winding-sheets and put them into the coffins. At eleven o’clock my governor and my fellow-workmen went away and left me alone with a sister of mercy. There was nothing more to do except to nail the coffins down. Well, just then, the nun, who had been watching and praying, fell asleep and something happened . . . oh, an awful thing! It made my hair stand on end, sir. I shall never forget it as long as I live. My knees gave way beneath me, I shook with fright. . . . Sir, the man’s body had moved. The man was alive!”
“Then you didn’t know of the murder at that time?” asked Don Luis. “You hadn’t heard of the attempt?”
“No, we were told that they had both suffocated themselves with gas. . . . It was many hours before the man recovered consciousness entirely. He was in some way poisoned.”
“But why didn’t you inform the nun?”
“I couldn’t say. I was simply stunned. I looked at the man as he slowly came back to life and ended by opening his eyes. His first words were, ‘She’s dead, I suppose?’ And then at once he said, ‘Not a word about all this. Let them think me dead: that will be better.’ And I can’t tell you why, but I consented. The miracle had deprived me of all power of will. I obeyed like a child. . . . He ended by getting up. He leant over the other coffin, drew aside the sheet and kissed the dead woman’s face over and over again, whispering, ‘I will avenge you. All my life shall be devoted to avenging you and also, as you wished, to uniting our children. If I don’t kill myself, it will be for Patrice and Coralie’s sake. Good-by.’ Then he told me to help him. Between us, we lifted the woman out of the coffin and carried it into the little bedroom next door. Then we went into the garden, took some big stones and put them into the coffins where the two bodies had been. When this was done, I nailed the coffins down, woke the good sister and went away. The man had locked himself into the bedroom with the dead woman. Next morning the undertaker’s men came and fetched away the two coffins.”
Patrice had unclasped his hands and thrust his distorted features between Don Luis and the porter. Fixing his haggard eyes upon the latter, he asked, struggling with his words:
“But the graves? The inscription saying that the remains of both lie there, near the lodge where the murder was committed? The cemetery?”
“Armand Belval wished it so. At that time I was living in a garret in this house. I took a lodging for him where he came and lived by stealth, under the name of Siméon Diodokis, since Armand Belval was dead, and where he stayed for several months without going out. Then, in his new name and through me, he bought his lodge. And, bit by bit, we dug the graves. Coralie’s and his. His because, I repeat, he wished it so. Patrice and Coralie were both dead. It seemed to him, in this way, that he was not leaving her. Perhaps also, I confess, despair had upset his balance a little, just a very little, only in what concerned his memory of the woman who died on the fourteenth of April, 1895, and his devotion for her. He wrote her name and his own everywhere: on the grave and also on the walls, on the trees and in the very borders of the flower-beds. They were Coralie Essarès’ name and yours. . . . And for this, for all that had to do with his revenge upon the murderer and with his son and with the dead woman’s daughter, oh, for these matters he had all his wits about him, believe me, sir!”
Patrice stretched his clutching hands and his distraught face towards the porter:
“Proofs, proofs, proofs!” he insisted, in a stifled voice. “Give me proofs at once! There’s some one dying at this moment by that scoundrel’s criminal intentions, there’s a woman at the point of death. Give me proofs!”
“You need have no fear,” said M. Vacherot. “My friend has only one thought, that of saving the woman, not killing her. . . .”
“He lured her and me into the lodge to kill us, as our parents were killed before us.”
“He is trying only to unite you.”
“Yes, in death.”
“No, in life. You are his dearly-loved son. He always spoke of you with pride.”
“He is a ruffian, a monster!” shouted the officer.
“He is the very best man living, sir, and he is your father.”
Patrice started, stung by the insult:
“Proofs,” he roared, “proofs! I forbid you to speak another word until you have proved the truth in a manner admitting of no doubt.”
Without moving from his seat, the old man put out his arm towards an old mahogany escritoire, lowered the lid and, pressing a spring, pulled out one of the drawers. Then he held out a bundle of papers:
“You know your father’s handwriting, don’t you, captain?” he said. “You must have kept letters from him, since the time when you were at school in England. Well, read the letters which he wrote to me. You will see your name repeated a hundred times, the name of his son; and you will see the name of the Coralie whom he meant you to marry. Your whole life — your studies, your journeys, your work — is described in these letters. And you will also find your photographs, which he had taken by various correspondents, and photographs of Coralie, whom he had visited at Salonica. And you will see above all his hatred for Essarès Bey, whose secretary he had become, and his plans of revenge, his patience, his tenacity. And you will also see his despair when he heard of the marriage between Essarès and Coralie and, immediately afterwards, his joy at the thought that his revenge would be more cruel when he succeeded in uniting his son Patrice with Essarès’ wife.”
As the old fellow spoke, he placed the letters one by one under the eyes of Patrice, who had at once recognized his father’s hand and sat greedily devouring sentences in which his own name was constantly repeated. M. Vacherot watched him.
“Have you any more doubts, captain?” he asked, at last.
The officer again pressed his clenched fists to his temples:
“I saw his face,” he said, “above the skylight, in the lodge into which he had locked us. . . . It was gloating over our death, it was a face mad with hatred. . . . He hated us even more than Essarès did. . . .”
“A mistake! Pure imagination!” the old man protested.
“Or madness,” muttered Patrice.
Then he struck the table violently, in a fit of revulsion:
“It’s not true, it’s not true!” he exclaimed. “That man is not my father. What, a scoundrel like that! . . .”
He took a few steps round the little room and, stopping in front of Don Luis, jerked out:
“Let’s go. Else I shall go mad too. It’s a nightmare, there’s no other word for it, a nightmare in which things turn upside down until the brain itself capsizes. Let’s go. Coralie is in danger. That’s the only thing that matters.”
The old man shook his head:
“I’m very much afraid . . .”
“What are you afraid of?” bellowed the officer.
“I’m afraid that my poor friend has been caught up by the person who was following him . . . and then how can he have saved Mme. Essarès? The poor thing was hardly able to breathe, he told me.”
Hanging on to Don Luis’ arm, Patrice staggered out of the porter’s lodge like a drunken man:
“She’s done for, she must be!” he cried.
“Not at all,” said Don Luis. “Siméon is as feverishly active as yourself. He is nearing the catastrophe. He is quaking with fear and not in a condition to weigh his words. Believe me, your Coralie is in no immediate danger. We have some hours before us.”
“But Ya-Bon? Suppose Ya-Bon has laid hands upon him?”
“I gave Ya-Bon orders not to kill him. Therefore, whatever happens, Siméon is alive. That’s the great thing. So long as Siméon is alive, there is nothing to fear. He won’t let your Coralie die.”
“Why not, seeing that he hates her? Why not? What is there in that man’s heart? He devotes all his existence to a work of love on our behalf; and, from one minute to the next, that love turns to execration.”
He pressed Don Luis’ arm and, in a hollow voice, asked:
“Do you believe that he is my father?”
“Siméon Diodokis is your father, captain,” replied Don Luis.
“Ah, don’t, don’t! It’s too horrible! God, but we are in the valley of the shadow!”
“On the contrary,” said Don Luis, “the shadow is lifting slightly; and I confess that our talk with M. Vacherot has given me a little light.”
“Do you mean it?”
But, in Patrice Belval’s fevered brain, one idea jostled another. He suddenly stopped:
“Siméon may have gone back to the porter’s lodge! . . . And we sha’n’t be there! . . . Perhaps he will bring Coralie back!”
“
No,” Don Luis declared, “he would have done that before now, if it could be done. No, it’s for us to go to him.”
“But where?”
“Well, of course, where all the fighting has been . . . where the gold lies. All the enemy’s operations are centered in that gold; and you may be sure that, even in retreat, he can’t get away from it. Besides, we know that he is not far from Berthou’s Wharf.”
Patrice allowed himself to be led along without a word. But suddenly Don Luis cried:
“Did you hear?”
“Yes, a shot.”
At that moment they were on the point of turning into the Rue Raynouard. The height of the houses prevented them from perceiving the exact spot from which the shot had been fired, but it came approximately from the Essarès house or the immediate precincts. Patrice was filled with alarm:
“Can it be Ya-Bon?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Don Luis, “and, as Ya-Bon wouldn’t fire, some one must have fired a shot at him. . . . Oh, by Jove, if my poor Ya-Bon were to be killed . . . !”
“And suppose it was at her, at Coralie?” whispered Patrice.
Don Luis began to laugh:
“Oh, my dear captain, I’m almost sorry that I ever mixed myself up in this business! You were much cleverer before I came and a good deal clearer-sighted. Why the devil should Siméon attack your Coralie, considering that she’s already in his power?”
They hurried their steps. As they passed the Essarès house they saw that everything was quiet and they went on until they came to the lane, down which they turned.
Patrice had the key, but the little door which opened on to the garden of the lodge was bolted inside.
“Aha!” said Don Luis. “That shows that we’re warm. Meet me on the quay, captain. I shall run down to Berthou’s Wharf to have a look round.”
During the past few minutes a pale dawn had begun to mingle with the shades of night. The embankment was still deserted, however.
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 208
