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

by Maurice Leblanc

  “Reefs” and “coffins.” — Translator’s Note.

  Honorine broke off, as though she wanted to think of something else, and, pointing to a reef of rocks, said:

  “Look, Madame Véronique, past that big one right in our way there, you will see, through an opening, our little harbour and, on the quay, François in his red cap.”

  Véronique had been listening absent-mindedly to Honorine’s explanations. She leant her body farther out of the boat, in order to catch sight the sooner of her son, while the Breton woman, once more a victim to her obsession, continued, in spite of herself:

  “There’s more than that. The Isle of Sarek — and that is why your father came to live here — contains a collection of dolmens which have nothing remarkable about them, but which are peculiar for one reason, that they are all nearly alike. Well, how many of them do you think there are? Thirty! Thirty, like the principal reefs. And those thirty are distributed round the islands, on the cliffs, exactly opposite the thirty reefs; and each of them bears the same name as the reef that corresponds to it: Dol-er-H’roeck, Dol-Kerlitu and so on. What do you say to that?”

  She had uttered these names in the same timid voice in which she spoke of all these things, as if she feared to be heard by the things themselves, to which she was attributing a formidable and sacred life.

  “What do you say to that, Madame Véronique? Oh, there’s plenty of mystery about it all; and, once more, it’s better to hold one’s tongue! I’ll tell you about it when we’ve left here, right away from the island, and when your little François is in your arms, between your father and you.”

  Véronique sat silent, gazing into space at the spot to which Honorine had pointed. With her back turned to her companion and her two hands gripping the gunwale, she stared distractedly before her. It was there, through that narrow opening, that she was to see her child, long lost and now found; and she did not want to waste a single second after the moment when she would be able to catch sight of him.

  They reached the rock. One of Honorine’s paddles grazed its side. They skirted and came to the end of it.

  “Oh,” said Véronique, sorrowfully, “he is not there!”

  “François not there? Impossible!” cried Honorine.

  She in her turn saw, three or four hundred yards in front of them, the few big rocks on the beach which served as a jetty. Three women, a little girl and some old seafaring men were waiting for the boat, but no boy, no red cap.

  “That’s strange,” said Honorine, in a low voice. “It’s the first time that he’s failed to answer my call.”

  “Perhaps he’s ill?” Véronique suggested.

  “No, François is never ill.”

  “What then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But aren’t you afraid?” asked Véronique, who was already becoming frightened.

  “For him, no . . . but for your father. Maguennoc said that I oughtn’t to leave him. It’s he who is threatened.”

  “But François is there to defend him; and so is M. Maroux, his tutor. Come, answer me: what do you imagine?”

  After a moment’s pause, Honorine shrugged her shoulders.

  “A pack of nonsense! I get absurd, yes, absurd things into my head. Don’t be angry with me. I can’t help it: it’s the Breton in me. Except for a few years, I have spent all my life here, with legends and stories in the very air I breathed. Don’t let’s talk about it.”

  The Isle of Sarek appears in the shape of a long and undulating table-land, covered with ancient trees and standing on cliffs of medium height than which nothing more jagged could be imagined. It is as though the island were surrounded by a reef of uneven, diversified lacework, incessantly wrought upon by the rain, the wind, the sun, the snow, the frost, the mist and all the water that falls from the sky or oozes from the earth.

  The only accessible point is on the eastern side, at the bottom of a depression where a few houses, mostly abandoned since the war, constitute the village. A break in the cliffs opens here, protected by the little jetty. The sea at this spot is perfectly calm.

  Two boats lay moored to the quay.

  Before landing, Honorine made a last effort:

  “We’re there, Madame Véronique, as you see. Now is it really worth your while to get out? Why not stay where you are? I’ll bring your father and your son to you in two hours’ time and we’ll have dinner at Beg-Meil or at Pont-l’Abbé. Will that do?”

  Véronique rose to her feet and leapt on to the quay without replying. Honorine joined her and insisted no longer:

  “Well, children, where’s young François? Hasn’t he come?”

  “He was here about twelve,” said one of the women. “Only he didn’t expect you until to-morrow.”

  “That’s true enough . . . but still he must have heard me blow my horn. However, we shall see.”

  And, as the man helped her to unload the boat, she said:

  “I shan’t want all this taken up to the Priory. Nor the bags either. Unless . . . Look here, if I am not back by five o’clock, send a youngster after me with the bags.”

  “No, I’ll come myself,” said one of the seamen.

  “As you please, Corréjou. Oh, by the way, where’s Maguennoc?”

  “Maguennoc’s gone. I took him across to Pont-l’Abbé myself.”

  “When was that, Corréjou?”

  “Why, the day after you went, Madame Honorine.”

  “What was he going over for?”

  “He told us he was going . . . I don’t know where . . . . It had to do with the hand he lost . . . . a pilgrimage . . . .”

  “A pilgrimage? To Le Faouet, perhaps? To St. Barbe’s Chapel?”

  “That’s it . . . that’s it exactly: St. Barbe’s Chapel, that’s what he said.”

  Honorine asked no more. She could no longer doubt that Maguennoc was dead. She moved away, accompanied by Véronique, who had lowered her veil; and the two went along a rocky path, cut into steps, which ran through the middle of an oak-wood towards the southernmost point of the island.

  “After all,” said Honorine, “I am not sure — and I may as well say so — that M. d’Hergemont will consent to leave. He treats all my stories as crotchets, though there’s plenty of things that astonish even him . . . .”

  “Does he live far from here?” asked Véronique.

  “It’s forty minutes’ walk. As you will see, it’s almost another island, joined to the first. The Benedictines built an abbey there.”

  “But he’s not alone there, is he, with François and M. Maroux?”

  “Before the war, there were two men besides. Lately, Maguennoc and I used to do pretty well all the work, with the cook, Marie Le Goff.”

  “She remained, of course, while you were away?”

  “Yes.”

  They reached the top of the cliffs. The path, which followed the coast, rose and fell in steep gradients. On every hand were old oaks with their bunches of mistletoe, which showed among the as yet scanty leaves. The sea, grey-green in the distance, girded the island with a white belt.

  Véronique continued:

  “What do you propose to do, Honorine?”

  “I shall go in by myself and speak to your father. Then I shall come back and fetch you at the garden-gate; and in François’ eyes you will pass for a friend of his mother’s. He will guess the truth gradually.”

  “And you think that my father will give me a good welcome?”

  “He will receive you with open arms, Madame Véronique,” cried the Breton woman, “and we shall all be happy, provided . . . provided nothing has happened . . . It’s so funny that François doesn’t run out to meet me! He can see our boat from every part of the island . . . as far off as the Glenans almost.”

  She relapsed into what M. d’Hergemont called her crotchets; and they pursued their road in silence. Véronique felt anxious and impatient.

  Suddenly Honorine made the sign of the cross:

  “You do as I’m doing, Madame Véro
nique,” she said. “The monks have consecrated the place, but there’s lots of bad, unlucky things remaining from the old days, especially in that wood, the wood of the Great Oak.”

  The old days no doubt meant the period of the Druids and their human sacrifices; and the two women were now entering a wood in which the oaks, each standing in isolation on a mound of moss-grown stones, had a look of ancient gods, each with his own altar, his mysterious cult and his formidable power.

  Véronique, following Honorine’s example, crossed herself and could not help shuddering as she said:

  “How melancholy it is! There’s not a flower on this desolate plateau.”

  “They grow most wonderfully when one takes the trouble. You shall see Maguennoc’s, at the end of the island, to the right of the Fairies’ Dolmen . . . a place called the Calvary of the Flowers.”

  “Are they lovely?”

  “Wonderful, I tell you. Only he goes himself to get the mould from certain places. He prepares it. He works it up. He mixes it with some special leaves of which he knows the effect.” And she repeated, “You shall see Maguennoc’s flowers. There are no flowers like them in the world. They are miraculous flowers . . . .”

  After skirting a hill, the road descended a sudden declivity. A huge gash divided the island into two parts, the second of which now appeared, standing a little higher, but very much more limited in extent.

  “It’s the Priory, that part,” said Honorine.

  The same jagged cliffs surrounded the smaller islet with an even steeper rampart, which itself was hollowed out underneath like the hoop of a crown. And this rampart was joined to the main island by a strip of cliff fifty yards long and hardly thicker than a castle-wall, with a thin, tapering crest which looked as sharp as the edge of an axe.

  There was no thoroughfare possible along this ridge, inasmuch as it was split in the middle with a wide fissure, for which reason the abutments of a wooden bridge had been anchored to the two extremities. The bridge started flat on the rock and subsequently spanned the intervening crevice.

  They crossed it separately, for it was not only very narrow but also unstable, shaking under their feet and in the wind.

  “Look, over there, at the extreme point of the island,” said Honorine, “you can see a corner of the Priory.”

  The path that led to it ran through fields planted with small fir-trees arranged in quincunxes. Another path turned to the right and disappeared from view in some dense thickets.

  Véronique kept her eyes upon the Priory, whose low-storied front was lengthening gradually, when Honorine, after a few minutes, stopped short, with her face towards the thickets on the right, and called out:

  “Monsieur Stéphane!”

  “Whom are you calling?” asked Véronique. “M. Maroux?”

  “Yes, François’ tutor. He was running towards the bridge: I caught sight of him through a clearing . . . Monsieur Stéphane! . . . But why doesn’t he answer? Did you see a man running?”

  “No.”

  “I declare it was he, with his white cap. At any rate, we can see the bridge behind us. Let us wait for him to cross.”

  “Why wait? If anything’s the matter, if there’s a danger of any kind, it’s at the Priory.”

  “You’re right. Let’s hurry.”

  They hastened their pace, overcome with forebodings; and then, for no definite reason, broke into a run, so greatly did their fears increase as they drew nearer to the reality.

  The islet grew narrower again, barred by a low wall which marked the boundaries of the Priory domain. At that moment, cries were heard, coming from the house.

  Honorine exclaimed:

  “They’re calling! Did you hear? A woman’s cries! It’s the cook! It’s Marie Le Goff! . . .”

  She made a dash for the gate and grasped the key, but inserted it so awkwardly that she jammed the lock and was unable to open it.

  “Through the gap!” she ordered. “This way, on the right!”

  They rushed along, scrambled through the wall and crossed a wide grassy space filled with ruins, in which the winding and ill-marked path disappeared at every moment under trailing creepers and moss.

  “Here we are! Here we are!” shouted Honorine. “We’re coming!”

  And she muttered:

  “The cries have stopped! It’s dreadful! Oh, poor Marie Le Goff!”

  She grasped Véronique’s arm:

  “Let’s go round. The front of the house is on the other side. On this side the doors are always locked and the window-shutters closed.”

  But Véronique caught her foot in some roots, stumbled and fell to her knees. When she stood up again, the Breton woman had left her and was hurrying round the left wing. Unconsciously, Véronique, instead of following her, made straight for the house, climbed the step and was brought up short by the door, at which she knocked again and again.

  The idea of going round, as Honorine had done, seemed to her a waste of time which nothing could ever make good. However, realising the futility of her efforts, she was just deciding to go, when once more cries sounded from inside the house and above her head.

  It was a man’s voice, which Véronique seemed to recognize as her father’s. She fell back a few steps. Suddenly one of the windows on the first floor opened and she saw M. d’Hergemont, his features distorted with inexpressible terror, gasping:

  “Help! Help! Oh, the monster! Help!”

  “Father! Father!” cried Véronique, in despair. “It’s I!”

  He lowered his head for an instant, appeared not to see his daughter and made a quick attempt to climb over the balcony. But a shot rang out behind him and one of the window-panes was blown into fragments.

  “Murderer, murderer!” he shouted, turning back into the room.

  Véronique, mad with fear and helplessness, looked around her. How could she rescue her father? The wall was too high and offered nothing to cling to. Suddenly, she saw a ladder, lying twenty yards away, beside the wall of the house. With a prodigious effort of will and strength, she managed to carry the ladder, heavy though it was, and to set it up under the open window.

  At the most tragic moment in life, when the mind is no more than a seething confusion, when the whole body is shaken by the tremor of anguish, a certain logic continues to connect our ideas: and Véronique wondered why she had not heard Honorine’s voice and what could have delayed her coming.

  She also thought of François. Where was François? Had he followed Stéphane Maroux in his inexplicable flight? Had he gone in search of assistance? And who was it that M. d’Hergemont had apostrophized as a monster and a murderer?

  The ladder did not reach the window; and Véronique at once became aware of the effort which would be necessary if she was to climb over the balcony. Nevertheless she did not hesitate. They were fighting up there; and the struggle was mingled with stifled shouts uttered by her father. She went up the ladder. The most that she could do was to grasp the bottom rail of the balcony. But a narrow ledge enabled her to hoist herself on one knee, to put her head through and to witness the tragedy that was being enacted in the room.

  At that moment, M. d’Hergemont had once more retreated to the window and even a little beyond it, so that she almost saw him face to face. He stood without moving, haggard-eyed and with his arms hanging in an undecided posture, as though waiting for something terrible to happen. He stammered:

  “Murderer! Murderer! . . . Is it really you? Oh, curse you! François! François!”

  He was no doubt calling upon his grandson for help; and François no doubt was also exposed to some attack, was perhaps wounded, was possibly dead!

  Véronique summoned up all her strength and succeeded in setting foot on the ledge.

  “Here I am! Here I am!” she meant to cry.

  But her voice died away in her throat. She had seen! She saw! Facing her father, at a distance of five paces, against the opposite wall of the room, stood some one pointing a revolver at M. d’Hergemont and deliberately takin
g aim. And that some one was . . . oh, horror! Véronique recognized the red cap of which Honorine had spoken, the flannel shirt with the gilt buttons. And above all she beheld, in that young face convulsed with hideous emotions, the very expression which Vorski used to wear at times when his instincts, hatred and ferocity, gained the upper hand.

  The boy did not see her. His eyes were fixed on the mark which he proposed to hit; and he seemed to take a sort of savage joy in postponing the fatal act.

  Véronique herself was silent. Words or cries could not possibly avert the peril. What she had to do was to fling herself between her father and her son. She clutched hold of the railings, clambered up and climbed through the window.

  It was too late. The shot was fired. M. d’Hergemont fell with a groan of pain.

  And, at the same time, at that very moment, while the boy still had his arm outstretched and the old man was sinking into a huddled heap, a door opened at the back. Honorine appeared; and the abominable sight struck her, so to speak, full in the face.

  “François!” she screamed. “You! You!”

  The boy sprang at her. The woman tried to bar his way. There was not even a struggle. The boy took a step back, quickly raised his weapon and fired.

  Honorine’s knees gave way beneath her and she fell across the threshold. And, as he jumped over her body and fled, she kept on repeating:

  “François . . . . François . . . . No, it’s not true! . . . Oh, can it be possible? . . . François . . . .”

  There was a burst of laughter outside. Yes, the boy had laughed. Véronique heard that horrible, infernal laugh, so like Vorski’s laugh; and it all agonized her with the same anguish which used to sear her in Vorski’s days!

  She did not run after the murderer. She did not call out.

  A faint voice beside her was murmuring her name:

  “Véronique . . . . Véronique . . . .”

  M. d’Hergemont lay on the ground, staring at her with glassy eyes which were already filled with death.