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

by Maurice Leblanc

  “Why, yes,” continued the boy, “I agree with you, All’s Well. But all the same, I should be jolly glad if you could bring me some real proof of it. On the one hand, there’s no news of grandfather or Honorine, though I’ve given you lots of messages for them; on the other hand, there’s no news of Stéphane. And that’s what alarms me. Where is he? Where have they locked him up? Won’t he be starving by now? Come, All’s Well, tell me: where did you take the biscuits yesterday? . . . But, look here, what’s the matter with you? You seem to have something on your mind. What are you looking at over there? Do you want to go away? No? Then what is it?”

  The boy stopped. Then, after a moment, in a much lower voice:

  “Did you come with some one?” he asked. “Is there anybody behind the wall?”

  The dog gave a dull bark. Then there was a long pause, during which François also must have been listening.

  Véronique’s emotion was so great that it seemed to her that François must hear the beating of her heart.

  He whispered:

  “Is that you, Honorine?”

  There was a fresh pause; and he continued:

  “Yes, I’m sure it’s you . . . . I can hear you breathing . . . . Why don’t you answer?”

  Véronique was carried away by a sudden impulse. Certain gleams of light had flashed upon her mind since she had understood that Stéphane was a prisoner, no doubt like François, therefore a victim of the enemy; and all sorts of vague suppositions flitted through her brain. Besides, how could she resist the appeal of that voice? Her son was asking her a question . . . her son!

  “François . . . François!” she stammered.

  “Ah,” he said, “there’s an answer! I knew it! Is it you, Honorine?”

  “No, François,” she said.

  “Then who is it?”

  “A friend of Honorine’s.”

  “I don’t know you, do I?”

  “No . . . but I am your friend.”

  He hesitated. Was he on his guard?

  “Why didn’t Honorine come with you?”

  Véronique was not prepared for this question, but she at once realized that, if the involuntary suppositions that were forcing themselves upon her were correct, the boy must not yet be told the truth.

  She therefore said:

  “Honorine came back from her journey, but has gone away again.”

  “Gone to look for me?”

  “That’s it, that’s it,” she said, quickly. “She thought that you had been carried away from Sarek and your tutor with you.”

  “But grandfather?”

  “He’s gone too: so have all the inhabitants of the island.”

  “Ah! The old story of the coffins and the crosses, I suppose?”

  “Just so. They thought that your disappearance meant the beginning of the disasters; and their fear made them take to flight.”

  “But you, madame?”

  “I have known Honorine for a long time. I came from Paris with her to take a holiday at Sarek. I have no reason to go away. All these superstitions have no terrors for me.”

  The child was silent. The improbability and inadequacy of the replies must have been apparent to him: and his suspicions increased in consequence. He confessed as much, frankly:

  “Listen, madame, there’s something I must tell you. It’s ten days since I was imprisoned in this cell. During the first part of that time, I saw and heard nobody. But, since the day before yesterday, every morning a little wicket opens in the middle of my door and a woman’s hand comes through and gives a fresh supply of water. A woman’s hand . . . so . . . you see?”

  “So you want to know if that woman is myself?”

  “Yes, I am obliged to ask you.”

  “Would you recognize that woman’s hand?”

  “Yes, it is lean and bony, with a yellow arm.”

  “Here’s mine,” said Véronique. “It can pass where All’s Well did.”

  She pulled up her sleeve; and by flexing her bare arm she easily passed it through.

  “Oh,” said François, at once, “that’s not the hand I saw!”

  And he added, in a lower voice:

  “How pretty this one is!”

  Suddenly Véronique felt him take it in his own with a quick movement; and he exclaimed:

  “Oh, it can’t be true, it can’t be true!”

  He had turned her hand over and was separating the fingers so as to uncover the palm entirely. And he whispered:

  “The scar! . . . It’s there! . . . The white scar! . . .”

  Then Véronique became greatly agitated. She remembered Stéphane Maroux’s diary and certain details set down by him which François must have heard. One of these details was this scar, which recalled an old and rather serious injury.

  She felt the boy’s lips pressed to her hand, first gently and then with passionate ardour and a great flow of tears, and heard him stammering:

  “Oh, mother, mother darling! . . . My dear, dear mother! . . .”

  CHAPTER VII. FRANÇOIS AND STÉPHANE

  LONG THE MOTHER and son remained thus, kneeling against the wall that divided them, yet as close together as though they were able to see each other with their frenzied eyes and to mingle their tears and kisses. They spoke both at once, asking each other questions and answering them at random. They were in a transport of delight. The life of each flowed over into the other’s life and became swallowed up in it. No power on earth could now dissolve their union or break the bonds of love and confidence which unite mothers and sons.

  “Yes, All’s Well, old man,” said François, “you may sit up as much and as long as you like. We are really crying this time . . . and you will be the first to get tired, for one doesn’t mind shedding such tears as these, does one, mother?”

  As for Véronique, her mind retained not a vestige of the terrible visions which had dismayed it. Her son a murderer, her son killing and massacring people: she no longer admitted any of that. She did not even admit the excuse of madness. Everything would be explained in some other way which she was not even in a hurry to understand. She thought only of her son. He was there. His eyes saw her through the wall. His heart beat against hers. He lived; and he was the same gentle, affectionate, pure and charming child that her maternal dreams had pictured.

  “My son, my son!” she kept on repeating, as though she could not utter those marvellous words often enough. “My son, it’s you, it’s you! I believed you dead, a thousand times dead, more dead than it is possible to be . . . . And you are alive! And you are here! And I am touching you! O Heaven, can it be true! I have a son . . . and my son is alive! . . .”

  And he, on his side, took up the refrain with the same passionate fervour:

  “Mother! Mother! I have waited for you so long! . . . To me you were not dead, but it was so sad to be a child and to have no mother . . . to see the years go by and to waste them in waiting for you.”

  For an hour they talked at random, of the past, of the present, of a hundred subjects which at first appeared to them the most interesting things in the world and which they forthwith dropped to ask each other more questions and to try to know each other a little better and to enter more deeply into the secret of their lives and the privacy of their souls.

  It was François who first attempted to impart some little method to their conversation:

  “Listen, mother; we have so much to say to each other that we must give up trying to say it all to-day and even for days and days. Let us speak now of what is essential and in the fewest possible words, for we have perhaps not much time before us.”

  “What do you mean?” said Véronique, instantly alarmed. “I have no intention of leaving you!”

  “But, mother, if we are not to leave each other, we must first be united. Now there are many obstacles to be overcome, even if it were only the wall that separates us. Besides, I am very closely watched; and I may be obliged at any moment to send you away, as I do All’s Well, at the first sound of footsteps ap
proaching.”

  “Watched by whom?”

  “By those who fell upon Stéphane and me on the day when we discovered the entrance to these caves, under the heath on the table-land, the Black Heath.”

  “Did you see them?”

  “No, it was too dark.”

  “But who are they? Who are those enemies?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You suspect, of course?”

  “The Druids?” he said, laughing. “The people of old of whom the legends speak? Rather not! Ghosts? Not that either. They were just simply creatures of to-day, creatures of flesh and blood.”

  “They live down here, though?”

  “Most likely.”

  “And you took them by surprise?”

  “No, on the contrary. They seemed even to be expecting us and to be lying in wait for us. We had gone down a stone staircase and a very long passage, lined with perhaps eighty caves, or rather eighty cells. The doors, which were of wood, were open; and the cells overlooked the sea. It was on the way back, as we were going up the staircase again in the dark, that we were seized from one side, knocked down, bound, blindfolded and gagged. The whole thing did not take a minute. I suspect that we were carried back to the end of the long passage. When I succeeded in removing my bonds and my bandage, I found that I was locked in one of the cells, probably the last in the passage; and I have been here ten days.”

  “My poor darling, how you must have suffered!”

  “No, mother, and in any case not from hunger. There was a whole stack of provisions in one corner and a truss of straw in another to lie on. So I waited quietly.”

  “For whom?”

  “You promise not to laugh, mother?”

  “Laugh at what, dear?”

  “At what I’m going to tell you?”

  “How can you think . . . ?”

  “Well, I was waiting for some one who had heard of all the stories of Sarek and who promised grandfather to come.”

  “But who was it?”

  The boy hesitated:

  “No, I am sure you will make fun of me, mother, I’ll tell you later. Besides, he never came . . . though I thought for a moment . . . Yes, fancy, I had managed to remove two stones from the wall and to open this hole of which my gaolers evidently didn’t know. All of a sudden, I heard a noise, someone scratching . . .”

  “It was All’s Well?”

  “It was Master All’s Well coming by the other road. You can imagine the welcome he received! Only what astonished me was that nobody followed him this way, neither Honorine nor grandfather. I had no pencil or paper to write to them; but, after all, they had only to follow All’s Well.”

  “That was impossible,” said Véronique, “because they believed you to be far away from Sarek, carried off no doubt, and because your grandfather had left.”

  “Just so: why believe anything of the sort? Grandfather knew, from a lately discovered document, where we were, for it was he who told us of the possible entrance to the underground passage. Didn’t he speak to you about it?”

  Véronique had been very happy in listening to her son’s story. As he had been carried off and imprisoned, he was not the atrocious monster who had killed M. d’Hergemont, Marie Le Goff, Honorine and Corréjou and his companions. The truth which she had already vaguely surmised now assumed a more definite form and, though still thickly shrouded, was visible in its essential part. François was not guilty. Some one had put on his clothes and impersonated him, even as some one else, in the semblance of Stéphane, had pretended to be Stéphane. Ah, what did all the rest matter, the improbabilities and inconsistencies, the proofs and certainties! Véronique did not even think about it. The only thing that counted was the innocence of her beloved son.

  And so she still refused to tell him anything that would sadden him and spoil his happiness; and she said:

  “No, I have not seen your grandfather. Honorine wanted to prepare him for my visit, but things happened so hurriedly . . .”

  “And you were left alone on the island, poor mother? So you hoped to find me here?”

  “Yes,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation.

  “Alone, but with All’s Well, of course.”

  “Yes. I hardly paid any attention to him during the first days. It was not until this morning that I thought of following him.”

  “And where does the road start from that brought you here?”

  “It’s an underground passage the outlet of which is concealed between two stones near Maguennoc’s garden.”

  “What! Then the two islands communicate?”

  “Yes, by the cliff underneath the bridge.”

  “How strange! That’s what neither Stéphane not I guessed, nor anybody else, for that matter . . . except our dear All’s Well, when it came to finding his master.”

  He interrupted himself and then whispered:

  “Hark!”

  But, the next moment, he said:

  “No, it’s not that yet. Still, we must hurry.”

  “What am I to do?”

  “It’s quite simple, mother. When I made this hole, I saw that it could be widened easily enough, if it were possible also to take out the three or four stones next to it. But these are firmly fixed; and we should need an implement of some kind.”

  “Well, I’ll go and . . .”

  “Yes, do, mother. Go back to the Priory. To the left of the house, in a basement, is a sort of workshop where Maguennoc kept his garden-tools. You will find a small pick-axe there, with a very short handle. Bring it me in the evening. I will work during the night; and to-morrow morning I shall give you a kiss, mother.”

  “Oh, it sounds too good to be true!”

  “I promise you I shall. Then all that we shall have to do will be to release Stéphane.”

  “Your tutor? Do you know where he is shut up?”

  “I do almost know. According to the particulars which grandfather gave us, the underground passages consist of two floors one above the other; and the last cell of each is fitted as a prison. I occupy one of them. Stéphane should occupy the other, below mine. What worries me . . .”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, it’s this: according to grandfather again, these two cells were once torture-chambers . . . ‘death chambers’ was the word grandfather used.”

  “Oh, but how alarming!”

  “Why alarm yourself, mother? You see that they are not thinking of torturing me. Only, on the off chance and not knowing what sort of fate was in store for Stéphane, I sent him something to eat by All’s Well, who is sure to have found a way of getting to him.”

  “No,” she said, “All’s Well did not understand.”

  “How do you know, mother?”

  “He thought you were sending him to Stéphane Maroux’s room and he heaped it all under the bed.”

  “Oh!” said the boy, anxiously. “What can have become of Stéphane?” And he at once added, “You see, mother, that we must hurry, if we would save Stéphane and save ourselves.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “Nothing, if you act quickly.”

  “But still . . .”

  “Nothing, I assure you. I feel certain that we shall get the better of every obstacle.”

  “And, if any others present themselves . . . dangers which we cannot foresee? . . .”

  “It is then,” said François, laughing, “that the man whom I am expecting will come and protect us.”

  “You see, my darling, you yourself admit the need of assistance . . . .”

  “Why, no, mother, I am trying to ease your mind, but nothing will happen. Come, how would you have a son who has just found his mother lose her again at once? It isn’t possible. In real life, may be . . . but we are not living in real life. We are absolutely living in a romance; and in romances things always come right. You ask All’s Well. It’s so, old chap, isn’t it: we shall win and be united and live happy ever after? That’s what you think, All’s Well? Then be off, old
chap, and take mother with you. I’m going to fill up the hole, in case they come and inspect my cell. And be sure not to try and come in when the hole is stopped, eh, All’s Well? That’s when the danger is. Go, mother, and don’t make a noise when you come back.”

  Véronique was not long away. She found the pick-axe; and, forty minutes after, brought it and managed to slip it into the cell.

  “No one has been yet,” said François, “but they are certain to come soon and you had better not stay. I may have a night’s work before me, especially as I shall have to stop because of likely visits. So I shall expect you at seven o’clock to-morrow . . . . By the way, talking of Stéphane: I have been thinking it over. Some noises which I heard just now confirmed my notion that he is shut up more or less underneath me. The opening that lights my cell is too narrow for me to pass through. Is there a fairly wide window at the place where you are now?”

  “No, but it can be widened by removing the little stones round it.”

  “Capital. You will find in Maguennoc’s workshop a bamboo ladder, with iron hooks to it, which you can easily bring with you to-morrow morning. Next, take some provisions and some rugs and leave them in a thicket at the entrance to the tunnel.”

  “What for, darling?”

  “You’ll see. I have a plan. Good-bye, mother. Have a good night’s rest and pick up your strength. We may have a hard day before us.”

  Véronique followed her son’s advice. The next morning, full of hope, she once more took the road to the cell. This time, All’s Well, reverting to his instincts of independence, did not come with her.

  “Keep quite still, mother,” said François, in so low a whisper that she could scarcely hear him. “I am very closely watched; and I think there’s some one walking up and down in the passage. However, my work is nearly done; the stones are all loosened. I shall have finished in two hours. Have you the ladder?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remove the stones from the window . . . that will save time . . . for really I am frightened about Stéphane . . . . And be sure not to make a noise . . . .”