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

by Maurice Leblanc

  “You see, mother? All’s Well agrees with me; nothing is lost . . . . But, upon my word, All’s Well, you’re a sharp little fellow! What would you have said, eh, if we’d left the island without you?”

  Véronique looked at her son:

  “Left the island?”

  “Certainly: and the sooner the better. That’s my plan. What do you say to it?”

  “But how are we to get away?”

  “In a boat.”

  “Is there one here?”

  “Yes, mine.”

  “Where?”

  “Close by, at Sarek Point.”

  “But how are we to get down? The cliff is perpendicular.”

  “She’s at the very place where the cliff is steepest, a place known as the Postern. The name puzzled Stéphane and myself. A postern suggests an entrance, a gate. Well, we ended by learning that, in the middle ages, at the time of the monks, the little isle on which the Priory stands was surrounded by ramparts. It was therefore to be presumed that there was a postern here which commanded an outlet on the sea. And in fact, after hunting about with Maguennoc, we discovered, on the flat top of the cliff, a sort of gully, a sandy depression reinforced at intervals by regular walls made of big building-stones. A path winds down the middle, with steps and windows on the side of the sea, and leads to a little bay. That is the Postern outlet. We repaired it: and my boat is hanging at the foot of the cliff.”

  Véronique’s features underwent a transformation:

  “Then we’re safe now!”

  “There’s no doubt of that.”

  “And the enemy can’t get there?”

  “How could he?”

  “He has the motor-boat at his disposal.”

  “He has never been there, because he doesn’t know of the bay nor of the way down to it either: you can’t see them from the open sea. Besides, they are protected by a thousand sharp-pointed rocks.”

  “And what’s to prevent us from leaving at once?”

  “The darkness, mother. I’m a good mariner and accustomed to navigate all the channels that lead away from Sarek, but I should not be at all sure of not striking some reef or other. No, we must wait for daylight.”

  “It seems so long!”

  “A few hours’ patience, mother. And we are together, you and I! At break of dawn, we’ll take the boat and begin by hugging the foot of the cliff till we are underneath the cells. Then we’ll pick up Stéphane, who of course will be waiting for us on some strip of beach, and we’ll all be off, won’t we, All’s Well? We’ll land at Pont-l’Abbé at twelve o’clock or so. That’s my plan.”

  Véronique could not contain her delight and admiration. She was astonished to find so young a boy giving proofs of such self-possession.

  “It’s splendid, darling, and you’re right in everything. Luck is decidedly coming our way.”

  The evening passed without incidents. An alarm, however, a noise under the rubbish which blocked the underground passage and a ray of light trickling through a slit obliged them to mount guard until the minute of their departure. But it did not affect their spirits.

  “Why, of course I’m easy in my mind,” said François. “From the moment when I found you again, I felt that it was for good. Besides, if the worst came to the worst, have we not a last hope left? Stéphane spoke to you about it, I expect. And it makes you laugh, my confidence in a rescuer whom I have never seen . . . . Well, I tell you, mother, if I were to see a dagger about to strike me, I should be certain, absolutely certain, mind you, that a hand would come and ward off the blow.”

  “Alas,” she said, “that providential hand did not prevent all the misfortunes of which I told you!”

  “It will keep off those which threaten my mother,” declared the boy.

  “How? This unknown friend has not been warned.”

  “He will come all the same. He doesn’t need to be warned to know how great the danger is. He will come. And, mother, promise me one thing: whatever happens, you must have confidence.”

  “I will have confidence, darling, I promise you.”

  “And you will be right,” he said, laughing, “for I shall be the leader. And what a leader, eh, mother? Why, yesterday evening I foresaw that, to carry the enterprise through successfully and so that my mother should be neither cold nor hungry, in case we were not able to take the boat this afternoon, we must have food and rugs! Well, they will be of use to us to-night, seeing that for prudence’s sake we mustn’t abandon our post here and sleep at the Priory. Where did you put the parcel, mother?”

  They ate gaily and with a good appetite. Then François wrapped his mother up and tucked her in: and they both fell asleep, lying close together, happy and unafraid.

  When the keen air of the morning woke Véronique, a belt of rosy light streaked the sky. François was sleeping the peaceful sleep of a child that feels itself protected and is untroubled by dreams. For a long time she just sat gazing at him without wearying: and she was still looking at him when the sun was high above the horizon.

  “To work, mother,” he said, after he had opened his eyes and given her a kiss. “No one in the tunnel? No. Then we have plenty of time to go on board.”

  They took the rugs and provisions and, with brisk steps, went towards the descent leading to the Postern, at the extreme end of the island. Beyond this point the rocks were heaped up in formidable confusion: and the sea, though calm, lapped against them noisily.

  “I hope your boat’s there still!” said Véronique.

  “Lean over a little, mother. You can see her down there, hanging in that crevice. We have only to work the pulley to get her afloat. Oh, it’s all very well thought out, mother darling! We have nothing to fear . . . . Only . . . only . . .”

  He had interrupted himself and was thinking.

  “What? What is it?” asked Véronique.

  “Oh, nothing! A slight delay.”

  “But . . .”

  He began to laugh:

  “Really, for the leader of an expedition, it’s rather humiliating, I admit. Just fancy, I’ve forgotten one thing: the oars. They are at the Priory.”

  “But this is terrible!” cried Véronique.

  “Why? I’ll run to the Priory and I shall be back in ten minutes.”

  All Véronique’s apprehensions returned:

  “And suppose they make their way out of the tunnel meanwhile?”

  “Come, come, mother,” he laughed, “you promised to have confidence. To get out of the tunnel would take them an hour’s hard work; and we should hear them. Besides, what’s the use of talking, mother? I’ll be back at once.”

  He ran off.

  “François! François!”

  He did not reply.

  “Oh,” she thought, once more assailed by forebodings. “I had sworn not to leave him for a second!”

  She followed him at a distance and stopped on a hillock between the Fairies’ Dolmen and the Calvary of the Flowers. From here she could see the entrance to the tunnel and also saw her son jogging along the grass.

  He first went into the basement of the Priory. But the oars seemed not to be there, for he came out almost at once and went to the main door, which he opened and disappeared from sight.

  “One minute ought to be plenty for him,” said Véronique to herself. “The oars must be in the hall . . . or at any rate on the ground-floor . . . . Say two minutes, at the outside.”

  She counted the seconds while watching the entrance to the tunnel.

  But three minutes, four minutes, five minutes passed: and the front-door did not open again.

  All Véronique’s confidence vanished. She thought that it was mad of her not to have gone with her son and that she ought never to have submitted to a child’s will. Without troubling about the tunnel or the dangers from that side, she began to walk towards the Priory. But she had the horrible feeling which people sometimes experience in dreams, when their legs seem paralysed and when they are unable to move, while the enemy advances to attack
them.

  And suddenly, on reaching the Dolmen, she beheld a sight the meaning of which was immediately clear to her. The ground at the foot of the oaks round the right-hand part of the semi-circle was littered with lately cut branches, which still bore their green leaves.

  She raised her eyes and stood stupefied and dismayed.

  One oak alone had been stripped. And on the huge trunk, bare to a height of twelve or fifteen feet, there was a paper, transfixed by an arrow and bearing the inscription, “V. d’H.”

  “The fourth cross,” Véronique faltered, “the cross marked with my name!”

  She supposed that, as her father was dead, the initials of her maiden name must have been written by one of her enemies, the chief of them, no doubt; and for the first time, under the influence of recent events, remembering the woman and the boy who were persecuting her, she involuntarily attributed a definite set of features to that enemy.

  It was a fleeting impression, an improbable theory, of which she was not even conscious. She was overwhelmed by something much more terrible. She suddenly understood that the monsters, those creatures of the heath and the cells, the accomplices of the woman and the boy, must have been there, since the cross was prepared. No doubt they had built a foot-bridge and thrown it over the chasm to take the place of the bridge to which she had set fire. They were masters of the Priory. And François was once more in their hands!

  Then she rushed straight along, collecting all her strength. She in her turn ran over the turf, dotted with ruins, that sloped towards the front of the house.

  “François! François! François!”

  She called his name in a piercing voice. She announced her coming with loud cries. Thus did she reach the Priory.

  One half of the door stood ajar. She pushed it and darted into the hall, crying:

  “François! François!”

  The call rang from floor to attic and throughout the house, but remained unanswered:

  “François! François!”

  She went upstairs, opening doors at random, running into her son’s room, into Stéphane’s, into Honorine’s. She found nobody.

  “François! François! . . . Don’t you hear me? Are they hurting you? . . . Oh, François, do answer!”

  She went back to the landing. Opposite her was M. d’Hergemont’s study. She flung herself upon the door and at once recoiled, as though stricken by a vision from hell.

  A man was standing there, with arms crossed and apparently waiting for her. And it was the man whom she had pictured for an instant when thinking of the woman and the boy. It was the third monster!

  She said, simply, but in a voice filled with inexpressible horror:

  “Vorski! . . . Vorski! . . .”

  CHAPTER XI. THE SCOURGE OF GOD

  VORSKI! VORSKI! THE unspeakable creature, the thought of whom filled her with shame and horror, the monstrous Vorski, was not dead! The murder of the spy by one of his colleagues, his burial in the cemetery at Fontainebleau; all this was a fable, a delusion! The only real fact was that Vorski was alive!

  Of all the visions that could have haunted Véronique’s brain, there was none so abominable as the sight before her; Vorski standing erect, with his arms crossed and his head up, alive! Vorski alive!

  She would have accepted anything with her usual courage, but not this. She had felt strong enough to face and defy no matter what enemy, but not this one. Vorski stood for ignominious disgrace, for insatiable wickedness, for boundless ferocity, for method mingled with madness in crime.

  And this man loved her.

  She suddenly blushed. Vorski was staring with greedy eyes at the bare flesh of her shoulders and arms, which showed through her tattered bodice, and looking upon this bare flesh as upon a prey which nothing could snatch from him. Nevertheless Véronique did not budge. She had no covering within reach. She pulled herself together under the insult of the man’s desire and defied him with such a glance that he was embarrassed and for a moment turned away his eyes.

  Then she cried, with an uncontrollable outburst of feeling:

  “My son! Where’s François? I want to see him.”

  “Our son is sacred, madame,” he replied. “He has nothing to fear from his father.”

  “I want to see him.”

  He lifted his hand as one taking an oath:

  “You shall see him, I swear.”

  “Dead, perhaps!” she said, in a hollow voice.

  “As much alive as you and I, madame.”

  There was a fresh pause. Vorski was obviously seeking his words and preparing the speech with which the implacable conflict between them was to open.

  He was a man of athletic stature, with a powerful frame, legs slightly bowed, an enormous neck swollen by great bundles of muscles and a head unduly small, with fair hair plastered down and parted in the middle. That in him which at one time produced an impression of brute strength, combined with a certain distinction, had become with age the massive and vulgar aspect of a professional wrestler posturing on the hustings at a fair. The disquieting charm which once attracted the women had vanished; and all that remained was a harsh and cruel expression of which he tried to correct the hardness by means of an impassive smile.

  He unfolded his arms, drew up a chair and, bowing to Véronique, said:

  “Our conversation, madame, will be long and at times painful. Won’t you sit down?”

  He waited for a moment and, receiving no reply, without allowing himself to be disconcerted, continued:

  “Perhaps you would rather first take some refreshment at the sideboard. Would you care for a biscuit and a thimbleful of old claret or a glass of champagne?”

  He affected an exaggerated politeness, the essentially Teutonic politeness of the semibarbarians who are anxious to prove that they are familiar with all the niceties of civilization and that they have been initiated into every refinement of courtesy, even towards a woman whom the right of conquest would permit them to treat more cavalierly. This was one of the points of detail which in the past had most vividly enlightened Véronique as to her husband’s probable origin.

  She shrugged her shoulders and remained silent.

  “Very well,” he said, “but you must then authorize me to stand, as behooves a man of breeding who prides himself on possessing a certain amount of savoir faire. Also pray excuse me for appearing in your presence in this more than careless attire. Internment-camps and the caves of Sarek are hardly places in which it is easy to renew one’s wardrobe.”

  He was in fact wearing a pair of old patched trousers and a torn red-flannel waistcoat. But over these he had donned a white linen robe which was half-closed by a knotted girdle. It was a carefully studied costume; and he accentuated its eccentricity by adopting theatrical attitudes and an air of satisfied negligence.

  Pleased with his preamble, he began to walk up and down, with his hands behind his back, like a man who is in no hurry and who is taking time for reflection in very serious circumstances. Then he stopped and, in a leisurely tone:

  “I think, madame, that we shall gain time in the end by devoting a few indispensable minutes to a brief account of our past life together. Don’t you agree?”

  Véronique did not reply. He therefore began, in the same deliberate tone:

  “In the days when you loved me . . .”

  She made a gesture of revolt. He insisted:

  “Nevertheless, Véronique . . .”

  “Oh,” she said, in an accent of disgust, “I forbid you! . . . That name from your lips! . . . I will not allow it . . . .”

  He smiled and continued, in a tone of condescension:

  “Don’t be annoyed with me, madame. Whatever formula I employ, you may be assured of my respect. I therefore resume my remarks. In the days when you loved me, I was, I must admit, a heartless libertine, a debauchee, not perhaps without a certain style and charm, for I always made the most of my advantages, but possessing none of the qualities of a married man. These qualities I should easily have
acquired under your influence, for I loved you to distraction. You had about you a purity that enraptured me, a charm and a simplicity which I have never met with in any woman. A little patience on your part, an effort of kindness would have been enough to transform me. Unfortunately, from the very first moment, after a rather melancholy engagement, during which you thought of nothing but your father’s grief and anger, from the first moment of our marriage there was a complete and irretrievable lack of harmony between us. You had accepted in spite of yourself the bridegroom who had thrust himself upon you. You entertained for your husband no feeling save hatred and repulsion. These are things which a man like Vorski does not forgive. So many women and among them some of the proudest had given me proof of my perfect delicacy that I had no cause to reproach myself. That the little middle-class person that you were chose to be offended was not my business. Vorski is one of those who obey their instincts and their passions. Those instincts and passions failed to meet with your approval. That, madame, was your affair; it was purely a matter of taste. I was free; I resumed my own life. Only . . .”

  He interrupted himself for a few seconds and then went on:

  “Only, I loved you. And, when, a year later, certain events followed close upon one another, when the loss of your son drove you into a convent, I was left with my love unassuaged, burning and torturing me. What my existence was you can guess for yourself; a series of orgies and violent adventures in which I vainly strove to forget you, followed by sudden fits of hope, clues which were suggested to me, in the pursuit of which I flung myself headlong, only to relapse into everlasting discouragement and loneliness. That was how I discovered the whereabouts of your father and your son, that was how I came to know their retreat here, to watch them, to spy upon them, either personally or with the aid of people who were entirely devoted to me. In this way I was hoping to reach yourself, the sole object of my efforts and the ruling motive of all my actions, when war was declared. A week later, having failed in an attempt to cross the frontier, I was imprisoned in an internment-camp.”

  He stopped. His face became still harder; and he growled:

  “Oh, the hell that I went through there! Vorski! Vorski, the son of a king, mixed up with all the waiters and pickpockets of the Fatherland! Vorski a prisoner, scoffed at and loathed by all! Vorski unwashed and eaten up with vermin! My God, how I suffered! . . . But let us pass on. What I did, to escape from death, I was entitled to do. If some one else was stabbed in my stead, if some one else was buried in my name in a corner of France, I do not regret it. The choice lay between him and myself; I made my choice. And it was perhaps not only my persistent love of life that inspired my action; it was also — and this above all is a new thing — an unexpected dawn which broke in the darkness and which was already dazzling me with its glory. But this is my secret. We will speak of it later, if you force me to. For the moment . . .”