“François is dead,” she repeated. “Vorski has killed him.”
The door opened and she heard Vorski’s voice. He entered, with an unsteady gait:
“A thousand pardons, dear lady, but I think Vorski must have fallen asleep. It’s your father’s fault, Véronique! He had hidden away in his cellar some confounded Saumur which Conrad and Otto discovered and which has fuddled me a bit! But don’t cry; we shall make up for lost time . . . . Besides everything must be settled by midnight. So . . .”
He had come nearer; and he now exclaimed:
“What! Did that rascal of a Vorski leave you tied up? What a brute that Vorski is! And how uncomfortable you must be! . . . Hang it all, how pale you are! I say, look here, you’re not dead, are you? That would be a nasty trick to play us!”
He took Véronique’s hand, which she promptly snatched away.
“Capital! We still loathe our little Vorski! Then that’s all right and there’s plenty of reserve strength. You’ll hold out to the end, Véronique.”
He listened:
“What is it? Who’s calling me? Is it you, Otto? Come up . . . . Well, Otto, what news? I’ve been asleep, you know. That damned Saumur wine! . . .”
Otto, one of the two accomplices, entered the room at a run. He was the one whose paunch bulged so oddly.
“What news?” he exclaimed. “Why, this: I’ve seen some one on the island!”
Vorski began to laugh:
“You’re drunk, Otto. That damned Saumur wine . . .”
“I’m not drunk. I saw . . . and so did Conrad . . .”
“Oho,” said Vorski, more seriously, “if Conrad was with you! Well, what did you see?”
“A white figure, which hid when we came along.”
“Where?”
“Between the village and the heath, in a little wood of chestnut trees.”
“On the other side of the island then?”
“Yes.”
“All right. We’ll take our precautions.”
“How? There may be several of them.”
“I don’t care if there are ten of them; it would make no difference. Where’s Conrad?”
“By the foot-bridge which we put in the place of the bridge that was burnt down. He’s keeping watch from there.”
“Conrad is a clever one. When the bridge was burnt, we were kept on the other side; if the foot-bridge is burnt, it’ll produce the same hindrance. Véronique, I really believe they’re coming to rescue you. It’s the miracle you expected, the assistance you hoped for. But it’s too late, my beauty.”
He untied the bonds that fastened her to the balcony, carried her to the sofa and loosened the gag slightly:
“Sleep, my wench,” he said. “Get what rest you can. You’re only half-way to Golgotha yet; and the last bit of the ascent will be the hardest.”
He went away jesting; and Véronique heard the two men exchange a few sentences which proved to her that Otto and Conrad were only supers who knew nothing of the business in hand:
“Who’s this wretched woman whom you’re persecuting?” asked Otto.
“That doesn’t concern you.”
“Still, Conrad and I would like to know something about it.”
“Lord, why?”
“Oh, just because!”
“Conrad and you are a pair of fools,” replied Vorski. “When I took you into my service and helped you to escape with me, I told you all I could of my plans. You accepted my conditions. It was your look-out. You’ve got to see this thing through now.”
“And if we don’t?”
“If you don’t, beware of the consequences. I don’t like shirkers . . . .”
More hours passed. Nothing, it seemed to Véronique, could any longer save her from the end for which she craved with all her heart. She no longer hoped for the intervention of which Otto had spoken. In reality she was not thinking at all. Her son was dead; and she had no other wish than to join him without delay, even at the cost of the most dreadful suffering. What did that suffering matter to her? There are limits to the strength of those who are tortured; and she was so near to reaching those limits that her agony would not last long.
She began to pray. Once more the memory of the past forced itself on her mind; and the fault which she had committed seemed to her the cause of all the misfortunes heaped upon her.
And, while praying, exhausted, harassed, in a state of nervous extenuation which left her indifferent to anything that might happen, she fell asleep.
Vorski’s return did not even rouse her. He had to shake her:
“The hour is at hand, my girl. Say your prayers.”
He spoke low, so that his assistants might not hear what he said; and, whispering in her ear, he told her things of long ago, insignificant trifles which he dribbled out in a thick tone. At last he called out:
“It’s still too light, Otto. Go and see what you can find in the larder, will you? I’m hungry.”
They sat down to table, but Vorski stood up again at once:
“Don’t look at me, my girl. Your eyes worry me. What do you expect? My conscience doesn’t worry me when I’m alone, but it gets worked up when a fine pair of eyes like yours go right through me. Lower your lids, my pretty one.”
He bound Véronique’s eyes with a handkerchief which he knotted behind her head. But this did not satisfy him; and he unhooked a muslin curtain from the window, wrapped her whole head in it and wound it round her neck. Then he sat down again to eat and drink.
The three of them hardly spoke and said not a word of their trip across the island, nor of the duel of the afternoon. In any case, these were details which did not interest Véronique and which, even if she had paid attention to them, would not have aroused her. Everything had become indifferent to her. The words reached her ears but assumed no definite meaning. She thought of nothing but dying.
When it was dark, Vorski gave the signal for departure.
“Then you’re still determined?” asked Otto, in a voice betraying a certain hostility.
“More so than ever. What’s your reason for asking?”
“Nothing . . . . But, all the same . . .”
“All the same what?”
“Well, I may as well out with it, we only half like the job.”
“You don’t mean to say so! And you only discover it now, my man, after stringing up the sisters Archignat and treating it as a lark!”
“I was drunk that day. You made us drink.”
“Well, get boozed if you want to, old cock. Here, take the brandy-bottle. Fill your flask and shut up . . . . Conrad, is the stretcher ready?”
He turned to his victim:
“A polite attention for you, my dear . . . . Two old stilts of your brat’s, fastened together with straps . . . . It’s very practical and comfortable.”
At half-past eight, the grim procession set out, with Vorski at the head, carrying a lantern. The accomplices followed with the litter.
The clouds which had been threatening all the afternoon had now gathered and were rolling, thick and black, over the island. The night was falling swiftly. A stormy wind was blowing and made the candle flicker in the lantern.
“Brrrr!” muttered Vorski. “Dismal work! A regular Golgotha evening.”
He swerved and grunted at the sight of a little black shape bounding along by his side:
“What’s that? Look. It’s a dog, isn’t it?”
“It’s the boy’s mongrel,” said Otto.
“Oh, of course, the famous All’s Well! The brute’s come in the nick of time. Everything’s going jolly well! Just wait a bit, you mangy beast!”
He aimed a kick at the dog. All’s Well avoided it and keeping out of reach, continued to accompany the procession, giving a muffled bark at intervals.
It was a rough ascent; and every moment one of the three men, leaving the invisible path that skirted the grass in front of the house and led to the open space by the Fairies’ Dolmen, tripped in the brambles or in the runners of
ivy.
“Halt!” Vorski commanded. “Stop and take breath, my lads. Otto, hand us your flask. My heart’s turning upside down.”
He took a long pull:
“Your turn, Otto . . . . What, don’t you want to? What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m thinking that there are people on the island who are looking for us.”
“Let them look!”
“And suppose they come by boat and climb that path in the cliffs which the woman and the boy were trying to escape by this morning, the path we found?”
“What we have to fear is an attack by land, not by sea. Well, the foot-bridge is burnt. There’s no means of communication.”
“Unless they find the entrance to the cells, on the Black Heath, and follow the tunnel to this place.”
“Have they found the entrance?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, granting that they do find it, haven’t we just blocked the exit on this side, broken down the staircase, thrown everything topsy-turvy? To clear it will take them half a day and more. Whereas at midnight the thing’ll be done and by daybreak we shall be far away from Sarek.”
“It’ll be done, it’ll be done; that is to say, we shall have one more murder on our conscience. But . . .”
“But what?”
“What about the treasure?”
“Ah, the treasure! You’ve got it out at last! Well, make your mind easy: your shares of it are as good as in your pockets.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Rather! Do you imagine that I’m staying here and doing all this dirty work for fun?”
They resumed their progress. After a quarter of an hour, a few drops of rain began to fall. There was a clap of thunder. The storm still appeared to be some distance away.
They had difficulty in completing the rough ascent: and Vorski had to help his companions.
“At last!” he said. “We’re there. Otto, hand me the flask. That’s it. Thanks.”
They had laid their victim at the foot of the oak which had had its lower branches removed. A flash of light revealed the inscription, “V. d’H.” Vorski picked up a rope, which had been left there in readiness, and set a ladder against the trunk of the tree:
“We’ll do as we did with the sisters Archignat,” he said. “I’ll pass the cord over the big branch which we left intact. That will serve as a pulley.”
He interrupted himself and jumped to one side. Something extraordinary had just happened.
“What’s that?” he whispered. “What was it? Did you hear that whistling sound?”
“Yes,” said Conrad, “it grazed my ear. One would have said it was a bullet.”
“You’re mad.”
“I heard it too,” said Otto, “and it seems to me that it hit the tree.”
“What tree?”
“The oak, of course! It was as though somebody had fired at us.”
“There was no report.”
“A stone, then; a stone that must have hit the oak.”
“We’ll soon see,” said Vorski.
He turned his lantern and at once let fly an oath:
“Damn it! Look, there, under the lettering.”
They looked. An arrow was fixed at the spot to which he pointed. Its feathered end was still quivering.
“An arrow!” gasped Conrad. “How is it possible? An arrow!”
And Otto spluttered:
“We’re done for! It’s us they were aiming at!”
“The man who took aim at us can’t be far off,” Vorski observed. “Keep your eyes open. We’ll have a look.”
He swung the light in a circle which penetrated the surrounding darkness.
“Stop,” said Conrad, eagerly. “A little more to the right. Do you see?”
“Yes, yes, I see.”
Thirty yards from where they stood, in the direction of the Calvary of the Flowers, just beyond the blasted oak, they saw something white, a figure which was trying, at least so it seemed, to hide behind a clump of bushes.
“Not a word, not a movement,” Vorski ordered. “Do nothing to let him think that we’ve discovered him. Conrad, come with me. You, Otto, stay here, with your revolver in your hand, and keep a good watch. If they try to come near and to release her ladyship, fire two shots and we’ll run back at once. Is that understood?”
“Quite.”
Vorski bent over Véronique and loosened the veil slightly. Her eyes and mouth were still concealed by their bandages. She was breathing with difficulty; the pulse was weak and slow.
“We have time,” he muttered, “but we must hurry if we want her to die according to plan. In any case she doesn’t seem to be in pain. She has lost all consciousness.”
He put down the lantern and then softly, followed by his assistant, stole towards the white figure, both of them choosing the places where the shadow was densest.
But he soon became aware, on the one hand, that the figure, which had seemed stationary, was moving as he himself moved forward, so that the space between them remained the same, and, on the other hand, that it was escorted by a small black figure frisking by its side.
“It’s that filthy mongrel!” growled Vorski.
He quickened his pace: the distance did not decrease. He ran: the figure in front of him ran likewise. And the strangest part of it was that they heard no sound of leaves disturbed or of ground trampled by the mysterious person running ahead of them.
“Damn it!” swore Vorski. “He’s laughing at us. Suppose we fired at him, Conrad?”
“He’s too far. The bullets wouldn’t reach him.”
“All the same, we’re not going to . . .”
The unknown individual led them to the end of the island and then down to the entrance of the tunnel, passed close to the Priory, skirted the west cliff and reached the foot-bridge, some of the planks of which were still smouldering. Then he branched off, passed back by the other side of the house and went up the grassy slope.
From time to time the dog barked gaily.
Vorski could not control his rage. However hard he tried, he was unable to gain an inch of ground: and the pursuit had lasted fifteen minutes. He ended by vituperating the enemy:
“Stop, can’t you? Show yourself a man! . . . What are you trying to do? Lead us into a trap? What for? . . . Is it her ladyship you’re trying to save? It’s not worth while, in the state she’s in. Oh, you damned, smart bounder, if I could only get hold of you!”
Suddenly Conrad seized him by the skirt of his robe.
“What is it, Conrad?”
“Look. He seems to be stopping.”
As Conrad suggested, the white figure for the first time was becoming more and more clearly visible in the darkness and they were able to distinguish, through the leaves of a thicket, its present attitude, with the arms slightly opened, the back bowed, the legs bent and apparently crossed on the ground.
“He must have fallen,” said Conrad.
Vorski, after running forward, shouted:
“Am I to shoot, you scum? I’ve got the drop on you. Hands up, or I fire.”
Nothing stirred.
“It’s your own look-out! If you show fight, you’re a dead man. I shall count three and fire.”
He walked to twenty yards of the figure and counted, with outstretched arm:
“One . . . two . . . . Are you ready, Conrad? Fire!”
The two bullets were discharged at the same time.
There was a cry of distress. The figure seemed to collapse. The two men rushed forward:
“Ah, now you’ve got it, you rascal! I’ll show you the stuff that Vorski’s made of! You’ve given me a pretty run, you oaf! Well, your account’s settled!”
After the first few steps, he slackened his speed, for fear of a surprise. The figure did not move; and Vorski, on coming close, saw that it had the limp and misshapen look of a dead man, of a corpse. Nothing remained but to fall upon it. This was what Vorski did, laughing and jesting:
“A
good bag, Conrad! Let’s pick up the game.”
But he was greatly surprised, on picking up the game, to feel in his hands nothing but an almost impalpable quarry, consisting, to tell the truth, of just a white robe, with no one inside it, the owner of the robe having taken flight in good time, after hooking it to the thorns of a thicket. As for the dog, he had disappeared.
“Damn and blast it!” roared Vorski. “He’s cheated us, the ruffian! But why, hang it, why?”
Venting his rage in the stupid fashion that was his habit, he was stamping on the piece of stuff, when a thought struck him:
“Why? Because, damn it, as I said just now, it’s a trap: a trap to get us away from her ladyship while his friends went for Otto! Oh, what an ass I’ve been!”
He started to go back in the dark and, as soon as he was able to see the dolmen, he called out:
“Otto! Otto!”
“Halt! Who goes there?” answered Otto, in a scared voice.
“It’s me . . . . Damn you, don’t fire!”
“Who’s there? You?”
“Yes, yes, you fool.”
“But the two shots?”
“Nothing . . . . A mistake . . . . We’ll tell you about it . . . .”
He was now close to the oak and, at once, taking up the lantern, turned its rays upon his victim. She had not moved and lay stretched at the foot of the tree, with her head wrapped in the veil.
“Ah!” he said. “I breathe again! Hang it, how frightened I was!”
“Frightened of what?”
“Of their taking her from us, of course!”
“Well, wasn’t I here?”
“Oh, you! You’ve got no more pluck than a louse . . . and, if they had gone for you . . .”
“I should have fired, at any rate. You’d have heard the signal.”
“May be. Well, did nothing happen?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Her ladyship didn’t carry on too much?”
“She did at first. She moaned and groaned under her hood, until I lost all patience.”
“And then?”
“Oh, then! It didn’t last long: I stunned her with a good blow of my fist.”
“You brute!” exclaimed Vorski. “If you’ve killed her, you’re a dead man.”
He plumped down and glued his ear to his unfortunate victim’s breast.
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 233
