Don Luis suddenly interrupted himself and began to laugh:
“Come, come, I’m allowing myself to be carried away and singing an ode to science! Forgive me, madame,” he added, rising and going up to Véronique, “and tell me that I have not bored you too much with my explanations. I haven’t, have I? Not too much? Besides, it’s finished . . . or nearly finished. There is only one more point to make clear, one decision to take.”
He sat down beside her:
“It’s this. Now that we have won the God-Stone, in other words, an actual treasure, what are we going to do with it?”
Véronique spoke with a heartfelt impulse:
“Oh, as to that, don’t let us speak of it! I don’t want anything that may come from Sarek, or anything that’s found in the Priory. We will work.”
“Still, the Priory belongs to you.”
“No, no, Véronique d’Hergemont no longer exists and the Priory no longer belongs to any one. Let it all be put up to auction. I don’t want anything of that accursed past.”
“And how will you live?”
“As I used to by my work. I am sure that François approves, don’t you, darling?”
And, with an instinctive movement, turning to Stéphane, as though he had a certain right to give his opinion, she added:
“You too approve, don’t you, dear Stéphane?”
“Entirely,” he said.
She at once went on:
“Besides, though I don’t doubt my father’s feelings of affection, I have no proof of his wishes towards me.”
“I have the proofs,” said Don Luis.
“How?”
“Patrice and I went back to Sarek. In a writing-desk in Maguennoc’s room, in a secret drawer, we found a sealed, but unaddressed envelope, and opened it. It contained a bond worth ten thousand francs a year and a sheet of paper which read as follows:
“‘After my death, Maguennoc will hand this bond to Stéphane Maroux, to whom I confide the charge of my grandson, François. When François is eighteen years of age, the bond will be his to do what he likes with. I hope and trust, however, that he will seek his mother and find her and that she will pray for my soul. I bless them both.’
“Here is the bond,” said Don Luis, “and here is the letter. It is dated April of this year.”
Véronique was astounded. She looked at Don Luis and the thought occurred to her that all this was perhaps merely a story invented by that strange man to place her and her son beyond the reach of want. It was a passing thought. When all was considered, it was a natural consequence. Everything said, M. d’Hergemont’s action was very reasonable; and, foreseeing the difficulties that would crop up after his death, it was only right that he should think of his grandson. She murmured:
“I have not the right to refuse.”
“You have so much the less right,” said Don Luis, “in that the transaction excludes you altogether. Your father’s wishes affect François and Stéphane directly. So we are agreed. There remains the God-Stone; and I repeat my question. What are we to do with it? To whom does it belong?”
“To you,” said Véronique, definitely.
“To me?”
“Yes, to you. You discovered it and you have given it a real signification.”
“I must remind you,” said Don Luis, “that this block of stone possesses, beyond a doubt, an incalculable value. However great the miracles wrought by nature may be, it is only through a wonderful concourse of circumstances that she was able to perform the miracle of collecting so much precious matter in so small a volume. There are treasures and treasures there.”
“So much the better,” said Véronique, “you will be able to make a better use of them than any one else.”
Don Luis thought for a moment and added:
“You are quite right; and I confess that I prepared for this climax. First, because my right to the God-Stone seemed to me to be proved by adequate titles of ownership; and, next, because I have need of that block of stone. Yes, upon my word, the tombstone of the Kings of Bohemia has not exhausted its magic power; there are plenty of nations left on whom that power might produce as great an effect as on our ancestors the Gauls; and, as it happens, I am tackling a formidable undertaking in which an assistance of this kind will be invaluable to me. In a few years, when my task is completed, I will bring the God-Stone back to France and present it to a national laboratory which I intend to found. In this way science will purge any evil that the God-Stone may have done and the horrible adventure of Sarek will be atoned for. Do you approve, madame?”
She gave him her hand:
“With all my heart.”
There was a fairly long pause. Then Don Luis said:
“Ah, yes, a horrible adventure, too terrible for words. I have had some gruesome adventures in my life which have left painful memories behind them. But this outdoes them all. It exceeds anything that is possible in reality or human in suffering. It was so excessively logical as to become illogical; and this because it was the act of a madman . . . and also because it came to pass at a season of madness and bewilderment. It was the war which facilitated the safe silent committal of an obscure crime prepared and executed by a monster. In times of peace, monsters have not the time to realize their stupid dreams. To-day, in that solitary island, this particular monster found special, abnormal conditions . . .”
“Please don’t let us talk about all this,” murmured Véronique, in a trembling voice.
Don Luis kissed her hand and then took All’s Well and lifted him in his arms:
“You’re right. Don’t let’s talk about it, or else tears would come and All’s Well would be sad. Therefore, All’s Well, my delightful All’s Well, let us talk no more of the dreadful adventure. But all the same let us recall certain episodes which were beautiful and picturesque. For instance, Maguennoc’s garden with the gigantic flowers; you will remember it as I shall, won’t you, All’s Well? And the legend of the God-Stone, the idyll of the Celtic tribes wandering with the memorial stone of their kings, the stone all vibrant with radium, emitting an incessant bombardment of vivifying and miraculous atoms; all that, All’s Well, possesses a certain charm, doesn’t it? Only, my most exquisite All’s Well, if I were a novelist and if it were my duty to tell the story of Coffin Island, I should not trouble too much about the horrid truth and I should give you a much more important part. I should do away with the intervention of that phrase-mongering humbug of a Don Luis and you would be the fearless and silent rescuer. You would fight the abominable monster, you would thwart his machinations and, in the end, you, with your marvellous instinct, would punish vice and make virtue triumph. And it would be much better so, because none would be more capable than you, my delightful All’s Well, of demonstrating by a thousand proofs, each more convincing than the other, that in this life of ours all things come right and all’s well.”
THE END
The Teeth of the Tiger
Anonymous translation, 1917
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
THE TEETH OF THE TIGER.”
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
SENSATIONAL DECLARATION BY DON LUIS PERENNA
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER ONE
D’ARTAGNAN, PORTHOS … AND MONTE CRISTO
IT WAS HALF-PAST four; M. Desmalions, the Prefect of Police, was not yet back at the office. His private secretary laid on the desk a bundle of letters and reports which he had annotated for his chief, rang the bell and said
to the messenger who entered by the main door:
“Monsieur le Préfet has sent for a number of people to see him at five o’clock. Here are their names. Show them into separate waiting-rooms, so that they can’t communicate with one another, and let me have their cards when they come.”
The messenger went out. The secretary was turning toward the small door that led to his room, when the main door opened once more and admitted a man who stopped and leaned swaying over the back of a chair.
“Why, it’s you, Vérot!” said the secretary. “But what’s happened? What’s the matter?”
Inspector Vérot was a very stout, powerfully built man, with a big neck and shoulders and a florid complexion. He had obviously been upset by some violent excitement, for his face, streaked with red veins and usually so apoplectic, seemed almost pale.
“Oh, nothing. Monsieur le Secrétaire!” he said.
“Yes, yes; you’re not looking your usual self. You’re gray in the face…. And the way you’re perspiring….”
Inspector Vérot wiped his forehead and, pulling himself together, said:
“It’s just a little tiredness…. I’ve been overworking myself lately: I was very keen on clearing up a case which Monsieur Desmalions had put in my hands. All the same, I have a funny sort of feeling—”
“Will you have a pick-me-up?”
“No, no; I’m more thirsty.”
“A glass of water?”
“No, thank you.”
“What then?”
“I should like — I should like—”
His voice faltered. He wore a troubled look, as if he had suddenly lost his power of getting out another word. But he recovered himself with an effort and asked:
“Isn’t Monsieur Desmalions here?”
“No; he won’t be back till five, when he has an important meeting.”
“Yes … I know … most important. That’s what I’m here for. But I should have liked to see him first. I should so much have liked to see him!”
The secretary stared at Vérot and said:
“What a state you’re in! Is your message so urgent as all that?”
“It’s very urgent, indeed. It has to do with a crime that took place a month ago, to the day. And, above all, it’s a matter of preventing two murders which are the outcome of that other crime and which are to be committed to-night. Yes, to-night, inevitably, unless we take the necessary steps.”
“Sit down, Vérot, won’t you?”
“You see, the whole thing has been planned in such an infernal manner!
You would never have imagined—”
“Still, Vérot, as you know about it beforehand, and as Monsieur le Préfet is sure to give you full powers—”
“Yes, of course, of course. But, all the same, it’s terrible to think that I might miss him. So I wrote him this letter, telling him all I know about the business. I thought it safer.”
He handed the secretary a large yellow envelope and added:
“And here’s a little box as well; I’ll leave it on this table. It contains something that will serve to complete and explain the contents of the letter.”
“But why don’t you keep all that by you?”
“I’m afraid to. They’re watching me. They’re trying to get rid of me. I shan’t be easy in my mind until some one besides myself knows the secret.”
“Have no fear, Vérot. Monsieur le Préfet is bound to be back soon.
Meanwhile, I advise you to go to the infirmary and ask for a pick-me-up.”
The inspector seemed undecided what to do. Once more he wiped away the perspiration that was trickling down his forehead. Then, drawing himself up, he left the office. When he was gone the secretary slipped the letter into a big bundle of papers that lay on the Prefect’s desk and went out by the door leading to his own room.
He had hardly closed it behind him when the other door opened once again and the inspector returned, spluttering:
“Monsieur le Secrétaire … it’d be better if I showed you—”
The unfortunate man was as white as a sheet. His teeth were chattering. When he saw that the secretary was gone, he tried to walk across to his private room. But he was seized with an attack of weakness and sank into a chair, where he remained for some minutes, moaning helplessly:
“What’s the matter with me? … Have I been poisoned, too? … Oh, I don’t like this; I don’t like the look of this!”
The desk stood within reach of his hand. He took a pencil, drew a writing-pad toward him and began to scribble a few characters. But he next stammered:
“Why, no, it’s not worth while. The Prefect will be reading my letter…. What on earth’s the matter with me. I don’t like this at all!”
Suddenly he rose to his feet and called out:
“Monsieur le Secrétaire, we’ve got … we’ve got to … It’s for to-night. Nothing can prevent—”
Stiffening himself with an effort of his whole will, he made for the door of the secretary’s room with little short steps, like an automaton. But he reeled on the way — and had to sit down a second time.
A mad terror shook him from head to foot; and he uttered cries which were too faint, unfortunately, to be heard. He realized this and looked round for a bell, for a gong; but he was no longer able to distinguish anything. A veil of darkness seemed to weigh upon his eyes.
Then he dropped on his knees and crawled to the wall, beating the air with one hand, like a blind man, until he ended by touching some woodwork. It was the partition-wall.
He crept along this; but, as ill-luck would have it, his bewildered brain showed him a false picture of the room, so that, instead of turning to the left as he should have done, he followed the wall to the right, behind a screen which concealed a third door.
His fingers touched the handle of this door and he managed to open it. He gasped, “Help! Help!” and fell at his full length in a sort of cupboard or closet which the Prefect of Police used as a dressing-room.
“To-night!” he moaned, believing that he was making himself heard and that he was in the secretary’s room. “To-night! The job is fixed for to-night! You’ll see … The mark of the teeth! … It’s awful! … Oh, the pain I’m in! … It’s the poison! Save me! Help!”
The voice died away. He repeated several times, as though in a nightmare:
“The teeth! the teeth! They’re closing!”
Then his voice grew fainter still; and inarticulate sounds issued from his pallid lips. His mouth munched the air like the mouth of one of those old men who seem to be interminably chewing the cud. His head sank lower and lower on his breast. He heaved two or three sighs; a great shiver passed through his body; and he moved no more.
And the death-rattle began in his throat, very softly and rhythmically, broken only by interruptions in which a last instinctive effort appeared to revive the flickering life of the intelligence, and to rouse fitful gleams of consciousness in the dimmed eyes.
The Prefect of Police entered his office at ten minutes to five. M. Desmalions, who had filled his post for the past three years with an authority that made him generally respected, was a heavily built man of fifty with a shrewd and intelligent face. His dress, consisting of a gray jacket-suit, white spats, and a loosely flowing tie, in no way suggested the public official. His manners were easy, simple, and full of good-natured frankness.
He touched a bell, and when his secretary entered, asked:
“Are the people whom I sent for here?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Préfet, and I gave orders that they were to wait in different rooms.”
“Oh, it would not have mattered if they had met! However, perhaps it’s better as it is. I hope that the American Ambassador did not trouble to come in person?”
“No, Monsieur le Préfet.”
“Have you their cards?”
“Yes.”
The Prefect of Police took the five visiting cards which his secretary handed him and read:
“Mr. Archibald Brig
ht, First Secretary United States Embassy; Maître
Lepertuis, Solicitor; Juan Caceres, Attaché to the Peruvian Legation;
Major Comte d’Astrignac, retired.”
The fifth card bore merely a name, without address or quality of any kind —
DON LUIS PERENNA
“That’s the one I’m curious to see!” said M. Desmalions. “He interests me like the very devil! Did you read the report of the Foreign Legion?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Préfet, and I confess that this gentleman puzzles me, too.”
“He does, eh? Did you ever hear of such pluck? A sort of heroic madman, something absolutely wonderful! And then there’s that nickname of Arsène Lupin which he earned among his messmates for the way in which he used to boss them and astound them! … How long is it since the death of Arsène Lupin?”
“It happened two years before your appointment, Monsieur le Préfet. His corpse and Mme. Kesselbach’s were discovered under the ruins of a little chalet which was burnt down close to the Luxemburg frontier. It was found at the inquest that he had strangled that monster, Mrs. Kesselbach, whose crimes came to light afterward, and that he hanged himself after setting fire to the chalet.”
“It was a fitting end for that — rascal,” said M. Desmalions, “and I confess that I, for my part, much prefer not having him to fight against. Let’s see, where were we? Are the papers of the Mornington inheritance ready for me?”
“On your desk, Monsieur le Préfet.”
“Good. But I was forgetting: is Inspector Vérot here?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Préfet. I expect he’s in the infirmary getting something to pull him together.”
“Why, what’s the matter with him?”
“He struck me as being in a queer state — rather ill.”
“How do you mean?”
The secretary described his interview with Inspector Vérot.
“And you say he left a letter for me?” said M. Desmalions with a worried air. “Where is it?”
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 244
