“You are right. It is my duty to tell everything, whatever comes of it.”
“Nothing will come of it, I pledge my word, on condition that you save Hortense Daniel. A moment’s hesitation may undo us all. Speak. No details, but the actual facts.”
“Madame de Lourtier is not my wife. The only woman who has the right to bear my name is one whom I married when I was a young colonial official. She was a rather eccentric woman, of feeble mentality and incredibly subject to impulses that amounted to monomania. We had two children, twins, whom she worshipped and in whose company she would no doubt have recovered her mental balance and moral health, when, by a stupid accident — a passing carriage — they were killed before her eyes. The poor thing went mad ... with the silent, secretive madness which you imagined. Some time afterwards, when I was appointed to an Algerian station, I brought her to France and put her in the charge of a worthy creature who had nursed me and brought me up. Two years later, I made the acquaintance of the woman who was to become the joy of my life. You saw her just now. She is the mother of my children and she passes as my wife. Are we to sacrifice her? Is our whole existence to be shipwrecked in horror and must our name be coupled with this tragedy of madness and blood?”
Rénine thought for a moment and asked:
“What is the other one’s name?”
“Hermance.”
“Hermance! Still that initial ... still those eight letters!”
“That was what made me realize everything just now,” said M. de Lourtier. “When you compared the different names, I at once reflected that my unhappy wife was called Hermance and that she was mad ... and all the proofs leapt to my mind.”
“But, though we understand the selection of the victims, how are we to explain the murders? What are the symptoms of her madness? Does she suffer at all?”
“She does not suffer very much at present. But she has suffered in the past, the most terrible suffering that you can imagine: since the moment when her two children were run over before her eyes, night and day she had the horrible spectacle of their death before her eyes, without a moment’s interruption, for she never slept for a single second. Think of the torture of it! To see her children dying through all the hours of the long day and all the hours of the interminable night!”
“Nevertheless,” Rénine objected, “it is not to drive away that picture that she commits murder?”
“Yes, possibly,” said M. de Lourtier, thoughtfully, “to drive it away by sleep.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t understand, because we are talking of a madwoman ... and because all that happens in that disordered brain is necessarily incoherent and abnormal?”
“Obviously. But, all the same, is your supposition based on facts that justify it?”
“Yes, on facts which I had, in a way, overlooked but which to-day assume their true significance. The first of these facts dates a few years back, to a morning when my old nurse for the first time found Hermance fast asleep. Now she was holding her hands clutched around a puppy which she had strangled. And the same thing was repeated on three other occasions.”
“And she slept?”
“Yes, each time she slept a sleep which lasted for several nights.”
“And what conclusion did you draw?”
“I concluded that the relaxation of the nerves provoked by taking life exhausted her and predisposed her for sleep.”
Rénine shuddered:
“That’s it! There’s not a doubt of it! The taking life, the effort of killing makes her sleep. And she began with women what had served her so well with animals. All her madness has become concentrated on that one point: she kills them to rob them of their sleep! She wanted sleep; and she steals the sleep of others! That’s it, isn’t it? For the past two years, she has been sleeping?”
“For the past two years, she has been sleeping,” stammered M. de Lourtier.
Rénine gripped him by the shoulder:
“And it never occurred to you that her madness might go farther, that she would stop at nothing to win the blessing of sleep! Let us make haste, monsieur! All this is horrible!”
They were both making for the door, when M. de Lourtier hesitated. The telephone-bell was ringing.
“It’s from there,” he said.
“From there?”
“Yes, my old nurse gives me the news at the same time every day.”
He unhooked the receivers and handed one to Rénine, who whispered in his ear the questions which he was to put.
“Is that you, Félicienne? How is she?”
“Not so bad, sir.”
“Is she sleeping well?”
“Not very well, lately. Last night, indeed, she never closed her eyes. So she’s very gloomy just now.”
“What is she doing at the moment?”
“She is in her room.”
“Go to her, Félicienne, and don’t leave her.”
“I can’t. She’s locked herself in.”
“You must, Félicienne. Break open the door. I’m coming straight on.... Hullo! Hullo!... Oh, damnation, they’ve cut us off!”
Without a word, the two men left the flat and ran down to the avenue. Rénine hustled M. de Lourtier into the car:
“What address?”
“Ville d’Avray.”
“Of course! In the very center of her operations ... like a spider in the middle of her web! Oh, the shame of it!”
He was profoundly agitated. He saw the whole adventure in its monstrous reality.
“Yes, she kills them to steal their sleep, as she used to kill the animals. It is the same obsession, but complicated by a whole array of utterly incomprehensible practices and superstitions. She evidently fancies that the similarity of the Christian names to her own is indispensable and that she will not sleep unless her victim is an Hortense or an Honorine. It’s a madwoman’s argument; its logic escapes us and we know nothing of its origin; but we can’t get away from it. She has to hunt and has to find. And she finds and carries off her prey beforehand and watches over it for the appointed number of days, until the moment when, crazily, through the hole which she digs with a hatchet in the middle of the skull, she absorbs the sleep which stupefies her and grants her oblivion for a given period. And here again we see absurdity and madness. Why does she fix that period at so many days? Why should one victim ensure her a hundred and twenty days of sleep and another a hundred and twenty-five? What insanity! The calculation is mysterious and of course mad; but the fact remains that, at the end of a hundred or a hundred and twenty-five days, as the case may be, a fresh victim is sacrificed; and there have been six already and the seventh is awaiting her turn. Ah, monsieur, what a terrible responsibility for you! Such a monster as that! She should never have been allowed out of sight!”
M. de Lourtier-Vaneau made no protest. His air of dejection, his pallor, his trembling hands, all proved his remorse and his despair: “She deceived me,” he murmured. “She was outwardly so quiet, so docile! And, after all, she’s in a lunatic asylum.”
“Then how can she ...?”
“The asylum,” explained M. de Lourtier, “is made up of a number of separate buildings scattered over extensive grounds. The sort of cottage in which Hermance lives stands quite apart. There is first a room occupied by Félicienne, then Hermance’s bedroom and two separate rooms, one of which has its windows overlooking the open country. I suppose it is there that she locks up her victims.”
“But the carriage that conveys the dead bodies?”
“The stables of the asylum are quite close to the cottage. There’s a horse and carriage there for station work. Hermance no doubt gets up at night, harnesses the horse and slips the body through the window.”
“And the nurse who watches her?”
“Félicienne is very old and rather deaf.”
“But by day she sees her mistress moving to and fro, doing this and that. Must we not admit a certain complicity?”
“Never! Féli
cienne herself has been deceived by Hermance’s hypocrisy.”
“All the same, it was she who telephoned to Madame de Lourtier first, about that advertisement....”
“Very naturally. Hermance, who talks now and then, who argues, who buries herself in the newspapers, which she does not understand, as you were saying just now, but reads through them attentively, must have seen the advertisement and, having heard that we were looking for a servant, must have asked Félicienne to ring me up.”
“Yes ... yes ... that is what I felt,” said Rénine, slowly. “She marks down her victims.... With Hortense dead, she would have known, once she had used up her allowance of sleep, where to find an eighth victim.... But how did she entice the unfortunate women? How did she entice Hortense?”
The car was rushing along, but not fast enough to please Rénine, who rated the chauffeur:
“Push her along, Adolphe, can’t you?... We’re losing time, my man.”
Suddenly the fear of arriving too late began to torture him. The logic of the insane is subject to sudden changes of mood, to any perilous idea that may enter the mind. The madwoman might easily mistake the date and hasten the catastrophe, like a clock out of order which strikes an hour too soon.
On the other hand, as her sleep was once more disturbed, might she not be tempted to take action without waiting for the appointed moment? Was this not the reason why she had locked herself into her room? Heavens, what agonies her prisoner must be suffering! What shudders of terror at the executioner’s least movement!
“Faster, Adolphe, or I’ll take the wheel myself! Faster, hang it.”
At last they reached Ville d’Avray. There was a steep, sloping road on the right and walls interrupted by a long railing.
“Drive round the grounds, Adolphe. We mustn’t give warning of our presence, must we, M. de Lourtier? Where is the cottage?”
“Just opposite,” said M. de Lourtier-Vaneau.
They got out a little farther on. Rénine began to run along a bank at the side of an ill-kept sunken road. It was almost dark. M. de Lourtier said:
“Here, this building standing a little way back.... Look at that window on the ground-floor. It belongs to one of the separate rooms ... and that is obviously how she slips out.”
“But the window seems to be barred.”
“Yes; and that is why no one suspected anything. But she must have found some way to get through.”
The ground-floor was built over deep cellars. Rénine quickly clambered up, finding a foothold on a projecting ledge of stone.
Sure enough, one of the bars was missing.
He pressed his face to the window-pane and looked in.
The room was dark inside. Nevertheless he was able to distinguish at the back a woman seated beside another woman, who was lying on a mattress. The woman seated was holding her forehead in her hands and gazing at the woman who was lying down.
“It’s she,” whispered M. de Lourtier, who had also climbed the wall. “The other one is bound.”
Rénine took from his pocket a glazier’s diamond and cut out one of the panes without making enough noise to arouse the madwoman’s attention. He next slid his hand to the window-fastening and turned it softly, while with his left hand he levelled a revolver.
“You’re not going to fire, surely!” M. de Lourtier-Vaneau entreated.
“If I must, I shall.”
Rénine pushed open the window gently. But there was an obstacle of which he was not aware, a chair which toppled over and fell.
He leapt into the room and threw away his revolver in order to seize the madwoman. But she did not wait for him. She rushed to the door, opened it and fled, with a hoarse cry.
M. de Lourtier made as though to run after her.
“What’s the use?” said Rénine, kneeling down, “Let’s save the victim first.”
He was instantly reassured: Hortense was alive.
The first thing that he did was to cut the cords and remove the gag that was stifling her. Attracted by the noise, the old nurse had hastened to the room with a lamp, which Rénine took from her, casting its light on Hortense.
He was astounded: though livid and exhausted, with emaciated features and eyes blazing with fever, Hortense was trying to smile. She whispered:
“I was expecting you ... I did not despair for a moment ... I was sure of you....”
She fainted.
An hour later, after much useless searching around the cottage, they found the madwoman locked into a large cupboard in the loft. She had hanged herself.
Hortense refused to stay another night. Besides, it was better that the cottage should be empty when the old nurse announced the madwoman’s suicide. Rénine gave Félicienne minute directions as to what she should do and say; and then, assisted by the chauffeur and M. de Lourtier, carried Hortense to the car and brought her home.
She was soon convalescent. Two days later, Rénine carefully questioned her and asked her how she had come to know the madwoman.
“It was very simple,” she said. “My husband, who is not quite sane, as I have told you, is being looked after at Ville d’Avray; and I sometimes go to see him, without telling anybody, I admit. That was how I came to speak to that poor madwoman and how, the other day, she made signs that she wanted me to visit her. We were alone. I went into the cottage. She threw herself upon me and overpowered me before I had time to cry for help. I thought it was a jest; and so it was, wasn’t it: a madwoman’s jest? She was quite gentle with me.... All the same, she let me starve. But I was so sure of you!”
“And weren’t you frightened?”
“Of starving? No. Besides, she gave me some food, now and then, when the fancy took her.... And then I was sure of you!”
“Yes, but there was something else: that other peril....”
“What other peril?” she asked, ingenuously.
Rénine gave a start. He suddenly understood — it seemed strange at first, though it was quite natural — that Hortense had not for a moment suspected and did not yet suspect the terrible danger which she had run. Her mind had not connected with her own adventure the murders committed by the lady with the hatchet.
He thought that it would always be time enough to tell her the truth. For that matter, a few days later her husband, who had been locked up for years, died in the asylum at Ville d’Avray, and Hortense, who had been recommended by her doctor a short period of rest and solitude, went to stay with a relation living near the village of Bassicourt, in the centre of France.
FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW
To Prince Serge Rénine,
Boulevard Haussmann,
Paris
LA RONCIÈRE
NEAR BASSICOURT,
14 NOVEMBER.
“MY DEAR FRIEND, —
“You must be thinking me very ungrateful. I have been here three weeks; and you have had not one letter from me! Not a word of thanks! And yet I ended by realizing from what terrible death you saved me and understanding the secret of that terrible business! But indeed, indeed I couldn’t help it! I was in such a state of prostration after it all! I needed rest and solitude so badly! Was I to stay in Paris? Was I to continue my expeditions with you? No, no, no! I had had enough adventures! Other people’s are very interesting, I admit. But when one is one’s self the victim and barely escapes with one’s life?... Oh, my dear friend, how horrible it was! Shall I ever forget it?...
“Here, at la Roncière, I enjoy the greatest peace. My old spinster cousin Ermelin pets and coddles me like an invalid. I am getting back my colour and am very well, physically ... so much so, in fact, that I no longer ever think of interesting myself in other people’s business. Never again! For instance (I am only telling you this because you are incorrigible, as inquisitive as any old charwoman, and always ready to busy yourself with things that don’t concern you), yesterday I was present at a rather curious meeting. Antoinette had taken me to the inn at Bassicourt, where we were having tea in the public room, among the peasants (it w
as market-day), when the arrival of three people, two men and a woman, caused a sudden pause in the conversation.
“One of the men was a fat farmer in a long blouse, with a jovial, red face, framed in white whiskers. The other was younger, was dressed in corduroy and had lean, yellow, cross-grained features. Each of them carried a gun slung over his shoulder. Between them was a short, slender young woman, in a brown cloak and a fur cap, whose rather thin and extremely pale face was surprisingly delicate and distinguished-looking.
“‘Father, son and daughter-in-law,’ whispered my cousin.
“‘What! Can that charming creature be the wife of that clod-hopper?’
“‘And the daughter-in-law of Baron de Gorne.’
“‘Is the old fellow over there a baron?’
“‘Yes, descended from a very ancient, noble family which used to own the château in the old days. He has always lived like a peasant: a great hunter, a great drinker, a great litigant, always at law with somebody, now very nearly ruined. His son Mathias was more ambitious and less attached to the soil and studied for the bar. Then he went to America. Next, the lack of money brought him back to the village, whereupon he fell in love with a young girl in the nearest town. The poor girl consented, no one knows why, to marry him; and for five years past she has been leading the life of a hermit, or rather of a prisoner, in a little manor-house close by, the Manoir-au-Puits, the Well Manor.’
“‘With the father and the son?’ I asked.
“‘No, the father lives at the far end of the village, on a lonely farm.’
“‘And is Master Mathias jealous?’
“‘A perfect tiger!’
“‘Without reason?’
“‘Without reason, for Natalie de Gorne is the straightest woman in the world and it is not her fault if a handsome young man has been hanging around the manor-house for the past few months. However, the de Gornes can’t get over it.’
“‘What, the father neither?’
“‘The handsome young man is the last descendant of the people who bought the château long ago. This explains old de Gorne’s hatred. Jérôme Vignal — I know him and am very fond of him — is a good-looking fellow and very well off; and he has sworn to run off with Natalie de Gorne. It’s the old man who says so, whenever he has had a drop too much. There, listen!’
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 321
