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

by Maurice Leblanc

  She at once gave a movement of recoil. At the first glance, at the first sight of those motionless people, she suspected the danger which her feminine instinct had already foreseen. And, deathly pale, deprived of all her strength, she dared not come forward.

  Le Corbier took her hand and, gently:

  “Please be seated, mademoiselle. It is possible that your evidence may be of value to us to clear up a few points.”

  There was only one vacant chair, next to Jorancé. Suzanne took a few steps and looked at her father, whom she had not seen since the evening at Saint-Élophe. He turned away his head. She sat down trembling.

  Then Le Corbier, who was in a hurry to finish the business, walked quickly up to Philippe and said:

  “It is the last time, monsieur, that I shall apply to you. In a few minutes, everything will be irrevocably ended. It depends on your good will....”

  But he went no further. Never had he beheld a face ravaged as Philippe’s was, nor ever so great an expression of strength and energy as showed through the chaos of those distorted features. He understood that Philippe had resolved to travel the last stage. He waited, without a word.

  And indeed, as though he too were eager to reach the terrible goal, Philippe spoke and said:

  “Monsieur le ministre, if I tell you for certain how I spent my night, will my words have an unimpeachable value in your mind?”

  His voice was almost calm. His eyes had selected a spot in the tent from which he no longer dared remove them, for he feared to meet Marthe’s eyes, or Jorancé’s, or Suzanne’s.

  Le Corbier replied:

  “An unimpeachable value.”

  “Will they tend to lessen the importance of my father’s statements?”

  “Yes, for I shall have to weigh those statements against the words of a man whose perfect sincerity I shall no longer have cause to doubt.”

  Philippe was silent. His forehead oozed sweat at every pore and he staggered like a drunken man on the point of falling.

  Le Corbier insisted:

  “Speak without scruple, monsieur. There are circumstances in which a man must look straight before him and in which the aim to be attained must, in a measure, blind him.”

  Philippe continued:

  “And you think, monsieur le ministre, that your report, thus modified, may have a decisive influence in Paris?”

  “I say so, positively. The prime minister has allowed me to look into his secret thoughts. Moreover, I know what he is capable of doing. If the conclusions of my report give him a little latitude, he will ring up the German embassy and mount the tribune in order to bring the chamber, to bring the country face to face with the facts as they are. The cabinet will fall amid a general outcry, there will be a few riots, but we shall have peace ... and peace, as you, monsieur, were saying a moment ago, peace without dishonour, at the price of an infinitesimal sacrifice of self-esteem, which will make France greater than ever.”

  “Yes ... yes ...” said Philippe. “But, if it should be too late? If it should no longer be possible to prevent anything?”

  “That,” said Le Corbier, “is a thing which we cannot foretell.... It may, as a matter of fact, be too late....”

  This was the hardest thought of all for Philippe. Deep hollows appeared in his cheeks. The minutes seemed to age him like long years of sickness. The sight of him suggested the faces of the dying martyrs in certain primitive pictures. Nothing short of physical pain can thus convulse the features of a man’s countenance. And he really suffered as much as if he were being stretched on the rack and burnt with red-hot pincers. Nevertheless, he felt that his mind remained lucid, as must be that of the martyrs undergoing torture, and he clearly understood that, in consequence of a series of inexorable facts, he had, for a few moments — but on the most terrible conditions! — the power of perhaps ... of perhaps saving the world from the great scourge of war.

  He stiffened himself and, livid in the face, said:

  “Monsieur le ministre, what my wife suspected, what you have already guessed, is the exact truth. On Monday night, while the arrest was taking place and while the two captives were being carried to Germany, I was with Suzanne Jorancé.”

  It was as though Jorancé, standing behind him, had been waiting for the accusation as for an attack that must be parried without delay:

  “Suzanne! My daughter!” he cried, seizing Philippe by the collar of his jacket. “What are you saying, you villain? How dare you?”

  Marthe had not stirred, remained as though stunned. Old Morestal protested indignantly. Philippe whispered:

  “I am saying what happened.”

  “You lie! You lie!” roared Jorancé. “My daughter, the purest, the most honest girl in the world! Why don’t you confess that you lie?... Confess it!... Confess it!...”

  The poor man was choking. The words were caught short in his throat. His whole frame seemed to quiver; and his eyes were filled with gleams of hatred and murderous longings and anger and, above all, pain, infinite, pitiless, human pain.

  And he entreated and commanded by turns:

  “Confess, confess!... You’re lying, aren’t you?... It’s because of your opinions, that’s it, because of your opinions!... You want a proof ... an alibi ... and so ...”

  And, addressing Le Corbier:

  “Leave me alone with him, monsieur le ministre.... He will confess to me that he is lying, that he is talking like that because he has to ... or because he is mad ... who knows? Yes, because he is mad!... How could she love you? Why should she? Since when? She, who is your wife’s friend.... Get out, I know my daughter!... But answer, you villain!... Morestal, my friend, make him answer ... make him give his proofs.... And you, Suzanne, why don’t you spit in his face?”

  He turned upon Suzanne; and Marthe, rousing herself from her torpor, went up to the girl, as he did.

  Suzanne stood tottering on her feet, with averted gaze.

  “Well, what’s this?” roared her father. “Won’t you answer either? Haven’t you a word to answer to that liar?”

  She tried to speak, stammered a few confused syllables and was silent.

  Philippe met her eyes, the eyes of a hunted fawn, a pair of poor eyes pleading for help.

  “You admit it! You admit it!” shouted Jorancé.

  And he made a sudden rush at her; and Philippe, as in a nightmare, saw Suzanne flung back, shaken by her father, struck by Marthe, who, she too, in an abrupt fit of fury, demanded the useless confession.

  It was a horrible and violent scene. Le Corbier and M. de Trébons interfered, while Morestal, shaking his fist at Philippe, cried:

  “I curse you! You’re a criminal! Let her be, Jorancé. She couldn’t help it, poor thing. He is the one to blame.... Yes, you, you, my son!... And I curse you.... I turn you out....”

  The old man pressed his hand to his heart, stammered a few words more, begging Jorancé’s pardon and promising to look after his daughter, then turned on his heels and fell against the table, fainting....

  PART III

  CHAPTER I

  THE ARMED VIGIL

  “MA’AM!”

  “What is it? What’s the matter?” asked Mme. Morestal, waking with a start.

  “It’s I, Catherine.”

  “Well?”

  “They have sent from the town-hall, ma’am.... They are asking for the master.... They want instructions.... Victor says the troops are being mobilized....”

  The day before, after his fainting-fit at the Butte-aux-Loups, old Morestal was carried back to the Old Mill on a litter by the soldiers of the detachment. Marthe, who came with him, flung a few words of explanation to her mother-in-law and, without paying attention to the good woman’s lamentations, without even speaking to her of Philippe and of what could have become of him, ran to her room and locked herself in.

  Dr. Borel was hurriedly sent for. He examined the patient, diagnosed serious trouble in the region of the heart and refused to give an opinion.

  The house was a
t sixes and sevens during the evening and all through that Sunday night. Catherine and Victor ran to and fro. Mme. Morestal, generally so level-headed, but accustomed to bewail her fate on great occasions, nursed the sick man and issued a multiplicity of orders. Twice she sent the gardener to the chemist at Saint-Élophe.

  At midnight, the old man was suffering so much that Dr. Borel was called in again. He seemed anxious and administered an injection of morphia.

  There followed a few hours of comparative calm; and Mme. Morestal, although tortured at Philippe’s absence and fearing that he might do something rash, was able to lie down on the sofa.

  It was then that Catherine rushed into the room, at the risk of disturbing the patient’s rest.

  Mme. Morestal ended by bundling her off:

  “Hold your tongue, can’t you? Don’t you see that your master’s asleep?”

  “They’re mobilizing the troops, ma’am.... It’s certain that we shall have war....”

  “Oh, don’t bother us with your war!” growled the good woman, pushing her out of the room. “Boil some water for your master and don’t waste your time talking nonsense.”

  She herself went to work at once. But all around her was a confused noise of murmurs and exclamations, coming from the terrace, the garden and the house.

  Morestal woke up at nine o’clock.

  “Suzanne! Where’s Suzanne?” he asked, almost before he opened his eyes.

  “What! Suzanne!...”

  “Why, yes ... why, of course, Suzanne!... I promised her father.... No one has a better right to live in this house.... Philippe’s not here, I suppose?”

  He raised himself in bed, furious at the mere thought.

  “He has not come in,” said his wife. “We don’t know where he is....”

  “That’s all right! He’d better not come back!... I’ve turned him out.... And now I want Suzanne.... She shall nurse me ... she alone, do you understand?...”

  “Come, Morestal, you surely wouldn’t ask ... It’s not possible for Suzanne to ...”

  But her husband’s features were contracted with such a look of anger that she dared not protest further:

  “As you please,” she said. “After all, if you think right....”

  She consulted Dr. Borel by telephone. He replied that the patient must on no account be thwarted. Moreover, he undertook to see the girl, to point out to her the duty that called her to the Old Mill and to overcome any reluctance on her part.

  Dr. Borel himself brought Suzanne to the house at about twelve o’clock. Red with shame, her eyes swollen with tears, she submitted to Mme. Morestal’s humiliating reception and took her seat by the old man’s bedside.

  He gave a sigh of content when he saw her:

  “Ah, I’m glad!... I feel better already.... You won’t leave me, will you, my little Suzanne?”

  And he fell asleep again almost at once, under the action of a fresh injection of morphia.

  As on the previous evening, the dining-room at the Old Mill remained empty. The maid took a light meal on a tray to Mme. Morestal and, next, to Marthe. But Marthe did not even answer her knock.

  Marthe Morestal had not left her room during the morning; and all day she stayed alone, with her door bolted and her shutters closed. She sat on the edge of a chair and, bent in two, held her fists to her jaws and clenched her teeth so as not to scream aloud. It would have done her good to cry; and she sometimes thought that her suffering was about to find an outlet in sobbing; but the relief of tears did not come to moisten her eyes. And, stubbornly, viciously, she went over the whole pitiful story, recalling Suzanne’s stay in Paris, the excursions on which Philippe used to take the young girl and from which they both returned looking so happy and glad, their meeting at the Old Mill, Philippe’s departure for Saint-Élophe and, the next day, Suzanne’s strange attitude, her ambiguous questions, her spiteful smile, as of a rival endeavouring to hurt the wife and hoping to supplant her. Oh, what a cruel business! And how hateful and wicked life, once so sweet, now seemed to her!

  At six o’clock, driven by hunger, she went down to the dining-room. As she came out, after eating a little bread and drinking a glass of water, she saw Mme. Morestal going down the front-door steps to meet the doctor. She then remembered that her father-in-law was ill and that she had not yet seen him. His bedroom was close by. She crossed the passage, knocked, heard a voice — the voice of a nurse, she thought — say “Come in,” and opened the door.

  Opposite her, at a few steps’ distance, beside the sleeping man, was Suzanne.

  “You! You!” fumed Marthe. “You here!...”

  Suzanne began to tremble under her fixed gaze and stammered:

  “It was your father-in-law.... He insisted.... The doctor came ...”

  And, with her knees giving way beneath her, she said, over and over again:

  “I beg your pardon.... Forgive me ... forgive me.... It was my fault.... Philippe would never have ...”

  Marthe at first listened without stirring. Perhaps she might have been just able to restrain herself. But, at the name of Philippe, at the name of Philippe uttered by Suzanne, she gave a bound, clutched the girl by the throat and flung her back against the table. She quivered with rage like an animal that at last holds its foe. She would have liked to destroy that body which her husband had clasped in his arms, to tear it, bite it, hurt it, hurt it as much as she could.

  Suzanne gurgled under the onslaught. Then, losing her head, Marthe, stiff-fingered, clawed her with her nails on the forehead, on the cheeks, on the lips, those moist, red lips which Philippe had kissed. Her hatred gained new life with every movement. Blood flowed and mingled with Suzanne’s tears. Marthe vilified her with abominable words, words which she had never spoken before. And, drunk with rage, thrice she spat in her face.

  She ran out of the room, turned back, hissed a parting insult, slammed the door and went down the passage, calling:

  “Victor! Catherine!”

  Once in her room, she pressed the bell-push until the servants came:

  “My trunk! Bring it down! And get the carriage ready, Victor, do you hear? At once!...”

  Mme. Morestal appeared, attracted by the noise. Dr. Borel was with her.

  “What’s the matter, Marthe? What is it?”

  “I refuse to stay here another hour!” retorted Marthe, heedless of the presence of the doctor and the servants. “You can choose between Suzanne and me....”

  “My husband promised ...”

  “Very well. As you choose that woman, I am going.”

  She opened the drawers of the chest and flung the dresses and linen out promiscuously. With an abrupt movement, she pulled the cloth from the table. All the knicknacks fell to the floor.

  Dr. Borel tried to argue with her:

  “This is all very well, but where are you going?”

  “To Paris. My boys will come to me there.”

  “But haven’t you seen the papers? The position is growing more serious every hour. The frontier-corps are being mobilized. Are you sure of getting through?”

  “I am going,” she said.

  “And suppose you don’t reach Paris?”

  “I am going,” she repeated.

  “What about Philippe?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. He understood that nothing mattered to her, neither her husband’s existence nor the threat of war, and that there was no fighting against her despair. Nevertheless, as he went away with Mme. Morestal, he said, loud enough for Marthe to hear:

  “By the way, don’t be uneasy about Philippe. He has been to see me and to enquire after his father. He will come back. I promised to let him know how things were going....”

  When Victor came, at seven o’clock, to say that the carriage was ready, Marthe had changed her mind. The thought that Philippe was hanging about the neighbourhood, that he might return to the house, that Suzanne and he would stay under the same roof and see each other as and when they pleased was more than she could bear. She remained,
therefore, but standing behind her door, with her ears pricked up to catch the first sound. When everybody had gone to bed, she went downstairs and hid herself, until break of day, in a recess in the entrance-hall. She was prepared to spring out at the least creak on the stair, for she felt convinced that Suzanne would slip out in the dark with the object of joining Philippe. This time, Marthe would have killed her. And her jealousy was so exasperated that she lay in wait, not with fear, but with the fierce hope that Suzanne was really going to appear before her.

  Fits such as these, which are abnormal in a woman like Marthe, who, at ordinary times, obeyed her reason more readily than her instinct, fits such as these do not last. Marthe ended by suddenly bursting into sobs. After crying for a long time, she went up to her room and, worn out with fatigue, got into bed.

  * * *

  That morning, on the Tuesday, Philippe came to the Old Mill. Mme. Morestal was told and hurried down, in a great state of excitement, eager to vent her wrath upon her unworthy son. But, at the sight of him standing outside on the terrace, she overcame her need of recrimination and uttered no reproach, so frightened was she at seeing him look so pale and sad.

  She asked:

  “Where have you been?”

  “What does it matter?” replied Philippe. “I ought not to have come back ... but I could not keep away, because of father.... I was too much upset.... How is he?”

  “Dr. Borel won’t say anything definite yet.”

  “And what is your opinion?”

  “My opinion? Well, frankly speaking, I am very hopeful. Your father is so strong! But, all the same, it was a violent shock....”

  “Yes,” he said, “that is what alarms me. I have not lived, these last two days. How could I possibly go before knowing for certain?...”

  She hinted, with a certain feeling of apprehension:

  “Then you want to stay here?”

  “Yes ... provided he does not know.”

  “The fact is ... it’s like this ... Suzanne is here, in your father’s room.... He insisted on her coming....”