Foreign Bodies

by Martin Edwards

  ‘You are hurting me!—’

  He let her go, and bending over the inert body, his fist raised, cried:

  ‘A lover in my wife’s bedroom!…And…what a lover! A friend…Almost a son…Whore!—’

  She interrupted him:

  ‘He is not my lover…’

  He burst into a laugh.

  ‘Ah! Ah! You expect me to believe that!’

  He seized the collar of the recumbent man, and lifted him up towards him. But when he saw the livid face, the half-opened mouth showing the teeth and gums, when he felt the strange chill of the flesh that touched his hands, he started and let go. The body fell back heavily on the cushions, the forehead beating twice against a chair. His fury turned upon his wife.

  ‘What have you to say?…Explain!…’

  ‘It is very simple,’ she said. ‘I was just going to bed when I heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor…uncertain steps…faltering…and a voice begging, “Open the door…open the door”…I thought you might be ill. I opened the door. Then he came, or rather, fell into the room…I knew he was subject to heart-attacks…I laid him there…I was just going to bring you when you knocked…That’s all…’

  Bending over the body, and apparently quite calm again, he asked, every word pronounced distinctly:

  ‘And it does not surprise you that no one heard him come in?…’

  ‘The hounds bayed…’

  ‘And why should he come here at this hour of the night?’

  She made a vague gesture:

  ‘It does seem strange…But…I can only suppose that he felt ill and that…quite alone in his own house…he was afraid to stay there…came here to beg for help…In any case, when he is better…as soon as he is able to speak…he will be able to explain…’

  M. de Hartevel drew himself up to his full height, and looked into his wife’s eyes.

  ‘It appears we shall have to accept your supposition, and that we shall never know exactly what underlies his being here tonight…for he is dead.’

  She held out her hands and stammered, her teeth chattering:

  ‘It’s not possible…He is…’

  ‘Yes—dead…’

  He seemed to be lost in thought for a moment, then went on in an easier voice:

  ‘After all, the more I think of it, the more natural it seems…Both his father and his uncle died like this, suddenly…Heart disease is hereditary in his family…A shock…a violent emotion…too keen a sensation…a great joy…We are weak creatures at best…’

  He drew an arm-chair to the fire, sat down, and, his hands stretched out to the flames, continued:

  ‘But however simple and natural the event in itself may be, nothing can alter the fact that a man has died in your bedroom during the night…Is that not so?’

  She hid her face in her hands and made no reply.

  ‘And if your explanation satisfies me, I am not able to make others accept it. The servants will have their own ideas, will talk…That will be dishonour for you, for me, for my family…That is not possible…We must find a way out of it…and I have already found it…With the exception of you and me, no one knows, no one will ever know what has happened in this room…No one saw him come in…Take the lamp and come with me…’

  He seized the body in his arms and ordered:

  ‘Walk on first…’

  She hesitated as they went out at the door.

  ‘What are you going to do?…’

  ‘Leave it to me…Go on…’

  Slowly and very quietly they went towards the staircase, she holding high the lamp, its light flickering on the walls, he carefully placing his feet on stair after stair. When they got to the door that led to the garden, he said:

  ‘Open it without a sound.’

  A gust of wind made the light flare up. Beaten on by the rain, the glass burst and fell in pieces on the threshold. She placed the extinguished lamp on the soil. They went into the park. The gravel crunched under their steps and the rain beat upon them. He asked:

  ‘Can you see the walk?…Yes?…Then come close to me…hold the legs…the body is heavy…’

  They went forward in silence. M. de Hartevel stopped near a low door, saying:

  ‘Feel in my right-hand pocket…There is a key there…That’s it…Give it to me…Now let the legs go…It is as dark as a grave…Feel about till you find the key-hole…Have you got it?—Turn…’

  Excited by the noise, the hounds began to bay. Madame de Hartevel started back.

  ‘You are frightened?…Nonsense…Another turn…That’s it!—Stand out of the way…’

  With a thrust from his knee he pushed open the door. Believing themselves free, the hounds bounded against his legs. Pushing them back with a kick, suddenly, with one great effort, he raised the body above his head, balanced it there a moment, flung it into the kennel, and shut the door violently behind him.

  Baying at full voice, the beasts fell on their prey. A frightful death-rattle: ‘Help!’ pierced their clamour, a terrible cry, superhuman. It was followed by violent growlings.

  An unspeakable horror took possession of Madame de Hartevel; a quick flash of understanding dominated her fear, and, her eyes wild, she flung herself on her husband, digging her nails in his face as she shrieked:

  ‘Fiend!…He wasn’t dead!…’

  M. de Hartevel pushed her off with the back of his hand, and standing straight up before her, jeered:

  ‘Did you think he was!’

  Footprints in the Snow

  Maurice Leblanc

  Maurice Leblanc (1864–1941) was born in Rouen, and combined journalism with a career as an industrious but low-profile writer of crime fiction until in 1905 he was commissioned to contribute a story to a new journal called Je Sais Tout. For this project, Leblanc created a new character, heavily influenced by E.W. Hornung’s amateur cracksman A.J. Raffles. Thus was born Arsène Lupin. Leblanc’s stories about Lupin enjoyed immediate success and were gathered in a collection published in 1907, which had many successors. Lupin was a rogue, but his daring thrilled readers—including Jean-Paul Sartre, who wrote: ‘In 1912…I adored the Cyrano of the Underworld, Arsène Lupin…his herculean strength, his shrewd courage, his typically French intelligence…’ Leblanc continued to write stories about Lupin for the rest of his life. His attempts to introduce Sherlock Holmes into the Lupin canon foundered on the rock of copyright law; his not especially cunning solution was to pit Lupin against characters with such names as Herlock Sholmes and Holmlock Shears.

  This story appeared in Leblanc’s collection The Eight Strokes of the Clock (1923) which he prefaced with a note: ‘These adventures were told to me in the old days by Arsène Lupin, as though they had happened to a friend of his, named Prince Rénine. As for me, considering the way in which they were conducted, the actions, the behaviour and the very character of the hero, I find it very difficult not to identify the two friends as one and the same person. Arsène Lupin is gifted with a powerful imagination and is quite capable of attributing to himself adventures which are not his at all and of disowning those which are really his…’

  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 oneself the victim and b
arely 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 was 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 clodhopper?’

  ‘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!’

  The old chap was sitting among a group of men who were amusing themselves by making him drink and plying him with questions. He was already a little bit ‘on’ and was holding forth with a tone of indignation and a mocking smile which formed the most comic contrast.

  ‘He’s wasting his time, I tell you, the coxcomb! It’s no manner of use his poaching round our way and making sheep’s-eyes at the wench…The coverts are watched! If he comes too near, it means a bullet, eh, Mathias?’

  He gripped his daughter-in-law’s hand.

  ‘And then the little wench knows how to defend herself too,’ he chuckled. ‘Eh, you don’t want any admirers, do you Natalie?’

  The young wife blushed, in her confusion at being addressed in these terms, while her husband growled: ‘You’d do better to hold your tongue, father. There are things one doesn’t talk about in public.’

  ‘Things that affect one’s honour are best settled in public,’ retorted the old one. ‘Where I’m concerned, the honour of the de Gornes comes before everything; and that fine spark, with his Paris airs, shan’t…’

  He stopped short. Before him stood a man who had just come in and who seemed to be waiting for him to finish his sentence. The newcomer was a tall, powerfully-built young fellow, in riding-kit, with a hunting-crop in his hand. His strong and rather stern face was lighted up by a pair of fine eyes in which shone an ironical smile.

  ‘Jérôme Vignal,’ whispered my cousin.

  The young man seemed not at all embarrassed. On seeing Natalie, he made a low bow; and, when Mathias de Gorne took a step forward, he eyed him from head to foot, as though to say: ‘Well, what about it?’

  And his attitude was so haughty and contemptuous that the de Gornes unslung their guns and took them in both hands, like sportsmen about to shoot. The son’s expression was very fierce.

  Jérôme was quite unmoved by the threat. After a few seconds, turning to the inn-keeper, he remarked: ‘Oh, I say! I came to see old Vasseur. But his shop is shut. Would you mind giving him the holster of my revolver? It wants a stitch or two.’

  He handed the holster to the inn-keeper and added, laughing: ‘I’m keeping the revolver, in case I need it. You never can tell!’

  Then, still very calmly, he took a cigarette from a silver case, lit it and walked out. We saw him through the window vaulting on his horse and riding off at a slow trot.

  Old de Gorne tossed off a glass of brandy, swearing most horribly.

  His son clapped his hand to the old man’s mouth and forced him to sit down. Natalie de Gorne was weeping beside them…

  That’s my story, dear friend. As you see, it’s not tremendously interesting and does not deserve your attention. There’s no mystery in it and no part for you to play. Indeed, I particularly insist that you should not seek a pretext for any untimely interference. Of course, I should be glad to see the poor thing protected: she appears to be a perfect martyr. But, as I said before, let us leave other people to get out of their own troubles and go no farther with our little experiments…

  Rénine finished reading the letter, read it over again and ended by saying: ‘That’s it. Everything’s right as right can be. She doesn’t want to continue our little experiments, because this would make the seventh and because she’s afraid of the eighth, which under the terms of our agreement has a very particular significance. She doesn’t want to…and she does want to…without seeming to want to.’

  He rubbed his hands. The letter was an invaluable witness to the influence which he had gradually, gently and patiently gained over Hortense Daniel. It betrayed a rather complex feeling, composed of admiration, unbounded confidence, uneasiness at times, fear and almost terror, but also love: he was convinced of that. His companion in adventures which she shared with a good fellowship that excluded any awkwardness between them, she had suddenly taken fright; and a sort of modesty, mingled with a certain coquetry, was impelling her to hold back.

  That very evening, Sunday, Rénine took the train.

  And, at break of day, after covering by diligence, on a road white with snow, the five miles between the little town of Pompignat, where he alighted, and the village of Bassicourt, he learnt that his journey might prove of some use: three shots had been heard during the night in the direction of the Manoir-au-Puits.

  ‘Three shots, sergeant. I heard them as plainly as I see you standing before me,’ said a peasant whom the gendarmes were questioning in the parlour of the inn which Rénine had entered.

  ‘So did I,’ said the waiter. ‘Three shots. It may have been twelve o’clock at night. The snow, which had been falling since nine, had stopped…and the shots sounded across the fields, one after the other: bang, bang, bang.’

  Five more peasants gave their evidence. The sergeant and his men had heard nothing, because the police-station backed on the fields. But a farm-labourer and a woman arrived, who said that they were in Mathias de Gorne’s service, th
at they had been away for two days because of the intervening Sunday and that they had come straight from the manor-house, where they were unable to obtain admission.

  ‘The gate of the grounds is locked, sergeant,’ said the man. ‘It’s the first time I’ve known this to happen. M. Mathias comes out to open it himself, every morning at the stroke of six, winter and summer. Well, it’s past eight now. I called and shouted. Nobody answered. So we came on here.’

  ‘You might have enquired at old M. de Gorne’s,’ said the sergeant. ‘He lives on the high-road.’

  ‘On my word, so I might! I never thought of that.’

  ‘We’d better go there now,’ the sergeant decided. Two of his men went with him, as well as the peasants and a locksmith whose services were called into requisition. Rénine joined the party.

  Soon, at the end of the village, they reached old de Gorne’s farmyard, which Rénine recognized by Hortense’s description of its position.

  The old fellow was harnessing his horse and trap. When they told him what had happened, he burst out laughing.

  ‘Three shots? Bang, bang, bang? Why, my dear sergeant, there are only two barrels to Mathias’ gun!’

  ‘What about the locked gate?’

  ‘It means that the lad’s asleep, that’s all. Last night, he came and cracked a bottle with me…perhaps two…or even three; and he’ll be sleeping it off, I expect…he and Natalie.’

  He climbed on to the box of his trap—an old cart with a patched tilt—and cracked his whip.

  ‘Goodbye, gentlemen all. Those three shots of yours won’t stop me from going to market at Pompignat, as I do every Monday. I’ve a couple of calves under the tilt; and they’re just fit for the butcher. Good-day to you!’

  The others walked on. Rénine went up to the sergeant and gave him his name.

  ‘I’m a friend of Mlle Ermelin, of La Roncière; and, as it’s too early to call on her yet, I shall be glad if you’ll allow me to go round by the manor with you. Mlle Ermelin knows Madame de Gorne; and it will be a satisfaction to me to relieve her mind, for there’s nothing wrong at the manor-house, I hope?’