The Tremendous Event

by Maurice Leblanc

  CHAPTER III

  GOOD-BYE, SIMON

  Twenty minutes later, they were picked up by the _Castor_, the yachtwhich by this time had passed the _Queen Mary_. As for the _Pays deCaux_, the steamer sailing from Dieppe, subsequent enquiries provedthat the passengers and the crew had compelled the captain to fleefrom the scene of the disaster. The sight of the huge waterspout, thespectacle of the ship lifting her stern out of the waves, rearing upbodily and falling back as though into the mouth of a funnel, theupheaval of the sea, which seemed to have given way beneath theassault of maniacal forces and which, within the circumference of thefrenzied circle, revolved upon itself in a sort of madness: all thiswas so terrifying that women fainted and men threatened the captainwith their levelled revolvers.

  The _Castor_ also had begun by fleeing the spot. But the Conte deBauge, detecting through his field-glasses the handkerchief whichSimon was waving, persuaded his sailors, despite the desperateopposition of his friends, to put about, while avoiding contact withthe dangerous zone.

  For that matter, the sea was subsiding. The eruption had lasted lessthan a minute; and it was as though the monster was now resting,sated, content with its meal, like a beast of prey after its kill. Thesquall had passed. The whirlpool broke up into warring currents whichopposed and annulled one another. There were no more breakers, no morefoam. Beneath the great undulating shroud which the little waves,tossing in harmless frolic, spread above the sunken vessel, thetragedy of five hundred death-struggles was consummated.

  Under these conditions, the rescue was an easy task. Isabel and Simon,who could have held out for hours longer, were taken to the two cabinsand supplied with a change of clothing. Isabel had not even lostconsciousness. The yacht sailed away immediately. Those on board wereeager to escape from the accursed circle. The sudden subsidence of thesea seemed as dangerous as its fury.

  Nothing occurred before they reached the French coast. Theoppressive, menacing lull continued. Simon Dubosc, directly he hadchanged his clothes, joined the count and his party. A littleembarrassed in respect of Miss Bakefield, he spoke of her as a friendwhom he had met by chance on the _Queen Mary_ and by whose side he hadfound himself at the moment of the catastrophe.

  For the rest, he was not questioned. The company on board the yachtwere still profoundly uneasy; the thought of what might happenobsessed them. Further events were preparing. All had the impressionthat an invisible enemy was prowling stealthily around them.

  Twice Simon went below to Isabel's cabin. The door was closed andthere was no sound from within. But Simon knew that Isabel, though shehad recovered from her fatigue and was already forgetting the dangerswhich had threatened them, nevertheless could not shake off the horrorof what she had seen. He himself was still terribly depressed, hauntedby the vision so frightful that it seemed the extravagant image of anightmare rather than the memory of an actual thing. Was it true thatthey had one and all lost their lives: the three clergymen with theiraustere faces, the four happy, cheerful boys, their father and mother,the little girl who had cried, the child that had smiled at Isabel,the captain and every single individual of all those who had coveredthe _Queen Mary's_ decks?

  About four o'clock, the clouds, unrolling in blacker and densermasses, had conquered the heavens. Already the watchers felt the firstbreath of the great squalls whose precipitous onset was at hand, whosebattalions, let loose across the Atlantic, were about to rush into thenarrow straits of the Channel and mingle their devastating effortswith the mysterious forces rising from the depths of the sea. Thehorizon was blotted out as the clouds released their contents.

  But the yacht was nearing Dieppe. The Count and Simon Dubosc, eachgazing through a pair of binoculars, cried out as with one voice,struck at the same moment by the most unexpected sight. Looking at therow of buildings, which line the long sea-front like a tall rampart ofbrick and stone, they could plainly see that the roof and upper storeyof the two largest hotels, the Imperial and the Astoria, situated inthe middle, had collapsed. And the next instant they caught sight ofother houses which were tottering, leaning forward, fissured andhalf-demolished.

  Suddenly a flame shot up from one of these houses. In a few minutesthere was a violent outbreak of fire; and on every side, from one endof the sea-front to the other, a panic-stricken crowd, whose shoutsthey could hear, came pouring down the streets and running to thebeach.

  "There is no doubt about it," spluttered the Count. "There has been anearthquake, a very violent shock, which must have synchronized withthe sort of waterspout in which the _Queen Mary_ disappeared."

  When nearer, they saw that the sea must have risen, sweeping over thesea-wall, for long streaks of mud marked the lawns, while the beach toright and left was covered with stranded shipping.

  And they saw too that the end of the jetty and the light-house haddisappeared, that the breakwater had been carried away and that boatswere drifting about the harbour.

  The wireless telegram announcing the wreck of the _Queen Mary_ hadredoubled the panic. No one dared fly from the peril on land bytaking to the open sea. The relatives of the passengers stood massedtogether, in witless and hopeless waiting, on the landing stage andwhat remained of the jetty.

  In the midst of all this turmoil, the yacht's arrival passed almostunperceived. Each was living for himself, without curiosity, heedlessof all but his own danger and that of his kinsfolk. A few distraughtjournalists were darting about feverishly for news; and theport-authorities subjected Simon and the Count to a hasty andperfunctory enquiry. Simon evaded their questions as far as possible.Once free, he escorted Isabel to the nearest hotel, saw hercomfortably settled and asked her for permission to go in search ofinformation. He was uneasy, for he believed his father to be inDieppe.

  The Duboscs' house stood at the first turning on the great slope whichclimbs to the top of the cliffs on the left, itself hidden behind aclump of trees and covered with flowers and creepers, it had a seriesof terraced gardens which overlooked the town and the sea. Simon wasat once reassured on learning that his father was in Paris and wouldnot be home until next day. He was also told that they had felt only aslight shake on this side of Dieppe.

  He therefore went back to Isabel's hotel. She was still in her room,however, needing rest, and sent down word that she would rather bealone until the evening. Somewhat astonished by this reply, the fullmeaning of which he was not to understand till later, he went on tohis friend Rolleston's place, failed to find him in, returned to hisown house, dined and went for a stroll through the streets of thetown.

  The damage was not so widespread as he had supposed. What is usuallydescribed as the first Dieppe earthquake, to distinguish it from thegreat upheaval of which it was the forerunner, consisted at most oftwo preliminary oscillations, which were followed forty seconds laterby a violent shock accompanied by a tremendous noise and a series ofdetonations. As for the tidal wave, improperly called an eagre, whichrushed up the sea-front, it had but a very moderate height and a quiterestricted force. But the people whom Simon met and those with whom hetalked remembered those few seconds with a terror which the hours didnot appear to diminish. Some were still running with no idea of wherethey were going, while others--and these were the greaternumber--remained in a state of absolute stupefaction, making no replywhen questioned or answering only with incoherent sentences.

  It was of course different in a town like this from elsewhere. Inthese long-settled regions, where the soil had assumed its irrevocableconfiguration hundreds and hundreds of years ago and where volcanicmanifestations were not even contemplated as possible, any phenomenonof the kind was peculiarly alarming, illogical, abnormal, and inviolent contradiction with the laws of nature and with thoseconditions of security which each of us has the right to regard asunchanging and as definitely fixed by destiny.

  And Simon, who since the previous day had been wandering to and fro inthis atmosphere of distraction, Simon, who remembered Old Sandstone'sunfinished predictions and who had seen the gigantic waterspout inwhic
h the _Queen Mary_ was swallowed up, Simon asked himself:

  "What is happening? What is going to happen? In what unforeseenfashion and by what formidable enemy will the coming attack bedelivered?"

  Though he had meant to leave Dieppe on that night or the followingmorning, he felt that his departure would be tantamount to a desertionjust when his father was returning and when so many symptoms announcedthe imminence of a final catastrophe.

  "Isabel will advise me," he said to himself. "We will decide togetherwhat we have to do."

  Meantime night had fallen. He returned to the hotel at nine o'clockand asked that Isabel should be told. He was amazed, almost stunned bythe news that Miss Bakefield had gone. She had come down from her rooman hour earlier, had handed in at the office a letter addressed toSimon Dubosc and had suddenly left the hotel.

  Disconcerted, Simon asked for explanations. There seemed to be none togive, except that one of the waiters said that the young lady hadjoined a sailor who seemed to be waiting for her in the street andthat they had gone off together.

  Taking the letter, Simon moved away with the intention of going to acafe or entering the hotel, but he had not the courage to wait and itwas by the light of a street lamp that he opened the envelope andread:

  "I am writing to you with absolute confidence, feeling happy in the certainty that everything I say will be understood and that you will feel neither bitterness nor resentment, nor, after the first painful shock, any real distress.

  "Simon, we have made a mistake. It is right that our love, the great and sincere love which we bear each other, should dominate all our thoughts and form the object of our whole lives, but it is not right that this love should be our only rule of conduct and our only obligation. In leaving England we did what is only permissible to those whose fate has persistently thwarted all their dreams and destroyed all their sources of joy. It was an act of liberation and revolt, which people have a right to perform when there is no other alternative than death. But is this the case with us, Simon? What have we done to deserve happiness? What ordeals have we suffered? What efforts have we made? What tears have we shed?

  "I have done a great deal of thinking, Simon. I have been thinking of all those poor people who are dead and gone and whose memory will always make me shudder. I have thought of you and myself and my mother. Her too I saw die. You remember: we were speaking of her and of the pearls which she gave me when dying. They are lost; and that distresses me so terribly!

  "Simon, I don't want to consider this and still less all the horrors of this awful day as warnings intended for us two. But I do want them to help us to look at life in a different way, to help us put up a prouder and pluckier fight against the obstacles in our path. The fact that you and I are alive while so many others are dead forbids us to suffer in ourselves any sort of weakness, untruth or shuffling, anything that cannot face the broad light of day.

  "Win me, Simon. For my part, I shall deserve you by confidence and steadfastness. If we are worthy of each other, we shall succeed and we shall not need to blush for a happiness for which we should now have to pay--as I have felt many times to-day--too high a price of humiliation and shame.

  "You will not try to find me, will you, Simon?

  "Your promised wife,

  "Isabel."

  For a few moments Simon stood dumbfounded. As Isabel had foreseen, thefirst shock was infinitely painful. His mind was full of conflictingideas which eluded his grasp. He did not attempt to understand nor didhe ask himself whether he approved of Isabel's action. He suffered ashe had never known that it was possible to suffer.

  And suddenly, in the disorder of his mind, among the incoherentsuppositions which occurred to him, there flashed a horrible thought.It was obvious that Isabel, determined to submit to her father beforethe scandal of her flight was noised abroad, had conceived theintention of returning to Lord Bakefield. But how would she put herplan into execution? And Simon remembered that Isabel had left thehotel in the most singular fashion, abruptly, on foot and accompaniedby a sailor carrying her bag. Now the landing-stage of the Newhavensteamers was close to the hotel; and the night-boat would cast off hermoorings in an hour or two.

  "Can she be thinking of crossing?" he muttered, shuddering as heremembered the upheavals of the sea and the wreck of the _Queen Mary_.

  He rushed towards the quay. Despite Isabel's expressed wish, heintended to see her; and, if she resisted his love, he would at leastimplore her to abandon the risk of an immediate crossing.

  Directly he reached the quay, he perceived the funnels of the Newhavensteamer behind the harbour railway-station. Isabel, without a doubt,was there, in one of the cabins. There were a good many people aboutthe station and a great deal of piled-up luggage. Simon made for thegangway, but was stopped by an official on duty:

  "I have no ticket," said Simon. "I am looking for a lady who has goneon board and who is crossing to-night."

  "There are no passengers on board," said the official.

  "Really? How's that?"

  "The boat is not crossing. There have been orders from Paris. Allnavigation is suspended."

  "Ah!" said Simon Dubosc, with a start of relief. "Navigation issuspended!"

  "Yes; that is to say, as far as the line's concerned."

  "What do you mean, the line?"

  "Why, the company only troubles about its own boats. If others care toput to sea, that is their look-out; we can't prevent them."

  "But," said Simon, beginning to feel uneasy, "I suppose none hasventured to sail just lately?"

  "Yes, there was one, about an hour ago."

  "Oh? Did you see her?"

  "Yes, she was a yacht, belonging to an Englishman."

  "Edward Rolleston, perhaps?" cried Simon, more or less at a venture.

  "Yes, I believe it was, . . . Rolleston. Yes, yes, that's it: anEnglishmen who had just put his yacht in commission."

  Simon suddenly realized the truth. Rolleston, who was staying atDieppe, happened to hear of Isabel's arrival, called at her hotel and,at her request, gave orders to sail. Of course, he was the only mancapable of risking the adventure and of bribing his crew with a lavishdistribution of bank-notes.

  The young Englishman's behaviour gave proof of such courage anddevotion that Simon at once recovered his normal composure. AgainstRolleston he felt neither anger nor resentment. He mastered his fearsand determined to have confidence.

  The clouds were gliding over the town, so low that their black shapescould be distinguished in the darkness of the night. He crossed thefront and leant upon the balustrade which borders the BoulevardMaritime. Thence he could see the white foam of the heavy breakers onthe distant sands and hear their vicious assault upon the rocks.Nevertheless, the expected storm was not yet unleashed. More terriblein its continual, nerve-racking menace, it seemed to be waiting forreinforcements and to be delaying its onslaught only to render it moreimpetuous.

  "Isabel will have time to reach the other side," said Simon.

  He was now quite calm, full of faith in the present and the future.In absolute agreement with Isabel, he approved of her departure; itcaused him no suffering.

  "Come," he thought, "it is time to act."

  He now recognized the purpose in view of which he had been preparingfor years and years: it was to win a woman who was dearer to him thananything on earth and whose conquest would force him to claim thatplace in the world which his merits deserved.

  He had done with hoarding. His duty was to spend, ay, to squander,like a prodigal scattering gold by the handful, without fear of everexhausting his treasure.

  "The time has come," he repeated. "If I am good for anything, I mustprove it. If I was right to wait and husband my resources, I mustprove it."

  He began to walk along the boulevard, his head erect, h
is chestexpanded, striking the ground with a ringing step.

  The wind was rising to a gale. Furious showers swept the air. Thesewere trifles to a Simon Dubosc, whose body, clad at all times of theyear in light materials, took no heed of the rough weather and, evenat the end of a day marked by so many trials, did not betray theslightest symptom of fatigue.

  In truth, he felt inaccessible to ordinary weaknesses. His muscleswere capable of unlimited endurance. His arms, his legs, his chest,his whole body, patiently exercised, were able to sustain the mostviolent and persistent efforts. Through his eyes, ears and nostrils heparticipated acutely in every vibration of the outer world. He waswithout a flaw. His nerves were perfectly steady. His will respondedto every demand. He had the faculty of making up his mind at the firstwarning. His senses were always on the alert, but were controlled byhis reason. He had keen intelligence and a clear, logical mind. _Hewas ready._

  He was ready. Like an athlete at the top of his form, he owed it tohimself to enter the lists and accomplish some feat of prowess. Now,by a wonderful coincidence, it seemed that events promised him a fieldof action in which this feat of prowess might be performed in the mostbrilliant fashion. How? That he did not know. When? That he could notsay. But he felt a profound intuition that new paths were about toopen up before him.

  For an hour he walked to and fro, fired by enthusiasm, quivering withhope. Suddenly a squall leapt at the sea-front, as though torn fromthe crest of the waves; and the rain fell in disorderly masses,hurtling downwards in all directions.

  The storm had broken and Isabel was still at sea.

  He shrugged his shoulders, refusing to admit a return of anxiety. Ifthey had both escaped from the wreck of the _Queen Mary_, it was notin order that one of them should now pay for that unexpected boon. No,come what might, Isabel would reach the other side. Fate wasprotecting them both.

  Through the torrents of rain pouring across the parade and by theflooded streets, Simon returned to the Villa Dubosc. An indomitableenergy bore him up. And he thought with pride of his beautiful bride,who, disdainful like himself of the day's accumulated ordeals anduntiring as he, had gone forth bravely into the terrors of the night.