The Tremendous Event

by Maurice Leblanc

  CHAPTER II

  ALONG THE CABLE

  He fell asleep beside her, after a long spell of waking during whichhis uneasiness was gradually assuaged by the soft and regular rhythmwhich marked the young girl's breathing.

  When he woke, fairly late in the morning, Dolores was stooping andbathing her beautiful arms and her face in the stream that flowed downthe hillside. She moved slowly; and all her attitude, as she dried herarms and put back her hair, knotting it low on her neck, were full ofa grave harmony.

  As Simon stood up, she filled a glass and brought it to him:

  "Drink that," she said. "Contrary to what I thought, it's fresh water.I heard our horses drinking it in the night."

  "That's easily explained," said Simon. "During the first few days, therivers of the old coasts filtered in more or less anywhere, untilforced, by their increasing flow, to wear themselves a new course.Judging by the direction which this one seems to follow and by itssize, it should be a French river, doubtless the Somme, which willjoin the sea henceforth between Le Havre and Southampton. Unless.. . ."

  He was not certain of his argument. In reality, under the implacableveil of the clouds, which were still motionless and hanging very low,and without his compass, which he had heedlessly handed to Antonio, hedid not know how to take his bearings. He had followed in Isabel'strack last evening; and he hesitated to venture in either directionnow that this track was lost and that there was no clue to justify hisseeking her in one direction rather than in another.

  A discovery of Dolores put an end to his hesitation. In exploring theimmediate surroundings, the girl had noticed a submarine cable whichcrossed the river.

  "Capital!" he said. "The cable evidently comes from England, likeourselves. If we follow it, we shall be going towards France. We shallbe sure of going the same way as our enemies and we shall very likelypick up some information on the road."

  "France is a long way off," Dolores remarked, "and our horses perhapswon't last for more than another half day."

  "That's their lookout," cried Simon. "We shall finish the journey onfoot. The great thing is to reach the French coast. Let us make astart."

  At two hundred yards' distance, in a depression of the soil, the cablerose from the river and ran straight to a sand-bank, after which itappeared once more, like one of those roads which show in sections onuneven plains.

  "It will lead you to Dieppe," said a wandering Frenchman, whom Simonhad stopped. "I've just come from there. You've only to follow it."

  They followed it in silence. A mute companion, speaking none saveindispensable words, Dolores seemed to be always self-absorbed, or toheed only the horses and the details of the expedition. As for Simon,he gave no thought to her. It was a curious fact that he had not yetfelt, even casually, that there was something strange and disturbingin the adventure that brought him, a young man, and her, a youngwoman, together. She remained the unknown; yet this mystery had noparticular attraction for him, nor did Antonio's enigmatic words recurto his memory. Though he was perfectly well aware that she was verybeautiful, though it gave him pleasure to look at her from time totime and though he often felt her eyes resting on him, she was neverthe subject of his thoughts and did not for a moment enter into theunbroken reflections aroused by his love for Isabel Bakefield and thedangers which she was incurring.

  These dangers he now judged to be less terrible than he had supposed.Since Rolleston's plan consisted in sending Lord Bakefield to a Parisbanker to obtain money, it might be assumed that Isabel, held as ahostage, would be treated with a certain consideration, at least untilRolleston, after receiving a ransom, made further demands. But, whenthis happened, would not he, Simon, be there?

  They were now entering a region of a wholly different character, wherethere was no longer either sand or mud, but a floor of grey rockstreaked with thin sheets of hard, sharp-edged stone, which refused totake the imprint of a trail and which even the iron of the horses'shoes failed to mark. Their only chance of information was from theprowlers whom they might encounter.

  These were becoming more and more numerous. Two full days had elapsedsince the emergence of the new land. It was now the third day; andfrom all parts, from every point of the sea-side counties ordepartments, came hastening all who did not fear the risk of theundertaking: vagabonds, tramps, poachers, reckless spirits, daredevilsof all kinds. The ruined towns poured forth their contingent ofpoverty-striken, starving outcasts and escaped prisoners. Armed withrifles and swords, with clubs or scythes, all these brigands wore anair that was both defiant and threatening. They watched one anotherwarily, each of them gauging at a glance his neighbour's strength,ready to spring upon him or ready to act in self-defence.

  Simon's questions hardly evoked as much as a grumbling reply:

  "A woman tied up? A party? Horses? Not come my way."

  And they went on. But, two hours later, Simon was greatly surprised tosee the motley dress of three men walking some distance ahead, theirshoulders laden with bundles which each of them carried slung on theend of a stick. Weren't those Antonio's Indians?

  "Yes," murmured Dolores. "It's Forsetta and the Mazzani brothers."But, when Simon proposed to go after them, "No!" she said, withoutconcealing her repugnance. "They're a bad lot. There's nothing to begained by joining them."

  But he was not listening; and, as soon as they were within hearing, heshouted:

  "Is Antonio anywhere about?"

  The three men set down their bundles, while Simon and Doloresdismounted and Forsetta, who had a revolver in his hand, thrust itinto his pocket. He was a great giant of a fellow.

  "Ah, so it's you, Dolores?" he said, after saluting Simon. "Faith, no,Antonio's nowhere hereabouts. We've not seen him."

  He smiled with a wry mouth and treacherous eyes.

  "That means," retorted Simon, pointing to their burdens, "that you andMazzani thought it simpler to go hunting in this direction?"

  "May be," he said, with a leer.

  "But the old professor? Antonio left him in your charge."

  "We lost sight of him soon after the _Queen Mary_. He was looking forshells. So Mazzani and I came on."

  Simon was losing patience. Dolores interrupted him:

  "Forsetta," she said gravely. "Antonio was your chief. We four werefellow-workers; and he asked if you would come with him and me toavenge my uncle's death. You had no right to desert Antonio."

  The Indians looked at one another and laughed. It was obvious thatnotions of right and wrong, promises, obligations, duties offriendship, established rules, decent behaviour, all these hadsuddenly became things which they had ceased to understand. In thestupendous chaos of events, in the heart of this virgin soil, nothingmattered but the satisfaction of the appetites. It was a newsituation, which they were unable to analyse, though they hastened toprofit by its results without so much as discussing them.

  The brothers Mazzani lifted their bundles to their shoulders. Forsettawent up to Dolores and stared at her for a moment without speaking,with eyes that glittered between his half-closed lids. His facebetrayed at the same time hesitation and a brutal desire, which hemade no attempt to conceal, to seize the girl as his prey.

  But he restrained himself and, picking up his bag, moved off with hiscompanions.

  Simon had watched the scene in silence. His eyes met Dolores'. Shecoloured slightly and said, in a low voice:

  "Forsetta used to know how to keep his distance. . . . The air of theprairie, as you say, has acted on him as it has on the others."

  Around them, a bed of dried wrack and other sea-weeds, beneath whichthe cable disappeared for a length of several miles, formed a seriesof hills and valleys. Dolores decided that they would halt there andled the horses a little way off, so that they should not disturbSimon's rest.

  As it happened, Simon, having lain down on the ground and fallenasleep, was attacked, knocked helpless, gagged and bound before he wasable to offer the least resistance to his assailants. These were thethree Indians, who had returned at
a run.

  Forsetta took possession of Simon's pocket-book and watch, tested thefirmness of his bonds and then, flat on his stomach, with one of theMazzanis on either side, crawled under the wrack and seaweed towardsthe spot where the girl was tending the horses.

  Simon repeatedly saw their supple bodies wriggling like reptiles.Dolores, who was busied over the saddle-bags, had her back to them. Nofeeling of uneasiness warned her of her danger. In vain Simon stroveagainst his bonds and uttered shouts which were stifled by his gag. Nopower could prevent the Indians from attaining their aim.

  The younger Mazzani was the swifter of the two. He suddenly sprungupon Dolores and threw her down, while his brother leapt upon one ofthe horses and Forsetta, holding another by the bridle, gave hisorders in a hoarse tone of triumph:

  "Lift her. Take away her rifle. . . . Good! Bring her here. . . .We'll tie her on."

  Dolores was placed across the saddle. But, just as Forsetta wasuncoiling a rope which he carried round his waist, she raised herselfupon the horse's neck, towering over young Mazzani and, raising herarm, struck him full in the chest with her dagger. The Indian felllike a stone against Forsetta; and, when the latter had releasedhimself and made as though to continue the struggle on his ownaccount, Dolores was already before him, threatening him point-blankwith her rifle, which she had recovered:

  "Clear out," she said. "You too, Mazzani, clear out."

  Mazzani obeyed and flew off at a gallop. Forsetta, his featuresconvulsed with rage, withdrew with deliberate steps, leading thesecond horse. Dolores called to him:

  "Leave that horse, Forsetta! This moment . . . or I fire!"

  He dropped the bridle and then, twenty paces farther on, suddenlyturned his back and fled as fast as he could run.

  Simon was impressed not so much by the incident itself--a mere episodein the great tragedy--as by the extraordinary coolness which the girlhad displayed. When she came to release him, her hands were cold asice and her lips quivering:

  "He's dead," she faltered. "The young Mazzani is dead. . . ."

  "You had to defend yourself," said Simon.

  "Yes . . . yes . . . but to take a man's life . . . how horrible! Istruck instinctively . . . as though I were acting for the films: yousee, we rehearsed this scene a hundred times and more, the four of us,the Mazzanis, Forsetta and I, in the same way, with the words andgestures in the same order. . . . Even to the stab! It was youngMazzani himself who taught me that; and he often used to say: 'Bravo,Dolores! If ever you play the kidnapping-scene in real life, I'm sorryfor your adversary!'"

  "Let's hurry," said Simon. "Mazzani may try to avenge his brother'sdeath; and a man like Forsetta doesn't easily give up. . . ."

  They continued on their way and once more came upon the cable. Simonwent on foot, abreast of Dolores. By turning his head a little, hecould see her sad face, with its crown of black hair. She had lost herbroad-brimmed hat, as well as her bolero, which was strapped to thesaddle of the horse stolen by Mazzani. A silk shirt revealed themodelling of her breasts. Her rifle was slung across her shoulders.

  Once more the region of streaked stone extended to the horizon, dottedwith wrecks as before and crossed by the wandering shapes of looters.Clouds hung overhead. From time to time there was the humming of anaeroplane.

  At noon Simon calculated that they had still twelve or fifteen milesto cover and that therefore they might be able to reach Dieppe beforenight. Dolores, who had dismounted and, like him, was walking,declared:

  "We, yes, we shall get there. But not the horse. He will drop beforethat."

  "No matter!" said Simon. "The great thing is for us to get there."

  The rocky ground was now interspersed with tracts of sand wherefootprints were once more visible; and among other trails were thoseof two horses coming in their direction along the line of the cable.

  "Yet we passed no one on horseback," said Simon. "What do you make ofit?"

  She did not reply: but a little later, as they reached the top of aslope, she showed him a broad river mingling with the horizon andbarring their progress. When they were nearer, they saw that it wasflowing from their right to their left; and, when they were nearerstill, it reminded them of the stream which they had left thatmorning. The colour, the banks, the windings were the same. Simon,disconcerted, examined the country around to discover something thatwas different; but the landscape was identical, as a whole and inevery detail.

  "What does this mean?" muttered Simon. "There must be an inexplicablemirage . . . for, after all, it is impossible to admit that we canhave made a mistake."

  But proofs of the blunder committed were becoming more numerous. Thetrack of the two horses having led them away from the cable, they wentdown to the river-bank and there, on a flat space bearing the tracesof an encampment, they were compelled to recognize the spot where theyhad passed the previous night!

  Thus, in a disastrous fit of distraction due to the attack by theIndians and the death of the younger Mazzani, both of them, in theirexcitement, had lost their bearings, and, trusting to the onlyindication which they had discovered, had gone back to the submarinecable. Then, when they resumed their journey, there had been nothing,no landmark of any kind, to reveal the fact that they were followingthe cable in the reverse direction, that they were retracing the pathalready travelled and that they were returning, after an exhaustingand fruitless effort, to the spot which they had left some hours ago!

  Simon yielded to a momentary fit of despondency. That which was only avexatious delay assumed in his eyes the importance of an irreparableevent. The upheaval of the 4th of June had caused this corner of theworld to relapse into absolute barbarism; and to struggle against theobstacles which it presented called for qualities which he did notpossess. While the marauders and outcasts felt at home from thebeginning in this new state of things, he, Simon Dubosc, was vainlyseeking for the solution of the problems propounded by the exceptionalcircumstances. Where was he to go? What was he to do? Against whom washe to defend himself? How was he to rescue Isabel?

  As completely lost in the new land as he would have been in theimmensity of the sea, he ascended the course of the river, following,with a distraught gaze, the trace of the two trails marking the sand,which was wet in places. He recognized the prints left by Dolores'sandals.

  "It's no use going in that direction," she said. "I explored all thesurrounding country this morning."

  He went on, however, against the girl's wishes and with no otherobject than that of acting and moving. And, so doing, in some fifteenminutes' time he came upon a spot where the bank was trampled andmuddy, like the banks of a river at a ford.

  He stopped suddenly. Horses had passed that way. The mark of theirshoes was plainly visible.

  "Oh!" he cried, in bewilderment. "Here is Rolleston's trail! . . .This is the distinct pattern of his rubber soles! Can I believe myeyes?"

  Almost immediately his quest assumed a more definite form. Fifty yardshigher were the traces, still plainly marked, of a camp; and Simondeclared:

  "Of course! . . . Of course! . . . It was here that they landed lastnight! Like us, they must have fled before the sudden rise of thewater; and like us, they camped on the further side of a hill. Oh," hecontinued, despairingly, "we were less than a mile from them! We couldhave surprised them in their sleep! Isn't it frightful to think thatnothing told us of it . . . and that such an opportunity. . . ."

  He squatted on his heels and, bending over the ground, examined it forsome minutes. Then he rose, his eyes met those of Dolores and hesaid, in a low voice:

  "There is one extraordinary thing. . . . How do you explain it?"

  The girl's tanned face turned crimson; and he saw that she guessedwhat he was about to say:

  "You came here this morning, Dolores, while I was asleep. Severaltimes your footsteps cover those of our enemies, which proves that youcame after they were gone. Why didn't you tell me?"

  She was silent, with her eyes still fixed upon Simon's and her graveface animated by an exp
ression of mingled defiance and fear. SuddenlySimon seized her hand:

  "But then . . . but then you knew the truth! Ever since this morning,you have known that they went along the river-bank. . . . Look . . .over there . . . you can see their tracks leading eastward. . . . Andyou never told me! Worse than that. . . . Why, yes . . . it was youwho called my attention to the cable. . . . It was you who set megoing in a southerly direction . . . towards France. . . . And it isthrough you that we have lost nearly a whole day!"

  Standing close up to her, with his eyes plumbing hers, holding herfingers in his, he resumed:

  "Why did you do that? It was an unspeakable piece of treachery. . . .Tell me, why? You know that I love Miss Bakefield, that she is in themost terrible danger and that to her one day lost may mean dishonour. . . and death. . . . Then why did you do it?"

  He said no more. He felt that, in spite of her appearance, which wasimpassive as usual, the girl was overcome with emotion and that he wasdominating her with all the power of his manhood. Dolores' knees weregiving way beneath her. There was nothing in her now butsubmissiveness and gentleness; and, since, in their exceptionalposition, no reserve could restrain her confession or check herimpulsiveness, she whispered:

  "Forgive me. . . . I wasn't thinking . . . or rather I thought of noone but you . . . you and myself. . . . Yes, from the first moment ofour meeting, the other day, I was swept off my feet by a feelingstronger than anything in this world. . . . I don't know why. . . . Itwas your way of doing things . . . your delicacy, when you threw yourcoat over my shoulders. . . . I'm not used to being treated like that.. . . You seemed to me different from the others. . . . That night,at the Casino, your triumph intoxicated me. . . . And since then mywhole life has been centred on you. . . . I have never felt like thisbefore. . . . Men . . . men are brutal to me . . . violent . . .terrible. . . . They run after me like brutes . . . I loathe them.. . . You . . . you . . . you're different. . . . With you I feel aslave. . . . I want to please you. . . . Your every movement delightsme. . . . With you I am happier than I've ever been in my life. . . ."

  She stood drooping before him, with lowered head. Simon was bewilderedat the expression of this spontaneous love, which to him was socompletely unforeseen, which was at once so humble and so passionate.It wounded him in his love for Isabel, as though he had committed anoffence in listening to the girl's avowal. Yet she spoke so gently;and it was so strange to see this proud and beautiful creature bowingbefore him with such reverence that he could not but experience acertain emotion.

  "I love another woman," he repeated, to set up definitely the obstacleof this love, "and nothing can come between us."

  "Yes," she said. "Nevertheless I hoped . . . I don't know what. . . .I had no object in view. . . . I only wanted us to be alone together,just the two of us, as long as possible. It's over now. I swear it.. . . We shall find Miss Bakefield. . . . Let me take you to her: Ithink I shall be better able than you. . . ."

  Was she sincere? How could he reconcile this offer of devotion withthe passion to which she had confessed?

  "What proof have you?" asked Simon.

  "What proof of my loyalty? The absolute acknowledgement of the wrongwhich I have done and which I wish to repair. This morning, when Icame here alone, I looked all over the ground to see if there wasanything that might give us a clue and I ended by discovering on theedge of this rock a scrap of paper with some writing on it. . . ."

  "Have you it?" cried Simon, sharply. "Has she written? Miss Bakefield,I mean?"

  "Yes."

  "It's for me, of course?" continued Simon, with increasing excitement.

  "It's not addressed. But of course it was written for you just asyesterday's message was. Here it is. . . ."

  She held out a piece of paper, moist and crumpled, on which he readthe following words, hastily scribbled in Isabel's hand:

  "No longer making for Dieppe. They have heard a rumour of a fountain of gold . . . a real, gushing spring, it seems. We are going in that direction. No immediate cause for anxiety."

  And Dolores added:

  "They left before daybreak, going up the river. If this river isreally the Somme, we must suppose that they have crossed it somewhere,which will have delayed them. So we shall find them, Simon."