The Tremendous Event

by Maurice Leblanc

  CHAPTER III

  SIDE BY SIDE

  The jaded horse was incapable of further service. They had to abandonit, after emptying the saddle-bags and removing the rug, which Doloreswrapped about her like a soldier's cloak.

  They set out again. Henceforth the girl directed the pursuit. Simon,reassured by Isabel's letter, allowed Dolores to lead the way andtwenty times over had occasion to remark her perspicacity and theaccuracy of her judgment or intuition.

  Then, less anxious, feeling that she understood, he became moretalkative and abandoned himself, as on the previous day, to the burstof enthusiasm which the miracle of this new world awakened in him. Thestill unsettled coast-line, the irresolute river, the changing hues ofthe water, the ever-varying forms of the heights and valleys, thecontours of the landscape, hardly more definite as yet than those ofan infant's face: all of this, for an hour or two, was to him asource of wonder and exaltation.

  "Look, look!" he cried. "It is as though the landscape were amazed atshowing itself in the light of day! Crushed until now beneath theweight of the waters, buried in darkness, it seems embarrassed by thelight. Each detail has to learn how to hold itself, to win a place foritself, to adapt itself to new conditions of existence, to obey otherlaws, to shape itself in accordance with other purposes, in short, tolive its life as a thing of earth. It will grow acquainted with thewind, the rain, the frost; with winter and spring; with the sun, thebeautiful, glorious sun, which will fertilize it and draw from it allthe appearance, colour, service, pleasure and beauty which it iscapable of yielding. A world is being created before our eyes."

  Dolores listened with a charmed expression that spoke of the delightwhich she felt when Simon spoke for her benefit. And he, all unawares,meanwhile became kindlier and more attentive. The companion with whomchance had associated him was assuming more and more the semblance ofa woman. Sometimes he reflected upon the love which she had revealedto him and asked himself whether, in professing her readiness todevote herself, she was not seeking above all to remain by his sideand to profit by the circumstances which brought them together. But hewas so sure of his own strength and so well protected by Isabel thathe took little pains to fathom the secrets of this mysterious soul.

  Three times they witnessed murderous conflicts among the swarm ofvagabonds who were checked by the barrier of the river. Two men and awoman fell, but Simon made no attempt to defend them or to punish thecriminals:

  "It is the law of the strongest," he said. "No police! No judges! Noexecutioners! No guillotine! So why trouble ourselves? All social andmoral acquisitions, all the subtleties of civilization, all these meltaway in a moment. What remains? The primordial instincts, which are toabuse your strength, to take what isn't yours and, in a moment ofanger or greed, to kill your fellows. What does it matter? We are backin the troglodyte age! Let each man look to himself!"

  The sound of singing reached them from somewhere ahead, as though theriver had transmitted its loud echo. They listened: it was a Frenchrustic ditty, sung in a drawling voice to a tuneful air. The sounddrew nearer. From the curtain of mist a large open boat came intoview, laden with men, women and children, with baskets and articles offurniture, and impelled by the powerful effort of six oars. The menwere emigrant sailors, in quest of new shores on which to rebuildtheir homes.

  "France?" cried Simon, when they passed.

  "Cayeux-sur-Mer," replied one of the singers.

  "Then this river is the Somme?"

  "It's the Somme."

  "But it's flowing north!"

  "Yes, but there's a sharp bend a few miles from here."

  "You must have passed a party of men carrying off an old man and agirl bound to two horses."

  "Haven't seen anything of that sort," declared the man.

  He resumed his singing. Women's voices joined in the chorus; and theboat moved on.

  "Rolleston must have branched off towards France," Simon concluded.

  "He can't have done that," objected Dolores, "since his presentobjective is the fountain of gold which some one mentioned to him."

  "In that case what has become of them?"

  The reply to this question was vouchsafed after an hour's difficultwalking over a ground composed of millions upon millions of thosebroken sea-shells which the patient centuries use in kneading andshaping of the tallest cliffs. It all crackled under their feet andsometimes they sank into it above their ankles. Some tracts, hundredsof yards wide, were covered with a layer of dead fish on which theywere compelled to trudge and which formed a mass of decomposing fleshwith an intolerable stench to it.

  But a slope of hard, firm ground led them to a more rugged promontoryoverhanging the river. Here a dozen men, grey before their time,clothed in rags and repulsively filthy, with evil faces and brutalgestures, were cutting up the carcass of a horse and grilling thepieces over a scanty fire fed with sodden planks. They seemed to be agang of tramps who had joined forces for looting on a larger scale.They had a sheep-dog with them. One of them stated that he had thatmorning seen a party of armed men crossing the Somme, making use of abig wreck which lay stranded in the middle of the river and which theyhad reached by a frail, hastily-constructed bridge.

  "Look," he said, "there she is, at the far end of the cliff. They slidthe girl down first and then the old, trussed-up chap."

  "But," asked Simon, "the horses didn't get across that way, did they?"

  "The horses? They were done for. So they let them go. Two of my matestook three of them and have gone back to France with them. . . . Ifthey get there, it'll be a bit of luck for them. The fourth, he's onthe spit: we're going to have our dinner off him. . . . After all, onemust eat!"

  "And those people, where were they going?" asked Simon.

  "Going to pick up gold. They were talking of a fountain flowing withgold pieces . . . real gold coins. We're going too, we are. What we'rewanting is arms: arms that are some use."

  The tramps had risen to their feet; and, obeying an unconcerted andspontaneous movement, they gathered round Simon and Dolores. The manwho had been speaking laid his hand upon Simon's rifle:

  "This sort of thing, you know. A gun like that must come in handyjust now . . . especially to defend a pocket-book which is probably afat one. . . . It's true," he added, in a threatening tone, "that mymates and I have got our sticks and knives, for when it comes totalking."

  "A revolver's better," said Simon, drawing his from his pocket.

  The circle of tramps opened out.

  "Stay where you are, will you?" he bade them. "The first of you whomoves a step, I shoot him down!"

  Walking backwards, while keeping the men covered with his revolver, hedrew Dolores to the end of the promontory. The tramps had not budged afoot.

  "Come," whispered Simon. "We have nothing to fear from them."

  The boat, completely capsized, squat and clumsy as the shell of atortoise, barred the second half of the river. In foundering she hadspilt on the sloping shore a deck cargo of timber, now sodden, butstill sound enough to enable Rolleston's gang to build a footbridgetwelve yards long across the arm of the river.

  Dolores and Simon crossed it briskly. It was easy after that to goalong the nearly flat bottom of the keel and to slide down the chainof the anchor. But, just as Dolores reached the ground, a violentconcussion shook the chain, of which she had not yet let go, and ashot rang out from the other bank.

  "Ah!" she said. "I was lucky: the bullet has struck one of the links."

  Simon had faced round. Opposite them, the tramps were venturing on thefootbridge one by one.

  "But who can have fired?" he demanded. "Those beggars haven't arifle."

  Dolores gave him a sudden push, so that he was protected by the bulkof the wreck:

  "Who fired?" she repeated. "Forsetta or Mazzani."

  "Have you seen them?"

  "Yes, at the back of the promontory. You can understand, a very fewwords would enable them to make a deal with the tramps and persuadethem to attack us."

 
They both ran round to the other side of the stern. From there theycould see the whole of the footbridge and were under cover from thesnipers. Simon raised his rifle to his shoulder.

  "Fire!" cried Dolores, seeing him hesitate.

  The shot rang out. The foremost of the vagabonds fell. He roared withpain, holding his leg. The others hurried back, dragging him withthem, and the promontory was cleared of men. But, though the trampscould not risk going on the footbridge, it was no less dangerous forDolores and Simon to leave the protected area formed by the wreck.Directly they became visible, they were exposed to Forsetta's orMazzani's fire.

  "We must wait till dark," Dolores decided.

  For hours, rifle in hand, they watched the promontory, on which a headand shoulders or gesticulating arms appeared at frequent intervals andfrom which on several occasions also the threat of a levelled rifleforced them to hide themselves. Then, as soon as the darkness wasdense enough, they set off again, convinced that Rolleston's trailwould continue to ascend the Somme.

  They travelled quickly, never doubting that the two Indians and thevagabonds would pursue them. Indeed, they heard their voices acrossthe water and saw fleeting glimmers of light on the same bank asthemselves.

  "They know," said Dolores, "that Rolleston went in this direction andthat we, who are looking for him, are bound to keep to it."

  After two hours' progress, during which they groped their way, guidedfrom time to time by the vague shimmering of the river, they reached asort of isolated chaos into which Simon wearily cast the light of hiselectric torch. It consisted of enormous blocks of hewn stone, sunk insome lighter, marble, as far as he could see, and partly awash.

  "I think we might stop here," said Simon, "at all events tilldaybreak."

  "Yes," Dolores said, "at daybreak you go on again."

  He was surprised by this reply:

  "But you too, I suppose, Dolores?"

  "Of course; but wouldn't it be better for us to separate? SoonRolleston's trail will leave the river and Forsetta is sure to catchyou up, unless I draw him off on another trail."

  Simon did not quite understand the girl's plan:

  "Then what will you do, Dolores?" he asked.

  "I shall go my own way and I shall certainly draw them after me, sinceit's I they want."

  "But in that case you'll fall into the hands of Forsetta and Mazzani,who means to avenge his brother's death. . . ."

  "I shall give them the slip."

  "And all the brutes swarming in these parts: will you give them theslip too?"

  "We're not discussing my affairs, but yours: you have to catchRolleston. I am hampering your efforts. So let us separate."

  "Not at all!" protested Simon. "We have no right to separate; and youmay be sure that I shan't leave you."

  Dolores' offer aroused Simon's curiosity. What was the girl's motive?Why did she propose to sacrifice herself? In the silence and thedarkness, he thought of her for a long while and of theirextraordinary adventure. Starting in pursuit of the woman whom heloved, here he was bound by events to another woman, who was herselfpursued; and of this other woman, whose safety depended on his andwhose fate was closely linked with his own, he knew nothing but thegrace of her figure and the beauty of her face. He had saved her lifeand he scarcely knew her name. He was protecting her and defendingher; and her whole soul remained concealed from him.

  He felt that she was creeping closer to him. Then he heard thesewords, which she uttered in a low and hesitating voice:

  "It's to save me from Forsetta, isn't it, that you refuse my offer?"

  "Of course," he said. "He's terribly dangerous."

  She replied, in a still lower voice and in the tone of one making aconfession:

  "You must not let the threat of a Forsetta influence your conduct.. . . What happens to me is of no great account. . . . Without knowingmuch about my life, you can imagine the sort of girl I was: a littlecigarette-seller hanging about the streets of Mexico; later, a dancerin the saloons at Los Angeles. . . ."

  "Hush!" said Simon, placing his hand over her mouth. "There must be noconfidences between you and me."

  She insisted:

  "Still you know that Miss Bakefield is running the same danger asmyself. By remaining with me, you sacrifice her."

  "Hush!" he repeated, angrily. "I am doing my duty in not leaving you;and Miss Bakefield herself would never forgive me if I did otherwise!"

  The girl irritated him. He suspected that she regarded herself ashaving triumphed over Isabel and that she had been trying to confirmher victory by proving to Simon that he ought to have left her.

  "No, no," he said to himself, "it's not for her sake that I'm stayingwith her. I'm staying because it's my duty. A man does not leave awoman under such conditions. But is she capable of understandingthat?"

  They had to leave their refuge in the middle of the night, for it wasstealthily invaded by the river, and to lie down higher up the beach.

  No further incident disturbed their sleep. But in the morning, whenthe darkness was not yet wholly dispersed, they were awakened byquick, hollow barks. A dog came leaping towards them at such a speedthat Simon had no time to do more than pull out his revolver.

  "Don't fire!" cried Dolores, knife in hand.

  It was too late. The brute turned a somersault, made a few convulsivemoments and lay motionless. Dolores stooped over it and said,positively:

  "I recognize him, he's the tramps' dog. They are on our track. The doghad run ahead of them."

  "But our track's impossible to follow. There's hardly any light."

  "Forsetta and Mazzani have their torches, just as you have. Besides,the firing would have told them."

  "Then let's be off as quickly as possible," Simon proposed.

  "They will catch us up . . . at least, unless you abandon your searchof Rolleston."

  Simon seized his rifle:

  "That's true. So the only thing is to wait for them here and kill themone by one."

  "That's so," she said. "Unfortunately. . . ."

  "Well?"

  "Yesterday, after firing at the tramps, you did not reload yourrifle."

  "No, but my cartridge-belt is on the sand, at the place where Islept."

  "So is mine; and both are covered by the rising water. Therefore thereare only the six cartridges of your Browning left."