“ ‘Mademoiselle, isn’t this yours?’
“He presented her with a square of blue silk. It had slipped from the pocket of Basilie’s jacket without her noticing. She took what belonged to her and thanked him. All at once the rider said:
“ ‘Aren’t you Mademoiselle Basilie d’Hermont?’
“He nudged his horse to start walking. Amused and curious about this man, whom she told me she immediately found ‘remarkable’ both for his appearance and for his beautiful horse, Basilie kept her half-blood walking at the same pace.
“The gentleman began to speak with wit and good humor, pleasantly apologizing for not introducing himself ‘precisely to pique the curiosity of a young Amazon,’ in his own words. There followed an animated conversation, in which a very amused Basilie held her own with the somewhat mocking vivacity you can imagine.
“When she reached the branching in the path that led to Beech Grove, she burst into laughter and said: ‘Goodbye, mysterious stranger!’ Then she gave her horse a half-turn and set it off at a gallop. Turning back round, she could see the rider laughing too, saluting from afar with his cap. This is what Basilie told me.”
Another brief silence followed. Then, with calm, Laure continued:
“I told Basilie that this ‘mysterious stranger,’ who had committed the impropriety of not introducing himself from the start, was Monsieur Armand Logreux, from the property of the Cross of Blood. Still very much at her ease, my niece then said:
“ ‘Ah! The hereditary enemy? I won’t let him speak to me and will avoid meeting him in the future, then. But it’s a pity. He’s so interesting. He’s just come back from China, Tibet. Oh well, all the worse!...’
“She left my room, where I had begged her to follow me at first. On the threshold, she turned and said:
“ ‘Auntie, have you spoken to father about this?’
“ ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I think it is better to remain quiet. Madeleine won’t say anything either.’
“ ‘Yes, that may be better,’ said Basilie with her spoiled child’s face. ‘Well! We’ll have a little secret, the three of us. Bah! Let’s forget about it!’
“She shrugged and gave a small laugh. Then she went out. That’s all, that’s really all.”
But the Nyctalope, calm, said:
“No, dear Madame, I think that is not all. One more question, if I may?”
“Yes,” said Laure, now weary and resigned.
“Thank you. Since then, do you think that Basilie has seen Monsieur Logreux d’Albury again?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know. The strangest thing is that neither Madeleine nor I have ever had the courage to question her on the subject, though we have often been tempted to do so. My niece has never made the slightest allusion to the incident.”
“And the telescope?” insisted Saint-Clair. “Have you ever used it again?”
“No! Never! That, too, Madeleine and I have often been tempted to do. But I do not know what pride, what reserve... what apprehensions and fears... have always prevented us.”
“Well then!” said Saint-Clair. “I have finished now. Thank you. Excuse me if I ask you to leave Jacques and I alone.”
“There is no need to ask permission, my dear friend,” said Laure, emphasizing the last three words slightly.
She rose, immediately followed by Madeleine, who saluted her father with a tender look and smile.
And the aunt and niece, having taken one another by the hand, left the library together with a slow, heavy, harassed step.
Saint-Clair did not leave Jacques d’Hermont to the thoughts that had, as their sole and inevitable focus, the meeting, perhaps more cautiously repeated, of Basilie with Armand Logreux d’Albury. For the Nyctalope had still not got to the essence of the facts that he had come to learn. Immediately after the double doors had closed after Laure and Madeleine, Saint-Clair spoke:
“My dear friend, let us get to the point. Leave your daughter Basilie to one side. We will come back to her when I have acquired some indispensable additional information. There is something more serious, in my view, in need of a urgent examination. Will you listen to me?”
“Yes,” said d’Hermont. “Yes, of course!”
His attentive eyes expressed the most fervent confidence in his friend.
“Good! So let us see what we have. There is a distinct possibility that the 9mm caliber cartridge leads us to the pistol owned by Armand Logreux, and therefore to the man himself. There is also a possibility, but without any probability at present, that the print of the shoe with the cracked sole may also lead to the Cross of Blood. I hope that if I work closely with Vitto and Soca, I will soon have some exact and clear solutions. But now I have in my mind a third fact... Do you not see it?”
“My goodness, no!” confessed the Comte.
“It is the fact that Armand Logreux d’Albury has lived in China and, above all, Tibet. You did not tell me that. Were you aware of it?”
“No. Doctor Luvier revealed it to my sister by chance. He must not have told me, as he avoids speaking to me about anyone at the Cross of Blood. I have never given him a reason to do so. I did not know and remain unaware of almost everything about this Monsieur Logreux, his life, his surroundings, even his presence or absence, about which I never inquire. I think of him no more than once a year perhaps! But why do you ask?”
“Tibet, my dear friend,” Saint-Clair pronounced gravely, shaking his head. “I have been there. You have read the two volumes I wrote about my journeys and experiences in that far-off land. Remember! In some monasteries, totally unknown to Europeans, and even to the vast majority of Asians, the most vertiginous secrets of life and death are passed down through the centuries, by word of mouth. I know some of them, but I would never make use of them, first because I have never had the will to learn the details for my use, and second as a logical consequence of the fact that I lack the technical science and the necessary practice... But another man, passing through Tibet, visiting some of the same places I did, may have been curious in ways that I was not, and perhaps learn things that I did not, undertake experiments that did not tempt me... Someone like Armand Logreux d’Albury, for example...”
Saint-Clair went silent, his lively eyes fixed on the dilated ones of Jacques d’Hermont. With sudden new emotion, blood returned to the Comte’s face, and his emaciated, livid face became filled with color for an instant. He stammered:
“Oh! My friend! So you think...?”
“Now, now!” the Nyctalope interrupted him, raising his right hand. “I don’t think anything. I imagine, I suppose... And now, I’ve added another project to those I was planning to undertake with Soca and Vitto, about the cartridge and cracked sole... Tomorrow night, a third project I plan to carry out may enlighten me so much that the sole and the cartridge, without losing their importance entirely, may become entirely secondary...”
“Tomorrow night!” murmured Jacques d’Hermont, trembling all at once with hope and curiosity.
“Yes. But I will say nothing more at this time!” said Saint-Clair forcefully, as he rose.
In a softer tone, with a smile on his lips, he added:
“Excuse me, my dear friend, if I tell you nothing else. It is precisely because it is possible that we may transition abruptly from the material plane, in which we have operated until now, to the spiritual plane, which is pulsing with fearsome mysteries. Not only is the slightest word about it dangerous and imprudent, but thought itself must be kept from irradiating into the outside world by too great an intensity, too great a clarity. I will thus be quiet, until I can speak without imprudence or danger. Even I will have to carry out certain special rites to protect hermetically my own thoughts...”
Jacques d’Hermont, trembling, had risen. Saint-Clair took him by the hand, held it between his own and in a penetrating voice said:
“My dear friend, have confidence! And avoid reflecting or making conjectures about what I have just told you.”
Almost playf
ul, he then added:
“Let’s see! Do you feel physically able to go out, walk, go talk to your farmers, or even hunt a bit while chatting with your brave Bottot? And with Basilie?”
Subjugated, but also reanimated by the influence of the Nyctalope’s powerful will, the Comte replied somewhat cheerfully:
“But of course! Well, I think so.”
“Well then! Go! Join Basilie and Bottot at the Cross of Oaks. At noon, we will meet again in the dining-room. It’s probable that I will be busy all morning with Soca and Vitto. But I will pretend to run an errand to Tours, and will leave by car from Beech Grove. At dinner, we will meet once again, of course. Do not think, Jacques, do not think! Get moving, occupy yourself actively and chat with whomever you can in the countryside, about anything that might feel like an ordinary conversation. Right away!”
Separating from his friend, Saint-Clair exited the library. He went up to his room, called Firmin, and begged him to alert Vitto and Soca that he was waiting.
With his two assistants, but out of the presence of Firmin, he had a conversation in a low voice.
When all was agreed upon, he dismissed them. Then he remained alone in the red room, which Jeannette had made up while he was downstairs.
He wanted to think, but as he had said to Jacques d’Hermont, he wanted it to be in such conditions that his thoughts would be hermetically sealed and confined to his own mind, and none of it produced emanations that another man might be able to receive and capture.
For this, certain rites had to be observed. He observed and accomplished them.
To be precise, this is what he did: first, he closed the windows, the shutters of plain crossed wood, and drew the curtains in such a way that the light of day would trickle as little as possible into the room. Then he closed the doors that led to the antechamber and bathroom. On the hearthstone, the wood fire from the morning was no more than ashes. Saint-Clair checked that no embers were hidden there; for more precaution, he then scattered the ash over the whole of the hearth, and carefully slotted the polished wood panel into the large inner frame of the chimney. Finally, having placed an armchair in the middle of the vast and now dark room, he sat in it, clasped his forehead with both hands, closed his eyes, and little by little, entered into the ascetic state in which a man becomes both blind and deaf, and hardly takes a breath.
Later, there was a surprise: Laure Dauzet and Madeleine did not appear for lunch. Without emotion, for it was not the first time this had happened, Jeannette announced that “Madame and Mademoiselle Madeleine” were feeling tired, had decided to remain in their dressing gowns and take their lunch in the small bedroom of their shared apartment.
Jacques d’Hermont contented himself by saying, in a very low voice:
“Too bad.”
Saint-Clair, now in a good shape and seeming not to suffer from any traces of his nocturnal fever and morning depression, spoke a few words, expressing his regrets and wishes.
As for Basilie, very animated by her walk in the woods in the company of Bottot, the head gamekeeper, she declared casually:
“I’ll give them a little hello. I won’t be five minutes, Papa. Excuse me, dear Monsieur.”
The Comte and the Nyctalope waited, in front of the sunny window, for the return of the girl. They exchanged no more than a few words.
“Courage, my dear friend, courage and hope!” said Saint-Clair.
“I have both, my dear Léo,” murmured the chatelain. “But I feel physically exhausted.”
“This afternoon, you will rest. After the meal, I will give you an elixir to drink that I used myself this morning, with benefit. It is both tonic and calming. And tonight, I will give you a dose of a soporific, whose secret formula I have brought back with me from Tibet. You will sleep soundly. You must. For perhaps tomorrow...”
He fell silent.
“Tomorrow?” asked the Comte, rather keenly.
“I can’t speak to you about it until tomorrow.”
His tone was affectionate, but firm.
“So be it,” conceded Jacques d’Hermont.
All was silent until Basilie’s return.
The young girl spoke only these words about the state of her aunt and sister:
“Nothing special.”
The three of them took their places at equilateral points of the table, which, for this meal, had only three place settings.
Then, to create an atmosphere without heaviness or embarrassment, Saint-Clair said:
“Mademoiselle, you told me this morning that you were going to prepare a surprise for me with Monsieur Bottot. I am impatient to know what it is.”
Basilie’s beautiful blue eyes sparkled with pleasure, and with joy she declared:
“I will not put your patience to the test. Tomorrow, Bottot and his men are going to set up a fox hunt!”
“Ah!” said Saint-Clair. “I’m delighted! I hope we shall have good weather.”
“It’s likely,” the young girl assured him. “The barometer is steady. The moon is nearly full. The wind blowing from the northeast is light and steady.”
As she spoke, she served herself from the selection of foods set out by Jeannette, and began to eat with her lovely appetite, still sharp from the morning march through the woods.
Saint-Clair was hungry too. Energetically resolved to fight against weakness in every way possible, Jacques d’Hermont forced himself to eat. Since even in the slightest appetizers, the professional qualities of Amélie the cook affirmed themselves to be of first rank, the excellence of the dishes made it easier for him to take in food, despite his lack of appetite. Thus the first quarter of an hour was passed in almost complete silence. Only brief words were spoken about trivial details of table and service.
A Trout au gratin in provençal style followed the appetizers. This was one of Amélie’s triumphs. Exquisitely presented, in well-ordered forms and rich, warm colors, the dish was at once mellow and firm, tasty and flavorful, without an excess of spices. If anyone spoke now at all, it was only to praise the incomparable qualities of the cook.
Before the roasted pheasants, which the Comte began to cut with obvious pleasure and subtle art, the conversation resumed. This was done by Basilie with her usual spontaneity, both timely and innocent, for it was she who spoke first, casually addressing Saint-Clair:
“Dear Monsieur saint-Clair, for you who have traveled the world on a thousand adventures, the fox hunt will be but a modest entertainment. I imagine you have chased the elephant, shot the tiger at close range, applied force against the antelope and stabbed the panther right in the heart? All the same, for a real hunter, the fox is not without interest. But perhaps you have already had the experience...?”
“Of hunting fox?” asked Saint-Clair, smiling. “Yes, my dear girl. Although it’s true that, as a hunter, I’ve tackled the big beasts you mentioned, not without some irony, I am also able to appreciate the difficulties and seductions offered by a simple fox hunt. But a question comes to mind. You know the hunted fox does not hesitate to leave its usual area and lead its pursuers all over the countryside. If the prey passes through land that does not belong to you, do you follow it? In this region, you have an agreement between owners on the subject, I believe, isn’t that right?”
“An agreement? No. But a tolerance that is tacit, yes. The configuration of the hunting grounds of Beech Grove lead the fox along the long edge of a bushy area when chased, so that it enters into the thickly wooded part of the neighboring estate, the Cross of Blood. It is precisely there that we will wait for him, so that we can flush him out and hunt him down. The gamekeepers of the Cross of Blood have never opposed our incursion. We maintain the same tacit reserve and courtesy toward them, when their foxes take refuge at the edges of Beech Grove. I heard Bottot once say once that it had always been so between the two properties, but only for foxes. For any other game, ‘no way!’ as Bottot put it: trespassing is rigorously forbidden! The codes of small and fragmented parts of the French countryside, Monsi
eur le Nyctalope, are far from the freedom of the virgin forests, savannahs, steppes and pampas of the world!”
And she laughed with joy.
When she laughed, Basilie was a feast for the eyes. Her eyes sparkled, her pink cheeks were marked by a dimple, her beautiful white throat was exposed, and her fine pearly teeth sparkled between her delicate red lips. When she pronounced the name of the Cross of Blood, her father looked at her with extreme attention, and interrupted the cutting of his second pheasant. But neither the look of the Comte, nor the softer but more profound look of the Nyctalope, appeared to trouble the serenity of the young girl.
“Indeed, nothing at all in common,” said Saint-Clair with an amused smile.
Her father returned his entire attention to the light, skilful, quick work of his hands, armed with a knife and fork.
It was like this throughout the meal. D’Hermont hardly entered into the intermittent conversation, while the Nyctalope attempted to make Basilie speak, by bringing her with subtle insidiousness back to the subject of the Cross of Blood. In a throwaway tone, with just a hint of a question, as if by accident, he even pronounced the name of Armand Logreux d’Albury. But Basilie neither frowned, nor blushed, nor grew pale. In the simplest and most natural tone, which seemed to be sincere and true, she replied without saying anything more:
“I do not know him.”
At that moment, Jacques d’Hermont looked at his daughter. He asked himself: “Is she lying?” Or had Laure and Madeleine both dream it all up? Even if Basilie was lying, it was a lie agreed on long ago with Madeleine and Laure…
Confused, perplexed, even overwhelmed by this new subject of anxiety, he lowered his eyes. But Saint-Clair did not let up. He made a movement of his head which addressed the father as much as the daughter, and asked a question in a tone of surprise:
“By chance, I learned the name of your neighbor and also the total absence of interaction between your property and his. Does he never come to talk to you?”
The Nyctalope and The Tower of Babel Page 11
