Evening fell with a spreading plume of clouds. Andrès del Borjo finished tending to his mules, as Joachina and Luisa, assisted by Lilla and Pépito who brought them twigs of dry wood, prepared the evening meal. As soon as he saw “Capo Pedro,” and his two assistants, Andrès hurried toward them.
“So?” he asked, looking at the Nyctalope.
“We have discovered something new,” replied Saint-Clair. “But it isn’t the time to talk about it yet. Has Nieve returned?”
“No,” replied the chief of the tribe.
Hearing this, Saint-Clair’s face showed a fleeting expression of simultaneous impatience and anxiety. He knew the sort of danger into which he had sent the beautiful and seductive young girl. Without speaking further, he walked toward the caravan that he occupied with Soca and Vitto, and dismissing his two men with a gesture, shut himself away.
Neither Vitto, nor Soca, nor Andrès, needed precise orders to understand that the main thing now was to wait for Nieve’s return and report her arrival at once to the Nyctalope. So all three, silent as they usually were, walked back and forth over the two hundred meters of the path, with a quick step to battle the harsh cold of the late winter day.
They did nothing but wait for the one they sometimes called the “Sibyl.” In regard to the mystery the Beech Grove, and consequently the Cross of Blood, they knew they did not have all the facts. Until then, they had been directed by Saint-Clair. Now, at the expression of his face when Andrès had answered “no,” they realized that a grave possibility was present. This possibility was that Nieve would not return.
Minutes passed, minutes that seemed interminable. They came closer and closer to the branch of the road leading to the Cross of Blood. Tempted to take it, they consulted each other with their eyes, but the orders of the Nyctalope, given once and for all when they had arrived in the region, were clear: make no movement that could give away their presence to any visible or invisible observer. Except for Nieve with her basket of goods, no other member of the tribe would approach the castle with medieval towers at the bottom of the valley.
So the three men stopped short, the moment their steps were about to take the forbidden path. They couldn’t help but remain there for a few minutes, in the course of which their impatience and anxiety increased. As all three were men of a rude and violent character, anger threatened to add itself to their anxiety.
A few more minutes passed. The cold of the evening, which grew darker and darker, reaching their relatively unprotected bodies, and they shuddered at almost at the same time. As they were taciturn beings, they kept silent. Consulting one another yet again with a glance, they made a half-turn on the spot and set off down the road. When they arrived back at the encampment, they heard Joachina cry out in a voice that echoed their own feelings:
“Where is Nieve?”
Andrès shrugged, and, without replying, he turned again with the same movement as Vitto and Soca. Once again, the three men went as far as the crossroad leading to the Cross of the Blood. Suddenly, together, they uttered a cry, which their habitual prudence had stifled. Bright against the shadow of the hollow road, a form moved forward in which they could clearly recognize the girl that they hoped to see again. They did not commit the indiscreet awkwardness of waiting for her. Quickly, with the same precipitate steps, they returned to the encampment. Knocking at the door of the Nyctalope caravan, Andrès said in a joyful tone:
“Capo! She is coming! Here she is!”
The door opened immediately. Skipping the wooden staircase, Saint-Clair jumped straight to the ground. Nieve had just emerged from the path leading to the Cross of the Blood. She advanced rapidly and lightly, swinging her basket at the end of her left arm. The four men immediately saw that it was empty. Andrès del Borjo said gaily:
“She has sold everything.”
“Except herself,” said Saint-Clair.
Separating from the three men, who remained discreetly on the spot, he went to meet the girl.
When they were face to face, almost touching, Nieve dropped the basket on the floor and offered both of her hands. Saint Clair took them, pressed them slightly, united them to one another, held them tightly, and stared into the eyes of the young girl.
“Will we be victorious?” he whispered.
“Yes!” she replied, with a somber ardor.
Saint-Clair seemed to hesitate. Nieve felt the hands of the Nyctalope contract over hers and perceived the slight alteration in his voice, when he asked:
“Without giving anything of yours?”
Nieves did not reply immediately. With a supple movement, she clasped the Nyctalope’s fingers. Fixing on him an expression full of triumph and humility, she answered:
“Without giving anything of mine.”
Why did the Nyctalope not dominate himself as he usually did? And why were there traces in the features of his face that expressed feelings the intuitive Nieve recognized as joy tinged with a kind of pride? This lasted only briefly, however. A flash, the duration of a glance. Then the male face expressed only an affectionate satisfaction, as from his mouth words flowed with natural ease. He did not try to disguise their banality:
“Very well, my dear. I’m proud of you. Come on, first you are going to have a nice dinner, then you will come in and tell me everything down to the last detail. All that you have seen, heard, said and done. I hope you won’t omit anything and forget nothing.”
Then, after a small burst of silvery laughter, she replied:
“Be patient! If I could be vain before you, I would say: you will be satisfied with me.”
He made no reply. They walked side by side, with a quick step. He kept the girl’s right hand in his left hand, and as they walked, they swung their hands to the united rhythm of their steps.
Saint-Clair never dined. At Beech Grove, he had sat down at the table of Comte d’Hermont, first out of affectionate courtesy toward his former companion in arms, then not to lose the opportunity of observing d’Hermont himself, his sister, his eldest daughter, and perhaps, most importantly, Basilie. At the encampment of Andrès del Borjo, he did not have the same motives for complying with a presence at the table, the ordinary rites of which he found tedious. So while the Bohemian family, as well as Soca and Vitto, took the evening meal in the dining room of the caravan, the Nyctalope remained in the other caravan, waiting for Nieve, smoking a pipe and meditating.
His wait did not last long. Hardly a quarter of an hour had passed when three knocks were heard at the door.
“Come in!” he said.
The door opened and was closed by Nieve, who remained motionless.
“Well?” said Saint Clair. “Already? This is not a reproach; quite the contrary.”
The girl smiled, while answering:
“I was not hungry. I also drank and ate very good things at the the Cross of Blood. Monsieur Logreux took good care of me.”
One of Nieve’s feet touched a sort of large leather-covered ottoman next to the canvas chair in which the Nyctalope was seated. She dropped softly onto it, and, crossing her hands on one of Saint-Clair knees, she raised her head. She gave him a look brighter than the flames of the five candles on the small table. Then the Nyctalope, caressing the half-naked shoulder of the girl with one hand, said:
“Tell me everything.”
In a voice that was sometimes quick, sometimes slow, expressing herself in the Catalan language which she spoke without apparent effort, along with perfect French, Castilian and Arabic, Nieve made a minute report of all she had heard, said and done during the two hours of the afternoon she had spent at the Cross of Blood. During the course of this narrative, she kept her eyes fixed on the Nyctalope’s face, but Saint-Clair did not look at hers, keeping an absolute immobility. He smoked with small, slow, spaced-out puffs. His eyelids seemed closed. Nieve looked in vain for the expression of a thought or feeling on his impassive face; yet, she recognized to some extent the reactions provoked by the details of her story, in the slight tremors and brief co
ntractions of his hand on her naked shoulder.
Not once was Nieve interrupted. Even after she was done, Saint-Clair remained silent. At last, she said with a shade of nervous irritation:
“I have finished!”
Then the Nyctalope, putting his pipe on the table, turned his head a little, looked at the girl with an expression of gravity and said:
“I have been listening. But I have no thoughts for now. Or at least, I will not tell you today the reflections I have made. Maybe tomorrow.”
Their eyes mingled. On the man’s lap, the girl’s crossed hands were contracted and burning. The silence lasted a few minutes, before finally Nieve could not take it anymore:
“But when I return to the Cross of Blood, what shall I do?”
The fingers of Saint-Clair grasped her quivering shoulder abruptly, and in an almost brutal tone, he said:
“Will you return? I do not yet know. Perhaps it may indeed prove indispensable…”
All tense, and in a voice that vibrated with passion, she replied:
“You know I may be killed there?”
“What of it?” said Saint-Clair, raising his eyebrows. “You know what is at stake.”
Then Nieve, dropping her head onto his knees, gave a brief sob and whispered:
“If I must, then let me kill myself before I…”
Saint-Clair made no reply, but stroked her head softly.
During the hour that passed, the man and the young girl scarcely moved. They did not look at each other, and did not say a word. With her eyes closed, Nieve seemed to be asleep. With his eyes wide open, the Nyctalope reflected. Even when he took his hand off the girl’s shoulder to lift her up a little, he did not speak. His movement made Nieve understand at once, and she got up herself.
For a moment they stood face to face, their hands united.
“I shall have to go back?” asked the girl in a breath.
“Yes,” said Saint-Clair, sadly. “But first, go back to our caravan and sleep. Tomorrow may be a terrible day for you—and for me. Tonight, I must leave. But I want to be sure you sleep well. I know that your will commands your body and brain; so you must obey me in that respect.”
Nieve said:
“Do not worry about my rest, but do not forget what I have begged of you.”
“How could I forget?” said Saint-Clair, with sudden violence.
Then, pushing the shoulders of the young girl, he said:
“Out you go!”
She obeyed. As she went out of the door, she heard him order:
“Send me Vitto and Soca right away.”
Half an hour later, after a brief conversation with Andrès del Borjo, Saint-Clair and his two assistants took the great road in the icy darkness, which by a detour below Saint-Christophe led them to the park of Beech Grove. They did not make this journey side-by-side or close to one other, but spaced out at about fifty meters apart, Saint-Clair in the middle, Soca and Vitto serving as front and rear guard scouts.
Nothing was reported that might seem suspect. At this nocturnal hour and in this season, no encounter was likely. The three men, now together, crossed the park where its width was the smallest, and reached a small door in the castle, which led directly through a private corridor and staircase to the apartment-studio where, for the past two nights, Comte d’Hermont, his sister Laure Dauzet, and his eldest daughter Madeleine, had slept.
The Nyctalope had a key to that door. He left Vitto and Soca, who had well-defined jobs outside, to enter the corridor and go down the stairs.
He was the Nyctalope. There was no darkness for his eyes. No electric lamp could betray him. There was no need to touch switches to turn on lights. Without anything to reveal his presence, not even the slightest noise, for he had put rope slippers over thick woolen socks, Saint-Clair reached the little landing with the main door of the studio apartment, where according to his arrangement, Jacques d’Hermont, Laure and Madeleine were to sleep.
Anxious to make no noise, the Nyctalope opened the door with a passe-partout his friend had given him. But on the threshold, he stopped short, suddenly prey to the most acute anxiety. The studio’s bedside lamp was lit, and, on the divan, illuminated by this lamp, Jacques d’Hermont was seated against a pile of cushions. His eyes were dilated; he was burning with fever; his body trembled and his teeth chattered.
Saint-Clair quickly controlled the emotions that came over him. He understood at once, and his decision therefore took only a moment. He closed the door, walked toward the divan and took the sick man’s hands.
“Jacques! Jacques! Did it start again? Here!”
At first, d’Hermont was unable to answer. More than by a feverish attack of terrible violence, he was possessed by an infinite terror. Nevertheless, the Nyctalope’s clasp of hands, his gaze and voice, at once imperious and full of affection, soon calmed the unfortunate man enough so that he could stammer:
“Léo! My friend! Yes, it began again today, as soon as Laure, Madeleine and I entered this studio. Go and see them; I heard them moaning a little while ago. In the beginning, we wanted to get out of here, to go to another part of the castle, to rooms long abandoned, but we could not... We could not! You see, although the door is open, we were nailed to the spot. They are still in their beds, no doubt, and I am here. Are they dead, my God? Are they dead?”
Saint-Clair let go of his shoulders, on which his fingers had been clenched. He got up and ran into the adjacent room. Between columns and a sort of draping canopy was the huge bed that had had belonged to the Belgian painter, and on which now, both in bathrobes, Laure Dauzet and Madeleine d’Hermont were stretched out side by side. A bedside lamp was lit, screened by a shade of pale green silk, and in its light the two faces seemed inanimate.
It was very rare for Saint-Clair to swear, but now all his tumultuous feelings expressed themselves in a curse of anger. He leaned over the two bloodless faces, with their closed eyelids and tight lips. Although pale, a very slight shudder rippled through the temples, the cheeks, the lips and the drops of sweat at the roots of the hair.
“They are still alive,” thought Saint-Clair. “But in what condition! And for how long? I did not foresee this… I did not bring anything.”
He remained there, perplexed, anxious and furious, for a few seconds that weighed on him as much as hours. Finally, an idea came to his mind, a reaction took place in his being and he acted immediately. He had a great deal of energy, and the exhausted bodies of the young woman and girl did not weigh much. He clasped them both to him, one in each arm, and carried them away.
“Ah!” he cried, so excited that he expressed his thoughts out loud. “No matter if Basilie is innocent or guilty, conscious or bewitched, only beside her alone is salvation to be found! I may have been mistaken about many things; but I am sure, absolutely certain, that salvation lies near Basilie.”
He left the apartment, crossing the studio. He did not wonder what Jacques might think of his double burden. He had only one desire, one goal. Rushing into the darkness of the staircase and corridors, which fortunately for him were as bright as in daylight, he reached the door of the apartment of Basilie d’Hermont.
If his instructions had been observed, Nurse Large would be awake in the little drawing-room next to Basilie’s room. No more precautions! Saint-Clair kicked his foot violently against the door, and called:
“Nurse Large, Nurse Large!”
The next moment, the door was open. With a look, the intelligent Anna understood at once that this was one of the most dramatic acts in her existence. Saint-Clair said:
“Quick! Help me put these two women on the bed with Basilie, next to her, on her right and left. I want all three of them in the same space of a few square meters. We’ll put Jacques d’Hermont there too. Quick, quick!”
Accustomed to caring for inanimate bodies, ones that, even in a waking state, could not move, the nurse made the skilful and strong movements that were necessary.
In under a minute, Laure and Madeleine were s
tretched out beside Basilie, who had suddenly awakened and was gaping with astonishment.
Saint-Clair said:
“Take care of them. Doses of ether, if necessary. Revive them. Let them move, talk, but not get out of bed. In two minutes, d’Hermont will be here.”
He ran out. Two minutes later, he had Jacques d’Hermont sitting in an armchair, leaning against Basilie’s bed.
Then, with no more attention for the three patients and Basilie, Saint-Clair questioned the nurse, who had just given them two quick doses of ether.
“What happened since I left?”
Calm, Anna Large replied:
“Nothing, really.”
There was a silence during which the Nyctalope reflected, his head lowered, his hands thrust into the pockets of his overcoat. Finally, raising his head, he said:
“I see. So the bout of fever that seized Jacques, Laure and Madeleine up there was the first one since I left?”
“Yes,” replied the nurse. “And I did not know of it. When I said goodnight to Monsieur d’Hermont, Madame Dauzet and Mademoiselle Madeleine about three hours ago, they were all quiet and smiling.”
“What about Basilie?” said Saint-Clair, as if forgetting that the girl was there, looking at him and listening.
“Mademoiselle Basilie is also getting better,” the nurse replied after an imperceptible smile. “However, she is not yet completely cured of the fever that seized her the day before your departure.”
Saint-Clair, turning to Basilie, said quickly:
“Yes, the same fever that seized her when she went to spend the night in the apartment of her aunt and sister.”
He stepped forward, took his his trembling hands from his pockets and stretched them toward the young girl, who had just sat up against the pillow and was buttoning her pajamas over her throat.
The gesture of the Nyctalope pleaded and threatened at the same time, as he asked in a harsh voice:
“Basilie, what do you know? What do you really know? How could you have lived for months, so joyfully alive, as you witnessed the martyrdom and slow death of your father, aunt and sister? And that of your mother, who was killed? Basilie, I beg of you, answer me, or do I have to make you do so? No, don’t close your eyes! Look at me!”
The Nyctalope and The Tower of Babel Page 19
