"My dear Octave,"I will first of all set your mind at rest about my wound. It is a mere nothing, no complications to be afraid of. At the most a little fever at night, which bothers the major; but all that will pass. We will say no more about it, but come straight to my journey to Bar-le-Duc."Octave, I may tell you without any beating about the bush that it has not been useless, and that after a patient search I ended by ferreting out from among a pile of boots and that conglomeration of useless objects which one brings away with one when one bolts, the precious medal. At the end of my convalescence when I come to Paris I will show it to you. But in the meantime, while keeping secret the indications engraved on the face of the medal, I may tell you that on the reverse are engraved these three Latin words: 'In Robore Fortuna.' Three words which may be thus translated: 'Fortune is in the firm heart,' but which, in view of the presence of this word 'Robore' and in spite of the difference in the spelling, doubtless point to the Château de Roborey as the place in which the fortune, of which our family legends tell will consequently be hidden."Have we not here, my dear Octave, a step forward on our path towards the truth? We shall do better still. And perhaps we shall be helped in the matter, in the most unexpected fashion, by an extremely nice young person, with whom I have just passed several days which have charmed me—I mean my dear little Yolande."You know, my dear friend, that I have very often regretted not having been the father I should like to have been. My love for Yolande's mother, my grief at her death, my life of wandering during the years which followed it, all kept me far away from the modest farm which you call my country seat, and which, I am sure, is no longer anything but a heap of ruins."During that time, Yolande was living in the care of the people who farmed my land, bringing herself up, getting her education from the village priest, or the schoolmaster, and above all from Nature, loving the animals, cultivating her flowers, light-hearted and uncommonly thoughtful."Several times, during my visits to Argonne, her common sense and intelligence astonished me. On this occasion I found her, in the field-hospital of Bar-le-Duc, in which she has, on her own initiative, established herself as an assistant-nurse, a young girl. Barely fifteen, you cannot imagine the ascendancy she exercises over everyone about her. She decides matters like a grown person and she makes those decisions according to her own judgment. She has an accurate insight into reality, not merely into appearances but into that which lies below appearances."'You do see clearly,' I said to her. 'You have the eyes of a cat which moves, quite at its ease, through the darkness.'"My dear Octave, when the war is finished, I shall bring Yolande to you; and I assure you that, along with our friends, we shall succeed in our enterprise——"
"My dear Octave,
"I will first of all set your mind at rest about my wound. It is a mere nothing, no complications to be afraid of. At the most a little fever at night, which bothers the major; but all that will pass. We will say no more about it, but come straight to my journey to Bar-le-Duc.
"Octave, I may tell you without any beating about the bush that it has not been useless, and that after a patient search I ended by ferreting out from among a pile of boots and that conglomeration of useless objects which one brings away with one when one bolts, the precious medal. At the end of my convalescence when I come to Paris I will show it to you. But in the meantime, while keeping secret the indications engraved on the face of the medal, I may tell you that on the reverse are engraved these three Latin words: 'In Robore Fortuna.' Three words which may be thus translated: 'Fortune is in the firm heart,' but which, in view of the presence of this word 'Robore' and in spite of the difference in the spelling, doubtless point to the Château de Roborey as the place in which the fortune, of which our family legends tell will consequently be hidden.
"Have we not here, my dear Octave, a step forward on our path towards the truth? We shall do better still. And perhaps we shall be helped in the matter, in the most unexpected fashion, by an extremely nice young person, with whom I have just passed several days which have charmed me—I mean my dear little Yolande.
"You know, my dear friend, that I have very often regretted not having been the father I should like to have been. My love for Yolande's mother, my grief at her death, my life of wandering during the years which followed it, all kept me far away from the modest farm which you call my country seat, and which, I am sure, is no longer anything but a heap of ruins.
"During that time, Yolande was living in the care of the people who farmed my land, bringing herself up, getting her education from the village priest, or the schoolmaster, and above all from Nature, loving the animals, cultivating her flowers, light-hearted and uncommonly thoughtful.
"Several times, during my visits to Argonne, her common sense and intelligence astonished me. On this occasion I found her, in the field-hospital of Bar-le-Duc, in which she has, on her own initiative, established herself as an assistant-nurse, a young girl. Barely fifteen, you cannot imagine the ascendancy she exercises over everyone about her. She decides matters like a grown person and she makes those decisions according to her own judgment. She has an accurate insight into reality, not merely into appearances but into that which lies below appearances.
"'You do see clearly,' I said to her. 'You have the eyes of a cat which moves, quite at its ease, through the darkness.'
"My dear Octave, when the war is finished, I shall bring Yolande to you; and I assure you that, along with our friends, we shall succeed in our enterprise——"
The Count stopped. Dorothy smiled sadly, deeply touched by the tenderness and admiration which this letter so clearly displayed. She asked:
"That isn't all, is it?"
"The letter itself ends there," said the Count. "Dated the 16th of January, it was not posted till the 20th. I did not receive it, for various reasons, till three weeks later. And I learnt later that on the 15th of January Jean d'Argonne had a more violent attack of fever, of that fever which baffled the surgeon-major and which indicated a sudden infection of the wound of which your father died ... or at least——"
"Or at least?" asked the young girl.
"Or at least which was officially stated to be the cause of his death," said the Count in a lower voice.
"What's that you say? What's that you say?" cried Dorothy. "My father did not die of his wound?"
"It is not certain," the Count suggested.
"But then what did he die of? What do you suggest? What do you suppose?"
The Count was silent.
Dorothy murmured fearfully, full of the dread with which the utterance of certain words inspired one:
"Is it possible? Can they have murdered.... Can they have murdered my father?"
"Everything leads one to believe it."
"And how?"
"Poison."
The blow had fallen. The young girl burst into tears. The Count bent over her and said:
"Read it. For my part, I am of the opinion that your father scribbled these last pages between two attacks of fever. When he was dead, the hospital authorities finding a letter and an envelope all ready for the post, sent it all on to me without examining it. Look at the end.... It is the writing of a very sick man.... The pencil moves at random directed by an effort of will which was every moment growing weaker."
Dorothy dried her tears. She wished to know and judge for herself, and she read in a low voice:
"What a dream!... But was it really a dream?... What I saw last night, did I see it in a nightmare? Or did I actually see it?... The rest of the wounded men ... my neighbors ... not one of them was awakened. Yet the man ... the men made a noise.... There were two of them. They were talking in a low voice ... in the garden ... under a window ... which was certainly open on account of the heat.... And then the window was pushed.... To do that one of the two must have climbed on to the shoulders of the other. What did he want? He tried to pass his arm through.... But the window caught against the table by the side of the bed.... And then he must have slipped off his jacket.... In spite of that his sleeve must have caught in the window and only his arm ... his bare arm, came through ... preceded by a hand which groped in my direction ... in the direction of the drawer.... Then I understood.... The medal was in the drawer.... Ah, how I wanted to cry out! But my throat was cramped.... Then another thing terrified me. The hand held a small bottle.... There was on the table a glass of water, for me to drink with a dose of my medicine.... The hand poured several drops from the bottle into the glass. Horror!... Poison beyond a doubt!... But I will not drink my medicine—no, no!... And I write this, this morning, to make sure of being able to recall it.... I write that the hand afterwards opened the drawer.... And while it was seizing the medal ... I saw ... I saw on the naked arm ... above the elbow ... words written——"
"What a dream!... But was it really a dream?... What I saw last night, did I see it in a nightmare? Or did I actually see it?... The rest of the wounded men ... my neighbors ... not one of them was awakened. Yet the man ... the men made a noise.... There were two of them. They were talking in a low voice ... in the garden ... under a window ... which was certainly open on account of the heat.... And then the window was pushed.... To do that one of the two must have climbed on to the shoulders of the other. What did he want? He tried to pass his arm through.... But the window caught against the table by the side of the bed.... And then he must have slipped off his jacket.... In spite of that his sleeve must have caught in the window and only his arm ... his bare arm, came through ... preceded by a hand which groped in my direction ... in the direction of the drawer.... Then I understood.... The medal was in the drawer.... Ah, how I wanted to cry out! But my throat was cramped.... Then another thing terrified me. The hand held a small bottle.... There was on the table a glass of water, for me to drink with a dose of my medicine.... The hand poured several drops from the bottle into the glass. Horror!... Poison beyond a doubt!... But I will not drink my medicine—no, no!... And I write this, this morning, to make sure of being able to recall it.... I write that the hand afterwards opened the drawer.... And while it was seizing the medal ... I saw ... I saw on the naked arm ... above the elbow ... words written——"
Dorothy had to bend lower so shaky and illegible did the writing become; and it was with great difficulty that she was able, syllable by syllable, to decipher it:
"Three words written ... tattooed ... as sailors do ... three words ... Good God! ... these three words! The words on the medal!...In robore fortuna!"
"Three words written ... tattooed ... as sailors do ... three words ... Good God! ... these three words! The words on the medal!...In robore fortuna!"
That was all. The unfinished sheet showed nothing more but undecipherable characters, which Dorothy did not even try to make out.
For a long while she sat with bowed head, the tears falling from her half-closed eyes. They perceived that the circumstances in which, in all likelihood, her father had died, had brought back all her grief.
The Count, however, continued:
"The fever must have returned ... the delirium ... and not knowing what he was doing, he must have drunk the poison. Or, at any rate, it is a plausible hypothesis ... for what else could it have been that this hand poured into the glass? But I confess that we have not arrived at any certainty in the matter. D'Estreicher and Raoul's father, at once apprized by me of what had happened, accompanied me to Chartres. Unfortunately, the staff, the surgeon-major and the two nurses had been changed, so that I was brought up short against the official document which ascribed the death to infectious complications. Moreover, ought we to have made further researches? My two cousins were not of that opinion, neither was I? A crime?... How to prove it? By means of these lines in which a sick man describe a nightmare which has ridden him? Impossible. Isn't that your opinion, mademoiselle?"
Dorothy did not answer; and it put the Count rather out of countenance. He seemed to defend himself—not without a touch of temper:
"But we could not, Mademoiselle! Owing to the war, we ran against endless difficulties. It was impossible! We had to cling to the one fact which we had actually learned and not venture beyond this actual fact which I will state in these terms: In addition to us four, to us three rather, since Jean d'Argonne, alas! was no more, there was a fourth person attacking the problem which we had set ourselves to solve; and that person, moreover, had a considerable advantage over us. A rival, an enemy had arisen, capable of the most infamous actions to attain his end. What enemy?
"Events did not allow us to busy ourselves with this affair, and what is more, prevented us from finding you as we should have wished. Two letters that I wrote to you at Bar-le-Duc remained unanswered. Months passed. Georges Davernoie was killed at Verdun, d'Estreicher wounded in Artois, and I myself despatched on a mission to Salonica from which I did not return till after the Armistice. In the following year the work here was begun. The house-warming took place yesterday, and only to-day does chance bring you here.
"You can understand, Mademoiselle, how amazed we were when we learned, step by step, first that excavations were being made without our knowing anything about it, that the places in which they had been made were explained by the word Fortuna, which bore out exactly the inscription which your father had read twice, on the gold medal and on the arm which stole the gold medal from him. Our confidence in your extraordinary clearsightedness became such that Madame de Chagny and Raoul Davernoie wished you to be informed of the complete history of the affair; and I must admit that the Countess de Chagny displayed remarkable intuition and judgment since the confidence we felt in you was really placed in that Yolande d'Argonne whom her father recommended to us. It is then but natural, mademoiselle, that we should invite you to collaborate with us in our attempt. You take the place of Jean d'Argonne, as Raoul Davernoie has taken the place of Georges Davernoie. Our partnership is unbroken."
A shadow rested on the satisfaction that the Count de Chagny was feeling in his eloquence and magnanimous proposal. Dorothy maintained an obstinate silence. Her eyes gazed vacantly before her. She did not stir. Was she thinking that the Count had not taken much trouble to discover the daughter of his kinsman Jean d'Argonne and to rescue her from the life she was leading? Was she still feeling some resentment on account of the humiliation she had suffered in being accused of stealing the earrings?
The Countess de Chagny questioned her gently:
"What's the matter, Dorothy? This letter has filled you with gloom. It's the death of your father, isn't it?"
"Yes," said Dorothy after a pause in a dull voice. "It's a terrible business."
"You also believe that they murdered him?"
"Certainly. If not, the medal would have been found. Besides, the last sheets of the letter are explicit."
"And it's your feeling that we ought to have striven to bring the murderer to book?"
"I don't know ... I don't know," said the young girl slowly.
"But if you think so, we can take the matter up again. You may be sure that we will lend you our assistance."
"No," she said. "I will act alone. It will be best. I will discover the guilty man; and he shall be punished. I promise my father he shall. I swear it."
She uttered these words with measured gravity, raising her hand a little.
"We will help you, Dorothy," declared the Countess. "For I hope that you won't leave us.... Here you are at home."
Dorothy shook her head. "You are too kind, madame."
"It isn't kindness: it's affection. You won my heart at first sight, and I beg you to be my friend."
"I am, madame—wholly your friend. But——"
"What? You refuse?" exclaimed the Count de Chagny in a tone of vexation. "We offer the daughter of Jean d'Argonne, our cousin, a life befitting her name and birth and you prefer to go back to that wretched existence!"
"It is not wretched, I assure you, monsieur. My four children and I are used to it. Their health demands it."
The Countess insisted: "But we can't allow it—really! You're going to stay with us at least some days; and from this evening you will dine and sleep at the château."
"I beg you to excuse me, madame. I'm rather tired.... I want to be alone."
In truth she appeared of a sudden to be worn out with fatigue. One would never have supposed that a smile could animate that drawn, dejected face.
The Countess de Chagny insisted no longer.
"Ah well, postpone your decision till to-morrow. Send your four children to dinner this evening. It will give us great pleasure to question them.... Between now and to-morrow you can think it over, and if you persist, I'll let you go your way. You'll agree to that, won't you?"
Dorothy rose and went towards the door. The Count and Countess went with her. But on the threshold she paused for a moment. In spite of her grief, the mysterious adventure which had during the last hour or two been revealed to her continued to exercise her mind, without, so to speak, her being aware of it; and throwing the first ray of light into the darkness, she asserted:
"I really believe that all the legends that have been handed down in our families are based on a reality. There must be somewhere about here buried, or hidden, treasure; and that treasure one of these days will become the property of him, or of those who shall be the possessors of the talisman—that is to say, of the gold medal which was stolen from my father. That's why I should like to know whether any of you, besides my father, has ever heard of a gold medal being mentioned in these legends."
It was Raoul Davernoie who answered:
"That's a point on which I can give you some information, mademoiselle. A fortnight ago I saw in the hands of my grandfather, with whom I live at Hillocks Manor in Vendée, a large gold coin. He was studying it; and he put it back in its case at once with the evident intention of hiding it from me."
"And he didn't tell you anything about it?"
"Not a word. However, on the eve of my departure he said to me: 'When you come back I've an important revelation to make to you. I ought to have made it long ago.'"
"You believe that he was referring to the matter in hand?"
"I do. And for that reason on my arrival at Roborey I informed my cousins, de Chagny and d'Estreicher, who promised to pay me a visit at the end of July when I will inform them of what I have learned."
"That's all?"
"All, mademoiselle; and it appears to me to confirm your hypothesis. We have here a talisman of which there are doubtless several copies."
"Yes ... yes ... there's no doubt about it," murmured the young girl. "And the death of my father is explained by the fact that he was the possessor of this talisman."
"But," objected Raoul Davernoie, "was it not enough to steal it from him? Why this useless crime?"
"Because, remember, the gold medal gives certain indications. In getting rid of my father they reduced the number of those who, in perhaps the near future, will be called upon to share these riches. Who knows whether other crimes have not been committed?"
"Other crimes? In that case my grandfather is in danger."
"He is," she said simply.
The Count became uneasy and, pretending to laugh, he said:
"Then we also are in danger, mademoiselle, since there are signs of recent excavation about Roborey."
"You also, Count."
"We ought then to be on our guard."
"I advise you to."
The Count de Chagny turned pale and said in a shaky voice:
"How? What measures should we take?"
"I will tell you to-morrow," said Dorothy. "You shall know to-morrow what you have to fear and what measures you ought to take to defend yourselves."
"You promise that?"
"I promise it."
D'Estreicher, who had followed with close attention every phase of the conversation, without taking part in it, stepped forward:
"We make all the more point of this meeting to-morrow, mademoiselle, because we still have to solve together a little additional problem, the problem of the card-board box. You haven't forgotten it?"
"I forget nothing, monsieur," she said. "To-morrow, at the hour fixed, that little matter and other matters, the theft of the sapphire earrings among other things, shall be made clear."
She went out of the orangery.
The night was falling. The gates had been re-opened; and the showmen, having dismantled their shows, were departing. Dorothy found Saint-Quentin waiting for her in great anxiety and the three children lighting a fire. When the dinner-bell rang, she sent them to the château and remained alone to make her meal of the thick soup and some fruit. In the evening, while waiting for them, she strolled through the night towards the parapet which looked down on to the ravine and rested her elbows on it.
The moon was not visible, but the veil of light clouds, which floated across the heavens, were imbued with its light. For a long while she was conscious of the deep silence, and, bare-headed, she presented her burning brow to the fresh evening airs which ruffled her hair.
"Dorothy...."
Her name had been spoken in a low voice by some one who had drawn near her without her hearing him. But the sound of his voice, low as it was, made her tremble. Even before recognizing the outline of d'Estreicher she divined his presence.
Had the parapet been lower and the ravine less profound she might have essayed flight, such dread did this man inspire in her. However, she braced herself to keep calm and master him.
"What do you want, monsieur," she said coldly. "The Count and Countess had the delicacy to respect my desire to keep quiet. I'm surprised to see you here."
He did not answer, but she discerned his dark shape nearer and repeated:
"What do you want?"
"I only want to say a few words to you," he murmured.
"To-morrow—at the château will be soon enough."
"No; what I have to say can only be heard by you and me; and I can assure you, mademoiselle, that you can listen to it without being offended. In spite of the incomprehensible hostility that you have displayed towards me from the moment we met, I feel, for my part, nothing but friendliness, admiration, and the greatest respect for you. You need fear neither my words nor my actions. I am not addressing myself to the charming and attractive young girl, but to the woman who, all this afternoon, has dumfounded us by her intelligence. Now, listen to me——"
"No," she broke in. "I will not. Your proposals can only be insulting."
He went on, in a louder voice; and she could feel that gentleness and respectfulness did not come easy to him; he went on:
"Listen to me. I order you to listen to me ... and to answer at once. I'm no maker of phrases and I'll come straight to the point, rather crudely if I must, at the risk of shocking you. Here it is: Chance has in a trice thrown you into an affair which I have every right to consider my business and no one else's. We are stuck with supernumeraries, of whom, when the time comes, I do not mean to take the slightest account. All these people are imbeciles who will never get anywhere. Chagny is a conceited ass.... Davernoie a country bumpkin ... so much dead weight that we've got to lug about with us, you and I. Then why work for them?... Let's work for ourselves, for the two of us. Will you? You and I partners, friends, what a job we should make of it! My energy and strength at the service of your intelligence and clearsightedness! Besides ... besides, consider all I know! For I, I know the problem! What will take you weeks to discover, what, I'm certain, you'll never discover, I have at my fingers' ends. I know all the factors in the problem except one or two which I shall end by adding to them. Help me. Let us search together. It means a fortune, the discovery of fabulous wealth, boundless power.... Will you?"
He bent a little too far over the young girl; and his fingers brushed the cloak she was wearing. Dorothy, who had listened in silence in order to learn the inmost thoughts of her adversary, started back indignantly at his touch.
"Be off!... Leave me alone!... I forbid you to touch me!... You a friend?... You? You?"
The repulsion with which he inspired Dorothy set him beside himself, and foaming with rage, he cried furiously:
"So.... So ... you refuse? You refuse, in spite of the secret I have surprised, in spite of what I can do ... and what I'm going to do.... For the stolen earrings: it is not merely a matter of Saint-Quentin. You were there, in the ravine, to watch over his expedition. And what is more, as his accomplice, you protected him. And the proof exists, terrible, irrefutable. The box is in the hands of the Countess. And you dare? You! A thief!"
He made a grab at her. Dorothy ducked and slipped along the parapet. But he was able to grip her wrists, and he was dragging her towards him, when of a sudden he let go of her, struck by a ray of light which blinded him.
Perched on the parapet Montfaucon had switched full on his face the clear light of an electric torch.
D'Estreicher took himself off. The ray followed him, cleverly guided.
"Dirty little brat!" he growled. "I'll get you.... And you too, young woman! If to-morrow, at two o'clock, at the château, you do not come to heel, the box will be opened in the presence of the police. It's for you to choose."
He disappeared in the shrubbery.
Toward three o'clock in the morning, the trap, which looked down on the box from the interior of the caravan, was opened, as it had been opened the morning before. A hand reached out and shook Saint-Quentin, who was sleeping under his rugs.
"Get up. Dress yourself. No noise."
He protested.
"Dorothy, what you wish to do is absurd."
"Do as you're told."
Saint-Quentin obeyed.
Outside the caravan he found Dorothy, quite ready. By the light of the moon he saw that she was carrying a canvas bag, slung on a band running over her shoulder, and a coil of rope.
She led him to the spot at which the parapet touched the entrance gates. They fastened the rope to one of the bars and slid down it. Then Saint-Quentin climbed up to the parapet and unfastened the rope. They went down the slope into the ravine and along the foot of the cliff to the fissure up which Saint-Quentin had climbed the night before.
"Let us climb up," said Dorothy. "You will let down the rope and help me to ascend."
The ascent was not very difficult. The window of the pantry was open. They climbed in through it and Dorothy lit her bull's-eye lantern.
"Take that little ladder in the corner," she said.
But Saint-Quentin started to reason with her afresh:
"It's absurd. It's madness. We are running into the lion's maw."
"Get on!"
"But indeed, Dorothy."
He got a thump in the ribs.
"Stop it! And answer me," she snapped. "You're sure that d'Estreicher's is the last bedroom in the left-hand passage."
"Certain. As you told me to, I questioned the servants without seeming to do so, after dinner last night."
"And you dropped the powder I gave you into his cup of coffee?"
"Yes."
"Then he's sleeping like a log; and we can go straight to him. Not another word!"
On their way they stopped at a door. It was the dressing-room adjoining the boudoir of the Countess. Saint-Quentin set his ladder against it and climbed through the transom.
Three minutes later he came back.
"Did you find the card-board box?" Dorothy asked.
"Yes. I found it on the table, took the earrings out of it, and put the box back in its place with the rubber ring round it."
They went on down the passage.
Each bedroom had a dressing-room and a closet which served as wardrobe attached to it. They stopped before the last transom; Saint-Quentin climbed through it and opened the door of the dressing-room for Dorothy.
There was a door between the dressing-room and the bedroom. Dorothy opened it an inch and let a ray from her lantern fall on the bed.
"He's asleep," she whispered.
She drew a large handkerchief from her bag, uncorked a small bottle of chloroform and poured some drops on the handkerchief.
Across the bed, in his clothes, like a man suddenly overcome by sleep, d'Estreicher was sleeping so deeply that the young girl switched on the electric light. Then very gently she placed the chloroformed handkerchief over his face.
The man sighed, writhed, and was still.
Very cautiously Dorothy and Saint-Quentin passed two slip-knots in a rope over both of his arms and tied the two ends of it round the iron uprights of the bed. Then quickly without bothering about him they wrapped the bedclothes round his body and legs, and tied them round him with the table-cloth and curtain-cords.
Then d'Estreicher did awake. He tried to defend himself—too late. He called out. Dorothy gagged him with a napkin.
Next morning the Count and Countess de Chagny were taking their coffee with Raoul Davernoie in the big dining-room of the château when the porter came to inform them that at daybreak the directress of Dorothy's Circus had asked him to open the gates and that the caravan had departed. The directress had left a letter addressed to the Count de Chagny. All three of them went upstairs to the Countess's boudoir. The letter ran as follows:
"My cousin"—offended by her brusqueness, the Count started—then he went on:"My cousin: I took an oath, and I keep it. The man who was making excavations round the château and last night stole the earrings, is the same person who five years ago stole the medal and poisoned my father."I hand him over to you. Let justice take its course."Dorothy, Princess of Argonne."
"My cousin"—offended by her brusqueness, the Count started—then he went on:
"My cousin: I took an oath, and I keep it. The man who was making excavations round the château and last night stole the earrings, is the same person who five years ago stole the medal and poisoned my father.
"I hand him over to you. Let justice take its course.
"Dorothy, Princess of Argonne."
The Count and Countess and their cousin gazed at one another in amazement. What did it mean? Who was the culprit. How and where had she handed him over?
"It's a pity that d'Estreicher isn't down," said the Count. "He is so helpful."
The Countess took up the card-board box which d'Estreicher had entrusted to her and opened it without more ado. The box contained exactly what Dorothy had told them, some white pebbles and shells. Then why did d'Estreicher seem to attach so much importance to his finding it?
Some one knocked gently at the boudoir door. It was the major-domo, the Count's confidential man.
"What is it, Dominique?"
"The château was broken into last night."
"Impossible!" the Count declared in a positive tone. "The doors were all locked. Where did they break in?"
"I don't know. But I've found a ladder against the wall by Monsieur d'Estreicher's bedroom; and the transom is broken. The criminals made their way into the dressing-room and when they had done the job, came out through the bedroom door."
"What job?"
"I don't know, sir. I didn't like to go further into the matter by myself. I put everything back in its place."
The Count de Chagny drew a hundred-franc note from his pocket.
"Not a word of this, Dominique. Watch the corridor and see that no one disturbs us."
Raoul and his wife followed him. The door between d'Estreicher's dressing-room and bedroom was half open. The smell of chloroform filled the room.
The Count uttered a cry.
On his bed lay d'Estreicher gagged and safely bound to it. His eyes were rolling wildly. He was groaning.
Beside him lay the muffler which Dorothy had described as belonging to the man who was engaged in making excavations.
On the table, well in sight, lay the sapphire earrings.
But a terrifying, overwhelming sight met the eyes of all three of them simultaneously—the irrefutable proof of the murder of Jean d'Argonne and the theft of the medal. His right arm, bare, was stretched out across the bed, fastened by the wrist. And on that arm they read, tattooed:
In robore fortuna.
In robore fortuna.
Every day, at the easy walk or slack trot of One-eyed Magpie, Dorothy's Circus moved on. In the afternoon they gave their performance; after it they strolled about those old towns of France, the picturesque charm of which appealed so strongly to the young girl. Domfront, Mortain, Avranches, Fougères, Vitré, feudal cities, girdled in places by their fortifications, or bristling with their ancient keeps.... Dorothy visited them with all the emotion of a creature who understands the past and evokes it with a passionate enthusiasm.
She visited them alone, even as she walked alone along the high roads, with so manifest a desire to keep to herself that the others, while watching her with anxious eyes and silently begging for a glance from their little mother, did not speak a word to her.
That lasted a week, a very dull week for the children. The pale Saint-Quentin walked at the head of One-eyed Magpie as he would have walked at the head of a horse drawing a hearse. Castor and Pollux fought no longer. As for the captain he buried himself in the perusal of his lesson-books and wore himself out over addition and subtraction, knowing that Dorothy, the school-mistress of the troupe, as a rule deeply appreciated these fits of industry. His efforts were vain. Dorothy was thinking of something else.
Every morning, at the first village they went through, she bought a newspaper, looked through it and crumpled it up with a movement of irritation, as if she had failed to find what she was looking for. Saint-Quentin at once picked it up and in his turn ran his eye through it. Nothing. Nothing about the crime of which she had informed him in a few words. Nothing about the arrest of that infamous d'Estreicher whom the two of them had trussed up on his bed.
At last on the eighth day, as the sun shines after unceasing rain, the smile appeared. It did not spring from any outside cause. It was that life recovered its grip on her. Dorothy's spirit was throwing off the distant tragedy in which her father lost his life. She became the light-hearted, cheerful, and affectionate Dorothy of old. Castor, Pollux, and the captain were smothered with kisses. Saint-Quentin was thumped and shaken warmly by the hand. At the performance they gave under the ramparts of Vitré she displayed an astonishing energy and gayety. And when the audience had departed, she hustled off her four comrades on one of those mad rounds which were for them the most exquisite of treats.
Saint-Quentin wept with joy:
"I thought you didn't love us any more," he said.
"Why shouldn't I love my four brats any more?"
"Because you're a princess."
"Wasn't I a princess before, idiot?"
In taking them through the narrow streets of old Vitré, amid the huddle of wooden houses, roofed with rough tiles, by fits and starts she told them for the first time about her early years.
She had always been happy, never having known shackles, boredom, or discipline, things which cramp the free instincts and deform the disposition. Not that she had been a rebel. She was quite ready to submit to rules and obligations, but she had had to choose them herself; they had had to be such that her child's reason, already very clear and direct, could accept them as just and necessary.
It had been the same with the education she had given herself: she had only learnt from others that which it had pleased her to know, extracting from the village priest at Argonne all the Latin he knew, and letting him keep his catechism to himself; learning many things with the schoolmaster, many others from the books she borrowed, and very many more from the old couple who farmed her father's land, in whose charge her parents had left her.
"I owe most to those two," she said. "But for them I should not know what a bird is, or a plant, or a tree—the meaning of real things."
"It wasn't them, however, who taught you to dance on a tight rope and manage a circus," said Saint-Quentin, chaffing her.
"I've always danced on the tight rope. Some people are born poets. I was born a rope-dancer. Dancing is part of me. I get that from my mother who was by no means a theatrical star, but simply a fine little dancer, a dancing-girl of the music-halls and the English circus. I see her still. She was adorable; she could never keep still; and she loved stuffs of gorgeous colors ... and beautiful jewels even more."
"Like you," said Saint-Quentin in a low voice.
"Like me," she said. "Yes: I take an extravagant pleasure in handling them and looking at them. I love things that shine. All these stones throw out flames which dazzle me. I should like to be very rich in order to have very fine ones that I should wear always—on my fingers and round my neck."
"And since you will never be rich?"
"Then I shall do without them."
For all that she had been brought up anyhow, deprived of mentors and good advice, having only before her eyes as example the frivolous life her parents led, she had acquired strong moral principles, always maintained a considerable natural dignity, and remained untroubled by the reproaches of conscience. That which is evil is evil—no traffic in it.
"One is happy," she said, "when one is in perfect agreement with good people. I am a good girl. If one lets one's self be guilty of a doubtful action, one repeats it without knowing it and one ends by yielding to temptation as one picks flowers and fruit over the hedge by the roadside."
Dorothy did not pick flowers and fruit over the hedge.
For a long while she went on telling them all about herself. Saint-Quentin listened open-mouthed.
"Goodness! Wherever did you learn all that? You're always surprising me, Dorothy. And then how do you guess what you do guess? Guess what is passing in people's minds? The other day at Roborey, I didn't understand what was going on, not a scrap of it."
"Ah, that's quite another matter. It's a need to combine, to organize, to command, a need to undertake and to succeed. When I was a child I gathered together all the urchins in the village and formed bands. I was always the chief of the band. Only the others used to rob the farm-yards and kitchen-gardens, and go poaching. With me, it was quite the opposite. We used to form a league against an evil-doer and hunt for the sheep or duck stolen from an old woman, or again we exercised our wits in making inquiries. Oh those inquiries! They were my strong point. Before the police could be informed, I would unravel an affair in such a way that the country people roundabout came to consult the little girl of thirteen or fourteen that I was. 'A perfect little witch,' they used to say. Goodness, no! You know as well as I, Saint-Quentin, if I sometimes play the clairvoyant or tell fortunes by cards, everything I tell people I arrive at from facts which I observe and interpret. And I also arrive at those facts, I must admit, by a kind of intuition which shows me things under an aspect which does not at once appear to other people. Yes, very often I see, before comprehending. Then, most complicated affairs appear to me, at the first glance, very simple, and I am always astonished that no one has picked out such and such a detail which contains in it the whole of the truth."
Saint-Quentin, convinced, reflected. He threw back his head:
"That's it! That's it! Nothing escapes you; you think of everything. And that's how it came about that the earrings, instead of having been stolen by Saint-Quentin, were stolen by d'Estreicher. And it is d'Estreicher and not Saint-Quentin who will go to prison because you willed it so."
She began to laugh:
"Perhaps I did will it so. But Justice shows no sign of submitting to my will. The newspapers do not speak of anything happening. There is no mention of the drama of Roborey."
"Then what has become of that scoundrel?"
"I don't know."
"And won't you be able to learn?"
"Yes," she said confidently.
"How?"
"From Raoul Davernoie."
"You're going to see him then?"
"I've written to him."
"Where to?"
"At Roborey."
"He answered you."
"Yes—a telegram which I went to the Post Office to find before the performance."
"And he's going to meet us?"
"Yes. On leaving Roborey and returning home, he is to meet us at Vitré at about three o'clock. It's three now."
They had climbed up to a point in the city from which one had a view of a road which wound in and out among meadows and woods.
"There," she said. "His car ought not to be long coming into sight. That's his road."
"You really believe——"
"I really believe that that excellent young fellow will not miss an opportunity of seeing me again," she said, smiling.
Saint-Quentin, always rather jealous and easily upset, sighed:
"All the people you talk to are like that, obliging and full of attention."
They waited several minutes. A car came into sight between two hedges. They went forward and so came close to the caravan round which the three urchins were playing.
Presently the car came up the ascent and emerged from a turning, driven by Raoul Davernoie. Running to meet him and preventing him by a gesture from getting out of the car, Dorothy called out to him:
"Well, what has happened? Arrested?"
"Who? D'Estreicher?" said Raoul, a little taken aback by this greeting.
"D'Estreicher of course.... He has been handed over to the police, hasn't he? He's under lock and key?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"He escaped."
The answer gave her a shock.
"D'Estreicher free!... Free to act!... It's frightful!"
And under her breath she muttered:
"Good heavens! Why—why didn't I stay? I should have prevented this escape."
But repining was of no avail and Dorothy was not the girl to waste much time on it. Without further delay she began to question the young man.
"Why did you stay on at the château?"
"To be exact—because of d'Estreicher."
"Granted. But an hour after his escape you ought to have started for home."
"For what reason?"
"Your grandfather.... I warned you at Roborey."
Raoul Davernoie protested:
"First of all I have written to him to be on his guard for reasons which I would explain to him. And then, as a matter of fact, the risk that he runs is a trifle problematical."
"In what way? He is the possessor of that indispensable key to the treasure, the gold medal. D'Estreicher knows it. And you do not believe in his danger."
"But this key to the treasure, d'Estreicher also possesses it, since on the day he murdered your father, he stole the gold medal from him."
Dorothy stood beside the door of the car, her hand on the handle to prevent Raoul from opening it.
"Start at once, I beg you. I certainly don't understand the whole of the affair. Is d'Estreicher, who already is the possessor of the medal, going to try to steal a second? Has the one he stole from my father been stolen from him by an accomplice? As yet I don't know anything about it. But I am certain that from now on the real ground of the struggle is younder, at your home. I'm so sure of it that I'm going there myself as well. Look: here is my road-map. Hillocks Manor near Clisson—still nearly a hundred miles to go—eight stages for the caravan. Be off; you will get there to-night. I shall be there in eight days."
Dominated by her, he gave way.
"Perhaps you're right. I ought to have thought of all this myself—especially since my father will be alone to-night."
"Alone?"
"Yes. All the servants are keeping holiday. One of them is getting married at a neighboring village."
She started.
"Does d'Estreicher know?"
"I think so. I fancy I spoke of this fête before him, during my stay at Roborey."
"And when did he escape?"
"The day before yesterday."
"So since the day before yesterday——"
She did not finish the sentence. She ran to the caravan, up the steps, into it. Almost on the instant she came out of it with a small suit-case and a cloak.
"I'm off," she said. "I'm coming with you. There isn't a moment to be lost!"
She cranked up the engine herself, giving her orders the while:
"I give the car and the three children into your charge, Saint-Quentin. Follow the red line I have drawn on the map. Double stages—no performances. You can be there in five days."
She took the seat beside Davernoie. The car was already starting when she caught up the captain who was stretching out his hands to her. She dropped him among the portmanteaux and bags in the tonneau.
"There—keep quiet. Au revoir, Saint-Quentin, Castor and Pollux—no fighting!"
She waved good-bye to them.
The whole scene had not lasted three minutes.
Raoul Davernoie's car was by way of being an old, old model. Therefore its pace was but moderate, and Raoul, delighted to be taking with him this charming creature, who was also his cousin, and his relations with whom, thanks to what had happened, were uncommonly intimate, was able to relate in detail what had taken place, the manner of their finding d'Estreicher, and the incidents of his captivity.
"What saved him," said he, "was a rather deep wound he had made in his head by striking it against the iron bed-head in his efforts to rid himself of his bonds. He lost a lot of blood. Fever declared itself; and my cousin de Chagny—you must have noticed that he is of a timid disposition—at once said to us:
"'That gives us time.'"
"Time for what?" I asked him.
"'Time to think things over. You understand clearly enough that all this is going to give rise to an unheard-of scandal, and one which, for the honor of our families, we might perhaps be able to avoid.'"
"I opposed any delay. I wanted them to telephone at once to the police. But de Chagny was in his own house, you know. And the days passed waiting for him to come to a decision which he could not bring himself to make. They had told the servants that d'Estreicher was ill. Only the major-domo was in our confidence, brought him his food, and kept guard over him. Besides, the prisoner seemed so feeble. You would have declared that he had no strength left. How was one to distrust so sick a man?"
Dorothy asked:
"But what explanation of his conduct did he give?"
"None, because we didn't question him."
"Didn't he speak of me? Didn't he make any accusations against me?"
"No. He went on playing the part of a sick man, prostrated by pain and fever. During this time de Chagny wrote to Paris for information about him, for after all, his relations with his cousin only went back as far as 1915.
"Three days ago we received a telegram which said: