Véronique smiled as she sat to starboard on a packing-case, with her face turned towards Honorine. Her smile was anxious still and undefined, full of reticence and flickering as a sunbeam that tries to pierce the last clouds of the storm; but it was nevertheless a happy smile.
And happiness seemed the right expression for that wonderful face, stamped with dignity and with that particular modesty which gives to some women, whether stricken by excessive misfortune or preserved by love, the habit of gravity, combined with an absence of all feminine affectation.
Her black hair, touched with grey at the temples, was knotted very low down on the neck. She had the dead-white complexion of a southerner and very light blue eyes, of which the white seemed almost of the same colour, pale as a winter sky. She was tall, with broad shoulders and a well-shaped bust.
Her musical and somewhat masculine voice became light and cheerful when she spoke of the son whom she had found again. And Véronique could speak of nothing else. In vain the Breton woman tried to speak of the problems that harassed her and kept on interrupting Véronique:
"Look here, there are two things which I cannot understand. Who laid the trail with the clues that brought you from Le Faouet to the exact spot whereI always land? It almost makes one believe that someone had been from Le Faouet to the Isle of Sarek. And, on the other hand, how did old Maguennoc come to leave the island? Was it of his own free will? Or was it his dead body that they carried? If so, how?"
"Is it worth troubling about?" Véronique objected.
"Certainly it is. Just think! Besides me, who once a fortnight go either to Beg-Meil or Pont-l'Abbé in my motor-boat for provisions, there are only two fishing-boats, which always go much higher up the coast, to Audierne, where they sell their catch. Then how did Maguennoc get across? Then again, did he commit suicide? But, if so, how did his body disappear?"
But Véronique protested:
"Please don't! It doesn't matter for the moment. It'll all be cleared up. Tell me about François. You were saying that he came to Sarek . . ."
Honorine yielded to Véronique's entreaties:
"He arrived in poor Maguennoc's arms, a few days after he was taken from you. Maguennoc, who had been taught his lesson by your father, said that a strange lady had entrusted him with the child; and he had it nursed by his daughter, who has since died. I was away, in a situation with a Paris family. When I came home again, François had grown into a fine little fellow, running about the moors and cliffs. It was then that I took service with your father, who had settled in Sarek. When Maguennoc's daughter died, we took the child to live with us."
"But under what name?"
"François, just François. M. d'Hergemont was known as Monsieur Antoine. François called him grandfather. No one ever made any remark upon it."
"And his character?" asked Véronique, with some anxiety.
"Oh, as far as that's concerned, he's a blessing!" replied Honorine. "Nothing of his father about him . . . nor of his grandfather either, as M. d'Hergemont himself admits. A gentle, lovable, most willing child. Never a sign of anger; always good-tempered. That's what got over his grandfather and made M. d'Hergemont come round to you again, because his grandson reminded him so of the daughter he had cast off. 'He's the very image of his mother,' he used to say. 'Véronique was gentle and affectionate like him, with the same fond and coaxing ways.' And then he began his search for you, with me to help him; for he had come to confide in me."
Véronique beamed with delight. Her son was like her! Her son was bright and kind-hearted!
"But does he know about me?" she said. "Does he know that I'm alive?"
"I should think he did! M. d'Hergemont tried to keep it from him at first. But I soon told him everything."
"Everything?"
"No. He believes that his father is dead and that, after the shipwreck in which he, I mean François, and M. d'Hergemont disappeared, you became a nun and have been lost sight of since. And he is so eager for news, each time I come backfrom one of my trips! He too is so full of hope! Oh, you can take my word for it, he adores his mother! And he's always singing that song you heard just now, which his grandfather taught him."
"My François, my own little François!"
"Ah, yes, he loves you! There's Mother Honorine. But you're mother, just that. And he's in a great hurry to grow up and finish his schooling, so that he may go and look for you."
"His schooling? Does he have lessons?"
"Yes, with his grandfather and, since two years ago, with such a nice fellow that I brought back from Paris, Stéphane Maroux, a wounded soldier covered with medals and restored to health after an internal operation. François dotes on him."
The boat was running quickly over the smooth sea, in which it ploughed a furrow of silvery foam. The clouds had dispersed on the horizon. The evening boded fair and calm.
"More, tell me more!" said Véronique, listening greedily. "What does my boy wear?"
"Knickerbockers and short socks, with his calves bare; a thick flannel shirt with gilt buttons; and a flat knitted cap, like his big friend, M. Stéphane; only his is red and suits him to perfection."
"Has he any friends besides M. Maroux?"
"All the growing lads of the island, formerly. But with the exception of three or four ship's boys, all the rest have left the island with their mothers, now that their fathers are at the war, and are working on the mainland, at Concarneau or Lorient, leaving the old people at Sarek by themselves. We are not more than thirty on the island now."
"Whom does he play with? Whom does he go about with?"
"Oh, as for that, he has the best of companions!"
"Really? Who is it?"
"A little dog that Maguennoc gave him."
"A dog?"
"Yes; and the funniest dog you ever saw: an ugly ridiculous-looking thing, a cross between a poodle and a fox-terrier, but so comical and amusing! Oh, there's no one like Master All's Well!"
"All's Well?"
"That's what François calls him; and you couldn't have a better name for him. He always looks happy and glad to be alive. He's independent, too, and he disappears for hours and even days at a time; but he's always there when he's wanted, if you're feeling sad, or if things aren't going as you might like them to. All's Well hates to see any one crying or scolding or quarrelling. The moment you cry, or pretend to cry, he comes and squats on his haunches in front of you, sits up, shuts one eye, half-opens the other and looks so exactly as if he was laughing that you begin to laugh yourself. 'That's right, old chap,' says François, 'you're quite right: all's well. There's nothing to take on about, is there?' And, when you're consoled, All's Well just trots away. His task is done."
Véronique laughed and cried in one breath. Then she was silent for a long time, feeling more and more gloomy and overcome by a despair which overwhelmed all her gladness. She thought of all the happiness that she had missed during the fourteen years of her childless motherhood, wearing her mourning for a son who was alive. All the caresthat a mother lavishes upon the little creature new-born into the world, all the pride that she feels at seeing him grow and hearing him speak, all that delights a mother and uplifts her and makes her heart overflow with daily renewed affection: all this she had never known.
"We are half-way across," said Honorine.
They were running in sight of the Glenans Islands. On their right, the headland of Penmarch, whose coast-line they were following at a distance of fifteen miles, marked a darker line which was not always differentiated from the horizon.
And Véronique thought of her sad past, of her mother, whom she hardly remembered, of her childhood spent with a selfish, disagreeable father, of her marriage, ah, above all of her marriage! She recalled her first meetings with Vorski, when she was only seventeen. How frightened she had been from the very beginning of that strange and unusual man, whom she dreaded while she submitted to his influence, as one does at that age submit to the influence of anything mysterious and incomprehensible!
Next came the hateful day of the abduction and the other days, more hateful still, that followed, the weeks during which he had kept her imprisoned, threatening her and dominating her with all his evil strength, and the promise of marriage which he had forced from her, a pledge against which all the girl's instincts and all her will revolted, but to which it seemed to her that she was bound to agree after so great a scandal and also because her father was giving his consent.
Her brain rebelled against the memories of heryears of married life. Never that! Not even in the worst hours, when the nightmares of the past haunt one like spectres, never did she consent to revive, in the innermost recesses of her mind, that degrading past, with its mortifications, wounds and betrayals, and the disgraceful life led by her husband, who, shamelessly, with cynical pride, gradually revealed himself as the man he was, drinking, cheating at cards, robbing his boon companions, a swindler and blackmailer, giving his wife the impression, which she still retained and which made her shudder, of a sort of evil genius, cruel and unbalanced.
"Have done with dreams, Madame Véronique," said Honorine.
"It's not so much dreams and memories as remorse," she replied.
"Remorse, Madame Véronique? You, whose life has been one long martyrdom?"
"A martyrdom that was a punishment."
"But all that is over and done with, Madame Véronique, seeing that you are going to meet your son and your father again. Come, come, you must think of nothing but being happy."
"Happy? Can I be happy again?"
"I should think so! You'll soon see! . . . Look, there's Sarek."
Honorine took from a locker under her seat a large shell which she used as a trumpet, after the manner of the mariners of old, and, putting her lips to the mouthpiece and puffing out her cheeks, she blew a few powerful notes, which filled the air with a sound not unlike the lowing of an ox.
Véronique gave her a questioning look.
"It's him I'm calling," said Honorine.
"François? You're calling François?"
"Yes, it's the same every time I come back. He comes scrambling from the top of the cliffs where we live and runs down to the jetty."
"So I shall see him?" exclaimed Véronique, turning very pale.
"You will see him. Fold your veil double, so that he may not know you from your photographs. I'll speak to you as I would to a stranger who has come to look at Sarek."
They could see the island distinctly, but the foot of the cliffs was hidden by a multitude of reefs.
"Ah, yes, there's no lack of rocks! They swarm like a shoal of herring!" cried Honorine, who had been obliged to switch off the motor and was using two short paddles. "You know how calm the sea was just now. It's never calm here."
Thousands and thousands of little waves were dashing and clashing against one another and waging an incessant and implacable war upon the rocks. The boat seemed to be passing through the backwater of a torrent. Nowhere was a strip of blue or green sea visible amid the bubbling foam. There was nothing but white froth, whipped up by the indefatigable swirl of the forces which desperately assailed the pointed teeth of the reefs.
"And it's like that all round the island," said Honorine, "so much so that you may say that Sarek isn't accessible except in a small boat. Ah, the Huns could never have established a submarine base on our island! To make quite sure and remove all doubts, some officers came over from Lorient, two years ago, because of a few caves on the west, whichcan only be entered at low tide. It was waste of time. There was nothing doing here. Just think, it's like a sprinkle of rocks all around; and pointed rocks at that, which get at you treacherously from underneath. And, though these are the most dangerous, perhaps it is the others that are most to be feared, the big ones which you see and have got their name and their history from all sorts of crimes and shipwrecks. Oh, as to those! . . ."
Her voice grew hollow. With a hesitating hand, which seemed afraid of the half-completed gesture, she pointed to some reefs which stood up in powerful masses of different shapes, crouching animals, crenellated keeps, colossal needles, sphynx-heads, jagged pyramids, all in black granite stained with red, as though soaked in blood.
And she whispered:
"Oh, as to those, they have been guarding the island for centuries and centuries, but like wild beasts that only care for doing harm and killing. They . . . they . . . no, it's better never to speak about them or even think of them. They are the thirty wild beasts. Yes, thirty, Madame Véronique, there are thirty of them . . . ."
She made the sign of the cross and continued, more calmly:
"There are thirty of them. Your father says that Sarek is called the island of the thirty coffins because the people instinctively ended in this case by confusing the two wordsécueilsandcercueils.[1]Perhaps . . . . It's very likely . . . . But, all the same, they are thirty real coffins, Madame Véronique; and, if we could open them, we should be sureto find them full of bones and bones and bones. M. d'Hergemont himself says that Sarek comes from the word Sarcophagus, which, according to him, is the learned way of saying coffin. Besides, there's more than that . . . ."
[1]"Reefs" and "coffins."—Translator's Note.
[1]"Reefs" and "coffins."—Translator's Note.
Honorine broke off, as though she wanted to think of something else, and, pointing to a reef of rocks, said:
"Look, Madame Véronique, past that big one right in our way there, you will see, through an opening, our little harbour and, on the quay, François in his red cap."
Véronique had been listening absent-mindedly to Honorine's explanations. She leant her body farther out of the boat, in order to catch sight the sooner of her son, while the Breton woman, once more a victim to her obsession, continued, in spite of herself:
"There's more than that. The Isle of Sarek—and that is why your father came to live here—contains a collection of dolmens which have nothing remarkable about them, but which are peculiar for one reason, that they are all nearly alike. Well, how many of them do you think there are? Thirty! Thirty, like the principal reefs. And those thirty are distributed round the islands, on the cliffs, exactly opposite the thirty reefs; and each of them bears the same name as the reef that corresponds to it: Dol-er-H'roeck, Dol-Kerlitu and so on. What do you say to that?"
She had uttered these names in the same timid voice in which she spoke of all these things, as if she feared to be heard by the things themselves, towhich she was attributing a formidable and sacred life.
"What do you say to that, Madame Véronique? Oh, there's plenty of mystery about it all; and, once more, it's better to hold one's tongue! I'll tell you about it when we've left here, right away from the island, and when your little François is in your arms, between your father and you."
Véronique sat silent, gazing into space at the spot to which Honorine had pointed. With her back turned to her companion and her two hands gripping the gunwale, she stared distractedly before her. It was there, through that narrow opening, that she was to see her child, long lost and now found; and she did not want to waste a single second after the moment when she would be able to catch sight of him.
They reached the rock. One of Honorine's paddles grazed its side. They skirted and came to the end of it.
"Oh," said Véronique, sorrowfully, "he is not there!"
"François not there? Impossible!" cried Honorine.
She in her turn saw, three or four hundred yards in front of them, the few big rocks on the beach which served as a jetty. Three women, a little girl and some old seafaring men were waiting for the boat, but no boy, no red cap.
"That's strange," said Honorine, in a low voice. "It's the first time that he's failed to answer my call."
"Perhaps he's ill?" Véronique suggested.
"No, François is never ill."
"What then?"
"I don't know."
"But aren't you afraid?" asked Véronique, who was already becoming frightened.
"For him, no . . . but for your father. Maguennoc said that I oughtn't to leave him. It's he who is threatened."
"But François is there to defend him; and so is M. Maroux, his tutor. Come, answer me: what do you imagine?"
After a moment's pause, Honorine shrugged her shoulders.
"A pack of nonsense! I get absurd, yes, absurd things into my head. Don't be angry with me. I can't help it: it's the Breton in me. Except for a few years, I have spent all my life here, with legends and stories in the very air I breathed. Don't let's talk about it."
The Isle of Sarek appears in the shape of a long and undulating table-land, covered with ancient trees and standing on cliffs of medium height than which nothing more jagged could be imagined. It is as though the island were surrounded by a reef of uneven, diversified lacework, incessantly wrought upon by the rain, the wind, the sun, the snow, the frost, the mist and all the water that falls from the sky or oozes from the earth.
The only accessible point is on the eastern side, at the bottom of a depression where a few houses, mostly abandoned since the war, constitute the village. A break in the cliffs opens here, protected by the little jetty. The sea at this spot is perfectly calm.
Two boats lay moored to the quay.
Before landing, Honorine made a last effort:
"We're there, Madame Véronique, as you see. Now is it really worth your while to get out? Why not stay where you are? I'll bring your father and your son to you in two hours' time and we'll have dinner at Beg-Meil or at Pont-l'Abbé. Will that do?"
Véronique rose to her feet and leapt on to the quay without replying. Honorine joined her and insisted no longer:
"Well, children, where's young François? Hasn't he come?"
"He was here about twelve," said one of the women. "Only he didn't expect you until to-morrow."
"That's true enough . . . but still he must have heard me blow my horn. However, we shall see."
And, as the man helped her to unload the boat, she said:
"I shan't want all this taken up to the Priory. Nor the bags either. Unless . . . Look here, if I am not back by five o'clock, send a youngster after me with the bags."
"No, I'll come myself," said one of the seamen.
"As you please, Corréjou. Oh, by the way, where's Maguennoc?"
"Maguennoc's gone. I took him across to Pont-l'Abbé myself."
"When was that, Corréjou?"
"Why, the day after you went, Madame Honorine."
"What was he going over for?"
"He told us he was going . . . I don't know where . . . . It had to do with the hand he lost . . . . a pilgrimage . . . ."
"A pilgrimage? To Le Faouet, perhaps? To St. Barbe's Chapel?"
"That's it . . . that's it exactly: St. Barbe's Chapel, that's what he said."
Honorine asked no more. She could no longer doubt that Maguennoc was dead. She moved away, accompanied by Véronique, who had lowered her veil; and the two went along a rocky path, cut into steps, which ran through the middle of an oak-wood towards the southernmost point of the island.
"After all," said Honorine, "I am not sure—and I may as well say so—that M. d'Hergemont will consent to leave. He treats all my stories as crotchets, though there's plenty of things that astonish even him . . . ."
"Does he live far from here?" asked Véronique.
"It's forty minutes' walk. As you will see, it's almost another island, joined to the first. The Benedictines built an abbey there."
"But he's not alone there, is he, with François and M. Maroux?"
"Before the war, there were two men besides. Lately, Maguennoc and I used to do pretty well all the work, with the cook, Marie Le Goff."
"She remained, of course, while you were away?"
"Yes."
They reached the top of the cliffs. The path, which followed the coast, rose and fell in steep gradients. On every hand were old oaks with their bunches of mistletoe, which showed among the asyet scanty leaves. The sea, grey-green in the distance, girded the island with a white belt.
Véronique continued:
"What do you propose to do, Honorine?"
"I shall go in by myself and speak to your father. Then I shall come back and fetch you at the garden-gate; and in François' eyes you will pass for a friend of his mother's. He will guess the truth gradually."
"And you think that my father will give me a good welcome?"
"He will receive you with open arms, Madame Véronique," cried the Breton woman, "and we shall all be happy, provided . . . provided nothing has happened . . . It's so funny that François doesn't run out to meet me! He can see our boat from every part of the island . . . as far off as the Glenans almost."
She relapsed into what M. d'Hergemont called her crotchets; and they pursued their road in silence. Véronique felt anxious and impatient.
Suddenly Honorine made the sign of the cross:
"You do as I'm doing, Madame Véronique," she said. "The monks have consecrated the place, but there's lots of bad, unlucky things remaining from the old days, especially in that wood, the wood of the Great Oak."
The old days no doubt meant the period of the Druids and their human sacrifices; and the two women were now entering a wood in which the oaks, each standing in isolation on a mound of moss-grown stones, had a look of ancient gods, each with his own altar, his mysterious cult and his formidable power.
Véronique, following Honorine's example, crossed herself and could not help shuddering as she said:
"How melancholy it is! There's not a flower on this desolate plateau."
"They grow most wonderfully when one takes the trouble. You shall see Maguennoc's, at the end of the island, to the right of the Fairies' Dolmen . . . a place called the Calvary of the Flowers."
"Are they lovely?"
"Wonderful, I tell you. Only he goes himself to get the mould from certain places. He prepares it. He works it up. He mixes it with some special leaves of which he knows the effect." And she repeated, "You shall see Maguennoc's flowers. There are no flowers like them in the world. They are miraculous flowers . . . ."
After skirting a hill, the road descended a sudden declivity. A huge gash divided the island into two parts, the second of which now appeared, standing a little higher, but very much more limited in extent.
"It's the Priory, that part," said Honorine.
The same jagged cliffs surrounded the smaller islet with an even steeper rampart, which itself was hollowed out underneath like the hoop of a crown. And this rampart was joined to the main island by a strip of cliff fifty yards long and hardly thicker than a castle-wall, with a thin, tapering crest which looked as sharp as the edge of an axe.
There was no thoroughfare possible along this ridge, inasmuch as it was split in the middle with a wide fissure, for which reason the abutments of a wooden bridge had been anchored to the two extremities. The bridge started flat on the rock and subsequently spanned the intervening crevice.
They crossed it separately, for it was not only very narrow but also unstable, shaking under their feet and in the wind.
"Look, over there, at the extreme point of the island," said Honorine, "you can see a corner of the Priory."
The path that led to it ran through fields planted with small fir-trees arranged in quincunxes. Another path turned to the right and disappeared from view in some dense thickets.
Véronique kept her eyes upon the Priory, whose low-storied front was lengthening gradually, when Honorine, after a few minutes, stopped short, with her face towards the thickets on the right, and called out:
"Monsieur Stéphane!"
"Whom are you calling?" asked Véronique. "M. Maroux?"
"Yes, François' tutor. He was running towards the bridge: I caught sight of him through a clearing . . . Monsieur Stéphane! . . . But why doesn't he answer? Did you see a man running?"
"No."
"I declare it was he, with his white cap. At any rate, we can see the bridge behind us. Let us wait for him to cross."
"Why wait? If anything's the matter, if there's a danger of any kind, it's at the Priory."
"You're right. Let's hurry."
They hastened their pace, overcome with forebodings; and then, for no definite reason, broke into a run, so greatly did their fears increase as they drew nearer to the reality.
The islet grew narrower again, barred by a lowwall which marked the boundaries of the Priory domain. At that moment, cries were heard, coming from the house.
Honorine exclaimed:
"They're calling! Did you hear? A woman's cries! It's the cook! It's Marie Le Goff! . . ."
She made a dash for the gate and grasped the key, but inserted it so awkwardly that she jammed the lock and was unable to open it.
"Through the gap!" she ordered. "This way, on the right!"
They rushed along, scrambled through the wall and crossed a wide grassy space filled with ruins, in which the winding and ill-marked path disappeared at every moment under trailing creepers and moss.
"Here we are! Here we are!" shouted Honorine. "We're coming!"
And she muttered:
"The cries have stopped! It's dreadful! Oh, poor Marie Le Goff!"
She grasped Véronique's arm:
"Let's go round. The front of the house is on the other side. On this side the doors are always locked and the window-shutters closed."
But Véronique caught her foot in some roots, stumbled and fell to her knees. When she stood up again, the Breton woman had left her and was hurrying round the left wing. Unconsciously, Véronique, instead of following her, made straight for the house, climbed the step and was brought up short by the door, at which she knocked again and again.
The idea of going round, as Honorine had done, seemed to her a waste of time which nothing couldever make good. However, realising the futility of her efforts, she was just deciding to go, when once more cries sounded from inside the house and above her head.
It was a man's voice, which Véronique seemed to recognize as her father's. She fell back a few steps. Suddenly one of the windows on the first floor opened and she saw M. d'Hergemont, his features distorted with inexpressible terror, gasping:
"Help! Help! Oh, the monster! Help!"
"Father! Father!" cried Véronique, in despair. "It's I!"
He lowered his head for an instant, appeared not to see his daughter and made a quick attempt to climb over the balcony. But a shot rang out behind him and one of the window-panes was blown into fragments.
"Murderer, murderer!" he shouted, turning back into the room.
Véronique, mad with fear and helplessness, looked around her. How could she rescue her father? The wall was too high and offered nothing to cling to. Suddenly, she saw a ladder, lying twenty yards away, beside the wall of the house. With a prodigious effort of will and strength, she managed to carry the ladder, heavy though it was, and to set it up under the open window.
At the most tragic moment in life, when the mind is no more than a seething confusion, when the whole body is shaken by the tremor of anguish, a certain logic continues to connect our ideas: and Véronique wondered why she had not heard Honorine's voice and what could have delayed her coming.
She also thought of François. Where was François? Had he followed Stéphane Maroux in his inexplicable flight? Had he gone in search of assistance? And who was it that M. d'Hergemont had apostrophized as a monster and a murderer?
The ladder did not reach the window; and Véronique at once became aware of the effort which would be necessary if she was to climb over the balcony. Nevertheless she did not hesitate. They were fighting up there; and the struggle was mingled with stifled shouts uttered by her father. She went up the ladder. The most that she could do was to grasp the bottom rail of the balcony. But a narrow ledge enabled her to hoist herself on one knee, to put her head through and to witness the tragedy that was being enacted in the room.
At that moment, M. d'Hergemont had once more retreated to the window and even a little beyond it, so that she almost saw him face to face. He stood without moving, haggard-eyed and with his arms hanging in an undecided posture, as though waiting for something terrible to happen. He stammered:
"Murderer! Murderer! . . . Is it really you? Oh, curse you! François! François!"
He was no doubt calling upon his grandson for help; and François no doubt was also exposed to some attack, was perhaps wounded, was possibly dead!
Véronique summoned up all her strength and succeeded in setting foot on the ledge.
"Here I am! Here I am!" she meant to cry.
But her voice died away in her throat. She hadseen! She saw! Facing her father, at a distance of five paces, against the opposite wall of the room, stood some one pointing a revolver at M. d'Hergemont and deliberately taking aim. And that some one was . . . oh, horror! Véronique recognized the red cap of which Honorine had spoken, the flannel shirt with the gilt buttons. And above all she beheld, in that young face convulsed with hideous emotions, the very expression which Vorski used to wear at times when his instincts, hatred and ferocity, gained the upper hand.
The boy did not see her. His eyes were fixed on the mark which he proposed to hit; and he seemed to take a sort of savage joy in postponing the fatal act.
Véronique herself was silent. Words or cries could not possibly avert the peril. What she had to do was to fling herself between her father and her son. She clutched hold of the railings, clambered up and climbed through the window.
It was too late. The shot was fired. M. d'Hergemont fell with a groan of pain.
And, at the same time, at that very moment, while the boy still had his arm outstretched and the old man was sinking into a huddled heap, a door opened at the back. Honorine appeared; and the abominable sight struck her, so to speak, full in the face.
"François!" she screamed. "You! You!"
The boy sprang at her. The woman tried to bar his way. There was not even a struggle. The boy took a step back, quickly raised his weapon and fired.
Honorine's knees gave way beneath her and shefell across the threshold. And, as he jumped over her body and fled, she kept on repeating:
"François . . . . François . . . . No, it's not true! . . . Oh, can it be possible? . . . François . . . ."
There was a burst of laughter outside. Yes, the boy had laughed. Véronique heard that horrible, infernal laugh, so like Vorski's laugh; and it all agonized her with the same anguish which used to sear her in Vorski's days!
She did not run after the murderer. She did not call out.
A faint voice beside her was murmuring her name:
"Véronique . . . . Véronique . . . ."
M. d'Hergemont lay on the ground, staring at her with glassy eyes which were already filled with death.
She knelt down by his side; but, when she tried to unbutton his waistcoat and his bloodstained shirt, in order to dress the wound of which he was dying, he gently pushed her hand aside. She understood that all aid was useless and that he wished to speak to her. She stooped still lower.
"Véronique . . . forgive . . . Véronique . . . ."
It was the first utterance of his failing thoughts.
She kissed him on the forehead and wept:
"Hush, father . . . . Don't tire yourself . . . ."
But he had something else to say; and his mouth vainly emitted syllables which did not form words and to which she listened in despair. His life was ebbing away. His mind was fading into the darkness. Véronique glued her ear to the lips whichexhausted themselves in a supreme effort and she caught the words:
"Beware . . . beware . . . the God-Stone . . . ."
Suddenly he half raised himself. His eyes flashed as though lit by the last flicker of an expiring flame. Véronique received the impression that her father, as he looked at her, now understood nothing but the full significance of her presence and foresaw all the dangers that threatened her; and, speaking in a hoarse and terrified but quite distinct voice, he said:
"You mustn't stay . . . . It means death if you stay . . . . Escape this island . . . . Go . . . Go . . . ."
His head fell back. He stammered a few more words which Véronique was just able to grasp:
"Oh, the cross! . . . The four crosses of Sarek! . . . My daughter . . . my daughter . . . crucified! . . ."
And that was all.
There was a great silence, a vast silence which Véronique felt weighing upon her like a burden that grows heavier second after second.
"You must escape from this island," a voice repeated. "Go, quickly. Your father bade you, Madame Véronique."
Honorine was beside her, livid in the face, with her two hands clasping a napkin, rolled into a plug and red with blood, which she held to her chest.
"But I must look after you first!" cried Véronique. "Wait a moment . . . . Let me see . . . ."
"Later on . . . they'll attend to me presently," spluttered Honorine. "Oh, the monster! . . . IfI had only come in time! But the door below was barricaded . . . ."
"Do let me see to your wound," Véronique implored. "Lie down."
"Presently . . . . First Marie Le Goff, the cook, at the top of the staircase . . . . She's wounded too . . . mortally perhaps . . . . Go and see."
Véronique went out by the door at the back, the one through which her son had made his escape. There was a large landing here. On the top steps, curled into a heap, lay Marie Le Goff, with the death-rattle in her throat.
She died almost at once, without recovering consciousness, the third victim of the incomprehensible tragedy. As foretold by old Maguennoc, M. d'Hergemont had been the second victim.
Honorine's wound was deep but did not seem likely to prove fatal. When Véronique had dressed it and moved Marie Le Goff's body to the room filled with books and furnished like a study in which her father was lying, she closed M. d'Hergemont's eyes, covered him with a sheet and knelt down to pray. But the words of prayer would not come to her lips and her mind was incapable of dwelling on a single thought. She felt stunned by the repeated blows of misfortune. She sat down in a chair, holding her head in her hands. Thus she remained for nearly an hour, while Honorine slept a feverish sleep.
With all her strength she rejected her son's image, even as she had always rejected Vorski's. But the two images became mingled together, whirling around her and dancing before her eyes like those lights which, when we close our eyelids tightly, pass and pass again and multiply and blend into one. And it was always one and the same face, cruel, sardonic, hideously grinning.
She did not suffer, as a mother suffers when mourning the loss of a son. Her son had been dead these fourteen years; and the one who had come to life again, the one for whom all the wells of hermaternal affection were ready to gush forth, had suddenly become a stranger and even worse: Vorski's son! How indeed could she have suffered?
But ah, what a wound inflicted in the depths of her being! What an upheaval, like those cataclysms which shake the whole of a peaceful country-side! What a hellish spectacle! What a vision of madness and horror! What an ironical jest, a jest of the most hideous destiny! Her son killing her father at the moment when, after all these years of separation and sorrow, she was on the point of embracing them both and living with them in sweet and homely intimacy! Her son a murderer! Her son dispensing death and terror broadcast! Her son levelling that ruthless weapon, slaying with all his heart and soul and taking a perverse delight in it!
The motives which might explain these actions interested her not at all. Why had her son done these things? Why had his tutor, Stéphane Maroux, doubtless an accomplice, possibly an instigator, fled before the tragedy? These were questions which she did not seek to solve. She thought only of the frightful scene of carnage and death. And she asked herself if death was not for her the only refuge and the only ending.
"Madame Véronique," whispered Honorine.
"What is it?" asked Véronique, roused from her stupor.
"Don't you hear?"
"What?"
"A ring at the bell below. They must be bringing your luggage."
She sprang to her feet.
"But what am I to say? How can I explain? . . . If I accuse that boy . . ."
"Not a word, please. Let me speak to them."
"You're very weak, my poor Honorine."
"No, no, I'm feeling better."
Véronique went downstairs, crossed a broad entrance-hall paved with black and white flags and drew the bolts of a great door.
It was, as they expected, one of the sailors:
"I knocked at the kitchen-door first," said the man. "Isn't Marie Le Goff there? And Madame Honorine?"
"Honorine is upstairs and would like to speak to you."
The sailor looked at her, seemed impressed by this young woman, who looked so pale and serious, and followed her without a word.
Honorine was waiting on the first floor, standing in front of the open door:
"Ah, it's you, Corréjou? . . . Now listen to me . . . and no silly talk, please."
"What's the matter, M'ame Honorine? Why, you're wounded! What is it?"
She stepped aside from the doorway and, pointing to the two bodies under their winding-sheets, said simply:
"Monsieur Antoine and Marie Le Goff . . . both of them murdered."
The man's face became distorted. He stammered:
"Murdered . . . you don't say so . . . . Why?"
"I don't know; we arrived after it happened."
"But . . . young François? . . . Monsieur Stéphane? . . ."
"Gone . . . . They must have been killed too."
"But . . . but . . . Maguennoc?"
"Maguennoc? Why do you speak of Maguennoc?"
"I speak of Maguennoc, I speak of Maguennoc . . . because, if he's alive . . . this is a very different business. Maguennoc always said that he would be the first. Maguennoc only says things of which he's certain. Maguennoc understands these things thoroughly."
Honorine reflected and then said:
"Maguennoc has been killed."
This time Corréjou lost all his composure: and his features expressed that sort of insane terror which Véronique had repeatedly observed in Honorine. He made the sign of the cross and said, in a low whisper:
"Then . . . then . . . it's happening, Ma'me Honorine? . . . Maguennoc said it would . . . . Only the other day, in my boat, he was saying, 'It won't be long now . . . . Everybody ought to get away.'"
And suddenly the sailor turned on his heel and made for the staircase.
"Stay where you are, Corréjou," said Honorine, in a voice of command.
"We must get away. Maguennoc said so. Everybody has got to go."
"Stay where you are," Honorine repeated.
Corréjou stopped, undecidedly. And Honorine continued:
"We are agreed. We must go. We shallstart to-morrow, towards the evening. But first we must attend to Monsieur Antoine and to Marie Le Goff. Look here, you go to the sisters Archignat and send them to keep watch by the dead. They are bad women, but they are used to doing that. Say that two of the three must come. Each of them shall have double the ordinary fee."
"And after that, Ma'me Honorine?"
"You and all the old men will see to the coffins; and at daybreak we will bury the bodies in consecrated ground, in the cemetery of the chapel."
"And after that, Ma'me Honorine?"
"After that, you will be free and the others too. You can pack up and be off."
"But you, Ma'me Honorine?"
"I have the boat. That's enough talking. Are we agreed?"
"Yes, we're agreed. It means one more night to spend here. But I suppose that nothing fresh will happen between this and to-morrow? . . ."
"Why no, why no . . . Go, Corréjou. Hurry. And above all don't tell the others that Maguennoc is dead . . . or we shall never keep them here."
"That's a promise, Ma'me Honorine."
The man hastened away.
An hour later, two of the sisters Archignat appeared, two skinny, shrivelled old hags, looking like witches in their dirty, greasy caps with the black-velvet bows. Honorine was taken to her own room on the same floor, at the end of the left wing.
And the vigil of the dead began.
Véronique spent the first part of the night beside her father's body and then went and sat withHonorine, whose condition seemed to grow worse. She ended by dozing off and was wakened by the Breton woman, who said to her, in one of those accesses of fever in which the brain still retains a certain lucidity:
"François must be hiding . . . and M. Stéphane too . . . The island has safe hiding-places, which Maguennoc showed them. We shan't see them, therefore; and no one will know anything about them."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite. So listen to me. To-morrow, when everybody has left Sarek and when we two are alone, I shall blow the signal with my horn and he will come here."
Véronique was horrified:
"But I don't want to see him!" she exclaimed, indignantly. "I loathe him! . . . Like my father, I curse him! . . . Have you forgotten? He killed my father, before our eyes! He killed Marie Le Goff! He tried to kill you! . . . No, what I feel for him is hatred and disgust! The monster!"
The Breton woman took her hand, as she had formed a habit of doing, and murmured:
"Don't condemn him yet . . . . He did not know what he was doing."
"What do you mean? He didn't know? Why, I saw his eyes, Vorski's eyes!"
"He did not know . . . he was mad."
"Mad? Nonsense!"
"Yes, Madame Véronique. I know the boy. He's the kindest creature on earth. If he did all this, it was because he went mad suddenly . . . heand M. Stéphane. They must both be weeping in despair now."
"It's impossible. I can't believe it."
"You can't believe it because you know nothing of what is happening . . . and of what is going to happen . . . . But, if you did know . . . Oh, there are things . . . there are things!"
Her voice was no longer audible. She was silent, but her eyes remained wide open and her lips moved without uttering a sound.
Nothing occurred until the morning. At five o'clock Véronique heard them nailing down the coffins; and almost immediately afterwards the door of the room in which she sat was opened and the sisters Archignat entered like a whirlwind, both greatly excited.
They had heard the truth from Corréjou, who, to give himself courage, had taken a drop too much to drink and was talking at random:
"Maguennoc is dead!" they screamed. "Maguennoc is dead and you never told us! Give us our money, quick! We're going!"
The moment they were paid, they ran away as fast as their legs would carry them; and, an hour later, some other women, informed by them, came hurrying to drag their men from their work. They all used the same words:
"We must go! We must get ready to start! . . . It'll be too late afterwards. The two boats can take us all."
Honorine had to intervene with all her authority and Véronique was obliged to distribute money. And the funeral was hurriedly conducted. Not far away was an old chapel, carefully restored by M.d'Hergemont, where a priest came once a month from Pont-l'Abbé to say mass. Beside it was the ancient cemetery of the abbots of Sarek. The two bodies were buried here; and an old man, who in ordinary times acted as sacristan, mumbled the blessing.
All the people seemed smitten with madness. Their voices and movements were spasmodic. They were obsessed with the fixed idea of leaving the island and paid no attention to Véronique, who knelt a little way off, praying and weeping.
It was all over before eight o'clock. Men and women made their way down across the island. Véronique, who felt as though she were living in a nightmare world where events followed upon one another without logic and with no connected sequence, went back to Honorine, whose feeble condition had prevented her from attending her master's funeral.
"I'm feeling better," said the Breton woman. "We shall go to-day or to-morrow and we shall go with François."
Véronique protested angrily; but Honorine repeated:
"With François, I tell you, and with M. Stéphane. And as soon as possible. I also want to go . . . and to take you with me . . . and François too. There is death in the island. Death is the master here. We must leave Sarek. We shall all go."
Véronique did not wish to thwart her. But at nine o'clock hurried steps were heard outside. It was Corréjou, coming from the village. On reaching the door he shouted:
"They've stolen your motor-boat, Ma'me Honorine! She's disappeared!"
"Impossible!" said Honorine.
But the sailor, all out of breath, declared:
"She's disappeared. I suspected something this morning early. But I expect I had had a glass too much; I did not give it another thought. Others have since seen what I did. The painter has been cut . . . . It happened during the night. And they've made off. No one saw or heard them."
The two women exchanged glances; and the same thought occurred to both of them: François and Stéphane Maroux had taken to flight.
Honorine muttered between her teeth:
"Yes, yes, that's it: he understands how to work the boat."
Véronique perhaps felt a certain relief at knowing that the boy had gone and that she would not see him again. But Honorine, seized with a renewed fear, exclaimed:
"Then . . . then what are we to do?"
"You must leave at once, Ma'me Honorine. The boats are ready . . . everybody's packing up. There'll be no one in the village by eleven o'clock."
Véronique interposed:
"Honorine's not in a condition to travel."
"Yes, I am; I'm better," the Breton woman declared.
"No, it would be ridiculous. Let us wait a day or two . . . . Come back in two days, Corréjou."
She pushed the sailor towards the door. He, for that matter, was only too anxious to go:
"Very well," he said, "that'll do: I'll come back the day after to-morrow. Besides, we can't takeeverything with us. We shall have to come back now and again to fetch our things . . . . Good-bye, Ma'me Honorine; take care of yourself."
And he ran outside.
"Corréjou! Corréjou!"
Honorine was sitting up in bed and calling to him in despair:
"No, no, don't go away, Corréjou! . . . Wait for me and carry me to your boat."
She listened; and, as the man did not return, she tried to get up:
"I'm frightened," she said. "I don't want to be left alone."
Véronique held her down:
"You're not going to be left alone, Honorine. I shan't leave you."
There was an actual struggle between the two women; and Honorine, pushed back on her bed by main force, moaned, helplessly:
"I'm frightened . . . . I'm frightened . . . . The island is accursed . . . . It's tempting Providence to remain behind . . . . Maguennoc's death was a warning . . . . I'm frightened . . . ."
She was more or less delirious, but still retained a half-lucidity which enabled her to intersperse a few intelligible and reasonable remarks among the incoherent phrases which revealed her superstitious Breton soul.
She gripped Véronique by her two shoulders and declared:
"I tell you, the island's cursed. Maguennoc confessed as much himself one day: 'Sarek is one of the gates of hell,' he said. 'The gate is closed now,but, on the day when it opens, every misfortune you can think of will be upon it like a squall.'"
She calmed herself a little, at Véronique's entreaty, and continued, in a lower voice, which grew fainter as she spoke:
"He loved the island, though . . . as we all do. At such times he would speak of it in a way which I did not understand: 'The gate is a double one, Honorine, and it also opens on Paradise.' Yes, yes, the island was good to live in . . . . We loved it . . . . Maguennoc made flowers grow on it . . . . Oh, those flowers! They were enormous: three times as tall . . . and as beautiful . . ."
The minutes passed slowly. The bedroom was at the extreme left of the house, just above the rocks which overhung the sea and separated from them only by the width of the road.
Véronique sat down at the window, with her eyes fixed on the white waves which grew still more troubled as the wind blew more strongly. The sun was rising. In the direction of the village she saw nothing except a steep headland. But, beyond the belt of foam studded with the black points of the reefs, the view embraced the deserted plains of the Atlantic.
Honorine murmured, drowsily:
"They say that the gate is a stone . . . and that it comes from very far away, from a foreign country. It's the God-Stone. They also say that it's a precious stone . . . the colour of gold and silver mixed . . . . The God-Stone . . . . The stone that gives life or death . . . . Maguennoc saw it . . . . He opened the gate and put his arm through. . . . And his hand . . . his hand was burnt to a cinder."
Véronique felt oppressed. Fear was gradually overcoming her also, like the oozing and soaking of stagnant water. The horrible events of the last few days, of which she had been a terrified witness, seemed to evoke others yet more dreadful, which she anticipated like an inevitable hurricane that is bound to carry off everything in its headlong course.
She expected them. She had no doubt that they would come, unloosed by the fatal power which was multiplying its terrible assaults upon her.
"Don't you see the boats?" asked Honorine.
"No," she said, "you can't see them from here."
"Yes, you can: they are sure to come this way. They are heavy boats: and there's a wider passage at the point."
The next moment, Véronique saw the bow of a boat project beyond the end of the headland. The boat lay low in the water, being very heavily laden, crammed with crates and parcels on which women and children were seated. Four men were rowing lustily.
"That's Corréjou's," said Honorine, who had left her bed, half-dressed. "And there's the other: look."
The second boat came into view, equally burdened. Only three men were rowing, with a woman to help them.
Both boats were too far away—perhaps seven or eight hundred yards—to allow the faces of the occupants to be seen. And no sound of voices rose from those heavy hulls with their cargoes of wretchedness, which were fleeing from death.
"Oh dear, oh dear!" moaned Honorine. "If only they escape this hell!"
"What can you be afraid of, Honorine? They are in no danger."
"Yes, they are, as long as they have not left the island."
"But they have left it."
"It's still the island all around the island. It's there that the coffins lurk and lie in wait."
"But the sea is not rough."
"There's more than the sea. It's not the sea that's the enemy."
"Then what is?"
"I don't know . . . . I don't know . . . ."
The two boats veered round at the southern point. Before them lay two channels, which Honorine pointed out by the name of two reefs, the Devil's Rock and the Sarek Tooth.
It at once became evident that Corréjou had chosen the Devil's Channel.
"They're touching it," said Honorine. "They are there. Another hundred yards and they are safe."
She almost gave a chuckle:
"Ah, all the devil's machinations will be thwarted, Madame Véronique! I really believe that we shall be saved, you and I and all the people of Sarek."
Véronique remained silent. Her depression continued and was all the more overwhelming because she could attribute it only to vague presentiments which she was powerless to fight against. She had drawn an imaginary line up to which the danger threatened, would continue to threaten, and where itstill persisted; and this line Corréjou had not yet reached.
Honorine was shivering with fever. She mumbled:
"I'm frightened . . . . I'm frightened . . . ."
"Nonsense," declared Véronique, pulling herself together, "It's absurd! Where can the danger come from?"
"Oh," cried the Breton woman, "what's that? What does it mean?"
"What? What is it?"
They had both pressed their foreheads to the panes and were staring wildly before them. Down below, something had so to speak shot out from the Devil's Rock. And they at once recognized the motor-boat which they had used the day before and which according to Corréjou had disappeared.
"François! François!" cried Honorine, in stupefaction. "François and Monsieur Stéphane!"
Véronique recognized the boy. He was standing in the bow of the motor-boat and making signs to the people in the two rowing-boats. The men answered by waving their oars, while the women gesticulated. In spite of Véronique's opposition, Honorine opened both halves of the window; and they could hear the sound of voices above the throbbing of the motor, though they could not catch a single word.
"What does it mean?" repeated Honorine. "François and M. Stéphane! . . . Why did they not make for the mainland?"
"Perhaps," Véronique explained, "they were afraid of being observed and questioned on landing."
"No, they are known, especially François, who often used to go with me. Besides, the identity-papers are in the boat. No, they were waiting there, hidden behind the rock."
"But, Honorine, if they were hiding, why do they show themselves now?"
"Ah, that's just it, that's just it! . . . I don't understand . . . and it strikes me as odd . . . . What must Corréjou and the others think?"
The two boats, of which the second was now gliding in the wake of the first, had almost stopped. All the passengers seemed to be looking round at the motor-boat, which came rapidly in their direction and slackened speed when she was level with the second boat. In this way, she continued on a line parallel with that of the two boats and fifteen or twenty yards away.
"I don't understand . . . . I don't understand," muttered Honorine.
The motor had been cut off and the motor-boat now very slowly reached the space that separated the two fish-boats.
And suddenly the two women saw François stoop and then stand up again and draw his right arm back, as though he were going to throw something.
And at the same time Stéphane Maroux acted in the same way.
Then the unexpected, terrifying thing happened.
"Oh!" cried Véronique.
She hid her eyes for a second, but at once raised her head again and saw the hideous sight in all its horror.
Two things had been thrown across the littlespace, one from the bow, flung by François, the other from the stern, flung by Stéphane Maroux.
And two bursts of fire at once shot up from the two boats, followed by two whirls of smoke.
The explosions re-echoed. For a moment, nothing of what happened amid that black cloud was visible. Then the curtain parted, blown aside by the wind, and Véronique and Honorine saw the two boats swiftly sinking, while their occupants jumped into the sea.
The sight, the infernal sight, did not last long. They saw, standing on one of the buoys that marked the channel, a woman holding a child in her arms, without moving: then some motionless bodies, no doubt killed by the explosion; then two men fighting, mad perhaps. And all this went down with the boats.
A few eddies, some black specks floating on the surface; and that was all.
Honorine and Véronique, struck dumb with terror, had not uttered a single word. The thing surpassed the worst that their anguished minds could have conceived.
When it was all over, Honorine put her hand to her head and, in a hollow voice which Véronique was never to forget, said:
"My head's bursting. Oh, the poor people of Sarek! They were my friends, the friends of my childhood; and I shall never see them again . . . . The sea never gives up its dead at Sarek: it keeps them. It has its coffins all ready: thousands and thousands of hidden coffins . . . . Oh, my head is bursting! . . . I shall go mad . . . mad like François, my poor François!"
Véronique did not answer. She was grey in the face. With clutching fingers she clung to the balcony, gazing downwards as one gazes into an abyss into which one is about to fling oneself. What would her son do? Would he save those people, whose shouts of distress now reached her ears, would he save them without delay? One may have fits of madness; but the attacks pass away at the sight of certain things.
The motor-boat had backed at first to avoid the eddies. François and Stéphane, whose red cap and white cap were still visible, were standing in the same positions at the bow and the stern; and they held in their hands . . . what? The two women could not see clearly, because of the distance, what they held in their hands. It looked like two rather long sticks.
"Poles, to help them," suggested Véronique.
"Or guns," said Honorine.
The black specks were still floating. There were nine of them, the nine heads of the survivors, whose arms also the two women saw moving from time to time and whose cries for help they heard.
Some were hurriedly moving away from the motor-boat, but four were swimming towards it; and, of those four, two could not fail to reach it.
Suddenly François and Stéphane made the same movement, the movement of marksmen taking aim.
There were two flashes, followed by the sound of a single report.
The heads of the two swimmers disappeared.
"Oh, the monsters!" stammered Véronique, almost swooning and falling on her knees.
Honorine, beside her, began screaming:
"François! François!"
Her voice did not carry, first because it was too weak and then the wind was in her face. But she continued:
"François! François!"
She next stumbled across the room and into the corridor, in search of something, and returned to the window, still shouting:
"François! François!"
She had ended by finding the shell which she used as a signal. But, on lifting it to her mouth, she found that she could produce only dull and indistinct sounds from it:
"Oh, curse the thing!" she cried, flinging the shell away. "I have no strength left . . . . François! François!"
She was terrible to look at, with her hair all in disorder and her face covered with the sweat of fever. Véronique implored her:
"Please, Honorine, please!"
"But look at them, look at them!"
The motor-boat was drifting forward down below, with the two marksmen at their posts, holding their guns ready for murder.
The survivors fled. Two of them hung back in the rear.
These two were aimed at. Their heads disappeared from view.
"But look at them!" Honorine said, explosively, in a hoarse voice. "They're hunting them down! They're killing them like game! . . . Oh, the poor people of Sarek! . . ."
Another shot. Another black speck vanished.
Véronique was writhing in despair. She shookthe rails of the balcony, as she might have shaken the bars of a cage in which she was imprisoned.