Vorski! Vorski! The unspeakable creature, the thought of whom filled her with shame and horror, the monstrous Vorski, was not dead! The murder of the spy by one of his colleagues, his burial in the cemetery at Fontainebleau; all this was a fable, a delusion! The only real fact was that Vorski was alive!
Of all the visions that could have haunted Véronique's brain, there was none so abominable as the sight before her; Vorski standing erect, with his arms crossed and his head up, alive! Vorski alive!
She would have accepted anything with her usual courage, but not this. She had felt strong enough to face and defy no matter what enemy, but not this one. Vorski stood for ignominious disgrace, for insatiable wickedness, for boundless ferocity, for method mingled with madness in crime.
And this man loved her.
She suddenly blushed. Vorski was staring with greedy eyes at the bare flesh of her shoulders and arms, which showed through her tattered bodice, and looking upon this bare flesh as upon a prey which nothing could snatch from him. Nevertheless Véronique did not budge. She had no covering within reach. She pulled herself together under the insult of the man's desire and defied him with sucha glance that he was embarrassed and for a moment turned away his eyes.
Then she cried, with an uncontrollable outburst of feeling:
"My son! Where's François? I want to see him."
"Ourson is sacred, madame," he replied. "He has nothing to fear from his father."
"I want to see him."
He lifted his hand as one taking an oath:
"You shall see him, I swear."
"Dead, perhaps!" she said, in a hollow voice.
"As much alive as you and I, madame."
There was a fresh pause. Vorski was obviously seeking his words and preparing the speech with which the implacable conflict between them was to open.
He was a man of athletic stature, with a powerful frame, legs slightly bowed, an enormous neck swollen by great bundles of muscles and a head unduly small, with fair hair plastered down and parted in the middle. That in him which at one time produced an impression of brute strength, combined with a certain distinction, had become with age the massive and vulgar aspect of a professional wrestler posturing on the hustings at a fair. The disquieting charm which once attracted the women had vanished; and all that remained was a harsh and cruel expression of which he tried to correct the hardness by means of an impassive smile.
He unfolded his arms, drew up a chair and, bowing to Véronique, said:
"Our conversation, madame, will be long and at times painful. Won't you sit down?"
He waited for a moment and, receiving no reply, without allowing himself to be disconcerted, continued:
"Perhaps you would rather first take some refreshment at the sideboard. Would you care for a biscuit and a thimbleful of old claret or a glass of champagne?"
He affected an exaggerated politeness, the essentially Teutonic politeness of the semibarbarians who are anxious to prove that they are familiar with all the niceties of civilization and that they have been initiated into every refinement of courtesy, even towards a woman whom the right of conquest would permit them to treat more cavalierly. This was one of the points of detail which in the past had most vividly enlightened Véronique as to her husband's probable origin.
She shrugged her shoulders and remained silent.
"Very well," he said, "but you must then authorize me to stand, as behooves a man of breeding who prides himself on possessing a certain amount ofsavoir faire. Also pray excuse me for appearing in your presence in this more than careless attire. Internment-camps and the caves of Sarek are hardly places in which it is easy to renew one's wardrobe."
He was in fact wearing a pair of old patched trousers and a torn red-flannel waistcoat. But over these he had donned a white linen robe which was half-closed by a knotted girdle. It was a carefully studied costume; and he accentuated its eccentricity by adopting theatrical attitudes and an air of satisfied negligence.
Pleased with his preamble, he began to walk up and down, with his hands behind his back, like aman who is in no hurry and who is taking time for reflection in very serious circumstances. Then he stopped and, in a leisurely tone:
"I think, madame, that we shall gain time in the end by devoting a few indispensable minutes to a brief account of our past life together. Don't you agree?"
Véronique did not reply. He therefore began, in the same deliberate tone:
"In the days when you loved me . . ."
She made a gesture of revolt. He insisted:
"Nevertheless, Véronique . . ."
"Oh," she said, in an accent of disgust, "I forbid you! . . . That name from your lips! . . . I will not allow it . . . ."
He smiled and continued, in a tone of condescension:
"Don't be annoyed with me, madame. Whatever formula I employ, you may be assured of my respect. I therefore resume my remarks. In the days when you loved me, I was, I must admit, a heartless libertine, a debauchee, not perhaps without a certain style and charm, for I always made the most of my advantages, but possessing none of the qualities of a married man. These qualities I should easily have acquired under your influence, for I loved you to distraction. You had about you a purity that enraptured me, a charm and a simplicity which I have never met with in any woman. A little patience on your part, an effort of kindness would have been enough to transform me. Unfortunately, from the very first moment, after a rather melancholy engagement, during which you thought of nothing but your father's grief and anger, from thefirst moment of our marriage there was a complete and irretrievable lack of harmony between us. You had accepted in spite of yourself the bridegroom who had thrust himself upon you. You entertained for your husband no feeling save hatred and repulsion. These are things which a man like Vorski does not forgive. So many women and among them some of the proudest had given me proof of my perfect delicacy that I had no cause to reproach myself. That the little middle-class person that you were chose to be offended was not my business. Vorski is one of those who obey their instincts and their passions. Those instincts and passions failed to meet with your approval. That, madame, was your affair; it was purely a matter of taste. I was free; I resumed my own life. Only . . ."
He interrupted himself for a few seconds and then went on:
"Only, I loved you. And, when, a year later, certain events followed close upon one another, when the loss of your son drove you into a convent, I was left with my love unassuaged, burning and torturing me. What my existence was you can guess for yourself; a series of orgies and violent adventures in which I vainly strove to forget you, followed by sudden fits of hope, clues which were suggested to me, in the pursuit of which I flung myself headlong, only to relapse into everlasting discouragement and loneliness. That was how I discovered the whereabouts of your father and your son, that was how I came to know their retreat here, to watch them, to spy upon them, either personally or with the aid of people who were entirely devoted to me. In this way I was hoping to reach yourself,the sole object of my efforts and the ruling motive of all my actions, when war was declared. A week later, having failed in an attempt to cross the frontier, I was imprisoned in an internment-camp."
He stopped. His face became still harder; and he growled:
"Oh, the hell that I went through there! Vorski! Vorski, the son of a king, mixed up with all the waiters and pickpockets of the Fatherland! Vorski a prisoner, scoffed at and loathed by all! Vorski unwashed and eaten up with vermin! My God, how I suffered! . . . But let us pass on. What I did, to escape from death, I was entitled to do. If some one else was stabbed in my stead, if some one else was buried in my name in a corner of France, I do not regret it. The choice lay between him and myself; I made my choice. And it was perhaps not only my persistent love of life that inspired my action; it was also—and this above all is a new thing—an unexpected dawn which broke in the darkness and which was already dazzling me with its glory. But this is my secret. We will speak of it later, if you force me to. For the moment . . ."
In the face of all this rhetoric delivered with the emphasis of an actor rejoicing in his eloquence and applauding his own periods, Véronique had retained her impassive attitude. Not one of those lying declarations was able to touch her. She seemed to be thinking of other things.
He went up to her and, to compel her attention, continued, in a more aggressive tone:
"You do not appear to suspect, madame, that my words are extremely serious. They are, however, and they will become even more so. But, beforeapproaching more formidable matters and in the hope of avoiding them altogether, I should like to make an appeal, not to your spirit of conciliation, for there is no conciliation possible with you, but to your reason, to your sense of reality. After all, you cannot be ignorant of your present position, of the position of your son . . . ."
She was not listening, he was absolutely convinced of it. Doubtless absorbed by the thought of her son, she read not the least meaning into the words that reached her ears. Nevertheless, irritated and unable to conceal his impatience, he continued:
"My offer is a simple one; and I hope and trust that you will not reject it. In François' name and because of my feelings of humanity and compassion, I ask you to link the present to the past of which I have sketched the main features. From the social point of view, the bond that unites us has never been shattered. You are still in name and in the eyes of the law . . ."
He ceased, stared at Véronique and then, clapping his hand violently on her shoulder, shouted:
"Listen, you baggage, can't you! It's Vorski speaking!"
Véronique lost her balance, saved herself by catching at the back of a chair and once more stood erect before her adversary, with her arms folded and her eyes full of scorn.
This time Vorski again succeeded in controlling himself. He had acted under impulse and against his will. His voice retained an imperious and malevolent intonation:
"I repeat that the past still exists. Whether you like it or not, madame, you are Vorski's wife.And it is because of this undeniable fact that I am asking you, if you please, to consider yourself so to-day. Let us understand each other; if I do not aim at obtaining your love or even your friendship, I will not accept either that we should return to our former hostile relations. I do not want the scornful and distant wife that you have been. I want . . . I want a woman . . . a woman who will submit herself . . . who will be the devoted, attentive, faithful companion . . ."
"The slave," murmured Véronique.
"Yes," he exclaimed, "the slave; you have said it. I don't shrink from words any more than I do from deeds. The slave; and why not? A slave understands her duty, which is blindly to obey, bound hand and foot,perinde ac cadaver; does the part appeal to you? Will you belong to me body and soul? As for your soul, I don't care a fig about that. What I want . . . what I want . . . you know well enough, don't you? What I want is what I have never had. Your husband? Ha, ha, have I ever been your husband? Look back into my life as I will, amid all my seething emotions and delights, I do not find a single memory to remind me that there was ever between us anything but the pitiless struggle of two enemies. When I look at you, I see a stranger, a stranger in the past as in the present. Well, since my luck has turned, since I once more have you in my clutches, it shall not be so in the future. It shall not be so to-morrow, nor even to-night, Véronique. I am the master; you must accept the inevitable. Do you accept?"
He did not wait for her answer and, raising his voice still higher, roared:
"Do you accept? No subterfuges or false promises. Do you accept? If so, go on your knees, make the sign of the cross and say, in a firm voice, 'I accept. I will be a consenting wife. I will submit to all your orders and to all your whims. You are the master.'"
She shrugged her shoulders and made no reply. Vorski gave a start. The veins in his forehead swelled up. However, he still contained himself:
"Very well. For that matter, I was expecting this. But the consequences of your refusal will be so serious for you that I propose to make one last attempt. Perhaps, after all, your refusal is addressed to the fugitive that I am, to the poor beggar that I seem to be; and perhaps the truth will alter your ideas. That truth is dazzling and wonderful. As I told you, an unforeseen dawn has broken through my darkness; and Vorski, son of a king, is bathed in radiant light."
He had a trick of speaking of himself in the third person which Véronique knew of old and which was the sign of his insupportable vanity. She also observed and recognized in his eyes a peculiar gleam which was always there at moments of exaltation, a gleam which was obviously due to his drinking habits but in which she seemed to see besides a sign of temporary aberration. Was he not indeed a sort of madman and had his madness not increased as the years passed?
He continued, and this time Véronique listened.
"I had therefore left here, at the time when the war broke out, a person who is attached to me and who continued the work of watching your father which I had begun. An accident revealed to us theexistence of the caves dug under the heath and also one of the entrances to the caves. It was in this safe retreat that I took refuge after my last escape; and it was here that I learnt, through some intercepted letters, of your father's investigations into the secret of Sarek and the discoveries which he had made. You can understand how my vigilance was redoubled! Particularly because I found in all this story, as it became more and more clear to me, the strangest coincidences and an evident connection with certain details in my own life. Presently doubt was no longer possible. Fate had sent me here to accomplish a task which I alone was able to fulfil . . . and more, a task in which I alone had the right to assist. Do you understand what I mean? Long centuries ago, Vorski was predestined. Vorski was the man appointed by fate, Vorski's name was written in the book of time. Vorski had the necessary qualities, the indispensable means, the requisite titles . . . . I was ready, I set to work without delay, conforming ruthlessly to the decrees of destiny. There was no hesitation as to the road to be followed to the end; the beacon was lighted. I therefore followed the path marked out for me. Vorski has now only to gather the reward of his efforts. Vorski has only to put out his hand. Within reach of his hand fortune, glory, unlimited power. In a few hours, Vorski, son of a king, will be king of the world. It is this kingdom that he offers you."
He was becoming more and more declamatory, more and more of the emphatic and pompous play-actor.
He bent towards Véronique:
"Will you be a queen, an empress, and soar aboveother women even as Vorski will dominate other men? Queen by right of gold and power even as you are already queen by right of beauty? Will you? . . . Vorski's slave, but mistress of all those over whom Vorski holds sway? Will you? . . . Understand me clearly; it is not a question of your making a single decision; you have to choose between two. There is, mark you, the alternative to your refusal. Either the kingdom which I am offering, or else . . ."
He paused and then, in a grating tone, completed his sentence:
"Or else the cross!"
Véronique shuddered. The dreadful word, the dreadful thing appeared once more. And she now knew the name of the unknown executioner!
"The cross!" he repeated, with an atrocious smile of content. "It is for you to choose. On the one hand all the joys and honours of life. On the other hand, death by the most barbarous torture. Choose. There is nothing between the two alternatives. You must select one or the other. And observe that there is no unnecessary cruelty on my part, no vain ostentation of authority. I am only the instrument. The order comes from a higher power than mine, it comes from destiny. For the divine will to be accomplished, Véronique d'Hergemont must die and die on the cross. This is explicitly stated. There is no remedy against fate. There is no remedy unless one is Vorski and, like Vorski, is capable of every audacity, of every form of cunning. If Vorski was able, in the forest of Fontainebleau, to substitute a sham Vorski for the real one, if Vorski thus succeeded in escaping thefate which condemned him, from his childhood, to die by the knife of a friend, he can certainly discover some stratagem by which the divine will is accomplished, while the woman he loves is left alive. But in that case she will have to submit. I offer safety to my bride or death to my foe. Which are you, my foe or my bride? Which do you choose? Life by my side, with all the joys and honours of life . . . or death?"
"Death," Véronique replied, simply.
He made a threatening gesture:
"It is more than death. It is torture. Which do you choose?"
"Torture."
He insisted, malevolently:
"But you are not alone! Pause to reflect! There is your son. When you are gone, he will remain. In dying, you leave an orphan behind you. Worse than that; in dying, you bequeath him to me. I am his father. I possess full rights. Which do you choose?"
"Death," she said, once more.
He became incensed:
"Death for you, very well. But suppose it means death for him? Suppose I bring him here, before you, your François, and put the knife to his throat and ask you for the last time, what will your answer be?"
Véronique closed her eyes. Never before had she suffered so intensely, and Vorski had certainly found the vulnerable spot. Nevertheless she murmured:
"I wish to die."
Vorski flew into a rage, and, resorting straightway to insults, throwing politeness and courtesy to the winds, he shouted:
"Oh, the hussy, how she must hate me! Anything, anything, she accepts anything, even the death of her beloved son, rather than yield to me! A mother killing her son! For that's what it is; you're killing your son, so as not to belong to me. You are depriving him of his life, so as not to sacrifice yours to me. Oh, what hatred! No, no, it is impossible. I don't believe in such hatred. Hatred has its limits. A mother like you! No, no, there's something else . . . some love-affair, perhaps? No, no, Véronique's not in love . . . What then? My pity, a weakness on my part? Oh, how little you know me! Vorski show pity! Vorski show weakness! Why, you've seen me at work! Did I flinch in the performance of my terrible mission? Was Sarek not devastated as it was written? Were the boats not sunk and the people not drowned? Were the sisters Archignat not nailed to the ancient oak-trees? I, I flinch! Listen, when I was a child, with these two hands of mine I wrung the necks of dogs and birds, with these two hands I flayed goats alive and plucked the live chickens in the poultry-yard. Pity indeed! Do you know what my mother called me? Attila! And, when she was mystically inspired and read the future in these hands of mine or on the tarot-cards, 'Attila Vorski,' that great seer would say, 'you shall be the instrument of Providence. You shall be the sharp edge of the blade, the point of the dagger, the bullet in the rifle, the noose in the rope. Scourge of God! Scourge of God, your name is written at full length in the books of time! It blazes among the starsthat shone at your birth. Scourge of God! Scourge of God!' And you, you hope that my eyes will be wet with tears? Nonsense! Does the hangman weep? It is the weak who weep, those who fear lest they be punished, lest their crimes be turned against themselves. But I, I! Our ancestors feared but one thing, that the sky should fall upon their heads. What haveIto fear? I am God's accomplice! He has chosen me among all men. It is God that has inspired me, the God of the fatherland, the old German God, for whom good and evil do not count where the greatness of his sons is at stake. The spirit of evil is within me. I love evil, I thirst after evil. So you shall die, Véronique, and I shall laugh when I see you suffering on the cross!"
He was already laughing. He walked with great strides, stamping noisily on the floor. He lifted his arms to the ceiling; and Véronique, quivering with anguish, saw the red frenzy in his bloodshot eyes.
He took a few more steps and then came up to her and, in a restrained voice, snarling with menace:
"On your knees, Véronique, and beseech my love! It alone can save you. Vorski knows neither pity nor fear. But he loves you; and his love will stop at nothing. Take advantage of it, Véronique. Appeal to the past. Become the child that you once were; and perhaps one day I shall drag myself at your feet. Véronique, do not repel me; a man like me is not to be repelled. One who loves as I love you, Véronique, as I love you, is not to be defied."
She suppressed a cry. She felt his hated hands on her bare arms. She tried to release herself; buthe, much stronger than she, did not let go and continued, in a panting voice:
"Do not repel me . . . it is absurd . . . it is madness . . . . You must know that I am capable of anything . . . Well? . . . The cross is horrible . . . . To see your son dying before your eyes; is that what you want? . . . Accept the inevitable. Vorski will save you. Vorski will give you the most beautiful life . . . . Oh, how you hate me! But no matter: I accept your hatred, I love your hatred, I love your disdainful mouth . . . . I love it more than if it offered itself of its own accord . . . ."
He ceased speaking. An implacable struggle took place between them. Véronique's arms vainly resisted his closer and closer grip. Her strength was failing her; she felt helpless, doomed to defeat. Her knees gave way beneath her. Opposite her and quite close, Vorski's eyes seemed filled with blood; and she was breathing the monster's breath.
Then, in her terror, she bit him with all her might; and, profiting by a second of discomfiture, she released herself with one great effort, leapt back, drew her revolver, and fired once and again.
The two bullets whistled past Vorski's ears and sent fragments flying from the wall behind him. She had fired too quickly, at random.
"Oh, the jade!" he roared. "She nearly did for me."
In a second he had his arms round her body and, with an irresistible effort, bent her backwards, turned her round and laid her on a sofa. Then he took a cord from his pocket and bound her firmly and brutally.
There was a moment's respite and silence.Vorski wiped the perspiration from his forehead, filled himself a tumbler of wine and drank it down at a gulp.
"That's better," he said, placing his foot on his victim, "and confess that this is best all round. Each one in his place, my beauty; you trussed like a fowl and I treading on you at my pleasure. Aha, we're no longer enjoying ourselves so much! We're beginning to understand that it's a serious matter. Ah, you needn't be afraid, you baggage: Vorski's not the man to take advantage of a woman! No, no, that would be to play with fire and to burn with a longing which this time would kill me. I'm not such a fool as that. How should I forget you afterwards? One thing only can make me forget and give me my peace of mind; your death. And, since we understand each other on that subject, all's well. For it's settled, isn't it; you want to die?"
"Yes," she said, as firmly as before.
"And you want your son to die?"
"Yes," she said.
He rubbed his hands:
"Excellent! We are agreed; and the time is past for words that mean nothing. The real words remain to be spoken, those which count; for you admit that, so far, all that I have said is mere verbiage, what? Just as all the first part of the adventure, all that you saw happening at Sarek, is only child's play. The real tragedy is beginning, since you are involved in it body and soul; and that's the most terrifying part, my pretty one. Your beautiful eyes have wept, but it is tears of blood that are wanted, you poor darling! But what would you have? Once again, Vorski is not cruel. He obeysa higher power; and destiny is against you. Your tears? Nonsense! You've got to shed a thousand times as many as another. Your death? Fudge! You've got to die a thousand deaths before you die for good. Your poor heart must bleed as never woman's and mother's poor heart bled before. Are you ready, Véronique? You shall hear really cruel words, to be followed perhaps by words more cruel still. Oh, fate is not spoiling you, my pretty one! . . ."
He poured himself out a second glass of wine and emptied it in the same gluttonous fashion; then he sat down beside her and, stooping, said, almost in her ear:
"Listen, dearest, I have a confession to make to you. I was already married when I met you. Oh, don't be upset! There are greater catastrophes for a wife and greater crimes for a husband than bigamy. Well, by my first wife I had a son . . . whom I think you know; you exchanged a few amicable remarks with him in the passage of the cells . . . . Between ourselves, he's a regular bad lot, that excellent Raynold, a rascal of the worst, in whom I enjoy the pride of discovering, raised to their highest degree, some of my best instincts and some of my chief qualities. He is a second edition to myself, but he already outstrips me and now and then alarms me. Whew, what a devil! At his age, a little over fifteen, I was an angel compared with him. Now it so happens that this fine fellow has to take the field against my other son, against our dear François. Yes, such is the whim of destiny, which, once again, gives orders and of which, once again, I am the clear-sighted and subtle interpreter.Of course it is not a question of a protracted and daily struggle. On the contrary, something short, violent and decisive: a duel, for instance. That's it, a duel; you understand, a serious duel. Not a turn with the fists, ending in a few bruises; no, what you call a duel to the death, because one of the two adversaries must be left, on the ground, because there must be a victor and a victim, in short, a living combatant and a dead one."
Véronique had turned her head a little and she saw that he was smiling. Never before had she so plainly perceived the madness of that man, who smiled at the thought of a mortal contest between two children both of whom were his sons. The whole thing was so extravagant that Véronique, so to speak, did not suffer. It was all outside the limits of suffering.
"There is something better, Véronique," he said, gloating over every syllable. "There's something better. Yes, destiny has devised a refinement which I dislike, but to which, as a faithful servant, I have to give effect. It has devised that you should be present at the duel. Capital; you, François' mother, must see him fight. And, upon my word, I wonder whether that apparent malevolence is not a mercy in disguise. Let us say that you owe it to me, shall we, and that I myself am granting you this unexpected, I will even say, this unjust favour? For, when all is said, though Raynold is more powerful and experienced than François and though, logically, François ought to be beaten, how it must add to his courage and strength to know that he is fighting before his mother's eyes! He will feel like a knight errant who stakes all his pride on winning. He willbe a son whose victory will save his mother . . . at least, so he will think. Really the advantage is too great; and you can thank me, Véronique, if this duel, as I am sure it will, does not—and I am sure that it will not—make your heart beat a little faster . . . . Unless . . . unless I carry out the infernal programme to the end . . . . Ah, in that case, you poor little thing! . . ."
He gripped her once more and, lifting her to her feet in front of him, pressing his face against hers, he said, in a sudden fit of rage:
"So you won't give in?"
"No, no!" she cried.
"You will never give in?"
"Never! Never! Never!" she repeated, with increasing vehemence.
"You hate me more than everything?"
"I hate you more than I love my son."
"You lie, you lie!" he snarled. "You lie! Nothing comes above your son!"
"Yes, my hatred for you."
All Véronique's passion of revolt, all the detestation which she had succeeded in restraining now burst forth; and, indifferent to what might come of it, she flung the words of hatred full in his face:
"I hate you! I hate you! I would have my son die before my eyes, I would witness his agony, anything rather than the horror of your sight and presence. I hate you! You killed my father! You are an unclean murderer, a halfwitted, savage idiot, a criminal lunatic! I hate you!"
He lifted her with an effort, carried her to the window and threw her on the ground, spluttering:
"On your knees! On your knees! The punishment is beginning. You would scoff at me, you hussy, would you? Well, you shall see!"
He forced her to her knees and then, pushing her against the lower wall and opening the window, he fastened her head to the rail of the balcony by means of a cord round her neck and under her arms. He ended by gagging her with a scarf:
"And now look!" he cried. "The curtain's going up! Boy François doing his exercises! . . . Oh, you hate me, do you? Oh, you would rather have hell than a kiss from Vorski? Well, my darling, you shall have hell; and I'm arranging a little performance for you, one of my own composing and a highly original one at that! . . . Also, I may tell you, it's too late now to change your mind. The thing's irrevocable. You may beg and entreat for mercy as much as you like; it's too late! The duel, followed by the cross; that's the programme. Say your prayers, Véronique, and call on Heaven. Shout for assistance if it amuses you . . . . Listen, I know that your brat is expecting a rescuer, a professor of clap-trap, a Don Quixote of adventure. Let him come! Vorski will give him the reception he deserves! The more the merrier! We shall see some fun! . . . And, if the very gods join in the game and take up your defence, I shan't care! It's no longer their business, it's my business. It's no longer a question of Sarek and the treasure and the great secret and all the humbug of the God-Stone! It's a question of yourself! You have spat in Vorski's face and Vorski is taking his revenge. He is taking his revenge! It is the glorious hour. What exquisite joy! . . . To do evil as others do good, lavishly and profusely! To do evil! Tokill, torture, break, ruin and destroy! . . . Oh, the fierce delight of being a Vorski!"
He stamped across the room, striking the floor at each step and hustling the furniture. His haggard eyes roamed in all directions. He would have liked to begin his work of destruction at once, strangling some victim, giving work to his greedy fingers, executing the incoherent orders of his insane imagination.
Suddenly, he drew a revolver and, brutishly, stupidly, fired bullets into the mirrors, the pictures, the window-panes.
And, still gesticulating, still capering about, an ominous and sinister figure, he opened the door, bellowing:
"Vorski's having his revenge! Vorski's having his revenge!"
Twenty or thirty minutes elapsed. Véronique was still alone. The cords cut into her flesh; and the rails of the balcony bruised her forehead. The gag choked her. Her knees, bent in two and doubled up beneath her, carried the whole weight of her body. It was an intolerable position, an unceasing torture . . . . Still, though she suffered, she was not very clearly aware of it. She was unconscious of her physical suffering; and she had already undergone such mental suffering that this supreme ordeal did not awaken her drowsing senses.
She hardly thought. Sometimes she said to herself that she was about to die; and she already felt the repose of the after-life, as one sometimes, amidst a storm, feels in advance the wide peace of the harbour. Hideous things were sure to happen between the present moment and the conclusion which would set her free; but her brain refused to dwell on them; and her son's fate in particular elicited only momentary thoughts, which were immediately dispersed.
At heart, as there was nothing to enlighten her as to her frame of mind, she was hoping for a miracle. Would the miracle occur in Vorski? Incapable of generosity though he was, would not the monsterhesitate none the less in the presence of an utterly unnecessary crime? A father does not kill his son, or at least the act must be brought about by imperative reasons; and Vorski had no such reasons to allege against a mere child whom he did not know and whom he could not hate except with an artificial hatred.
Her torpor was lulled by this hope of a miracle. All the sounds which reechoed through the house, sounds of discussions, sounds of hurrying footsteps, seemed to her to indicate not so much the preparations for the events foretold as the sign of interruptions which would ruin all Vorski's plans. Had not her dear François said that nothing could any longer separate them from each other and that, at the moment when everything might seem lost and even when everything would be really lost, they must keep their faith intact?
"My François," she repeated, "my darling François, you shall not die . . . we shall see each other again . . . you promised me!"
Out of doors, a blue sky, flecked with a few menacing clouds, hung outspread above the tall oaks. In front of her, beyond that same window at which her father had appeared to her, in the middle of the grass which she had crossed with Honorine on the day of her arrival, a site had been recently cleared and covered with sand, like an arena. Was it here that her son was to fight? She received the sudden intuition that it must be; and her heart contracted.
"François," she said, "François, have no fear . . . . I shall save you . . . . Oh, forgive me, François darling, forgive me! . . . All this is a punishment for the wrong I once did . . . . It is theatonement . . . . The son is atoning for the mother . . . . Forgive me, forgive me! . . ."
At that moment a door opened on the ground-floor and voices ascended from the doorstep. She recognized Vorski's voice among them.
"So it's understood," he said. "We shall each go our own way; you two on the left, I on the right. You'll take this kid with you, I'll take the other and we'll meet in the lists. You'll be the seconds, so to speak, of yours and I'll be the second of mine, so that all the rules will be observed."
Véronique shut her eyes, for she did not wish to see her son, who would no doubt be maltreated, led out to fight like a slave. She could hear the creaking of two sets of footsteps following the two circular paths. Vorski was laughing and speechifying.
The groups turned and advanced in opposite directions.
"Don't come any nearer," Vorski ordered. "Let the two adversaries take their places. Halt, both of you. Good. And not a word, do you hear? If either of you speaks, I shall cut him down without mercy. Are you ready? Begin!"
So the terrible thing was commencing. In accordance with Vorski's will, the duel was about to take place before the mother, the son was about to fight before her face. How could she do other than look? She opened her eyes.
She at once saw the two come to grips and hold each other off. But she did not at once understand what she saw, or at least she failed to understand its exact meaning. She saw the two boys, it was true; but which of them was François and which was Raynold?
"Oh," she stammered, "it's horrible! . . . And yet . . . no, I must be mistaken . . . . It's not possible . . ."
She was not mistaken. The two boys were dressed alike, in the same velvet knickerbockers, the same white-flannel shirts, the same leather belts. But each had his head wrapped in a red-silk scarf, with two holes for the eyes, as in a highwayman's mask.
Which was François? Which was Raynold?
Now she remembered Vorski's inexplicable threat. This was what he meant by the programme drawn up by himself, this was to what he alluded when he spoke of a little play of his composing. Not only was the son fighting before the mother, but she did not know which was her son.
It was an infernal refinement of cruelty; Vorski himself had said so. No agony could add to Véronique's agony.
The miracle which she had hoped for lay chiefly in herself and in the love which she bore her son. Because her son was fighting before her eyes, she felt certain that her son could not die. She would protect him against the blows and against the ruses of the foe. She would make the dagger swerve, she would ward off death from the head which she adored. She would inspire her boy with dauntless energy, with the will to attack, with indefatigable strength, with the spirit that foretells and seizes the propitious moment. But now that both of them were veiled, on which was she to exercise her good influence, for which to pray, against which to rebel?
She knew nothing. There was no clue to enlighten her. One of them was taller, slimmer andlither in his movements. Was this François? The other was more thick-set, stronger and stouter in appearance. Was this Raynold? She could not tell. Nothing but a glimpse of a face, or even a fleeting expression, could have revealed the truth to her. But how was she to pierce the impenetrable mask?
And the fight continued, more terrible for her than if she had seen her son with his face uncovered.
"Bravo!" cried Vorski, applauding an attack.
He seemed to be following the duel like a connoisseur, with the affectation of impartiality displayed by a good judge of fighting who above all things wants the best man to win. And yet it was one of his sons that he had condemned to death.
Facing her stood the two accomplices, both of them men with brutal faces, pointed skulls and big noses with spectacles. One of them was extremely thin; the other was also thin, but with a swollen paunch like a leather bottle. These two did not applaud and remained indifferent, or perhaps even hostile, to the sight before them.
"Capital!" cried Vorski, approvingly. "Well parried! Oh, you're a couple of sturdy fellows and I'm wondering to whom to award the palm."
He pranced around the adversaries, urging them on in a hoarse voice in which Véronique, remembering certain scenes in the past, seemed to recognize the effects of drink. Nevertheless the poor thing made an effort to stretch out her bound hands towards him; and she moaned under her gag:
"Mercy! Mercy! I can't bear it. Have pity!"
It was impossible for her martyrdom to last.Her heart was beating so violently that it shook her from head to foot; and she was on the point of fainting when an incident occurred that gave her fresh life. One of the boys, after a fairly stubborn tussle, had jumped back and was swiftly bandaging his right wrist, from which a few drops of blood were trickling. Véronique seemed to remember seeing in her son's hand the small blue-and-white handkerchief which the boy was using.
She was immediately and irresistibly convinced. The boy—it was the more slender and agile of the two—had more grace than the other, more distinction, greater elegance of movement.
"It's François," she murmured. "Yes, yes, it's he . . . . It's you, isn't it, my darling? I recognize you now . . . . The other is common and heavy . . . . It's you, my darling! . . . Oh, my François, my dearest François!"
In fact, though both were fighting with equal fierceness, this one displayed less savage fury and blind rage in his efforts. It was as though he were trying not so much to kill his adversary as to wound him and as though his attacks were directed rather to preserving himself from the death that lay in wait for him. Véronique felt alarmed and stammered, as though he could hear her:
"Don't spare him, my darling! He's a monster, too! . . . Oh, dear, if you're generous, you're lost! . . . François, François, mind what you're doing!"
The blade of the dagger had flashed over the head of the one whom she called her son; and she had cried out, under her gag, to warn him. François having avoided the blow, she felt persuaded that hercry had reached his ears; and she continued instinctively to put him on his guard and advise him:
"Take a rest . . . . Get your breath . . . . Whatever you do, keep your eyes on him . . . . He's getting ready to do something . . . . He's going to rush at you . . . . Here he comes! Oh, my darling, another inch and he would have stabbed you in the neck! . . . Be careful, darling, he's treacherous . . . there's no trick too mean for him to play . . . ."
But the unhappy mother felt, however reluctant she might yet be to admit it, that the one whom she called her son was beginning to lose strength. Certain signs proclaimed a reduced power of resistance, while the other, on the contrary, was gaining in eagerness and vigour. François retreated until he reached the edge of the arena.
"Hi, you, boy!" grinned Vorski. "You're not thinking of running away, are you? Keep your nerve, damn it! Show some pluck! Remember the conditions!"
The boy rushed forward with renewed zest; and it was the other's turn to fall back. Vorski clapped his hands, while Véronique murmured:
"It's for me that he's risking his life. The monster must have told him, 'Your mother's fate depends on you. If you win, she's saved.' And he has sworn to win. He knows that I am watching him. He guesses that I am here. He hears me. Bless you, my darling!"
It was the last phase of the duel. Véronique trembled all over, exhausted by her emotion and by the too violent alternation of hope and anguish. Once again her son lost ground and once again heleapt forward. But, in the final struggle that followed, he lost his balance and fell on his back, with his right arm caught under his body.
His adversary at once stooped, pressed his knee on the other's chest and raised his arm. The dagger gleamed in the air.
"Help! Help!" Véronique gasped, choking under her gag.
She flattened her breast against the wall, without thinking of the cords which tortured her. Her forehead was bleeding, cut by the sharp corner of the rail, and she felt that she was about to die of the death of her son. Vorski had approached and stood without moving, with a merciless look on his face.
Twenty seconds, thirty seconds passed. With his outstretched left hand, François checked his adversary's attempt. But the victorious arm sank lower and lower, the dagger descended, the point was only an inch or two from the neck.
Vorski stooped. Just then, he was behind Raynold, so that neither Raynold nor François could see him; and he was watching most attentively, as though intending to intervene at some given moment. But in whose favor would he intervene? Was it his plan to save François?
Véronique no longer breathed; her eyes were enormously dilated; she hung between life and death.
The point of the dagger touched the neck and must have pricked the flesh, but only very slightly, for it was still held back by François' resistance.
Vorski bent lower. He stood over the fighters and did not take his eyes from the deadly point. Suddenly he took a pen-knife from his pocket, openedit and waited. A few more seconds elapsed. The dagger continued to descend. Then quickly he gashed Raynold's shoulder with the blade of his knife.
The boy uttered a cry of pain. His grip at once became relaxed; and, at the same time, François, set free, his right arm released, half rose, resumed the offensive and, without seeing Vorski or understanding what had happened, in an instinctive impulse of his whole being escaped from death and revolting against his adversary, struck him full in the face. Raynold in his turn fell like a log.
All this had certainly lasted no longer than ten seconds. But the incident was so unexpected and took Véronique so greatly aback that, not realizing, not knowing that she ought to rejoice, believing rather that she was mistaken and that the real François was dead, murdered by Vorski, the poor thing sank into a huddled heap and lost consciousness.
A long, long time elapsed. Then, gradually, Véronique became aware of certain sensations. She heard the clock strike four; and she said:
"It's two hours since François died. For it was he who died."
She had not a doubt that the duel had ended in this way. Vorski would never have allowed François to be the victor and his other son to be killed. And so it was against her own child that she had sent up wishes and for the monster that she had prayed!
"François is dead," she repeated. "Vorski has killed him."
The door opened and she heard Vorski's voice. He entered, with an unsteady gait:
"A thousand pardons, dear lady, but I think Vorski must have fallen asleep. It's your father's fault, Véronique! He had hidden away in his cellar some confounded Saumur which Conrad and Otto discovered and which has fuddled me a bit! But don't cry; we shall make up for lost time . . . . Besides everything must be settled by midnight. So . . ."
He had come nearer; and he now exclaimed:
"What! Did that rascal of a Vorski leave you tied up? What a brute that Vorski is! And how uncomfortable you must be! . . . Hang it all, how pale you are! I say, look here, you're not dead, are you? That would be a nasty trick to play us!"
He took Véronique's hand, which she promptly snatched away.
"Capital! We still loathe our little Vorski! Then that's all right and there's plenty of reserve strength. You'll hold out to the end, Véronique."
He listened:
"What is it? Who's calling me? Is it you, Otto? Come up . . . . Well, Otto, what news? I've been asleep, you know. That damned Saumur wine! . . ."
Otto, one of the two accomplices, entered the room at a run. He was the one whose paunch bulged so oddly.
"What news?" he exclaimed. "Why, this: I've seen some one on the island!"
Vorski began to laugh:
"You're drunk, Otto. That damned Saumur wine . . ."
"I'm not drunk. I saw . . . and so did Conrad . . ."
"Oho," said Vorski, more seriously, "if Conrad was with you! Well, what did you see?"
"A white figure, which hid when we came along."
"Where?"
"Between the village and the heath, in a little wood of chestnut trees."
"On the other side of the island then?"
"Yes."
"All right. We'll take our precautions."
"How? There may be several of them."
"I don't care if there are ten of them; it would make no difference. Where's Conrad?"
"By the foot-bridge which we put in the place of the bridge that was burnt down. He's keeping watch from there."
"Conrad is a clever one. When the bridge was burnt, we were kept on the other side; if the foot-bridge is burnt, it'll produce the same hindrance. Véronique, I really believe they're coming to rescue you. It's the miracle you expected, the assistance you hoped for. But it's too late, my beauty."
He untied the bonds that fastened her to the balcony, carried her to the sofa and loosened the gag slightly:
"Sleep, my wench," he said. "Get what rest you can. You're only half-way to Golgotha yet; and the last bit of the ascent will be the hardest."
He went away jesting; and Véronique heard the two men exchange a few sentences which proved to her that Otto and Conrad were only supers who knew nothing of the business in hand:
"Who's this wretched woman whom you're persecuting?" asked Otto.
"That doesn't concern you."
"Still, Conrad and I would like to know something about it."
"Lord, why?"
"Oh, just because!"
"Conrad and you are a pair of fools," replied Vorski. "When I took you into my service and helped you to escape with me, I told you all I could of my plans. You accepted my conditions. It was your look-out. You've got to see this thing through now."
"And if we don't?"
"If you don't, beware of the consequences. I don't like shirkers . . . ."
More hours passed. Nothing, it seemed to Véronique, could any longer save her from the end for which she craved with all her heart. She no longer hoped for the intervention of which Otto had spoken. In reality she was not thinking at all. Her son was dead; and she had no other wish than to join him without delay, even at the cost of the most dreadful suffering. What did that suffering matter to her? There are limits to the strength of those who are tortured; and she was so near to reaching those limits that her agony would not last long.
She began to pray. Once more the memory of the past forced itself on her mind; and the fault which she had committed seemed to her the cause of all the misfortunes heaped upon her.
And, while praying, exhausted, harassed, in a state of nervous extenuation which left her indifferent to anything that might happen, she fell asleep.
Vorski's return did not even rouse her. He had to shake her:
"The hour is at hand, my girl. Say your prayers."
He spoke low, so that his assistants might not hear what he said; and, whispering in her ear, he told her things of long ago, insignificant trifles which he dribbled out in a thick tone. At last he called out:
"It's still too light, Otto. Go and see what you can find in the larder, will you? I'm hungry."
They sat down to table, but Vorski stood up again at once:
"Don't look at me, my girl. Your eyes worry me. What do you expect? My conscience doesn't worry me when I'm alone, but it gets worked up when a fine pair of eyes like yours go right through me. Lower your lids, my pretty one."
He bound Véronique's eyes with a handkerchief which he knotted behind her head. But this did not satisfy him; and he unhooked a muslin curtain from the window, wrapped her whole head in it and wound it round her neck. Then he sat down again to eat and drink.
The three of them hardly spoke and said not a word of their trip across the island, nor of the duel of the afternoon. In any case, these were details which did not interest Véronique and which, even if she had paid attention to them, would not have aroused her. Everything had become indifferent to her. The words reached her ears but assumed no definite meaning. She thought of nothing but dying.
When it was dark, Vorski gave the signal for departure.
"Then you're still determined?" asked Otto, in a voice betraying a certain hostility.
"More so than ever. What's your reason for asking?"
"Nothing . . . . But, all the same . . ."
"All the same what?"
"Well, I may as well out with it, we only half like the job."
"You don't mean to say so! And you only discover it now, my man, after stringing up the sisters Archignat and treating it as a lark!"
"I was drunk that day. You made us drink."
"Well, get boozed if you want to, old cock. Here, take the brandy-bottle. Fill your flask and shut up . . . . Conrad, is the stretcher ready?"
He turned to his victim:
"A polite attention for you, my dear . . . . Two old stilts of your brat's, fastened together with straps . . . . It's very practical and comfortable."
At half-past eight, the grim procession set out, with Vorski at the head, carrying a lantern. The accomplices followed with the litter.
The clouds which had been threatening all the afternoon had now gathered and were rolling, thick and black, over the island. The night was falling swiftly. A stormy wind was blowing and made the candle flicker in the lantern.
"Brrrr!" muttered Vorski. "Dismal work! A regular Golgotha evening."
He swerved and grunted at the sight of a little black shape bounding along by his side:
"What's that? Look. It's a dog, isn't it?"
"It's the boy's mongrel," said Otto.
"Oh, of course, the famous All's Well! The brute's come in the nick of time. Everything's going jolly well! Just wait a bit, you mangy beast!"
He aimed a kick at the dog. All's Well avoided it and keeping out of reach, continued to accompany the procession, giving a muffled bark at intervals.
It was a rough ascent; and every moment one of the three men, leaving the invisible path that skirted the grass in front of the house and led to the open space by the Fairies' Dolmen, tripped in the brambles or in the runners of ivy.
"Halt!" Vorski commanded. "Stop and take breath, my lads. Otto, hand us your flask. My heart's turning upside down."
He took a long pull:
"Your turn, Otto . . . . What, don't you want to? What's the matter with you?"
"I'm thinking that there are people on the island who are looking for us."
"Let them look!"
"And suppose they come by boat and climb that path in the cliffs which the woman and the boy were trying to escape by this morning, the path we found?"
"What we have to fear is an attack by land, not by sea. Well, the foot-bridge is burnt. There's no means of communication."
"Unless they find the entrance to the cells, on the Black Heath, and follow the tunnel to this place."
"Have they found the entrance?"
"I don't know."
"Well, granting that they do find it, haven't we just blocked the exit on this side, broken down thestaircase, thrown everything topsy-turvy? To clear it will take them half a day and more. Whereas at midnight the thing'll be done and by daybreak we shall be far away from Sarek."
"It'll be done, it'll be done; that is to say, we shall have one more murder on our conscience. But . . ."
"But what?"
"What about the treasure?"
"Ah, the treasure! You've got it out at last! Well, make your mind easy: your shares of it are as good as in your pockets."
"Are you sure of that?"
"Rather! Do you imagine that I'm staying here and doing all this dirty work for fun?"
They resumed their progress. After a quarter of an hour, a few drops of rain began to fall. There was a clap of thunder. The storm still appeared to be some distance away.
They had difficulty in completing the rough ascent: and Vorski had to help his companions.
"At last!" he said. "We're there. Otto, hand me the flask. That's it. Thanks."
They had laid their victim at the foot of the oak which had had its lower branches removed. A flash of light revealed the inscription, "V. d'H." Vorski picked up a rope, which had been left there in readiness, and set a ladder against the trunk of the tree:
"We'll do as we did with the sisters Archignat," he said. "I'll pass the cord over the big branch which we left intact. That will serve as a pulley."
He interrupted himself and jumped to one side. Something extraordinary had just happened.
"What's that?" he whispered. "What was it? Did you hear that whistling sound?"
"Yes," said Conrad, "it grazed my ear. One would have said it was a bullet."
"You're mad."
"I heard it too," said Otto, "and it seems to me that it hit the tree."
"What tree?"
"The oak, of course! It was as though somebody had fired at us."
"There was no report."
"A stone, then; a stone that must have hit the oak."
"We'll soon see," said Vorski.
He turned his lantern and at once let fly an oath:
"Damn it! Look, there, under the lettering."
They looked. An arrow was fixed at the spot to which he pointed. Its feathered end was still quivering.
"An arrow!" gasped Conrad. "How is it possible? An arrow!"
And Otto spluttered:
"We're done for! It's us they were aiming at!"
"The man who took aim at us can't be far off," Vorski observed. "Keep your eyes open. We'll have a look."
He swung the light in a circle which penetrated the surrounding darkness.
"Stop," said Conrad, eagerly. "A little more to the right. Do you see?"
"Yes, yes, I see."
Thirty yards from where they stood, in the direction of the Calvary of the Flowers, just beyond theblasted oak, they saw something white, a figure which was trying, at least so it seemed, to hide behind a clump of bushes.
"Not a word, not a movement," Vorski ordered. "Do nothing to let him think that we've discovered him. Conrad, come with me. You, Otto, stay here, with your revolver in your hand, and keep a good watch. If they try to come near and to release her ladyship, fire two shots and we'll run back at once. Is that understood?"
"Quite."
Vorski bent over Véronique and loosened the veil slightly. Her eyes and mouth were still concealed by their bandages. She was breathing with difficulty; the pulse was weak and slow.
"We have time," he muttered, "but we must hurry if we want her to die according to plan. In any case she doesn't seem to be in pain. She has lost all consciousness."
He put down the lantern and then softly, followed by his assistant, stole towards the white figure, both of them choosing the places where the shadow was densest.
But he soon became aware, on the one hand, that the figure, which had seemed stationary, was moving as he himself moved forward, so that the space between them remained the same, and, on the other hand, that it was escorted by a small black figure frisking by its side.
"It's that filthy mongrel!" growled Vorski.
He quickened his pace: the distance did not decrease. He ran: the figure in front of him ran likewise. And the strangest part of it was that they heard no sound of leaves disturbed or of groundtrampled by the mysterious person running ahead of them.
"Damn it!" swore Vorski. "He's laughing at us. Suppose we fired at him, Conrad?"
"He's too far. The bullets wouldn't reach him."
"All the same, we're not going to . . ."
The unknown individual led them to the end of the island and then down to the entrance of the tunnel, passed close to the Priory, skirted the west cliff and reached the foot-bridge, some of the planks of which were still smouldering. Then he branched off, passed back by the other side of the house and went up the grassy slope.
From time to time the dog barked gaily.
Vorski could not control his rage. However hard he tried, he was unable to gain an inch of ground: and the pursuit had lasted fifteen minutes. He ended by vituperating the enemy:
"Stop, can't you? Show yourself a man! . . . What are you trying to do? Lead us into a trap? What for? . . . Is it her ladyship you're trying to save? It's not worth while, in the state she's in. Oh, you damned, smart bounder, if I could only get hold of you!"
Suddenly Conrad seized him by the skirt of his robe.
"What is it, Conrad?"
"Look. He seems to be stopping."
As Conrad suggested, the white figure for the first time was becoming more and more clearly visible in the darkness and they were able to distinguish, through the leaves of a thicket, its present attitude, with the arms slightly opened, the backbowed, the legs bent and apparently crossed on the ground.
"He must have fallen," said Conrad.
Vorski, after running forward, shouted:
"Am I to shoot, you scum? I've got the drop on you. Hands up, or I fire."
Nothing stirred.
"It's your own look-out! If you show fight, you're a dead man. I shall count three and fire."
He walked to twenty yards of the figure and counted, with outstretched arm:
"One . . . two . . . . Are you ready, Conrad? Fire!"
The two bullets were discharged at the same time.
There was a cry of distress. The figure seemed to collapse. The two men rushed forward:
"Ah, now you've got it, you rascal! I'll show you the stuff that Vorski's made of! You've given me a pretty run, you oaf! Well, your account's settled!"
After the first few steps, he slackened his speed, for fear of a surprise. The figure did not move; and Vorski, on coming close, saw that it had the limp and misshapen look of a dead man, of a corpse. Nothing remained but to fall upon it. This was what Vorski did, laughing and jesting:
"A good bag, Conrad! Let's pick up the game."
But he was greatly surprised, on picking up the game, to feel in his hands nothing but an almost impalpable quarry, consisting, to tell the truth, of just a white robe, with no one inside it, the owner of the robe having taken flight in good time, after hooking it to the thorns of a thicket. As for the dog, he had disappeared.
"Damn and blast it!" roared Vorski. "He's cheated us, the ruffian! But why, hang it, why?"
Venting his rage in the stupid fashion that was his habit, he was stamping on the piece of stuff, when a thought struck him:
"Why? Because, damn it, as I said just now, it's a trap: a trap to get us away from her ladyship while his friends went for Otto! Oh, what an ass I've been!"
He started to go back in the dark and, as soon as he was able to see the dolmen, he called out:
"Otto! Otto!"
"Halt! Who goes there?" answered Otto, in a scared voice.
"It's me . . . . Damn you, don't fire!"
"Who's there? You?"
"Yes, yes, you fool."
"But the two shots?"
"Nothing . . . . A mistake . . . . We'll tell you about it . . . ."
He was now close to the oak and, at once, taking up the lantern, turned its rays upon his victim. She had not moved and lay stretched at the foot of the tree, with her head wrapped in the veil.
"Ah!" he said. "I breathe again! Hang it, how frightened I was!"
"Frightened of what?"
"Of their taking her from us, of course!"
"Well, wasn't I here?"
"Oh, you! You've got no more pluck than a louse . . . and, if they had gone for you . . ."
"I should have fired, at any rate. You'd have heard the signal."
"May be. Well, did nothing happen?"
"Nothing at all."
"Her ladyship didn't carry on too much?"
"She did at first. She moaned and groaned under her hood, until I lost all patience."
"And then?"
"Oh, then! It didn't last long: I stunned her with a good blow of my fist."
"You brute!" exclaimed Vorski. "If you've killed her, you're a dead man."
He plumped down and glued his ear to his unfortunate victim's breast.