The Nyctalope on Mars 2: The Triumph of Love

by Jean de La Hire

  “He’ll be asleep for two hours,” murmured Félicie Jolivet. “What’s more, it’s probable that, after all that has happened, all of the Fifteen will be resting in their homes. I have time to act, then, and I’ll be free to do so. Before anything else, it’s necessary to tell Xavière…”

  Admiral de Ciserat’s daughters often had secret meetings with Félicie, in addition to the almost daily meeting when the 15 prisoners would gather together for an afternoon snack that was both delicate and sumptuous. At these meetings, some of the XV were always present, so the young women could only exchange banal remarks. In any case, precisely because of the presence of their masters, the majority of the prisoners maintained a morose and haughty silence. But when, by some ruse, Xavière and Félicie—who had been brought together by the instinctive sympathy of their similarly combative souls—could spend a few minutes together in private, they communicated their observations regarding facts, people and things, with the presentiment that there would come a time when everything that they had observed and told one another would be useful.

  Leaving Kipper to sleep, therefore, Félicie slipped out of the study. She went into the first room and operated the mechanism that opened the entrance to the subterranean passages. She had gone that way—which Kipper had unknowingly revealed one day during a particularly thoughtless monologue—20 times before.

  Having descended the spiral staircase, Félicie followed a tortuous corridor to which 15 other stairways led; between them were large doors giving access to the various parts of the immense underworld of Cosmopolis. A letter of the Greek alphabet was painted on each door, and above each opening, a figure appeared in relief, shining white in the diffuse light of electric bulbs. Rapidly, the young woman threw herself on to the stairway marked with the figure 1 and climbed he stairs nimbly. Beyond the sixth step, the stairway no longer received any light from the corridor; it was in total darkness, turning all the while, that Félicie counted off 34 further steps, and then stopped.

  Gently, she leaned on a section of the metallic wall; then she waited for two minutes—and then a trapdoor above the level of her head opened up. She leapt up and threw herself into Xavière’s arms.

  “Is he dead?” asked the Nyctalope’s fiancée, gravely.

  “No.”

  “He’s been condemned, though?”

  “Yes, condemned—but he won’t be executed for 30 days.”

  “Good! And Koynos?”

  “Dead.”

  “Come on!” Xavière closed the trapdoor and drew Félicie into her bedroom—for the room with the trapdoor was the square vestibule of Koynos’ house. A tall guard was standing at the bedroom door—another one vanquished! He gazed at Xavière with imploring and amorous humility. She made a gesture and flashed a smile. He drew aside and let the two young women pass. When the door had closed again, he resumed his illusory function.

  In the bedroom, Xavière immediately lifted a curtain to display Yvonne lying on a sofa, with her eyes closed and her face cadaverously pale.

  “My God!” cried Félicie.

  “No,” said Xavière, her voice grave. “No, she’s not dead. She’s asleep now—but she’s gone mad with grief. I put her to sleep with a soporific, so as not to hear her any longer. She was talking incessantly. She caused me too much suffering. She thought she was in the grounds of our town house in Paris, where she was amusing herself running along the pathways chasing Leo.”

  “My God!” Félicie groaned, again. “My God!” And her bright eyes filled with tears.

  “Don’t cry, my dear,” said Xavière. “We have to be strong, as we alone have been thus far. None of our companions… But that’s enough! We must save Leo and set him free. Koynos is dead. We can no longer count on anyone but ourselves.” She turned to the bedroom door and added: “And that slave, on watch behind there…”

  “You’re sure of him?”

  “At a word from me, he’d plunge his scimitar into his own breast.”

  “Good! Listen!” And Félicie repeated the substance of Kipper’s monologue. She concluded: “Think about it. It’s necessary to act tonight. No one, evidently, is suspicious. Besides, following this morning’s execution, the Fifteen, despite everything, are subject to a sort of dolorous prostration. Kipper let me see that. We have to take advantage of the circumstances…”

  “Very well—thank you. We’ll act tonight. Here’s a little flask—hide it. Empty the contents into the beverage you make every night for Kipper. It’s only a soporific, but quite powerful. Wait for me—I’ll come to fetch you between 10 p.m. and midnight.” Xavière handed over the flask that she had just taken out of a drawer in a little sideboard. She opened the door, accompanied Félicie as far as the vestibule, opened the trapdoor, then closed it behind her and returned to her bedroom.

  On the threshold, she paused. She looked hard at the slave, who lowered his forehead and fell to one knee. She put her white hand on his head and said, in English—which the colossus understood and spoke—“Banko, what time will you be standing guard here tonight?”

  “Between 10 p.m. and midnight.”

  “Good. You know that one of the prisoners is in one of the steel cells?”

  “Yes.”

  “Listen! Find out which slaves will be guarding him tonight.”

  “I’ll find out.”

  “I’ll give you a flask—you must empty the content into the beverage that the slaves drink with their evening meal. Can you do that?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Do you know how the steel cells are opened?”

  “I know how it’s done.”

  “Is there a combination?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who knows it?”

  “The chief of the guards.”

  “Can you find out what it is?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “It’s necessary.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “How?”

  “The chief is in love with one of the black servant-girls, and the girl…”

  Xavière smiled. “And the girl loves him, no?”

  The black man raised his head and gazed at Xavière with a sublime expression.

  “Don’t worry!” said the dominatrix, in reply to that gaze. “Obey, and you’ll never leave me—except to die with me, if I have to kill myself.”

  He bent his neck again and murmured: “Is that all?”

  “Wait! Is it possible for me to get into Oxus’ house without being seen, and get into Oxus’ own room?”

  The slave shuddered. “No,” he replied. “To reach him at night, whether he’s asleep and dreaming or working in his room, it’s necessary to go past two guards armed with electro-mirrors.”

  “Is it possible to get hold of one of those weapons?”

  “Perhaps, for a few hours, by stealing it from another guard. It’s death for the thief…”

  “Good! You’ll steal an electro-mirror and bring it to me at 10 p.m.”

  “Yes, mistress!”

  “Do you know how to get one?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good. You’ll be relieved in a few minutes—go, and don’t forget!”

  “I won’t forget.”

  “Get up. And now, Banko, take me in your arms. Squeeze me. Hug me to your breast. Do you now anyone in the world who can make you as happy or unhappy as I can? Look at me.”

  He took hold of her. He had risen to his feet. In his enormous arms she was like a slender nymph in the arms of one of the giants of mythology, and as he devoured her with his eyes, she smiled, and looked at him in a way that made him tremble. She slipped from his embrace, touched the carpet at his feet, and said: “Ten o’clock, Banko. Don’t forget!” Then she shut herself in her room.

  Falling to her knees beside the sofa where Yvonne lay as if dead, Xavière wept for a long time, with her two cold hands pressed to her fiery forehead…

  She remained prostrated thus until 9 p.m. that evening; the black slave who came to tell her that
her dinner was served received no other answer than a gesture of refusal. When the electric wall-clock in her room chimed nine times, however, Xavière got up. “Let’s go!” she said. She darted one last glance at her sister and murmured; “What will become of us tomorrow? Better to die in the struggle than resign oneself…”

  On a worktable, a pair of scissors gleamed amid the baubles with which the young women sometimes distracted themselves. With a rapid movement, Xavière let her beautiful hair down over her shoulders. Then she took the scissors, went to her dressing-table mirror, and, with swift sweeping-motions, cut her hair. It fell on to the carpet in long wisps, which rolled over one another like serpents. Soon, there was no longer anything on the young woman’s cranium but an unruly shock of short hair, which gave her features a strange expression of childish impertinence—but her cold gaze and severe mouth robbed that expression of everything that might have been pleasant.

  Having thus sacrificed the richest ornament of her beauty, Xavière wrapped her head in a long silken veil, which hid the courageous mutilation entirely. Afterwards, she collected up the cut hair and threw it into a drawer. Then, letting herself fall into an armchair, she waited.

  She darted frequent impatient glances at the 24-hour wall-clock. The hands were moving very slowly; it seemed to the young woman that they would never reach the position indicating 10 p.m.

  Even though it might appear to drag or race, according to our moods, however, time marches at an implacable rate. Ten o’clock sounded…

  Xavière stood up. She waited for a further three minutes. Then she marched resolutely to the door and opened it. Banko was there.

  “The electro-mirror?” the young woman said.

  “I have it,” the guard replied.

  “And the combination of the cell’s lock?”

  “That as well.”

  “The prison guards?”

  “They’ve drunk what you gave me.”

  “Good! They’ll be asleep in a quarter of an hour. You will listen to me, understand me and obey me without the slightest hesitation. The success of the folly that we’re attempting depends on promptness of movement.”

  “I shall listen, understand and obey.”

  “Wait for me!” Xavière disappeared into the vestibule. Ten minutes later, she came back. “Kipper will be asleep for eight hours,” she said to Banko. “The Fifteen suspect nothing. Oxus alone is to be fought and defeated. Take the electro-mirror in your hand, and forward march! First, let’s go to the steel cells.”

  Banko put his scimitar in his belt and took off his cap, under which he had concealed the little box that was the electro-mirror. “Follow me, mistress,” he said.

  By way of stairways and corridors, they arrived in the prison’s guard-room. Sprawled on the benches, the guards were asleep.

  “This is the easy part,” said Xavière. “It’s when Leo is free that the difficulties will begin.”

  “I guessed as much, mistress,” Banko murmured. He went straight to Cell No. 1, where the Nyctalope was imprisoned. Without a second’s hesitation, Banko found a small black slot in the steel wall next to the door. With his thumb and index-finger, he pressed hard on the edges of the slot, above which a minuscule trapdoor immediately sprang open, revealing a large button whose circumference was marked with eight letters. Carefully observed by Xavière, Banko turned the button, pausing three times, in such a manner that one of the eight letters came into contact with a slender needle of flexible steel mounted to the right of the button. Afterwards, Banko pressed the edges of the black slot again with his thumb and index-finger. The minuscule trapdoor closed again, and the door of the cell opened.

  Xavière bounded in. Saint-Clair was lying on the camp-bed, asleep. The young woman looked at him; he was sleeping as peacefully as anyone could. Brusquely, almost impatiently, she tapped him on the shoulder. Like a recoiling spring, he stated and sat up in a single movement—and he recognized Xavière immediately.

  “You! You, here?”

  “Yes. Listen! Seconds are worth hours. Listen!” She spoke rapidly, without gestures, concentrating all her womanly will-power in her dark eyes. He listened, and, as she talked, he smiled with increasingly visible joy.

  “Is that understood?” she concluded.

  “Xavière, I admire you. It’s understood.”

  “Quickly, then! Give me your cloak; take my dressing-gown and my veil.”

  This was done, in less time that it would take to describe it. Without false modesty, in front of the attentive Banko and the Nyctalope, who also undressed himself, Xavière divested herself of her female clothing. Within 15 seconds, she was only clad in her chemise and the veil that fell from her head in long vaporous folds. An instant afterwards, she had put on the prisoner’s long broad cloak, while Saint-Clair was more-or-less enveloped in Xavière’s dressing-gown. When the young woman gave him the veil, though, he exclaimed: “Your hair!”

  “Cut. When I’m lying there, with my back to the door, it’s vital that no one suspects the substitution, at least for a few hours.”

  “You’re sublime!” exclaimed the Nyctalope. He seized Xavière’s head in both hands and showered a multitude of kisses upon it, in front of the impassive Banko.

  “Go!” said the young woman! “Go, and triumph!”

  “I shall triumph! In an hour, at the most, I’ll send Banko to you, and you’ll rejoin me.”

  “I hope so! Be clever and be strong! If I don’t see Banko in an hour, it’s because you’ll have failed. I’ll wait to make certain of the defeat, and then I’ll kill myself.”

  “And Yvonne?” said Saint-Clair, gravely.

  “Yvonne has gone mad! Nothing can make her suffer any further, Besides, Banko has promised to kill her before coming to die with me.”

  There was then a silence between these three prodigious individuals, filled with tumultuous thoughts.

  “Banko!” said Xavière, eventually. The slave knelt down. “I entrust him to you,” he said, pointing at Saint-Clair. “His fate is now in your hands.”

  Without making any reply, Banko got up, gazed at Xavière with an indefinable expression, and went out of the cell.

  “Go!” said the young woman to her fiancé.

  The Nyctalope, in his turn, gazed at Xavière, and then went out without a word.

  Quietly, Banko closed the door of the steel cell again, while Xavière lay down on the camp-bed, in the same position that Saint-Clair had been in when she entered. “In a little more than an hour,” she murmured, “I shall be happy in some fashion, whether it be deliverance or death!”

  And the valiant young woman closed her eyes, as if to sleep.

  III. In the Dark

  Saint-Clair followed Banko. Rapidly and silently, the two men went through the prison corridor, up in the elevator, and then across the guard-room. They opened the door that connected the vestibule of the guard-room with the antechamber of Oxus’ apartments.

  “At this hour,” Banko whispered, “the Master should be in his bedroom. Let’s hope that he’s asleep, for he can raise the alarm with a gesture, and we’ll be lost.”

  “Do you know how to get into that room directly?” the Nyctalope asked.

  “Yes. I’ve often stood guard at the same door where we shall find two guards. It’s a matter of taking them by surprise and killing them with a single bolt from the electro-mirror. If only one of them has time to use his weapon, we won’t take another step, and we’ll be blasted.”THis ur cloak; take my dressing-gown and my scaarfg all her will-powerrebounding spring, he stated and sat up eight letrs came i

  “Right!” said Saint-Clair, smiling. “Where are these two guards now, in relation to us?”

  “Beyond the antechamber where we are now is a hallway—this is the door. At the end of the hallway is a flight of six steps leading up to the lobby outside the Master’s bedroom. The two guards stand on one of those steps, electro-mirrors in hand, watching the entire length of the hallway.”

  “So, if we were m
erely to open this door, we’d be within the guards’ view?”

  “Yes.”

  “And we’d be targets for their electro-mirrors?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they have orders to fire at anyone entering the hallway, without any negotiation?”

  “Those are the orders; they’ll carry them out without hesitation. At the same time, they’ll use their heels to activate one of the switches embedded in the staircase and wake the Master.”

  “Damn! Oxus is well-guarded. What’s your plan, Banko?”

  “This is my idea. You open the door, then immediately step back into cover. I’ll be ready, electro-mirror in hand; as soon as the door opens, I’ll blast both guards with a single zigzag shot.

  “That would work if you’re clever,” said the Nyctalope, “but I have another idea that might be better. Listen! Where’s the switchboard that controls the lights in the hallway?”

  “In the guard-room,” Banko replied.

  “So someone in the guard-room can switch the lights on and off at will?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. If the lights suddenly go out, what will the guards do?”

  “The possibility is anticipated. One will stay on the steps and light a portable electric lamp that’s suspended from his belt, capable of lasting for three hours. The other will also light his portable lamp and go to the guard-room to find out what’s happening.”

  “Perfect!” the Nyctalope muttered. “Between the extinction of the hallway lights and the illumination of the portable lamps, there might well be a minute of complete darkness. That will be sufficient for me to take action. Banko! Does it take long to learn how to use an electro-mirror?”

  “It’s quite simple—two minutes.”

  “Explain it to me quickly.”

  Banko held the terrible weapon in his hand and explained the mechanism to Saint-Clair.

  “I understand!” said the Nyctalope, cutting the explanation short. “Very well! Banko, I can see in the dark as well as in broad daylight. Go to the guard-room. Extinguish the lights in this antechamber and the hallway at the same time. I’ll open the communicating door immediately. I’ll be able to see the guards, who won’t see me; I’ll blast them in the dark.”