“Good!” said Mattol. “I can confirm that, having passed through myself.”
“Then the wretch’s name can be found in the register!” cried Raymond.
“I hope so–but the book has been sent to Professor Jameson in New York.”
“We’ll go to New York!” said Irène and Raymond, in unison.
“Yes, of course,” the Professor agreed. “But it will take two days to get to Le Havre, plus six days or thereabouts from Le Havre to New York. That makes eight. Then there’s the time of the return journey. From now until then...”
He fell silent. Everyone understood. Every face went pale. Lili, almost hysterical, could not suppress a sob.
“Besides,” Mattol put in, “the man could have given a false name.”
There was a long anguished silence. Then, turning to Mattol, the Professor continued, his voice, his expression and his body language displaying his impatience. “Let’s see, my dear friend. You know how to get to the bottom of these matters. Isn’t there any means of impeding the spell and attenuating its effects? Isn’t there any force, obstacle or barrier that can be interposed between the spell-caster and his victim?”
Mattol replied slowly and carefully, under Irène’s and Raymond’s pleading gaze. “Experiments in this area are still at the stage of groping timidly in the dark. However, it seems to me that a change of physical environment, if the change is unknown to the spell-caster, might disorientate him and render him almost powerless.”
“What do you mean by physical environment?” Raymond asked.
“I mean the dominant element, in terms of volume and density, between the spell-caster and his victim. All this is barely at the theoretical stage, based on scant empirical evidence, but in the present case, that dominant element is air. We can do nothing about the spell-caster, but we can change the physical environment of the victim. Isn’t the Subtransatlantic Company’s submarine stationed at Le Havre?”
“Ah, Louis!” cried Raymond, throwing himself towards his friend. “I understand! We’ll go to New York by submarine!”
“Is that possible, at the present stage of the company’s organization?” asked the Professor.
“Yes, yes!” said the naval officer. “Two exploratory submarines are ready to go to sea–the Lampas and the Synancée. It’s the Lampas that was assigned to me for my mission.”
“We’ll obtain its use for the voyage,” the Professor said.
“And by traveling at the greatest possible depth,” Mattol went on, “we’ll put a cushion of water between the red-haired man and Irène, of such volume and density that his spell will be unable to penetrate it, the natural elements being incompatible for the transmission of the will-power’s effluvia...”
“And the phenomenon of spell-casting is nothing but the transmission of an extraordinarily powerful will,” murmured the Professor.
“When shall we leave?” Irène asked.
“Tomorrow. We must be ready to take the 2 p.m. train to Milan and Paris.”
“When shall we be in Le Havre?” Irène asked, shuddering.
“About 30 hours later–on May 7, in the evening.”
“And at sea?”
“Two hours after our arrival in Le Havre,” said Raymond de Ciserat.
Dusk had invaded the room during this conversation, but no one had thought of switching on the electric light. As Raymond pronounced the words Le Havre, the sonorous and repetitive sound of the dinner-gong became audible.
“Will you go down, my dear?” Raymond asked his wife.
Irène smiled valiantly. “Yes, I’ll go down! All of you, it now seems, form a rampart around me. You’ve suffered even more than me, my dear, and we have both been disabled.”
The young woman pressed herself fondly against her husband, who smiled and said to her: “We hadn’t thought of the submarine, of physical environments and incompatible elements, effluvia and will-power...”
But their smiles did not last long.
When the lights had been switched on, the three men went into the sitting-room, leaving Irène in her bedroom to dress for dinner, with Lili’s help. Scarcely two minutes had gone by when a scream resounded, followed by panic-stricken cries for help. Without a second’s hesitation, the three men hurled themselves forward.
In her petticoat and camisole, Irène had collapsed in an armchair, in front of the petrified Lili. The unfortunate young woman, her face contorted in horror, was frantically trying to defend her throat, lips and cheeks from the hands and lips of someone who could not be seen, but whose brutal contacts left red marks and light scratches on the recently-powdered delicate skin.
For several minutes, in Raymond’s powerless arms, in front of the terrified Lili and under the observant eyes of Lourmel and Mattol, Irène was prey to the cruelties and the even-more-odious caresses of he mysterious spell-caster. Then, abruptly, she felt nothing more. She looked at Raymond and breathed out, exhaustedly. “It’s finished!” she said–but her throat and shoulders retained stigmata which, superficial as they were on this occasion, forbade the wearing of a low-cut dress. Madame de Ciserat, therefore, put on a high-necked dress–because, having regained her courage, she was determined to go down to the hotel dining-room for dinner.
A well-stocked table was set in the quietest corner, half-hidden by a folding screen. When Irène appeared with Raymond, her uncle and Mattol were already there. They sat down together.
“I’ve just checked the timetable,” Lourmel said, immediately. “There’s a train for Milan and Paris at 11:15 p.m. tonight. We must not delay any longer. I’ve telephoned the station and reserved three sleeping compartments. We’ll be in Paris tomorrow, and on the morning of the following day, we’ll board Raymond’s submarine in Le Havre. We’ll see Professor Jameson in New York. I’ve searched my memory, and I’m sure that I saw him in a one-to-one conversation, for several minutes, with a tall, lean red-haired gentleman...”
“Oh, uncle!” said Irène. “Do you really remember that?”
“Yes.”
No more was said. What was there to say? The young woman and the three men were so profoundly and intensely united that they were thinking the same things at the same moment, and knew it. Words were unnecessary.
At 11:15 p.m., Professor Lourmel, Louis Mattol, Raymond and Irène de Ciserat, with Lili, climbed up into the compartments reserved in a carriage which would be attached to the Paris express in Milan. The journey passed without the slightest incident. In Paris, Lourmel’s limousine was waiting at the Gare de Lyon.
As they went along the Grands Boulevards, they embraced Aunt Luce–who was mortified by anguish–and reassured her as best they could. Two extra trunks full of clothes were loaded into the automobile and they caught the train for Le Havre, where the arrived in the early morning.
Two cars from the Subtransatlantic Company, whose local director had been alerted by telegram, were waiting for the travelers. They went directly to the main quay, where the offices of the company and the apartments of its senior managers were located. Facing this edifice, in the old harbor, floating docks had been established to shelter the submarines Lampas and Synancée.
Following Raymond and the director, Irène got down from the cars that had brought her from the station. As she crossed the pavement to go into the sumptuous building, she was passed by a man who slipped a piece of paper adroitly into her hand and whispered, very quietly and rapidly but quite distinctly: “For you alone, on your life!”
The man disappeared around the corner of the building, presumably into a street at right-angles to the quay.
A little apartment, consisting of a bedroom, a sitting-room and a bathroom, was put at the disposal of Irène and Lili for the three or four hours that would pass before the embarkation. Professor Lourmel, Raymond de Ciserat and Louis Mattol had important matters to discuss with the company’s director.
As soon as she was left alone in her room, while Lili was running a bath, the distraught Irène ripped the envelope open.
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During the journey, she had not suffered any undue sensation. As she had an optimistic temperament, a cheerful character and a heart exultant with love, and as Raymond wanted nothing more than to see her happy and to be happy for and with her, both of them had allowed themselves to be overtaken by hope, by the illusion that the nightmare might be over and done with... But here was this letter: a letter written in red ink on sulfur-yellow paper, in bold and angular handwriting; a letter that Irène had to read twice before she understood it properly.
Irène, you now know a little of my power. And now, I want you to accept into yourself, into the innermost privacy of your being, the loyal, determined and absolute decision to be mine, entirely mine, undividedly and forever, far from Paris, beyond France.
I could, solely by the exercise of my will-power, bring you to me, without any possible struggle on your part–but no! I want you vanquished, consenting and submissive. I want your yes to flourish on your lips in consequence of the decision of your own mind. I want your slavery to commence by virtue of your own choice.
There are two alternatives between which you must choose.
Either you will make the decision that I ask–and I shall know that it has been made simply by the fact of your mental acceptance–or I shall kill, at a distance and with frightful tortures, first your Aunt Luce, then your uncle Professor Lourmel, then your friend Louis Mattol, and finally, your husband Raymond de Ciserat. Then I shall take control of you, despite anything you might do, and you will live with the remorse and shame of having sacrificed, uselessly, the four people that you love.
To make the desired decision, I will give you until June 10. Should you fail to do so, your Aunt Luce will die at midday on June 11, after 12 hours of torture.
I add that, once you have made the decision, I will give you the appropriate instructions to render it effective.
A woman who will soon be by my side, who hates me–whom you will love, mourn and replace–cursed me one day by throwing in my face a formidable name. That name pleased me. I desire no other, and I sign myself :
Lucifer.
II. Monsieur Narbonne’s Strongbox
In Paris, at the very moment when Irène de Ciserat was reading the letter from the terrifying sorcerer who proudly signed himself “Lucifer,” Monsieur Mathias Narbonne was the dolorous victim and terrified witness of an extraordinary event.
The whole world knew Mathias Narbonne as a billionaire philanthropist. French, Parisian and Montmartrian, by a marvelous caprice of destiny, he had made a fortune in Argentine and Brazil. Fortunate speculations–which were, moreover, entirely honest–based on the latent state of war between permanently-revolutionized Mexico and the avidly expectant United States had multiplied that fortune tenfold in three years.
A billionaire to the point that the slightest operation, whether industrial, commercial or merely financial, added further millions to his billions, Narbonne returned to France, Paris and Montmartre at the age of 50, and had an exceedingly tasteful house built in the Rue d’Orchampt, overlooking the city, from which flowed a hundred rivers of gold.
Hospitals and universities; numerous families and unwed mothers, miners’ cottages consigned to mourning by firedamp; maritime villages starving for lack of fish; agricultural regions devastated by some forgotten savagery or caprice of nature–in brief, everyone who toiled and suffered in France, Italy or Belgium–received aid and remedy, abundantly and intelligently administered, from “Monsieur Mathias.” Whether in person or through the mediation of three or four women of mature years, noble spirit and clear mind, his generosity was usefully and justly shared, at least in France, Italy and Belgium. “I had to make a choice,” Narbonne said, with his natural good humor. “Considerable as it may be, my fortune is not sufficient to soothe all poverty in any of the world’s five continents. I am French, and I have always considered Belgium and Italy to be the sisters of France–during the Great War, they acted nobly–so I am a Franco-Italo-Belgian philanthropist...”
Narbonne was a philanthropist to the tune of 500 millions a year, on average–and 500 millions, judiciously employed, without “compensating commissions” or “aid committees,” can dress and cure a great many wounds on an annual basis.
On May 7, the philanthropist, who had been awakened at 5 a.m., as was his habit, spent two hours getting dressed and at breakfast. Then, accompanied by the godson who served as his secretary–who appeared at 7 a.m. precisely–he went into his study, a large room illuminated by two huge bay windows looking out over the immensity of Paris.
“First, let’s make the weekly assessment of the state of the coffers, André,” Narbonne said.
A large office desk occupied the middle of the room. Its two sides, each furnished with 20 drawers filled with files and accounts, served both the master and the secretary, who habitually sat facing one another. While the broad and cheerful light of the Sun, already high above Paris, and the pure morning air entered through the two open windows, André d’Arbol sat down on one side of the desk. On the other side, with his back turned, Narbonne marched towards the enormous bronzed steel safe which took up an entire wall-panel between the southern corner of the wall and the door to the library. It was then that the extraordinary event occurred.
As he was opening the safe and extending his right hand into its interior, Narbonne released a sharp exclamation, withdrew his hand and took a step backwards.
“Oh! What is it?” said André.
“Christ! A bandage, quickly... A piece of string, a handkerchief–it doesn’t matter!”
André leapt to his feet, dumbfounded.
Very pale, with his face contracted in pain, Narbonne put his left hand around his right wrist and squeezed hard. He displayed his right hand; blood was running from the palm, which had been pierced right through as if by a stiletto-thrust.
André brought a ball of string out of a drawer and made a skilful ligature above Narbonne’s right wrist. The blood ceased flowing almost immediately. In the meantime, the philanthropist had recovered his characteristic impassiveness. “André,” he said, “telephone Dormoy. He’s bound to be at home at this hour. Tell him to come immediately, with what’s needed to make a dressing. Tell him it’s a penetrating wound–a knife-thrust right through the hand.” Monsieur Dormoy was Narbonne’s close friend and physician.
Five minutes later, a succinct explanation had been made over the telephone. “Now, let’s think!” said Narbonne.
André immediately hung up the telephone, went to the open safe and looked into the compartmentalized interior of the vast steel box. “How the Devil did it happen?” he muttered.
“Yes–how, by thunder? There’s nothing in the strongbox that could pierce a hand this fashion.”
There was, indeed, no trace of a blade, nail, stiletto or dagger in the safe. “Then again, even if there were some instrument capable of cutting or piercing,” André went on, still bewildered, “what force could have seized it, brandished it, and brought it down with sufficient violence to...”
Narbonne had now folded his right arm over his breast. The index finger of the injured hand was curled up between two waistcoat buttons. It was as if the arm were held in a sling pinned to the shoulder or knotted about his neck. The two men stood together, looking into the safe. “I don’t understand,” the philanthropist murmured.
“Me neither,” muttered his secretary.
“Let’s sit down and wait for Dormoy.”
Each of them went to his habitual place, facing one another across the huge desk. Narbonne, who was very pale and still suffering considerable pain, shut his eyes; André d’Arbol’s confused gaze went from his employer’s face to his wounded hand and back again. Both understood that speech would be in vain, so neither of them expressed his nebulous and tumultuous thoughts.
Their silence and immobility lasted scarcely ten minutes before the arrival of Monsieur Dormoy, who lived near the corner of the Rue d’Orchampt at No. 104, Rue Lepic. He was shown in by Michel,
the philanthropist’s manservant.
Doctor Olivier Dormoy was a 45-year-old Burgundian, with neatly-brushed dark hair and a goatee beard. He was an excellent practitioner, cheerful and good-hearted. He displayed his astonishment frankly. “What?” he cried, from the doorway. “A dagger-blow? How? Where from?”
“Dress it first, my friend,” Narbonne said. “We’ll talk afterwards.”
“Fine! D’Arbol, my dear chap, please fetch a bowl of some sort, two hand-towels and boiling water.”
The petrified Michel remained on the threshold, watching and listening, unable to believe his eyes or his ears. André revived him with a shove, pushed him into the corridor and went out. A minute later, he returned with the items he had been instructed to fetch. Water was always on the boil in the kitchen.
Meanwhile, Dormoy had opened a small case that he had brought with him, displaying his surgical instruments. He untied the wrist, releasing the blood flow, then secured it again with a tourniquet. Then, after having carefully examined the strange wound, he applied a gauze dressing to each face of the hand and suspended a sling from the shoulder of his patient’s jacket. It was all completed in a quarter of a hour, without a word being spoken.
When it was over, Narbonne drank a small glass of rum which André had brought him. “Very good!” the philanthropist concluded. “You can assure me, Dormoy, that it’s not serious?”
“I can assure you of that, my dear friend. You’ll experience a certain difficulty opening and closing your right hand for some while, but nothing essential was cut. I’ll renew the dressing every morning. In a fortnight, you won’t need the sling any more.”
“Thank you.”
With his left hand, Narbonne pointed to two armchairs, one of which was André’s and the other reserved for visitors, placed to one side of the office desk. The secretary and the physician sat down. Michel took away the bowl, the water-jug, the blood-stained hand-towels and the rum glass. The whole study was tidy and sunlit.
The Nyctalope vs Lucifer 1: Enter Lucifer! Page 5