Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17)

by Maurice Leblanc

  Patrice had taken two steps forward; and the movement suggested by Don Luis was about to be performed. Already the officer’s arms were flung wide for the fight. But suddenly Siméon, weakened by pain and dominated by a stronger will than his own, let himself go and implored his adversary:

  “Patrice!” he entreated. “Patrice! What are you thinking of doing?”

  Stretching out his hands, he threw himself upon the other’s pity; and Patrice, arrested in his onrush, stood perplexed, staring at the man to whom he was bound by so mysterious and strange a tie:

  “Coralie,” he said, without lowering his hands, “Coralie . . . tell me where she is and I’ll spare your life.”

  The old man started. His evil nature was stimulated by the remembrance of Coralie; and he recovered a part of his energy at the possibility of wrong-doing. He gave a cruel laugh:

  “No, no,” he answered. “Coralie in one scale and I in the other? I’d rather die. Besides, Coralie’s hiding-place is where the gold is. No, never! I may just as well die.”

  “Kill him then, captain,” said Don Luis, intervening. “Kill him, since he prefers it.”

  Once more the thought of immediate murder and revenge sent the red blood rushing to the officer’s face. But the same hesitation unnerved him.

  “No, no,” he said, in a low voice, “I can’t do it.”

  “Why not?” Don Luis insisted. “It’s so easy. Come along! Wring his neck, like a chicken’s, and have done with it!”

  “I can’t.”

  “But why? Do you dislike the thought of strangling him? Does it repel you? And yet, if it were a Boche, on the battlefield . . .”

  “Yes . . . but this man . . .”

  “Is it your hands that refuse? The idea of taking hold of the flesh and squeezing? . . . Here, captain, take my revolver and blow out his brains.”

  Patrice accepted the weapon eagerly and aimed it at old Siméon. The silence was appalling. Old Siméon’s eyes had closed and drops of sweat were streaming down his livid cheeks.

  At last the officer lowered his arm:

  “I can’t do it,” he said.

  “Nonsense,” said Don Luis. “Get on with the work.”

  “No. . . . No. . . .”

  “But, in Heaven’s name, why not?”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can’t? Shall I tell you the reason? You are thinking of that man as if he were your father.”

  “Perhaps it’s that,” said the officer, speaking very low. “There’s a chance of it, you know.”

  “What does it matter, if he’s a beast and a blackguard?”

  “No, no, I haven’t the right. Let him die by all means, but not by my hand. I haven’t the right.”

  “You have the right.”

  “No, it would be abominable! It would be monstrous!”

  Don Luis went up to him and, tapping him on the shoulder, said, gravely:

  “You surely don’t believe that I should stand here, urging you to kill that man, if he were your father?”

  Patrice looked at him wildly:

  “Do you know something? Do you know something for certain? Oh, for Heaven’s sake . . . !”

  Don Luis continued:

  “Do you believe that I would even encourage you to hate him, if he were your father?”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Patrice. “Do you mean that he’s not my father?”

  “Of course he’s not!” cried Don Luis, with irresistible conviction and increasing eagerness. “Your father indeed! Why, look at him! Look at that scoundrelly head. Every sort of vice and violence is written on the brute’s face. Throughout this adventure, from the first day to the last, there was not a crime committed but was his handiwork: not one, do you follow me? There were not two criminals, as we thought, not Essarès, to begin the hellish business, and old Siméon, to finish it. There was only one criminal, one, do you understand, Patrice? Before killing Coralie and Ya-Bon and Vacherot the porter and the woman who was his own accomplice, he killed others! He killed one other in particular, one whose flesh and blood you are, the man whose dying cries you heard over the telephone, the man who called you Patrice and who only lived for you! He killed that man; and that man was your father, Patrice; he was Armand Belval! Now do you understand?”

  Patrice did not understand. Don Luis’ words fell uncomprehended; not one of them lit up the darkness of Patrice’s brain. However, one thought insistently possessed him; and he stammered:

  “That was my father? I heard his voice, you say? Then it was he who called to me?”

  “Yes, Patrice, your father.”

  “And the man who killed him . . . ?”

  “Was this one,” said Don Luis, pointing to Siméon.

  The old man remained motionless, wild-eyed, like a felon awaiting sentence of death. Patrice, quivering with rage, stared at him fixedly:

  “Who are you? Who are you?” he asked. And, turning to Don Luis, “Tell me his name, I beseech you. I want to know his name, before I destroy him.”

  “His name? Haven’t you guessed it yet? Why, from the very first day, I took it for granted! After all, it was the only possible theory.”

  “But what theory? What was it you took for granted?” cried Patrice, impatiently.

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Oh, please! I’m longing to kill him, but I must first know his name.”

  “Well, then . . .”

  There was a long silence between the two men, as they stood close together, looking into each other’s eyes. Then Lupin let fall these four syllables:

  “Essarès Bey.”

  Patrice felt a shock that ran through him from head to foot. Not for a second did he try to understand by what prodigy this revelation came to be merely an expression of the truth. He instantly accepted this truth, as though it were undeniable and proved by the most evident facts. The man was Essarès Bey and had killed his father. He had killed him, so to speak, twice over: first years ago, in the lodge in the garden, taking from him all the light of life and any reason for living; and again the other day, in the library, when Armand Belval had telephoned to his son.

  This time Patrice was determined to do the deed. His eyes expressed an indomitable resolution. His father’s murderer, Coralie’s murderer, must die then and there. His duty was clear and precise. The terrible Essarès was doomed to die by the hand of the son and the bridegroom.

  “Say your prayers,” said Patrice, coldly. “In ten seconds you will be a dead man.”

  He counted out the seconds and, at the tenth, was about to fire, when his enemy, in an access of mad energy proving that, under the outward appearance of old Siméon, there was hidden a man still young and vigorous, shouted with a violence so extraordinary that it made Patrice hesitate:

  “Very well, kill me! . . . Yes, let it be finished! . . . I am beaten: I accept defeat. But it is a victory all the same, because Coralie is dead and my gold is saved! . . . I shall die, but nobody shall have either one or the other, the woman whom I love or the gold that was my life. Ah, Patrice, Patrice, the woman whom we both loved to distraction is no longer alive . . . or else she is dying without a possibility of saving her now. If I cannot have her, you shall not have her either, Patrice. My revenge has done its work. Coralie is lost!”

  He had recovered a fierce energy and was shouting and stammering at the same time. Patrice stood opposite him, holding him covered with the revolver, ready to act, but still waiting to hear the terrible words that tortured him.

  “She is lost, Patrice!” Siméon continued, raising his voice still louder. “Lost! There’s nothing to be done! And you will not find even her body in the bowels of the earth, where I buried her with the bags of gold. Under the tombstone? No, not such a fool! No, Patrice, you will never find her. The gold is stifling her. She’s dead! Coralie is dead! Oh, the delight of throwing that in your face! The anguish you must be feeling! Coralie is dead! Coralie is dead!”

  “Don’t shout so, you’ll wake her,” said Don L
uis, calmly.

  The brief sentence was followed by a sort of stupor which paralyzed the two adversaries. Patrice’s arms dropped to his sides. Siméon turned giddy and sank into a chair. Both of them, knowing the things of which Don Luis was capable, knew what he meant.

  But Patrice wanted something more than a vague sentence that might just as easily be taken as a jest. He wanted a certainty.

  “Wake her?” he asked, in a broken voice.

  “Well, of course!” said Don Luis. “When you shout too loud, you wake people up.”

  “Then she’s alive?”

  “You can’t wake the dead, whatever people may say. You can only wake the living.”

  “Coralie is alive! Coralie is alive!” Patrice repeated, in a sort of rapture that transfigured his features. “Can it be possible? But then she must be here! Oh, I beg of you, say you’re in earnest, give me your word! . . . Or no, it’s not true, is it? I can’t believe it . . . you must be joking. . . .”

  “Let me answer you, captain, as I answered that wretch just now. You are admitting that it is possible for me to abandon my work before completing it. How little you know me! What I undertake to do I do. It’s one of my habits and a good one at that. That’s why I cling to it. Now watch me.”

  He turned to one side of the room. Opposite the hanging that covered the door by which Patrice had entered was a second curtain, concealing another door. He lifted the curtain.

  “No, no, she’s not there,” said Patrice, in an almost inaudible voice. “I dare not believe it. The disappointment would be too great. Swear to me . . .”

  “I swear nothing, captain. You have only to open your eyes. By Jove, for a French officer, you’re cutting a pretty figure! Why, you’re as white as a sheet! Of course it’s she! It’s Little Mother Coralie! Look, she’s in bed asleep, with two nurses to watch her. But there’s no danger; she’s not wounded. A bit of a temperature, that’s all, and extreme weakness. Poor Little Mother Coralie! I never could have imagined her in such a state of exhaustion and coma.”

  Patrice had stepped forward, brimming over with joy. Don Luis stopped him:

  “That will do, captain. Don’t go any nearer. I brought her here, instead of taking her home, because I thought a change of scene and atmosphere essential. But she must have no excitement. She’s had her share of that; and you might spoil everything by showing yourself.”

  “You’re right,” said Patrice. “But are you quite sure . . . ?”

  “That she’s alive?” asked Don Luis, laughing. “She’s as much alive as you or I and quite ready to give you the happiness you deserve and to change her name to Mme. Patrice Belval. You must have just a little patience, that’s all. And there is yet one obstacle to overcome, captain, for remember she’s a married woman!”

  He closed the door and led Patrice back to Essarès Bey:

  “There’s the obstacle, captain. Is your mind made up now? This wretch still stands between you and your Coralie.”

  Essarès had not even glanced into the next room, as though he knew that there could be no doubt about Don Luis’ word. He sat shivering in his chair, cowering, weak and helpless.

  “You don’t seem comfortable,” said Don Luis. “What’s worrying you? You’re frightened, perhaps? What for? I promise you that we will do nothing except by mutual consent and until we are all of the same opinion. That ought to cheer you up. We’ll be your judges, the three of us, here and now. Captain Patrice Belval, Arsène Lupin and old Siméon will form the court. Let the trial begin. Does any one wish to speak in defense of the prisoner at the bar, Essarès Bey? No one. The prisoner at the bar is sentenced to death. Extenuating circumstances? No notice of appeal? No. Commutation of sentence? No. Reprieve? No. Immediate execution? Yes. You see, there’s no delay. What about the means of death? A revolver-shot? That will do. It’s clean, quick work. Captain Belval, your bird. The gun’s loaded. Here you are.”

  Patrice did not move. He stood gazing at the foul brute who had done him so many injuries. His whole being seethed with hatred. Nevertheless, he replied:

  “I will not kill that man.”

  “I agree, captain. Your scruples do you honor. You have not the right to kill a man whom you know to be the husband of the woman you love. It is not for you to remove the obstacle. Besides, you hate taking life. So do I. This animal is too filthy for words. And so, my good man, there’s no one left but yourself to help us out of this delicate position.”

  Don Luis ceased speaking for a moment and leant over Essarès. Had the wretched man heard? Was he even alive? He looked as if he were in a faint, deprived of consciousness.

  Don Luis shook him by the shoulder.

  “The gold,” moaned Essarès, “the bags of gold . . .”

  “Oh, you’re thinking of that, you old scoundrel, are you? You’re still interested? The bags of gold are in my pocket . . . if a pocket can contain eighteen hundred bags of gold.”

  “The hiding-place?”

  “Your hiding-place? It doesn’t exist, so far as I’m concerned. I needn’t prove it to you, need I, since Coralie’s here? As Coralie was buried among the bags of gold, you can draw your own conclusion. So you’re nicely done. The woman you wanted is free and, what is worse still, free by the side of the man whom she adores and whom she will never leave. And, on the other hand, your treasure is discovered. So it’s all finished, eh? We are agreed? Come, here’s the toy that will release you.”

  He handed him the revolver. Essarès took it mechanically and pointed it at Don Luis; but his arm lacked the strength to take aim and fell by his side.

  “Capital!” said Don Luis. “We understand each other; and the action which you are about to perform will atone for your evil life, you old blackguard. When a man’s last hope is dispelled, there’s nothing for it but death. That’s the final refuge.”

  He took hold of the other’s hand and, bending Essarès’ nerveless fingers round the revolver, forced him to point it towards his own face.

  “Come,” said he, “just a little pluck. What you’ve resolved to do is a very good thing. As Captain Belval and I refuse to disgrace ourselves by killing you, you’ve decided to do the job yourself. We are touched; and we congratulate you. But you must behave with courage. No resistance, come! That’s right, that’s much more like it. Once more, my compliments. It’s very smart, your manner of getting out of it. You perceive that there’s no room for you on earth, that you’re standing in the way of Patrice and Coralie and that the best thing you can do is to retire. And you’re jolly well right! No love and no gold! No gold, Siméon! The beautiful shiny coins which you coveted, with which you would have managed to secure a nice, comfortable existence, all fled, vanished! You may just as well vanish yourself, what?”

  Whether because he felt himself to be helpless or because he really understood that Don Luis was right and that his life was no longer worth living, Siméon offered hardly any resistance. The revolver rose to his forehead. The barrel touched his temple.

  At the touch of the cold steel he gave a moan:

  “Mercy!”

  “No, no, no!” said Don Luis. “You mustn’t show yourself any mercy. And I won’t help you either. Perhaps, if you hadn’t killed my poor Ya-Bon, we might have put our heads together and sought for another ending. But, honestly, you inspire me with no more pity than you feel for yourself. You want to die and you are right. I won’t prevent you. Besides, your passport is made out; you’ve got your ticket in your pocket. They are expecting you down below. And, you know, you need have no fear of being bored. Have you ever seen a picture of Hell? Every one has a huge stone over his tomb; and every one is lifting the stone and supporting it with his back, in order to escape the flames bursting forth beneath him. You see, there’s plenty of fun. Well, your grave is reserved. Bath’s ready, sir!”

  Slowly and patiently he had succeeded in slipping the wretched man’s fore-finger under the handle, so as to bring it against the trigger. Essarès was letting himself go. He was little more
than a limp rag. Death had already cast its shadow upon him.

  “Mind you,” said Don Luis, “you’re perfectly free. You can pull the trigger if you feel like it. It’s not my business. I’m not here to compel you to commit suicide, but only to advise you and to lend you a hand.”

  He had in fact let go the fore-finger and was holding only the arm. But he was bearing upon Essarès with all his extraordinary power of will, the will to seek destruction, the will to seek annihilation, an indomitable will which Essarès was unable to resist. Every second death sank a little deeper into that invertebrate body, breaking up instinct, obscuring thought and bringing an immense craving for rest and inaction.

  “You see how easy it is. The intoxication is flying to your brain. It’s an almost voluptuous feeling, isn’t it? What a riddance! To cease living! To cease suffering! To cease thinking of that gold which you no longer possess and can never possess again, of that woman who belongs to another and offers him her lips and all her entrancing self! . . . You couldn’t live, could you, with that thought on you? Then come on! . . .”

  Seized with cowardice, the wretch was yielding by slow degrees. He found himself face to face with one of those crushing forces, one of nature’s forces, powerful as fate, which a man must needs accept. His head turned giddy and swam. He was descending into the abyss.

  “Come along now, show yourself a man. Don’t forget either that you are dead already. Remember, you can’t appear in this world again without falling into the hands of the police. And, of course, I’m there to inform them in case of need. That means prison and the scaffold. The scaffold, my poor fellow, the icy dawn, the knife . . .”

  It was over. Essarès was sinking into the depths of darkness. Everything whirled around him. Don Luis’ will penetrated him and annihilated his own.

  For one moment he turned to Patrice and tried to implore his aid. But Patrice persisted in his impassive attitude. Standing with his arms folded, he gazed with eyes devoid of pity upon his father’s murderer. The punishment was well-deserved. Fate must be allowed to take its course. Patrice did not interfere.