Honorine murmured, drowsily:
“They say that the gate is a stone . . . and that it comes from very far away, from a foreign country. It’s the God-Stone. They also say that it’s a precious stone . . . the colour of gold and silver mixed . . . . The God-Stone . . . . The stone that gives life or death . . . . Maguennoc saw it . . . . He opened the gate and put his arm through . . . . And his hand . . . his hand was burnt to a cinder.”
Véronique felt oppressed. Fear was gradually overcoming her also, like the oozing and soaking of stagnant water. The horrible events of the last few days, of which she had been a terrified witness, seemed to evoke others yet more dreadful, which she anticipated like an inevitable hurricane that is bound to carry off everything in its headlong course.
She expected them. She had no doubt that they would come, unloosed by the fatal power which was multiplying its terrible assaults upon her.
“Don’t you see the boats?” asked Honorine.
“No,” she said, “you can’t see them from here.”
“Yes, you can: they are sure to come this way. They are heavy boats: and there’s a wider passage at the point.”
The next moment, Véronique saw the bow of a boat project beyond the end of the headland. The boat lay low in the water, being very heavily laden, crammed with crates and parcels on which women and children were seated. Four men were rowing lustily.
“That’s Corréjou’s,” said Honorine, who had left her bed, half-dressed. “And there’s the other: look.”
The second boat came into view, equally burdened. Only three men were rowing, with a woman to help them.
Both boats were too far away — perhaps seven or eight hundred yards — to allow the faces of the occupants to be seen. And no sound of voices rose from those heavy hulls with their cargoes of wretchedness, which were fleeing from death.
“Oh dear, oh dear!” moaned Honorine. “If only they escape this hell!”
“What can you be afraid of, Honorine? They are in no danger.”
“Yes, they are, as long as they have not left the island.”
“But they have left it.”
“It’s still the island all around the island. It’s there that the coffins lurk and lie in wait.”
“But the sea is not rough.”
“There’s more than the sea. It’s not the sea that’s the enemy.”
“Then what is?”
“I don’t know . . . . I don’t know . . . .”
The two boats veered round at the southern point. Before them lay two channels, which Honorine pointed out by the name of two reefs, the Devil’s Rock and the Sarek Tooth.
It at once became evident that Corréjou had chosen the Devil’s Channel.
“They’re touching it,” said Honorine. “They are there. Another hundred yards and they are safe.”
She almost gave a chuckle:
“Ah, all the devil’s machinations will be thwarted, Madame Véronique! I really believe that we shall be saved, you and I and all the people of Sarek.”
Véronique remained silent. Her depression continued and was all the more overwhelming because she could attribute it only to vague presentiments which she was powerless to fight against. She had drawn an imaginary line up to which the danger threatened, would continue to threaten, and where it still persisted; and this line Corréjou had not yet reached.
Honorine was shivering with fever. She mumbled:
“I’m frightened . . . . I’m frightened . . . .”
“Nonsense,” declared Véronique, pulling herself together, “It’s absurd! Where can the danger come from?”
“Oh,” cried the Breton woman, “what’s that? What does it mean?”
“What? What is it?”
They had both pressed their foreheads to the panes and were staring wildly before them. Down below, something had so to speak shot out from the Devil’s Rock. And they at once recognized the motor-boat which they had used the day before and which according to Corréjou had disappeared.
“François! François!” cried Honorine, in stupefaction. “François and Monsieur Stéphane!”
Véronique recognized the boy. He was standing in the bow of the motor-boat and making signs to the people in the two rowing-boats. The men answered by waving their oars, while the women gesticulated. In spite of Véronique’s opposition, Honorine opened both halves of the window; and they could hear the sound of voices above the throbbing of the motor, though they could not catch a single word.
“What does it mean?” repeated Honorine. “François and M. Stéphane! . . . Why did they not make for the mainland?”
“Perhaps,” Véronique explained, “they were afraid of being observed and questioned on landing.”
“No, they are known, especially François, who often used to go with me. Besides, the identity-papers are in the boat. No, they were waiting there, hidden behind the rock.”
“But, Honorine, if they were hiding, why do they show themselves now?”
“Ah, that’s just it, that’s just it! . . . I don’t understand . . . and it strikes me as odd . . . . What must Corréjou and the others think?”
The two boats, of which the second was now gliding in the wake of the first, had almost stopped. All the passengers seemed to be looking round at the motor-boat, which came rapidly in their direction and slackened speed when she was level with the second boat. In this way, she continued on a line parallel with that of the two boats and fifteen or twenty yards away.
“I don’t understand . . . . I don’t understand,” muttered Honorine.
The motor had been cut off and the motor-boat now very slowly reached the space that separated the two fish-boats.
And suddenly the two women saw François stoop and then stand up again and draw his right arm back, as though he were going to throw something.
And at the same time Stéphane Maroux acted in the same way.
Then the unexpected, terrifying thing happened.
“Oh!” cried Véronique.
She hid her eyes for a second, but at once raised her head again and saw the hideous sight in all its horror.
Two things had been thrown across the little space, one from the bow, flung by François, the other from the stern, flung by Stéphane Maroux.
And two bursts of fire at once shot up from the two boats, followed by two whirls of smoke.
The explosions re-echoed. For a moment, nothing of what happened amid that black cloud was visible. Then the curtain parted, blown aside by the wind, and Véronique and Honorine saw the two boats swiftly sinking, while their occupants jumped into the sea.
The sight, the infernal sight, did not last long. They saw, standing on one of the buoys that marked the channel, a woman holding a child in her arms, without moving: then some motionless bodies, no doubt killed by the explosion; then two men fighting, mad perhaps. And all this went down with the boats.
A few eddies, some black specks floating on the surface; and that was all.
Honorine and Véronique, struck dumb with terror, had not uttered a single word. The thing surpassed the worst that their anguished minds could have conceived.
When it was all over, Honorine put her hand to her head and, in a hollow voice which Véronique was never to forget, said:
“My head’s bursting. Oh, the poor people of Sarek! They were my friends, the friends of my childhood; and I shall never see them again . . . . The sea never gives up its dead at Sarek: it keeps them. It has its coffins all ready: thousands and thousands of hidden coffins . . . . Oh, my head is bursting! . . . I shall go mad . . . mad like François, my poor François!”
Véronique did not answer. She was grey in the face. With clutching fingers she clung to the balcony, gazing downwards as one gazes into an abyss into which one is about to fling oneself. What would her son do? Would he save those people, whose shouts of distress now reached her ears, would he save them without delay? One may have fits of madness; but the attacks pass away at the sight of certain things.
> The motor-boat had backed at first to avoid the eddies. François and Stéphane, whose red cap and white cap were still visible, were standing in the same positions at the bow and the stern; and they held in their hands . . . what? The two women could not see clearly, because of the distance, what they held in their hands. It looked like two rather long sticks.
“Poles, to help them,” suggested Véronique.
“Or guns,” said Honorine.
The black specks were still floating. There were nine of them, the nine heads of the survivors, whose arms also the two women saw moving from time to time and whose cries for help they heard.
Some were hurriedly moving away from the motor-boat, but four were swimming towards it; and, of those four, two could not fail to reach it.
Suddenly François and Stéphane made the same movement, the movement of marksmen taking aim.
There were two flashes, followed by the sound of a single report.
The heads of the two swimmers disappeared.
“Oh, the monsters!” stammered Véronique, almost swooning and falling on her knees.
Honorine, beside her, began screaming:
“François! François!”
Her voice did not carry, first because it was too weak and then the wind was in her face. But she continued:
“François! François!”
She next stumbled across the room and into the corridor, in search of something, and returned to the window, still shouting:
“François! François!”
She had ended by finding the shell which she used as a signal. But, on lifting it to her mouth, she found that she could produce only dull and indistinct sounds from it:
“Oh, curse the thing!” she cried, flinging the shell away. “I have no strength left . . . . François! François!”
She was terrible to look at, with her hair all in disorder and her face covered with the sweat of fever. Véronique implored her:
“Please, Honorine, please!”
“But look at them, look at them!”
The motor-boat was drifting forward down below, with the two marksmen at their posts, holding their guns ready for murder.
The survivors fled. Two of them hung back in the rear.
These two were aimed at. Their heads disappeared from view.
“But look at them!” Honorine said, explosively, in a hoarse voice. “They’re hunting them down! They’re killing them like game! . . . Oh, the poor people of Sarek! . . .”
Another shot. Another black speck vanished.
Véronique was writhing in despair. She shook the rails of the balcony, as she might have shaken the bars of a cage in which she was imprisoned.
“Vorski! Vorski!” she groaned, stricken by the recollection of her husband. “He’s Vorski’s son!”
Suddenly she felt herself seized by the throat and saw, close to her own face, the distorted face of the Breton woman.
“He’s your son!” spluttered Honorine. “Curse you! You are the monster’s mother and you shall be punished for it!”
And she burst out laughing and stamping her feet, in an overpowering fit of hilarity.
“The cross, yes, the cross! You shall be crucified, with nails through your hands! . . . What a punishment, nails through your hands!”
She was mad.
Véronique released herself and tried to hold the other motionless: but Honorine, filled with malicious rage, threw her off, making her lose balance, and began to climb into the balcony.
She remained standing outside the window, lifting up her arms and once more shouting:
“François! François!”
The first floor was not so high on this side of the house, owing to the slope of the ground. Honorine jumped into the path below, crossed it, pushed her way through the shrubs that lined it and ran to the ridge of rocks which formed the cliff and overhung the sea.
She stopped for a moment, thrice called out the name of the child whom she had reared and flung herself headlong into the deep.
In the distance, the man-hunt drew to a finish.
The heads sank one by one. The massacre was completed.
Then the motor-boat with François and Stéphane on board fled towards the coast of Brittany, towards the beaches of Beg-Meil and Concarneau.
Véronique was left alone on Coffin Island.
CHAPTER V. “FOUR WOMEN CRUCIFIED”
VÉRONIQUE WAS LEFT alone on Coffin Island. Until the sun sank among the clouds that seemed, on the horizon, to rest upon the sea, she did not move, but sat huddled against the window, with her head buried in her two arms resting on the sill.
The dread reality passed through the darkness of her mind like pictures which she strove not to see, but which at times became so clearly defined that she imagined herself to be living through those atrocious scenes again.
Still she sought no explanation of all this and formed no theories as to all the motives which might have thrown a light upon the tragedy. She admitted the madness of François and of Stéphane Maroux, being unable to suppose any other reasons for such actions as theirs. And, believing the two murderers to be mad, she did not even try to attribute to them any projects or definite wishes.
Moreover, Honorine’s madness, of which she had, so to speak, observed the outbreak, impelled her to look upon all that had happened as provoked by a sort of mental upset to which all the people of Sarek had fallen victims. She herself at moments felt that her brain was reeling, that her ideas were fading away in a mist, that invisible ghosts were hovering around her.
She dozed off into a sleep which was haunted by these images and in which she felt so wretched that she began to sob. Also it seemed to her that she could hear a slight noise which, in her benumbed wits, assumed a hostile significance. Enemies were approaching. She opened her eyes.
A couple of yards in front of her, sitting upon its haunches, was a queer animal, covered with long mud-coloured hair and holding its fore-paws folded like a pair of arms.
It was a dog; and she at once remembered François’ dog, of which Honorine had spoken as a dear, devoted, comical creature. She even remembered his name, All’s-Well.
As she uttered this name in an undertone, she felt an angry impulse and was almost driving away the animal endowed with such an ironical nickname. All’s-Well! And she thought of all the victims of the horrible nightmare, of all the dead people of Sarek, of her murdered father, of Honorine killing herself, of François going mad. All’s-Well, forsooth!
Meanwhile the dog did not stir. He was sitting up as Honorine had described, with his head a little on one side, one eye closed, the corners of his mouth drawn back to his ears and his arms crossed in front of him; and there was really something very like a smile flitting over his face.
Véronique now remembered: this was the manner in which All’s-Well displayed his sympathy for those in trouble. All’s-Well could not bear the sight of tears. When people wept, he sat up until they in their turn smiled and petted him.
Véronique did not smile, but she pressed him against her and said:
“No, my poor dog, all’s not well; on the contrary, all’s as bad as it can be. No matter: we must live, mustn’t we, and we mustn’t go mad ourselves like the others?”
The necessities of life obliged her to act. She went down to the kitchen, found some food and gave the dog a good share of it. Then she went upstairs again.
Night had fallen. She opened, on the first floor, the door of a bedroom which at ordinary times must have been unoccupied. She was weighed down with an immense fatigue, caused by all the efforts and violent emotions which she had undergone. She fell asleep almost at once. All’s Well lay awake at the foot of her bed.
Next morning she woke late, with a curious feeling of peace and security. It seemed to her that her present life was somehow connected with her calm and placid life at Besançon. The few days of horror which she had passed fell away from her like distant events whose return she had no need to fear. The men and women who had gone
under in the great horror became to her mind almost like strangers whom one has met and does not expect to see again. Her heart ceased bleeding. Her sorrow for them did not reach the depths of her soul.
It was due to the unforeseen and undisturbed rest, the consoling solitude. And all this seemed to her so pleasant that, when a steamer came and anchored on the spot of the disaster, she made no signal. No doubt yesterday, from the mainland, they had seen the flash of the explosions and heard the report of the shots. Véronique remained motionless.
She saw a boat put off from the steamer and supposed that they were going to land and explore the village. But not only did she dread an enquiry in which her son might be involved: she herself did not wish to be found, to be questioned, to have her name, her identity, her story discovered and to be brought back into the infernal circle from which she had escaped. She preferred to wait a week or two, to wait until chance brought within hailing-distance of the island some fishing-boat which could pick her up.
But no one came to the Priory. The steamer put off; and nothing disturbed her isolation.
And so she remained for three days. Fate seemed to have reconsidered its intention of making fresh assaults upon her. She was alone and her own mistress. All’s Well, whose company had done her a world of good, disappeared.
The Priory domain occupied the whole end of the island, on the site of a Benedictine abbey, which had been abandoned in the fifteenth century and gradually fallen into ruin and decay.
The house, built in the eighteenth century by a wealthy Breton ship-owner out of the materials of the old abbey and the stones of the chapel, was in no way interesting either outside or in. Véronique, for that matter, did not dare to enter any of the rooms. The memory of her father and son checked her before the closed doors.
But, on the second day, in the bright spring sunshine, she explored the park. It extended to the point of the island and, like the sward in front of the house, was studded with ruins and covered with ivy. She noticed that all the paths ran towards a steep promontory crowned with a clump of enormous oaks. When she reached the spot, she found that these oaks stood round a crescent-shaped clearing which was open to the sea.
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 221