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

by Maurice Leblanc

  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 will be 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! To kill, 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!”

  CHAPTER XII. THE ASCENT OF GOLGOTHA

  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 monster hesitate 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 the atonement . . . . 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 and lither 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 her cry 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 he leapt 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, opened it 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!