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

by Maurice Leblanc

  They continued on their way and once more came upon the cable. Simon went on foot, abreast of Dolores. By turning his head a little, he could see her sad face, with its crown of black hair. She had lost her broad-brimmed hat, as well as her bolero, which was strapped to the saddle of the horse stolen by Mazzani. A silk shirt revealed the modelling of her breasts. Her rifle was slung across her shoulders.

  Once more the region of streaked stone extended to the horizon, dotted with wrecks as before and crossed by the wandering shapes of looters. Clouds hung overhead. From time to time there was the humming of an aeroplane.

  At noon Simon calculated that they had still twelve or fifteen miles to cover and that therefore they might be able to reach Dieppe before night. Dolores, who had dismounted and, like him, was walking, declared:

  “We, yes, we shall get there. But not the horse. He will drop before that.”

  “No matter!” said Simon. “The great thing is for us to get there.”

  The rocky ground was now interspersed with tracts of sand where footprints were once more visible; and among other trails were those of two horses coming in their direction along the line of the cable.

  “Yet we passed no one on horseback,” said Simon. “What do you make of it?”

  She did not reply: but a little later, as they reached the top of a slope, she showed him a broad river mingling with the horizon and barring their progress. When they were nearer, they saw that it was flowing from their right to their left; and, when they were nearer still, it reminded them of the stream which they had left that morning. The colour, the banks, the windings were the same. Simon, disconcerted, examined the country around to discover something that was different; but the landscape was identical, as a whole and in every detail.

  “What does this mean?” muttered Simon. “There must be an inexplicable mirage . . . for, after all, it is impossible to admit that we can have made a mistake.”

  But proofs of the blunder committed were becoming more numerous. The track of the two horses having led them away from the cable, they went down to the river-bank and there, on a flat space bearing the traces of an encampment, they were compelled to recognize the spot where they had passed the previous night!

  Thus, in a disastrous fit of distraction due to the attack by the Indians and the death of the younger Mazzani, both of them, in their excitement, had lost their bearings, and, trusting to the only indication which they had discovered, had gone back to the submarine cable. Then, when they resumed their journey, there had been nothing, no landmark of any kind, to reveal the fact that they were following the cable in the reverse direction, that they were retracing the path already travelled and that they were returning, after an exhausting and fruitless effort, to the spot which they had left some hours ago!

  Simon yielded to a momentary fit of despondency. That which was only a vexatious delay assumed in his eyes the importance of an irreparable event. The upheaval of the 4th of June had caused this corner of the world to relapse into absolute barbarism; and to struggle against the obstacles which it presented called for qualities which he did not possess. While the marauders and outcasts felt at home from the beginning in this new state of things, he, Simon Dubosc, was vainly seeking for the solution of the problems propounded by the exceptional circumstances. Where was he to go? What was he to do? Against whom was he to defend himself? How was he to rescue Isabel?

  As completely lost in the new land as he would have been in the immensity of the sea, he ascended the course of the river, following, with a distraught gaze, the trace of the two trails marking the sand, which was wet in places. He recognized the prints left by Dolores’ sandals.

  “It’s no use going in that direction,” she said. “I explored all the surrounding country this morning.”

  He went on, however, against the girl’s wishes and with no other object than that of acting and moving. And, so doing, in some fifteen minutes’ time he came upon a spot where the bank was trampled and muddy, like the banks of a river at a ford.

  He stopped suddenly. Horses had passed that way. The mark of their shoes was plainly visible.

  “Oh!” he cried, in bewilderment. “Here is Rolleston’s trail! . . . This is the distinct pattern of his rubber soles! Can I believe my eyes?”

  Almost immediately his quest assumed a more definite form. Fifty yards higher were the traces, still plainly marked, of a camp; and Simon declared:

  “Of course! . . . Of course! . . . It was here that they landed last night! Like us, they must have fled before the sudden rise of the water; and like us, they camped on the further side of a hill. Oh,” he continued, despairingly, “we were less than a mile from them! We could have surprised them in their sleep! Isn’t it frightful to think that nothing told us of it . . . and that such an opportunity. . . .”

  He squatted on his heels and, bending over the ground, examined it for some minutes. Then he rose, his eyes met those of Dolores and he said, in a low voice:

  “There is one extraordinary thing. . . . How do you explain it?”

  The girl’s tanned face turned crimson; and he saw that she guessed what he was about to say:

  “You came here this morning, Dolores, while I was asleep. Several times your footsteps cover those of our enemies, which proves that you came after they were gone. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She was silent, with her eyes still fixed upon Simon’s and her grave face animated by an expression of mingled defiance and fear. Suddenly Simon seized her hand:

  “But then . . . but then you knew the truth! Ever since this morning, you have known that they went along the river-bank. . . . Look . . . over there . . . you can see their tracks leading eastward. . . . And you never told me! Worse than that. . . . Why, yes . . . it was you who called my attention to the cable. . . . It was you who set me going in a southerly direction . . . towards France. . . . And it is through you that we have lost nearly a whole day!”

  Standing close up to her, with his eyes plumbing hers, holding her fingers in his, he resumed:

  “Why did you do that? It was an unspeakable piece of treachery. . . . Tell me, why? You know that I love Miss Bakefield, that she is in the most terrible danger and that to her one day lost may mean dishonour . . . and death. . . . Then why did you do it?”

  He said no more. He felt that, in spite of her appearance, which was impassive as usual, the girl was overcome with emotion and that he was dominating her with all the power of his manhood. Dolores’ knees were giving way beneath her. There was nothing in her now but submissiveness and gentleness; and, since, in their exceptional position, no reserve could restrain her confession or check her impulsiveness, she whispered:

  “Forgive me. . . . I wasn’t thinking . . . or rather I thought of no one but you . . . you and myself. . . . Yes, from the first moment of our meeting, the other day, I was swept off my feet by a feeling stronger than anything in this world. . . . I don’t know why. . . . It was your way of doing things . . . your delicacy, when you threw your coat over my shoulders. . . . I’m not used to being treated like that. . . . You seemed to me different from the others. . . . That night, at the Casino, your triumph intoxicated me. . . . And since then my whole life has been centred on you. . . . I have never felt like this before. . . . Men . . . men are brutal to me . . . violent . . . terrible. . . . They run after me like brutes . . . I loathe them. . . . You . . . you . . . you’re different. . . . With you I feel a slave. . . . I want to please you. . . . Your every movement delights me. . . . With you I am happier than I’ve ever been in my life. . . .”

  She stood drooping before him, with lowered head. Simon was bewildered at the expression of this spontaneous love, which to him was so completely unforeseen, which was at once so humble and so passionate. It wounded him in his love for Isabel, as though he had committed an offence in listening to the girl’s avowal. Yet she spoke so gently; and it was so strange to see this proud and beautiful creature bowing before him with such reverence that he could not but expe
rience a certain emotion.

  “I love another woman,” he repeated, to set up definitely the obstacle of this love, “and nothing can come between us.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Nevertheless I hoped . . . I don’t know what. . . . I had no object in view. . . . I only wanted us to be alone together, just the two of us, as long as possible. It’s over now. I swear it. . . . We shall find Miss Bakefield. . . . Let me take you to her: I think I shall be better able than you. . . .”

  Was she sincere? How could he reconcile this offer of devotion with the passion to which she had confessed?

  “What proof have you?” asked Simon.

  “What proof of my loyalty? The absolute acknowledgement of the wrong which I have done and which I wish to repair. This morning, when I came here alone, I looked all over the ground to see if there was anything that might give us a clue and I ended by discovering on the edge of this rock a scrap of paper with some writing on it. . . .”

  “Have you it?” cried Simon, sharply. “Has she written? Miss Bakefield, I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s for me, of course?” continued Simon, with increasing excitement.

  “It’s not addressed. But of course it was written for you just as yesterday’s message was. Here it is. . . .”

  She held out a piece of paper, moist and crumpled, on which he read the following words, hastily scribbled in Isabel’s hand:

  “No longer making for Dieppe. They have heard a rumour of a fountain of gold . . . a real, gushing spring, it seems. We are going in that direction. No immediate cause for anxiety.”

  And Dolores added:

  “They left before daybreak, going up the river. If this river is really the Somme, we must suppose that they have crossed it somewhere, which will have delayed them. So we shall find them, Simon.”

  CHAPTER III. SIDE BY SIDE

  THE JADED HORSE was incapable of further service. They had to abandon it, after emptying the saddle-bags and removing the rug, which Dolores wrapped about her like a soldier’s cloak.

  They set out again. Henceforth the girl directed the pursuit. Simon, reassured by Isabel’s letter, allowed Dolores to lead the way and twenty times over had occasion to remark her perspicacity and the accuracy of her judgment or intuition.

  Then, less anxious, feeling that she understood, he became more talkative and abandoned himself, as on the previous day, to the burst of enthusiasm which the miracle of this new world awakened in him. The still unsettled coast-line, the irresolute river, the changing hues of the water, the ever-varying forms of the heights and valleys, the contours of the landscape, hardly more definite as yet than those of an infant’s face: all of this, for an hour or two, was to him a source of wonder and exaltation.

  “Look, look!” he cried. “It is as though the landscape were amazed at showing itself in the light of day! Crushed until now beneath the weight of the waters, buried in darkness, it seems embarrassed by the light. Each detail has to learn how to hold itself, to win a place for itself, to adapt itself to new conditions of existence, to obey other laws, to shape itself in accordance with other purposes, in short, to live its life as a thing of earth. It will grow acquainted with the wind, the rain, the frost; with winter and spring; with the sun, the beautiful, glorious sun, which will fertilize it and draw from it all the appearance, colour, service, pleasure and beauty which it is capable of yielding. A world is being created before our eyes.”

  Dolores listened with a charmed expression that spoke of the delight which she felt when Simon spoke for her benefit. And he, all unawares, meanwhile became kindlier and more attentive. The companion with whom chance had associated him was assuming more and more the semblance of a woman. Sometimes he reflected upon the love which she had revealed to him and asked himself whether, in professing her readiness to devote herself, she was not seeking above all to remain by his side and to profit by the circumstances which brought them together. But he was so sure of his own strength and so well protected by Isabel that he took little pains to fathom the secrets of this mysterious soul.

  Three times they witnessed murderous conflicts among the swarm of vagabonds who were checked by the barrier of the river. Two men and a woman fell, but Simon made no attempt to defend them or to punish the criminals:

  “It is the law of the strongest,” he said. “No police! No judges! No executioners! No guillotine! So why trouble ourselves? All social and moral acquisitions, all the subtleties of civilization, all these melt away in a moment. What remains? The primordial instincts, which are to abuse your strength, to take what isn’t yours and, in a moment of anger or greed, to kill your fellows. What does it matter? We are back in the troglodyte age! Let each man look to himself!”

  The sound of singing reached them from somewhere ahead, as though the river had transmitted its loud echo. They listened: it was a French rustic ditty, sung in a drawling voice to a tuneful air. The sound drew nearer. From the curtain of mist a large open boat came into view, laden with men, women and children, with baskets and articles of furniture, and impelled by the powerful effort of six oars. The men were emigrant sailors, in quest of new shores on which to rebuild their homes.

  “France?” cried Simon, when they passed.

  “Cayeux-sur-Mer,” replied one of the singers.

  “Then this river is the Somme?”

  “It’s the Somme.”

  “But it’s flowing north!”

  “Yes, but there’s a sharp bend a few miles from here.”

  “You must have passed a party of men carrying off an old man and a girl bound to two horses.”

  “Haven’t seen anything of that sort,” declared the man.

  He resumed his singing. Women’s voices joined in the chorus; and the boat moved on.

  “Rolleston must have branched off towards France,” Simon concluded.

  “He can’t have done that,” objected Dolores, “since his present objective is the fountain of gold which some one mentioned to him.”

  “In that case what has become of them?”

  The reply to this question was vouchsafed after an hour’s difficult walking over a ground composed of millions upon millions of those broken sea-shells which the patient centuries use in kneading and shaping of the tallest cliffs. It all crackled under their feet and sometimes they sank into it above their ankles. Some tracts, hundreds of yards wide, were covered with a layer of dead fish on which they were compelled to trudge and which formed a mass of decomposing flesh with an intolerable stench to it.

  But a slope of hard, firm ground led them to a more rugged promontory overhanging the river. Here a dozen men, grey before their time, clothed in rags and repulsively filthy, with evil faces and brutal gestures, were cutting up the carcass of a horse and grilling the pieces over a scanty fire fed with sodden planks. They seemed to be a gang of tramps who had joined forces for looting on a larger scale. They had a sheep-dog with them. One of them stated that he had that morning seen a party of armed men crossing the Somme, making use of a big wreck which lay stranded in the middle of the river and which they had reached by a frail, hastily-constructed bridge.

  “Look,” he said, “there she is, at the far end of the cliff. They slid the girl down first and then the old, trussed-up chap.”

  “But,” asked Simon, “the horses didn’t get across that way, did they?”

  “The horses? They were done for. So they let them go. Two of my mates took three of them and have gone back to France with them. . . . If they get there, it’ll be a bit of luck for them. The fourth, he’s on the spit: we’re going to have our dinner off him. . . . After all, one must eat!”

  “And those people, where were they going?” asked Simon.

  “Going to pick up gold. They were talking of a fountain flowing with gold pieces . . . real gold coins. We’re going too, we are. What we’re wanting is arms: arms that are some use.”

  The tramps had risen to their feet; and, obeying an unconcerted and spontaneous movement, they gath
ered round Simon and Dolores. The man who had been speaking laid his hand upon Simon’s rifle:

  “This sort of thing, you know. A gun like that must come in handy just now . . . especially to defend a pocket-book which is probably a fat one. . . . It’s true,” he added, in a threatening tone, “that my mates and I have got our sticks and knives, for when it comes to talking.”

  “A revolver’s better,” said Simon, drawing his from his pocket.

  The circle of tramps opened out.

  “Stay where you are, will you?” he bade them. “The first of you who moves a step, I shoot him down!”

  Walking backwards, while keeping the men covered with his revolver, he drew Dolores to the end of the promontory. The tramps had not budged a foot.

  “Come,” whispered Simon. “We have nothing to fear from them.”

  The boat, completely capsized, squat and clumsy as the shell of a tortoise, barred the second half of the river. In foundering she had spilt on the sloping shore a deck cargo of timber, now sodden, but still sound enough to enable Rolleston’s gang to build a footbridge twelve yards long across the arm of the river.

  Dolores and Simon crossed it briskly. It was easy after that to go along the nearly flat bottom of the keel and to slide down the chain of the anchor. But, just as Dolores reached the ground, a violent concussion shook the chain, of which she had not yet let go, and a shot rang out from the other bank.

  “Ah!” she said. “I was lucky: the bullet has struck one of the links.”

  Simon had faced round. Opposite them, the tramps were venturing on the footbridge one by one.

  “But who can have fired?” he demanded. “Those beggars haven’t a rifle.”

  Dolores gave him a sudden push, so that he was protected by the bulk of the wreck:

  “Who fired?” she repeated. “Forsetta or Mazzani.”

  “Have you seen them?”

  “Yes, at the back of the promontory. You can understand, a very few words would enable them to make a deal with the tramps and persuade them to attack us.”