“Hi... Ha... Hou...”
When that happened, Dorr pinched him viciously, while tiny Phoena tried to calm him, stroking his hands under the sleeves of the coat.
Who could have guessed that what the boy was trying to say, to shout, to reveal to the audience was his name: Yves Marécourt!
For indeed, it was the ward of the late Madame Lise Andrézieux, now reduced to a miserable state and exposed to the ridicule of an unwitting public.
For two, long years, since the day of his abduction, the boy’s life had been a long martyrdom. What a rude awakening he had had! Still under the influence of chloroform, which had been administered to him in the car, he had opened his eyes, and found himself lying on the floor of a trailer, tied up like a sausage.
Yves had wanted to scream, but a brutal hand had grasped his throat and stuffed his mouth with a strange gag, shaped like a pear. Made of soft iron, it fit inside the mouth without hurting his tongue, provided that he refrained from screaming or closing his jaws. He therefore had no choice but to remain quiet and keep his mouth half open, giving him a bewildered expression, not unlike that of a retarded child.
Subsequently, his kidnapper, the gypsy Miarko, had untied his legs, but had left his arms strapped in a tangle of belts and rags, turning them into two shapeless stumps, almost useless.
To complete his work, Miarko had stained the boy’s curls with mud, litter and dried leaves. A special application of skin dye had turned Yves the color of the other gypsy children from the caravan.
Thus disguised, the young captive was unrecognizable and could have been claimed at any time by a French Fagin.
The lost child—the stolen child—retained only scattered and often confused memories of the days that had followed his abduction. He wasn’t mistreated and was reasonably well fed. When the gypsies were alone in the forest, away from prying eyes, they allowed him to have the use of his limbs and tongue. When, after some weeks of this half-wild existence, the caravan was finally able to cross the river Loire and was headed down to the Pyrenees, he was again gagged, immobilized and locked up inside a trailer.
It wasn’t that, during that troubled period, Miarko had much to fear from public curiosity. Why would a single child have mattered in the constant flow of the lost and dispossessed, or even to the inhabitants of the villages they passed, where no one had eyes for a ragged band of gypsies? People had become inured to the spectacle of misery that marched across France.
Miarko was only obeying the instructions that he had received from Monsieur Philogène Porcien. His mission was to take his young prisoner to the destination that had been assigned, which was the dilapidated farm in the Pyrenees near the Spanish border.
Yves Marécourt only recovered his freedom on the day after the gypsies reached it and settled in.
They stayed for nearly two years, during which time the child continued to suffer, without understanding the reason why, the terrible circumstances of his new destiny.
A mind less dense than Miarko’s would have probably wondered why the man responsible for the kidnapping desired to prolong, apparently unnecessarily, the child’s barbaric captivity.
But Miarko did not have any curiosity. He didn’t ask questions, and was simply happy to take advantage of the situation. Every month, he received the money orders sent by Monsieur Porcien and led the good life, lazy, reveling in his indolence. Undoubtedly, he wanted only one thing: that things should continue as they were.
Unaware of Yves Marécourt’s real worth, he could not be surprised that his villainous cousin waited for so long without trying to take advantage of his capture.
In reality, the reasons that had prompted Philogène Porcien to commit his evil deed were not very clear, even to himself.
Maybe it was originally a simple act of vengeance against a young and rather distant relative, whose very existence had prevented him from getting his hands on an inheritance that he had expected and desperately wanted. Or revenge against the devoted and yet all too watchful guardian, Madame Andrézieux, whom he knew despised him.
At first, he had wanted to play a trick on her that would cause her great alarm and expose her as an unfit guardian. He had assumed that she would be held responsible for the disappearance of her ward and might even become a suspect in any subsequent investigation.
The best way to exploit the situation had not yet appeared to him.
It should also be noted that, during those two years, Monsieur Porcien had remained ignorant of the news of the tragic death of Madame Andrézieux, and that he dared not risk betraying himself by trying to find out what had happened to her.
It was during this period of enforced waiting that, slowly and mysteriously, his thoughts turned towards crime, and his mind was eventually made up much later, when he decided to go and visit the farm in person.
The picture of the life led by the boy during his captivity that the insightful Saint-Clair and his friend, Gno Mitang, had been able to imagine was quite accurate.
How many other young minds would have fallen prey to despair and madness if subjected to such an ordeal! But Yves Marécourt was made of sterner stuff. His strange and precocious genius saved him from despair, as well as from discouragement. Limited to only the resources of his memory and his innate gifts, which guided him on the road to science, he continued his studies. The inscriptions made in charcoal and plaster on the walls of the farm deciphered by Leo Saint-Clair were evidence of this.
Jealously guarded—like an interest-bearing bond—by Miarko and his wife, he enjoyed only a small measure of freedom. The other children were little savages who were as much his jailers and torturers as the adults. The single exception was little Phoena, who had instinctively befriended him and who protected him from the brutality of the older Dorr.
But then came the fateful day, when the visit of Saint-Clair and Gno Mitang, followed by the arrival of Monsieur Porcien, threw the farm in chaos.
Any foreigner was considered to be an enemy. The eventuality had been anticipated. As soon as the visitors had been spotted, at Miarko’s command, José had taken young Yves into the woods.
They were soon joined by the other children, Dorr and Phoena leading them. Miarka came last, not shocked, but excited by the news she had to report.
Taking José aside, she whispered:
“Miarko’s dead. The man from Paris threw him into a ravine. We must take refuge across the border quickly, otherwise they might accuse you of his death. But I also learned something else: we’re rich!” She pointed at Yves and explained: “That brat is worth millions!”
His greed aroused, the gypsy was only too happy to obey Miarka. That same evening, taking smugglers’ paths, the little band crossed into Spain and was taken in by another gypsy tribe, whom they had met on the road.
Eight days later, they returned to France, disguised as a small traveling circus.
But Miarka but was not amongst them. She and a few other women had gone straight to Paris.
Entrusted to the vigilance of José and Dorr, young Yves, forcibly enlisted in the troupe, reluctantly learned the art of being a clown.
Hopping about, hit by Dorr, comforted by small Phoena, the boy was forced to take part in the grotesque parade. Seemingly ugly and clumsy, he was the object of ridicule, provoking the laughter of children and the jeers of peasants.
If only he could have talked, cried, begged for mercy, and asked the crowd to find his “Mama Lise” and get her to come and rescue him!
But this wish was forced to remain inside him, unexpressed, except through the tragic look in his eyes, which the infamous makeup could not alter.
It was only after the humiliating parade that Yves, rid of the gag, but not of his clownish clothes, was able to empty his heart to Phoena.
“Can’t you understand that I’ve hadenough of this life?” he confided to the girl. “Dorr’s beatings and all the deprivations mean nothing to me. I carry inside myself a dream which gives me strength enough to withstand them and
keep my faith in the future. You don’t know about science, you poor girl. You don’t understanding the meaning of the signs that I draw on the walls. One day, thanks to them, I will make some great discovery that will benefit all humanity... At least, that’s still my hope. As I get older, I’ll eventually grow strong enough to free me myself from Miarka’s tyranny, Dorr’s and even José’s. Don’t cry. That day, I’ll take you with me and make you a beautiful city girl. I’m rich and I could pay dearly for my freedom, if they were ready to let me go.”
“Why don’t you tell them that?” asked Phoena.
The boy shook his head.
“Because I don’t trust them,” he replied. “Why did they take me from Mama Lise? It’s probably because of my fortune. They’re paid to keep me prisoner. Anything I might say would only serve to toughen the care with which they watch me. I’ve finally decided to escape. Today, I’ver had enough! I can no longer stand the role of clown to which they have condemned me.”
“You’re going to abandon me?” exclaimed the girl, her eyes filled with tears.
“Not for long, I promise you. Besides, you could run away with me. If I manage to put us under the protection of the gendarmes, and tell them what they did to me, Miarka, José and the others would certainly go to jail and the police would take me back to Mommy Lise, and you too. Don’t be afraid, I’ll never abandon you!”
“But how can you escape? They watch you day and night.”
The boy was thinking.
“There’s one chance I could take, if you wanted to help me,” he said. “They’re going to have another show tonight. There’ll be spectators around the whole ring. Maybe there will be the Mayor, or the Constable among them... If, without being seen, you could remove that horrible gag from my mouth, I could rouse the public and ask for help. The authorities will want to hear what I have to say and those who keep me prisoner would be powerless to stop them. All the precautions they take to keep me silent show that they fear something like this. My accusations would be accurate and easy to prove, so they would take them seriously.”
“You’re my only friend and I love you,” said Phoena. “To save you, I would risk being beaten—or even killed. If I can, I’ll do what you ask me tonight.”
“You won’t be hurt,” said Yves. “If I succeed, we won’t be separated and the authorities will protect you, just like me, from the other gypsies. We only need to find a time when we’re alone together before our entry into the ring. If not tonight, tomorrow or another day. We’ll seize the first opportunity.”
“I promise I’ll do it,” said the little girl gravely.
That night, their hearts pounding, the two children were waiting in the trailer, which served as backstage to put their plan into action.
Dorr was there, but because he was one of the acrobats, he would soon leave to perform his act. Yves felt hopeful.
Dressed in a dirty shirt and tights with red underpants, Dorr finished pomading his hair in front of a broken mirror. Considering himself ready at last, he finally left the trailer.
Yves and Phoena were left alone.
In his clown costume, the long sleeves of which hid his arms, his hands strapped into stumps, the boy had no freedom of movement, nor could he speak. Only his eyes implored the girl.
“It’s time,” they cried silently. “Keep your promise.”
Trembling a little, but with a decisive look, Phoena approached him, stuck her fingers in his mouth and pulled out the odious gag.
“Thank you!” cried Yves. “I will never forget what you’ve done for me. Now I must act! We can’r waste any time. Listen. I’ll rush into the ring and alert the public. I think the whole village is here. As soon as you hear me screaming, run out of the trailer and watch carefully. If I run towards someone, it’ll be because I sensed that that person will protect us. So run towards him as well. Together, we’ll be freed and protected. Do you understand?”
But, suddenly, instead of answering, the girl stepped back and ran to hide at the back of the trailer, behind a collection of rags hanging from a rope.
Surprised, Yves turned around.
The curtain that concealed the door had been raised. A woman entered.
Yves paled.
It was Miarka. Behind her, there was a stranger, someone dressed like a gentleman who had just finished climbing the few wooden steps that led inside the trailer.
“Come in,” said the gypsy woman. “Here’s the boy.”
She pointed at Yves who stood there, mesmerized.
The visitor gazed at the boy for a long moment.
“You have certainly made him unrecognizable,” he said finally.
A cruel flame burned in his tigerish eyes, chilling Yves with fright. But overcoming the feeling of discomfort that those inhuman eyes caused him, Yves rushed toward him.
“Monsieur,” he cried, “have mercy on me! Protect me! Deliver me! My name is Yves Marécourt. These gypsies have stolen me from my guardian. Call the police! Please!”
Coldly, the visitor turned toward the gypsy.
“You claimed you’d rendered him all but mute,” he uttered in a tone of discontent.
“He was,” stammered Miarka. “Unless…”
Her eyes searched the interior of the trailer. Then, she rushed forward, pushed aside the curtain of rags, and violently pulled Phoena out of her hiding place.
“What did you do, you, little vermin? What do you have in your hand?”
It was Yves’ gag that, unconsciously, Phoene was still holding. Miarka snatched it away and roared:
“You, little traitor! It’s you who took it out? I’m going to kill you for that!”
A knife flashed from under her clothes. She held it, ready to strike, but Yves rushed over to her.
“Leave her alone! Don’t kill her! I forced her to do it. If you want to kill someone, kill me instead!”
The visitor stepped forward. He whispered a few words in the ear of the gypsy, who calmed down immediately.
“You’re right,” she said. “I think that’s a good plan”.
Dropping, Phoena, more dead than alive, Miarka put her hand on Yves Marécourt’s shoulder.
“That will depend on you,” she pronounced.
Monsieur Porcien watched the scene, apparently unmoved, but a fierce hatred shone in his eyes.
Miarka kept her withered hand on the frail shoulders of the boy.
“You don’t want me to kill Phoena, who deserves to die?” she uttered, staring into Yves’ eyes. “You would rather suffer the punishment that I’d planned for her? So be it! Since you love her so much, I’ll offer you a deal…”
“What kind of deal?” said the boy, suspicious.
“Why did Phoena remove the gag from your mouth?”
“Because I asked her to.”
“Before you were gagged?”
“ Obviously,” acknowledged Yves with a shrug.
“So you were plotting this together for several hours,” Miarka remarked, maliciously triumphant. “This little vermin betrayed us…”
The little boy tried to plead the cause of his ally, but in vain.
“Listen!” said Miarka. “Phoena will now pay for each one of your acts of disobedience, understood? It is she that I’ll beat if you don’t do what we say. It is she that I’ll stab if you try to run away. From this moment, she will be watched by the entire family, just like you. And don’t think that our vengeance couldn’t reach her wherever she hides. Get it in your head that by running away or taking her with you, you’d be condemning her to death.”
Yves did not answer. He bowed his head. Miarka’s threat overwhelmed him.
“I’ll put you to the test,” the gypsy woman announced. “Open your mouth.”
She was holding the gag that she had snatched from Phoena. She approached the young boy who stood there resigned.
“Very good,” saids Miarka, stuffing the device back into Yves’ mouth. “Now, you go and do your act just as if nothing had happened. Phoena will go
with you. But watch out...”
She lifted the curtain from the entrance and called:
“Dorr! Come here! I need you... Here are Yves and Phoena. You’ll take them into the ring to do their act. But take this knife too. If the boy does something stupid, like trying to alert the public, slice Phoena’s throat at once. You understand me?
“Yes. I’ll kill Phoena,” said the boy savagely.
“That’s not all. You have to watch her too. She’s been in cahoots with him. So if she tries to stir up the public, don’t hesitate to stab the boy. Did you hear me, Phoena?”
“Yes,” groaned the girl, terrified.
“Wise kids,” said Miarka, triumphant. “You can take them now, Dorr.”
“Got it,” said Dorr. “C’mon, kids!”
Dorr took the two children, locked Phoena, who retained the use of her limbs, in one trailer, and threw Yves Marécourt, like a bundle of dirty clothes, into another.
Despite being certain that the boy could neither stand up nor cry, because of the gag, Dorr gave two turns of the keys and sat whistling on the step ladder.
From his vantage point, he could watch the door of the second trailer, in which he had locked Phoena.
Inside, the little girl was sitting on a pile of rags and sobbing desperately.
Suddenly, she sat up, listening. His eyes looked up at a window in the left wall of the trailer.
Coming from outside, she could see a rectangle of light and distinctly hear the sound of a voice.
One of them was Miarka’s and the other belonged to the newcomer, Monsieur Philogène Porcien.
The two voices were somewhat muffled; but, the conversation could be understood as clearly as if had taken place in the next room.
The girl’s attention was caught by the mention of Yves’ name, so she silently approached the wall and overturned an empty box upon which she climbed.
In this position, she could listen to everything, burning every word heard into her memory. But soon, the most intense terror gradually appeared on her face and in her eyes.
The Nyctalope Steps In Page 6