A brief article in the stop press—a veiled allusion to insensate words, a provocation by the Triplice.”
“That’s sufficient. Regarding the Italian ambassador, they must have read between the lines; they would have believed in an indiscretion, a treason, a skillful ruse of espionage. In brief, the bomb has been disarmed. It has been abandoned. Are you convinced now?”
With a passionate ardor, she said: “Yes, yes. I have faith in you, an absolute faith. I understand everything. For me, everything is illuminated, Now, time’s pressing. Speak, order…what must I do?”
Oh, the delight for him of hearing, after those three days of torture, a voice of affection and confidence: someone, finally, who did not think him mad!
“You need to help me escape from here as quickly as possible. If we wait for the investigation, if we follow the legal pathways, it will be too late. My task isn’t finished. Castillan is free; he’s alert, active. I’m astonished that he hasn’t yet tracked me down here, to tighten my bonds if possible. I sense him clearly behind all my defeats!”
“Speak,” she said, resolutely. “Order.” She had not forgotten that the salvation of her brother was also that of her fiancé.
He took her hand. “Go and find Quatrefin. He alone is capable of getting me out of here. He’s an energetic man. He’s richer and more powerful than ever. I’ve just told you how I’ve saved him from ruin, and perhaps suicide. He’s seeking to prove his gratitude. He’ll seize the opportunity. Then again, I’m something of a good luck charm, and, by virtue of a gambler’s superstition, he’ll want to hang on to me. Go find him. Tell him that he must get me out as soon as possible. Let him plan the most romantic, the most insensate abduction…it’s all the same to me, provided that he acts quickly. With energy, decision, and above all with money, he’ll succeed...”
At that moment, a ringing bell announced a new visitor. Instinctively, Mirande glanced out of the window. Immediately, he exclaimed in rage and fear: “Castillan!”
In fact, the physician was slowly coming up the path through the park.
He meditated, gazing at the floor. “You see,” he said. “I suspected as much,. Evidently, he’s following me step by step. His presence can’t be explained otherwise. He’s going to work on the director’s mind, make him suspicious of me. Remember that he already treated me as a madman when I flung his crimes in his face. He has a strong hand. Oh, Jeanne, Jeanne, you have to get me out of here as quickly as possible. You have to see Quatrefin today, at his bank, his domicile, the Bourse, no matter where. Anyway, the half hour is up. The director will come to fetch you as soon as he’s received Castillan…”
A new doubt traversed him.
“Unless they present themselves together, and the bandit has the audacity to harass me even here. With him, anything is possible. Listen—I have a key on me that I confided to Brimmel, the medical examiner, at the remand center. He returned it to me. He didn’t want to use it. I’ll tell you about that later. Only know that the key opens the safe that contains the serum, in the laboratory. I think it prudent not to keep it on me. Yes—because of Castillan. Who can tell? Take it, then. Never let go of it. You hear, never, at any price...”
He seized Jeanne’s hand. The thought of the enemy nearby, a few paces away, stimulated his clairvoyance.
“One more thing. Castillan will certainly try to approach you…he’ll enquire about me, express compassion for me, offer you his services. Oh, don’t trust him! Mistrust anything he asks of you, and above all, be careful what you reply to him. Don’t yield to indignation or disgust. Be much stronger than I’ve been. If he talks about my madness, agree with him. Declare that you’re resigned to letting me remain here. Try, on the other hand, to discover what he’s plotting. But above all, be careful…be careful...”
The young woman acquiesced with a nod of the head to the fraternal recommendations. Her energetic face and resolute expression rendered the unfortunate confidence. But footsteps were resounding in the corridor.
“Oh, I thought so,” he said. “You know that I pressed Raucourt for the investigation. If the pirate is discovered before my release.....if you need men of law, go find Dutoit...”
That wretch!” she exclaimed. “Our worst enemy during the trial! You can’t think so!”
“Yes, yes. I’ve thought about it a great deal. At the Foreign Affairs the other evening I read his mind again. Above all, he’s avid for prestige. If Lacaze’s innocence becomes evident, he’ll serve you. It’s a stain on his record. He’ll have more interest than anyone else in effacing it. Go, go, believe me...”
The director came in. He was alone.
“It’s time to go,” he said to Jeanne. “We’ve passed the time.”
One last time, the two young people hugged. Then, playing her role, Jeanne said: “Au revoir, then. Look after yourself. Rest. See you soon.”
Gabriel’s presentiment was not mistaken. As soon as she was outside she saw Castillan on watch in the corridor. He bowed, with a broad sweep of the hat that barred her path. She pretended not to divine his intention, replied with a nod of the head and continued on her way.
But the director had rejoined them.
“What? You don’t know one another?” he said, introducing them.
“Indeed,” said Castillan, “we don’t know one another yet—but my wife has often talked about you, Mademoiselle, and we were bound to encounter one another someday. I express all my regret and all my chagrin that it should be in such painful circumstances.”
Had she not been forewarned, Jeanne would have allowed herself to be taken in by the sadness of the voice and the attitude of respectful compassion. She remained silent, quivering with indignant scorn.
“Isn’t it heartbreaking?” he went on. “That fine brain, so precious to science, suddenly sunk! And the suddenness of the attack! How can it be explained?”
“We’ve gone through a great deal,” Jeanne said. “You know about our cares, or chagrins...”
“Enough to share them, Mademoiselle.
“Then you must understand,” she said, “that all those ordeals have taken their toll on his intelligence, alas. Will he ever be cured?”
“Certainly,” the two men assured her.
She applauded herself for having deceived them. On the perron, however, Castillan deliberately took his leave of the director, waiting to accompany her.
“Let’s leave it there. I’ll escort Mademoiselle to the gate.”
She was tempted to run away, but she felt strong. In those few steps, perhaps she could perceive the wretch’s intentions. She went with him.
“I’ve just heard you doubt your brother’s cure, Mademoiselle,” Castillan insinuated. “I’m less pessimistic than you. Are you so convinced of his madness?”
“Alas. Just now he said the most incoherent things to me....”
“Oh! What?”
But the young woman did not reply. She bowed her head, as if absorbed by painful memories of the conversation.”
He persisted, more directly: “He must have talked to you…about the famous serum?”
“You know, then?” said Jeanne alarmed. What? Castillan knew about Brion’s discovery! That, Gabriel did not know. He had only confided his secret to the medical examiner. She feared having allowed too much emotion to show. Mastering herself, she said: “It’s Monsieur Brimmel, then?”
Castillan acquiesced, casually. “It is, indeed, Brimmel who informed me. I wouldn’t have attached any importance to the words if I hadn’t been struck, very struck, by the revelation of that discovery. It interests me personally.”
“Personally?”
“Of course. Have you forgotten the circumstances surrounding Simone’s unexpected resurrection? Haven’t you wondered, as I have, by what prodigy your brother divined her in the tomb through so many obstacles. That phenomenon, inexplicable without a mysterious influence, troubles me, and leaves me in doubt regarding your brother’s dementia.”
Jeanne shook her head, inc
redulously.
More ardently, Castillan went on: “I too, at first, denied the miracle, but on reflection, I’ve changed my mind. I wonder whether it isn’t my turn to save your brother, as he saved Simone...”
She did not look at him. She divined him leaning toward her, persuasive and compassionate. She felt that if she raised her eyes toward him she would be unable to resist the temptation to cry: “You’re lying! You’re lying again, still! You’re preparing I don’t know what new infamy...”
But she exhorted herself to prudence. She waited for him to unmask himself more overtly.
He went on: “I believe the moment has come to acquit that debt of gratitude. I think that Brimmel acted very lightly in refusing to check your brother’s affirmations, and this is my plan: to recover the serum, experiment with it in the presence of a few serious, notorious colleagues, in sum, to reveal his unpardonable error...”
“Oh, there’s no hope of that,” Jeanne murmured.
“You can help me, Mademoiselle!”
“How?”
“By enabling me to attempt the experiment. I need the serum. Certainly, your brother must have hidden it carefully, locked it up—but perhaps you know what has become of the key?”
“No, no, I don’t know.”
Disappointed, Castillan stopped. With all his ascendancy, he ordered: “Well, go back to him. Question him cleverly. Try to procure that key. But be careful of allowing him to suspect your plan, for, haunted by persecution, in which he’ll mistrust those who want to save him...”
“Alas, Monsieur, he’s even more suspicious of me than all the others,” Jeanne sighed.
In order better to lead him astray, she was bold enough to raise an afflicted gaze toward him. In any case, they had reached the gate.
“And then,” she concluded, “how can I disentangle the truth in the midst of s much incoherence? Believe me, his dementia is unfortunately certain, and your generous project can’t save him. It remains for me to thank you nevertheless. Adieu, Monsieur.”
She bowed, opened the little door in the gate, and launched herself into the road. She had the sensation of escaping from a wild beast. Oh, how had she found the strength not to spit her hatred and disgust at him? But she knew now what the monster coveted: the prey for which he was lying in wait was the serum locked in the laboratory safe. Surely he would try to take possession of it. How? Alone? With the aid of an accomplice? Oh, she would find out…she would find out...
II
“Is that you, my prince?” breathed a voice in the shadow of the porch.
“It’s me.”
“Come.”
“Where? I can’t see clearly...”
“Straight ahead. I’ve opened the door, quietly.”
“You don’t have a hooded lantern?”
“Yes, in my bag…to do what?”
“To provide light, of course!”
“Better not, my prince. Better not, because of the concierge, who’s in his hovel. He’s dozing, warm in his pit…necessary not to disturb him. One would be obliged to ice him...best to avoid that, when one can do otherwise. Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“No noise, then. Duck down when you go past the lodge. It’s straight ahead. No mistake.”
Holding their breath, bodies crouching like wild beasts lying in ambush, Castillan and Forteau crept through the total darkness of the vault. An auto vibrating on the cobbles of the Rue Méchain held them in suspense for a few seconds, but the rumbling died away.
When they reached the concierge’s lodge another alarm immobilized them. The burglar’s tools that Le Crabe was carrying slung over his shoulder shifted and bumped into the wall with a metallic clink. The echo of the corridor amplified the sound. The man stifled an oath and felt for his knife.
Not no—nothing. The placid concierge continued dozing. They covered a few more meters.
“Keep still. We’re at the end. I’m opening...”
Le Crabe straightened up. Groping his way he found the lock. When he had the handle in his hand, he turned it with infinite precaution. In any case, the door did not squeak. It had been greased sufficiently to facilitate their expedition.
“Nice! Not locked, this one. We’re in clover…all good.”
A faint light falling from the distant fiery sky that Paris spreads out in winter permitted them to glimpse the central pathway of the garden. It was bordered by trees from which melting snow was dripping. At the back, the laboratory buildings raised their brighter silhouette. They almost ran there, following the damp and shiny gravel.
“Let’s take a breather,” Castillan proposed.
He sat down n a step of the perron. Le Crabe sat down beside him, familiarly. It was the pause before the assault, the moment propitious for effusions.
“I see,” he said, smiling. “Don’t have the habit. True that burglary’s a work that isn’t for everyone. Needs heart. Me, I have it, my prince. I never forget those who’ve been good to me. I’m Le Crabe. I can twist a ten-sou piece like a meatball. Le Crabe is as if one were saying honor and gratitude. You cured me of my liver, I’m your mate for life. You’ve see that, eh, tonight? I’ve come. Didn’t hesitate.”
So saying, he displayed his pincers, then withdrew them. They could be divined, in the darkness, resolute and murderous.
“When did you receive me letter, then?” Castillan asked. “For two days I’ve been waiting to meet you at the entrance.”
“Your letter? That was unlucky. I hadn’t been to my bistro in Charenton for a week, because it reeked of cops, and I don’t like that odor. But I told Asticot, a mate of mine, that if a pullet came, it was necessary to grab it. So, he brought your writing machine paper this morning. I ran to get my tools and came on the Metro…a fine invention…and here I am.”
“How did you get in?”
“Though the door—it was easy. I opened it while waiting for you. It’s child’s play, a lock like that…and I nipped into the corridor. Tell me now what we have to do? I’m waiting for the program. I presuppose it’s for burglary, since you told me to bring my tools?”
“Yes, yes,” said the physician, hastily. “Enough blood.”
“Oh, the fellow in a nightshirt, out there in the Avenue Raphael? And the kid at Billancourt? Hardly worth talking about. Nothing at all. Can ask anything of your mate. And then, they’re good and cold—never be saying anything.”
He spat in satisfaction. It was good work, well done. He experienced the profound peace that irreproachable and definitive work leaves.
Castillan shivered—and it was not with cold, even though the dampness of his improvised seat was reaching him. He tucked the fabric of the light overcoat that he had put on in order to be free of his movement underneath him.
“No,” he said, “this time it’s a matter of a game for you: opening a strong-box from which I have to take something.”
“Money?”
“No…a chemical product I need, which only exists there.”
“Poison, then,” affirmed Le Crabe, ingenuously.
“Not that either…a medicament. But your help is as precious to me as if it were a matter of digging up a treasure. It’s only just that I reward you. Here, take this...”
He rummaged in his pocket. In the great calm, the rustle of a banknote was audible.
“Nice!” mumble Forteau. “It’s for me that you brought that fine paper?”
“Us. Take it.”
“Necessary to know who I am!”
“You’re refusing?”
“Until death! I’m Le Crabe. That’s like saying honor and gratitude. No cash. For you, it’s a favor!”
“Truly, you’re refusing? In truth, I don’t understand you. Why don’t you take up another métier, then?”
“Probable that I’d have done something else if I hadn’t been born under a bridge,” sighed Forteau, in his hoarse voice.
That superhuman gratitude surpassed the physician’s understanding. That rabble was refusing a th
ousand francs! But a thousand francs for Le Crabe was a million for him, Castillan! And he couldn’t see himself refusing a windfall like that.
“All right, I won’t insist,” he said, putting the banknote away.
He reserved the possibility of offering it to him later, on a day of absolute poverty—unless the hazard of a brawl, or a return of malady rid him of his accomplice definitively. Forteau wouldn’t always find a good physician to care of him!
Again, he deplored this expedition in the brute’s company. But what could he do? He could not break into the safe on his own, and Forteau, left to himself, would never have discovered the ampoules of serum and Brion’s notes among the flasks...
“Let’s get on, now,” he said, getting up.
The laboratory door loomed up before them. Already, Le Crabe was ferreting in his bag. He took out a lock-pick, slid it into the keyhole, sounded it with the delicacy of a surgeon, then pushed. The door opened. Forteau went through first and closed the door behind Castillan.
“Necessary to know if there’s anyone in the shop?” he whispered.
“No one, except for an old maidservant who sleeps on the second floor.”
“If she gets up, we’ll stick her in a corner. Bring on the light!”
He lit his lantern and projected the glare into the vestibule. A vestry where the pupils’ white smocks were hanging, a table, and the staircase at the back emerged from the darkness.
“Where are we going?”
“The second door after the steps.
“It’s not even locked! That’s lucky.”
They were finally in Mirande’s private laboratory. Castillan recognized it. The day before, on the pretext of asking for a product, he had studied its disposition. In the narrow beam of the projector, the place seemed more solemn than in broad daylight. The instruments, microscopes, test-tubes, Bunsen burners and retorts—all the engines of modern sorcery—disturbed in their slumber, send back bright reflections, like keen gazes. Nothing was alive, however, except for the regular tick-tock of the clock. In the great curtains of the table that were hanging down to the ground, not a flutter. In the vast fireplace, where the screen stood inert, not a breath of wind.
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