“Oh, that was quite different,” said Grisyl, blushing. “For one thing, I didn’t have to attack the Grottenmeister directly. Then again, the Nyctalope would have died in a matter of minutes if... But we’re chattering, Laure, and time’s passing.”
“Dear Grisyl!” Leaning towards the younger woman, who was kneeling in front of her, La Païli kissed her on the forehead and immediately got to her feet.
“How do you feel?” said Grisyl, getting up.
“Very well–no longer tired. My head is straight, my thoughts clear. The injection, the exquisite wine and the dry cakes, have all done me the world of good. My God! I feared that you might never laugh again, Grisyl, and that I would never smile at your youthful gaiety. We’re heading towards death, Grisyl, and perhaps something more terrible and abominable than death. Even if we’re victorious, we might become victims.”
“We’ll save the life...”
“Of the Nyctalope? Yes, even if we die.”
“Let’s go, Laure–time’s passing.”
“Yes, let’s go my friend.” Taking the younger woman by the hand, La Païli marched towards the door.
“Nothing has changed regarding Chabot?” asked Grisyl.
“Of course, nothing’s changed. He wouldn’t stop us going on deck, but he’d follow us.”
“All right, Laure; give me time to do it and put my outdoor clothes on.”
La Païli opened the door. Grisyl went out first; calmly but rapidly, she went to Chabot, who was sitting on a chair smoking a cigarette, without losing sight of Rupert VI–who was still in the glass cage, in the trance into which Professor Lourmel had put him with the aid of a mild narcotic mixed with his food. Chabot was directly underneath the four pegs from which hung his fringed muffler, his greatcoat, his fur cape and his white fox-fur hat.
While Grisyl went forward, Le Païli went to sit on a stool on the far side of the room, to put her large fur boots on over the light woolen stockings that she was wearing.
As he saw Grisyl coming towards him, Chabot got up, threw the cigarette-butt into an ash-tray set in a corner and was doubtless about to ask her how he might be useful to her when Grisyl seized both his wrists, holding them in one hand, and said: “Not a word, and don’t resist, Chabot! This is to help the Nyctalope.”
Chabot was petrified. Grisyl quickly secured his wrists to his ankles with a belt, gagged him with a handkerchief and scarf, pushed him into a dark corner and threw on his overcoat, white fur cape and hat. As she did this, she said to him: “Count until a thousand, Chabot. When you’ve finished, you’ll be able to free yourself easily enough by wriggling your hands and feet, for I’ve made a knot that comes apart when you tug on its ends–but not until you’ve counted to a thousand. If anyone comes in before you’ve finished, don’t move or breathe a word. Once more, this is for the sake of the Nyctalope.”
La Païli was ready. She helped Grisyl to put on her furs rapidly. The two friends left the cabin and went up on to the deck of the submarine. On deck, Commander Jacques Saincer appeared to be complacently watching the activity ashore, around the buildings of the English station. He had his back to them.
“Silence!” said Laurence, squeezing Grisyl’s hand.
Grisyl raised her arms above her head and waved; it was the signal agreed with Romski. Immediately, two men standing beside an aircraft–which, as if by chance, was set slightly apart from the others–sprang into action. One of them hastened to get into the pilot’s eat. The aircraft, evidently ready to go, rolled over the beach to the water’s edge, where its floats took over from its wheels–and the RC3 slid across the calm sea, avoiding the lumps of ice that floated here and there.
“Hold on!” said Commander Saincer, loudly, “what’s that chap doing? That’s not in the program, it seems to me!”
“Wait, Grisyl!” whispered Laurence.
The aircraft headed straight for the submarine. Still invisible to Saincer, who had his back to them, the two women were on the very edge of the deck, almost at water-level.
“Hey, Romski!” Saincer shouted. “Are you bringing boarders?”
The skillfully-piloted aircraft leaned slightly to starboard for a moment. Its port wing almost touched the submarine’s massive double hull as it showed. There was no need for it to come to a complete stop. As it passed by, Laurence and Grisyl grabbed hold of the stays, tension-wires and struts of that port wing, slipped on to it and walked along it lithely. Within 20 seconds, they had reached the two empty bucket-seats behind Romski.15
“Take off!” cried La Païli.
The RC3 gained speed, drew away, took off and climbed into the air. It described two great circles and disappeared into a bank of cloud that extended from the north-west to the south-east. Jacques Saincer stood there petrified, while a storm of shouts sprang up from Elmwood.
XIII. The Great Departure
At first, the reaction ashore was a combination of astonishment, incomprehension and amazement.
Romski had been ready for a good quarter of an hour. With Berge and Dopp–assisted by Wolf, to the extent that he could make himself useful–the Polish aviator had got his aircraft into a perfect state of readiness for an immediate departure. When he had nothing else to do but wait for Laurence and Grisyl to appear on the submarine’s deck, the officer sent Berge and Dopp to the stores, asking them to look for a small packet of wing-nuts which did not exist.
They’ll be looking for long enough, he said to himself, not to be there when I depart. As for Wolf, he would be useful during take-off because he obeyed Romski’s orders without thought or hesitation.
At that moment, nearly all the Englishmen and Frenchmen present at the station were outdoors, occupied in attending to the aircraft or carrying various objects, comprising an orderly hive of activity. Saint-Clair and Lourmel were slightly apart, standing on the beach a hundred yards away, immersed in an animated conversation.
The first person to notice the RC3 sliding from the beach to the water was Sir Patrick Swires; Saint-Clair and Lourmel were walking along with their backs to the beach. Sir Patrick assumed that a special order had been given for a supplementary maneuver–but when he saw the two human forms throw themselves from the submarine on to its wing, he suspected that something was awry. “Saint-Clair!” he cried, at the top of his voice–but ten seconds more elapsed before Saint-Clair and Lourmel had turned and seen what was happening.
“What’s he doing?” asked the Professor.
“Oh!” said Saint-Clair, who had the eyes of a mariner and a lover. “Laure and Grisyl!”
He remained rooted to the spot. He did not understand. Questions rose up in his abruptly-confused mind. What are Laurence and Grisyl doing? What’s that aircraft doing? Isn’t it Romski’s? Something like a minute went by before the Nyctalope could make any sense of the incident. As for Lourmel, his eyes went from Sir Patrick to the swiftly-climbing aircraft, and he stammered: “Laure and Grisyl? Did you order them...? Without telling me...? But...but...”
Everyone had heard Sir Patrick’s shout. The work stopped short, all heads turning towards the sea and the sky, every face expressing astonishment. When the RC3 disappeared into the cloud, the frenetic Saint-Clair howled: “They’re mad! Mad!”
“My friend!” cried Lourmel, seizing the hands of the trembling Nyctalope, whose face was suddenly expressing an atrocious and desperate sorrow. It was then that, as if they were confronted by a catastrophe, all the spectators instinctively set up an immense and violent clamor.
“My friend!” Lourmel begged in a voice so poignant that it had an immediate and salutary effect on the Nyctalope. Tears sprang from Saint-Clair’s eyes and ran down his face. Lourmel wiped them away paternally, with touching gentleness.
The Nyctalope ground his teeth and shut his eyes. Something akin to a sob shook him, and he squeezed the Professor’s hands hard enough to break bones. After 20 seconds, though, he opened his eyes again and relaxed his powerful grip. “I see it all now,” he said, in a profoundly emotional
voice. They’re going to confront Lucifer. They want to sacrifice themselves to save me, to save us all... Oh, my friend, if we’re victorious I shall not survive a victory that might, perhaps, be rendered more difficult by the heroism and sacrifice of those two women...”
“Do you know any of the details?” Lourmel asked, feverishly. “Where are they going–the submarine station or Fort Warteck? What do they hope to achieve? How will they go about it?”
“No, I don’t know anything; they’re taking their secret with them.”
“Sir!” It was the voice of Sir Patrick Swires. He was running towards them, with Berge and Dopp at his sides and Captain Girard and a crowd of men behind him. All of them had an intuition of what was happening, and what it meant.
Drawing slightly apart from Lourmel, the Nyctalope pulled himself together, His calmness was august and terrible. “Berge, Dopp–what do you know?” he said.
“Nothing, boss,” the two men replied, in unison.
“Where were you when the RC3 got under way?”
“The lieutenant sent us to the stores...” Berge began.
“To look for something we didn’t find,” Dopp finished.
“He wanted to get you out of the way,” Saint-Clair said. Turning towards Lourmel and Sir Patrick, he added: “Romski’s hot-headed, thirsty for heroism and sacrifice. Laurence won’t have had any difficulty convincing him. May God protect all three of them, as heroic and voluntary martyrs, if He doesn’t find them unworthy!”
He gestured towards the sky, as if to call on the mysterious power that plays inexplicably with the destiny of worlds. Then, returning his gaze to the excited and attentive crowd, he said: “My friends, whatever plan Mademoiselle Païli, Grisyl and Lieutenant Romski are attempting to put into action, nothing is modified in my own plans. The RC3 will not be lining up with the reserves; there will only be one back-up aircraft. Berge and Dopp will take the places of the two Englishmen in the RC1 and Wolf will replace another in the RC2. To work! I want us to be off by 9 p.m. and not a minute later!”
“Long live Saint-Clair!” someone shouted.
“Victory to the Nyctalope!” cried another voice, followed by enthusiastic applause.
Five minutes later, hiding the intense emotion that was gripping his heart, Leo Saint-Clair and Lourmel were aboard the Uberalles. Jacques Saincer awaited them on deck. The Nyctalope assured himself that all the desired dispositions had been made, then left Lourmel, whom he embraced for a long time, and Saincer, whose hand he shook, murmuring “Good luck, my friend!” and returned to shore. As soon as he had disembarked, the two sailors rowed back to the submarine.
A quarter of an hour later, having received all the men and objects it had to take aboard via the launch, the Uberalles closed its hatches, slid gracefully over the waves, and soon disappeared into the light mist that was extending over the sea.
At 9 p.m., a siren sounded. At that moment, Leo Saint-Clair and Sir Patrick Swires were finishing getting dressed, all in white, in the latter’s room.
“Whatever happens to Laurence and Grisyl,” Saint-Clair said, “Lucifer won’t be able to learn the means we’ll use to defeat him, even if the hypnotizes them, since only you, Lourmel and I know what it is.”
“We alone,” Sir Patrick agreed. “Those of my mechanics who worked on the fabrication of the metal canisters and the adaptation of the diving-suits were personally supervised by me. As you instructed, the work was done in such a way that none of the workmen knew the significance or the purpose of their work.”
“Well, for my part,” the Nyctalope said, “I’m sure that that the lead seals on the canvas sacks containing the diving-suits and the canisters are quite intact. In the aircraft, each man will have his sack between his legs. When they signal is given, they’ll be opened...”
“Ah, it’s a fine game, Monsieur.”
“Very fine, sir!” said Saint-Clair, gravely. “I’d have a joyful heart if Laurence and Grisyl hadn’t had the heroic folly to doubt both Professor Lourmel’s scientific genius and my own star.”
“Women in love...”
“Yes, I hear you,” Saint-Clair said. “But you see, sir, even when she acts mistakenly, a woman who acts out of love is always doing something sublime–even when it’s harmful or criminal. That’s because love is the most irreducible and independent powers with which nature has equipped the human being.”
“The most blind too, Monsieur.”
“I agree with you, sir–at least when it’s not prodigiously clairvoyant.”
They said no more; they were ready. According to the new attributions made by Saint-Clair after Romski’s departure with Laurence and Grisyl on the RC3, the crews were made up as follows: Saint-Clair, Girard, Swires, Corsat and Pilou on the RC4; Dupuis, Aymard, Garet, Berge and Wolf on the RC2; Captain Berton, Bompard, Sylvain, Dopp and Elias Carter on the RC1. Furthermore, following a new intuitive estimate of the probable facts, the Nyctalope had modified two details of his plan. No aircraft would now remain in reserve; all three would act together. This meant that Sir Patrick Swires and Elias Carter were the only Englishmen taking part in the airborne expedition; all the others who had previously been designated for that role had embarked on the Uberalles. A few minutes after Elmwood’s siren had concluded its long and strident fanfare, these aviators took their places in their respective aircraft. One of them held a long staff from which hung, at the same height, the French and British flags.
“May God go with us!” said the Nyctalope, in a resounding voice.
Cries of “Hurrah!” came from all sides.
The motors spluttered into life, indifferent to the very low temperature because the fuel and oil had been prevented from freezing by the addition of a specially-devised alcohol formulated and tested by Lourmel some years before. The propellers began to turn, drawing the aircraft forward.
“Hurrah! Hip, hip hurrah!” These acclamations were still resounding when the aircraft disappeared from view in the direction of the pole.
It was 9:15 p.m. on the evening of June 4.
XIV. Two Women and the Serpent
The distance from Cape Flora, the south-western extremity of Franz Josef Land, to the geographical point called the North Pole is about 1,100 kilometers as the crow flies. Romski’s RC3, having left Cape Flora at 8 p.m. on June 4, would cover that distance in a little less than six hours if it maintained an average speed of between 180 and 200 kilometers an hour. If no incident occurred to interrupt its progress it would touch down at Fort Warteck at about 2 a.m. on June 5.
According to Rupert VI’s revelations, which were in agreement with information possessed by Grisyl, his adversaries knew that Glô von Warteck usually maintained his regular habit of sleeping from 10 p.m. to 4 a.m. This was not an artificial sleep, but simple and healthy natural slumber–the vulgar sleep of rest and restoration, without which no man can live actively.
Although there are stylites in India, immobile and motionless on their columns, who go for weeks without the sleep to which all earthly living creatures submit, it is because they do nothing–absolutely nothing. It is as if they have temporarily interrupted and suspended all their corporeal functions. It is as if, with their nostrils stuffed with clay and their throats obstructed by their retracted tongues, they are no longer breathing. Given his prodigious cerebral and intense physical activity, though, Glô needed to sleep–and unless exceptional circumstances intervened, he slept regularly every day for about six hours, two before midnight and four afterwards.
The Baron even ate and drank, not in the as-yet-hypothetical and imaginative manner of certain anticipated savants, content to absorb a few pills, tablets and sachets from time to time, but in the omnivorous manner of the majority of human beings. To the extent that he could, Glô ate and drank at regular hours, as if it were a matter of no great importance to him, sitting down at a table on which were deposited, each in the appropriate receptacle consecrated to it by universal custom, foodstuffs prepared by a cook comparable with the best
in his profession. In addition, Glô generally preferred the generous wines of the south to those of the north; he was rarely served the produce of the banks of the Rhine, which are much appreciated elsewhere. He did not disdain sparkling wines from the plains of Champagne, provided that they were authentic and of a suitable age, but he was rarely satisfied by meals that were unsupported by vintage Burgundies, and he would demonstrate his disappointment rudely if he could not alternate them, as often as possible, with the traditional nectars of Bordeaux. He enjoyed certain Spanish wines very much, and was familiar with the different tastes of the principal Italian wines.
All of which is to say that Glô von Warteck, no matter how much he desired to be called Lucifer, was nonetheless consciously, willingly and gladly a man, furnished with an educated palate, a solid stomach and a faultless digestive apparatus.
Lucifer loved eating and drinking, but he was not a slave to entirely natural tastes. He knew how to be sober without effort and moderate without regret when he encountered one of those circumstances in which the work of digestion would have done harm, however slightly, to the functioning of his limbs or the intense life of his intellect. An egg or some preserved fish, biscuits, a piece of Dutch cheese, a little jam or a few dried fruits would then make a meal, washed down with a glass of water. Lucifer was, in every sense of the word, a man–but a man who was master of himself.
There was only one flaw in this armor: the sensuality that was both virile and, so to speak, sentimental. Glô von Warteck loved Woman, and since his adolescence had longed to be loved–but he was one of those individuals to whom Destiny gives everything, except what they desire most of all, of which it refuses them even the least particle.
Glô had never, ever been loved–and in its formidable irony, Destiny dictates that men without love cannot do anything at all that does not distance them even further from the love that they crave and pursue with such avidity, passion and fury that only death can put a end to their quest.
The Nyctalope vs Lucifer 3: The Triumph of the Nyctalope Page 13