“‘This way,’ said Robin Webster quietly, and he led us round to the back of the house. Here Monsieur de Mirandol was waiting, and we went up by a back staircase to a small room behind the conference room, and leading into it by a door in the panel. On a chair were the vestments of the Abbe Fauriel. Monsieur de Mirandol was in a fever. His face was patched with red and his hands shaking.
“‘You are ready?’ he asked. ‘It is time.’
“Evelyn Devenish laughed, upon a low thrilling note.
“‘This is my moment,’ she said. ‘The old days shall be the new days. What happened once shall happen again. As she won, so shall I.’
“They were the words of the fortune-teller, of the charlatan making mysteries, but they were uttered in a voice so passionate and sincere that I couldn’t doubt they meant all the world to her. ‘Lord of the Earth!’ she cried in a low voice, and sobbed and spoke her prayer again. ‘Lord of the Earth,’ and she crossed herself upwards instead of downwards with her thumb. ‘Give him back to me!’ She looked at Robin Webster, her eyes shining bright through the holes of a black silk mask. She was wearing a long cloak which she held close about her, and I noticed for the first time, with a shock, that her feet in her slippers were bare. ‘Give him back to me,’ she repeated like a woman distracted, and de Mirandol took her by the elbow.
“‘Come!’ he said, and he led her into the big room, closing the door behind him. I heard the clicking of the switches of the electric light; and a few minutes later a subdued clatter of people entering the room and taking their places.
“Meanwhile Robin Webster had stood like a figure of stone, with his eyes bent upon the floor. He raised his face with a sigh of relief. He slipped off his long coat, and I saw that he was wearing a priest’s cassock. He put on the alb and the stole very slowly, a man wrapt in his dreams. He took something from the pocket of his coat, which he hid in his sleeve. Then he turned and looked at me. I had taken off my domino. He pointed to a table on which a censer of gold with golden chains was resting. It was filled with incense waiting to be kindled, and a box of matches stood upon the table beside it. I struck a match and lit the incense and took the censer in my hand. A smoke curled up from it black as pitch, and the fumes filled the room with an odour acrid, intoxicating. All the while his eyes were watching me. Every moment I expected a cry from him: ‘Who are you?’ But no cry came. I stood up and faced him, swinging the censer to and fro across my body and between us, so that I saw him only through a mist of smoke.
Even so, I felt he must know me, he stood and stared with so set a face, and such unwinking eyes. Suddenly an intense relief came over me. For I realized that though he stared, he did not see. I was nothing to him. His thoughts were turned in upon himself. A slow smile flickered about his mouth, his tongue moistened his lips, and he felt his sleeve with his right hand — to make sure. I know now that he was savouring the moment which was to set him free from the tedium and the exactions of his mistress — savouring it with a voluptuous slow delight.
“‘Now,’ he said, and he opened the door. A blaze of light rushed in on us.
“I followed him, with a prayer on my lips and a terrible fear at my heart. But no longer a fear lest I should blunder and be discovered. I had passed beyond that. I suppose the fumes of the incense were making me drunk. But I was at that moment afraid as I hope I shall never be again — afraid that I should see Satan himself taking shape in that room in the midst of his worshippers, baleful and hideous, with death in the mere pointing of his finger. What protection would my disguise be then? I went forward dazed and stunned. The room was a blur to me. But in a little while my vision cleared. I saw the room about half full, and not a soul in it but was masked and wore some concealing wrap. But here and there beneath the wraps of the women I could see the sheen of white shoulders and the flash of jewels. And all of them were muttering and whispering so that the room was filled as with the hum of bees. Then as Robin Webster prostrated himself before the altar I took my position at the side and behind him. The altar was a living woman. Yes!
“A great lamp hung in the ceiling flung down a light golden and dazzling. It lit up the youth beautiful with the blue, sorrow-haunted eyes, and the two panels at the side, and it poured upon Evelyn Devenish, stretched naked upon her back on a black coffin-pall. Her eyes were closed, but her bosom rose and fell with her tumultuous breathing, and her arms were outstretched stiff and rigid to make with her outstretched body the form of a cross. I understood then what her words had meant in the little room:
“‘As she won, so shall I.’
“For just so Madame de Montespan once had lain as an altar for the Abbe Guibourg, that she might win back the wandering passion of her royal lover. And she had won it back.
“Robin Webster began the service of the Mass with the murmured Latin prayers and, as the ritual ordained, I changed my place from side to side, swung the censer and bent the knee. It was the true Mass, the Mass meant to deceive. For not until the Flesh had been made bread and the Blood wine, could begin the orgy of jeers and mockery, the frenzy of the adoration of Satan which in half an hour would make of that room a stew, a sty of animals met in a battle of lust. So the prayers to the true God followed one upon the other, and as I passed from one end of the altar to the other I saw my gold bracelet glittering upon Evelyn Devenish’s wrist and — yes — a smear of the varnish dark on the palm of her hand. She had called herself superstitious, I remembered, when she borrowed the bracelet. She had gone back to the most ancient superstition in the world. If she wore something of mine in this supreme crisis, she would draw into herself and out of me the innermost heart of me, and all that I had of power to attract. As the sacred climax approached, a great trembling took her body and limbs, her eyes opened and fixed themselves on the Adonis; cries, uttered low like the whimperings of an animal, broke continually from her lips. Robin Webster took the chalice and raised it above his head, and then placed it between her breasts and bent over her, fumbling at his sleeve. The cries of Evelyn Devenish melted into one long-drawn wail, a convulsion shook her from head to foot, there was a rattle in her throat, her arms relaxed, and once more she lay still. Robin Webster raised the chalice again, and every murmur ceased. I could not look round, but I was as sure as if I had looked round that everyone in that assembly was fixed like stone in an extremity of horror. I was standing on the left-hand side by Evelyn Devenish’s feet, and Robin Webster’s back quite obscured my view. I saw him lift the chalice a third time, and now like corn in a wind the assembly swayed and bent. The murmurs broke out again, louder, more hysterical. Robin Webster stooped with the chalice in his hand, and I heard the trickle of a liquid running into it. Suddenly a woman screamed, there was a grating and overturning of chairs, a frenzied movement, and above the clamour rose the voice of Robin Webster, ringing triumphant, as he stretched out his arms with the cup between his palms towards the picture of Adonis.
“‘Now, if ever, greet your worshippers! You have a sacrifice worthy of you. Come! Come!’
“But even above his voice there rang another, more violent, more terrible, and it uttered one word only.
“‘Murder!’
“I saw Robin Webster turn about towards the room; I saw Evelyn Devenish with the hilt of a knife upright above her heart, and her breast striped with blood; I felt myself caught up in a whirl of people, and then I heard above the uproar an order given with authority:
“‘Lock the door! No one must go!’
“I dived, I reached the little door in the panelled wall. I opened it and slipped through. There was a bolt on that inner side. I shot it into its socket and raced down the staircase, tearing the surplice off me as I ran. It was white, and even in the darkness would guide a pursuit. I dropped it in the back entrance of the house, ran through the garden, unlatched the gate with a hand protected by the cassock, and ran down the hill towards Suvlac. There was no pursuit. In the confusion my escape was overlooked.
“But it couldn’t be overlooked
for long. I knew authority when I heard it. The voice which had ordered, ‘Lock the door! No one must go!’ — I know now that it was the voice of Arthur Tidon, the judge. Then I only knew that it was the voice of a man with the habit of command and his wits under control. Neither Monsieur de Mirandol nor Robin Webster frightened me now. It was the unknown owner of that voice. I took my mask off” my head and carried it in my hand. I ran past the farm buildings — they were all in darkness — and up the slope to the Chateau Suvlac. I looked to the house of Mirandol on the hill. The lights were still blazing in the long upper room. They were debating there still; but with authority to conduct the debate. The debate wouldn’t last long. They must act, and again I thought, with the authority of that voice to direct the action, it would be swift and decisive.
“I let myself into the house by the glass door of the drawing-room, and crept along the passage to Diana’s room. I unlocked the door and turned up the light. She had not stirred since I had left her. I locked the door now from the inside. I had to undress her and put her properly to bed. That was absolutely urgent. Up there on the hill, when it came to counting heads, the absence of the acolyte was certain to be discovered. They had already without a doubt discovered it now — Robin Webster and de Mirandol and the man with the voice. They would not be disturbed, however, so long as they believed the acolyte to be Diana. They would assume that she had fled, just as I did flee, at the first commotion.
“‘No one,’ I argued, ‘of all those present can afford to give one word of information about this crime. They dare not confess that they were assisting at this abominable blasphemy. Robin Webster knew that very well when he planned to commit it. They are all his confederates, bound by their own interests to the strictest secrecy. Very well. Very likely everyone will be compelled to unmask. Certainly they will disperse at once, and two or three will be left to decide what to do — Robin Webster, Monsieur de Mirandol and the Voice. But what those three decide they must tell Diana. They must prepare her for the morning. They must come here tonight and soon — very soon. If they find her asleep in the dress she wore this evening, they must know that I took her place.’
“So I set to work. Oh, but it was difficult! I had to be very gentle lest I should wake her. She was a good weight too. I had to get everything off and her pyjamas on. It was done at last, but, oh, the time it took! Every moment I expected the sound of a footfall in the corridor. I got her properly into her bed, then I turned out the light, unlocked the door, left it shut and unlocked, and stole up the staircase to my own room. I locked myself in, turned on my light, and like a fool collapsed on my bed. I didn’t faint, but I felt — oh, awful!! cried until it seemed impossible that I had any tears left. I had to stuff the bed-sheet into my mouth to stop myself from screaming. I felt that I was falling right through the bed down precipice after precipice. I thought that I was dying.
“I don’t know how long the fit lasted. But after a time I sat up with just one longing — to get into the open air. With my windows shuttered and the door locked, I was being stifled in a prison. And then I remembered the gabare. It came three times a week to Suvlac and left in the night with the tide for Bordeaux. I had seen its mast above the little dock that very day. I might be in time to catch it before it sailed if I hurried. The captain would give me a passage if I paid enough for it. I didn’t trouble about my clothes; I didn’t think of anything except putting as wide a distance as possible between me and this house. I snatched up the domino and the mask — that I did not dare to leave behind — and turning out my light I stole from the room. My quickest way to the harbour was by the terrace door in Diana’s room. It was latched but not locked. I ran down the steps across the lawn, stumbled at the flower-bed, ran on and came to a dead stop at the bottom of the avenue. The gabare had gone. I flung the mask up into a tree. I had a horror of it. I felt that it made me an accomplice in the crime, and I was conscious of the most intense relief when at last I was free of it. I turned to the right and ran up the avenue in the black shelter of the trees. I had a thought of taking refuge with Marianne and Jules Amadee, but I still clung desperately to a hope that if only I could talk with Diana first of all, we could arrange some story which would keep her out of the scandal of the crime altogether. I reasoned that once back again in my room with the door locked and my bed drawn across it, I should be safe till morning. And morning could not be far away.
“But as I flitted across the terrace I saw something move behind the window of the library — you,” and Joyce Whipple turned to Mr. Ricardo. “I sprang into Diana’s room, locked the glass door and turned on the light for a moment. It was just as I had left it. Diana had not moved. And then someone knocked. My fingers were on the switch. I turned the light out. This was my moment. If the pursuers were out upon the terrace, I had time to reach my room and barricade it. I sped up the little staircase, went into my room. I was too late. The men from the Chateau Mirandol had been led by Robin Webster to Diana’s room. They had found her sunk in a sleep so impenetrable that drugs alone could account for it. It was clear that I had taken her place. And whilst my fingers fumbled in the darkness for the switch a cloak was thrown over my head and a hand was pressed over my mouth. I did go out in a faint then. For when I came to myself I was being carried from a motor-car into Monsieur de Mirandol’s house. There were three men, Monsieur de Mirandol himself, Robin Webster, and a man who still wore a mask upon his face. I was carried down to a cellar, and whilst the man in the mask stood over me, the two others brought a mattress and a water-jug and things like that.
“‘We’ll decide about her tomorrow’ said the man with the mask, and I shivered. For I had recognized his voice. It was the voice of the man who had cried: ‘Lock the door!’ I remember that Robin Webster went out of the cellar last, and before he went he stooped down over me and whispered: ‘Don’t lose heart! I’ll save you.’
“But of course he couldn’t. I hadn’t a hope that he could. He must agree to what the others decided.
“There was a grating in the cellar under the ceiling which let in air and a trickle of grey light. Some time after it was day Monsieur de Mirandol brought me some food and I implored him to let me go. I don’t know what I promised, but he never replied to me at all. Then the evening afterwards, Tidon and de Mirandol came together. They handcuffed me and put a gag in my mouth and tied my legs. I was carried upstairs by Tidon. His car was at the door, with an all-weather body closed, and no chauffeur. He laid me on the floor and covered me with a rug, and after a minute or two the car moved off.”
Hanaud nodded his head.
“Tidon was the one man who could drive into Bordeaux through my cordon without his car being searched,” he said. “But even so he took his precautions, the good man. As he neared Bordeaux he made a circuit of the town, and in some by-lane mademoiselle here was transferred to a horse-drawn conveyance driven by a kind friend of the widow Chicholle.”
CHAPTER 29
HANAUD DOTS THE T’S
THUS JOYCE WHIPPLE told her story. Before she had got very far with it she slipped her hand under Bryce Carter’s arm with a pretty gesture, assuring herself by the touch of him that the bad days of which she was telling were really at an end. And before she had come to her flight from the house of Mirandol, his arm was about her waist and she held close to his side. Thus, too, they remained when the story was told, not even the charm of a bottle of very sweet pink champagne which Hanaud recklessly ordered sufficing to unlink them.
“Each one the glass full to the brim!” he cried. “So! We pledge Miss Joyce. And do we tap the heels? No! We do not!”
He raised his glass against the light, watched with evident anticipation the bubbles breaking on the surface of the wine, and bowing to her with kindliness and admiration so warm upon his face that not one of them but was stirred, he cried: “To the brave young lady from the Bowery!”
Joyce laughed and blushed and thanked him with shining eyes. Bryce Carter, justifying himself in Hanaud’s thoughts at l
ast, kissed her plump on the mouth, Hanaud smacked his lips, Mr. Ricardo shut his eyes as though he was about to take castor oil; and then they drank their glasses empty.
“The champagne!” said Hanaud. “On the occasion it is right to drink him.”
“And this champagne is wonderful,” said Bryce Carter shamelessly.
“A most nauseating beverage,” said Mr. Ricardo, but he only said it to himself. He had shown heroism enough in drinking the decoction.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 116