But the Nyctalope went on, calmly:
“In the meantime, Vitto and Soca will continue to work on the footprints. That is to say, they will try to find and separate out from the path the steps of the man whose left shoe had a split sole. Perhaps this investigation will lead them in a direction that is, or could be, significant. During the day, they will also arrange to see all the existing shoes, worn or not, in the castle and its outbuildings... Isn’t that right, my friends?”
“Yes, Monsieur,” the two Corsicans said together, with a peaceful assurance that d’Hermont admired, despite the fact that he already knew that these two men were unparalleled servants and incomparable bloodhounds.
“Good!” said Saint-Clair. “On you go, then. Now, my dear d’Hermont, I believe you have work to do in your office. Meanwhile, I would like to speak to your sister and eldest daughter. Where can I find Madame Dauzet and Mademoiselle Madeleine?”
“Come with me, dear friend. My sister and daughter are expecting you. I warned them that you wished to speak with them.”
“Very good.”
No doubt Madame Dauzet and Madeleine had rushed that morning to attend to their usual occupations, for d’Hermont and Saint-Clair found them waiting in the little drawing-room, visibly moved.
D’Hermont said only:
“I leave you to it.”
And he disappeared through the door that gave direct access to the living-room library.
There was no preamble. Immediately taking a seat before the two women who had, at his gesture, arranged themselves side-by-side on a couch, Saint-Clair spoke in a contained but penetrating voice:
“I address myself to you both. Your brother, Madame, your father, Mademoiselle, has told me all he knows. But do you know anything beyond what he does? Is there something you have hidden? If I am to have a chance of clarifying the tragic and painful mystery enveloping Beech Grove in who knows what mortal evil, you must tell me everything you know, with no restrictions, down to the vaguest and most secret of your thoughts.”
The aunt and niece resembled one another closely. The two of them shared more than the “family air” one notices between blood relatives. They had the same eyes and dark hair, the same tanned complexion, now sallow from the mysterious illness, the same cut of the face which hardly varied from the difference in age, the same body shape, normally solid and full, but reduced to skeletal thinness because of physical illness and moral anguish.
After the Nyctalope’s sober but energetic plea, there was a brief moment of silence. The aunt and niece took one another by the hand, and clutched each another convulsively. With a look at once trusting and anxious, they stared at their grave and calm questioner.
At last, turning her head slightly toward her aunt, Madeleine sighed:
“You say it!”
“I shall,” said Laure Dauzet, with a breath.
And in a low voice, a little hoarse, for her throat was contracted, she said:
“As far as the facts go, we told Jacques everything. But as far as our thoughts...”
She stopped, trembling.
The Nyctalope knew the power that he had to communicate his will to others through the fluid from his hands. He leaned toward Laure and Madeleine, and though he did not touch their clutched hands, he took hold of their other hands that the woman and the girl had left at rest at the edge of the couch, one to the right, the other to the left. Their fingers were frozen. He touched them, held them, caressed them, and kept them in his warm palms, electrified by his intense vital fluid. With a dominating familiarity, he commanded:
“Laure, speak!”
At the same time he looked into Madame Dauzet’s eyes. They opened wide, and soon appeared as if fascinated. The patient abandoned herself to the Nyctalope’s hypnotic grip. Suddenly softening, becoming less stiff and strained in all of her body, she started speaking in a low, slow voice:
“Our thoughts… I do not know which one of us first became aware of it. It was two weeks ago, barely two weeks, that Madeleine and I first communicated with one another during the night, obeying a simultaneous impulse. Our rooms are next to each another. After the death of my sister Lucile, we were afraid at night, and began to leave open the door between our rooms. Just as in my brother’s room, in each of our rooms a nightlight gives a weak light...”
She paused and sighed, seeming to hesitate. But the Nyctalope increased the pressure of his hand. Laure went on:
“One night, we slept less well than most nights. I had just heard the great grandfather clock on the landing sound three… All at once, we got up and started walking towards each other, meeting on the very threshold between our two rooms. Quickly I said:
“ ‘Madeleine, I have to talk to you.’
“She replied:
“ ‘And I to you, Laure.’
“ ‘Come here!’ I said.
“And embracing Madeleine, I brought her to my bed, where we sat hugging one another. Shuddering, we spoke the same words at the same time. I was conscious, as was Madeleine, that we were saying the same words, expressing the same thoughts, learning nothing from each other since we were thinking the same way. But we had to say what we did so that our souls would be liberated...”
She stopped then, but Saint-Clair did not let her rest. He insisted:
“And what was that?”
With a great shudder, her face expressing a frightful horror, Laure whispered:
“Basilie!”
“My God!” moaned Madeleine, clenching her hand within the hand of Saint-Clair.
Coldly, the Nyctalope asked:
“So, what about Basilie?”
Then, with a quick and gasping speech, as if the unfortunate woman were anxious to “liberate herself” from a thought that filled her with fear, shame and remorse, Laure spoke once again:
“She is so different from us! In the essence and aspect of her whole being, she resembles neither my brother, nor my sister-in-law who bore her, or me, her aunt, or Madeleine, her sister, or either of our grandparents from the south of France. She, Basilie, looks like she’s from one of the Nordic countries where most girls have her deep blue eyes, fine blonde hair, flushed cheeks, innocent look... Innocent maybe, but only on the surface...”
Laure then fell silent, her mouth shut tight, as if she had made a sudden decision not to speak anymore.
But Saint-Clair applied more pressure to her hand:
“A thought is no more than a name, an ensemble of statements of fact. Her name, Basilie. A fact: the lack of resemblance of your youngest niece with the entire d’Hermont family. A name, a fact. So be it! But your thought, and Madeleine’s, did not limit themselves to this name and this fact. So what is it? Speak, Laure!”
She obeyed, but with her head lowered, and in a voice so low that Saint-Clair could barely hear her:
“Our thought came from jealousy, it seems. This is what gives us shame and remorse. But we cannot drive it away; the jealousy destroys us. We are afraid to hate Basilie, because out of all the d’Hermonts, she, alone, is free of the evil that tortures and kills us... From jealousy to hate! My God, it is horrible! From hatred to suspicion...”
She sobbed, her whole body convulsive. Madeleine, also agitated with violent shivers, leaned her whole weight against her.
“What suspicion?” asked Saint-Clair intensely.
“Oh! No! No!” moaned Laure, twisting.
She would have fallen backward on the sofa with Madeleine, if the hands of the Nyctalope had not kept the two convulsed bodies seated upright.
“Yes! Speak!” he ordered.
With an evident effort of her whole being, Laure continued:
“To make us die, she gave her soul to the devil!”
And with this extraordinary utterance, which astonished Saint-Clair, for he had never imagined a conclusion of this kind, Laure was seized by a nervous tremor, so sudden and violent that the Nyctalope, neglecting a half-fainting Madeleine, turned his attention completely to attending her.
&nbs
p; He had anticipated, if not exactly this, but at least some kind of physical trouble due to the exasperation of her nervous system. In his pocket was a tiny bottle of subtle and powerful English salts.
Saint-Clair nursed Laure, who soon calmed down, relaxed and had a healthy cry, while of her own accord Madeleine slowly regained consciousness.
During several minutes of progressive return to calm, not a word was exchanged. Saint-Clair alternately caressed the hands of Laure and Madeleine, at first glazed and stiffened, then more and more lukewarm and supple. He looked at them with infinite gentleness. In this way, they returned almost to how they were before the start of their dramatic confessions. When he judged their spirits had become lucid again and their bodies were calm, the Nyctalope spoke again:
“Laure, I beg you to keep your composure, with all the strength you have. You too, Madeleine. Can I count on you two?”
He smiled at them.
They replied with a pale smile and a distinct “yes.”
Saint-Clair went on:
“The thought you expressed in saying: ‘To make us die, she gave her soul to the devil!’... We must carefully examine such a thought, consider things cautiously, for this resides on a very different plane than the one I discussed with Doctor Luvier, or when I examined the footprints and pistol cartridge in the presence of your brother. Yes, this is on an entirely different plane! Laure, Madeleine, I beg you to answer me with complete sincerity. First, do you believe in God?”
“Yes!” the aunt and niece said together.
“Are you practicing Catholics?”
“Yes.”
“And pious too?”
“Yes.”
Laure added:
“Even very pious, in the judgment of the world, for we rarely pass a week without taking communion.”
“Good!” said Saint-Clair. “But am I right in remembering Jacques, without being anti-clerical or an atheist, as being...”
“My brother is indifferent, that’s all,” Laure cut him off gently. “All the same, out of affection and tenderness for us, he accompanies us to Mass on Sunday. And of course, he would never make the slightest derogatory remark about our faith and practices of piety...”
Then, Saint-Clair asked, clearly:
“What about Basilie?”
Neither the young woman nor Madeleine were surprised by the question. They had been expecting it. Madeleine whispered, shrugging her shoulders:
“Oh! Basilie, her faith, her piety...”
Laure answered coldly:
“I am convinced that the soul of Basilie is closed to God. My niece accompanies us to Sunday Mass and holiday celebrations, but for eighteen months, she has not taken communion. She did not even go to the Easter Mass last year. She has not confessed, even once. Jacques, her father, has never questioned her about this failure to fulfill her fundamental religious duties. Madeleine and I have kept the same reserve. We believe that each person is responsible only before God and their own conscience. Thus, as far as religion is concerned, a way of life has been established at Beech Grove whereby each acts according to his or her own will, without attempting to influence the conduct of others, and without allowing oneself any commentary in attitude or words. We feel, Madeleine and I, that this is the will of our brother and father. Jacques, the last Comte d’Hermont, is now the head of the family, a sort of function of dignity and authority with respect to keeping old traditions alive. The will of our brother is thus respected. We do not judge her—even in the most secret depths of our souls.”
“That is good!” said Saint-Clair.
And he stood up.
With the same movement, the two women rose, astonished. The Nyctalope noted their surprise.
“Yes,” he replied. “That is enough. You have told me enough for today. I have to think, now. But I also need the two of you to reflect well, before our next conversation. I do not want your reflections to remain silent. Tell them to me sincerely, examine them together and analyze them, if I dare use that word, a little pedantic in the circumstances. Do you understand me? Then you will tell me everything you have discussed amongst yourselves.”
“We agree,” said Madeleine.
“Agreed,” echoed Laure, who added: “But what should we think about, in particular?”
Saint-Clair looked into the two faces with his extraordinary gaze and said slowly:
“About this: To make us die, she gave her soul to the devil.”
He took one hand of Laure’s and one hand of Madeleine’s, raised them, bowed, and touched one, then the other with a kiss. Letting them go suddenly, he turned and walked out.
But before he reached the door, he stopped, turned again towards the two women who had remained motionless, and, in the same deep, slow voice, said:
“During our next conversation, I will also ask you to tell me how you explain the phenomenon of the luminous nimbus and your kind of ecstatic prayer on the lawn pedestal.”
He saw them blanch with new emotion. Without adding a word, he left the room.
CHAPTER III
The Cracked Sole
Léo Saint-Clair had resolved the problem of the existence of God for himself in a definitive way, one that filled his soul with stoic serenity. As far as religions went, he was informed. He had conversed with the Pope in Rome and with the living Buddha in Lhasa; he had devoted himself to studying at the Islamic universities of Morocco and at the most venerable temples of China; as friends he could count on the Superior General of the Jesuits, a great Dominican orator, a venerable pastor from Heidelberg and the president of the Geneva consistory. In consequence, he thought that if a young girl “gives her soul to the devil,” this young girl is either an ungodly mystic, or the devil in question is represented by a man of flesh-and-bone, visible, tangible and very alive.
He said to himself:
“In the eventuality, doubtful if not improbable, that Basilie d’Hermont plays an occult role in the mysterious drama of Beech Grove, is she possessed by the madness of demonic mysticism? Or is she instead the instrument, conscious or not, of a man seeking to do deliberate harm? The footprints of the size forty-three shoes and cartridge of the Browning caliber 9mm make me lean toward the second hypothesis...”
From the little drawing room where he had left Laure and Madeleine, Saint-Clair headed to the library.
“Well?” asked Jacques d’Hermont, who had been anxiously expecting him.
Saint-Clair replied calmly:
“Your sister and eldest daughter, my dear friend, have entrusted their secret thoughts to me. But its nature is such that I do not think I ought to reveal it to you. I need to think and come to a decision. I will tell you later, in my own time. I beg you not to question me, and above all, not to let Laure and Madeleine suspect I have alluded to their strange thought before you.”
Without hesitation, Jacques d’Hermont gave his promise.
“I appreciate it,” said Saint-Clair. “Now I would like to visit the whole castle, including the rooms of your sister, your daughters and yourself. Will you allow me?”
“Certainly! Would you like me to accompany you?”
“No, it’s better for me to do this alone.”
“As you please,” said the chatelain obediently. “We are in the habit of never closing the doors here. You will be able to enter wherever you like.”
“Thank you. One more thing: have you had your servants for a long time?”
“Yes, all of them,” replied d’Hermont. “Firmin and his wife Amélie came here twenty years ago, just after their marriage. The maid Jeannette, their niece, was born on one of my farms, the closest one to the castle. The gardener, Francis, and his wife, Charlotte, in charge of the farmyard, have been at Beech Grove for thirty years. Finally, our head gamekeeper, Bottot, is the son of his predecessor, who was hired and trained by my father. I can tell you that I know all these people as well as I know myself. They have not only our confidence, but also our affection.”
“Very good!” conclude
d Saint-Clair, visibly satisfied. “This afternoon, I will first talk to Firmin. I have been watching him: he seems a man of good sense, with a typical peasant calm, based on concrete realities.”
“Exactly!” approved the Comte.
“Well! Until tomorrow then, my friend. I am going to make a complete tout of your home. No, don’t bother describing the rooms to me. I already have a sense of the inner layout of the castle. I will make my tour without hesitation.”
D’Hermont nodded in agreement, and Saint-Clair left the library.
Of course, the Nyctalope did not try to open doors that were closed or did not have a key in the lock. But he did not hesitate to make forays wherever his hands could access something without breaking in.
He spent only a short time in Jacques’ room; but spent a long time, though still and thinking for long minutes, in the rooms of Laure Dauzet, Madeleine and Basilie d’Hermont. All the rooms of the castle and outbuildings were made up by the young servant, Jeannette, whom he found occupied in the laundry with a bit of mending. With kindness, he questioned the young woman about herself, her parents and the Gasse family, the brother and sister-in-law of Firmin who worked as farmers at La Migeonne. This was a medium-sized farm with buildings located not far away, at the edge of the park, about a kilometer away from the castle.
From Jeannette, Saint-Clair learned a fact that he lodged in his memory. For six months, in the farmyard, barn and stable of La Migeonne, the cattle had become ill and died in number singularly higher than in all the other farms of the area. What is more, the farmer, Hector Gasse, and his wife Anna, Jeanette’s parents, had been in poor health for six months, although before, they had been “strong as oaks.”
Saint-Clair gently risked a question:
“Do their discomforts resemble those suffered by your master, his sister and his elder daughter?”
“I do not know,” replied Jeannette innocently. “They are weak in the legs above all, and sometimes in the evening, they suffer from dizzy spells with a bit of fever.”
“Has Doctor Luvier seen them?” asked Saint-Clair.
“Yes, Monsieur.”
The Nyctalope and The Tower of Babel Page 6