“And what did he say?”
“He said that it is a fever from the damp. La Migeonne is on the edge of the biggest pond in the entire estate, and last summer, it drained only halfway. The bottom took a long time to dry up in the sun. It seems that this created a bad air, miasmas.”
“That’s possible,” said Saint-Clair.
But Jeannette went on, with a smile of contentment and hope:
“Monsieur le Comte had all the rushes and herbs in the pond removed. Now the water has filled up the basin again, and the overflow goes to the Nais by a small, clean stream. The doctor said that my father and mother will be fully recovered by the spring.”
“That is also probable,” concluded the Nyctalope.
Saint-Clair left this reasonable and robust country girl, ruddy and in perfect health, to her work, and exited the laundry room to continue his visit. Already, however, he had promised himself to make a visit that afternoon to the farm of Hector and Anna Gasse.
At 11 a.m., he had finished his first general foray, and began his return to the library. Passing through the grand entrance hall, he saw two figures through the ground-floor window, open to the sun for the daily airing-out. These were his two Corsican aides, making their way through the park toward the castle.
He went through the big gate to meet them. On seeing their master Vitto and Soca stopped, and Saint-Clair realized that they wished to speak to him at a distance far enough from the castle so that no one would overhear them. He took a step toward them, and stopped. Soca said immediately:
“Monsieur, we have found more footprints of the shoe with the cracked sole. They are faint, but sufficient for us to follow their track. They led us straight to a farm at the edge of a large pond. In the yard, before the front porch, the trail is lost in a muddy ground trampled by the men and women of the farm. A servant was turning over the manure in this yard, and looked at us. We pretended that we were only taking a walk, and wanted to admire the yard, which is indeed remarkable for its antiquity. Then we turned back.”
“Very good!” concluded Saint-Clair.
He then added:
“We need to find out if, at this farm, which is called La Migeonne, there is a man with a shoe size forty-three, who owns old studded shoes, with a cracked left sole. But we will not do this today—at least not you, Soca, because this afternoon, you will go to the Prefecture at Tours. There you will deliver this letter from me to the Prefect, requesting a list of citizens in the area who have declared ownership of a 9mm Browning. Vitto, you will stay with me. Maybe we will go together to La Migeonne. Soca, hand me your notebook.”
“Here, Monsieur.”
“Is everything written down here about the footprints?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Good. You are free until after lunch. I will see you at 2 p.m. sharp. Now, I am going to rejoin Comte d’Hermont.”
Two minutes later, Saint-Clair went into the library. There he found Basilie, buttoned-up in her uniform and with a whip in hand, reporting to her father her conversation with the farmer at the Fosses-Blanches.
With a small gesture, he signified that he would wait for their conversation to finish. For a few minutes, he could watch the young girl at his leisure.
When he entered, she flashed him a brief and charming smile. Basilie, very animated, was evidently very concerned by the little affair of the Fosses-Blanches, perhaps chiefly because it was a question of horses. She continued her explanations, or rather, her well-informed criticism of the choice of horses the farmer had made at market. She concluded by saying:
“The best, Papa, would be for you to go see the horses for yourself. You will certainly agree with me. It is necessary to resell them at another market and purchase others with greater vigor. I insist: these ones are too fine for the work destined for them on the hard soil of the Fosses-Blanches.”
Saint-Clair admired—it astonished him a little—that a young girl like Basilie took so much to heart a question connected with the mere exploitation of a farm. He had assumed she was of the old stock of country gentlewomen and rural chatelaines, solidly attached to the land. Soon, however, his astonishment disappeared. What’s more, it seemed impossible that there could be anything abnormally criminal, to say nothing of “selling her soul to the devil”, in this modern-day amazon who appeared so well-informed, so practical, so balanced, so endowed with good physical and moral health, with blue eyes and beautiful red lips uttering words that, in spite of their reason, were those of a child passionate about toys, in her case, horses.
“The soul of this adolescent is both naively practical and youthfully fiery,” he said to himself. “I do not imagine her as ‘giving her soul to the devil” to secure from infernal powers the death of her mother, father, sister and aunt, against whom she shows no visible interest and no hatred with suspicious motives. On the contrary, she seems united to them with blood and family ties of a natural tenderness that nothing in this life would seem able to threaten... Then what are the grounds for the atrocious thoughts of Laure and Madeleine? That is what they will not tell me. It’s true that I did interrupt the logical chain of their confessions, but I will lead them back to the right place.”
Meanwhile, Jacques d’Hermont said to his daughter:
“It’s decided then, my darling. I’ll go this very afternoon to the Fosses-Blanches.”
“Very good, Papa! Now, I’m going to take a bath. I need it. I was so full of energy during the argument with that stubborn Boussin! And then I took Diane on such a gallop...”
Light and cheerful, she went out with a rebellious shake of her head and a new smile for Saint-Clair as she walked by.
The two men waited a moment after the door closed behind Basilie. Then d’Hermont asked with sudden uneasiness:
“So, my dear friend, how was your visit of the castle?”
Saint-Clair let himself sink into an armchair, and looking distractedly at the shelves of the library lined up before him, he said:
“My word, everything was fine!”
After another brief silence, he added:
“But yes, there was something. In the laundry room, I found Jeannette, and chatted with her for a bit. Without the slightest ulterior motive from me, the slightest mental restriction, she told me certain things. Come, you must have noticed that all things living at the farm of La Migeonne, men, women and animals, are in a poorer state of health than that of the inhabitants and livestock of your other farms?”
The chatelain frowned and answered energetically:
“It’s true! Yes, it’s true.”
And after a kind of hesitation:
“But I admit that not once did it occur to me to make a connection between...”
He broke off, shivering and very moved.
“Between Beech Grove and La Migeonne, from the point of view of the mystery?” said Saint-Clair calmly.
“Yes! It is true that the losses of cattle at La Migeonne increased last year, and that the farm is now in a much less flourishing state than my other farms. The veterinarian attributes this to the extreme avarice of the farmer, Hector Gasse, and his wife, Anna. Their avarice is legendary in region; it is spoken about at all the fairs and market. As for the state of health of Hector and Anna, Doctor Luvier attributes it in part to the miasmas given off by the water of the big pond last summer, which evaporated in extraordinary proportions, breathing out years of accumulated stores. On the other hand, this same avarice that plagues the Gasses makes them feed themselves as poorly as they do their cattle. This is why my valet Firmin, Hector’s brother, demanded that his niece Jeanette be hired here as a maid. Her father and mother agreed enthusiastically: for them, it was one less mouth to feed, and profit without risk, for their daughter gives them half of her wages every month.”
As he gave these explanations, Jacques d’Hermont had little by little recovered his ease and calm. In the end, amused no doubt by the memory of country anecdotes linked to the avarice of the Gasses, he smiled.
“So that’s how it is,” said Saint-Clair. “All that is plausible, but there is something else.”
“What?” asked d’Hermont, once again anxious.
“Perhaps it is unrelated to the Gasses, their avarice, their ill health or the deficiencies of their cattle, but it is worth noting nevertheless... I’m beginning to realize that, to solve the mystery of Beech Grove, nothing must be neglected… Everything that is part of the existence of the beings and things at the castle, on the farms, and in the village of Saint-Christophe, and all the bourgeois and chatelain residences of the surrounding countryside, must be taken into account... Please excuse the vagaries of my reflections, which must still be sorted out... I said there was something else worth noting. Here it is.”
He took a breath and continued:
“On a path in the park, Vitto and Soca were able to find more footprints with a cracked sole. They led straight to a kind of mud pit that stretches out in front of the old porch of the farmyard of La Migeonne. They led there; then, unfortunately they disappear. The footprints are not found again anywhere else in the area, in other directions than that of the entrance to the farm... So the question arises: Did the man who wore these shoes go into the farm? Given the late hour of his walk, this would seem to suggest that he is one of the people who usually lives at La Migeonne. Or did he lose his cracked shoe at some point while crossing the muddy area, intentionally or not, continuing across without it so that he left no footprint in the solid mud? We find ourselves faced with an alternative of two propositions. It is important to choose one.”
Saint-Clair fell silent.
“Indeed, yes, indeed!” whispered d’Hermont, nodding. “Yet another bizarre detail to add to the thousand that make up this mystery.”
But the Nyctalope said calmly:
“By means of one or several of these details, or others that will be added to the list, we will eventually reach the end of the thread of Ariadne, leading to the solution of the mystery. But we are not yet there. We must not waste another minute. This afternoon, Soca is going to the prefecture at Tours. You know why. I will go with Vitto to La Migeonne. May I ask you to drive us there? The pretext is simple and perfectly credible: you are showing me around your magnificent estate, and very naturally, you are starting with La Migeonne, the farm closest to the castle.”
“Excellent!” said d’Hermont. “We will go La Migeonne after lunch.”
He said no more. Tired, slumped down and sinking softly into the back of his chair, he seemed overwhelmed. His yellow face and fixed eyes expressed a gloomy despair, as if he were resigned.
Looking at his old comrade with infinite pity, as well as an intense curiosity, the Nyctalope said to himself:
“Did he hope that I would come with a magic wand of pure and brilliant light to dispel the murky darkness, thickened by months of this diabolical mystery? I use ‘diabolical’ in the human sense of immorality, cunning and human perversity, rather than its religious meaning. Come now, I must bring the man to his senses!”
And seizing one of Comte d’Hermont’s hands with authority, he pressed it against him, and said with persuasive force:
“My dear Jacques, I beg you not to succumb to these dark thoughts which...”
But d’Hermont did not let him finish. He sat up, flashed Saint-Clair a resolute look and exclaimed:
“Oh! Léo! How right you are! They are unworthy of you... Of me! You know, these overwhelming events have turned me into a wreck! Everything has been so terrible! Yes... So horrible... To die would be nothing. You have seen me brave death a hundred times, in harsh circumstances... But to feel that I am becoming an old man, increasingly moribund... To see those I care for threatened by death, my eldest daughter, formerly so happy with life, my sister, who had at last accepted her widowhood with some stoic serenity and tender devotion to her two nieces... Seeing this, after having seen weaken and die the woman whom I loved with the gentlest part of myself and all the strength of my being... Ah, Saint-Clair!”
He stood up and clasped a hand to his forehead.
“But you’re right! You said it. I must be strong, and go with you bravely wherever this thread takes us.”
The Nyctalope answered, smiling:
“Didn’t you feel better yesterday, all of you? Your sister and eldest daughter fell asleep at the normal time last night. And today, you all look physically better off than yesterday.”
“Ah, Léo, that is due to your presence!”
“Perhaps. The influence of my morale on yours, and thus on your bodies, is not to be underestimated. It is a phenomenon that I have seen before. But it would not have lasted if you, Laure and Madeleine, had not energetically bandied together with all your thoughts, all your muscles and nerves, for this battle for life, at once lucid and obstinate, that has become our struggle. Isn’t that so, Jacques?”
The Comte agreed, with a smile that remained a little wan:
“Yes, Léo, that must be it. At least, I hope so. I wish it to be so. If we give way to despair, my daughter, my sister and I, whip us! Set us straight. You are the master here. Be an attentive and stern teacher.”
“I will,” concluded Saint-Clair gravely.
Without another word, he separated from his friend, left the library and went back to his room to freshen up before lunch.
This meal was less sinister than the one the day before. The weather was fine, dry and clear, and the enormous dining-room, where nothing of bad taste shocked the eye, gleamed under the sun. On the damask cloth of the table, the glass, porcelain and silver sparkled. Comely, fresh and smart, like a maid in a cloak-and-dagger novel, Jeannette attended smartly to the service. The dishes Laure Dauzet had ordered, chosen with care and grouped into a simple but thoughtful menu, tasted delicious, and the wines were of the first order.
Although, as we have noted, he was not in the habit of dining in the evening, Saint-Clair, with his solid constitution, greatly enjoyed the midday meal. For him, it was necessary for the satisfaction of his appetite, and he took a great and delicate pleasure in doing honor to the dishes and bottles.
In good spirits now, he recounted picturesque episodes from his adventures. Jacques, Laure and Madeleine did little more than listen to him. With her lively and curious spirit, however, Basilie was eager to question the Nyctalope and made spontaneous sallies. When giving his replies, Saint-Clair mixed unruffled admiration with gentle, mutinous, joyously youthful irony. Basilie, in turn, told anecdotes of her meetings with the peasant farmers, and Saint-Clair quickly discerned that she had a natural faculty for acute observation, always just and often profound. In the expression of some of the young girl’s thoughts, he also found the practical and even calculating sense that had been revealed to him in the library, during the account she had made to her father about her conversation with the farmer at the Fosses-Blanches.
“Strange girl!” he thought. “With her natural attitude of observing, laughing and making fun of every point in the compass rose, it seems that she will never lose her north. She joins the solid qualities of d’Hermont with a clairvoyant and ironic intelligence, and a lively sort of spirit that I have never noticed in Jacques, and of which Laure and Madeleine seem to me completely destitute. Yes, what a strange girl! But isn’t she just a child, impulsive and barely aware of the vitality she carries within her? Her youth, health, loveliness, beauty, the assurance of wealth? When one possesses all of this, one can be with sincerity and simplicity all that she is—all that she appears to be—without anything left remaining to be discovered.”
So the Nyctalope reasoned to himself, all the while remaining the main animator of life around this sunny table, so pleasant and seemingly untouched by any atmosphere of pain, unhappiness or mystery.
In the little drawing-room, where Jeannette served coffee and where the Comte arranged the liqueurs, cigar cases and cigarette boxes on a table, all remained the same as in the dining-room. But when the cups and little glasses had been emptied and the ashtrays were full, Basilie s
poke. Turning suddenly toward her aunt and sister, seated beside each other on the same sofa, she said:
“Auntie, Mad, will you come with me in ten minutes?”
“Where?” asked Laure, who extraordinarily and for the first time in half a year, was blissfully smiling.
Madeleine asked with nonchalance:
“Will it be far?”
“A bit,” replied Basilie, “but we’ll take the big cabriolet. We also have to stop at the pharmacy and pick up some absorbent cotton and medicines.”
“Does Mother Ploch have rheumatism?” asked Laure.
“You guessed it, Auntie. It was Boussin, the farmer at the Fosses-Blanches, who told me. Big mama Ploch’s gout comes once a year regularly, Doctor Luvier told me. Let’s go, the three of us, to the farm at the Priory where, despite her pains, Mama Ploch will make us some of her incomparable eggnog. And let’s take our rifles; we can shoot starlings. Nowhere in the country are their flights at dusk, their criss-crosses, columns and circle arcs, as rich in the number of birds as above the wood thicket of the Priory. Monsieur Saint-Clair, do you like starlings, grilled and skewered between slabs of bacon? They are exquisite. Papa enjoys them, Auntie appreciates them, Mad licks her fingers, and I can’t get enough of them myself!”
Speaking once again to her aunt and sister, Basilie concluded:
“So, are you coming?”
“We’re coming, aren’t we, Madeleine?” replied Madame Dauzet.
“Yes we are.”
A minute later, the three of them had left the room.
Saint-Clair then said:
“My dear Jacques, I think I’ve noticed something. Correct me if I am wrong…”
“What is it, my dear Léo?”
“It is that, to my knowledge, no matter to whom she is speaking, never has Basilie alluded to the sickly and deadly drama of Beech Tree. Never, not in speech, or even in her look. She does not inquire about your health, or that of her aunt and sister. In the morning, when she sees you for the first time at the beginning of the day, does she ask you how you slept? Today, to you, Laure and Madeleine, she said only, ‘How are you?’”
The Nyctalope and The Tower of Babel Page 7