Patiently, he let five minutes pass.
Then he removed the thermometer, looked at it and whispered:
“Thirty-seven point nine.4 In the evening, my normal temperature is thirty-seven point two. Unquestionably the fever has risen. At midnight, my temperature will exceed thirty-eight point five.5 Bizarre! All the more bizarre since, sitting here calmly, I feel in my legs and my thighs a soft and already painful heaviness, and I am suffering clearly in my liver, too—I who have never suffered from liver problems before! It therefore seems without question that I have entered personally and effectively into the drama of Beech Grove. This is interesting, but I do not know if I have any cause for worry yet.”
Laying the thermometer on the table, he continued to smoke, observe and analyze himself, without neglecting to maintain the fire with a basket of dry logs within reach of his hands.
His pipe finished, he let himself fall asleep and dream, without fully losing consciousness. From time to time, he opened his eyes and looked at the clock.
A little after 1 a.m., he put the thermometer under his arm again. It now said his fever was at thirty-nine point two.6 He was sweating. For an hour, he tried to sweat it out. Then he stood, staggering on his weakened legs, leaning on the furniture and walls, and went to the bathroom. There, using all his energy, he managed to remove his clothes, dry himself with a towel and put on clean pajamas. He also took a large dose of quinine and went to bed. Soon he fell into a deep sleep.
It was relatively brief, for when Saint-Clair woke with a start, the clock only read 6 a.m.
The Nyctalope’s head felt heavy. But he did not have to make a mental effort: his brain was sharp and his ideas were clear. He stood without difficulty, and felt his body. His liver was painful, his muscles soft. He perceived that his mouth tasted bitter, but he did not dwell on it. He relit the fire, as the coals were still alive under the ashes. Then he drank from a powerful cordial in his pharmaceutical kit. He forced himself to perform a meticulous toilette, after a thorough shave. Finally, dressed from head to foot, and wearing his tall lace-up boots, he took note that his body temperature was now only 36.4.7 It was 7.00 a.m.
He rang the bell. Three minutes later Firmin entered the room.
“Good morning, Monsieur. Did you sleep well?”
After these ritual words, the intelligent servant, accustomed to a familiarity at once respectful and free, did not hesitate to say with an expression of astonishment:
“Monsieur looks tired. The face of Monsieur...”
Then Saint-Clair said gently:
“It’s true Firmin, I slept very badly, with a heavy bout of fever. But I beg you to say nothing to anyone, do you understand? Not even to your wife or Jeannette.”
“Yes, Monsieur. Monsieur can trust me: I know how to be discreet.”
“I trust you, Firmin. And the proof is that I will give my permission to Vitto and Soca to speak to you as we do amongst ourselves of what we call the Mystery of Beech Grove—a mystery that began with the evil that led to Madame d’Hermont’s death, and has continued inflicting unspeakable pain on Monsieur d’Hermont, Madame Dauzet and Mademoiselle Madeleine—the same evil of which I myself last night felt the first attacks. I am at Beech Grove to solve this mystery and put an end to this evil. Let it affect me—I will only have better information to find the truth. So, Firmin, calm and discretion. I’m counting on you.”
“Yes, Monsieur!” said the man, moved.
“Good. Before breakfast, we have time to talk. Go tell Vitto and Soca that I want to see them right away. And come back with them.”
A few minutes later, Firmin returned, bringing the Nyctalope’s two assistants. Saint-Clair made the three men sit, then sat down himself. In minute detail, he told them what had happened to him, hour by hour, through the night. He concluded, speaking directly to Vitto and Soca:
“I see that it was not the same for you two. You have slept normally, and did not feel anything out of the ordinary, am I right?”
Their replies of “No, Monsieur” merged into one.
“Like Firmin,” continued Saint-Clair, “and like the other inhabitants of the castle. This evil appears to affect only the masters, except for Mademoiselle Basilie. This is remarkably strange. Firmin, have you seen Monsieur d’Hermont this morning?”
“Yes, Monsieur. Just before you rang.”
“How was he?”
“Ill. That is to say, like every morning, except yesterday. And to me, he even seemed even weaker, even more overwhelmed. The crisis of the night must have been stronger than usual.”
“I see. The mysterious evil made only a superficial truce yesterday, due no doubt to the mental blow it received because of my arrival. That’s why it’s important to hide from our hosts that I was attacked last night. Besides, I now feel almost back to normal. After a substantial breakfast, I will be quite well. Listen to me, Vitto, Soca! Today I will have to make even more significant progress in our investigation than yesterday. Whether this mysterious evil comes from a human entity hostile to the d’Hermonts, or from a natural cause with its source in who knows what elements of nature, we must learn soon, very soon, which of these two hypotheses is correct, to arrive straight at the principle of that evil. Now as far as mental clues go, we have none. But with respect to material clues, we have one: the footprint of the shoe with the cracked sole.”
“But, Monsieur,” exclaimed Soca, “we also have the cartridge of the 9mm caliber gun!”
“Yes, but does this cartridge constitute a second clue? Let us examine the list of names you have brought me from Tours. Give me the paper, over there on the dresser.”
The examination was made quickly. Only fourteen citizens of the department of Indre-et-Loire had officially declared themselves the owners of an automatic pistol of 9mm caliber. Eleven lived in Tours, one in Chinon, one in Membrolle and only one in Saint-Christophe-sur-le-Nais.
“Ah!” said the Nyctalope, visibly content. “Here we may have found the owner of our pistol… A Monsieur Armand Logreux... The odd thing is that, out of all the names on this list, his is the only one for which the official declaration was filed not by the owner of the gun, but by the gunsmith. For in the margin of the name ‘Armand Logreux,’ I read this handwritten note: ‘The possession of a 9mm Browning was declared not by its owner but after a police cross-checking of the records of the gunsmiths of Tours and a statement of arms sales.’”
Saint-Clair paused. Then he said, in an imperious tone:
“Firmin! Soca et Vitto will bring you up to date on all the facts in a minute—at least those which you do not already know, such as the discovery of the cartridge we are discussing. But you must tell me right away what you know out this Armand Logreux. You must know something, since he lives in Saint-Christophe.”
Firmin Gasse replied with calm, but also a sort of astonished perplexity, evident especially in the expression of his light brown eyes:
“Monsieur, the domain of Beech Grove extends into three communes, of which one, Dissay-sous-Courcillon, is in the department of the Sarthe. Saint-Christophe remains our village, however, for the Town Hall, Post Office and daily suppliers. I know everyone there. Monsieur Logreux does not live in Saint-Christophe. He lives... Well, from here, you can see the old mill that a Logreux, a hundred years ago, transformed into a castle-like dwelling. He even gave it a pretentious name: The Manor. A few years later, this was expanded to The Manor of the Cross of Blood!”
“What a strange name!” said Saint-Clair.
While speaking, Firmin had walked toward a window. He turned around and said:
“Monsieur, may I open it? From here, you can all the way to Monsieur Logreux’s manor, and the rest.”
“What do you mean, ‘and the rest’?” asked Saint-Clair, moving toward the window with Soca and Vitto.
“Monsieur Logreux is also the owner of a very important estate used mostly for livestock farming, which on one side borders the property of Monsieur d’Hermont for more than six kilometers.
”
Firmin opened the window wide, and standing to one side stretched out an arm:
“As Monsieur can see, at the end of the valley in front of this magnificent curtain of poplars, there is a ramshackle ensemble of buildings, towers and pepper-pot roofs. This is the so-called Manor of the Cross of Blood.”
Saint-Clair remembered that, two days before, while going to the village with Jacques d’Hermont, he had admired, but from a different viewpoint, those poplars so numerous and so tall, seen over the roofs and towers of the village. He said nothing, but repeated:
“What a strange name!”
With simplicity, but not without the complaisance of a man proud of being well informed, Firmin explained:
“Before a Logreux transformed it, the building was called the ‘Mill of the Nais.’ Then it became the ‘Manor.’ But a few years later, there was a drama, which has become a bit of a local legend. One morning, in a large area that borders the Manor to the west, a large pool of coagulated blood was found. A bloody trail led to the dam of the Nais. There, a corpse was found, that of an unknown man. The gendarmes and the police never solved this mystery, about which, moreover, there was no complaint filed. A judicial investigation was ordered by the Public Prosecutor of Tours. But it was not possible to establish the identity of the dead man, whose throat had been slit, and who had been thrown into the water. Not the slightest clue about his murderer, or murderers, could be discovered. The case was finally closed. The Logreux had the bloodied earth dug out and remove. Then they covered it with a large slab of granite, and erected a wrought iron cross on it.”
“I see,” said Saint-Clair. “The Cross of Blood. And this name was added later to that of the Manor by the locals.”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Close the window again, Firmin. But the present Monsieur Logreux, what kind of man is he?”
“Oh! Monsieur, I know very little. One almost never sees him on the roads leading to the d’Hermont estate, for there have never been any relations between Beech Grove and the Cross of Blood. He appears only rarely at Saint-Christophe, and all his correspondence is addressed to Poste restante at Dissay-sous-Courcillon, where a servant goes to pick it up every day. To replenish stock of any kind, the Cross of Blood goes to Dissay, or the Château-du-Loir, or even Le Mans. In Saint-Christophe, the Logreux have never been loved, because they’ve always kept themselves apart from the village and its inhabitants. Only the notary communicates with them, but he is a man who speaks little. Perhaps Monsieur le Comte knows more than I do?”
“It’s possible, Firmin, even likely,” said Saint-Clair in the same calm tone with which he had said “I see” a few minutes before. “I will ask him. But you, Firmin, not a word to anyone about this. Starting now, I ask you to keep the same silence regarding your conversations with Vitto and Soca, or me, as you do regarding the mystery of Beech Grove.”
“Monsieur can rest assured.”
“I will, Firmin. Another thing: this morning I will have breakfast in the dining-room. Yesterday, I observed that Monsieur d’Hermont and his daughters have the habit of taking it together. I will do the same. Will you come to let me know when it is served? The same as yesterday, please.”
“Yes, Monsieur. But does Monsieur see any objection in my informing Monsieur le Comte?”
“No, on the contrary, since I was going to instruct you to tell him. But why do you ask?”
“Because in that case, Monsieur le Comte will doubtless want me to take up another habit of the castle at breakfast hour. The bell rings, a light sound that is repeated. The ringing was cancelled yesterday and was to be cancelled again this morning, so long as Monsieur is here, in order to avoid waking Monsieur, if Monsieur...”
“Right, I understand. You may ring the bell as usual, Firmin.”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
Saint-Clair smiled at this meticulous servant. Then, speaking to his two assistants, he said:
“I will see you after breakfast, when I have chatted with Monsieur d’Hermont.”
And the Nyctalope remained alone, having slipped into one of his pockets the list brought by Soca from the prefecture of Tours. He waited, seated on an armchair and meditating, to hear the bell announcing that breakfast was served.
As soon as he heard it, he left his room.
Just as the day before, in the dining-room he found assembled Jacques d’Hermont, Laure Dauzet, Madeleine and Basilie d’Hermont. But unlike the day before, no one was seated: they were all waiting for their guest. There was an even more moving difference. Neither Jacques, nor Laure, nor Madeleine were, as had been the case the previous day, visibly well. On the contrary, the chatelain, his sister and his older daughter had visibly suffered as much, and perhaps even more, during the night. It was no less obvious that this strange evil continued to spare Basilie, who, like the day before, inspired the Nyctalope with the thought: “fresh, beautiful, perfumed flower, still almost a bud, whose magnificent blossoming one could not imagine without a certain pleasant disturbance.”
Jacques, Laure and Madeleine had suffered too much not to be withdrawn into themselves, and they did not discern on the face of their guest the slight sign of the same physical fatigue. But Basilie, precisely because of her normal and habitual serenity, of which she thought nothing, noticed these signs. After the usual greetings had been spoken, everyone sat for breakfast, and Jacques, Laure and Madeleine, all too aware of their relapse, thought only about hiding the suffering and shame that made them so different from what they had been the day before. Basilie, however, fixed the pure gaze of her fathomless blue eyes on the Nyctalope, and with a gravity at once timid and attentive, asked:
“Have you had a bad night?”
Saint-Clair was not expecting this. He had not even imagined that the question would be asked of him by Jacques, so sure was he of his preparations, of the influence of his will upon the physical features of his face. He thought he had erased all traces of the “bad night” he had experienced. It was astonishing that the question came from the lips of the young girl, who had never previously shown herself to be such a good observer. But Saint-Clair had experienced many surprises of this order, and had never let himself shown to be surprised. So he replied immediately, in the most normal tone:
“I? No, not at all.”
This was the unthinking, mechanical, immediate response of a man feeling well, who affirms this truth.
But he let some time pass, as he took a seat beside Madame Dauzet. Then, with just the right expression of slight astonishment, in an amicably cheerful tone, he asked:
“But what, Mademoiselle, makes you think I had a bad night?”
With a seriousness at once timid and attentive, without lowering her eyes or turning them away, Basilie replied:
“Your face is pale and a bit contracted. Your eyes, or rather the area underneath, looks swollen and circled.”
“My goodness!” exclaimed Saint-Clair, with admirably feigned enthusiasm. “How observant you are! It’s true that while washing my face, I noticed this too. But it’s such a small thing! It’s likely fatigue from a first day spent being very active in the countryside. With us Parisians, as you know, the open air gets the better of us after three consecutive months in the city. Also, this morning, I rose early and turned myself completely to a very difficult work of ethnography, a chapter of the narrative of my last trip to India. Congratulations, Mademoiselle, on your discernment.”
Basilie blushed, and with a sort of sadness that Saint-Clair noted for the first time in the look and voice of the young girl, she murmured:
“It’s nothing, Monsieur. I have become so used to watching faces here.”
Now she did lower her eyes, as she began to pour coffee into the bowls, starting with her father’s.
During this brief, unexpected dialogue, the Nyctalope was able to observe Jacques, Laure and Madeleine. All three had listened to the exchange, and had now their eyes fixed on the face of their guest. None of them showed any unease beyond
that which tortured them personally. None seemed to want to speak. But Saint-Clair knew well that the alteration in his face was scarcely perceptible, and in his heart, he continued to be astonished that Basilie had shown such perspicacity—as well as, hidden beneath her timid exterior, such a brutal frankness. He wanted to know if Jacques, Laure and Madeleine, now informed, saw what Basilie did. In a playful tone, he added:
“Jacques, and you, Madame, and you Mademoiselle Madeleine, looking at my face, do you think it so far gone?”
“Oh!” cried Basilie with an abrupt laugh. “I didn’t say that!”
With an effort, as if speaking were physically painful, Jacques d’Hermont said:
“Yes, your face bears traces of fatigue. You rose very early, and did not sleep enough after a day in the open air and two or three hours of work.”
“That’s it,” said Laure.
“Yes,” whispered Madeleine.
A minute later, Jeannette and Firmin had arrived, carrying eggs and ham for Saint-Clair, hot chocolate for Basilie, buttered slices of toast for everyone.
They spoke no more of the face of Saint-Clair. In fact, they did not speak at all. Jacques, Laure and Madeleine ate without appetite, with effort. They showed a bleak sadness that they did not try to hide, let alone conquer and dispel. Basilie, now obviously embarrassed, hurried to devour the toasted and buttered bread, which she dipped into her hot chocolate. Saint-Clair, determined to remain natural and eat as if he still had his usual appetite, did nothing to break the general silence.
All the same, he thought that, when the meal was over, he would not leave them without expressing a few ideas.
It was Thursday, January 22. The day had begun with overcast skies, humidity, fog and a dreary cold that sank into the body, softened it, and made it shiver with discomfort. The Nyctalope waited for the Comte or Basilie to speak again. During this wait, he noticed that the young girl was once again dressed in her riding costume despite the unattractive weather. This surprised him a bit. He thought: “With her, riding borders on fanaticism. To be carried through this fog at a trot or gallop on a horse… Few Amazons would find pleasure in it. What is this young girl hiding? Is she even hiding something?”
The Nyctalope and The Tower of Babel Page 9