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The Golden Triangle: The Return of Arsène Lupin

by Maurice Leblanc · English · Gutenberg #34795 · 515,662 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Golden Triangle: The Return of Arsène Lupin

Author: Maurice Leblanc


        
Release date: December 30, 2010 [eBook #34795]
                Most recently updated: November 11, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE: THE RETURN OF ARSÈNE LUPIN ***




[Illustration: “Send Coralie up by herself and her life shall be saved,”
read the scroll (Page 205)]




THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE

_The Return of Arsène Lupin_

BY MAURICE LE BLANC

AUTHOR OF "THE WOMAN OF MYSTERY," "CONFESSIONS OF
ARSÈNE LUPIN," ETC.

NEW YORK
THE MACAULAY COMPANY

COPYRIGHT 1917
BY THE MACAULAY COMPANY




CONTENTS


CHAPTER
     I.  CORALIE
    II.  RIGHT HAND AND LEFT LEG
   III.  THE RUSTY KEY
    IV.  BEFORE THE FLAMES
     V.  HUSBAND AND WIFE
    VI.  NINETEEN MINUTES PAST SEVEN
   VII.  TWENTY-THREE MINUTES PAST TWELVE
  VIII.  ESSARÈS BEY'S WORK
    IX.  PATRICE AND CORALIE
     X.  THE RED CORD
    XI.  ON THE BRINK
   XII.  IN THE ABYSS
  XIII.  THE NAILS IN THE COFFIN
   XIV.  A STRANGE CHARACTER
    XV.  THE BELLE HÉLÈNE
   XVI.  THE FOURTH ACT
  XVII.  SIMÉON GIVES BATTLE
 XVIII.  SIMÉON'S LAST VICTIM
   XIX.  FIAT LUX!




THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE

CHAPTER I

CORALIE


It was close upon half-past six and the evening shadows were growing
denser when two soldiers reached the little space, planted with trees,
opposite the Musée Galliéra, where the Rue de Chaillot and the Rue
Pierre-Charron meet. One wore an infantryman's sky-blue great-coat; the
other, a Senegalese, those clothes of undyed wool, with baggy breeches
and a belted jacket, in which the Zouaves and the native African troops
have been dressed since the war. One of them had lost his right leg, the
other his left arm.

They walked round the open space, in the center of which stands a fine
group of Silenus figures, and stopped. The infantryman threw away his
cigarette. The Senegalese picked it up, took a few quick puffs at it,
put it out by squeezing it between his fore-finger and thumb and stuffed
it into his pocket. All this without a word.

Almost at the same time two more soldiers came out of the Rue Galliéra.
It would have been impossible to say to what branch they belonged, for
their military attire was composed of the most incongruous civilian
garments. However, one of them sported a Zouave's _chechia_, the other
an artilleryman's _képi_. The first walked on crutches, the other on two
sticks. These two kept near the newspaper-kiosk which stands at the edge
of the pavement.

Three others came singly by the Rue Pierre-Charron, the Rue Brignoles
and the Rue de Chaillot: a one-armed rifleman, a limping sapper and a
marine with a hip that looked as if it was twisted. Each of them made
straight for a tree and leant against it.

Not a word was uttered among them. None of the seven crippled soldiers
seemed to know his companions or to trouble about or even perceive their
presence. They stood behind their trees or behind the kiosk or behind
the group of Silenus figures without stirring. And the few wayfarers
who, on that evening of the 3rd of April, 1915, crossed this
unfrequented square, which received hardly any light from the shrouded
street-lamps, did not slacken pace to observe the men's motionless
outlines.

A clock struck half-past six. At that moment the door of one of the
houses overlooking the square opened. A man came out, closed the door
behind him, crossed the Rue de Chaillot and walked round the open space
in front of the museum. It was an officer in khaki. Under his red
forage-cap, with its three lines of gold braid, his head was wrapped in
a wide linen bandage, which hid his forehead and neck. He was tall and
very slenderly built. His right leg ended in a wooden stump with a
rubber foot to it. He leant on a stick.

Leaving the square, he stepped into the roadway of the Rue
Pierre-Charron. Here he turned and gave a leisurely look to his
surroundings on every side. This minute inspection brought him to one
of the trees facing the museum. With the tip of his cane he gently
tapped a protruding stomach. The stomach pulled itself in.

The officer moved off again. This time he went definitely down the Rue
Pierre-Charron towards the center of Paris. He thus came to the Avenue
des Champs-Élysées, which he went up, taking the left pavement.

Two hundred yards further on was a large house, which had been
transformed, as a flag proclaimed, into a hospital. The officer took up
his position at some distance, so as not to be seen by those leaving,
and waited.

It struck a quarter to seven and seven o'clock. A few more minutes
passed. Five persons came out of the house, followed by two more. At
last a lady appeared in the hall, a nurse wearing a wide blue cloak
marked with the Red Cross.

"Here she comes," said the officer.

She took the road by which he had arrived and turned down the Rue
Pierre-Charron, keeping to the right-hand pavement and thus making for
the space where the street meets the Rue de Chaillot. Her walk was
light, her step easy and well-balanced. The wind, buffeting against her
as she moved quickly on her way, swelled out the long blue veil floating
around her shoulders. Notwithstanding the width of the cloak, the
rhythmical swing of her body and the youthfulness of her figure were
revealed. The officer kept behind her and walked along with an
absent-minded air, twirling his stick, like a man taking an aimless
stroll.

At this moment there was nobody in sight, in that part of the street,
except him and her. But, just after she had crossed the Avenue Marceau
and some time before he reached it, a motor standing in the avenue
started driving in the same direction as the nurse, at a fixed distance
from her.

It was a taxi-cab. And the officer noticed two things: first, that there
were two men inside it and, next, that one of them leant out of the
window almost the whole time, talking to the driver. He was able to
catch a momentary glimpse of this man's face, cut in half by a heavy
mustache and surmounted by a gray felt hat.

Meanwhile, the nurse walked on without turning round. The officer had
crossed the street and now hurried his pace, the more so as it struck
him that the cab was also increasing its speed as the girl drew near the
space in front of the museum.

From where he was the officer could take in almost the whole of the
little square at a glance; and, however sharply he looked, he discerned
nothing in the darkness that revealed the presence of the seven crippled
men. No one, moreover, was passing on foot or driving. In the distance
only, in the dusk of the wide crossing avenues, two tram-cars, with
lowered blinds, disturbed the silence.

Nor did the girl, presuming that she was paying attention to the sights
of the street, appear to see anything to alarm her. She gave not the
least sign of hesitation. And the behavior of the motor-cab following
her did not seem to strike her either, for she did not look round once.

The cab, however, was gaining ground. When it neared the square, it was
ten or fifteen yards, at most, from the nurse; and, by the time that
she, still noticing nothing, had reached the first trees, it came
closer yet and, leaving the middle of the road, began to hug the
pavement, while, on the side opposite the pavement, the left-hand side,
the man who kept leaning out had opened the door and was now standing on
the step.

The officer crossed the street once more, briskly, without fear of being
seen, so heedless did the two men now appear of anything but their
immediate business. He raised a whistle to his lips. There was no doubt
that the expected event was about to take place.

The cab, in fact, pulled up suddenly. The two men leapt from the doors
on either side and rushed to the pavement of the square, a few yards
from the kiosk. At the same moment there was a cry of terror from the
girl and a shrill whistle from the officer. And, also at the same time,
the two men caught up and seized their victim and dragged her towards
the cab, while the seven wounded soldiers, seeming to spring from the
very trunks of the trees that hid them, fell upon the two aggressors.

The battle did not last long. Or rather there was no battle. At the
outset the driver of the taxi, perceiving that the attack was being
countered, made off and drove away as fast as he could. As for the two
men, realizing that their enterprise had failed and finding themselves
faced with a threatening array of uplifted sticks and crutches, not to
mention the barrel of a revolver which the officer pointed at them, they
let go the girl, tacked from side to side, to prevent the officer from
taking aim, and disappeared in the darkness of the Rue Brignoles.

"Run for all you're worth, Ya-Bon," said the officer to the one-armed
Senegalese, "and bring me back one of them by the scruff of the neck!"

He supported the girl with his arm. She was trembling all over and
seemed ready to faint.

"Don't be frightened, Little Mother Coralie," he said, very anxiously.
"It's I, Captain Belval, Patrice Belval."

"Ah, it's you, captain!" she stammered.

"Yes; all your friends have gathered round to defend you, all your old
patients from the hospital, whom I found in the convalescent home."

"Thank you. Thank you." And she added, in a quivering voice, "The
others? Those two men?"

"Run away. Ya-Bon's gone after them."

"But what did they want with me? And what miracle brought you all here?"

"We'll talk about that later, Little Mother Coralie. Let's speak of you
first. Where am I to take you? Don't you think you'd better come in here
with me, until you've recovered and taken a little rest?"

Assisted by one of the soldiers, he helped her gently to the house which
he himself had left three-quarters of an hour before. The girl let him
do as he pleased. They all entered an apartment on the ground-floor and
went into the drawing-room, where a bright fire of logs was burning. He
switched on the electric light:

"Sit down," he said.

She dropped into a chair; and the captain at once gave his orders:

"You, Poulard, go and fetch a glass in the dining-room. And you, Ribrac,
draw a jug of cold water in the kitchen. . . . Chatelain, you'll find a
decanter of rum in the pantry. . . . Or, stay, she doesn't like rum.
. . . Then . . ."

"Then," she said, smiling, "just a glass of water, please."

Her cheeks, which were naturally pale, recovered a little of their
warmth. The blood flowed back to her lips; and the smile on her face was
full of confidence. Her face, all charm and gentleness, had a pure
outline, features almost too delicate, a fair complexion and the
ingenuous expression of a wondering child that looks on life with eyes
always wide open. And all this, which was dainty and exquisite,
nevertheless at certain moments gave an impression of energy, due no
doubt to her shining, dark eyes and to the line of smooth, black hair
that came down on either side from under the white cap in which her
forehead was imprisoned.

"Aha!" cried the captain, gaily, when she had drunk the water. "You're
feeling better, I think, eh, Little Mother Coralie?"

"Much better."

"Capital. But that was a bad minute we went through just now! What an
adventure! We shall have to talk it all over and get some light on it,
sha'n't we? Meanwhile, my lads, pay your respects to Little Mother
Coralie. Eh, my fine fellows, who would have thought, when she was
coddling you and patting your pillows for your fat pates to sink into,
that one day we should be taking care of her and that the children would
be coddling their little mother?"

They all pressed round her, the one-armed and the one-legged, the
crippled and the sick, all glad to see her. And she shook hands with
them affectionately:

"Well, Ribrac, how's that leg of yours?"

"I don't feel it any longer, Little Mother Coralie."

"And you, Vatinel? That wound in your shoulder?"

"Not a sign of it, Little Mother Coralie."

"And you, Poulard? And you, Jorisse?"

Her emotion increased at seeing them again, the men whom she called her
children. And Patrice Belval exclaimed:

"Ah, Little Mother Coralie, now you're crying! Little mother, little
mother, that's how you captured all our hearts. When we were trying our
hardest not to call out, on our bed of pain, we used to see your eyes
filling with great tears. Little Mother Coralie was weeping over her
children. Then we clenched our teeth still firmer."

"And I used to cry still more," she said, "just because you were afraid
of hurting me."

"And to-day you're at it again. No, you are too soft-hearted! You love
us. We love you. There's nothing to cry about in that. Come, Little
Mother Coralie, a smile. . . . And, I say, here's Ya-Bon coming; and
Ya-Bon always laughs."

She rose suddenly:

"Do you think he can have overtaken one of the two men?"

"Do I think so? I told Ya-Bon to bring one back by the neck. He won't
fail. I'm only afraid of one thing. . . ."

They had gone towards the hall. The Senegalese was already on the steps.
With his right hand he was clutching the neck of a man, of a limp rag,
rather, which he seemed to be carrying at arm's length, like a
dancing-doll.

"Drop him," said the captain.

Ya-Bon loosened his fingers. The man fell on the flags in the hall.

"That's what I feared," muttered the officer. "Ya-Bon has only his right
hand; but, when that hand holds any one by the throat, it's a miracle if
it doesn't strangle him. The Boches know something about it."

Ya-Bon was a sort of colossus, the color of gleaming coal, with a woolly
head and a few curly hairs on his chin, with an empty sleeve fastened to
his left shoulder and two medals pinned to his jacket. Ya-Bon had had
one cheek, one side of his jaw, half his mouth and the whole of his
palate smashed by a splinter of shell. The other half of that mouth was
split to the ear in a laugh which never seemed to cease and which was
all the more surprising because the wounded portion of the face, patched
up as best it could be and covered with a grafted skin, remained
impassive.

Moreover, Ya-Bon had lost his power of speech. The most that he could do
was to emit a sequence of indistinct grunts in which his nickname of
Ya-Bon was everlastingly repeated.

He uttered it once more with a satisfied air, glancing by turns at his
master and his victim, like a good sporting-dog standing over the bird
which he has retrieved.

"Good," said the officer. "But, next time, go to work more gently."

He bent over the man, felt his heart and, on seeing that he had only
fainted, asked the nurse:

"Do you know him?"

"No," she said.

"Are you sure? Have you never seen that head anywhere?"

It was a very big head, with black hair, plastered down with grease, and
a thick beard. The man's clothes, which were of dark-blue serge and
well-cut, showed him to be in easy circumstances.

"Never . . . never," the girl declared.

Captain Belval searched the man's pockets. They contained no papers.

"Very well," he said, rising to his feet, "we will wait till he wakes up
and question him then. Ya-Bon, tie up his arms and legs and stay here,
in the hall. The rest of you fellows, go back to the home: it's time you
were indoors. I have my key. Say good-by to Little Mother Coralie and
trot off."

And, when good-by had been said, he pushed them outside, came back to
the nurse, led her into the drawing-room and said:

"Now let's talk, Little Mother Coralie. First of all, before we try to
explain things, listen to me. It won't take long."

They were sitting before the merrily blazing fire. Patrice Belval
slipped a hassock under Little Mother Coralie's feet, put out a light
that seemed to worry her and, when he felt certain that she was
comfortable, began:

"As you know, Little Mother Coralie, I left the hospital a week ago and
am staying on the Boulevard Maillot, at Neuilly, in the home reserved
for the convalescent patients of the hospital. I sleep there at night
and have my wounds dressed in the morning. The rest of the time I spend
in loafing: I stroll about, lunch and dine where the mood takes me and
go and call on my friends. Well, this morning I was waiting for one of
them in a big café-restaurant on the boulevard, when I overheard the end
of a conversation. . . . But I must tell you that the place is divided
into two by a partition standing about six feet high, with the customers
of the café on one side and those of the restaurant on the other. I was
all by myself in the restaurant; and the two men, who had their backs
turned to me and who in any case were out of sight, probably thought
that there was no one there at all, for they were speaking rather louder
than they need have done, considering the sentences which I overheard
. . . and which I afterwards wrote down in my little note-book."

He took the note-book from his pocket and went on:

"These sentences, which caught my attention for reasons which you will
understand presently, were preceded by some others in which there was a
reference to sparks, to a shower of sparks that had already occurred
twice before the war, a sort of night signal for the possible repetition
of which they proposed to watch, so that they might act quickly as soon
as it appeared. Does none of this tell you anything?"

"No. Why?"

"You shall see. By the way, I forgot to tell you that the two were
talking English, quite correctly, but with an accent which assured me
that neither of them was an Englishman. Here is what they said,
faithfully translated: 'To finish up, therefore,' said one, 'everything
is decided. You and he will be at the appointed place at a little before
seven this evening.' 'We shall be there, colonel. We have engaged our
taxi.' 'Good. Remember that the little woman leaves her hospital at
seven o'clock.' 'Have no fear. There can't be any mistake, because she
always goes the same way, down the Rue Pierre-Charron.' 'And your whole
plan is settled?' 'In every particular. The thing will happen in the
square at the end of the Rue de Chaillot. Even granting that there may
be people about, they will have no time to rescue her, for we shall act
too quickly.' 'Are you certain of your driver?' 'I am certain that we
shall pay him enough to secure his obedience. That's all we want.'
'Capital. I'll wait for you at the place you know of, in a motor-car.
You'll hand the little woman over to me. From that moment, we shall be
masters of the situation.' 'And you of the little woman, colonel, which
isn't bad for you, for she's deucedly pretty.' 'Deucedly, as you say.
I've known her a long time by sight; and, upon my word. . . .' The two
began to laugh coarsely and called for their bill. I at once got up and
went to the door on the boulevard, but only one of them came out by that
door, a man with a big drooping mustache and a gray felt hat. The other
had left by the door in the street round the corner. There was only one
taxi in the road. The man took it and I had to give up all hope of
following him. Only . . . only, as I knew that you left the hospital at
seven o'clock every evening and that you went along the Rue
Pierre-Charron, I was justified, wasn't I, in believing . . . ?"

The captain stopped. The girl reflected, with a thoughtful air.
Presently she asked:

"Why didn't you warn me?"

"Warn you!" he exclaimed. "And, if, after all, it wasn't you? Why alarm
you? And, if, on the other hand, it was you, why put you on your guard?
After the attempt had failed, your enemies would have laid another trap
for you; and we, not knowing of it, would have been unable to prevent
it. No, the best thing was to accept the fight. I enrolled a little band
of your former patients who were being treated at the home; and, as the
friend whom I was expecting to meet happened to live in the square,
here, in this house, I asked him to place his rooms at my disposal from
six to nine o'clock. That's what I did, Little Mother Coralie. And now
that you know as much as I do, what do you think of it?"

She gave him her hand:

"I think you have saved me from an unknown danger that looks like a very
great one; and I thank you."

"No, no," he said, "I can accept no thanks. I was so glad to have
succeeded! What I want to know is your opinion of the business itself?"

Without a second's hesitation, she replied:

"I have none. Not a word, not an incident, in all that you have told me,
suggests the least idea to me."

"You have no enemies, to your knowledge?"

"Personally, no."

"What about that man to whom your two assailants were to hand you over
and who says that he knows you?"

"Doesn't every woman," she said, with a slight blush, "come across men
who pursue her more or less openly? I can't tell who it is."

The captain was silent for a while and then went on:

"When all is said, our only hope of clearing up the matter lies in
questioning our prisoner. If he refuses to answer, I shall hand him over
to the police, who will know how to get to the bottom of the business."

The girl gave a start:

"The police?"

"Well, of course. What would you have me do with the fellow? He doesn't
belong to me. He belongs to the police."

"No, no, no!" she exclaimed, excitedly. "Not on any account! What, have
my life gone into? . . . Have to appear before the magistrate? . . .
Have my name mixed up in all this? . . ."

"And yet, Little Mother Coralie, I can't . . ."

"Oh, I beg, I beseech you, as my friend, find some way out of it, but
don't have me talked about! I don't want to be talked about!"

The captain looked at her, somewhat surprised to see her in such a state
of agitation, and said:

"You sha'n't be talked about, Little Mother Coralie, I promise you."

"Then what will you do with that man?"

"Well," he said, with a laugh, "I shall begin by asking him politely if
he will condescend to answer my questions; then thank him for his civil
behavior to you; and lastly beg him to be good enough to go away."

He rose:

"Do you wish to see him, Little Mother Coralie?"

"No," she said, "I am so tired! If you don't want me, question him by
yourself. You can tell me about it afterwards. . . ."

She seemed quite exhausted by all this fresh excitement and strain,
added to all those which already rendered her life as a nurse so hard.
The captain did not insist and went out, closing the door of the
drawing-room after him.

She heard him saying:

"Well, Ya-Bon, have you kept a good watch! No news? And how's your
prisoner? . . . Ah, there you are, my fine fellow! Have you got your
breath back? Oh, I know Ya-Bon's hand is a bit heavy! . . . What's this?
Won't you answer? . . . Hallo, what's happened? Hanged if I don't think
. . ."

A cry escaped him. The girl ran to the hall. She met the captain, who
tried to bar her way.

"Don't come," he said, in great agitation. "What's the use!"

"But you're hurt!" she exclaimed.

"I?"

"There's blood on your shirt-cuff."

"So there is, but it's nothing: it's the man's blood that must have
stained me."

"Then he was wounded?"

"Yes, or at least his mouth was bleeding. Some blood-vessel . . ."

"Why, surely Ya-Bon didn't grip as hard as that?"

"It wasn't Ya-Bon."

"Then who was it?"

"His accomplices."

"Did they come back?"

"Yes; and they've strangled him."

"But it's not possible!"

She pushed by and went towards the prisoner. He did not move. His face
had the pallor of death. Round his neck was a red-silk string, twisted
very thin and with a buckle at either end.




CHAPTER II

RIGHT HAND AND LEFT LEG


"One rogue less in the world, Little Mother Coralie!" cried Patrice
Belval, after he had led the girl back to the drawing-room and made a
rapid investigation with Ya-Bon. "Remember his name--I found it engraved
on his watch--Mustapha Rovalaïof, the name of a rogue!"

He spoke gaily, with no emotion in his voice, and continued, as he
walked up and down the room:

"You and I, Little Mother Coralie, who have witnessed so many tragedies
and seen so many good fellows die, need not waste tears over the death
of Mustapha Rovalaïof or his murder by his accomplices. Not even a
funeral oration, eh? Ya-Bon has taken him under his arm, waited until
the square was clear and carried him to the Rue Brignoles, with orders
to fling the gentleman over the railings into the garden of the Musée
Galliéra. The railings are high. But Ya-Bon's right hand knows no
obstacles. And so, Little Mother Coralie, the matter is buried. You
won't be talked about; and, this time, I claim a word of thanks."

He stopped to laugh:

"A word of thanks, but no compliments. By Jove, I don't make much of a
warder! It was clever the way those beggars snatched my prisoner. Why
didn't I foresee that your other assailant, the man in the gray-felt
hat, would go and tell the third, who was waiting in his motor, and that
they would both come back together to rescue their companion? And they
came back. And, while you and I were chatting, they must have forced the
servants' entrance, passed through the kitchen, come to the little door
between the pantry and the hall and pushed it open. There, close by
them, lay their man, still unconscious and firmly bound, on his sofa.
What were they to do? It was impossible to get him out of the hall
without alarming Ya-Bon. And yet, if they didn't release him, he would
speak, give away his accomplices and ruin a carefully prepared plan. So
one of the two must have leant forward stealthily, put out his arm,
thrown his string round that throat which Ya-Bon had already handled
pretty roughly, gathered the buckles at the two ends and pulled, pulled,
quietly, until death came. Not a sound. Not a sigh. The whole operation
performed in silence. We come, we kill and we go away. Good-night. The
trick is done and our friend won't talk."

Captain Belval's merriment increased:

"Our friend won't talk," he repeated, "and the police, when they find
his body to-morrow morning inside a railed garden, won't understand a
word of the business. Nor we either, Little Mother Coralie; and we shall
never know why those men tried to kidnap you. It's only too true! I may
not be up to much as a warder, but I'm beneath contempt as a detective!"

He continued to walk up and down the room. The fact that his leg or
rather his calf had been amputated seemed hardly to inconvenience him;
and, as the joints of the knee and thighbone had retained their
mobility, there was at most a certain want of rhythm in the action of
his hips and shoulders. Moreover, his tall figure tended to correct this
lameness, which was reduced to insignificant proportions by the ease of
his movements and the indifference with which he appeared to accept it.

He had an open countenance, rather dark in color, burnt by the sun and
tanned by the weather, with an expression that was frank, cheerful and
often bantering. He must have been between twenty-eight and thirty. His
manner suggested that of the officers of the First Empire, to whom their
life in camp imparted a special air which they subsequently brought into
the ladies' drawing-rooms.

He stopped to look at Coralie, whose shapely profile stood out against
the gleams from the fireplace. Then he came and sat beside her:

"I know nothing about you," he said softly. "At the hospital the doctors
and nurses call you Madame Coralie. Your patients prefer to say Little
Mother. What is your married or your maiden name? Have you a husband or
are you a widow? Where do you live? Nobody knows. You arrive every day
at the same time and you go away by the same street. Sometimes an old
serving-man, with long gray hair and a bristly beard, with a comforter
round his neck and a pair of yellow spectacles on his nose, brings you
or fetches you. Sometimes also he waits for you, always sitting on the
same chair in the covered yard. He has been asked questions, but he
never gives an answer. I know only one thing, therefore, about you,
which is that you are adorably good and kind and that you are also--I
may say it, may I not?--adorably beautiful. And it is perhaps, Little
Mother Coralie, because I know nothing about your life that I imagine it
so mysterious, and, in some way, so sad. You give the impression of
living amid sorrow and anxiety; the feeling that you are all alone.
There is no one who devotes himself to making you happy and taking care
of you. So I thought--I have long thought and waited for an opportunity
of telling you--I thought that you must need a friend, a brother, who
would advise and protect you. Am I not right, Little Mother Coralie?"

As he went on, Coralie seemed to shrink into herself and to place a
greater distance between them, as though she did not wish him to
penetrate those secret regions of which he spoke.

"No," she murmured, "you are mistaken. My life is quite simple. I do not
need to be defended."

"You do not need to be defended!" he cried, with increasing animation.
"What about those men who tried to kidnap you? That plot hatched against
you? That plot which your assailants are so afraid to see discovered
that they go to the length of killing the one who allowed himself to be
caught? Is that nothing? Is it mere delusion on my part when I say that
you are surrounded by dangers, that you have enemies who stick at
nothing, that you have to be defended against their attempts and that,
if you decline the offer of my assistance, I . . . Well, I . . . ?"

She persisted in her silence, showed herself more and more distant,
almost hostile. The officer struck the marble mantelpiece with his fist,
and, bending over her, finished his sentence in a determined tone:

"Well, if you decline the offer of my assistance, I shall force it on
you."

She shook her head.

"I shall force it on you," he repeated, firmly. "It is my duty and my
right."

"No," she said, in an undertone.

"My absolute right," said Captain Belval, "for a reason which outweighs
all the others and makes it unnecessary for me even to consult you."

"What do you mean?"

"I love you."

He brought out the words plainly, not like a lover venturing on a timid
declaration, but like a man proud of the sentiment that he feels and
happy to proclaim it.

She lowered her eyes and blushed; and he cried, exultantly:

"You can take it, Little Mother, from me. No impassioned outbursts, no
sighs, no waving of the arms, no clapping of the hands. Just three
little words, which I tell you without going on my knees. And it's the
easier for me because you know it. Yes, Madame Coralie, it's all very
well to look so shy, but you know my love for you and you've known it as
long as I have. We saw it together take birth when your dear little
hands touched my battered head. The others used to torture me. With you,
it was nothing but caresses. So was the pity in your eyes and the tears
that fell because I was in pain. But can any one see you without loving
you? Your seven patients who were here just now are all in love with
you, Little Mother Coralie. Ya-Bon worships the ground you walk on. Only
they are privates. They cannot speak. I am an officer; and I speak
without hesitation or embarrassment, believe me."

Coralie had put her hands to her burning cheeks and sat silent, bending
forward.

"You understand what I mean, don't you," he went on, in a voice that
rang, "when I say that I speak without hesitation or embarrassment? If I
had been before the war what I am now, a maimed man, I should not have
had the same assurance and I should have declared my love for you humbly
and begged your pardon for my boldness. But now! . . . Believe me,
Little Mother Coralie, when I sit here face to face with the woman I
adore, I do not think of my infirmity. Not for a moment do I feel the
impression that I can appear ridiculous or presumptuous in your eyes."

He stopped, as though to take breath, and then, rising, went on:

"And it must needs be so. People will have to understand that those who
have been maimed in this war do not look upon themselves as outcasts,
lame ducks, or lepers, but as absolutely normal men. Yes, normal! One
leg short? What about it? Does that rob a man of his brain or heart?
Then, because the war has deprived me of a leg, or an arm, or even both
legs or both arms, I have no longer the right to love a woman save at
the risk of meeting with a rebuff or imagining that she pities me? Pity!
But we don't want the woman to pity us, nor to make an effort to love
us, nor even to think that she is doing a charity because she treats us
kindly. What we demand, from women and from the world at large, from
those whom we meet in the street and from those who belong to the same
set as ourselves, is absolute equality with the rest, who have been
saved from our fate by their lucky stars or their cowardice."

The captain once more struck the mantelpiece:

"Yes, absolute equality! We all of us, whether we have lost a leg or an
arm, whether blind in one eye or two, whether crippled or deformed,
claim to be just as good, physically and morally, as any one you please;
and perhaps better. What! Shall men who have used their legs to rush
upon the enemy be outdistanced in life, because they no longer have
those legs, by men who have sat and warmed their toes at an office-fire?
What nonsense! We want our place in the sun as well as the others. It is
our due; and we shall know how to get it and keep it. There is no
happiness to which we are not entitled and no work for which we are not
capable with a little exercise and training. Ya-Bon's right hand is
already worth any pair of hands in the wide world; and Captain Belval's
left leg allows him to do his five miles an hour if he pleases."

He began to laugh:

"Right hand and left leg; left hand and right leg: what does it matter
which we have saved, if we know how to use it? In what respect have we
fallen off? Whether it's a question of obtaining a position or
perpetuating our race, are we not as good as we were? And perhaps even
better. I venture to say that the children which we shall give to the
country will be just as well-built as ever, with arms and legs and the
rest . . . not to mention a mighty legacy of pluck and spirit. That's
what we claim, Little Mother Coralie. We refuse to admit that our wooden
legs keep us back or that we cannot stand as upright on our crutches as
on legs of flesh and bone. We do not consider that devotion to us is any
sacrifice or that it's necessary to talk of heroism when a girl has the
honor to marry a blind soldier! Once more, we are not creatures outside
the pale. We have not fallen off in any way whatever; and this is a
truth before which everybody will bow for the next two or three
generations. You can understand that, in a country like France, when
maimed men are to be met by the hundred thousand, the conception of what
makes a perfect man will no longer be as hard and fast as it was. In the
new form of humanity which is preparing, there will be men with two arms
and men with only one, just as there are fair men and dark, bearded men
and clean-shaven. And it will all seem quite natural. And every one will
lead the life he pleases, without needing to be complete in every limb.
And, as my life is wrapped up in you, Little Mother Coralie, and as my
happiness depends on you, I thought I would wait no longer before making
you my little speech. . . . Well! That's finished! I have plenty more to
say on the subject, but it can't all be said in a day, can it? . . ."

He broke off, thrown out of his stride after all by Coralie's silence.
She had not stirred since the first words of love that he uttered. Her
hands had sought her forehead; and her shoulders were shaking slightly.

He stooped and, with infinite gentleness, drawing aside the slender
fingers, uncovered her beautiful face:

"Why are you crying, Little Mother Coralie?"

He was calling her _tu_ now, but she did not mind. Between a man and the
woman who has bent over his wounds relations of a special kind arise;
and Captain Belval in particular had those rather familiar, but still
respectful, ways at which it seems impossible to take offence.

"Have _I_ made you cry?" he asked.

"No," she said, in a low voice, "it's all of you who upset me. It's your
cheerfulness, your pride, your way not of submitting to fate, but
mastering it. The humblest of you raises himself above his nature
without an effort; and I know nothing finer or more touching than that
indifference."

He sat down beside her:

"Then you're not angry with me for saying . . . what I said?"

"Angry with you?" she replied, pretending to mistake his meaning. "Why,
every woman thinks as you do. If women, in bestowing their affection,
had to choose among the men returning from the war, the choice I am sure
would be in favor of those who have suffered most cruelly."

He shook his head:

"You see, I am asking for something more than affection and a more
definite answer to what I said. Shall I remind you of my words?"

"No."

"Then your answer . . . ?"

"My answer, dear friend, is that you must not speak those words again."

He put on a solemn air:

"You forbid me?"

"I do."

"In that case, I swear to say nothing more until I see you again."

"You will not see me again," she murmured.

Captain Belval was greatly amused at this:

"I say, I say! And why sha'n't I see you again, Little Mother Coralie?"

"Because I don't wish it."

"And your reason, please?"

"My reason?"

She turned her eyes to him and said, slowly:

"I am married."

Belval seemed in no way disconcerted by this news. On the contrary, he
said, in the calmest of tones:

"Well, you must marry again! No doubt your husband is an old man and you
do not love him. He will therefore understand that, as you have some one
in love with you . . ."

"Don't jest, please."

He caught hold of her hand, just as she was rising to go:

"You are right, Little Mother Coralie, and I apologize for not adopting
a more serious manner to speak to you of very serious things. It's a
question of our two lives. I am profoundly convinced that they are
moving towards each other and that you are powerless to restrain them.
That is why your answer is beside the point. I ask nothing of you. I
expect everything from fate. It is fate that will bring us together."

"No," she said.

"Yes," he declared, "that is how things will happen."

"It is not. They will not and shall not happen like that. You must give
me your word of honor not to try to see me again nor even to learn my
name. I might have granted more if you had been content to remain
friends. The confession which you have made sets a barrier between us. I
want nobody in my life . . . nobody!"

She made this declaration with a certain vehemence and at the same time
tried to release her arm from his grasp. Patrice Belval resisted her
efforts and said:

"You are wrong. . . . You have no right to expose yourself to danger
like this. . . . Please reflect . . ."

She pushed him away. As she did so, she knocked off the mantelpiece a
little bag which she had placed there. It fell on the carpet and opened.
Two or three things escaped, and she picked them up, while Patrice
Belval knelt down on the floor to help her:

"Here," he said, "you've missed this."

It was a little case in plaited straw, which had also come open; the
beads of a rosary protruded from it.

They both stood up in silence. Captain Belval examined the rosary.

"What a curious coincidence!" he muttered. "These amethyst beads! This
old-fashioned gold filigree setting! . . . It's strange to find the same
materials and the same workmanship. . . ."

He gave a start, and it was so marked that Coralie asked:

"Why, what's the matter?"

He was holding in his fingers a bead larger than most of the others,
forming a link between the string of tens and the shorter prayer-chain.
And this bead was broken half-way across, almost level with the gold
setting which held it.

"The coincidence," he said, "is so inconceivable that I hardly dare
. . . And yet the face can be verified at once. But first, one question:
who gave you this rosary?"

"Nobody gave it to me. I've always had it."

"But it must have belonged to somebody before?"

"To my mother, I suppose."

"Your mother?"

"I expect so, in the same way as the different jewels which she left
me."

"Is your mother dead?"

"Yes, she died when I was four years old. I have only the vaguest
recollection of her. But what has all this to do with a rosary?"

"It's because of this," he said. "Because of this amethyst bead broken
in two."

He undid his jacket and took his watch from his waistcoat-pocket. It had
a number of trinkets fastened to it by a little leather and silver
strap. One of these trinkets consisted of the half of an amethyst bead,
also broken across, also held in a filigree setting. The original size
of the two beads seemed to be identical. The two amethysts were of the
same color and contained in the same filigree.

Coralie and Belval looked at each other anxiously. She stammered:

"It's only an accident, nothing else . . ."

"I agree," he said. "But, supposing these two halves fit each other
exactly . . ."

"It's impossible," she said, herself frightened at the thought of the
simple little act needed for the indisputable proof.

The officer, however, decided upon that act. He brought his right hand,
which held the rosary-bead, and his left, which held the trinket,
together. The hands hesitated, felt about and stopped. The contact was
made.

The projections and indentations of the broken stones corresponded
precisely. Each protruding part found a space to fit it. The two half
amethysts were the two halves of the same amethyst. When joined, they
formed one and the same bead.

There was a long pause, laden with excitement and mystery. Then,
speaking in a low voice:

"I do not know either exactly where this trinket comes from," Captain
Belval said. "Ever since I was a child, I used to see it among other
things of trifling value which I kept in a cardboard box: watch-keys,
old rings, old-fashioned seals. I picked out these trinkets from among
them two or three years ago. Where does this one come from? I don't
know. But what I do know . . ."

He had separated the two pieces and, examining them carefully,
concluded:

"What I do know, beyond a doubt, is that the largest bead in this rosary
came off one day and broke; and that the other, with its setting, went
to form the trinket which I now have. You and I therefore possess the
two halves of a thing which somebody else possessed twenty years ago."

He went up to her and, in the same low and rather serious voice, said:

"You protested just now when I declared my faith in destiny and my
certainty that events were leading us towards each other. Do you still
deny it? For, after all, this is either an accident so extraordinary
that we have no right to admit it or an actual fact which proves that
our two lives have already touched in the past at some mysterious point
and that they will meet again in the future, never to part. And that is
why, without waiting for the perhaps distant future, I offer you to-day,
when danger hangs over you, the support of my friendship. Observe that I
am no longer speaking of love but only of friendship. Do you accept?"

She was nonplussed and so much perturbed by that miracle of the two
broken amethysts, fitting each other exactly, that she appeared not to
hear Belval's voice.

"Do you accept?" he repeated.

After a moment she replied:

"No."

"Then the proof which destiny has given you of its wishes does not
satisfy you?" he said, good-humoredly.

"We must not see each other again," she declared.

"Very well. I will leave it to chance. It will not be for long.
Meanwhile, I promise to make no effort to see you."

"Nor to find out my name?"

"Yes, I promise you."

"Good-by," she said, giving him her hand.

"_Au revoir_," he answered.

She moved away. When she reached the door, she seemed to hesitate. He
was standing motionless by the chimney. Once more she said:

"Good-by."

"_Au revoir_, Little Mother Coralie."

Then she went out.

Only when the street-door had closed behind her did Captain Belval go to
one of the windows. He saw Coralie passing through the trees, looking
quite small in the surrounding darkness. He felt a pang at his heart.
Would he ever see her again?

"Shall I? Rather!" he exclaimed. "Why, to-morrow perhaps. Am I not the
favorite of the gods?"

And, taking his stick, he set off, as he said, with his wooden leg
foremost.

That evening, after dining at the nearest restaurant, Captain Belval
went to Neuilly. The home run in connection with the hospital was a
pleasant villa on the Boulevard Maillot, looking out on the Bois de
Boulogne. Discipline was not too strictly enforced. The captain could
come in at any hour of the night; and the man easily obtained leave from
the matron.

"Is Ya-Bon there?" he asked this lady.

"Yes, he's playing cards with his sweetheart."

"He has the right to love and be loved," he said. "Any letters for me?"

"No, only a parcel."

"From whom?"

"A commissionaire brought it and just said that it was 'for Captain
Belval.' I put it in your room."

The officer went up to his bedroom on the top floor and saw the parcel,
done up in paper and string, on the table. He opened it and discovered a
box. The box contained a key, a large, rusty key, of a shape and
manufacture that were obviously old.

What could it all mean? There was no address on the box and no mark. He
presumed that there was some mistake which would come to light of
itself; and he slipped the key into his pocket.

"Enough riddles for one day," he thought. "Let's go to bed."

But when he went to the window to draw the curtains he saw, across the
trees of the Bois, a cascade of sparks which spread to some distance in
the dense blackness of the night. And he remembered the conversation
which he had overheard in the restaurant and the rain of sparks
mentioned by the men who were plotting to kidnap Little Mother Coralie.
. . .




CHAPTER III

THE RUSTY KEY


When Patrice Belval was eight years old he was sent from Paris, where he
had lived till then, to a French boarding-school in London. Here he
remained for ten years. At first he used to hear from his father weekly.
Then, one day, the head-master told him that he was an orphan, that
provision had been made for the cost of his education and that, on his
majority, he would receive through an English solicitor his paternal
inheritance, amounting to some eight thousand pounds.

Two hundred thousand francs could never be enough for a young man who
soon proved himself to possess expensive tastes and who, when sent to
Algeria to perform his military service, found means to run up twenty
thousand francs of debts before coming into his money. He therefore
started by squandering his patrimony and, having done so, settled down
to work. Endowed with an active temperament and an ingenious brain,
possessing no special vocation, but capable of anything that calls for
initiative and resolution, full of ideas, with both the will and the
knowledge to carry out an enterprise, he inspired confidence in others,
found capital as he needed it and started one venture after another,
including electrical schemes, the purchase of rivers and waterfalls, the
organization of motor services in the colonies, of steamship lines and
of mining companies. In a few years he had floated a dozen of such
enterprises, all of which succeeded.

The war came to him as a wonderful adventure. He flung himself into it
with heart and soul. As a sergeant in a colonial regiment, he won his
lieutenant's stripes on the Marne. He was wounded in the calf on the
15th of September and had it amputated the same day. Two months after,
by some mysterious wirepulling, cripple though he was, he began to go up
as observer in the aeroplane of one of our best pilots. A shrapnel-shell
put an end to the exploits of both heroes on the 10th of January. This
time, Captain Belval, suffering from a serious wound in the head, was
discharged and sent to the hospital in the Avenue des Champs-Élysées.
About the same period, the lady whom he was to call Little Mother
Coralie also entered the hospital as a nurse.

There he was trepanned. The operation was successful, but complications
remained. He suffered a good deal of pain, though he never uttered a
complaint and, in fact, with his own good-humor kept up the spirits of
his companions in misfortune, all of whom were devoted to him. He made
them laugh, consoled them and stimulated them with his cheeriness and
his constant happy manner of facing the worst positions.

Not one of them is ever likely to forget the way in which he received a
manufacturer who called to sell him a mechanical leg:

"Aha, a mechanical leg! And what for, sir? To take in people, I suppose,
so that they may not notice that I've lost a bit of mine? Then you
consider, sir, that it's a blemish to have your leg amputated, and that
I, a French officer, ought to hide it as a disgrace?"

"Not at all, captain. Still . . ."

"And what's the price of that apparatus of yours?"

"Five hundred francs."

"Five hundred francs! And you think me capable of spending five hundred
francs on a mechanical leg, when there are a hundred thousand poor
devils who have been wounded as I have and who will have to go on
showing their wooden stumps?"

The men sitting within hearing reveled with delight. Little Mother
Coralie herself listened with a smile. And what would Patrice Belval not
have given for a smile from Little Mother Coralie?

As he told her, he had fallen in love with her from the first, touched
by her appealing beauty, her artless grace, her soft eyes, her gentle
soul, which seemed to bend over the patients and to fondle them like a
soothing caress. From the very first, the charm of her stole into his
being and at the same time compassed it about. Her voice gave him new
life. She bewitched him with the glance of her eyes and with her
fragrant presence. And yet, while yielding to the empire of this love,
he had an immense craving to devote himself to and to place his strength
at the service of this delicate little creature, whom he felt to be
surrounded with danger.

And now events were proving that he was right, the danger was taking
definite shape and he had had the happiness to snatch Coralie from the
grasp of her enemies. He rejoiced at the result of the first battle, but
could not look upon it as over. The attacks were bound to be repeated.
And even now was he not entitled to ask himself if there was not some
close connection between the plot prepared against Coralie that morning
and the sort of signal given by the shower of sparks? Did the two facts
announced by the speakers at the restaurant not form part of the same
suspicious machination?

The sparks continued to glitter in the distance. So far as Patrice
Belval could judge, they came from the riverside, at some spot between
two extreme points which might be the Trocadéro on the left and the Gare
de Passy on the right.

"A mile or two at most, as the crow flies," he said to himself. "Why not
go there? We'll soon see."

A faint light filtered through the key-hole of a door on the second
floor. It was Ya-Bon's room; and the matron had told him that Ya-Bon was
playing cards with his sweetheart. He walked in.

Ya-Bon was no longer playing. He had fallen asleep in an armchair, in
front of the outspread cards, and on the pinned-back sleeve hanging from
his left shoulder lay the head of a woman, an appallingly common head,
with lips as thick as Ya-Bon's, revealing a set of black teeth, and with
a yellow, greasy skin that seemed soaked in oil. It was Angèle, the
kitchen-maid, Ya-Bon's sweetheart. She snored aloud.

Patrice looked at them contentedly. The sight confirmed the truth of his
theories. If Ya-Bon could find some one to care for him, might not the
most sadly mutilated heroes aspire likewise to all the joys of love?

He touched the Senegalese on the shoulder. Ya-Bon woke up and smiled,
or rather, divining the presence of his captain, smiled even before he
woke.

"I want you, Ya-Bon."

Ya-Bon uttered a grunt of pleasure and gave a push to Angèle, who fell
over on the table and went on snoring.

Coming out of the house, Patrice saw no more sparks. They were hidden
behind the trees. He walked along the boulevard and, to save time, went
by the Ceinture railway to the Avenue Henri-Martin. Here he turned down
the Rue de la Tour, which runs to Passy.

On the way he kept talking to Ya-Bon about what he had in his mind,
though he well knew that the negro did not understand much of what he
said. But this was a habit with him. Ya-Bon, first his comrade-in-arms
and then his orderly, was as devoted to him as a dog. He had lost a limb
on the same day as his officer and was wounded in the head on the same
day; he believed himself destined to undergo the same experiences
throughout; and he rejoiced at having been twice wounded just as he
would have rejoiced at dying at the same time as Captain Belval. On his
side, the captain rewarded this humble, dumb devotion by unbending
genially to his companion; he treated him with an ironical and sometimes
impatient humor which heightened the negro's love for him. Ya-Bon played
the part of the passive confidant who is consulted without being
regarded and who is made to bear the brunt of his interlocutor's hasty
temper.

"What do you think of all this, Master Ya-Bon?" asked the captain,
walking arm-in-arm with him. "I have an idea that it's all part of the
same business. Do you think so too?"

Ya-Bon had two grunts, one of which meant yes, the other no. He grunted
out:

"Yes."

"So there's no doubt about it," the officer declared, "and we must admit
that Little Mother Coralie is threatened with a fresh danger. Is that
so?"

"Yes," grunted Ya-Bon, who always approved, on principle.

"Very well. It now remains to be seen what that shower of sparks means.
I thought for a moment that, as we had our first visit from the
Zeppelins a week ago . . . are you listening to me?"

"Yes."

"I thought that it was a treacherous signal with a view to a second
Zeppelin visit . . ."

"Yes."

"No, you idiot, it's not yes. How could it be a Zeppelin signal when,
according to the conversation which I overheard, the signal had already
been given twice before the war. Besides, is it really a signal?"

"No."

"How do you mean, no? What else could it be, you silly ass? You'd do
better to hold your tongue and listen to me, all the more as you don't
even know what it's all about. . . . No more do I, for that matter, and
I confess that I'm at an utter loss. Lord, it's a complicated business,
and I'm not much of a hand at solving these problems."

Patrice Belval was even more perplexed when he came to the bottom of the
Rue de la Tour. There were several roads in front of him, and he did
not know which to take. Moreover, though he was in the middle of Passy,
not a spark shone in the dark sky.

"It's finished, I expect," he said, "and we've had our trouble for
nothing. It's your fault, Ya-Bon. If you hadn't made me lose precious
moments in snatching you from the arms of your beloved we should have
arrived in time. I admit Angèle's charms, but, after all . . ."

He took his bearings, feeling more and more undecided. The expedition
undertaken on chance and with insufficient information was certainly
yielding no results; and he was thinking of abandoning it when a closed
private car came out of the Rue Franklin, from the direction of the
Trocadéro, and some one inside shouted through the speaking-tube:

"Bear to the left . . . and then straight on, till I stop you."

Now it appeared to Captain Belval that this voice had the same foreign
inflection as one of those which he had heard that morning at the
restaurant.

"Can it be the beggar in the gray hat," he muttered, "one of those who
tried to carry off Little Mother Coralie?"

"Yes," grunted Ya-Bon.

"Yes. The signal of the sparks explains his presence in these parts. We
mustn't lose sight of this track. Off with you, Ya-Bon."

But there was no need for Ya-Bon to hurry. The car had gone down the Rue
Raynouard, and Belval himself arrived just as it was stopping three or
four hundred yards from the turning, in front of a large
carriage-entrance on the left-hand side.

Five men alighted. One of them rang. Thirty or forty seconds passed.
Then Patrice heard the bell tinkle a second time. The five men waited,
standing packed close together on the pavement. At last, after a third
ring, a small wicket contrived in one of the folding-doors was opened.

There was a pause and some argument. Whoever had opened the wicket
appeared to be asking for explanations. But suddenly two of the men bore
heavily on the folding-door, which gave way before their thrust and let
the whole gang through.

There was a loud noise as the door slammed to. Captain Belval at once
studied his surroundings.

The Rue Raynouard is an old country-road which at one time used to wind
among the houses and gardens of the village of Passy, on the side of the
hills bathed by the Seine. In certain places, which unfortunately are
becoming more and more rare, it has retained a provincial aspect. It is
skirted by old properties. Old houses stand hidden amidst the trees:
that in which Balzac lived has been piously preserved. It was in this
street that the mysterious garden lay where Arsène Lupin discovered a
farmer-general's diamonds hidden in a crack of an old sundial.[1]

[Footnote 1: _The Confessions of Arsène Lupin._ By Maurice Leblanc.
Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos. III. _The Sign of the
Shadow._]

The car was still standing outside the house into which the five men had
forced their way; and this prevented Patrice Belval from coming nearer.
It was built in continuation of a wall and seemed to be one of the
private mansions dating back to the First Empire. It had a very long
front with two rows of round windows, protected by gratings on the
ground-floor and solid shutters on the story above. There was another
building farther down, forming a separate wing.

"There's nothing to be done on this side," said the captain. "It's as
impregnable as a feudal stronghold. Let's look elsewhere."

From the Rue Raynouard, narrow lanes, which used to divide the old
properties, make their way down to the river. One of them skirted the
wall that preceded the house. Belval turned down it with Ya-Bon. It was
constructed of ugly pointed pebbles, was broken into steps and faintly
lighted by the gleam of a street-lamp.

"Lend me a hand, Ya-Bon. The wall is too high. But perhaps with the aid
of the lamp-post . . ."

Assisted by the negro, he hoisted himself to the lamp and was stretching
out one of his hands when he noticed that all this part of the wall
bristled with broken glass, which made it absolutely impossible to
grasp. He slid down again.

"Upon my word, Ya-Bon," he said, angrily, "you might have warned me!
Another second and you would have made me cut my hands to pieces. What
are you thinking of? In fact, I can't imagine what made you so anxious
to come with me at all costs."

There was a turn in the lane, hiding the light, so that they were now in
utter darkness, and Captain Belval had to grope his way along. He felt
the negro's hand come down upon his shoulder.

"What do you want, Ya-Bon?"

The hand pushed him against the wall. At this spot there was a door in
an embrasure.

"Well, yes," he said, "that's a door. Do you think I didn't see it? Oh,
no one has eyes but Master Ya-Bon, I suppose."

Ya-Bon handed him a box of matches. He struck several, one after the
other, and examined the door.

"What did I tell you?" he said between his teeth. "There's nothing to be
done. Massive wood, barred and studded with iron. . . . Look, there's no
handle on this side, merely a key-hole. . . . Ah, what we want is a key,
made to measure and cut for the purpose! . . . For instance, a key like
the one which the commissionaire left for me at the home just now.
. . ."

He stopped. An absurd idea flitted through his brain; and yet, absurd as
it was, he felt that he was bound to perform the trifling action which
it suggested to him. He therefore retraced his steps. He had the key on
him. He took it from his pocket.

He struck a fresh light. The key-hole appeared. Belval inserted the key
at the first attempt. He bore on it to the left: the key turned in the
lock. He pushed the door: it opened.

"Come along in," he said.

The negro did not stir a foot. Patrice could understand his amazement.
All said, he himself was equally amazed. By what unprecedented miracle
was the key just the key of this very door? By what miracle was the
unknown person who had sent it him able to guess that he would be in a
position to use it without further instructions? A miracle indeed!

But Patrice had resolved to act without trying to solve the riddle
which a mischievous chance seemed bent upon setting him.

"Come along in," he repeated, triumphantly.

Branches struck him in the face and he perceived that he was walking on
grass and that there must be a garden lying in front of him. It was so
dark that he could not see the paths against the blackness of the turf;
and, after walking for a minute or two, he hit his foot against some
rocks with a sheet of water on them.

"Oh, confound it!" he cursed. "I'm all wet. Damn you, Ya-Bon!"

He had not finished speaking when a furious barking was heard at the far
end of the garden; and the sound at once came nearer, with extreme
rapidity. Patrice realized that a watchdog, perceiving their presence,
was rushing upon them, and, brave as he was, he shuddered, because of
the impressiveness of this attack in complete darkness. How was he to
defend himself? A shot would betray them; and yet he carried no weapon
but his revolver.

The dog came dashing on, a powerful animal, to judge by the noise it
made, suggesting the rush of a wild boar through the copsewood. It must
have broken its chain, for it was accompanied by the clatter of iron.
Patrice braced himself to meet it. But through the darkness he saw
Ya-Bon pass before him to protect him, and the impact took place almost
at once.

"Here, I say, Ya-Bon! Why did you get in front of me? It's all right, my
lad, I'm coming!"

The two adversaries had rolled over on the grass. Patrice stooped down,
seeking to rescue the negro. He touched the hair of an animal and then
Ya-Bon's clothes. But the two were wriggling on the ground in so compact
a mass and fighting so frantically that his interference was useless.

Moreover, the contest did not last long. In a few minutes the
adversaries had ceased to move. A strangled death-rattle issued from the
group.

"Is it all right, Ya-Bon?" whispered the captain, anxiously.

The negro stood up with a grunt. By the light of a match Patrice saw
that he was holding at the end of his outstretched arm, of the one arm
with which he had had to defend himself, a huge dog, which was gurgling,
clutched round the throat by Ya-Bon's implacable fingers. A broken chain
hung from its neck.

"Thank you, Ya-Bon. I've had a narrow escape. You can let him go now. He
can't do us any harm, I think."

Ya-Bon obeyed. But he had no doubt squeezed too tight. The dog writhed
for a moment on the grass, gave a few moans and then lay without moving.

"Poor brute!" said Patrice. "After all, he only did his duty in going
for the burglars that we are. Let us do ours, Ya-Bon, which is nothing
like as plain."

Something that shone like a window-pane guided his steps and led him, by
a series of stairs cut in the rocks and of successive terraces, to the
level ground on which the house was built. On this side also, all the
windows were round and high up, like those in the streets, and
barricaded with shutters. But one of them allowed the light which he
had seen from below to filter through.

Telling Ya-Bon to hide in the shrubberies, he went up to the house,
listened, caught an indistinct sound of voices, discovered that the
shutters were too firmly closed to enable him either to see or to hear
and, in this way, after the fourth window, reached a flight of steps. At
the top of the steps was a door.

"Since they sent me the key of the garden," he said to himself, "there's
no reason why this door, which leads from the house into the garden,
should not be open."

It was open.

The voices indoors were now more clearly perceptible, and Belval
observed that they reached him by the well of the staircase and that
this staircase, which seemed to lead to an unoccupied part of the house,
showed with an uncertain light above him.

He went up. A door stood ajar on the first floor. He slipped his head
through the opening and went in. He found that he was on a narrow
balcony which ran at mid-height around three sides of a large room,
along book-shelves rising to the ceiling. Against the wall at either end
of the room was an iron spiral staircase. Stacks of books were also
piled against the bars of the railing which protected the gallery, thus
hiding Patrice from the view of the people on the ground-floor, ten or
twelve feet below.

He gently separated two of these stacks. At that moment the sound of
voices suddenly increased to a great uproar and he saw five men,
shouting like lunatics, hurl themselves upon a sixth and fling him to
the ground before he had time to lift a finger in self-defense.

Belval's first impulse was to rush to the victim's rescue. With the aid
of Ya-Bon, who would have hastened to his call, he would certainly have
intimidated the five men. The reason why he did not act was that, at any
rate, they were using no weapons and appeared to have no murderous
intentions. After depriving their victim of all power of movement, they
were content to hold him by the throat, shoulders and ankles. Belval
wondered what would happen next.

One of the five drew himself up briskly and, in a tone of command, said:

"Bind him. . . . Put a gag in his mouth. . . . Or let him call out, if
he wants to: there's no one to hear him."

Patrice at once recognized one of the voices which he had heard that
morning in the restaurant. Its owner was a short, slim-built,
well-dressed man, with an olive complexion and a cruel face.

"At last we've got him," he said, "the rascal! And I think we shall get
him to speak this time. Are you prepared to go all lengths, friends?"

One of the other four growled, spitefully:

"Yes. And at once, whatever happens!"

The last speaker had a big black mustache; and Patrice recognized the
other man whose conversation at the restaurant he had overheard, that is
to say, one of Coralie's assailants, the one who had taken to flight.
His gray-felt hat lay on a chair.

"All lengths, Bournef, whatever happens, eh?" grinned the leader. "Well,
let's get on with the work. So you refuse to give up your secret,
Essarès, old man? We shall have some fun."

All their movements must have been prepared beforehand and the parts
carefully arranged, for the actions which they carried out were
performed in an incredibly prompt and methodical fashion.

After the man was tied up, they lifted him into an easy-chair with a
very low back, to which they fastened him round the chest and waist with
a rope. His legs, which were bound together, were placed on the seat of
a heavy chair of the same height as the arm-chair, with the two feet
projecting. Then the victim's shoes and socks were removed.

"Roll him along!" said the leader.

Between two of the four windows that overlooked the chimney was a large
fire-place, in which burnt a red coal-fire, white in places with the
intense heat of the hearth. The men pushed the two chairs bearing the
victim until his bare feet were within twenty inches of the blazing
coals.

In spite of his gag, the man uttered a hideous yell of pain, while his
legs, in spite of their bonds, succeeded in contracting and curling upon
themselves.

"Go on!" shouted the leader, passionately. "Go on! Nearer!"

Patrice Belval grasped his revolver.

"Oh, I'm going on too!" he said to himself. "I won't let that wretch be
. . ."

But, at this very moment, when he was on the point of drawing himself up
and acting, a chance movement made him behold the most extraordinary and
unexpected sight. Opposite him, on the other side of the room, in a part
of the balcony corresponding with that where he was, he saw a woman's
head, a head glued to the rails, livid and terror-stricken, with eyes
wide-open in horror gazing frenziedly at the awful scene that was being
enacted below by the glowing fire.

Patrice had recognized Little Mother Coralie.




CHAPTER IV

BEFORE THE FLAMES


Little Mother Coralie! Coralie concealed in this house into which her
assailants had forced their way and in which she herself was hiding,
through force of circumstances which were incapable of explanation.

His first idea, which would at least have solved one of the riddles, was
that she also had entered from the lane, gone into the house by the
steps and in this way opened a passage for him. But, in that case, how
had she procured the means of carrying out this enterprise? And, above
all, what brought her here?

All these questions occurred to Captain Belval's mind without his trying
to reply to them. He was far too much impressed by the absorbed
expression on Coralie's face. Moreover, a second cry, even wilder than
the first, came from below; and he saw the victim's face writhing before
the red curtain of fire from the hearth.

But, this time, Patrice, held back by Coralie's presence, had no
inclination to go to the sufferer's assistance. He decided to model
himself entirely upon her and not to move or do anything to attract her
attention.

"Easy!" the leader commanded. "Pull him back. I expect he's had
enough."

He went up to the victim:

"Well, my dear Essarès," he asked, "what do you think of it? Are you
happy? And, you know, we're only beginning. If you don't speak, we shall
go on to the end, as the real _chauffeurs_ used to do in the days of the
Revolution. So it's settled, I presume: you're going to speak?"

There was no answer. The leader rapped out an oath and went on:

"What do you mean? Do you refuse? But, you obstinate brute, don't you
understand the situation? Or have you a glimmer of hope? Hope, indeed!
You're mad. Who would rescue you? Your servants? The porter, the footman
and the butler are in my pay. I gave them a week's notice. They're gone
by now. The housemaid? The cook? They sleep at the other end of the
house; and you yourself have told me, time after time, that one can't
hear anything over there. Who else? Your wife? Her room also is far
away; and she hasn't heard anything either? Siméon, your old secretary?
We made him fast when he opened the front door to us just now. Besides,
we may as well finish the job here. Bournef!"

The man with the big mustache, who was still holding the chair, drew
himself up.

"Bournef, where did you lock up the secretary?"

"In the porter's lodge."

"You know where to find Mme. Essarès' bedroom?"

"Yes, you told me the way."

"Go, all four of you, and bring the lady and the secretary here!"

The four men went out by a door below the spot where Coralie was
standing. They were hardly out of sight when the leader stooped eagerly
over his victim and said:

"We're alone, Essarès. It's what I intended. Let's make the most of it."

He bent still lower and whispered so that Patrice found it difficult to
hear what he said:

"Those men are fools. I twist them round my finger and tell them no more
of my plans than I can help. You and I, on the other hand, Essarès, are
the men to come to terms. That is what you refused to admit; and you see
where it has landed you. Come, Essarès, don't be obstinate and don't
shuffle. You are caught in a trap, you are helpless, you are absolutely
in my power. Well, rather than allow yourself to be broken down by
tortures which would certainly end by overcoming your resistance, strike
a bargain with me. We'll go halves, shall we? Let's make peace and treat
upon that basis. I'll give you a hand in my game and you'll give me one
in yours. As allies, we are bound to win. As enemies, who knows whether
the victor will surmount all the obstacles that will still stand in his
path? That's why I say again, halves! Answer me. Yes or no."

He loosened the gag and listened. This time, Patrice did not hear the
few words which the victim uttered. But the other, the leader, almost
immediately burst into a rage:

"Eh? What's that you're proposing? Upon my word, but you're a cool hand!
An offer of this kind to me! That's all very well for Bournef or his
fellows. They'll understand, they will. But it won't do for me, it won't
do for Colonel Fakhi. No, no, my friend, I open my mouth wider! I'll
consent to go halves, but accept an alms, never!"

Patrice listened eagerly and, at the same time, kept his eyes on
Coralie, whose face still contorted with anguish, wore an expression of
the same rapt attention. And he looked back at the victim, part of whose
body was reflected in the glass above the mantelpiece. The man was
dressed in a braided brown-velvet smoking-suit and appeared to be about
fifty years of age, quite bald, with a fleshy face, a large hooked nose,
eyes deep set under a pair of thick eyebrows and puffy cheeks covered
with a thick grizzled beard. Patrice was also able to examine his
features more closely in a portrait of him which hung to the left of the
fireplace, between the first and second windows, and which represented a
strong, powerful countenance with an almost fierce expression.

"It's an Eastern face," said Patrice to himself. "I've seen heads like
that in Egypt and Turkey."

The names of all these men too--Colonel Fakhi, Mustapha, Bournef,
Essarès--their accent in talking, their way of holding themselves, their
features, their figures, all recalled impressions which he had gathered
in the Near East, in the hotels at Alexandria or on the banks of the
Bosphorus, in the bazaars of Adrianople or in the Greek boats that plow
the Ægean Sea. They were Levantine types, but of Levantines who had
taken root in Paris. Essarès Bey was a name which Patrice recognized as
well-known in the financial world, even as he knew that of Colonel
Fakhi, whose speech and intonation marked him for a seasoned Parisian.

But a sound of voices came from outside the door. It was flung open
violently and the four men appeared, dragging in a bound man, whom they
dropped to the floor as they entered.

"Here's old Siméon," cried the one whom Fakhi had addressed as Bournef.

"And the wife?" asked the leader. "I hope you've got her too!"

"Well, no."

"What is that? Has she escaped?"

"Yes, through her window."

"But you must run after her. She can only be in the garden. Remember,
the watch-dog was barking just now."

"And suppose she's got away?"

"How?"

"By the door on the lane?"

"Impossible!"

"Why?"

"The door hasn't been used for years. There's not even a key to it."

"That's as may be," Bournef rejoined. "All the same, we're surely not
going to organize a battue with lanterns and rouse the whole district
for the sake of finding a woman . . ."

"Yes, but that woman . . ."

Colonel Fakhi seemed exasperated. He turned to the prisoner:

"You're in luck, you old rascal! This is the second time to-day that
minx of yours has slipped through my fingers! Did she tell you what
happened this afternoon? Oh, if it hadn't been for an infernal officer
who happened to be passing! . . . But I'll get hold of him yet and he
shall pay dearly for his interference. . . ."

Patrice clenched his fists with fury. He understood: Coralie was hiding
in her own house. Surprised by the sudden arrival of the five men, she
had managed to climb out of her window and, making her way along the
terrace to the steps, had gone to the part of the house opposite the
rooms that were in use and taken refuge in the gallery of the library,
where she was able to witness the terrible assault levied at her
husband.

"Her husband!" thought Patrice, with a shudder. "Her husband!"

And, if he still entertained any doubts on the subject, the hurried
course of events soon removed them, for the leader began to chuckle:

"Yes, Essarès, old man, I confess that she attracts me more than I can
tell you; and, as I failed to catch her earlier in the day, I did hope
this evening, as soon as I had settled my business with you, to settle
something infinitely more agreeable with your wife. Not to mention that,
once in my power, the little woman would be serving me as a hostage and
that I would only have restored her to you--oh, safe and sound, believe
me!--after specific performance of our agreement. And you would have run
straight, Essarès! For you love your Coralie passionately! And quite
right too!"

He went to the right-hand side of the fireplace and, touching a switch,
lit an electric lamp under a reflector between the third and fourth
windows. There was a companion picture here to Essarès' portrait, but it
was covered over. The leader drew the curtain, and Coralie appeared in
the full light.

"The monarch of all she surveys! The idol! The witch! The pearl of
pearls! The imperial diamond of Essarès Bey, banker! Isn't she
beautiful? I ask you. Admire the delicate outline of her face, the
purity of that oval; and the pretty neck; and those graceful shoulders.
Essarès, there's not a favorite in the country we come from who can hold
a candle to your Coralie! My Coralie, soon! For I shall know how to find
her. Ah, Coralie, Coralie! . . ."

Patrice looked across at her, and it seemed to him that her face was
reddened with a blush of shame. He himself was shaken by indignation and
anger at each insulting word. It was a violent enough sorrow to him to
know that Coralie was the wife of another; and added to this sorrow was
his rage at seeing her thus exposed to these men's gaze and promised as
a helpless prey to whosoever should prove himself the strongest.

At the same time, he wondered why Coralie remained in the room.
Supposing that she could not leave the garden, nevertheless she was free
to move about in that part of the house and might well have opened a
window and called for help. What prevented her from doing so? Of course
she did not love her husband. If she had loved him, she would have faced
every danger to defend him. But how was it possible for her to allow
that man to be tortured, worse still, to be present at his sufferings,
to contemplate that most hideous of sights and to listen to his yells of
pain?

"Enough of this nonsense!" cried the leader, pulling the curtain back
into its place. "Coralie, you shall be my final reward; but I must first
win you. Comrades, to work; let's finish our friend's job. First of all,
twenty inches nearer, no more. Good! Does it burn, Essarès? All the
same, it's not more than you can stand. Bear up, old fellow."

He unfastened the prisoner's right arm, put a little table by his side,
laid a pencil and paper on it and continued:

"There's writing-materials for you. As your gag prevents you from
speaking, write. You know what's wanted of you, don't you? Scribble a
few letters, and you're free. Do you consent? No? Comrades, three inches
nearer."

He moved away and stooped over the secretary, whom Patrice, by the
brighter light, had recognized as the old fellow who sometimes escorted
Coralie to the hospital.

"As for you, Siméon," he said, "you shall come to no harm. I know that
you are devoted to your master, but I also know that he tells you none
of his private affairs. On the other hand, I am certain that you will
keep silent as to all this, because a single word of betrayal would
involve your master's ruin even more than ours. That's understood
between us, isn't it? Well, why don't you answer? Have they squeezed
your throat a bit too tight with their cords? Wait, I'll give you some
air. . . ."

Meanwhile the ugly work at the fireplace pursued its course. The two
feet were reddened by the heat until it seemed almost as though the
bright flames of the fire were glowing through them. The sufferer
exerted all his strength in trying to bend his legs and to draw back;
and a dull, continuous moan came through his gag.

"Oh, hang it all!" thought Patrice. "Are we going to let him roast like
this, like a chicken on a spit?"

He looked at Coralie. She did not stir. Her face was distorted beyond
recognition, and her eyes seemed fascinated by the terrifying sight.

"Couple of inches nearer!" cried the leader, from the other end of the
room, as he unfastened Siméon's bonds.

The order was executed. The victim gave such a yell that Patrice's blood
froze in his veins. But, at the same moment, he became aware of
something that had not struck him so far, or at least he had attached no
significance to it. The prisoner's hand, as the result of a sequence of
little movements apparently due to nervous twitches, had seized the
opposite edge of the table, while his arm rested on the marble top. And
gradually, unseen by the torturers, all whose efforts were directed to
keeping his legs in position, or by the leader, who was still engaged
with Siméon, this hand opened a drawer which swung on a hinge, dipped
into the drawer, took out a revolver and, resuming its original position
with a jerk, hid the weapon in the chair.

The act, or rather the intention which it indicated, was foolhardy in
the extreme, for, when all was said, reduced to his present state of
helplessness, the man could not hope for victory against five
adversaries, all free and all armed. Nevertheless, as Patrice looked at
the glass in which he beheld him, he saw a fierce determination pictured
in the man's face.

"Another two inches," said Colonel Fakhi, as he walked back to the
fireplace.

He examined the condition of the flesh and said, with a laugh:

"The skin is blistering in places; the veins are ready to burst.
Essarès Bey, you can't be enjoying yourself, and it strikes me that you
mean to do the right thing at last. Have you started scribbling yet? No?
And don't you mean to? Are you still hoping? Counting on your wife,
perhaps? Come, come, you must see that, even if she has succeeded in
escaping, she won't say anything! Well, then, are you humbugging me, or
what? . . ."

He was seized with a sudden burst of rage and shouted:

"Shove his feet into the fire! And let's have a good smell of burning
for once! Ah, you would defy me, would you? Well, wait a bit, old chap,
and let me have a go at you! I'll cut you off an ear or two: you know,
the way we have in our country!"

He drew from his waistcoat a dagger that gleamed in the firelight. His
face was hideous with animal cruelty. He gave a fierce cry, raised his
arm and stood over the other relentlessly.

But, swift as his movement was, Essarès was before him. The revolver,
quickly aimed, was discharged with a loud report. The dagger dropped
from the colonel's hand. For two or three seconds he maintained his
threatening attitude, with one arm lifted on high and a haggard look in
his eyes, as though he did not quite understand what had happened to
him. And then, suddenly, he fell upon his victim in a huddled heap,
paralyzing his arm with the full weight of his body, at the moment when
Essarès was taking aim at one of the other confederates.

He was still breathing:

"Oh, the brute, the brute!" he panted. "He's killed me! . . . But
you'll lose by it, Essarès. . . . I was prepared for this. If I don't
come home to-night, the prefect of police will receive a letter. . . .
They'll know about your treason, Essarès . . . all your story . . . your
plans. . . . Oh, you devil! . . . And what a fool! . . . We could so
easily have come to terms. . . ."

He muttered a few inaudible words and rolled down to the floor. It was
all over.

A moment of stupefaction was produced not so much by this unexpected
tragedy as by the revelation which the leader had made before dying and
by the thought of that letter, which no doubt implicated the aggressors
as well as their victim. Bournef had disarmed Essarès. The latter, now
that the chair was no longer held in position, had succeeded in bending
his legs. No one moved.

Meanwhile, the sense of terror which the whole scene had produced seemed
rather to increase with the silence. On the ground was the corpse, with
the blood flowing on the carpet. Not far away lay Siméon's motionless
form. Then there was the prisoner, still bound in front of the flames
waiting to devour his flesh. And standing near him were the four
butchers, hesitating perhaps what to do next, but showing in every
feature an implacable resolution to defeat the enemy by all and every
means.

His companions glanced at Bournef, who seemed the kind of man to go any
length. He was a short, stout, powerfully-built man; his upper lip
bristled with the mustache which had attracted Patrice Belval's
attention. He was less cruel in appearance than his chief, less elegant
in his manner and less masterful, but displayed far greater coolness
and self-command. As for the colonel, his accomplices seemed not to
trouble about him. The part which they were playing dispensed them from
showing any empty compassion.

At last Bournef appeared to have made up his mind how to act. He went to
his hat, the gray-felt hat lying near the door, turned back the lining
and took from it a tiny coil the sight of which made Patrice start. It
was a slender red cord, exactly like that which he had found round the
neck of Mustapha Rovalaïof, the first accomplice captured by Ya-Bon.

Bournef unrolled the cord, took it by the two buckles, tested its
strength across his knee and then, going back to Essarès, slipped it
over his neck after first removing his gag.

"Essarès," he said, with a calmness which was more impressive than the
colonel's violence and sneers, "Essarès, I shall not put you to any
pain. Torture is a revolting process; and I shall not have recourse to
it. You know what to do; I know what to do. A word on your side, an
action on my side; and the thing is done. The word is the yes or no
which you will now speak. The action which I shall accomplish in reply
to your yes or no will mean either your release or else . . ."

He stopped for a second or two. Then he declared:

"Or else your death."

The brief phrase was uttered very simply but with a firmness that gave
it the full significance of an irrevocable sentence. It was clear that
Essarès was faced with a catastrophe which he could no longer avoid
save by submitting absolutely. In less than a minute, he would have
spoken or he would be dead.

Once again Patrice fixed his eyes on Coralie, ready to interfere should
he perceive in her any other feeling than one of passive terror. But her
attitude did not change. She was therefore accepting the worst, it
appeared, even though this meant her husband's death; and Patrice held
his hand accordingly.

"Are we all agreed?" Bournef asked, turning to his accomplices.

"Quite," said one of them.

"Do you take your share of the responsibility?"

"We do."

Bournef brought his hands together and crossed them, which had the
result of knotting the cord round Essarès' neck. Then he pulled
slightly, so as to make the pressure felt, and asked, unemotionally:

"Yes or no?"

"Yes."

There was a murmur of satisfaction. The accomplices heaved a breath; and
Bournef nodded his head with an air of approval:

"Ah, so you accept! It was high time: I doubt if any one was ever nearer
death than you were, Essarès." Retaining his hold of the cord, he
continued, "Very well. You will speak. But I know you; and your answer
surprises me, for I told the colonel that not even the certainty of
death would make you confess your secret. Am I wrong?"

"No," replied Essarès. "Neither death nor torture."

"Then you have something different to propose?"

"Yes."

"Something worth our while?"

"Yes. I suggested it to the colonel just now, when you were out of the
room. But, though he was willing to betray you and go halves with me in
the secret, he refused the other thing."

"Why should I accept it?"

"Because you must take it or leave it and because you will understand
what he did not."

"It's a compromise, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"Money?"

"Yes."

Bournef shrugged his shoulders:

"A few thousand-franc notes, I expect. And you imagine that Bournef and
his friends will be such fools? . . . Come, Essarès, why do you want us
to compromise? We know your secret almost entirely. . . ."

"You know what it is, but not how to use it. You don't know how to get
at it; and that's just the point."

"We shall discover it."

"Never."

"Yes, your death will make it easier for us."

"My death? Thanks to the information lodged by the colonel, in a few
hours you will be tracked down and most likely caught: in any case, you
will be unable to pursue your search. Therefore you have hardly any
choice. It's the money which I'm offering you, or else . . . prison."

"And, if we accept," asked Bournef, to whom the argument seemed to
appeal, "when shall we be paid?"

"At once."

"Then the money is here?"

"Yes."

"A contemptible sum, as I said before?"

"No, a much larger sum than you hope for; infinitely larger."

"How much?"

"Four millions."




CHAPTER V

HUSBAND AND WIFE


The accomplices started, as though they had received an electric shock.
Bournef darted forward:

"What did you say?"

"I said four millions, which means a million for each of you."

"Look here! . . . Do you mean it? . . . Four millions? . . ."

"Four millions is what I said."

The figure was so gigantic and the proposal so utterly unexpected that
the accomplices had the same feeling which Patrice Belval on his side
underwent. They suspected a trap; and Bournef could not help saying:

"The offer is more than we expected. . . . And I am wondering what
induced you to make it."

"Would you have been satisfied with less?"

"Yes," said Bournef, candidly.

"Unfortunately, I can't make it less. I have only one means of escaping
death; and that is to open my safe for you. And my safe contains four
bundles of a thousand bank-notes each."

Bournef could not get over his astonishment and became more and more
suspicious.

"How do you know that, after taking the four millions, we shall not
insist on more?"

"Insist on what? The secret of the site?"

"Yes."

"Because you know that I would as soon die as tell it you. The four
millions are the maximum. Do you want them or don't you? I ask for no
promise in return, no oath of any kind, for I am convinced that, when
you have filled your pockets, you will have but one thought, to clear
off, without handicapping yourselves with a murder which might prove
your undoing."

The argument was so unanswerable that Bournef ceased discussing and
asked:

"Is the safe in this room?"

"Yes, between the first and second windows, behind my portrait."

Bournef took down the picture and said:

"I see nothing."

"It's all right. The lines of the safe are marked by the moldings of the
central panel. In the middle you will see what looks like a rose, not of
wood but of iron; and there are four others at the four corners of the
panel. These four turn to the right, by successive notches, forming a
word which is the key to the lock, the word Cora."

"The first four letters of Coralie?" asked Bournef, following Essarès'
instructions as he spoke.

"No," said Essarès Bey, "the first four letters of the Coran. Have you
done that?"

After a moment, Bournef answered:

"Yes, I've finished. And the key?"

"There's no key. The fifth letter of the word, the letter N, is the
letter of the central rose."

Bournef turned this fifth rose; and presently a click was heard.

"Now pull," said Essarès. "That's it. The safe is not deep: it's dug in
one of the stones of the front wall. Put in your hand. You'll find four
pocket-books."

It must be admitted that Patrice Belval expected to see something
startling interrupt Bournef's quest and hurl him into some pit suddenly
opened by Essarès' trickery. And the three confederates seemed to share
this unpleasant apprehension, for they were gray in the face, while
Bournef himself appeared to be working very cautiously and suspiciously.

At last he turned round and came and sat beside Essarès. In his hands he
held a bundle of four pocket-books, short but extremely bulky and bound
together with a canvas strap. He unfastened the buckle of the strap and
opened one of the pocket-books.

His knees shook under their precious burden, and, when he had taken a
huge sheaf of notes from one of the compartments, his hands were like
the hands of a very old man trembling with fever.

"Thousand-franc notes," he murmured. "Ten packets of thousand-franc
notes."

Brutally, like men prepared to fight one another, each of the other
three laid hold of a pocket-book, felt inside and mumbled:

"Ten packets . . . they're all there. . . . Thousand-franc notes . . ."

And one of them forthwith cried, in a choking voice:

"Let's clear out! . . . Let's go!"

A sudden fear was sending them off their heads. They could not imagine
that Essarès would hand over such a fortune to them unless he had some
plan which would enable him to recover it before they had left the room.
That was a certainty. The ceiling would come down on their heads. The
walls would close up and crush them to death, while sparing their
unfathomable adversary.

Nor had Patrice Belval any doubt of it. The disaster was preparing.
Essarès' revenge was inevitably at hand. A man like him, a fighter as
able as he appeared to be, does not so easily surrender four million
francs if he has not some scheme at the back of his head. Patrice felt
himself breathing heavily. His present excitement was more violent than
any with which he had thrilled since the very beginning of the tragic
scenes which he had been witnessing; and he saw that Coralie's face was
as anxious as his own.

Meanwhile Bournef partially recovered his composure and, holding back
his companions, said:

"Don't be such fools! He would be capable, with old Siméon, of releasing
himself and running after us."

Using only one hand, for the other was clutching a pocket-book, all four
fastened Essarès' arm to the chair, while he protested angrily:

"You idiots! You came here to rob me of a secret of immense importance,
as you well knew, and you lose your heads over a trifle of four
millions. Say what you like, the colonel had more backbone than that!"

They gagged him once more and Bournef gave him a smashing blow with his
fist which laid him unconscious.

"That makes our retreat safe," said Bournef.

"What about the colonel?" asked one of the others. "Are we to leave him
here?"

"Why not?"

But apparently he thought this unwise; for he added:

"On second thoughts, no. It's not to our interest to compromise Essarès
any further. What we must do, Essarès as well as ourselves, is to make
ourselves scarce as fast as we can, before that damned letter of the
colonel's is delivered at headquarters, say before twelve o'clock in the
day."

"Then what do you suggest?"

"We'll take the colonel with us in the motor and drop him anywhere. The
police must make what they can of it."

"And his papers?"

"We'll look through his pockets as we go. Lend me a hand."

They bandaged the wound to stop the flow of blood, took up the body,
each holding it by an arm or leg, and walked out without any one of them
letting go his pocket-book for a second.

Patrice Belval heard them pass through another room and then tramp
heavily over the echoing flags of a hall.

"This is the moment," he said. "Essarès or Siméon will press a button
and the rogues will be nabbed."

Essarès did not budge.

Siméon did not budge.

Patrice heard all the sounds accompanying their departure: the slamming
of the carriage-gate, the starting-up of the engine and the drone of the
car as it moved away. And that was all. Nothing had happened. The
confederates were getting off with their four millions.

A long silence followed, during which Patrice remained on tenterhooks.
He did not believe that the drama had reached its last phase; and he was
so much afraid of the unexpected which might still occur that he
determined to make Coralie aware of his presence.

A fresh incident prevented him. Coralie had risen to her feet.

Her face no longer wore its expression of horror and affright, but
Patrice was perhaps more scared at seeing her suddenly animated with a
sinister energy that gave an unwonted sparkle to her eyes and set her
eyebrows and her lips twitching. He realized that Coralie was preparing
to act.

In what way? Was this the end of the tragedy?

She walked to the corner on her side of the gallery where one of the two
spiral staircases stood and went down slowly, without, however, trying
to deaden the sound of her feet. Her husband could not help hearing her.
Patrice, moreover, saw in the mirror that he had lifted his head and was
following her with his eyes.

She stopped at the foot of the stairs. But there was no indecision in
her attitude. Her plan was obviously quite clear; and she was only
thinking out the best method of putting it into execution.

"Ah!" whispered Patrice to himself, quivering all over. "What are you
doing, Little Mother Coralie?"

He gave a start. The direction in which Coralie's eyes were turned,
together with the strange manner in which they stared, revealed her
secret resolve to him. She had caught sight of the dagger, lying on the
floor where it had slipped from the colonel's grasp.

Not for a second did Patrice believe that she meant to pick up that
dagger with any other thought than to stab her husband. The intention of
murder was so plainly written on her livid features that, even before
she stirred a limb, Essarès was seized with a fit of terror and strained
every muscle to break the bonds that hampered his movements.

She came forward, stopped once more and, suddenly bending, seized the
dagger. Without waiting, she took two more steps. These brought her to
the right of the chair in which Essarès lay. He had only to turn his
head a little way to see her. And an awful minute passed, during which
the husband and wife looked into each other's eyes.

The whirl of thoughts, of fear, of hatred, of vagrant and conflicting
passions that passed through the brains of her who was about to kill and
him who was about to die, was reproduced in Patrice Belval's mind and
deep down in his inner consciousness. What was he to do? What part ought
he to play in the tragedy that was being enacted before his eyes? Should
he intervene? Was it his duty to prevent Coralie from committing the
irreparable deed? Or should he commit it himself by breaking the man's
head with a bullet from his revolver?

Yet, from the beginning, Patrice had really been swayed by a feeling
which, mingling with all the others, gradually paralyzed him and
rendered any inward struggle illusory: a feeling of curiosity driven to
its utmost pitch. It was not the everyday curiosity of unearthing a
squalid secret, but the higher curiosity of penetrating the mysterious
soul of a woman whom he loved, who was carried away by the rush of
events and who suddenly, becoming once more mistress of herself, was of
her own accord and with impressive calmness taking the most fearful
resolution. Thereupon other questions forced themselves upon him. What
prompted her to take this resolution? Was it revenge? Was it punishment?
Was it the gratification of hatred?

Patrice Belval remained where he was.

Coralie raised her arm. Her husband, in front of her, no longer even
attempted to make those movements of despair which indicate a last
effort. There was neither entreaty nor menace in his eyes. He waited in
resignation.

Not far from them, old Siméon, still bound, half-lifted himself on his
elbows and stared at them in dismay.

Coralie raised her arm again. Her whole frame seemed to grow larger and
taller. An invisible force appeared to strengthen and stiffen her whole
being, summoning all her energies to the service of her will. She was on
the point of striking. Her eyes sought the place at which she should
strike.

Yet her eyes became less hard and less dark. It even seemed to Patrice
that there was a certain hesitation in her gaze and that she was
recovering not her usual gentleness, but a little of her womanly grace.

"Ah, Little Mother Coralie," murmured Patrice, "you are yourself again!
You are the woman I know. Whatever right you may think you have to kill
that man, you will not kill him . . . and I prefer it so."

Slowly Coralie's arm dropped to her side. Her features relaxed. Patrice
could guess the immense relief which she felt at escaping from the
obsessing purpose that was driving her to murder. She looked at her
dagger with astonishment, as though she were waking from a hideous
nightmare. And, bending over her husband she began to cut his bonds.

She did so with visible repugnance, avoiding his touch, as it were, and
shunning his eyes. The cords were severed one by one. Essarès was free.

What happened next was in the highest measure unexpected. With not a
word of thanks to his wife, with not a word of anger either, this man
who had just undergone the most cruel torture and whose body still
throbbed with pain hurriedly tottered barefoot to a telephone standing
on a table. He was like a hungry man who suddenly sees a piece of bread
and snatches at it greedily as the means of saving himself and returning
to life. Panting for breath, Essarès took down the receiver and called
out:

"Central 40.39."

Then he turned abruptly to his wife:

"Go away," he said.

She seemed not to hear. She had knelt down beside old Siméon and was
setting him free also.

Essarès at the telephone began to lose patience:

"Are you there? . . . Are you there? . . . I want that number to-day,
please, not next week! It's urgent. . . . 40.39. . . . It's urgent, I
tell you!"

And, turning to Coralie, he repeated, in an imperious tone:

"Go away!"

She made a sign that she would not go away and that, on the contrary,
she meant to listen. He shook his fist at her and again said:

"Go away, go away! . . . I won't have you stay in the room. You go away
too, Siméon."

Old Siméon got up and moved towards Essarès. It looked as though he
wished to speak, no doubt to protest. But his action was undecided; and,
after a moment's reflection, he turned to the door and went without
uttering a word.

"Go away, will you, go away!" Essarès repeated, his whole body
expressing menace.

But Coralie came nearer to him and crossed her arms obstinately and
defiantly. At that moment, Essarès appeared to get his call, for he
asked:

"Is that 40.39? Ah, yes . . ."

He hesitated. Coralie's presence obviously displeased him greatly, and
he was about to say things which he did not wish her to know. But time,
no doubt, was pressing. He suddenly made up his mind and, with both
receivers glued to his ears, said, in English:

"Is that you, Grégoire? . . . Essarès speaking. . . . Hullo! . . . Yes,
I'm speaking from the Rue Raynouard. . . . There's no time to lose.
. . . Listen. . . ."

He sat down and went on:

"Look here. Mustapha's dead. So is the colonel. . . . Damn it, don't
interrupt, or we're done for! . . . Yes, done for; and you too. . . .
Listen, they all came, the colonel, Bournef, the whole gang, and robbed
me by means of violence and threats. . . . I finished the colonel, only
he had written to the police, giving us all away. The letter will be
delivered soon. So you understand, Bournef and his three ruffians are
going to disappear. They'll just run home and pack up their papers; and
I reckon they'll be with you in an hour, or two hours at most. It's the
refuge they're sure to make for. They prepared it themselves, without
suspecting that you and I know each other. So there's no doubt about it.
They're sure to come. . . ."

Essarès stopped. He thought for a moment and resumed:

"You still have a second key to each of the rooms which they use as
bedrooms? Is that so? . . . Good. And you have duplicates of the keys
that open the cupboards in the walls of those rooms, haven't you? . . .
Capital. Well, as soon as they get to sleep, or rather as soon as you
are certain that they are sound asleep, go in and search the cupboards.
Each of them is bound to hide his share of the booty there. You'll find
it quite easily. It's the four pocket-books which you know of. Put them
in your bag, clear out as fast as you can and join me."

There was another pause. This time it was Essarès listening. He replied:

"What's that you say? Rue Raynouard? Here? Join me here? Why, you must
be mad! Do you imagine that I can stay now, after the colonel's given me
away? No, go and wait for me at the hotel, near the station. I shall be
there by twelve o'clock or one in the afternoon, perhaps a little later.
Don't be uneasy. Have your lunch quietly and we'll talk things over
. . . Hullo! Did you hear? . . . Very well, I'll see that everything's
all right. Good-by for the present."

The conversation was finished; and it looked as if Essarès, having taken
all his measures to recover possession of the four million francs, had
no further cause for anxiety. He hung up the receiver, went back to the
lounge-chair in which he had been tortured, wheeled it round with its
back to the fire, sat down, turned down the bottoms of his trousers and
pulled on his socks and shoes, all a little painfully and accompanied by
a few grimaces, but calmly, in the manner of a man who has no need to
hurry.

Coralie kept her eyes fixed on his face.

"I really ought to go," thought Captain Belval, who felt a trifle
embarrassed at the thought of overhearing what the husband and wife were
about to say.

Nevertheless he stayed. He was not comfortable in his mind on Coralie's
account.

Essarès fired the first shot:

"Well," he asked, "what are you looking at me like that for?"

"So it's true?" she murmured, maintaining her attitude of defiance. "You
leave me no possibility of doubt?"

"Why should I lie?" he snarled. "I should not have telephoned in your
hearing if I hadn't been sure that you were here all the time."

"I was up there."

"Then you heard everything?"

"Yes."

"And saw everything?"

"Yes."

"And, seeing the torture which they inflicted on me and hearing my
cries, you did nothing to defend me, to defend me against torture,
against death!"

"No, for I knew the truth."

"What truth?"

"The truth which I suspected without daring to admit it."

"What truth?" he repeated, in a louder voice.

"The truth about your treason."

"You're mad. I've committed no treason."

"Oh, don't juggle with words! I confess that I don't know the whole
truth: I did not understand all that those men said or what they were
demanding of you. But the secret which they tried to force from you was
a treasonable secret."

"A man can only commit treason against his country," he said, shrugging
his shoulders. "I'm not a Frenchman."

"You were a Frenchman!" she cried. "You asked to be one and you became
one. You married me, a Frenchwoman, and you live in France and you've
made your fortune in France. It's France that you're betraying."

"Don't talk nonsense! And for whose benefit?"

"I don't know that, either. For months, for years indeed, the colonel,
Bournef, all your former accomplices and yourself have been engaged on
an enormous work--yes, enormous, it's their own word--and now it appears
that you are fighting over the profits of the common enterprise and the
others accuse you of pocketing those profits for yourself alone and of
keeping a secret that doesn't belong to you. So that I seem to see
something dirtier and more hateful even than treachery, something
worthy of a common pickpocket. . . ."

The man struck the arm of his chair with his fist:

"Enough!" he cried.

Coralie seemed in no way alarmed:

"Enough," she echoed, "you are right. Enough words between us. Besides,
there is one fact that stands out above everything: your flight. That
amounts to a confession. You're afraid of the police."

He shrugged his shoulders a second time:

"I'm afraid of nobody."

"Very well, but you're going."

"Yes."

"Then let's have it out. When are you going?"

"Presently, at twelve o'clock."

"And if you're arrested?"

"I sha'n't be arrested."

"If you are arrested, however?"

"I shall be let go."

"At least there will be an inquiry, a trial?"

"No, the matter will be hushed up."

"You hope so."

"I'm sure of it."

"God grant it! And you will leave France, of course?"

"As soon as I can."

"When will that be?"

"In a fortnight or three weeks."

"Send me word of the day, so that I may know when I can breathe again."

"I shall send you word, Coralie, but for another reason."

"What reason?"

"So that you may join me."

"Join you!"

He gave a cruel smile:

"You are my wife," he said. "Where the husband goes the wife goes; and
you know that, in my religion, the husband has every right over his
wife, including that of life and death. Well, you're my wife."

Coralie shook her head, and, in a tone of indescribable contempt,
answered:

"I am not your wife. I feel nothing for you but loathing and horror. I
don't wish to see you again, and, whatever happens, whatever you may
threaten, I shall not see you again."

He rose, and, walking to her, bent in two, all trembling on his legs, he
shouted, while again he shook his clenched fists at her:

"What's that you say? What's that you dare to say? I, I, your lord and
master, order you to join me the moment that I send for you."

"I shall not join you. I swear it before God! I swear it as I hope to be
saved."

He stamped his feet with rage. His face underwent a hideous contortion;
and he roared:

"That means that you want to stay! Yes, you have reasons which I don't
know, but which are easy to guess! An affair of the heart, I suppose.
There's some one in your life, no doubt. . . . Hold your tongue, will
you? . . . Haven't you always detested me? . . . Your hatred does not
date from to-day. It dates back to the first time you saw me, to a time
even before our marriage. . . . We have always lived like mortal
enemies. I loved you. I worshipped you. A word from you would have
brought me to your feet. The mere sound of your steps thrilled me to the
marrow. . . . But your feeling for me is one of horror. And you imagine
that you are going to start a new life, without me? Why, I'd sooner kill
you, my beauty!"

He had unclenched his fists; and his open hands were clutching on either
side of Coralie, close to her head, as though around a prey which they
seemed on the point of throttling. A nervous shiver made his jaws clash
together. Beads of perspiration gleamed on his bald head.

In front of him, Coralie stood impassive, looking very small and frail.
Patrice Belval, in an agony of suspense and ready at any moment to act,
could read nothing on her calm features but aversion and contempt.

Mastering himself at last, Essarès said:

"You shall join me, Coralie. Whether you like it or not, I am your
husband. You felt it just now, when the lust to murder me made you take
up a weapon and left you without the courage to carry out your
intention. It will always be like that. Your independent fit will pass
away and you will join the man who is your master."

"I shall remain behind to fight against you," she replied, "here, in
this house. The work of treason which you have accomplished I shall
destroy. I shall do it without hatred, for I am no longer capable of
hatred, but I shall do it without intermission, to repair the evil which
you have wrought."

He answered, in a low voice:

"I _am_ capable of hatred. Beware, Coralie. The very moment when you
believe that you have nothing more to fear will perhaps be the moment
when I shall call you to account. Take care."

He pushed an electric bell. Old Siméon appeared.

"So the two men-servants have decamped?" asked Essarès. And, without
waiting for the answer, he went on, "A good riddance. The housemaid and
the cook can do all I want. They heard nothing, did they? No, their
bedroom is too far away. No matter, Siméon: you must keep a watch on
them after I am gone."

He looked at his wife, surprised to see her still there, and said to his
secretary:

"I must be up at six to get everything ready; and I am dead tired. Take
me to my room. You can come back and put out the lights afterwards."

He went out, supported by Siméon. Patrice Belval at once perceived that
Coralie had done her best to show no weakness in her husband's presence,
but that she had come to the end of her strength and was unable to walk.
Seized with faintness, she fell on her knees, making the sign of the
cross.

When she was able to rise, a few minutes later, she saw on the carpet,
between her and the door, a sheet of note-paper with her name on it. She
picked it up and read:

      "Little Mother Coralie, the struggle is too much for
      you. Why not appeal to me, your friend? Give a signal
      and I am with you."

She staggered, dazed by the discovery of the letter and dismayed by
Belval's daring. But, making a last effort to summon up her power of
will, she left the room, without giving the signal for which Patrice was
longing.




CHAPTER VI

NINETEEN MINUTES PAST SEVEN


Patrice, in his bedroom at the home, was unable to sleep that night. He
had a continual waking sensation of being oppressed and hunted down, as
though he were suffering the terrors of some monstrous nightmare. He had
an impression that the frantic series of events in which he was playing
the combined parts of a bewildered spectator and a helpless actor would
never cease so long as he tried to rest; that, on the contrary, they
would rage with greater violence and intensity. The leave-taking of the
husband and wife did not put an end, even momentarily, to the dangers
incurred by Coralie. Fresh perils arose on every side; and Patrice
Belval confessed himself incapable of foreseeing and still more of
allaying them.

After lying awake for two hours, he switched on his electric light and
began hurriedly to write down the story of the past twelve hours. He
hoped in this way to some small extent to unravel the tangled knot.

At six o'clock he went and roused Ya-Bon and brought him back with him.
Then, standing in front of the astonished negro, he crossed his arms and
exclaimed:

"So you consider that your job is over! While I lie tossing about in the
dark, my lord sleeps and all's well! My dear man, you have a jolly
elastic conscience."

The word elastic amused the Senegalese mightily. His mouth opened wider
than ever; and he gave a grunt of enjoyment.

"That'll do, that'll do," said the captain. "There's no getting a word
in, once you start talking. Here, take a chair, read this report and
give me your reasoned opinion. What? You don't know how to read? Well,
upon my word! What was the good, then, of wearing out the seat of your
trousers on the benches of the Senegal schools and colleges? A queer
education, I must say!"

He heaved a sigh, and, snatching the manuscript, said:

"Listen, reflect, argue, deduct and conclude. This is how the matter
briefly stands. First, we have one Essarès Bey, a banker, rich as
Crœsus, and the lowest of rapscallions, who betrays at one and the same
time France, Egypt, England, Turkey, Bulgaria and Greece . . . as is
proved by the fact that his accomplices roast his feet for him.
Thereupon he kills one of them and gets rid of four with the aid of as
many millions, which millions he orders another accomplice to get back
for him before five minutes are passed. And all these bright spirits
will duck underground at eleven o'clock this morning, for at twelve
o'clock the police propose to enter on the scene. Good."

Patrice Belval paused to take breath and continued:

"Secondly, Little Mother Coralie--upon my word, I can't say why--is
married to Rapscallion Bey. She hates him and wants to kill him. He
loves her and wants to kill her. There is also a colonel who loves her
and for that reason loses his life and a certain Mustapha, who tries to
kidnap her on the colonel's account and also loses his life for that
reason, strangled by a Senegalese. Lastly, there is a French captain, a
dot-and-carry-one, who likewise loves her, but whom she avoids because
she is married to a man whom she abhors. And with this captain, in a
previous incarnation, she has halved an amethyst bead. Add to all this,
by way of accessories, a rusty key, a red silk bowstring, a dog choked
to death and a grate filled with red coals. And, if you dare to
understand a single word of my explanation, I'll catch you a whack with
my wooden leg, for I don't understand it a little bit and I'm your
captain."

Ya-Bon laughed all over his mouth and all over the gaping scar that cut
one of his cheeks in two. As ordered by his captain, he understood
nothing of the business and very little of what Patrice had said; but he
always quivered with delight when Patrice addressed him in that gruff
tone.

"That's enough," said the captain. "It's my turn now to argue, deduct
and conclude."

He leant against the mantelpiece, with his two elbows on the marble
shelf and his head tight-pressed between his hands. His merriment, which
sprang from temperamental lightness of heart, was this time only a
surface merriment. Deep down within himself he did nothing but think of
Coralie with sorrowful apprehension. What could he do to protect her? A
number of plans occurred to him: which was he to choose? Should he hunt
through the numbers in the telephone-book till he hit upon the
whereabouts of that Grégoire, with whom Bournef and his companions had
taken refuge? Should he inform the police? Should he return to the Rue
Raynouard? He did not know. Yes, he was capable of acting, if the act to
be performed consisted in flinging himself into the conflict with
furious ardor. But to prepare the action, to divine the obstacles, to
rend the darkness, and, as he said, to see the invisible and grasp the
intangible, that was beyond his powers.

He turned suddenly to Ya-Bon, who was standing depressed by his silence:

"What's the matter with you, putting on that lugubrious air? Of course
it's you that throw a gloom over me! You always look at the black side
of things . . . like a nigger! . . . Be off."

Ya-Bon was going away discomfited, when some one tapped at the door and
a voice said:

"Captain Belval, you're wanted on the telephone."

Patrice hurried out. Who on earth could be telephoning to him so early
in the morning?

"Who is it?" he asked the nurse.

"I don't know, captain. . . . It's a man's voice; he seemed to want you
urgently. The bell had been ringing some time. I was downstairs, in the
kitchen. . . ."

Before Patrice's eyes there rose a vision of the telephone in the Rue
Raynouard, in the big room at the Essarès' house. He could not help
wondering if there was anything to connect the two incidents.

He went down one flight of stairs and along a passage. The telephone was
through a small waiting-room, in a room that had been turned into a
linen-closet. He closed the door behind him.

"Hullo! Captain Belval speaking. What is it?"

A voice, a man's voice which he did not know, replied in breathless,
panting tones:

"Ah! . . . Captain Belval! . . . It's you! . . . Look here . . . but I'm
almost afraid that it's too late. . . . I don't know if I shall have
time to finish. . . . Did you get the key and the letter? . . ."

"Who are you?" asked Patrice.

"Did you get the key and the letter?" the voice insisted.

"The key, yes," Patrice replied, "but not the letter."

"Not the letter? But this is terrible! Then you don't know . . ."

A hoarse cry struck Patrice's ear and the next thing he caught was
incoherent sounds at the other end of the wire, the noise of an
altercation. Then the voice seemed to glue itself to the instrument and
he distinctly heard it gasping:

"Too late! . . . Patrice . . . is that you? . . . Listen, the amethyst
pendant . . . yes, I have it on me. . . . The pendant. . . . Ah, it's
too late! . . . I should so much have liked to . . . Patrice. . . .
Coralie. . . ."

Then again a loud cry, a heart-rending cry, and confused sounds growing
more distant, in which he seemed to distinguish:

"Help! . . . Help! . . ."

These grew fainter and fainter. Silence followed. And suddenly there was
a little click. The murderer had hung up the receiver.

All this had not taken twenty seconds. But, when Patrice wanted to
replace the telephone, his fingers were gripping it so hard that it
needed an effort to relax them.

He stood utterly dumfounded. His eyes had fastened on a large clock
which he saw, through the window, on one of the buildings in the yard,
marking nineteen minutes past seven; and he mechanically repeated these
figures, attributing a documentary value to them. Then he asked
himself--so unreal did the scene appear to him--if all this was true and
if the crime had not been penetrated within himself, in the depths of
his aching heart. But the shouting still echoed in his ears; and
suddenly he took up the receiver again, like one clinging desperately to
some undefined hope:

"Hullo!" he cried. "Exchange! . . . Who was it rang me up just now?
. . . Are you there? Did you hear the cries? . . . Are you there? . . .
Are you there? . . ."

There was no reply. He lost his temper, insulted the exchange, left the
linen-closet, met Ya-Bon and pushed him about:

"Get out of this! It's your fault. Of course you ought to have stayed
and looked after Coralie. Be off there now and hold yourself at my
disposal. I'm going to inform the police. If you hadn't prevented me, it
would have been done long ago and we shouldn't be in this predicament.
Off you go!"

He held him back:

"No, don't stir. Your plan's ridiculous. Stay here. Oh, not here in my
pocket! You're too impetuous for me, my lad!"

He drove him out and returned to the linen-closet, striding up and down
and betraying his excitement in irritable gestures and angry words.
Nevertheless, in the midst of his confusion, one idea gradually came to
light, which was that, after all, he had no proof that the crime which
he suspected had happened at the house in the Rue Raynouard. He must not
allow himself to be obsessed by the facts that lingered in his memory to
the point of always seeing the same vision in the same tragic setting.
No doubt the drama was being continued, as he had felt that it would be,
but perhaps elsewhere and far away from Coralie.

And this first thought led to another: why not investigate matters at
once?

"Yes, why not?" he asked himself. "Before bothering the police,
discovering the number of the person who rang me up and thus working
back to the start, a process which it will be time enough to employ
later, why shouldn't I telephone to the Rue Raynouard at once, on any
pretext and in anybody's name? I shall then have a chance of knowing
what to think. . . ."

Patrice felt that this measure did not amount to much. Suppose that no
one answered, would that prove that the murder had been committed in the
house, or merely that no one was yet about? Nevertheless, the need to do
something decided him. He looked up Essarès Bey's number in the
telephone-directory and resolutely rang up the exchange.

The strain of waiting was almost more than he could bear. And then he
was conscious of a thrill which vibrated through him from head to foot.
He was connected; and some one at the other end was answering the call.

"Hullo!" he said.

"Hullo!" said a voice. "Who are you?"

It was the voice of Essarès Bey.

Although this was only natural, since at that moment Essarès must be
getting his papers ready and preparing his flight, Patrice was so much
taken aback that he did not know what to say and spoke the first words
that came into his head:

"Is that Essarès Bey?"

"Yes. Who are you?"

"I'm one of the wounded at the hospital, now under treatment at the
home. . . ."

"Captain Belval, perhaps?"

Patrice was absolutely amazed. So Coralie's husband knew him by name? He
stammered:

"Yes . . . Captain Belval."

"What a lucky thing!" cried Essarès Bey, in a tone of delight. "I rang
you up a moment ago, at the home, Captain Belval, to ask . . ."

"Oh, it was you!" interrupted Patrice, whose astonishment knew no
bounds.

"Yes, I wanted to know at what time I could speak to Captain Belval in
order to thank him."

"It was _you_! . . . It was _you_! . . ." Patrice repeated, more and
more thunderstruck.

Essarès' intonation denoted a certain surprise.

"Yes, wasn't it a curious coincidence?" he said. "Unfortunately, I was
cut off, or rather my call was interrupted by somebody else."

"Then you heard?"

"What, Captain Belval?"

"Cries."

"Cries?"

"At least, so it seemed to me; but the connection was very indistinct."

"All that I heard was somebody asking for you, somebody who was in a
great hurry; and, as I was not, I hung up the telephone and postponed
the pleasure of thanking you."

"Of thanking me?"

"Yes, I have heard how my wife was assaulted last night and how you came
to her rescue. And I am anxious to see you and express my gratitude.
Shall we make an appointment? Could we meet at the hospital, for
instance, at three o'clock this afternoon?"

Patrice made no reply. The audacity of this man, threatened with arrest
and preparing for flight, baffled him. At the same time, he was
wondering what Essarès' real object had been in telephoning to him
without being in any way obliged to. But Belval's silence in no way
troubled the banker, who continued his civilities and ended the
inscrutable conversation with a monologue in which he replied with the
greatest ease to questions which he kept putting to himself.

In spite of everything, Patrice felt more comfortable. He went back to
his room, lay down on his bed and slept for two hours. Then he sent for
Ya-Bon.

"This time," he said, "try to control your nerves and not to lose your
head as you did just now. You were absurd. But don't let's talk about
it. Have you had your breakfast? No? No more have I. Have you seen the
doctor? No? No more have I. And the surgeon has just promised to take
off this beastly bandage. You can imagine how pleased I am. A wooden leg
is all very well; but a head wrapped up in lint, for a lover, never! Get
on, look sharp. When we're ready, we'll start for the hospital. Little
Mother Coralie can't forbid me to see her there!"

Patrice was as happy as a schoolboy. As he said to Ya-Bon an hour later,
on their way to the Porte-Maillot, the clouds were beginning to roll by:

"Yes, Ya-Bon, yes, they are. And this is where we stand. To begin with,
Coralie is not in danger. As I hoped, the battle is being fought far
away from her, among the accomplices no doubt, over their millions. As
for the unfortunate man who rang me up and whose dying cries I
overheard, he was obviously some unknown friend, for he addressed me
familiarly and called me by my Christian name. It was certainly he who
sent me the key of the garden. Unfortunately, the letter that came with
the key went astray. In the end, he felt constrained to tell me
everything. Just at that moment he was attacked. By whom, you ask.
Probably by one of the accomplices, who was frightened of his
revelations. There you are, Ya-Bon. It's all as clear as noonday. For
that matter, the truth may just as easily be the exact opposite of what
I suggest. But I don't care. The great thing is to take one's stand upon
a theory, true or false. Besides, if mine is false, I reserve the right
to shift the responsibility on you. So you know what you're in for.
. . ."

At the Porte-Maillot they took a cab and it occurred to Patrice to drive
round by the Rue Raynouard. At the junction of this street with the Rue
de Passy, they saw Coralie leaving the Rue Raynouard, accompanied by old
Siméon.

She had hailed a taxi and stepped inside. Siméon sat down by the
driver. They went to the hospital in the Champs-Élysées, with Patrice
following. It was eleven o'clock when they arrived.

"All's well," said Patrice. "While her husband is running away, she
refuses to make any change in her daily life."

He and Ya-Bon lunched in the neighborhood, strolled along the avenue,
without losing sight of the hospital, and called there at half-past one.

Patrice at once saw old Siméon, sitting at the end of a covered yard
where the soldiers used to meet. His head was half wrapped up in the
usual comforter; and, with his big yellow spectacles on his nose, he sat
smoking his pipe on the chair which he always occupied.

As for Coralie, she was in one of the rooms allotted to her on the first
floor, seated by the bedside of a patient whose hand she held between
her own. The man was asleep.

Coralie appeared to Patrice to be very tired. The dark rings round her
eyes and the unusual pallor of her cheeks bore witness to her fatigue.

"Poor child!" he thought. "All those blackguards will be the death of
you."

He now understood, when he remembered the scenes of the night before,
why Coralie kept her private life secret and endeavored, at least to the
little world of the hospital, to be merely the kind sister whom people
call by her Christian name. Suspecting the web of crime with which she
was surrounded, she dropped her husband's name and told nobody where she
lived. And so well was she protected by the defenses set up by her
modesty and determination that Patrice dared not go to her and stood
rooted to the threshold.

"Yet surely," he said to himself, as he looked at Coralie without being
seen by her, "I'm not going to send her in my card!"

He was making up his mind to enter, when a woman who had come up the
stairs, talking loudly as she went, called out:

"Where is madame? . . . M. Siméon, she must come at once!"

Old Siméon, who had climbed the stairs with her, pointed to where
Coralie sat at the far end of the room; and the woman rushed in. She
said a few words to Coralie, who seemed upset and at once, ran to the
door, passing in front of Patrice, and down the stairs, followed by
Siméon and the woman.

"I've got a taxi, ma'am," stammered the woman, all out of breath. "I had
the luck to find one when I left the house and I kept it. We must be
quick, ma'am. . . . The commissary of police told me to . . ."

Patrice, who was downstairs by this time, heard nothing more; but the
last words decided him. He seized hold of Ya-Bon as he passed; and the
two of them leapt into a cab, telling the driver to follow Coralie's
taxi.

"There's news, Ya-Bon, there's news!" said Patrice. "The plot is
thickening. The woman is obviously one of the Essarès' servants and she
has come for her mistress by the commissary's orders. Therefore the
colonel's disclosures are having their effect. House searched;
magistrate's inquest; every sort of worry for Little Mother Coralie; and
you have the cheek to advise me to be careful! You imagine that I would
leave her to her own devices at such a moment! What a mean nature you
must have, my poor Ya-Bon!"

An idea occurred to him; and he exclaimed:

"Heavens! I hope that ruffian of an Essarès hasn't allowed himself to be
caught! That would be a disaster! But he was far too sure of himself. I
expect he's been trifling away his time. . . ."

All through the drive this fear excited Captain Belval and removed his
last scruples. In the end his certainty was absolute. Nothing short of
Essarès' arrest could have produced the servant's attitude of panic or
Coralie's precipitate departure. Under these conditions, how could he
hesitate to interfere in a matter in which his revelations would
enlighten the police? All the more so as, by revealing less or more,
according to circumstances, he could make his evidence subservient to
Coralie's interests.

The two cabs pulled up almost simultaneously outside the Essarès' house,
where a car was already standing. Coralie alighted and disappeared
through the carriage-gate. The maid and Siméon also crossed the
pavement.

"Come along," said Patrice to the Senegalese.

The front-door was ajar and Patrice entered. In the big hall were two
policemen on duty. Patrice acknowledged their presence with a hurried
movement of his hand and passed them with the air of a man who belonged
to the house and whose importance was so great that nothing done without
him could be of any use.

The sound of his footsteps echoing on the flags reminded him of the
flight of Bournef and his accomplices. He was on the right road.
Moreover, there was a drawing-room on the left, the room, communicating
with the library, to which the accomplices had carried the colonel's
body. Voices came from the library. He walked across the drawing-room.

At that moment he heard Coralie exclaim in accents of terror:

"Oh, my God, it can't be! . . ."

Two other policemen barred the doorway.

"I am a relation of Mme. Essarès'," he said, "her only relation. . . ."

"We have our orders, captain . . ."

"I know, of course. Be sure and let no one in! Ya-Bon, stay here."

And he went in.

But, in the immense room, a group of six or seven gentlemen, no doubt
commissaries of police and magistrates, stood in his way, bending over
something which he was unable to distinguish. From amidst this group
Coralie suddenly appeared and came towards him, tottering and wringing
her hands. The housemaid took her round the waist and pressed her into a
chair.

"What's the matter?" asked Patrice.

"Madame is feeling faint," replied the woman, still quite distraught.
"Oh, I'm nearly off my head!"

"But why? What's the reason?"

"It's the master . . . just think! . . . Such a sight! . . . It gave me
a turn, too . . ."

"What sight?"

One of the gentlemen left the group and approached:

"Is Mme. Essarès ill?"

"It's nothing," said the maid. "A fainting-fit. . . . She is liable to
these attacks."

"Take her away as soon as she can walk. We shall not need her any
longer."

And, addressing Patrice Belval with a questioning air:

"Captain? . . ."

Patrice pretended not to understand:

"Yes, sir," he said, "we will take Mme. Essarès away. Her presence, as
you say, is unnecessary. Only I must first . . ."

He moved aside to avoid his interlocutor, and, perceiving that the group
of magistrates had opened out a little, stepped forward. What he now saw
explained Coralie's fainting-fit and the servant's agitation. He himself
felt his flesh creep at a spectacle which was infinitely more horrible
than that of the evening before.

On the floor, near the fireplace, almost at the place where he had
undergone his torture, Essarès Bey lay upon his back. He was wearing the
same clothes as on the previous day: a brown-velvet smoking-suit with a
braided jacket. His head and shoulders had been covered with a napkin.
But one of the men standing around, a divisional surgeon no doubt, was
holding up the napkin with one hand and pointing to the dead man's face
with the other, while he offered an explanation in a low voice.

And that face . . . but it was hardly the word for the unspeakable mass
of flesh, part of which seemed to be charred while the other part formed
no more than a bloodstained pulp, mixed with bits of bone and skin,
hairs and a broken eye-ball.

"Oh," Patrice blurted out, "how horrible! He was killed and fell with
his head right in the fire. That's how they found him, I suppose?"

The man who had already spoken to him and who appeared to be the most
important figure present came up to him once more:

"May I ask who you are?" he demanded.

"Captain Belval, sir, a friend of Mme. Essarès, one of the wounded
officers whose lives she has helped to save . . ."

"That may be, sir," replied the important figure, "but you can't stay
here. Nobody must stay here, for that matter. Monsieur le commissaire,
please order every one to leave the room, except the doctor, and have
the door guarded. Let no one enter on any pretext whatever. . . ."

"Sir," Patrice insisted, "I have some very serious information to
communicate."

"I shall be pleased to receive it, captain, but later on. You must
excuse me now."




VII

TWENTY-THREE MINUTES PAST TWELVE


The great hall that ran from Rue Raynouard to the upper terrace of the
garden was filled to half its extent by a wide staircase and divided the
Essarès house into two parts communicating only by way of the hall.

On the left were the drawing-room and the library, which was followed by
an independent block containing a private staircase. On the right were a
billiard-room and the dining-room, both with lower ceilings. Above these
were Essarès Bey's bedroom, on the street side, and Coralie's,
overlooking the garden. Beyond was the servants' wing, where old Siméon
also used to sleep.

Patrice was asked to wait in the billiard-room, with the Senegalese. He
had been there about a quarter of an hour when Siméon and the maid were
shown in.

The old secretary seemed quite paralyzed by the death of his employer
and was holding forth under his breath, making queer gestures as he
spoke. Patrice asked him how things were going; and the old fellow
whispered in his ear:

"It's not over yet . . . There's something to fear . . . to fear! . . .
To-day . . . presently."

"Presently?" asked Patrice.

"Yes . . . yes," said the old man, trembling.

He said nothing more. As for the housemaid, she readily told her story
in reply to Patrice' questions:

"The first surprise, sir, this morning was that there was no butler, no
footman, no porter. All the three were gone. Then, at half-past six, M.
Siméon came and told us from the master that the master had locked
himself in his library and that he wasn't to be disturbed even for
breakfast. The mistress was not very well. She had her chocolate at nine
o'clock. . . . At ten o'clock she went out with M. Siméon. Then, after
we had done the bedrooms, we never left the kitchen. Eleven o'clock
came, twelve . . . and, just as the hour was striking, we heard a loud
ring at the front-door. I looked out of the window. There was a motor,
with four gentlemen inside. I went to the door. The commissary of police
explained who he was and wanted to see the master. I showed them the
way. The library-door was locked. We knocked: no answer. We shook it: no
answer. In the end, one of the gentlemen, who knew how, picked the lock.
. . . Then . . . then . . . you can imagine what we saw. . . . But you
can't, it was much worse, because the poor master at that moment had his
head almost under the grate. . . . Oh, what scoundrels they must have
been! . . . For they did kill him, didn't they? I know one of the
gentlemen said at once that the master had died of a stroke and fallen
into the fire. Only my firm belief is . . ."

Old Siméon had listened without speaking, with his head still half
wrapped up, showing only his bristly gray beard and his eyes hidden
behind their yellow spectacles. But at this point of the story he gave
a little chuckle, came up to Patrice and said in his ear:

"There's something to fear . . . to fear! . . . Mme. Coralie. . . . Make
her go away at once . . . make her go away. . . . If not, it'll be the
worse for her. . . ."

Patrice shuddered and tried to question him, but could learn nothing
more. Besides, the old man did not remain. A policeman came to fetch him
and took him to the library.

His evidence lasted a long time. It was followed by the depositions of
the cook and the housemaid. Next, Coralie's evidence was taken, in her
own room. At four o'clock another car arrived. Patrice saw two gentlemen
pass into the hall, with everybody bowing very low before them. He
recognized the minister of justice and the minister of the interior.
They conferred in the library for half an hour and went away again.

At last, shortly before five o'clock, a policeman came for Patrice and
showed him up to the first floor. The man tapped at a door and stood
aside. Patrice entered a small boudoir, lit up by a wood fire by which
two persons were seated: Coralie, to whom he bowed, and, opposite her,
the gentleman who had spoken to him on his arrival and who seemed to be
directing the whole enquiry.

He was a man of about fifty, with a thickset body and a heavy face, slow
of movement, but with bright, intelligent eyes.

"The examining-magistrate, I presume, sir?" asked Patrice.

"No," he replied, "I am M. Masseron, a retired magistrate, specially
appointed to clear up this affair . . . not to examine it, as you
think, for it does not seem to me that there is anything to examine."

"What?" cried Patrice, in great surprise. "Nothing to examine?"

He looked at Coralie, who kept her eyes fixed upon him attentively. Then
she turned them on M. Masseron, who resumed:

"I have no doubt, Captain Belval, that, when we have said what we have
to say, we shall be agreed at all points . . . just as madame and I are
already agreed."

"I don't doubt it either," said Patrice. "All the same, I am afraid that
many of those points remain unexplained."

"Certainly, but we shall find an explanation, we shall find it together.
Will you please tell me what you know?"

Patrice waited for a moment and then said:

"I will not disguise my astonishment, sir. The story which I have to
tell is of some importance; and yet there is no one here to take it
down. Is it not to count as evidence given on oath, as a deposition
which I shall have to sign?"

"You yourself, captain, shall determine the value of your words and the
innuendo which you wish them to bear. For the moment, we will look on
this as a preliminary conversation, as an exchange of views relating to
facts . . . touching which Mme. Essarès has given me, I believe, the
same information that you will be able to give me."

Patrice did not reply at once. He had a vague impression that there was
a private understanding between Coralie and the magistrate and that, in
face of that understanding, he, both by his presence and by his zeal,
was playing the part of an intruder whom they would gladly have
dismissed. He resolved therefore to maintain an attitude of reserve
until the magistrate had shown his hand.

"Of course," he said, "I daresay madame has told you. So you know of the
conversation which I overheard yesterday at the restaurant?"

"Yes."

"And the attempt to kidnap Mme. Essarès?"

"Yes."

"And the murder? . . ."

"Yes."

"Mme. Essarès has described to you the blackmailing scene that took
place last night, with M. Essarès for a victim, the details of the
torture, the death of the colonel, the handing over of the four
millions, the conversation on the telephone between M. Essarès and a
certain Grégoire and, lastly, the threats uttered against madame by her
husband?"

"Yes, Captain Belval, I know all this, that is to say, all that you
know; and I know, in addition, all that I discovered through my own
investigations."

"Of course, of course," Patrice repeated. "I see that my story becomes
superfluous and that you are in possession of all the necessary factors
to enable you to draw your conclusions." And, continuing to put rather
than answer questions, he added, "May I ask what inference you have
arrived at?"

"To tell you the truth, captain, my inferences are not definite.
However, until I receive some proof to the contrary, I propose to remain
satisfied with the actual words of a letter which M. Essarès wrote to
his wife at about twelve o'clock this morning and which we found lying
on his desk, unfinished. Mme. Essarès asked me to read it and, if
necessary, to communicate the contents to you. Listen."

M. Masseron proceeded to read the letter aloud:

      "_Coralie_,

      "You were wrong yesterday to attribute my departure to
      reasons which I dared not acknowledge; and perhaps I
      also was wrong not to defend myself more convincingly
      against your accusation. The only motive for my
      departure is the hatred with which I am surrounded.
      You have seen how fierce it is. In the face of these
      enemies who are seeking to despoil me by every
      possible means, my only hope of salvation lies in
      flight. That is why I am going away.

      "But let me remind you, Coralie, of my clearly
      expressed wish. You are to join me at the first
      summons. If you do not leave Paris then, nothing shall
      protect you against my lawful resentment: nothing, not
      even my death. I have made all my arrangements so
      that, even in the contingency . . ."

"The letter ends there," said M. Masseron, handing it back to Coralie,
"and we know by an unimpeachable sign that the last lines were written
immediately before M. Essarès' death, because, in falling, he upset a
little clock which stood on his desk and which marked twenty-three
minutes past twelve. I assume that he felt unwell and that, on trying to
rise, he was seized with a fit of giddiness and fell to the floor.
Unfortunately, the fireplace was near, with a fierce fire blazing in it;
his head struck the grate; and the wound that resulted was so deep--the
surgeon testified to this--that he fainted. Then the fire close at hand
did its work . . . with the effects which you have seen. . . ."

Patrice had listened in amazement to this unexpected explanation:

"Then in your opinion," he asked, "M. Essarès died of an accident? He
was not murdered?"

"Murdered? Certainly not! We have no clue to support any such theory."

"Still . . ."

"Captain Belval, you are the victim of an association of ideas which, I
admit, is perfectly justifiable. Ever since yesterday you have been
witnessing a series of tragic incidents; and your imagination naturally
leads you to the most tragic solution, that of murder.
Only--reflect--why should a murder have been committed? And by whom? By
Bournef and his friends? With what object? They were crammed full with
bank-notes; and, even admitting that the man called Grégoire recovered
those millions from them, they would certainly not have got them back by
killing M. Essarès. Then again, how would they have entered the house?
And how can they have gone out? . . . No, captain, you must excuse me,
but M. Essarès died an accidental death. The facts are undeniable; and
this is the opinion of the divisional surgeon, who will draw up his
report in that sense."

Patrice turned to Coralie:

"Is it Mme. Essarès' opinion also?"

She reddened slightly and answered:

"Yes."

"And old Siméon's?"

"Oh," replied the magistrate, "old Siméon is wandering in his mind! To
listen to him, you would think that everything was about to happen all
over again, that Mme. Essarès is threatened with danger and that she
ought to take to flight at once. That is all that I have been able to
get out of him. However, he took me to an old disused door that opens
out of the garden on a lane running at right angles with the Rue
Raynouard; and here he showed me first the watch-dog's dead body and
next some footprints between the door and the flight of steps near the
library. But you know those foot-prints, do you not? They belong to you
and your Senegalese. As for the death of the watch-dog, I can put that
down to your Senegalese, can't I?"

Patrice was beginning to understand. The magistrate's reticence, his
explanation, his agreement with Coralie: all this was gradually becoming
plain. He put the question frankly:

"So there was no murder?"

"No."

"Then there will be no magistrate's examination?"

"No."

"And no talk about the matter; it will all be kept quiet, in short, and
forgotten?"

"Just so."

Captain Belval began to walk up and down, as was his habit. He now
remembered Essarès' prophecy:

"I sha'n't be arrested. . . . If I am, I shall be let go. . . . The
matter will be hushed up. . . ."

Essarès was right. The hand of justice was arrested; and there was no
way for Coralie to escape silent complicity.

Patrice was intensely annoyed by the manner in which the case was being
handled. It was certain that a compact had been concluded between
Coralie and M. Masseron. He suspected the magistrate of circumventing
Coralie and inducing her to sacrifice her own interests to other
considerations. To effect this, the first thing was to get rid of him,
Patrice.

"Ugh!" said Patrice to himself. "I'm fairly sick of this sportsman, with
his cool ironical ways. It looks as if he were doing a considerable
piece of thimblerigging at my expense."

He restrained himself, however, and, with a pretense of wanting to keep
on good terms with the magistrate, came and sat down beside him:

"You must forgive me, sir," he said, "for insisting in what may appear
to you an indiscreet fashion. But my conduct is explained not only by
such sympathy or feeling as I entertain for Mme. Essarès at a moment in
her life when she is more lonely than ever, a sympathy and feeling which
she seems to repulse even more firmly than she did before. It is also
explained by certain mysterious links which unite us to each other and
which go back to a period too remote for our eyes to focus. Has Mme.
Essarès told you those details? In my opinion, they are most important;
and I cannot help associating them with the events that interest us."

M. Masseron glanced at Coralie, who nodded. He answered:

"Yes, Mme. Essarès has informed me and even . . ."

He hesitated once more and again consulted Coralie, who flushed and
seemed put out of countenance. M. Masseron, however, waited for a reply
which would enable him to proceed. She ended by saying, in a low voice:

"Captain Belval is entitled to know what we have discovered. The truth
belongs as much to him as to me; and I have no right to keep it from
him. Pray speak, monsieur."

"I doubt if it is even necessary to speak," said the magistrate. "It
will be enough, I think, to show the captain this photograph-album which
I have found. Here you are, Captain Belval."

And he handed Patrice a very slender album, covered in gray canvas and
fastened with an india-rubber band.

Patrice took it with a certain anxiety. But what he saw on opening it
was so utterly unexpected that he gave an exclamation:

"It's incredible!"

On the first page, held in place by their four corners, were two
photographs: one, on the right, representing a small boy in an Eton
jacket; the other, on the left, representing a very little girl. There
was an inscription under each. On the right: "Patrice, at ten." On the
left: "Coralie, at three."

Moved beyond expression, Patrice turned the leaf. On the second page
they appeared again, he at the age of fifteen, she at the age of eight.
And he saw himself at nineteen and at twenty-three and at twenty-eight,
always accompanied by Coralie, first as a little girl, then as a young
girl, next as a woman.

"This is incredible!" he cried. "How is it possible? Here are portraits
of myself which I had never seen, amateur photographs obviously, which
trace my whole life. Here's one when I was doing my military training.
. . . Here I am on horseback . . . Who can have ordered these
photographs? And who can have collected them together with yours,
madame?"

He fixed his eyes on Coralie, who evaded their questioning gaze and
lowered her head as though the close connection between their two lives,
to which those pages bore witness, had shaken her to the very depths of
her being.

"Who can have brought them together?" he repeated. "Do you know? And
where does the album come from?"

M. Masseron supplied the answer:

"It was the surgeon who found it. M. Essarès wore a vest under his
shirt; and the album was in an inner pocket, a pocket sewn inside the
vest. The surgeon felt the boards through it when he was undressing M.
Essarès' body."

This time, Patrice's and Coralie's eyes met. The thought that M. Essarès
had been collecting both their photographs during the past twenty years
and that he wore them next to his breast and that he had lived and died
with them upon him, this thought amazed them so much that they did not
even try to fathom its strange significance.

"Are you sure of what you are saying, sir?" asked Patrice.

"I was there," said M. Masseron. "I was present at the discovery.
Besides, I myself made another which confirms this one and completes it
in a really surprising fashion. I found a pendant, cut out of a solid
block of amethyst and held in a setting of filigree-work."

"What's that?" cried Captain Belval. "What's that? A pendant? An
amethyst pendant?"

"Look for yourself, sir," suggested the magistrate, after once more
consulting Mme. Essarès with a glance.

And he handed Captain Belval an amethyst pendant, larger than the ball
formed by joining the two halves which Coralie and Patrice possessed,
she on her rosary and he on his bunch of seals; and this new ball was
encircled with a specimen of gold filigree-work exactly like that on the
rosary and on the seal.

The setting served as a clasp.

"Am I to open it?" he asked.

Coralie nodded. He opened the pendant. The inside was divided by a
movable glass disk, which separated two miniature photographs, one of
Coralie as a nurse, the other of himself, wounded, in an officer's
uniform.

Patrice reflected, with pale cheeks. Presently he asked:

"And where does this pendant come from? Did you find it, sir?"

"Yes, Captain Belval."

"Where?"

The magistrate seemed to hesitate. Coralie's attitude gave Patrice the
impression that she was unaware of this detail. M. Masseron at last
said:

"I found it in the dead man's hand."

"In the dead man's hand? In M. Essarès' hand?"

Patrice had given a start, as though under an unexpected blow, and was
now leaning over the magistrate, greedily awaiting a reply which he
wanted to hear for the second time before accepting it as certain.

"Yes, in his hand. I had to force back the clasped fingers in order to
release it."

Belval stood up and, striking the table with his fist, exclaimed:

"Well, sir, I will tell you one thing which I was keeping back as a last
argument to prove to you that my collaboration is of use; and this thing
becomes of great importance after what we have just learnt. Sir, this
morning some one asked to speak to me on the telephone; and I had hardly
answered the call when this person, who seemed greatly excited, was the
victim of a murderous assault, committed in my hearing. And, amid the
sound of the scuffle and the cries of agony, I caught the following
words, which the unhappy man insisted on trying to get to me as so many
last instructions: 'Patrice! . . . Coralie! . . . The amethyst pendant.
. . . Yes, I have it on me. . . . The pendant. . . . Ah, it's too late!
. . . I should so much have liked. . . . Patrice. . . . Coralie. . . .'
There's what I heard, sir, and here are the two facts which we cannot
escape. This morning, at nineteen minutes past seven, a man was murdered
having upon him an amethyst pendant. This is the first undeniable fact.
A few hours later, at twenty-three minutes past twelve, this same
amethyst pendant is discovered clutched in the hand of another man. This
is the second undeniable fact. Place these facts side by side and you
are bound to come to the conclusion that the first murder, the one of
which I caught the distant echo, was committed here, in this house, in
the same library which, since yesterday evening, witnessed the end of
every scene in the tragedy which we are contemplating."

This revelation, which in reality amounted to a fresh accusation against
Essarès, seemed to affect the magistrate profoundly. Patrice had flung
himself into the discussion with a passionate vehemence and a logical
reasoning which it was impossible to disregard without evident
insincerity.

Coralie had turned aside slightly and Patrice could not see her face;
but he suspected her dismay in the presence of all this infamy and
shame.

M. Masseron raised an objection:

"Two undeniable facts, you say, Captain Belval? As to the first point,
let me remark that we have not found the body of the man who is supposed
to have been murdered at nineteen minutes past seven this morning."

"It will be found in due course."

"Very well. Second point: as regards the amethyst pendant discovered in
Essarès' hand, how can we tell that Essarès Bey found it in the murdered
man's hand and not somewhere else? For, after all, we do not know if he
was at home at that time and still less if he was in his library."

"But I do know."

"How?"

"I telephoned to him a few minutes later and he answered. More than
that, to sweep away any trace of doubt, he told me that he had rung me
up but that he had been cut off."

M. Masseron thought for a moment and then said:

"Did he go out this morning?"

"Ask Mme. Essarès."

Without turning round, manifestly wishing to avoid Belval's eyes,
Coralie answered:

"I don't think that he went out. The suit he was wearing at the time of
his death was an indoor suit."

"Did you see him after last night?"

"He came and knocked at my room three times this morning, between seven
and nine o'clock. I did not open the door. At about eleven o'clock I
started off alone; I heard him call old Siméon and tell him to go with
me. Siméon caught me up in the street. That is all I know."

A prolonged silence ensued. Each of the three was meditating upon this
strange series of adventures. In the end, M. Masseron, who had realized
that a man of Captain Belval's stamp was not the sort to be easily
thrust aside, spoke in the tone of one who, before coming to terms,
wishes to know exactly what his adversary's last word is likely to be:

"Let us come to the point, captain. You are building up a theory which
strikes me as very vague. What is it precisely? And what are you
proposing to do if I decline to accept it? I have asked you two very
plain questions. Do you mind answering them?"

"I will answer them, sir, as plainly as you put them."

He went up to the magistrate and said:

"Here, sir, is the field of battle and of attack--yes, of attack, if
need be--which I select. A man who used to know me, who knew Mme.
Essarès as a child and who was interested in both of us, a man who used
to collect our portraits at different ages, who had reasons for loving
us unknown to me, who sent me the key of that garden and who was making
arrangements to bring us together for a purpose which he would have told
us, this man was murdered at the moment when he was about to execute
his plan. Now everything tells me that he was murdered by M. Essarès. I
am therefore resolved to lodge an information, whatever the results of
my action may be. And believe me, sir, my charge will not be hushed up.
There are always means of making one's self heard . . . even if I am
reduced to shouting the truth from the house-tops."

M. Masseron burst out laughing:

"By Jove, captain, but you're letting yourself go!"

"I'm behaving according to my conscience; and Mme. Essarès, I feel sure,
will forgive me. She knows that I am acting for her good. She knows that
all will be over with her if this case is hushed up and if the
authorities do not assist her. She knows that the enemies who threaten
her are implacable. They will stop at nothing to attain their object and
to do away with her, for she stands in their way. And the terrible thing
about it is that the most clear-seeing eyes are unable to make out what
that object is. We are playing the most formidable game against these
enemies; and we do not even know what the stakes are. Only the police
can discover those stakes."

M. Masseron waited for a second or two and then, laying his hand on
Patrice's shoulder, said, calmly:

"And, suppose the authorities knew what the stakes were?"

Patrice looked at him in surprise:

"What? Do you mean to say you know?"

"Perhaps."

"And can you tell me?"

"Oh, well, if you force me to!"

"What are they?"

"Not much! A trifle!"

"But what sort of trifle?"

"A thousand million francs."

"A thousand millions?"

"Just that. A thousand millions, of which two-thirds, I regret to say,
if not three-quarters, had already left France before the war. But the
remaining two hundred and fifty or three hundred millions are worth more
than a thousand millions all the same, for a very good reason."

"What reason?"

"They happen to be in gold."




CHAPTER VIII

ESSARÈS BEY'S WORK


This time Captain Belval seemed to relax to some extent. He vaguely
perceived the consideration that compelled the authorities to wage the
battle prudently.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yes, I was instructed to investigate this matter two years ago; and my
enquiries proved that really remarkable exports of gold were being
effected from France. But, I confess, it is only since my conversation
with Mme. Essarès that I have seen where the leakage came from and who
it was that set on foot, all over France, down to the least important
market-towns, the formidable organization through which the
indispensable metal was made to leave the country."

"Then Mme. Essarès knew?"

"No, but she suspected a great deal; and last night, before you arrived,
she overheard some words spoken between Essarès and his assailants which
she repeated to me, thus giving me the key to the riddle. I should have
been glad to work out the complete solution without your assistance--for
one thing, those were the orders of the minister of the interior; and
Mme. Essarès displayed the same wish--but your impetuosity overcomes my
hesitation; and, since I can't manage to get rid of you, Captain
Belval, I will tell you the whole story frankly . . . especially as your
cooperation is not to be despised."

"I am all ears," said Patrice, who was burning to know more.

"Well, the motive force of the plot was here, in this house. Essarès
Bey, president of the Franco-Oriental Bank, 6, Rue Lafayette, apparently
an Egyptian, in reality a Turk, enjoyed the greatest influence in the
Paris financial world. He had been naturalized an Englishman, but had
kept up secret relations with the former possessors of Egypt; and he had
received instructions from a foreign power, which I am not yet able to
name with certainty, to bleed--there is no other word for it--to bleed
France of all the gold that he could cause to flow into his coffers.
According to documents which I have seen, he succeeded in exporting in
this way some seven hundred million francs in two years. A last
consignment was preparing when war was declared. You can understand that
thenceforth such important sums could not be smuggled out of the country
so easily as in times of peace. The railway-wagons are inspected on the
frontiers; the outgoing vessels are searched in the harbors. In short,
the gold was not sent away. Those two hundred and fifty or three hundred
millions remained in France. Ten months passed; and the inevitable
happened, which was that Essarès Bey, having this fabulous treasure at
his disposal, clung to it, came gradually to look upon it as his own
and, in the end, resolved to appropriate it. Only there were
accomplices. . . ."

"The men I saw last night?"

"Yes, half-a-dozen shady Levantines, sham naturalized French citizens,
more or less well-disguised Bulgarians, secret agents of the little
German courts in the Balkans. This gang ran provincial branches of
Essarès' bank. It had in its pay, on Essarès' account, hundreds of minor
agents, who scoured the villages, visited the fairs, were
hail-fellow-well-met with the peasants, offered them bank-notes and
government securities in exchange for French gold and trousered all
their savings. When war broke out the gang shut up shop and gathered
round Essarès Bey, who also had closed his offices in the Rue
Lafayette."

"What happened then?"

"Things that we don't know. No doubt the accomplices learnt from their
governments that the last despatch of gold had never taken place; and no
doubt they also guessed that Essarès Bey was trying to keep for himself
the three hundred millions collected by the gang. One thing is certain,
that a struggle began between the former partners, a fierce, implacable
struggle, the accomplices wanting their share of the plunder, while
Essarès Bey was resolved to part with none of it and pretended that the
millions had left the country. Yesterday the struggle attained its
culminating-point. In the afternoon the accomplices tried to get hold of
Mme. Essarès so that they might have a hostage to use against her
husband. In the evening . . . in the evening you yourself witnessed the
final episode."

"But why yesterday evening rather than another?"

"Because the accomplices had every reason to think that the millions
were intended to disappear yesterday evening. Though they did not know
the methods employed by Essarès Bey when he made his last remittances,
they believed that each of the remittances, or rather each removal of
the sacks, was preceded by a signal."

"Yes, a shower of sparks, was it not?"

"Exactly. In a corner of the garden are some old conservatories, above
which stands the furnace that used to heat them. This grimy furnace,
full of soot and rubbish, sends forth, when you light it, flakes of fire
and sparks which are seen at a distance and serve as an intimation.
Essarès Bey lit it last night himself. The accomplices at once took
alarm and came prepared to go any lengths."

"And Essarès' plan failed."

"Yes. But so did theirs. The colonel is dead. The others were only able
to get hold of a few bundles of notes which have probably been taken
from them by this time. But the struggle was not finished; and its dying
agony has been a most shocking tragedy. According to your statement, a
man who knew you and who was seeking to get into touch with you, was
killed at nineteen minutes past seven, most likely by Essarès Bey, who
dreaded his intervention. And, five hours later, at twenty-three past
twelve, Essarès Bey himself was murdered, presumably by one of his
accomplices. There is the whole story, Captain Belval. And, now that you
know as much of it as I do, don't you think that the investigation of
this case should remain secret and be pursued not quite in accordance
with the ordinary rules?"

After a moment's reflection Patrice said:

"Yes, I agree."

"There can be no doubt about it!" cried M. Masseron. "Not only will it
serve no purpose to publish this story of gold which has disappeared and
which can't be found, which would startle the public and excite their
imaginations, but you will readily imagine that an operation which
consisted in draining off such a quantity of gold in two years cannot
have been effected without compromising a regrettable number of people.
I feel certain that my own enquiries will reveal a series of weak
concessions and unworthy bargains on the part of certain more or less
important banks and credit-houses, transactions on which I do not wish
to insist, but which it would be the gravest of blunders to publish.
Therefore, silence."

"But is silence possible?"

"Why not?"

"Bless my soul, there are a good few corpses to be explained away!
Colonel Fakhi's, for instance?"

"Suicide."

"Mustapha's, which you will discover or which you have already
discovered in the Galliéra garden?"

"Found dead."

"Essarès Bey's?"

"An accident."

"So that all these manifestations of the same power will remain
separated?"

"There is nothing to show the link that connects them."

"Perhaps the public will think otherwise."

"The public will think what we wish it to think. This is war-time."

"The press will speak."

"The press will do nothing of the kind. We have the censorship."

"But, if some fact or, rather, a fresh crime . . . ?"

"Why should there be a fresh crime? The matter is finished, at least on
its active and dramatic side. The chief actors are dead. The curtain
falls on the murder of Essarès Bey. As for the supernumeraries, Bournef
and the others, we shall have them stowed away in an internment-camp
before a week is past. We therefore find ourselves in the presence of a
certain number of millions, with no owner, with no one who dares to
claim them, on which France is entitled to lay hands. I shall devote my
activity to securing the money for the republic."

Patrice Belval shook his head:

"Mme. Essarès remains, sir. We must not forget her husband's threats."

"He is dead."

"No matter, the threats are there. Old Siméon tells you so in a striking
fashion."

"He's half mad."

"Exactly, his brain retains the impression of great and imminent danger.
No, the struggle is not ended. Perhaps indeed it is only beginning."

"Well, captain, are we not here? Make it your business to protect and
defend Mme. Essarès by all the means in your power and by all those
which I place at your disposal. Our collaboration will be uninterrupted,
because my task lies here and because, if the battle--which you expect
and I do not--takes place, it will be within the walls of this house and
garden."

"What makes you think that?"

"Some words which Mme. Essarès overheard last night. The colonel
repeated several times, 'The gold is here, Essarès.' He added, 'For
years past, your car brought to this house all that there was at your
bank in the Rue Lafayette. Siméon, you and the chauffeur used to let the
sacks down the last grating on the left. How you used to send it away I
do not know. But of what was here on the day when the war broke out, of
the seventeen or eighteen hundred bags which they were expecting out
yonder, none has left your place. I suspected the trick; and we kept
watch night and day. The gold is here.'"

"And have you no clue?"

"Not one. Or this at most; but I attach comparatively little value to
it."

He took a crumpled paper from his pocket, unfolded it and continued:

"Besides the pendant, Essarès Bey held in his hand this bit of blotted
paper, on which you can see a few straggling, hurriedly-written words.
The only ones that are more or less legible are these: 'golden
triangle.' What this golden triangle means, what it has to do with the
case in hand, I can't for the present tell. The most that I am able to
presume is that, like the pendant, the scrap of paper was snatched by
Essarès Bey from the man who died at nineteen minutes past seven this
morning and that, when he himself was killed at twenty-three minutes
past twelve, he was occupied in examining it."

"And then there is the album," said Patrice, making his last point. "You
see how all the details are linked together. You may safely believe that
it is all one case."

"Very well," said M. Masseron. "One case in two parts. You, captain, had
better follow up the second. I grant you that nothing could be stranger
than this discovery of photographs of Mme. Essarès and yourself in the
same album and in the same pendant. It sets a problem the solution of
which will no doubt bring us very near to the truth. We shall meet again
soon, Captain Belval, I hope. And, once more, make use of me and of my
men."

He shook Patrice by the hand. Patrice held him back:

"I shall make use of you, sir, as you suggest. But is this not the time
to take the necessary precautions?"

"They are taken, captain. We are in occupation of the house."

"Yes . . . yes . . . I know; but, all the same . . . I have a sort of
presentiment that the day will not end without. . . . Remember old
Siméon's strange words. . . ."

M. Masseron began to laugh:

"Come, Captain Belval, we mustn't exaggerate things. If any enemies
remain for us to fight, they must stand in great need, for the moment,
of taking council with themselves. We'll talk about this to-morrow,
shall we, captain?"

He shook hands with Patrice again, bowed to Mme. Essarès and left the
room.

Belval had at first made a discreet movement to go out with him. He
stopped at the door and walked back again. Mme. Essarès, who seemed not
to hear him, sat motionless, bent in two, with her head turned away from
him.

"Coralie," he said.

She did not reply; and he uttered her name a second time, hoping that
again she might not answer, for her silence suddenly appeared to him to
be the one thing in the world for him to desire. That silence no longer
implied either constraint or rebellion. Coralie accepted the fact that
he was there, by her side, as a helpful friend. And Patrice no longer
thought of all the problems that harassed him, nor of the murders that
had mounted up, one after another, around them, nor of the dangers that
might still encompass them. He thought only of Coralie's yielding
gentleness.

"Don't answer, Coralie, don't say a word. It is for me to speak. I must
tell you what you do not know, the reasons that made you wish to keep me
out of this house . . . out of this house and out of your very life."

He put his hand on the back of the chair in which she was sitting; and
his hand just touched Coralie's hair.

"Coralie, you imagine that it is the shame of your life here that keeps
you away from me. You blush at having been that man's wife; and this
makes you feel troubled and anxious, as though you yourself had been
guilty. But why should you? It was not your fault. Surely you know that
I can guess the misery and hatred that must have passed between you and
him and the constraint that was brought to bear upon you, by some
machination, in order to force your consent to the marriage! No,
Coralie, there is something else; and I will tell you what it is. There
is something else. . . ."

He was bending over her still more. He saw her beautiful profile lit up
by the blazing logs and, speaking with increasing fervor and adopting
the familiar _tu_ and _toi_ which, in his mouth, retained a note of
affectionate respect, he cried:

"Am I to speak, Little Mother Coralie? I needn't, need I? You have
understood; and you read yourself clearly. Ah, I feel you trembling
from head to foot! Yes, yes, I tell you, I knew your secret from the
very first day. From the very first day you loved your great beggar of a
wounded man, all scarred and maimed though he was. Hush! Don't deny it!
. . . Yes, I understand: you are rather shocked to hear such words as
these spoken to-day. I ought perhaps to have waited. And yet why should
I? I am asking you nothing. I know; and that is enough for me. I sha'n't
speak of it again for a long time to come, until the inevitable hour
arrives when you are forced to tell it to me yourself. Till then I shall
keep silence. But our love will always be between us; and it will be
exquisite, Little Mother Coralie, it will be exquisite for me to know
that you love me. Coralie. . . . There, now you're crying! And you would
still deny the truth? Why, when you cry--I know you, Little Mother--it
means that your dear heart is overflowing with tenderness and love! You
are crying? Ah, Little Mother, I never thought you loved me to that
extent!"

Patrice also had tears in his eyes. Coralie's were coursing down her
pale cheeks; and he would have given much to kiss that wet face. But the
least outward sign of affection appeared to him an offense at such a
moment. He was content to gaze at her passionately.

And, as he did so, he received an impression that her thoughts were
becoming detached from his own, that her eyes were being attracted by an
unexpected sight and that, amid the great silence of their love, she was
listening to something that he himself had not heard.

And suddenly he too heard that thing, though it was almost
imperceptible. It was not so much a sound as the sensation of a presence
mingling with the distant rumble of the town. What could be happening?

The light had begun to fade, without his noticing it. Also unperceived
by Patrice, Mme. Essarès had opened the window a little way, for the
boudoir was small and the heat of the fire was becoming oppressive.
Nevertheless, the two casements were almost touching. It was at this
that she was staring; and it was from there that the danger threatened.

Patrice's first impulse was to run to the window, but he restrained
himself. The danger was becoming defined. Outside, in the twilight, he
distinguished through the slanting panes a human form. Next, he saw
between the two casements something which gleamed in the light of the
fire and which looked like the barrel of a revolver.

"Coralie is done for," he thought, "if I allow it to be suspected for an
instant that I am on my guard."

She was in fact opposite the window, with no obstacle intervening. He
therefore said aloud, in a careless tone:

"Coralie, you must be a little tired. We will say good-by."

At the same time, he went round her chair to protect her.

But he had not the time to complete his movement. She also no doubt had
seen the glint of the revolver, for she drew back abruptly, stammering:

"Oh, Patrice! . . . Patrice! . . ."

Two shots rang out, followed by a moan.

"You're wounded!" cried Patrice, springing to her side.

"No, no," she said, "but the fright . . ."

"Oh, if he's touched you, the scoundrel!"

"No, he hasn't."

"Are you quite sure?"

He lost thirty or forty seconds, switching on the electric light,
looking at Coralie for signs of a wound and waiting in an agony of
suspense for her to regain full consciousness. Only then did he rush to
the window, open it wide and climb over the balcony. The room was on the
first floor. There was plenty of lattice-work on the wall. But, because
of his leg, Patrice had some difficulty in making his way down.

Below, on the terrace, he caught his foot in the rungs of an overturned
ladder. Next, he knocked against some policemen who were coming from the
ground-floor. One of them shouted:

"I saw the figure of a man making off that way."

"Which way?" asked Patrice.

The man was running in the direction of the lane. Patrice followed him.
But, at that moment, from close beside the little door, there came
shrill cries and the whimper of a choking voice:

"Help! . . . Help! . . ."

When Patrice came up, the policeman was already flashing his electric
lantern over the ground; and they both saw a human form writhing in the
shrubbery.

"The door's open!" shouted Patrice. "The assassin has escaped! Go after
him!"

The policeman vanished down the lane; and, Ya-Bon appearing on the
scene, Patrice gave him his orders:

"Quick as you can, Ya-Bon! . . . If the policeman is going up the lane,
you go down. Run! I'll look after the victim."

All this time, Patrice was stooping low, flinging the light of the
policeman's lantern on the man who lay struggling on the ground. He
recognized old Siméon, nearly strangled, with a red-silk cord round his
neck.

"How do you feel?" he asked. "Can you understand what I'm saying?"

He unfastened the cord and repeated his question. Siméon stuttered out a
series of incoherent syllables and then suddenly began to sing and
laugh, a very low, jerky laugh, alternating with hiccoughs. He had gone
mad.

When M. Masseron arrived, Patrice told him what had happened:

"Do you really believe it's all over?" he asked.

"No. You were right and I was wrong," said M. Masseron. "We must take
every precaution to ensure Mme. Essarès' safety. The house shall be
guarded all night."

A few minutes later the policeman and Ya-Bon returned, after a vain
search. The key that had served to open the door was found in the lane.
It was exactly similar to the one in Patrice Belval's possession,
equally old and equally rusty. The would-be murderer had thrown it away
in the course of his flight.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was seven o'clock when Patrice, accompanied by Ya-Bon, left the house
in the Rue Raynouard and turned towards Neuilly. As usual, Patrice took
Ya-Bon's arm and, leaning upon him for support as he walked, he said:

"I can guess what you're thinking, Ya-Bon."

Ya-Bon grunted.

"That's it," said Captain Belval, in a tone of approval. "We are
entirely in agreement all along the line. What strikes you first and
foremost is the utter incapacity displayed by the police. A pack of
addle-pates, you say? When you speak like that, Master Ya-Bon, you are
talking impertinent nonsense, which, coming from you, does not astonish
me and which might easily make me give you the punishment you deserve.
But we will overlook it this time. Whatever you may say, the police do
what they can, not to mention that, in war-time, they have other things
to do than to occupy themselves with the mysterious relations between
Captain Belval and Mme. Essarès. It is I therefore who will have to act;
and I have hardly any one to reckon on but myself. Well, I wonder if I
am a match for such adversaries. To think that here's one who has the
cheek to come back to the house while it is being watched by the police,
to put up a ladder, to listen no doubt to my conversation with M.
Masseron and afterwards to what I said to Little Mother Coralie and,
lastly, to send a couple of bullets whizzing past our ears! What do you
say? Am I the man for the job? And could all the French police,
overworked as they are, give me the indispensable assistance? No, the
man I need for clearing up a thing like this is an exceptional sort of
chap, one who unites every quality in himself, in short the type of man
one never sees."

Patrice leant more heavily on his companion's arm:

"You, who know so many good people, haven't you the fellow I want
concealed about your person? A genius of sorts? A demigod?"

Ya-Bon grunted again, merrily this time, and withdrew his arm. He always
carried a little electric lamp. Switching on the light, he put the
handle between his teeth. Then he took a bit of chalk out of his
jacket-pocket.

A grimy, weather-beaten plaster wall ran along the street. Ya-Bon took
his stand in front of the wall and, turning the light upon it, began to
write with an unskilful hand, as though each letter cost him a
measureless effort and as though the sum total of those letters were the
only one that he had ever succeeded in composing and remembering. In
this way he wrote two words which Patrice read out:

     _Arsène Lupin._

"Arsène Lupin," said Patrice, under his breath. And, looking at Ya-Bon
in amazement, "Are you in your right mind? What do you mean by Arsène
Lupin? Are you suggesting Arsène Lupin to me?"

Ya-Bon nodded his head.

"Arsène Lupin? Do you know him?"

"Yes," Ya-Bon signified.

Patrice then remembered that the Senegalese used to spend his days at
the hospital getting his good-natured comrades to read all the
adventures of Arsène Lupin aloud to him; and he grinned:

"Yes, you know him as one knows somebody whose history one has read."

"No," protested Ya-Bon.

"Do you know him personally?"

"Yes."

"Get out, you silly fool! Arsène Lupin is dead. He threw himself into
the sea from a rock;[2] and you pretend that you know him?"

[Footnote 2: _813_. By Maurice Leblanc. Translated by Alexander Teixeira
de Mattos.]

"Yes."

"Do you mean to say that you have met him since he died?"

"Yes."

"By Jove! And Master Ya-Bon's influence with Arsène Lupin is enough to
make him come to life again and put himself out at a sign from Master
Ya-Bon?"

"Yes."

"I say! I had a high opinion of you as it was, but now there is nothing
for me but to make you my bow. A friend of the late Arsène Lupin! We're
going it! . . . And how long will it take you to place his ghost at our
disposal? Six months? Three months? One month? A fortnight?"

Ya-Bon made a gesture.

"About a fortnight," Captain Belval translated. "Very well, evoke your
friend's spirit; I shall be delighted to make his acquaintance. Only,
upon my word, you must have a very poor idea of me to imagine that I
need a collaborator! What next! Do you take me for a helpless
dunderhead?"




CHAPTER IX

PATRICE AND CORALIE


Everything happened as M. Masseron had foretold. The press did not
speak. The public did not become excited. The various deaths were
casually paragraphed. The funeral of Essarès Bey, the wealthy banker,
passed unnoticed.

But, on the day following the funeral, after Captain Belval, with the
support of the police, had made an application to the military
authorities, a new order of things was established in the house in the
Rue Raynouard. It was recognized as Home No. 2 attached to the hospital
in the Champs-Élysées; Mme. Essarès was appointed matron; and it became
the residence of Captain Belval and his seven wounded men exclusively.

Coralie, therefore, was the only woman remaining. The cook and housemaid
were sent away. The seven cripples did all the work of the house. One
acted as hall-porter, another as cook, a third as butler. Ya-Bon,
promoted to parlor-maid, made it his business to wait on Little Mother
Coralie. At night he slept in the passage outside her door. By day he
mounted guard outside her window.

"Let no one near that door or that window!" Patrice said to him. "Let no
one in! You'll catch it if so much as a mosquito succeeds in entering
her room."

Nevertheless, Patrice was not easy in his mind. The enemy had given him
too many proofs of reckless daring to let him imagine that he could take
any steps to ensure her perfect protection. Danger always creeps in
where it is least expected; and it was all the more difficult to ward
off in that no one knew whence it threatened. Now that Essarès Bey was
dead, who was continuing his work? Who had inherited the task of revenge
upon Coralie announced in his last letter?

M. Masseron had at once begun his work of investigation, but the
dramatic side of the case seemed to leave him indifferent. Since he had
not found the body of the man whose dying cries reached Patrice Belval's
ears, since he had discovered no clue to the mysterious assailant who
had fired at Patrice and Coralie later in the day, since he was not able
to trace where the assailant had obtained his ladder, he dropped these
questions and confined his efforts entirely to the search of the
eighteen hundred bags of gold. These were all that concerned him.

"We have every reason to believe that they are here," he said, "between
the four sides of the quadrilateral formed by the garden and the house.
Obviously, a bag of gold weighing a hundredweight does not take up as
much room, by a long way, as a sack of coal of the same weight. But, for
all that, eighteen hundred bags represent a cubic content; and a content
like that is not easily concealed."

In two days he had assured himself that the treasure was hidden neither
in the house nor under the house. On the evenings when Essarès Bey's car
brought the gold out of the coffers of the Franco-Oriental Bank to the
Rue Raynouard, Essarès, the chauffeur and the man known as Grégoire
used to pass a thick wire through the grating of which the accomplices
spoke. This wire was found. Along the wire ran hooks, which were also
found; and on these the bags were slung and afterwards stacked in a
large cellar situated exactly under the library. It is needless to say
that M. Masseron and his detectives devoted all their ingenuity and all
the painstaking patience of which they were capable to the task of
searching every corner of this cellar. Their efforts only established
beyond doubt that it contained no secret, save that of a staircase which
ran down from the library and which was closed at the top by a trap-door
concealed by the carpet.

In addition to the grating on the Rue Raynouard, there was another which
overlooked the garden, on the level of the first terrace. These two
openings were barricaded on the inside by very heavy shutters, so that
it was an easy matter to stack thousands and thousands of rouleaus of
gold in the cellar before sending them away.

"But how were they sent away?" M. Masseron wondered. "That's the
mystery. And why this intermediate stage in the basement, in the Rue
Raynouard? Another mystery. And now we have Fakhi, Bournef and Co.
declaring that, this time, it was not sent away, that the gold is here
and that it can be found for the searching. We have searched the house.
There is still the garden. Let us look there."

It was a beautiful old garden and had once formed part of the
wide-stretching estate where people were in the habit, at the end of the
eighteenth century, of going to drink the Passy waters. With a
two-hundred-yard frontage, it ran from the Rue Raynouard to the quay of
the river-side and led, by four successive terraces, to an expanse of
lawn as old as the rest of the garden, fringed with thickets of
evergreens and shaded by groups of tall trees.

But the beauty of the garden lay chiefly in its four terraces and in the
view which they afforded of the river, the low ground on the left bank
and the distant hills. They were united by twenty sets of steps; and
twenty paths climbed from the one to the other, paths cut between the
buttressing walls and sometimes hidden in the floods of ivy that dashed
from top to bottom.

Here and there a statue stood out, a broken column, or the fragments of
a capital. The stone balcony that edged the upper terrace was still
adorned with all its old terra-cotta vases. On this terrace also were
the ruins of two little round temples where, in the old days, the
springs bubbled to the surface. In front of the library windows was a
circular basin, with in the center the figure of a child shooting a
slender thread of water through the funnel of a shell. It was the
overflow from this basin, forming a little stream, that trickled over
the rocks against which Patrice had stumbled on the first evening.

"Ten acres to explore before we've done," said M. Masseron to himself.

He employed upon this work, in addition to Belval's cripples, a dozen of
his own detectives. It was not a difficult business and was bound to
lead to some definite result. As M. Masseron never ceased saying,
eighteen hundred bags cannot remain invisible. An excavation leaves
traces. You want a hole to go in and out by. But neither the grass of
the lawns nor the sand of the paths showed any signs of earth recently
disturbed. The ivy? The buttressing-walls? The terraces? Everything was
inspected, but in vain. Here and there, in cutting up the ground, old
conduit pipes were found, running towards the Seine, and remains of
aqueducts that had once served to carry off the Passy waters. But there
was no such thing as a cave, an underground chamber, a brick arch or
anything that looked like a hiding-place.

Patrice and Coralie watched the progress of the search. And yet, though
they fully realized its importance and though, on the other hand, they
were still feeling the strain of the recent dramatic hours, in reality
they were engrossed only in the inexplicable problem of their fate; and
their conversation nearly always turned upon the mystery of the past.

Coralie's mother was the daughter of a French consul at Salonica, where
she married a very rich man of a certain age, called Count Odolavitch,
the head of an ancient Servian family. He died a year after Coralie was
born. The widow and child were at that time in France, at this same
house in the Rue Raynouard, which Count Odolavitch had purchased through
a young Egyptian called Essarès, his secretary and factotum.

Coralie here spent three years of her childhood. Then she suddenly lost
her mother and was left alone in the world. Essarès took her to
Salonica, to a surviving sister of her grandfather the consul, a woman
many years younger than her brother. This lady took charge of Coralie.
Unfortunately, she fell under Essarès' influence, signed papers and
made her little grand-niece sign papers, until the child's whole
fortune, administered by the Egyptian, gradually disappeared.

At last, when she was about seventeen, Coralie became the victim of an
adventure which left the most hideous memory in her mind and which had a
fatal effect on her life. She was kidnaped one morning by a band of
Turks on the plains of Salonica and spent a fortnight in the palace of
the governor of the province, exposed to his desires. Essarès released
her. But the release was brought about in so fantastic a fashion that
Coralie must have often wondered afterwards whether the Turk and the
Egyptian were not in collusion.

At any rate, sick in body and depressed in spirits, fearing a fresh
assault upon her liberty and yielding to her aunt's wishes, a month
later she married this Essarès, who had already been paying her his
addresses and who now definitely assumed in her eyes the figure of a
deliverer. It was a hopeless union, the horror of which became manifest
to her on the very day on which it was cemented. Coralie was the wife of
a man whom she hated and whose love only grew with the hatred and
contempt which she showed for it.

Before the end of the year they came and took up their residence at the
house in the Rue Raynouard. Essarès, who had long ago established and
was at that time managing the Salonica branch of the Franco-Oriental
Bank, bought up almost all the shares of the bank itself, acquired the
building in the Rue Lafayette for the head office, became one of the
financial magnates of Paris and received the title of bey in Egypt.

This was the story which Coralie told Patrice one day in the beautiful
garden at Passy; and, in this unhappy past which they explored together
and compared with Patrice Belval's own, neither he nor Coralie was able
to discover a single point that was common to both. The two of them had
lived in different parts of the world. Not one name evoked the same
recollection in their minds. There was not a detail that enabled them to
understand why each should possess a piece of the same amethyst bead nor
why their joint images should be contained in the same medallion-pendant
or stuck in the pages of the same album.

"Failing everything else," said Patrice, "we can explain that the
pendant found in the hand of Essarès Bey was snatched by him from the
unknown friend who was watching over us and whom he murdered. But what
about the album, which he wore in a pocket sewn inside his vest?"

Neither attempted to answer the question. Then Patrice asked:

"Tell me about Siméon."

"Siméon has always lived here."

"Even in your mother's time?"

"No, it was one or two years after my mother's death and after I went to
Salonica that Essarès put him to look after this property and keep it in
good condition."

"Was he Essarès' secretary?"

"I never knew what his exact functions were. But he was not Essarès'
secretary, nor his confidant either. They never talked together
intimately. He came to see us two or three times at Salonica. I remember
one of his visits. I was quite a child and I heard him speaking to
Essarès in a very angry tone, apparently threatening him."

"With what?"

"I don't know. I know nothing at all about Siméon. He kept himself very
much to himself and was nearly always in the garden, smoking his pipe,
dreaming, tending the trees and flowers, sometimes with the assistance
of two or three gardeners whom he would send for."

"How did he behave to you?"

"Here again I can't give any definite impression. We never talked; and
his occupations very seldom brought him into contact with me.
Nevertheless I sometimes thought that his eyes used to seek me, through
their yellow spectacles, with a certain persistency and perhaps even a
certain interest. Moreover, lately, he liked going with me to the
hospital; and he would then, either there or on the way, show himself
more attentive, more eager to please . . . so much so that I have been
wondering this last day or two . . ."

She hesitated for a moment, undecided whether to speak, and then
continued:

"Yes, it's a very vague notion . . . but, all the same . . . Look here,
there's one thing I forgot to tell you. Do you know why I joined the
hospital in the Champs-Élysées, the hospital where you were lying
wounded and ill? It was because Siméon took me there. He knew that I
wanted to become a nurse and he suggested this hospital. . . . And then,
if you think, later on, the photograph in the pendant, the one showing
you in uniform and me as a nurse, can only have been taken at the
hospital. Well, of the people here, in this house, no one except Siméon
ever went there. . . . You will also remember that he used to come to
Salonica, where he saw me as a child and afterwards as a girl, and that
there also he may have taken the snapshots in the album. So that, if we
allow that he had some correspondent who on his side followed your
footsteps in life, it would not be impossible to believe that the
unknown friend whom you assume to have intervened between us, the one
who sent you the key of the garden . . ."

"Was old Siméon?" Patrice interrupted. "The theory won't hold water."

"Why not?"

"Because this friend is dead. The man who, as you say, sought to
intervene between us, who sent me the key of the garden, who called me
to the telephone to tell me the truth, that man was murdered. There is
not the least doubt about it. I heard the cries of a man who is being
killed, dying cries, the cries which a man utters when at the moment of
death."

"You can never be sure."

"I am, absolutely. There is no shadow of doubt in my mind. The man whom
I call our unknown friend died before finishing his work; he died
murdered, whereas Siméon is alive. Besides," continued Patrice, "this
man had a different voice from Siméon, a voice which I had never heard
before and which I shall never hear again."

Coralie was convinced and did not insist.

They were seated on one of the benches in the garden, enjoying the
bright April sunshine. The buds of the chestnut-trees shone at the tips
of the branches. The heavy scent of the wall-flowers rose from the
borders; and their brown and yellow blossoms, like a cluster of bees and
wasps pressed close together, swayed to the light breeze.

Suddenly Patrice felt a thrill. Coralie had placed her hand on his, with
engaging friendliness; and, when he turned to look at her, he saw that
she was in tears.

"What's the matter, Little Mother Coralie?"

Coralie's head bent down and her cheek touched the officer's shoulder.
He dared not move. She was treating him as a protecting elder brother;
and he shrank from showing any warmth of affection that might annoy her.

"What is it, dear?" he repeated. "What's the matter?"

"Oh, it is so strange!" she murmured. "Look, Patrice, look at those
flowers."

They were on the third terrace, commanding a view of the fourth; and
this, the lowest of the terraces, was adorned not with borders of
wall-flowers but with beds in which were mingled all manner of spring
flowers; tulips, silvery alyssums, hyacinths, with a great round plot of
pansies in the middle.

"Look over there," she said, pointing to this plot with her outstretched
arm. "Do you see? . . . Letters. . . ."

Patrice looked and gradually perceived that the clumps of pansies were
so arranged as to form on the ground some letters that stood out among
the other flowers. It did not appear at the first glance. It took a
certain time to see; but, once seen, the letters grouped themselves of
their own accord, forming three words set down in a single line:

     _Patrice and Coralie_

"Ah," he said, in a low voice, "I understand what you mean!"

It gave them a thrill of inexpressible excitement to read their two
names, which a friendly hand had, so to speak, sown; their two names
united in pansy-flowers. It was inexpressibly exciting too that he and
she should always find themselves thus linked together, linked together
by events, linked together by their portraits, linked together by an
unseen force of will, linked together now by the struggling effort of
little flowers that spring up, waken into life and blossom in
predetermined order.

Coralie, sitting up, said:

"It's Siméon who attends to the garden."

"Yes," he said, wavering slightly. "But surely that does not affect my
opinion. Our unknown friend is dead, but Siméon may have known him.
Siméon perhaps was acting with him in certain matters and must know a
good deal. Oh, if he could only put us on the right road!"

An hour later, as the sun was sinking on the horizon, they climbed the
terraces. On reaching the top they saw M. Masseron beckoning to th

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