3.57 (2, 4/- 25 ††† H A R V A R D C O L L E G E L [ B R A R Y BY THE SAME AUTHOR THE WOMAN OF MYSTERY THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE THE SECRET OF SAREK THE EYES OF INNOCENCE THE THREE EYES The girl gasped as Renine (Arsene Lupin drew forth the mysterious telescope. - - The Eight Strokes of the Clock BY MAURICE LE BLANC TRANSLATED BY ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS FRONTISPIECE BY G. W. GAGE NEW YORK THE MACAULAY COMPANY !rº ºr 7%, 2:/, / Sº ARB CO &N º JU 2, 192/ * 1s AARY_ +39 exºat-º- COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY THE MACAULAY COMPANY PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. AUTHOR'S NOTE These adventures were told to me in the old days by Arsene Lupin, as though they had happened to a friend of his, named Prince Renine. As for me, considering the way in which they were conducted, the actions, the behaviour and the very character of the hero, I find it very difficult not to identify the two friends as one and the same person. Arsene Lupin is gifted with a powerful imagination and is quite capable of attributing to himself adventures which are not his at all and of disowning those which are really his. The reader will judge for himself. M. L. II III IV VI VII VIII CONTENTS ON THE TOP OF THE ToweR THE WATER BOTTLE THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS . THE TELL-TALE FILM . THERESE AND GERMAINE . THE LADY witH THE HATCHET . FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW . AT THE SIGN OF MERCURY . PAGE I5 55 95 . I29 • 203 . 237 • 279 * <- - 7%. , , , ºr «Nº toº, JU 2, 1922 {ts aa RY__ +3; 924.90 a.º. COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY THE MACAULAY COMPANY PRINTED IN THE U. S. A. AUTHOR'S NOTE These adventures were told to me in the old days by Arsene Lupin, as though they had happened to a friend of his, named Prince Renine. As for me, considering the way in which they were conducted, the actions, the behaviour and the very character of the hero, I find it very difficult not to identify the two friends as one and the same person. Arsene Lupin is gifted with a powerful imagination and is quite capable of attributing to himself adventures which are not his at all and of disowning those which are really his. The reader will judge for himself. M. L. II III IV VI VII VIII CONTENTS ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER THE WATER BOTTLE THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS . THE TELL-TALE FILM . THERESE AND GERMAINE . THE LADY witH THE HATCHET . Footprints IN THE SNow . AT THE SIGN OF MERCURY . PAGE I5 55 95 . I29 . I65 . 203 . 237 . 279 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK I ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER The Eight Strokes of the Clock I ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER HoRTENSE DANIEL pushed her window ajar and whispered: “Are you there, Rossigny?” “I am here,” replied a voice from the shrubbery at the front of the house. Leaning forward, she saw a rather fat man look- ing up at her out of a gross red face with its cheeks and chin set in unpleasantly fair whiskers. “Well?” he asked. “Well, I had a great argument with my uncle and aunt last night. They absolutely refuse to sign the document of which my lawyer sent them the draft, or to restore the dowry squandered by my husband.” “But your uncle is responsible by the terms of the marriage-settlement.” “No matter. He refuses.” “Well, what do you propose to do?” “Are you still determined to run away with me?” she asked, with a laugh. “More so than ever.” I5 16 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “Your intentions are strictly honourable, remem- ber 1” “Just as you please. You know that I am madly in love with you.” “Unfortunately I am not madly in love with you!” “Then what made you choose me?” “Chance. I was bored. I was growing tired of my humdrum existence. So I'm ready to run risks. . . . Here's my luggage: catch l’’ She let down from the window a couple of large leather kit-bags. Rossigny caught them in his arms. “The die is cast,” she whispered. “Go and wait for me with your car at the If cross-roads. I shall come on horseback.” “Hang it, I can't run off with your horse!” “He will go home by himself.” “Capital' . . . Oh, by the way . . .” “What is it?” “Who is this Prince Rénine, who's been here the last three days and whom nobody seems to know?” “I don't know much about him. My uncle met him at a friend's shoot and asked him here to stay.” “You seem to have made a great impression on him. You went for a long ride with him yesterday. He's a man I don't care for.” “In two hours I shall have left the house in your company. The scandal will cool him off . . . Well, we've talked long enough. We have no time to lose.” ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER 17 For a few minutes she stood watching the fat man bending under the weight of her traps as he moved away in the shelter of an empty avenue. Then she closed the window. Outside, in the park, the huntsmen's horns were sounding the reveille. The hounds burst into fran- tic baying. It was the opening day of the hunt that morning at the Chateau de la Marèze, where, every year, in the first week in September, the Comte d'Aigleroche, a mighty hunter before the Lord, and his countess were accustomed to invite a few personal friends and the neighbouring land- OW1161 S. Hortense slowly finished dressing, put on a rid- ing-habit, which revealed the lines of her supple figure, and a wide-brimmed felt hat, which en- circled her lovely face and auburn hair, and sat down to her writing-desk, at which she wrote to her uncle, M. d’Aigleroche, a farewell letter to be de- livered to him that evening. It was a difficult letter to word; and, after beginning it several times, she ended by giving up the idea. “I will write to him later,” she said to herself, “when his anger has cooled down.” And she went downstairs to the dining-room. Enormous logs were blazing in the hearth of the lofty room. The walls were hung with trophies of rifles and shotguns. The guests were flocking in from every side, shaking hands with the Comte d'Aigleroche, one of those typical country squires, 18 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK heavily and powerfully built, who lives only for hunting and shooting. He was standing before the fire, with a large glass of old brandy in his hand, drinking the health of each new arrival. Hortense kissed him absently: “What, uncle! You who are usually so sober!” “Pooh!” he said. “A man may surely indulge himself a little once a year! . . .” “Aunt will give you a scolding!” “Your aunt has one of her sick headaches and is not coming down. Besides,” he added, gruffly, “it is not her business . . . and still less is it yours, my dear child.” Prince Rénine came up to Hortense. He was a young man, very smartly dressed, with a narrow and rather pale face, whose eyes held by turns the gentlest and the harshest, the most friendly and the most satirical expression. He bowed to her, kissed her hand and said: “May I remind you of your kind promise, dear madame?” “My promise?” “Yes, we agreed that we should repeat our de- lightful excursion of yesterday and try to go over that old boarded-up place the look of which made us so curious. It seems to be known as the Domaine de Halingre.” She answered a little curtly: “I’m extremely sorry, monsieur, but it would be 20 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK could release himself by the least effort and return to the house, shrouded her face in the long brown veil that hung over her shoulders and walked on. As she expected, she saw Rossigny directly she reached the first turn in the road. He ran up to her and drew her into the coppice! “Quick, quick! Oh, I was so afraid that you would be late . . . or even change your mind! And here you are! It seems too good to be true!” She Smiled : “You appear to be quite happy to do an idiotic thing!” “I should think I am happy! And so will you be, I swear you will! Your life will be one long fairy-tale. You shall have every luxury, and all the money you can wish for.” “I want neither money nor luxuries.” “What then P” “Happiness.” “You can safely leave your happiness to me.” She replied, jestingly: “I rather doubt the quality of the happiness which you would give me.” “Wait ' You'11 See You’ll see ''' They had reached the motor. Rossigny, still stammering expressions of delight, started the en- gine. Hortense stepped in and wrapped herself in a wide cloak. The car followed the narrow, grassy path which led back to the cross-roads and Rossigny was accelerating the speed, when he was suddenly ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER 21 forced to pull up. A shot had rung out from the neighbouring wood, on the right. The car was swerving from side to side. “A front tire burst,” shouted Rossigny, leaping to the ground. “Not a bit of it!” cried Hortense. “Somebody fired l’’ “Impossible, my dear! Don't be so absurd!” At that moment, two slight shocks were felt and two more reports were heard, one after the other, some way off and still in the wood. Rossigny snarled: “The back tires burst now . . . both of them. . . . But who, in the devil's name, can the ruffian be? . . . Just let me get hold of him, that's all ! . . .” He clambered up the road-side slope. There was no one there. Moreover, the leaves of the coppice blocked the view. “Damn it! Damn it!” he swore. “You were right: somebody was firing at the car! Oh, this is a bit thick | We shall be held up for hours! Three tires to mend! . . . But what are you doing, dear girl?” Hortense herself had alighted from the car. She ran to him, greatly excited: “I’m going.” “But why?” “I want to know. Some one fired. I want to know who it was.” 22 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “Don’t let us separate, please!” “Do you think I'm going to wait here for you for hours?” “What about your running away? . . . All our plans . . . .” “We'll discuss that to-morrow. Go back to the flouse. Take back my things with you. . . . And good-bye for the present.” She hurried, left him, had the good luck to find her horse and set off at a gallop in a direction lead- ing away from La Marèze. There was not the least doubt in her mind that the three shots had been fired by Prince Rénine. “It was he,” she muttered, angrily, “it was he. No one else would be capable of such behav- iour.” Besides, he had warned her, in his smiling, mas- terful way, that he would expect her. She was weeping with rage and humiliation. At that moment, had she found herself face to face with Prince Rénine, she could have struck him with her riding-whip. Before her was the rugged and picturesque stretch of country which lies between the Orne and the Sarthe, above Alençon, and which is known as Little Switzerland. Steep hills compelled her fre- quently to moderate her pace, the more so as she had to cover some six miles before reaching her destination. But, though the speed at which she rode became less headlong, though her physical ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER 23 effort gradually slackened, she nevertheless persisted in her indignation against Prince Rénine. She bore him a grudge not only for the unspeakable action of which he had been guilty, but also for his be- haviour to her during the last three days, his per- sistent attentions, his assurance, his air of excessive politeness. She was nearly there. In the bottom of a valley, an old park-wall, full of cracks and covered with moss and weeds, revealed the ball-turret Of a cha- teau and a few windows with closed shutters. This was the Domaine de Halingre. She followed the wall and turned a corner. In the middle of the crescent-shaped space before which lay the entrance-gates, Serge Rénine stood waiting beside his horse. She sprang to the ground, and, as he stepped forward, hat in hand, thanking her for coming, she cried : “One word, monsieur, to begin with. Something quite inexplicable happened just now. Three shots were fired at a motor-car in which I was sitting. Did you fire those shots?” “Yes.” She seemed dumbfounded: “Then you confess it?” “You have asked a question, madame, and I have answered it.” “But how dared you? What gave you the right?” 24 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “I was not exercising a right, madame; I was performing a duty!” “Indeed! And what duty, pray?” “The duty of protecting you against a man who is trying to profit by your troubles.” “I forbid you to speak like that. I am responsi- ble for my own actions, and I decided upon them in perfect liberty.” “Madame, I overheard your conversation with M. Rossigny this morning and it did not appear to me that you were accompanying him with a light heart. I admit the ruthlessness and bad taste of my interference and I apologise for it humbly; but I risked being taken for a ruffian in order to give you a few hours for reflection.” “I have reflected fully, monsieur. When I have once made up my mind to a thing, I do not change it.” “Yes, madame, you do, sometimes. If not, why are you here instead of there?” Hortense was confused for a moment. All her anger had subsided. She looked at Rénine with the surprise which one experiences when confronted with certain persons who are unlike their fellows, more capable of performing unusual actions, more generous and disinterested. She realised perfectly that he was acting without any ulterior motive or calculation, that he was, as he had said, merely fulfilling his duty as a gentleman to a woman who has taken the wrong turning. ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER 25 Speaking very gently, he said: “I know very little about you, madame, but enough to make me wish to be of use to you. You are twenty-six years old and have lost both your parents. Seven years ago, you became the wife of the Comte d'Aigleroche's nephew by marriage, who proved to be of unsound mind, half insane indeed, and had to be confined. This made it impossible for you to obtain a divorce and compelled you, since your dowry had been squandered, to live with your uncle and at his expense. It's a depressing en- vironment. The count and countess do not agree. Years ago, the count was deserted by his first wife, who ran away with the countess' first husband. The abandoned husband and wife decided out of spite to unite their fortunes, but found nothing but disappointment and ill-will in this second marriage. And you suffer the consequences. They lead a monotonous, narrow, lonely life for eleven months or more out of the year. One day, you met M. Rossigny, who fell in love with you and suggested an elopement. You did not care for him. But you were bored, your youth was being wasted, you longed for the unexpected, for adventure . . . in a word, you accepted with the very definite inten- tion of keeping your admirer at arm's length, but also with the rather ingenuous hope that the scandal would force your uncle's hand and make him ac- count for his trusteeship and assure you of an in- dependent existence. That is how you stand. At 26 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK present you have to choose between placing yourself in M. Rossigny's hands . . . or trusting yourself to me.” - She raised her eyes to his. What did he mean? What was the purport of this offer which he made so seriously, like a friend who asks nothing but to prove his devotion? After a moment's silence, he took the two horses by the bridle and tied them up. Then he examined the heavy gates, each of which was strengthened by two planks nailed cross-wise. An electoral poster, dated twenty years earlier, showed that no one had entered the domain since that time. Rénine tore up one of the iron posts which sup- ported a railing that ran round the crescent and used it as a lever. The rotten planks gave way. One of them uncovered the lock, which he attacked with a big knife, containing a number of blades and implements. A minute later, the gate opened on a waste of bracken which led up to a long, dilapidated building, with a turret at each corner and a sort of a belvedere, built on a taller tower, in the middle. The Prince turned to Hortense: “You are in no hurry,” he said. “You will form your decision this evening; and, if M. Rossigny succeeds in persuading you for the second time, I give you my word of honour that I shall not cross your path. Until then, grant me the privilege of your company. We made up our minds yesterday to inspect the chateau. Let us do so. Will you? ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER 27 It is as good a way as any of passing the time and I have a notion that it will not be uninteresting.” He had a way of talking which compelled obedi- ence. He seemed to be commanding and entreat- ing at the same time. Hortense did not even seek to shake off the enervation into which her will was slowly sinking. She followed him to a half-de- molished flight of steps at the top of which was a door likewise strengthened by planks nailed in the form of a cross. Rénine went to work in the same way as before. They entered a spacious hall paved with white and black flagstones, furnished with old sideboards and choir-stalls and adorned with a carved escutcheon which displayed the remains of armorial bearings, representing an eagle standing on a block of stone, all half-hidden behind a veil of cobwebs which hung down over a pair of folding-doors. “The door of the drawing-room, evidently,” said Rénine. He found this more difficult to open; and it was only by repeatedly charging it with his shoulder that he was able to move one of the doors. Hortense had not spoken a word. She watched not without surprise this series of forcible entries, which were accomplished with a really masterly skill. He guessed her thoughts and, turning round, said in a serious voice: “It's child's-play to me. I was a locksmith once.” 28 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK She seized his arm and whispered: “Listen l’’ “To what?” he asked. She increased the pressure of her hand, to de- mand silence. The next moment, he murmured: “It's really very strange.” “Listen, listen!” Hortense repeated, in bewilder- ment. “Can it be possible?” They heard, not far from where they were stand- ing, a sharp sound, the sound of a light tap recur- ring at regular intervals; and they had only to listen attentively to recognise the ticking of a clock. Yes, it was this and nothing else that broke the profound silence of the dark room; it was indeed the deliber- ate ticking, rhythmical as the beat of a metronome, produced by a heavy brass pendulum. That was it! And nothing could be more impressive than the measured pulsation of this trivial mechanism, which by some miracle, some inexplicable phenome- non, had continued to live in the heart of the dead chateau. “And yet,” stammered Hortense, without daring to raise her voice, “no one has entered the house?” “No One.” “And it is quite impossible for that clock to have kept going for twenty years without being wound up?” “Quite impossible.” “Then . . . P” ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER 29 1. Serge Rénine opened the three windows and threw back the shutters. He and Hortense were in a drawing-room, as he had thought; and the room showed not the least sign of disorder. The chairs were in their places. Not a piece of furniture was missing. The people who had lived there and who had made it the most individual room in their house had gone away leav- ing everything just as it was, the books which they used to read, the knicknacks on the tables and con- Soles. Rénine examined the old grandfather's clock, contained in its tall carved case which showed the disk of the pendulum through an oval pane of glass. He opened the door of the clock. The weights hanging from the cords were at their low- est point. At that moment there was a click. The clock struck eight with a serious note which Hortense was never to forget. “How extraordinary !” she said. “Extraordinary indeed,” said he, “for the works are exceedingly simple and would hardly keep go- ing for a week.” “And do you see nothing out of the common?” “No, nothing . . . or, at least . . .” He stooped and, from the back of the case, drew a metal tube which was concealed by the weights. Holding it up to the light: “A telescope,” he said, thoughtfully. “Why did 30 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK they hide it? . . . And they left it drawn out to its full length. . . . That's odd. . . . What does it mean P” r The clock, as is sometimes usual, began to strike a second time, sounding eight strokes. Rénine closed the case and continued his inspection without putting his telescope down. A wide arch led from the drawing-room to a smaller apartment, a sort of smoking-room. This also was furnished, but contained a glass case for guns of which the rack was empty. Hanging on a panel near by was a calendar with the date of the 5th of September. “Oh,” cried Hortense, in astonishment, “the same date as to-day ! . . . They tore off the leaves un- til the 5th of September. . . . And this is the an- niversary! What an astonishing coincidence!” “Astonishing,” he echoed. “It’s the anniversary of their departure . . . twenty years ago to-day.” “You must admit,” she said, “that all this is in- comprehensible.” “Yes, of course . . . but, all the same . . . per- haps not.” “Have you any idea?” He waited a few seconds before replying: “What puzzles me is this telescope hidden, dropped in that corner, at the last moment. I wonder what it was used for. . . . From the ground-floor win- dows you see nothing but the trees in the garden ... and the same, I expect, from all the windows. — * ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER 31 . . . We are in a valley, without the least open horizon. . . . To use the telescope, one would have to go up to the top of the house. . . . Shall we go up?” She did not hesitate. The mystery surrounding the whole adventure excited her curiosity so keenly that she could think of nothing but accompanying Rénine and assisting him in his investigations. They went upstairs accordingly, and, on the second floor, came to a landing where they found the spiral staircase leading to the belvedere. At the top of this was a platform in the open air, but surrounded by a parapet over six feet high. “There must have been battlements which have been filled in since,” observed Prince Rénine. “Look here, there were loop-holes at one time. They may have been blocked.” “In any case,” she said, “the telescope was of no use up here either and we may as well go down again.” “I don't agree,” he said. “Logic tells us that there must have been some gap through which the country could be seen and this was the spot where the telescope was used.” He hoisted himself by his wrists to the top of the parapet and then saw that this point of van- tage commanded the whole of the valley, including the park, with its tall trees marking the horizon; and, beyond, a depression in a wood surmounting 32 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK a hill, at a distance of some seven or eight hundred yards, stood another tower, squat and in ruins, covered with ivy from top to bottom. Rénine resumed his inspection. He seemed to consider that the key to the problem lay in the use to which the telescope was put and that the problem would be solved if only they could discover this 11Se. He studied the loop-holes one after the other. One of them, or rather the place which it had oc- cupied, attracted his attention above the rest. In the middle of the layer of plaster, which had served to block it, there was a hollow filled with earth in which plants had grown. He pulled out the plants and removed the earth, thus clearing the mouth of a hole some five inches in diameter, which com- pletely penetrated the wall. On bending forward, Rénine perceived that this deep and narrow opening inevitably carried the eye, above the dense tops of the trees and through the depression in the hill, to the ivy-clad tower. At the bottom of this channel, in a sort of groove which ran through it like a gutter, the telescope fitted so exactly that it was quite impossible to shift it, however little, either to the right or to the left. Rénine, after wiping the outside of the lenses, while taking care not to disturb the lie of the in- strument by a hair's breadth, put his eye to the small end. He remained for thirty or forty seconds, gazing . ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER 33 attentively and silently. Then he drew himself up and said, in a husky voice: “It's terrible . . . it's really terrible.” “What is?” she asked, anxiously. “Look.” She bent do ºr but the image was not clear to her and the telescope had to be focussed to suit her sight. The next moment she shuddered and said: “It's two scarecrows, isn't it, both stuck up on the top? But why?” “Look again,” he said. “Look more carefully ... under the hats . . . the faces . . .” “Oh!” she cried, turning faint with horror, “how awful!” The field of the telescope, like the circular picture shown by a magic lantern, presented this spectacle: the platform of a broken tower, the walls of which were higher in the more distant part and formed as it were a back-drop, over which surged waves of ivy. In front, amid a cluster of bushes, were two human beings, a man and a woman, leaning back against a heap of fallen stones. But the words man and woman could hardly be applied to these two forms, these two sinister pup- pets, which, it is true, wore clothes and hats—or rather shreds of clothes and remnants of hats— but had lost their eyes, their cheeks, their chins, every particle of flesh, until they were actually and positively nothing more than two skeletons. “Two skeletons,” stammered Hortense. “Two 34 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK skeletons with clothes on. Who carried them up there?” “Nobody.” “But still . . .” “That man and that woman must have died at the top of the tower, years and yer", ago . . . and their flesh rotted under their clothes and the ravens ate them.” - “But it's hideous, hideous!” cried Hortense, pale as death, her face drawn with horror. Half an hour later, Hortense Daniel and Rénine left the Chateau de Haringre. Before their depart- ure, they had gone as far as the ivy-grown tower, the remains of an old donjon-keep more than half demolished. The inside was empty. There seemed to have been a way of climbing to the top, at a com- paratively recent period, by means of wooden stairs and ladders which now lay broken and scattered over the ground. The tower backed against the wall which marked the end of the park. A curious fact, which surprised Hortense, was that Prince Rénine had neglected to pursue a more minute enquiry, as though the matter had lost all interest for him. He did not even speak of it any longer; and, in the inn at which they stopped and took a light meal in the nearest village, it was she who asked the landlord about the abandoned cha- teau. But she learnt nothing from him, for the man was new to the district and could give her no par- ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER 35 ticulars. He did not even know the name of the OWner. They turned their horses' heads towards La Marèze. Again and again Hortense recalled the squalid sight which had met their eyes. But Rénine, who was in a lively mood and full of attentions to his companion, seemed utterly indifferent to those questions. “But, after all,” she exclaimed, impatiently, “we can't leave the matter there! It calls for a solution.” “As you say,” he replied, “a solution is called for. M. Rossigny has to know where he stands and you have to decide what to do about him.” She shrugged her shoulders: “He’s of no import- ance for the moment. The thing to-day . . .” “Is What?” “Is to know what those two dead bodies are.” “Still, Rossigny . . .” “Rossigny can wait. But I can’t. You have shown me a mystery which is now the only thing that matters. What do you intend to do?” “To do?” “Yes. There are two bodies . . . You'll inform the police, I suppose,” “Gracious goodness!” he exclaimed, laughing. “What for?” “Well, there's a riddle that has to be cleared up at all costs, a terrible tragedy.” “We don't need any one to do that.” 36 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “What! Do you mean to say that you under- stand it?” “Almost as plainly as though I had read it in a book, told in full detail, with explanatory illustra- tions. It's all so simple!” She looked at him askance, wondering if he was making fun of her. But he seemed quite serious. “Well?” she asked, quivering with curiosity. The light was beginning to wane. They had trotted at a good pace; and the hunt was returning as they neared La Marèze. “Well,” he said, “we shall get the rest of our in- formation from people living round about . . from your uncle, for instance; and you will see how logically all the facts fit in. When you hold the first link of a chain, you are bound, whether you like it or not, to reach the last. It's the greatest fun in the world.” Once in the house, they separated. On going to her room, Hortense found her luggage and a furious letter from Rossigny in which he bade her good-bye and announced his departure. Then Rénine knocked at her door: “Your uncle is in the library,” he said. “Will you go down with me? I've sent word that I am coming.” She went with him. He added: “One word more. This morning, when I thwarted your plans and begged you to trust me, I naturally ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER 37 undertook an obligation towards you which I mean to fulfill without delay. I want to give you a posi- tive proof of this.” She laughed: “The only obligation which you took upon your- self was to satisfy my curiosity.” “It shall be satisfied,” he assured her, gravely, “and more fully than you can possibly imagine.” M. d’Aigleroche was alone. He was smoking his pipe and drinking sherry. He offered a glass to Rénine, who refused. “Well, Hortense!” he said, in a rather thick voice. “You know that it's pretty dull here, except in these September days. You must make the most of them. Have you had a pleasant ride with Rénine?” “That's just what I wanted to talk about, my dear sir,” interrupted the prince. “You must excuse me, but I have to go to the station in ten minutes, to meet a friend of my wife’s.” “Oh, ten minutes will be ample!” “Just the time to smoke a cigarette?” “No longer.” He took a cigarette from the case which M. d'Aigleroche handed to him, lit it and said: “I must tell you that our ride happened to take us to an old domain which you are sure to know, the Domaine de Halingre.” “Certainly I know it. But it has been closed, 38 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK boarded up for twenty-five years or so. You weren't able to get in, I suppose?” “Yes, we were.” “Really? Was it interesting?” “Extremely. We discovered the strangest things.” - “What things?” asked the count, looking at his watch. Rénine described what they had seen: “On a tower some way from the house there were two dead bodies, two skeletons rather . . . a man and a woman still wearing the clothes which they had on when they were murdered.” “Come, come, now ! Murdered P” “Yes; and that is what we have come to trouble you about. The tragedy must date back to some twenty years ago. Was nothing known of it at the time P’’ “Certainly not,” declared the count. “I never heard of any such crime or disappearance.” “Oh, really" said Rénine, looking a little dis- appointed. “I hoped to obtain a few particulars.” “I’m sorry.” “In that case, I apologise.” He consulted Hortense with a glance and moved towards the door. But on second thought: “Could you not at least, my dear sir, bring me into touch with some persons in the neighbourhood, Some members of your family, who might know more about it?” ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER 39 “Of my family? And why?” “Because the Domaine de Halingre used to be- long and no doubt still belongs to the d'Aigleroches. The arms are an eagle on a heap of stones, on a rock. This at once suggested the connection.” This time the count appeared surprised. He pushed back his decanter and his glass of sherry and said: “What's this you're telling me? I had no idea that we had any such neighbours.” Rénine shook his head and smiled : “I should be more inclined to believe, sir, that you were not very eager to admit any relationship between yourself . . . and the unknown owner of the property.” “Then he's not a respectable man?” “The man, to put it plainly, is a murderer.” “What do you mean?” The count had risen from his chair. Hortense, greatly excited, said: “Are you really sure that there has been a murder and that the murder was done by some one belong- ing to the house?” “Quite sure.” “But why are you so certain?” “Because I know who the two victims were and what caused them to be killed.” Prince Rénine was making none but positive state- ments and his method suggested the belief that he was supported by the strongest proofs. 40 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK M. d’Aigleroche strode up and down the room, with his hands behind his back. He ended by saying: “I always had an instinctive feeling that some- | thing had happened, but I never tried to find out. . . . Now, as a matter of fact, twenty years ago, a relation of mine, a distant cousin, used to live at the Domaine de Halingre. I hoped, because of the name I bear, that this story, which, as I say, I never knew but suspected, would remain hidden for ever.” “So this cousin killed somebody?” “Yes, he was obliged to.” Rénine shook his head: “I am sorry to have to amend that phrase, my dear sir. The truth, on the contrary, is that your cousin took his victims' lives in cold blood and in a cowardly manner. I never heard of a crime more deliberately and craftily planned.” “What is it that you know?” The moment had come for Rénine to explain himself, a solemn and anguish-stricken moment, the full gravity of which Hortense understood, though she had not yet divined any part of the tragedy which the prince unfolded step by step.” “It's a very simple story,” he said. “There is every reason to believe that M. d’Aigleroche was married and that there was another couple living in the neighbourhoood with whom the owner of the Domaine de Halingre were on friendly terms. ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER 41 What happened one day, which of these four persons first disturbed the relations between the two house- holds, I am unable to say. But a likely version, which at once occurs to the mind, is that your cousin's wife, Madame d'Aigleroche, was in the habit of meeting the other husband in the ivy- covered tower, which had a door opening outside the estate. On discovering the intrigue, your cousin d'Aigleroche resolved to be revenged, but in such a manner that there should be no scandal and that no one even should ever know that the guilty pair had been killed. Now he had ascertained—as I did just now—that there was a part of the house, the belvedere, from which you can see, over the trees and the undulations of the park, the tower standing eight hundred yards away, and that this was the only place that overlooked the top of the tower. He therefore pierced a hole in the parapet, through one of the former loopholes, and from there, by using a telescope which fitted exactly in the grove which he had hollowed out, he watched the meetings of the two lovers. And it was from there, also, that, after carefully taking all his measurements, and calculating all his distances, on a Sunday, the 5th of September, when the house was empty, he killed them with two shots.” The truth was becoming apparent. The light of day was breaking. The count muttered: “Yes, that's what must have happened. I ex- pect that my cousin d'Aigleroche . . .” 42 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “The murderer,” Rénine continued, “stopped up the loophole neatly with a clod of earth. No one would ever know that two dead bodies were decaying on the top of that tower which was never visited and of which he took the precaution to demolish the wooden stairs. Nothing therefore remained for him to do but to explain the disappearance of his wife and his friend. This presented no difficulty. He accused them of having eloped together.” Hortense gave a start. Suddenly, as though the last sentence were a complete and to her an abso- lutely unexpected revelation, she understood what Rénine was trying to convey: “What do you mean?” she asked. “I mean that M. d’Aigleroche accused his wife and his friend of eloping together.” “No, no!'” she cried. “I can't allow that ' . . . You are speaking of a cousin of my uncle's? Why mix up the two stories?” “Why mix up this story with another which took place at that time?” said the prince. “But I am not mixing them up, my dear madame; there is only one story and I am telling it as it happened.” Hortense turned to her uncle. He sat silent, with his arms folded; and his head remained in the shadow cast by the lamp-shade. Why had he not protested? Rénine repeated in a firm tone: “There is only one story. On the evening of that very day, the 5th of September at eight o'clock, ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER 43 M. d'Aigleroche, doubtless alleging as his reason that he was going in pursuit of the runaway couple, left his house after boarding up the entrance. He went away, leaving all the rooms as they were and removing only the firearms from their glass case. At the last minute, he had a presentiment, which has been justified to-day, that the discovery of the telescope which had played so great a part in the preparation of his crime might serve as a clue to an enquiry; and he threw it into the clock-case, where, as luck would have it, it interrupted the swing of the pendulum. This unreflecting action, one of those which every criminal inevitably com- mits, was to betray him twenty years later. Just now, the blows which I struck to force the door of the drawing-room released the pendulum. The clock was set going, struck eight o'clock . . . and I possessed the clue of thread which was to lead me through the labyrinth.” “Proofs" stammered Hortense. “Proofs" “Proofs?” replied Rénine, in a loud voice. “Why, there are any number of proofs; and you know them as well as I do. Who could have killed at that distance of eight hundred yards, except an expert shot, an ardent sportsman? You agree, M. d'Aigleroche, do you not? . . . Proofs? Why was nothing removed from the house, nothing except the guns, those guns which an ardent sportsman cannot afford to leave behind—you agree, M. d’Ai- gleroche—those guns which we find here, hanging 44 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK in trophies on the walls! . . . Proofs? What about that date, the 5th of September, which was the date of the crime and which has left such a hor- rible memory in the criminal's mind that every year at this time—at this time alone—he surrounds him- self with distractions and that every year, on this same 5th of September, he forgets his habits of temperance? Well, to-day, is the 5th of Septem- ber. . . . Proofs? Why, if there weren't any others, would that not be enough for you?” And Rénine, flinging out his arm, pointed to the Comte d'Aigleroche, who, terrified by this evoca- tion of the past, had sunk huddled into a chair and was hiding his head in his hands. Hortense did not attempt to argue with him. She had never liked her uncle, or rather her husband's uncle. She now accepted the accusation laid against him. Sixty seconds passed. Then M. d’Aigleroche walked up to them and said: “Whether the story be true or not, you can't call a husband a criminal for avenging his honour, and killing his faithless wife.” “No,” replied Rénine, “but I have told only the first version of the story. There is another which is infinitely more serious . . . and more probable, one to which a more thorough investigation would be sure to lead.” “What do you mean?” “I mean this. It may not be a matter of a hus- ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER 45 band taking the law into his own hands, as I charitably supposed. It may be a matter of a ruined man who covets his friend's money and his friend's wife and who, with this object in view, to secure his freedom, to get rid of his friend and of his own wife, draws them into a trap, suggests to them that they should visit that lonely tower and kills them by shooting them from a distance safely under cover.” “No, no,” the count protested. “No, all that is untrue.” “I don't say it isn't. I am basing my accusation on proofs, but also on intuitions and arguments which up to now have been extremely accurate. All the same, I admit that the second version may be incorrect. But, if so, why feel any remorse? One does not feel remorse for punishing guilty people.” “One does for taking life. It is a crushing bur- den to bear.” “Was it to give himself greater strength to bear this burden that M. d’Aigleroche afterwards married his victim's widow 2 For that, sir, is the crux of the question. What was the motive of that mar- riage? Was M. d’Aigleroche penniless? Was the woman he was taking as his second wife rich Or were they both in love with each other and did M. d'Aigleroche plan with her to kill his first wife and the husband of his second wife? These are prob- lems to which I do not know the answer. They ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER 47 The contest was ended. The count felt that he had only a small formality to fulfil, a sacrifice to accept; and, recovering some of his self-assurance, he said, in an almost sarcastic tone: “What's your price?” Rénine burst out laughing: “Splendid! You see the position. Only, you make a mistake in drawing me into the business. I'm working for the glory of the thing.” “In that case?” “You will be called upon at most to make resti- tution.” “Restitution?” Rénine leant over the table and said: “In one of those drawers is a deed awaiting your signature. It is a draft agreement between you and your niece Hortense Daniel, relating to her private fortune, which fortune was squandered and for which you are responsible. Sign the deed.” M. d’Aigleroche gave a start: “Do you know the amount?” “I don't wish to know it.” “And if I refuse? . . .” “I shall ask to see the Comtesse d'Aigleroche.” Without further hesitation, the count opened a drawer, produced a document on stamped paper and quickly signed it: “Here you are,” he said, “and I hope . . . “You hope, as I do, that you and I may never have any future dealings? I'm convinced of it. y 5 48 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK I shall leave this evening; your niece, no doubt, to- morrow. Good-bye.” In the drawing-room, which was still empty, while the guests at the house were dressing for dinner, Rénine handed the deed to Hortense. She seemed dazed by all that she had heard; and the thing that bewildered her even more than the re- lentless light shed upon her uncle's past was the miraculous insight and amazing lucidity displayed by this man: the man who for some hours had con- trolled events and conjured up before her eyes the actual scenes of a tragedy which no one had beheld. “Are you satisfied with me?” he asked. She gave him both her hands: “You have saved me from Rossigny. You have given me back my freedom and my independence. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” “Oh, that's not what I am asking you to say!” he answered. “My first and main object was to amuse you. Your life seemed so humdrum and lacking in the unexpected. Has it been so to-day?” “How can you ask such a question? I have had the strangest and most stirring experiences.” “That is life,” he said. “When one knows how to use one's eyes. Adventure exists everywhere, in the meanest hovel, under the mask of the wisest of men. Everywhere, if you are only willing, you will find an excuse for excitement, for doing good, for saving a victim, for ending an injustice.” ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER 49 Impressed by his power and authority, she mur- mured: “Who are you exactly?” “An adventurer. Nothing more. A lover of adventures. Life is not worth living except in moments of adventure, the adventures of others or personal adventures. To-day's has upset you be- cause it affected the innermost depths of your be- ing. But those of others are no less stimulating. Would you like to make the experiment?” “How P” “Become the companion of my adventures. If any one calls on me for help, help him with me. If chance or instinct puts me on the track of a crime or the trace of a sorrow, let us both set out together. Do you consent?” “Yes,” she said, “but . . .” She hesitated, as though trying to guess Rénine's secret intentions. “But,” he said, expressing her thoughts for her, with a smile, “you are a trifle sceptical. What you are saying to yourself is, “How far does that lover of adventures want to make me go? It is quite obvious that I attract him; and sooner or later he would not be sorry to receive payment for his services.’ You are quite right. We must have a formal contract.” “Very formal,” said Hortense, preferring to give a jesting tone to the conversation. “Let me hear your proposals.” so THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK He reflected for a moment and continued: “Well, we'll say this. The clock at Halingre gave eight strokes this afternoon, the day of the first ad- venture. Will you accept its decree and agree to carry out seven more of these delightful enter- prises with me, during a period, for instance, of three months? And shall we say that, at the eighth, you will be pledged to grant me . . .” “What?” He deferred his answer: “Observe that you will always be at liberty to leave me on the road if I do not succeed in interest- ing you. But, if you accompany me to the end, if you allow me to begin and complete the eighth enterprise with you, in three months, on the 5th of December, at the very moment when the eighth stroke of that clock sounds—and it will sound, you may be sure of that, for the old brass pendulum will not stop swinging again—you will be pledged to grant me . . .” “What?” she repeated, a little unnerved by wait- ing. - He was silent. He looked at the beautiful lips which he had meant to claim as his reward. He felt perfectly certain that Hortense had understood and he thought it unnecessary to speak more plainly: “The mere delight of seeing you will be enough to satisfy me. It is not for me but for you to im- pose conditions. Name them: what do you de- mand?” ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER 51 She was grateful for his respect and said, laugh- ingly: “What do I demand?” “Yes.” “Can I demand anything I like, however diffi- cult and impossible?” “Everything is easy and everything is possible to the man who is bent on winning you.” Then she said: “I demand that you shall restore to me a small, antique clasp, made of a cornelian set in a silver mount. It came to me from my mother and every- one knew that it used to bring her happiness and me too. Since the day when it vanished from my jewel-case, I have had nothing but unhappiness. Restore it to me, my good genius.” “When was the clasp stolen?”, She answered gaily: “Seven years ago . . . or eight . . . or nine; I don't know exactly . . . I don't know where . . . I don't know how . . . I know nothing about it. º “I will find it,” Rénine declared, “and you shall be happy.” II THE WATER-BOTTLE II THE WATER-BOTTLE Four days after she had settled down in Paris, Hortense Daniel agreed to meet Prince Rénine in the Bois. It was a glorious morning and they sat down on the terrace of the Restaurant Impérial, a little to one side. Hortense, feeling glad to be alive, was in a play- ful mood, full of attractive grace. Rénine, lest he should startle her, refrained from alluding to the compact into which they had entered at his sug- gestion. She told him how she had left La Marèze and said that she had not heard of Rossigny. “I have,” said Rénine. “I’ve heard of him.” “Oh?” “Yes, he sent me a challenge. We fought a duel this morning. Rossigny got a scratch in the shoulder. That finished the duel. Let's talk of something else.” There was no further mention of Rossigny. Rénine at once expounded to Hortense the plan of two enterprises which he had in view and in which he offered, with no great enthusiasm, to let her share: “The finest adventure,” he declared, “is that which we do not foresee. It comes unexpectedly, unan- 55 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK nounced; and no one, save the initiated, realizes that an opportunity to act and to expend one's ener- gies is close at hand. It has to be seized at once. A moment's hesitation may mean that we are too late. We are warned by a special sense, like that of a sleuth-hound which distinguishes the right scent from all the others that cross it.” The terrace was beginning to fill up around them. At the next table sat a young man reading a news- paper. They were able to see his insignificant profile and his long, dark moustache. From behind them, through an open window of the restaurant, came the distant strains of a band; in one of the rooms a few couples were dancing. As Rénine was paying for the refreshments, the young man with the long moustache stifled a cry and, in a choking voice, called one of the waiters: “What do I owe you? . . . No change? Oh, good Lord, hurry up!” Rénine, without a moment's hesitation, had picked up the paper. After casting a swift glance down the page, he read, “nder his breath: “Maitre Dourdens, the counsel for the defence in the trial of Jacques Aubrieux, has been received at the Élysée. We are informed that the President of the Republic has refused to reprieve the con- demned man and that the execution will take place to-morrow morning.” After crossing the terrace, the young man found THE WATER-BOTTLE 57 himself faced, at the entrance to the garden, by a lady and gentleman who blocked his way; and the latter said: “Excuse me, sir, but I noticed your agitation. It's about Jacques Aubrieux, isn't it?” - “Yes, yes, Jacques Aubrieux,” the young man stammered. “Jacques, the friend of my childhood. I'm hurrying to see his wife. She must be beside herself with grief.” “Can I offer you my assistance? I am Prince Rénine. This lady and I would be happy to call on Madame Aubrieux and to place our services at her disposal.” The young man, upset by the news which he had read, seemed not to understand. He introduced himself awkwardly: “My name is Dutreuil, Gaston Dutreuil.” Rénine beckoned to his chauffeur, who was wait- ing at some little distance, and pushed Gaston Du- treuil into the car, asking: - “What address? Where does Madame Aubrieux live?” - “23 bis, Avenue du Roule.” w After helping Hortense in, Rénine repeated the address to the chauffeur and, as soon as they drove off, tried to question Gaston Dutreuil: “I know very little of the case,” he said. “Tell it to me as briefly as you can. Jacques Aubrieux killed one of his near relations, didn't he?” “He is innocent, sir,” replied the young man, 38 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK * who seemed incapable of giving the least explana- tion. “Innocent, I swear it. I've been Jacques' friend for twenty years. . . . He is innocent . . . and it would be monstrous . . .” There was nothing to be got out of him. Be- sides, it was only a short drive. They entered Neuilly through the Porte des Sablons and, two minutes later, stopped before a long, narrow pas- sage between high walls which led them to a small, one-storeyed house. Gaston Dutreuil rang. “Madame is in the drawing-room, with her mother,” said the maid who opened the door. “I’ll go in to the ladies,” he said, taking Rénine and Hortense with him. It was a fair-sized, prettily-furnished room, which, in ordinary times, must have been used also as a study. Two women sat weeping, one of whom, elderly and grey-haired, came up to Gaston Dutreuil. He explained the reason for Rénine's presence and she at once cried, amid her sobs : “My daughter's husband is innocent, sir. Jac- ques? A better man never lived. He was so good- hearted Murder his cousin P But he worshipped his cousin! I swear that he's not guilty, sir! And they are going to commit the infamy of putting him to death? Oh, sir, it will kill my daughter!” Rénine realized that all these people had been liv- ing for months under the obsession of that inno- cence and in the certainty that an innocent man THE WATER-BOTTLE 59 could never be executed. The news of the execu- tion, which was now inevitable, was driving them mad. He went up to a poor creature bent in two whose face, a quite young face, framed in pretty, flaxen hair, was convulsed with desperate grief. Hor- tense, who had already taken a seat beside her, gently drew her head against her shoulder. Rénine Said to her: “Madame, I do not know what I can do for you. But I give you my word of honour that, if any one in this world can be of use to you, it is myself. I therefore implore you to answer my questions as though the clear and definite wording of your re- plies were able to alter the aspect of things and as though you wished to make me share your opinion of Jacques Aubrieux. For he is innocent, is he not?” “Oh, sir, indeed he is '' she exclaimed; and the woman's whole soul was in the words. “You are certain of it. But you were unable to communicate your certainty to the court. Well, you must now compel me to share it. I am not asking you to go into details and to live again through the hideous torment which you have suffered, but merely to answer certain questions. Will you do this?” “I will.” Rénine's influence over her was complete. With a few sentences Rénine had succeeded in subduing 6O THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK her and inspiring her with the will to obey. And once more Hortense realized all the man's power, authority and persuasion. “What was your husband?” he asked, after beg- ging the mother and Gaston Dutreuil to preserve absolute silence. - - “An insurance-broker.” “Lucky in business?” “Until last year, yes.” “So there have been financial difficulties during the past few months?” “Yes.” “And the murder was committed when?” “Last March, on a Sunday.” “Who was the victim P” “A distant cousin, M. Guillaume, who lived at Suresnes.” “What was the sum stolen?” “Sixty thousand-franc notes, which this cousin had received the day before, in payment of a long- outstanding debt.” “Did your husband know that?” “Yes. His cousin told him of it on the Sunday, in the course of a conversation on the telephone, and Jacques insisted that his cousin ought not to keep so large a sum in the house and that he ought to pay it into a bank next day.” “Was this in the morning?” “At one o'clock in the afternoon. Jacques was THE water-Bottle 6. to have gone to M. Guillaume on his motor-cycle. But he felt tired and told him that he would not go out. So he remained here all day.” “Alone?” “Yes. The two servants were out. I went to the Cinéma des Ternes with my mother and our friend Dutreuil. In the evening, we learnt that M. Guillaume had been murdered. Next morning, Jacques was arrested.” “On what evidence?” The poor creature hesitated to reply: the evidence of guilt had evidently been overwhelming. Then, obeying a sign from Rénine, she answered without a pause: - - “The murderer went to Suresnes on a motor- cycle and the tracks discovered were those of my husband's machine. They found a handkerchief with my husband's initials; and the revolver which was used belonged to him. Lastly, one of our neighbours maintains that he saw my husband go out on his bicycle at three o'clock and another that he saw him come in at half-past four. The murder was committed at four o'clock.” “And what does Jacques Aubrieux say in his de- fence?” “He declares that he slept all the afternoon. Dur- ing that time, some one came who managed to un- lock the cycle-shed and take the motor-cycle to go to Suresnes. As for the handkerchief and the re- 62 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK volver, they were in the tool-bag. There would be nothing surprising in the murderer's using them.” “It seems a plausible explanation.” “Yes, but the prosecution raised two objections. In the first place, nobody, absolutely nobody, knew that my husband was going to stay at home all day, because, on the contrary, it was his habit to go out on his motor-cycle every Sunday afternoon.” “And the second objection?” She flushed and murmured: “The murderer went to the pantry at M. Guil- laume's and drank half a bottle of wine straight out of the bottle, which shows my husband's finger- prints.” It seemed as though her strength was exhausted and as though, at the same time, the unconscious hope which Rénine's intervention had awakened in her had suddenly vanished before the accumulation of adverse facts. Again she collapsed, withdrawn into a sort of silent meditation from which Hor- tense's affectionate attentions were unable to dis- tract her. The mother stammered : “He’s not guilty, is he, sir? And they can't pun- ish an innocent man. They haven't the right to kill my daughter. Oh dear, oh dear, what have we done to be tortured like this? My poor little Made- leine !” “She will kill herself,” said Dutreuil, in a scared voice. “She will never be able to endure the idea THE WATER-BOTTLE 63 that they are guillotining Jacques. She will kill herself presently . . . this very night. . . .” Rénine was striding up and down the room. “You can do nothing for her, can you?” asked Hortense. “It's half-past eleven now,” he replied, in an anxious tone, “and it's to happen to-morrow morn- ing.” “Do you think he's guilty?” “I don't know. . . . I don't know. . . . The poor woman's conviction is too impressive to be neglected. When two people have lived together for years, they can hardly be mistaken about each other to that degree. And yet . . .” He stretched himself out on a sofa and lit a cigarette. He smoked three in succession, without a word from any one to interrupt his train of thought. From time to time he looked at his watch. Every minute was of such importance! At last he went back to Madeleine Aubrieux, took her hands and said, very gently: “You must not kill yourself. There is hope left until the last minute has come; and I promise you that, for my part, I will not be disheartened until that last minute. But I need your calmness and your confidence.” “I will be calm,” “And confident?” “And confident.” “Well, wait for me. I shall be back in two y she said, with a pitiable air. 64 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK hours from now. Will you come with us, M. Du- treuil P” As they were stepping into his car, he asked the young man : “Do you know any small, unfrequented restau- rant, not too far inside Paris?” “There's the Brasserie Lutetia, on the ground- floor of the house in which I live, on the Place des Ternes.” “Capital. That will be very handy.” They scarcely spoke on the way. Rénine, how- ever, said to Gaston Dutreuil : “So far as I remember, the numbers of the notes are known, aren't they?” “Yes. M. Guillaume had entered the sixty num- bers in his pocket-book.” Rénine muttered, a moment later: “That's where the whole problem lies. Where are the notes? If we could lay our hands on them, we should know everything.” At the Brasserie Lutetia there was a telephone in the private room where he asked to have lunch served. When the waiter had left him alone with Hortense and Dutreuil, he took down the receiver with a resolute air: “Hullo! . . . Prefecture of police, please. . . . Hullo! Hullo! . . . Is that the Prefecture of police? Please put me on to the criminal investiga- tion department. I have a very important com- THE WATER-BOTTLE 65 munication to make. You can say it's Prince Rénine.” Holding the receiver in his hand, he turned to Gaston Dutreuil : “I can ask some one to come here, I suppose? We shall be quite undisturbed?” “Quite.” He listened again: “The secretary to the head of the criminal in- vestigation department? Oh, excellent! Mr. Secre- tary, I have on several occasions been in communica- tion with M. Dudouis and have given him informa- tion which has been of great use to him. He is sure to remember Prince Rénine. I may be able to-day to show him where the sixty thousand-franc notes are hidden which Aubrieux the murderer stole from his cousin. If he's interested in the proposal, beg him to send an inspector to the Brasserie Lutetia, Place des Ternes. I shall be there with a lady and M. Dutreuil, Aubrieux's friend. Good day, Mr. Secretary.” When Rénine hung up the instrument, he saw the amazed faces of Hortense and of Gaston Dutreuil confronting him. Hortense whispered: “Then you know? You've discovered . . . .” “Nothing,” he said, laughing. “Well ?” “Well, I'm acting as though I knew. It's not 66 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK a bad method. Let's have some lunch, shall we?” The clock marked a quarter to one. “The man from the prefecture will be here,” he said, “in twenty minutes at latest.” “And if no one comes?” Hortense objected. “That would surprise me. Of course, if I had sent a message to M. Dudouis saying, ‘Aubrieux is innocent,' I should have failed to make any impres- sion. It's not the least use, on the eve of an execu- tion, to attempt to convince the gentry of the police or of the law that a man condemned to death is innocent. No. From henceforth Jacques Aubri- eux belongs to the executioner. But the prospect of securing the sixty bank-notes is a windfall worth taking a little trouble over. Just think: that was the weak point in the indictment, those sixty notes which they were unable to trace.” “But, as you know nothing of their where- abouts. . . .” “My dear girl—I hope you don't mind my call- ing you so?—my dear girl, when a man can't ex- plain this or that physical phenomenon, he adopts some sort of theory which explains the various manifestations of the phenomenon and says that everything happened as though the theory were cor- ‘rect. That's what I am doing.” “That amounts to saying that you are going upon a supposition?” Rénine did not reply. Not until some time later, when lunch was over, did he say: THE WATER-BOTTLE 67 “Obviously I am going upon a supposition. If I had several days before me, I should take the trouble of first verifying my theory, which is based upon intuition quite as much as upon a few scattered facts. But I have only two hours; and I am embarking on the unknown path as though I were certain that it would lead me to the truth.” “And suppose you are wrong?” “I have no choice. Besides, it is too late. There's a knock. Oh, one word more! Whatever I may say, don't contradict me. Nor you, M. Dutreuil.” He opened the door. A thin man, with a red im- perial, entered: “Prince Rénine?” “Yes, sir. You, of course, are from M. Du- douis?” “Yes.” And the newcomer gave his name: “Chief-inspector Morisseau.” “I am obliged to you for coming so promptly, Mr. Chief-inspector,” said Prince Rénine, “and I hope that M. Dudouis will not regret having placed you at my disposal.” “At your entire disposal, in addition to two in- spectors whom I have left in the square outside and who have been in the case, with me, from the first.” “I shall not detain you for any length of time,” said Rénine, “and I will not even ask you to sit down. We have only a few minutes in which to settle everything. You know what it's all about?” 68 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “The sixty thousand-franc notes stolen from M. Guillaume. I have the numbers here.” Rénine ran his eyes down the slip of paper which the chief-inspector handed him and said: “That's right. The two lists agree.” Inspector Morisseau seemed greatly excited: “The chief attaches the greatest importance to your discovery. So you will be able to show me? . . .” Rénine was silent for a moment and then de- clared : “Mr. Chief-inspector, a personal investigation— and a most exhaustive investigation it was, as I will explain to you presently—has revealed the fact that, on his return from Suresnes, the murderer, after replacing the motor-cycle in the shed in the Avenue du Roule, ran to the Ternes and entered this house.” “This house?” “Yes.” “But what did he come here for?” “To hide the proceeds of his theft, the sixty bank-notes.” “How do you mean? Where?” “In a flat of which he had the key, on the fifth floor.” Gaston Dutreuil exclaimed, in amazement: “But there's only one flat on the fifth floor and that's the one I live in ''' THE WATER-BOTTLE 69 “Exactly; and, as you were at the cinema with Madame Aubrieux and her mother, advantage was taken of your absence. . . .” “Impossible! No one has the key except my- Self.” “One can get in without a key.” “But I have seen no marks of any kind.” Morisseau intervened: “Come, let us understand one another. You say the bank-notes were hidden in M. Dutreuil's flat P” “Yes.” “Then, as Jacques Aubrieux was arrested the next morning, the notes ought to be there still?” “That's my opinion.” Gaston Dutreuil could not help laughing: “But that's absurd ' I should have found them l’’ “Did you look for them?” “No. But I should have come across them at any moment. The place isn't big enough to swing a cat in. Would you care to see it?” “However small it may be, it's large enough to hold sixty bits of paper.” “Of course, everything is possible,” said Du- treuil. “Still, I must repeat that nobody, to my knowledge, has been to my rooms; that there is only one key; that I am my own housekeeper; and that I can't quite understand . . .” Hortense too could not understand. With her THE WATER-BOTTLE 71 to the room, as though he were unable to bear the sight of such vandalism. “You’re positive, are you not?” the inspector asked Rénine. “Yes, yes, I'm positive that the sixty notes were brought here after the murder.” “Let’s look for them.” This was easy and soon done. In half an hour, not a corner remained unexplored, not a knick-knack unlifted. “Nothing,” said Inspector Morisseau. “Shall we continue?” “No,” replied Rénine, “The notes are no longer Inere.” “What do you mean?” “I mean that they have been removed.” “By whom? Can't you make a more definite ac- cusation?” Rénine did not reply. But Gaston Dutreuil wheeled round. He was choking and spluttered: “Mr. Inspector, would you like me to make the accusation more definite, as conveyed by this gentle- man's remarks? It all means that there's a dis- honest man here, that the notes hidden by the mur- derer were discovered and stolen by that dis- honest man and deposited in another and safer place. That is your idea, sir, is it not? And you accuse me of committing this theft, don't you?” He came forward, drumming his chest with his 72 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK fists: “Me! Me! I found the notes, did I, and kept them for myself? You dare to suggest that l” Rénine still made no reply. Dutreuil flew into a rage and, taking Inspector Morisseau aside, ex- claimed: “Mr. Inspector, I strongly protest against all this farce and against the part which you are un- consciously playing in it. Before your arrival, Prince Rénine told this lady and myself that he knew nothing, that he was venturing into this affair at random and that he was following the first road that offered, trusting to luck. Do you deny it, sir?” Rénine did not open his lips. “Answer me, will you? Explain yourself; for, really, you are putting forward the most improbable facts without any proof whatever. It's easy enough to say that I stole the notes. And how were you to know that they were here at all? Who brought them here? Why should the murderer choose this flat to hide them in P It's all so stupid, so illogical and absurd . . . . Give us your proofs, sir . one single proof" Inspector Morisseau seemed perplexed. He ques- tioned Rénine with a glance. Rénine said: “Since you want specific details, we will get them from Madame Aubrieux herself. She's on the tele- phone. Let's go downstairs. We shall know all about it in a minute.” THE WATER-BOTTLE 73 Dutreuil shrugged his shoulders: “As you please; but what a waste of time!” He seemed greatly irritated. His long wait at the window, under a blazing sun, had thrown him into a sweat. He went to his bedroom and returned with a bottle of water, of which he took a few sips, afterwards placing the bottle on the window-sill: “Come along,” he said. Prince Rénine chuckled. “You seem to be in a hurry to leave the place.” “I’m in a hurry to show you up,” retorted Du- treuil, slamming the door. They went downstairs to the private room con- taining the telephone. The room was empty. Ré- nine asked Gaston Dutreuil for the Aubrieuxs' num- ber, took down the instrument and was put through. The maid who came to the telephone answered that Madame Aubrieux had fainted, after giving way to an access of despair, and that she was now asleep. “Fetch her mother, please. Prince Rénine speak- ing. It's urgent.” He handed the second receiver to Morisseau. For that matter, the voices were so distinct that Dutreuil and Hortense were able to hear every word exchanged. “Is that you, madame?” “Yes. Prince Rénine, I believe?” “Prince Rénine.” “Oh, sir, what news have you for me? Is there THE WATER-BOTTLE 75 of my efforts in an hour's time. But above all, don't wake up Madame Aubrieux.” “And suppose she wakes of her own accord?” “Reassure her and give her confidence. Every- thing is going well, very well indeed.” He hung up the receiver and turned to Dutreuil, laughing: - “Ha, ha, my boy! Things are beginning to look clearer. What do you say?” It was difficult to tell what these words meant or what conclusions Rénine had drawn from his conversation. The silence was painful and oppres- sive. “Mr. Chief-Inspector, you have some of your men outside, haven't you?” “Two detective-sergeants.” “It's important that they should be there. Please also ask the manager not to disturb us on any account.” And, when Morisseau returned, Rénine closed the door, took his stand in front of Dutreuil and, speaking in a good-humoured but emphatic tone, said: “It amounts to this, young man, that the ladies saw nothing of you between three and five o'clock on that Sunday. That's rather a curious detail.” “A perfectly natural detail,” Dutreuil retorted, “and one, moreover, which proves nothing at all.” “It proves, young man, that you had a good two hours at your disposal.” 76 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK. “Obviously. Two hours which I spent at the cinema.” “Or somewhere else.” Dutreuil looked at him : “Somewhere else?” “Yes. As you were free, your had plenty of time to go wherever you liked . . . to Suresnes, for instance.” “Oh!” said the young man, jesting in his turn. “Suresnes is a long way off!” “It’s quite close ! Hadn't you your friend Jac- ques Aubrieux's motor-cycle?” A fresh pause followed these words. Dutreuil had knitted his brows as though he were trying to understand. At last he was heard to whisper: “So that is what he was trying to lead up to ! . . . The brute! . . .” Rénine brought down his hand on Dutreuil's shoulder: “No more talk! Facts' Gaston Dutreuil, you are the only person who on that day knew two essential things: first, that Cousin Guillaume had sixty thousand francs in his house; secondly, that Jacques Aubrieux was not going out. You at once saw your chance. The motor-cycle was available. You slipped out during the performance. You went to Suresnes. You killed Cousin Guillaume. You took the sixty bank-notes and left them at your rooms. And at five o'clock you went back to fetch the ladies.” THE WATER-BOTTLE 77 Dutreuil had listened with an expression at once mocking and flurried, casting an occasional glance at Inspector Morisseau as though to enlist him as a witness: “The man's mad,” it seemed to say. “It’s no use being angry with him.” When Rénine had finished, he began to laugh: “Very funny! . . . A capital joke! . . . So it was I whom the neighbours saw going and return- ing on the motor-cycle?” “It was you disguised in Jacques Ambrieux's clothes.” “And it was my finger-prints that were found on the bottle in M. Guillaume's pantry?” “The bottle had been opened by Jacques Aubrieux at lunch, in his own house, and it was you who took it with you to serve as evidence.” - “Funnier and funnier!” cried Dutreuil, who had the air of being frankly amused. “Then I contrived the whole affair so that Jacques Aubrieux might be accused of the crime?” “It was the safest means of not being accused yourself.” “Yes, but Jacques is a friend whom I have known from childhood.” “You’re in love with his wife.” The young man gave a sudden, infuriated start: “You dare! . . . What! You dare make such an infamous suggestion?” “I have proof of it.” 78 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “That's a lie! I have always respected Made- leine Aubrieux and revered her. . . .” “Apparently. But you're in love with her. You desire her. Don't contradict me. I have abundant proof of it.” “That's a lie, I tell you! You have only known me a few hours!” “Come, come! I've been quietly watching you for days, waiting for the moment to pounce upon you.” He took the young man by the shoulders and shook him: “Come, Dutreuil, confess! I hold all the proofs in my hand. I have witnesses whom we shall meet presently at the criminal investigation department. Confess, can't you? In spite of everything, you're tortured by remorse. Remember your dismay, at the restaurant, when you had seen the newspaper. What? Jacques Aubrieux condemned to die? That's more than you bargained for! Penal servi- tude would have suited your book; but the scaffold ! . . . Jacques Aubrieux executed to-morrow, an in- nocent man! . . . Confess, won't you? Confess to save your own skin' Own up!” Bending over the other, he was trying with all his might to extort a confession from him. But Dutreuil drew himself up and coldly, with a sort of scorn in his voice, said: “Sir, you are a madman. Not a word that you THE WATER-BOTTLE 79 have said has any sense in it. All your accusations are false. What about the bank-notes? Did you find them at my place as you said you would?” Rénine, exasperated, clenched his fist in his face: “Oh, your swine, I'll dish you yet, I swear I Will l’’ He drew the inspector aside: “Well, what do you say to it? An arrant rogue, isn’t he?” - The inspector nodded his head: “It may be. . . . But, all the same . . . so far there's no real evidence.” “Wait, M. Morisseau,” said Rénine. “Wait un- til we’ve had our interview with M. Dudouis. For we shall see M. Dudouis at the prefecture, shall we not?” “Yes, he'll be there at three o'clock.” “Well, you'll be convinced, Mr. Inspector! I tell you here and now that you will be convinced.” Rénine was chuckling like a man who feels cer- tain of the course of events. Hortense, who was standing near him and was able to speak to him without being heard by the others, asked, in a low voice: “You’ve got him, haven't you?” He nodded his head in assent: “Got him? I should think I have All the same, I'm no farther forward than I was at the be- ginning.” 80 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “But this is awful! And your proofs?” “Not the shadow of a proof . . . I was hoping to trip him up. But he's kept his feet, the rascal!” “Still, you're certain it's he?” “It can't be any one else. I had an intuition at the very outset; and I’ve not taken my eyes off him since. I have seen his anxiety increasing as my investigations seemed to centre on him and concern him more closely. Now I know.” “And he's in love with Madame Aubrieux?” “In logic, he's bound to be. But so far we have only hypothetical suppositions, or rather certainties which are personal to myself. We shall never inter- cept the guillotine with those. Ah, if we could only find the bank-notes! Given the bank-notes, M. Du- douis would act. Without them, he will laugh in my face.” “What then?” murmured Hortense, in anguished aCCentS. He did not reply. He walked up and down the room, assuming an air of gaiety and rubbing his hands. All was going so well! It was really a treat to take up a case which, so to speak, worked itself out automatically. “Suppose we went on to the prefecture, M. Moris- seau? The chief must be there by now. And, having gone so far, we may as well finish. Will M. Dutreuil come with us?” “Why not?” said Dutreuil, arrogantly. But, just as Rénine was opening the door, there THE WATER-BOTTLE 81 was a noise in the passage and the manager ran up, waving his arms: “Is M. Dutreuil still here? . . . M. Dutreuil, your flat is on fire! . . . A man outside told us. He saw it from the square.” - The young man's eyes lit up. For perhaps half a second his mouth was twisted by a smile which Rénine noticed: “Oh, you ruffian!” he cried. “You’ve given yourself away, my beauty! It was you who set fire to the place upstairs; and now the notes are burning.” He blocked his exit. “Let me pass,” shouted Dutreuil. “There's a fire and no one can get in, because no one else has a key. Here it is. Let me pass, damn it!” Rénine snatched the key from his hand and, hold- ing him by the collar of his coat: “Don’t you move, my fine fellow ! The game's up! You precious blackguard! M. Morisseau, will you give orders to the sergeant not to let him out of his sight and to blow out his brains if he tries to get away? Sergeant, we rely on you! Put a bullet into him, if necessary! . . .” He hurried up the stairs, followed by Hortense and the chief inspector, who was protesting rather peevishly: “But, I say, look here, it wasn't he who set the place on fire! How do you make out that he set it on fire, seeing that he never left us?” 82 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “Why, he set it on fire beforehand, to be sure!” “How P I ask you, how?” “How do I know? But a fire doesn't break out like that, for no reason at all, at the very moment when a man wants to burn compromising papers.” They heard a commotion upstairs. It was the waiters of the restaurant trying to burst the door open. An acrid smell filled the well of the stair- CaSe. - Rénine reached the top floor: “By your leave, friends. I have the key.” He inserted it in the lock and opened the door. He was met by a gust of smoke so dense that one might well have supposed the whole floor to be ablaze. Rénine at once saw that the fire had gone out of its own accord, for lack of fuel, and that there were no more flames: “M. Morisseau, you won't let any one come in with us, will you? An intruder might spoil every- thing. Bolt the door, that will be best.” He stepped into the front room, where the fire had obviously had its chief centre. The furniture, the walls and the ceiling, though blackened by the smoke, had not been touched. As a matter of fact, the fire was confined to a blaze of papers which was still burning in the middle of the room, in front of the window. Rénine struck his forehead : “What a fool I am! What an unspeakable ass!” THE WATER-BOTTLE 83 “Why?” asked the inspector. “The hat-box, of course! The cardboard hat- box which was standing on the table. That's where he hid the notes. They were there all through our search.” “Impossible!” “Why, yes, we always overlook that particular hiding-place, the one just under our eyes, within reach of our hands! How could one imagine that a thief would leave sixty thousand francs in an open cardboard box, in which he places his hat when he comes in, with an absent-minded air? That's just the one place we don't look in. . . . Well played, M. Dutreuill” The inspector, who remained incredulous, re- peated: “No, no, impossible! We were with him and he could not have started the fire himself.” “Everything was prepared beforehand on the sup- position that there might be an alarm. . . . The hat-box . . . the tissue paper . . . the bank-notes: they must all have been steeped in some inflam- mable liquid. He must have thrown a match, a chemical preparation or what not into it, as we were leaving.” “But we should have seen him, hang it all! And then is it credible that a man who has committed a murder for the sake of sixty thousand francs should do away with the money in this way? If the 84 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK hiding-place was such a good one—and it was, be- cause we never discovered it—why this useless de- Struction?” “He got frightened, M. Morisseau. Remember that his head is at stake and he knows it. Anything rather than the guillotine; and they—the bank-notes —were the only proof which we had against him. How could he have left them where they were?” Morisseau was flabbergasted: “What! The only proof?” “Why, obviously!” - “But your witnesses? Your evidence? All that you were going to tell the chief ?” “Mere bluff.” “Well, upon my word,” growled the bewildered inspector, “you're a cool customer!” “Would you have taken action without my bluff?” “No.” “Then what more do you want?” Rénine stooped to stir the ashes. But there was nothing left, not even those remnants of stiff paper which still retain their shape. “Nothing,” he said. “It’s queer, all the same! How the deuce did he manage to set the thing alight?” He stood up, looking attentively about him. Hor- tense had a feeling that he was making his supreme effort and that, after this last struggle in the dark, he would either have devised his plan of victory or admit that he was beaten. THE WATER-BOTTLE 87 move. Hortense was stirred to the very depths of her being. The life of an innocent man hung trem- bling in the balance. An error of judgment, a little bad luck . . . and, twelve hours later, Jacques Aubrieux would be put to death. And together with a horrible anguish she experienced, in spite of all, a feeling of eager curiosity. What was Prince Rénine going to do? What would be the outcome of the experiment on which he was venturing? What resistance would Gaston Dutreuil offer? She lived through one of those minutes of super- human tension in which life becomes intensified until it reaches its utmost value. They heard footsteps on the stairs, the footsteps of men in a hurry. The sound drew nearer. They were reaching the top floor. Hortense looked at her companion. He had stood up and was listening, his features already transfigured by action. The footsteps were now echoing in the passage. Then, suddenly, he ran to the door and cried : “Quick! Let's make an end of it!” Two or three detectives and a couple of waiters entered. He caught hold of Dutreuil in the midst of the detectives and pulled him by the arm, gaily exclaiming: “Well done, old man! That trick of yours with the table and the water-bottle was really splendid! A masterpiece, on my word! Only, it didn't come off l’” 88 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “What do you mean? What's the matter?” mum- bled Gaston Dutreuil, staggering. “What I say: the fire burnt only half the tissue- paper and the hat-box; and, though some of the bank-notes were destroyed, like the tissue-paper, the others are there, at the bottom. . . . You under- stand? The long-sought notes, the great proof of the murder: they're there, where you hid them. . As chance would have it, they've escaped burning. . . . Here, look: there are the numbers; you can check them. . . . Oh, you're done for, done for, my beauty!” The young man drew himself up stiffly. His eyelids quivered. He did not accept Rénine's in- vitation to look; he examined neither the hat-box nor the bank-notes. From the first moment, with- out taking the time to reflect and before his instinct could warn him, he believed what he was told and collapsed heavily into a chair, weeping. The surprise attack, to use Rénine's expression, had succeeded. On seeing all his plans baffled and the enemy master of his secrets, the wretched man had neither the strength nor the perspicacity neces- sary to defend himself. He threw up the sponge. Rénine gave him no time to breathe: “Capital! You're saving your head; and that's all, my good youth ! Write down your confession and get it off your chest. Here's a fountain-pen. . . . The luck has been against you, I admit. It was devilishly well thought out, your trick of the THE WATER-BOTTLE 89 last moment. You had the bank-notes which were in your way and which you wanted to destroy. Nothing simpler. You take a big, round-bellied water-bottle and stand it on the window-sill. It acts as a burning-glass, concentrating the rays of the sun on the cardboard and tissue-paper, all nicely prepared. Ten minutes later, it bursts into flames. A splendid idea! And, like all great discoveries, it came quite by chance, what? It reminds one of Newton's apple. . . . One day, the sun, passing through the water in that bottle, must have set fire to a scrap of cotton or the head of a match; and, as you had the sun at your disposal just now, you said to yourself, ‘Now's the time,’ and stood the bottle in the right position. My congratulations, Gaston! . . . Look, here's a sheet of paper. Write down: “It was I who murdered M. Guillaume.’ Write, I tell you!” Leaning over the young man, with all his im- placable force of will he compelled him to write, guiding his hand and dictating the sentences. Du- treuil, exhausted, at the end of his strength, wrote as he was told. “Here's the confession, Mr. Chief-inspector,” said Rénine. “You will be good enough to take it to M. Dudouis. These gentlemen,” turning to the waiters, from the restaurant, “will, I am sure, con- sent to serve as witnesses.” And, seeing that Dutreuil, overwhelmed by what had happened, did not move, he gave him a shake: 90 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “Hi, you, look alive! Now that you've been fool enough to confess, make an end of the job, my gentle idiot!” The other watched him, standing in front of him. “Obviously,” Rénine continued, “you're only a simpleton. The hat-box was fairly burnt to ashes; so were the notes. That hat-box, my dear fellow, is a different one; and those notes belong to me. I even burnt six of them to make you swallow the stunt. And you couldn't make out what had hap- pened. What an owl you must bel To furnish me with evidence at the last moment, when I hadn't a single proof of my own! And such evidence! A written confession! Written before witnesses! . . . Look here, my man, if they do cut off your head—as I sincerely hope they will—upon my word, you'll have jolly well deserved it! Good-bye, Du- treuill” Downstairs, in the street, Rénine asked Hortense Daniel to take the car, go to Madeleine Aubrieux and tell her what had happened. “And you?” asked Hortense. “I have a lot to do . . . urgent appoint- ments. . . .” “And you deny yourself the pleasure of bringing the good news?” “It’s one of the pleasures that pall upon one. The only pleasure that never flags is that of the THE WATER-BOTTLE 91 fight itself. Afterwards, things cease to be inter- esting.” She took his hand and for a moment held it in both her own. She would have liked to express all her admiration to that strange man, who seemed to do good as a sort of game and who did it with something like genius. But she was unable to speak. All these rapid incidents had upset her. Emotion constricted her throat and brought the tears to her eyes. Rénine bowed his head, saying: “Thank you. I have my reward.” III THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS III THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS “MONSIEUR,” continued the young girl, addres- sing Serge Rénine, “it was while I was spending the Easter holidays at Nice with my father that I made the acquaintance of Jean Louis d'Imbleval. . . .” Rénine interrupted her: “Excuse me, mademoiselle, but just now you spoke of this young man as Jean Louis Vaurois.” “That's his name also,” she said. “Has he two names then?” “I don't know . . . I don't know anything about it,” she said, with some embarrassment, “and that is why, by Hortense's advice, I came to ask for your help.” This conversation was taking place in Rénine's flat on the Boulevard Haussmann, to which Hor- tense had brought her friend Geneviève Aymard, a slender, pretty little creature with a face over- shadowed by an expression of the greatest melan- choly. “Rénine will be successful, take my word for it, Geneviève. You will, Rénine, won't you?” “Please tell me the rest of the story, mademoi- selle,” he said. 95 96 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK Geneviève continued: “I was already engaged at the time to a man whom I loathe and detest. My father was trying to force me to marry him and is still trying to do so. Jean Louis and I felt the keenest sympathy for each other, a sympathy that soon developed into a pro- found and passionate affection which, I can assure you, was equally sincere on both sides. On my re- turn to Paris, Jean Louis, who lives in the country with his mother and his aunt, took rooms in our part of the town; and, as I am allowed to go out by myself, we used to see each other daily. I need not tell you that we were engaged to be married. I told my father so. And this is what he said: ‘I don't particularly like the fellow. But, whether it's he or another, what I want is that you should get married. So let him come and ask for your hand. If not, you must do as I say.” In the mid- dle of June, Jean Louis went home to arrange mat- ters with his mother and aunt. I received some pas- sionate letters; and then just these few words: “There are too many obstacles in the way of our happiness. I give up. I am mad with despair. I love you more than ever. Good-bye and forgive y 1116. “Since then, I have received nothing: no reply to my letters and telegrams.” “Perhaps he has fallen in love with somebody | THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS 97 else?” asked Rénine. “Or there may be some old connection which he is unable to shake off.” Geneviève shook her head: “Monsieur, believe me, if our engagement had been broken off for an ordinary reason, I should not have allowed Hortense to trouble you. But it is something quite different, I am absolutely con- vinced. There's a mystery in Jean Louis' life, or rather an endless number of mysteries which hamper and pursue him. I never saw such distress in a human face; and, from the first moment of our meeting, I was conscious in him of a grief and melancholy which have always persisted, even at times when he was giving himself to our love with the greatest confidence.” “But your impression must have been confirmed by minor details, by things which happened to strike you as peculiar?” “I don't quite know what to say.” “These two names, for instance?” “Yes, there was certainly that.” “By what name did he introduce himself to you?” “Jean Louis d'Imbleval.” “But Jean Louis Vaurois?” “That's what my father calls him.” “Why?” “Because that was how he was introduced to my father, at Nice, by a gentleman who knew him. Besides, he carries visiting-cards which describe him under either name.” 98 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “Have you never questioned him on this point?” “Yes, I have, twice. The first time, he said that his aunt's name was Vaurois and his mother's d’Im- bleval.” “And the second time?” “He told me the contrary: he spoke of his mother as Vaurois and of his aunt as d’Imbleval. I pointed this out. He coloured up and I thought it better not to question him any further.” “Does he live far from Paris?” “Right down in Brittany: at the Manoir d'El- seven, five miles from Carhaix.” Rénine rose and asked the girl, seriously: “Are you quite certain that he loves you, ma- demoiselle?” “I am certain of it and I know too that he rep- resents all my life and all my happiness. He alone can save me. If he can’t, then I shall be married in a week's time to a man whom I hate. I have promised my father; and the banns have been pub- lished.” “We shall leave for Carhaix, Madame Daniel and I, this evening,” said Rénine. That evening he and Hortense took the train for Brittany. They reached Carhaix at ten o'clock in the morning; and, after lunch, at half past twelve o'clock they stepped into a car borrowed from a leading resident of the district. “You're looking a little pale, my dear,” said THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS 99 Rénine, with a laugh, as they alighted by the gate of the garden at Elseven. “I’m very fond of Geneviève,” she said. “She's the only friend I have. And I’m feeling fright- ened.” He called her attention to the fact that the central gate was flanked by two wickets bearing the names of Madame d'Imbleval and Madame Vaurois respec- tively. Each of these wickets opened on a narrow path which ran among the shrubberies of box and aucuba to the left and right of the main avenue. The avenue itself led to an old manor-house, long, low and picturesque, but provided with two clumsily- built, ugly wings, each in a different style of archi- tecture and each forming the destination of one of the side-paths. Madame d'Imbleval evidently lived on the left and Madame Vaurois on the right. Hortense and Rénine listened. Shrill, hasty voices were disputing inside the house. The sound came through one of the windows of the ground- floor, which was level with the garden and covered throughout its length with red creepers and white roSeS. “We can't go any farther,” said Hortense. “It would be indiscreet.” “All the more reason,” whispered Rénine. “Look here: if we walk straight ahead, we shan’t be seen by the people who are quarrelling.” The sounds of conflict were by no means abating; and, when they reached the window next 100 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK to the front-door, through the roses and creepers they could both see and hear two old ladies shriek- ing at the tops of their voices and shaking their fists at each other. The women were standing in the foreground, in a large dining-room where the table was not yet cleared; and at the farther side of the table sat a young man, doubtless Jean Louis himself, smoking, his pipe and reading a newspaper, without appear- ing to trouble about the two old harridans. One of these, a thin, tall woman, was wearing a purple silk dress; and her hair was dressed in a mass of curls much too yellow for the ravaged face around which they tumbled. The other, who was still thinner, but quite short, was bustling round the room in a cotton dressing-gown and displayed a red, painted face blazing with anger: “A baggage, that's what you are ſ” she yelped. “The wickedest woman in the world and a thief into the bargain!” “I, a thief '' Screamed the other. “What about that business with the ducks at tem francs apiece: don't you call that thieving?” “Hold your tongue, you low creature! Who stole the fifty-franc note from my dressing-table? Lord, that I should have to live with such a wretch!” The other started with fury at the outrage and, addressing the young man, cried: “Jean, are you going to sit there and let me be insulted by your hussy of a d’Imbleval?” THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS : Ol And the tall one retorted, furiously: “Hussy' Do you hear that, Louis? Look at her, your Vaurois! She's got the airs of a super- annuated barmaid! Make her stop, can't you?” Suddenly Jean Louis banged his fist upon the table, making the plates and dishes jump, and shouted : “Be quiet, both of you, you old lunatics * They turned upon him at once and loaded him with abuse: “Coward! . . . Hypocrite! . . . Liar! . . . A pretty sort of son you are . . . The son of a slut and not much better yourself " . . .” The insults rained down upon him. He stopped his ears with his fingers and writhed as he sat at table like a man who has lost all patience and has need to restrain himself lest he should fall upon his enemy. Rénine whispered: “Now's the time to go in.” In among all those infuriated people?” protested Hortense. “Exactly. We shall see them better with their masks off.” And, with a determined step, he walked to the door, opened it and entered the room, followed by Hortense. His advent gave rise to a feeling of stupefaction. The two women stopped yelling, but were still scar- let in the face and trembling with rage. Jean Louis, who was very pale, stood up. (, , 102 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK Profiting by the general confusion, Rénine said, briskly: “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Prince Rénine. This is Madame Daniel. We are friends of Mlle. Geneviève Aymard and we have come in her name. I have a letter from her addressed to you, monsieur.” Jean Louis, already disconcerted by the new- comers' arrival, lost countenance entirely on hear- ing the name of Geneviève. Without quite know- ing what he was saying and with the intention of responding to Rénine's courteous behaviour, he tried in his turn to introduce the two ladies and let fall the astounding words: “My mother, Madame d'Imbleval; my mother, Madame Vaurois.” For some time no one spoke. Rénine bowed. Hortense did not know with whom she should shake hands, with Madame d'Imbleval, the mother, or with Madame Vaurois, the mother. But what happened was that Madame d’Imbleval and Madame Vaurois both at the same time attempted to snatch the letter which Rénine was holding out to Jean Louis, while both at the same time mum- bled : “Mlle. Aymard ' . . . She has had the coolness . she has had the audacity . . . .” Then Jean Louis, recovering his self-possession, laid hold of his mother d’Imbleval and pushed her out of the room by a door on the left and next of THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS 103 his mother Vaurois and pushed her out of the room by a door on the right. Then, returning to his two visitors, he opened the envelope and read, in an un- dertone: “I am to be married in a week, Jean Louis. Come to my rescue, I beseech you. My friend Hortense and Prince Rénine will help you to overcome the obstacles that baffle you. Trust them. I love you. “GENEVIEVE.” He was a rather dull-looking young man, whose very swarthy, lean and bony face certainly bore the expression of melancholy and distress described by Geneviève. Indeed, the marks of suffering were visible in all his harassed features, as well as in his sad and anxious eyes. He repeated Geneviève’s name over and over again, while looking about him with a distracted air. He seemed to be seeking a course of conduct. He seemed on the point of offering an explanation but could find nothing to say. The sudden inter- vention had taken him at a disadvantage, like an unforseen attack which he did not know how to meet. Rénine felt that the adversary would capitulate at the first summons. The man had been fighting so desperately during the last few months and had suf- fered so severely in the retirement and obstinate si- lence in which he had taken refuge that he was not thinking of defending himself. Moreover, how 104 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK could he do so, now that they had forced their way into the privacy of his odious existence? “Take my word for it, monsieur,” declared Ré- nine, “that it is in your best interests to confide in us. We are Geneviève Aymard's friends. Do not hesitate to speak.” “I can hardly hesitate,” he said, “after what you have just heard. This is the life I lead, monsieur. I will tell you the whole secret, so that you may tell it to Geneviève. She will then understand why I have not gone back to her . . . and why I have not the right to do so.” He pushed a chair forward for Hortense. The two men sat down, and, without any need of further persuasion, rather as though he himself felt a cer- tain relief in unburdening himself, he said: “You must not be surprised, monsieur, if I tell my story with a certain flippancy, for, as a matter of fact, it is a frankly comical story and cannot fail to make you laugh. Fate often amuses itself by playing these imbecile tricks, these monstrous farces which seem as though they must have been invented by the brain of a madman or a drunkard. Judge for yourself. Twenty-seven years ago, the Manoir d'Elseven, which at that time consisted only of the main building, was occupied by an old doctor who, to increase his modest means, used to receive one or two paying guests. In this way, Madame d’Im- bleval spent the summer here one year and Madame Vaurois the following summer. Now these two THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS 107 socks and laid them both, side by side, in the same cradle, so that it was impossible to tell Louis d'Im- bleval from Jean Vaurois! . . . To make matters worse, when she lifted one of them out of the cradle, she found that his hands were cold as ice and that he had ceased to breathe. He was dead. What was his name and what the survivor's? . . . Three hours later, the doctor found the two women in a condition of frenzied delirium, while the nurse was dragging herself from one bed to the other, en- treating the two mothers to forgive her. She held me out first to one, then to the other, to receive their caresses—for I was the surviving child—and they first kissed me and then pushed me away; for, after all, who was I? The son of the widowed Madame d’Imbleval and the late merchant-captain or the son of the widowed Madame Vaurois and the late com- mercial traveller? There was not a clue by which they could tell. . . . The doctor begged each of the two mothers to sacrifice her rights, at least from the legal point of view, so that I might be called either Louis d’Imbleval or Jean Vaurois. They refused absolutely. “Why Jean Vaurois, if he's a d'Imbleval?' protested the one. “Why Louis d'Im- bleval, if he's a Vaurois?’ retorted the other. And I was registered under the name of Jean Louis, the son of an unknown father and mother.” Prince Rénine had listened in silence. But Hor- tense, as the story approached its conclusion, had given way to a hilarity which she could no longer 108 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK restrain and suddenly, in spite of all her efforts, she burst into a fit of the wildest laughter: “Forgive me,” she said, her eyes filled with tears, “do forgive me; it's too much for my nerves. . . .” “Don’t apologize, madame,” said the young man, gently, in a voice free from resentment. “I warned you that my story was laughable; I, better than any one, know how absurd, how nonsensical it is. Yes, the whole thing is perfectly grotesque. But believe me when I tell you that it was no fun in reality. It seems a humorous situation and it re- mains humorous by the force of circumstances; but it is also horrible. You can see that for yourself, can't you? The two mothers, neither of whom was certain of being a mother, but neither of whom was certain that she was not one, both clung to Jean Louis. He might be a stranger; on the other hand, he might be their own flesh and blood. They loved him to excess and fought for him furiously. And, above all, they both came to hate each other with a deadly hatred. Differing completely in character and education and obliged to live together because neither was willing to forego the advantage of her possible maternity, they lived the life of irreconcil- able enemies who can never lay their weapons aside. - I grew up in the midst of this hatred and had it instilled into me by both of them. When my childish heart, hungering for affection, inclined me to one of them, the other would seek to inspire me with loathing and contempt for her. In this manor- THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS 109 house, which they bought on the old doctor's death and to which they added the two wings, I was the involuntary torturer and their daily victim. Tor- mented as a child, and, as a young man, leading the most hideous of lives, I doubt if any one on earth ever suffered more than I did.” “You ought to have left them!” exclaimed Hor- tense, who had stopped laughing. “One can't leave one's mother; and one of those two women was my mother. And a woman can't abandon her son; and each of them was entitled to believe that I was her son. We were all three chained together like convicts, with chains of sor- row, compassion, doubt and also of hope that the truth might one day become apparent. And here we still are, all three, insulting one another and blaming one another for our wasted lives. Oh, what a hell! And there was no escaping it. I tried often enough . . . but in vain. The broken bonds became tied again. Only this summer, under the stimulus of my love for Geneviève, I tried to free myself and did my utmost to persuade the two women whom I call mother. And then . . . and then! I was up against their complaints, their im- mediate hatred of the wife, of the stranger, whom I was proposing to force upon them. . . . I gave way. What sort of a life would Geneviève have had here, between Madame d'Imbleval and Madame Vaurois? I had no right to victimize her.” Jean Louis, who had been gradually becoming ex- 110 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK cited, uttered these last words in a firm voice, as though he would have wished his conduct to be ascribed to conscientious motives and a sense of duty. In reality, as Rénine and Hortense clearly saw, his was an unusually weak nature, incapable of reacting aginst a ridiculous position from which he had suffered ever since he was a child and which he had come to look upon as final and irremediable. He endured it as a man bears a cross which he has no right to cast aside; and at the same time he was ashamed of it. He had never spoken of it to Gene- viève, from dread of ridicule; and afterwards, on returning to his prison, he had remained there out of habit and weakness. He sat down to a writing-table and quickly wrote a letter which he handed to Rénine: “Would you be kind enough to give this note to Mlle. Aymard and beg her once more to forgive me?” Rénine did not move and, when the other pressed the letter upon him, he took it and tore it up. “What does this mean?” asked the young man. “It means that I will not charge myself with any message.” “Why?” “Because you are coming with us.” “I?” “Yes. You will see Mlle. Aymard to-morrow and ask for her hand in marriage.” Jean Louis looked at Rénine with a rather dis- THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS 1 11 dainful air, as though he were thinking: “Here's a man who has not understood a word of what I’ve been explaining to him.” But Hortense went up to Rénine: “Why do you say that?” “Because it will be as I say.” “But you must have your reasons?” “One only; but it will be enough, provided this gentleman is so kind as to help me in my enquiries.” “Enquiries? With what object?” asked the young 111a11. “With the object of proving that your story is not quite accurate.” Jean Louis took umbrage at this: “I must ask you to believe, monsieur, that I have not said a word which is not the exact truth.” “I expressed myself badly,” said Rénine, with great kindliness. “Certainly you have not said a word that does not agree with what you believe to be the exact truth. But the truth is not, cannot be what you believe it to be.” The young man folded his arms: “In any case, monsieur, it seems likely that I should know the truth better than you do.” “Why better? What happened on that tragic night can obviously be known to you only at second- hand. You have no proofs. Neither have Madame d'Imbleval and Madame Vaurois.” “No proofs of what?” exclaimed Jean Louis, losing patience. 112 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “No proofs of the confusion that took place.” “What! Why, it's an absolute certainty The two children were laid in the same cradle, with no marks to distinguish one from the other; and the nurse was unable to tell . . .” “At least, that's her version of it,” interrupted Rénine. “What's that? Her version? But you're ac- cusing the woman. “I’m accusing her of nothing.” “Yes, you are: you're accusing her of lying. And why should she lie? She had no interest in doing so; and her tears and despair are so much evidence of her good faith. For, after all, the two mothers were there . . . they saw the woman weeping . . . they questioned her. . . . And then, I repeat, what interest had she . . . .” Jean Louis was greatly excited. Close beside him, Madame d'Imbleval and Madame Vaurois, who had no doubt been listening behind the doors and who had stealthily entered the room, stood stam- mering, in amazement: “No, no . . . it's impossible. . . . We've ques- tioned her over and over again. Why should she tell a lie? . . .” “Speak, monsieur, speak,” Jean Louis enjoined. “Explain yourself. Give your reasons for trying to cast doubt upon an absolute truth !” “Because that truth is inadmissible,” declared Ré- nine, raising his voice and growing excited in turn THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS 113 to the point of punctuating his remarks by thumping the table. “No, things don’t happen like that. No, fate does not display those refinements of cruelty and chance is not added to chance with such reck- less extravagance! It was already an unprecedented chance that, on the very night on which the doctor, his man-servant and his maid were out of the house, the two ladies should be seized with labour-pains at the same hour and should bring two sons into the world at the same time. Don't let us add a still more exceptional event! Enough of the un- canny! Enough of lamps that go out and candles that refuse to burn! No and again no, it is not ad- missable that a midwife should become confused in the essential details of her trade. However be- wildered she may be by the unforeseen nature of the circumstances, a remnant of instinct is still on the alert, so that there is a place prepared for each child and each is kept distinct from the other. The first child is here, the second is there. Even if they are lying side by side, one is on the left and the other on the right. Even if they are wrapped in the same kind of binders, some little detail differs, a trifle which is recorded by the memory and which is inevitably recalled to the mind without any need of reflection. Confusion? I refuse to believe in it. Impossible to tell one from the other? It isn't true. In the world of fiction, yes, one can imagine all sorts of fantastic accidents and heap contradiction on contradiction. But, in the world of reality, at 114 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK the very heart of reality, there is always a fixed point, a solid nucleus, about which the facts group themselves in accordance with a logical order. I therefore declare most positively that Nurse Bous- signol could not have mixed up the two children.” All this he sa, decisively, as though he had been present during the night in question; and so great was his power of persuasion that from the very first he shook the certainty of those who for more than a quarter of a century had never doubted. The two women and their son pressed round him and questioned him with breathless anxiety: “Then you think that she may know . . . that she may be able to tell us . . . .” He corrected himself: “I don't sa, yes and I don't say no. All I say is that there was something in her behaviour during those hours that does not tally with her statements and with reality. All the vast and intolerable mys- tery that has weighed down upon you three arises not from a momentary lack of attention but from something of which we do not know, but of which she does. That is what I maintain; and that is what happened.” Jean Louis said, in a husky voice: “She is alive. . . . She lives at Carhaix. . . . We can send for her. . . .” Hortense at once proposed: “Would you like me to go for her? I will take THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS 115 the motor and bring her back with me. Where does she live?” “In the middle of the town, at a little draper's shop. The chauffeur will show you. Mlle. Bous- signol: everybody knows her .” “And, whatever you do,” added Rénine, “don’t warn her in any way. If she's uneasy, so much the better. But don't let her know what we want with her.” Twenty minutes passed in absolute silence. Ré- nine paced the room, in which the fine old furniture, the handsome tapestries, the well-bound books and pretty knick-knacks denoted a love of art and a seeking after style in Jean Louis. This room was really his. In the adjoining apartments on either side, through the open doors, Rénin was able to note the bad taste of the two mothers. He went up to Jean Louis and, in a low voice, asked: “Are they well off?” “Yes.” “And you?” “They settled the manor-house upon me, with all the land around it, which makes me quite inde- pendent.” “Have they any relations?” “Sisters, both of them.” “With whom they could go to live?” “Yes; and they have sometimes thought of doing THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS 117 the birth-certificate of one of the children born in the course of that night is inaccurate. Now false declarations in matters of birth-certificates are mis- demeanours punishable by law. I shall therefore be obliged to take you to Paris to be interrogated . . . unless you are prepared here and now to confess everything that might repair the consequences of your offence.” The old maid was shaking in every limb. Her teeth were chattering. She was evidently incapable of opposing the least resistance to Rénine. “Are you ready to confess everything?” he asked. “Yes,” she panted. “Without delay? I have to catch a train. The business must be settled immediately. If you show the least hesitation, I take you with me. Have you made up your mind to speak?” “Yes.” He pointed to Jean Louis: “Whose son is this gentleman? Madame d'Im- Bleval’s P” “No.” “Madame Vaurois', therefore?” “No.” A stupefied silence welcomed the two replies. “Explain yourself,” Rénine commanded, looking at his watch. Then Madame Boussignol fell on her knees and said, in so low and dull a voice that they had to bend 118 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK over her in order to catch the sense of what she was mumbling: “Some one came in the evening . . . a gentleman with a new-born baby wrapped in blankets, which he wanted the doctor to look after. As the doctor wasn't there, he waited all night and it was he who did it all.” “Did what?” asked Rénine. “What did he do? What happened?” “Well, what happened was that it was not one child but the two of them that died: Madame d'Im- bleval's and Madame Vaurois' too, both in convul- sions. Then the gentleman, seeing this, said, “This shows me where my duty lies. I must seize this opportunity of making sure that my own boy shall be happy and well cared for. Put him in the place of one of the dead children.’ He offered me a big sum of money, saying that this one payment would save him the expense of providing for his child every month; and I accepted. Only, I did not know in whose place to put him and whether to say that the boy was Louis d'Imbleval or Jean Vaurois. The gentleman thought a moment and said neither. Then he explained to me what I was to do and what I was to say after he had gone. And, while I was dressing his boy in vest and binders the same as one of the dead children, he wrapped the other in the blankets he had brought with him and went out into the night.” e THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS 119 “Mlle. Boussignol bent her head and wept. After a moment, Rénine said: “Your deposition agrees with the result of my investigations.” “Can I go?” “Yes.” “And is it over, as far as I'm concerned? They won't be talking about this all over the district?” “No. Oh, just one more question: do you know the man's name?” “No. He didn't tell me his name.” “Have you ever seen him since?” “Never.” “Have you anything more to say?” “No.” “Are you prepared to sign the written text of your confession?” “Yes.” “Very well. I shall send for you in a week or two. Till then, not a word to anybody.” He saw her to the door and closed it after her. When he returned, Jean Louis was between the two old ladies and all three were holding hands. The bond of hatred and wretchedness which had bound them had suddenly snapped; and this rupture, with- out requiring them to reflect upon the matter, filled them with a gentle tranquillity of which they were hardly conscious, but which made them serious and thoughtful. 120 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “Let's rush things,” said Rénine to Hortense. “This is the decisive moment of the battle. We must get Jean Louis on board.” Hortense seemed preoccupied. She whispered: “Why did you let the woman go? Were you satisfied with her statement?” “I don't need to be satisfied. She told us what happened. What more do you want?” “Nothing. . . . I don't know. . . .” “We'll talk about it later, my dear. For the moment, I repeat, we must get Jean Louis on board. And immediately . . . Otherwise . . .” He turned to the young man: “You agree with me, don't you, that, things being as they are, it is best for you and Madame Vaurois and Madame d'Imbleval to separate for a time? That will enable you all to see matters more clearly and to decide in perfect freedom what is to be done. Come with us, monsieur. The most pres- sing thing is to save Geneviève Aymard, your fiancée.” Jean Louis stood perplexed and undecided. Ré- nine turned to the two women: “That is your opinion too, I am sure, ladies?” They nodded. “You see, monsieur,” he said to Jean Louis, “we are all agreed. In great crises, there is nothing like separation . . . a few days' respite. Quickly now, monsieur.” THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS 121 And,without giving him time to hesitate, he drove him towards his bedroom to pack up. Half an hour later, Jean Louis left the manor- house with his new friends. “And he won't go back until he's married,” said Rénine to Hortense, as they were waiting at Carhaix station, to which the car had taken them, while Jean Louis was attending to his luggage. “Every- thing's for the best. Are you satisfied?” “Yes, Geneviève will be glad,” she replied, ab- sently. When they had taken their seats in the train, Rénine and she repaired to the dining-car. Rénine, who had asked Hortense several questions to which she had replied only in monosyllables, protested: “What's the matter with you, my child? You look worried ſ” “I? Not at a111” “Yes, yes, I know you. Now, no secrets, no mysteries” She smiled: “Well, since you insist on knowing if I am satis- fied, I am bound to admit that of course I am . . . as regards my friend Geneviève, but that, in another respect—from the point of view of the adventure— I have an uncomfortable sort of feeling . . .” “To speak frankly, I haven't ‘staggered' you this time?” & THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS 123 “What on earth do you mean?” “Well, you know how dull-witted these country- women are. And she and I had no time to spare. So we worked out a little scene in a hurry . . . and she really didn't act it so badly. It was all in the right key: terror, tremolo, tears . . .” “Is it possible?” murmured Hortense. “Is it possible? You had seen her beforehand?” “I had to, of course.” “But when P” “This morning, when we arrived. While you were titivating yourself at the hotel at Carhaix, I was running round to see what information I could pick up. As you may imagine, everybody in the district knows the d'Imbleval-Vaurois story. I was at once directed to the former midwife, Mlle. Bous- signol. With Mlle. Boussignol it did not take long. Three minutes to settle a new version of what had happened and ten thousand francs to induce her to repeat that . . . more or less credible . . . version to the people at the manor-house.” “A quite incredible version!” “Not so bad as all that, my child, seeing that you believed it . . . and the others too. And that was the essential thing. What I had to do was to de- molish at one blow a truth which had been twenty- seven years in existence and which was all the more firmly established because it was founded on actual facts. That was why I went for it with all my might and attacked it by sheer force of eloquence. 124 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK Impossible to identify the children? I deny it. Inevitable confusion? It's not true. “You’re all three,' I say, ‘the victims of something which I don't know but which it is your duty to clear up!” ‘That's easily done,’ says Jean Louis, whose con- viction is at once shaken. ‘Let’s send for Mlle. Boussignol.” “Right! Let's send for her.” Where- upon Mlle. Boussignol arrives and mumbles out the little speech which I have taught her. Sensation 1 General stupefaction . . . of which I take advantage to carry off our young man!” Hortense shook her head: “But they'll get over it, all three of them, on thinking!” “Never! Never! They will have their doubts, perhaps. But they will never consent to feel cer- tain' They will never agree to think! Use your imagination | Here are three people whom I have rescued from the hell in which they have been floun- dering for a quarter of a century. Do you think they're going back to it? Here are three people who, from weakness or a false sense of duty, had not the courage to escape. Do you think that they won't cling like grim death to the liberty which I'm giving them? Nonsense! Why, they would have swallowed a hoax twice as difficult to digest as that which Mlle. Boussignol dished up for them! After all, my version was no more absurd than the truth. On the contrary. And they swallowed it whole! THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS 125 Look at this: before we left, I heard Madame d'Im- bleval and Madame Vaurois speak of an immediate removal. They were already becoming quite affec- tionate at the thought of seeing the last of each Other.” “But what about Jean Louis?” “Jean Louis? Why, he was fed up with his two mothers! By Jingo, one can't do with two mothers in a life-time! What a situation! And when one has the luck to be able to choose between having two mothers or none at all, why, bless me, one doesn't hesitate! And, besides, Jean Louis is in love with Geneviève.” He laughed. “And he loves her well enough, I hope and trust, not to inflict two mothers- in-law upon her! Come, you may be easy in your mind. Your friend's happiness is assured; and that is all you asked for. All that matters is the object which we achieve and not the more or less peculiar nature of the methods which we employ. And, if some adventures are wound up and some mysteries elucidated by looking for and finding cigarette-ends, or incendiary water-bottles and blazing hat-boxes as on our last expedition, others call for psychology and for purely psychological solutions. I have spoken. And I charge you to be silent.” “Silent?” “Yes, there's a man and woman sitting behind us who seem to be saying something uncommonly interesting.” 126 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “But they’re talking in whispers.” “Just so. When people talk in whispers, it’s always about something shady.” He lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair. Hor- tense listened, but in vain. As for him, he was emitting little slow puffs of smoke. Fifteen minutes later, the train stopped and the man and woman got out. “Pity,” said Rénine, “that I don't know their names or where they're going. But I know where to find them. My dear, we have a new adventure before us.” Hortense protested: “Oh, no, please, not yet! . . . Give me a little rest! . . . And oughtn't we to think of Geneviève?” He seemed greatly surprised: “Why, all that's over and done with ! Do you mean to say you want to waste any more time over that old story? Well, I for my part confess that I’ve lost all interest in the man with the two mam- mas.” And this was said in such a comical tone and with such diverting sincerity that Hortense was once more seized with a fit of giggling. Laughter alone was able to relax her exasperated nerves and to dis- tract her from so many contradictory emotions. IV THE TELL-TALE FILM IV THE TELL-TALE FILM “Do look at the man who's playing the butler,” said Serge Rénine. “What is there peculiar about him?” asked Hor- tenSe. They were sitting in the balcony at a picture- palace, to which Hortense had asked to be taken so that she might see on the screen the daughter of a lady, now dead, who used to give her piano-les- sons. Rose Andrée, a lovely girl with lissome movements and a smiling face, was that evening figuring in a new film, The Happy Princess, which she lit up with her high spirits and her warm, glow- ing beauty. Rénine made no direct reply, but, during a pause in the performance, continued: “I sometimes console myself for an indifferent film by watching the subordinate characters. It seems to me that those poor devils, who are made to rehearse certain scenes ten or twenty times over, must often be thinking of other things than their parts at the time of the final exposure. And it's great fun noting those little moments of distraction which reveal something ef their temperament, of I29 THE TELL-TALE FILM 131 strange expressions to which Rénine ascribed an emotional meaning which Hortense refused to see: “It's just his way of looking at people,” she said. The first part of the film ended. There were two parts, divided by an entrécte. The notice on the programme stated that “a year had elapsed and that the Happy Princess was living in a pretty Norman cottage, all hung with creepers, together with her husband, a poor musician.” The princess was still happy, as was evident on the screen, still as attractive as ever and still be- sieged by the greatest variety of suitors. Nobles and commoners, peasants and financiers, men of all kinds fell swooning at her feet; and prominent among them was a sort of boorish solitary, a shaggy, half-wild woodcutter, whom she met whenever she went out for a walk. Armed with his axe, a for- midable, crafty being, he prowled around the cottage; and the spectators felt with a sense of dismay that a peril was hanging over the Happy Princess' head. “Look at that!” whispered Rénine. “Do you realise who the man of the woods is?” “No.” - “Simply the butler. The same actor is doubling the two parts.” In fact, notwithstanding the new figure which he cut, the butler's movements and postures were apparent under the heavy gait and rounded shoul- ders of the woodcutter, even as under the unkempt beard and long, thick hair the once clean-shaven face 132 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK was visible with the cruel expression and the bushy line of the eyebrows. The princess, in the background, was seen to emerge from the thatched cottage. The man hid himself behind a clump of trees. From time to time, the screen displayed, on an enormously en- larged scale, his fiercely rolling eyes or his murder- ous hands with their huge thumbs. “The man frightens me,” said Hortense. “He is really terrifying.” “Because he's acting on his own account,” said Rénine. “You must understand that, in the space of three or four months that appears to separate the dates at which the two films were made, his passion has made progress; and to him it is not the princess who is coming but Rose Andrée.” The man crouched low. The victim approached, gaily and unsuspectingly. She passed, heard a sound, stopped and looked about her with a smiling air which became attentive, then uneasy, and then more and more anxious. The woodcutter had pushed aside the branches and was coming through the copse. They were now standing face to face. He opened his arms as though to seize her. She tried to scream, to call out for help; but the arms closed around her before she could offer the slightest re- sistance. Then he threw her over his shoulder and began to run. “Are you satisfied?” whispered Rénine. “Do THE TELL-TALE FILM 133 you think that this fourth-rate actor would have had all that strength and energy if it had been any other woman than Rose Andrée P” Meanwhile the woodcutter was crossing the skirt of a forest and plunging through great trees and masses of rocks. After setting the princess down, he cleared the entrance to a cave which the daylight entered by a slanting crevice. A succession of views displayed the husband's despair, the search and the discovery of some small branches which had been broken by the princess and which showed the path that had been taken. Then came the final scene, with the terrible struggle be- tween the man and the woman when the woman, van- quished and exhausted, is flung to the ground, the sudden arrival of the husband and the shot that puts an end to the brute's life. . . “Well,” said Rénine, when they had left the pic- ture-palace—and he spoke with a certain gravity— “I maintain that the daughter of your old piano- teacher has been in danger ever since the day when that last scene was filmed. I maintain that this scene represents not so much an assault by the man of the woods on the Happy Princess as a violent and frantic attack by an actor on the woman he desires. Certainly it all happened within the bounds prescribed by the part and nobody saw anything in it—nobody except perhaps Rose Andrée herself— but I, for my part, have detected flashes of passion THE TELL-TALE FILM 135 “Is one Dalbrèque, originally a scene-painter, who played the butler in the first part of the film and the man of the woods in the second and was so much appreciated that they engaged him for a new film. Consequently, he has been acting lately. He was acting near Paris. But, on the morning of Friday the 18th of September, he broke into the garage of the World's Cinema Company and made off with a magnificent car and forty thousand francs in money. Information was lodged with the police; and on the Sunday the car was found a little way outside Dreux. And up to now the enquiry has re- vealed two things, which will appear in the papers to-morrow; first, Dalbrèque is alleged to have com- mitted a murder which created a great stir last year, the murder of Bourguet, the jeweller; secondly, on the day after his two robberies, Dalbrèque was driv- ing through Le Havre in a motor-car with two men who helped him to carry off, in broad day- light and in a crowded street, a lady whose identity has not yet been discovered.” “Rose Andrée?” asked Hortense, uneasily. “I have just been to Rose Andrée's: the World's Cinema Company gave me her address. Rose An- drée spent this summer travelling and then stayed for a fortnight in the Seine-inférieure, where she has a small place of her own, the actual cottage in The Happy Princess. On receiving an invitation from America to do a film there, she came back to Paris, registered her luggage at the Care Saint- 136 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK Lazare and left on Friday the 18th of September, intending to sleep at Le Havre and take Saturday's boat.” “Friday the 18th,” muttered Hortense, “the same day on which that man . . .” “And it was on the Saturday that a woman was carried off by him at Le Havre. I looked in at the Compagnie Transatlantique and a brief investi- gation showed that Rose Andrée had booked a cabin but that the cabin remained unoccupied. The pas- senger did not turn up.” “This is frightful. She has been carried off. You were right.” ‘‘I fear SO.” “What have you decided to do?” “Adolphe, my chauffeur, is outside with the car. Let us go to Le Havre. Up to the present, Rose Andrée's disappearance does not seem to have be- come known. Before it does and before the police identify the woman carried off by Dalbrèque with the woman who did not turn up to claim her cabin, we will get on Rose Andrée's track.” There was not much said on the journey. At four o'clock Hortense and Rénine reached Rouen. But here Rénine changed his road. “Adolphe, take the left bank of the Seine.” “He unfolded a motoring-map on his knees and, tracing the route with his finger, showed Hortense that, if you draw a line from Le Havre, or rather from Quillebeuf, where the road crosses the Seine, 138 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK trees when they entered the ancient forest of Bro- tonne, full of Roman remains and mediaeval relics. Rénine knew the forest well and remembered that near a famous oak, known as the Wine-cask, there was a cave which must be the cave of the Happy Princess. He found it easily, switched on his electric torch, rummaged in the dark corners and brought Hortense back to the entrance: “There's nothing inside,” he said, “but here is the evidence which I was looking for. Dalbrèque was obsessed by the recollection of the film, but so was Rose Andrée. The Happy Princess had broken off the tips of the branches on the way through the forest. Rose Andrée has managed to break off some to the right of this opening, in the hope that she would be discovered as on the first occasion.” “Yes,” said Hortense, “it’s a proof that she has been here; but the proof is three weeks old. Since that time . . .” “Since that time, she is either dead and buried under a heap of leaves or else alive in some hole even lonelier than this.” “If so, where is he?” Rénine pricked up his ears. Repeated blows of the axe were sounding from some distance, no doubt coming from a part of the forest that was being cleared. “He?” said Rénine, “I wonder whether he may not have continued to behave under the influence THE TELL-TALE FILM 139 of the film and whether the man of the woods in The Happy Princess has not quite naturally resumed his calling. For how is the man to live, to obtain his food, without attracting attention? He will have found a job.” “We can’t make sure of that.” “We might, by questioning the woodcutters whom we can hear.” The car took them by a forest-road to another cross-roads where they entered on foot a track which was deeply rutted by waggon-wheels. The sound of axes ceased. After walking for a quarter of an hour, they met a dozen men who, having finished work for the day, were returning to the villages near by. “Will this path take us to Routot?” ask Ré- nine, in order to open a conversation with them. “No, you're turning your backs on it,” said one of the men, gruffly. And he went on, accompanied by his mates. Hortense and Rénine stood rooted to the spot. They had recognized the butler. His cheeks and chin were shaved, but his upper lip was covered by a black moustache, evidently dyed. The eyebrows no longer met and were reduced to normal dimen- sions. Thus, in less than twenty hours, acting on the vague hints supplied by the bearing of a film-actor, 140 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK Serge Rénine had touched the very heart of the tragedy by means of purely psychological arguments. “Rose Andrée is alive,” he said. “Otherwise Dal- brèque would have left the country. The poor thing must be imprisoned and bound up; and he takes her some food at night.” “We will save her, won't we?” “Certainly, by keeping a watch on him and, if necessary, but in the last resort, compelling him by force to give up his secret.” They followed the woodcutter at a distance and, on the pretext that the car needed overhauling, en- gaged rooms in the principal inn at Routot. Attached to the inn was a small café from which they were separated by the entrance to the yard and above which were two rooms, reached by a wooden outer staircase, at one side. Dalbrèque occupied one of these rooms and Rénine took the other for his chauffeur. Next morning he learnt from Adolphe that Dal- brèque, on the previous evening, after all the lights were out, had carried down a bicycle from his room and mounted it and had not returned until shortly before sunrise. The bicycle tracks led Rénine to the uninhabited Château des Landes, five miles from the village. They disappeared in a rocky path which ran beside the park down to the Seine, opposite the Jumièges peninsula. Next night, he took up his position there. At THE TELL-TALE FILM 141 eleven o'clock, Dalbrèque climbed a bank, scrambled over a wire fence, hid his bicycle under the branches and moved away. It seemed impossible to follow him in the pitchy darkness, on a mossy soil that muffled the sound of footsteps. Rénine did not make the attempt; but, at daybreak, he came with his chauffeur and hunted through the park all the morning. Though the park, which covered the side of a hill and was bounded below by the river, was not very large, he found no clue which gave him any reason to suppose that Rose Andrée was im- prisoned there. He therefore went back to the village, with the firm intention of taking action that evening and employing force: “This state of things cannot go on,” he said to Hortense. “I must rescue Rose Andrée at all costs and save her from that ruffian's clutches. He must be made to speak. He must. Otherwise there's a danger that we may be too late.” That day was Sunday; and Dalbrèque did not go to work. He did not leave his room except for lunch and went upstairs again immediately after- wards. But at three o'clock Rénine and Hortense, who were keeping a watch on him from the inn, saw him come down the wooden staircase, with his bicycle on his shoulder. Leaning it against the bottom step, he inflated the tires and fastened to the handle-bar a rather bulky object wrapped in a newspaper. 142 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “By Jove!” muttered Rénine. “What’s the matter?” In front of the café was a small terrace bordered on the right and left by spindle-trees planted in boxes, which were connected by a paling. Behind the shrubs, sitting on a bank but stooping forward so that they could see Dalbrèque through the branches, were four men. “Police P’ said Rénine. “What bad luck! If those fellows take a hand, they will spoil everything.” “Why? On the contrary, I should have thought . . .” “Yes, they will. They will put Dalbrèque out of the way . . . and then? Will that give us Rose Andrée?” Dalbrèque had finished his preparations. Just as he was mounting his bicycle, the detectives rose in a body, ready to make a dash for him. But Dalbrèque, though quite unconscious of their pres- ence, changed his mind and went back to his room as though he had forgotten something. “Now's the time!” said Rénine. “I’m going to risk it. But it's a difficult situation and I’ve no great hopes.” He went out into the yard and, at a moment when the detectives were not looking, ran up the stair- case, as was only natural if he wished to give an order to his chauffeur. But he had no sooner reached the rustic balcony at the back of the house, which gave admission to the two bedrooms than he THE TELL-TALE FILM 143 stopped. Dalbrèque's door was open. Rénine walked in. Dalbrèque stepped back, at once assuming the defensive: “What do you want? Who said you could . . .” “Silence!” whispered Rénine, with an imperious gesture. “It's all up with you!” “What are you talking about?” growled the man, angrily. “Lean out of your window. There are four men below on the watch for you to leave, four detectives.” Dalbrèque leant over the terrace and muttered an oath: “On the watch for me?” he said, turning round. “What do I care?” “They have a warrant.” He folded his arms: “Shut up with your piffle! A warrant! What's that to me?” “Listen,” said Rénine, “and let us waste no time. It's urgent. Your name's Dalbrèque, or, at least, that's the name under which you acted in The Happy Princess and under which the police are looking for you as being the murderer of Bourguet the jeweller, the man who stole a motor-car and forty thousand francs from the World's Cinema Company and the man who abducted a woman at Le Havre. All this is known and proved . . . and here's the upshot. Four men downstairs. Myself 144 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK here, my chauffeur in the next room. You're done for. Do you want me to save you?” Dalbrèque gave his adversary a long look: “Who are you?” “A friend of Rose Andrée's,” said Rénine. The other started and, to some extent dropping his mask, retorted: “What are your conditions?” “Rose Andrée, whom you have abducted and tor- mented, is dying in some hole or corner. Where is she?” A strange thing occurred and impressed Rénine. Dalbrèque's face, usually so common, was lit up by a smile that made it almost attractive. But this was only a flashing vision: the man immediately re- sumed his hard and impassive expression. “And suppose I refuse to speak?” he said. “So much the worse for you. It means your arrest.” “I dare say; but it means the death of Rose Andrée. Who will release her?” “You. You will speak now, or in an hour, or two hours hence at least. You will never have the heart to keep silent and let her die.” - Dalbrèque shrugged his shoulders. Then, rais- ing his hand, he said: “I swear on my life that, if they arrest me, not a word will leave my lips.” “What then P” “Then save me. We will meet this evening at the THE TELL-TALE FILM 145 entrance to the Parc des Landes and say what we have to say.” “Why not at once?” “I have spoken.” “Will you be there?” “I shall be there.” Rénine reflected. There was something in all this that he failed to grasp. In any case, the frightful danger that threatened Rose Andrée dominated the whole situation; and Rénine was not the man to de- spise this threat and to persist out of vanity in a perilous course. Rose Andrée's life came before everything. He struck several blows on the wall of the next bedroom and called his chauffeur. “Adolphe, is the car ready?” “Yes, sir.” “Set her going and pull her up in front of the terrace outside the café, right against the boxes So as to block the exit. As for you,” he continued, addressing Dalbrèque, “you're to jump on your machine and, instead of making off along the road, cross the yard. At the end of the yard is a passage leading into a lane. There you will be free. But no hesitation and no blundering . . . else you'll get yourself nabbed. Good luck to you.” He waited till the car was drawn up in accordance with his instructions and, when he reached it, he be- gan to question his chauffeur, in order to attract the detectives’ attention. 146 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK One of them, however, having cast a glance through the spindle-trees, caught sight of Dalbrèque just as he reached the bottom of the staircase. He gave the alarm and darted forward, followed by his comrades, but had to run round the car and bumped into the chauffeur, which gave Dalbrèque time to mount his bicycle and cross the yard un- impeded. He thus had some seconds' start. Un- fortunately for him as he was about to enter the passage at the back, a troop of boys and girls appeared, returning from vespers. On hearing the shouts of the detectives, they spread their arms in front of the fugitive, who gave two or three lurches and ended by falling. Cries of triumph were raised: “Lay hold of him! Stop him!” roared the de- tectives as they rushed forward. Rénine, seeing that the game was up, ran after the others and called out: “Stop him!” He came up with them just as Dalbrèque, after regaining his feet, knocked one of the policemen down and levelled his revolver. Rénine snatched it out of his hands. But the two other detectives, startled, had also produced their weapons. They fired. Dalbrèque, hit in the leg and the chest, pitched forward and fell. “Thank you, sir,” said the inspector to Rénine introducing himself. “We owe a lot to you.” THE TELL-TALE FILM 147 “It seems to me that you've done for the fellow,” said Rénine. “Who is he?” “One Dalbrèque, a scoundrel for whom we were looking.” Rénine was beside himself. Hortense had joined him by this time; and he growled: “The silly fools! Now they've killed him!” “Oh, it isn't possible!” “We shall see. But, whether he's dead or alive, it's death to Rose Andrée. How are we to trace her? And what chance have we of finding the place —some inacessible retreat—where the poor thing is dying of misery and starvation?” The detectives and peasants had moved away, bearing Dalbrèque with them on an improvised stretcher. Rénine, who had at first followed them, in order to find out what was going to happen, changed his mind and was now standing with his eyes fixed on the ground. The fall of the bicycle had unfastened the parcel which Dalbrèque had tied to the handle-bar; and the newspaper had burst, revealing its contents, a tin saucepan, rusty, dented, battered and useless. “What's the meaning of this?” he muttered. “What was the idea? . . .” He picked it up examined it. Then he gave a grin and a click of the tongue and chuckled, slowly: “Don’t move an eyelash, my dear. Let all these people clear off. All this is no business of ours, is 148 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK it? The troubles of police don't concern us. We are two motorists travelling for our pleasure and collecting old saucepans if we feel so inclined.” He called his chauffeur: “Adolphe, take us to the Parc des Landes by a roundabout road.” Half an hour later they reached the sunken track and began to scramble down it on foot beside the wooded slopes. The Seine, which was very low at this time of day, was lapping against a little jetty near which lay a worm-eaten, mouldering boat, full of puddles of water. Rénine stepped into the boat and at once began to bale out the puddles with his saucepan. He then drew the boat alongside of the jetty, helped Hortense in and used the one oar which he shipped in a gap in the stern to work her into midstream: “I believe I'm there!” he said, with a laugh. “The worst that can happen to us is to get our feet wet, for our craft leaks a trifle. But haven't we a saucepan? Oh, blessings on that useful utensil! Almost as soon as I set eyes upon it, I remembered that people use those articles to bale out the bottoms of leaky boats. Why, there was bound to be a boat in the Landes woods! How was it I never thought of that? But of course Dalbrèque made use of her to cross the Seine! And, as she made water, he brought a saucepan.” “Then Rose Andrée . . . .” asked Hortense. “Is a prisoner on the other bank, on the Jumièges 150 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “Well, so are we! To the left of the river, the Eure and the forest of Brotonne; to the right, the Seine-inférieure. But between them is the obstacle of the river, which is why I didn't connect the two. A hundred and fifty yards of water form a more effective division than dozens of miles.” The gate was locked. They got through the hedge a little lower down and walked towards the house, which was screened on one side by an old wall shaggy with ivy and roofed with thatch. “It seems as if there was somebody there,” said Hortense. “Didn't I hear the sound of a window?” “Listen.” Some one struck a few chords on a piano. Then a voice arose, a woman's voice softly and solemnly singing a ballad that thrilled with restrained passion. The woman's whole soul seemed to breathe itself into the melodious notes. They walked on. The well concealed them from view, but they saw a sitting-room furnished with bright wall-paper and a blue Roman carpet. The throbbing voice ceased. The piano ended with a last chord; and the singer rose and appeared framed in the window. “Rose Andrée!” whispered Hortense. “Well!” said Rénine, admitting his astonish- ment. “This is the last thing that I expected ! Rose Andrée' Rose Andrée at liberty! And sing- ing Massenet in the sitting room of her cottage!” “What does it all mean? Do you understand?” THE TELL-TALE FILM 151 “Yes, but it has taken me long enough ! But how could we have guessed . . . .” Although they had never seen her except on the screen, they had not the least doubt that this was she. It was really Rose Andrée, or rather, the Happy Princess, whom they had admired a few days be- fore, amidst the furniture of that very sitting-room or on the threshold of that very cottage. She was wearing the same dress; her hair was done in the same way; she had on the same bangles and neck- laces as in The Happy Princess; and her lovely face, with its rosy cheeks and laughing eyes, bore the same look of joy and serenity. Some sound must have caught her ear, for she leant over towards a clump of shrubs beside the cottage and whispered into the silent garden: “Georges . . . Georges . . . Is that you, my darling?” Receiving no reply, she drew herself up and stood smiling at the happy thoughts that seemed to flood her being. But a door opened at the back of the room and an old peasant woman entered with a tray laden with bread, butter and milk: “Here, Rose, my pretty one, I've brought you your supper. Milk fresh from the cow . . .” And, putting down the tray, she continued: “Aren't you afraid, Rose, of the chill of the night air? Perhaps you're expecting your sweet- heart?” 152 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “I haven't a sweetheart, my dear old Catherine.” “What next!” said the old woman, laughing. “Only this morning there were footprints under the window that didn't look at all proper!” “A burglar's footprints perhaps, Catherine.” “Well, I don't say they weren’t, Rose dear, es- pecially as in your calling you have a lot of people round you whom it's well to be careful of. For instance, your friend Dalbrèque, eh? Nice goings on his are! You saw the paper yesterday. A fellow who has robbed and murdered people and carried off a woman at Le Havre . . . .” Hortense and Rénine would have much liked to know what Rose Andrée thought of the revela- tions, but she had turned her back to them and was sitting at her supper; and the window was now closed, so that they could neither hear her reply nor see the expression of her features. They waited for a moment. Hortense was listen- ing with an anxious face. But Rénine began to laugh: “Very funny, really funny! And such an un- expected ending! And we who were hunting for her in some cave or damp cellar, a horrible tomb where the poor thing was dying of hunger! It's a fact, she knew the terrors of that first night of captivity; and I maintain that, on that first night, she was flung, half-dead, into the cave. Only, there you are: the next morning she was alive! One night was enough to tame the little rogue and to make Dal- THE TELL-TALE FILM 153 brèque as handsome as Prince Charming in her eyes! For see the difference. On the films or in, novels, the Happy Princesses resist or commit suicide. But in real life . . . oh, woman, woman!” “Yes,” said Hortense, “but the man she loves is almost certainly dead.” “And a good thing too! It would be the best solution. What would be the outcome of this criminal love for a thief and murderer?” A few minutes passed. Then, amid the peaceful silence of the waning day, mingled with the first shadows of the twilight, they again heard the grating of the window, which was cautiously opened. Rose Andrée leant over the garden and waited, with her eyes turned to the well, as though she saw something there. Presently, Rénine shook the ivy-branches. “Ah!” she said. “This time I know you're there! Yes, the ivy's moving. Georges, Georges darling, why do you keep me waiting? Catherine has gone. I am all alone. . . .” She had knelt down and was distractedly stretch- ing out her shapely arms covered with bangles which clashed with a metallic sound: “Georges! . . . Georges! . - Her every movement, the thrill of her voice, her whole being expressed desire and love. Hortense, deeply touched, could not help saying: - “How the poor thing loves him! If she but knew . . .” - 3 y THE TELL-TALE FILM 155 I came straight here. Abducted? Imprisoned? What nonsense!” “Yes, imprisoned, in the same cave as the Happy Princess; and you broke off some branches to the right of the cave.” “But how absurd ' Who would have abducted me? I have no enemy.” “There is a man in love with you: the one whom you were expecting just now.” “Yes, my lover,” she said, proudly. “Have I not the right to receive whom I like?” “You have the right; you are a free agent. But the man who comes to see you every evening is wanted by the police. His name is Georges Dal- brèque. He killed Bourguet the jeweller.” The accusation made her start with indignation and she exclaimed: “It’s a lie! An infamous fabrication of the news- papers! Georges was in Paris on the night of the murder. He can prove it.” “He stole a motor car and forty thousand francs in notes.” She retorted vehemently: “The motor-car was taken back by his friends and the notes will be restored. He never touched them. My leaving for America had made him lose his head.” “Very well. I am quite willing to believe every- thing that you say. But the police may show less faith in these statements and less indulgence.” 156 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK She became suddenly uneasy and faltered: “The police. . . . There's nothing to fear from them. . . . They won't know . . .” “Where to find him? I succeeded, at all events. He's working as a woodcutter, in the forest of Brotonne.” “Yes, but . . . you . . . that was an acci- dent . . . whereas the police . . .” The words left her lips with the greatest difficulty. Her voice was trembling. And suddenly she rushed at Rénine, stammering: “He is arrested? . . . I am sure of it ! . . . And you have come to tell me. . . . Arrested ! Wounded! Dead perhaps? . . . Oh, please, She had no strength left. All her pride, all the certainty of her great love gave way to an immense despair and she sobbed out. “No, he's not dead, is he? No, I feel that he's not dead. Oh, sir, how unjust it all is He's the gentlest man, the best that ever lived. He has changed my whole life. Everything is different since I began to love him. And I love him so! I love him ' I want to go to him. Take me to him. I want them to arrest me too. I love him. . . . I could not live without him. . . .” An impulse of sympathy made Hortense put her arms around the girl's neck and say warmly: “Yes, come. He is not dead, I am sure, only wounded; and Prince Rénine will save him. You 158 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK death! But hang it all, who could have expected this? It isn't a bit the way in which things happen in the pictures! Once the man of the woods had carried off his victim and considering that for three weeks there was no one to defend her, how could we imagine—we who had been proceeding all along under the influence of the pictures—that in the space of a few hours the victim would become a princess in love? Confound that Georges! I now understand the sly, humorous look which I surprised on his mobile features | He remembered, Georges did, and he didn't care a hang for me! Oh, he tricked me nicely And you, my dear, he tricked you too! And it was all the influence of the film. They show us, at the cinema, a brute beast, a sort of long-haired, ape-faced savage. What can a man like that be in real life? A brute, inevitably, don't you agree? Well, he's nothing of the kind; he's a Don Juan The humbug” “You will save him, won't you?” said Hortense, in a beseeching tone. “Are you very anxious that I should?” “Very.” “In that case, promise to give me your hand to kiss.” “You can have both hands, Rénine, and gladly.” The night was uneventful. Rénine had given orders for the two ladies to be waked at an early hour. When they came down, the motor was 160 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “They left no traces?” “No traces of footsteps, true." The rain has messed everything up. But they went through the yard, because the stretcher's there.” “You’ll find him, Mr. Inspector, there's no doubt of that. In any case, you may be sure that you won't have any trouble over the affair. I shall be in Paris this evening and shall go straight to the prefecture, where I have influential friends.” Rénine went back to the two women in the coffee- room and Hortense at once said: “It was you who carried him off, wasn't it? Please put Rose Andrée's mind at rest. She is So terrified ſ” He gave Rose Andrée his arm and led her to the car. She was staggering and very pale; and she said, in a faint voice: “Are we going? And he: is he safe? Won't they catch him again?” Looking deep into her eyes, he said: “Swear to me, Rose Andrée, that in two months, when he is well and when I have proved his inno- cence, swear that you will go away with him to America.” “I Swear.” “And that, once there, you will marry him.” “I swear.” He spoke a few words in her ear. “Ah!” she said. “May Heaven bless you for it!” Hortense took her seat in front, with Rénine, who THE TELL-TALE FILM 161 sat at the wheel. The inspector, hat in hand, fussed around the car until it moved off. They drove through the forest, crossed the Seine at La Mailleraie and struck into the Havre-Rouen road. “Take off your glove and give me your hand to kiss,” Rénine ordered. “You promised that you would.” “Oh!” said Hortense. “But it was to be when Dalbrèque was saved.” “He is saved.” “Not yet. The police are after him. They may catch him again. He will not be really saved until he is with Rose Andrée.” “He is with Rose Andrée,” he declared. “What do you mean?” “Turn round.” She did so. In the shadow of the hood, right at the back, be- hind the chauffeur, Rose Andrée was kneeling be- side a man lying on the seat. “Oh,” stammered Hortense, “it’s incredible! Then it was you who hid him last night? And he was there, in front of the inn, when the inspector was seeing us off?” “Lord, yes! He was there, under the cushions and rugs!” “It's incredible!” she repeated, utterly bewildered. “It's incredible! How were you able to manage it all P” 162 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “I wanted to kiss your hand,” he said. She removed her glove, as he bade her, and raised her hand to his lips. The car was speeding between the peaceful Seine and the white cliffs that border it. They sat silent for a long while. Then he said: “I had a talk with Dalbrèque last night. He's a fine fellow and is ready to do anything for Rose Andrée. He's right. A man must do anything for the woman he loves. He must devote himself to her, offer her all that is beautiful in this world: joy and happiness . . . and, if she should be bored, stirring adventures to distract her, to excite her and to make her smile . . . or even weep.” Hortense shivered; and her eyes were not quite free from tears. For the first time he was allud- ing to the sentimental adventure that bound them by a tie which as yet was frail, but which became stronger and more enduring with each of the ven- tures on which they entered together, pursuing them feverishly and anxiously to their close. Already she felt powerless and uneasy with this extraordi- nary man, who subjected events to his will and seemed to play with the destinies of those whom he fought or protected. He filled her with dread and at the same time he attracted her. She thought of him sometimes as her master, sometimes as an enemy against whom she must defend herself, but oftenest as a perturbing friend, full of charm and fascination. . . . THERESE AND GERMAINE V THERESE AND GERMAINE The weather was so mild that autumn that, on the 12th of October, in the morning, several fami- lies still lingering in their villas at Étretat had gone down to the beach. The sea, lying between the cliffs and the clouds on the horizon, might have suggested a mountain-lake slumbering in the hollow of the enclosing rocks, were it not for that crispness in the air and those pale, soft and indefinite colours in the sky which give a special charm to certain days in Normandy. “It's delicious,” murmured Hortense. But the next moment she added: “All the same, we did not come here to enjoy the spectacle of nature or to wonder whether that huge stone Needle on our left was really at one time the home of Arsène Lupin.” “We came here,” said Prince Rénine, “because of the conversation which I overheard, a fortnight ago, in a dining-car, between a man and a woman.” “A conversation of which I was unable to catch a single word.” “If those two people could have guessed for an instant that it was possible to hear a single word of what they were saying, they would not have spoken, for their conversation was one of extraordinary 165 166 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK gravity and importance. But I have very sharp ears; and though I could not follow every sentence, I insist that we may be certain of two things. First, that man and woman, who are brother and sister, have an appointment at a quarter to twelve this morning, the 12th of October, at the spot known as the Trois Mathildes, with a third person, who is married and who wishes at all costs to recover his or her liberty. Secondly, this appointment, at which they will come to a final agreement, is to be followed this evening by a walk along the cliffs, when the third person will bring with him or her the man or woman, I can't definitely say which, whom they want to get rid of. That is the gist of the whole thing. Now, as I know a spot called the Trois Mathildes some way above Étretat and as this is not an everyday name, we came down yesterday to thwart the plan of these objectionable persons.” “What plan?” asked Hortense. “For, after all, it's only your assumption that there's to be a victim and that the victim is to be flung off the top of the cliffs. You yourself told me that you heard no allusion to a possible murder.” “That is so. But I heard some very plain words relating to the marriage of the brother or the sister with the wife or the husband of the third person, which implies the need for a crime.” They were sitting on the terrace of the casino, facing the stairs which run down to the beach. THéRESE AND GERMAINE 167 They therefore overlooked the few privately-owned cabins on the shingle, where a party of four men were playing bridge, while a group of ladies sat talking and knitting. A short distance away and nearer to the sea was another cabin, standing by itself and closed. Half-a-dozen bare-legged children were paddling in the water. “No,” said Hortense, “all this autumnal sweet- ness and charm fails to attract me. I have so much faith in all your theories that I can't help thinking, in spite of everything, of this dreadful problem. Which of those people yonder is threatened? Death has already selected its victim. Who is it? Is it that young, fair-haired woman, rocking her- self and laughing? Is it that tall man over there, smoking his cigar? And which of them has the thought of murder hidden in his heart? All the people we see are quietly enjoying themselves. Yet death is prowling among them.” “Capital!” said Rénine. “You too are becoming enthusiastic. What did I tell you? The whole of life's an adventure; and nothing but adventure is worth while. At the first breath of coming events, there you are, quivering in every nerve. You share in all the tragedies stirring around you; and the feeling of mystery awakens in the depths of your being. See, how closely you are observing that couple who have just arrived. You never can tell: 168 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK that may be the gentleman who proposes to do away with his wife? Or perhaps the lady contemplates making away with her husband?” “The d'Ormevals? Never! A perfectly happy couple! Yesterday, at the hotel, I had a long talk with the wife. And you yourself . . .” “Oh, I played a round of golf with Jacques d'Ormeval, who rather fancies himself as an athlete, and I played at dolls with their two charming little girls!” The d'Ormevals came up and exchanged a few words with them. Madame d'Ormeval said that her two daughters had gone back to Paris that morn- ing with their governess. Her husband, a great tall fellow with a yellow beard, carrying his blazer over his arm and puffing out his chest under a cellular shirt, complained of the heat: “Have you the key of the cabin, Thérèse?” he asked his wife, when they had left Rénine and Hor- tense and stopped at the top of the stairs, a few yards away. “Here it is,” said the wife. “Are you going to read your papers?” “Yes. Unless we go for a stroll P . . . “I had rather wait till the afternoon: do you mind? I have a lot of letters to write this morn- ing.” “Very well. We'll go on the cliff.” Hortense and Rénine exchanged a glance of sur- prise. Was this suggestion accidental? Or had 32 THERESE AND GERMAINE 169 they before them, contrary to their expectations, the very couple of whom they were in search? Hortense tried to laugh: “My heart is thumping,” she said. “Nevertheless, I absolutely refuse to believe in anything so improb- able. “My husband and I have never had the slightest quarrel,' she said to me. No, it's quite clear that those two get on admirably.” “We shall see presently, at the Trois Mathildes, if one of them comes to meet the brother and sister.” M. d'Ormeval had gone down the stairs, while his wife stood leaning on the balustrade of the terrace. She had a beautiful, slender, supple figure. Her clear-cut profile was emphasized by a rather too prominent chin when at rest; and, when it was not smiling, the face gave an expression of sadness and suffering. “Have you lost something, Jacques?” she called out to her husband, who was stooping over the shingle. “Yes, the key,” he said. “It slipped out of my hand.” - She went down to him and began to look also. For two or three minutes, as they sheered off to the right and remained close to the bottom of the under- cliff, they were invisible to Hortense and Rénine. Their voices were covered by the noise of a dis- pute which had arisen among the bridge-players. They reappeared almost simultaneously. Madame THERESE AND GERMAINE 171 “Let's put it to d'Ormeval.” “Very well,” said his adversary. “I’ll accept his decision . . . if he consents to act as umpire. He was rather huffy just now.” They called out: “D’Ormeval | D'Ormeval ''” They then saw that d'Ormeval must have shut the door behind him, which kept him in the half dark, the cabin being one of the sort that has no window. “He’s asleep,” cried one. “Let's wake him up.” All four went to the cabin, began by calling to him and, on receiving no answer, thumped on the door: “Hi! D'Ormeval! Are you asleep?” On the terrace Serge Rénine suddenly leapt to his feet with so uneasy an air that Hortense was aston- ished He muttered: “If only it's not too late!” And, when Hortense asked him what he meant, he tore down the steps and started running to the cabin. He reached it just as the bridge-players were trying to break in the door: “Stop!” he ordered. “Things must be done in the regular fashion.” “What things?” they asked. He examined the Venetian shutters at the top of each of the folding-doors and, on finding that one of the upper slats was partly broken, hung on as best he could to the roof of the cabin and cast a glance inside. Then he said to the four men: 172 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “I was right in thinking that, if M. d'Ormeval did not reply, he must have been prevented by some serious cause There is every reason to believe that M. d'Ormeval is wounded . . . or dead.” “Dead!” they cried “What do you mean? He has only just left us.” Rénine took out his knife, prized open the lock and pulled back the two doors. There were shouts of dismay. M. d'Ormeval was lying flat on his face, clutching his jacket and his newspaper in his hands. Blood was flowing from his back and staining his shirt. “Oh!” said some one. “He has killed himself!” “How can he have killed himself?” said Rénine. “The wound is right in the middle of the back, at a place which the hand can't reach. And, besides, there's not a knife in the cabin.” The others protested: “If so, he has been murdered. But that’s im- possible! There has been nobody here. We should have seen, if there had been. Nobody could have passed us without our seeing . . .” The other men, all the ladies and the children paddling in the sea had come running up. Rénine allowed no one to enter the cabin, except a doctor who was present. But the doctor could only say that M. d'Ormeval was dead, stabbed with a dag- ger. At that moment, the mayor and the policeman arrived, together with some people of the village. THERESE AND GERMAINE 173 After the usual enquiries, they carried away the body. A few persons went on ahead to break the news to Thérèse d'Ormeval, who was once more to be seen on her balcony. And so the tragedy had taken place without any clue to explain how a man, protected by a closed door with an uninjured lock, could have been mur- dered in the space of a few minutes and in front of twenty witnesses, one might almost say, twenty spectators. No one had entered the cabin. No one had come out of it. As for the dagger with which M. d'Ormeval had been stabbed between the shoul- ders, it could not be traced. And all this would have suggested the idea of a trick of sleight-of- hand performed by a clever conjuror, had it not concerned a terrible murder, committed under the most mysterious conditions. Hortense was unable to follow, as Rénine would have liked, the small party who were making for Madame d'Ormeval; she was paralysed with ex- citement and incapable of moving. It was the first time that her adventures with Rénine had taken her into the very heart of the action and that, instead of noting the consequences of a murder, or assist- ing in the pursuit of the criminals, she found herself confronted with the murder itself. It left her trembling all over; and she stammered: “How horrible! . . . The poor fellow ! . . . Ah, 174 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK Rénine, you couldn't save him this time! . . . And that's what upsets me more than anything, that we could and should have saved him, since we knew of the plot. . . .” Rénine made her sniff at a bottle of salts; and when she had quite recovered her composure, he said, while observing her attentively: “So you think that there is some connection be- tween the murder and the plot which we were try- ing to frustrate?” “Certainly,” said she, astonished at the question. “Then, as that plot was hatched by a husband against his wife or by a wife against her husband, you admit that Madame d'Ormeval . . .” “Oh, no, impossible!” she said. “To begin with, Madame d'Ormeval did not leave her rooms . . . and then I shall never believe that pretty woman capable . . . No, no, of course there was some- thing else. . . .” “What else?” “I don't know. . . . You may have misunder- stood what the brother and sister were saying to each other. ... . You see, the murder has been committed under quite different conditions . . . at another hour and another place. . . .” “And therefore,” concluded Rénine, “the two cases are not in any way related?” “Oh,” she said, “there's no making it out! It's all so strange!” Rénine became a little satirical: THERESE AND GERMAINE 175 “My pupil is doing me no credit to-day,” he said. “Why, here is a perfectly simple story, un- folded before your eyes. You have seen it reeled off like a scene in the cinema; and it all remains as obscure to you as though you were hearing of an affair that happened in a cave a hundred miles away!” Hortense was confounded: “What are you saying? Do you mean that you have understood it? What clues have you to go by?” Rénine looked at his watch : “I have not understood everything,” he said. “The murder itself, the mere brutal murder, yes. But the essential thing, that is to say, the psy- chology of the crime: I've no clue to that. Only, it is twelve o'clock. The brother and sister, seeing no one come to the appointment at the Trois Mathil- des, will go down to the beach. Don't you think that we shall learn something then of the accomplice whom I accuse them of having and of the connec- tion between the two cases?” They reached the esplanade in front of the Hau- ville chalets, with the capstans by which the fisher- men haul up their boats to the beach. A number of inquisitive persons were standing outside the door of one of the chalets. Two coastguards, posted at the door, prevented them from entering. The mayor shouldered his way eagerly through the crowd. He was back from the post-office, THERESE AND GERMAINE 177 They saw the groups of bystanders and drew nearer. Their gait betrayed uneasiness and hesi- tation. The sister asked a question of a seaman. At the first words of his answer, which no doubt con- veyed the news of d'Ormeval’s death, she uttered a cry and tried to force her way through the crowd. The brother, learning in his turn what had happened, made great play with his elbows and shouted to the coast-guards: “I’m a friend of d'Ormeval's . . . Here's my card! Frédéric Astaing. . . . My sister, Ger- maine Astaing, knows Madame d'Ormeval inti- mately . . . They were expecting us. . . . We had an appointment! . . .” They were allowed to pass. Rénine, who had slipped behind them, followed them in without a word, accompanied by Hortense. The d'Ormevals had four bedrooms and a sitting- room on the second floor. The sister rushed into one of the rooms and threw herself on her knees beside the bed on which the corpse lay stretched. Thérèse d'Ormeval was in the sitting-room and was sobbing in the midst of a small company of silent persons. The brother sat down beside her, eagerly seized her hands and said, in a trembl- ing voice: “My poor friend! . . . My poor friend! . . .” Rénine and Hortense gazed at the pair of them: and Hortense whispered: 178 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “And she's supposed to have killed him for that? Impossible!” “Nevertheless,” observed Rénine, “they are ac- quaintances; and we know that Astaing and his sister were also acquainted with a third person who was their accomplice So that . . .” “It's impossible!” Hortense repeated. And, in spite of all presumption, she felt so much attracted by Thérèse that, when Frédéric Astaing stood up, she proceeded straightway to sit down beside her and consoled her in a gentle voice. The unhappy woman's tears distressed her profoundly. Rénine, on the other hand, applied himself from the outset to watching the brother and sister, as though this were the only thing that mattered, and did not take his eyes off Frédéric Astaing, who, with an air of indifference, began to make a minute inspection of the premises, examining the sitting- room, going into all the bedrooms, mingling with the various groups of persons present and asking questions about the manner in which the murder had been committed. Twice his sister came up and spoke to him. Then he went back to Madame d'Ormeval and again sat down beside her, full of earnest sympathy. Lastly, in the lobby, he had a long conversation with his sister, after which they parted, like people who have come to a perfect under- standing. Frédéric then left. These manoeuvers had lasted quite thirty or forty minutes. It was at this moment that the motor-car contain- ! THERESE AND GERMAINE 179 i ing the examining-magistrate and the public prose- cutor pulled up outside the chalets. Rénine, who did not expect them until later, said to Hortense: “We must be quick. On no account leave Madame d'Ormeval.” Word was sent up to the persons whose evidence might be of any service that they were to go to the beach, where the magistrate was beginning a pre- liminary investigation. He would call on Madame d'Ormeval afterwards. Accordingly, all who were present left the chalet. No one remained behind except the two guards and Germaine Astaing. Germaine knelt down for the last time beside the dead man and, bending low, with her face in her hands, prayed for a long time. Then she rose and was opening the door on the landing, when Rénine came forward: “I should like a few words with you, madame.” She seemed surprised and replied: “What is it, monsieur? I am listening.” “Not here.” “Where then, monsieur?” “Next door, in the sitting-room.” “No,” she said, sharply. “Why not? Though you did not even shake hands with her, I presume that Madame d'Ormeval is your friend?” He gave her no time to reflect, drew her into the next room, closed the door and, at once pouncing upon Madame d'Ormeval, who was try- 180 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK ing to go out and return to her own room, said: “No, madame, listen, I implore you. Madame Astaing's presence need not drive you away. We have very serious matters to discuss, without losing a minute.” The two women, standing face to face, were look- ing at each other with the same expression of im- placable hatred, in which might be read the same confusion of spirit and the same restrained anger. Hortense, who believed them to be friends and who might, up to a certain point, have believed them to be accomplices, foresaw with terror the hostile en- counter which she felt to be inevitable. She com- pelled Madame d'Ormeval to resume her seat, while Rénine took up his position in the middle of the room and spoke in resolute tones: “Chance, which has placed me in possession of part of the truth, will enable me to save you both, if you are willing to assist me with a frank explana- tion that will give me the particulars which I still need. Each of you knows the danger in which she stands, because each of you is conscious in her heart of the evil for which she is responsible. But you are carried away by hatred; and it is for me to see clearly and to act. The examining-magistrate will be here in half-an-hour. By that time, you must have come to an agreement.” They both started, as though offended by such a word. “Yes, an agreement,” he repeated, in a more im- THERESE AND GERMAINE 181 perious tone. “Whether you like it or not, you will come to an agreement. You are not the only ones to be considered. There are your two little daughters, Madame d'Ormeval. Since circum- stances have set me in their path, I am intervening in their defence and for their safety. A blunder, a word too much; and they are ruined. That must not happen.” At the mention of her children, Madame d'Orme- val broke down and sobbed. Germaine Astaing shrugged her shoulders and made a movement to- wards the door. Rénine once more blocked the way: “Where are you going?” “I have been summoned by the examining-magis- trate.” “No, you have not.” “Yes, I have. Just as all those have been who have any evidence to give.” “You were not on the spot. You know nothing of what happened. Nobody knows anything of the murder.” “I know who committed it.” “That's impossible.” “It was Thérèse d'Ormeval.” The accusation was hurled forth in an outburst of rage and with a fiercely threatening gesture. “You wretched creature!” exclaimed madame d'Ormeval, rushing at her. “Go! Leave the room! Oh, what a wretch the woman is!” 182 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK Hortense was trying to restrain her, but Rénine whispered: “Let them be. It's what I wanted . . . to pitch them one against the other and so to let in the day- light.” Madame Astaing had made a convulsive effort to ward off the insult with a jest; and she sniggered: “A wretched creature? Why? Because I have accused you?” “Why? For every reason! You're a wretched creature! You hear what I say, Germaine: you're a wretch!” Thérèse d'Ormeval was repeating the insult as though it afforded her some relief. Her anger was abating. Very likely also she no longer had the strength to keep up the struggle; and it was Madame Astaing who returned to the attack, with her fists clenched and her face distorted and suddenly aged by fully twenty years: “You! You dare to insult me, you! You after the murder you have committed! You dare to lift up your head when the man whom you killed is lying in there on his death-bed Ah, if one of us is a wretched creature, it's you, Thérèse, and you know it! You have killed your husband! You have killed your husband!” She leapt forward, in the excitement of the terrible words which she was uttering; and her finger-nails were almost touching her friend's face. “Oh, don't tell me you didn't kill him!” she cried. THERESE AND GERMAINE 183 “Don’t say that: I won't let you. Don't say it. The dagger is there, in your bag. My brother felt it, while he was talking to you; and his hand came out with stains of blood upon it: your hus- band's blood, Thérèse. And then, even if I had not discovered anything, do you think that I should not have guessed, in the first few minutes? Why, I knew the truth at once, Thérèse! When a sailor down there answered, ‘M. d'Ormeval? He has been murdered,” I said to myself then and there, “It's she, it's Thérèse, she killed him.'” Thérèse did not reply. She had abandoned her attitude of protest. Hortense, who was watching her with anguish, thought that she could perceive in her the despondency of those who know them- selves to be lost. Her cheeks had fallen in and she wore such an expression of despair that Hor- tense, moved to compassion, implored her to defend herself: “Please, please, explain things. When the mur- der was committed, you were here, on the bal- cony. . . . But then the dagger . . . how did you come to have it . . . P How do you explain it? . . .” “Explanations!” sneered Germaine Astaing. “How could she possibly explain? What do out- ward appearances matter? What does it matter what any one saw or did not see? The proof is the thing that tells. . . . The dagger is there, in your bag, Thérèse: that's a fact. . . . Yes, yes, it was you who did it! You killed him ' You killed him 184 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK in the end ' . . . Ah, how often I’ve told my brother, ‘She will kill him yet!' Frédéric used to try to defend you. He always had a weakness for you. But in his innermost heart he foresaw what would happen. . . . And now the horrible thing has been done. A stab in the back! Coward! Coward! . . . And you would have me say nothing? Why, I didn't hesitate a moment! Nor did Frédéric. We looked for proofs at once. . . . And I’ve denounced you of my own free will, per- fectly well aware of what I was doing. . . . And it's over, Thérèse. You're done for. Nothing can save you now. The dagger is in that bag which you are clutching in your hand. The magistrate is coming; and the dagger will be found, stained with the blood of your husband. So will your pocket-book. They’re both there. And they will be found. . . .” Her rage had incensed her so vehemently that she was unable to continue and stood with her hand outstretched and her chin twitching with nervous tremors. Rénine gently took hold of Madame d'Ormeval's bag. She clung to it, but he insisted and said: “Please allow me, madame. Your friend Ger- maine is right. The examining-magistrate will be here presently; and the fact that the dagger and the pocket-book are in your possession will lead to your immediate arrest. This must not happen. Please allow me.” THERESE AND GERMAINE 185 His insinuating voice diminished Thérèse d'Or- meval's resistance. She released her fingers, one by one. He took the bag, opened it, produced a little dagger with an ebony handle and a grey leather pocket-book and quietly slipped the two into the in- side pocket of his jacket. Germaine Astaing gazed at him in amazement: “You're mad, monsieur ! What right have you . . . .” “These things must not be left lying about. I sha'n't worry now. The magistrate will never look for them in my pocket.” “But I shall denounce you to the police,” she exclaimed, indignantly. “They shall be told!” “No, no,” he said, laughing, “you won't say any- thing! The police have nothing to do with this. The quarrel between you must be settled in private. What an idea, to go dragging the police into every incident of one's life!” Madame Astaing was choking with fury: “But you have no right to talk like this, monsieur ! Who are you, after all? A friend of that woman's P” “Since you have been attacking her, yes.” “But I'm only attacking her because she's guilty. For you can't deny it: she has killed her husband.” “I don't deny it,” said Rénine, calmly. “We are all agreed on that point. Jacques d'Ormeval was killed by his wife. But, I repeat, the police must not know the truth.” 188 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK think of it sometimes, but I held out, for the children's sake. . . . Jacques was weakening. She wanted him to get a divorce . . . and little by little he began to consent . . . dominated by her and by her brother, who is slyer than she is, but quite as dangerous. . . . I felt all this. . . . Jacques was becoming harsh to me. . . . He had not the courage to leave me, but I was the obstacle and he bore me a grudge. . . . Heavens, the tor- tures I suffered ! . . .” “You should have given him his liberty,” cried Germaine Astaing. “A woman doesn't kill her husband for wanting a divorce.” Thérèse shook her head and answered: “I did not kill him because he wanted a divorce. If he had really wanted it, he would have left me; and what could I have done? But your plans had changed, Germaine; divorce was not enough for you; and it was something else that you would have obtained from him, another, much more serious thing which you and your brother had insisted on . and to which he had consented . . . out of cowardice . . . in spite of himself. . . .” “What do you mean?” spluttered Germaine. “What other thing?” “My death.” “You lie!” cried Madame Astaing. Thérèse did not raise her voice. She made not a movement of aversion or indignation and simply repeated: THERESE AND GERMAINE 189 “My death, Germaine. I have read your latest letters, six letters from you which he was foolish enough to leave about in his pocket-book and which I read last night, six letters in which the terrible word is not set down, but in which it appears be- tween every line. I trembled as I read it! That Jacques should come to this! . . . Nevertheless the idea of stabbing him did not occur to me for a second. A women like myself, Germaine, does not readily commit murder. . . . If I lost my head, it was after that . . . and it was your fault. . . .” She turned her eyes to Rénine as if to ask him if there was no danger in her speaking and reveal- ing the truth. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I will be answer- able for everything.” She drew her hand across her forehead. The horrible scene was being reenacted within her and was torturing her. Germaine Astaing did not move, but stood with folded arms and anxious eyes, while Hortense Daniel sat distractedly awaiting the confession of the crime and the explanation of the unfathomable mystery. - “It was after that and it was through your fault Germaine. . . . I had put back the pocket-book in the drawer where it was hidden; and I said nothing to Jacques this morning. . . . I did not want to tell him what I knew. . . . It was too horrible. . . . All the same, I had to act quickly; your letters announced your secret arrival to-day. . . . I 190 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK thought at first of running away, of taking the train. . . . I had mechanically picked up that dagger, to defend myself. . . . But when Jacques and I went down to the beach, I was resigned. . . . Yes, I had accepted death: ‘I will die,' I thought, and put an end to all this nightmare” . . . Only, for the chil- dren's sake, I was anxious that my death should look like an accident and that Jacques should have no part in it. That was why your plan of a walk on the cliff suited me. . . . A fall from the top of a cliff seems quite natural. . . . Jacques therefore left me to go to his cabin, from which he was to join you later at the Trois Mathildes. On the way, below the terrace, he dropped the key of the cabin. I went down and began to look for it with him. . . . And it happened then . . . through your fault . . . yes, Germaine, through your fault. . . . Jacques’ pocket-book had slipped from his jacket, without his noticing it, and, together with the pocket-book, a photograph which I recognized at once: a photo- graph, taken this year, of myself and my two children. I picked it up . . . and I saw . . . You know what I saw, Germaine. Instead of my face, the face in the photograph was yours! . . . You had put in your likeness, Ger- maine, and blotted me out! It was your face! One of your arms was round my elder daughter's neck; and the younger was sitting on your knees. . . . It was you, Germaine, the wife of my husband, the future mother of my children, THERESE AND GERMAINE 191 you, who were going to bring them up . . . you, you! . . . Then I lost my head. I had the dag- ger. . . . Jacques was stooping. . . . I stabbed him. . . .” Every word of her confession was strictly true. Those who listened to her felt this profoundly; and nothing could have given Hortense and Rénine a keener impression of tragedy. She had fallen back into her chair, utterly ex- hausted. Nevertheless, she went on speaking un- intelligible words; and it was only gradually by leaning over her, that they were able to make out: “I thought that there would be an outcry and that I should be arrested. But no. It happened in such a way and under such conditions that no one had seen anything. Further, Jacques had drawn him- self up at the same time as myself; and he actually did not fall. No, he did not fall! I had stabbed him; and he remained standing ! I saw him from the terrace, to which I had returned. He had hung his jacket over his shoulders, evidently to hide his wound, and he moved away without stagger- ing . . . or staggering so little that I alone was able to perceive it. He even spoke to some friends who were playing cards. Then he went to his cabin and disappeared. . . . In a few moments, I came back indoors. I was persuaded that all of this was only a bad dream . . . that I had not killed him . . . or that at the worst the wound was a slight one. Jacques would come out again. I was 192 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK certain of it. . . . I watched from my balcony. . . . If I had thought for a moment that he needed assistance, I should have flown to him. . . . But truly I didn't know . . . I didn't guess . . . People speak of presentiments: there are no such things. I was perfectly calm, just as one is after a nightmare of which the memory is fading away. . . . No, I swear to you, I knew noth- ing . . . until the moment . . .” She interrupted herself, stifled by sobs. Rénine finished her sentence for her, “Until the moment when they came and told you, I suppose?” Thérèse stammered: “Yes. It was not till then that I was conscious of what I had done . . . and I felt that I was going mad and that I should cry out to all those people, ‘Why, it was I who did it! Don't search! Here is the dagger . . . I am the culprit!’ Yes, I was go- ing to say that, when suddenly I caught sight of my poor Jacques. . . . They were carrying him along. . . . His face was very peaceful, very gentle. . . . And, in his presence, I understood my duty, as he had understood his. . . . He had kept silent, for the sake of the children. I would be silent too. We were both guilty of the murder of which he was the victim; and we must both do all we could to prevent the crime from recoiling upon them. . . . He had seen this clearly in his dying agony. He had had the amazing courage to keep THERESE AND GERMAINE 193 his feet, to answer the people who spoke to him and to lock himself up to die. He had done this, wiping out all his faults with a single action, and in so do– ing had granted me his forgiveness, because he was not accusing me . . . and was ordering me to hold my peace . . . and to defend myself . . . against everybody . . . especially against you, Germaine.” She uttered these last words more firmly. At first wholly overwhelmed by the unconscious act which she had committed in killing her husband, she had recovered her strength a little in thinking of what she had done and in defending herself with such energy. Faced by the intriguing woman whose hatred had driven both of them to death and crime, she clenched her fists, ready for the struggle, all quivering with resolution. Germaine Astaing did not flinch. She had lis- tened without a word, with a relentless expression which grew harder and harder as Thérèse's con- fessions became precise. No emotion seemed to soften her and no remorse to penetrate her being. At most, towards the end, her thin lips shaped themselves into a faint smile. She was holding her prey in her clutches. Slowly, with her eyes raised to a mirror, she ad- justed her hat and powdered her face. Then she walked to the door. Thérèse darted forward: “Where are you going?” “Where I choose.” 194 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “To see the examining-magistrate?” “Very likely.” “You sha'n't pass!” “As you please. I'll wait for him here.” “And you'll tell him what?” “Why, all that you've said, of course, all that you've been silly enough to say. How could he doubt the story? You have explained it all to me so fully.” Thérèse took her by the shoulders: “Yes, but I'll explain other things to him at the same time, Germaine, things that concern you. If I’m ruined, so shall you be.” “You can't touch me.” “I can expose you, show your letters.” “What letters P” “Those in which my death was decided on.” “Lies, Thérese! You know that famous plot exists only in your imagination. Neither Jacques nor I wished for your death.” “You did, at any rate. Your letters condemn you.” “Lies! They were the letters of a friend to a friend.” “Letters of a mistress to her paramour.” “Prove it.” “They are there, in Jacques' pocket-book.” “No, they're not.” “What's that you say?” THERESE AND GERMAINE 195 “I say that those letters belonged to me. I’ve taken them back, or rather my brother has.” “You’ve stolen them, you wretch! And you shall give them back again,” cried Thérèse, shaking her. “I haven't them. My brother kept them. He has gone.” Thérèse staggered and stretched out her hands to Rénine with an expression of despair. Rénine said: “What she says is true. I watched the brother's proceedings while he was feeling in your bag. He took out the pocket-book, looked through it with his sister, came and put it back again and went off with the letters.” Rénine paused and added, “Or, at least, with five of them.” The two women moved closer to him. What did he intend to convey 2 If Frédéric Astaing had taken away only five letters, what had become of the sixth P “I suppose,” said Rénine, “that, when the pocket- book fell on the shingle, that sixth letter slipped out at the same time as the photograph and that M. d'Ormeval must have picked it up, for I found it in the pocket of his blazer, which had been hung up near the bed. Here it is. It's signed Germaine Astaing and it is quite enough to prove the writer's intentions and the murderous counsels which she was pressing upon her lover.” 198 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK enquiry and to answer the questions put to her, he left the chalet, accompanied by Hortense Daniel. On the beach below, the magistrate and the public prosecutor were continuing their investigations, taking measurements, examining the witnesses and generally laying their heads together. “When I think,” said Hortense, “that you have the dagger and M. d'Ormeval's pocket-book on you!” “And it strikes you as awfully dangerous, I sup- pose?” he said, laughing. “It strikes me as awfully comic.” “Aren't you afraid?” “Of what?” “That they may suspect something?” “Lord, they won't suspect a thing! We shall tell those good people what we saw and our evidence will only increase their perplexity, for we saw noth- ing at all. For prudence sake we will stay a day or two, to see which way the wind is blowing. But it's quite settled: they will never be able to make head or tail of the matter.” “Nevertheless, you guessed the secret and from the first. Why?” “Because, instead of seeking difficulties where none exist, as people generally do, I always put the question as it should be put; and the solution comes quite naturally. A man goes to his cabin and locks himself in. Half an hour later, he is found inside, dead. No one has gone in. What has happened? | THERESE AND GERMAINE 199 To my mind there is only one answer. There is no need to think about it. As the murder was not committed in the cabin, it must have been committed beforehand and the man was already mortally wounded when he entered his cabin. And forth- with the truth in this particular case appeared to me. Madame d'Ormeval, who was to have been killed this evening, forestalled her murderers and while her husband was stooping to the ground, in a moment of frenzy stabbed him in the back. There was nothing left to do but look for the reasons that prompted her action. When I knew them, I took her part unreservedly. That's the whole story.” The day was beginning to wane. The blue of the sky was becoming darker and the sea, even more peaceful than before. “What are you thinking of 2" asked Rénine, after a moment. “I am thinking,” she said, “that if I too were the victim of some machination, I should trust you whatever happened, trust you through and against all. I know, as certainly as I know that I exist, that you would save me, whatever the obstacles might be. There is no limit to the power of your Will.” He said, very softly: “There is no limit to my wish to please you.” VI THE LADY WITH THE HATCHET VI THE LADY WITH THE HATCHET ONE of the most incomprehensible incidents that preceded the great war was certainly the one which was known as the episode of the lady with the hatchet. The solution of the mystery was unknown and would never have been known, had not circum- stances in the cruellest fashion obliged Prince Ré- nine—or should I say, Arsène Lupin 2–to take up the matter and had I not been able to-day to tell the true story from the details supplied by him. Let me recite the facts. In a space of eighteen months, five women disappeared, five women of different stations in life, all between twenty and thirty years of age and living in Paris or the Paris district. I will give their names: Madame Ledoue, the wife of a doctor; Mlle. Ardant, the daughter of a banker; Mlle. Covereau, a washer-woman of Courbevoie; Mlle. Honorine Vernisset, a dressmaker; and Madame Grollinger, an artist. These five women disappeared without the possibility of discovering a single particular to explain why they had left their homes, why they did not return to them, who had enticed them away, and where and how they were detained. 203 204 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK Each of these women, a week after her depart- ure, was found somewhere or other in the western outskirts of Paris; and each time it was a dead body that was found, the dead body of a woman who had been killed by a blow on the head from a hatchet. And each time, not far from the woman, who was firmly bound, her face covered with blood and her body emaciated by lack of food, the marks of carriage-wheels proved that the corpse had been driven to the spot. The five murders were so much alike that there was only a single investigation, embracing all the five enquiries and, for that matter, leading to no re- sult. A woman disappeared; a week later, to a day, her body was discovered; and that was all. The bonds that fastened her were similar in each case; so were the tracks left by the wheels; so were the blows of the hatchet, all of which were struck vertically at the top and right in the middle of the forehead. The motive of the crime? The five women had been completely stripped of their jewels, purses and other objects of value. But the robberies might well have been attributed to marauders or any passersby, since the bodies were lying in deserted spots. Were the authorities to believe in the execu- tion of a plan of revenge or of a plan intended to do away with the series of persons mutually con- nected, persons, for instance, likely to benefit by a future inheritance? Here again the same obscurity prevailed. Theories were built up, only to be demol- THE LADY WITH THE HATCHET 205 ished forthwith by an examination of the facts. Trails were followed and at once abandoned. And suddenly there was a sensation. A woman engaged in sweeping the roads picked up on the pavement a little note-book which she brought to the local police-station. The leaves of this note-book were all blank, excepting one, on which was written a list of the murdered women, with their names set down in order of date and accompanied by three figures: Ladoue, 132; Vernisset, I 18; and so on. Certainly no importance would have been attached to these entries, which anybody might have written, since every one was acquainted with the sinister list. But, instead of five names, it included six! Yes, below the words “Grollinger, 128,” there appeared “Williamson, I 14.” Did this indicate a sixth murder? The obviously English origin of the name lim- ited the field of the investigations, which did not in fact take long. It was ascertained that, a fort- night ago, a Miss Hermione Williamson, a gover- ness in a family at Auteuil, had left her place to go back to England and that, since then, her sisters, though she had written to tell them that she was coming over, had heard no more of her. A fresh enquiry was instituted. A postman found the body in the Meudon woods. Miss Williamson's skull was split down the middle. I need not describe the public excitement at this stage nor the shudder of horror which passed 206 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK through the crowd when it read this list, written without a doubt in the murderer's own hand. What could be more frightful than such a record, kept up to date like a careful tradesman's ledger: “On such a day, I killed so-and-so; on such a day so-and-sol” And the sum total was six dead bodies. Against all expectation, the experts in hand- writing had no difficulty in agreeing and unani- mously declared that the writing was “that of a woman, an educated woman, possessing artistic tastes, imagination and an extremely sensitive na- ture.” The “lady with the hatchet,” as the jour- nalists christened her, was decidedly no ordinary person; and scores of newspaper-articles made a special study of her case, exposing her mental con- dition and losing themselves in far-fetched explan- ations. Nevertheless it was the writer of one of these arti- cles, a young journalist whose chance discovery made him the centre of public attention, who sup- plied the one element of truth and shed upon the darkness the only ray of light that was to penetrate it. In casting about for the meaning of the figures which followed the six names, he had come to ask himself whether those figures did not simply represent the number of the days separating one crime from the next. All that he had to do was to check the dates. He at once found that his theory was correct. Mlle. Vernisset had been carried off one hundred and THE LADY WITH THE HATCHET 207 thirty-two days after Madame Ladoue; Mlle. Cover- eau one hundred and eighteen days after Honorine Vernisset; and so on. There was therefore no room for doubt; and the police had no choice but to accept a solution which so precisely fitted the circumstances: the figures corresponded with the intervals. There was no mistake in the records of the lady with the hatchet. But then one deduction became inevitable. Miss Williamson, the latest victim, had been carried off on the 26th of June last, and her name was followed by the figures I 14: was it not to be presumed that a fresh crime would be committed a hundred and fourteen days later, that is to say, on the 18th of October? Was it not probable that the horrible business would be repeated in accordance with the murderer's secret intentions? Were they not bound to pursue to its logical conclusion the argument which ascribed to the figures—to all the figures, to the last as well as to the others—their value as eventual dates? Now it was precisely this deduction which was drawn and was being weighed and discussed during the few days that preceded the 18th of October, when logic demanded the performance of yet an- other act of the abominable tragedy. And it was only natural that, on the morning of that day, Prince Rénine and Hortense, when making an appointment by telephone for the evening, should 208 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK allude to the newspaper-articles which they had both been reading: “Look out !” said Rénine, laughing. “If you meet the lady with the hatchet, take the other side of the road l’’ “And, if the good lady carries me off, what am I to do?” “Strew your path with little white pebbles and say, until the very moment when the hatchet flashes in the air, “I have nothing to fear; he will save me.” He is myself . . . and I kiss your hands. Till this evening, my dear” That afternoon, Rénine had an appointment with Rose Andrée and Dalbrèque to arrange for their departure for the States." Between four and seven o'clock, he bought the different editions of the even- ing papers. None of them reported any abduction. At nine o'clock he went to the Gymnase, where he had taken a private box. At half-past nine, as Hortense had not arrived, he rang her up, though without thought of anxiety. The maid replied that Madame Daniel had not come in yet. Seized with a sudden fear, Rénine hurried to the furnished flat which Hortense was occupying for the time being, near the Parc Monceau, and ques- tioned the maid, whom he had engaged for her and who was completely devoted to him. The woman said that her mistress had gone out at two o'clock, 1 See The Tell-tale Film. THE LADY WITH THE HATCHET 209 with a stamped letter in her hand, saying that she was going to the post and that she would come back to dress. This was the last that had been seen of ber. “To whom was the letter addressed ?” “To you, sir. I saw the writing on the envelope: Prince Serge Rénine.” He waited until midnight, but in vain. Hortense did not return; nor did she return next day. “Not a word to any one,” said Rénine to the maid. “Say that your mistress is in the country and that you are going to join her.” For his own part, he had not a doubt: Hortense's disappearance was explained by the very fact of the date, the 18th of October. She was the seventh victim of the lady with the hatchet. “The abduction,” said Rénine to himself,” pre- cedes the blow of the hatchet by a week. I have, therefore, at the present moment, seven full days be- fore me. Let us say six, to avoid any surprise. This is Saturday: Hortense must be set free by mid-day on Friday; and, to make sure of this, I must know her hiding-place by nine o'clock on Thursday even- ing at latest.” Rénine wrote, “THURSDAY EVENING, NINE O'CLOCK,” in big letters, on a card which he nailed above the mantelpiece in his study. Then at midday on Saturday, the day after the disappear- ance, he locked himself into the study, after telling 2 lo THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK his man not to disturb him except for meals and let- terS. He spent four days there, almost without moving. He had immediately sent for a set of all the leading newspapers which had spoken in detail of the first six crimes. When he had read and reread them, he closed the shutters, drew the curtains and lay down on the sofa in the dark, with the door bolted, think- ing. By Tuesday evening he was no further advanced than on the Saturday. The darkness was as dense as ever. He had not discovered the smallest clue for his guidance, nor could he see the slightest reason to hope. At times, notwithstanding his immense power of self-control and his unlimited confidence in the re- sources at his disposal, at times he would quake with anguish. Would he arrive in time? There was no reason why he should see more clearly during the last few days than during those which had already elapsed. And this meant that Hortense Daniel would inevitably be murdered. The thought tortured him. He was attached to Hortense by a much stronger and deeper feeling than the appearance of the relations between them would have led an onlooker to believe. The curi- osity at the beginning, the first desire, the impulse to protect Hortense, to distract her, to inspire her with a relish for existence: all this had simply turned to love. Neither of them was aware of it, because THE LADY WITH THE HATCHET 211 they barely saw each other save at critical times when they were occupied with the adventures of others and not with their own. But, at the first on- slaught of danger, Rénine realized the place which Hortense had taken in his life and he was in despair at knowing her to be a prisoner and a martyr and at being unable to save her. He spent a feverish, agitated night, turning the case over and over from every point of view. The Wednesday morning was also a terrible time for him. He was losing ground. Giving up his her- mit-like seclusion, he threw open the windows and paced to and fro through his rooms, ran out into the street and came in again, as though fleeing be- fore the thought that obsessed him: “Hortense is suffering. . . . Hortense is in the depths. . . . She sees the hatchet. . . . She is call- ing to me. . . . She is entreating me. . . . And I 35 can do nothing. . . . It was at five o'clock in the afternoon that, on examining the list of the six names, he received that little inward shock which is a sort of signal of the truth that is being sought for. A light shot through his mind. It was not, to be sure, that brilliant light in which every detail is made plain, but it was enough to tell him in which direction to move. His plan of campaign was formed at once. He sent Adolphe, his chauffeur, to the principal news- papers, with a few lines which were to appear in large type among the next morning's advertisements. 212 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK Adolphe was also told to go to the laundry at Cour- bevoie, where Mlle. Covereau, the second of the six victims, had been employed. On the Thursday, Rénine did not stir out of doors. In the afternoon, he received several letters in reply to his advertisement. Then two telegrams arrived. Lastly, at three o'clock, there came a pneumatic letter, bearing the Trocadéro postmark, which seemed to be what he was expecting. He turned up a directory, noted an address—“M. de Lourtier-Vaneau, retired colonial governor, 47 bis, Avenue Kléber"—and ran down to his car: “Adolphe, 47 bis, Avenue Kléber.” He was shown into a large study furnished with magnificent book-cases containing old volumes in costly bindings. M. de Lourtier-Vaneau was a man still in the prime of life, wearing a slightly grizzled beard and, by his affable manners and genuine dis- tinction, commanding confidence and liking. “M. de Lourtier,” said Rénine, “I have ventured to call on your excellency because I read in last year's newspapers that you used to know one of the vic- tims of the lady with the hatchet, Honorine Ver- nisset.” “Why, of course we knew her!” cried M. de Lourtier. “My wife used to employ her as a dress- maker by the day. Poor girl!” “M. de Lourtier, a lady of my acquaintance has disappeared as the other six victims disappeared.” THE LADY WITH THE HATCHET 213 “What!” exclaimed M. de Lourtier, with a start. “But I have followed the newspapers carefully. There was nothing on the 18th of October.” “Yes, a woman of whom I am very fond, Madame Hortense Daniel, was abducted on the 17th of October.” “And this is the 22nd I’’ “Yes; and the murder will be committed on the 24th.” “Horrible! Horrible! It must be prevented at all costs . . .” “And I shall perhaps succeed in preventing it, with your excellency's assistance.” “But have you been to the police?” “No. We are faced by mysteries which are, so to speak, absolute and compact, which offer no gap through which the keenest eyes can see and which it is useless to hope to clear up by ordinary methods, such as inspection of the scenes of the crimes, police enquiries, searching for finger-prints and so on. As none of those proceedings served any good purpose in the previous cases, it would be waste of time to resort to them in a seventh, similar case. An enemy who displays such skill and subtlety would not leave behind her any of those clumsy traces which are the first things that a professional detective seizes upon.” “Then what have you done?” “Before taking any action, I have reflected. I gave four days to thinking the matter over.” 214 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK M. de Lourtier-Vaneau examined his visitor closely and, with a touch of irony, asked: “And the result of your meditations . . . .” “To begin with,” said Rénine, refusing to be put out of countenance, “I have submitted all these cases to a comprehensive survey, which hitherto no one else had done. This enabled me to discover their general meaning, to put aside all the tangle of em- barrassing theories and, since no one was able to agree as to the motives of all this filthy business, to attribute it to the only class of persons capable of it.” “That is to say?” “Lunatics, your excellency.” M. de Lourtier-Vaneau started: “Lunatics? What an idea!” “M. de Lourtier, the woman known as the lady with the hatchet is a madwoman.” “But she would be locked up!” - “We don't know that she's not. We don't know that she is not one of those half-mad people, appar- ently harmless, who are watched so slightly that they have full scope to indulge their little manias, their wild-beast instincts. Nohing could be more treacherous than these creatures. Nothing could be more crafty, more patient, more persistent, more dangerous and at the same time more absurd and more logical, more slovenly and more methodical. All these epithets, M. de Lourtier, may be applied to the doings of the lady with the hatchet. The 216 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “Ah,” said Rénine. “Your excellency is asking me a question which I asked myself from the first moment, the question which sums up the whole prob- lem and which cost me so much trouble to solve! Why Hortense Daniel rather than another? Among two millions of women who might have been selected, why Hortense? Why little Ver- nisset? Why Miss Williamson? If the affair is such as I conceived it, as a whole, that is to say, based upon the blind and fantastic logic of a mad- woman, a choice was inevitably exercised. Now in what did that choice consist? What was the qual- ity, or the defect, or the sign needed to induce the lady with the hatchet to strike? In a word, if she chose—and she must have chosen—what directed her choice P” “Have you found the answer?” Rénine paused and replied: “Yes, your excellency, I have. And I could have found it at the very outset, since all that I had to do was to make a careful examination of the list of victims. But these flashes of truth are never kindled save in a brain overstimulated by effort and reflec- tion. I stared at the list twenty times over, before that little detail took a definite shape.” “I don't follow you,” said M. de Lourtier-Va- neau.” “M. de Lourtier, it may be noted that, if a number of persons are brought together in any transaction, or crime, or public scandal or what not, they are 218 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK seek any farther. We are sure, are we not, that the Christian names of all the victims offer the same peculiarities? And this gives us, with absolute certainty, the key to the problem which was set us. It explains the madwoman's choice. We now know the connection between the unfortunate victims. There can be no mistake about it. It's that and noth- ing else. And how this method of choosing con- firms my theory! What proof of madness! Why kill these women rather than any others? Because their names begin with an H and consist of eight letters! You understand me, M. de Lourtier, do you not? The number of letters is eight. The initial letter is the eighth letter of the alphabet; and the word huit, eight, begins with an H. Always the letter H. And the implement used to commit the crime was a hatchet. Is your excellency prepared to tell me that the lady with the hatchet is not a mad- woman P” Rénine interrupted himself and went up to M. de Lourtier-Vaneau: “What's the matter, your excellency? Are you unwell ?” “No, no,” said M. de Lourtier, with the perspi- ration streaming down his forehead. “No . . . but all this story is so upsetting! Only think, I knew one of the victims' And then . . .” Rénine took a water-bottle and tumbler from a small table, filled the glass and handed it to M. de Lourtier, who sipped a few mouthfuls from it and THE LADY WITH THE HATCHET 219 then, pulling himself together, continued, in a voice which he strove to make firmer than it had been : “Very well. We'll admit your supposition. Even so, it is necessary that it should lead to tangible re- sults. What have you done?” “This morning I published in all the newspapers an advertisement worded as follows: “Excellent cook seeks situation. Write before 5 P.M. to Her- minie, Boulevard Haussmann, etc.’ You continue to follow me, don't you, M. de Lourtier? Christian names beginning with an H and consisting of eight 1etters are extremely rare and are all rather out of date: Herminie, Hilairie, Hermione. Well, these Christian names, for reasons which I do not under- stand, are essential to the madwoman. She cannot do without them. To find women bearing one of these Christian names and for this purpose only she summons up all her remaining powers of reason, discernment, reflection and intelligence. She hunts about. She asks questions. She lies in wait. She reads newspapers which she hardly understands, but in which certain details, certain capital letters catch her eye. And consequently I did not doubt for a second that this name of Herminie, printed in large type, would attract her attention and that she would be caught to-day in the trap of my adver- tisement.” “Did she write?” asked M. de Lourtier-Vaneau, anxiously. “Several ladies,” Rénine continued,” wrote the 220 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK letters which are usual in such cases, to offer a home to the so-called Herminie. But I received an ex- press letter which struck me as interesting.” “From whom P” “Read it, M. de Lourtier.” M. de Lourtier-Vaneau snatched the sheet from Rénine's hands and cast a glance at the signature. His first movement was one of surprise, as though he had expected something different. Then he gave a long, loud laugh of something like joy and relief. “Why do you laugh, M. de Lourtier? You seem pleased.” “Pleased, no. But this letter is signed by my wife.” “And you were afraid of finding something else?” “Oh no! But since it's my wife . He did not finish his sentence and said to Rénine: “Come this way.” He led him through a passage to a little drawing- room where a fair-haired lady, with a happy and tender expression on her comely face, was sitting in the midst of three children and helping them with their lessons. She rose. M. de Lourtier briefly presented his visitor and asked his wife: “Suzanne, is this express message from you?” “To Mlle. Herminie, Boulevard Haussmann? Yes,” she said, “I sent it. As you know, our par- 3 y THE LADY WITH THE HATCHET 221 lour-maid's leaving and I'm looking out for a new one.” Rénine interrupted her: “Excuse me, madame. Just one question: where did you get the woman's address?” She flushed. Her husband insisted : “Tell us, Suzanne. Who gave you the address?” “I was rung up.” “By whom?” She hesitated and then said: “Your old nurse.” “Félicienne?” “Yes.” M. de Lourtier cut short the conversation and, without permitting Rénine to ask any more ques- tions, took him back to the study: “You see, monsieur that pneumatic letter came from a quite natural source. Félicienne, my old nurse, who lives not far from Paris on an allowance which I make her, read your advertisement and told Madame de Lourtier of it. For, after all,” he added laughing, “I don't suppose that you suspect my wife of being the lady with the hatchet.” “No.” “Then the incident is closed . . . at least on my side. I have done what I could, I have listened to your arguments and I am very sorry that I can be of no more use to you. . . .” He drank another glass of water and sat down. His face was distorted. 222 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK Rénine looked at him for a few seconds, as a man will look at a failing adversary who has only to receive the knock-out blow, and, sitting down be- side him, suddenly gripped his arm: “Your excellency, if you do not speak, Hortense Daniel will be the seventh victim.” “I have nothing to say, monsieur ! What do you think I know?” “The truth! My explanations have made it plain to you. Your distress, your terror are positive proofs.” “But, after all, monsieur, if I knew, why should I be silent?” “For fear of scandal. There is in your life, so a profound intuition assures me, something that you are constrained to hide. The truth about this monstrous tragedy, which suddenly flashed upon you, this truth, if it were known, would spell dis- honour to you, disgrace . . . and you are shrinking from your duty.” M. : de Lourtier did not reply. Rénine leant over him and, looking him in the eyes, whispered: “There will be no scandal. I shall be the only person in the world to know what has happened. And I am as much interested as yourself in not attracting attention, because I love Hortense Dan- iel and do not wish her name to be mixed up in your horrible story.” They remained face to face during a long interval. Rénine's expression was harsh and unyielding. M. THE LADY WITH THE HATCHET 223 de Lourtier felt that nothing would bend him if the necessary words remained unspoken; but he could not bring himself to utter them: “You are mistaken,” he said. “You think you have seen things that don't exist.” Rénine received a sudden and terrifying convic- tion that, if this man took refuge in a stolid silence, there was no hope for Hortense Daniel; and he was so much infuriated by the thought that the key to the riddle lay there, within reach of his hand, that he clutched M. de Lourtier by the throat and forced him backwards: “I’ll have no more lies! A woman's life is at stake! Speak . . . and speak at once! If not . . .” M. de Lourtier had no strength left in him. All resistance was impossible. It was not that Rénine's attack alarmed him, or that he was yielding to this act of violence, but he felt crushed by that indom- itable will, which seemed to admit no obstacle, and he stammered: “You are right. It is my duty to tell everything, whatever comes of it.” “Nothing will come of it, I pledge my word, on condition that you save Hortense Daniel. A mo- ment's hesitation may undo us all. Speak. No details, but the actual facts.” “Madame de Lourtier is not my wife. The only woman who has the right to bear my name is one whom I married when I was a young colonial official. She was a rather eccentric woman, of feeble men- 224 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK tality and incredibly subject to impulses that amounted to monomania. We had two children, twins, whom she worshipped and in whose company she would no doubt have recovered her mental bal- ance and moral health, when, by a stupid accident —a passing carriage—they were killed before her eyes. The poor thing went mad . . . with the silent, secretive madness which you imagined. Some time afterwards, when I was appointed to an Algerian station, I brought her to France and put her in the charge of a worthy creature who had nursed me and brought me up. Two years later, I made the acquaintance of the woman who was to be- come the joy of my life. You saw her just now. She is the mother of my children and she passes as my wife. Are we to sacrifice her? Is our whole ex- istence to be shipwrecked in horror and must our name be coupled with this tragedy of madness and blood P” Rénine thought for a moment and asked: “What is the other one's name?” “Hermance.” “Hermance! Still that initial . . . still those eight letters!” “That was what made me realize everything just now,” said M. de Lourtier. “When you compared the different names, I at once reflected that my un- happy wife was called Hermance and that she was mad . . . and all the proofs leapt to my mind.” “But, though we understand the selection of the THE LADY WITH THE HATCHET 225 victims, how are we to explain the murders? What are the symptoms of her madness? Does she suffer at all?” “She does not suffer very much at present. But she has suffered in the past, the most terrible suffer- ing that you can imagine: since the moment when her two children were run over before her eyes, night and day she had the horrible spectacle of their death before her eyes, without a moment's interrup- tion, for she never slept for a single second. Think of the torture of it! To see her children dying through all the hours of the long day and all the hours of the interminable night!” “Nevertheless,” Rénine objected, “it is not to drive away that picture that she commits murder?” “Yes, possibly,” said M. de Lourtier, thoughtfully, “to drive it away by sleep.” “I don’t understand.” “You don't understand, because we are talking of a madwoman . . . and because all that happens in that disordered brain is necessarily incoherent and abnormal?” “Obviously. But, all the same, is your supposi- tion based on facts that justify it?” “Yes, on facts which I had, in a way, overlooked but which to-day assume their true significance. The first of these facts dates a few years back, to a morn- ing when my old nurse for the first time found Hermance fast asleep. Now she was holding her hands clutched around a puppy which she had 226 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK strangled. And the same thing was repeated on three other occasions.” “And she slept?” “Yes, each time she slept a sleep which lasted for several nights.” “And what conclusion did you draw P’ “I concluded that the relaxation of the nerves provoked by taking life exhausted her and predis- posed her for sleep.” Rénine shuddered: “That's it! There's not a doubt of it! The taking life, the effort of killing makes her sleep. And she began with women what had served her so well with animals. All her madness has become concentrated on that one point: she kills them to rob them of their sleep! She wanted sleep; and she steals the sleep of others! That's it, isn't it? For the past two years, she has been sleeping?” “For the past two years, she has been sleeping,” stammered M. de Lourtier. Rénine gripped him by the shoulder: “And it never occurred to you that her madness might go farther, that she would stop at nothing to win the blessing of sleep! Let us make haste, mon- sieur ! All this is horrible!” They were both making for the door, when M. de Lourtier hesitated. The telephone-bell was ring- ing. “It's from there,” he said. “From there?” THE LADY WITH THE HATCHET 227 “Yes, my old nurse gives me the news at the same time every day.” He unhooked the receivers and handed one to Rénine, who whispered in his ear the questions which he was to put. “Is that you, Félicienne? How is she?” “Not so bad, sir.” “Is she sleeping well?” “Not very well, lately. Last night, indeed, she never closed her eyes. So she's very gloomy just now.” “What is she doing at the moment?” “She is in her room.” “Go to her, Félicienne, and don't leave her.” “I can’t. She's locked herself in.” “You must, Félicienne. Break open the door. I'm coming straight on. . . . Hullo! Hullo! . . . Oh, damnation, they've cut us off!” Without a word, the two men left the flat and ran down to the avenue. Rénine hustled M. de Lourtier into the car: “What address P” “Ville d'Avray.” “Of course! In the very center of her opera- tions . . . like a spider in the middle of her web! Oh, the shame of it!” He was profoundly agitated. He saw the whole adventure in its monstrous reality. “Yes, she kills them to steal their sleep, as she used to kill the animals. It is the same obsession, 228 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK but complicated by a whole array of utterly incom- prehensible practices and superstitions. She evi- dently fancies that the similarity of the Christian names to her own is indispensable and that she will not sleep unless her victim is an Hortense or an Honorine. It's a madwoman's argument; its logic escapes us and we know nothing of its origin; but we can't get away from it. She has to hunt and has to find. And she finds and carries off her prey before- hand and watches over it for the appointed number of days, until the moment when, crazily, through the hole which she digs with a hatchet in the middle of the skull, she absorbs the sleep which stupefies her and grants her oblivion for a given period. And here again we see absurdity and madness. Why does she fix that period at so many days? Why should one victim ensure her a hundred and twenty days of sleep and another a hundred and twenty- five? What insanity! The calculation is myste- rious and of course mad; but the fact remains that, at the end of a hundred or a hundred and twenty- five days, as the case may be, a fresh victim is sacrificed; and there have been six already and the seventh is awaiting her turn. Ah, monsieur, what a terrible responsibility for you! Such a monster as that! She should never have been allowed out of sight!” M. de Lourtier-Vaneau made no protest. His air of dejection, his pallor, his trembling hands, all proved his remorse and his despair: THE LADY WITH THE HATCHET 229 “She deceived me,” he murmured. “She was outwardly so quiet, so docile! And, after all, she's in a lunatic asylum.” “Then how can she . . . .” “The asylum,” explained M. de Lourtier, “is made up of a number of separate buildings scattered over extensive grounds. The sort of cottage in which Hermance lives stands quite apart. There is first a room occupied by Félicienne, then Herm- ance's bedroom and two separate rooms, one of which has its windows overlooking the open country. I suppose it is there that she locks up her victims.” “But the carriage that conveys the dead bodies?” “The stables of the asylum are quite close to the cottage. There's a horse and carriage there for sta- tion work. Hermance no doubt gets up at night, harnesses the horse and slips the body through the window.” “And the nurse who watches her?” “Félicienne is very old and rather deaf.” “But by day she sees her mistress moving to and fro, doing this and that. Must we not admit a cer- tain complicity?” “Never! Félicienne herself has been deceived by Hermance's hypocrisy.” “All the same, it was she who telephoned to Madame de Lourtier first, about that advertise- ment. . . .” “Very naturally. Hermance, who talks now and THE LADY WITH THE HATCHET 233 with emaciated features and eyes blazing with fever, Hortense was trying to smile. She whispered: “I was expecting you. . . . I did not despair for a moment. . . . I was sure of you. . . .” She fainted. An hour later, after much useless searching around the cottage, they found the madwoman locked into a large cupboard in the loft. She had hanged herself. Hortense refused to stay another night. Besides, it was better that the cottage should be empty when the old nurse announced the madwoman's suicide. Rénine gave Félicienne minute directions as to what she should do and say; and then, assisted by the chauffeur and M. de Lourtier, carried Hortense to the car and brought her home. She was soon convalescent. Two days later, Rénine carefully questioned her and asked her how she had come to know the madwoman. “It was very simple,” she said. “My husband, who is not quite sane, as I have told you, is being looked after at Ville d'Avray; and I sometimes go to see him, without telling anybody, I admit. That was how I came to speak to that poor madwoman and how, the other day, she made signs that she wanted me to visit her. We were alone. I went into the cottage. She threw herself upon me and overpowered me before I had time to cry for help. I thought it was a jest; and so it was, wasn't it: a 234 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK madwoman's jest? She was quite gentle with me. . . . All the same, she let me starve. But I was so sure of you!” “And weren't you frightened?” “Of starving? No. Besides, she gave me some food, now and then, when the fancy took her. . . . And then I was sure of you!” “Yes, but there was something else: that other peril. . . .” “What other peril?” she asked, ingenuously. Rénine gave a start. He suddenly understood— it seemed strange at first, though it was quite natural —that Hortense had not for a moment suspected and did not yet suspect the terrible danger which she had run. Her mind had not connected with her own adventure the murders committed by the lady with the hatchet. He thought that it would always be time enough to tell her the truth. For that matter, a few days later her husband, who had been locked up for years, died in the asylum at Ville d'Avray, and Hortense, who had been recommended by her doctor a short period of rest and solitude, went to stay with a relation living near the village of Bassicourt, in the centre of France. VII FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW 238 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK am very well, physically . . . so much so, in fact, that I no longer ever think of interesting myself in other people's business. Never again! For instance (I am only telling you this because you are incorrig- ible, as inquisitive as any old charwoman, and always ready to busy yourself with things that don't con- cern you), yesterday I was present at a rather curi- ous meeting. Antoinette had taken me to the inn at Bassicourt, where we were having tea in the pub- lic room, among the peasants (it was market-day), when the arrival of three people, two men and a woman, caused a sudden pause in the conversation. “One of the men was a fat farmer in a long blouse, with a jovial, red face, framed in white whiskers. The other was younger, was dressed in corduroy and had lean, yellow, cross-grained fea- tures. Each of them carried a gun slung over his shoulder. Between them was a short, slender young woman, in a brown cloak and a fur cap, whose rather thin and extremely pale face was surprisingly delicate and distinguished-looking. “‘Father, son and daughter-in-law,’ whispered my cousin. “‘What! Can that charming creature be the wife of that clod-hopper?' “‘And the daughter-in-law of Baron de Gorne.” “‘Is the old fellow over there a baron P’ “‘Yes, descended from a very ancient, noble family which used to own the château in the old days. THE LADY WHTH-THE HATCHEF 239 He has always lived like a peasant: a great hunter, a great drinker, a great litigant, always at law with somebody, now very nearly ruined. His son Mathias was more ambitious and less attached to the soil and studied for the bar. Then he went to America. Next, the lack of money brought him back to the village, whereupon he fell in love with a young girl in the nearest town. The poor girl con- sented, no one knows why, to marry him; and for five years past she has been leading the life of a her- mit, or rather of a prisoner, in a little manor-house close by, the Manoir-au-Puits, the Well Manor.” “‘With the father and the Son?' I asked. “‘No, the father lives at the far end of the village, on a lonely farm.’ “‘And is Master Mathias jealous?' “‘A perfect tiger!' “‘Without reason?” “‘Without reason, for Natalie de Gorne is the straightest woman in the world and it is not her fault if a handsome young man has been hanging around the manor-house for the past few months. However, the de Gornes can't get over it.' “‘What, the father neither?' “‘The handsome young man is the last descendant of the people who bought the château long ago. This explains old de Gorne's hatred. Jérôme Vig- nal—I know him and am very fond of him—is a good-looking fellow and very well off; and he has 240 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK sworn to run off with Natalie de Gorne. It's the old man who says so, whenever he has had a drop too much. There, listen!’ “‘The old chap was sitting among a group of men who were amusing themselves by making him drink and plying him with questions. He was already a little bit “on' and was holding forth with a tone of indignation and a mocking smile which formed the most comic contrast: “He’s wasting his time, I tell you, the coxcomb! It's no manner of use his poaching round our way and making sheep's-eyes at the wench. . . . The coverts are watched ' If he comes too near, it means a bullet, eh, Mathias P’ “He gripped his daughter-in-law's hand: “‘And then the little wench knows how to defend herself too,” he chuckled. ‘Eh, you don't want any admirers, do you Natalie?’ “The young wife blushed, in her confusion at being addressed in these terms, while her husband growled: “‘You'd do better to hold your tongue, father. There are things one doesn't talk about in public.’ “‘Things that affect one's honour are best settled in public, retorted the old one. “Where I'm con- cerned, the honour of the de Gornes comes before everything; and that fine spark, with his Paris airs, sha’n’t . . .” “He stopped short. Before him stood a man who had just come in and who seemed to be waiting for FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW 241 him to finish his sentence. The newcomer was a tall, powerfully-built young fellow, in riding-kit, with a hunting-crop in his hand. His strong and rather stern face was lighted up by a pair of fine eyes in which shone an ironical smile. “‘Jérôme Vignal,’ whispered my cousin. “The young man seemed not at all embarrassed. On seeing Natalie, he made a low bow; and, when Mathias de Gorne took a step forward, he eyed him from head to foot, as though to say: “‘Well, what about it?' “And his attitude was so haughty and contemp- tuous that the de Gornes unslung their guns and took them in both hands, like sportsmen about to shoot. The son's expression was very fierce. “Jérôme was quite unmoved by the threat. After a few seconds, turning to the inn-keeper, he re- marked: “‘Oh, I say! I came to see old Vasseur. But his shop is shut. Would you mind giving him the holster of my revolver? It wants a stitch or two.’ “He handed the holster to the inn-keeper and added, laughing: “‘I'm keeping the revolver, in case I need it. You never can tell!" “Then, still very calmly, he took a cigarette from a silver case, lit it and walked out. We saw him through the window vaulting on his horse and rid- ing off at a slow trot. 242 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “Old de Gorne tossed off a glass of brandy, swear- ing most horribly. - “His son clapped his hand to the old man's mouth and forced him to sit down. Natalie de Gorne was weeping beside them. . . “That's my story, dear friend. As you see, it's not tremendously interesting and does not deserve your attention. There's no mystery in it and no part for you to play. Indeed, I particularly insist that you should not seek a pretext for any untimely interference. Of course, I should be glad to see the poor thing protected: she appears to be a perfect martyr. But, as I said before, let us leave other people to get out of their own troubles and go no farther with our little experiments. . . .” Rénine finished reading the letter, read it over again and ended by saying: “That's it. Everything's right as right can be. She doesn't want to continue our little experiments, because this would make the seventh and because she's afraid of the eighth, which under the terms of our agreement has a very particular significance. She doesn't want to . . . and she does want to . . . without seeming to want to.” He rubbed his hands. The letter was an in- valuable witness to the influence which he had grad- ually, gently and patiently gained over Hortense Daniel. It betrayed a rather complex feeling, com- FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW 243 posed of admiration, unbounded confidence, un- easiness at times, fear and almost terror, but also love: he was convinced of that. His companion in adventures which she shared with a good fellow- ship that excluded any awkwardness between them, she had suddenly taken fright; and a sort of mod- esty, mingled with a certain coquetry; was impelling her to hold back. That very evening, Sunday, Rénine took the train. And, at break of day, after covering by diligence, on a road white with snow, the five miles between the little town of Pompignat, where he alighted, and the village of Bassicourt, he learnt that his jour- ney might prove of some use: three shots had been heard during the night in the direction of the Manoir-au-Puits. “Three shots, sergeant. I heard them as plainly as I see you standing before me,” said a peasant whom the gendarmes were questioning in the par- lour of the inn which Rénine had entered. “So did I,” said the waiter. “Three shots. It may have been twelve o'clock at night. The snow, which had been falling since nine, had stopped . . . and the shots sounded across the fields, one after the other: bang, bang, bang.” Five more peasants gave their evidence. The sergeant and his men had heard nothing, because the police-station backed on the fields. But a farm- labourer and a woman arrived, who said that they 244 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK were in Mathias de Gorne's service, that they had been away for two days because of the intervening Sunday and that they had come straight from the manor-house, where they were unable to obtain admission: “The gate of the grounds is locked, sergeant,” said the man. “It’s the first time I’ve known this to happen. M. Mathias comes out to open it him- self, every morning at the stroke of six, winter and summer. Well, it's past eight now. I called and shouted. Nobody answered. So we came on here.” “You might have enquired at old M. de Gorne's,” said the sergeant. “He lives on the high-road.” “On my word, so I might! I never thought of that.” “We'd better go there now,” the sergeant decided. Two of his men went with him, as well as the peas- ants and a locksmith whose services were called into requisition. Rénine joined the party. Soon, at the end of the village, they reached old de Gorne's farmyard, which Rénine recognized by Hortense's description of its position. The old fellow was harnessing his horse and trap. When they told him what had happened, he burst out laughing: “Three shots? Bang, bang, bang? Why, my dear Sergeant, there are only two barrels to Mathias' gun” “What about the locked gate?” FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW 245 “It means that the lad's asleep, that's all. Last night, he came and cracked a bottle with me . . . perhaps two . . . or even three; and he'll be sleep- ing it off, I expect . . . he and Natalie.” He climbed on to the box of his trap—an old cart with a patched tilt—and cracked his whip: “Good-bye, gentlemen all. Those three shots of yours won't stop me from going to market at Pom- pignat, as I do every Monday. I've a couple of calves under the tilt; and they're just fit for the butcher. Good-day to you!” The others walked on. Rénine went up to the sergeant and gave him his name: “I’m a friend of Mlle. Ermelin, of La Roncière; and, as it's too early to call on her yet, I shall be glad if you'll allow me to go round by the manor with you. Mlle. Ermelin knows Madame de Gorne; and it will be a satisfaction to me to relieve her mind, for there's nothing wrong at the manor-house, I hope?” “If there is,” replied the sergeant, “we shall read all about it as plainly as on a map, because of the Snow.” He was a likable young man and seemed smart and intelligent. From the very first he had shown great acuteness in observing the tracks which Ma- thias had left behind him, the evening before, on returning home, tracks which soon became confused with the footprints made in going and coming by 246 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK the farm-labourer and the woman. Meanwhile they came to the walls of a property of which the locksmith readily opened the gate. From here onward, a single trail appeared upon the spotless snow, that of Mathias; and it was easy to perceive that the son must have shared largely in the father's libations, as the line of footprints de- scribed sudden curves which made it swerve right up to the trees of the avenue. Two hundred yards farther stood the dilapidated two-storeyed building of the Manoir-au-Puits. The principal door was open. “Let’s go in,” said the sergeant. And, the moment he had crossed the threshold, he muttered: “Oho! Old de Gorne made a mistake in not coming. They've been fighting in here.” The big room was in disorder. Two shattered chairs, the overturned table and much broken glass and china bore witness to the violence of the strug- gle. The tall clock, lying on the ground, had stopped at twenty past eleven. With the farm-girl showing them the way, they ran up to the first floor. Neither Mathias nor his wife was there. But the door of their bedroom had been broken down with a hammer which they dis- covered under the bed. Rénine and the sergeant went downstairs again. The living-room had a passage communicating with the kitchen, which lay at the back of the house and 248 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK and also knows Madame de Gorne. Do you sup- pose . . . .” “I don't want to suppose anything. I simply de- clare that some one came there last night . . .” “By which way? The only tracks of a person coming towards the manor are those of M. de Gorne.” “That's because the other person arrived before the snowfall, that is to say, before nine o'clock.” “Then he must have hidden in a corner of the living-room and waited for the return of M. de Gorne, who came after the snow P” “Just so. As soon as Mathias came in, the man went for him. There was a fight. Mathias made his escape through the kitchen. The man ran after him to the well and fired three revolver-shots.” “And where's the body?” “Down the well.” Rénine protested: “Oh, I say! Aren't you taking a lot for granted?” “Why, sir, the snow's there, to tell the story; and the snow plainly says that, after the struggle, after the three shots, one man alone walked away and left the farm, one man only, and his footprints are not those of Mathias de Gorne. Then where can Mathias de Gorne be?” “But the well . . . can be dragged?” “NO. The well is practically bottomless. It is FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW 249 known all over the district and gives its name to the manor.” “So you really believe . . .” “I repeat what I said. Before the snowfall, a single arrival, Mathias, and a single departure, the stranger.” “And Madame de Gorne? Was she too killed and thrown down the well like her husband?” “No,” carried off. “Carried off P” “Remember that her bedroom was broken down with a hammer.” “Come, come, sergeant! You yourself declare that there was only one departure, the stranger's.” “Stoop down. Look at the man's footprints. See how they sink into the snow, until they actually touch the ground. Those are the footprints of a man laden with a heavy burden. The stranger was carrying Madame de Gorne on his shoulder.” “Then there's an outlet this way?” “Yes, a little door of which Mathias de Gorne always had the key on him. The man must have taken it from him.” “A way out into the open fields?” “Yes, a road which joins the departmental high- way three quarters of a mile from here. . . . And £do you know where?” “Where?” “At the corner of the château.” 250 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “Jérôme Vignal's château?” “By Jove, this is beginning to look serious! If the trail leads to the château and stops there, we shall know where we stand.” The trail did continue to the château, as they were able to perceive after following it across the undu- lating fields, on which the snow lay heaped in places. The approach to the main gates had been swept, but they saw that another trail, formed by the two wheels of a vehicle, was running in the opposite direction to the village. The sergeant rang the bell. The porter, who had also been sweeping the drive, came to the gates, with a broom in his hand. In answer to a question, the man said that M. Vignal had gone away that morn- ing before anyone else was up and that he himself had harnessed the horse to the trap. “In that case,” said Rénine, when they had moved away, “all we have to do is to follow the tracks of the wheels.” “That will be no use,” said the sergeant. “They have taken the railway.” “At Pompignat station, where I came from ? But they would have passed through the village.” “They have gone just the other way, because it leads to the town, where the express trains stop. The procurator-general has an office in the town. I'll telephone; and, as there's no train before eleven o'clock, all that they need do is to keep a watch at the station.” 252 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK some seconds in silence, holding each other's hands, as though nothing, no irrelevant thought and no utterance, must be allowed to interfere with the joy of their meeting. Then he asked: “Was I right in coming?” “Yes,” she said, gently, “I expected you.” “Perhaps it would have been better if you had sent for me sooner, instead of waiting. . . . Events did not wait, you see, and I don't quite know what's to become of Jérôme Vignal and Natalie de Gorne.” “What, haven't you heard?” she said, quickly. “They've been arrested. They were going to travel by the express.” “Arrested? No.” Rénine objected. “People are not arrested like that. They have to be ques- tioned first.” “That's what's being done now. The authori- ties are making a search.” “Where?” “At the château. And, as they are innocent . . . For they are innocent, aren't they? You don't admit that they are guilty, any more than I do?” He replied: “I admit nothing, I can admit nothing, my dear. Nevertheless, I am bound to say that everything is against them . . . except one fact, which is that everything is too much against them. It is not nor- mal for so many proofs to be heaped up one on top of the other and for the man who commits a mur- der to tell his story so frankly. Apart from FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW 253 this, there's nothing but mystery and discrep- ancy.” “Well ?” “Well, I am greatly puzzled.” “But you have a plan?” “None at all, so far. Ah, if I could see him, Jérôme Vignal, and her, Natalie de Gorne, and hear them and know what they are saying in their own defence! But you can understand that I sha'n't be permitted either to ask them any questions or to be present at their examination. Besides, it must be finished by this time.” “It's finished at the château,” she said, “but it's going to be continued at the manor-house.” “Are they taking them to the manor-house?” he asked eagerly. “Yes . . . at least, judging by what was said to the chauffeur of one of the procurator's two cars.” “Oh, in that case,” exclaimed Rénine, “the thing's done! The manor-house! Why, we shall be in the front row of the stalls! We shall see and hear everything; and, as a word, a tone of the voice, a quiver of the eyelids will be enough to give me the tiny clue I need, we may entertain some hope. Come along.” He took her by the direct route which he had followed that morning, leading to the gate which the locksmith had opened. The gendarmes on duty at the manor-house had made a passage through the snow, beside the line of footprints and around the 256 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK ingly unhappy. All the world knows that every minute of her life was a martyrdom. Her husband persecuted her with ferocious hatred and frantic jealousy. Ask the servants. They will tell you of the long suffering of Natalie de Gorne, of the blows which she received and the insults which she had to endure. I tried to stop this torture by restoring to the rights of appeal which the merest stranger may claim when unhappiness and injustice pass a certain limit. I went three times to old de Gorne and begged him to interfere; but I found in him an almost equal hatred towards his daughter-in-law, the hatred which many people feel for anything beautiful and noble. At last I resolved on direct action and last night I took a step with regard to Mathias de Gorne which was . . . a little unusual, I admit, but which seemed likely to succeed, con- sidering the man's character. I swear, Mr. Deputy, that I had no other intention than to talk to Mathias de Gorne. Knowing certain particulars of his life which enabled me to bring effective pressure to bear upon him, I wished to make use of this advantage in order to achieve my purpose. If things turned out differently, I am not wholly to blame. . . . So I went there a little before nine o'clock. The ser- vants, I knew, were out. He opened the door him- self. He was alone.” “Monsieur,” said the deputy, interrupting him,” “you are saying something—as Madame de Gorne, for that matter, did just now—which is manifestly FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW 259 service. He even went so far as to give me the key of the little door which opens on the fields, so that I might go home by the short cut. Unfortu- nately, while I was picking up my cap and great- coat, I made the mistake of leaving on the table the letter of sale which he had signed. In a moment, Mathias de Gorne had seen the advantage which he could take of my slip: he could keep his property, keep his wife . . . and keep the money. Quick as lightning, he tucked away the paper, hit me over the head with the butt-end of his gun, threw the gun on the floor and seized me by the throat with both hands. He had reckoned without his host. I was the stronger of the two; and after a sharp but short struggle, I mastered him and tied him up with a cord which I found lying in a corner. . . . Mr. Deputy, if my enemy's resolve was sudden, mine was no less so. Since, when all was said, he had accepted the bargain, I would force him to keep it, at least in so far as I was interested. A very few steps brought me to the first floor. . . . I had not a doubt that Madame de Gorne was there and had heard the sound of our discussion. Switching on the light of my pocket-torch, I looked into three bedrooms. The fourth was locked. I knocked at the door. There was no reply. But this was one of the mo- ments in which a man allows no obstacle to stand in his way. I had seen a hammer in one of the rooms. I picked it up and smashed in the door. . . . Yes, Natalie was lying there, on the floor, in a dead FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW 261 There was a brief pause, during which Hortense whispered: “It all sounds quite possible and, in any case, very logical.” “There are the objections to come,” said Rénine. “Wait till you hear them. They are very serious. There's one in particular . . .” The deputy-procurator stated it at once: “And what became of M. de Gorne in all this?” “Mathias de Gorne?” asked Jérôme. “Yes. You have related, with an accent of great sincerity, a series of facts which I am quite willing to admit. Unfortunately, you have forgotten a point of the first importance: what became of Mathias de Gorne? You tied him up here, in this room. Well, this morning he was gone.” “Of course, Mr. Deputy, Mathias de Gorne accepted the bargain in the end and went away.” “By what road?” “No doubt by the road that leads to his father's house.” “Where are his footprints? The expanse of snow is an impartial witness. After your fight with him, we see you, on the snow, moving away. Why don't we see him? He came and did not go away again. Where is he? There is not a trace of him . . . or rather . . .” The deputy lowered his voice: 262 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “Or rather, yes, there are some traces on the way to the well and around the well . . . traces which prove that the last struggle of all took place there. . . . And after that there is nothing . . . not a thing. . . .” Jérôme shrugged his shoulders: “You have already mentioned this, Mr. Deputy, and it implies a charge of homicide against me. I have nothing to say to it.” “Have you anything to say to the fact that your revolver was picked up within fifteen yards of the Well ?” “No.” “Or to the strange coincidence between the three shots heard in the night and the three cartridges missing from your revolver?” “No, Mr. Deputy, there was not, as you believe, a last struggle by the well, because I left M. de Gorne tied up, in this room, and because I also left my revolver here. On the other hand, if shots were heard, they were not fired by me.” “A casual coincidence, therefore?” “That's a matter for the police to explain. My only duty is to tell the truth and you are not entitled to ask more of me.” “And if that truth conflicts with the facts ob- Served P’’ “It means that the facts are wrong, Mr. Deputy.” “As you please. But, until the day when the police are able to make them agree with your state- 266 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK hurry. Besides, if I had come in by the door instead of falling from the ceiling, my words would not have made the same impression.” The infuriated deputy advanced to meet him: “Who are you?” “Prince Rénine. I was with the sergeant this morning when he was pursuing his investigations, wasn't I, sergeant? Since then I have been hunt- ing about for information. That's why, wishing to be present at the hearing, I found a corner in a little private room. . . .” “You were there? You had the audacity? . . . “One must needs be audacious, when the truth's at stake. If I had not been there, I should not have discovered just the one little clue which I missed. I should not have known that Mathias de Gorne was not the least bit drunk. Now that's the key to the riddle. When we know that, we know the solution.” The deputy found himself in a rather ridiculous position. Since he had failed to take the necessary precautions to ensure the secrecy of his enquiry, it was difficult for him to take any steps against this interloper. He growled: “Let's have done with this. What are you ask- ing?” “A few minutes of your kind attention.” “And with what object?” “To establish the innocence of M. Vignal and Madame de Gorne.” FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW 267 He was wearing that calm air, that sort of in- different look which was peculiar to him in moments of actions when the crisis of the drama depended solely upon himself. Hortense felt a thrill pass through her and at once became full of confidence: “They're saved,” she thought, with sudden emotion. “I asked him to protect that young creature; and he is saving her from prison and despair.” Jérôme and Natalie must have experienced the same impression of sudden hope, for they had drawn nearer to each other, as though this stranger, de- scended from the clouds, had already given them the right to clasp hands. The deputy shrugged his shoulders: “The prosecution will have every means, when the time comes, of establishing their innocence for itself. You will be called.” “It would be better to establish it here and now. Any delay might lead to grievous consequences.” “I happen to be in a hurry.” “Two or three minutes will do.” “Two or three minutes to explain a case like this l’’ “No longer, I assure you.” “Are you as certain of it as all that?” “I am now. I have been thinking hard since this morning.” The deputy realized that this was one of those gentry who stick to you like a leech and that there 268 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK was nothing for it but to submit. In a rather ban- tering tone, he asked: “Does your thinking enable you to tell us the exact spot where M. Mathias de Gorne is at this moment?” Rénine took out his watch and answered: “In Paris, Mr. Deputy.” “In Paris? Alive then P” “Alive and, what is more, in the pink of health.” “I am delighted to hear it. But then what's the meaning of the footprints around the well and the presence of that revolver and those three shots?” “Simply camouflage.” “Oh, really? Camouflage contrived by whom?” “By Mathias de Gorne himself.” “That's curious! And with what object?” “With the object of passing himself off for dead and of arranging subsequent matters in such a way that M. Vignal was bound to be accused of the death, the murder.” “An ingenious theory,” the deputy agreed, still in a satirical tone. “What do you think of it, M. Vignal?” “It is a theory which flashed through my own mind. Mr. Deputy,” replied Jérôme. “It is quite likely that, after our struggle and after I had gone, Mathias de Gorne conceived a new plan by which, this time, his hatred would be fully gratified. He both loved and detested his wife. He held me in the greatest loathing. This must be his revenge.” 270 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “Not the slightest proof,” he repeated, taking up his hat. “And, above all, . . . above all, there's nothing in what you've said that can contradict in the very least the evidence of that relentless witness, the snow. To go to his father, Mathias de Gorne must have left this house. Which way did he go?” “Hang it all, M. Vignal told you: by the road which leads from here to his father's l” “There are no tracks in the snow.” “Yes, there are.” “But they show him coming here and not going away from here.” “It’s the same thing.” “What?” “Of course it is. There's more than one way of walking. One doesn't always go ahead by follow- ing one's nose.” “In what other way can one go ahead?” “By walking backwards, Mr. Deputy.” These few words, spoken very simply, but in a clear tone which gave full value to every syllable, produced a profound silence. Those present at once grasped their extreme significance and, by adapting it to the actual happenings, perceived in a flash the impenetrable truth, which suddenly appeared to be the most natural thing in the world. Rénine continued his argument. Stepping back- wards in the direction of the window, he said: “If I want to get to that window, I can of course FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW 271 walk straight up to it; but I can just as easily turn my back to it and walk that way. In either case I reach my goal.” And he at once proceeded in a vigorous tone: “Here's the gist of it all. At half-past eight, be- fore the snow fell, M. de Gorne comes home from his father's house. M. Vignal arrives twenty min- utes later. There is a long discussion and a struggle, taking up three hours in all. It is then, after M. Vignal has carried off Madame de Gorne and made his escape, that Mathias de Gorne, foaming at the mouth, wild with rage, but suddenly seeing his chance of taking the most terrible revenge, hits upon the ingenious idea of using against his enemy the very snowfall upon whose evidence you are now relying. He therefore plans his own murder, or rather the appearance of his murder and of his fall to the bottom of the well and makes off backwards, step by step, thus recording his arrival instead of his departure on the white page.” The deputy sneered no longer. This eccentric intruder suddenly appeared to him in the light of a person worthy of attention, whom it would not do to make fun of. He asked: “And how could he have left his father's house?” “In a trap, quite simply.” “Who drove it?” “The father. This morning the sergeant and I saw the trap and spoke to the father, who was going 272 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK to market as usual. The son was hidden under the tilt. He took the train at Pompignat and is in Paris by now.” Rénine's explanation, as promised, had taken hardly five minutes. He had based it solely on logic and the probabilities of the case And yet not a jot was left of the distressing mystery in which they were floundering. The darkness was dispelled. The whole truth appeared. Madame de Gorne wept for joy and Jérôme Vig- nal thanked the good genius who was changing the course of events with a stroke of his magic wand. “Shall we examine those footprints together, Mr. Deputy?” asked Rénine. “Do you mind? The mistake which the sergeant and I made this morn- ing was to investigate only the footprints left by the alleged murderer and to neglect Mathias de Gorne's. Why indeed should they have attracted our atten- tion? Yet it was precisely there that the crux of the whole affair was to be found.” They stepped into the orchard and went to the well. It did not need a long examination to observe that many of the footprints were awkward, hesitat- ing, too deeply sunk at the heel and toe and differing from one another in the angle at which the feet were turned. “This clumsiness was unavoidable,” said Rénine. “Mathias de Gorne would have needed a regular apprenticeship before his backward progress could have equalled his ordinary gait; and both his father FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW 273 and he must have been aware of this, at least as regards the zigzags which you see here since old de Gorne went out of his way to tell the sergeant that his son had had too much drink.” And he added “Indeed it was the detection of this falsehood that suddenly enlightened me. When Madame de Gorne stated that her husband was not drunk, I thought of the footprints and guessed the truth.” The deputy frankly accepted his part in the matter and began to laugh: “There's nothing left for it but to send detectives after the bogus corpse.” “On what grounds, Mr. Deputy?” asked Rénine. “Mathias de Gorne has committed no offence against the law. There's nothing criminal in trampling the soil around a well, in shifting the position of a revolver that doesn't belong to you, in firing three shots or in walking backwards to one's father's house. What can we ask of him? The sixty thousand francs? I presume that this is not M. Vignal's intention and that he does not mean to bring a charge against him?” “Certainly not,” said Jérôme. “Well, what then? The insurance-policy in fa- vour of the survivor? But there would be no misde- meanour unless the father claimed payment. And I should be greatly surprised if he did. . . . Hullo, here the old chap is ' You'll soon know all about it.” Old de Gorne was coming along, gesticulating as 274 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK he walked. His easy-going features were screwed up to express Sorrow and anger. “Where's my son?” he cried. “It seems the brute's killed him! . . . My poor Mathias dead! Oh, that scoundrel of a Vignall” And he shook his fist at Jérôme. The deputy said, bluntly: “A word with you, M. de Gorne. Do you intend to claim your rights under a certain insurance- policy?” “Well, what do you, think?” said the old man, off his guard. “The fact is . . . your son's not dead. People are even saying that you were a partner in his little schemes and that you stuffed him under the tilt of your trap and drove him to the station.” The old fellow spat on the ground, stretched out his hand as though he were going to take a solemn oath, stood for an instant without moving and then, suddenly, changing his mind and his tactics with in- genuous cynicism, he relaxed his features, assumed a conciliatory attitude and burst out laughing: “That blackguard Mathias! So he tried to pass himself off as dead? What a rascal' And he reckoned on me to collect the insurance-money and send it to him? As if I should be capable of such a low, dirty trick! . . . You don't know me, my boy!” And, without waiting for more, shaking with merriment like a jolly old fellow amused by a funny VIII AT THE SIGN OF MERCURY VIII AT THE SIGN OF MERCURY To Madame Daniel, La Roncière, near Bassicourt. “PARIs 30 November “MY DEAREST FRIEND,- “There has been no letter from you for a fort- night; so I don't expect now to receive one for that troublesome date of the 5th of December, which we fixed as the last day of our partnership. I rather wish it would come, because you will then be released from a contract which no longer seems to give you pleasure. To me the seven battles which we fought and won together were a time of endless delight and enthusiasm. I was living beside you. I was con- scious of all the good which that more active and stirring existence was doing you. My happiness was so great that I dared not speak of it to you or let you see anything of my secret feelings except my desire to please you and my passionate devotion. To-day you have had enough of your brother in arms. Your will shall be law. “But, though I bow to your decree, may I remind you what it was that I always believed our final 279 282 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK At four o'clock exactly, there will be, near the holy- water basin, just inside the church, an old woman dressed in black, saying her prayers on a silver ro- sary. She will offer you holy water. Give her your necklace. She will count the beads and hand it back to you. After this, you will walk behind her, you will cross an arm of the Seine and she will lead you, down a lonely street in the Ile Saint-Louis, to a house which you will enter by yourself. “On the ground-floor of this house, you will find a youngish man; with a very pasty complexion. Take off your cloak and then say to him: “‘I have come to fetch my clasp.’ “Do not be astonished by his agitation or dismay. Keep calm in his presence. If he questions you, if he wants to know your reason for applying to him or what impels you to make that request, give him no explanation. Your replies must be confined to these brief formulas: “‘I have come to fetch what belongs to me. I don't know you, I don't know your name; but I am obliged to come to you like this. I must have my clasp returned to me. I must.’ “I honestly believe that, if you have the firmness not to Swerve from that attitude, whatever farce the man may play, you will be completely successful. But the contest must be a short one and the issue will depend solely on your confidence in yourself and your certainty of success. It will be a sort of match in which you must defeat your opponent in the first 284 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK Two days before the 5th of December, she was still in the same frame of mind. So she was on the morning of the 4th; but suddenly, without even having to contend against preliminary subter- fuges, she ran out into the garden, cut three lengths of rush, plaited them as she used to do in her child- hood and at twelve o'clock had herself driven to the station. She was uplifted by an eager curiosity. She was unable to resist all the amusing and novel sensations which the adventure, proposed by Rénine, promised her. It was really too tempting. The jet necklace, the togue with the autumn leaves, the old woman with the silver rosary: how could she resist their mysterious appeal and how could she refuse this opportunity of showing Rénine what she was . capable of doing? “And then, after all,” she said to herself, laugh- ing, “he's summoning me to Paris. Now eight o'clock is dangerous to me at a spot three hundred miles from Paris, in that old deserted Château de Halingre, but nowhere else. The only clock that can strike the threatening hour is down there, under lock and key, a prisoner!” She reached Paris that evening. On the morn- ing of the 5th she went out and bought a jet necklace, which she reduced to seventy-five beads, put on a blue gown and a toque with red leaves and, at four o'clock precisely, entered the church of Saint-Éti- enne-du-Mont. Her heart was throbbing violently. This time she 286 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK cornice which ran on a level with the first floor, a small niche sheltered a terra-cotta Mercury poised on one foot, with wings to his sandals and the cadu- ceus in his hand, who, as Hortense noted, was lean- ing a little too far forward in the ardour of his flight and ought logically to have lost his balance and taken a header into the street. “Now !” she said, under her breath. She turned the handle of the door and walked in. Despite the ringing of the bells actuated by the opening door, no one came to meet her. The shop seemed to be empty. However, at the extreme end there was a room at the back of the shop and after that another, both crammed with furniture and knick-knacks, many of which looked very valuable. Hortense followed a narrow gangway which twisted and turned between two walls built up of cupboards, cabinets and console-tables, went up two steps and found herself in the last room of all. A man was sitting at a writing-desk and looking through some account-books. Without turning his head, he said: “I am at your service, madam. . . . Please look round you. . . .” This room contained nothing but articles of a special character which gave it the appearance of some alchemist's laboratory in the middle ages: stuffed owls, skeletons, skulls, copper alembics, as- trolabes and all around, hanging on the walls, am- AT THE SIGN OF MERCURY 287 ulets of every description, mainly hands of ivory or coral with two fingers pointing to ward off ill-luck. “Are you wanting anything in particular, madam?” asked M. Pancaldi, closing his desk and rising from his chair. “It’s the man,” thought Hortense. He had in fact an uncommonly pasty complexion. A little forked beard, flecked with grey, lengthened his face, which was surmounted by a bald, pallid forehead, beneath which gleamed a pair of small, prominent, restless, shifty eyes. Hortense, who had not removed her veil or cloak, replied: “I want a clasp.” “They're in this show-case,” he said, leading the way to the connecting room. Hortense glanced over the glass case and said: “No, no, . . . I don't see what I'm looking for. I don't want just any clasp, but a clasp which I lost out of a jewel-case some years ago and which I have come to look for here.” She was astounded to see the commotion dis- played on his features. His eyes became haggard. “Here? . . . I don't think you are in the least likely . . . What sort of clasp is it? . . .” “A cornelian, mounted in gold filigree . . . of the 1830 period.” “I don't understand,” he stammered. “Why do you come to me?” 288 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK She now removed her veil and laid aside her cloak. He stepped back, as though terrified by the sight of her, and whispered: “The blue gown! . . . The toque! . . . And— can I believe my eyes?—the jet necklace! . . .” It was perhaps the whip-lash formed of three rushes that excited him most violently. He pointed his finger at it, began to stagger where he stood and ended by beating the air with his arms, like a drown- ing man, and fainting away in a chair. Hortense did not move. “Whatever farce he may play,” Rénine had written, “have the courage to remain impassive.” Perhaps he was not playing a farce. Neverthe- less she forced herself to be calm and indifferent. This lasted for a minute or two, after which M. Pancaldi recovered from his swoon, wiped away the perspiration streaming down his forehead and, striving to control himself, resumed, in a trembling voice: “Why do you apply to me?” “Because the clasp is in your possession.” “Who told you that?” he said, without denying the accusation. “How do you know?” “I know because it is so. Nobody has told me anything. I came here positive that I should find my clasp and with the immovable determination to take it away with me.” “But do you know me? Do you know my name?” “I don't know you. I did not know your name 290 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK With a quick movement, Hortense struck up his arm. The bullet struck the mirror of a cheval- glass. But Pancaldi collapsed and began to groan, as though he were wounded. Hortense made a great effort not to lose her com- posure: “Rénine warned me,” she reflected. “The man's a play-actor. He has kept the envelope. He has kept his revolver. I won't be taken in by him.” Nevertheless, she realized that, despite his appar- ent calmness, the attempt at suicide and the revolver- shot had completely unnerved her. All her energies were dispersed, like the sticks of a bundle whose string has been cut; and she had a painful impres- sion that the man, who was grovelling at her feet, was in reality slowly getting the better of her. She sat down, exhausted. As Rénine had fore- told, the duel had not lasted longer than a few min- utes but it was she who had succumbed, thanks to her feminine nerves and at the very moment when she felt entitled to believe that she had won. The man Pancaldi was fully aware of this; and, without troubling to invent a transition, he ceased his jeremiads, leapt to his feet, cut a sort of agile caper before Hortense' eyes and cried, in a jeering tone : “Now we are going to have a little chat; but it would be a nuisance to be at the mercy of the first passing customer, wouldn't it?” He ran to the street-door, opened it and pulled AT THE SIGN OF MERCURY 293 I heard a noise just now. Some one was calling out for help. So I came down.” “But how did you get in here?” “By the staircase.” “What staircase ?” “The iron staircase at the end of the shop. The man who owned it before you had a flat on my floor and used to go up and down by that hidden stair- case. You had the door shut off. I opened it.” “But by what right, sir? It amounts to break- ing in.” - “Breaking in is allowed, when there's a fellow- creature to be rescued.” “Once more, who are you?” “Prince Rénine . . . and a friend of this lady's,” said Remine, bending over Hortense and kissing her hand. Pancaldi seemed to be choking, and mumbled: “Oh, I understand! . . . You instigated the plot ... it was you who sent the lady. . . .” “It was, M. Pancaldi, it was 1” “And what are your intentions?” “My intentions are irreproachable. No violence. Simply a little interview. When that is over, you will hand over what I in my turn have come to fetch.” “What?” “The clasp.” “That, never !” shouted the dealer. 294 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “Don’t say no. It's a foregone conclusion.” “No power on earth, sir, can compel me to do such a thing!” “Shall we send for your wife? Madame Pan- caldi will perhaps realize the position better than you do.” The idea of no longer being alone with this unexpected adversary seemed to appeal to Pancaldi. There was a bell on the table beside him. He struck it three times. “Capital!” exclaimed Rénine “You see, my dear, M. Pancaldi is becoming quite amiable. Not a trace left of the devil broken loose who was going for you just now. No, M. Pancaldi only has to find himself dealing with a man to recover his qualities of courtesy and kindness. A perfect sheep ! Which does not mean that things will go quite of them- selves. Far from it! There's no more obstinate animal than a sheep. . . .” Right at the end of the shop, between the dealer’s writing-desk and the winding staircase, a curtain was raised, admitting a woman who was holding a door open. She might have been thirty years of age. Very simply dressed, she looked, with the apron on her, more like a cook than like the mistress of a household. But she had an attractive face and a pleasing figure. Hortense, who had followed Rénine, was sur- prised to recognize her as a maid whom she had had in her service when a girl: 296 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK beginning? We shall then see things more clearly; and I am sure that our interview will lead to a per- fectly natural solution. . . . This is how things happened: nine years ago, when you were lady's maid to Mlle. Hortense in the country, you made the acquaintance of M. Pancaldi, who soon became your lover. You were both of you Corsicans, in other words, you came from a country where supersti- tions are very strong and where questions of good and bad luck, the evil eye, and spells and charms exert a profound influence over the lives of one and all. Now it was said that your young mistress' clasp had always brought luck to its owners. That was why, in a weak moment prompted by M. Pan- caldi, you stole the clasp. Six months afterwards, you became Madame Pancaldi. . . . That is your whole story, is it not, told in a few sentences? The whole story of two people who would have remained honest members of society, if they had been able to resist that casual temptation? . . . I need not tell you how you both succeeded in life and how, possess- ing the talisman, believing its powers and trust- ing in yourselves, you rose to the first rank of antiquarians. To-day, well-off, owning this shop, “The Mercury,” you attribute the success of your undertakings to that clasp. To lose it would to your eyes spell bankruptcy and poverty. Your whole life has been centred upon it. It is your fetish. It is the little household god who watches over you and guides your steps. It is there, some- AT THE SIGN OF MERCURY 297 where, hidden in this jungle; and no one of course would ever have suspected anything—for I repeat, you are decent people, but for this one lapse—if an accident had not led me to look into your affairs.” Rénine paused and continued: “That was two months ago, two months of mi- nute investigations, which presented no difficulty to me, because, having discovered your trail, I hired the flat overhead and was able to use that stair- case . . . but, all the same, two months wasted to a certain extent because I have not yet succeeded. And Heaven knows how I have ransacked this shop of yours! There is not a piece of furniture that I have left unsearched, not a plank in the floor that I have not inspected. All to no purpose. Yes, there was one thing, an incidental discovery. In a secret recess in your writing-table, Pancaldi, I turned up a little account-book in which you have set down your remorse, your uneasiness, your fear of punish- ment and your dread of God's wrath. . . . It was highly imprudent of you, Pancaldiſ People don't write such confessions! And, above all, they don't leave them lying about! Be this as it may, I read them and I noted one passage, which struck me as particularly important and was of use to me in pre- paring my plan of campaign: “Should she come to me, the woman whom I robbed, should she come to me as I saw her in her garden, while Lucienne was taking the clasp; should she appear to me wearing the blue gown and the toque of red leaves, with the 298 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK jet necklace and the whip of three plaited rushes which she was carrying that day; should she appear to me thus and say: “I have come to claim my property,” then I shall understand that her conduct is inspired from on high and that I must obey the de- cree of Providence.’ That is what is written in your book, Pancaldi, and it explains the conduct of the lady whom you call Mlle. Hortense. Acting on my instructions and in accordance with the setting thought out by yourself, she came to you, from the back of beyond, to use your own expression. A little more self-possession on her part; and you know that she would have won the day. Unfor- tunately, you are a wonderful actor; your sham suicide put her out; and you understood that this was not a decree of Providence, but simply an offensive on the part of your former victim. I had no choice, therefore, but to intervene. Here I am. . . And now let's finish the business. Pancaldi, that clasp!” “No,” said the dealer, who seemed to recover all his energy at the very thought of restoring the clasp. “And you, Madame Pancaldi.” “I don't know where it is,” the wife declared. “Very well. Then let us come to deeds. Madame Pancaldi you have a son of seven whom you love with all your heart. This is Thursday and, as on every Thursday, your little boy is to come home Slone from his aunt's. Two of my friends are sted on the road by which he returns and, in the 302 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK his words were pouring forth at random, without his knowing in the least what he was saying: “A hundred thousand francs! Two hundred thousand! Five hundred thousand! A million! A two fig for your millions! What's the use of millions? One loses them. They disappear . . . They go. . . . There's only one thing that counts: luck. It's on your side or else against you. And luck has been on my side these last nine years. It has never betrayed me; and you expect me to betray it? Why? Out of fear? Prison? My son? Bosh! . . . No harm will come to me so long as I compel luck to work on my behalf. It's my serv- ant, it's my friend. It clings to the clasp. How P How can I tell? It's the cornelian, no doubt. . . . There are magic stones, which hold happiness, as others hold fire, or sulphur, or gold. . . .” Rénine kept his eyes fixed upon him, watching for the least word, the least modulation of the voice. The curiosity-dealer was now laughing, with a ner- vous laugh, while resuming the self-control of a man who feels sure of himself: and he walked up to Rénine with jerky movements that revealed an in- creasing resolution: “Millions? My dear sir, I wouldn't have them as a gift. The little bit of stone which I possess is worth much more than that. And the proof of it lies in all the pains which you are at to take it from 304 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK Hortense! Good-day, sir! Hope to see you again! If you want to speak to me at any time, just give three thumps on the ceiling. Good-bye . . . don't forget your present . . . and may Mercury be kind to you! Good-bye, my dear Prince! Good-bye, Mlle. Hortense! . . .” He hustled them to the iron staircase, gripped each of them by the arm in turn and pushed them up to the little door hidden at the top of the stairs. And the strange thing was that Rénine made no protest. He did not attempt to resist. He allowed himself to be led along like a naughty child that is taken up to bed. Less than five minutes had elapsed between the moment when he made his offer to Pancaldi and the moment when Pancaldi turned him out of the shop with a statuette in his arms. The dining-room and drawing-room of the flat which Rénine had taken on the first floor looked out upon the street. The table in the dining-room was laid for two. “Forgive me, won't you?” said Rénine, as he opened the door of the drawing-room for Hortense. “I thought that, whatever happened, I should most likely see you this evening and that we might as well dine together. Don't refuse me this kindness, which will be the last favour granted in our last adventure.” Hortense did not refuse him. The manner in which the battle had ended was so different from 306 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK beginning, was easy enough, because it was based upon an undoubted fact: the talismanic character attributed to the clasp. I had only to hunt about and see whether among the people around you, among your servants, there was ever any one upon whom that character may have excercised some attraction. Now, on the list of persons which I succeeded in drawing up I at once noticed the name of Mlle. Lucienne, as coming from Corsica. This was my starting-point. The rest was a mere concatenation Of events.” Hortense stared at him in amazement. How was it that he was accepting his defeat with such a care- less air and even talking in a tone of triumph, whereas really he had been soundly beaten by Pancaldi and even made to look just a trifle ridi- culous? She could not help letting him feel this; and the fashion in which she did so betrayed a certain dise appointment, a certain humiliation: “Everything is a concatenation of events: very well. But the chain is broken, because, when all is said, though you know the thief, you did not succeed in laying hands upon the stolen clasp.” The reproach was obvious. Rénine had not accustomed her to failure. And furthermore she was irritated to see how heedlessly he was accepting a blow which, after all, entailed the ruin of any hopes that he might have entertained. He did not reply. He had filled their two glasses AT THE SIGN OF MERCURY 309 I got out of that window, which is just over the signboard and beside the niche containing the little god. And I exchanged the two, that is to say, I took the statue which was outside and put the one which Pancaldi gave me in its place.” “But doesn’t that one lean forward?” “No, no more than the others do, on the shelf in his shop. But Pancaldi is not an artist. A lack of equilibrium does not impress him; he will see nothing wrong; and he will continue to think himself fa- voured by luck, which is another way of saying that luck will continue to favour him. Meanwhile, here's the statuette, the one used for the sign. Am I to break the pedestal and take your clasp out of the leaden sheath, soldered to the back of the pedestal, which keeps Mercury steady?” “No, no, there's no need for that,” Hortense hurriedly murmured. Rénine's intuition, his subtlety, the skill with which he had managed the whole business: to her, for the moment, all these things remained in the background. But she suddenly remembered that the eighth ad- venture was completed, that Rénine had surmounted every obstacle, that the test had turned to his ad- vantage and that the extreme limit of time fixed for the last of the adventures was not yet reached. He had the cruelty to call attention to the fact: “A quarter to eight,” he said. An oppressive silence fell between them. Both 310 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK felt its discomfort to such a degree that they hes- itated to make the least movement. In order to break it, Rénine jested: “That worthy M. Pancaldi, how good it was of him to tell me what I wished to know ! I knew, however, that by exasperating him, I should end by picking up the missing clue in what he said. It was just as though one were to hand some one a flint and steel and suggest to him that he was to use it. In the end, the spark is obtained. In my case, what produced the spark was the unconscious but inev- itable comparison which he drew between the corne- lian clasp, the element of luck, and Mercury, the god of luck. That was enough. I understood that this association of ideas arose from his having actually associated the two factors of luck by embodying one in the other, or, to speak more plainly, by hiding the trinket in the statuette. And I at once remembered the Mercury outside the door and its defective poise . . .” Rénine suddenly interrupted himself. It seemed to him that all his remarks were falling on deaf ears. Hortense had put her hand to her forehead and, thus veiling her eyes, sat motionless and remote. She was indeed not listening. The end of this particular adventure and the manner in which Ré- nine had acted on this occasion no longer interested her. What she was thinking of was the complex series of adventures amid which she had been living for the past three months and the wonderful be- AT THE SIGN OF MERCURY 311 haviour of the man who had offered her his devotion. She saw, as in a magic picture, the fabulous deeds performed by him, all the good that he had done, the lives saved, the sorrows assuaged, the order re- stored wherever his masterly will had been brought to bear. Nothing was impossible to him. What he undertook to do he did. Every aim that he set be- fore him was attained in advance. And all this without excessive effort, with the calmness of one who knows his own strength and knows that nothing can resist it. Then what could she do against him? Why should she defend herself and how 2 If he demanded that she should yield, would he not know how to make her do so and would this last adventure be any more difficult for him than the others? Sup- posing that she ran away: did the wide world con- tain a retreat in which she would be safe from his pursuit? From the first moment of their first meeting, the end was certain, since Rénine had de- creed that it should be so. However, she still cast about for weapons, for protection of some sort; and she said to herself that, though he had fulfilled the eight conditions and restored the cornelian clasp to her before the eighth hour had struck, she was nevertheless protected by the fact that this eighth hour was to strike on the clock of the Château de Halingre and not elsewhere. It was a formal compact. Rénine had said that day, gazing on the lips which he longed to kiss: 312 THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK “The old brass pendulum will start swinging again; and, when, on the fixed date, the clock once more strikes eight, then . . .” She looked up. He was not moving either, but sat solemnly, patiently waiting. She was on the point of saying, she was even pre- paring her words: “You know, our agreement says it must be the Halingre clock. All the other conditions have been fulfilled . . . but not this one. So I am free, am I not? I am entitled not to keep my promise, which, moreover, I never made, but which in any case falls to the ground? . . . And I am perfectly free . . . released from any scruple of conscience? . . .” She had not time to speak. At that precise mo- ment, there was a click behind her, like that of a clock about to strike. A first stroke sounded, then a second, then a third. Hortense moaned. She had recognized the very sound of the old clock, the Halingre clock, which three months ago, by breaking in a supernatural manner the silence of the deserted château, had set both of them on the road of the eight adventures. She counted the strokes. The clock struck eight. “Ah!” she murmured, half swooning and hiding ther face in her hands. “The clock . . . the clock is here . . . the one from over there . . . I recog- nize its voice. . . .” *i 22. III/III 4 ... should be returneſ on or h . . ." - a 1- ow. fiv THE BORROWER WILL BE CHARGED AN OVERDUE FEE IF THIS BOOK IS NOT RETURNED TO THE LIBRARY ON - OR BEFORE THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW. NON-RECEIPT OF OVERDUE NOTICES DOES NOT EXEMPT THE BORROWER FROM OVERDUE FEES. | - |||||||||||| fiv THE BORROWER WILL BE CHARGED AN OVERDUE FEE IF THIS BOOK IS NOT RETURNED TO THE LIBRARY ON OR BEFORE THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW. NON-RECEIPT OF OVERDUE NOTICES DOES NOT EXEMPT THE