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The
Golden Trian
DU MAURICE LEBLANC




ITAS
HARVARD
COLLEGE
LIBRARY











THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE









“Send Coralie up by herself and her life shall be saved,"
read the scroll
(Page 205)


THE
GOLDEN TRIANGLE
The Return of Arsène Lupin
BY
MAURICE LE BLANC
AUTHOR OF "THE WOMAN OF MYSTERY," "CONFESSIONS OF
ARSENE LUPIN,” ETC.
NEW YORK
THE MACAULAY COMPANY
1917


4.9576.47.75 13
TRIM ARVARD
COLLEGE
COPYRIGHT, 1917
BY THE MACAULAY COMPANY


CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGE
II
1. CORALIE . . . . . . . . . . . .
II. Right HAND AND LEFT LEG . .... 27
III. The Rusty KEY. ......
IV. BEFORE THE FLAMES . . . . . .
V. HUSBAND AND WIFE. ....... 74
VI. NINETEEN MINUTES PAST SEVEN ...
VII. TWENTY-THREE MINUTES Past Twelve. 107
VIII. EssaRÈS BEY's Work . . . . . . . 124
IX. PATRICE AND CORALIE. ...... 140
X. THE RED CORD ......... 156
XI. ON THE BRINK . . . . ..
XII. IN THE ABYSS . . . . . . .
XIII. THE NAILS IN THE COFFIN . .
XIV. A STRANGE CHARACTER ...... 221
XV. The Belle HÉLÈNE. ....... 241
XVI. The Fourth Act .....
263
XVII. SIMÉON Gives BATTLE ...... 283
XVIII. SIMÉON's Last VICTIM. ...... 304
XIX. FIAT Lux! ........... 332
.
188
.
206
.
...





THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE





THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
CHAPTER I
CORALIE
It was close upon half-past six and the evening
shadows were growing denser when two soldiers
reached the little space, planted with trees, opposite
the Musée Galliéra, where the Rue de Chaillot and
the Rue Pierre-Charron meet. One wore an in-
fantryman's sky-blue great-coat; the other, a Sene-
galeşe, those clothes of undyed wool, with baggy
breeches and a belted jacket, in which the Zouaves
and the native African troops have been dressed
since the war. One of them had lost his right leg,
the other his left arm.
They walked round the open space, in the center
of which stands a fine group of Silenus figures, and
stopped. The infantryman threw away his cigarette.
The Senegalese picked it up, took a few quick puffs
at it, put it out by squeezing it between his fore-
finger and thumb and stuffed it into his pocket. All
this without a word.
Almost at the same time two more soldiers came
out of the Rue Galliéra. It would have been im-
possible to say to what branch they belonged, for
their military attire was composed of the most in-
congruous civilian garments. However, one of them
II


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
sported a Zouave's chechia, the other an artillery-
man's képi. The first walked on crutches, the other
on two sticks. These two kept near the newspaper-
kiosk which stands at the edge of the pavement.
Three others came singly by the Rue Pierre-
Charron, the Rue Brignoles and the Rue de Chail-
lot: a one-armed rifleman, a limping sapper and a
marine with a hip that looked as if it was twisted.
Each of them made straight for a tree and leant
against it.
Not a word was uttered among them. None of
the seven crippled soldiers seemed to know his com-
panions or to trouble about or even perceive their
presence. They stood behind their trees or behind
the kiosk or behind the group of Silenus figures with-
out stirring. And the few wayfarers who, on that
evening of the 3rd of April, 1915, crossed this un-
frequented square, which received hardly any light
from the shrouded street-lamps, did not slacken pace
to observe the men's motionless outlines.
A clock struck half-past six. At that moment
the door of one of the houses overlooking the square
opened. A man came out, closed the door behind
him, crossed the Rue de Chaillot and walked round
the open space in front of the museum. It was an
officer in khaki. Under his red forage-cap, with its
three lines of gold braid, his head was wrapped in
a wide linen bandage, which hid his forehead and
neck. He was tall and very slenderly built. His
right leg ended in a wooden stump with a rubber
foot to it. He leant on a stick.
Leaving the square, he stepped into the roadway
of the Rue Pierre-Charron. Here he turned and
gave a leisurely look to his surroundings on every
I 2


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
that part of the street, except him and her. But,
just after she had crossed the Avenue Marceau and
some time before he reached it, a motor standing
in the avenue started driving in the same direction
as the nurse, at a. fixed distance from her.
It was a taxi-cab. And the officer noticed two
things: first, that there were two men inside it and,
next, that one of them leant out of the window
almost the whole time, talking to the driver. He
was able to catch a momentary glimpse of this man's
face, cut in half by a heavy mustache and surmounted
by a gray felt hat.
Meanwhile, the nurse walked on without turning
round. The officer had crossed the street and now
hurried his pace, the more so as it struck him that
the cab was also increasing its speed as the girl drew
near the space in front of the museum.
From where he was the officer could take in al-
most the whole of the little square at a glance; and,
however sharply he looked, he discerned nothing in
the darkness that revealed the presence of the seven
crippled men. No one, moreover, was passing on
foot or driving. In the distance only, in the dusk
of the wide crossing avenues, two tram-cars, with
lowered blinds, disturbed the silence.
Nor did the girl, presuming that she was paying
attention to the sights of the street, appear to see
anything to alarm her. She gave not the least sign
of hesitation. And the behavior of the motor-cab
following her did not seem to strike her either, for
she did not look round once.
The cab, however, was gaining ground. When it
neared the square, it was ten or fifteen yards, at
most, from the nurse; and, by the time that she,
:
14


CORALIE
still noticing nothing, had reached the first trees, it
came closer yet and, leaving the middle of the road,
began to hug the pavement, while, on the side op-
posite the pavement, the left-hand side, the man who
kept leaning out had opened the door and was now
standing on the step.
The officer crossed the street once more, briskly,
without fear of being seen, so heedless did the two
men now appear of anything but their immediate
business. He raised a whistle to his lips. There
was no doubt that the expected event was about to
take place.
The cab, in fact, pulled up suddenly. The two
men leapt from the doors on either side and rushed
to the pavement of the square, a few yards from the
kiosk. At the same moment there was a cry of
terror from the girl and a shrill whistle from the
officer. And, also at the same time, the two men
caught up and seized their victim and dragged her
towards the cab, while the seven wounded soldiers,
seeming to spring from the very trunks of the trees
that hid them, fell upon the two aggressors.
The battle did not last long. Or rather there
was no battle. At the outset the driver of the
taxi, perceiving that the attack was being countered,
made off and drove away as fast as he could. As
for the two men, realizing that their enterprise had
failed and finding themselves faced with a threaten-
ing array of uplifted sticks and crutches, not to
mention the barrel of a revolver which the officer
pointed at them, they let go the girl, tacked from
side to side, to prevent the officer from taking aim,
and disappeared in the darkness of the Rue Brig-
noles.
15


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
"Run for all you're worth, Ya-Bon," said the
officer to the one-armed Senegalese, “and bring me
back one of them by the scruff of the neck!"
He supported the girl with his arm. She was
trembling all over and seemed ready to faint.
"Don't be frightened, Little Mother Coralie," he
said, very anxiously. “It's I, Captain Belval, Patrice
Belval.”
“Ah, it's you, captain !" she stammered.
"Yes; all your friends have gathered round to
defend you, all your old patients from the hospital,
whom I found in the convalescent home.”
"Thank you. Thank you." And she added, in
a quivering voice, “The others? Those two men ?"
“Run away. Ya-Bon's gone after them.”
“But what did they want with me? And what
miracle brought you all here?”
"We'll talk about that later, Little Mother Co-
ralie. Let's speak of you first. Where am I to
take you? Don't you think you'd better come in
here with me, until you've recovered and taken a
little rest?"
Assisted by one of the soldiers, he helped her
gently to the house which he himself had left three-
quarters of an hour before. The girl let him do as
he pleased. They all entered an apartment on the
ground-floor and went into the drawing-room, where
a bright fire of logs was burning. He switched on
the electric light:
“Sit down," he said.
She dropped into a chair; and the captain at once
gave his orders:
"You, Poulard, go and fetch a glass in the dining-
room. And you, Ribrac, draw a jug of cold water
16
gave ou, Poulard, Ribrac, draw


CORALIE
in the kitchen. ... Chatelain, you'll find a decan-
ter of rum in the pantry. ... Or, stay, she doesn't
like rum. ... Then ..
“Then,” she said, smiling, “just a glass of water,
please."
Her cheeks, which were naturally pale, recovered
a little of their warmth. The blood flowed back to
her lips; and the smile on her face was full of confi-
dence. Her face, all charm and gentleness, had a
pure outline, features almost too delicate, a fair
complexion and the ingenuous expression of a won-
dering child that looks on life with eyes always wide
open. And all this, which was dainty and exquisite,
nevertheless at certain moments gave an impression
of energy, due no doubt to her shining, dark eyes
and to the line of smooth, black hair that came down
on either side from under the white cap in which
her forehead was imprisoned.
“Aha!” cried the captain, gaily, when she had
drunk the water. "You're feeling better, I think,
eh, Little Mother Coralie ?”
"Much better."
"Capital. But that was a bad minute we went
through just now! What an adventure! We shall
have to talk it all over and get some light on it,
sha'n't we? Meanwhile, my lads, pay your respects
to Little Mother Coralie. Eh, my fine fellows, who
would have thought, when she was coddling you
and patting your pillows for your fat pates to sink
into, that one day we should be taking care of her
and that the children would be coddling their little
mother?"
They all pressed round her, the one-armed and
the one-legged, the crippled and the sick, all glad
drunk the cried imprisone
17


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
ca.
to see her. And she shook hands with them af-
fectionately:
"Well, Ribrac, how's that leg of yours?"
"I don't feel it any longer, Little Mother Co-
ralie."
“And you, Vatinel ? That wound in your shoul-
der ?"
“Not a sign of it, Little Mother Coralie."
“And you, Poulard? And you, Jorisse?”.
Her emotion increased at seeing them again, the
men whom she called her children. And Patrice
Belval exclaimed:
"Ah, Little Mother Coralie, now you're crying!
Little mother, little mother, that's how you captured
all our hearts. When we were trying our hardest
not to call out, on our bed of pain, we used to see
your eyes filling with great tears. Little Mother
Coralie was weeping over her children. Then we
clenched our teeth still firmer."
"And I used to cry still more,” she said, "just
because you were afraid of hurting me."
“And to-day you're at it again. No, you are too
soft-hearted! You love us. We love you. There's
nothing to cry about in that. Come, Little Mother
Coralie, a smile. . . . And, I say, here's Ya-Bon
coming; and Ya-Bon always laughs.”
She rose suddenly:
"Do you think he can have overtaken one of the
two men ?"
“Do I think so? I told Ya-Bon to bring one back
by the neck. He won't fail. I'm only afraid of
one thing. ..."
They had gone towards the hall. The Senegalese
was already on the steps. With his right hand he
18


CORALIE
was clutching the neck of a man, of a limp rag,
rather, which he seemed to be carrying at arm's
length, like a dancing-doll.
“Drop him," said the captain.
Ya-Bon loosened his fingers. The man fell on
the flags in the hall.
"That's what I feared," muttered the officer.
"Ya-Bon has only his right hand; but, when that
hand holds any one by the throat, it's a miracle if it
doesn't strangle him. The Boches know something
about it.”
Ya-Bon was a sort of colossus, the color of gleam-
ing coal, with a woolly head and a few curly hairs
on his chin, with an empty sleeve fastened to his
left shoulder and two medals pinned to his jacket.
Ya-Bon had had one cheek, one side of his jaw, half
his mouth and the whole of his palate smashed by
a splinter of shell. The other half of that mouth
was split to the ear in a laugh which never seemed
to cease and which was all the more surprising be-
cause the wounded portion of the face, patched up
as best it could be and covered with a grafted skin,
remained impassive.
Moreover, Ya-Bon had lost his power of speech.
The most that he could do was to emit a sequence
of indistinct grunts in which his nickname of Ya-Bon
was everlastingly repeated.
He uttered it once more with a satisfied air, glanc-
ing by turns at his master and his victim, like a
good sporting-dog standing over the bird which he
has retrieved .
“Good," said the officer. "But, next time, go to
work more gently."
He bent over the man, felt his heart and, on
19


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
seeing that he had only fainted, asked the nurse:
“Do you know him?''
"No," she said.
“Are you sure? Have you never seen that head
anywhere?”
It was a very big head, with black hair, plastered
down with grease, and a thick beard. The man's
clothes, which were of dark-blue serge and well-cut,
showed him to be in easy circumstances.
"Never . . . never," the girl declared.
Captain Belval searched the man's pockets. They
contained no papers.
“Very well,” he said, rising to his feet, "we will
wait till he wakes up and question him then.
Ya-Bon, tie up his arms and legs and stay here, in
the hall. The rest of you fellows, go back to the
home: it's time you were indoors. I have my key.
Say good-by to Little Mother Coralie and trot off.”
And, when good-by had been said, he pushed them
outside, came back to the nurse, led her into the
drawing-room and said:
"Now let's talk, Little Mother Coralie. First
of all, before we try to explain things, listen to me.
It won't take long."
They were sitting before the merrily blazing fire.
Patrice Belval slipped a hassock under Little Mother
Coralie's feet, put out a light that seemed to worry
her and, when he felt certain that she was com-
fortable, began:
"As you know, Little Mother Coralie, I left the
hospital a week ago and am staying on the Boule-
vard Maillot, at Neuilly, in the home reserved for
the convalescent patients of the hospital. I sleep
there at night and have my wounds dressed in the
20


CORALIE
morning. The rest of the time I spend in loafing:
I stroll about, lunch and dine where the mood takes
me and go and call on my friends. Well, this morn-
ing I was waiting for one of them in a big café-
restaurant on the boulevard, when I overheard the
end of a conversation. ... But I must tell you
that the place is divided into two by a partition
standing about six feet high, with the customers of
the café on one side and those of the restaurant on
the other. I was all by myself in the restaurant;
and the two men, who had their backs turned to me
and who in any case were out of sight, probably
thought that there was no one there at all, for they
were speaking rather louder than they need have
done, considering the sentences which I overheard
... and which I afterwards wrote down in my little
note-book."
He took the note-book from his pocket and went
on:
“These sentences, which caught my attention for
reasons which you will understand presently, were
preceded by some others in which there was a refer-
ence to sparks, to a shower of sparks that had
already occurred twice before the war, a sort of
night signal for the possible repetition of which they
proposed to watch, so that they might act quickly as
soon as it appeared. Does none of this tell you
anything?”
"No. Why?"
"You shall see. By the way, I forgot to tell you
that the two were talking English, quite correctly,
but with an accent which assured me that neither of
them was an Englishman. Here is what they said,
faithfully translated: 'To finish up, therefore,' said
21


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
one, 'everything is decided. You and he will be at
the appointed place at a little before seven this
evening. "We shall be there, colonel. We have
engaged our taxi.' 'Good. Remember that the lit-
tle woman leaves her hospital at seven o'clock.'
'Have no fear. There can't be any mistake, because
she always goes the same way, down the Rue Pierre-
Charron.' 'And your whole plan is settled?' 'In
every particular. The thing will happen in the
square at the end of the Rue de Chaillot. Even
granting that there may be people about, they will
have no time to rescue her, for we shall act too
quickly.' 'Are you' certain of your driver?' 'I am
certain that we shall pay him enough to secure his
obedience. That's all we want.' 'Capital. I'll wait
for you at the place you know of, in a motor-car.
You'll hand the little woman over to me. From that
moment, we shall be masters of the situation.' 'And
you of the little woman, colonel, which isn't bad for
you, for she's deucedly pretty.' 'Deucedly, as you
say. I've known her a long time by sight; and,
upon my word. ... The two began to laugh
coarsely and called for their bill. I at once got up
and went to the door on the boulevard, but only
one of them came out by that door, a man with a
big drooping mustache and a gray felt hat. The
other had left by the door in the street round the
corner. There was only one taxi in the road. The
man took it and I had to give up all hope of follow-
ing him. Only ... only, as I knew that you left
the hospital at seven o'clock every evening and that
you went along the Rue Pierre-Charron, I was justi-
fied, wasn't I, in believing ... ?!
22


CORALIE
The captain stopped. The girl reflected, with a
thoughtful air. Presently she asked:
"Why didn't you warn me?".
“Warn you!" he exclaimed. “And, if, after all,
it wasn't you? Why alarm you? And, if, on the
other hand, it was you, why put you on your guard?
After the attempt had failed, your enemies would
have laid another trap for you; and we, not knowing
of it, would have been unable to prevent it. No,
the best thing was to accept the fight. I enrolled a
little band of your former patients who were being
treated at the home; and, as the friend whom I was
expecting to meet happened to live in the square,
here, in this house, I asked him to place his rooms
at my disposal from six to nine o'clock. That's what
I did, Little Mother Coralie. And now that you
know as much as I do, what do you think of it?"
She gave him her hand:
"I think you have saved me from an unknown
danger that looks like a very great one; and I thank
you.”
“No, no,” he said, “I can accept no thanks. I was
so glad to have succeeded! What I want to know
is your opinion of the business itself ?”
Without a second's hesitation, she replied:
"I have none. Not a word, not an incident, in
all that you have told me, suggests the least idea to
me.”
“You have no enemies, to your knowledge ?"
“Personally, no."
“What about that man to whom your two assail-
ants were to hand you over and who says that he
knows you ?"
“Doesn't every woman,” she said, with a slight
23


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
blush, "come across men who pursue her more or
less openly? I can't tell who it is."
The captain was silent for a while and then went
on:
“When all is said, our only hope of clearing up
the matter lies in questioning our prisoner. If he
refuses to answer, I shall hand him over to the
police, who will know how to get to the bottom of
the business.”
The girl gave a start:
“The police?"
"Well, of course. What would you have me do
with the fellow? He doesn't belong to me. He
belongs to the police."
"No, no, no!” she exclaimed, excitedly. "Not on
any account! What, have my life gone into? ...
Have to appear before the magistrate? ... Have
my name mixed up in all this? ..."
“And yet, Little Mother Coralie, I can't ..."
"Oh, I beg, I beseech you, as my friend, find some
way out of it, but don't have me talked about! I
don't want to be talked about !"
The captain looked at her, somewhat surprised
to see her in such a state of agitation, and said:
"You sha'n't be talked about, Little Mother Co.
ralie, I promise you."
“Then what will you do with that man?"
"Well," he said, with a laugh, “I shall begin by
asking him politely if he will condescend to answer
my questions; then thank him for his civil behavior
to you; and lastly beg him to be good enough to
go away."
He rose:
“Do you wish to see him, Little Mother Coralie ?"
24


CORALIE
"No," she said, “I am so tired! If you don't
want me, question him by yourself. You can tell
me about it afterwards. ..."
She seemed quite exhausted by all this fresh ex-
citement and strain, added to all those which already
rendered her life as a nurse so hard. The captain
did not insist and went out, closing the door of the
drawing-room after him.
She heard him saying:
"Well, Ya-Bon, have you kept a good watch! No
news? And how's your prisoner? ... Ah, there
you are, my fine fellow! Have you got your breath
back? Oh, I know Ya-Bon's hand is a bit heavy!
... What's this? Won't you answer? ... Hallo,
what's happened? Hanged if I don't think ..."
A cry escaped him. The girl ran to the hall. She
met the captain, who tried to bar her way.
“Don't come,” he said, in great agitation. “What's
the use!"
“But you're hurt!" she exclaimed.
“I?”
“There's blood on your shirt-cuff.”
“So there is, but it's nothing: it's the man's blood
that must have stained me."
“Then he was wounded ?”.
“Yes, or at least his mouth was bleeding. Some
blood vessel ...".
"Why, surely Ya-Bon didn't grip as hard as
that?”
“It wasn't Ya-Bon."
“Then who was it?"
"His accomplices."
"Did they come back?"
"Yes; and they've strangled him.”
25


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
"But it's not possible!"
She pushed by and went towards the prisoner.
He did not move. His face had the pallor of death.
Round his neck was a red-silk string, twisted very
thin and with a buckle at either end.
26


CHAPTER II
RIGHT HAND AND LEFT LEG
wked up and down th: voice, and
"You and I
“ONE rogue less in the world, Little Mother Co-
ralie !" cried Patrice Belval, after he had led the girl
back to the drawing-room and made a rapid investi-
gation with Ya-Bon. “Remember his name-I
found it engraved on his watch-Mustapha Rova-
laïof, the name of a rogue !”
He spoke gaily, with no emotion in his voice, and
continued, as he walked up and down the room:
“You and I, Little Mother Coralie, who have
witnessed so many tragedies and seen so many good
fellows die, need not waste tears over the death of
Mustapha Rovalaïof or his murder by his accom-
plices. Not even a funeral oration, eh? Ya-Bon
has taken him under his arm, waited until the square
was clear and carried him to the Rue Brignoles,
with orders to fling the gentleman over the railings
into the garden of the Musée Galliéra. The rail-
ings are high. But Ya-Bon's right hand knows no
obstacles. And so, Little Mother Coralie, the mat.
ter is buried. You won't be talked about; and, this
time, I claim a word of thanks."
He stopped to laugh:
"A word of thanks, but no compliments. By
Jove, I don't make much of a warder! It was
clever the way those beggars snatched my prisoner.
Why didn't I foresee that your other assailant, the
27


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
man in the gray-felt hat, would go and tell the third,
who was waiting in his motor, and that they would
both come back together to rescue their companion ?
And they came back. And, while you and I were
chatting, they must have forced the servants' en-
trance, passed through the kitchen, come to the little
door between the pantry and the hall and pushed
it open. There, close by them, lay their man, still
unconscious and firmly bound, on his sofa. What
were they to do? It was impossible to get him out
of the hall without alarming Ya-Bon. And yet, if
they didn't release him, he would speak, give away
his accomplices and ruin a carefully prepared plan.
So one of the two must have leant forward stealth-
ily, put out his arm, thrown his string round that
throat which Ya-Bon had already handled pretty
roughly, gathered the buckles at the two ends and
pulled, pulled, quietly, until death came. Not a
sound. Not a sigh. The whole operation per-
formed in silence. We come, we kill and we go
away. Good-night. The trick is done and our
friend won't talk."
Captain Belval's merriment increased:
“Our friend won't talk," he repeated, "and the
police, when they find his body to-morrow morning
inside a railed garden, won't understand a word of
the business. Nor we either, Little Mother Cora-
lie; and we shall never know why those men tried
to kidnap you. It's only too true! I may not be
up to much as a warder, but I'm beneath contempt
as a detective !"
He continued to walk up and down the room.
The fact that his leg or rather his calf had been
amputated seemed hardly to inconvenience him; and,
28


RIGHT HAND AND LEFT LEG
as the joints of the knee and thighbone had retained
their mobility, there was at most a certain want of
rhythm in the action of his hips and shoulders.
Moreover, his tall figure tended to correct this lame-
ness, which was reduced to insignificant proportions
by the ease of his movements and the indifference
with which he appeared to accept it.
He had an open countenance, rather dark in
color, burnt by the sun and tanned by the weather,
with an expression that was frank, cheerful and
often bantering. He must have been between twenty-
eight and thirty. His manner suggested that of the
officers of the First Empire, to whom their life in
camp imparted a special air which they subsequently
brought into the ladies' drawing-rooms.
He stopped to look at Coralie, whose shapely
profile stood out against the gleams from the fire-
place. Then he came and sat beside her:
“I know nothing about you," he said softly. “At
the hospital the doctors and nurses call you Madame
Coralie. Your patients prefer to say Little Mother.
What is your married or your maiden name? Have
you a husband or are you a widow? Where do
you live? Nobody knows. You arrive every day
at the same time and you go away by the same
street. Sometimes an old serving-man, with long
gray hair and a bristly beard, with a comforter
round his neck and a pair of yellow spectacles on
his nose, brings you or fetches you. Sometimes
also he waits for you, always sitting on the same
chair in the covered yard. He has been asked
questions, but he never gives an answer. I know
only one thing, therefore, about you, which is that
you are adorably good and kind and that you are
29


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
also—I may say it, may I not?-adorably beauti-
ful. And it is perhaps, Little Mother Coralie, be-
cause I know nothing about your life that I imagine
it so mysterious, and, in some way, so sad. You
give the impression of living amid sorrow and anx-
iety; the feeling that you are all alone. There is
no one who devotes himself to making you happy
and taking care of you.' So I thought, I have long
thought and waited for an opportunity of telling
you—I thought that you must need a friend, a
brother, who would advise and protect you. Am I
not right, Little Mother Coralie?"
As he went on, Coralie seemed to shrink into
herself and to place a greater distance between
them, as though she did not wish him to penetrate
those secret regions of which he spoke.
"No," she murmured, "you are mistaken. My
life is quite simple. I do not need to be defended."
“You do not need to be defended!” he cried, with
increasing animation. “What about those men who
tried to kidnap you? That plot hatched against
you? That plot which your assailants are so afraid
to see discovered that they go to the length of kill-
ing the one who allowed himself to be caught? Is
that nothing? Is it mere delusion on my part when
I say that you are surrounded by dangers, that
you have enemies who stick at nothing, that you
have to be defended against their attempts and that,
if you decline the offer of my assistance, I...
Well, I ... p
She persisted in her silence, showed herself more
and more distant, almost hostile. The officer struck
the marble mantelpiece with his fist, and, bending
over her, finished his sentence in a determined tone:
30


RIGHT HAND AND LEFT LEG
“Well, if you decline the offer of my assistance,
I shall force it on you.”
She shook her head.
"I shall force it on you," he repeated, firmly.
“It is my duty and my right.”
"No," she said, in an undertone.
“My absolute right,” said Captain Belval, "for
a reason which outweighs all the others and makes
it unnecessary for me even to consult you."
“What do you mean?”
"I love you."
He brought out the words plainly, not like a
lover venturing on a timid declaration, but like a
man proud of the sentiment that he feels and happy
to proclaim it.
She lowered her eyes and blushed; and he cried,
exultantly:
"You can take it, Little Mother, from me. No
impassioned outbursts, no sighs, no waying of the
arms, no clapping of the hands. Just three little
words, which I tell you without going on my knees.
And it's the easier for me because you know it. Yes,
Madame Coralie, it's all very well to look so shy,
but you know my love for you and you've known
it as long as I have. We saw it together take birth
when your dear little hands touched my battered
head. The others used to torture me. With you,
it was nothing but caresses. So was the pity in your
eyes and the tears that fell because I was in pain.
But can any one see you without loving you? Your
seven patients who were here just now are all in
love with you, Little Mother Coralie. Ya-Bon wor-
ships the ground you walk on. Only they are pri-
vates. They cannot speak. I am an officer; and I
31


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
speak without hesitation or embarrassment, believe
me.”
Coralie had put her hands to her burning cheeks
and sat silent, bending forward.
"You understand what I mean, don't you," he
went on, in a voice that rang, "when I say that I
speak without hesitation or embarrassment? If I
had been before the war what I am now, a maimed
man, I should not have had the same assurance and
I should have declared my love for you humbly and
begged your pardon for my boldness. But now!
... Believe me, Little Mother Coralie, when I sit
here face to face with the woman I adore, I do not
think of my infirmity. Not for a moment do I feel
the impression that I can appear ridiculous or pre-
sumptuous in your eyes.”
He stopped, as though to take breath, and then,
rising, went on:
"And it must needs be so. People will have to
understand that those who have been maimed in this
war do not look upon themselves as outcasts, lame
ducks, or lepers, but as absolutely normal men. Yes,
normal! One leg short? What about it? Does
that rob a man of his brain or heart? Then, be-
cause the war has deprived me of a leg, or an arm,
or even both legs or both arms, I have no longer
the right to love a woman save at the risk of meet-
ing with a rebuff or imagining that she pities me?
Pity! But we don't want the woman to pity us,
nor to make an effort to love us, nor even to think
that she is doing a charity because she treats us
kindly. What we demand, from women and from
the world at large, from those whom we meet in
the street and from those who belong to the same
32


RIGHT HAND AND LEFT LEG
set as ourselves, is absolute equality with the rest,
who have been saved from our fate by their lucky
stars or their cowardice."
The captain once more struck the mantelpiece:
"Yes, absolute equality! We all of us, whether
we have lost a leg or an arm, whether blind in one
eye or two, whether crippled or deformed, claim to
be just as good, physically and morally, as any one
you please; and perhaps better. What! Shall men
who have used their legs to rush upon the enemy
be outdistanced in life, because they no longer have
those legs, by men who have sat and warmed their
toes at an office-fire? What nonsense! We want
our place in the sun as well as the others. It is
our due; and we shall know how to get it and keep
it. There is no happiness to which we are not en-
titled and no work for which we are not capable
with a little exercise and training. Ya-Bon's right
hand is already worth any pair of hands in the wide
world; and Captain Belval's left leg allows him
to do his five miles an hour if he pleases."
He began to laugh:
“Right hand and left leg; left hand and right
leg: what does it matter which we have saved, if
we know how to use it? In what respect have we
fallen off? Whether it's a question of obtaining
a position or perpetuating our race, are we not as
good as we were ? And perhaps even better. I
venture to say that the children which we shall
give to the country will be just as well-built as ever,
with arms and legs and the rest ... not to men-
tion a mighty legacy of pluck and spirit. That's
what we claim, Little Mother Coralie. We refuse
to admit that our wooden legs keep us back or that
8
:
33


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
we cannot stand as upright on our crutches as on
legs of flesh and bone. We do not consider that
devotion to us is any sacrifice or that it's necessary
to talk of heroism when a girl has the honor to
marry a blind soldier! Once more, we are not
creatures outside the pale. We have not fallen off
in any way whatever; and this is a truth before
which everybody will bow for the next two or three
generations. You can understand that, in a country
like France, when maimed men are to be met by
the hundred thousand, the conception of what makes
a perfect man will no longer be as hard and fast as
it was. In the new form of humanity which is pre-
paring, there will be men with two arms and men
with only one, just as there are fair men and dark,
bearded men and clean-shaven. And it will all
seem quite natural. And every one will lead the
life he pleases, without needing to be complete in
every limb. And, as my life is wrapped up in you,
Little Mother Coralie, and as my happiness de-
pends on you, I thought I would wait no longer
before making you my little speech. . . . Well!
That's finished! I have plenty more to say on the
subject, but it can't all be said in a day, can
it? ..."
He broke off, thrown out of his stride after all
by Coralie's silence. She had not stirred since the
first words of love that he uttered. Her hands had
sought her forehead; and her shoulders were shak-
ing slightly.
He stooped and, with infinite gentleness, draw-
ing aside the slender fingers, uncovered her beauti-
ful face:
“Why are you crying, Little Mother Coralie ?"
34


RIGHT HAND AND LEFT LEG
He was calling her tu now, but she did not mind.
Between a man and the woman who has bent over
his wounds relations of a special kind arise; and
Captain Belval in particular had those rather fa-
miliar, but still respectful, ways at which it seems
impossible to take offence.
"Have I made you cry?” he asked.
"No," she said, in a low voice, “it's all of you
who upset me. It's your cheerfulness, your pride,
your way not of submitting to fate, but mastering
it. The humblest of you raises himself above his
nature without an effort; and I know nothing finer
or more touching than that indifference.”
He sat down beside her:
"Then you're not angry with me for saying ...
what I said?"
"Angry with you?" she replied, pretending to
mistake his meaning. “Why, every woman thinks
as you do. If women, in bestowing their affection,
had to choose among the men returning from the
war, the choice I am sure would be in favor of those
who have suffered most cruelly."
He shook his head:
"You see, I am asking for something more than
affection and a more definite answer to what I said.
Shall I remind you of my words ?”
"No."
"Then your answer ... ?"
"My answer, dear friend, is that you must not
speak those words again."
He put on a solemn air:
"You forbid me?"
"I do."
35


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
"In that case, I swear to say nothing more until
I see you again.”
“You will not see me again,” she murmured.
Captain Belval was greatly amused at this:
"I say, I say! And why sha'n't I see you again,
Little Mother Coralie ?"
“Because I don't wish it."
“And your reason, please ?"
“My reason?”
She turned her eyes to him and said, slowly:
“I am married.”
Belval seemed in no way disconcerted by this
news. On the contrary, he said, in the calmest of
tones:
"Well, you must marry again! No doubt your
husband is an old man and you do not love him.
He will therefore understand that, as you have
some one in love with you ...".
“Don't jest, please."
He caught hold of her hand, just as she was ris-
ing to go:
"You are right, Little Mother Coralie, and I
apologize for not adopting a more serious manner
to speak to you of very serious things. It's a ques-
tion of our two lives. I am profoundly convinced
that they are moving towards each other and that
you are powerless to restrain them. That is why
your answer is beside the point. I ask nothing of
you. I expect everything from fate. It is fate
that will bring us together.".
"No," she said.
“Yes," he declared, "that is how things will hap-
pen.”
"It is not.
They will not and shall not happen
36


RIGHT HAND AND LEFT LEG
like that. You must give rne your word of honor
not to try to see me again nor even to learn my
name. I might have granted more if you had been
content to remain friends. The confession which
you have made sets a barrier between us. I want
nobody in my life ... nobody!”.
She made this declaration with a certain vehe-
mence and at the same time tried to release her arm
from his grasp. Patrice Belval resisted her efforts
and said:
"You are wrong. ... You have no right to ex-
pose yourself to danger like this. . . . Please re-
flect ..."
She pushed him away. As she did so, she
knocked off the mantelpiece a little bag which she
had placed there. It fell on the carpet and opened.
Two or three things escaped, and she picked them
up, while Patrice Belval knelt down on the floor to
help her:
"Here,” he said, "you've missed this."
It was a little case in plaited straw, which had
also come open; the beads of a rosary protruded
from it.
They both stood up in silence. Captain Belval
examined the rosary.
"What a curious coincidence!” he muttered.
“These amethyst beads! This old-fashioned gold
filigree setting! ... It's strange to find the same
materials and the same workmanship. ..."
He gave a start, and it was so marked that Co-
ralie asked:
Why, what's the matter?”
He was holding in his fingers a bead larger than
most of the others, forming a link between the string
37


RIGHT HAND AND LEFT LEG
the thought of the simple little act needed for the
indisputable proof.
The officer, however, decided upon that act. He
brought his right hand, which held the rosary-bead,
and his left, which held the trinket, together. The
hands hesitated, felt about and stopped. The con-
tact was made.
The projections and indentations of the broken
stones corresponded precisely. Each protruding
part found a space to fit it. The two half amethysts
were the two halves of the same amethyst. When
joined, they formed one and the same bead.
There was a long pause, laden with excitement
and mystery. Then, speaking in a low voice:
"I do not know either exactly where this trinket
comes from," Captain Belval said. “Ever since I
was a child, I used to see it among other things of
trifling value which I kept in a cardboard box:
watch-keys, old rings, old-fashioned seals. I picked
out these trinkets from among them two or three
years ago. Where does this one come from? I
don't know. But what I do know ..."
He had separated the two pieces and, examining
them carefully, concluded:
"What I do know, beyond a doubt, is that the
largest bead in this rosary came off one day and
broke; and that the other, with its setting, went to
form the trinket which I now have. You and I
therefore possess the two halves of a thing which
somebody else possessed twenty years ago."
He went up to her and, in the same low and
rather serious voice, said:
"You protested just now when I declared my
faith in destiny and my certainty that events were
39


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
leading us towards each other. Do you still deny
it? For, after all, this is either an accident so
extraordinary that we have no right to admit it
or an actual fact which proves that our two lives
have already touched in the past at some mysterious
point and that they will meet again in the future,
never to part. And that is why, without waiting
for the perhaps distant future, I offer you to-day,
when danger hangs over you, the support of my
friendship. Observe that I am no longer speaking
of love but only of friendship. Do you accept?”
She was nonplussed and so much perturbed by
that miracle of the two broken amethysts, fitting
each other exactly, that she appeared not to hear
Belval's voice.
“Do you accept?” he repeated.
After a moment she replied:
"No."
“Then the proof which destiny has given you of
its wishes does not satisfy you ?” he said, good-
humoredly.
“We must not see each other again,” she de-
clared.
"Very well. I will leave it to chance. It will
not be for long. Meanwhile, I promise to make
no effort to see you."
"Nor to find out my name ?"
"Yes, I promise you."
“Good-by," she said, giving him her hand.
“Au revoir," he answered.
She moved away. When she reached the door,
she seemed to hesitate. He was standing motion-
less by the chimney. Once more she said:
“Good-by."
40


RIGHT HAND AND LEFT LEG
“Au revoir, Little Mother Coralie.”
Then she went out.
Only when the street-door had closed behind her
did Captain Belval go to one of the windows. He
saw Coralie passing through the trees, looking quite
small in the surrounding darkness. He felt a pang
at his heart. Would he ever see her again?
“Shall I? Rather!” he exclaimed. “Why, to-
morrow perhaps. Am I not the favorite of the
gods?"
And, taking his stick, he set off, as he said, with
his wooden leg foremost.
That evening, after dining at the nearest res-
taurant, Captain Belval went to Neuilly. The home
run in connection with the hospital was a pleasant
villa on the Boulevard Maillot, looking out on the
Bois de Boulogne. Discipline was not too strictly
enforced. The captain could come in at any hour
of the night; and the man easily obtained leave from
the matron.
"Is Ya-Bon there?” he asked this lady.
“Yes, he's playing cards with his sweetheart."
"He has the right to love and be loved,” he said.
“Any letters for me?”.
“No, only a parcel.”
"From whom?"
“A commissionaire brought it and just said that
it was 'for Captain Belval.' I put it in your room.”
The officer went up to his bedroom on the top
floor and saw the parcel, done up in paper and
string, on the table. He opened it and discovered
a box. The box contained a key, a large, rusty key,
of a shape and manufacture that were obviously
old.
41


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
What could it all mean? There was no address
on the box and no mark. He presumed that there
was some mistake which would come to light of it-
self; and he slipped the key into his pocket.
"Enough riddles for one day,” he thought. “Let's
go to bed.”
But when he went to the window to draw the cur-
tains he saw, across the trees of the Bois, a cascade
of sparks which spread to some distance in the dense
blackness of the night. And he remembered the
conversation which he had overheard in the res-
taurant and the rain of sparks mentioned by the
men who were plotting to kidnap Little Mother
Coralie. ...
42


CHAPTER III
THE RUSTY KEY
When Patrice Belval was eight years old he was
sent from Paris, where he had lived till then, to
a French boarding-school in London. Here he re-
mained for ten years. At first he used to hear from
his father weekly. Then, one day, the head-master
told him that he was an orphan, that provision had
been made for the cost of his education and that,
on his majority, he would receive through an Eng-
lish solicitor his paternal inheritance, amounting to
some eight thousand pounds.
Two hundred thousand francs could never be
enough for a young man who soon proved himself
to possess expensive tastes and who, when sent to
Algeria to perform his military service, found means
to run up twenty thousand francs of debts before
coming into his money. He therefore started by
squandering his patrimony and, having done so,
settled down to work. Endowed with an active
temperament and an ingenious brain, possessing no
special vocation, but capable of anything that calls
for initiative and resolution, full of ideas, with both
the will and the knowledge to carry out an enter-
prise, he inspired confidence in others, found cap-
ital as he needed it and started one venture after
another, including electrical schemes, the purchase
of rivers and waterfalls, the organization of motor
43


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
services in the colonies, of steamship lines and of
mining companies. In a few years he had floated
a dozen of such enterprises, all of which succeeded.
The war came to him as a wonderful adventure..
He flung himself into it with heart and soul. As
a sergeant in a colonial regiment, he won his lieu-
tenant's stripes on the Marne. He was wounded
in the calf on the 15th of September and had it
amputated the same day. Two months after, by
some mysterious wirepulling, cripple though he was,
he began to go up as observer in the aeroplane of
one of our best pilots. A shrapnel-shell put an end
to the exploits of both heroes on the both of Jan-
uary. This time, Captain Belval, suffering from a
serious wound in the head, was discharged and sent
to the hospital in the Avenue des Champs-Élysées.
About the same period, the lady whom he was to
call Little Mother Coralie also entered the hospital
as a nurse.
There he was trepanned. The operation was suc-
cessful, but complications remained. He suffered
a good deal of pain, though he never uttered a com-
paint and, in fact, with his own good-humor kept
up the spirits of his companions in misfortune, all
of whom were devoted to him. He made them
laugh, consoled them and stimulated them with his
cheeriness and his constant happy manner of fac-
ing the worst positions.
Not one of them is ever likely to forget the way
in which he received a manufacturer who called to
sell him a mechanical leg:
“Aha, a mechanical leg! And what for, sir?
To take in people, I suppose, so that they may not
notice that I've lost a bit of mine? Then you con-
44


THE RUSTY KEY
sider, sir, that it's a blemish to have your leg
amputated, and that I, a French officer, ought to
hide it as a disgrace?"
"Not at all, captain. Still ..."
“And what's the price of that apparatus of
yours?”
“Five hundred francs."
"Five hundred francs! And you think me cap-
able of spending five hundred francs on a mechan-
ical leg, when there are a hundred thousand poor
devils who have been wounded as I have and who
will have to go on showing their wooden stumps?”'
The men sitting within hearing reveled with de-
light. Little Mother Coralie herself listened with
a smile. And what would Patrice Belval not have
given for a smile from Little Mother Coralie ?
As he told her, he had fallen in love with her
from the first, touched by her appealing beauty, her
artless grace, her soft eyes, her gentle soul, which
seemed to bend over the patients and to fondle them
like a soothing caress. From the very first, the
charm of her stole into his being and at the same
time compassed it about. Her voice gave him new
life. She bewitched him with the glance of her
eyes and with her fragrant presence. And yet, while
yielding to the empire of this love, he had an im-
mense craving to devote himself to and to place his
strength at the service of this delicate little creature,
whom he felt to be surrounded with danger.
And now events were proving that he was right,
the danger was taking definite shape and he had had
the happiness to snatch Coralie from the grasp of
her enemies. He rejoiced at the result of the first
battle, but could not look upon it as over. The
45


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
attacks were bound to be repeated. And even now
was he not entitled to ask himself if there was
not some close connection between the plot prepared
against Coralie that morning and the sort of signal
given by the shower of sparks? Did the two facts
announced by the speakers at the restaurant not form
part of the same suspicious machination ?
The sparks continued to glitter in the distance.
So far as Patrice Belval could judge, they came
from the riverside, at some spot between two ex-
treme points which might be the Trocadéro on the
left and the Gare de Passy on the right.
"A mile or two at most, as the crow flies," he
said to himself. “Why not go there? We'll soon
seli faint light ind floor.
In that Ya-
A faint light filtered through the key-hole of a
door on the second floor. It was Ya-Bon's room;
and the matron had told him that Ya-Bon was
playing cards with his sweetheart. He walked in.
Ya-Bon was no longer playing. He had fallen
asleep in an armchair, in front of the outspread
cards, and on the pinned-back sleeve hanging from
his left shoulder lay the head of a woman, an ap-
pallingly common head, with lips as thick as Ya-
Bon's, revealing a set of black teeth, and with a
yellow, greasy skin that seemed soaked in oil. It
was Angèle, the kitchen-maid, Ya-Bon's sweetheart.
She snored aloud.
Patrice looked at them contentedly. The sight
confirmed the truth of his theories. If Ya-Bon could
find some one to care for him, might not the most
sadly mutilated heroes aspire likewise to all the
joys of love?
He touched the Senegalese on the shoulder. Ya-
- 46


THE RUSTY KEY
Bon woke up and smiled, or rather, divining the
presence of his captain, smiled even before he woke.
"I want you, Ya-Bon."
Ya-Bon uttered a grunt of pleasure and gave a
push to Angèle, who fell over on the table and went
on snoring.
Coming out of the house, Patrice saw no more
sparks. They were hidden behind the trees. He
walked along the boulevard and, to save time, went
by the Ceinture railway to the Avenue Henri-Mar-
tin. Here he turned down the Rue de la Tour,
which runs to Passy.
On the way he kept talking to Ya-Bon about what
he had in his mind, though he well knew that the
negro did not understand much of what he said.
But this was a habit with him. Ya-Bon, first his com-
rade-in-arms and then his orderly, was as devoted
to him as a dog. He had lost a limb on the same
day as his officer and was wounded in the head on
the same day; he believed himself destined to un-
dergo the same experiences throughout; and he re-
joiced at having been twice wounded just as he
would have rejoiced at dying at the same time as
Captain Belval. On his side, the captain rewarded
this humble, dumb devotion by unbending genially
to his companion; he treated him with an ironical
and sometimes impatient humor which heightened
the negro's love for him. Ya-Bon played the part
of the passive confidant who is consulted without be-
ing regarded and who is made to bear the brunt
of his interlocutor's hasty temper.
“What do you think of all this, Master Ya-
Bon ?” asked the captain, walking arm-in-arm with
47


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
him. “I have an idea that it's all part of the same
business. Do you think so too?"
Ya-Bon had two grunts, one of which meant yes,
the other no. He grunted out:
“Yes."
"So there's no doubt about it," the officer de-
clared, “and we must admit that Little Mother
Coralie is threatened with a fresh danger. Is that
so ?"
“Yes," grunted Ya-Bon, who always approved, on
principle.
"Very well. It now remains to be seen what that
shower of sparks means. I thought for a moment
that, as we had our first visit from the Zeppelins a
week ago ... are you listening to me?"
“Yes."
"I thought that it was a treacherous signal with
a view to a second Zeppelin visit ..."
“Yes."
"No, you idiot, it's not yes. How could it be a
Zeppelin signal when, according to the conversation
which I overheard, the signal had already been given
twice before the war. Besides, is it really a signal ?"
"No."
"How do you mean, no? What else could it be,
you silly ass? You'd do better to hold your tongue
and listen to me, all the more as you don't even
know what it's all about. . . . No more do I, for
that matter, and I confess that I'm at an utter loss.
Lord, it's a complicated business, and I'm not much
of a hand at solving these problems."
Patrice Belval was even more perplexed when
he came to the bottom of the Rue de la Tour.
There were several roads in front of him, and he
48


THE RUSTY KEY
did not know which to take. Moreover, though he
was in the middle of Passy, not a spark shone in
the dark sky.
"It's finished, I expect," he said, “and we've had
our trouble for nothing. It's your fault, Ya-Bon.
If you hadn't made me lose precious moments in
snatching you from the arms of your beloved we
should have arrived in time. I admit Angèle's
charms, but, after all ...".
He took his bearings, feeling more and more
undecided. The expedition undertaken on chance
and with insufficient information was certainly yield-
ing no results; and he was thinking of abandoning
it when a closed private car came out of the Rue
Franklin, from the direction of the Trocadéro, and
some one inside shouted through the speaking-tube:
“Bear to the left . . . and then straight on, till
I stop you."
Now it appeared to Captain Belval that this voice
had the same foreign inflection as one of those which
he had heard that morning at the restaurant.
"Can it be the beggar in the gray hat,” he mut-
tered, “one of those who tried to carry off Little
Mother Coralie ?"
"Yes," grunted Ya-Bon.
“Yes. The signal of the sparks explains his
presence in these parts. We mustn't lose sight of
this track. Off with you, Ya-Bon."
But there was no need for Ya-Bon to hurry. The
car had gone down the Rue Raynouard, and Belval
himself arrived just as it was stopping three or four
hundred yards from the turning, in front of a large
carriage-entrance on the left-hand side.
Five men alighted. One of them rang. Thirty
Ya-Bon."n to hurry: Belval
49


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
or forty seconds passed. Then Patrice heard the
bell tinkle a second time. The five men waited,
standing packed close together on the pavement.
At last, after a third ring, a small wicket contrived
in one of the folding-doors was opened.
There was a pause and some argument. Who-
ever had opened the wicket appeared to be ask-
ing for explanations. But suddenly two of the men
bore heavily on the folding-door, which gave way
before their thrust and let the whole gang through.
There was a loud noise as the door slammed to.
Captain Belval at once studied his surroundings.
The Rue Raynouard is an old country-road which
at one time used to wind among the houses and
gardens of the village of Passy, on the side of the
hills bathed by the Seine. In certain places, which
unfortunately are becoming more and more rare,
it has retained a provincial aspect. It is skirted
by old properties. Old houses stand hidden amidst
the trees: that in which Balzac lived has been piously
preserved. It was in this street that the mysterious
garden lay where Arsène Lupin discovered a farmer-
general's diamonds hidden in a crack of an old sun-
dial.1
The car was still standing outside the house into
which the five men had forced their way; and this
prevented Patrice Belval from coming nearer. It
was built in continuation of a wall and seemed to
be one of the private mansions dating back to the
First Empire. It had a very long front with two
rows of round windows, protected by gratings on
1 The Confessions of Arsène Lupin. By Maurice Leblanc.
Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos. III. The
Sign of the Shadow.
50


THE RUSTY KEY
the ground-floor and solid shutters on the story
above. There was another building farther down,
forming a separate wing.
"There's nothing to be done on this side," said
the captain. “It's as impregnable as a feudal strong-
hold. Let's look elsewhere."
From the Rue Raynouard, narrow lanes, which
used to divide the old properties, make their way
down to the river. One of them skirted the wall
that preceded the house. Belval turned down it
with Ya-Bon. It was constructed of ugly pointed
pebbles, was broken into steps and faintly lighted
by the gleam of a street-lamp.
“Lend me a hand, Ya-Bon. The wall is too
high. But perhaps with the aid of the lamp-
post ..."
Assisted by the negro, he hoisted himself to the
lamp and was stretching out one of his hands when
he noticed that all this part of the wall bristled
with broken glass, which made it absolutely impos-
sible to grasp. He slid down again.
"Upon my word, Ya-Bon," he said, angrily, “you
might have warned me! Another second and you
would have made me cut my hands to pieces. What
are you thinking of? In fact, I can't imagine
what made you so anxious to come with me at all
costs."
There was a turn in the lane, hiding the light,
so that they were now in utter darkness, and Cap-
tain Belval had to grope his way along. He felt
the negro's hand come down upon his shoulder.
“What do you want, Ya-Bon?”
The hand pushed him against the wall. At this
spot there was a door in an embrasure.
down again.
51


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
0
0
“Well, yes,” he said, "that's a door. Do you
think I didn't see it? Oh, no one has eyes but
Master Ya-Bon, I suppose.”
Ya-Bon handed him a box of matches. He struck
several, one after the other, and examined the
door.
“What did I tell you ?” he said between his teeth.
“There's nothing to be done. Massive wood, barred
and studded with iron. ... Look, there's no handle
on this side, merely a key-hole. . . . Ah, what we
want is a key, made to measure and cut for the
purpose! ... For instance, a key like the one
which the commissionaire left for me at the home
just now. ..."
He stopped. An absurd idea flitted through his
brain; and yet, absurd as it was, he felt that he
was bound to perform the trifling action which it
suggested to him. He therefore retraced his steps.
He had the key on him. He took it from his pocket.
He struck a fresh light. The key-hole appeared.
Belval inserted the key at the first attempt. He
bore on it to the left: the key turned in the lock.
He pushed the door: it opened.
"Come along in," he said.
The negro did not stir a foot. Patrice could
understand his amazement. All said, he himself
was equally amazed. By what unprecedented mir-
acle was the key just the key of this very door?
By what miracle was the unknown person who had
sent it him able to guess that he would be in a posi-
tion to use it without further instructions? A mir-
acle indeed!
But Patrice had resolved to act without trying
52


THE RUSTY KEY
to solve the riddle which a mischievous chance
seemed bent upon setting him.
"Come along in," he repeated, triumphantly.
Branches struck him in the face and he perceived
that he was walking on grass and that there must
be a garden lying in front of him. It was so dark
that he could not see the paths against the black-
ness of the turf; and, after walking for a minute
or two, he hit his foot against some rocks with a
sheet of water on them.
"Oh, confound it!” he cursed. "I'm all wet.
Damn you, Ya-Bon!"
He had not finished speaking when a furious
barking was heard at the far end of the garden;
and the sound at once came nearer, with extreme
rapidity. Patrice realized that a watchdog, per-
ceiving their presence, was rushing upon them, and,
brave as he was, he shuddered, because of the im-
pressiveness of this attack in complete darkness.
How was he to defend himself? A shot would
betray them; and yet he carried no weapon but his
revolver.
The dog came dashing on, a powerful animal, to
judge by the noise it made, suggesting the rush of
a wild boar through the copsewood. It must have
broken its chain, for it was accompanied by the
clatter of iron. Patrice braced himself to meet
it. But through the darkness he saw Ya-Bon pass
before him to protect him, and the impact took
place almost at once.
“Here, I say, Ya-Bon! Why did you get in
front of me? It's all right, my lad, I'm coming!"
The two adversaries had rolled over on the grass.
Patrice stooped down, seeking to rescue the negro.
53


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
He touched the hair of an animal and then Ya-
Bon's clothes. But the two were wriggling on the
ground in so compact a mass and fighting so fran-
tically that his interference was useless.
Moreover, the contest did not last long. In a
few minutes the adversaries had ceased to move. A
strangled death-rattle issued from the group.
"Is it all right, Ya-Bon?” whispered the captain,
anxiously.
The negro stood up with a grunt. By the light
of a match Patrice saw that he was holding at the
end of his outstretched arm, of the one arm with
which he had had to defend himself, a huge dog,
which was gurgling, clutched round the throat by
Ya-Bon's implacable fingers. A broken chain hung
from its neck.
"Thank you, Ya-Bon. I've had a narrow escape.
You can let him go now. He can't do us any harm,
I think."
Ya-Bon obeyed. But he had no doubt squeezed
too tight. The dog writhed for a moment on the
grass, gave a few moans and then lay without
moving.
“Poor brute !" said Patrice. “After all, he only
did his duty in going for the burglars that we are..
Let us do ours, Ya-Bon, which is nothing like as
plain.”
Something that shone like a window-pane guided
his steps and led him, by a series of stairs cut in
the rocks and of successive terraces, to the level
ground on which the house was built. On this side
also, all the windows were round and high up, like
those in the streets, and barricaded with shutters.
54


THE RUSTY KEY
But one of them allowed the light which he had
seen from below to filter through.
Telling Ya-Bon to hide in the shrubberies, he
went up to the house, listened, caught an indistinct
sound of voices, discovered that the shutters were
too firmly closed to enable him either to see or to
hear and, in this way, after the fourth window,
reached a flight of steps. At the top of the steps
was a door.
"Since they sent me the key of the garden,” he
said to himself, “there's no reason why this door,
which leads from the house into the garden, should
not be open."
It was open.
The voices indoors were now more clearly per-
ceptible, and Belval observed that they reached him
by the well of the staircase and that this staircase,
which seemed to lead to an unoccupied part of the
house, showed with an uncertain light above him.
He went up. A door stood ajar on the first floor.
He slipped his head through the opening and went
in. He found that he was on a narrow balcony
which ran at mid-height around three sides of a
large room, along book-shelves rising to the ceil-
ing. Against the wall at either end of the room
was an iron spiral staircase. Stacks of books were
also piled against the bars of the railing which
protected the gallery, thus hiding Patrice from the
view of the people on the ground-floor, ten or twelve
feet below.
He gently separated two of these stacks. At
that moment the sound of voices suddenly increased
to a great uproar and he saw five men, shouting like
lunatics, hurl themselves upon a sixth and fling him
55


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
to the ground before he had time to lift a finger
in self-defense.
Belval's first impulse was to rush to the vic-
tim's rescue. With the aid of Ya-Bon, who would
have hastened to his call, he would certainly have
intimidated the five men. The reason why he did
not act was that, at any rate, they were using no
weapons and appeared to have no murderous in-
tentions. After depriving their victim of all power
of movement, they were content to hold him by
the throat, shoulders and ankles. Belval wondered
what would happen next.
One of the five drew himself up briskly and, in
a tone of command, said:
“Bind him. ... Put a gag in his mouth. ...
Or let him call out, if he wants to: there's no one
to hear him."
Patrice at once recognized one of the voices which
he had heard that morning in the restaurant. Its
owner was a short, slim-built, well-dressed man,
with an olive complexion and a cruel face.
“At last we've got him," he said, “the rascal !
And I think we shall get him to speak this time.
Are you prepared to go all lengths, friends ?”.
One of the other four growled, spitefully:
“Yes. And at once, whatever happens!”.
The last speaker had a big black mustache;
and Patrice recognized the other man whose con-
versation at the restaurant he had overheard, that
is to say, one of Coralie's assailants, the one who
had taken to flight. His gray-felt hat lay on a
chair.
“All lengths, Bournef, whatever happens, eh?”
grinned the leader. "Well, let's get on with the
56


THE RUSTY KEY
work. So you refuse to give up your secret, Es-
sarès, old man? We shall have some fun.”
All their movements must have been prepared
beforehand and the parts carefully arranged, for
the actions which they carried out were performed
in an incredibly prompt and methodical fashion.
After the man was tied up, they lifted him into
an easy-chair with a very low back, to which they
fastened him round the chest and waist with a
rope. His legs, which were bound together, were
placed on the seat of a heavy chair of the same
height as the arm-chair, with the two feet pro-
jecting. Then the victim's shoes and socks were
removed.
“Roll him along !" said the leader.
Between two of the four windows that overlooked
the chimney was a large fire-place, in which burnt
a red coal-fire, white in places with the intense heat
of the hearth. The men pushed the two chairs bear-
ing the victim until his bare feet were within twenty
inches of the blazing coals.
In spite of his gag, the man uttered a hideous yell
of pain, while his legs, in spite of their bonds, suc-
ceeded in contracting and curling upon themselves.
“Go on!” shouted the leader, passionately. “Go
on! Nearer!"
Patrice Belval grasped his revolver.
“Oh, I'm going on too!” he said to himself. “I
won't let that wretch be ..."
But, at this very moment, when he was on the
point of drawing himself up and acting, a chance
movement made him behold the most extraordinary
and unexpected sight. Opposite him, on the other
side of the room, in a part of the balcony cor-
57


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
responding with that where he was, he saw a
woman's head, a head glued to the rails, livid and
terror-stricken, with eyes wide-open in horror gaz-
ing frenziedly at the awful scene that was being
enacted below by the glowing fire.
Patrice had recognized Little Mother Coralie.
58


CHAPTER IV
BEFORE THE FLAMES
LITTLE MOTHER CORALIE! Coralie concealed in
this house into which her assailants had forced their
way and in which she herself was hiding, through
force of circumstances which were incapable of ex-
planation.
His first idea, which would at least have solved
one of the riddles, was that she also had entered
from the lane, gone into the house by the steps and
in this way opened a passage for him. But, in that
case, how had she procured the means of carrying
out this enterprise ? And, above all, what brought
her here?
All these questions occurred to Captain Belval's '
mind without his trying to reply to them. He was
far too much impressed by the absorbed expression
on Coralie's face. Moreover, a second cry, even
wilder than the first, came from below; and he saw
the victim's face writhing before the red curtain
of fire from the hearth.
But, this time, Patrice, held back by Coralie's
presence, had no inclination to go to the sufferer's
assistance. He decided to model himself entirely
upon her and not to move or do anything to at-
tract her attention.
"Easy !" the leader commanded. "Pull him back.
I expect he's had enough.”
59


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
He went up to the victim:
"Well, my dear Essarès," he asked, “what do
you think of it? Are you happy? And, you know,
we're only beginning. If you don't speak, we shall
go on to the end, as the real chauffeurs used to do
in the days of the Revolution. So it's settled, I pre-
sume: you're going to speak?"
There was no answer. The leader rapped out
an oath and went on:
“What do you mean? Do you refuse? But,
you obstinate brute, don't you understand the situa-
tion? Or have you a glimmer of hope? Hope,
indeed! You're mad. Who would rescue you?
Your servants? The porter, the footman and the
butler are in my pay. I gave them a week's notice.
They're gone by now. The housemaid? The cook?
They sleep at the other end of the house; and you
yourself have told me, time after time, that one
can't hear anything over there. Who else? Your
wife? Her room also is far away; and she hasn't
heard anything either? Siméon, your old secretary?
We made him fast when he opened the front door
to us just now. Besides, we may as well finish the
job here. Bournef!"
The man with the big mustache, who was still
holding the chair, drew himself up.
“Bournef, where did you lock up the secretary ?"
“In the porter's lodge."
"You know where to find Mme. Essarès' bed-
room?"
“Yes, you told me the way."
“Go, all four of you, and bring the lady and the
secretary here!"
The four men went out by a door below the spot
60


BEFORE THE FLAMES
where Coralie was standing. They were hardly
out of sight when the leader stooped eagerly over
his victim and said:
“We're alone, Essarès. It's what I intended.
Let's make the most of it.”
He bent still lower and whispered so that Patrice
found it difficult to hear what he said:
“Those men are fools. I twist them round my
finger and tell them no more of my plans than I
can help. You and I, on the other hand, Essarès,
are the men to come to terms. That is what you
refused to admit; and you see where it has landed
you. Come, Essarès, don't be obstinate and don't
shuffle. You are caught in a trap, you are helpless,
you are absolutely in my power. Well, rather than
allow yourself to be broken down by tortures which
would certainly end by overcoming your resistance,
strike a bargain with me. We'll go halves, shall
we? Let's make peace and treat upon that basis.
I'll give you a hand in my game and you'll give me
one in yours. As allies, we are bound to win. As
enemies, who knows whether the victor will sur-
mount all the obstacles that will still stand in his
path? That's why I say again, halves! Answer me.
Yes or no."
He loosened the gag and listened. This time,
Patrice did not hear the few words which the vic-
tim uttered. But the other, the leader, almost im-
mediately burst into a rage:
"Eh? What's that you're proposing ? Upon
my word, but you're a cool hand! An offer of this
kind to me! That's all very well for Bournef or
his fellows. They'll understand, they will. But
it won't do for me, it won't do for Colonel Fakhi.
61


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
No, no, my friend, I open my mouth wider! I'll
consent to go halves, but accept an alms, never!"
Patrice listened eagerly and, at the same time,
kept his eyes on Coralie, whose face, still contorted
with anguish, wore an expression of the same rapt
attention. And he looked back at the victim, part
of whose body was reflected in the glass above the
mantelpiece. The man was dressed in a braided
brown-velvet smoking-suit and appeared to be about
fifty years of age, quite bald, with a fleshy face, a
large hooked nose, eyes deep set under a pair of
thick eyebrows and puffy cheeks covered with a
thick grizzled beard. Patrice was also able to ex-
amine his features more closely in a portrait of
him which hung to the left of the fireplace, between
the first and second windows, and which repre-
sented a strong, powerful countenance with an al-
most fierce expression.
"It's an Eastern face," said Patrice to himself.
"I've seen heads like that in Egypt and Turkey."
The names of all these men too_Colonel Fakhi,
Mustapha, Bournef, Essarès—their accent in talk-
ing, their way of holding themselves, their features,
their figures, all recalled impressions which he had
gathered in the Near East, in the hotels at Alex-
andria or on the banks of the Bosphorus, in the
bazaars of Adrianople or in the Greek boats that
plow the Ægean Sea. They were Levantine types,
but of Levantines who had taken root in Paris. Es-
sarès Bey was a name which Patrice recognized as
well-known in the financial world, even as he knew
that of Colonel Fakhi, whose speech and intona-
tion marked him for a seasoned Parisian.
But a sound of voices came from outside the
62


BEFORE THE FLAMES
door. It was flung open violently and the four men
appeared, dragging in a bound man, whom they
dropped to the floor as they entered.
"Here's old Siméon," cried the one whom Fakhi
had addressed as Bournef.
“And the wife?" asked the leader. “I hope
you've got her too!”
"Well, no."
"What is that? Has she escaped ?”
“Yes, through her window."
“But you must run after her. She can only be
in the garden. Remember, the watch-dog was bark-
ing just now."
"And suppose she's got away?".
"How?"
"By the door on the lane?"
“Impossible!”
“Why?"
“The door hasn't been used for years. There's
not even a key to it."
"That's as may be," Bournef rejoined. “All the
same, we're surely not going to organize a battue
with lanterns and rouse the whole district for the
sake of finding a woman ..."
“Yes, but that woman ..."
Colonel Fakhi seemed exasperated. He turned
to the prisoner:
"You're in luck, you old rascal! This is the
second time to-day that minx of yours has slipped
through my fingers! Did she tell you what hap-
pened this afternoon? Oh, if it hadn't been for
an infernal officer who happened to be passing!
... But I'll get hold of him yet and he shall pay
dearly for his interference. ..."
63


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
· Patrice clenched his fists with fury. He under-
stood: Coralie was hiding in her own house. Sur-
prised by the sudden arrival of the five men, she
had managed to climb out of her window and,
making her way along the terrace to the steps, had
gone to the part of the house opposite the rooms
that were in use and taken refuge in the gallery of
the library, where she was able to witness the ter-
rible assault levied at her husband.
“Her husband !” thought Patrice, with a shud-
der. "Her husband !".
And, if he still entertained any doubts on the sub-
ject, the hurried course of events soon removed
them, for the leader began to chuckle:
“Yes, Essarès, old man, I confess that she at-
tracts me more than I can tell you; and, as I failed
to catch her earlier in the day, I did hope this
evening, as soon as I had settled my business with
you, to settle something infinitely more agreeable
with your wife. Not to mention that, once in my
power, the little woman would be serving me as a
hostage and that I would only have restored her
to you—oh, safe and sound, believe me !-after
specific performance of our agreement. And you
would have run straight, Essarès! For you love
your Coralie passionately! And quite right too!"
He went to the right-hand side of the fireplace
and, touching a switch, lit an electric lamp under a
reflector between the third and fourth windows.
There was a companion picture here to Essarès'
portrait, but it was covered over. The leader drew
the curtain, and Coralie appeared in the full light.
“The monarch of all she surveys! The idol !
The witch! The pearl of pearls! The imperial
64


BEFORE THE FLAMES
diamond of Essarès Bey, banker! Isn't she beauti.
ful? I ask you. Admire the delicate outline of her
face, the purity of that oval; and the pretty neck;
and those graceful shoulders. Essarès, there's not
a favorite in the country we come from who can
hold a candle to your Coralie! My Coralie, soon!
For I shall know how to find her. Ah, Coralie,
Coralie! ..."
Patrice looked across at her, and it seemed to
him that her face was reddened with a blush of
'shame. He himself was shaken by indignation and
anger at each insulting word. It was a violent
enough sorrow to him to know that Coralie was
the wife of another; and added to this sorrow was
his rage at seeing her thus exposed to these men's
gaze and promised as a helpless prey to whosoever
should prove himself the strongest.
At the same time, he wondered why Coralie re-
mained in the room. Supposing that she could not
leave the garden, nevertheless she was free to move
about in that part of the house and might well have
opened a window and called for help. What pre-
vented her from doing so? Of course she did not
love her husband. If she had loved him, she would
have faced every danger to defend him. But how
was it possible for her to allow that man to be tor-
tured, worse still, to be present at his sufferings, to
contemplate that most hideous of sights and to
listen to his yells of pain ?
"Enough of this nonsense!” cried the leader, pull-
ing the curtain back into its place. “Coralie, you
shall be my final reward; but I must first win you.
Comrades, to work; let's finish our friend's job.
First of all, twenty inches nearer, no more. Good!
65


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
Does it burn, Essarès ? All the same, it's not more
than you can stand. Bear up, old fellow.”
He unfastened the prisoner's right arm, put a
little table by his side, laid a pencil and paper on
it and continued:
"There's writing-materials for you. As your gag
prevents you from speaking, write. You know
what's wanted of you, don't you? Scribble a few
letters, and you're free. Do you consent? No?
Comrades, three inches nearer."
He moved away and stooped over the secretary,
whom Patrice, by the brighter light, had recognized
as the old fellow who sometimes escorted Coralie
to the hospital.
"As for you, Siméon," he said, "you shall come
to no harm. I know that you are devoted to your
master, but I also know that he tells you none of
his private affairs. On the other hand, I am certain
that you will keep silent as to all this, because a
single word of betrayal would involve your master's
ruin even more than ours. That's understood be-
tween us, isn't it? Well, why don't you answer?
Have they squeezed your throat a bit too tight with
their cords? Wait, I'll give you some air. ...".
Meanwhile the ugly work at the fireplace pursued
its course. The two feet were reddened by the heat
until it seemed almost as though the bright flames
of the fire were glowing through them. The suf-
ferer exerted all his strength in trying to bend his
legs and to draw back; and a dull, continuous moan
came through his gag.
"Oh, hang it all!” thought Patrice. "Are we go-
ing to let him roast like this, like a chicken on a
spit ?"
66


BEFORE THE FLAMES
He looked at Coralie. She did not stir. Her
face was distorted beyond recognition, and her eyes
seemed fascinated by the terrifying sight.
“Couple of inches nearer !" cried the leader, from
the other end of the room, as he unfastened
Siméon's bonds.
The order was executed. The victim gave such
a yell that Patrice's blood froze in his veins. But,
at the same moment, he became aware of something
that had not struck him so far, or at least he had
attached no significance to it. The prisoner's hand,
as the result of a sequence of little movements ap-
parently due to nervous twitches, had seized the op-
posite edge of the table, while his arm rested on
the marble top. And gradually, unseen by the tor-
turers, all whose efforts were directed to keeping
his legs in position, or by the leader, who was still
engaged with Siméon, this hand opened a drawer
which swung on a hinge, dipped into the drawer,
took out a revolver and, resuming its original posi-
tion with a jerk, hid the weapon in the chair.
The act, or rather the intention which it indi-
cated, was foolhardy in the extreme, for, when all
was said, reduced to his present state of helpless-
ness, the man could not hope for victory against
five adversaries, all free and all armed. Never-
theless, as Patrice looked at the glass in which he
beheld him, he saw a fierce determination pictured
in the man's face.
"Another two inches," said Colonel Fakhi, as he
walked back to the fireplace..
He examined the condition of the flesh and said,
with a laugh:
“The skin is blistering in places; the veins are
67


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
ready to burst. Essarès Bey, you can't be enjoying
yourself, and it strikes me that you mean to do
the right thing at last. Have you started scribbling
yet? No? And don't you mean to? Are you still
hoping? Counting on your wife, perhaps? Come,
come, you must see that, even if she has succeeded
in escaping, she won't say anything! Well, then,
are you humbugging me, or what? ..."
He was seized with a sudden burst of rage and
shouted:
"Shove his feet into the fire! And let's have a
good smell of burning for once! Ah, you would
defy me, would you? Well, wait a bit, old chap,
and let me have a go at you! I'll cut you off an
ear or two: you know, the way we have in our
country!”
He drew from his waistcoat a dagger that
gleamed in the firelight. His face was hideous with
animal cruelty. He gave a fierce cry, raised his arm
and stood over the other relentlessly.
But, swift as his movement was, Essarès was be-
fore him. The revolver, quickly aimed, was dis-
charged with a loud report. The dagger dropped
from the colonel's hand. For two or three seconds
he maintained his threatening attitude, with one arm
lifted on high and a haggard look in his eyes, as
though he did not quite understand what had hap-
pened to him. And then, suddenly, he fell upon his
victim in a huddled heap, paralyzing his arm with
the full weight of his body, at the moment when
Essarès was taking aim at one of the other con-
federates.
He was still breathing:
"Oh, the brute, the brute!” he panted. "He's
.68


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
masterful, but displayed far greater coolness and
self-command. As for the colonel, his accomplices.
seemed not to trouble about him. The part which
they were playing dispensed them from showing any
empty compassion.
At last Bournef appeared to have made up his
mind how to act. He went to his hat, the gray-
felt hat lying near the door, turned back the lining
and took from it a tiny coil the sight of which made
Patrice start. It was a slender red cord, exactly
like that which he had found round the neck of
Mustapha Rovalaïof, the first accomplice captured
by Ya-Bon.
Bournef unrolled the cord, took it by the two
buckles, tested its strength across his knee and then,
going back to Essarès, slipped it over his neck after
first removing his gag.
“Essarès," he said, with a calmness which was
more impressive than the colonel's violence and
sneers, “Essarès, I shall not put you to any pain.
Torture is a revolting process; and I shall not have
recourse to it. You know what to do; I know
what to do. A word on your side, an action on
my side; and the thing is done. The word is the
yes or no which you will now speak. The action
which I shall accomplish in reply to your yes or no
will mean either your release or else ..."
He stopped for a second or two. Then he de-
clared:
“Or else your death."
The brief phrase was uttered very simply but with
a firmness that gave it the full significance of an
irrevocable sentence. It was clear that Essarès was
faced with a catastrophe which he could no longer
70


BEFORE THE FLAMES
avoid save by submitting absolutely. In less than
a minute, he would have spoken or he would be
dead.
Once again Patrice fixed his eyes on Coralie,
ready to interfere should he perceive in her any
other feeling than one of passive terror. But her
attitude did not change. She was therefore ac-
cepting the worst, it appeared, even though this
meant her husband's death; and Patrice held his
hand accordingly.
"Are we all agreed?” Bournef asked, turning to
his accomplices.
“Quite,” said one of them.
“Do you take your share of the responsibility ?"
“We do."
Bournef brought his hands together and crossed
them, which had the result of knotting the cord
round Essarès' neck. Then he pulled slightly, so
as to make the pressure felt, and asked, unemo-
tionally:
“Yes or no ?”
“Yes."
There was a murmur of satisfaction. The ac-
complices heaved a breath; and Bournef nodded
his head with an air of approval:
"Ah, so you accept! It was high time: I doubt
if any one was ever nearer death than you were,
Essarès." Retaining his hold of the cord, he con-
tinued, “Very well. You will speak. But I know
you; and your answer surprises me, for I told the
colonel that not even the certainty of death would
make you confess your secret. Am I wrong?"
"No," replied Essarès. “Neither death nor tor-
ture."
71


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
“Then you have something different to propose ?"
“Yes."
"Something worth our while?"
“Yes. I suggested it to the colonel just now,
when you were out of the room. But, though he
was willing to betray you and go halves with me
in the secret, he refused the other thing."
“Why should I accept it?”
“Because you must take it or leave it and be-
cause you will understand what he did not."
"It's a compromise, I suppose ?"
“Yes."
“Money?"
“Yes."
Bournef shrugged his shoulders:
“A few thousand-franc notes, I expect. And you
imagine that Bournef and his friends will be such
fools? ... Come, Essarès, why do you want us
to compromise? We know your secret almost en-
tirely. ...
“You know what it is, but not how to use it. You
don't know how to get at it; and that's just the
point."
“We shall discover it."
"Never."
“Yes, your death will make it easier for us.”
"My death? Thanks to the information lodged
by the colonel, in a few hours you will be tracked
down and most likely caught: in any case, you will
be unable to pursue your search. Therefore you
have hardly any choice. It's the money which I'm
offering you, or else . . . prison.”
"And, if we accept," asked Bournef, to whom the
72


BEFORE THE FLAMES
argument seemed to appeal, “when shall we be
paid?"
“At once."
“Then the money is here?”
“Yes."
“A contemptible sum, as I said before?"
"No, a much larger sum than you hope for; in-
finitely larger."
"How much?”
"Four millions."
.73


HUSBAND AND WIFE
.
. 9.Sumne
d.
“Yes."
"Because you know that I would as soon die as
tell it you. The four millions are the maximum.
Do you want them or don't you? I ask for no
promise in return, no oath of any kind, for I am
convinced that, when you have filled your pockets,
you will have but one thought, to clear off, without
handicapping yourselves with a murder which might
prove your undoing."
The argument was so unanswerable that Bournef
'ceased discussing and asked:
“Is the safe in this room?"
“Yes, between the first and second windows, be-
hind my portrait.”
Bournef took down the picture and said:
“I see nothing."
“It's all right. The lines of the safe are marked
by the moldings of the central panel. In the mid-
dle you will see what looks like a rose, not of wood
but of iron; and there are four others at the four
corners of the panel. These four turn to the right,
by successive notches, forming a word which is the
key to the lock, the word Cora.”'.
"The first four letters of Coralie ?" asked Bour-
nef, following Essarès' instructions as he spoke.
"No," said Essarès Bey, "the first four letters of
the Coran. Have you done that?”
After a moment, Bournef answered:
"Yes, I've finished. And the key?"
“There's no key. The fifth letter of the word,
the letter N, is the letter of the central rose."
Bourney turned this fifth rose; and presently a
click was heard.
"Now pull," said Essarès. "That's it. The safe
75


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
is not deep: it's dug in one of the stones of the
front wall. Put in your hand. You'll find four
pocket-books."
It must be admitted that Patrice Belval expected
to see something startling interrupt Bournef's quest
and hurl him into some pit suddenly opened by
Essarès' trickery. And the three confederates
seemed to share this unpleasant apprehension, for
they were gray in the face, while Bournef himself
appeared to be working very cautiously and sus- ·
piciously.
At last he turned round and came and sat beside
Essarès. In his hands he held a bundle of four
pocket-books, short but extremely bulky and bound
together with a canvas strap. He unfastened the
buckle of the strap and opened one of the pocket-
books.
His knees shook under their precious burden, and,
when he had taken a huge sheaf of notes from one
of the compartments, his hands were like the hands
of a very old man trembling with fever.
“Thousand-franc notes," he murmured. “Ten
packets of thousand-franc notes."
Brutally, like men prepared to fight one another,
each of the other three laid hold of a pocket-book,
felt inside and mumbled:
"Ten packets . . . they're all there. ... Thou-
sand-franc notes ..."
And one of them forthwith cried, in a choking
voice:
“Let's clear out! ... Let's go!"
A sudden fear was sending them off their heads.
They could not imagine that Essarès would hand
over such a fortune to them unless he had some
76


HUSBAND AND WIFE
plan which would enable him to recover it before
they had left the room. That was a certainty. The
ceiling would come down on their heads. The
walls would close up and crush them to death, while
sparing their unfathomable adversary.
Nor had Patrice Belval any doubt of it. The dis-
aster was preparing. Essarès' revenge was inevi-
tably at hand. A man like him, a fighter as able as
he appeared to be, does not so easily surrender four
million francs if he has not some scheme at the back
of his head. Patrice felt himself breathing heavily.
His present excitement was more violent than any
with which he had thrilled since the very beginning
of the tragic scenes which he had been witnessing;
and he saw that Coralie's face was as anxious as
his own.
Meanwhile Bournef partially recovered his com-
posure and, holding back his companions, said:
"Don't be such fools ! He would be capable,
with old Siméon, of releasing himself and running
after us."
Using only one hand, for the other was clutching
a pocket-book, all four fastened Essarès' arm to the
chair, while he protested angrily:
"You idiots! You came here to rob me of a
secret of immense importance, as you well knew, and
you lose your heads over a trifle of four millions.
Say what you like, the colonel had more backbone
than that!"
They gagged him once more and Bournef gave
him a smashing blow with his fist which laid him
unconscious.
“That makes our retreat safe," said Bournef.
77


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
“What about the colonel ?” asked one of the
others. "Are we to leave him here?"
"Why not?"
But apparently he thought this unwise; for he
added:
"On second thoughts, no. It's not to our interest
to compromise Essarès any further. What we must
do, Essarès as well as ourselves, is to make our-
selves scarce as fast as we can, before that damned
letter of the colonel's is delivered at headquarters,
say before twelve o'clock in the day.”
"Then what do you suggest ?"
"We'll take the colonel with us in the motor and
drop him anywhere. The police must make what
they can of it."
"And his papers ?”
“We'll look through his pockets as we go. Lend
me a hand." ;
They bandaged the wound to stop the flow of
blood, took up the body, each holding it by an arm
or leg, and walked out without any one of them
letting go his pocket-book for a second.
Patrice Belval heard them pass through another
room and then tramp heavily over the echoing
flags of a hall.
“This is the moment,” he said. “Essarès or
Siméon will press a button and the rogues will be
nabbed.”
Essarès did not budge. .
Siméon did not budge.
Patrice heard all the sounds accompanying their
departure: the slamming of the carriage-gate, the
starting-up of the engine and the drone of the car
as it moved away. And that was all. Nothing had
78


HUSBAND AND WIFE
happened. The confederates were getting off with
their four millions.
A long silence followed, during which Patrice
remained on tenterhooks. He did not believe that
the drama had reached its last phase; and he was
so much afraid of the unexpected which might still
occur that he determined to make Coralie aware of
his presence.
A fresh incident prevented him. Coralie had
risen to her feet.
Her face no longer wore its expression of hor-
ror and affright, but Patrice was perhaps more
scared at seeing her suddenly animated with a sin-
ister energy that gave an unwonted sparkle to her
eyes and set her eyebrows and her lips twitching.
He realized that Coralie was preparing to act.
In what way? Was this the end of the tragedy?
She walked to the corner on her side of the gal-
lery where one of the two spiral staircases stood and
went down slowly, without, however, trying to
deaden the sound of her feet. Her husband could
not help hearing her. Patrice, moreover, saw in the
mirror that he had lifted his head and was follow-
ing her with his eyes.
She stopped at the foot of the stairs. But there
was no indecision in her attitude. Her plan was
obviously quite clear; and she was only thinking
out the best method of putting it into execution.
"Ah!” whispered Patrice to himself, quivering
all over. “What are you doing, Little Mother
Coralie?”
He gave a start. The direction in which Coralie's
eyes were turned, together with the strange man-
ner in which they stared, revealed her secret re-
79


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
solve to him. She had caught sight of the dagger,
lying on the floor where it had slipped from the
colonel's grasp.
Not for a second did Patrice believe that she
meant to pick up that dagger with any other thought
than to stab her husband. The intention of mur.
der was so plainly written on her livid features that,
even before she stirred a limb, Essarès was seized
with a fit of terror and strained every muscle to
break the bonds that hampered his movements.
She came forward, stopped once more and, sud-
denly bending, seized the dagger. Without waiting,
she took two more steps. These brought her to the
right of the chair in which Essarès lay. He had only
to turn his head a little way to see her. And an
awful minute passed, during which the husband and
wife looked into each other's eyes.
The whirl of thoughts, of fear, of hatred, of
vagrant and conflicting passions that passed through
the brains of her who was about to kill and him
who was about to die, was reproduced in Patrice
Belval's mind and deep down in his inner conscious-
ness. What was he to do? What part ought he
to play in the tragedy that was being enacted be-
fore his eyes ? Should he intervene? Was it his
duty to prevent Coralie from committing the irrep-
arable deed? Or should he commit it himself by
breaking the man's head with a bullet from his
revolver ?
Yet, from the beginning, Patrice had really been
swayed by a feeling which, mingling with all the
others, gradually paralyzed him and rendered any
inward struggle illusory: a feeling of curiosity driven
to its utmost pitch. It was not the everyday curi-
80


HUSBAND AND WIFE
osity of unearthing a squalid secret, but the higher
curiosity of penetrating the mysterious soul of a
woman whom he loved, who was carried away by
the rush of events and who suddenly, becoming once
more mistress of herself, was of her own accord
and with impressive calmness taking the most fear-,
ful resolution. Thereupon other questions forced
themselves upon him. What prompted her to take
this resolution ? Was it revenge? Was it punish-
ment? Was it the gratification of hatred ?
Patrice Belval remained where he was.
Coralie raised her arm. Her husband, in front of
her, no longer even attempted to make those move-
ments of despair which indicate a last effort. There
was neither entreaty nor menace in his eyes. He
waited in resignation.
Not far from them, old Siméon, still bound, half-
lifted himself on his elbows and stared at them
in dismay.
Coralie raised her arm again. Her whole frame
seemed to grow larger and taller. An invisible
force appeared to strengthen and stiffen her whole
being, summoning all her energies to the service of
her will. She was on the point of striking. Her
eyes sought the place at which she should strike.
Yet her eyes became less hard and less dark. It
eyen seemed to Patrice that there was a certain
hesitation in her gaze and that she was recovering
not her usual gentleness, but a little of her womanly
grace.
“Ah, Little Mother Coralie," murmured Patrice,
"you are yourself again! You are the woman I
know. Whatever right you may think you have
81


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
to kill that man, you will not kill him ... and I
prefer it so."
Slowly Coralie's arm dropped to her side. Her
features relaxed. Patrice could guess the immense
relief which she felt at escaping from the obsessing
purpose that was driving her to murder. She looked
at her dagger with astonishment, as though she
were waking from a hideous nightmare. And, bend-
ing over her huband, she began to cut his bonds.
She did so with visible repugnance, avoiding his
touch, as it were, and shunning his eyes. The cords
were severed one by one. Essarès was free.
What happened next was in the highest measure
unexpected. With not a word of thanks to his
wife, with not a word of anger either, this man who
had just undergone the most cruel torture and
whose body still throbbed with pain hurriedly tot-
tered barefoot to a telephone standing on a table.
He was like a hungry man who suddenly sees a piece
of bread and snatches at it greedily as the means of
saving himself and returning to life. Panting for
breath, Essarès took down the receiver and called
out:
“Central 40.39."
Then he turned abruptly to his wife:
“Go away," he said.
She seemed not to hear. She had knelt down
beside old Siméon and was setting him free also.
Essarès at the telephone began to lose patience:
"Are you there? . . . Are you there? ... I
want that number to-day, please, not next week! It's
urgent. ... 40.39. . . . It's urgent, I tell you !"
And, turning to Coralie, he repeated, in an im-
perious tone:
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HUSBAND AND WIFE
“Go away!”
She made a sign that she would not go away and
that, on the contrary, she meant to listen. He shook
his fist at her and again said:
“Go away, go away! ... I won't have you stay
in the room. You go away too, Siméon.”
Old Siméon got up and moved towards Essarès.
It looked as though he wished to speak, no doubt
to protest. But his action was undecided; and, after
a moment's reflection, he turned to the door and
went without uttering a word.
“Go away, will you, go away!" Essarès repeated,
his whole body expressing menace.
But Coralie came nearer to him and crossed her
arms obstinately and defiantly. At that moment,
Essarès appeared to get his call, for he asked:
“Is that 40.39? Ah, yes ...".
He hesitated. Coralie's presence obviously dis-
pleased him greatly, and he was about to say things
which he did not wish her to know. But time, no
doubt, was pressing. He suddenly made up his
mind and, with both receivers glued to his ears, said,
in English:
“Is that you, Grégoire? ... Essarès speaking.
... Hullo! ... Yes, I'm speaking from the Rue
Raynouard. ... There's no time to lose. ...
Listen. ..."
He sat down and went on:
"Look here. Mustapha's dead. So is the colonel.
... Damn it, don't interrupt, or we're done for!
... Yes, done for; and you too. ... Listen, they
all came, the colonel, Bournef, the whole gang, and
robbed me by means of violence and threats. ...
I finished the colonel, only he had written to the
83


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
police, giving us all away. The letter will be de-
livered soon. So you understand, Bournef and his
three ruffians are going to disappear. They'll just
run home and pack up their papers; and I reckon
they'll be with you in an hour, or two hours at most.
It's the refuge they're sure to make for. They pre-
pared it themselves, without suspecting that you and
I know each other. So there's no doubt about it.
They're sure to come. ..."
Essarès stopped. He thought for a moment and
resumed:
"You still have a second key to each of the rooms
which they use as bedrooms? Is that so? ...
Good. And you have duplicates of the keys that
open the cupboards in the walls of those rooms,
haven't you? ... Capital. Well, as soon as they
get to sleep, or rather as soon as you are certain
that they are sound asleep, go in and search the
cupboards. Each of them is bound to hide his
share of the booty there. You'll find it quite easily.
It's the four pocket-books which you know of. Put
them in your bag, clear out as fast as you can and
join me.”
There was another pause. This time it was Es-
sarès listening. He replied:
"What's that you say? Rue Raynouard? Here?
Join me here? Why, you must be mad! Do you
imagine that I can stay now, after the colonel's
given me away? No, go and wait for me at the
hotel, near the station. I shall be there by twelve
o'clock or one in the afternoon, perhaps a little later.
Don't be uneasy. Have your lunch quietly and
we'll talk things over ... Hullo! Did you hear?.
- 84


HUSBAND AND WIFE
... Very well, I'll see that everything's all right.
Good-by for the present."
The conversation was finished; and it looked as
if Essarès, having taken all his measures to recover
possession of the four million francs, had no fur-
ther cause for anxiety. He hung up the receiver,
went back to the lounge-chair in which he had been
tortured, wheeled it round with its back to the
fire, sat down, turned down the bottoms of his
trousers and pulled on his socks and shoes, all a
little painfully and accompanied by a few grimaces,
but calmly, in the manner of a man who has no need
to hurry.
Coralie kept her eyes fixed on his face.
"I really ought to go," thought Captain Belval,
who felt a trifle embarrassed at the thought of over-
hearing what the husband and wife were about to
say.
Nevertheless he stayed. He was not comfortas
able in his mind on Coralie's account.
Essarès fired the first shot:
"Well," he asked, “what are you looking at me
like that for?"
"So it's true?" she murmured, maintaining her
attitude of defiance. "You leave me no possibility
of doubt?"
“Why should I lie?" he snarled. "I should not
have telephoned in your hearing if I hadn't been
sure that you were here all the time.”
"I was up there."
“Then you heard everything?"
"Yes."
"And saw everything ?”
“Yes."
85


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
“And, seeing the torture which they inflicted on
me and hearing my cries, you did nothing to defend
me, to defend me against torture, against death !"
“No, for I knew the truth.”
"What truth?”
"The truth which I suspected without daring to
admit it.”
“What truth ?” he repeated, in a louder voice.
“The truth about your treason."
"You're mad. I've committed no treason."
"Oh, don't juggle with words! I confess that I
don't know the whole truth: I did not understand
all that those men said or what they were demand-
ing of you. But the secret which they tried to force
from you was a treasonable secret.”
"A man can only commit treason against his coun-
try," he said, shrugging his shoulders. “I'm not
a Frenchman.”
"You were a Frenchman!" she cried. “You asked
to be one and you became one. You married me,
a Frenchwoman, and you live in France and you've
made your fortune in France. It's France that
you're betraying."
"Don't talk nonsense! And for whose benefit?":
“I don't know that, either. For months, for years
indeed, the colonel, Bournef, all your former ac-
complices and yourself have been engaged on an
enormous work-yes, enormous, it's their own word
—and now it appears that you are fighting over the
profits of the common enterprise and the others ac-
cuse you of pocketing those profits for yourself alone
and of keeping a secret that doesn't belong to you.
So that I seem to see something dirtier and more
86


HUSBAND AND WIFE
hateful even than treachery, something worthy of a
common pickpocket. ..
The man struck the arm of his chair with his
fist:
“Enough!” he cried.
Coralie seemed in no way alarmed:
"Enough,” she echoed, "you are right. Enough
words between us. Besides, there is one fact that
stands out above everything: your flight. That
amounts to a confession. You're afraid of the po-
lice."
He shrugged his shoulders a second time:
"I'm afraid of nobody."
“Very well, but you're going."
"Yes."
“Then let's have it out. When are you going?"
“Presently, at twelve o'clock.”
“And if you're arrested ?"
“I sha'n't be arrested.”
"If you are arrested, however ?"
"I shall be let go.”
"At least there will be an inquiry, a trial?”
"No, the matter will be hushed up.”
“You hope so.”
"I'm sure of it."
“God grant it! And you will leave France, of
course?”
“As soon as I can."
“When will that be?”.
“In a fortnight or three weeks.”
“Send me word of the day, so that I may know
when I can breathe again."
"I shall send you word, Coralie, but for another
reason."
87


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“What reason?"
“So that you may join me."
"Join you !"
He gave a cruel smile:
"You are my wife," he said. “Where the hus-
band goes the wife goes; and you know that, in my
religion, the husband has every right over his wife,
including that of life and death. Well, you're my
wife.”
Coralie shook her head, and, in a tone of inde-
scribable contempt, answered:
"I am not your wife. I feel nothing for you but
- loathing and horror. I don't wish to see you again,
and, whatever happens, whatever you may threaten,
I shall not see you again.”
He rose, and, walking to her, bent in two, all
trembling on his legs, he shouted, while again he
shook his clenched fists at her:
“What's that you say? What's that you dare to
say? I, I, your lord and master, order you to join
me the moment that I send for you."
"I shall not join you. I swear it before God! I
swear it as I hope to be saved.”
He stamped his feet with rage. His face under-
went a hideous contortion; and he roared:
"That means that you want to stay! Yes, you
have reasons which I don't know, but which are
easy to guess! An affair of the heart, I suppose.
There's some one in your life, no doubt. . . . Hold
your tongue, will you? ... Haven't you always de-
tested me? ... Your hatred does not date from
to-day. It dates back to the first time you saw me,
to a time even before our marriage. . . . We have
always lived like mortal enemies. I loved you. I
88


HUSBAND AND WIFE
worshipped you. A word from you would have
brought me to your feet. The mere sound of yout
steps thrilled me to the marrow. ... But your feel.
ing for me is one of horror. And you imagine that
you are going to start a new life, without me?
Why, I'd sooner kill you, my beauty!”
He had unclenched his fists; and his open hands
were clutching on either side of Coralie, close to
her head, as though around a prey which they
seemed on the point of throttling. A nervous shiver
made his jaws clash together. Beads of perspira-
tion gleamed on his bald head.
In front of him, Coralie stood impassive, look-
ing very small and frail. Patrice Belval, in an
agony of suspense and ready at any moment to act,
could read nothing on her calm features but aver-
sion and contempt.
Mastering himself at last, Essarès said:
"You shall join me, Coralie. Whether you like
it or not, I am your husband. You felt it just
now, when the lust to murder me made you take
up a weapon and left you without the courage to
carry out your intention. It will always be like that.
Your independent fit will pass away and you will
join the man who is your master.”
"I'shall remain behind to fight against you," she
replied, "here, in this house. The work of treason
which you have accomplished I shall destroy. I
shall do it without hatred, for I am no longer capable
of hatred, but I shall do it without intermission, to
repair the evil which you have wrought."
He answered, in a low voice:
“I am capable of hatred. Beware, Coralie. The
very moment when you believe that you have noth-
89


CHAPTER VI
NINETEEN MINUTES PAST SEVEN
PATRICE, in his bedroom at the home, was unable
to sleep that night. He had a continual waking sen-
sation of being oppressed and hunted down, as
though he were suffering the terrors of some mon-
strous nightmare. He had an impression that the
frantic series of events in which he was playing the
combined parts of a bewildered spectator and a help-
less actor would never cease so long as he tried to
rest; that, on the contrary, they would rage with
greater violence and intensity. The leave-taking of
the husband and wife did not put an end, even mo-
mentarily, to the dangers incurred by Coralie. Fresh
perils arose on every side; and Patrice Belval con-
fessed himself incapable of foreseeing and still more
of allaying them.
After lying awake for two hours, he switched on
his electric light and began hurriedly to write down
the story of the past twelve hours. He hoped in
this way to some small extent to unravel the tangled
knot.
At six o'clock he went and roused Ya-Bon and
brought him back with him. Then, standing in
front of the astonished negro, he crossed his arms
and exclaimed:
"So you consider that your job is over! While
I lie tossing about in the dark, my lord sleeps and
91


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
all's well! My dear man, you have a jolly elastic
conscience.”
The word elastic amused the Senegalese mightily.
His mouth opened wider than ever; and he gave a
grunt of enjoyment.
“That'll do, that'll do," said the captain.
“There's no getting a word in, once you start talk-
ing. Here, take a chair, read this report and give
me your reasoned opinion. What? You don't know
how to read? Well, upon my word! What was
the good, then, of wearing out the seat of your
trousers on the benches of the Senegal schools and
colleges ? A queer education, I must say!"
He heaved a sigh, and, snatching the manuscript,
said:
""Listen, reflect, argue, deduct and conclude. This
is how the matter briefly stands. First, we have
one Essarès Bey, a banker, rich as Crosus, and the
lowest of rapscallions, who betrays at one and the
same time France, Egypt, England, Turkey, Bul-
garia and Greece ... as is proved by the fact that
his accomplices roast his feet for him. Thereupon
he kills one of them and gets rid of four with the
aid of as many millions, which millions he orders
another accomplice to get back for him before five
minutes are passed. And all these bright spirits will
duck underground at eleven o'clock this morning, for
at twelve o'clock the police propose to enter on the
scene. Good.”
Patrice Belval paused to take breath and con-
tinued:
"Secondly, Little Mother Coralie-upon my
word, I can't say why—is married to Rapscallion
Bey. She hates him and wants to kill him. He
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NINETEEN MINUTES PAST SEVEN
loves her and wants to kill her. There is also a
colonel who loves her and for that reason loses his
life and a certain Mustapha, who tries to kidnap her
on the colonel's account and also loses his life for
that reason, strangled by a Senegalese. Lastly, there
is a French captain, a dot-and-carry-one, who like-
wise loves her, but whom she avoids because she is
married to a man whom she abhors. And with this
captain, in a previous incarnation, she has halved
an amethyst bead. Add to all this, by way of ac-
cessories, a rusty key, a red silk bowstring, a dog
choked to death and a grate filled with red coals.
And, if you dare to understand a single word of my
explanation, I'll catch you a whack with my wooden
leg, for I don't understand it a little bit and I'm
your captain."
Ya-Bon laughed all over his mouth and all over
the gaping scar that cut one of his cheeks in two.
As ordered by his captain, he understood nothing
of the business and very little of what Patrice had
said; but he always quivered with delight when Pa-
trice addressed him in that gruff tone.
“That's enough," said the captain. "It's my turn
now to argue, deduct and conclude."
He leant against the mantelpiece, with his two el-
bows on the marble shelf and his head tight-pressed
between his hands. His merriment, which sprang
from temperamental lightness of heart, was this
time only a surface merriment. Deep down within
himself he did nothing but think of Coralie with
sorrowful apprehension. What could he do to pro-
tect her? A number of plans occurred to him: which
was he to choose? Should he hunt through the
numbers in the telephone-book till he hit upon the
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
whereabouts of that Grégoire, with whom Bournef
and his companions had taken refuge? Should he
inform the police? Should he return to the Rue Ray-
nouard ? He did not know. Yes, he was capable
of acting, if the act to be performed consisted in
flinging himself into the conflict with furious ardor.
But to prepare the action, to divine the obstacles,,
to rend the darkness, and, as he said, to see the in-
visible and grasp the intangible, that was beyond
his powers.
He turned suddenly to Ya-Bon, who was stand-
ing depressed by his silence:
“What's the matter with you, putting on that lug-
ubrious air? Of course it's you that throw a gloom
over me! You always look at the black side of
things ... like a nigger! ... Be off.”
Ya-Bon was going away discomfited, when some
one tapped at the door and a voice said:
“Captain Belval, you're wanted on the telephone."
Patrice hurried out. Who on earth could be tele-
phoning to him so early in the morning?
“Who is it?" he asked the nurse.
"I don't know, captain. ... It's a man's voice;
he seemed to want you urgently. The bell had been
ringing some time. I was downstairs, in the
kitchen. ..."
Before Patrice's eyes there rose a vision of the
telephone in the Rue Raynouard, in the big room
at the Essarès' house. He could not help wonder-
ing if there was anything to connect the two inci-
dents.
He went down one flight of stairs and along a
passage. The telephone was through a small wait-
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NINETEEN MINUTES PAST SEVEN
ing-room, in a room that had been turned into a
linen-closet. He closed the door behind him.
"Hullo! Captain Belval speaking. What is it?"
A voice, a man's voice which he did not know, re-
plied in breathless, panting tones:
“Ah! ... Captain Belval! . .. It's you! ...
Look here ... but I'm almost afraid that it's too
late. ... I don't know if I shall have time to fin-
ish. ... Did you get the key and the letter? ..."
"Who are you?” asked Patrice.
“Did you get the key and the letter ?" the voice
insisted.
“The key, yes," Patrice replied, “but not the let-
ter.”
“Not the letter? But this is terrible! Then you
don't know ..."
A hoarse cry struck Patrice's ear and the next
thing he caught was incoherent sounds at the other
end of the wire, the noise of an altercation. Then
the voice seemed to glue itself to the instrument and
he distinctly heard it gasping:
"Too late! ... Patrice ... is that you ? ...
Listen, the amethyst pendant . . . yes, I have it on
me. . . . The pendant. . . . Ah, it's too late! ...
I should so much have liked to ... Patrice. ...
Coralie. ..."
Then again a loud cry, a heart-rending cry, and
confused sounds growing more distant, in which he
seemed to distinguish:
“Help! ... Help! ...".
These grew fainter and fainter. Silence followed.
And suddenly there was a little click. The murderer
had hung up the receiver.
All this had not taken twenty seconds. But, when
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Patrice wanted to replace the telephone, his fingers
were gripping it so hard that it needed an effort to
relax them.
He stood utterly dumfounded. His eyes had fas-
tened on a large clock which he saw, through the
window, on one of the buildings in the yard, mark-
ing nineteen minutes past seven; and he mechani-
cally repeated these figures, attributing a documen-
tary value to them. Then he asked himself—so
unreal did the scene appear to him—if all this was
true and if the crime had not been penetrated within
himself, in the depths of his aching heart. But the
shouting still echoed in his ears; and suddenly he
took up the receiver again, like one clinging desper-
ately to some undefined hope:
"Hullo!” he cried. “Exchange! ... Who was
it rang me up just now? ... Are you there? Did
you hear the cries? . . . Are you there? ... Are
you there? :.."
There was no reply. He lost his temper, in-
sulted the exchange, left the linen-closet, met Ya-
Bon and pushed him about:
"Get out of this! It's your fault. Of course you
ought to have stayed and looked after Coralie. Be
off there now and hold yourself at my disposal.
I'm going to inform the police. If you hadn't pre-
vented me, it would have been done long ago and
we shouldn't be in this predicament. Off you go!"
He held him back:
"No, don't stir. Your plan's ridiculous. Stay
here. Oh, not here in my pocket! You're too im-
petuous for me, my lad!”.
He drove him out and returned to the linen-closet,
striding up and down and betraying his excitement
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NINETEEN MINUTES PAST SEVEN
in irritable gestures and angry words. Nevertheless,
in the midst of his confusion, one idea gradually
came to light, which was that, after all, he had no
proof that the crime which he suspected had hap-
pened at the house in the Rue Raynouard. He must
not allow himself to be obsessed by the facts that
lingered in his memory to the point of always see-
ing the same vision in the same tragic setting. No
doubt the drama was being continued, as he had felt
that it would be, but perhaps elsewhere and far
away from Coralie.
And this first thought led to another: why not
investigate matters at once?
“Yes, why not?” he asked himself. “Before
bothering the police, discovering the number of the
person who rang me up and thus working back to
the start, a process which it will be time enough to
employ later, why shouldn't I telephone to the Rue
Raynouard at once, on any pretext and in anybody's
name? I shall then have a chance of knowing what
to think. ..."
Patrice felt that this measure did not amount to
much. Suppose that no one answered, would that
prove that the murder had been committed in the
house, or merely that no one was yet about? Never-
theless, the need to do something decided him. He
looked up Essarès Bey's number in the telephone-
directory and resolutely rang up the exchange.
The strain of waiting was almost more than he
could bear. And then he was conscious of a thrill
which vibrated through him from head to foot. He
was connected; and some one at the other end was
answering the call.
“Hullo!" he said.
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"Hullo!” said a voice. “Who are you?"
It was the voice of Essarès Bey.
Although this was only natural, since at that mo-
ment Essarès must be getting his papers ready and
preparing his flight, Patrice was so much taken aback
that he did not know what to say and spoke the
first words that came into his head:
"Is that Essarès Bey?”.
"Yes. Who are you?”
"I'm one of the wounded at the hospital, now
under treatment at the home. ..
“Captain Belval, perhaps ?”
Patrice was absolutely amazed. So Coralie's hus-
band knew him by name? He stammered:
"Yes . . . Captain Belval."
“What a lucky thing !" cried Essarès Bey, in a
tone of delight. “I rang you up a moment ago, at
the home, Captain Belval, to ask ...".
"Oh, it was you!" interrupted Patrice, whose as-
tonishment knew no bounds.
"Yes, I wanted to know at what time I could
speak to Captain Belval in order to thank him.”
"It was you! ... It was you! ..." Patrice re-
peated, more and more thunderstruck.
Essarès' intonation denoted a certain surprise.
“Yes, wasn't it a curious coincidence ?” he said.
“Unfortunately, I was cut off, or rather my call was
interrupted by somebody else.”
“Then you heard?”
“What, Captain Belval ?"
“Cries."
“Cries?”
"At least, so it seemed to me; but the connection
was very indistinct.”
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NINETEEN MINUTES PAST SEVEN
"All that I heard was somebody asking for you,
somebody who was in a great hurry; and, as I was
not, I hung up the telephone and postponed the pleas-
ure of thanking you."
“Of thanking me?"
"Yes, I have heard how my wife was assaulted
last night and how you came to her rescue. And
I am anxious to see you and express my gratitude.
Shall we make an appointment? Could we meet
at the hospital, for instance, at three o'clock this
afternoon?"
Patrice made no reply. The audacity of this man,
threatened with arrest and preparing for flight, baf-
fled him. At the same time, he was wondering what
Essarès' real object had been in telephoning to him
without being in any way obliged to. But Belval's
silence in no way troubled the banker, who con-
tinued his civilities and ended the inscrutable con-
versation with a monologue in which he replied with
the greatest ease to questions which he kept putting
to himself.
In spite of everything, Patrice felt more comfort-
able. He went back to his room, lay down on his
bed and slept for two hours. Then he sent for Ya-
Bon.
"This time," he said, “try to control your nerves
and not to lose your head as you did just now. You
were absurd. But don't let's talk about it. Have
you had your breakfast? No? No more have I.
Have you seen the doctor? No? No more have I.
And the surgeon has just promised to take off this
beastly bandage. You can imagine how pleased I
am. A wooden leg is all very well; but a head
wrapped up in lint, for a lover, never! Get on, look
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sharp. When we're ready, we'll start for the hos-
pital. Little Mother Coralie can't forbid me to see
her there!”
Patrice was as happy as a schoolboy. As he said
to Ya-Bon an hour later, on their way to the Porte-
Maillot, the clouds were beginning to roll by:
“Yes, Ya-Bon, yes, they are. And this is where
we stand. To begin with, Coralie is not in danger.
As I hoped, the battle is being fought far away
from her, among the accomplices no doubt, over
their millions. As for the unfortunate man who
rang me up and whose dying cries I overheard, he
was obviously some unknown friend, for he ad-
dressed me familiarly and called me by my Chris-
tian name. It was certainly he who sent me the
key of the garden. Unfortunately, the letter that
came with the key went astray. In the end, he felt
constrained to tell me everything. Just at that mo-
ment he was attacked. By whom, you ask. Prob-
ably by one of the accomplices, who was frightened
of his revelations. There you are, Ya-Bon. It's all
as clear as noonday. For that matter, the truth may
just as easily be the exact opposite of what I sug-
gest. But I don't care. The great thing is to take
one's stand upon a theory, true or false. Besides, if
mine is false, I reserve the right to shift the respon-
sibility on you. So you know what you're in
for. ..."
At the Porte-Maillot they took a cab and it oc-
curred to Patrice to drive round by the Rue Ray-
nouard. At the junction of this street with the Rue
de Passy, they saw Coralie leaving the Rue Ray-
nouard, accompanied by old Siméon.
She had hailed a taxi and stepped inside. Siméon
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NINETEEN MINUTES PAST SEVEN
sat down by the driver. They went to the hospital
in the Champs-Élysées, with Patrice following. It
was eleven o'clock when they arrived.
“All's well,” said Patrice. “While her husband
is running away, she refuses to make any change in
her daily life.”
He and Ya-Bon lunched in the neighborhood,
strolled along the avenue, without losing sight of
the hospital, and called there at half-past one.
Patrice at once saw old Siméon, sitting at the
end of a covered yard where the soldiers used to
meet. His head was half wrapped up in the usual
comforter; and, with his big yellow spectacles on his
nose, he sat smoking his pipe on the chair which
he always occupied.
As for Coralie, she was in one of the rooms al-
lotted to her on the first floor, seated by the bed-
side of a patient whose hand she held between her
own. The man was asleep.
Coralie appeared to Patrice to be very tired. The
dark rings round her eyes and the unusual pallor
of her cheeks bore witness to her fatigue.
"Poor child !” he thought. “All those black-
guards will be the death of you."
He now understood, when he remembered the
scenes of the night before, why Coralie kept her
private life secret and endeavored, at least to the
little world of the hospital, to be merely the kind
sister whom people call by her Christian name.
Suspecting the web of crime with which she was sur-
rounded, she dropped her husband's name and told
nobody where she lived. And so well was she pro-
tected by the defenses set up by her modesty and
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determination that Patrice dared not go to her and
stood rooted to the threshold.
“Yet surely," he said to himself, as he looked at
Coralie without being seen by her, “I'm not going
to send her in my card!”
He was making up his mind to enter, when a
woman who had come up the stairs, talking loudly
as she went, called out:
"Where is madame? ... M. Siméon, she must
come at once !"
Old Siméon, who had climbed the stairs with her,
pointed to where Coralie sat at the far end of the
room; and the woman rushed in. She said a few
words to Coralie, who seemed upset and at once.
ran to the door, passing in front of Patrice, and
down the stairs, followed by Siméon and the woman.
“I've got a taxi, ma'am," stammered the woman,
all out of breath. “I had the luck to find one when
I left the house and I kept it. We must be quick,
ma'am. ... The commissary of police told me
to ..."
Patrice, who was downstairs by this time, heard
nothing more; but the last words decided him. He
seized hold of Ya-Bon as he passed; and the two
of them leapt into a cab, telling the driver to fol-
low Coralie's taxi.
"There's news, Ya-Bon, there's news !” said Pa-
trice. “The plot is thickening. The woman is ob-
viously one of the Essarès' servants and she has
come for her mistress by the commissary's orders.
Therefore the colonel's disclosures are having their
effect. House searched; magistrate's inquest; every
sort of worry for Little Mother Coralie; and you
have the cheek to advise me to be careful! You
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NINETEEN MINUTES PAST SEVEN
allowecavens! Ihred to him:
imagine that I would leave her to her own devices
at such a moment! What a mean nature you must
have, my poor Ya-Bon!”
An idea occurred to him; and he exclaimed:
"Heavens! I hope that ruffian of an Essarès hasn't
allowed himself to be caught! That would be a
disaster! But he was far too sure of himself. I
expect he's been trifling away his time. ...".
All through the drive this fear excited Captain
Belval and removed his last scruples. In the end
his certainty was absolute. Nothing short of Es-
sarès' arrest could have produced the servant's atti-
tude of panic or Coralie's precipitate departure. Un-
der these conditions, how could he hesitate to in-
terfere in a matter in which his revelations would
enlighten the police? All the more so as, by reveal-
ing less or more, according to circumstances, he
could make his evidence subservient to Coralie's in-
terests.
The two cabs pulled up almost simultaneously
outside the Essarès' house, where a car was already
standing. Coralie alighted and disappeared through
the carriage-gate. The maid and Siméon also crossed
the pavement.
“Come along," said Patrice to the Senegalese.
The front door was ajar and Patrice entered. In
the big hall were two policemen on duty. Patrice
acknowledged their presence with a hurried move-
ment of his hand and passed them with the air of
a man who belonged to the house and whose im-
portance was so great that nothing done without
him could be of any use.
The sound of his footsteps echoing on the flags
reminded him of the flight of Bournef and his ac-
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
complices. He was on the right road. Moreover,
there was a drawing-room on the left, the room,
communicating with the library, to which the ac-
complices had carried the colonel's body. Voices
came from the library. He walked across the draw-
ing-room.
At that moment he heard Coralie exclaim in ac-
cents of terror:
"Oh, my God, it can't be! ..."
Two other policemen barred the doorway.
“I am a relation of Mme. Essarès',” he said, "her
only relation. ..."
"We have our orders, captain ..."
“I know, of course. Be sure and let no one in!
Ya-Bon, stay here."
And he went in.
But, in the immense room, a group of six or seven
gentlemen, no doubt commissaries of police and
magistrates, stood in his way, bending over some-
thing which he was unable to distinguish. From
amidst this group Coralie suddenly appeared and
came towards him, tottering and wringing her hands.
The housemaid took her round the waist and pressed
her into a chair.
“What's the matter?" asked Patrice.
"Madame is feeling faint,” replied the woman,
still quite distraught. “Oh, I'm nearly off my head!"
“But why? What's the reason?”.
"It's the master ... just think! . . . Such a
sight! ... It gave me a turn, too ...
“What sight?”
One of the gentlemen left the group and ap-.
proached:
“Is Mmme. Essarès ill?”
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NINETEEN MINUTES PAST SEVEN
"It's nothing," said the maid. “A fainting-fit.
... She is liable to these attacks."
"Take her away as soon as she can walk. We
shall not need her any longer."
And, addressing Patrice Belval with a question-
ing air:
"Captain? ..."
Patrice pretended not to understand:
“Yes, sir," he said, "we will take Mme. Essarès
away. Her presence, as you say, is unnecessary.
Only I must first ..."
He moved aside to avoid his interlocutor, and,
perceiving that the group of magistrates had opened
out a little, stepped forward. What he now saw
explained Coralie's fainting-fit and the servant's agi-
tation. He himself felt his flesh creep at a spec-
tacle which was infinitely more horrible than that of
the evening before.
On the floor, near the fireplace, almost at the
place where he had undergone his torture, Essarès
Bey lay upon his back. He was wearing the same
clothes as on the previous day: a brown-velvet smok-
ing-suit with a braided jacket. His head and shoul-
ders had been covered with a napkin. But one of
the men standing around, a divisional surgeon no
doubt, was holding up the napkin with one hand and
pointing to the dead man's face with the other, while
he offered an explanation in a low voice.
And that face ... but it was hardly the word
for the unspeakable mass of flesh, part of which
seemed to be charred while the other part formed
no more than a bloodstained pulp, mixed with bits
of bone and skin, hairs and a broken eye-ball.
"Oh," Patrice blurted out, "how horrible! He
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
was killed and fell with his head right in the fire.
That's how they found him, I suppose ?"
The man who had already spoken to him and who
appeared to be the most important figure present
came up to him once more:
“May I ask who you are?” he demanded.
“Captain Belval, sir, a friend of Mme. Essarès,
one of the wounded officers whose lives she has
helped to save ..."
"That may be, sir,” replied the important figure,
“but you can't stay here. Nobody must stay here,
for that matter. Monsieur le commissaire, please
order every one to leave the room, except the doc-
tor, and have the door guarded. Let no one enter
on any pretext whatever. ...".
“Sir,” Patrice insisted, “I have some very serious
information to communicate."
“I shall be pleased to receive it, captain, but
later on. You must excuse me now.”
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VII
TWENTY-THREE MINUTES PAST TWELVE
The great 'hall that ran from Rue Raynouard to
the upper terrace of the garden was filled to half
its extent by a wide staircase and divided the Es-
sarès house into two parts communicating only by
way of the hall.
On the left were the drawing-room and the
library, which was followed by an independent block
containing a private staircase. On the right were a
billiard-room and the dining-room, both with lower
ceilings. Above these were Essarès Bey's bedroom,
on the street side, and Coralie's, overlooking the
garden. Beyond was the servants' wing, where old
Siméon also used to sleep.
Patrice was asked to wait in the billiard-room,
with the Senegalese. He had been there about a
quarter of an hour when Siméon and the maid were
shown in.
The old secretary seemed quite paralyzed by the
death of his employer and was holding forth under
his breath, making queer gestures as he spoke.
Patrice asked him how things were going; and the
old fellow whispered in his ear:
“It's not over yet ... There's something to
fear ... to fear! ... To-day ... presently.”
“Presently?" asked Patrice.
“Yes ... yes," said the old man, trembling.
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He said nothing more. As for the housemaid,
she readily told her story in reply to Patrice' ques-
tions:
"The first surprise, sir, this morning was that
there was no butler, no footman, no porter. All
the three were gone. Then, at half-past six, M.
Siméon came and told us from the master that the
master had locked himself in his library and that
he wasn't to be disturbed even for breakfast. The
mistress was not very well. She had her chocolate
at nine o'clock. . . . At ten o'clock she went out
with M. Siméon. Then, after we had done the
bedrooms, we never left the kitchen. Eleven
o'clock came, twelve . . . and, just as the hour was
striking, we heard a loud ring at the front-door. I
looked out of the window. There was a motor,
with four gentlemen inside. I went to the door.
The commissary of police explained who he was
and wanted to see the master. I showed them the
way. The library-door was locked. We knocked:
no answer. We shook it: no answer. In the end,
one of the gentlemen, who knew how, picked the
lock. . . . Then . . . then . . . you can imagine
what we saw. . . . But you can't, it was much
worse, because the poor master at that moment had
his head almost under the grate. ... Oh, what
scoundrels they must have been! . . . For they did
kill him, didn't they? I know one of the gentlemen
said at once that the master had died of a stroke
and fallen into the fire. Only my firm belief is ..."
Old Siméon had listened without speaking, with
his head still half wrapped up, showing only his
bristly gray beard and his eyes hidden behind their
yellow spectacles. But at this point of the story he
108


TWENTY-THREE MINUTES PAST 12
gave a little chuckle, came up to Patrice and said
in his ear:
"There's something to fear ... to fear! ...
Mme. Coralie. . . . Make her go away at once
... make her go away. ... If not, it'll be the
worse for her. ...
Patrice shuddered and tried to question him, but
could learn nothing more. Besides, the old man
did not remain. A policeman came to fetch him
and took him to the library.
His evidence lasted a long time. It was followed
by the depositions of the cook and the housemaid.
Next, Coralie's evidence was taken, in her own
room. At four o'clock another car arrived. Patrice
saw two gentlemen pass into the hall, with every-
body bowing very low before them. He recognized
the minister of justice and the minister of the in-
terior. They conferred in the library for half an
hour and went away again.
At last, shortly before five o'clock, a policeman
came for Patrice and showed him up to the first
floor. The man tapped at a door and stood aside.
Patrice entered a small boudoir, lit up by a wood
fire by which two persons were seated: Coralie, to
whom he bowed, and, opposite her, the gentleman
who had spoken to him on his arrival and who
seemed to be directing the whole enquiry.
He was a man of about fifty, with a thickset body
and a heavy face, slow of movement, but with bright,
intelligent eyes.
: “The examining-magistrate, I presume, sir?"
asked Patrice.
"No," he replied, "I am M. Masseron, a retired
magistrate, specially appointed to clear up this af-
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fair ... not to examine it, as you think, for it does
not seem to me that there is anything to examine."
“What?" cried Patrice, in great surprise. “Noth-
ing to examine?”
He looked at Coralie, who kept her eyes fixed
upon him attentively. Then she turned them on M.
Masseron, who resumed:
"I have no doubt, Captain Belval, that, when we
have said what we have to say, we shall be agreed
at all points . . . just as madame and I are already
agreed.”
"I don't doubt it either,” said Patrice. "All the
same, I am afraid that many of those points remain
unexplained.”
"Certainly, but we shall find an explanation, we
shall find it together. Will you please tell me what
you know?"
Patrice waited for a moment and then said:
"I will not disguise my astonishment, sir. The
story which I have to tell is of some importance;
and yet there is no one here to take it down. Is it
not to count as evidence given on oath, as a deposi-
tion which I shall have to sign ?”
"You yourself, captain, shall determine the value
of your words and the innuendo which you wish
them to bear. For the moment, we will look on
this as a preliminary conversation, as an exchange
of views relating to facts ... touching which
Mme. Essarès has given me, I believe, the same in-
formation that you will be able to give me.”
Patrice did not reply at once. He had a vague
impression that there was a private understanding
between Coralie and the magistrate and that, in
face of that understanding, he, both by his presence
IIO


TWENTY-THREE MINUTES PAST 12
and by his zeal, was playing the part of an intruder
whom they would gladly have dismissed. He re-
solved therefore to maintain an attitude of reserve
until the magistrate had shown his hand.
"Of course,” he said, “I daresay madame has
told you. So you know of the conversation which
I overheard yesterday at the restaurant?”
“Yes.”
"And the attempt to kidnap Mme. Essarès ?”
“Yes.
"And the murder? ..."
“Yes."
“Mme. Essarès has described to you the black-
mailing scene that took place last night, with M.
Essarès for a victim, the details of the torture, the
death of the colonel, the handing over of the four
millions, the conversation on the telephone between
M. Essarès and a certain Grégoire and, lastly, the
threats uttered against madame by her husband?"
“Yes, Captain Belval, I know all this, that is to
say, all that you know; and I know, in addition, all
that I discovered through my own investigations."
“Of course, of course," Patrice repeated. “I see
that my story becomes superfluous and that you are
in possession of all the necessary factors to enable
you to draw your conclusions.” And, continuing to
put rather than answer questions, he added, “May
I ask what inference you have arrived at?"
"To tell you the truth, captain, my inferences are
not definite. However, until I receive some proof
to the contrary, I propose to remain satisfied with
the actual words of a letter which M. Essarès wrote
to his wife at about twelve o'clock this morning and
which we found lying on his desk, unfinished. Mme.
III


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
Essarès asked me to read it and, if necessary, to
communicate the contents to you. Listen.”
M. Masseron proceeded to read the letter aloud:
“Coralie,
"You were wrong yesterday to attribute my de-
parture to reasons which I dared not acknowledge;
and perhaps I also was wrong not to defend myself
more convincingly against your accusation. The
only motive for my departure is the hatred with
which I am surrounded. You have seen how fierce
it is. In the face of these enemies who are seeking
to despoil me by every possible means, my only hope
of salvation lies in flight. That is why I am going
away.
“But let me remind you, Coralie, of my clearly
expressed wish. You are to join me at the first
summons. If you do not leave Paris then, nothing
shall protect you against my lawful resentment:
nothing, not even my death. I have made all my
arrangements so that, even in the contingency ..."
“The letter ends there," said M. Masseron, hand-
ing it back to Coralie, “and we know by an unim-
peachable sign that the last lines were written imme-
diately before M. Essarès' death, because, in fall-
ing, he upset a little clock which stood on his desk
and which marked twenty-three minutes past twelve.
I assume that he felt unwell and that, on trying to
rise, he was seized with a fit of giddiness and fell
to the floor. Unfortunately, the fireplace was near,
with a fierce fire blazing in it; his head struck the
grate; and the wound that resulted was so deep-
the surgeon testified to this--that he fainted. Then
II2


TWENTY-THREE MINUTES PAST 12
the fire close at hand did its work ... with the
effects which you have seen. ..."
Patrice had listened in amazement to this unex-
pected explanation:
"Then in your opinion," he asked, “M. Essarès
died of an accident? He was not murdered?”.
“Murdered? Certainly not! We have no clue
to support any such theory."
“Still ...
“Captain Belval, you are the victim of an associa-
tion of ideas which, I admit, is perfectly justifiable.
Ever since yesterday you have been witnessing a
series of tragic incidents; and your imagination
naturally leads you to the most tragic solution, that
of murder. Only-reflect—why should a murder
have been committed? And by whom? By Bournef
and his friends? With what object? They were
crammed full with bank-notes; and, even admitting
that the man called Grégoire recovered those mil-
lions from them, they would certainly not have got
them back by killing M. Essarès. Then again, how
would they have entered the house? And how can
they have gone out? ... No, captain, you must
excuse me, but M. Essarès died an accidental death.
The facts are undeniable; and this is the opinion of
the divisional surgeon, who will draw up his report
in that sense."
Patrice turned to Coralie:
"Is it Mme. Essarès' opinion also ?”
She reddened slightly and answered:
“Yes."
"And old Siméon's?”
“Oh," replied the magistrate, "old Siméon is wan-
dering in his mind! To listen to him, you would
113


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
think that everything was about to happen all over
again, that Mme. Essarès is threatened with danger
and that she ought to take to flight at once. That
is all that I have been able to get out of him. How-
ever, he took me to an old disused door that opens
out of the garden on a lane running at right angles
with the Rue Raynouard; and here he showed me
first the watch-dog's dead body and next some foot-
prints between the door and the flight of steps near
the library. But you know those foot-prints, do
you not? They belong to you and your Senegalese.
As for the death of the watch-dog, I can put that
down to your Senegalese, can't I ?”
Patrice was beginning to understand. The magis-
trate's reticence, his explanation, his agreement with
Coralie: all this was gradually becoming plain. He
put the question frankly:
“So there was no murder?"
"No."
“Then there will be no magistrate's examination ?"
"No."
"And no talk about the matter; it will all be kept
quiet, in short, and forgotten?”.
“Just so."
Captain Belval began to walk up and down, as
was his habit. He now remembered Essarès'
prophecy:
"I sha'n't be arrested. ... If I am, I shall be
let go. ... The matter will be hushed up. ..."
Essarès was right. The hand of justice was ar-
rested; and there was no way for Coralie to escape
silent complicity.
Patrice was intensely annoyed by the manner in
which the case was being handled. It was certain
114


TWENTY-THREE MINUTES PAST 12
that a compact had been concluded between Coralie
and M. Masseron. He suspected the magistrate of
circumventing Coralie and inducing her to sacrifice
her own interests to other considerations. To effect
this, the first thing was to get rid of him, Patrice.
“Ugh!” said Patrice to himself. “I'm fairly sick
of this sportsman, with his cool ironical ways. It
looks as if he were doing a considerable piece of
thimblerigging at my expense.”
He restrained himself, however, and, with a pre-
tense of wanting to keep on good terms with the
magistrate, came and sat down beside him:
“You must forgive me, sir,” he said, “for insist-
ing in what may appear to you an indiscreet fashion.
But my conduct is explained not only by such sym-
pathy or feeling as I entertain for Mme. Essarès at
a moment in her life when she is more lonely than
ever, a sympathy and feeling which she seems to
repulse even more firmly than she did before. It
is also explained by certain mysterious links which
unite us to each other and which go back to a period
too remote for our eyes to focus. Has Mme. Es-
sarès told you those details? In my opinion, they
are most important; and I cannot help associating
them with the events that interest us."
M. Masseron glanced at Coralie, who nodded.
He answered:
“Yes, Mme. Essarès has informed me and
even ..."
He hesitated once more and again consulted Co-
ralie, who flushed and seemed put out of counte-
nance. M. Masseron, however, waited for a reply
which would enable him to proceed. She ended by.
saying, in a low voice:
115


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
"Captain Belval is entitled to know what we have
discovered. The truth belongs as much to him as
to me; and I have no right to keep it from him.
Pray speak, monsieur.”
"I doubt if it is even necessary to speak," said
the magistrate. “It will be enough, I think, to show
the captain this photograph-album which I have
found. Here you are, Captain Belval.”
And he handed Patrice a very slender album,
covered in gray canvas and fastened with an india-
rubber band.
Patrice took it with a certain anxiety. But what
he saw on opening it was so utterly unexpected that
he gave an exclamation:
“It's incredible!”
On the first page, held in place by their four
corners, were two photographs: one, on the right,
representing a small boy in an Eton jacket; the
other, on the left, representing a very little girl.
There was an inscription under each. On the right:
"Patrice, at ten." On the left: “Coralie, at three."
Moved beyond expression, Patrice turned the leaf.
On the second page they appeared again, he at the
age of fifteen, she at the age of eight. And he saw
himself at nineteen and at twenty-three and at
twenty-eight, always accompanied by Coralie, first
as a little girl, then as a young girl, next as a
woman.
“This is incredible !” he cried. “How is it pos-
sible? Here are portraits of myself which I had
never seen, amateur photographs obviously, which
trace my whole life. Here's one when I was doing
my military training. ... Here I am on horse-
back . . . Who can have ordered these photo-
116


TWENTY-THREE MINUTES PAST 12
graphs ? And who can have collected them together
with yours, madame?”.
He fixed his eyes on Coralie, who evaded their
questioning gaze and lowered her head as though
the close connection between their two lives, to which
those pages bore witness, had shaken her to the
very depths of her being.
"Who can have brought them together?" he re-
peated. “Do you know? And where does the al-
bum come from?”
M. Masseron supplied the answer:
"It was the surgeon who found it. M. Essarès
wore a vest under his shirt; and the album was in
an inner pocket, a pocket sewn inside the vest. The
surgeon felt the boards through it when he was
undressing M. Essarès' body."
This time, Patrice's and Coralie's eyes met. The
thought that M. Essarès had been collecting both
their photographs during the past twenty years and
that he wore them next to his breast and that he had
lived and died with them upon him, this thought
amazed them so much that they did not even try to
fathom its strange significancė.
"Are you sure of what you are saying, sir?” asked
Patrice.
"I was there," said M. Masseron. “I was pres-
ent at the discovery. Besides, I myself made an-
other which confirms this one and completes it in
a really surprising fashion. I found a pendant, cut
out of a solid block of amethyst and held in a set-
ting of filigree-work.”
"What's that?” cried Captain Belval. “What's
that? A pendant ? An amethyst pendant?”.
"Look for yourself, sir," suggested the magis-
117


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
trate, after once more consulting Mme. Essarès
with a glance.
And he handed Captain Belval an amethyst pen-
dant, larger than the ball formed by joining the two
halves which Coralie and Patrice possessed, she on
her rosary and he on his bunch of seals; and this
new ball was encircled with a specimen of gold fili-
gree-work exactly like that on the rosary and on the
seal.
The setting served as a clasp.
“Am I to open it?” he asked.
Coralie nodded. He opened the pendant. The
inside was divided by a movable glass disk, which
separated two miniature photographs, one of Co-
ralie as a nurse, the other of himself, wounded, in
an officer's uniform.
Patrice reflected, with pale cheeks. Presently he
asked:
"And where does this pendant come from? Did
you find it, sir?"
“Yes, Captain Belval.”
“Where?"
The magistrate seemed to hesitate. Coralie's at-
titude gave Patrice the impression that she was un-
aware of this detail. M. Masseron at last said:
"I found it in the dead man's hand.”
"In the dead man's hand? In M. Essarès' hand?"
Patrice had given a start, as though under an
unexpected blow, and was now leaning over the
magistrate, greedily awaiting a reply which he
wanted to hear for the second time before accept-
ing it as certain.
“Yes, in his hand. I had to force back the clasped
fingers in order to release it."
118


TWENTY-THREE MINUTES PAST 12
Belval stood up and, striking the table with his
fist, exclaimed:
"Well, sir, I will tell you one thing which I was
keeping back as a last argument to prove to you
that my collaboration is of use; and this thing be-
comes of great importance after what we have just
learnt. Sir, this morning some one asked to speak
to me on the telephone; and I had hardly answered
the call when this person, who seemed greatly ex-
cited, was the victim of a murderous assault, com-
mitted in my hearing. And, amid the sound of the
scuffle and the cries of agony, I caught the follow-
ing words, which the unhappy man insisted on trying
to get to me as so many last instructions: 'Patrice!
... Coraliel ... The amethyst pendant. ...
Yes, I have it on me. ... The pendant. ... Ah,
it's too late! ... I should so much have liked. ...
Patrice. ... Coralie. ... There's what I heard,
sir, and here are the two facts which we cannot
escape. This morning, at nineteen minutes past
seven, a man was murdered having upon him an
amethyst pendant. This is the first undeniable fact.
A few hours later, at twenty-three minutes past
twelve, this same amethyst pendant is discovered
clutched in the hand of another man. This is the
second undeniable fact. Place these facts side by
side and you are bound to come to the conclusion
that the first murder, the one of which I caught the
distant echo, was committed here, in this house, in
the same library which, since yesterday evening, wit-
nessed the end of every scene in the tragedy which
we are contemplating."
This revelation, which in reality amounted to a
fresh accusation against Essarès, seemed to affect
119


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
the magistrate profoundly. Patrice had flung him-
self into the discussion with a passionate vehemence
and a logical reasoning which it was impossible to
disregard without evident insincerity.
Coralie had turned aside slightly and Patrice
could not see her face; but he suspected her dismay
in the presence of all this infamy and shame.
M. Masseron raised an objection:
"Two undeniable facts, you say, Captain Belval ?
As to the first point, let me remark that we have
not found the body of the man who is supposed to
have been murdered at nineteen minutes past seven
this morning."
"It will be found in due course."
"Very well. Second point: as regards the ame-
thyst pendant discovered in Essarès' hand, how can
we tell that Essarès Bey found it in the murdered
man's hand and not somewhere else? For, after
all, we do not know if he was at home at that time
and still less if he was in his library.”
"But I do know."
"How?"
"I telephoned to him a few minutes later and he
answered. More than that, to sweep away any
trace of doubt, he told me that he had rung me up
but that he had been cut off.”
M. Masseron thought for a moment and then
said:
“Did he go out this morning?"
“Ask Mme. Essarès."
Without turning round, manifestly wishing to
avoid Belval's eyes, Coralie answered:
"I don't think that he went out. The suit he was
I 20


TWENTY-THREE MINUTES PAST TO
12
wearing at the time of his death was an indoor
suit.”
“Did you see him after last night?”.
"He came and knocked at my room three times
this morning, between seven and nine o'clock. I
did not open the door. At about eleven o'clock I
started off alone; I heard him call old Siméon and
tell him to go with me. Siméon caught me up in the
street. That is all I know.”
A prolonged silence ensued. Each of the three
was meditating upon this strange series of adven-
tures. In the end, M. Masseron, who had realized
that a man of Captain Belval's stamp was not the
sort to be easily thrust aside, spoke in the tone of
one who, before coming to terms, wishes to know
exactly what his adversary's last word is likely to be:
“Let us come to the point, captain. You are
building up a theory which strikes me as very vague.
What is it precisely? And what are you proposing
to do if I decline to accept it? I have asked you
two very plain questions. Do you mind answering
them?”
“I will answer them, sir, as plainly as you put
them."
He went up to the magistrate and said:
"Here, sir, is the field of battle and of attack-
yes, of attack, if need be—which I select. A man
who used to know me, who knew Mme. Essarès as
a child and who was interested in both of us, a man
who used to collect our portraits at different ages,
who had reasons for loving us unknown to me, who
sent me the key of that garden and who was making
arrangements to bring us together for a purpose
which he would have told us, this man was mur-
121


TWENTY-THREE MINUTES PAST 12
"What are they?"
“Not much! A trifle !"
“But what sort of trifle?"
"A thousand million francs.”
“A thousand millions?”
“Just that. A thousand millions, of which two-
thirds, I regret to say, if not three-quarters, had
already left France before the war. But the re-
maining two hundred and fifty or three hundred
millions are worth more than a thousand millions
all the same, for a very good reason.”
“What reason?”
“They happen to be in gold."
123


CHAPTER VIII
ESSARÈS BEY'S WORK
This time Captain Belval seemed to relax to some
extent. He vaguely perceived the consideration that
compelled the authorities to wage the battle pru-
dently.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
"Yes, I was instructed to investigate this matter
two years ago; and my enquiries proved that really
remarkable exports of gold were being effected from
France. But, I confess, it is only since my conversa-
tion with Mme. Essarès that I have seen where the
leakage came from and who it was that set on foot,
all over France, down to the least important mar-
ket-towns, the formidable organization through
which the indispensable metal was made to leave
the country.”
“Then Mme. Essarès knew?”.
"No, but she suspected a great deal; and last
night, before you arrived, she overheard some words
spoken between Essarès and his assailants which
she repeated to me, thus giving me the key to the
riddle. I should have been glad to work out the
complete solution without your assistance-for one
thing, those were the orders of the minister of the
interior; and Mme. Essarès displayed the same wish
—but your impetuosity overcomes my hesitation;
and, since I can't manage to get rid of you, Captain
124


ESSARES BEY'S WORK
Belval, I will tell you the whole story frankly ...
especially as your coöperation is not to be despised."
"I am all ears," said Patrice, who was burning
to know more.
“Well, the motive force of the plot was here, in
this house. Essarès Bey, president of the Franco-
Oriental Bank, 6, Rue Lafayette, apparently an
Egyptian, in reality a Turk, enjoyed the greatest in-
fluence in the Paris financial world. He had been
naturalized an Englishman, but had kept up secret
relations with the former possessors of Egypt; and
he had received instructions from a foreign power,
which I am not yet able to name with certainty, to
bleed—there is no other word for it-to bleed
France of all the gold that he could cause to flow
into his coffers. According to documents which I
have seen, he succeeded in exporting in this way
some seven hundred million francs in two years. A
last consignment was preparing when war was de-
clared. You can understand that thenceforth such
important sums could not be smuggled out of the
country so easily as in times of peace. The railway-
wagons are inspected on the frontiers; the outgoing
vessels are searched in the harbors. In short, the
gold was not sent away. Those two hundred and
fifty or three hundred millions remained in France.
Ten months passed; and the inevitable happened,
which was that Essarès Bey, having this fabulous
treasure at his disposal, clung to it, came gradually
to look upon it as his own and, in the end, resolved
to appropriate it. Only there were accomplices. ..."
“The men I saw last night?”.
"Yes, half-a-dozen shady Levantines, sham natu-
ralized French citizens, more or less well-disguised
125


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
Bulgarians, secret agents of the little German courts
in the Balkans. This gang ran provincial branches
of Essarès' bank. It had in its pay, on Essarès'
account, hundreds of minor agents, who scoured the
villages, visited the fairs, were hail-fellow-well-met
with the peasants, offered them bank-notes and gov-
ernment securities in exchange for French gold and
trousered all their savings. When war broke out
the gang shut up shop and gathered round Essarès
· Bey, who also had closed his offices in the Rue La-
fayette."
"What happened then?"
"Things that we don't know. No doubt the ac-
complices learnt from their governments that the
last despatch of gold had never taken place; and no
doubt they also guessed that Essarès Bey was trying
to keep for himself the three hundred millions col-
lected by the gang. One thing is certain, that a
struggle began between the former partners, a fierce,
implacable struggle, the accomplices wanting their
share of the plunder, while Essarès Bey was resolved
to part with none of it and pretended that the mil-
lions had left the country. Yesterday the struggle
attained its culminating-point. In the afternoon the
accomplices tried to get hold of Mme. Essarès so
that they might have a hostage to use against her
husband. In the evening ... in the evening you
yourself witnessed the final episode.”
“But why yesterday evening rather than another?"
"Because the accomplices had every reason to
think that the millions were intended to disappear
yesterday evening. Though they did not know the
methods employed by Essarès Bey when he made his
last remittances, they believed that each of the re-
126


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
can't be found, which would startle the public and
excite their imaginations, but you will readily imag-
ine that an operation which consisted in draining
off such a quantity of gold in two years cannot have
been effected without compromising a regrettable
number of people. I feel certain that my own en-
quiries will reveal a series of weak concessions and
unworthy bargains on the part of certain more of
less important banks and credit-houses, transactions
on which I do not wish to insist, but which it would
be the gravest of blunders to publish. Therefore,
silence."
“But is silence possible?"
“Why not?"
"Bless my soul, there are a good few corpses to
be explained away! Colonel Fakhi's, for instance ?"
"Suicide.”
"Mustapha's, which you will discover or which
you have already discovered in the Galliéra gar-
den?”
“Found dead."
"Essarès Bey's?"
"An accident."
“So that all these manifestations of the same
power will remain separated?”.
“There is nothing to show the link that connects
them."
"Perhaps the public will think otherwise."
“The public will think what we wish it to think.
This is war-time.”
"The press will speak."
"The press will do nothing of the kind. We have
the censorship."
“But, if some fact or, rather, a fresh crime ...?”
128


ESSARES BEY'S WORK
"Why should there be a fresh crime? The matter
is finished, at least on its active and dramatic side.
The chief actors are dead. The curtain falls on the
murder of Essarès Bey. As for the supernumeraries,
Bournef and the others, we shall have them stowed
away in an internment-camp before a week is past.
We therefore find ourselves in the presence of a
certain number of millions, with no owner, with no
one who dares to claim them, on which France is
entitled to lay hands. I shall devote my activity to
securing the money for the republic.”
Patrice Belval shook his head:
“Mme. Essarès remains, sir. We must not forget
her husband's threats.”
“He is dead."
"No matter, the threats are there. Old Siméon
tells you so in a striking fashion.”
"He's half mad."
"Exactly, his brain retains the impression of great
and imminent danger. No, the struggle is not ended.
Perhaps indeed it is only beginning."
"Well, captain, are we not here? Make it your
business to protect and defend Mme. Essarès by all.
the means in your power and by all those which I
place at your disposal. Our collaboration will be
uninterrupted, because my task lies here and because,
if the battle-which you expect and I do not takes
place, it will be within the walls of this house and
garden."
“What makes you think that?"
"Some words which Mme. Essarès overheard last
night. The colonel repeated several times, 'The
gold is here, Essarès.' He added, 'For years past,
your car brought to this house all that there was at
129


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
your bank in the Rue Lafayette. Siméon, you and
the chauffeur used to let the sacks down the last
grating on the left. How you used to send it away
I do not know. But of what was here on the day
when the war broke out, of the seventeen or eighteen
hundred bags which they were expecting out yonder,
none has left your place. I suspected the trick; and
we kept watch night and day. The gold is here.'”
“And have you no clue?”
"Not one. Or this at most; but I attach com-
paratively little value to it.”
He took a crumpled paper from his pocket, un-
folded it and continued:
“Besides the pendant, Essarès Bey held in his
hand this bit of blotted paper, on which you can
see a few straggling, hurriedly-written words. The
only ones that are more or less legible are these:
'golden triangle. What this golden triangle means,
what it has to do with the case in hand, I can't for
the present tell. The most that I am able to presume
is that, like the pendant, the scrap of paper was
snatched by Essarès Bey from the man who died at
nineteen minutes past seven this morning and that,
when he himself was killed at twenty-three minutes
past twelve, he was occupied in examining it.”
“And then there is the album,” said Patrice, mak-
ing his last point. “You see how all the details are
linked together. You may safely believe that it is
all one case."
“Very well,” said M. Masseron. “One case in
two parts. You, captain, had better follow up the
second. I grant you that nothing could be stranger
than this discovery of photographs of Mme. Es-
sarès and yourself in the same album and in the
130


ESSARES BEY'S WORK
same pendant. It sets a problem the solution of
which will no doubt bring us very near to the truth.
We shall meet again soon, Captain Belval, I hope.
And, once more, make use of me and of my men.”
He shook Patrice by the hand. Patrice held him
back:
“I shall make use of you, sir, as you suggest. But
is this not the time to take the necessary precau-
tions?"
"They are taken, captain. We are in occupation
of the house."
“Yes... yes ... I know; but, all the same
... I have a sort of presentiment that the day will
not end without. ... Remember old Siméon's
strange words. ..."
M. Masseron began to laugh:
“Come, Captain Belval, we mustn't exaggerate
things. If any enemies remain for us to fight, they
must stand in great need, for the moment, of taking
council with themselves. We'll talk about this to-
morrow, shall we, captain ?”
He shook hands with Patrice again, bowed to
Mme. Essarès and left the room.
Belval had at first made a discreet movement to
go out with him. He stopped at the door and
walked back again. Mme. Essarès, who seemed not
to hear him, sat motionless, bent in two, with her
head turned away from him.
“Coralie," he said.
She did not reply; and he uttered her name a
second time, hoping that again she might not an-
swer, for her silence suddenly appeared to him to
be the one thing in the world for him to desire.
That silence no longer implied either constraint or
131


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
rebellion. Coralie accepted the fact that he was
there, by her side, as a helpful friend. And Patrice
no longer thought of all the problems that harassed
him, nor of the murders that had mounted up, one
after another, around them, nor of the dangers that
might still encompass them. He thought only of
Coralie's yielding gentleness.
"Don't answer, Coralie, don't say a word. It is
for me to speak. I must tell you what you do not
know, the reasons that made you wish to keep me
out of this house ... out of this house and out
of your very life.”
He put his hand on the back of the chair in which
she was sitting; and his hand just touched Coralie's
hair.
“Coralie, you imagine that it is the shame of your
life here that keeps you away from me. You blush
at having been that man's wife; and this makes you
feel troubled and anxious, as though you yourself
had been guilty. But why should you? It was not
your fault. Surely you know that I can guess the
misery and hatred that must have passed between
you and him and the constraint that was brought to
bear upon you, by some machination, in order to
force your consent to the marriage! No, Coralie,
there is something else; and I will tell you what it
is. There is something else. ...".
He was bending over her still more. He saw her
beautiful profile lit up by the blazing logs and, speak-
ing with increasing fervor and adopting the familiar
tu and toi which, in his mouth, retained a note of
affectionate respect, he cried:
“Am I to speak, Little Mother Coralie? I
needn't, need I? You have understood; and you
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ESSARES BEY'S WORK
read yourself clearly. Ah, I feel you trembling
from head to foot! Yes, yes, I tell you, I knew
your secret from the very first day. From the very
first day you loved your great beggar of a wounded
man, all scarred and maimed though he was. Hush!
Don't deny it! ... Yes, I understand: you are
rather shocked to hear such words as these spoken
to-day. I ought perhaps to have waited. And yet
why should I? I am asking you nothing. I know;
and that is enough for me. I sha'n't speak of it
again for a long time to come, until the inevitable
hour arrives when you are forced to tell it to me
yourself. Till then I shall keep silence. But our love
will always be between us; and it will be exquisite,
Little Mother Coralie, it will be exquisite for me to
know that you love me. Coralie. ... There, now
you're crying! And you would still deny the truth?
Why, when you cry-I know you, Little Mother-
it means that your dear heart is overflowing with
tenderness and love! You are crying? Ah, Little
Mother, I never thought you loved me to that ex-
tent!”
Patrice also had tears in his eyes. Coralie's were
coursing down her pale cheeks; and he would have
given much to kiss that wet face. But the least out-
ward sign of affection appeared to him an offense
at such a moment. He was content to gaze at her
passionately.
And, as he did so, he received an impression that
her thoughts were becoming detached from his own,
that her eyes were being attracted by an unexpected
sight and that, amid the great silence of their love,
she was listening to something that he himself had
not heard.
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And suddenly he too heard that thing, though it
was almost imperceptible. It was not so much a
sound as the sensation of a presence mingling with
the distant rumble of the town. What could be
happening?
The light had begun to fade, without his noticing
it. Also unperceived by Patrice, Mme. Essarès had
opened the window a little way, for the boudoir was
small and the heat of the fire was becoming oppres-
sive. Nevertheless, the two casements were almost
touching. It was at this that she was staring; and
it was from there that the danger threatened.
Patrice's first impulse was to run to the window,
but he restrained himself. The danger was becom-
ing defined. Outside, in the twilight, he distinguished
through the slanting panes a human form. Next,
he saw between the two casements something which
gleamed in the light of the fire and which looked
like the barrel of a revolver.
“Coralie is done for," he thought, “if I allow it
to be suspected for an instant that I am on my
guard.”
She was in fact opposite the window, with no ob-
stacle intervening. He therefore said aloud, in a
careless tone:
“Coralie, you must be a little tired. We will say
good-by.”
At the same time, he went round her chair to
protect her.
But he had not the time to complete his movement.
She also no doubt had seen the glint of the revolver,
for she drew back abruptly, stammering:
“Oh, Patricel ... Patrice! ....
Two shots rang out, followed by a moan.
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ESSARES BEY'S WORK
"You're wounded!” cried Patrice, springing to
her side.
“No, no," she said, “but the fright ..."
"Oh, if he's touched you, the scoundrel !"
"No, he hasn't.”
“Are you quite sure?”
He lost thirty or forty seconds, switching on the
electric light, looking at Coralie for signs of a wound
and waiting in an agony of suspense for her to re-
gain full consciousness. Only then did he rush to
the window, open it wide and climb over the balcony.
The room was on the first floor. There was plenty
of lattice-work on the wall. But, because of his leg,
Patrice had some difficulty in making his way down.
Below, on the terrace, he caught his foot in the
rungs of an overturned ladder. Next, he knocked
against some policemen who were coming from the
ground-floor. One of them shouted:
"I saw the figure of a man making off that way.”
“Which way?" asked Patrice.
The man was running in the direction of the lane.
Patrice followed him. But, at that moment, from
close beside the little door, there came shrill cries
and the whimper of a choking voice :
“Help! ... Help! ...
When Patrice came up, the policeman was already
flashing his electric lantern over the ground; and
they both saw a human form writhing in the shrub-
bery.
"The door's open!" shouted Patrice. “The as-
sassin has escaped! Go after him!”
The policeman vanished down the lane; and, Ya-
Bon appearing on the scene, Patrice gave him his
orders:
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
“Quick as you can, Ya-Bon! ... If the police-
man is going up the lane, you go down. Run! I'll
look after the victim.”
All this time, Patrice was stooping low, Alinging
the light of the policeman's lantern on the man who
lay struggling on the ground. He recognized old
Siméon, nearly strangled, with a red-silk cord round
his neck.
"How do you feel?” he asked. “Can you under-
stand what I'm saying?”.
He unfastened the cord and repeated his question.
Siméon stuttered out a series of incoherent syllables
and then suddenly began to sing and laugh, a very
low, jerky laugh, alternating with hiccoughs. He
had gone mad.
When M. Masseron arrived, Patrice told him
what had happened:
“Do you really believe it's all over ?” he asked.'
"No. You were right and I was wrong," said
M. Masseron. “We must take every precaution
to ensure Mme. Essarès' safety. The house shall be
guarded all night."
A few minutes later the policeman and Ya-Bon
returned, after a vain search. The key that had
served to open the door was found in the lane. It
was exactly similar to the one in Patrice Belval's
possession, equally old and equally rusty. The
would-be murderer had thrown it away in the course
of his fight.
It was seven o'clock when Patrice, accompanied
by Ya-Bon, left the house in the Rue Raynouard and
turned towards Neuilly. As usual, Patrice took Ya-
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ESSARES BEY'S WORK
Bon's arm and, leaning upon him for support as he
walked, he said:
“I can guess what you're thinking, Ya-Bon.”
Ya-Bon grunted.
“That's it,” said Captain Belval, in a tone of ap-
proval. “We are entirely in agreement all along
the line. What strikes you first and foremost is the
utter incapacity displayed by the police. A pack of
addle-pates, you say? When you speak like that,
Master Ya-Bon, you are talking impertinent non-
sense, which, coming from you, does not astonish
me and which might easily make me give you the
punishment you deserve. But we will overlook it
this time. Whatever you may say, the police do
what they can, not to mention that, in war-time, they
have other things to do than to occupy themselves
with the mysterious relations between Captain Bel-
val and Mme. Essarès. It is I therefore who will
have to act; and I have hardly any one to reckon
on but myself. Well, I wonder if I am a match for
such adversaries. To think that here's one who has
the cheek to come back to the house while it is
being watched by the police, to put up a ladder, to
listen no doubt to my conversation with M. Mas-
seron and afterwards to what I said to Little Mother
Coralie and, lastly, to send a couple of bullets whiz-
zing past our ears! What do you say? Am I the
man for the job? And could all the French police,
overworked as they are, give me the indispensable
assistance? No, the man I need for clearing up a.
thing like this is an exceptional sort of chap, one
who unites every quality in himself, in short the
type of man one never sees.”
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Patrice leant more heavily on his companion's
arm:
“You, who know so many good people, haven't
you the fellow I want concealed about your person?
A genius of sorts ? A demigod ?”
Ya-Bon grunted again, merrily this time, and
withdrew his arm. He always carried a little elec-
tric lamp. Switching on the light, he put the handle
between his teeth. Then he took a bit of chalk out
of his jacket-pocket.
A grimy, weather-beaten plaster wall ran along
the street. Ya-Bon took his stand in front of the
wall and, turning the light upon it, began to write
with an unskilful hand, as though each letter cost
him a measureless effort and as though the sum total
of those letters were the only one that he had ever
succeeded in composing and remembering. In this
way he wrote two words which Patrice read out:
Arsène Lupin.
“Arsène Lupin," said Patrice, under his breath.
And, looking at Ya-Bon in amazement, “Are you in
your right mind? What do you mean by Arsène
Lupin? Are you suggesting Arsène Lupin to me?"
Ya-Bon nodded his head.
“Arsène Lupin? Do you know him?"
“Yes," Ya-Bon signified.
Patrice then remembered that the Senegalese used
to spend his days at the hospital getting his good-
natured comrades to read all the adventures of Ar-
sène Lupin aloud to him; and he grinned:
“Yes, you know him as one knows somebody
whose history one has read."
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ESSARES BEY'S WORK
"No," protested Ya-Bon.
“Do you know him personally ?”.
“Yes.”
“Get out, you silly fool! Arsène Lupin is dead.
He threw himself into the sea from a rock;' and
you pretend that you know him?”.
“Yes.”
"Do you mean to say that you have met him since
he died?"
“Yes."
"By Jove! And Master Ya-Bon's influence with
Arsène Lupin is enough to make him come to life
again and put himself out at a sign from Master
Ya-Bon?”
“Yes."
“I say! I had a high opinion of you as it was,
but now there is nothing for me but to make you
my bow. A friend of the late Arsène Lupin! We're
going it! ... And how long will it take you to
place his ghost at our disposal? Six months? Three
months? One month? A fortnight?".
Ya-Bon made a gesture.
“About a fortnight," Captain Belval translated.
“Very well, evoke your friend's spirit; I shall be de-
lighted to make his acquaintance. Only, upon my
word, you must have a very poor idea of me to
imagine that I need a collaborator! What next!
Do you take me for a helpless dunderhead?”
1813. By Maurice Leblanc. Translated by Alexander
Teixeira de Mattos.
139


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CHAPTER IX
PATRICE AND CORALIE
EVERYTHING happened as M. Masserson had fore-
told. The press did not speak. The public did not
become excited. The various deaths were casually
paragraphed. The funeral of Essarès Bey, the
wealthy banker, passed unnoticed.
But, on the day following the funeral, after Cap.
tain Belval, with the support of the police, had made
an application to the military authorities, a new
order of things was established in the house in the
Rue Raynouard. It was recognized as Home No. 2
attached to the hospital in the Champs-Élysées;
Mme. Essarès was appointed matron; and it became
the residence of Captain Belvel and his seven wound-
ed men exclusively.
Coralie, therefore, was the only woman remain-
ing. The cook and housemaid were sent away. The
seven cripples did all the work of the house. One
acted as hall-porter, another as cook, a third as
butler. Ya-Bon, promoted to parlor-maid, made it
his business to wait on Little Mother Coralie. At
night he slept in the passage outside her door. By
day he mounted guard outside her window.
“Let no one near that door or that window !"
Patrice said to him. “Let no one in! You'll catch
it if so much as a mosquito succeeds in entering her
room."
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PATRICE AND CORALIE
Nevertheless, Patrice was not easy in his mind.
The enemy had given him too many proofs of reck-
less daring to let him imagine that he could take any
steps to ensure her perfect protection. Danger al-
ways creeps in where it is least expected; and it was
all the more difficult to ward off in that no one knew
whence it threatened. Now that Essarès Bey was
dead, who was continuing his work? Who had in-
herited the task of revenge upon Coralie announced
in his last letter?
M. Masseron had at once begun his work of in-
vestigation, but the dramatic side of the case seemed
to leave him indifferent. Since he had not found
the body of the man whose dying cries reached
Patrice Belval's ears, since he had discovered no clue
to the mysterious assailant who had fired at Patrice
and Coralie later in the day, since he was not able
to trace where the assailant had obtained his ladder,
he dropped these questions and confined his efforts
entirely to the search of the eighteen hundred bags
of gold. These were all that concerned him.
“We have every reason to believe that they are
here,” he said, "between the four sides of the quad-
rilateral formed by the garden and the house. Ob-
viously, a bag of gold weighing a hundredweight
does not take up as much room, by a long way, as a
sack of coal of the same weight. But, for all that,
eighteen hundred bags represent a cubic content; and
a content like that is not easily concealed.”
In two days he had assured himself that the treas-
ure was hidden neither in the house nor under the
house. On the evenings when Essarès Bey's car
brought the gold out of the coffers of the Franco-
Oriental Bank to the Rue Raynouard, Essarès, the
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
chauffeur and the man known as Grégoire used to
pass a thick wire through the grating of which the
accomplices spoke. This wire was found. Along
the wire ran hooks, which were also found; and on
these the bags were slung and afterwards stacked
in a large cellar situated exactly under the library.
It is needless to say that M. Masseron and his de-
tectives devoted all their ingenuity and all the pains-
taking patience of which they were capable to the
task of searching every corner of this cellar. Their
efforts only established beyond doubt that it con-
tained no secret, save that of a staircase which ran
down from the library and which was closed at the
top by a trap-door concealed by the carpet.
In addition to the grating on the Rue Raynouard,
there was another which overlooked the garden, on
the level of the first terrace. These two openings
were barricaded on the inside by very heavy shut-
ters, so that it was an easy matter to stack thousands
and thousands of rouleaus of gold in the cellar be-
fore sending them away.
"But how were they sent away?” M. Masseron
wondered. “That's the mystery. And why this
intermediate stage in the basement, in the Rue Ray-
nouard? Another mystery. And now we have
Fakhi, Bournef and Co. declaring that, this time,
it was not sent away, that the gold is here and that
it can be found for the searching. We have searched
the house. There is still the garden. Let us look
there."
It was a beautiful old garden and had once
formed part of the wide-stretching estate where peo-
ple were in the habit, at the end of the eighteenth
century, of going to drink the Passy waters. With
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PATRICE AND CORALIE
a two-hundred-yard frontage, it ran from the Rue
Raynouard to the quay of the river-side and led, by
four successive terraces, to an expanse of lawn as
old as the rest of the garden, fringed with thickets
of evergreens and shaded by groups of tall trees.
But the beauty of the garden lay chiefly in its
four terraces and in the view which they afforded of
the river, the low ground on the left bank and the
distant hills. They were united by twenty sets of
steps; and twenty paths climbed from the one to
the other, paths cut between the buttressing walls
and sometimes hidden in the floods of ivy that dashed
from top to bottom.
Here and there a statue stood out, a broken col-
umn, or the fragments of a capital. The stone
balcony that edged the upper terrace was still
adorned with all its old terra-cotta vases. On this
terrace also were the ruins of two little round tem-
ples where, in the old days, the springs bubbled to
the surface. In front of the library windows was
a circular basin, with in the center the figure of a
child shooting a slender thread of water through
the funnel of a shell. It was the overflow from this
basin, forming a little stream, that trickled over the
rocks against which Patrice had stumbled on the first
evening.
“Ten acres to explore before we've done,” said
M. Masseron to himself.
He employed upon this work, in addition to Bel-
val's cripples, a dozen of his own detectives. It
was not a difficult business and was bound to lead
to some definite result. As M. Masseron never
ceased saying, eighteen hundred bags cannot remain
invisible. An excavation leaves traces. You want
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
a hole to go in and out by. But neither the grass
of the lawns nor the sand of the paths showed any
signs of earth recently disturbed. The ivy? The
buttressing-walls? The terraces ? Everything was
inspected, but in vain. Here and there, in cutting
up the ground, old conduit pipes were found, run-
ning towards the Seine, and remains of aqueducts
that had once served to carry off the Passy waters.
But there was no such thing as a cave, an under-
ground chamber, a brick arch or anything that
looked like a hiding-place.
Patrice and Coralie watched the progress of the
search. And yet, though they fully realized its im-
portance and though, on the other hand, they were
still feeling the strain of the recent dramatic hours,
in reality they were engrossed only in the inexplic-
able problem of their fate; and their conversation
nearly always turned upon the mystery of the past.
Coralie's mother was the daughter of a French
consul at Salonica, where she married a very rich
man of a certain age, called Count Odolavitch, the
head of an ancient Servian family. He died a year
after Coralie was born. The widow and child were
at that time in France, at this same house in the
Rue Raynouard, which Count Odolavitch had pur-
chased through a young Egyptian called Essarès, his
secretary and factotum.
Coralie here spent three years of her childhood.
Then she suddenly lost her mother and was left
alone in the world. Essarès took her to Salonica,
to a surviving sister of her grandfather the consul,
a woman many years younger than her brother.
This lady took charge of Coralie. Unfortunately,
she fell under Essarès' influence, signed papers and
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PATRICE AND CORALIE
made her little grand-niece sign papers, until the
child's whole fortune, administered by the Egyptian,
gradually disappeared.
At last, when she was about seventeen, Coralie
became the victim of an adventure which left the
most hideous memory in her mind and which had a
fatal effect on her life. She was kidnaped one
morning by a band of Turks on the plains of Sa-
lonica and spent a fortnight in the palace of the
governor of the province, exposed to his desires.
Essarès released her. But the release was brought
about in so fantastic a fashion that Coralie must
have often wondered afterwards whether the Turk
and the Egyptian were not in collusion.
At any rate, sick in body and depressed in spirits,
fearing a fresh assault upon her liberty and yielding
to her aunt's wishes, a month later she married this
Essarès, who had already been paying her his ad.
dresses and who now definitely assumed in her eyes
the figure of a deliverer. It was a hopeless union,
the horror of which became manifest to her on the
very day on which it was cemented. Coralie was
the wife of a man whom she hated and whose love
only grew with the hatred and contempt which she
showed for it.
Before the end of the year they came and took
up their residence at the house in the Rue Ray-
nouard. Essarès, who had long ago established and
was at that time managing the Salonica branch of
the Franco-Oriental Bank, bought up almost all the
shares of the bank itself, acquired the building in
the Rue Lafayette for the head office, became one of
the financial magnates of Paris and received the
title of bey in Egypt.
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PATRICE AND CORALIE
I heard him speaking to Essarès in a very angry
tone, apparently threatening him.”
“With what?”
“I don't know. I know nothing at all about Si-
méon. He kept himself very much to himself and
was nearly always in the garden, smoking his pipe,
dreaming, tending the trees and flowers, sometimes
with the assistance of two or three gardeners whom
he would send for."
"How did he behave to you?".
· "Here again I can't give any definite impression.
We never talked; and his occupations very seldom
brought him into contact with me. Nevertheless I.
sometimes thought that his eyes used to seek me,
through their yellow spectacles, with a certain per-
sistency and perhaps even a certain interest. More-
over, lately, he liked going with me to the hospital;
and he would then, either there or on the way, show
himself more attentive, more eager to please ...
so much so that I have been wondering this last day
or two ..."
She hesitated for a moment, undecided whether
to speak, and then continued:
“Yes, it's a very vague notion ... but, all the
same . . . Look here, there's one thing I forgot
to tell you. Do you know why I joined the hospital
in the Champs-Élysées, the hospital where you were
lying wounded and ill? It was because Siméon took
me there. He knew that I wanted to become a
nurse and he suggested this hospital. . . . And
then, if you think, later on, the photograph in the
pendant, the one showing you in uniform and me as
a nurse, can only have been taken at the hospital.
Well, of the people here, in this house, no one except
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
Bee, .
Siméon ever went there. ... You will also remem-
ber that he used to come to Salonica, where he saw
me as a child and afterwards as a girl, and that
there also he may have taken the snapshots in the
album. So that, if we allow that he had some cor-
respondent who on his side followed your footsteps
in life, it would not be impossible to believe that the
unknown friend whom you assume to have inter-
vened between us, the one who sent you the key of
the garden ..."
“Was old Siméon ?" Patrice interrupted. "The
theory won't hold water."
“Why not?"
"Because this friend is dead. The man who, as
you say, sought to intervene between us, who sent
me the key of the garden, who called me to the
telephone to tell me the truth, that man was mur-
dered. There is not the least doubt about it. I
heard the cries of a man who is being killed, dying
cries, the cries which a man utters when at the mo-
ment of death.”.
"You can never be sure."
"I am, absolutely. There is no shadow of doubt
in my mind. The man whom I call our unknown
friend died before finishing his work; he died mur-
dered, whereas Siméon is alive. Besides," contin-
ued Patrice, “this man had a different voice from
Siméon, a voice which I had never heard before and
which I shall never hear again.”
Coralie was convinced and did not insist.
They were seated on one of the benches in the
garden, enjoying the bright April sunshine. The
buds of the chestnut-trees shone at the tips of the
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PATRICE AND CORALIE
branches. The heavy scent of the wall-flowers rose
from the borders; and their brown and yellow blos-
soms, like a cluster of bees and wasps pressed close
together, swayed to the light breeze.
Suddenly Patrice felt a thrill. Coralie had placed
her hand on his, with engaging friendliness; and,
when he turned to look at her, he saw that she was
in tears.
"What's the matter, Little Mother Coralie ?"
Coralie's head bent down and her cheek touched
the officer's shoulder. He dared not move. She
was treating him as a protecting elder brother; and
he shrank from showing any warmth of affection
that might annoy her.
“What is it, dear?” he repeated. “What's the
matter?”
"Oh, it is so strange!" she murmured. “Look,
Patrice, look at those flowers."
They were on the third terrace, commanding a
view of the fourth; and this, the lowest of the ter-
races, was adorned not with borders of wall-flowers
but with beds in which were mingled all manner of
spring flowers; tulips, silvery alyssums, hyacinths,
with a great round plot of pansies in the middle.
“Look over there,” she said, pointing to this plot
with her outstretched arm. “Do you see? ...
Letters. ..."
Patrice looked and gradually perceived that the
clumps of pansies were so arranged as to form on
the ground some letters that stood out among the
other flowers. It did not appear at the first glance.
It took a certain time to see; but, once seen, the let-
ters grouped themselves of their own accord, form-
ing three words set down in a single line:
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
Patrice and Coralie
“Ah," he said, in a low voice, "I understand what
you mean!"
It gave them a thrill of inexpressible excitement
to read their two names, which a friendly hand had,
so to speak, sown; their two names united in pansy-
flowers. It was inexpressibly exciting too that he
and she should always find themselves thus linked
together, linked together by events, linked together
by their portraits, linked together by an unseen force
of will, linked together now by the struggling effort
of little flowers that spring up, waken into life and
blossom in predetermined order.
Coralie, sitting up, said:
"It's Siméon who attends to the garden.”
"Yes," he said, wavering slightly. “But surely
that does not affect my opinion. Our unknown
friend is dead, but Siméon may have known him.
Siméon perhaps was acting with him in certain mat-
ters and must know a good deal. Oh, if he could
only put us on the right road!" .
An hour later, as the sun was sinking on the
horizon, they climbed the terraces. On reaching
the top they saw M. Masseron beckoning to them.
"I have something curious to show you," he said,
"something I have found which will interest both
you, madame, and you, captain, particularly."
He led them to the very end of the terrace, out-
side the occupied part of the house next to the
library. Two detectives were standing mattock in
hand. In the course of their searching, M. Mas-
seron explained, they had begun by removing the
ivy from the low wall adorned with terra-cotta
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PATRICE AND CORALIE
vases. Thereupon M. Masseron's attention was at-
tracted by the fact that this wall was covered, for
a length of some yards, by a layer of plaster which
appeared to be more recent in date than the stone.
"What did it mean?" said M. Masseron. “I had
to presuppose some motive. I therefore had this
layer of plaster demolished; and underneath it I
found a second layer, not so thick as the first and
mingled with the rough stone. Come closer ...
or, rather, no, stand back a little way: you can see
better like that.”
The second layer really served only to keep in
place some small white pebbles, which constituted a
sort of mosaic set in black pebbles and formed a
series of large, written letters, spelling three words.
And these three words once again were:
Patrice and Coralie
“What do you say to that?" asked M. Masseron.
"Observe that the inscription goes several years
back, at least ten years, when we consider the con-
dition of the ivy clinging to this part of the wall."
"At least ten years,” Patrice repeated, when he
was once more alone with Coralie. “Ten years ago
was when you were not married, when you were still
at Salonica and when nobody used to come to this
garden ... nobody except Siméon and such people
as he chose to admit. And among these," he con-
cluded, "was our unknown friend who is now dead.
And Siméon knows the truth, Coralie.”
They saw old Siméon, late that afternoon, as they
had seen him constantly since the tragedy, wandering
in the garden or along the passages of the house,
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restless and distraught, with his comforter always
wound round his head and his spectacles on his nose,
stammering words which no one could understand.
At night, his neighbor, one of the maimed soldiers,
would often hear him humming to himself.
Patrice twice tried to make him speak. He shook
his head and did not answer, or else laughed like
an idiot.
The problem was becoming complicated; and
nothing pointed to a possible solution. Who was it
that, since their childhood, had promised them to
each other as a pair betrothed long beforehand by
an inflexible ordinance? Who was it that arranged
the pansy-bed last autumn, when they did not know
each other? And who was it that had written their
two names, ten years ago, in white pebbles, within
the thickness of a wall? .
These were haunting questions for two young
people in whom love had awakened quite spontan-
eously and who suddenly saw stretching behind them
a long past common to them both. Each step that
they took in the garden seemed to them a pilgrimage
amid forgotten memories; and, at every turn in a
path, they were prepared to discover some new proof
of the bond that linked them together unknown to
themselves.
As a matter of fact, during those few days, they
saw their initials interlaced twice on the trunk of a
tree, once on the back of a bench. And twice again
their names appeared inscribed on old walls and con-
cealed behind a layer of plaster overhung with ivy.
On these two occasions their names were ac-
companied by two separate dates:
152


PATRICE AND CORALIE
Patrice and Coralie, 1904
Patrice and Coralie, 1907
"Eleven years ago and eight years ago," said the
officer. “And always our two names: Patrice and
Coralie."
Their hands met and clasped each other. The
great mystery of their past brought them as closely
together as did the great love which filled them
and of which they refrained from speaking.
In spite of themselves, however, they sought out
solitude; and it was in this way that, a fortnight
after the murder of Essarès Bey, as they passed
the little door opening on the lane, they decided to
go out by it and to stroll down to the river bank.
No one saw them, for both the approach to the
door and the path leading to it were hidden by a
screen of tall bushes; and M. Masseron and his men
were exploring the old green-houses, which stood at
the other side of the garden, and the old furnace and
chimney which had been used for signaling.
But, when he was outside, Patrice stopped. Al-
most in front of him, in the opposite wall, was an
exactly similar door. He called Coralie's attention
to it, but she said:
“There is nothing astonishing about that. This
wall is the boundary of another garden which at one
time belonged to the one we have just left."
"But who lives there?”
"Nobody. The little house which overlooks it
and which comes before mine, in the Rue Raynouard,
is always shut up.”
"Same door, same key, perhaps," Patrice mur-
mured, half to himself.
ich had been ide, Patrice wall, was
most in front he was outside for signalin.
153


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
He inserted in the lock the rusty key, which had
reached him by messenger. The lock responded.
“Well," he said, “the series of miracles is con-
tinuing. Will this one be in our favor?"
The vegetation had been allowed to run riot in
the narrow strip of ground that faced them. How-
ever, in the middle of the exuberant grass, a well-
trodden path, which looked as if it were often used,
started from the door in the wall and rose obliquely
to the single terrace, on which stood a dilapidated
lodge with closed shutters. It was built on one floor,
but was surmounted by a small lantern-shaped bel-
vedere. It had its own entrance in the Rue Ray-
nouard, from which it was separated by a yard and
a very high wall. This entrance seemed to be bar-
ricaded with boards and posts nailed together.
They walked round the house and were surprised
by the sight that awaited them on the right-hand side.
The foliage had been trained into rectangular clois-
ters, carefully kept, with regular arcades cut in yew-
and box-hedges. A miniature garden was laid out
in this space, the very home of silence and tranquil.
lity. Here also were wall-flowers and pansies and
hyacinths. And four paths, coming from four cor-
ners of the cloisters, met round a central space,
where stood the five columns of a small, open temple,
rudely constructed of pebbles and unmortared build-
ing-stones.
Under the dome of this little temple was a tomb-
stone and, in front of it, an old wooden praying-
chair, from the bars of which hung, on the left, an
ivory crucifix and, on the right, a rosary composed
of amethyst beads in a gold filigree setting. .
“Coralie, Coralie,” whispered Patrice, in a voice
154


PATRICE AND CORALIE
trembling with emotion, “who can be buried here?"
They went nearer. There were bead wreaths laid
in rows on the tombstone. They counted nineteen,
each bearing the date of one of the last nineteen
years. Pushing them aside, they read the following
inscription in gilt letters worn and soiled by the rain:
HERE Lie
PATRICE AND CORALIE,
BOTH OF WHOM WERE MURDERED
ON THE 14th OF APRIL, 1895.
REVENGE TO ME:I WILL REPAY.
155


CHAPTER X
THE RED CORD
CORALIE, feeling her legs give way beneath her,
had flung herself on the prie-dieu and there knelt
praying fervently and wildly. She could not tell
on whose behalf, for the repose of what unknown
soul her prayers were offered; but her whole being
was afire with fever and exaltation and the very
action of praying seemed able to assuage her.
“What was your mother's name, Coralie ?” Pa.
trice whispered.
“Louise," she replied.
"And my father's name was Armand. It cannot
be either of them, therefore; and yet ...".
Patrice also was displaying the greatest agita-
tion. Stooping down, he examined the nineteen
wreaths, renewed his inspection of the tombstone
and said:
"All the same, Coralie, the coincidence is really
too extraordinary. My father died in 1895.".
“And my mother died in that year too," she
said, "though I do not know the exact date.”
"We shall find out, Coralie," he declared. “These
things can all be verified. But meanwhile one truth
becomes clear. The man who used to interlace the
names of Patrice and Coralie was not thinking only
of us and was not considering only the future. Per-
haps he thought even more of the past, of that
4. All the dinary:
died in he exact dped. Theith
156


THE RED CORD
Coralie and Patrice whom he knew to have suffered
a violent death and whom he had undertaken to
avenge. Come away, Coralie. No one must sus-
pect that we have been here."
They went down the path and through the two
doors on the lane. They were not seen coming in.
Patrice at once brought Coralie indoors, urged Ya-
Bon and his comrades to increase their vigilance
and left the house.
He came back in the evening only to go out again
early the next day; and it was not until the day
after, at three o'clock in the afternoon, that he
asked to be shown up to Coralie.
"Have you found out?” she asked him at once.
"I have found out a great many things which do
not dispel the darkness of the present. I am almost
tempted to say that they increase it. They do, how-
over, throw a very vivid light on the past.”
“Do they explain what we saw two days ago ?”
she asked, anxiously.
"Listen to me, Coralie."
He sat down opposite her and said:
“I shall not tell you all the steps that I have taken.
I will merely sum up the result of those which led.
to some result. I went, first of all, to the Mayor
of Passy's office and from there to the Servian
Legation.”
“Then you persist in assuming that it was my
mother?"
“Yes. I took a copy of her death-certificate, Co-
ralie. Your mother died on the fourteenth of
April, 1895."
“Oh!” she said. “That is the date on the tomb !"
“The very date."
157


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
“But the name ? Coralie? My father used to
call her Louise."
“Your mother's name was Louise Coralie Count-
ess Odolavitch."
"Oh, my mother!" she murmured. “My poor
darling mother! Then it was she who was mur-
dered. It was for her that I was praying over
the 'way?”
"For her, Coralie, and for my father. I dis-
covered his full name at the mayor's office in the
Rue Drouot. My father was Armand Patrice Bel-
val. He died on the fourteenth of April, 1895."
Patrice was right in saying that a singular light
had been thrown upon the past. He had now posi-
tively established that the inscription on the tomb-
stone related to his father and Coralie's mother,
both of whom were murdered on the same day. But
by whom and for what reason, in consequence of
what tragedies ? This was what Coralie asked him
to tell her.
“I cannot answer your questions yet," he replied.
“But I addressed another to myself, one more easily
solved; and that I did solve. This also makes us
certain of an essential point. I wanted to know
to whom the lodge belonged. The outside, in the
Rue Raynouard, affords no clue. You have seen
the wall and the door of the yard: they show noth-
ing in particular. But the number of the property
was sufficient for my purpose. I went to the local
receiver and learnt that the taxes were paid by a
notary in the Avenue de l'Opéra. I called on this
notary, who told me ..."
He stopped for a moment and then said:
“The lodge was bought twenty-one years ago by
158


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
names, which were also yours and mine. One day
your mother dropped her amethyst rosary. The
largest of the beads broke in two pieces. My father
had one of the pieces mounted as a trinket which
he hung on his watch-chain. Both were widowed.
You were two years old and I was eight. In order
to devote himself altogether to the woman he loved,
my father sent me to England and bought the lodge
in which your mother, who lived in the big house
next door, used to go and see him, crossing the
lane and using the same key for both doors. It was
no doubt in this lodge, or in the garden round it,
that they were murdered. We shall find that out,
because there must be visible proofs of the murder,
proofs which Siméon Diodokis discovered, since he
was not afraid to say so in the inscription on the
tombstone."
"And who was the murderer?” Coralie asked,
under her breath.
"You suspect it, Coralie, as I do. The hated
name comes to your mind, even though we have no
grounds for speaking with certainty."
"Essarès !" she cried, in anguish.
“Most probably."
She hid her face in her hands:
“No, no, it is impossible. It is impossible that I
should have been the wife of the man who killed
my mother."
"You bore his name, but you were never his
wife. You told him so the evening before his
death, in my presence. Let us say nothing that we
are unable to say positively; but all the same let us
remember that he was your evil genius. Remember
also that Siméon, my father's friend and executor,
160


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
seven. I cannot say. Everything that happened
on that ill-fated morning remains involved in the
deepest mystery. The only conviction that we are
able to hold is that for twenty years Siméon Di-
odokis has worked unobtrusively and patiently on
our behalf, doing his utmost to defeat the mur-
derer, and that Siméon Diodokis is alive. Alive,
but mad!" Patrice added. “So that we can neither
thank him nor question him about the grim story
which he knows or about the dangers that threaten
you."
Patrice resolved once more to make the attempt,
though he felt sure of a fresh disappointment.
Siméon had a bedroom, next to that occupied by two
of the wounded soldiers, in the wing which formerly
contained the servants' quarters. Here Patrice
found him.
He was sitting half-asleep in a chair turned to-
wards the garden. His pipe was in his mouth; he
had allowed it to go out. The room was small,
sparsely furnished, but clean and light. Hidden
from view, the best part of the old man's life was
spent here. M. Masseron had often visited the
room, in Siméon's absence, and so had Patrice, each
from his own point of view.
The only discovery worthy of note consisted of
a crude diagram in pencil, on the white wall-paper
behind a chest of drawers: three lines intersecting
to form a large equilateral triangle. In the middle
of this geometrical figure were three words clumsily
inscribed in adhesive gold-leaf:
The Golden Triangle
162 .


THE RED CORD
There was nothing more, not another clue of any
kind, to further M. Masseron's search.
Patrice walked straight up to the old man and
tapped him on the shoulder:
“Siméon !” he said.
The other lifted his yellow spectacles to him,
and Patrice felt a sudden wish to snatch away this
glass obstacle which concealed the old fellow's eyes
and prevented him from looking into his soul and
his distant memories. Siméon began to laugh fool-
ishly.
"So this,” thought Patrice, "is my friend and my
father's friend. He loved my father, respected his
wishes, was faithful to his memory, raised a tomb
to him, prayed on it and swore to avenge him. And
now his mind has gone."
Patrice felt that speech was useless. But, though
the sound of his voice roused no echo in that wan-
dering brain, it was possible that the eyes were
susceptible to a reminder. He wrote on a clean
sheet of paper the words that Siméon had gazed
upon so often:
Patrice and Coralie
14 April, 1895
The old man looked, shook his head and repeated
his melancholy, foolish chuckle.
The officer added a new line:
Armand Belval
The old man displayed the same torpor. Patrice
continued the test. He wrote down the names of
163


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
Essarès Bey and Colonel Fakhi. He drew a tri-
angle. The old man failed to understand and went
on chuckling.
But suddenly his laughter lost some of its child-
ishness. Patrice had written the name of Bournef,
the accomplice, and this time the old secretary ap-
peared to be stirred by a recollection. He tried to
get up, fell back in his chair, then rose to his feet
again and took his hat from a peg on the wall.
He left his room and, followed by Patrice,
marched out of the house and turned to the left,
in the direction of Auteuil. He moved like a man
in a trance who is hypnotized into walking with-
out knowing where he is going. He led the way
along the Rue de Boulainvilliers, crossed the Seine
and turned down the Quai de Grenelle with an un-.
hesitating step. Then, when he reached the boule-
vard, he stopped, putting out his arm, made a sign
to Patrice to do likewise. A kiosk hid them from
view. He put his head round it. Patrice followed
his example.
Opposite, at the corner of the boulevard and a
side-street, was a café, with a portion of the pave-
ment in front of it marked out by dwarf shrubs in
tubs. Behind these tubs four men sat drinking.
Three of them had their backs turned to Patrice.
He saw the only one that faced him, and he at
once recognized Bournef.
By this time Siméon was some distance away, like
a man whose part is played and who leaves it to
others to complete the work. Patrice looked round,
caught sight of a post-office and went in briskly.
He knew that M. Masseron was at the Rue Ray-
nouard. He telephoned and told him where Bour-
164


THE RED CORD
nef was. M. Masseron replied that he would come
at once.
Since the murder of Essarès Bey, M. Masseron's
enquiry had made no progress in so far as Colonel
Fakhi's four accomplices were concerned. True,
they discovered the man Grégoire's sanctuary and
the bedrooms with the wall-cupboards; but the whole
place was empty. The accomplices had disappeared.
"Old Siméon,” said Patrice to himself, “was ac-
quainted with their habits. He must have known
that they were accustomed to meet at this café on
a certain day of the week, at a fixed hour, and he
suddenly remembered it all at the sight of Bournef's
name."
A few minutes later M. Masseron alighted from
his car with his men. The business did not take
long. The open front of the café was surrounded.
The accomplices offered no resistance. M. Mas-
seron sent three of them under a strong guard to
the Dépôt and hustled Bournef into a private room.
“Come along,” he said to Patrice. “We'll ques-
tion him."
“Mme. Essarès is alone at the house," Patrice
objected.
“Alone ? No. There are all your soldier-men."
“Yes, but I would rather go back, if you don't
mind. It's the first time that I've left her and I'm
justified in feeling anxious.”
"It's only a matter of a few minutes,” M. Mas-
seron insisted. “One should always take advantage
of the fluster caused by the arrest."
Patrice followed him, but they soon saw that
Bournef was not one of those men who are easily
165


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
put out. He simply shrugged his shoulders at their
threats:
"It is no use, sir," he said, “to try and frighten
me. I risk nothing. Shot, do you say? Nonsense!
You don't shoot people in France for the least
thing; and we are all four subjects of a neutral
country. Tried? Sentenced ? Imprisoned ? Never!
You forget that you have kept everything dark
so far; and, when you hushed up the murder of
Mustapha, of Fakhi and of Essarès, it was not done
with the object of reviving the case for no valid
reason. No, sir, I am quite easy. The internment-
camp is the worst that can await me.”
“Then you refuse to answer?” said M. Mas-
seron.
“Not a bit of it! I accept internment. But there
are twenty different ways of treating a man in these
camps, and I should like to earn your favor and,
in so doing, make sure of reasonable comfort till
the end of the war. But first of all, what do you
know?”
“Pretty well everything."
“That's a pity: it decreases my value. Do you
know about Essarès' last night?"
“Yes, with the bargain of the four millions.
What's become of the money?”.
Bournef made a furious gesture:
“Taken from us! Stolen! It was a trap!"
“Who took it?"
“One Grégoire.”
"Who was he?"
"His familiar, as we have since learnt. We dis-
covered that this Grégoire was no other than a fel-
low who used to serve as his chauffeur on occasion."
166


THE RED CORD
“And who therefore helped him to convey the
bags of gold from the bank to his house."
"Yes. And we also think, we know ... Look
here, you may as well call it a certainty. Grégoire
... is a woman."
"A woman!"
"Exactly. His mistress. We have several proofs
of it. But she's a trustworthy, capable woman,
strong as a man and afraid of nothing."
“Do you know her address ?”
"No.
“As to the gold: have you no clue to its where-
abouts, no suspicion ?"
“No. The gold is in the garden or in the house
in the Rue Raynouard. We saw it being taken in
every day for a week. It has not been taken out
since. We kept watch every night. The bags are
there."
"No clue either to Essarès' murderer?"
"No, none."
“Are you quite sure?”
“Why should I tell a lie?"
"Suppose it was yourself? Or one of your
friends ?”
“We thought that you would suspect us. For-
tunately, we happen to have an alibi.”
"Easy to prove?”
"Impossible to upset.”
“We'll look into it. So you have nothing more
to reveal ?”
“No. But I have an idea ... or rather a ques-
tion which you will answer or not, as you please.
Who betrayed us? Your reply may throw some
useful light, for one person only knew of our weekly
167


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
meetings here from four to five o'clock, one person
only, Essarès Bey; and he himself often came here
to confer with us. Essarès is dead. Then who gave
us away?"
"Old Siméon."
Bournef started with astonishment:
“What! Siméon ? Siméon Diodokis?”
“Yes. Siméon Diodokis, Essarès Bey's secre-
tary."
"He? Oh, I'll make him pay for this, the black-
guard! But no, it's impossible.”
“What makes you say that it's impossible?”
“Why, because ..."
He stopped and thought for some time, no doubt
to convince himself that there was no harm in speak-
ing. Then he finished his sentence:
"Because old Siméon was on our side."
“What's that you say?" exclaimed Patrice, whose
turn it was to be surprised.
"I say and I swear that Siméon Diodokis was on
our side. He was our man. It was he who kept
us informed of Essarès Bey's shady tricks. It was
he who rang us up at nine o'clock in the evening to
tell us that Essarès had lit the furnace of the old hot-
houses and that the signal of the sparks was going
to work. It was he who opened the door to us,
pretending to resist, of course, and allowed us to
tie him up in the porter's lodge. It was he, lastly,
who paid and dismissed the men-servants.”
“But why? Why this treachery? For the sake
of money?"
"No, from hatred. He bore Essarès Bey a
hatred that often gave us the shudders."
“What prompted it?"
168


THE RED CORD
“I don't know. Siméon keeps his own council.
But it dated a long way back.”
"Did he know where the gold was hidden?”
asked M. Masseron.
"No. And it was not for want of hunting to find
out. He never knew how the bags got out the
cellar, which was only a temporary hiding-place.”
"And yet they used to leave the grounds. If
so, how are we to know that the same thing didn't
happen this time?".
“This time we were keeping watch the whole
way round outside, a thing which Siméon could not
do by himself.”
Patrice now put the question:
“Can you tell us nothing more about him?"
"No, I can't. Wait, though; there was one
rather curious thing. On the afternoon of the great
day, I received a letter in which Siméon gave me cer-
tain particulars. In the same envelope was another
letter, which had evidently got there by some incred-
ible mistake, for it appeared to be highly important."
“What did it say?" asked Patrice, anxiously.
"It was all about a key."
"Don't you remember the details ?"
"Here is the letter. I kept it in order to give it
back to him and warn him what he had done. Here,
it's certainly his writing. ..."
Patrice took the sheet of notepaper; and the first
thing that he saw was his own name. The letter
was addressed to him, as he anticipated:
“Patrice,
“You will this evening receive a key. The key
opens two doors midway down a lane leading to
169


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
the river: one, on the right, is that of the garden
of the woman you love; the other, on the left, that
of a garden where I want you to meet me at nine
o'clock in the morning on the 14th of April. She
will be there also. You shall learn who I am and
the object which I intend to attain. You shall both
hear things about the past that will bring you still
closer together.
“From now until the 14th the struggle which be-
gins to-night will be a terrible one. If anything
happens to me, it is certain that the woman you love
will run the greatest dangers. Watch over her,
Patrice; do not leave her for an instant unpro-
tected. But I do not intend to let anything happen
to me; and you shall both know the happiness which
I have been preparing for you so long.
“My best love to you."
"It's not signed,” said Bournef, “but, I repeat,
it's in Siméon's handwriting. As for the lady, she
is obviously Mme. Essarès."
"But what danger can she be running ?” exclaimed
Patrice, uneasily. “Essarès is dead, so there is
nothing to fear."
"I wouldn't say that. He would take some kill-
ing.”
"Whom can he have instructed to avenge him?
Who would continue his work ?"
“I can't say, but I should take no risks."
Patrice waited to hear no more. He thrust the
letter into M. Masseron's hand and made his es-
саре.
"Rue Raynouard, fast as you can," he said, spring-
ing into a taxi.
170


THE RED CORD
He was eager to reach his destination. The dan-
gers of which old Siméon spoke seemed suddenly
to hang over Coralie's head. Already the enemy,
taking advantage of Patrice's absence, might be
attacking his beloved. And who could defend her?”
“If anything happens to me," Siméon had said.
And the supposition was partly realized, since
he had lost his wits.
“Come, come," muttered Patrice, "this is sheer
idiocy. ...I am fancying things. ... There is
no reason ..."
But his mental anguish increased every minute.
He reminded himself that old Siméon was still in
full possession of his faculties at the time when he
· wrote that letter and gave the advice which it con-
tained. He reminded himself that old Siméon had
purposely informed him that the key opened the
door of Coralie's garden, so that he, Patrice, might
keep an effective watch by coming to her in case
of need.
He saw Siméon some way ahead of him. It was
growing late, and the old fellow was going home.
Patrice passed him just outside the porter's lodge
and heard him humming to himself.
"Any news?” Patrice asked the soldier on duty.
"No, sir."
"Where's Little Mother Coralie ?"
"She had a walk in the garden and went upstairs
half an hour ago.”.
“Ya-Bon?”
"Ya-Bon went up with Little Mother Coralie.
He should be at her door.”
Patrice climbed the stairs, feeling a good deal
calmer. But, when he came to the first floor, he
171


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
was astonished to find that the electric light was
not on. He turned on the switch. Then he saw,
at the end of the passage, Ya-Bon on his knees out-
side Coralie's room, with his head leaning against
the wall. The door was open.
“What are you doing there?" he shouted, run-
- ning up.
Ya-Bon made no reply. Patrice saw that there
was blood on the shoulder of his jacket. At that
moment the Senegalese sank to the floor.
“Damn it! He's wounded! Dead perhaps."
He leapt over the body and rushed into the room,
switching on the light at once.
Coralie was lying at full length on a sofa. Round
her neck was the terrible little red-silk cord. And
yet Patrice did not experience that awful, numbing
despair which we feel in the presence of irretrievable
misfortunes. It seemed to him that Coralie's face
had not the pallor of death.
He found that she was in fact breathing:
"She's not dead. She's not dead," said Patrice
to himself. “And she's not going to die, I'm sure
of it ... nor Ya-Bon either. ... They've failed
this time.”
He loosened the cords. In a few seconds Coralie
heaved a deep breath and recovered consciousness.
A smile lit up her eyes at the sight of him. But,
suddenly remembering, she threw her arms, still
so weak, around him:
"Oh, Patrice,” she said, in a trembling voice, "I'm
frightened . . . frightened for you!"
“What are you frightened of, Coralie ? Who is
the scoundrel?”
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THE RED CORD
“I didn't see him.... He put out the light,
caught me by the throat and whispered, 'You first.
... To-night it will be your lover's turn!' ...
Oh, Patrice, I'm frightened for you! ..."
173


CHAPTER XI
ON THE BRINK
PATRICE at once made up his mind what to do. He
lifted Coralie to her bed and asked her not to move
or call out. Then he made sure that Ya-Bon was
not seriously wounded. Lastly, he rang violently,
sounding all the bells that communicated with the
posts which he had placed in different parts of the
house.
The men came hurrying up.
"You're a pack of nincompoops,” he said. "Some
one's been here. Little Mother Coralie and Ya-
Bon have had a narrow escape from being killed.”
They began to protest loudly.
"Silence!” he commanded. “You deserve a good
hiding, every one of you. I'll forgive you on one
condition, which is that, all this evening and all
to-night, you speak of Little Mother Coralie as
though she were dead.”
"But whom are we to speak to, sir?” one of them
objected. “There's nobody here."
“Yes, there is, you silly fool, since Little Mother
Coralie and Ya-Bon have been attacked. Unless
it was yourselves who did it! ... It wasn't? Very
well then. ... And let me have no more nonsense.
It's not a question of speaking to others, but of
talking among yourselves . . . and of thinking,
even, without speaking. There are people listening
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ON THE BRINK
to you, spying on you, people who hear what you
say and who guess what you don't say. So, until
to-morrow, Little Mother Coralie will not leave her
room. You shall keep watch over her by turns.
Those who are not watching will go to bed imme-
diately after dinner. No moving about the house,
do you understand? Absolute silence and quiet.”
"And old Siméon, sir?"
"Lock him up in his room. He's dangerous be-
cause he's mad. They may have taken advantage
of his madness to make him open the door to them.
Lock him up!"
Patrice's plan was a simple one. As the enemy,
believing Coralie to be on the point of death, had
revealed to her his intention, which was to kill
Patrice as well, it was necessary that he should
think himself free to act, with nobody to suspect his
schemes or to be on his guard against him. He
would enter upon the struggle and would then be
caught in a trap.
Pending this struggle, for which he longed with
all his might, Patrice saw to Ya-Bon's wound, which
proved to be only slight, and questioned him and
Coralie. Their answers tallied at all points. Co-
ralie, feeling a little tired, was lying down reading.
Ya-Bon remained in the passage, outside the open
door, squatting on the floor, Arab-fashion. Neither
of them heard anything suspicious. And suddenly
Ya-Bon saw a shadow between himself and the light
in the passage. This light, which came from an elec-
tric lamp, was put out at just about the same time
as the light in the bed-room. Ya-Bon, already half-
erect, felt a violent blow in the back of the neck
and lost consciousness. Coralie tried to escape by
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
the door of her boudoir, was unable to open it, be-
gan to cry out and was at once seized and thrown
down. All this had happened within the space of a
few seconds.
The only hint that Patrice succeeded in obtaining
was that the man came not from the staircase but
from the servants' wing. This had a smaller stair-
case of its own, communicating with the kitchen
through a pantry by which the tradesmen entered
from the Rue Raynouard. The door leading to
the street was locked. But some one might easily
possess a key.
After dinner Patrice went in to see Coralie for
a moment and then, at nine o'clock, retired to his
bedroom, which was situated a little lower down,
on the same side. It had been used, in Essarès
Bey's lifetime, as a smoking-room.
As the attack from which he expected such good
results was not likely to take place before the middle
of the night, Patrice, sat down at a roll-top desk
standing against the wall and took out the diary in
which he had begun his detailed record of recent
events. He wrote on for half an hour or forty
minutes and was about to close the book when he
seemed to hear a vague rustle, which he would cer-
tainly not have noticed if his nerves had not been
stretched to their utmost state of tension. And he
remembered the day when he and Coralie had once
before been shot at. This time, however, the win-
dow was not open nor even ajar.
He therefore went on writing without turning his
head or doing anything to suggest that his attention
had been aroused; and he set down, almost un-
consciously, the actual phases of his anxiety:
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ON THE BRINK
"He is here. He is watching me. I wonder what
he means to do. I doubt if he will smash a pane of
glass and fire a bullet at me. He has tried that
method before and found it uncertain and a failure.
No, his plan is thought out, I expect, in a different
and more intelligent fashion. He is more likely to
wait for me to go to bed, when he can watch me
sleeping and effect his entrance by some means which
I can't guess.
"Meanwhile, it's extraordinarily exhilarating to
know that his eyes are upon me. He hates me; and
his hatred is coming nearer and nearer to mine, like
one sword feeling its way towards another before
clashing. He is watching me as a wild animal,
lurking in the dark, watches its prey and selects
the spot on which to fasten its fangs. But no, I am
certain that it's he who is the prey, doomed before-
hand to defeat and destruction. He is preparing his
knife or his red-silk cord. And it's these two hands
of mine that will finish the battle. They are strong
and powerful and are already enjoying their vic-
tory. They will be victorious.”
Patrice shut down the desk, lit a cigarette and
smoked it quietly, as his habit was before going to
bed. Then he undressed, folded his clothes care-
fully over the back of a chair, wound up his watch,
got into bed and switched off the light.
"At last," he said to himself, “I shall know the
truth. I shall know who this man is. Some friend
of Essarès', continuing his work? But why this
hatred of Coralie ? Is he in love with her, as he
is trying to finish me off too? I shall know ...I
shall soon know. ..."
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
An hour passed, however, and another hour, dur-
ing which nothing happened on the side of the win-
dow. A single creaking came from somewhere be-
side the desk. But this no doubt was one of those
sounds of creaking furniture which we often hear
in the silence of the night.
Patrice began to lose the buoyant hope that had
sustained him so far. He perceived that his elab-
orate sham regarding Coralie's death was a poor
thing after all and that a man of his enemy's stamp
might well refuse to be taken in by it. Feeling
rather put out, he was on the point of going to
sleep, when he heard the same creaking sound at
the same spot.
The need to do something made him jump out
of bed. He turned on the light. Everything seemed
to be as he had left it. There was no trace of a
strange presence.
“Well," said Patrice, "one thing's certain: I'm no
good. The enemy must have smelt a rat and guessed
the trap I laid for him. Let's go to sleep. There
will be nothing happening to-night.”
There was in fact no alarm.
Next morning, on examining the window, he ob-
served that a stone ledge ran above the ground-
floor all along the garden front of the house, wide
enough for a man to walk upon by holding on to the
balconies and rain-pipes. He inspected all the
rooms to which the ledge gave access. None of
them was old Siméon's room.
"He hasn't stirred out, I suppose ?” he asked'
the two soldiers posted on guard.
"Don't think so, sir. In any case, we haven't
unlocked the door."
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ON THE BRINK
Patrice went in and, paying no attention to the
old fellow, who was still sucking at his cold pipe,
he searched the room, having it at the back of his
mind that the enemy might take refuge there. He
found nobody. But what he did discover, in a press
in the wall, was a number of things which he had
not seen on the occasion of his investigations in M.
Masseron's company. These consisted of a rope-
ladder, a coil of lead pipes, apparently gas-pipes,
and a small soldering-lamp.
"This all seems devilish odd," he said to himself.
"How did the things get in here? Did Siméon col-
lect them without any definite object, mechanically ?
Or am I to assume that Siméon is merely an instru-
ment of the enemy's? He used to know the enemy
before he lost his reason; and he may be under his
influence at present.”
Siméon was sitting at the window, with his back
to the room. Patrice went up to him and gave a
start. In his hands the old man held a funeral-
wreath made of black and white beads. It bore a
date, “14 April, 1915," and made the twentieth,
the one which Siméon was preparing to lay on the
grave of his dead friends.
"He will lay it there,” said Patrice, aloud. "His
instinct as an avenging friend, which has guided his
steps through life, continues in spite of his insanity.
He will lay it on the grave. That's so, Siméon, isn't
it: you will take it there to-morrow? For to-mor-
row is the fourteenth of April, the sacred anni-
versary. ..."
He leant over the incomprehensible being who
held the key to all the plots and counterplots, to all
the treachery and benevolence that constituted the
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
inextricable drama. Siméon thought that Patrice
wanted to take the wreath from him and pressed it
to his chest with a startled gesture.
“Don't be afraid,” said Patrice. "You can keep
it. To-morrow, Siméon, to-morrow, Coralie and
I will be faithful to the appointment which you
gave us. And to-morrow perhaps the memory of
the horrible past will unseal your brain.”
The day seemed long to Patrice, who was eager
for something that would provide a glimmer in
the surrounding darkness. And now this glimmer
seemed about to be kindled by the arrival of this
twentieth anniversary of the fourteenth of April.
At a late hour in the afternoon M. Masseron
called at the Rue Raynouard.
“Look what I've just received," he said to Patrice.
"It's rather curious: an anonymous letter in a dis-
guised hand. Listen:
“ 'Sir, be warned. They're going away. Take
care. To-morrow evening the 1800 bags will be on
their way out of the country.
A FRIEND OF FRANCE.'”
"And to-morrow is the fourteenth of April,” said
Patrice, at once connecting the two trains of thought
in his mind.
“Yes. What makes you say that?"
“Nothing. ... Something that just occurred to
me. ..."
He was nearly telling M. Masseron all the facts
associated with the fourteenth of April and all those
concerning the strange personality of old Siméon.
If he did not speak, it was for obscure reasons,
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ON THE BRINK
perhaps because he wished to work out this part of
the case alone, perhaps also because of a sort of
shyness which prevented him from admitting M.
Masseron into all the secrets of the past. He said
nothing about it, therefore, and asked:
“What do you think of the letter?”
"Upon my word, I don't know what to think.
It may be a warning with something to back it, or
it may be a trick to make us adopt one course of
conduct rather than another. I'll talk about it to
Bournef.”
"Nothing fresh on his side ?"
"No; and I don't expect anything in particular.
The alibi which he has submitted is genuine. His
friends and he are so many supers. Their parts are
played."
The coincidence of dates was all that stuck in
Patrice's mind. The two roads which M. Masseron
and he were following suddenly met on this day
so long since marked out by fate. The past and
the present were about to unite. The catastrophe
was at hand. The fourteenth of April was the day
on which the gold was to disappear for good and
also the day on which an unknown voice had sum-
moned Patrice and Coralie to the same tryst which
his father and her mother had kept twenty years
ago.
And the next day was the fourteenth of April.
At nine o'clock in the morning Patrice asked
after old Siméon.
“Gone out, sir. You had countermanded your
orders."
Patrice entered the room and looked for the
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
wreath. It was not there. Moreover, the three
things in the cupboard, the rope-ladder, the coil
of lead and the glazier's lamp, were not there either.
“Did Siméon take anything with him?"
“Yes, sir, a wreath."
“Nothing else?"
"No, sir.”
The window was open. Patrice came to the con-
clusion that the things had gone by this way, thus
confirming his theory that the old fellow was an un-
conscious confederate.
Shortly before ten o'clock Coralie joined him
in the garden. Patrice had told her the latest events.
She looked pale and anxious.
They went round the lawns and, without being
seen, reached the clumps of dwarf shrubs which
hid the door on the lane. Patrice opened the door.
As he started to open the other his hand hesitated.
He felt sorry that he had not told M. Masseron
and that he and Coralie were performing by them-
selves a pilgrimage which certain signs warned him
to be dangerous. He shook off the obsession, how-
eyer. He had two revolvers with him. What had
he to fear?
"You're coming in, aren't you, Coralie ?”.
"Yes," she said.
“I somehow thought you seemed undecided, anx-
ious ..."
"It's quite true,” said Coralie. "I feel a sort of
hollowness."
“Why? Are you afraid?".
"No. Or rather yes. I'm not afraid for to-day,
but in some way for the past. I think of my poor
mother, who went through this door, as I am doing,
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ON THE BRINK
one April morning. She was perfectly happy, she
was going to meet her love. ... And then I feel
as if I wanted to hold her back and cry, 'Don't go
on. ... Death is lying in wait for you. ... Don't
go on. ... And it's I who hear those words of
terror, they ring in my ears; it's I who hear them
and I dare not go on. I'm afraid.”
“Let's go back, Coralie.”
She only took his arm:
"No," she said, in a firm voice. “We'll walk on.
I want to pray. It will do me good.”
Boldly she stepped along the little slanting path
which her mother had followed and climbed the
slope amid the tangled weeds and the straggling
branches. They passed the lodge on their left and
reached the leafy cloisters where each had a parent
lying buried. And at once, at the first glance, they
saw that the twentieth wreath was there.
"Siméon has come," said Patrice. "An all-power-
ful instinct obliged him to come. He must be some-
where near.”
While Coralie knelt down beside the tombstone,
he hunted around the cloisters and went as far as
the middle of the garden. There was nothing left
but to go to the lodge, and this was evidently a dread
act which they put off performing, if not from fear,
at least from the reverent awe which checks a man
on entering a place of death and crime.
It was Coralie once again who gave the signal
for action:
“Come,” she said.
Patrice did not know how they would make their
way into the lodge, for all its doors and windows had
appeared to them to be shut. But, as they ap-
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ON THE BRINK
needlework, an embroidery-frame, a piece of tapes-
try with a needle hanging to it by a thread of wool.
And there were also books signed “Patrice” and a
box of cigars and a blotting-pad and an inkstand
and penholders. And there were two small framed
photographs, those of two children, Patrice and
Coralie. And thus the life of long ago went on,
not only the life of two lovers who loved each other
with a violent and fleeting passion, but of two beings
who dwell together in the calm assurance of a long
existence spent in common.
"Oh, my darling, darling mother!” Coralie whis-
pered.
Her emotion increased with each new memory.
She leant trembling on Patrice's shoulder.
"Let's go,” he said.
“Yes, dear, yes, we had better. We will come
back again. ... We will come back to them. ...
We will revive the life of love that was cut short
by their death. Let us go for to-day; I have no
strength left.”
But they had taken only a few steps when they
stopped dismayed.
The door was closed.
Their eyes met, filled with uneasiness.
"We didn't close it, did we?” he asked.
"No," she said, "we didn't close it.”
He went to open it and perceived that it had
neither handle nor lock.
It was a single door, of massive wood that looked
hard and substantial. It might well have been made
of one piece, taken from the very heart of an oak.
There was no paint or varnish on it. Here and
there were scratches, as if some one had been rap-
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
ping at it with a tool. And then ... and then,
on the right, were these few words in pencil:
Patrice and Coralie, 14 April, 1895
God will avenge us
Below this was a cross and, below the cross, an-
other date, but in a different and more recent hand.
writing:
14 April, 1915
“This is terrible, this is terrible," said Patrice.
"To-day's date! Who can have written that? It
has only just been written. Oh, it's terrible! ...
Come, come, after all, we can't ...".
He rushed to one of the windows, tore back
the curtain that veiled it and pulled upon the case-
ment. A cry escaped him. The window was walled
up, walled up with building-stones that filled the
space between the glass and the shutters.
He ran to the other window and found the same
obstacle.
There were two doors, leading probably to the
bedroom on the right and to a room next to the
kitchen on the left. He opened them quickly.
Both doors were walled up. .
He ran in every direction, during the first mo-
ment of terror, and then hurled himself against
the first of the three doors and tried to break it
down. It did not move. It might have been an
immovable block.
Then, once again, they looked at each other with
eyes of fear; and the same terrible thought came
over them both. The thing that had happened be-
186


CHAPTER XII
IN THE ABYSS
"No, no, no!" cried Patrice. "I won't stand this !”
He flung himself against the windows and doors,
took up an iron dog from the fender and banged it
against the wooden doors and the stone walls. Bar-
ren efforts! They were the same which his father
had made before him; and they could only result
in the same mockery of impotent scratches on the
wood and the stone.
"Oh, Coralie, Coralie !” he cried in his despair.
“It's I who have brought you to this! What an
abyss I've dragged you into! It was madness to
try to fight this out by myself! I ought to have
called in those who understand, who are accustomed
to it! . . . No, I was going to be so clever! ...
Forgive me, Coralie.”
She had sunk into a chair. He, almost on his
knees beside her, threw his arms around her, im-
ploring her pardon.
She smiled, to calm him:
“Come, dear,” she said, gently, “don't lose cour-
age. Perhaps we are mistaken. ... After all,
there's nothing to show that it is not all an acci-
dent."
"The date!” he said. "The date of this year,
of this day, written in another hand! It was your
mother and my father who wrote the first ... but
188


IN THE ABYSS
this one, Coralie, this one proves premeditation
and an implacable determination to do away with
us."
She shuddered. Still she persisted in trying to
comfort him:
"It may be. But yet it is not so bad as all that.
We have enemies, but we have friends also. They
will look for us."
“They will look for us, but how can they ever
find us, Coralie? We took steps to prevent them
from guessing where we were going; and not one
of them knows this house."
"Old Siméon does."
"Siméon came and placed his wreath, but some
one else came with him, some one who rules him
and who has perhaps already got rid of him, now
that Siméon has played his part.”
“And what then, Patrice ?"
He felt that she was overcome and began to be
ashamed of his own weakness :
"Well,” he said, mastering himself, "we must
just wait. After all, the attack may not materialize.
The fact of our being locked in does not mean that
we are lost. And, even so, we shall make a fight
for it, shall we not? You need not think that I
am at the end of my strength or my resources. Let
us wait, Coralie, and act."
The main thing was to find out whether there
was any entrance to the house which could allow
of an unforeseen attack. After an hour's search
they took up the carpet and found tiles which showed
nothing unusual. There was certainly nothing ex-
cept the door, and, as they could not prevent this
from being opened, since it opened outwards, they
189


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
.
heaped up most of the furniture in front of it, thus
forming a barricade which would protect them
against a surprise.
Then Patrice cocked his two revolvers and placed
them beside him, in full sight.
“This will make us easy in our minds," he said.
"Any enemy who appears is a dead man.”
But the memory of the past bore down upon them
with all its awful weight. All their words and all
their actions others before them had spoken and
performed, under similar conditions, with the same
thoughts and the same forebodings. Patrice's father
must have prepared his weapons. Coralie's mother
must have folded her hands and prayed. Together
they had barricaded the door and together sounded
the walls and taken up the carpet. What an anguish
was this, doubled as it was by a like anguish!
To dispel the horror of the idea, they turned the
pages of the books, works of fiction and others,
which their parents had read. On certain pages, at
the end of a chapter or volume, were lines consti-
tuting notes which Patrice's father and Coralie's
mother used to write each other.
“Darling Patrice,
"I ran in this morning to recreate our life of
yesterday and to dream of our life this afternoon.
As you will arrive before me, you will read these
lines. You will read that I love you. ..."
And, in another book:
“My own Coralie,
"You have this minute gone; I shall not see you
until to-morrow and I do not want to leave this
190


IN THE ABYSS
been renewed in this part, because the varnish of
the boards did not have the same uniform color.
Using one of the iron dogs as a chisel, Patrice broke
down the cornice and lifted the first board. It
broke easily. Under this plank, on the plaster of
the wall, were lines of writing.
“It's the same method,” he said, “as that which
old Siméon has since employed. First write on
the walls, then cover it up with wood or plaster.”
He broke off the top of the other boards and in
this way brought several complete lines into view,
hurried lines, written in pencil and slightly worn
by time. Patrice deciphered them with the great-
est emotion. His father had written them at a
moment when death was stalking at hand. A few
hours later he had ceased to live. They were the
evidence of his death-agony and perhaps too an
imprecation against the enemy who was killing him
and the woman he loved.
Patrice read, in an undertone:
"I am writing this in order that the scoundrel's
plot may not be achieved to the end and in order to
ensure his punishment. Coralie and I are no doubt
going to perish, but at least we shall not die with-
out revealing the cause of our death.
"A few days ago, he said to Coralie, 'You spurn
my love, you load me with your hatred. So be it.
But I shall kill you both, your lover and you, in such
a manner that I can never be accused of the death,
which will look like suicide. Everything is ready.
Beware, Coralie.'
"Everything was, in fact, ready. He did not
know me, but he must have known that Coralie
lie!
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
used to meet somebody here daily; and it was in
this lodge that he prepared our tomb.
“What manner of death ours will be we do not
know. Lack of food, no doubt. It is four hours
since we were imprisoned. The door closed upon
us, a heavy door which he must have placed there
last night. All the other openings, doors and win-
dows alike, are stopped up with blocks of stone
laid and cemented since our last meeting. Escape
is impossible. What is to become of us?”
The uncovered portion stopped here. Patrice
said:
"You see, Coralie, they went through the same
horrors as ourselves. They too dreaded starvation.
They too passed through long hours of waiting,
when inaction is so painful; and it was more or less
to distract their thoughts that they wrote those
lines."
He went on, after examining the spot:
“They counted, most likely, on what happened,
that the man who was killing them would not read
this document. Look, one long curtain was hung
over these two windows and the wall between them,
one curtain, as is proved by the single rod covering
the whole distance. After our parents' death no
one thought of drawing it, and the truth remained
concealed until the day when Siméon discovered it
and, by way of precaution, hid it again under a
wooden panel and hung up two curtains in the place
of one. In this way everything seemed normal.”
Patrice set to work again. A few more lines
made their appearance:
194


IN THE ABYSS
“Oh, if I were the only one to suffer, the only
one to die! But the horror of it all is that I am
dragging my dear Coralie with me. She fainted
and is lying down now, prostrate by the fears which
she tries so hard to overcome. My poor darling!
I seem already to see the pallor of death on her
sweet face. Forgive me, dearest, forgive me!"
Patrice and Coralie exchanged glances. Here
were the same sentiments which they themselves felt,
the same scruples, the same delicacy, the same ef-
facement of self in the presence of the other's
grief.
"He loved your mother," Patrice murmured, “as
I love you. I also am not afraid of death. I have
faced it too often, with a smile! But you, Coralie,
you, for whose sake I would undergo any sort of
torture ...!"
He began to walk up and down, once more yield-
ing to his anger:
"I shall save you, Coralie, I swear it. And what
a delight it will then be to take our revenge! He
shall have the same fate which he was devising for
us. Do you understand, Coralie ? He shall die
here, here in this room. Oh, how my hatred will
spur me to bring that about!”
He tore down more pieces of boarding, in the
hope of learning something that might be useful
to him, since the struggle was being renewed under
exactly similar conditions. But the sentences that
followed, like those which Patrice had just uttered,
were oaths of vengeance:
"Coralie, he shall be punished, if not by us, then
by the hand of God. No, his infernal scheme will
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
not succeed. No, it will never be believed that we
had recourse to suicide to relieve ourselves of an
existence that was built up of happiness and joy.
No, his crime will be known. Hour by hour I shall
here set down the undeniable proofs. . ..".
"Words, words !” cried Patrice, in a tone of ex-
asperation. “Words of vengeance and sorrow, but
never a fact to guide us. Father, will you tell us
nothing to save your Coralie's daughter? If your
Coralie succumbed, let mine escape the disaster,
thanks to your aid, father! Help me! Counsel
me!”
But the father answered the son with nothing but
more words of challenge and despair:
“Who can rescue us? We are walled up in this
tomb, buried alive and condemned to torture with-
out being able to defend ourselves. My revolver
lies there, upon the table. What is the use of it?
The enemy does not attack us. He has time on his
side, unrelenting time which kills of its own strength,
by the mere fact that it is time. Who can rescue
us? Who will save my darling Coralie?”.
The position was terrible, and they felt all its
tragic horror. It seemed to them as though they
were already dead, once they were enduring the
same trial endured by others and that they were
still enduring it under the same conditions. There
was nothing to enable them to escape any of the
phases through which the other two, his father and
her mother, had passed. The similarity between
their own and their parents' fate was so striking
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IN THE ABYSS
that they seemed to be suffering two deaths, and
the second agony was now commencing.
Coralie gave way and began to cry. Moved by
her tears, Patrice attacked the wainscoting with new
fury, but its boards, strengthened by cross-laths, re-
sisted his efforts:
At last he read:
"What is happening? We had an impression
that some one was walking outside, in the garden.
Yes, when we put our ears to the stone wall built
in the embrasure of the window, we thought we
heard footsteps. Is it possible? Oh, if it only
were! It would mean the struggle, at last. Any-
thing rather than the maddening silence and end-
less uncertainty!
"That's it! ... That's it! ... The sound is
becoming more distinct. . . . It is a different sound,
like that which you make when you dig the ground
with a pick-ax. Some one is digging the ground,
not in front of the house, but on the right, near the
kitchen. ..."
Patrice redoubled his efforts. Coralie came and
helped him. This time he felt that a corner of the
veil was being lifted. The writing went on:
"Another hour, with alternate spells of sound and
silence: the same sound of digging and the same
silence which suggests work that is being continued.
"And then some one entered the hall, one person;
he, evidently. We recognized his step. . . . He
walks without attempting to deaden it. ... Then
he went to the kitchen, where he worked the same
tly. We recosto deaden ite the same
ent to the kitchpting to deaden itep.... He
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
way as before, with a pick-ax, but on the stones
this time. We also heard the noise of a pane of
glass breaking.
"And now he has gone outside again and there
is a new sort of sound, against the house, a sound
that seems to travel up the house as though the
wretch had to climb to a height in order to carry
out his plan. ..."
Patrice stopped reading and looked at Coralie.
Both of them were listening.
"Hark!” he said, in a low voice.
"Yes, yes," she answered, “I hear. . . . Steps
outside the house ... in the garden. ...".
They went to one of the windows, where they
had left the casement open behind the wall of build-
ing-stones, and listened. There was really some
one walking; and the knowledge that the enemy
was approaching gave them the same sense of re-
lief that their parents had experienced.
Some one walked thrice round the house. But
they did not, like their parents, recognize the sound
of the footsteps. They were those of a stranger,
or else steps that had changed their tread. Then,
for a few minutes, they heard nothing more. And
suddenly another sound arose; and, though in their
innermost selves they were expecting it, they were
nevertheless stupefied at hearing it. And Patrice,
in a hollow voice, laying stress upon each syllable,
uttered the sentence which his father had written
twenty years before:
"It's the sound which you make when you dig
the ground with a pick-ax.”
Yes, it must be that. Some one was digging the
198


IN THE ABYSS
ground, not in front of the house, but on the right,
near the kitchen.
And so the abominable miracle of the revived
tragedy was continuing. Here again the former
act was repeated, a simple enough act in itself, but
one which became sinister because it was one of
those which had already been performed and be-
cause it was announcing and preparing the death
once before announced and prepared.
An hour passed. The work went on, paused and
went on again. It was like the sound of a spade
at work in a courtyard, when the grave-digger is
in no hurry and takes a rest and then resumes his
work.
Patrice and Coralie stood listening side by side,
their eyes in each other's eyes, their hands in each
other's hands.
"He's stopping," whispered Patrice.
"Yes,” said Coralie; "only I think ..." .
“Yes, Coralie, there's some one in the hall. ...
Oh, we need not trouble to listen! We have only
to remember. There: 'He goes to the kitchen and
digs as he did just now, but on the stones this
time.' . .. And then ... and then ... oh, Co-
ralie, the same sound of broken glass !”
It was memories mingling with the grewsome real-
ity. The present and the past formed but one.
They foresaw events at the very instant when these
took place.
The enemy went outside again; and, forthwith,
the sound seemed “to travel up the house as though
the wretch had to climb to a height in order to carry
out his plans.”
And then ... and then what would happen
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
cut?
They no wall, or perhaps on the invisi
next? They no longer thought of consulting the
inscription on the wall, or perhaps they did not dare.
Their attention was concentrated on the invisible
and sometimes imperceptible deeds that were being
accomplished against them outside, an uninterrupted
stealthy effort, a mysterious twenty-year-old plan
whereof each slightest detail was settled as by clock-
work!
The enemy entered the house and they heard a
rustling at the bottom of the door, a rustling of
soft things apparently being heaped or pushed
against the wood. Next came other vague noises
in the two adjoining rooms, against the walled
doors, and similar noises outside, between the stones
of the windows and the open shutters. And then
they heard some one on the roof.
They raised their eyes. This time they felt cer-
tain that the last act was at hand, or at least one of
the scenes of the last act. The roof to them was
the framed skylight which occupied the center of
the ceiling and admitted the only daylight that en-
tered the room. And still the same agonizing ques-
tion rose to their minds: what was going to hap-
pen? Would the enemy show his face outside the
skylight and reveal himself at last?
This work on the roof continued for a consider-
able time. Footsteps shook the zinc sheets that
covered it, moving between the right-hand side of
the house and the edge of the skylight. And sud-
denly this skylight, or rather a part of it, a square
containing four panes, was lifted, a very little way,
by a hand which inserted a stick to keep it open.
And the enemy again walked across the roof and
went down the side of the house.
200


IN THE ABYSS
They were almost disappointed and felt such a
craving to know the truth that Patrice once more
fell to breaking the boards of the wainscoting, re-
moving the last pieces, which covered the end of
the inscription. And what they read made them
live the last few minutes all over again. The enemy's
return, the rustle against the walls and the walled
windows, the noise on the roof, the opening of the
skylight, the method of supporting it: all this had
happened in the same order and, so to speak, within
the same limit of time. Patrice's father and Co-
ralie's mother had undergone the same impressions.
Destiny seemed bent on following the same paths
and making the same movements in seeking the
same object.
And the writing went on:
"He is going up again, he is going up again. ...
There's his footsteps on the roof.... He is near
the skylight. ... Will he look through? ...
Shall we see his hated face? ...".
“He is going up again, he is going up again,”
gasped Coralie, nestling against Patrice.
The enemy's footsteps were pounding over the
zinc.
“Yes," said Patrice, “he is going up as before,
without departing from the procedure followed by
the other. Only we do not know whose face will
appear to us. Our parents knew their enemy."
She shuddered at her image of the man who had
killed her mother; and she asked:
"It was he, was it not?"
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"Yes, it was he. There is his name, written by
my father."
Patrice had almost entirely uncovered the inscrip-
tion. Bending low, he pointed with his finger:
“Look. Read the name: Essarès. You can see
it down there: it was one of the last words my
father wrote.”
And Coralie read:
“The skylight rose higher, a hand lifted it and
we saw ... we saw, laughing as he looked down
on us—oh, the scoundrel-Essarès ! ... Essarès !
... And then he passed something through the
opening, something that came down, that unrolled
itself in the middle of the room, over our heads: a
ladder, a rope-ladder.
"We did not understand. It was swinging in
front of us. And then, in the end, I saw a sheet of
paper rolled round the bottom rung and pinned to
it. On the paper, in Essarès' handwriting, are the
words, 'Send Coralie up by herself. Her life shall
be saved. I give her ten minutes to accept. If
not ...'
“Ah,” said Patrice, rising from his stooping pos-
ture, "will this also be repeated? What about the
ladder, the rope-ladder, which I found in old
Siméon's cupboard?”.
Coralie kept her eyes fixed on the skylight, for the
footsteps were moving around it. Then they
stopped. Patrice and Coralie had not a doubt that
the moment had come and that they also were
about to see their enemy. And Patrice said huskily,
in a choking voice:
202


IN THE ABYSS
“Who will it be? There are three men who
could have played this sinister part as it was played
before. Two are dead, Essarès and my father.
And Siméon, the third, is mad. Is it he, in his
madness, who has set the machine working again?
But how are we to imagine that he could have
done it with such precision ? No, no, it is the other
one, the one who directs him and who till now has
remained in the background.”
He felt Coralie's fingers clutching his arm.
“Hush,” she said, "here he is !"
“No, no."
“Yes, I'm sure of it."
Her imagination had foretold what was prepar-
ing; and in fact, as once before, the skylight was
raised higher. A hand lifted it. And suddenly they
saw a head slipping under the open framework.
It was the head of old Siméon.
“The madman!” Patrice whispered, in dismay.
“The madman!”
“But perhaps he isn't mad,” she said. "He can't
be mad."
She could not check the trembling that shook
her.
The man overhead looked down upon them, hid-
den behind his spectacles, which allowed no expres-
sion of satisfied hatred or joy to show on his im-
passive features.
“Coralie," said Patrice, in a low voice, “do what
I say. ... Come. ..."
He pushed her gently along, as though he were
supporting her and leading her to a chair. In real-
ity he had but one thought, to reach the table on
203


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
which he had placed his revolvers, take one of
them and fire.
Siméon remained motionless, like some evil genius
come to unloose the tempest. ... Coralie could
not rid herself of that glance which weighted upon
her.
"No," she murmured, resisting Patrice, as though
she feared that his intention would precipitate the
dreaded catastrophe, “no, you mustn't. ..."
But Patrice, displaying greater determination, was
near his object. One more effort and his hand would
hold the revolver.
He quickly made up his mind, took rapid aim
and fired a shot.
The head disappeared from sight.
“Oh,” said Coralie, "you were wrong, Patrice!
He will take his revenge on us. ..."
“No, perhaps not,” said Patrice, still holding his
revolver. "I may very well have hit him. The
bullet struck the frame of the skylight. But it
may have glanced off, in which case ..."
They waited hand in hand, with a gleam of hope,
which did not last long, however.
The noise on the roof began again. And then,
as before-and this they really had the impression
of not seeing for the first time—as before, some-
thing passed through the opening, something that
came down, that unrolled itself in the middle of the
room, a ladder, a rope-ladder, the very one which
Patrice had seen in old Siméon's cupboard.
As before, they looked at it; and they knew so
well that everything was being done over again, that
the facts were inexorably, pitilessly linked together,
they were so certain of it that their eyes at once
een in old saader, the vehiddle of the
204


IN THE ABYSS
sought the sheet of paper which must inevitably be
pinned to the bottom rung.
It was there, forming a little scroll, dry and dis-
colored and torn at the edges. It was the sheet of
twenty years ago, written by Essarès and now serv-
ing, as before, to convey the same temptation and
the same threat:
“Send Coralie up by herself. Her life shall be
saved. I give her ten minutes to accept. If not ..."
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CHAPTER XIII
THE NAILS IN THE COFFIN
"If not ..."
Patrice repeated the words mechanically, several
times over, while their formidable significance be-
came apparent to both him and Coralie. The
words meant that, if Coralie did not obey and did
not deliver herself to the enemy, if she did not flee
from prison to go with the man who held the keys
of the prison, the alternative was death.
At that moment neither of them was thinking
what end was in store for them nor even of that
death itself. They thought only of the command
to separate which the enemy had issued against
them. One was to go and the other to die.
Coralie was promised her life if she would sacri-
fice Patrice. But what was the price of the promise ?
And what would be the form of the sacrifice de-
manded?
There was a long silence, full of uncertainty and
anguish between the two lovers. They were coming
to grips with something; and the drama was no
longer taking place absolutely outside them, without
their playing any other part than that of helpless
victims. It was being enacted within themselves;
and they had the power to alter its ending. It was
a terrible problem. It had already been set to the
earlier Coralie; and she had solved it as a lover
206 .


THE NAILS IN THE COFFIN
would, for she was dead. And now it was being set
again.
Patrice read the inscription; and the rapidly
scrawled words became less distinct:
"I have begged and entreated Coralie. ... She
flung herself on her knees before me. She wants
to die with me. ..."
Patrice looked at Coralie. He had read the
words in a very low voice; and she had not heard
them. Then, in a burst of passion, he drew her
eagerly to him and exclaimed:
“You must go, Coralie! You can understand that
my not saying so at once was not due to hesitation.
No, only ... I was thinking of that man's offer
... and I am frightened for your sake. ...
What he asks, Coralie, is terrible. His reason for
promising to save your life is that he loves you.
And so you understand. ... But still, Coralie, you
must obey . . . you must go on living. ... Go!
It is no use waiting for the ten minutes to pass. He
might change his mind and condemn you to death
as well. No, Coralie, you must go, you must go at
once !”
“I shall stay,” she replied, simply.
He gave a start:
"But this is madness! Why make a useless sacri-
fice? Are you afraid of what might happen if you
obeyed him?"
"No."
"Then go."
"I shall stay."
207


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
0
"But why? Why this obstinacy? It can do no
good. Then why stay?"
"Because I love you, Patrice."
He stood dumfounded. He knew that she loved
him and he had already told her so. But that she
loved him to the extent of preferring to die in his
company, this was an unexpected, exquisite and at
the same time terrible delight.
“Ah,” he said, "you love me, Coralic! You love
me!"
"I love you, my own Patrice."
She put her arms around his neck; and he felt
that hers was an embrace too strong to be sundered.
Nevertheless, he was resolved to save her; and he
refused to yield:
“If you love me," he said, "you must obey me
and save your life. Believe me, it is a hundred
times more painful for me to die with you than to
die alone. If I know that you are free and alive,
death will be sweet to me."
She did not listen and continued her confession,
happy in making it, happy in uttering words which
she had kept to herself so long:
“I have loved you, Patrice, from the first day I
saw you. I knew it without your telling me; and
my only reason for not telling you earlier was that
I was waiting for a solemn occasion, for a time when
it would be a glory to tell you so, while I looked
into the depths of your eyes and offered myself to
you entirely. As I have had to speak on the brink
of the grave, listen to me and do not force upon me
a separation which would be worse than death."
“No, no," he said, striving to release himself, “it
is your duty to go.",
208


THE NAILS IN THE COFFIN
He made another effort and caught hold of her
hands:
“It is your duty to go," he whispered, “and, when
you are free, to do all that you can to save me."
“What are you saying, Patrice?".
“Yes," he repeated, “to save me. There is no
reason why you should not escape from that scoun-
'drel's clutches, report him, seek assistance, warn
our friends. You can call out, you can play some
trick. ..."
She looked at him with so sad a smile and such
a doubting expression that he stopped speaking.
“You are trying to mislead me, my poor darling,”
she said, “but you are no more taken in by what you
say than I am. No, Patrice, you well know that, if
I surrender myself to that man, he will reduce me to
silence or imprison me in some hiding-place, bound
hand and foot, until you have drawn your last
breath."
"You really think that?”
“Just as you do, Patrice. Just as you are sure of
what will happen afterwards."
“Well, what will happen?"
“Ah, Patrice, if that man saves my life, it will not
be out of generosity. Don't you see what his plan
is, his abominable plan, once I am his prisoner?
And don't you also see what my only means of
escape will be? Therefore, Patrice, if I am to die
in a few hours, why not die now, in your arms ...
at the same time as yourself, with my lips to yours?
Is that dying? Is it not rather living, in one instant,
the most wonderful of lives ?”
He resisted her embrace. He knew that the first
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
kiss of her proffered lips would deprive him of all
his power of will.
"This is terrible,” he muttered. “How can you
expect me to accept your sacrifice, you, so young,
with years of happiness before you?”
“Years of mourning and despair, if you are gone."
"You must live, Coralie. I entreat you to, with
all my soul.”
“I cannot live without you, Patrice. You are my
only happiness. I have no reason for existence ex-
cept to love you. You have taught me to love. I
love you!"
Oh, those heavenly words! For the second time
they rang between the four walls of that room. The
same words, spoken by the daughter, which the
mother had spoken with the same passion and the
same glad acceptance of her fate! The same words
made twice holy by the recollection of death past
and the thought of death to come!
Coralie uttered them without alarm. All her
fears seemed to disappear in her love; and it was
love alone that shook her voice and dimmed the
brightness of her eyes.
Patrice contemplated her with a rapt look. He
too was beginning to think that minutes such as
these were worth dying for. Nevertheless, he made
a last effort:
"And if I ordered you to go, Coralie ?"
“That is to say,” she murmured, “if you ordered
me to go to that man and surrender myself to him?
Is that what you wish, Patrice?"
The thought was too much for him.
“Oh, the horror of it! That man ... that
210


THE NAILS IN THE COFFIN
man ... you, my Coralie, so stainless and unde-
filed! ...
Neither he nor she pictured the man in the exact
image of Siméon. To both of them, notwithstand-
ing the hideous vision perceived above, the enemy
retained a mysterious character. It was perhaps
Siméon. It was perhaps another, of whom Siméon
was but the instrument. Assuredly it was the enemy,
the evil genius crouching above their heads, prepar-
ing their death-throes while he pursued Coralie with
his foul desire.
Patrice asked one more question:
"Did you ever notice that Siméon sought your
company ?"
“No, never. If anything, he rather avoided me."
"Then it's because he's mad. ..."
“I don't think he is mad: he is revenging himself."
"Impossible. He was my father's friend. All
his life long he worked to bring us together: surely
he would not kill us deliberately?"
“I don't know, Patrice, I don't understand. ..."
They discussed it no further. It was of no im-
portance whether their death was caused by this
one or that one. It was death itself that they had
to fight, without troubling who had set it loose
against them. And what could they do to ward it
off ?"
"You agree, do you not ?" asked Coralie, in a low
voice.
He made no answer.
"I shall not go," she went on, "but. I want you
to be of one mind with me. I entreat you. It tor-
tures me to think that you are suffering more than
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
I do. You must let me bear my share. Tell me
that you agree.”
"Yes," he said, “I agree.”
“My own Patrice! Now give me your two hands,
look right into my eyes and smile.”
Mad with love and longing they plunged them-
selves for an instant into a sort of ecstasy. Then she
asked:
"What is it, Patrice? You seem distraught
again."
He gave a hoarse cry:
"Look! ... Look ..."
This time he was certain of what he had seen.
The ladder was going up. The ten minutes were
over.
He rushed forward and caught hold of one of
the rungs. The ladder no longer moved.
He did not know exactly what he intended to do.
The ladder afforded Coralie's only chance of safety.
Could he abandon that hope and resign himself to
the inevitable?
One or two minutes passed. The ladder must
have been hooked fast again, for Patrice felt a firm
resistance up above.
Coralie was entreating him:
“Patrice," she asked, "Patrice, what are you
hoping for?”
He looked around and above him, as though seek-
ing an idea, and he seemed also to look inside him-
self, as though he were seeking that idea amid all
the memories which he had accumulated at the mo-
ment when his father also held the ladder, in a last
effort of will. And suddenly, throwing up his leg,
2 12


THE NAILS IN THE COFFIN
he placed his left foot on the fifth rung of the ladder
and began to raise himself by the uprights.
It was an absurd attempt to scale the ladder, to
reach the skylight, to lay hold of the enemy and
thus save himself and Coralie. If his father had
failed before him, how could he hope to succeed?
It was all over in less than three seconds. The
ladder was at once unfastened from the hook that
kept it hanging from the skylight; and Patrice and
the ladder came to the ground together. At the
same time a strident laugh rang out above, followed
the next moment by the sound of the skylight closing.
Patrice picked himself up in a fury, hurled insults
at the enemy and, as his rage increased, fired two
revolver shots, which broke two of the panes. He
next attacked the doors and windows, banging at
them with the iron dog which he had taken from the
fender. He hit the walls, he hit the floor, he shook
his first at the invisible enemy who was mocking
him. But suddenly, after a few blows struck at
space, he was compelled to stop. Something like a
thick veil had glided overhead. They were in the
dark.
He understood what had happened. The enemy
had lowered a shutter upon the skylight, covering
it entirely.
“Patrice! Patrice !" cried Coralie, maddened by
the blotting out of the light and losing all her
strength of mind. “Patrice! Where are you,
Patrice? Oh, I'm frightened! Where are you?”
They began to grope for each other, like blind
people, and nothing that had gone before seemed
to them more horrible than to be lost in this pitiless
blackness.
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
"Patrice! Oh, Patrice! Where are you?”
Their hands touched, Coralie's poor little frozen
fingers and Patrice's hands that burned with fever,
and they pressed each other and twined together
and clutched each other as though to assure them-
selves that they were still living.
“Oh, don't leave me, Patrice !” Coralie implored.
"I am here," he replied. “Have no fear: they
can't separate us.”
"You are right,” she panted, "they can't separate
us. We are in our grave.”
The word was so terrible and Coralie uttered it
so mournfully that a reaction overtook Patrice.
“No! What are you talking about?" he exclaimed.
“We must not despair. There is hope of safety
until the last moment."
Releasing one of his hands, he took aim with his
revolver. A few faint rays trickled through the
chinks around the skylight. He fired three times.
They heard the crack of the wood-work and the
chuckle of the enemy. But the shutter must have
been lined with metal, for no split appeared.
Besides, the chinks were forthwith stopped up;
and they became aware that the enemy was engaged
in the same work that he had performed around the
doors and windows. It was obviously very thorough
and took a long time in the doing. Next came an-
other work, completing the first. The enemy was
nailing the shutter to the frame of the skylight.
It was an awful sound! Swift and light as were
the taps of the hammer, they seemed to drive deep
into the brain of those who heard them. It was
their coffin that was being nailed down, their great
coffin with a lid hermetically sealed that now bore
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THE NAILS IN THE COFFIN
heavy upon them. There was no hope left, not a
possible chance of escape. Each tap of the ham-
mer strengthened their dark prison, making yet more
impregnable the walls that stood between them and
the outer world and bade defiance to the most reso-
lute assault:
"Patrice," stammered Coralie, “I'm frightened
.. That tapping hurts me so!" .
She sank back in his arms. Patrice felt tears
coursing down her cheeks.
Meanwhile the work overhead was being com-
pleted. They underwent the terrible experience
which condemned men must feel on the morning of
their last day, when from their cells they hear the
preparations: the engine of death that is being set
up, or the electric batteries that are being tested.
They hear men striving to have everything ready, so
that not one propitious chance may remain and so
that destiny may be fulfilled. Death had entered
the enemy's service and was working hand in hand
with him. He was death itself, acting, contriving
and fighting against those whom he had resolved to
destroy.
“Don't leave me,” sobbed Coralie, “don't leave
me! ..."
“Only for a second or two," he said. “We must
be avenged later."
“What is the use, Patrice? What can it matter
to us?”
.
He had a box containing a few matches. Light-
ing them one after the other, he led Coralie to the
panel with the inscription.
“What are you going to do?" she asked.
"I will not have our death put down to suicide.
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
I want to do what our parents did before us and to
prepare for the future. Some one will read what I
am going to write and will avenge us.”
He took a pencil from his pocket and bent down.
There was a free space, right at the bottom of the
panel. He wrote:
"Patrice Belval and Coralie, his betrothed, die
the same death, murdered by Siméon Diodokis, 14
April, 1915."
But, as he finished writing, he noticed a few words
of the former inscription which he had not yet read,
because they were placed outside it, so to speak, and
did not appear to form part of it.
"One more match," he said. "Did you see?
There are some words there, the last, no doubt, that
my father wrote.”
She struck a match. By the flickering light they
made out a certain number of misshapen letters,
obviously written in a hurry and forming two words:
"Asphyxiated. . . . Oxide...."
The match went out. They rose in silence. As-
phyxiated! They understood. That was how their
parents had perished and how they themselves
would perish. But they did not yet fully realize
how the thing would happen. The lack of air would
never be great enough to suffocate them in this large
room, which contained enough to last them for many
days.
“Unless," muttered Patrice, "unless the quality
of the air can be impaired and therefore ..."
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
ceived that it came from above. The torture was
beginning.
“It will last half an hour, or an hour at most,"
Patrice whispered.
Coralie had recovered her self-consciousness:
"We shall be brave," she said.
"Oh, if I were alone! But you, you, my poor
Coralie !"
“It is painless," she murmured.
"You are bound to suffer, you, so weak!"
“One suffers less, the weaker one is. Besides, I
know that we sha'n't suffer, Patrice.”
She suddenly appeared so placid that he on his
side was filled with a great peace. Seated on a sofa,
their fingers still entwined, they silently steeped them-
selves in the mighty calm which comes when we think
that events have run their course. This calm is
resignation, submission to superior forces. Natures
such as theirs cease to rebel when destiny has mani-
fested its orders and when nothing remains but ac-
quiescence and prayer.
She put her arm round Patrice's neck:
"I am your bride in the eyes of God," she said.
"May He receive us as He would receive a husband
and wife.”
Her gentle resignation brought tears to his eyes.
She dried them with her kisses, and, of her own
seeking, offered him her lips..
They sat wrapped in an infinite silence. They
perceived the first smell of gas descending around
them, but they felt no fear.
“Everything will happen as it did before, Co-
ralie,” whispered Patrice, “down to the very last
second. Your mother and my father, who loved
218


THE NAILS IN THE COFFIN
each other as we do, also died in each other's arms,
with their lips joined together. They had decided
to unite us and they have united us."
“Our grave will be near theirs,” she murmured.
Little by little their ideas became confused and
they began to think much as a man sees through a
rising mist. They had had nothing to eat; and
hunger now added its discomfort to the vertigo. in
which their minds were imperceptibly sinking. As
it increased, their uneasiness and anxiety left them,
to be followed by a sense of ecstasy, then lassitude,
extinction, repose. The dread of the coming an-
nihilation faded out of their thoughts.
Coralie, the first to be affected, began to utter
delirious words which astonished Patrice at first:
“Dearest, there are flowers falling, roses all
around us. How delightful!"
Presently he himself grew conscious of the same
blissful exaltation, expressing itself in tenderness
and joyful emotion. With no sort of dismay he
felt her gradually yielding in his arms and abandon-
ing herself; and he had the impression that he was
following her down a measureless abyss, all bathed
with light, where they floated, he and she, descending
slowly and without effort towards a happy valley.
Minutes or perhaps hours passed. They were
still descending, he supporting her by the waist, she
with her head thrown back a little way, her eyes
closed and a smile upon her lips. He remembered
pictures showing gods thus gliding through the blue
of heaven; and, drunk with pure, radiant light and
air, he continued to circle above the happy valley.
But, as he approached it, he felt himself grow
weary. Coralie weighed heavily on his bent arm.
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
The descent increased in speed. The waves of light
turned to darkness. A thick cloud came, followed
by others that formed a whirl of gloom.
And suddenly, worn out, his forehead bathed in
sweat and his body shaking with fever, he pitched
forward into a great black pit. ...
220


CHAPTER XIV
A STRANGE CHARACTER
It was not yet exactly death. In his present condi-
tion of agony, what lingered of Patrice's conscious-
ness mingled, as in a nightmare, the life which he
knew with the imaginary world in which he now
found himself, the world which was that of death.
In this world Coralie no longer existed; and her
loss distracted him with grief. But he seemed to
hear and see somebody whose presence was revealed
by a shadow passing before his closed eyelids. This
somebody he pictured to himself, though without
reason, under the aspect of Siméon, who came to
verify the death of his victims, began by carrying
Coralie away, then came back to Patrice and car-
ried him away also and laid him down somewhere.
And all this was so well-defined that Patrice won-
dered whether he had not woke up.
Next hours passed ... or seconds. In the end
Patrice had a feeling that he was falling asleep, but
as a man sleeps in hell, suffering the moral and
physical tortures of the damned. He was back at
the bottom of the black pit, which he was making
desperate efforts to leave, like a man who has fallen
into the sea and is trying to reach the surface. In
this way, with the greatest difficulty, he passed
through one waste of water after another, the weight
of which stifled him. He had to scale them, grip-
221


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
ping with his hands and feet to things that slipped,
to rope-ladders which, possessing no points of sup-
port, gave way beneath him.
Meanwhile the darkness became less intense. A
little muffled daylight mingled with it. Patrice felt
less greatly oppressed. He half-opened his eyes,
drew a breath or two and, looking round, beheld a
sight that surprised him, the embrasure of an open
door, near which he was lying in the air, on a sofa.
Beside him he saw Coralie, on another sofa. She
moved restlessly and seemed to be in great dis-
comfort.
"She is climbing out of the black pit," he thought
to himself. “Like me, she is struggling. My poor
Coralie!"
There was a small table between them, with two
glasses of water on it. Parched with thirst, he took
one of them in his hand. But he dared not drink.
At that moment some one came through the open
door, which Patrice perceived to be the door of the
lodge; and he observed that it was not old Siméon,
as he had thought, but a stranger whom he had
never seen before.
"I am not asleep," he said to himself. "I am sure
that I am not asleep and that this stranger is a
friend."
And he tried to say it aloud, to make certainty
doubly sure. But he had not the strength.
The stranger, however, came up to him and, in
a gentle voice, said:
“Don't tire yourself, captain. You're all right
now. Allow me. Have some water."
The stranger handed him one of the two glasses;
Patrice emptied it at a draught, without any feeling
222


A STRANGE CHARACTER
of distrust, and was glad to see Coralie also drinking..
“Yes, I'm all right now," he said. "Heavens,
how good it is to be alive! Coralie is really alive,
isn't she?"
He did not hear the answer and dropped into a
welcome sleep.
When he woke up, the crisis was over, though he
still felt a: buzzing in his head and a difficulty in
drawing a deep breath. He stood up, however, and
realized that all these sensations were not fanciful,
that he was really outside the door of the lodge and
that Coralie had drunk the glass of water and was
peacefully sleeping.
"How good it is to be alive!” he repeated.
He now felt a need for action, but dared not go
into the lodge, notwithstanding the open door. He
moved away from it, skirting the cloisters contain-
ing the graves, and then, with no exact object, for
he did not yet grasp the reason of his own actions,
did not understand what had happened to him and
was simply walking at random, he came back to-
wards the lodge, on the other front, the one over-
looking the garden.
Suddenly he stopped. A few yards from the
house, at the foot of a tree standing beside the slant-
ing path, a man lay back in a wicker long-chair, with
his face in the shade and his legs in the sun. He
was sleeping, with his head fallen forward and an
open book upon his knees.
Then and not till then did Patrice clearly under-
stand that he and Coralie had escaped being killed,
that they were both really alive and that they owed
their safety to this man whose sleep suggested a.
state of absolute security and satisfied conscience.
223


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Patrice studied the stranger's appearance. He
was slim of figure, but broad-shouldered, with a sal-
low complexion, a slight mustache on his lips and
hair beginning to turn gray at the temples. His
age was probably fifty at most. The cut of his
clothes pointed to dandyism. Patrice leant forward
and read the title of the book: The Memoirs of
Benjamin Franklin. He also read the initials inside
a hat lying on the grass : "L. P.”
“It was he who saved me," said Patrice to him-
self, “I recognize him. He carried us both out of
the studio and looked after us. But how was the
miracle brought about? Who sent him?"
He tapped him on the shoulder. The man was
on his feet at once, his face lit up with a smile:
"Pardon me, captain, but my life is so much taken
up that, when I have a few minutes to myself, I use
them for sleeping, wherever I may be . . . like
Napoleon, eh? Well, I don't object to the com-
parison. . . . But enough about myself. How are
you feeling now? And madame— 'Little Mother
Coralie'-is she better? I saw no use in waking
you, after I had opened the doors and taken you
outside. I had done what was necessary and felt
quite easy. You were both breathing. So I left the
rest to the good pure air.”
He broke off, at the sight of Patrice's disconcerted
attitude; and his smile made way for a merry laugh:
"Oh, I was forgetting: you don't know me! Of
course, it's true, the letter I sent you was intercepted.
Let me introduce myself. Don Luis Perenna, a
1 The Teeth of the Tiger. By Maurice Leblanc. Trans-
lated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos. “Luis Perenna" is
one of several anagrams of "Arsène Lupin.”
224


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
on the top of it. They're looking through the bars
and trying to see us.”
“How do you know? You have your back turned
to the quay; and then there are the trees.”
“Listen.”
“I don't hear anything out of the way.”
“Yes, the sound of an engine ... the engine of
a stopping car. Now what would a car want to
stop here for, on the quay, opposite a wall with no
house near it?"
“Then who do you think it is ?"
“Why, old Siméon, of course!"
“Old Siméon!”
“Certainly. He's looking to see whether I've
really saved the two of you.'
“Then he's not mad?”
"Mad? No more mad than you or Il"
“And yet ..."
“What you mean is that Siméon used to protect
you; that his object was to bring you two together;
that he sent you the key of the garden-door; and
so on and so on.”
“Do you know all that?"
"Well, of course! If not, how could I have res-
cued you?”
"But," said Patrice, anxiously, "suppose the
scoundrel returns to the attack. Ought we not to
take some precautions? Let's go back to the lodge:
Coralie is all alone."
“There's no danger.”
“Why?”
“Because I'm here."
Patrice was more astounded than ever:
226


A STRANGE CHARACTER
“Then Siméon knows you?” he asked. “He
knows that you are here?”
“Yes, thanks to a letter which I wrote you under
cover to Ya-Bon and which he intercepted. I told
you that I was coming; and he hurried to get to
work. Only, as my habit is on these occasions, I
hastened on my arrival by a few hours, so that I
caught him in the act.”
"At that moment you did not know he was the
enemy; you knew nothing?"
“Nothing at all.”
"Was it this morning ?”.
"No, this afternoon, at a quarter to two."
Patrice took out his watch:
"And it's now four. So in two hours ..."
"Not that. I've been here an hour."
“Did you find out from Ya-Bon?"
"Do you think I've no better use for my time?
Ya-Bon simply told me that you were not there,
which was enough to astonish me.”
"After that?"
"I looked to see where you were."
"How?"
"I first searched your room and, doing so in my
own thorough fashion, ended by discovering that
there was a crack at the back of your roll-top desk
and that this crack faced a hole in the wall of the
next room. I was able therefore to pull out the
book in which you kept your diary and acquaint
myself with what was going on. This, moreover,
was how Siméon became aware of your least inten-
tions. This was how he knew of your plan to come
here, on a pilgrimage, on the fourteenth of April.
This was how, last night, seeing you write, he pre-
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
ferred, before attacking you, to know what you
were writing. Knowing it and learning, from your
own words, that you were on your guard, he re-
frained. You see how simple it all is. If M. Mas-
seron had grown uneasy at your absence, he would
have been just as successful. Only he would have
been successful to-morrow.”.
“That is to say, too late.”
“Yes, too late. This really isn't his business,
however, nor that of the police. So I would rather
that they didn't meddle with it. I asked your
wounded soldiers to keep silent about anything that
may strike them as queer. Therefore, if M. Mas-
seron comes to-day, he will think that everything is
in order. Well, having satisfied my mind in this
respect and possessing the necessary information
from your diary, I took Ya-Bon with me and walked
across the lane and into the garden."
“Was the door open?”
"No, but Siméon happened to be coming out at
that moment. Bad luck for him, wasn't it? I took
advantage of it boldly. I put my hand on the latch
and we went in, without his daring to protest. He
certainly knew who I was."
“But you didn't know at that time that he was
the enemy?"
“I didn't know? And what about your diary?”
“I had no notion ..."
“But, captain, every page is an indictment of the
man. There's not an incident in which he did not
take part, not a crime which he did not prepare."
“In that case you should have collared him."
"And if I had? What good would it have done
me? Should I have compelled him to speak? No,
228


A STRANGE CHARACTER
I shall hold him tightest by leaving him his liberty.
That will give him rope, you know. You see already
he's prowling round the house instead of clearing
out. Besides, I had something better to do: I had
first to rescue you two ... if there was still time.
Ya-Bon and I therefore rushed to the door of the
lodge. It was open; but the other, the door of the
studio, was locked and bolted. I drew the bolts;
and to force the lock was, for me, child's play.
Then the smell of gas was enough to tell me what
had happened. Siméon must have fitted an old meter
to some outside pipe, probably the one which sup-
plied the lamps on the lane, and he was suffocating
you. All that remained for us to do was to fetch
the two of you out and give you the usual treatment:
rubbing, artificial respiration and so on. You were
saved."
“I suppose he removed all his murderous appli-
ances ?” asked Patrice.
"No, he evidently contemplated coming back and
putting everything to rights, so that his share in the
business could not be proved, so too that people
might believe in your suicide, a mysterious suicide,
death without apparent cause; in short, the same
tragedy that happened with your father and Little
Mother Coralie's mother.”
"Then you know? ..."
"Why, haven't I eyes to read with? What about
the inscription on the wall, your father's revela-
tions? I know as much as you do, captain ... and
perhaps a bit more."
“More?"
"Well, of course! Habit, you know, experience!
Plenty of problems, unintelligible to others, seem
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
to me the simplest and clearest that can be. There-
fore ..."
Don Luis hesitated whether to go on:
"No," he said, “it's better that I shouldn't speak.
The mystery will be dispelled gradually. Let us
wait. For the moment . .."
He again stopped, this time to listen:
“There, he must have seen you. And now that he
knows what he wants to, he's going away."
Patrice grew excited:
"He's going away! You really ought to have
collared him. Shall we ever find him again, the
scoundrel ? Shall we ever be able to take our re-
venge?"
Don Luis smiled:
“There you go, calling him a scoundrel, the man
who watched over you for twenty years, who brought
you and Little Mother Coralie together, who was
your benefactor!"
“Oh, I don't know! All this is so bewildering!
I can't help hating him. ... The idea of his get-
ting away maddens me. ... I should like to torture
him and yet ..."
He yielded to a feeling of despair and took his
head between his two hands. Don Luis comforted
him:
"Have no fear," he said. "He was never nearer
his downfall than at the present moment. I hold
him in my hand as I hold this leaf.”
“But how?"
“The man who's driving him belongs to me."
“What's that? What do you mean?”.
"I mean that I put one of my men on the driver's
seat of a taxi, with instructions to hang about at the
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A STRANGE CHARACTER
bottom of the lane, and that Siméon did not fail to
take the taxi in question."
“That is to say, you suppose so," Patrice cor-
rected him, feeling more and more astounded.
“I recognized the sound of the engine at the
bottom of the garden when I told you."
"And are you sure of your man?”
“Certain."
“What's the use ? Siméon can drive far out of
Paris, stab the man in the back ... and then when
shall we get to know ?".
“Do you imagine that people can get out of Paris
and go running about the high-roads without a
special permit? No, if Siméon leaves Paris he will
have to drive to some railway station or other and
we shall know of it twenty minutes after. And then
we'll be off.”
“How?"
“By motor."
“Then you have a pass?”.
“Yes, valid for the whole of France."
"You don't mean it!".
"I do; and a genuine pass at that! Made out in
the name of Don Luis Perenna, signed by the min-
ister of the interior and countersigned ...".
"By whom?"
“By the President of the Republic.”
Patrice felt his bewilderment change all at once
into violent excitement. Hitherto, in the terrible
adventure in which he was engaged, he had under-
gone the enemy's implacable will and had known
little besides defeat and the horrors of ever-threaten-
ing death. But now a more powerful will suddenly
arose in his favor. And everything was abruptly
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altered. Fate seemed to be changing its course,
like a ship which an unexpected fair wind brings
back into harbor.
"Upon my word, captain,” said Don Luis, “I
thought you were going to cry like Little Mother
Coralie. Your nerves are overstrung. And I dare-
say you're hungry. We must find you something to
eat. Come along."
He led him slowly towards the lodge and, speak-
ing in a rather serious voice:
“I must ask you," he said, “to be absolutely dis-
creet in this whole matter. With the exception of
a few old friends and of Ya-Bon, whom I met in
Africa, where he saved my life, no one in France
knows me by my real name. I call myself Don
Luis Perenna. In Morocco, where I was soldier-
ing, I had occasion to do a service to the very gra-
cious sovereign of a neighboring neutral nation, who,
though obliged to conceal his true feelings, is ar-
dently on our side. He sent for me; and, in return,
I asked him to give me my credentials and to obtain
a pass for me. Officially, therefore, I am on a secret
mission, which expires in two days. In two days I
shall go back ... to whence I came, to a place
where, during the war, I am serving France in my
fashion: not a bad one, believe me, as people will
see one day.”
They came to the settee on which Coralie lay
sleeping. Don Luis laid his hand on Patrice's arm:
“One word more, captain. I swore to myself and
I gave my word of honor to him who trusted me
that, while I was on this mission, my time should
be devoted exclusively to defending the interests of
my country to the best of my power. I must warn
... 232


A STRANGE CHARACTER
you, therefore, that, notwithstanding all my sym-
pathy for you, I shall not be able to prolong my
stay for a single minute after I have discovered the
eighteen hundred bags of gold. They were the
one and only reason why I came in answer to Ya-
Bon's appeal. When the bags of gold are in our
possession, that is to say, to-morrow evening at
latest, I shall go away. However, the two quests
are joined. The clearing up of the one will mean
the end of the other. And now enough of words.
Introduce me to Little Mother Coralie and let's get
to work! Make no mystery with her, captain," he
added, laughing. “Tell her my real name. I have
nothing to fear: Arsène Lupin has every woman on
his side."
the end of the
Little Mother with her, ca
Forty minutes later Coralie was back in her room,
well cared for and well watched. Patrice had taken
a substantial meal, while Don Luis walked up and
down the terrace smoking cigarettes.
“Finished, captain? Then we'll make a start.”
He looked at his watch:
"Half-past five. We have more than an hour of
daylight left. That'll be enough.”
"Enough? You surely don't pretend that you
will achieve your aim in an hour ?"
“My definite aim, no, but the aim which I am
setting myself at the moment, yes . . . and even
earlier. An hour? What for? To do what? Why,
you'll be a good deal wiser in a few minutes !”.
Don Luis asked to be taken to the cellar under
the library; where Essarès Bey used to keep the
bags of gold until the time had come to send them
off.
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“Was it through this ventilator that the bags
were let down?"
“Yes."
"Is there no other outlet?”
“None except the staircase leading to the library
and the other ventilator."
"Opening on the terrace?”.
“Yes."
“Then that's clear. The bags used to come in
by the first and go out by the second."
“But ..."
“There's no but about it, captain: how else would
you have it happen? You see, the mistake people
always make is to go looking for difficulties where
there are none."
They returned to the terrace. Don Luis took up
his position near the ventilator and inspected the
ground immediately around. It did not take long.
Four yards away, outside the windows of the library,
was the basin with the statue of a child spouting a
jet of water through a shell.
Don Luis went up, examined the basin and, lean-
ing forwards, reached the little statue, which he
turned upon its axis from right to left. At the same
time the pedestal described a quarter of a circle.
“That's it," he said, drawing himself up again.
“What?"
“The basin will empty itself.”
He was right. The water sank very quickly and
the bottom of the fountain appeared.
Don Luis stepped into it and squatted on his
haunches. The inner wall was lined with a marble
mosaic composing a wide red-and-white fretwork
pattern. In the middle of one of the frets was a
234


A STRANGE CHARACTER
ring, which Don Luis lifted and pulled. All that
portion of the wall which formed the pattern yielded
to his effort and came down, leaving an opening of
about twelve inches by ten.
“That's where the bags of gold went,” said Don
Luis. “It was the second stage. They were des-
patched in the same manner, on a hook sliding along
a wire. Look, here is the wire, in this groove at
the top."
"By Jove !" cried Captain Belval. "But you've
unraveled this in a masterly fashion! What about
the wire? Can't we follow it?"
“No, but it will serve our purpose if we know
where it finishes. I say, captain, go to the end of
the garden, by the wall, taking a line at right angles
to the house. When you get there, cut off a branch
of a tree, rather high up. Oh, I was forgetting! I
shall have to go out by the lane. Have you the key
of the door? Give it me, please.".
Patrice handed him the key and then went down
to the wall beside the quay.
“A little farther to the right,"' Don Luis instructed
him. “A little more still. That's better. Now
wait."
• He left the garden by the lane, reached the quay
and called out from the other side of the wall:
"Are you there, captain ?"
“Yes."
"Fix your branch so that I can see it from here.
Capital.”
Patrice now joined Don Luis, who was crossing
the road. All the way down the Seine are wharves,
built on the bank of the river and used for loading
and unloading vessels. Barges put in alongside, dis-
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
charge their cargoes, take in fresh ones and often lie
moored one next to the other. At the spot where
Dor Luis and Patrice descended by a flight of steps
there was a series of yards, one of which, the one
which they reached first, appeared to be abandoned,
no doubt since the war. It contained, amid a quan-
tity of useless materials, several heaps of bricks
and building-stones, a hut with broken windows and
the lower part of a steam-crane. A placard swing-
ing from a post bore the inscription:
BERTHOU
WHARFINGER & BUILDER.
Don Luis walked along the foot of the embank-
ment, ten or twelve feet high, above which the quay
was suspended like a terrace. Half of it was occu-
pied by a heap of sand; and they saw in the wall
the bars of an iron grating, the lower half of which
was hidden by the sand-heap shored up with planks.
Don Luis cleared the grating and said, jestingly:
"Have you noticed that the doors are never
locked in this adventure? Let's hope that it's the
same with this one."
His theory was confirmed, somewhat to his own
surprise, and they entered one of those recesses
where workmen put away their tools.
“So far, nothing out of the common," said Don
Luis, switching on an electric torch. “Buckets, pick-
axes, wheelbarrows, a ladder. ... Ah! Ah! Just
as I expected: rails, a complete set of light rails !
... Lend me a hand, captain. Let's clear out the
back. Good, that's done it."
Level with the ground and opposite the grating
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
sides, this way and that, in artfully leveled beds.
I am known to like skilful mechanism, so I have
been shown the basin where the waters of all the
rivulets meet and mingle. There stands a little mar-
ble figure in the midst; and the weight of water is
strong enough to turn it a quarter circle to the left
and then pour down straight to the Seine by a con-
duit, which opens in the ground of the basin.”
Patrice closed the book; and Don Luis went on
to explain :
“Things have changed since, no doubt, thanks to
the energies of Essarès Bey. The water escapes
some other way now; and the aqueduct was used to
drain off the gold. Besides, the bed of the river has
narrowed. Quays have been built, with a system of
canals underneath them. You see, captain, all this
was easy enough to discover, once I had the book to
tell me. Doctus cum libro."
“Yes, but, even so, you had to read the book."
"A pure accident. I unearthed it in Siméon's
room and put it in my pocket, because I was curious
to know why he was reading it."
“Why, that's just how he must have discovered
Essarès Bey's secret!” cried Patrice. "He didn't
know the secret. He found the book among his
employer's papers and got up his facts that way.
What do you think? Don't you agree? You seem
not to share my opinion. Have you some other
view ?"
Don Luis did not reply. He stood looking at the
river. Beside the wharves, at a slight distance from
the yard, a barge lay moored, with apparently no
one on her. But a slender thread of smoke now
238


A STRANGE CHARACTER
began to rise from a pipe that stood out above the
deck.
"Let's go and have a look at her," he said.
The barge was lettered:
LA NONCHALANTE. BEAUNE
They had to cross the space between the barge
and the wharf and to step over a number of ropes
and empty barrels covering the flat portions of the
deck. A companion-way brought them to a sort of
cabin, which did duty as a stateroom and a kitchen
in one. Here they found a powerful-looking man,
with broad shoulders, curly black hair and a clean-
shaven face. His only clothes were a blouse and
a pair of dirty, patched canvas trousers.
Don Luis offered him a twenty-franc note. The
man took it eagerly.
"Just tell me something, mate. Have you seen
a barge lately, lying at Berthou's Wharf?"
“Yes, a motor-barge. She left two days ago."
“What was her name?”
“The Belle Hélène. The people on board, two
men and a woman, were foreigners talking I don't
know what lingo. . . . We didn't speak to one an-
other."
"But Berthou's Wharf has stopped work, hasn't
it?"
“Yes, the owner's joined the army ... and the
foremen as well. We've all got to, haven't we?
I'm expecting to be called up myself ... though
I've got a weak heart."
"But, if the yard's stopped work, what was the
boat doing here?"
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
and for which the Belle Hélène is bound. Could
anything be clearer? Mantes, where he'll pick up
his cargo of gold and go on board in some seafaring
disguise, unknown and unseen. ... Loot and looter
disappearing together. It's as clear as daylight.
Don't you agree?"
Once again Don Luis did not answer. However,
he must have acquiesced in Patrice's theories, for,
after a minute, he declared:
“Very well. I'll go to Mantes.” And, turning
to the chauffeur, “Hurry off to the garage,” he said,
"and come back in the six-cylinder. I want to be
at Mantes in less than an hour. You, captain ..."
"I shall come with you."
"And who will look after ...?"
“Coralie? She's in no danger! Who can attack
her now? Siméon has failed in his attempt and is
thinking only of saying his own skin ... and his
bags of gold.”
“You insist, do you?”
"Absolutely."
"I don't know that you're wise. However, that's
your affair. Let's go. By the way, though, one
precaution.” He raised his voice. "Ya-Bon!"
The Senegalese came hastening up. While Ya-
Bon felt for Patrice all the affection of a faithful
dog, he seemed to profess towards Don Luis some-
thing more nearly approaching religious devotion.
The adventurer's slightest action roused him to ec-
stasy. He never stopped laughing in the great
chief's presence.
“Ya-Bon, are you all right now? Is your wound
healed? You don't feel tired? Good. In that case,
come with me."
242


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
tron and recommended her to the doctor's care. The
staff received strict orders to admit no strangers to
see her. She was to answer no letter, unless the
letter was signed “Captain Patrice.”
At nine o'clock, the car sped down the Saint-Ger-
main and Mantes road. Sitting inside with Don
Luis, Patrice felt all the enthusiasm of victory and
indulged freely in theories, every one of which pos-
sessed for him the value of an unimpeachable cer-
tainty. A few doubts lingered in his mind, how-
ever, points which remained obscure and on which
he would have been glad to have Don Luis' opinion.
“There are two things,” he said, "which I simply
cannot understand. In the first place, who was the
man murdered by Essarès, at nineteen minutes past
seven in the morning, on the fourth of April? I
heard his dying cries. Who was killed? And what
became of the body?"
Don Luis was silent; and Patrice went on:
“The second point is stranger still. I mean Si-
méon's behavior. Here's a man who devotes his
whole life to a single object, that of revenging his
friend Belval's murder and at the same time ensur-
ing my happiness and Coralie's. This is his one
aim in life; and nothing can make him swerve from
his obsession. And then, on the day when his enemy,
Essarès Bey, is put out of the way, suddenly he
turns round completely and persecutes Coralie and
me, going to the length of using against us the hor-
rible contrivance which Essarès Bey had employed
so successfully against our parents! You really must
admit that it's an amazing change! Can it be the
thought of the gold that has hypnotized him? Are
his crimes to be explained by the huge treasure
244


THE BELLE HELENE
placed at his disposal on the day when he discov-
ered the secret? Has a decent man transformed
himself into a bandit to satisfy a sudden instinct?
What do you think?”
Don Luis persisted in his silence. Patrice, who
expected to see every riddle solved by the famous
adventurer in a twinkling, felt peevish and surprised.
He made a last attempt:
“And the golden triangle? Another mystery!
For, after all, there's not a trace of a triangle in
anything we've seen! Where is this golden tri-
angle? Have you any idea what it means ?”
Don Luis allowed a moment to pass and then
said:
"Captain, I have the most thorough liking for
you and I take the liveliest interest in all that con-
cerns you, but I confess that there is one problem
which excludes all others and one object towards
which all my efforts are now directed. That is the
pursuit of the gold of which we have been robbed;
and I don't want this gold to escape us. I have
succeeded on your side, but not yet on the other.
You are both of you safe and sound, but I haven't
the eighteen hundred bags; and I want them, I want
them.”
"You'll have them, since we know where they
are."
"I shall have them,” said Don Luis, "when they
lie spread before my eyes. Until then, I can tell
you nothing."
At Mantes the enquiries did not take long. They
almost immediately had the satisfaction of learning
that a traveler, whose description corresponded with
old Siméon's, had gone to the Hôtel des Trois-Em-
245


THE BELLE HELENE
at Rosny. Just as they reached Rosny the Belle
Hélène was entering the long loop which curves out
to La Roche-Guyon, turns back and joins the high-
road again at Bonnières. She would need at least
three hours to cover the distance, whereas the car,
climbing the hill and keeping straight ahead, ar-.
rived at Bonnières in fifteen minutes.
They drove through the village. There was an
inn a little way beyond it, on the right. Don Luis
made his chauffeur stop here:
"If we are not back by twelve to-night,” he said,
"go home to Paris. Will you come with me, cap-
tain ?"
Patrice followed him towards the right, whence
a small road led them to the river-bank. They fol-
lowed this for a quarter of an hour. At last Don
Luis found what he appeared to be seeking, a boat
fastened to a stake, not far from a villa with closed
shutters. Don Luis unhooked the chain.
It was about seven o'clock in the evening. Night
was falling fast, but a brilliant moonlight lit the
landscape.
"First of all,” said Don Luis, "a word of ex-
planation. We're going to wait for the barge.
She'll come in sight on the stroke of ten and find
us lying across stream. I shall order her to heave
to; and there's no doubt that, when they see your
uniform by the light of the moon or of my electric
lamp, they will obey. Then we shall go on board."
"Suppose they refuse?”
"If they refuse, we shall board her by force.
There are three of them and two of us. So ..."
“And then?”
"And then? Well, there's every reason to be-
249


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
lieve that the two men forming the crew are only
extra hands, employed by Siméon, but ignorant of
his actions and knowing nothing of the nature of
the cargo. . Once we have reduced Siméon to help-
lessness and paid them handsomely, they'll take the
barge wherever I tell them. But, mind you—and
this is what I was coming to-I mean to do with
the barge exactly as I please. I shall hand over
the cargo as and when I think fit. It's my booty, my
prize. No one is entitled to it but myself.”
The officer drew himself up:
"Oh, I can't agree to that, you know !"
“Very well, then give me your word of honor
that you'll keep a secret which doesn't belong to
you. After which, we'll say good-night and go
our own ways. I'll do the boarding alone and you
can go back to your own business. Observe, how-
ever, that I am not insisting on an immediate reply.
You have plenty of time to reflect and to take the
decision which your interest, honor and conscience
may dictate to you. For my part, excuse me, but
you know my weakness: when circumstances give
me a little spare time, I take advantage of it to go
to sleep. Carpe somnum, as the poet says. Good-
night, captain."
And, without another word, Don Luis wrapped
himself in his great-coat, sprang into the boat and
lay down.
Patrice had had to make a violent effort to re-
strain his anger. Don Luis' calm, ironic tone and
well-bred, bantering voice got on his nerves all
the more because he felt the influence of that strange
man and fully recognized that he was incapable
of acting without his assistance. Besides, he could
250


THE BELLE HELENE
not forget that Don Luis had saved his life and
Coralie's.
The hours slipped by. The adventurer slum-
bered peacefully in the cool night air. Patrice
hesitated what to do, seeking for some plan of
conduct which would enable him to get at Siméon
and rid himself of that implacable adversary and
at the same time to prevent Don Luis from laying
hands on the enormous treasure. He was dismayed
at the thought of being his accomplice. And yet,
when the first throbs of the motor were heard in
the distance and when Don Luis awoke, Patrice
was by his side, ready for action.
They did not exchange a word. A village-clock
struck ten. The Belle Hélène was coming towards
them.
Patrice felt his excitement increase. The Belle
Hélène meant Siméon's capture, the recovery of the
millions, Coralie out of danger, the end of that most
hideous nightmare and the total extinction of Es-
sarès' handiwork. The engine was throbbing nearer
and nearer. Its loud and regular beat sounded
wide over the motionless Seine. Don Luis had
taken the sculls and was pulling hard for the middle
of the river. And suddenly they saw in the dis-
tance a black mass looming up in the white moon-
light. Twelve or fifteen more minutes passed and
the Belle Hélène was before them.
"Shall I lend you a hand?” whispered Patrice.
"It looks as if you had the current against you and
as if you had a difficulty in getting along."
"Not the least difficulty,” said Don Luis; and he
began to hum a tune.
"But ..."
251


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
Patrice was stupefied. The boat had turned in
its own length and was making for the bank.
"But, I say, I say," he said, “what's this? Are
you going back? Are you giving up? ... I don't
understand. ... You're surely not afraid because
they're three to our two?"
Don Luis leapt on shore at a bound and stretched
out his hand to him. Patrice pushed it aside,
growling:
“Will you explain what it all means ?"
"Take too long," replied Don Luis. “Just one
question, though. You know that book I found
in old Siméon's room, The Memoirs of Benjamin
Franklin: did you see it when you were making
your search?”
“Look here, it seems to me we have other things
to ..."
"It's an urgent question, captain."
“Well, no, it wasn't there."
“Then that's it," said Don Luis. “We've been
done brown, or rather, to be accurate, I have. Let's
be off, captain, as fast as we can."
Patrice was still in the boat. He pushed off
abruptly and caught up the scull, muttering:
“As I live, I believe the beggar's getting at me!"
He was ten yards from shore when he cried:
"If you're afraid, I'll go alone. Don't want any
help.”
“Right you are, captain !" replied Don Luis. “I'll
expect you presently at the inn."
Patrice encountered no difficulties in his under-
taking. At the first order, which he shouted in a
tone of command, the Belle Hélène stopped; and
252


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
be at Rouen by this time. Siméon Diodokis is on
his way to join her.”
"How long have you known Siméon Diodokis ?”
“It's the first time we saw him. But we knew
that he was in M. Essarès' service."
“Oh, so you've worked for M. Essarès ?"
"Yes, often. ... Same job and same trip.".
“He called you by means of a signal, didn't he?"
"Yes, he used to light an old factory-chimney."
“Was it always bags ?”
“Yes. We didn't know what was inside. He
was a good payer.”
Patrice asked no more questions. He hurriedly
got into his boat, pulled back to shore and found
Don Luis seated with a comfortable supper in front
of him. .
“Quick!” he said. “The cargo is on board a
steamer, the Chamois. We can catch her up be-
tween Rouen and Le Havre."
Don Luis rose and handed the officer a white-
paper packet:
"Here's a few sandwiches for you, captain," he
said. "We've an arduous night before us. I'm very
sorry that you didn't get a sleep, as I did. Let's
be off, and this time I shall drive. We'll knock
some pace out of her! Come and sit beside me,
captain."
They both stepped into the car; the chauffeur took
his seat behind them. But they had hardly started
when Patrice exclaimed:
"Hi! What are you up to? Not this way!
We're going back to Mantes or Paris!”
"That's what I mean to do," said Luis, with a
chuckle.
254


THE BELLE HELENE
"Eh, what? Paris ?”
"Well, of course!"
"Oh, look here, this is a bit too thick! Didn't
I tell you that the two bargees ... ?"
“Those bargees of yours are humbugs."
“They declared that the cargo ...'
“Cargo? No go!"
“But the Chamois ..."
“Chamois? Sham was! I tell you once more,
we're done, captain, done brown! Old Siméon is
a wonderful old hand! He's a match worth meet-
ing. He gives you a run for your money. He
laid a trap in which I've been fairly caught. It's
a magnificent joke, but there's moderation in all
things. We've been fooled enough to last us the
rest of our lives. Let's be serious now."
“But ..."
“Aren't you satisfied yet, captain? After the
Belle Hélène do you want to attack the Chamois?
As you please. You can get out at Mantes: Only,
I warn you, Siméon is in Paris, with three or four
hours' start of us."
Patrice gave a shudder. Siméon in Paris! In
Paris, where Coralie was alone and unprotected!
He made no further protest; and Don Luis ran
on:
"Oh, the rascal! How well he played his hand!
The Memoirs of Benjamin Franklin were a mas-
ter stroke. Knowing of my arrival, he said to him-
self, 'Arsène Lupin is a dangerous fellow, capable
of disentangling the affair and putting both me
and the bags of gold in his pocket. To get rid of
him, there's only one thing to be done: I must
act in such a way as to make him rush along the
255


THE BELLE HELENE
which is to resign ourselves and abandon our quest.
You understand, we're to abandon our quest: that's
the fellow's object. And he would have succeeded
if ..."
The car was traveling at full speed. From time
to time Don Luis would stop her dead with extraor-
dinary skill. Post of territorials. Pass to be pro-
duced. Then a leap onward and once more the
breakneck pace.
"If what?" asked Patrice, half-convinced.
“Which was the clue that put you on the track?"
“The presence of that woman at Mantes. It
was a vague clue at first. But suddenly I remem-
bered that, in the first barge, the Nonchalante, the
person who gave us information-do you recollect?
-well, that this person somehow gave me the queer
impression, I can't tell you why, that I might be
talking to a woman in disguise. The impression
occurred to me once more. I made a mental com-
parison with the woman at Mantes. . . . And then
... and then it was like a flash of light ...."
Don Luis paused to think and, in a lower voice,
continued :
"But who the devil can this woman be?"
“There was a brief silence, after which Patrice
said, from instinct rather than reason:
“Grégoire, I suppose."
"Eh? What's that? Grégoire?”.
“Yes. Yes, Grégoire is a woman.”
“What are you talking about?”
"Well, obviously. Don't you remember? The
accomplice told me so, on the day when I had them
arrested outside the café.”
“Why, your diary doesn't say a word about it!"
- 257


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
"Oh, that's true! ... I forgot to put down that
detail.”
“A detail! He calls it a detail! Why, it's of
the greatest importance, captain! If I had known,
I should have guessed that that bargee was no
other than Grégoire and we should not have wasted
a whole night. Hang it all, captain, you really are
the limit!"
But all this was unable to affect his good-humor.
While Patrice, overcome with presentiments, grew
gloomier and gloomier, Don Luis began to sing
victory in his turn:
“Thank goodness! The battle is becoming seri-
ous! Really, it was too easy before; and that was
why I was sulking, I, Lupin! Do you imagine
things go like that in real life? Does everything
fit in so accurately? Benjamin Franklin, the un-
interrupted conduit for the gold, the series of clues
that reveal themselves of their own accord, the man
and the bags meeting at Mantes, the Belle Hélène:
no, it all worried me. The cat was being choked
with cream! And then the gold escaping in a
barge! All very well in times of peace, but not
in war-time, in the face of the regulations: passes,
patrol-boats, inspections and I don't know what.
... How could a fellow like Siméon risk a trip of
that kind ? No, I had my suspicions; and that was
why, captain, I made Ya-Bon mount guard, on the
off chance, outside Berthou's Wharf. It was just
an idea that occurred to me. The whole of this
adventure seemed to center round the wharf. Well,
was I right or not? Is M. Lupin no longer able
to follow a scent ? Captain, I repeat, I shall go
back to-morrow evening. Besides, as I told you,
258


THE BELLE HELENE
I've got to. Whether I win or lose, I'm going.
But we shall win. Everything will be cleared up.
There will be no more mysteries, not even the mys-
tery of the golden triangle. ... Oh, I don't say
that I shall bring you a beautiful triangle of eight-
een-carat gold! We mustn't allow ourselves to be
fascinated by words. It may be a geometrical ar-
rangement of the bags of gold, a triangular pile
... or else a hole in the ground dug in that shape.
No matter, we shall have it! And the bags of gold
shall be ours! And Patrice and Coralie shall ap-
pear before monsieur le maire and receive my bless-
ing and live happily ever after!”.
They reached the gates of Paris. Patrice was
becoming more and more anxious:
"Then you think the danger's over?”
“Oh, I don't say that! The play isn't finished.
After the great scene of the third act, which we
will call the scene of the oxide of carbon, there
will certainly be a fourth act and perhaps a fifth.
The enemy has not laid down his arms, by any
means."
They were skirting the quays.
“Let's get down,” said Don Luis.
He gave a faint whistle and repeated it three
times.
“No answer," he said. “Ya-Bon's not there.
The battle has begun.”
"But Coralie ..."
“What are you afraid of for her? Siméon
doesn't know her address.”
There was nobody on Berthou's Wharf and no-
body on the quay below. But by the light of the
moon they saw the other barge, the Nonchalante.
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
"Let's go on board,” said Don Luis. "I won-
der if the lady known as Grégoire makes a practise
of living here? Has she come back, believing us
on our way to Le Hâvre? I hope so. In any
case, Ya-Bon must have been there and no doubt
left something behind to act as a signal. Will
you come, captain ?"
“Right you are. It's a queer thing, though: I
feel frightened!”
“What of?” asked Don Luis, who was plucky
enough himself to understand this presentiment.
“Of what we shall see.”
“My dear sir, there may be nothing there!"
Each of them switched on his pocket-lamp and
felt the handle of his revolver. They crossed the
plank between the shore and the boat. A few
steps downwards brought them to the cabin. The
door was locked.
“Hi, mate! Open this, will you ?”
There was no reply. They now set about break-
ing it down, which was no easy matter, for it was
massive and quite unlike an ordinary cabin-door.
At last it gave way.
“By Jingo!” said Don Luis, who was the first
to go in. “I didn't expect this !"
"What?"
"Look. The woman whom they called Grégoire.
She seems to be dead.”
She was lying back on a little iron bedstead, with
her man's blouse open at the top and her chest un-
covered. Her face still bore an expression of ex-
treme terror. The disordered appearance of the
cabin suggested that a furious struggle had taken
place.
260


THE BELLE HELENE
"I was right. Here, by her side, are the clothes
she wore at Mantes. But what's the matter, cap-
tain ?”
Patrice had stifled a cry:
“There . . . opposite . . . under the win-
dow ..."
It was a little window overlooking the river.
The panes were broken.
"Well?" asked Don Luis. “What? Yes, I be-
lieve some one's been thrown out that way.”
"The veil . . . that blue veil,” stammered Pa-
trice, “is her nurse's veil ... Coralie's ...."
Don Luis grew vexed:
“Nonsense! Impossible! Nobody knew her
address."
“Still ..."
“Still what? You haven't written to her? You
haven't telegraphed to her?"
"Yes ... 1 telegraphed to her ... from
Mantes."
“What's that? Oh, but look here. This is mad-
ness! You don't mean that you really. telegraphed ?"
“Yes, I do."
"You telegraphed from the post-office at
Mantes ?"
“Yes."
“And was there any one in the post-office ?"
“Yes, a woman.”
“What woman? The one who lies here, mur-
dered ?"
“Yes."
"But she didn't read what you wrote ?”
"No, but I wrote the telegram twice over."
“And you threw the first draft anywhere, on the
261


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
"Not yet,” said Don Luis, who was still hunt-
ing around him. "Listen to me. I'll tell you what
I know, captain, and I'll tell it you straight out,
without trying to dazzle you by a parade of reason-
ing and without even telling you of the tiny trifles
that serve me as proofs. The bare facts, that's
all. Well, then ...".
“Yes?"
“Little Mother Coralie kept the appointment at
nine o'clock. Siméon was there with his female
accomplice. Between them they bound and gagged
her and brought her here. Observe that, in their
eyes, it was a safe spot for the job, because they
knew for certain that you and I had not discovered
the trap. Nevertheless, we may assume that it was
a provisional base of operations, adopted for part
of the night only, and that Siméon reckoned on
leaving Little Mother Coralie in the hands of his
accomplice and setting out in search of a definite
place of confinement, a permanent prison. But
luckily—and I'm rather proud of this-Ya-Bon
was on the spot. Ya-Bon was watching on his bench,
in the dark. He must have seen them cross the
embankment and no doubt recognized Siméon's
walk in the distance. We'll take it that he gave
chase at once, jumped on to the deck of the barge
and arrived here at the same time as the enemy,
before they had time to lock themselves in. Four
people in this narrow space, in pitch darkness, must
have meant a frightful upheaval. I know my Ya-
Bon. He's terrible at such times. Unfortunately,
it was not Siméon whom he caught by the neck with
that merciless hand of his, but ... the woman.
Siméon took advantage of this. He had not let
264


THE FOURTH ACT
go of Little Mother Coralie. He picked her up in
his arms and went up the companionway, flung her
on the deck and then came back to lock the door
on the two as they struggled.”
“Do you think so? Do you think it was Ya-Bon
and not Siméon who killed the woman?”.
"I'm sure of it. If there were no other proof,
there is this particular fracture of the wind-pipe,
which is Ya-Bon's special mark. What I do not
understand is why, when he had settled his ad-
versary, Ya-Bon didn't break down the door wtih
a push of his shoulder and go after Siméon. I
presume that he was wounded and that he had not
the strength to make the necessary effort. I pre-
sume also that the woman did not die at once and
that she spoke, saying things against Siméon, who
had abandoned her instead of defending her. This
much is certain, that Ya-Bon broke the window-
panes ..."
"To jump into the Seine, wounded as he was,
with his one arm?” said Patrice.
"Not at all. There's a ledge running along the
window. He could set his feet on it and get off
that way."
“Very well. But he was quite ten or twenty min-
utes behind Siméon ?”
"That didn't matter, if the woman had time, be-
fore dying, to tell him where Siméon was taking
refuge."
“How can we get to know ?"
“I've been trying to find out all the time that
we've been chatting ... and I've just discovered
the way."
"Here?”
265


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
"This minute; and I expected no less from Ya-
Bon. The woman told him of a place in the cabin-
look, that open drawer, probably—in which there
was a visiting-card with an address on it. Ya-Bon
took it and, in order to let me know, pinned the
card to the curtain over there. I had seen it al-
ready; but it was only this moment that I noticed
the pin that fixed it, a gold pin with which I my-
self fastened the Morocco Cross to Ya-Bon's
breast."
“What is the address ?"
“Amédée Vacherot, 18, Rue Guimard. The Rue
Guimard is close to this, which makes me quite
sure of the road they took."
The two men at once went away, leaving the
woman's dead body behind. As Don Luis said, the
police must make what they could of it.
As they crossed Berthou's Wharf they glanced
at the recess and Don Luis remarked:
"There's a ladder missing. We must remember
that detail. Siméon has been in there. He's be-
ginning to make blunders too."
The car took them to the Rue Guimard, a small
street in Passy. No. 18 was a large house let out
in flats, of fairly ancient construction. It was two
o'clock in the morning when they rang.
A long time elapsed before the door opened; and,
as they passed through the carriage-entrance, the
porter put his head out of his lodge:
“Who's there?” he asked
“We want to see M. Amédée Vacherot on urgent
business."
“That's myself."
“You ?"
266


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
which to shelter a lady for whom he entertained
the deepest respect.”.
"Can you tell me the lady's name?" asked the
porter, still on his guard.
“Certainly, Mme. Essarès, the widow of the
banker to whom Siméon used to act as secretary.
Mme. Essarès is a victim of persecution; he is de-
fending her against her enemies; and, as we our-
selves want to help the two of them and to take
this criminal business in hand, we must insist that
you ..."
“Oh, well!” said M. Vacherot, now fully reas-
sured. “I have known Siméon Diodokis for ever so
many years. He was very good to me at the time
when I was working for an undertaker; he lent me
money; he got me my present job; and he used
often to come and sit in my lodge and talk about
heaps of things. ...".
"Such as relations with Essarès Bey?” asked
Don Luis, carelessly. “Or his plans concerning Pa-
trice Belval ?"
"Heaps of things," said the porter, after a
further hesitation. “He is one of the best of men,
does a lot of good and used to employ me in dis-
tributing his local charity. And just now again he
was risking his life for Mme. Essarès."
"One more word. Had you seen him since Es-
sarès Bey's death?”
“No, it was the first time. He arrived a little
before one o'clock. He was out of breath and spoke
in a low voice, listening to the sounds of the street
outside: 'I've been followed,' said he; 'I've been
followed. I could swear it.' 'By whom?' said I.
'You don't know him,' said he. He has only one
268


THE FOURTH ACT
hand, but he wrings your neck for you.' And then
he stopped. And then he began again, in
a whisper, so that I could hardly hear: 'Listen
to me, you're coming with me. We're going
to fetch a lady, Mme. Essarès. They want
to kill her. I've hidden her all right, but she's
fainted: we shall have to carry her. . . . Or no,
I'll go alone. I'll manage. But I want to know,
is my room still free?' I must tell you, he has a
little lodging here, since the day when he too had
to hide himself. He used to come to it sometimes
and he kept it on in case he might want it, for it's
a detached lodging, away from the other tenants.”
“What did he do after that?" asked Patrice,
anxiously.
“After that, he went away."
“But why isn't he back yet?”
"I admit that it's alarming. Perhaps the man
who was following him has attacked him. Or
perhaps something has happened to the lady."
"What do you mean, something happened to the
lady?"
"I'm afraid something may have. When he
first showed me the way we should have to go
to fetch her, he said, 'Quick, we must hurry. To
save her life, I had to put her in a hole. That's
all very well for two or three hours. But, if she's
left longer, she will suffocate. The want of
air ..."
Patrice had leapt upon the old man. He was
beside himself, maddened at the thought that Co-
ralie, ill and worn-out as she was, might be at the
point of death in some unknown place, a prey to
terror and suffering.
269


THE FOURTH ACT
"Patrice Belval! And you are M. Siméon's
enemy? And you want to ...?"
"I want to do him up like the cur he is, your
blackguard of a Siméon ... and you, his accom-
plice, with him. A nice pair of rascals! ... Well,
have you made up your mind?”
"Unhappy man!” gasped the porter. “Unhappy
man! You don't know what you're doing. Kill
M. Siméon! You? You? Why, you're the last
man who could commit a crime like that!”.
“What about it? Speak, will you, you old num-
skull!”
"You, kill M. Siméon? You, Patrice? You,
Captain Belval? You?"
“And why not? Speak, damn it! Why not?”.
"You are his son."
All Patrice's fury, all his anguish at the thought
that Coralie was in Siméon's power or else lying in
some pit, all his agonized grief, all his alarm: all
this gave way, for a moment, to a terrible fit of
merriment, which revealed itself in a long burst
of laughter.
"Siméon's son! What the devil are you talking
about? Oh, this beats everything! Upon my word,
you're full of ideas, when you're trying to save
him! You old ruffian! Of course, it's most con-
venient: don't kill that man, he's your father. He
my father, that putrid Siméon! Siméon Diodokis,
Patrice Belval's father! Oh, it's enough to make
a chap split his sides !".
Don Luis had listened in silence. He made a.
sign to Patrice:
“Will you allow me to clear up this business,
captain? It won't take me more than a few min-
271


THE FOURTH ACT
moment; and no catastrophe would have over-
whelmed a man more utterly.
Don Luis looked at him with feeling and then
turned to the porter:
"Explain yourself, M. Vacherot,” he said. “As
briefly as possible, won't you? No details. We
can go into them later. We were saying, on the
fourteenth of April, 1895 ..."
“On the fourteenth of April, 1895, a solicitor's
clerk, accompanied by the commissary of police,
came to my governor's, close by here, and ordered
two coffins for immediate delivery. The whole
shop got to work. At ten o'clock in the evening,
the governor, one of my mates and I went to the
Rue Raynouard, to a sort of pavilion or lodge,
standing in a garden.”
"I know. Go on."
"There were two bodies. We wrapped them in
winding-sheets and put them into the coffins. At
eleven o'clock my governor and my fellow-workmen
went away and left me alone with a sister of mercy.
There was nothing more to do except to nail the
coffins down. Well, just then, the nun, who had
been watching and praying, fell asleep and some-
thing happened . . . oh, an awful thing! It made
my hair stand on end, sir. I shall never forget it
as long as I live. My knees gave way beneath me,
I shook with fright. . . . Sir, the man's body had
moved. The man was alive !"
“Then you didn't know of the murder at that
time?" asked Don Luis. "You hadn't heard of the
attempt?”
"No, we were told that they had both suffocated
themselves with gas. . . . It was many hours be-
273


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
by the insult i forbid youth
"My friend has only one thought, that of saving
the woman, not killing her. ...".
"He lured her and me into the lodge to kill us,
as our parents were killed before us."
“He is trying only to unite you."
“Yes, in death."
“No, in life. You are his dearly-loved son. He
always spoke of you with pride."
“He is a ruffian, a monster!" shouted the of-
ficer.
"He is the very best man living, sir, and he is
your father."
Patrice started, stung by the insult:
"Proofs," he roared, "proofs! I forbid you to
speak another word until you have proved the truth
in a manner admitting of no doubt.”
Without moving from his seat, the old man put
out his arm towards an old mahogany escritoire,
lowered the lid and, pressing a spring, pulled out
one of the drawers. Then he held out a bundle
of papers:
“You know your father's handwriting, don't you,
captain ?” he said. “You must have kept letters
from him, since the time when you were at school
in England. Well, read the letters which he wrote
to me. You will see your name repeated a hun-
dred times, the name of his son; and you will see
the name of the Coralie whom he meant you to
marry. Your whole life—your studies, your jour-
neys, your work—is described in these letters. And
you will also find your photographs, which he had
taken by various correspondents, and photographs
of Coralie, whom he had visited at Salonica. And
you will see above all his hatred for Essarès Bey,
276


THE FOURTH ACT
whose secretary he had become, and his plans of
revenge, his patience, his tenacity. And you will
also see his despair when he heard of the marriage
between Essarès and Coralie and, immediately after-
wards, his joy at the thought that his revenge would
be more cruel when he succeeded in uniting his son
Patrice with Essarès' wife.”
As the old fellow spoke, he placed the letters
one by one under the eyes of Patrice, who had at
once recognized his father's hand and sat greedily
devouring sentences in which his own name was
constantly repeated. M. Vacherot watched him.
“Have you any more doubts, captain ?” he asked,
at last.
The officer again pressed his clenched fists to his
temples:
"I saw his face," he said, "above the skylight, in
the lodge into which he had locked us. . . . It was
gloating over our death, it was a face mad with
hatred. ... He hated us even more than Es-
sarès did. ..."
"A mistake! Pure imagination !" the old man
protested.
“Or madness," muttered Patrice.
Then he struck the table violently, in a fit of re-
vulsion:
"It's not true, it's not true!” he exclaimed. “That
man is not my father. What, a scoundrel like
that! ..."
He took a few steps round the little room and,
stopping in front of Don Luis, jerked out:
"Let's go. Else I shall go mad too. It's a night-
mare, there's no other word for it, a nightmare
in which things turn upside down until the brain
277


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
itself capsizes. Let's go. Coralie is in danger.
That's the only thing that matters."
The old man shook his head:
"I'm very much afraid ...".
“What are you afraid of?" bellowed the of-
ficer.
“I'm afraid that my poor friend has been caught
up by the person who was following him ... and
then how can he have saved Mme. Essarès ? The
poor thing was hardly able to breathe, he told
me."
Hanging on to Don Luis' arm, Patrice staggered
out of the porter's lodge like a drunken man:
"She's done for, she must be!” he cried.
“Not at all,” said Don Luis. “Siméon is as
feverishly active as yourself. He is nearing the
catastrophe. He is quaking with fear and not in
a condition to weigh his words. Believe me, your
Coralie is in no immediate danger. We have some
hours before us."
“But Ya-Bon? Suppose Ya-Bon has laid hands
upon him?"
“I gave Ya-Bon orders not to kill him. There-
fore, whatever happens, Siméon is alive. That's
the great thing. So long as Siméon is alive, there
is nothing to fear. He won't let your Coralie
die."
“Why not, seeing that he hates her? Why not?
What is there in that man's heart? He devotes all
his existence to a work of love on our behalf; and,
from one minute to the next, that love turns to
execration."
He pressed Don Luis' arm and, in a hollow voice,
asked:
278


THE FOURTH ACT
“Do you believe that he is my father?”
“Siméon Diodokis is your father, captain,” re-
plied Don Luis.
“Ah, don't, don't! It's too horrible! God, but
we are in the valley of the shadow !".
"On the contrary,” said Don Luis, "the shadow
is lifting slightly; and I confess that our talk with
M. Vacherot has given me a little light.”
"Do you mean it?".
But, in Patrice Belval's fevered brain, one idea
jostled another. He suddenly stopped:
"Siméon may have gone back to the porter's
lodge! . . . And we sha'n't be there! ... Per-
haps he will bring Coralie back!"
“No," Don Luis declared, “he would have done
that before now, if it could be done. No, it's for
us to go to him."
“But where?"
"Well, of course, where all the fighting has
been ... where the gold lies. All the enemy's
operations are centered in that gold; and you may
be sure that, even in retreat, he can't get away from
it. Besides, we know that he is not far from
Berthou's Wharf.”
Patrice allowed himself to be led along without
a word. But suddenly Don Luis cried:
"Did you hear?"
“Yes, a shot."
At that moment they were on the point of turn-
ing into the Rue Raynouard. The height of the
houses prevented them from perceiving the exact
spot from which the shot had been fired, but it came
approximately from the Essarès house or the imme-
diate precincts. Patrice was filled with alarm:
279


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
“Can it be Ya-Bon?”.
“I'm afraid so,” said Don Luis, "and, as Ya-
Bon wouldn't fire, some one must have fired a shot
at him. ... Oh, by Jove, if my poor Ya-Bon were
to be killed ...!"
"And suppose it was at her, at Coralie?” whis-
pered Patrice.
Don Luis began to laugh:
“Oh, my dear captain, I'm almost sorry that I
ever mixed myself up in this business! You were
much cleverer before I came and a good deal
clearer-sighted. Why the devil should Siméon at-
tack your Coralie, considering that she's already in
his power?"
They hurried their steps. As they passed the
Essarès house they saw that everything was quiet
and they went on until they came to the lane, down
which they turned.
Patrice had the key, but the little door which
opened on to the garden of the lodge was bolted
inside.
“Aha!” said Don Luis. “That shows that we're
warm. Meet me on the quay, captain. I shall
run down to Berthou's Wharf to have a look round."
During the past few minutes a pale dawn had
begun to mingle with the shades of night. The em-
bankment was still deserted, however.
Don Luis observed nothing in particular at Ber-
thou's Wharf; but, when he returned to the quay
above, Patrice showed him a ladder lying right
at the end of the pavement which skirted the gar-
den of the lodge; and Don Luis recognized the lad-
der as the one whose absence he had noticed from
the recess in the yard. With that quick vision which
280


THE FOURTH ACT
was one of his greatest assets, he at once furnished
the explanation:
“As Siméon had the key of the garden, it was
obviously Ya-Bon who used the ladder to make his
way in. Therefore he saw Siméon take refuge
there on returning from his visit to old Vacherot
and after coming to fetch Coralie. Now the ques-
tion is, did Siméon succeed in fetching Little Mother
Coralie, or did he run away before fetching her?
That I can't say. But, in any case ..."
Bending low down, he examined the pavement
and continued :
"In any case, what is certain is that Ya-Bon
knows the hiding-place where the bags of gold are
stacked and that it is there most likely that your
Coralie was and perhaps still is, worse luck, if the
enemy, giving his first thought to his personal safety,
has not had time to remove her.”
“Are you sure?"
“Look here, captain, Ya-Bon always carries a
piece of chalk in his pocket. As he doesn't know
how to write, except just the letters forming my
name, he has drawn these two straight lines which,
with the line of the wall, make a triangle . . . the
golden triangle."
Don Luis drew himself up:
“The clue is rather meager. But Ya-Bon looks
upon me as a wizard. He never doubted that I
should manage to find this spot and that those three
lines would be enough for me. Poor Ya-Bon!"
"But," objected Patrice, "all this, according to
you, took place before our return to Paris, between
twelve and one o'clock, therefore."
“Yes."
281


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
“Then what about the shot which we have just
heard, four or five hours later?"
"As to that I'm not so positive. We may as-
sume that Siméon squatted somewhere in the dark.
Possibly at the first break of day, 'feeling easier
and hearing nothing of Ya-Bon, he risked taking
a step or two. Then Ya-Bon, keeping watch in
silence, would have leaped upon him.”
“So you think ..."
"I think that there was a struggle, that Ya-Bon
was wounded and that Siméon ...".
“That Siméon escaped ?"
"Or else was killed. However, we shall know
all about it in a few minutes."
He set the ladder against the railing at the top
of the wall. Patrice climbed over with Don Luis'
assistance. Then, stepping over the railing in his
turn, Don Luis drew up the ladder, threw it into
the garden and made a careful examination. Finally,
they turned their steps, through the tall grasses
and bushy shrubs, towards the lodge.
The daylight was increasing rapidly and the out.
lines of everything were becoming clearer. The
two men walked round the lodge, Don Luis lead-
ing the way. When he came in sight of the yard,
on the street side, he turned and said: "I was right.”
And he ran forward.
Outside the hall-door lay the bodies of the two
adversaries, clutching each other in a confused heap.
Ya-Bon had a horrible wound in the head, from
which the blood was flowing all over his face. With
his right hand he held Siméon by the throat.
Don Luis at once perceived that Ya-Bon was dead
and Siméon Diodokis alive.
282


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
He thereupon applied himself to making a minute
inspection of the scene of the struggle, after which
he went back to Ya-Bon and then to Siméon, whose
clothes and shoes he examined closely.
Patrice was face to face with his terrible enemy,
whom he had propped against the wall of the lodge
and was contemplating in silence, with a fixed stare
of hatred. Siméon! Siméon Diodokis, the exe-
crable demon who, two days before, had hatched
the terrible plot and, bending over the skylight, had
laughed as he watched their awful agony! Siméon
Diodokis, who, like a wild beast, had hidden Co-
ralie in some hole, so that he might go back and
torture her at his ease!
He seemed to be in pain and to breathe with
great difficulty. His wind-pipe had no doubt been
injured by Ya-Bon's clutch. His yellow spectacles
had fallen off during the fight. A pair of thick,
grizzled eyebrows lowered about his heavy lids.
"Search him, captain,” said Don Luis.
But, as Patrice seemed to shrink from the task,
he himself felt in Siméon's jacket and produced
a pocket-book, which he handed to the officer.
It contained first of all a registration-card, in
the name of Siméon Diodokis, Greek subject, with
his photograph gummed to it. The photograph
was a recent one; taken with the spectacles, the
comforter and the long hair, and bore a police-
stamp dated December, 1914. There was a col-
lection of business documents, invoices and memo-
randa, addressed to Siméon as Essarès Bey's secre-
tary, and, among these papers, a letter from Amédée
Vacherot, running as follows:
284


SIMEON GIVES BATTLE
“Dear M. Siméon,
"I have succeeded. A young friend of mine has
taken a snapshot of Mme. Essarès and Patrice at
the hospital, at a moment when they were talking
together. I am so glad to be able to gratify you.
But when will you tell your dear son the truth?
How delighted he will be when he hears it !"
At the foot of the letter were a few words in
Siméon's hand, a sort of personal note:
"Once more I solemnly pledge myself not to
reveal anything to my dearly-beloved son until Co-
ralie, my bride, is avenged and until Patrice and
Coralie Essarès are free to love each other and to
marry."
“That's your father's writing, is it not?" asked
Don Luis.
“Yes," said Patrice, in bewilderment. “And it
is also the writing of the letters which he addressed
to his friend Vacherot. Oh, it's too hideous to be
true! What a man! What a scoundrel!”
Siméon moved. His eyes opened and closed re-
peatedly. Then, coming to himself entirely, he
looked at Patrice, who at once, in a stifled voice,
asked:
“Where's Coralie?”.
And, as Siméon, still dazed, seemed not to un-
derstand and sat gazing at him stupidly, he repeated,
in a harsher tone:
"Where's Coralie? What have you done with
her? Where have you put her? She must be dy-
ing!"
285


SIMEON GIVES BATTLE
“Don't dare to speak of that: I won't, I won't
believe it !"
“It's the truth, Patrice.”
"You lie! You lie!" cried the officer, unable to
restrain himself any longer, while his grief dis-
torted his face out of all recognition.
"Ah, I see you have guessed it! Then I need
not explain ...".
“You lie! You're just a common scoundrel!
... If what you say is true, why did you plot
against Coralie and me? Why did you try to mur-
der the two of us?”
"I was mad, Patrice. Yes, I go mad at times.
All these tragedies have turned my head. My own
Coralie's death . . . and then my life in Essarès'
shadow . . . and then ... and then, above all,
the gold! .. Did I really try to kill you both?
I no longer remember. Or at least I remember a
dream I had: it happened in the lodge, didn't it,
as before? Oh, madness! What a torture! I'm
like a man in the galleys. I have to do things against
my will! ... Then it was in the lodge, was it,
as before? And in the same manner? With the
same implements? ... Yes, in my dream, I went
through all my agony over again ... and that of
my darling. ... But, instead of being tortured, I
was the torturer ... What a torment!"
He spoke low, inside himself, with hesitations
and intervals and an unspeakable air of suffering.
Don Luis kept his eyes fixed on him, as though
trying to discover what he was aiming at. And
Siméon continued:
"My poor Patrice! ... I was so fond of you!
... And now you are my worst enemy! ... How
287


SIMEON GIVES BATTLE
a certain touch of banter in his voice, “if this honor-
able gentleman suggested that you should release
him on parole so that he might go and fetch your
Coralie, I don't suppose you'd accept?"'
"No."
"You haven't the least confidence in him, have
you? And you're right. The honorable gentle-
man, mad though he may be, gave such proofs of
mental superiority and balance, when he sent us
trundling down the road to Mantes, that it would
be dangerous to attach the least credit to his prom-
ises. The consequence is ..."
"Well?"
“This, captain, that the honorable gentleman
means to propose a bargain to you, which may be
couched thus: "You can have Coralie, but I'll keep
the gold.'”
"And then?"
“And then? It would be a capital notion, if you
were alone with the honorable gentleman. The
bargain would soon be concluded. But I'm here
... by Jupiter!”
Patrice had drawn himself up. He stepped to-
wards Don Luis and said, in a voice which became
openly hostile:
"I presume that you won't raise any opposition.
It's a matter of a woman's life.”
“No doubt. But, on the other hand, it's a mat-
ter of three hundred million francs."
“Then you refuse?”
“Refuse? I should think so !"
"You refuse when that woman is at her last
gasp ? You would rather she died? . . . Look
289


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
here, you seem to forget that this is my affair, that
... that ..."
The two men were standing close together. Don
Luis retained that chaffing calmness, that air of
knowing more than he chose to say, which irri-
tated Patrice. At heart Patrice, while yielding to
Don Luis' mastery, resented it and felt a certain
embarrassment at accepting the services of a man
with whose past he was so well acquainted.
"Then you actually refuse?” he rapped out,
clenching his fists.
“Yes," said Don Luis, preserving his coolness.
“Yes, Captain Belval, I refuse this bargain, which
I consider absurd. Why, it's the confidence-trick!
By Jingo! Three hundred millions! Give up a
windfall like that? Never. But I haven't the least
objection to leaving you alone with the honorable
gentleman. That's what he wants, isn't it?"
“Yes."
"Well, talk it over between yourselves. Sign the
compact. The honorable gentleman, who, for his
part, has every confidence in his son, will tell you
the whereabouts of the hiding-place; and you shall
release your Coralie.”
"And you? What about you ?" snarled Patrice,
angrily.
"I? I'm going to complete my little enquiry into
the present and the past by revisiting the room where
you nearly met your death. See you later, captain.
And, whatever you do, insist on guarantees."
Switching on his pocket-lamp, Don Luis entered
the lodge and walked straight to the studio. Pa-
trice saw the electric rays playing on the panels be-
290


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
It's time you did, Patrice. Perhaps it's even too
late.”
“Oh, don't say that!"
“Yes, yes, you must learn the facts and take your
share of the responsibility. When that damned
negro was chasing me, I got rid of Coralie as best
I could, intending to release her in an hour or
two. And then ... and then you know what
happened. . . . It was eleven o'clock at night ...
nearly eight hours ago. . . . So work it out for
yourself ..."
Patrice wrung his hands. Never had he imagined
that a man could be tortured to such a degree. And
Siméon continued, unrelentingly.
"She can't breathe, on my soul she can't! ...
Perhaps just a very little air reaches her, but that
is all. ... Then again I can't tell that all that
covers and protects her hasn't given way. If it
has, she's suffocating ... while you stand here
arguing. ... Look here, can it matter to you to
lock up that man for ten minutes? ... Only ten
minutes, you know. And you still hesitate! Then
it's you who are killing her, Patrice. Think ...
buried alive!"
Patrice drew himself up. His resolve was taken.
At that moment he would have shrunk from no
act, however painful. And what Siméon asked was
so little.
"What do you want me to do?” he asked. “Give
your orders."
"You know what I want," said the other. “It's
quite simple. Go to the door, bolt it and come back
again."
The officer entered the lodge with a firm step
294


SIMEON GIVES BATTLE
and walked through the hall. The light was danc-
ing up and down at the far end of the studio.
Without a word, without a moment's hesitation,
he slammed the door, shot both the bolts and has-
tened back. He felt relieved. The action was a
base one, but he never doubted that he had fulfilled
an imperative duty.
“That's it,” he said. “Let's hurry."
“Help me up,” said the old man. “I can't man-
age by myself."
Patrice took him under the armpits and lifted
him to his feet. But he had to support him, for
the old man's legs were swaying beneath him.
“Oh, curse it !” blurted Siméon. “That blasted
nigger has done for me. I'm suffocating too, I
can't walk.”
Patrice almost carried him, while Siméon, in the
last stage of weakness, stammered:
“This way. ... Now straight ahead. ..."
They passed the corner of the lodge and turned
their steps towards the graves.
“You're quite sure you fastened the door?" the
old man continued. “Yes, I heard it slam. Oh,
he's a terrible fellow, that! You have to be on
your guard with him! But you swore not to say
anything, didn't you? Swear it again, by your
mother's memory ... no, better, swear it by Co-
ralie. ... May she die on the spot if you betray
your oath!”
He stopped. A spasm prevented his going any
further until he had drawn a little air into his lungs.
Nevertheless he went on talking:
“I needn't worry, need I? Besides, you don't
care about gold. That being so, why should you
295


SIMEON GIVES BATTLE
"It's there," he repeated. “Underneath that."
“Under the tombstone ?"
“Yes."
"Then the stone lifts?” asked Patrice, anxiously.
"I can't lift it by myself. It can't be done. It
would take three men to lift that.”
"No," said the old man, “the stone swings on a
pivot. You'll manage quite easily. All you have
to do is to pull at one end ... this one, on the
right.”
Patrice came and caught hold of the great stone
slab, with its inscription, “Here lie Patrice and Co-
ralie," and pulled.
The stone rose at the first endeavor, as if a coun-
terweight had forced the other end down.
"Wait,” said the old man. “We must hold it in
position, or it will fall down again. You'll find an
iron bar at the bottom of the second step."
There were three steps running into a small cav-
ity, barely large enough to contain a man stooping.
Patrice saw the iron bar and, propping up the stone
with his shoulder, took the bar and set it up.
"Good,” said Siméon. “That will keep it steady.
What you must now do is to lie down in the hollow.
This was where my coffin was to have been and
where I often used to come and lie beside my dear
Coralie. I would remain for hours, flat on the
ground, speaking to her. ... We both talked. ...
Yes, I assure you, we used to talk. ... Oh,
Patrice! ..."
Patrice had bent his tall figure in the narrow space
where he was hardly able to move.
“What am I to do?" he asked.
“Don't you hear your Coralie? There's only a
297


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
partition-wall between you: a few bricks hidden
under a thin layer of earth. And a door. The
other vault, Coralie's, is behind it. And behind
that there's a third, with the bags of gold.”
The old man was bending over and directing the
search as he knelt on the grass :
“The door's on the left. Farther than that.
Can't you find it? That's odd. You mustn't be too
slow about it, though. Ah, have you got it now?
No? Oh, if I could only go down too! But there's
not room for more than one."
There was a brief silence. Then he began again:
"Stretch a bit farther. Good. Can you move?”
“Yes," said Patrice.
“Then go on moving, my lad!” cried the old man,
with a yell of laughter.
And, stepping back briskly, he snatched away the
iron bar. The enormous block of stone came down
heavily, slowly, because of the counterweight, but
with irresistible force.
Though floundering in the newly-turned earth,
Patrice tried to rise, at the sight of his danger.
Siméon had taken up the iron bar and now struck
him a blow on the head with it. Patrice gave a cry
and moved no more. The stone covered him up.
The whole incident had lasted but a few seconds.
Siméon did not lose an instant. He knew that
Patrice, wounded as he was bound to be and weak-
ened by the posture to which he was condemned, was
incapable of making the necessary effort to lift the
lid of his tomb. On that side, therefore, there was
no danger.
He went back to the lodge and, though he walked
with some difficulty, he had no doubt exaggerated
298


SIMEON GIVES BATTLE
his injuries, for he did not stop until he reached the
door. He even scorned to obliterate his footprints
and went straight ahead.
On entering the hall he listened. Don Luis was
tapping against the walls and the partition inside
the studio and the bedroom.
“Capital !” said Siméon, with a grin. "His turn
now."
It did not take long. He walked to the kitchen
on the right, opened the door of the meter and,
turning the key, released the gas, thus beginning
again with Don Luis what he had failed to achieve
with Patrice and Coralie.
Not till then did he yield to the immense weari-
ness with which he was overcome and allow himself
to lie back in a chair for two or three minutes.
His most terrible enemy also was now out of the
way. But it was still necessary for him to act and
ensure his personal safety. He walked round the
lodge, looked for his yellow spectacles and put them
on, went through the garden, opened the door and
closed it behind him. Then he turned down the lane
to the quay.
Once more stopping, in front of the parapet above
Berthou's Wharf, he seemed to hesitate what to do.
But the sight of people passing, carmen, market-
gardeners and others, put an end to his indecision.
He hailed a taxi and drove to the Rue Guimard.
His friend Vacherot was standing at the door
of his lodge.
"Oh, is that you, M. Siméon?” cried the porter.
But what a state you're in !".
"Hush, no names !” he whispered, entering the
lodge. "Has any one seen me?"
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"No. It's only half-past seven and the house is
hardly awake. But, Lord forgive us, what have
the scoundrels done to you? You look as if you had
no breath left in your body!”
“Yes, that nigger who came after me ..."
“But the others ?"
“What others ?”
“The two who were here? Patrice?”.
“Eh? Has Patrice been ?" asked Siméon, still
speaking in a whisper.
“Yes, last night, after you left."
“And you told him?".
“That he was your son."
"Then that,” mumbled the old man, “is why he
did not seem surprised at what I said."
“Where are they now?"
“With Coralie. I was able to save her. I've
handed her over to them. But it's not a question of
her. Quick, I must see a doctor; there's no time
to lose.”
“We have one in the house."
“No, that's no use. Have you a telephone-direc-
tory?"
"Here you are."
“Turn up Dr. Géradec.”
"What? You can't mean that?"
“Why not? He has a private hospital quite close,
on the Boulevard de Montmorency, with no other
house near it."
"That's so, but haven't you heard? There are
all sorts of rumors about him afloat: something to
do with passports and forged certificates."
“Never mind that."
M. Vacherot hunted out the number in the direc-
300


SIMEON GIVES BATTLE
picked himself up and, mastering himself and dis-
regarding the pain, he went out by the other door of
the house.
At ten o'clock, after twice changing his taxi, he
arrived at the Boulevard Montmorency, just at the
moment when Dr. Géradec was alighting from his
car and mounting the steps of the handsome villa
in which his private hospital had been installed since
the beginning of the war.
303


CHAPTER XVIII
SIMÉON'S LAST VICTIM
DR. GÉRADEC's hospital had several annexes, each
of which served a specific purpose, grouped around
it in a fine garden. The villa itself was used for the
big operations. The doctor had his consulting-
room here also; and it was to this room that Siméon
Diodokis was first shown. But, after answering a
few questions put to him by a male nurse, Siméon
was taken to another room in a separate wing.
Here he was received by the doctor, a man of
about sixty, still young in his movements, clean-
shaven and wearing a glass screwed into his right
eye, which contracted his features into a constant
grimace. He was wrapped from the shoulders to
the feet in a large white operating-apron.
Siméon explained his case with great difficulty, for
he could hardly speak. A footpad had attacked
him the night before, taken him by the throat and
robbed him, leaving him half-dead in the road.
“You have had time to send for a doctor since," :
said Dr. Géradec, fixing him with a glance.
Siméon did not reply; and the doctor added:
“However, it's nothing much. The fact that you
are alive shows that there's no fracture. It reduces
itself therefore to a contraction of the larynx, which
we shall easily get rid of by tubing."
He gave his assistant some instructions. A long
304


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
with your assistance, to go away without any dan-
ger."
The doctor rose to his feet indignantly.
Siméon persisted:
“Oh, please don't be theatrical! It's a question
of price, is it not? My mind is made up. How
much do you want?”
The doctor pointed to the door.
Siméon raised no protest. He put on his hat.
But, on reaching the door, he said:
“Twenty thousand francs? Is that enough ?”
"Do you want me to ring?" asked the doctor,
"and have you turned out?"
Siméon laughed and quietly, with a pause after
each figure:
“Thirty thousand ?” he asked. “Forty? ...
Fifty? ... Oh, I see, we're playing a great game,
we want a round sum. ... All right. Only, you
know, everything must be included in the price we
settle. You must not only fix me up a passport so
genuine that it can't be disputed, but you must guar-
antee me the means of leaving France, as you did
for Mme. Mosgranem, on terms not half so hand-
some, by Jove! However, I'm not haggling. I
need your assistance. Is it a bargain? A hundred
thousand francs ?”
Dr. Géradec bolted the door, came back, sat
down at his desk and said, simply:
“We'll talk about it.”
“I repeat the question,” said Siméon, coming
closer. "Are we agreed at a hundred thousand ?"
“We are agreed," said the doctor, "unless any
complications appear later."
"What do you mean?"
306


SIMEON'S LAST VICTIM
"I mean that the figure of a hundred thousand
francs forms a suitable basis for discussion, that's
all."
Siméon hesitated a second. The man struck him
as rather greedy. However, he sat down once
more; and the doctor at once resumed the conver-
sation:
“Your real name, please.”
"You mustn't ask me that. I tell you, there are
reasons ..."
“Then it will be two hundred thousand francs."
"Eh?” said Siméon, with a start. "I say, that's
a bit steep! I never heard of such a price."
"You're not obliged to accept,” replied Géradec,
calmly. “We are discussing a bargain. You are
free to do as you please.”
"But, look here, once you agree to fix me up a
false passport, what can it matter to you whether
you know my name or not?''
"It matters a great deal. I run an infinitely
greater risk in assisting the escape-for that's the
only word-of a spy than I do in assisting the escape
of a respectable man.”
"I'm not a spy.”
“How do I know? Look here, you come to me
to propose a shady transaction. You conceal your
name and your identity; and you're in such a hurry
to disappear from sight that you're prepared to pay
me a hundred thousand francs to help you. And, in
the face of that, you lay claim to being a respectable
man! Come, come! It's absurd! A respectable
man does not behave like a burglar or a murderer."
Old Siméon did not wince. He slowly wiped his
forehead with his handkerchief. He was evidently
307


SIMEON'S LAST VICTIM
“Yes. And she even gave me an appointment
for this morning, a very strange appointment."
"Where?" asked Siméon, with visible concern.
"You'll never guess. On a barge, yes, called the
Nonchalante, moored at the Quai de Passy, along-
side Berthou's Wharf."
"Is it possible?” said Siméon.
“It's as I tell you. And do you know how the
letter was signed ? It was signed Grégoire.”
"Grégoire ? A man's name?” muttered the old
man, almost with a groan.
“Yes, a man's name. Look, I have the letter on
me. She tells me that she is leading a very danger-
ous life, that she distrusts the man with whom her
fortunes are bound up and that she would like to
ask my advice."
"Then ... then you went?”
“Yes, I was there this morning, while you were
ringing up here. Unfortunately ..."
“Well?"
“I arrived too late. Grégoire, or rather Mme.
Mosgranem, was dead. She had been strangled.”
“So you know nothing more than that?" asked
Siméon, who seemed unable to get his words out.
"Nothing more about what?”.
“About the man whom she mentioned."
“Yes, I do, for she told me his name in the letter.
He's a Greek, who calls himself Siméon Diodokis.
She even gave me a description of him. I haven't
read it very carefully."
He unfolded the letter and ran his eyes down the
second page, mumbling:
"A broken-down old man. . . . Passes himself
309


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
off as mad. ... Always goes about in a comforter
and a pair of large yellow spectacles. ..."
Dr. Géradec ceased reading and looked at Siméon
with an air of amazement. Both of them sat for
a moment without speaking. Then the doctor said:
"You are Siméon Diodokis."
The other did not protest. All these incidents
were so strangely and, at the same time, so naturally
interlinked as to persuade him that lying was useless.
“This alters the situation," declared the doctor.
“The time for triling is past. It's a most serious
and terribly dangerous matter for me, I can tell
you! You'll have to make it a million."
"Oh, no!" cried Siméon, excitedly. “Certainly
not! Besides, I never touched Mme. Mosgranem.
I was myself attacked by the man who strangled
her, the same man-a negro called Ya-Bon—who
caught me up and took me by the throat."
"Ya-Bon? Did you say Ya-Bon?"
“Yes, a one-armed Senegalese."
“And did you two fight?”
"Yes."
“And did you kill him ?”
“Well ..."
The doctor shrugged his shoulders with a smile:
"Listen, sir, to a curious coincidence. When I ·
left the barge, I met half-a-dozen wounded soldiers.
They spoke to me and said that they were looking
for a comrade, this very Ya-Bon, and also for their
captain, Captain Belval, and a friend of this officer's
and a lady, the lady they were staying with. All
these people had disappeared; and they accused a
certain person ... wait, they told me his name,
... Oh, but this is more and more curious! The
310


SIMEON'S LAST VICTIM .
man's name was Siméon Diodokis. It was you they
accused! ... Isn't it odd? But, on the other hand,
you must confess that all this constitutes fresh facts
and therefore ..."
There was a pause. Then the doctor formulated
his demand in plain tones:
“I shall want two millions."
This time Siméon remained impassive. He felt
that he was in the man's clutches, like a mouse
clawed by a cat. The doctor was playing with him,
letting him go and catching him again, without giv-
ing him the least hope of escaping from this grim
sport.
“This is blackmail," he said, quietly.
The doctor nodded:
“There's no other word for it,” he admitted. “It's
blackmail. Moreover, it's a case of blackmail in
which I have not the excuse of creating the oppor.
tunity that gives me my advantage. A wonderful
chance comes within reach of my hand. I grab at
it, as you would do in my place. What else is pos-
sible? I have had a few differences, which you
know of, with the police. We've signed a peace,
the police and I. But my professional position has
been so much injured that I cannot afford to reject
with scorn what you so kindly bring me.”
“Suppose I refuse to submit?”.
“Then I shall telephone to the headquarters of
police, with whom I stand in great favor at present,
as I am able to do them a good turn now and again.”
Siméon glanced at the window and at the door.
The doctor had his hand on the receiver of the
telephone. There was no way out of it.
"Very well,” he declared. "After all, it's better
311


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
so. You know me; and I know you. We can come
to terms."
“On the basis suggested ?"
"Yes. Tell me your plan.”
“No, it's not worth while. I have my methods;
and there's no object in revealing them beforehand.
The point is to secure your escape and to put an
end to your present danger. I'll answer for all
that."
"What guarantee have I ...?"
“You will pay me half the money now and the
other half when the business is done. There re-
mains the matter of the passport, a secondary mat-
ter for me. Still, we shall have to make one out.
In what name is it to be?”.
“Any name you like.”.
The doctor took a sheet of paper and wrote down
the description, looking at Siméon between the
phrases and muttering:
“Gray hair. . . Clean-shaven. ... Yellow spec-
tacles. ..."
Then he stopped and asked:
“But how do I know that I shall be paid the
money? That's essential, you know. I want bank-
notes, real ones.”
“You shall have them."
“Where are they?”
"In a hiding-place that can't be got at."
“Tell me where."
“I have no objection. Even if I give you a clue
to the general position, you'll never find it."
“Well, go on."
“Grégoire had the money in his keeping, four
million francs. It's on board the barge. We'll go
312


SIMEON'S LAST VICTIM
maison't accept any must be mad.nav a man with
there together and I'll count you out the first mil-
lion."
"You say those millions are on board the barge ?”
“Yes."
"And there are four of those millions ?”
“Yes."
"I won't accept any of them in payment."
“Why not? You must be mad!”.
“Why not? Because you can't pay a man with
what already belongs to him.”
“What's that you're saying?” cried Siméon, in
dismay.
“Those four millions belong to me, so you can't
offer them to me."
Siméon shrugged his shoulders:
"You're talking nonsense. For the money to be-
long to you, it must first be in your possession.”
“Certainly."
“And is it?"
“It is."
"Explain yourself, explain yourself at once!"
snarled Siméon, beside himself with anger and
alarm.
"I will explain myself. The hiding-place that
couldn't be got at consisted of four old books, back
numbers of Bottin's directory for Paris and the prov-
inces, each in two volumes. The four volumes were
hollow inside, as though they had been scooped out;
and there was a million francs in each of them.”
“You lie! You lie !"
“They were on a shelf, in a little lumber-room
next the cabin."
"Well, what then?”
"What then? They're here."
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SIMEON'S LAST VICTIM
“What name have you put? What name have
you put?, What right have you to give me that
name? Why did you do it?".
"You told me to put any name I pleased, you
know.”
“But why this one? Why this one ?"
“Can it be your own ?”.
The old man started with terror and, bending
lower and lower over the doctor, said, in a trembling
voice:
“One man alone, one man alone was capable of
guessing ..."
There was a long pause. Then the doctor gave
a little chuckle:
“I know that only one man was capable of it.
So let's take it that I'm the man."
"One man alone,” continued the other, while his
breath once again seemed to fail him, "one man
alone could find the hiding-place of the four millions
in a few seconds."
The doctor did not answer. He smiled; and his
features gradually relaxed.
In a sort of terror-stricken tone Siméon hissed
out:
“Arsène Lupin! . . . Arsène Lupin! ..."
"You've hit it in one," exclaimed the doctor,
rising.
He dropped his eye-glass, took from his pocket
a little pot of grease, smeared his face with it,
washed it off in a basin in a recess and reappeared
with a clear skin, a smiling, bantering face and an
easy carriage.
"Arsène Lupin!" repeated Siméon, petrified.
“Arsène Lupin! I'm in for it!"
315


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
"Up to the neck, you old fool! And what a silly
fool you must be! Why, you know me by reputation,
you feel for me the intense and wholesome awe with
which a decent man of my stamp is bound to inspire
an old rascal like you ... and you go and imagine
that I should be ass enough to let myself be bottled
up in that lethal chamber of yours! Mind you, at
that very moment I could have taken you by the
hair of the head and gone straight on to the great
scene in the fifth act, which we are now playing.
Only my fifth act would have been a bit short, you
see; and I'm a born actor-manager. As it is, observe
how well the interest is sustained! And what fun
it was seeing the thought of it take birth in your
old Turkish noddle! And what a lark to go into the
studio, fasten my electric lamp to a bit of string,
make poor, dear Patrice believe that I was there and
go out and hear Patrice denying me three times and
carefully bolting the door on . . . what? My elec-
tric lamp! That was all first-class work, don't you
think? What do you say to it? I can feel that
you're speechless with admiration. ... And, ten
minutes after, when you came back, the same scene
in the wings and with the same success. Of course,
you old Siméon, I was banging at the walled-up door,
between the studio and the bedroom on the left.
Only I wasn't in the studio: I was in the bedroom;
and you went away quietly, like a good kind land-
lord. As for me, I had no need to hurry. I was as
certain as that twice two is four that you would go
to your friend M. Amédée Vacherot, the porter.
And here, I may say, old Siméon, you committed a
nice piece of imprudence, which got me out of my
difficulty. No one in the porter's lodge: that
316


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
you think me capable of abandoning him like that?
Do you see me, Lupin, making more or less witty
jokes upon your imminent death while my friend
Patrice is in danger ? Old Siméon, you're getting
played out. It's time you went and rested in a better
world."
He lifted a hanging, opened a door and called
out:
“Well, captain, how are you getting on? Ah, I
see you've recovered consciousness! Are you sur-
prised to see me? No, no thanks, but please come
in here. Our old Siméon's asking for you."
Then, turning to the old man, he said:
"Here's your son, you unnatural father!"
Patrice entered the room with his head bandaged,
for the blow which Siméon had struck him and the
weight of the tombstone had opened his old wounds.
He was very pale and seemed to be in great pain.
At the sight of Siméon Diodokis he gave signs
of terrible anger. He controlled himself, however.
The two men stood facing each other, without
stirring, and Don Luis, rubbing his hands, said, in
an undertone:
“What a scene! What a splendid scene? Isn't
it well-arranged? The father and the son! The
murderer and his victim! Listen to the orchestra!
... A slight tremolo. ... What are they going
to do? Will the son kill his father or the father
kill his son? A thrilling moment. ... And the
mighty silence! Only the call of the blood is heard
... and in what terms! Now we're off! The call
of the blood has sounded; and they are going to
throw themselves into each other's arms, the better
to strangle the life out of each other!"
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
gling him? Does it repel you? And yet, if it were
a Boche, on the battlefield ..."
“Yes ... but this man ...".
"Is it your hands that refuse? The idea of taking
hold of the flesh and squeezing? ... Here, cap-
tain, take my revolver and blow out his brains.”
Patrice accepted the weapon eagerly and aimed
it at old Siméon. The silence was appalling. Old
Siméon's eyes had closed and drops of sweat were
streaming down his livid cheeks.
At last the officer lowered his arm:
“I can't do it," he said.
"Nonsense,” said Don Luis. “Get on with the
work."
"No.... No...."
“But, in Heaven's name, why not?"
“I can't."
"You can't? Shall I tell you the reason? You
are thinking of that man as if he were your father."
"Perhaps it's that,” said the officer, speaking very
low. “There's a chance of it, you know."
“What does it matter, if he's a beast and a black-
guard?"
“No, no, I haven't the right. Let him die by all
means, but not by my hand. I haven't the right."
"You have the right.”
"No, it would be abominable! It would be mon-
strous !"
Don Luis went up to him and, tapping him on
the shoulder, said, gravely:
"You surely don't believe that I should stand
here, urging you to kill that man, if he were your
father?"
Patrice looked at him wildly:
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SIMEON'S LAST VICTIM
“Do you but he were your fatha jou mean that
“Do you know something? Do you know some-
thing for certain? Oh, for Heaven's sake ...!"
Don Luis continued:
“Do you believe that I would even encourage you
to hate him, if he were your father?"
“Oh!" exclaimed Patrice. “Do you mean that
he's not my father?”
“Of course he's not!" cried Don Luis, with irre-
sistible conviction and increasing eagerness. “Your
father indeed! Why, look at him! Look at that
scoundrelly head. Every sort of vice and violence
is written on the brute's face. Throughout this ad-
venture, from the first day to the last, there was not
a crime committed but was his handiwork: not one,
do you follow me? There were not two criminals,
as we thought, not Essarès, to begin the hellish busi-
ness, and old Siméon, to finish it. There was only
one criminal, one, do you understand, Patrice? Be-
fore killing Coralie and Ya-Bon and Vacherot the
porter and the woman who was his own accomplice,
he killed others! He killed one other in particular,
one whose flesh and blood you are, the man whose
dying cries you heard over the telephone, the man
who called you Patrice and who only lived for you!
He killed that man; and that man was your father,
Patrice; he was Armand Belvall Now do you un-
derstand ?”
Patrice did not understand. Don Luis' words fell
uncomprehended; not one of them lit up the dark-
ness of Patrice's brain. However, one thought in-
sistently possessed him; and he stammered:
“That was my father? I heard his voice, you
say? Then it was he who called to me?”
“Yes, Patrice, your father.”
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
"And the man who killed him ... ?"
"Was this one,” said Don Luis, pointing to
Siméon.
The old man remained motionless, wild-eyed, like
a felon awaiting sentence of death. Patrice, quiver-
ing with rage, stared at him fixedly:
“Who are you? Who are you?" he asked. And,
turning to Don Luis, “Tell me his name, I beseech
you. I want to know his name, before I destroy
him.”
"His name? Haven't you guessed it yet? Why,
from the very first day, I took it for granted! After
all, it was the only possible theory.”
"But what theory? What was it you took for
granted?” cried Patrice, impatiently.
“Do you really want to know ?"
“Oh, please! I'm longing to kill him, but I must
first know his name."
“Well, then ..."
There was a long silence between the two men,
as they stood close together, looking into each other's
eyes. Then Lupin let fall these four syllables:
"Essarès Bey."
Patrice felt a shock that ran through him from
head to foot. Not for a second did he try to under-
stand by what prodigy this revelation came to be
merely an expression of the truth. He instantly
accepted this truth, as though it were undeniable
and proved by the most evident facts. The man
was Essarès Bey and had killed his father. He
had killed him, so to speak, twice over: first years
ago, in the lodge in the garden, taking from him all
the light of life and any reason for living; and again
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
be done! And you will not find even her body in
the bowels of the earth, where I buried her with the
bags of gold. Under the tombstone ? No, not
such a fool! No, Patrice, you will never find her.
The gold is stilling her. She's dead! Coralie is
dead! Oh, the delight of throwing that in your
facel The anguish you must be feeling! Coralie
is dead! Coralie is dead!”
"Don't shout so, you'll wake her,” said Don Luis,
calmly.
The brief sentence was followed by a sort of
stupor which paralyzed the two adversaries. Pa-
trice's arms dropped to his sides. Siméon turned
giddy and sank into a chair. Both of them, know-
ing the things of which Don Luis was capable, knew
what he meant.
But Patrice wanted something more than a vague
sentence that might just as easily be taken as a jest.
He wanted a certainty.
"Wake her?” he asked, in a broken voice.
“Well, of course!” said Don Luis. “When you
shout too loud, you wake people up."
"Then she's alive?"
“You can't wake the dead, whatever people may
say. You can only wake the living."
“Coralie is alive! Coralie is alive!” Patrice re-
peated, in a sort of rapture that transfigured his
features. “Can it be possible? But then she must
be here! Oh, I beg of you, say you're in earnest,
give me your word! ... Or no, it's not true, is
it? I can't believe it . . . you must be joking. ..."
“Let me answer you, captain, as I answered that
wretch just now. You are admitting that it is pos-
sible for me to abandon my work before completing
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SIMEON'S LAST VICTIM
it. How little you know me! What I undertake to
do I do. It's one of my habits and a good one at
that. That's why I cling to it. Now watch me."
He turned to one side of the room. Opposite
the hanging that covered the door by which Patrice
had entered was a second curtain, concealing an.
other door. He lifted the curtain.
“No, no, she's not there," said Patrice, in an
almost inaudible voice. "I dare not believe it. The
disappointment would be too great. Swear to
me ..."
“I swear nothing, captain. You have only to open
your eyes. By Jove, for a French officer, you're
cutting a pretty figure! Why, you're as white as a
sheet! Of course it's she! It's Little Mother Co-
ralie! Look, she's in bed asleep, with two nurses
to watch her. But there's no danger; she's not
wounded. A bit of a temperature, that's all, and
extreme weakness. Poor Little Mother Coralie!
I never could have imagined her in such a state of
exhaustion and coma."
Patrice had stepped forward, brimming over with
joy. Don Luis stopped him:
"That will do, captain. Don't go any nearer. I
brought her here, instead of taking her home, be-
cause I thought a change of scene and atmosphere
essential. But she must have no excitement. She's
had her share of that; and you might spoil every-
thing by showing yourself.”
"You're right," said Patrice. “But are you quite
sure ...?"
"That she's alive?" asked Don Luis, laughing.
“She's as much alive as you or I and quite ready to
give you the happiness you deserve and to change
325


SIMEON'S LAST VICTIM
ve not the rigand of the womare. Besides,
whole being seethed with hatred. Nevertheless, he
replied:
"I will not kill that man.”
"I agree, captain. Your scruples do you honor.
You have not the right to kill a man whom you
know to be the husband of the woman you love.
It is not for you to remove the obstacle. Besides,
you hate taking life. So do I. This animal is too
filthy for words. And so, my good man, there's
no one left but yourself to help us out of this deli-
cate position.”
Don Luis ceased speaking for a moment and leant
over Essarès. Had the wretched man heard? Was
he even alive? He looked as if he were in a faint,
deprived of consciousness.
Don Luis shook him by the shoulder.
“The gold," moaned Essarès, "the bags of
gold . .."
"Oh, you're thinking of that, you old scoundrel,
are you? You're still interested?' The bags of gold
are in my pocket ... if a pocket can contain eigh-
teen hundred bags of gold.”.
“The hiding-place?”
"Your hiding-place? It doesn't exist, so far as
I'm concerned. I needn't prove it to you, need I,
since Coralie's here? As Coralie was buried among
the bags of gold, you can draw your own conclu-
sion. So you're nicely done. The woman you
wanted is free and, what is worse still, free by the
side of the man whom she adores and whom she will
never leave. And, on the other hand, your treasure
is discovered. So it's all finished, eh? We are
agreed? Come, here's the toy that will release you."
He handed him the revolver. Essarès took it
I'm concerlie's here? Acan draw you
327


SIMEON'S LAST VICTIM
At the touch of the cold steel he gave a moan:
“Mercy!"
"No, no, no!” said Don Luis. “You mustn't
show yourself any mercy. And I won't help you
either. Perhaps, if you hadn't killed my poor Ya-
Bon, we might have put our heads together and
sought for another ending. But, honestly, you in-
spire me with no more pity than you feel for your-
self. You want to die and you are right. I won't
prevent you. Besides, your passport is made out;
you've got your ticket in your pocket. They are
expecting you down below. And, you know, you
need have no fear of being bored. Have you ever
seen a picture of Hell? Every one has a huge stone
over his tomb; and every one is lifting the stone
and supporting it with his back, in order to escape
the flames bursting forth beneath him. You see,
there's plenty of fun. Well, your grave is reserved.
Bath's ready, sir!"
Slowly and patiently he had succeeded in slipping
the wretched man's fore-finger under the handle, so
as to bring it against the trigger. Essarès was let-
ting himself go. He was little more than a limp rag.
Death had already cast its shadow upon him..
"Mind you,” said Don Luis, "you're perfectly
free. You can pull the trigger if you feel like it.
It's not my business. I'm not here to compel you
to commit suicide, but only to advise you and to
lend you a hand.”
He had in fact let go the fore-finger and was
holding only the arm. But he was bearing upon
Essarès with all his extraordinary power of will, the
will to seek destruction, the will to seek annihila-
tion, an indomitable will which Essarès was unable
329


SIMEON'S LAST VICTIM
Fate must be allowed to take its course. Patrice
did not interfere.
And Don Luis continued, unrelentingly and with-
out intermission:
“Come along, come along! ... It's a mere
nothing and it means eternal rest! ... How good
it feels, already! To forget! To cease fighting!
... Think of the gold which you have lost. ...
Three hundred millions gone for ever! ... And
Coralie lost as well. Mother and daughter: you
can't have either. In that case, life is nothing but a
snare and a delusion. You may as well leave it.
Come, one little effort, one little movement. ..."
That little movement the miscreant made.
Hardly knowing what he did, he pulled the trigger.
The shot rang through the room; and Essarès fell
forward, with his knees on the floor. Don Luis had
to spring to one side to escape being splashed by
the blood that trickled from the man's shattered
head.
“By Jove!” he cried. “The blood of vermin like
that would have brought me ill-luck. And, Lord,
what crawling vermin it is! ... Upon my word,
I believe that this makes one more good action I've
done in my life and that this suicide entitles me to
a little seat in Paradise. What say you, captain?”
331


CHAPTER XIX
FIAT LUX!
On the evening of the same day, Patrice was pacing
up and down the Quai de Passy. It was nearly six
o'clock. From time to time, a tram-car passed, or
some motor-lorry. There were very few people
about on foot. Patrice had the pavement almost
to himself.
He had not seen Don Luis Perenna since the
morning, had merely received a line in which Don
Luis asked him to have Ya-Bon's body moved into
the Essarès' house and afterwards to meet him on
the quay above Berthou's Wharf. The time ap-
pointed for the meeting was near at hand and
Patrice was looking forward to this interview in
which the truth would be revealed to him at last.
He partly guessed the truth, but no little darkness
and any number of unsolved problems remained.
The tragedy was played out. The curtain had fall-
en on the villain's death. All was well: there was
nothing more to fear, no more pitfalls in store for
them. The formidable enemy was laid low. But
Patrice's anxiety was intense as he waited for the
moment when light would be cast freely and fully
upon the tragedy.
"A few words," he said to himself, "a few words
from that incredible person known as Arsène Lupin,
will clear up the mystery. It will not take him long.
332


FIAT LUX!
He will be gone in an hour. Will he take the secret
of the gold with him, I wonder? Will he solve the
secret of the golden triangle for me? And how
will he keep the gold for himself? How will he
take it away?”
A motor-car arrived from the direction of the
Trocadéro. It slowed down and stopped beside
the pavement. It must be Don Luis, thought Pa-
trice. But, to his great surprise, he recognized M.
Masseron, who opened the door and came towards
him with outstretched hand:
"Well, captain, how are you? I'm punctual for
the appointment, am I not? But, I say, have you
been wounded in the head again ?”
"Yes, an accident of no importance," replied
Patrice. "But what appointment are you speaking
of?"
"Why, the one you gave me, of course!”
"I gave you no appointment."
“Oh, I say!" said M. Masseron. “What does
this mean? Why, here's the note they brought me
at the police-office: 'Captain Belval's compliments
to M. Masseron. The problem of the golden tri-
angle is solved. The eighteen hundred bags are at
his disposal. Will he please come to the Quai de
Passy, at six o'clock, with full powers from the gov-
ernment to accept the conditions of delivery. It
would be well if he brought with him twenty power-
ful detectives, of whom half should be posted a hun-
dred yards on one side of Essarès' property and
the other half on the other.' There you are. Is it
clear?”
"Perfectly clear," said Patrice, "but I never sent
you that note."
333


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
for distribution. I had the offer transmitted to the
Allies, who rejected it, certainly not for financial
reasons, but for reasons of policy, which it is not
for me to judge. But I am not content to suffer
this little diplomatic check. I failed in my first
negotiation; I do not mean to fail in the second.
That is why I am taking my precautions."
He paused and then resumed, while his voice took
on a rather more serious tone:
“At this moment, in April, 1915, as you are well
aware, conferences are in progress between the Al-
lies and the last of the great European powers that
has remained neutral. These conferences are going
to succeed; and they will succeed because the future
of that power demands it and because the whole
nation is uplifted with enthusiasm. Among the ques-
tions raised is one which forms the object of a
certain divergency of opinion. I mean the question
of money. This foreign power is asking us for a
loan of three hundred million francs in gold, while
making it quite clear that a refusal on our part
would in no way affect a decision which is already
irrevocably taken. Well, I have three hundred mil-
lions in gold; I have them at my command; and I
desire to place them at the disposal of our new allies.
This is my second and, in reality, my only condition.”
M. Masseron seemed utterly taken aback:
"But, my dear sir," he said, “these are matters
quite outside our province; they must be examined
and decided by others, not by us."
"Every one has the right to dispose of his money
as he pleases."
M. Masseron made a gesture of distress:
“Come, sir, think a moment. You yourself said
336


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
M. Masseron seemed quite discomforted. Wav-
ing his hands and shaking his head, he mumbled:
"It's impossible. Such a condition as that will
never be accepted. It will take time, it will need
discussion. ..."
A hand was laid on his arm by some one who had
come up a moment before and who had listened to
Don Luis' little speech. Its owner had alighted
from a car which was waiting some way off; and, to
Patrice's great astonishment, his presence had
aroused no opposition on the part of either M.
Masseron or Don Luis Perenna. He was a man
well-advanced in years, with a powerful, lined face.
"My dear Masseron,” he said, "it seems to me
that you are not looking at the question from the
right point of view."
“That's what I think, monsieur le président,"
said Don Luis..
“Ah, do you know me, sir?"
“M. Valenglay, I believe? I had the honor of
calling on you some years ago, sir, when you were
president of the council.”
“Yes, I thought I remembered ... though I
can't say exactly ..."
"Please don't tax your memory, sir. The past
does not concern us. What matters is that you
should be of my opinion.”
"I don't know that I am of your opinion. But
I consider that this makes no difference. And that
is what I was telling you, my dear Masseron. It's
not a question of knowing whether you ought to
discuss this gentleman's conditions. It's a question
of accepting them or refusing them without discus-
sion. There's no bargain to be driven in the cir-
338


FIAT LUX!
cumstances. A bargain presupposes that each party
has something to offer. Now we have no offer to
make, whereas this gentleman comes with his offer
in his hand and says, “Would you like three hundred
million francs in gold? In that case you must do
80-and-so with it. If that doesn't suit you, good-
evening. That's the position, isn't it, Masseron?”
“Yes, monsieur le président."
"Well, can you dispense with our friend here?
Can you, without his assistance, find the place where
the gold is hidden? Observe that he makes things
very easy for you by bringing you to the place and
almost pointing out the exact spot to you. Is that
enough? Have you any hope of discovering the
secret which you have been seeking for weeks and
months?”.
M. Masseron was very frank in his reply:
"No, monsieur le président,” he said, plainly and
without hesitation.
"Well, then. ..."
And, turning to Don Luis :
“And you, sir,” Valenglay asked, “is it your last
word?”.
“My last word.”
“If we refuse ... good-evening?"
"You have stated the case precisely, monsieur le
président."
“And, if we accept, will the gold be handed over
at once?"
"At once.”
"We accept."
And, after a slight pause, he repeated:
“We accept. The ambassador shall receive his
instructions this evening.”
339


FIAT LUXI
“What do you mean?”
"Exactly what I say. Short of touching the bags
of gold, it would be difficult to be nearer to them
than you are."
For all his self-control, Valenglay could not con-
ceal his surprise:
"You are not suggesting, I suppose, that I am
walking on gold and that we have only to lift up the
flags of the pavement or to break down this para-
pet?"
"That would be removing obstacles, sir, whereas
there is no obstacle between you and what you are
seeking."
“No obstacle !"
“None, monsieur le président, for you have only
to make the least little movement in order to touch
the bags."
"The least little movement!" said Valenglay,
mechanically repeating Don Luis' words.
"I call a little movement what one can make with-
out an effort, almost without stirring, such as dip-
ping one's stick into a sheet of water, for instance,
or ..."
“Or what?"
"Well, or a heap of sand.”
Valenglay remained silent and impassive, with at
most a slight shiver passing across his shoulders.
He did not make the suggested movement. He had
no need to make it. He understood.
The others also did not speak a word, struck
dumb by the simplicity of the amazing truth which
had suddenly flashed upon them like lightning. And,
amid this silence, unbroken by protest or sign of
incredulity, Don Luis went on quietly talking:
341


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
"If you had the least doubt, monsieur le président
-and I see that you have not-you would dig
your cane, no great distance, twenty inches at most,
into the sand beneath you. You would then encoun-
ter a resistance which would compel you to stop.
That is the bags of gold. There ought to be eigh-
teen hundred of them; and, as you see, they do not
make an enormous heap. A kilogram of gold repre-
sents three thousand one hundred francs. There-
fore, according to my calculation, a bag containing
approximately fifty kilograms, or one hundred and
fifty-five thousand francs done up in rouleaus of a
thousand francs, is not a very large bag. Piled one
against the other and one on top of the other, the
bags represent a bulk of about fifteen cubic yards,
no more. If you shape the mass roughly like a tri-
angular pyramid you will have a base each of whose
sides would be three yards long at most, or three
yards and a half allowing for the space lost between
the rouleaus of coins. The height will be that of
the wall, nearly. Cover the whole with a layer of
sand and you have the heap which lies before your
eyes ...
Don Luis paused once more before continuing:
"And which has been there for months, monsieur
le président, safe from discovery not only by those
who were looking for it, but also by accident on the
part of a casual passer-by. Just think, a heap of
sand! Who would dream of digging a hole in it
to see what is going on inside? The dogs sniff at
it, the children play beside it and make mudpies, an
occasional tramp lies down against it and takes a
snooze. The rain softens it, the sun hardens it, the
snow whitens it all over; but all this happens on the
342


FIAT LUX!
surface, in the part that shows. Inside reigns im-
penetrable mystery, darkness unexplored. There is
not a hiding-place in the world to equal the inside of
a sand heap exposed to view in a public place. The
man who thought of using it to hide three hundred
millions of gold, monsieur le président, knew what
he was about.”
The late prime minister had listened to Don Luis'
explanation without interrupting him. When Don
Luis had finished, Valenglay nodded his head once
or twice and said:
"He did indeed. But there is one man who is
cleverer still."
"I don't believe it."
“Yes, there's the man who guessed that the heap
of sand concealed the three hundred million francs.
That man is a master, before whom we must all
bow."
Flattered by the compliment, Don Luis raised his
hat. Valenglay gave him his hand:
"I can think of no reward worthy of the service
which you have done the country.”
"I ask for no reward,” said Don Luis.
“I daresay, sir, but I should wish you at least to
be thanked by voices that carry more weight than
mine."
"Is it really necessary, monsieur le président?”.
“I consider it essential. May I also confess that
I am curious to learn how you discovered the secret?
I should be glad, therefore, if you would call at my
department in an hour's time."
“I am very sorry, sir, but I shall be gone in fifteen
minutes."
343


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
"No, no, you can't go like this,” said Valenglay,
with authority.
"Why not, sir?"
“Well, because we don't know your name or any-
thing about you."
“That makes so little differencel"
"In peace-time, perhaps. But, in war-time, it
won't do at all.”
"Surely, monsieur le président, you will make an
exception in my case?"
"An exception, indeed? What next?”
"Suppose it's the reward which I ask, will you
refuse me then?”
"It's the only one which we are obliged to refuse
you. However, you won't ask for it. A good citi-
zen like yourself understands the constraints to
which everybody is bound to submit. My dear
Masseron, arrange it with this gentleman. At the
department in an hour from now. Good-by till
then, sir. I shall expect you."
And, after a very civil bow, he walked away to
his car, twirling his stick gaily and escorted by M.
Masseron.
"Well, on my soul!" chuckled Don Luis. “There's
a character for you! In the twinkling of an eye,
he accepts-three hundred millions in gold, signs an
epoch-making treaty and orders the arrest of Ar-
sène Lupin!”
"What do you mean?” cried Patrice, startled out
of his life. "Your arrest?”
"Well, he orders me to appear before him, to
produce my papers and the devil knows what."
“But that's monstrous !".
344


FIAT LUX!
"It's the law of the land, my dear captain. We
must bow to it.”
“But ..."
“Captain, believe me when I say that a few little
worries of this sort deprive me of none of the whole.
hearted satisfaction which I feel at rendering this
great service to my country. I wanted, during the
war, to do something for France and to make the
most of the time which I was able to devote to her
during my stay. I've done it. And then I have
another reward: the four millions. For I think
highly enough of your Coralie to believe her inca-
pable of wishing to touch this money ... which is
really her property."
"I'll go bail for her over that.”
"Thank you. And you may be sure that the gift
will be well employed. So everything is settled. I
have still a few minutes to give you. Let us turn
them to good account. M. Masseron is collecting
his men by now. To simplify their task and avoid
a scandal, we'll go down to the lower quay, by the
sand-heap. It'll be easier for him to collar me
there."
"I accept your few minutes," said Patrice, as they
went down the steps. “But first of all I want to
apologize ..."
"For what? For behaving a little treacherously
and locking me into the studio of the lodge? You
couldn't help yourself: you were trying to assist your
Coralie. For thinking me capable of keeping the
treasure on the day when I discovered it? You
couldn't help that either: how could you imagine
that Arsène Lupin would despise three hundred mil.
lion francs ?”
345


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
"Very well, no apologies,” said Patrice, laugh-
ing. “But all my thanks.”
. "For what? For saving your life and saving
Coralie's? Don't thank me. It's a hobby of mine,
saving people.”
Patrice took Don Luis' hand and pressed it firmly.
Then, in a chaffing tone which hid his emotion, he
said:
"Then I won't thank you. I won't tell you that
you rid me of a hideous nightmare by letting me
know that I was not that monster's son and by un-
veiling his real identity. I will not tell you either
that I am a happy man now that life is opening
radiantly before me, with Coralie free to love me.
No, we won't talk of it. But shall I confess to
you that my happiness is still a little—what shall
I say?-a little dim, a little timid? I no longer
feel any doubt; but in spite of all, I don't quite un-
derstand the truth, and, until I do understand it,
the truth will cause me some anxiety. So tell me
... explain to me ... I want to know ...".
"And yet the truth is so obvious !" cried Don
Luis. "The most complex truths are always so
simple! Look here, don't you understand any-
thing? Just think of the way in which the prob-
lem is set. For sixteen or eighteen years, Siméon
Diodokis behaves like a perfect friend, devoted
to the pitch of self-denial, in short, like a father.
He has not a thought, outside that of his revenge,
but to secure your happiness and Coralie's. He
wants to bring you together. He collects your photo-
graphs. He follows the whole course of your life.
He almost gets into touch with you. He sends you
the key of the garden and prepares a meeting.
346


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
of the millions of francs collected. The Belle
Hélène, summoned by the rain of sparks, was lying
moored alongside Berthou's Wharf. The gold was
to be shifted at night from the sand-bags to the
motor-barge. All was going well, when the accom-
plices, warned by Siméon, broke in. Thereupon we
have the blackmailing-scene, Colonel Fakhi's death
and so on, with Essarès learning at one and the same
time that his accomplices knew of his schemes and
his plan to pilfer the gold and also that Colonel
Fakhi had informed the police about him. He was
cornered. What could he do? Run away? But,
in war-time, running away is almost impossible. Be-
sides, running away meant giving up the gold and
likewise giving up Coralie, which would never have
done. So there was only one thing, to disappear
from sight. To disappear from sight and yet to
remain there, on the battlefield, near the gold and
near Coralie. Night came; and he employed it in
carrying out his plan. So much for Essarès. We
now come to Siméon Diodokis."
Don Luis stopped to take breath. Patrice had
been listening eagerly, as though each word had
brought its share of light into the oppressive dark-
ness.
“The man who was known as old Siméon," con-
tinued Don Luis, “that is to say, your father, Ar-
mand Belval, a former victim, together with Co-
ralie's mother, of Essarès Bey, had also reached a
turning-point of his career. He was nearly achiev-
ing his object. He had betrayed and delivered his
enemy, Essarès, into the hands of Colonel Fakhi
and the accomplices. He had succeeded in bring-
ing you and Coralie together. He had sent you
348


FIAT LUX!
the key of the lodge. He was justified in hoping
that, in a few days more, everything would end ac-
cording to his wishes. But, next morning, on wak-
ing, certain indications unknown to me revealed to
him a threatening danger; and he no doubt fore-
saw the plan which Essarès was engaged in elaborat-
ing. And he too put himself the same question:
What was he to do? What was there for him to do?
He must warn you, warn you without delay, tele-
phone to you at once. For time was pressing, the
danger was becoming definite. Essarès was watch-
ing and hunting down the man whom he had chosen
as his victim for the second time. You can picture
Siméon possibly feeling himself pursued and locking
himself into the library. You can picture him won-
dering whether he would ever be able to telephone
to you and whether you would be there. He asks
for you. He calls out to you. Essarès hammers
away at the door. And your father, gasping for
breath, shouts, 'Is that you, Patrice? Have you the
key? ... And the letter? ... No? ... But
this is terrible! Then you don't know' . .. And
then a hoarse cry, which you hear at your end of
the wire, and incoherent noises, the sound of an
altercation. And then the lips gluing themselves to
the instrument and stammering words at random:
‘Patrice, the amethyst pendant ... Patrice, I
should so much have liked ... Patrice, Coralie!'
Then a loud scream ... cries that grow weaker
and weaker ... silence, and that is all. Your
father is dead, murdered. This time, Essarès Bey,
who had failed before, in the lodge, took his re-
venge on his old rival.”
349


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
"Oh, my unhappy father!" murmured Patrice,
in great distress.
“Yes, it was he. That was at nineteen minutes
past seven in the morning, as you noted. A few
minutes later, eager to know and understand, you
yourself rang up; and it was Essarès who replied,
with your father's dead body at his feet.”
"Oh, the scoundrell So that this body, which
we did not find and were not able to find ..."
"Was simply made up by Essarès, made up, dis-
figured, transformed into his own likeness. That,
captain, is how—and the whole mystery lies in this
-Siméon Diodokis, dead, became Essarès Bey,
while Essarès Bey, transformed into Siméon Dio-
dokis, played the part of Siméon Diodokis."
“Yes," said Patrice, “I see, I understand."
"As to the relations existing between the two
men," continued Don Luis, “I am not certain. Es..
sarès may or may not have known before that old
Siméon was none other than his former rival, the
lover of Coralie's mother, the man in short who
had escaped death. He may or may not have known
that Siméon was your father. These are points
which will never be decided and which, moreover,
do not matter. What I do take for granted is that
this new murder was not improvised on the spot.
I firmly believe that Essarès, having noticed cer-
tain similarities in height and figure, had made
every preparation to take Siméon's place if circum-
stances obliged him to disappear. And it was easily
done. Siméon Diodokis wore a wig and no beard.
Essarès, on the contrary, was bald-headed and had
a beard. He shaved himself, smashed Siméon's
face against the grate, mingled the hairs of his own
and whose are
I do
350


FIAT LUX!
beard with the bleeding mass, dressed the body in
his clothes, took his victim's clothes for himself,
put on the wig, the spectacles and the comforter.
The transformation was complete.”
Patrice thought for a moment. Then he raised
an objection:
“Yes, that's what happened at nineteen minutes
past seven. But something else happened at twenty-
three minutes past twelve."
"No, nothing at all.”,
“But that clock, which stoppd at twenty-three
minutes past twelve ?”.
"I tell you, nothing happened at all. Only, he
had to put people off the scent. He had above all
to avoid the inevitable accusation that would have
been brought against the new Siméon."
"What accusation ?"
· "What accusation? Why, that he had killed Es-
sarès Bey, of course! A dead body is discovered in
the morning. Who has committed the murder? Sus-
picion would at once have fallen on Siméon. He
would have been questioned and arrested. And
Essarès would have been found under Siméon's
mask. No, he needed liberty and facilities to move
about as he pleased. To achieve this, he kept the
murder concealed all the morning and arranged so
that no one set foot in the library. He went three
times and knocked at his wife's door, so that she
should say that Essarès Bey was still alive during
the morning. Then, when she went out, he raised
his voice and ordered Sirnéon, in other words him-
self, to see her to the hospital in the Champs-
Élysées. And in this way Mme. Essarès thought
that she was leaving her husband behind her alive
351


THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
He listened to what was happening outside with
an attention whose real meaning Patrice was soon
to understand. And, continuing to give ear, he
resumed:
“The golden triangle? There are problems
which we solve more or less by accident, without
trying. We are guided to a right solution by ex-
ternal events, among which we choose unconsciously,
feeling our way in the dark, examining this one,
thrusting aside that one and suddenly beholding the
object aimed at. ... Well, this morning, after
taking you to the tombs and burying you under the
stone, Essarès Bey came back to me. Believing me to
be locked into the studio, he had the pretty thought
to turn on the gas-meter and then went off to the
quay above Berthou's Wharf. Here he hesitated;
and his hesitation provided me with a precious clue.
He was certainly then thinking of releasing Coralie.
People passed and he went away. Knowing where
he was going, I returned to your assistance, told
your friends at Essarès' house and asked them to
look after you. Then I came back here. Indeed,
the whole course of events obliged me to come back.
It was unlikely that the bags of gold were inside
the conduit; and, as the Belle Hélène had not taken
them off, they must be beyond the garden, outside
the conduit and therefore somewhere near here. I
explored the barge we are now on, not so much with
the object of looking for the bags as with the hope
of finding some unexpected piece of information
and also, I confess, the four millions in Grégoire's
possession. Well, when I start exploring a place
where I fail to find what I want, I always remember
that capital story of Edgar Allan Poe's, The Pur-
356


FIAT LUX!
loined Letter. Do you recollect? The stolen dip-
lomatic document which was known to be hidden
in a certain room. The police investigate every
nook and corner of the room and take up all the
boards of the floor, without results. But Dupin
arrives and almost immediately goes to a card-rack
dangling from a little brass knob on the wall and
containing a solitary soiled and crumpled letter.
This is the document of which he was in search.
Well, I instinctively adopted the same process. I
looked where no one would dream of looking, in
places which do not constitute a hiding-place be-
cause it would really be too easy to discover. This
gave me the idea of turning the pages of four old
directories standing in a row on that shelf. The
four millions were there. And I knew all that I
wanted to know." .
“About what?!!
“About Essarès' temperament, his habits, the ex-
tent of his attainments, his notion of a good hiding-
place. We had plunged on the expectation of meet-
ing with difficulties; we ought to have looked at the
outside, to have looked at the surface of things. I
was assisted by two further clues. I had noticed
that the uprights of the ladder which Ya-Bon must
have taken from here had a few grains of sand on
them. Lastly, I remembered that Ya-Bon had
drawn a triangle on the pavement with a piece of
chalk and that this triangle had only two sides, the
third side being formed by the foot of the wall.
Why this detail? Why not a third line in chalk ?
... To make a long story short, I lit a cigarette,
sat down upstairs, on the deck of the barge, and,
looking round me, said to myself, ‘Lupin, my son,
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
five minutes and no more. When I say, 'Lupin,
my son,' I simply can't resist myself. By the time
I had smoked a quarter of the cigarette, I was
there."
“You had found out?”
"I had found out. I can't say which of the fac-
tors at my disposal kindled the spark. No doubt
it was all of them together. It's a rather compli-
cated psychological operation, you know, like a
chemical experiment. The correct idea is formed
suddenly by mysterious reactions and combinations
among the elements in which it existed in a poten-
tial stage. And then I was carrying within myself
an intuitive principle, a very special incentive which
obliged me, which inevitably compelled me, to dis-
covered the hiding-place: Little Mother Coralie
was there! I knew for certain that failure on my
part, prolonged weakness or hesitation would mean
her destruction. There was a woman there, within
a radius of a dozen yards or so. I had to find out
and I found out. The spark was kindled. The
elements combined. And I made straight for the
sand-heap. I at once saw the marks of footsteps
and, almost at the top, the signs of a slight stamp-
ing. . I started digging. You can imagine my ex-
citement when I first touched one of the bags. But
I had no time for excitement. I shifted a few bags.
Coralie was there, unconscious, hardly protected
from the sand which was slowly stilling her, trick-
ling through, stopping up her eyes, suffocating her.
I needn't tell you more, need I? The wharf was
deserted, as usual. I got her out. · I hailed a taxi.
I first took her home. Then I turned my atten-
tion to Essarès, to Vacherot the porter; and, when
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THE GOLDEN TRIANGLE
ambition-be prefect of police. Perhaps I shall
even be able personally to forward a nomination
which I consider well-deserved. I will exert myself
in that direction without delay.
"I have the honor to be, etc."
M. Masseron remained silent for a time.
"A strange character!” he said, at last. "Had
he been willing, we should have given him great
things to do. That was what I was instructed to
tell him.”
"You may be sure, sir,” said Patrice, "that the
things which he is actually doing are greater still.”
And he added, “A strange character, as you say.
And stranger still, more powerful and more extraor-
dinary than you can imagine. If each of the allied
nations had had three or four men of his stamp at
its disposal, the war would have been over in six
months."
"I quite agree,” said M. Masseron. "Only those
men are usually solitary, intractable people, who
act solely upon their own judgment and refuse to
accept any authority. I'll tell you what: they're
something like that famous adventurer who, a few
years ago, compelled the Kaiser to visit him in
prison and obtain his release ... and afterwards,
owing to a disappointment in love, threw himself
into the sea from the cliffs at Capri."
"Who was that?"
"Oh, you know the fellow's name as well as I
do!... Lupin, that's it: Arsène Lupin."
THE END
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