813 - Maurice LeBlanc (best short novels of all time TXT) 📗

recognized her image the moment I set eyes on you… but it was a brighter, happier image.”

“Yes, my poor mother was not happy. My father died on the very day of my birth, and nothing was ever able to console her. She used to cry a great deal. I still possess a little handkerchief with which I used to dry her tears at that time.”

“A little handkerchief with a pink pattern.”

“What!” she exclaimed, seized with surprise. “You know… I was there one day when you were comforting her… And you comforted her so prettily that the scene remained impressed on my memory.”

She gave him a penetrating glance and murmured, almost to herself:

“Yes, yes… I seem to… The expression of your eyes… and then the sound of your voice…”

She lowered her eyelids for a moment and reflected as if she were vainly trying to bring back a recollection that escaped her. And she continued:

“Then you knew her?”

“I had some friends living near Aspremont and used to meet her at their house. The last time I saw her, she seemed to me sadder still… paler… and, when I came back again…”

“It was all over, was it not?” said GeneviŽve. “Yes, she went very quickly… in a few weeks… and I was left alone with neighbors who sat up with her… and one morning they took her away… And, on the evening of that day, some one came,while I was asleep, and lifted me up and wrapped me in blankets…”

“A man?” asked the prince.

“Yes, a man. He talked to me, quite low, very gently… his voice did me good… and, as he carried me down the road and also in the carriage, during the night, he rocked me in his arms and told me stories… in the same voice… in the same voice…”

She broke off gradually and looked at him again, more sharply than before and with a more obvious effort to seize the fleeting impression that passed over her at moments. He asked:

“And then? Where did he take you?”

“I can’t recollect clearly… it is just as though I had slept for several days… I can remember nothing before the little town of Montegut, in the Vend6e, where I spent the second half of my childhood, with Father and Mother Izereau, a worthy couple who reared me and brought me up and whose love and devotion I shall never forget.”

“And did they die, too?”

“Yes,” she said, “of an epidemic of typhoid fever in the district… but I did not know that until later… As soon as they fell ill, I was carried off as on the first occasion and under the same conditions, at night, by some one who also wrapped me up in blankets… Only, I was bigger, I struggled, I tried to call out… and he had to close my mouth with a silk handkerchief.”

“How old were you then?”

“Fourteen… it was four years ago.”

“Then you were able to see what the man was like?”

“No, he hid his face better and he did not speak a single word to me… Nevertheless, I have always believed him to be the same one… for I remember the same solicitude, the same attentive, careful movements…”

“And after that?”

“After that, came oblivion, sleep, as before… This time, I was ill, it appears; I was feverish… And I woke in a bright, cheerful room. A white-haired lady was bending over me and smiling. It was grandmother… and the room was the one in which I now sleep upstairs.”

She had resumed her happy face, her sweet, radiant expression; and she ended, with a smile:

“That was how she became my grandmother and how, after a few trials, the little Aspremont girl now knows the delights of a peaceful life and teaches grammar and arithmetic to little girls who are either naughty or lazy… but who are all fond of her.”

She spoke cheerfully, in a tone at once thoughtful and gay, and it was obvious that she possessed a reasonable, well-balanced mind. Sernine listened to her with growing surprise and without trying to conceal his agitation:

“Have you never heard speak of that man since?” he asked.

“Never.”

“And would you be glad to see him again?”

“Oh, very glad.”

“Well, then, mademoiselle…”

GeneviŽve gave a start:

“You know something… the truth perhaps—”

“No… no… only…”

He rose and walked up and down the room. From time to time, his eyes fell upon GeneviŽve; and it looked as though he were on the point of giving a more precise answer to the question which she had put to him. Would he speak?”

Mme. Ernemont awaited with anguish the revelation of the secret upon which the girl’s future peace might depend.

He sat down beside GeneviŽve, appeared to hesitate, and said at last:

“No… no… just now… an idea occurred to me… a recollection…”

“A recollection?… And…”

“I was mistaken. Your story contained certain details that misled me.”

“Are you sure?”

He hesitated and then declared:

“Absolutely sure.”

“Oh,” said she, greatly disappointed. “I had half guessed… that that man whom I saw twice… that you knew him… that…”

She did not finish her sentence, but waited for an answer to the question which she had put to him without daring to state it completely.

He was silent. Then, insisting no further, she bent over Mme. Ernemont:

“Good night, grandmother. My children must be in bed by this time, but they could none of them go to sleep before I had kissed them.”

She held out her hand to the prince:

“Thank you once more…”

“Are you going?” he asked quickly.

“Yes, if you will excuse me; grandmother will see you out.”

He bowed low and kissed her hand. As she opened the door, she turned round and smiled. Then she disappeared. The prince listened to the sound of her footsteps diminishing in the distance and stood stock-still, his face white with emotion.

“Well,” said the old lady, “so you did not speak?”

“No…”

“That secret…”

“Later… To-day… oddly enough… I was not able to.”

“Was it so difficult? Did not she herself feel that you were the stranger who took her away twice… A word would have been enough…”

“Later, later,” he repeated, recovering all his assurance. “You can understand… the child hardly knows me… I must first gain the right to her affection, to her love… When I have given her the life which she deserves, a wonderful life, such as one reads of in fairy-tales, then I will speak.”

The old lady tossed her head:

“I fear that you are making a great mistake. GeneviŽve does not want a wonderful life. She has simple tastes.”

“She has the tastes of all women; and wealth, luxury and power give joys which not one of them despises.”

“Yes, GeneviŽve does. And you would do much better…”

“We shall see. For the moment, let me go my own way. And be quite easy. I have not the least intention, as you say, of mixing her up in any of my manoeuvers. She will hardly ever see me… Only, we had to come into contact, you know… That’s done… Good-bye.”

He left the school and walked to where his motorcar was waiting for him. He was perfectly happy:

“She is charming… and so gentle, so grave! Her mother’s eyes, eyes that soften you.. Heavens, how long ago that all is! And what a delightful recollection! A little sad, but so delightful!” And he said, aloud, “Certainly I shall look after her happiness! And that at once! This very evening! That’s it, this very evening she shall have a sweetheart! Is not love the essential condition of any young girl’s happiness?”

He found his car on the high-road:

“Home,” he said to Octave.

When Sernine reached home, he rang up Neuilly and telephoned his instructions to the friend whom he called the doctor. Then he dressed, dined at the Rue Cambon Club, spent an hour at the opera and got into his car again:

“Go to Neuilly, Octave. We are going to fetch the doctor. What’s the time?”

“Half-past ten.”

“Dash it! Look sharp!”

Ten minutes later, the car stopped at the end of the Boulevard Inkerman, outside a villa standing in its own grounds. The doctor came down at the sound of the hooter. The prince asked:

“Is the fellow ready?”

“Packed up, strung up, sealed up.”

“In good condition?”

“Excellent. If everything goes as you telephoned, the police will be utterly at sea.”

“That’s what they’re there for. Let’s get him on board.”

They carried into the motor a sort of long sack shaped like a human being and apparently rather heavy. And the prince said:

“Go to Versailles, Octave, Rue de la Vilaine. Stop outside the Hotel des Deux-Empereurs.”

“Why, it’s a filthy hotel,” observed the doctor. “I know it well; a regular hovel.”

“You needn’t tell me! And it will be a hard piece of work, for me, at least… But, by Jove, I wouldn’t sell this moment for a fortune! Who dares pretend that life is monotonous?”

They reached the Hotel des Deux-Empereurs. A muddy alley; two steps down; and they entered a passage lit by a flickering lamp.

Sernine knocked with his fist against a little door.

A waiter appeared, Philippe, the man to whom Sernine had given orders, that morning, concerning Gerard BauprŽ.

“Is he here still?” asked the prince.

“Yes.”

“The rope?”

“The knot is made.”

“He has not received the telegram he was hoping for?”

“I intercepted it: here it is.”

Semine took the blue paper and read it:

“Gad!” he said. “It was high time. This is to promise him a thousand francs for tomorrow. Come, fortune is on my side. A quarter to twelve… In a quarter of an hour, the poor devil will take a leap into eternity. Show me the way, Philippe. You stay here, Doctor.”

The waiter took the candle. They climbed to the third floor, and, walking on tip-toe, went along a low and evil-smelling corridor, lined with garrets and ending in a wooden staircase covered with the musty remnants of a carpet.

“Can no one hear me?” asked Sernine.

“No. The two rooms are quite detached. But you must be careful not to make a mistake: he is in the room on the left.”

“Very good. Now go downstairs. At twelve o’clock, the doctor, Octave and you are to carry the fellow up here, to where we now stand, and wait till I call you.”

The wooden staircase had ten treads, which the prince climbed with definite caution. At the top was a landing with two doors. It took Sernine quite five minutes to open the one of the right without breaking the silence with the least sound of a creaking hinge.

A light gleamed through the darkness of the room. Feeling his way, so as not to knock against one of the chairs, he made for that light. It came from the next room and filtered through a glazed door covered with a tattered hanging.

The prince pulled the threadbare stuff aside. The panes were of ground glass, but scratched in parts, so that, by applying one eye, it was easy to see all that happened in the other room.

Sernine saw a man seated at a table facing him. It was the poet, Gerard BauprŽ. He was writing by the light of a candle.

Above his head hung a rope, which was fastened to a hook fixed in the ceiling. At the end of the rope was a slipknot.

A faint stroke sounded from a dock in the street.

“Five minutes to twelve,” thought Sernine. “Five minutes more.”

The young man was still writing. After a moment, he put down his pen, collected the ten or twelve sheets of paper which he had covered and began to read them