The Secret of Sarek - Maurice Leblanc (easy to read books for adults list TXT) 📗

that foretells and seizes the propitious moment. But now that both of them were veiled, on which was she to exercise her good influence, for which to pray, against which to rebel?

She knew nothing. There was no clue to enlighten her. One of them was taller, slimmer and lither in his movements. Was this François? The other was more thickset, stronger and stouter in appearance. Was this Raynold? She could not tell. Nothing but a glimpse of a face, or even a fleeting expression, could have revealed the truth to her. But how was she to pierce the impenetrable mask?

And the fight continued, more terrible for her than if she had seen her son with his face uncovered.

“Bravo!” cried Vorski, applauding an attack.

He seemed to be following the duel like a connoisseur, with the affectation of impartiality displayed by a good judge of fighting who above all things wants the best man to win. And yet it was one of his sons that he had condemned to death.

Facing her stood the two accomplices, both of them men with brutal faces, pointed skulls and big noses with spectacles. One of them was extremely thin; the other was also thin, but with a swollen paunch like a leather bottle. These two did not applaud and remained indifferent, or perhaps even hostile, to the sight before them.

“Capital!” cried Vorski, approvingly. “Well parried! Oh, you’re a couple of sturdy fellows and I’m wondering to whom to award the palm.”

He pranced around the adversaries, urging them on in a hoarse voice in which Véronique, remembering certain scenes in the past, seemed to recognize the effects of drink. Nevertheless the poor thing made an effort to stretch out her bound hands towards him; and she moaned under her gag:

“Mercy! Mercy! I can’t bear it. Have pity!”

It was impossible for her martyrdom to last. Her heart was beating so violently that it shook her from head to foot; and she was on the point of fainting when an incident occurred that gave her fresh life. One of the boys, after a fairly stubborn tussle, had jumped back and was swiftly bandaging his right wrist, from which a few drops of blood were trickling. Véronique seemed to remember seeing in her son’s hand the small blue-and-white handkerchief which the boy was using.

She was immediately and irresistibly convinced. The boy⁠—it was the more slender and agile of the two⁠—had more grace than the other, more distinction, greater elegance of movement.

“It’s François,” she murmured. “Yes, yes, it’s he.⁠ ⁠… It’s you, isn’t it, my darling? I recognize you now.⁠ ⁠… The other is common and heavy.⁠ ⁠… It’s you, my darling!⁠ ⁠… Oh, my François, my dearest François!”

In fact, though both were fighting with equal fierceness, this one displayed less savage fury and blind rage in his efforts. It was as though he were trying not so much to kill his adversary as to wound him and as though his attacks were directed rather to preserving himself from the death that lay in wait for him. Véronique felt alarmed and stammered, as though he could hear her:

“Don’t spare him, my darling! He’s a monster, too!⁠ ⁠… Oh, dear, if you’re generous, you’re lost!⁠ ⁠… François, François, mind what you’re doing!”

The blade of the dagger had flashed over the head of the one whom she called her son; and she had cried out, under her gag, to warn him. François having avoided the blow, she felt persuaded that her cry had reached his ears; and she continued instinctively to put him on his guard and advise him:

“Take a rest.⁠ ⁠… Get your breath.⁠ ⁠… Whatever you do, keep your eyes on him.⁠ ⁠… He’s getting ready to do something.⁠ ⁠… He’s going to rush at you.⁠ ⁠… Here he comes! Oh, my darling, another inch and he would have stabbed you in the neck!⁠ ⁠… Be careful, darling, he’s treacherous⁠ ⁠… there’s no trick too mean for him to play.⁠ ⁠…”

But the unhappy mother felt, however reluctant she might yet be to admit it, that the one whom she called her son was beginning to lose strength. Certain signs proclaimed a reduced power of resistance, while the other, on the contrary, was gaining in eagerness and vigour. François retreated until he reached the edge of the arena.

“Hi, you, boy!” grinned Vorski. “You’re not thinking of running away, are you? Keep your nerve, damn it! Show some pluck! Remember the conditions!”

The boy rushed forward with renewed zest; and it was the other’s turn to fall back. Vorski clapped his hands, while Véronique murmured:

“It’s for me that he’s risking his life. The monster must have told him, ‘Your mother’s fate depends on you. If you win, she’s saved.’ And he has sworn to win. He knows that I am watching him. He guesses that I am here. He hears me. Bless you, my darling!”

It was the last phase of the duel. Véronique trembled all over, exhausted by her emotion and by the too violent alternation of hope and anguish. Once again her son lost ground and once again he leapt forward. But, in the final struggle that followed, he lost his balance and fell on his back, with his right arm caught under his body.

His adversary at once stooped, pressed his knee on the other’s chest and raised his arm. The dagger gleamed in the air.

“Help! Help!” Véronique gasped, choking under her gag.

She flattened her breast against the wall, without thinking of the cords which tortured her. Her forehead was bleeding, cut by the sharp corner of the rail, and she felt that she was about to die of the death of her son. Vorski had approached and stood without moving, with a merciless look on his face.

Twenty seconds, thirty seconds passed. With his outstretched left hand, François checked his adversary’s attempt. But the victorious arm sank lower and lower, the dagger descended, the point was only an inch or two from the neck.

Vorski stooped. Just then, he was behind Raynold, so that neither Raynold nor François could see him; and he was watching most attentively, as