The Secret of Sarek Maurice Leblanc (best detective novels of all time .TXT) 📖

he loves you! There’s Mother Honorine. But you’re mother, just that. And he’s in a great hurry to grow up and finish his schooling, so that he may go and look for you.”

“His schooling? Does he have lessons?”

“Yes, with his grandfather and, since two years ago, with such a nice fellow that I brought back from Paris, Stéphane Maroux, a wounded soldier covered with medals and restored to health after an internal operation. François dotes on him.”

The boat was running quickly over the smooth sea, in which it ploughed a furrow of silvery foam. The clouds had dispersed on the horizon. The evening boded fair and calm.

“More, tell me more!” said Véronique, listening greedily. “What does my boy wear?”

“Knickerbockers and short socks, with his calves bare; a thick flannel shirt with gilt buttons; and a flat knitted cap, like his big friend, M. Stéphane; only his is red and suits him to perfection.”

“Has he any friends besides M. Maroux?”

“All the growing lads of the island, formerly. But with the exception of three or four ship’s boys, all the rest have left the island with their mothers, now that their fathers are at the war, and are working on the mainland, at Concarneau or Lorient, leaving the old people at Sarek by themselves. We are not more than thirty on the island now.”

“Whom does he play with? Whom does he go about with?”

“Oh, as for that, he has the best of companions!”

“Really? Who is it?”

“A little dog that Maguennoc gave him.”

“A dog?”

“Yes; and the funniest dog you ever saw: an ugly ridiculous-looking thing, a cross between a poodle and a fox-terrier, but so comical and amusing! Oh, there’s no one like Master All’s Well!”

“All’s Well?”

“That’s what François calls him; and you couldn’t have a better name for him. He always looks happy and glad to be alive. He’s independent, too, and he disappears for hours and even days at a time; but he’s always there when he’s wanted, if you’re feeling sad, or if things aren’t going as you might like them to. All’s Well hates to see anyone crying or scolding or quarrelling. The moment you cry, or pretend to cry, he comes and squats on his haunches in front of you, sits up, shuts one eye, half-opens the other and looks so exactly as if he was laughing that you begin to laugh yourself. ‘That’s right, old chap,’ says François, ‘you’re quite right: all’s well. There’s nothing to take on about, is there?’ And, when you’re consoled, All’s Well just trots away. His task is done.”

Véronique laughed and cried in one breath. Then she was silent for a long time, feeling more and more gloomy and overcome by a despair which overwhelmed all her gladness. She thought of all the happiness that she had missed during the fourteen years of her childless motherhood, wearing her mourning for a son who was alive. All the cares that a mother lavishes upon the little creature newborn into the world, all the pride that she feels at seeing him grow and hearing him speak, all that delights a mother and uplifts her and makes her heart overflow with daily renewed affection: all this she had never known.

“We are halfway across,” said Honorine.

They were running in sight of the Glenans Islands. On their right, the headland of Penmarch, whose coastline they were following at a distance of fifteen miles, marked a darker line which was not always differentiated from the horizon.

And Véronique thought of her sad past, of her mother, whom she hardly remembered, of her childhood spent with a selfish, disagreeable father, of her marriage, ah, above all of her marriage! She recalled her first meetings with Vorski, when she was only seventeen. How frightened she had been from the very beginning of that strange and unusual man, whom she dreaded while she submitted to his influence, as one does at that age submit to the influence of anything mysterious and incomprehensible!

Next came the hateful day of the abduction and the other days, more hateful still, that followed, the weeks during which he had kept her imprisoned, threatening her and dominating her with all his evil strength, and the promise of marriage which he had forced from her, a pledge against which all the girl’s instincts and all her will revolted, but to which it seemed to her that she was bound to agree after so great a scandal and also because her father was giving his consent.

Her brain rebelled against the memories of her years of married life. Never that! Not even in the worst hours, when the nightmares of the past haunt one like spectres, never did she consent to revive, in the innermost recesses of her mind, that degrading past, with its mortifications, wounds and betrayals, and the disgraceful life led by her husband, who, shamelessly, with cynical pride, gradually revealed himself as the man he was, drinking, cheating at cards, robbing his boon companions, a swindler and blackmailer, giving his wife the impression, which she still retained and which made her shudder, of a sort of evil genius, cruel and unbalanced.

“Have done with dreams, Madame Véronique,” said Honorine.

“It’s not so much dreams and memories as remorse,” she replied.

“Remorse, Madame Véronique? You, whose life has been one long martyrdom?”

“A martyrdom that was a punishment.”

“But all that is over and done with, Madame Véronique, seeing that you are going to meet your son and your father again. Come, come, you must think of nothing but being happy.”

“Happy? Can I be happy again?”

“I should think so! You’ll soon see!⁠ ⁠… Look, there’s Sarek.”

Honorine took from a locker under her seat a large shell which she used as a trumpet, after the manner of the mariners of old, and, putting her lips to the mouthpiece and puffing out her cheeks, she blew a few powerful notes, which filled the air with a sound not unlike the lowing of an ox.

Véronique gave her a questioning look.

“It’s him I’m calling,” said Honorine.

“François? You’re calling François?”

“Yes,