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

prepares it. He works it up. He mixes it with some special leaves of which he knows the effect.” And she repeated, “You shall see Maguennoc’s flowers. There are no flowers like them in the world. They are miraculous flowers.⁠ ⁠…”

After skirting a hill, the road descended a sudden declivity. A huge gash divided the island into two parts, the second of which now appeared, standing a little higher, but very much more limited in extent.

“It’s the Priory, that part,” said Honorine.

The same jagged cliffs surrounded the smaller islet with an even steeper rampart, which itself was hollowed out underneath like the hoop of a crown. And this rampart was joined to the main island by a strip of cliff fifty yards long and hardly thicker than a castle-wall, with a thin, tapering crest which looked as sharp as the edge of an axe.

There was no thoroughfare possible along this ridge, inasmuch as it was split in the middle with a wide fissure, for which reason the abutments of a wooden bridge had been anchored to the two extremities. The bridge started flat on the rock and subsequently spanned the intervening crevice.

They crossed it separately, for it was not only very narrow but also unstable, shaking under their feet and in the wind.

“Look, over there, at the extreme point of the island,” said Honorine, “you can see a corner of the Priory.”

The path that led to it ran through fields planted with small fir-trees arranged in quincunxes. Another path turned to the right and disappeared from view in some dense thickets.

Véronique kept her eyes upon the Priory, whose low-storied front was lengthening gradually, when Honorine, after a few minutes, stopped short, with her face towards the thickets on the right, and called out:

“Monsieur Stéphane!”

“Whom are you calling?” asked Véronique. “M. Maroux?”

“Yes, François’ tutor. He was running towards the bridge: I caught sight of him through a clearing⁠ ⁠… Monsieur Stéphane!⁠ ⁠… But why doesn’t he answer? Did you see a man running?”

“No.”

“I declare it was he, with his white cap. At any rate, we can see the bridge behind us. Let us wait for him to cross.”

“Why wait? If anything’s the matter, if there’s a danger of any kind, it’s at the Priory.”

“You’re right. Let’s hurry.”

They hastened their pace, overcome with forebodings; and then, for no definite reason, broke into a run, so greatly did their fears increase as they drew nearer to the reality.

The islet grew narrower again, barred by a low wall which marked the boundaries of the Priory domain. At that moment, cries were heard, coming from the house.

Honorine exclaimed:

“They’re calling! Did you hear? A woman’s cries! It’s the cook! It’s Marie Le Goff!⁠ ⁠…”

She made a dash for the gate and grasped the key, but inserted it so awkwardly that she jammed the lock and was unable to open it.

“Through the gap!” she ordered. “This way, on the right!”

They rushed along, scrambled through the wall and crossed a wide grassy space filled with ruins, in which the winding and ill-marked path disappeared at every moment under trailing creepers and moss.

“Here we are! Here we are!” shouted Honorine. “We’re coming!”

And she muttered:

“The cries have stopped! It’s dreadful! Oh, poor Marie Le Goff!”

She grasped Véronique’s arm:

“Let’s go round. The front of the house is on the other side. On this side the doors are always locked and the window-shutters closed.”

But Véronique caught her foot in some roots, stumbled and fell to her knees. When she stood up again, the Breton woman had left her and was hurrying round the left wing. Unconsciously, Véronique, instead of following her, made straight for the house, climbed the step and was brought up short by the door, at which she knocked again and again.

The idea of going round, as Honorine had done, seemed to her a waste of time which nothing could ever make good. However, realising the futility of her efforts, she was just deciding to go, when once more cries sounded from inside the house and above her head.

It was a man’s voice, which Véronique seemed to recognize as her father’s. She fell back a few steps. Suddenly one of the windows on the first floor opened and she saw M. d’Hergemont, his features distorted with inexpressible terror, gasping:

“Help! Help! Oh, the monster! Help!”

“Father! Father!” cried Véronique, in despair. “It’s I!”

He lowered his head for an instant, appeared not to see his daughter and made a quick attempt to climb over the balcony. But a shot rang out behind him and one of the windowpanes was blown into fragments.

“Murderer, murderer!” he shouted, turning back into the room.

Véronique, mad with fear and helplessness, looked around her. How could she rescue her father? The wall was too high and offered nothing to cling to. Suddenly, she saw a ladder, lying twenty yards away, beside the wall of the house. With a prodigious effort of will and strength, she managed to carry the ladder, heavy though it was, and to set it up under the open window.

At the most tragic moment in life, when the mind is no more than a seething confusion, when the whole body is shaken by the tremor of anguish, a certain logic continues to connect our ideas: and Véronique wondered why she had not heard Honorine’s voice and what could have delayed her coming.

She also thought of François. Where was François? Had he followed Stéphane Maroux in his inexplicable flight? Had he gone in search of assistance? And who was it that M. d’Hergemont had apostrophized as a monster and a murderer?

The ladder did not reach the window; and Véronique at once became aware of the effort which would be necessary if she was to climb over the balcony. Nevertheless she did not hesitate. They were fighting up there; and the struggle was mingled with stifled shouts uttered by her father. She went up the ladder. The most that she could do was to grasp the bottom rail of the balcony. But a narrow ledge enabled her to hoist herself on one