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

had become of her son? Should she go to him at the Priory and defend him against the dangers that threatened him?

“Come, come,” she said, “I’m losing my head.⁠ ⁠… Let me think things out.⁠ ⁠… A few hours ago, François was speaking to me through the wall of his prison⁠ ⁠… for it was certainly he then, it was certainly François who yesterday took my hand and covered it with his kisses.⁠ ⁠… A mother cannot be deceived; and I was quivering with love and tenderness.⁠ ⁠… But since⁠ ⁠… since this morning has he not left his prison?”

She stopped to think and then said, slowly:

“That’s it⁠ ⁠… that’s what happened.⁠ ⁠… Stéphane and I were discovered below, on the floor underneath. The alarm was given at once. The monster, Vorski’s son, had gone up expressly to watch François. He found the cell empty and, seeing the opening which had been made, crawled out here. Yes, that’s it.⁠ ⁠… If not, by what way did he come?⁠ ⁠… When he got here, it occurred to him to run to the window, knowing that it overlooked the sea and suspecting that François had chosen it to make his escape. He at once saw the hooks of the ladder. Then, on leaning over, he saw me, knew who I was and called out to me.⁠ ⁠… And now⁠ ⁠… now he is on his way to the Priory, where he is bound to meet François.⁠ ⁠…”

Nevertheless Véronique did not stir. She had an instinct that the danger lay not at the Priory but here, by the cells. And she wondered whether François had really succeeded in escaping and whether, before his task was done, he had not been surprised by the other and attacked by him.

It was a horrible doubt! She stooped quickly and, perceiving that the hole had been widened, tried to pass through it herself. But the outlet, at most large enough for a child, was too narrow for her; and her shoulders became fixed. She persisted in the attempt, however, tearing her bodice and bruising her skin against the rock, and at last, by dint of patience and wriggling, succeeded in slipping through.

The cell was empty. But the door was open on the passages facing her; and Véronique had an impression⁠—merely an impression, for the window admitted only a faint light⁠—that someone was just leaving the cell through the open door. And from this confused impression of something that she had not absolutely seen she retained the certainty that it was a woman who was hiding there, in the passage, a woman surprised by her unexpected entrance.

“It’s their accomplice,” thought Véronique. “She came up with the boy who killed Stéphane, and she has no doubt taken François away.⁠ ⁠… Perhaps François is even there still, quite near me, while she’s watching me.⁠ ⁠…”

Meanwhile Véronique’s eyes were growing accustomed to the semidarkness and she distinctly saw a woman’s hand upon the door, which opened inwardly. The hand was slowly pulling.

“Why doesn’t she shut it at once,” Véronique wondered, “since she obviously wants to put a barrier between us?”

Véronique received her answer when she heard a pebble grating under the door and interfering with its movement. If the pebble were not there, the door would be closed. Without hesitating, Véronique went up, took hold of a great iron handle and pulled it towards her. The hand disappeared, but the opposition continued. There was evidently a handle on the other side as well.

Suddenly she heard a whistle. The woman was summoning assistance. And almost at the same time, in the passage, at some distance from the woman, there was a cry:

“Mother! Mother!”

Ah, with what deep emotion Véronique heard that cry! Her son, her real son was calling to her, her son, still a captive but alive! Oh, the superhuman delight of it!

“I’m here, darling!”

“Quick, mother! I’m tied up; and the whistle is their signal⁠ ⁠… they’ll be coming.”

“I’m here.⁠ ⁠… I shall save you before they come!”

She had no doubt of the result. It seemed to her as though her strength knew no limits and as though nothing could resist the exasperated tension of her whole being.

Her adversary was in fact weakening and giving ground by inches. The opening became wider; and suddenly the contest was over. Véronique walked through.

The woman had already fled down the passage and was dragging the boy by a rope in order to make him walk despite the cords with which he was bound. It was a vain attempt and she abandoned it forthwith. Véronique was close to her, with her revolver in her hand.

The woman let go the boy and stood up in the light from the open cells. She was dressed in white serge, with a knotted girdle round her waist. Her arms were half bare. Her face was still young, but faded, thin and wrinkled. Her hair was fair, interspersed with strands of white. Her eyes gleamed with a feverish hatred.

The two women looked at each other without a word, like two adversaries who have met before and are about to fight again. Véronique almost smiled, with a smile of mingled triumph and defiance. In the end she said:

“If you dare to lay a finger on my child, I’ll kill you. Go! Be off!”

The woman was not frightened. She seemed to be reflecting and to be listening in the expectation of assistance. None come. Then she lowered her eyes to François and made a movement as though to seize upon her prey again.

“Don’t touch him!” Véronique exclaimed, violently. “Don’t touch him, or I fire!”

The woman shrugged her shoulders and said, in measured accents:

“No threats, please! If I had wanted to kill that child of yours, I should have done so by now. But his hour has not come; and it is not by my hand that he is to die.”

Véronique, trembling all over, could not help asking:

“By whose hand is he to die?”

“By my son’s: you know⁠ ⁠… the one you’ve seen.”

“Is he your son, the murderer, the monster?”

“He’s the son of⁠ ⁠…”

“Silence! Silence!” Véronique commanded. She understood that the woman had