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

“Oh, mother, mother!”

She supported him, to prevent his falling, and amid the silence she heard the boy sobbing on her breast and stammering:

“Never mind⁠ ⁠… don’t fire, mother.⁠ ⁠…”

“Here he comes, darling, here he comes; look at him.”

The other passed. He was walking slowly, a little bent, listening for the least sound. He appeared to Véronique to be the exact same size as her son; and this time, when she looked at him with more attention, she was not so much surprised that Honorine and M. d’Hergemont had been taken in, for there were really some points of resemblance, which would have been accentuated by the fact that he was wearing the red cap stolen from François.

He walked on.

“Do you know him?” asked Véronique.

“No, mother.”

“Are you sure that you never saw him?”

“Sure.”

“And it was he who fell upon you, with the woman, in your cell?”

“I haven’t a doubt of it, mother. He even hit me in the face, for no reason, with absolute hatred.”

“Oh,” she said, “this is all incomprehensible! When shall we escape this awful nightmare?”

“Quick, mother, the road’s clear. Let’s make the most of it.”

On returning to the light, she saw that he was very pale and felt his hand in hers like a lump of ice. Nevertheless he looked up at her with a smile of happiness.

They set out again; and soon, after passing the strip of cliff that joined the two islands and climbing the staircases, they emerged in the open air, to the right of Maguennoc’s garden. The daylight was beginning to wane.

“We are saved,” said Véronique.

“Yes,” replied the boy, “but only on condition that they cannot reach us by the same road. We shall have to bar it, therefore.”

“How?”

“Wait for me here; I’ll go and fetch some tools at the Priory.”

“Oh, don’t let us leave each other, François!”

“You can come with me, mother.”

“And suppose the enemy arrives in the meantime? No, we must defend this outlet.”

“Then help me, mother.”

A rapid inspection showed them that one of the two stones which formed a roof above the entrance was not very firmly rooted in its place. They found no difficulty in first shifting and then clearing it. The stone fell across the staircase and was at once covered by an avalanche of earth and pebbles which made the passage, if not impracticable, at least very hard to manage.

“All the more so,” said François, “as we shall stay here until we are able to carry out my plan. And be easy, mother; it’s a sound scheme and we have nearly managed it.”

For that matter, they recognized above all, that rest was essential. They were both of them worn out.

“Lie down, mother⁠ ⁠… look, just here: there’s a bed of moss under this overhanging rock which makes a regular nest. You’ll be as cosy as a queen there and sheltered from the cold.”

“Oh, my darling, my darling!” murmured Véronique, overcome with happiness.

It was now the time for explanations; and Véronique did not hesitate to give them. The boy’s grief at hearing of the death of all those whom he had known would be mitigated by the great joy which he felt at recovering his mother. She therefore spoke without reserve, cradling him in her lap, wiping away his tears, feeling plainly that she was enough to make up for all the lost affections and friendships. He was particularly afflicted by Stéphane’s death.

“But is it quite certain?” he asked. “For, after all, there is nothing to tell us that he is drowned. Stéphane is a perfect swimmer; and so⁠ ⁠… Yes, yes, mother, we must not despair⁠ ⁠… on the contrary.⁠ ⁠… Look, here’s a friend who always comes at the worst times, to declare that everything is not lost.”

All’s Well came trotting along. The sight of his master did not appear to surprise him. Nothing unduly surprised All’s Well. Events, to his mind, always followed one another in a natural order which did not disturb either his habits or his occupations. Tears alone seemed to him worthy of special attention. And Véronique and François were not crying.

“You see, mother? All’s Well agrees with me; nothing is lost.⁠ ⁠… But, upon my word, All’s Well, you’re a sharp little fellow! What would you have said, eh, if we’d left the island without you?”

Véronique looked at her son:

“Left the island?”

“Certainly: and the sooner the better. That’s my plan. What do you say to it?”

“But how are we to get away?”

“In a boat.”

“Is there one here?”

“Yes, mine.”

“Where?”

“Close by, at Sarek Point.”

“But how are we to get down? The cliff is perpendicular.”

“She’s at the very place where the cliff is steepest, a place known as the Postern. The name puzzled Stéphane and myself. A postern suggests an entrance, a gate. Well, we ended by learning that, in the middle ages, at the time of the monks, the little isle on which the Priory stands was surrounded by ramparts. It was therefore to be presumed that there was a postern here which commanded an outlet on the sea. And in fact, after hunting about with Maguennoc, we discovered, on the flat top of the cliff, a sort of gully, a sandy depression reinforced at intervals by regular walls made of big building-stones. A path winds down the middle, with steps and windows on the side of the sea, and leads to a little bay. That is the Postern outlet. We repaired it: and my boat is hanging at the foot of the cliff.”

Véronique’s features underwent a transformation:

“Then we’re safe now!”

“There’s no doubt of that.”

“And the enemy can’t get there?”

“How could he?”

“He has the motorboat at his disposal.”

“He has never been there, because he doesn’t know of the bay nor of the way down to it either: you can’t see them from the open sea. Besides, they are protected by a thousand sharp-pointed rocks.”

“And what’s to prevent us from leaving at once?”

“The darkness, mother. I’m a good mariner and accustomed to navigate all the channels that lead away from Sarek, but I should not be at all sure of not