The Eight Strokes of the Clock Maurice Leblanc (android e book reader .txt) đ
- Author: Maurice Leblanc
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Hortense refused to stay another night. Besides, it was better that the cottage should be empty when the old nurse announced the madwomanâs suicide. RĂ©nine gave FĂ©licienne minute directions as to what she should do and say; and then, assisted by the chauffeur and M. de Lourtier, carried Hortense to the car and brought her home.
She was soon convalescent. Two days later, RĂ©nine carefully questioned her and asked her how she had come to know the madwoman.
âIt was very simple,â she said. âMy husband, who is not quite sane, as I have told you, is being looked after at Ville dâAvray; and I sometimes go to see him, without telling anybody, I admit. That was how I came to speak to that poor madwoman and how, the other day, she made signs that she wanted me to visit her. We were alone. I went into the cottage. She threw herself upon me and overpowered me before I had time to cry for help. I thought it was a jest; and so it was, wasnât it: a madwomanâs jest? She was quite gentle with me.â ââ ⊠All the same, she let me starve. But I was so sure of you!â
âAnd werenât you frightened?â
âOf starving? No. Besides, she gave me some food, now and then, when the fancy took her.â ââ ⊠And then I was sure of you!â
âYes, but there was something else: that other peril.â ââ âŠâ
âWhat other peril?â she asked, ingenuously.
RĂ©nine gave a start. He suddenly understoodâ âit seemed strange at first, though it was quite naturalâ âthat Hortense had not for a moment suspected and did not yet suspect the terrible danger which she had run. Her mind had not connected with her own adventure the murders committed by the lady with the hatchet.
He thought that it would always be time enough to tell her the truth. For that matter, a few days later her husband, who had been locked up for years, died in the asylum at Ville dâAvray, and Hortense, who had been recommended by her doctor a short period of rest and solitude, went to stay with a relation living near the village of Bassicourt, in the centre of France.
VII Footprints in the SnowTo Prince Serge RĂ©nine,
Boulevard Haussmann,
Paris
La RonciĂšre
Near Bassicourt,
14 November.
âMy dear friendâ â
âYou must be thinking me very ungrateful. I have been here three weeks; and you have had not one letter from me! Not a word of thanks! And yet I ended by realizing from what terrible death you saved me and understanding the secret of that terrible business! But indeed, indeed I couldnât help it! I was in such a state of prostration after it all! I needed rest and solitude so badly! Was I to stay in Paris? Was I to continue my expeditions with you? No, no, no! I had had enough adventures! Other peopleâs are very interesting, I admit. But when one is oneâs self the victim and barely escapes with oneâs life?â ââ ⊠Oh, my dear friend, how horrible it was! Shall I ever forget it?â ââ âŠ
âHere, at la RonciĂšre, I enjoy the greatest peace. My old spinster cousin Ermelin pets and coddles me like an invalid. I am getting back my colour and am very well, physicallyâ ââ ⊠so much so, in fact, that I no longer ever think of interesting myself in other peopleâs business. Never again! For instance (I am only telling you this because you are incorrigible, as inquisitive as any old charwoman, and always ready to busy yourself with things that donât concern you), yesterday I was present at a rather curious meeting. Antoinette had taken me to the inn at Bassicourt, where we were having tea in the public room, among the peasants (it was market-day), when the arrival of three people, two men and a woman, caused a sudden pause in the conversation.
âOne of the men was a fat farmer in a long blouse, with a jovial, red face, framed in white whiskers. The other was younger, was dressed in corduroy and had lean, yellow, cross-grained features. Each of them carried a gun slung over his shoulder. Between them was a short, slender young woman, in a brown cloak and a fur cap, whose rather thin and extremely pale face was surprisingly delicate and distinguished-looking.
âââFather, son and daughter-in-law,â whispered my cousin.
âââWhat! Can that charming creature be the wife of that clodhopper?â
âââAnd the daughter-in-law of Baron de Gorne.â
âââIs the old fellow over there a baron?â
âââYes, descended from a very ancient, noble family which used to own the chĂąteau in the old days. He has always lived like a peasant: a great hunter, a great drinker, a great litigant, always at law with somebody, now very nearly ruined. His son Mathias was more ambitious and less attached to the soil and studied for the bar. Then he went to America. Next, the lack of money brought him back to the village, whereupon he fell in love with a young girl in the nearest town. The poor girl consented, no one knows why, to marry him; and for five years past she has been leading the life of a hermit, or rather of a prisoner, in a little manor-house close by, the Manoir-au-Puits, the Well Manor.â
âââWith the father and the son?â I asked.
âââNo, the father lives at the far end of the village, on a lonely farm.â
âââAnd is Master Mathias jealous?â
âââA perfect tiger!â
âââWithout reason?â
âââWithout reason, for Natalie de Gorne is the straightest woman in the world and it is not her fault if a handsome young man has been hanging around the manor-house for the past few months. However, the de Gornes canât get over it.â
âââWhat, the father neither?â
âââThe handsome young man is the last descendant of the people who bought the chĂąteau long ago. This explains old de Gorneâs hatred. JĂ©rĂŽme Vignalâ âI know him and am very fond of himâ âis a good-looking fellow and very well off; and he has sworn to run off with Natalie de Gorne. Itâs
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