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

her. The ground at the foot of the oaks round the right-hand part of the semicircle was littered with lately cut branches, which still bore their green leaves.

She raised her eyes and stood stupefied and dismayed.

One oak alone had been stripped. And on the huge trunk, bare to a height of twelve or fifteen feet, there was a paper, transfixed by an arrow and bearing the inscription, “V. d’H.”

“The fourth cross,” Véronique faltered, “the cross marked with my name!”

She supposed that, as her father was dead, the initials of her maiden name must have been written by one of her enemies, the chief of them, no doubt; and for the first time, under the influence of recent events, remembering the woman and the boy who were persecuting her, she involuntarily attributed a definite set of features to that enemy.

It was a fleeting impression, an improbable theory, of which she was not even conscious. She was overwhelmed by something much more terrible. She suddenly understood that the monsters, those creatures of the heath and the cells, the accomplices of the woman and the boy, must have been there, since the cross was prepared. No doubt they had built a footbridge and thrown it over the chasm to take the place of the bridge to which she had set fire. They were masters of the Priory. And François was once more in their hands!

Then she rushed straight along, collecting all her strength. She in her turn ran over the turf, dotted with ruins, that sloped towards the front of the house.

“François! François! François!”

She called his name in a piercing voice. She announced her coming with loud cries. Thus did she reach the Priory.

One half of the door stood ajar. She pushed it and darted into the hall, crying:

“François! François!”

The call rang from floor to attic and throughout the house, but remained unanswered:

“François! François!”

She went upstairs, opening doors at random, running into her son’s room, into Stéphane’s, into Honorine’s. She found nobody.

“François! François!⁠ ⁠… Don’t you hear me? Are they hurting you?⁠ ⁠… Oh, François, do answer!”

She went back to the landing. Opposite her was M. d’Hergemont’s study. She flung herself upon the door and at once recoiled, as though stricken by a vision from hell.

A man was standing there, with arms crossed and apparently waiting for her. And it was the man whom she had pictured for an instant when thinking of the woman and the boy. It was the third monster!

She said, simply, but in a voice filled with inexpressible horror:

“Vorski!⁠ ⁠… Vorski!⁠ ⁠…”

XI The Scourge of God

Vorski! Vorski! The unspeakable creature, the thought of whom filled her with shame and horror, the monstrous Vorski, was not dead! The murder of the spy by one of his colleagues, his burial in the cemetery at Fontainebleau; all this was a fable, a delusion! The only real fact was that Vorski was alive!

Of all the visions that could have haunted Véronique’s brain, there was none so abominable as the sight before her; Vorski standing erect, with his arms crossed and his head up, alive! Vorski alive!

She would have accepted anything with her usual courage, but not this. She had felt strong enough to face and defy no matter what enemy, but not this one. Vorski stood for ignominious disgrace, for insatiable wickedness, for boundless ferocity, for method mingled with madness in crime.

And this man loved her.

She suddenly blushed. Vorski was staring with greedy eyes at the bare flesh of her shoulders and arms, which showed through her tattered bodice, and looking upon this bare flesh as upon a prey which nothing could snatch from him. Nevertheless Véronique did not budge. She had no covering within reach. She pulled herself together under the insult of the man’s desire and defied him with such a glance that he was embarrassed and for a moment turned away his eyes.

Then she cried, with an uncontrollable outburst of feeling:

“My son! Where’s François? I want to see him.”

“Our son is sacred, madame,” he replied. “He has nothing to fear from his father.”

“I want to see him.”

He lifted his hand as one taking an oath:

“You shall see him, I swear.”

“Dead, perhaps!” she said, in a hollow voice.

“As much alive as you and I, madame.”

There was a fresh pause. Vorski was obviously seeking his words and preparing the speech with which the implacable conflict between them was to open.

He was a man of athletic stature, with a powerful frame, legs slightly bowed, an enormous neck swollen by great bundles of muscles and a head unduly small, with fair hair plastered down and parted in the middle. That in him which at one time produced an impression of brute strength, combined with a certain distinction, had become with age the massive and vulgar aspect of a professional wrestler posturing on the hustings at a fair. The disquieting charm which once attracted the women had vanished; and all that remained was a harsh and cruel expression of which he tried to correct the hardness by means of an impassive smile.

He unfolded his arms, drew up a chair and, bowing to Véronique, said:

“Our conversation, madame, will be long and at times painful. Won’t you sit down?”

He waited for a moment and, receiving no reply, without allowing himself to be disconcerted, continued:

“Perhaps you would rather first take some refreshment at the sideboard. Would you care for a biscuit and a thimbleful of old claret or a glass of champagne?”

He affected an exaggerated politeness, the essentially Teutonic politeness of the semibarbarians who are anxious to prove that they are familiar with all the niceties of civilization and that they have been initiated into every refinement of courtesy, even towards a woman whom the right of conquest would permit them to treat more cavalierly. This was one of the points of detail which in the past had most vividly enlightened Véronique as to her husband’s probable origin.

She shrugged her shoulders and remained silent.

“Very well,” he said, “but you must then authorize me to