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

I was an angel compared with him. Now it so happens that this fine fellow has to take the field against my other son, against our dear François. Yes, such is the whim of destiny, which, once again, gives orders and of which, once again, I am the clear-sighted and subtle interpreter. Of course it is not a question of a protracted and daily struggle. On the contrary, something short, violent and decisive: a duel, for instance. That’s it, a duel; you understand, a serious duel. Not a turn with the fists, ending in a few bruises; no, what you call a duel to the death, because one of the two adversaries must be left, on the ground, because there must be a victor and a victim, in short, a living combatant and a dead one.”

Véronique had turned her head a little and she saw that he was smiling. Never before had she so plainly perceived the madness of that man, who smiled at the thought of a mortal contest between two children both of whom were his sons. The whole thing was so extravagant that Véronique, so to speak, did not suffer. It was all outside the limits of suffering.

“There is something better, Véronique,” he said, gloating over every syllable. “There’s something better. Yes, destiny has devised a refinement which I dislike, but to which, as a faithful servant, I have to give effect. It has devised that you should be present at the duel. Capital; you, François’ mother, must see him fight. And, upon my word, I wonder whether that apparent malevolence is not a mercy in disguise. Let us say that you owe it to me, shall we, and that I myself am granting you this unexpected, I will even say, this unjust favour? For, when all is said, though Raynold is more powerful and experienced than François and though, logically, François ought to be beaten, how it must add to his courage and strength to know that he is fighting before his mother’s eyes! He will feel like a knight errant who stakes all his pride on winning. He will be a son whose victory will save his mother⁠ ⁠… at least, so he will think. Really the advantage is too great; and you can thank me, Véronique, if this duel, as I am sure it will, does not⁠—and I am sure that it will not⁠—make your heart beat a little faster.⁠ ⁠… Unless⁠ ⁠… unless I carry out the infernal programme to the end.⁠ ⁠… Ah, in that case, you poor little thing!⁠ ⁠…”

He gripped her once more and, lifting her to her feet in front of him, pressing his face against hers, he said, in a sudden fit of rage:

“So you won’t give in?”

“No, no!” she cried.

“You will never give in?”

“Never! Never! Never!” she repeated, with increasing vehemence.

“You hate me more than everything?”

“I hate you more than I love my son.”

“You lie, you lie!” he snarled. “You lie! Nothing comes above your son!”

“Yes, my hatred for you.”

All Véronique’s passion of revolt, all the detestation which she had succeeded in restraining now burst forth; and, indifferent to what might come of it, she flung the words of hatred full in his face:

“I hate you! I hate you! I would have my son die before my eyes, I would witness his agony, anything rather than the horror of your sight and presence. I hate you! You killed my father! You are an unclean murderer, a halfwitted, savage idiot, a criminal lunatic! I hate you!”

He lifted her with an effort, carried her to the window and threw her on the ground, spluttering:

“On your knees! On your knees! The punishment is beginning. You would scoff at me, you hussy, would you? Well, you shall see!”

He forced her to her knees and then, pushing her against the lower wall and opening the window, he fastened her head to the rail of the balcony by means of a cord round her neck and under her arms. He ended by gagging her with a scarf:

“And now look!” he cried. “The curtain’s going up! Boy François doing his exercises!⁠ ⁠… Oh, you hate me, do you? Oh, you would rather have hell than a kiss from Vorski? Well, my darling, you shall have hell; and I’m arranging a little performance for you, one of my own composing and a highly original one at that!⁠ ⁠… Also, I may tell you, it’s too late now to change your mind. The thing’s irrevocable. You may beg and entreat for mercy as much as you like; it’s too late! The duel, followed by the cross; that’s the programme. Say your prayers, Véronique, and call on Heaven. Shout for assistance if it amuses you.⁠ ⁠… Listen, I know that your brat is expecting a rescuer, a professor of claptrap, a Don Quixote of adventure. Let him come! Vorski will give him the reception he deserves! The more the merrier! We shall see some fun!⁠ ⁠… And, if the very gods join in the game and take up your defence, I shan’t care! It’s no longer their business, it’s my business. It’s no longer a question of Sarek and the treasure and the great secret and all the humbug of the God-Stone! It’s a question of yourself! You have spat in Vorski’s face and Vorski is taking his revenge. He is taking his revenge! It is the glorious hour. What exquisite joy!⁠ ⁠… To do evil as others do good, lavishly and profusely! To do evil! To kill, torture, break, ruin and destroy!⁠ ⁠… Oh, the fierce delight of being a Vorski!”

He stamped across the room, striking the floor at each step and hustling the furniture. His haggard eyes roamed in all directions. He would have liked to begin his work of destruction at once, strangling some victim, giving work to his greedy fingers, executing the incoherent orders of his insane imagination.

Suddenly, he drew a revolver and, brutishly, stupidly, fired bullets into the mirrors, the pictures, the windowpanes.

And, still gesticulating, still capering about, an ominous and sinister figure,