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

like a swelling wave that is about to break. But the old man would not leave him alone:

“One last word, Vorski; and I’m speaking low so that your friends shan’t hear me. When you wrapped your mother in her shroud, you left on her forefinger, in obedience to her formal wish, a ring which she had always worn, a magic ring made of a large turquoise surrounded by a circle of smaller turquoises set in gold. Am I right?”

“Yes,” gasped Vorski, taken aback, “yes, you’re right: but I was alone and it is a secret which nobody knew.”

“Vorski, if that ring is on Velléda’s finger, will you trust me and will you believe that your mother, in her grave, appointed Velléda to receive you, that she herself might hand you the miraculous stone?”

Vorski was already walking towards the tumulus. He quickly climbed the first few steps. His head passed the level of the platform.

“Oh,” he said, staggering back, “the ring⁠ ⁠… the ring is on her finger!”

Between the two supports of the dolmen, stretched on the sacrificial table and clad in a spotless gown that came down to her feet, lay the Druidess. Her body and face were turned the other way; and a veil hanging over her forehead hid her hair. Almost bare, her shapely arm lay along the table. On the forefinger was a turquoise ring.

“Is that your mother’s ring all right?” asked the ancient Druid.

“Yes, there’s no doubt about it.”

Vorski had hurried across the space between himself and the dolmen and, stooping, almost kneeling, was examining the turquoises.

“The number is complete,” he whispered. “One of them is cracked. Another is half covered by the gold setting which has worked down over it.”

“You needn’t be so cautious,” said the old man. “She won’t hear you; and your voice can’t wake her. What you had better do is to stand up and pass your hand lightly over her forehead. That is the magic caress which will rouse her from her slumber.”

Vorski stood up. Nevertheless he hesitated to approach the woman, who inspired him with ungovernable fear and respect.

“Don’t come any nearer, you two,” said the ancient Druid, addressing Otto and Conrad. “When Velléda’s eyes open, they must rest on no one but Vorski and behold no other sight. Well, Vorski, are you afraid?”

“No, I’m not afraid.”

“Only you’re not feeling comfortable. It’s easier to murder people than to bring them to life, what? Come, show yourself a man! Put aside her veil and touch her forehead. The God-Stone is within your reach. Act and you will be the master of the world.”

Vorski acted. Standing against the sacrificial altar, he looked down upon the Druidess. He bent over the motionless bust. The white gown rose and fell to the regular rhythm of the breathing. With an undecided hand he drew back the veil and then stooped lower, so that his other hand might touch the uncovered forehead.

But at that moment his action remained, so to speak, suspended and he stood without moving, like a man who does not understand but is vainly trying to understand.

“Well, what’s up, old chap?” exclaimed the Druid. “You look petrified. Another squabble? Something gone wrong? Must I come and help you?”

Vorski did not answer. He was staring wildly, with an expression of stupefaction and affright which gradually changed into one of mad terror. Drops of perspiration trickled over his face. His haggard eyes seemed to be gazing upon the most horrible vision.

The old man burst out laughing:

“Lord love us, how ugly you are! I hope the last of the Druidesses won’t raise her divine eyelids and see that hideous mug of yours! Sleep, Velléda, sleep your pure and dreamless sleep.”

Vorski stood muttering between his teeth incoherent words which conveyed the menace of an increasing anger. The truth became partly revealed to him in a series of flashes. A word rose to his lips which he refused to utter, as though, in uttering it, he feared lest he should give life to a being who was no more, to that woman who was dead, yes, dead though she lay breathing before him: she could not but be dead, because he had killed her. However, in the end and in spite of himself, he spoke; and every syllable cost him intolerable suffering:

“Véronique.⁠ ⁠… Véronique.⁠ ⁠…”

“So you think she’s like her?” chuckled the ancient Druid. “Upon my word, may be you are right: there is a sort of family resemblance.⁠ ⁠… I dare say, if you hadn’t crucified the other with your own hands and if you hadn’t yourself received her last breath, you would be ready to swear that the two women are one and the same person⁠ ⁠… and that Véronique d’Hergemont is alive and that she’s not even wounded⁠ ⁠… not even a scar⁠ ⁠… not so much as the mark of the cords round her wrists.⁠ ⁠… But just look, Vorski, what a peaceful face, what comforting serenity! Upon my word, I’m beginning to believe that you made a mistake and that it was another woman you crucified! Just think a bit!⁠ ⁠… Hullo, you’re going to go for me now! Come to my rescue, O Teutatès! The prophet wants to have my blood!”

Vorski had drawn himself up and was now facing the ancient Druid. His features, fashioned for hatred and fury, had surely never expressed more of either than at this moment. The ancient Druid was not merely the man who for an hour had been toying with him as with a child. He was the man who had performed the most extraordinary feat and who suddenly appeared to him as the most ruthless and dangerous foe. A man like that must be got rid of on the spot, since the opportunity presented itself.

“I’m done!” said the old man. “He’s going to eat me up! Crikey, what an ogre!⁠ ⁠… Help! Murder! Help!⁠ ⁠… Oh, look at his iron fingers! He’s going to strangle me!⁠ ⁠… Unless he uses a dagger⁠ ⁠… or a rope.⁠ ⁠… No, a revolver! I prefer that, it’s neater.⁠ ⁠… Fire away, Alexis. Two