The Secret of Sarek E-Book

Leblanc Maurice

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Arsene Lupin, Master Detective makes his reappearance in this thrilling romantic novel. He returns to a wild island stocked with druids, lost riches, and 30 coffins! Essentially, the complex plot revolves around Veronique, a young woman who travels to an isolated island off the coast of Brittany in search of her kidnapped son. She soon discovers that a terrible prophecy involving herself is about to come true. The island’s inhabitants believe that when the so called „Thirty Coffins” have claimed their thirty victims and four women have been crucified from some oak trees then the God’s Stone will be revealed – a stone which gives life and death. A book of extraordinary adventure!

Leseprobe

Contents

CHAPTER I. THE DESERTED CABIN

CHAPTER II. ON THE EDGE OF THE ATLANTIC

CHAPTER III. VORSKI'S SON

CHAPTER IV. THE POOR PEOPLE OF SAREK

CHAPTER V. "FOUR WOMEN CRUCIFIED"

CHAPTER VI. ALL'S WELL

CHAPTER VII. FRANÇOIS AND STÉPHANE

CHAPTER VIII. ANGUISH

CHAPTER IX. THE DEATH-CHAMBER

CHAPTER X. THE ESCAPE

CHAPTER XI. THE SCOURGE OF GOD

CHAPTER XII. THE ASCENT OF GOLGOTHA

CHAPTER XIII. "ELOI, ELOI, LAMA SABACHTHANI!"

CHAPTER XIV. THE ANCIENT DRUID

CHAPTER XV. THE HALL OF THE UNDERGROUND SACRIFICES

CHAPTER XVI. THE HALL OF THE KINGS OF BOHEMIA

CHAPTER XVII. "CRUEL PRINCE, OBEYING DESTINY"

CHAPTER XVIII. THE GOD-STONE

CHAPTER I

THE DESERTED CABIN

Into the picturesque village of Le Faouet, situated in the very heart of Brittany, there drove one morning in the month of May a lady whose spreading grey cloak and the thick veil that covered her face failed to hide her remarkable beauty and perfect grace of figure.

The lady took a hurried lunch at the principal inn. Then, at about half-past eleven, she begged the proprietor to look after her bag for her, asked for a few particulars about the neighbourhood and walked through the village into the open country.

The road almost immediately branched into two, of which one led to Quimper and the other to Quimperlé. Selecting the latter, she went down into the hollow of a valley, climbed up again and saw on her right, at the corner of another road, a sign-post bearing the inscription, “Locriff, 3 kilometers.”

“This is the place,” she said to herself.

Nevertheless, after casting a glance around her, she was surprised not to find what she was looking for and wondered whether she had misunderstood her instructions.

There was no one near her nor any one within sight, as far as the eye could reach over the Breton country-side, with its tree-lined meadows and undulating hills. Not far from the village, rising amid the budding greenery of spring, a small country house lifted its grey front, with the shutters to all the windows closed. At twelve o’clock, the angelus-bells pealed through the air and were followed by complete peace and silence.

Véronique sat down on the short grass of a bank, took a letter from her pocket and smoothed out the many sheets, one by one.

The first page was headed:

“DUTREILLIS’ AGENCY.

“Consulting Rooms.

“Private Enquiries.

“Absolute Discretion Guaranteed.”

Next came an address:

"Madame Véronique,"Dressmaker,"BESANÇON."

And the letter ran:

“MADAM,

“You will hardly believe the pleasure which it gave me to fulfill the two commissions which you were good enough to entrust to me in your last favour. I have never forgotten the conditions under which I was able, fourteen years ago, to give you my practical assistance at a time when your life was saddened by painful events. It was I who succeeded in obtaining all the facts relating to the death of your honoured father, M. Antoine d’Hergemont, and of your beloved son François. This was my first triumph in a career which was to afford so many other brilliant victories.

“It was I also, you will remember, who, at your request and seeing how essential it was to save you from your husband’s hatred and, if I may add, his love, took the necessary steps to secure your admission to the Carmelite convent. Lastly, it was I who, when your retreat to the convent had shown you that a life of religion did not agree with your temperament, arranged for you a modest occupation as a dressmaker at Besançon, far from the towns where the years of your childhood and the months of your marriage had been spent. You had the inclination and the need to work in order to live and to escape your thoughts. You were bound to succeed; and you succeeded.

“And now let me come to the fact, to the two facts in hand.

“To begin with your first question: what has become, amid the whirlwind of war, of your husband, Alexis Vorski, a Pole by birth, according to his papers, and the son of a king, according to his own statement? I will be brief. After being suspected at the commencement of the war and imprisoned in an internment-camp near Carpentras, Vorski managed to escape, went to Switzerland, returned to France and was re-arrested, accused of spying and convicted of being a German. At the moment when it seemed inevitable that he would be sentenced to death, he escaped for the second time, disappeared in the Forest of Fontainebleau and in the end was stabbed by some person unknown.

“I am telling you the story quite crudely, Madam, well knowing your contempt for this person, who had deceived you abominably, and knowing also that you have learnt most of these facts from the newspapers, though you have not been able to verify their absolute genuineness.

“Well, the proofs exist. I have seen them. There is no doubt left. Alexis Vorski lies buried at Fontainebleau.

“Permit me, in passing, Madam, to remark upon the strangeness of this death. You will remember the curious prophecy about Vorski which you mentioned to me. Vorski, whose undoubted intelligence and exceptional energy were spoilt by an insincere and superstitious mind, readily preyed upon by hallucinations and terrors, had been greatly impressed by the prediction which overhung his life and which he had heard from the lips of several people who specialize in the occult sciences:

“‘Vorski, son of a king, you will die by the hand of a friend and your wife will be crucified!’

“I smile, Madam, as I write the last word. Crucified! Crucifixion is a torture which is pretty well out of fashion; and I am easy as regards yourself. But what do you think of the dagger-stroke which Vorski received in accordance with the mysterious orders of destiny?

“But enough of reflections. I now come . . .”

Véronique dropped the letter for a moment into her lap. M. Dutreillis’ pretentious phrasing and familiar pleasantries wounded her fastidious reserve. Also she was obsessed by the tragic image of Alexis Vorski. A shiver of anguish passed through her at the hideous memory of that man. She mastered herself, however, and read on:

“I now come to my other commission, Madam, in your eyes the more important of the two, because all the rest belongs to the past.

“Let us state the facts precisely. Three weeks ago, on one of those rare occasions when you consented to break through the praiseworthy monotony of your existence, on a Thursday evening when you took your assistants to a cinema-theatre, you were struck by a really incomprehensible detail. The principal film, entitled ‘A Breton Legend,’ represented a scene which occurred, in the course of a pilgrimage, outside a little deserted road-side hut which had nothing to do with the action. The hut was obviously there by accident. But something really extraordinary attracted your attention. On the tarred boards of the old door were three letters, drawn by hand: ‘V. d’H.,’ and those three letters were precisely your signature before you were married, the initials with which you used to sign your intimate letters and which you have not used once during the last fourteen years! Véronique d’Hergemont! There was no mistake possible. Two capitals separated by the small ‘d’ and the apostrophe. And, what is more, the bar of the letter ‘H.’, carried back under the three letters, served as a flourish, exactly as it used to do with you!

“It was the stupefaction due to this surprising coincidence that decided you, Madam, to invoke my assistance. It was yours without the asking. And you knew, without any telling, that it would be effective.

“As you anticipated, Madam, I have succeeded. And here again I will be brief.

“What you must do, Madam, is to take the night express from Paris which brings you the next morning to Quimperlé. From there, drive to Le Faouet. If you have time, before or after your luncheon, pay a visit to the very interesting Chapel of St. Barbe, which stands perched on the most fantastic site and which gave rise to the ‘Breton Legend’ film. Then go along the Quimper road on foot. At the end of the first ascent, a little way short of the parish-road which leads to Locriff, you will find, in a semicircle surrounded by trees, the deserted hut with the inscription. It has nothing remarkable about it. The inside is empty. It has not even a floor. A rotten plank serves as a bench. The roof consists of a worm-eaten framework, which admits the rain. Once more, there is no doubt that it was sheer accident that placed it within the range of the cinematograph. I will end by adding that the ‘Breton Legend’ film was taken in September last, which means that the inscription is at least eight months old.

“That is all, Madam. My two commissions are completed. I am too modest to describe to you the efforts and the ingenious means which I employed in order to accomplish them in so short a time, but for which you will certainly think the sum of five hundred francs, which is all that I propose to charge you for the work done, almost ridiculous.

“I beg to remain, “Madam, &c.”

Véronique folded up the letter and sat for a few minutes turning over the impressions which it aroused in her, painful impressions, like all those revived by the horrible days of her marriage. One in particular had survived and was still as powerful as at the time when she tried to escape it by taking refuge in the gloom of a convent. It was the impression, in fact the certainty, that all her misfortunes, the death of her father and the death of her son, were due to the fault which she had committed in loving Vorski. True, she had fought against the man’s love and had not decided to marry him until she was obliged to, in despair and to save M. d’Hergemont from Vorski’s vengeance. Nevertheless, she had loved that man. Nevertheless, at first, she had turned pale under his glance: and this, which now seemed to her an unpardonable example of weakness, had left her with a remorse which time had failed to weaken.

“There,” she said, “enough of dreaming. I have not come here to shed tears.”

The craving for information which had brought her from her retreat at Besançon restored her vigour; and she rose resolved to act.

“A little way short of the parish-road which leads to Locriff . . . a semicircle surrounded by trees,” said Dutreillis’ letter. She had therefore passed the place. She quickly retraced her steps and at once perceived, on the right, the clump of trees which had hidden the cabin from her eyes. She went nearer and saw it.

It was a sort of shepherd’s or road-labourer’s hut, which was crumbling and falling to pieces under the action of the weather. Véronique went up to it and perceived that the inscription, worn by the rain and sun, was much less clear than on the film. But the three letters were visible, as was the flourish; and she even distinguished, underneath, something which M. Dutreillis had not observed, a drawing of an arrow and a number, the number 9.

Her emotion increased. Though no attempt had been made to imitate the actual form of her signature, it certainly was her signature as a girl. And who could have affixed it there, on a deserted cabin, in this Brittany where she had never been before?

Véronique no longer had a friend in the world. Thanks to a succession of circumstances, the whole of her past girlhood had, so to speak, disappeared with the death of those whom she had known and loved. Then how was it possible for the recollection of her signature to survive apart from her and those who were dead and gone? And, above all, why was the inscription here, at this spot? What did it mean?

Véronique walked round the cabin. There was no other mark visible there or on the surrounding trees. She remembered that M. Dutreillis had opened the door and had seen nothing inside. Nevertheless she determined to make certain that he was not mistaken.

The door was closed with a mere wooden latch, which moved on a screw. She lifted it; and, strange to say, she had to make an effort, not a physical so much as a moral effort, an effort of will, to pull the door towards her. It seemed to her that this little act was about to usher her into a world of facts and events which she unconsciously dreaded.

“Well,” she said, “what’s preventing me?”

She gave a sharp pull.

A cry of horror escaped her. There was a man’s dead body in the cabin. And, at the moment, at the exact second when she saw the body, she became aware of a peculiar characteristic: one of the dead man’s hands was missing.

It was an old man, with a long, grey, fan-shaped beard and long white hair falling about his neck. The blackened lips and a certain colour of the swollen skin suggested to Véronique that he might have been poisoned, for no trace of an injury showed on his body, except the arm, which had been severed clean above the wrist, apparently some days before. His clothes were those of a Breton peasant, clean, but very threadbare. The corpse was seated on the ground, with the head resting against the bench and the legs drawn up.

These were all things which Véronique noted in a sort of unconsciousness and which were rather to reappear in her memory at a later date, for, at the moment, she stood there all trembling, with her eyes staring before her, and stammering:

“A dead body! . . . A dead body! . . .”

Suddenly she reflected that she was perhaps mistaken and that the man was not dead. But, on touching his forehead, she shuddered at the contact of his icy skin.

Nevertheless this movement roused her from her torpor. She resolved to act and, since there was no one in the immediate neighbourhood, to go back to Le Faouet and inform the authorities. She first examined the corpse for any clue which could tell her its identity.

The pockets were empty. There were no marks on the clothes or linen. But, when she shifted the body a little in order to make her search, it came about that the head drooped forward, dragging with it the trunk, which fell over the legs, thus uncovering the lower side of the bench.

Under this bench, she perceived a roll consisting of a sheet of very thin drawing-paper, crumpled, buckled and almost wrung into a twist. She picked up the roll and unfolded it. But she had not finished doing so before her hands began to tremble and she stammered:

“Oh, God! . . . Oh, my God! . . .”

She summoned all her energies to try and enforce upon herself the calm needed to look with eyes that could see and a brain that could understand.

The most that she could do was to stand there for a few seconds. And during those few seconds, through an ever-thickening mist that seemed to shroud her eyes, she was able to make out a drawing in red, representing four women crucified on four tree-trunks.

And, in the foreground, the first woman, the central figure, with the body stark under its clothing and the features distorted with the most dreadful pain, but still recognizable, the crucified woman was herself! Beyond the least doubt, it was she herself, Véronique d’Hergemont!

Besides, above the head, the top of the post bore, after the ancient custom, a scroll with a plainly legible inscription. And this was the three initials, underlined with the flourish, of Véronique’s maiden name, “V. d’H.”, Véronique d’Hergemont.

A spasm ran through her from head to foot. She drew herself up, turned on her heel and, reeling out of the cabin, fell on the grass in a dead faint.

Véronique was a tall, energetic, healthy woman, with a wonderfully balanced mind; and hitherto no trial had been able to affect her fine moral sanity or her splendid physical harmony. It needed exceptional and unforeseen circumstances such as these, added to the fatigue of two nights spent in railway-travelling, to produce this disorder in her nerves and will.

It did not last more than two or three minutes, at the end of which her mind once more became lucid and courageous. She stood up, went back to the cabin, picked up the sheet of drawing-paper and, certainly with unspeakable anguish, but this time with eyes that saw and a brain that understood, looked at it.

She first examined the details, those which seemed insignificant, or whose significance at least escaped her. On the left was a narrow column of fifteen lines, not written, but composed of letters of no definite formation, the down-strokes of which were all of the same length, the object being evidently merely to fill up. However, in various places, a few words were visible. And Véronique read:

“Four women crucified.”

Lower down:

“Thirty coffins.”

And the bottom line of all ran:

“The God-Stone which gives life or death.”

The whole of this column was surrounded by a frame consisting of two perfectly straight lines, one ruled in black, the other in red ink; and there was also, likewise in red, above it, a sketch of two sickles fastened together with a sprig of mistletoe under the outline of a coffin.

The right-hand side, by far the more important, was filled with the drawing, a drawing in red chalk, which gave the whole sheet, with its adjacent column of explanations, the appearance of a page, or rather of a copy of a page, from some large, ancient illuminated book, in which the subjects were treated rather in the primitive style, with a complete ignorance of the rules of drawing.

And it represented four crucified women. Three of them showed in diminishing perspective against the horizon. They wore Breton costumes and their heads were surmounted by caps which were likewise Breton but of a special fashion that pointed to local usage and consisted chiefly of a large black bow, the two wings of which stood out as in the bows of the Alsatian women. And in the middle of the page was the dreadful thing from which Véronique could not take her terrified eyes. It was the principal cross, the trunk of a tree stripped of its lower branches, with the woman’s two arms stretched to right and left of it.

The hands and feet were not nailed but were fastened by cords which were wound as far as the shoulders and the upper part of the tied legs. Instead of the Breton costume, the woman wore a sort of winding-sheet which fell to the ground and lengthened the slender outline of a body emaciated by suffering.

The expression on the face was harrowing, an expression of resigned martyrdom and melancholy grace. And it was certainly Véronique’s face, especially as it looked when she was twenty years of age and as Véronique remembered seeing it at those gloomy hours when a woman gazes in a mirror at her hopeless eyes and her overflowing tears.

And about the head was the very same wave of her thick hair, flowing to the waist in symmetrical curves:

And above it the inscription, “V. d’H.”

Véronique long stayed thinking, questioning the past and gazing into the darkness in order to link the actual facts with the memory of her youth. But her mind remained without a glimmer of light. Of the words which she had read, of the drawing which she had seen, nothing whatever assumed the least meaning for her or seemed susceptible of the least explanation.

She examined the sheet of paper again and again. Then, slowly, still pondering on it, she tore it into tiny pieces and threw them to the wind. When the last scrap had been carried away, her decision was taken. She pushed back the man’s body, closed the door and walked quickly towards the village, in order to ensure that the incident should have the legal conclusion which was fitting for the moment.

But, when she returned an hour later with the mayor of Le Faouet, the rural constable and a whole group of sightseers attracted by her statements, the cabin was empty. The corpse had disappeared.

And all this was so strange, Véronique felt so plainly that, in the disordered condition of her ideas, it was impossible for her to answer the questions put to her, or to dispel the suspicions and doubts which these people might and must entertain of the truth of her evidence, the cause of her presence and even her very sanity, that she forthwith ceased to make any effort or struggle. The inn-keeper was there. She asked him which was the nearest village that she would reach by following the road and if, by so doing, she would come to a railway-station which would enable her to return to Paris. She retained the names of Scaër and Rosporden, ordered a carriage to bring her bag and overtake her on the road and set off, protected against any ill feeling by her great air of elegance and by her grave beauty.

She set off, so to speak, at random. The road was long, miles and miles long. But such was her haste to have done with these incomprehensible events and to recover her tranquillity and to forget what had happened that she walked with great strides, quite oblivious of the fact that this wearisome exertion was superfluous, since she had a carriage following her.

She went up hill and down dale and hardly thought at all, refusing to seek the solution of all the riddles that were put to her. It was the past which was reascending to the surface of her life; and she was horribly afraid of that past, which extended from her abduction by Vorski to the death of her father and her child. She wanted to think of nothing but the simple, humble life which she had contrived to lead at Besançon. There were no sorrows there, no dreams, no memories; and she did not doubt but that, amid the little daily habits which enfolded her in the modest house of her choice, she would forget the deserted cabin, the mutilated body of the man and the dreadful drawing with its mysterious inscription.

But, a little while before she came to the big market-town of Scaër, as she heard the bell of a horse trotting behind her, she saw, at the junction of the road that led to Rosporden, a broken wall, one of the remnants of a half-ruined house.

And on this broken wall, above an arrow and the number 10, she again read the fateful inscription, “V. d’H.”

CHAPTER II

ON THE EDGE OF THE ATLANTIC

Véronique’s state of mind underwent a sudden alteration. Even as she had fled resolutely from the threat of danger that seemed to loom up before her from the evil past, so she was now determined to pursue to the end the dread road which was opening before her.

This change was due to a tiny gleam which flashed abruptly through the darkness. She suddenly realized the fact, a simple matter enough, that the arrow denoted a direction and that the number 10 must be the tenth of a series of numbers which marked a course leading from one fixed point to another.

Was it a sign set up by one person with the object of guiding the steps of another? It mattered little. The main thing was that there was here a clue capable of leading Véronique to the discovery of the problem which interested her: by what prodigy did the initials of her maiden name reappear amid this tangle of tragic circumstances?

The carriage sent from Le Faouet overtook her. She stepped in and told the driver to go very slowly to Rosporden.

She arrived in time for dinner; and her anticipations had not misled her. Twice she saw her signature, each time before a division in the road, accompanied by the numbers 11 and 12.

Véronique slept at Rosporden and resumed her investigations on the following morning.

The number 12, which she found on the wall of a church-yard, sent her along the road to Concarneau, which she had almost reached before she saw any further inscriptions. She fancied that she must have been mistaken, retraced her steps and wasted a whole day in useless searching.

It was not until the next day that the number 13, very nearly obliterated, directed her towards Fouesnant. Then she abandoned this direction, to follow, still in obedience to the signs, some country-roads in which she once more lost her way.

At last, four days after leaving Le Faouet, she found herself facing the Atlantic, on the great beach of Beg-Meil.

She spent two nights in the village without gathering the least reply to the discreet questions which she put to the inhabitants. At last, one morning, after wandering among the half-buried groups of rocks which intersect the beach and upon the low cliffs, covered with trees and copses, which hem it in, she discovered, between two oaks stripped of their bark, a shelter built of earth and branches which must at one time have been used by custom-house officers. A small menhir stood at the entrance. The menhir bore the inscription, followed by the number 17. No arrow. A full stop underneath; and that was all.

In the shelter were three broken bottles and some empty meat-tins.

“This was the goal,” thought Véronique. “Some one has been having a meal here. Food stored in advance, perhaps.”

Just then she noticed that, at no great distance, by the edge of a little bay which curved like a shell amid the neighbouring rocks, a boat was swinging to and fro, a motor-boat. And she heard voices coming from the village, a man’s voice and a woman’s.

From the place where she stood, all that she could see at first was an elderly man carrying in his arms half-a-dozen bags of provisions, potted meats and dried vegetables. He put them on the ground and said:

“Well, had a pleasant journey, M’ame Honorine?”

“Fine!”

“And where have you been?”

“Why, Paris . . . a week of it . . . running errands for my master.”

“Glad to be back?”

“Of course I am.”

“And you see, M’ame Honorine, you find your boat just where she was. I came to have a look at her every day. This morning I took away her tarpaulin. Does she run as well as ever?”

“First-rate.”

“Besides, you’re a master pilot, you are. Who’d have thought, M’ame Honorine, that you’d be doing a job like this?”

“It’s the war. All the young men in our island are gone and the old ones are fishing. Besides, there’s no longer a fortnightly steamboat service, as there used to be. So I go the errands.”

“What about petrol?”

“We’ve plenty to go on with. No fear of that.”

“Well, good-bye for the present, M’ame Honorine. Shall I help you put the things on board?”

“Don’t you trouble; you’re in a hurry.”

“Well, good-bye for the present,” the old fellow repeated. “Till next time, M’ame Honorine. I’ll have the parcels ready for you.”

He went away, but, when he had gone a little distance, called out:

“All the same, mind the jagged reefs round that blessed island of yours! I tell you, it’s got a nasty name! It’s not called Coffin Island, the island of the thirty coffins, for nothing! Good luck to you, M’ame Honorine!”

He disappeared behind a rock.

Véronique had shuddered. The thirty coffins! The very words which she had read in the margin of that horrible drawing!

She leant forward. The woman had come a few steps nearer the boat and, after putting down some more provisions which she had been carrying, turned round.

Véronique now saw her full-face. She wore a Breton costume; and her head-dress was crowned by two black wings.

“Oh,” stammered Véronique, “that head-dress in the drawing . . . the head-dress of the three crucified women!”

The Breton woman looked about forty. Her strong face, tanned by the sun and the cold, was bony and rough-hewn but lit up by a pair of large, dark, intelligent, gentle eyes. A heavy gold chain hung down upon her breast. Her velvet bodice fitted her closely.

She was humming in a very low voice as she took up her parcels and loaded the boat, which made her kneel on a big stone against which the boat was moored. When she had done, she looked at the horizon, which was covered with black clouds. She did not seem anxious about them, however, and, loosing the painter, continued her song, but in a louder voice, which enabled Véronique to hear the words. It was a slow melody, a children’s lullaby; and she sang it with a smile which revealed a set of fine, white teeth.

"And the mother said, Rocking her child a-bed:

‘Weep not. If you do, The Virgin Mary weeps with you.

Babes that laugh and sing Smiles to the Blessed Virgin bring.

Fold your hands this way And to sweet Mary pray.’” She did not complete the song. Véronique was standing before her, with her face drawn and very pale.

Taken aback, the other asked:

“What’s the matter?”

Véronique, in a trembling voice, replied:

“That song! Who taught it you? Where do you get it from? . . . It’s a song my mother used to sing, a song of her own country, Savoy . . . . And I have never heard it since . . . since she died . . . . So I want . . . I should like . . .”

She stopped. The Breton woman looked at her in silence, with an air of stupefaction, as though she too were on the point of asking questions. But Véronique repeated:

“Who taught it you?”

“Some one over there,” the woman called Honorine answered, at last.

“Over there?”

“Yes, some one on my island.”

Véronique said, with a sort of dread:

“Coffin Island?”

“That’s just a name they call it by. It’s really the Isle of Sarek.”

They still stood looking at each other, with a look in which a certain doubt was mingled with a great need of speech and understanding. And at the same time they both felt that they were not enemies.

Véronique was the first to continue:

“Excuse me, but, you see, there are things which are so puzzling . . .”

The Breton woman nodded her head in approval and Véronique continued:

“So puzzling and so disconcerting! . . . For instance, do you know why I’m here? I must tell you. Perhaps you alone can explain . . . It’s like this: an accident–quite a small accident, but really it all began with that–brought me to Brittany for the first time and showed me, on the door of an old, deserted, road-side cabin, the initials which I used to sign when I was a girl, a signature which I have not used for fourteen or fifteen years. As I went on, I discovered the same inscription many times repeated, with each time a different consecutive number. That was how I came here, to the beach at Beg-Meil and to this part of the beach, which appeared to be the end of a journey foreseen and arranged by . . . I don’t know whom.”

“Is your signature here?” asked Honorine, eagerly. “Where?”

“On that stone, above us, at the entrance to the shelter.”

“I can’t see from here. What are the letters?”

“V. d’H.”

The Breton woman suppressed a movement. Her bony face betrayed profound emotion, and, hardly opening her lips, she murmured:

“Véronique . . . Véronique d’Hergemont.”

“Ah,” exclaimed the younger woman, “so you know my name, you know my name!”

Honorine took Véronique’s two hands and held them in her own. Her weather-beaten face lit up with a smile. And her eyes grew moist with tears as she repeated:

“Mademoiselle Véronique! . . . Madame Véronique! . . . So it’s you, Véronique! . . . O Heaven, is it possible! The Blessed Virgin Mary be praised!”

Véronique felt utterly confounded and kept on saying:

“You know my name . . . you know who I am . . . . Then you can explain all this riddle to me?”

After a long pause, Honorine replied:

“I can explain nothing. I don’t understand either. But we can try to find out together . . . . Tell me, what was the name of that Breton village?”

“Le Faouet.”

“Le Faouet. I know. And where was the deserted cabin?”

“A mile and a quarter away.”

“Did you look in?”

“Yes; and that was the most terrible thing of all. Inside the cabin was . . .”

“What was in the cabin?”

“First of all, the dead body of a man, an old man, dressed in the local costume, with long white hair and a grey beard . . . . Oh, I shall never forget that dead man! . . . He must have been murdered, poisoned, I don’t know what . . . .”

Honorine listened greedily, but the murder seemed to give her no clue and she merely asked:

“Who was it? Did they have an inquest?”

“When I came back with the people from Le Faouet, the corpse had disappeared.”

“Disappeared? But who had removed it?”

“I don’t know.”

“So that you know nothing?”

“Nothing. Except that, the first time, I found in the cabin a drawing . . . a drawing which I tore up; but its memory haunts me like a nightmare that keeps on recurring. I can’t get it out of my mind . . . . Listen, it was a roll of paper on which some one had evidently copied an old picture and it represented . . . Oh, a dreadful, dreadful thing, four women crucified! And one of the women was myself, with my name . . . . And the others wore a head-dress like yours.”

Honorine had squeezed her hands with incredible violence:

“What’s that you say?” she cried. “What’s that you say? Four women crucified?”

“Yes; and there was something about thirty coffins, consequently about your island.”

The Breton woman put her hands over Véronique’s lips to silence them:

“Hush! Hush! Oh, you mustn’t speak of all that! No, no, you mustn’t . . . . You see, there are devilish things . . . which it’s a sacrilege to talk about . . . . We must be silent about that . . . . Later on, we’ll see . . . another year, perhaps . . . . Later on . . . . Later on . . . .”

She seemed shaken by terror, as by a gale which scourges the trees and overwhelms all living things. And suddenly she fell on her knees upon the rock and muttered a long prayer, bent in two, with her hands before her face, so completely absorbed that Véronique asked her no more questions.

At last she rose and, presently, said:

“Yes, this is all terrifying, but I don’t see that it makes our duty any different or that we can hesitate at all.”

And, addressing Véronique, she said, gravely:

“You must come over there with me.”

“Over there, to your island?” replied Véronique, without concealing her reluctance.

Honorine again took her hands and continued, still in that same, rather solemn tone which appeared to Véronique to be full of secret and unspoken thoughts:

“Your name is truly Véronique d’Hergemont?”

“Yes.”

“Who was your father?”

“Antoine d’Hergemont.”

“You married a man called Vorski, who said he was a Pole?”

“Yes, Alexis Vorski.”

“You married him after there was a scandal about his running off with you and after a quarrel between you and your father?”

“Yes.”

“You had a child by him?”

“Yes, a son, François.”

“A son that you never knew, in a manner of speaking, because he was kidnapped by your father?”

“Yes.”

“And you lost sight of the two after a shipwreck?”

“Yes, they are both dead.”

“How do you know?”

It did not occur to Véronique to be astonished at this question, and she replied:

“My personal enquiries and the police enquiries were both based upon the same indisputable evidence, that of the four sailors.”

“Who’s to say they weren’t telling lies?”

“Why should they tell lies?” asked Véronique, in surprise.

“Their evidence may have been bought; they may have been told what to say.”

“By whom?”

“By your father.”

“But what an idea! . . . Besides, my father was dead!”

“I say once more: how do you know that?”

This time Véronique appeared stupefied:

“What are you hinting?” she whispered.

“One minute. Do you know the names of those four sailors?”

“I did know them, but I don’t remember them.”

“You don’t remember that they were Breton names?”

“Yes, I do. But I don’t see that . . .”

“If you never came to Brittany, your father often did, because of the books he used to write. He used to stay in Brittany during your mother’s lifetime. That being so, he must have had relations with the men of the country. Suppose that he had known the four sailors a long time, that these men were devoted to him or bribed by him and that he engaged them specially for that adventure. Suppose that they began by landing your father and your son at some little Italian port and that then, being four good swimmers, they scuttled and sank their yacht in view of the coast. Just suppose it.”

“But the men are living!” cried Véronique, in growing excitement. “They can be questioned.”

“Two of them are dead; they died a natural death a few years ago. The third is an old man called Maguennoc; you will find him at Sarek. As for the fourth, you may have seen him just now. He used the money which he made out of that business to buy a grocer’s shop at Beg-Meil.”

“Ah, we can speak to him at once!” cried Véronique, eagerly. “Let’s go and fetch him.”

“Why should we? I know more than he does.”

“You know? You know?”

“I know everything that you don’t. I can answer all your questions. Ask me what you like.”

But Véronique dared not put the great question to her, the one which was beginning to quiver in the darkness of her consciousness. She was afraid of a truth which was perhaps not inconceivable, a truth of which she seemed to catch a faint glimpse; and she stammered, in mournful accents:

“I don’t understand, I don’t understand . . . . Why should my father have behaved like that? Why should he wish himself and my poor child to be thought dead?”

“Your father had sworn to have his revenge.”

“On Vorski, yes; but surely not on me, his daughter? . . . . And such a revenge!”

“You loved your husband. Once you were in his power, instead of running away from him, you consented to marry him. Besides, the insult was a public one. And you know what your father was, with his violent, vindictive temperament and his rather . . . his rather unbalanced nature, to use his own expression.”

“But since then?”

“Since then! Since then! He felt remorseful as he grew older, what with his affection for the child . . . and he tried everywhere to find you. The journeys I have taken, beginning with my journey to the Carmelites at Chartres! But you had left long ago . . . and where for? Where were you to be found?”

“You could have advertised in the newspapers.”

“He did try advertising, once, very cautiously, because of the scandal. There was a reply. Some one made an appointment and he kept it. Do you know who came to meet him? Vorski, Vorski, who was looking for you too, who still loved you . . . and hated you. Your father became frightened and did not dare act openly.”

Véronique did not speak. She felt very faint and sat down on the stone, with her head bowed.

Then she murmured:

“You speak of my father as though he were still alive to-day.”

“He is.”

“And as though you saw him often.”

“Daily.”

“And on the other hand”–Véronique lowered her voice–“on the other hand you do not say a word of my son. And that suggests a horrible thought: perhaps he did not live? Perhaps he is dead since? Is that why you do not mention him?”

She raised her head with an effort. Honorine was smiling.

“Oh, please, please,” Véronique entreated, “tell me the truth! It is terrible to hope more than one has a right to. Do tell me.”

Honorine put her arm round Véronique’s neck:

“Why, my poor, dear lady, would I have told you all this if my handsome François had been dead?”

“He is alive, he is alive?” cried Véronique, wildly.

“Why, of course he is and in the best of health! Oh, he’s a fine, sturdy little chap, never fear, and so steady on his legs! And I have every right to be proud of him, because it’s I who brought him up, your little François.”

She felt Véronique, who was leaning on her shoulder, give way to emotions which were too much for her and which certainly contained as much suffering as joy; and she said:

“Cry, my dear lady, cry; it will do you good. It’s a better sort of crying than it was, eh? Cry, until you’ve forgotten all your old troubles. I’m going back to the village. Have you a bag of any kind at the inn? They know me there. I’ll bring it back with me and we’ll be off.”

When the Breton woman returned, half an hour later, she saw Véronique standing and beckoning to her to hurry and heard her calling:

“Quick, quick! Heavens, what a time you’ve been! We have not a minute to lose.”

Honorine, however, did not hasten her pace and did not reply. Her rugged face was without a smile.

“Well, are we going to start?” asked Véronique, running up to her. “There’s nothing to delay us, is there, no obstacle? What’s the matter? You seem quite changed.”

“No, no.”

“Then let’s be quick.”

Honorine, with her assistance, put the bag and the provisions on board. Then, suddenly standing in front of Véronique, she said:

“You’re quite sure, are you, that the woman on the cross, as she was shown in the drawing, was yourself?”

“Absolutely. Besides, there were my initials above the head.”

“That’s a strange thing,” muttered Honorine, “and it’s enough to frighten anybody.”

“Why should it be? It must have been someone who used to know me and who amused himself by . . . It’s merely a coincidence, a chance fancy reviving the past.”

“Oh, it’s not the past that’s worrying me! It’s the future.”

“The future?”

“Remember the prophecy.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes, yes, the prophecy made about you to Vorski.”

“Ah, you know?”

“I know. And it is so horrible to think of that drawing and of other much more dreadful things which you don’t know of.”

Véronique burst out laughing:

“What! Is that why you hesitate to take me with you, for, after all, that’s what we’re concerned with?”

“Don’t laugh. People don’t laugh when they see the flames of hell before them.”

Honorine crossed herself, closing her eyes as she spoke. Then she continued:

“Of course . . . you scoff at me . . . you think I’m a superstitious Breton woman, who believes in ghosts and jack-o’-lanterns. I don’t say you’re altogether wrong. But there, there! There are some truths that blind one. You can talk it over with Maguennoc, if you get on the right side of him.”

“Maguennoc?”

“One of the four sailors. He’s an old friend of your boy’s. He too helped to bring him up. Maguennoc knows more about it than the most learned men, more than your father. And yet . . .”

“What?”

“And yet Maguennoc tried to tempt fate and to get past what men are allowed to know.”

“What did he do?”

“He tried to touch with his hand–you understand, with his own hand: he confessed it to me himself–the very heart of the mystery.”

“Well?” said Véronique, impressed in spite of herself.

“Well, his hand was burnt by the flames. He showed me a hideous sore: I saw it with my eyes, something like the sore of a cancer; and he suffered to that degree . . .”

“Yes?”

“That it forced him to take a hatchet in his left hand and cut off his right hand himself.”

Véronique was dumbfounded. She remembered the corpse at Le Faouet and she stammered:

“His right hand? You say that Maguennoc cut off his right hand?”

“With a hatchet, ten days ago, two days before I left . . . . I dressed the wound myself . . . . Why do you ask?”

“Because,” said Véronique, in a husky voice, “because the dead man, the old man whom I found in the deserted cabin and who afterwards disappeared, had lately lost his right hand.”

Honorine gave a start. She still wore the sort of scared expression and betrayed the emotional disturbance which contrasted with her usually calm attitude. And she rapped out:

“Are you sure? Yes, yes, you’re right, it was he, Maguennoc . . . . He had long white hair, hadn’t he? And a spreading beard? . . . Oh, how abominable!”

She restrained herself and looked around her, frightened at having spoken so loud. She once more made the sign of the cross and said, slowly, almost under her breath:

“He was the first of those who have got to die . . . he told me so himself . . . and old Maguennoc had eyes that read the book of the future as easily as the book of the past. He could see clearly where another saw nothing at all. ‘The first victim will be myself, Ma’me Honorine. And, when the servant has gone, in a few days it will be the master’s turn.’”

“And the master was . . . ?” asked Véronique, in a whisper.

Honorine drew herself up and clenched her fists violently:

“I’ll defend him! I will!” she declared. “I’ll save him! Your father shall not be the second victim. No, no, I shall arrive in time! Let me go!”

“We are going together,” said Véronique, firmly.

“Please,” said Honorine, in a voice of entreaty, “please don’t be persistent. Let me have my way. I’ll bring your father and your son to you this very evening, before dinner.”

“But why?”

“The danger is too great, over there, for your father . . . and especially for you. Remember the four crosses! It’s over there that they are waiting . . . . Oh, you mustn’t go there! . . . The island is under a curse.”

“And my son?”

“You shall see him to-day, in a few hours.”

Véronique gave a short laugh:

“In a few hours! Woman, you must be mad! Here am I, after mourning my son for fourteen years, suddenly hearing that he’s alive; and you ask me to wait before I take him in my arms! Not one hour! I would rather risk death a thousand times than put off that moment.”