VI
THE LADY WITH THE HATCHET
One of the most incomprehensible incidents that preceded the great warwas certainly the one which was known as the episode of the lady with thehatchet. The solution of the mystery was unknown and would never havebeen known, had not circumstances in the cruellest fashion obliged PrinceRenine--or should I say, Arsene Lupin?--to take up the matter and had I notbeen able to-day to tell the true story from the details supplied by him.
Let me recite the facts. In a space of eighteen months, five womendisappeared, five women of different stations in life, all between twentyand thirty years of age and living in Paris or the Paris district.
I will give their names: Madame Ladoue, the wife of a doctor; Mlle. Ardant,the daughter of a banker; Mlle. Covereau, a washer-woman of Courbevoie;Mlle. Honorine Vernisset, a dressmaker; and Madame Grollinger, an artist.These five women disappeared without the possibility of discovering asingle particular to explain why they had left their homes, why they didnot return to them, who had enticed them away, and where and how they weredetained.
Each of these women, a week after her departure, was found somewhere orother in the western outskirts of Paris; and each time it was a dead bodythat was found, the dead body of a woman who had been killed by a blow onthe head from a hatchet. And each time, not far from the woman, who wasfirmly bound, her face covered with blood and her body emaciated by lack offood, the marks of carriage-wheels proved that the corpse had been drivento the spot.
The five murders were so much alike that there was only a singleinvestigation, embracing all the five enquiries and, for that matter,leading to no result. A woman disappeared; a week later, to a day, her bodywas discovered; and that was all. The bonds that fastened her were similarin each case; so were the tracks left by the wheels; so were the blows ofthe hatchet, all of which were struck vertically at the top and right inthe middle of the forehead.
The motive of the crime? The five women had been completely stripped oftheir jewels, purses and other objects of value. But the robberies mightwell have been attributed to marauders or any passersby, since the bodieswere lying in deserted spots. Were the authorities to believe in theexecution of a plan of revenge or of a plan intended to do away with theseries of persons mutually connected, persons, for instance, likely tobenefit by a future inheritance? Here again the same obscurity prevailed.Theories were built up, only to be demolished forthwith by an examinationof the facts. Trails were followed and at once abandoned.
And suddenly there was a sensation. A woman engaged in sweeping the roadspicked up on the pavement a little note-book which she brought to the localpolice-station. The leaves of this note-book were all blank, exceptingone, on which was written a list of the murdered women, with their namesset down in order of date and accompanied by three figures: Ladoue, 132;Vernisset, 118; and so on.
Certainly no importance would have been attached to these entries, whichanybody might have written, since every one was acquainted with thesinister list. But, instead of five names, it included six! Yes, belowthe words "Grollinger, 128," there appeared "Williamson, 114." Did thisindicate a sixth murder?
The obviously English origin of the name limited the field of theinvestigations, which did not in fact take long. It was ascertained that,a fortnight ago, a Miss Hermione Williamson, a governess in a family atAuteuil, had left her place to go back to England and that, since then, hersisters, though she had written to tell them that she was coming over, hadheard no more of her.
A fresh enquiry was instituted. A postman found the body in the Meudonwoods. Miss Williamson's skull was split down the middle.
I need not describe the public excitement at this stage nor the shudderof horror which passed through the crowd when it read this list, writtenwithout a doubt in the murderer's own hand. What could be more frightfulthan such a record, kept up to date like a careful tradesman's ledger:
"On such a day, I killed so-and-so; on such a day so-and-so!"
And the sum total was six dead bodies.
Against all expectation, the experts in handwriting had no difficulty inagreeing and unanimously declared that the writing was "that of a woman, aneducated woman, possessing artistic tastes, imagination and an extremelysensitive nature." The "lady with the hatchet," as the journalistschristened her, was decidedly no ordinary person; and scores ofnewspaper-articles made a special study of her case, exposing her mentalcondition and losing themselves in far-fetched explanations.
Nevertheless it was the writer of one of these articles, a young journalistwhose chance discovery made him the centre of public attention, whosupplied the one element of truth and shed upon the darkness the only rayof light that was to penetrate it. In casting about for the meaning of thefigures which followed the six names, he had come to ask himself whetherthose figures did not simply represent the number of the days separatingone crime from the next. All that he had to do was to check the dates. Heat once found that his theory was correct. Mlle. Vernisset had been carriedoff one hundred and thirty-two days after Madame Ladoue; Mlle. Covereau onehundred and eighteen days after Honorine Vernisset; and so on.
There was therefore no room for doubt; and the police had no choice but toaccept a solution which so precisely fitted the circumstances: the figurescorresponded with the intervals. There was no mistake in the records of thelady with the hatchet.
But then one deduction became inevitable. Miss Williamson, the latestvictim, had been carried off on the 26th of June last, and her name wasfollowed by the figures 114: was it not to be presumed that a fresh crimewould be committed a hundred and fourteen days later, that is to say, onthe 18th of October? Was it not probable that the horrible business wouldbe repeated in accordance with the murderer's secret intentions? Were theynot bound to pursue to its logical conclusion the argument which ascribedto the figures--to all the figures, to the last as well as to theothers--their value as eventual dates?
Now it was precisely this deduction which was drawn and was being weighedand discussed during the few days that preceded the 18th of October,when logic demanded the performance of yet another act of the abominabletragedy. And it was only natural that, on the morning of that day, PrinceRenine and Hortense, when making an appointment by telephone for theevening, should allude to the newspaper-articles which they had both beenreading:
"Look out!" said Renine, laughing. "If you meet the lady with the hatchet,take the other side of the road!"
"And, if the good lady carries me off, what am I to do?"
"Strew your path with little white pebbles and say, until the very momentwhen the hatchet flashes in the air, 'I have nothing to fear; _he_will save me.' _He_ is myself ... and I kiss your hands. Till thisevening, my dear."
That afternoon, Renine had an appointment with Rose Andree and Dalbreque toarrange for their departure for the States. [Footnote: See _The Tell-taleFilm_.] Before four and seven o'clock, he bought the different editionsof the evening papers. None of them reported an abduction.
At nine o'clock he went to the Gymnase, where he had taken a private box.
At half-past nine, as Hortense had not arrived, he rang her up, thoughwithout thought of anxiety. The maid replied that Madame Daniel had notcome in yet.
Seized with a sudden fear, Renine hurried to the furnished flat whichHortense was occupying for the time being, near the Parc Monceau, andquestioned the maid, whom he had engaged for her and who was completelydevoted to him. The woman said that her mistress had gone out at twoo'clock, with a stamped letter in her hand, saying that she was going tothe post and that she would come back to dress. This was the last that hadbeen seen of her.
"To whom was the letter addressed?"
"To you, sir. I saw the writing on the envelope: Prince Serge Renine."
He waited until midnight, but in vain. Hortense did not return; nor did shereturn next day.
"Not a word to any one," said Renine to the maid. "Say that your mistressis in the country and that you are going to join her."
F
or his own part, he had not a doubt: Hortense's disappearance wasexplained by the very fact of the date, the 18th of October. She was theseventh victim of the lady with the hatchet.
* * * * *
"The abduction," said Renine to himself, "precedes the blow of the hatchetby a week. I have, therefore, at the present moment, seven full days beforeme. Let us say six, to avoid any surprise. This is Saturday: Hortense mustbe set free by mid-day on Friday; and, to make sure of this, I must knowher hiding-place by nine o'clock on Thursday evening at latest."
Renine wrote, "THURSDAY EVENING, NINE O'CLOCK," in big letters, on a cardwhich he nailed above the mantelpiece in his study. Then at midday onSaturday, the day after the disappearance, he locked himself into thestudy, after telling his man not to disturb him except for meals andletters.
He spent four days there, almost without moving. He had immediately sentfor a set of all the leading newspapers which had spoken in detail of thefirst six crimes. When he had read and reread them, he closed the shutters,drew the curtains and lay down on the sofa in the dark, with the doorbolted, thinking.
By Tuesday evening he was no further advanced than on the Saturday. Thedarkness was as dense as ever. He had not discovered the smallest clue forhis guidance, nor could he see the slightest reason to hope.
At times, notwithstanding his immense power of self-control and hisunlimited confidence in the resources at his disposal, at times he wouldquake with anguish. Would he arrive in time? There was no reason why heshould see more clearly during the last few days than during those whichhad already elapsed. And this meant that Hortense Daniel would inevitablybe murdered.
The thought tortured him. He was attached to Hortense by a much strongerand deeper feeling than the appearance of the relations between them wouldhave led an onlooker to believe. The curiosity at the beginning, the firstdesire, the impulse to protect Hortense, to distract her, to inspire herwith a relish for existence: all this had simply turned to love. Neither ofthem was aware of it, because they barely saw each other save at criticaltimes when they were occupied with the adventures of others and not withtheir own. But, at the first onslaught of danger, Renine realized the placewhich Hortense had taken in his life and he was in despair at knowing herto be a prisoner and a martyr and at being unable to save her.
He spent a feverish, agitated night, turning the case over and over fromevery point of view. The Wednesday morning was also a terrible time forhim. He was losing ground. Giving up his hermit-like seclusion, he threwopen the windows and paced to and fro through his rooms, ran out into thestreet and came in again, as though fleeing before the thought thatobsessed him:
"Hortense is suffering.... Hortense is in the depths.... She sees thehatchet.... She is calling to me.... She is entreating me.... And I can donothing...."
It was at five o'clock in the afternoon that, on examining the list of thesix names, he received that little inward shock which is a sort of signalof the truth that is being sought for. A light shot through his mind. Itwas not, to be sure, that brilliant light in which every detail is madeplain, but it was enough to tell him in which direction to move.
His plan of campaign was formed at once. He sent Adolphe, his chauffeur,to the principal newspapers, with a few lines which were to appear in typeamong the next morning's advertisements. Adolphe was also told to go to thelaundry at Courbevoie, where Mlle. Covereau, the second of the six victims,had been employed.
On the Thursday, Renine did not stir out of doors. In the afternoon, hereceived several letters in reply to his advertisement. Then two telegramsarrived. Lastly, at three o'clock, there came a pneumatic letter, bearingthe Trocadero postmark, which seemed to be what he was expecting.
He turned up a directory, noted an address--"M. de Lourtier-Vaneau, retiredcolonial governor, 47 _bis_, Avenue Kleber"--and ran down to his car:
"Adolphe, 47 _bis_, Avenue Kleber."
* * * * *
He was shown into a large study furnished with magnificent book-casescontaining old volumes in costly bindings. M. de Lourtier-Vaneau was a manstill in the prime of life, wearing a slightly grizzled beard and, by hisaffable manners and genuine distinction, commanding confidence and liking.
"M. de Lourtier," said Renine, "I have ventured to call on your excellencybecause I read in last year's newspapers that you used to know one of thevictims of the lady with the hatchet, Honorine Vernisset."
"Why, of course we knew her!" cried M. de Lourtier. "My wife used to employher as a dressmaker by the day. Poor girl!"
"M. de Lourtier, a lady of my acquaintance has disappeared as the other sixvictims disappeared.
"What!" exclaimed M. de Lourtier, with a start. "But I have followed thenewspapers carefully. There was nothing on the 18th of October."
"Yes, a woman of whom I am very fond, Madame Hortense Daniel, was abductedon the 17th of October."
"And this is the 22nd!"
"Yes; and the murder will be committed on the 24th."
"Horrible! Horrible! It must be prevented at all costs...."
"And I shall perhaps succeed in preventing it, with your excellency'sassistance."
"But have you been to the police?"
"No. We are faced by mysteries which are, so to speak, absolute andcompact, which offer no gap through which the keenest eyes can see andwhich it is useless to hope to clear up by ordinary methods, such asinspection of the scenes of the crimes, police enquiries, searching forfinger-prints and so on. As none of those proceedings served any goodpurpose in the previous cases, it would be waste of time to resort to themin a seventh, similar case. An enemy who displays such skill and subtletywould not leave behind her any of those clumsy traces which are the firstthings that a professional detective seizes upon."
"Then what have you done?"
"Before taking any action, I have reflected. I gave four days to thinkingthe matter over."
M. de Lourtier-Vaneau examined his visitor closely and, with a touch ofirony, asked:
"And the result of your meditations ...?"
"To begin with," said Renine, refusing to be put out of countenance, "Ihave submitted all these cases to a comprehensive survey, which hithertono one else had done. This enabled me to discover their general meaning,to put aside all the tangle of embarrassing theories and, since no one wasable to agree as to the motives of all this filthy business, to attributeit to the only class of persons capable of it."
"That is to say?"
"Lunatics, your excellency."
M. de Lourtier-Vaneau started:
"Lunatics? What an idea!"
"M. de Lourtier, the woman known as the lady with the hatchet is amadwoman."
"But she would be locked up!"
"We don't know that she's not. We don't know that she is not one of thosehalf-mad people, apparently harmless, who are watched so slightly that theyhave full scope to indulge their little manias, their wild-beast instincts.Nothing could be more treacherous than these creatures. Nothing could bemore crafty, more patient, more persistent, more dangerous and at the sametime more absurd and more logical, more slovenly and more methodical. Allthese epithets, M. de Lourtier, may be applied to the doings of the ladywith the hatchet. The obsession of an idea and the continual repetitionof an act are characteristics of the maniac. I do not yet know the ideaby which the lady with the hatchet is obsessed but I do know the act thatresults from it; and it is always the same. The victim is bound withprecisely similar ropes. She is killed after the same number of days. Sheis struck by an identical blow, with the same instrument, in the sameplace, the middle of the forehead, producing an absolutely vertical wound.An ordinary murderer displays some variety. His trembling hand swervesaside and strikes awry. The lady with the hatchet does not tremble. It isas though she had taken measurements; and the edge of her weapon does notswerve by a hair's breadth. Need I give you any further proofs or examineall the other details with you? Surely not. You now possess the key to theriddle; and you know as
I do that only a lunatic can behave in this way,stupidly, savagely, mechanically, like a striking clock or the blade of theguillotine...."
M. de Lourtier-Vaneau nodded his head:
"Yes, that is so. One can see the whole affair from that angle ... and Iam beginning to believe that this is how one ought to see it. But, if weadmit that this madwoman has the sort of mathematical logic which governedthe murders of the six victims, I see no connection between the victimsthemselves. She struck at random. Why this victim rather than that?"
"Ah," said Renine. "Your excellency is asking me a question which I askedmyself from the first moment, the question which sums up the whole problemand which cost me so much trouble to solve! Why Hortense Daniel rather thananother? Among two millions of women who might have been selected, whyHortense? Why little Vernisset? Why Miss Williamson? If the affair is suchas I conceived it, as a whole, that is to say, based upon the blind andfantastic logic of a madwoman, a choice was inevitably exercised. Now inwhat did that choice consist? What was the quality, or the defect, or thesign needed to induce the lady with the hatchet to strike? In a word, ifshe chose--and she must have chosen--what directed her choice?"
"Have you found the answer?"
Renine paused and replied:
"Yes, your excellency, I have. And I could have found it at the veryoutset, since all that I had to do was to make a careful examination of thelist of victims. But these flashes of truth are never kindled save in abrain overstimulated by effort and reflection. I stared at the list twentytimes over, before that little detail took a definite shape."
"I don't follow you," said M. de Lourtier-Vaneau.
"M. de Lourtier, it may be noted that, if a number of persons are broughttogether in any transaction, or crime, or public scandal or what not, theyare almost invariably described in the same way. On this occasion, thenewspapers never mentioned anything more than their surnames in speakingof Madame Ladoue, Mlle. Ardent or Mlle. Covereau. On the other hand, Mlle.Vernisset and Miss Williamson were always described by their Christiannames as well: Honorine and Hermione. If the same thing had been done inthe case of all the six victims, there would have been no mystery."
"Why not?"
"Because we should at once have realized the relation existing between thesix unfortunate women, as I myself suddenly realized it on comparing thosetwo Christian names with that of Hortense Daniel. You understand now, don'tyou? You see the three Christian names before your eyes...."
M. de Lourtier-Vaneau seemed to be perturbed. Turning a little pale, hesaid:
"What do you mean? What do you mean?"
"I mean," continued Renine, in a clear voice, sounding each syllableseparately, "I mean that you see before your eyes three Christian nameswhich all three begin with the same initial and which all three, by aremarkable coincidence, consist of the same number of letters, as you mayprove. If you enquire at the Courbevoie laundry, where Mlle. Covereauused to work, you will find that her name was Hilairie. Here again wehave the same initial and the same number of letters. There is no needto seek any farther. We are sure, are we not, that the Christian namesof all the victims offer the same peculiarities? And this gives us, withabsolute certainty, the key to the problem which was set us. It explainsthe madwoman's choice. We now know the connection between the unfortunatevictims. There can be no mistake about it. It's that and nothing else. Andhow this method of choosing confirms my theory! What proof of madness! Whykill these women rather than any others? Because their names begin withan H and consist of eight letters! You understand me, M. de Lourtier, doyou not? The number of letters is eight. The initial letter is the eighthletter of the alphabet; and the word _huit_, eight, begins with an H.Always the letter H. _And the implement used to commit the crime was ahatchet_. Is your excellency prepared to tell me that the lady with thehatchet is not a madwoman?"
Renine interrupted himself and went up to M. de Lourtier-Vaneau:
"What's the matter, your excellency? Are you unwell?"
"No, no," said M. de Lourtier, with the perspiration streaming down hisforehead. "No ... but all this story is so upsetting! Only think, I knewone of the victims! And then...."
Renine took a water-bottle and tumbler from a small table, filled the glassand handed it to M. de Lourtier, who sipped a few mouthfuls from it andthen, pulling himself together, continued, in a voice which he strove tomake firmer than it had been:
"Very well. We'll admit your supposition. Even so, it is necessary that itshould lead to tangible results. What have you done?"
"This morning I published in all the newspapers an advertisement worded asfollows: 'Excellent cook seeks situation. Write before 5 P.M. to Herminie,Boulevard Haussmann, etc.' You continue to follow me, don't you, M. deLourtier? Christian names beginning with an H and consisting of eightletters are extremely rare and are all rather out of date: Herminie,Hilairie, Hermione. Well, these Christian names, for reasons which I do notunderstand, are essential to the madwoman. She cannot do without them. Tofind women bearing one of these Christian names and for this purpose onlyshe summons up all her remaining powers of reason, discernment, reflectionand intelligence. She hunts about. She asks questions. She lies in wait.She reads newspapers which she hardly understands, but in which certaindetails, certain capital letters catch her eye. And consequently I did notdoubt for a second that this name of Herminie, printed in large type, wouldattract her attention and that she would be caught to-day in the trap of myadvertisement."
"Did she write?" asked M. de Lourtier-Vaneau, anxiously.
"Several ladies," Renine continued, "wrote the letters which are usual insuch cases, to offer a home to the so-called Herminie. But I received anexpress letter which struck me as interesting."
"From whom?"
"Read it, M. de Lourtier."
M. de Lourtier-Vaneau snatched the sheet from Renine's hands and cast aglance at the signature. His first movement was one of surprise, as thoughhe had expected something different. Then he gave a long, loud laugh ofsomething like joy and relief.
"Why do you laugh, M. de Lourtier? You seem pleased."
"Pleased, no. But this letter is signed by my wife."
"And you were afraid of finding something else?"
"Oh no! But since it's my wife...."
He did not finish his sentence and said to Renine:
"Come this way."
He led him through a passage to a little drawing-room where a fair-hairedlady, with a happy and tender expression on her comely face, was sitting inthe midst of three children and helping them with their lessons.
She rose. M. de Lourtier briefly presented his visitor and asked his wife:
"Suzanne, is this express message from you?"
"To Mlle. Herminie, Boulevard Haussmann? Yes," she said, "I sent it. As youknow, our parlour-maid's leaving and I'm looking out for a new one."
Renine interrupted her:
"Excuse me, madame. Just one question: where did you get the woman'saddress?"
She flushed. Her husband insisted:
"Tell us, Suzanne. Who gave you the address?"
"I was rung up."
"By whom?"
She hesitated and then said:
"Your old nurse."
"Felicienne?"
"Yes."
M. de Lourtier cut short the conversation and, without permitting Renine toask any more questions, took him back to the study:
"You see, monsieur, that pneumatic letter came from a quite natural source.Felicienne, my old nurse, who lives not far from Paris on an allowancewhich I make her, read your advertisement and told Madame de Lourtier ofit. For, after all," he added laughing, "I don't suppose that you suspectmy wife of being the lady with the hatchet."
"No."
"Then the incident is closed ... at least on my side. I have done what Icould, I have listened to your arguments and I am very sorry that I can beof no more use to you...."
He drank another glass of water and sat down. His face was distorted.Renine looked at him for a fe
w seconds, as a man will look at a failingadversary who has only to receive the knock-out blow, and, sitting downbeside him, suddenly gripped his arm:
"Your excellency, if you do not speak, Hortense Daniel will be the seventhvictim."
"I have nothing to say, monsieur! What do you think I know?"
"The truth! My explanations have made it plain to you. Your distress, yourterror are positive proofs."
"But, after all, monsieur, if I knew, why should I be silent?"
"For fear of scandal. There is in your life, so a profound intuitionassures me, something that you are constrained to hide. The truth aboutthis monstrous tragedy, which suddenly flashed upon you, this truth, ifit were known, would spell dishonour to you, disgrace ... and you areshrinking from your duty."
M. de Lourtier did not reply. Renine leant over him and, looking him inthe eyes, whispered:
"There will be no scandal. I shall be the only person in the world toknow what has happened. And I am as much interested as yourself in notattracting attention, because I love Hortense Daniel and do not wish hername to be mixed up in your horrible story."
They remained face to face during a long interval. Renine's expression washarsh and unyielding. M. de Lourtier felt that nothing would bend him ifthe necessary words remained unspoken; but he could not bring himself toutter them:
"You are mistaken," he said. "You think you have seen things that don'texist."
Renine received a sudden and terrifying conviction that, if this man tookrefuge in a stolid silence, there was no hope for Hortense Daniel; and hewas so much infuriated by the thought that the key to the riddle lay there,within reach of his hand, that he clutched M. de Lourtier by the throat andforced him backwards:
"I'll have no more lies! A woman's life is at stake! Speak ... and speak atonce! If not ...!"
M. de Lourtier had no strength left in him. All resistance was impossible.It was not that Renine's attack alarmed him, or that he was yielding tothis act of violence, but he felt crushed by that indomitable will, whichseemed to admit no obstacle, and he stammered:
"You are right. It is my duty to tell everything, whatever comes of it."
"Nothing will come of it, I pledge my word, on condition that you saveHortense Daniel. A moment's hesitation may undo us all. Speak. No details,but the actual facts."
"Madame de Lourtier is not my wife. The only woman who has the right tobear my name is one whom I married when I was a young colonial official.She was a rather eccentric woman, of feeble mentality and incrediblysubject to impulses that amounted to monomania. We had two children, twins,whom she worshipped and in whose company she would no doubt have recoveredher mental balance and moral health, when, by a stupid accident--apassing carriage--they were killed before her eyes. The poor thing wentmad ... with the silent, secretive madness which you imagined. Some timeafterwards, when I was appointed to an Algerian station, I brought her toFrance and put her in the charge of a worthy creature who had nursed me andbrought me up. Two years later, I made the acquaintance of the woman whowas to become the joy of my life. You saw her just now. She is the motherof my children and she passes as my wife. Are we to sacrifice her? Is ourwhole existence to be shipwrecked in horror and must our name be coupledwith this tragedy of madness and blood?"
Renine thought for a moment and asked:
"What is the other one's name?"
"Hermance."
"Hermance! Still that initial ... still those eight letters!"
"That was what made me realize everything just now," said M. de Lourtier."When you compared the different names, I at once reflected that my unhappywife was called Hermance and that she was mad ... and all the proofs leaptto my mind."
"But, though we understand the selection of the victims, how are we toexplain the murders? What are the symptoms of her madness? Does she sufferat all?"
"She does not suffer very much at present. But she has suffered in thepast, the most terrible suffering that you can imagine: since the momentwhen her two children were run over before her eyes, night and day she hadthe horrible spectacle of their death before her eyes, without a moment'sinterruption, for she never slept for a single second. Think of the tortureof it! To see her children dying through all the hours of the long day andall the hours of the interminable night!"
"Nevertheless," Renine objected, "it is not to drive away that picture thatshe commits murder?"
"Yes, possibly," said M. de Lourtier, thoughtfully, "to drive it away bysleep."
"I don't understand."
"You don't understand, because we are talking of a madwoman ... and becauseall that happens in that disordered brain is necessarily incoherent andabnormal?"
"Obviously. But, all the same, is your supposition based on facts thatjustify it?"
"Yes, on facts which I had, in a way, overlooked but which to-day assumetheir true significance. The first of these facts dates a few years back,to a morning when my old nurse for the first time found Hermance fastasleep. Now she was holding her hands clutched around a puppy which she hadstrangled. And the same thing was repeated on three other occasions."
"And she slept?"
"Yes, each time she slept a sleep which lasted for several nights."
"And what conclusion did you draw?"
"I concluded that the relaxation of the nerves provoked by taking lifeexhausted her and predisposed her for sleep."
Renine shuddered:
"That's it! There's not a doubt of it! The taking life, the effort ofkilling makes her sleep. And she began with women what had served her sowell with animals. All her madness has become concentrated on that onepoint: she kills them to rob them of their sleep! She wanted sleep; and shesteals the sleep of others! That's it, isn't it? For the past two years,she has been sleeping?"
"For the past two years, she has been sleeping," stammered M. de Lourtier.
Renine gripped him by the shoulder:
"And it never occurred to you that her madness might go farther, that shewould stop at nothing to win the blessing of sleep! Let us make haste,monsieur! All this is horrible!"
They were both making for the door, when M. de Lourtier hesitated. Thetelephone-bell was ringing.
"It's from there," he said.
"From there?"
"Yes, my old nurse gives me the news at the same time every day."
He unhooked the receivers and handed one to Renine, who whispered in hisear the questions which he was to put.
"Is that you, Felicienne? How is she?"
"Not so bad, sir."
"Is she sleeping well?"
"Not very well, lately. Last night, indeed, she never closed her eyes. Soshe's very gloomy just now."
"What is she doing at the moment?"
"She is in her room."
"Go to her, Felicienne, and don't leave her."
"I can't. She's locked herself in."
"You must, Felicienne. Break open the door. I'm coming straight on....Hullo! Hullo!... Oh, damnation, they've cut us off!"
Without a word, the two men left the flat and ran down to the avenue.Renine hustled M. de Lourtier into the car:
"What address?"
"Ville d'Avray."
"Of course! In the very center of her operations ... like a spider in themiddle of her web! Oh, the shame of it!"
He was profoundly agitated. He saw the whole adventure in its monstrousreality.
"Yes, she kills them to steal their sleep, as she used to kill the animals.It is the same obsession, but complicated by a whole array of utterlyincomprehensible practices and superstitions. She evidently fancies thatthe similarity of the Christian names to her own is indispensable and thatshe will not sleep unless her victim is an Hortense or an Honorine. It'sa madwoman's argument; its logic escapes us and we know nothing of itsorigin; but we can't get away from it. She has to hunt and has to find. Andshe finds and carries off her prey beforehand and watches over it for theappointed number of days, until the moment when, crazily, through the holewhich she digs with a hatchet in the
middle of the skull, she absorbs thesleep which stupefies her and grants her oblivion for a given period. Andhere again we see absurdity and madness. Why does she fix that period at somany days? Why should one victim ensure her a hundred and twenty days ofsleep and another a hundred and twenty-five? What insanity! The calculationis mysterious and of course mad; but the fact remains that, at the end ofa hundred or a hundred and twenty-five days, as the case may be, a freshvictim is sacrificed; and there have been six already and the seventh isawaiting her turn. Ah, monsieur, what a terrible responsibility for you!Such a monster as that! She should never have been allowed out of sight!"
M. de Lourtier-Vaneau made no protest. His air of dejection, his pallor,his trembling hands, all proved his remorse and his despair: "She deceivedme," he murmured. "She was outwardly so quiet, so docile! And, after all,she's in a lunatic asylum."
"Then how can she ...?"
"The asylum," explained M. de Lourtier, "is made up of a number of separatebuildings scattered over extensive grounds. The sort of cottage in whichHermance lives stands quite apart. There is first a room occupied byFelicienne, then Hermance's bedroom and two separate rooms, one of whichhas its windows overlooking the open country. I suppose it is there thatshe locks up her victims."
"But the carriage that conveys the dead bodies?"
"The stables of the asylum are quite close to the cottage. There's a horseand carriage there for station work. Hermance no doubt gets up at night,harnesses the horse and slips the body through the window."
"And the nurse who watches her?"
"Felicienne is very old and rather deaf."
"But by day she sees her mistress moving to and fro, doing this and that.Must we not admit a certain complicity?"
"Never! Felicienne herself has been deceived by Hermance's hypocrisy."
"All the same, it was she who telephoned to Madame de Lourtier first, aboutthat advertisement...."
"Very naturally. Hermance, who talks now and then, who argues, who buriesherself in the newspapers, which she does not understand, as you weresaying just now, but reads through them attentively, must have seen theadvertisement and, having heard that we were looking for a servant, musthave asked Felicienne to ring me up."
"Yes ... yes ... that is what I felt," said Renine, slowly. "She marks downher victims.... With Hortense dead, she would have known, once she had usedup her allowance of sleep, where to find an eighth victim.... But how didshe entice the unfortunate women? How did she entice Hortense?"
The car was rushing along, but not fast enough to please Renine, who ratedthe chauffeur:
"Push her along, Adolphe, can't you?... We're losing time, my man."
Suddenly the fear of arriving too late began to torture him. The logic ofthe insane is subject to sudden changes of mood, to any perilous idea thatmay enter the mind. The madwoman might easily mistake the date and hastenthe catastrophe, like a clock out of order which strikes an hour too soon.
On the other hand, as her sleep was once more disturbed, might she not betempted to take action without waiting for the appointed moment? Was thisnot the reason why she had locked herself into her room? Heavens, whatagonies her prisoner must be suffering! What shudders of terror at theexecutioner's least movement!
"Faster, Adolphe, or I'll take the wheel myself! Faster, hang it."
At last they reached Ville d'Avray. There was a steep, sloping road on theright and walls interrupted by a long railing.
"Drive round the grounds, Adolphe. We mustn't give warning of our presence,must we, M. de Lourtier? Where is the cottage?"
"Just opposite," said M. de Lourtier-Vaneau.
They got out a little farther on. Renine began to run along a bank at theside of an ill-kept sunken road. It was almost dark. M. de Lourtier said:
"Here, this building standing a little way back.... Look at that window onthe ground-floor. It belongs to one of the separate rooms ... and that isobviously how she slips out."
"But the window seems to be barred."
"Yes; and that is why no one suspected anything. But she must have foundsome way to get through."
The ground-floor was built over deep cellars. Renine quickly clambered up,finding a foothold on a projecting ledge of stone.
Sure enough, one of the bars was missing.
He pressed his face to the window-pane and looked in.
The room was dark inside. Nevertheless he was able to distinguish at theback a woman seated beside another woman, who was lying on a mattress. Thewoman seated was holding her forehead in her hands and gazing at the womanwho was lying down.
"It's she," whispered M. de Lourtier, who had also climbed the wall. "Theother one is bound."
Renine took from his pocket a glazier's diamond and cut out one of thepanes without making enough noise to arouse the madwoman's attention. Henext slid his hand to the window-fastening and turned it softly, while withhis left hand he levelled a revolver.
"You're not going to fire, surely!" M. de Lourtier-Vaneau entreated.
"If I must, I shall."
Renine pushed open the window gently. But there was an obstacle of which hewas not aware, a chair which toppled over and fell.
He leapt into the room and threw away his revolver in order to seize themadwoman. But she did not wait for him. She rushed to the door, opened itand fled, with a hoarse cry.
M. de Lourtier made as though to run after her.
"What's the use?" said Renine, kneeling down, "Let's save the victimfirst."
He was instantly reassured: Hortense was alive.
The first thing that he did was to cut the cords and remove the gag thatwas stifling her. Attracted by the noise, the old nurse had hastened tothe room with a lamp, which Renine took from her, casting its light onHortense.
He was astounded: though livid and exhausted, with emaciated features andeyes blazing with fever, Hortense was trying to smile. She whispered:
"I was expecting you ... I did not despair for a moment ... I was sure ofyou...."
She fainted.
An hour later, after much useless searching around the cottage, they foundthe madwoman locked into a large cupboard in the loft. She had hangedherself.
* * * * *
Hortense refused to stay another night. Besides, it was better that thecottage should be empty when the old nurse announced the madwoman'ssuicide. Renine gave Felicienne minute directions as to what she should doand say; and then, assisted by the chauffeur and M. de Lourtier, carriedHortense to the car and brought her home.
She was soon convalescent. Two days later, Renine carefully questioned herand asked her how she had come to know the madwoman.
"It was very simple," she said. "My husband, who is not quite sane, as Ihave told you, is being looked after at Ville d'Avray; and I sometimes goto see him, without telling anybody, I admit. That was how I came to speakto that poor madwoman and how, the other day, she made signs that shewanted me to visit her. We were alone. I went into the cottage. She threwherself upon me and overpowered me before I had time to cry for help. Ithought it was a jest; and so it was, wasn't it: a madwoman's jest? She wasquite gentle with me.... All the same, she let me starve. But I was so sureof you!"
"And weren't you frightened?"
"Of starving? No. Besides, she gave me some food, now and then, when thefancy took her.... And then I was sure of you!"
"Yes, but there was something else: that other peril...."
"What other peril?" she asked, ingenuously.
Renine gave a start. He suddenly understood--it seemed strange at first,though it was quite natural--that Hortense had not for a moment suspectedand did not yet suspect the terrible danger which she had run. Her mind hadnot connected with her own adventure the murders committed by the lady withthe hatchet.
He thought that it would always be time enough to tell her the truth. Forthat matter, a few days later her husband, who had been locked up foryears, died in the asylum at Ville d'Avray, and Hortense, who had beenrecommende
d by her doctor a short period of rest and solitude, went to staywith a relation living near the village of Bassicourt, in the centre ofFrance.