CHAPTER III
VORSKI'S SON
Veronique smiled as she sat to starboard on a packing-case, with herface turned towards Honorine. Her smile was anxious still and undefined,full of reticence and flickering as a sunbeam that tries to pierce thelast clouds of the storm; but it was nevertheless a happy smile.
And happiness seemed the right expression for that wonderful face,stamped with dignity and with that particular modesty which gives tosome women, whether stricken by excessive misfortune or preserved bylove, the habit of gravity, combined with an absence of all feminineaffectation.
Her black hair, touched with grey at the temples, was knotted very lowdown on the neck. She had the dead-white complexion of a southerner andvery light blue eyes, of which the white seemed almost of the samecolour, pale as a winter sky. She was tall, with broad shoulders and awell-shaped bust.
Her musical and somewhat masculine voice became light and cheerful whenshe spoke of the son whom she had found again. And Veronique could speakof nothing else. In vain the Breton woman tried to speak of the problemsthat harassed her and kept on interrupting Veronique:
"Look here, there are two things which I cannot understand. Who laid thetrail with the clues that brought you from Le Faouet to the exact spotwhere I always land? It almost makes one believe that someone had beenfrom Le Faouet to the Isle of Sarek. And, on the other hand, how did oldMaguennoc come to leave the island? Was it of his own free will? Or wasit his dead body that they carried? If so, how?"
"Is it worth troubling about?" Veronique objected.
"Certainly it is. Just think! Besides me, who once a fortnight go eitherto Beg-Meil or Pont-l'Abbe in my motor-boat for provisions, there areonly two fishing-boats, which always go much higher up the coast, toAudierne, where they sell their catch. Then how did Maguennoc getacross? Then again, did he commit suicide? But, if so, how did his bodydisappear?"
But Veronique protested:
"Please don't! It doesn't matter for the moment. It'll all be clearedup. Tell me about Francois. You were saying that he came to Sarek . . ."
Honorine yielded to Veronique's entreaties:
"He arrived in poor Maguennoc's arms, a few days after he was taken fromyou. Maguennoc, who had been taught his lesson by your father, said thata strange lady had entrusted him with the child; and he had it nursed byhis daughter, who has since died. I was away, in a situation with aParis family. When I came home again, Francois had grown into a finelittle fellow, running about the moors and cliffs. It was then that Itook service with your father, who had settled in Sarek. WhenMaguennoc's daughter died, we took the child to live with us."
"But under what name?"
"Francois, just Francois. M. d'Hergemont was known as Monsieur Antoine.Francois called him grandfather. No one ever made any remark upon it."
"And his character?" asked Veronique, with some anxiety.
"Oh, as far as that's concerned, he's a blessing!" replied Honorine."Nothing of his father about him . . . nor of his grandfather either, asM. d'Hergemont himself admits. A gentle, lovable, most willing child.Never a sign of anger; always good-tempered. That's what got over hisgrandfather and made M. d'Hergemont come round to you again, because hisgrandson reminded him so of the daughter he had cast off. 'He's the veryimage of his mother,' he used to say. 'Veronique was gentle andaffectionate like him, with the same fond and coaxing ways.' And then hebegan his search for you, with me to help him; for he had come toconfide in me."
Veronique beamed with delight. Her son was like her! Her son was brightand kind-hearted!
"But does he know about me?" she said. "Does he know that I'm alive?"
"I should think he did! M. d'Hergemont tried to keep it from him atfirst. But I soon told him everything."
"Everything?"
"No. He believes that his father is dead and that, after the shipwreckin which he, I mean Francois, and M. d'Hergemont disappeared, you becamea nun and have been lost sight of since. And he is so eager for news,each time I come back from one of my trips! He too is so full of hope!Oh, you can take my word for it, he adores his mother! And he's alwayssinging that song you heard just now, which his grandfather taught him."
"My Francois, my own little Francois!"
"Ah, yes, he loves you! There's Mother Honorine. But you're mother, justthat. And he's in a great hurry to grow up and finish his schooling, sothat he may go and look for you."
"His schooling? Does he have lessons?"
"Yes, with his grandfather and, since two years ago, with such a nicefellow that I brought back from Paris, Stephane Maroux, a woundedsoldier covered with medals and restored to health after an internaloperation. Francois dotes on him."
The boat was running quickly over the smooth sea, in which it ploughed afurrow of silvery foam. The clouds had dispersed on the horizon. Theevening boded fair and calm.
"More, tell me more!" said Veronique, listening greedily. "What does myboy wear?"
"Knickerbockers and short socks, with his calves bare; a thick flannelshirt with gilt buttons; and a flat knitted cap, like his big friend, M.Stephane; only his is red and suits him to perfection."
"Has he any friends besides M. Maroux?"
"All the growing lads of the island, formerly. But with the exception ofthree or four ship's boys, all the rest have left the island with theirmothers, now that their fathers are at the war, and are working on themainland, at Concarneau or Lorient, leaving the old people at Sarek bythemselves. We are not more than thirty on the island now."
"Whom does he play with? Whom does he go about with?"
"Oh, as for that, he has the best of companions!"
"Really? Who is it?"
"A little dog that Maguennoc gave him."
"A dog?"
"Yes; and the funniest dog you ever saw: an ugly ridiculous-lookingthing, a cross between a poodle and a fox-terrier, but so comical andamusing! Oh, there's no one like Master All's Well!"
"All's Well?"
"That's what Francois calls him; and you couldn't have a better name forhim. He always looks happy and glad to be alive. He's independent, too,and he disappears for hours and even days at a time; but he's alwaysthere when he's wanted, if you're feeling sad, or if things aren't goingas you might like them to. All's Well hates to see any one crying orscolding or quarrelling. The moment you cry, or pretend to cry, he comesand squats on his haunches in front of you, sits up, shuts one eye,half-opens the other and looks so exactly as if he was laughing that youbegin to laugh yourself. 'That's right, old chap,' says Francois,'you're quite right: all's well. There's nothing to take on about, isthere?' And, when you're consoled, All's Well just trots away. His taskis done."
Veronique laughed and cried in one breath. Then she was silent for along time, feeling more and more gloomy and overcome by a despair whichoverwhelmed all her gladness. She thought of all the happiness that shehad missed during the fourteen years of her childless motherhood,wearing her mourning for a son who was alive. All the cares that amother lavishes upon the little creature new-born into the world, allthe pride that she feels at seeing him grow and hearing him speak, allthat delights a mother and uplifts her and makes her heart overflow withdaily renewed affection: all this she had never known.
"We are half-way across," said Honorine.
They were running in sight of the Glenans Islands. On their right, theheadland of Penmarch, whose coast-line they were following at a distanceof fifteen miles, marked a darker line which was not alwaysdifferentiated from the horizon.
And Veronique thought of her sad past, of her mother, whom she hardlyremembered, of her childhood spent with a selfish, disagreeable father,of her marriage, ah, above all of her marriage! She recalled her firstmeetings with Vorski, when she was only seventeen. How frightened shehad been from the very beginning of that strange and unusual man, whomshe dreaded while she submitted to his influence, as one does at thatage submit to the influence of anything mysterious and incomprehensible!
Next came the hateful day of the a
bduction and the other days, morehateful still, that followed, the weeks during which he had kept herimprisoned, threatening her and dominating her with all his evilstrength, and the promise of marriage which he had forced from her, apledge against which all the girl's instincts and all her will revolted,but to which it seemed to her that she was bound to agree after so greata scandal and also because her father was giving his consent.
Her brain rebelled against the memories of her years of married life.Never that! Not even in the worst hours, when the nightmares of the pasthaunt one like spectres, never did she consent to revive, in theinnermost recesses of her mind, that degrading past, with itsmortifications, wounds and betrayals, and the disgraceful life led byher husband, who, shamelessly, with cynical pride, gradually revealedhimself as the man he was, drinking, cheating at cards, robbing his booncompanions, a swindler and blackmailer, giving his wife the impression,which she still retained and which made her shudder, of a sort of evilgenius, cruel and unbalanced.
"Have done with dreams, Madame Veronique," said Honorine.
"It's not so much dreams and memories as remorse," she replied.
"Remorse, Madame Veronique? You, whose life has been one longmartyrdom?"
"A martyrdom that was a punishment."
"But all that is over and done with, Madame Veronique, seeing that youare going to meet your son and your father again. Come, come, you mustthink of nothing but being happy."
"Happy? Can I be happy again?"
"I should think so! You'll soon see! . . . Look, there's Sarek."
Honorine took from a locker under her seat a large shell which she usedas a trumpet, after the manner of the mariners of old, and, putting herlips to the mouthpiece and puffing out her cheeks, she blew a fewpowerful notes, which filled the air with a sound not unlike the lowingof an ox.
Veronique gave her a questioning look.
"It's him I'm calling," said Honorine.
"Francois? You're calling Francois?"
"Yes, it's the same every time I come back. He comes scrambling from thetop of the cliffs where we live and runs down to the jetty."
"So I shall see him?" exclaimed Veronique, turning very pale.
"You will see him. Fold your veil double, so that he may not know youfrom your photographs. I'll speak to you as I would to a stranger whohas come to look at Sarek."
They could see the island distinctly, but the foot of the cliffs washidden by a multitude of reefs.
"Ah, yes, there's no lack of rocks! They swarm like a shoal of herring!"cried Honorine, who had been obliged to switch off the motor and wasusing two short paddles. "You know how calm the sea was just now. It'snever calm here."
Thousands and thousands of little waves were dashing and clashingagainst one another and waging an incessant and implacable war upon therocks. The boat seemed to be passing through the backwater of a torrent.Nowhere was a strip of blue or green sea visible amid the bubbling foam.There was nothing but white froth, whipped up by the indefatigable swirlof the forces which desperately assailed the pointed teeth of the reefs.
"And it's like that all round the island," said Honorine, "so much sothat you may say that Sarek isn't accessible except in a small boat. Ah,the Huns could never have established a submarine base on our island! Tomake quite sure and remove all doubts, some officers came over fromLorient, two years ago, because of a few caves on the west, which canonly be entered at low tide. It was waste of time. There was nothingdoing here. Just think, it's like a sprinkle of rocks all around; andpointed rocks at that, which get at you treacherously from underneath.And, though these are the most dangerous, perhaps it is the others thatare most to be feared, the big ones which you see and have got theirname and their history from all sorts of crimes and shipwrecks. Oh, asto those! . . ."
Her voice grew hollow. With a hesitating hand, which seemed afraid ofthe half-completed gesture, she pointed to some reefs which stood up inpowerful masses of different shapes, crouching animals, crenellatedkeeps, colossal needles, sphynx-heads, jagged pyramids, all in blackgranite stained with red, as though soaked in blood.
And she whispered:
"Oh, as to those, they have been guarding the island for centuries andcenturies, but like wild beasts that only care for doing harm andkilling. They . . . they . . . no, it's better never to speak about themor even think of them. They are the thirty wild beasts. Yes, thirty,Madame Veronique, there are thirty of them . . . ."
She made the sign of the cross and continued, more calmly:
"There are thirty of them. Your father says that Sarek is called theisland of the thirty coffins because the people instinctively ended inthis case by confusing the two words _ecueils_ and _cercueils_.[1]Perhaps . . . . It's very likely . . . . But, all the same, they arethirty real coffins, Madame Veronique; and, if we could open them, weshould be sure to find them full of bones and bones and bones. M.d'Hergemont himself says that Sarek comes from the word Sarcophagus,which, according to him, is the learned way of saying coffin. Besides,there's more than that . . . ."
[Footnote 1: "Reefs" and "coffins."--_Translator's Note._]
Honorine broke off, as though she wanted to think of something else,and, pointing to a reef of rocks, said:
"Look, Madame Veronique, past that big one right in our way there, youwill see, through an opening, our little harbour and, on the quay,Francois in his red cap."
Veronique had been listening absent-mindedly to Honorine's explanations.She leant her body farther out of the boat, in order to catch sight thesooner of her son, while the Breton woman, once more a victim to herobsession, continued, in spite of herself:
"There's more than that. The Isle of Sarek--and that is why your fathercame to live here--contains a collection of dolmens which have nothingremarkable about them, but which are peculiar for one reason, that theyare all nearly alike. Well, how many of them do you think there are?Thirty! Thirty, like the principal reefs. And those thirty aredistributed round the islands, on the cliffs, exactly opposite thethirty reefs; and each of them bears the same name as the reef thatcorresponds to it: Dol-er-H'roeck, Dol-Kerlitu and so on. What do yousay to that?"
She had uttered these names in the same timid voice in which she spokeof all these things, as if she feared to be heard by the thingsthemselves, to which she was attributing a formidable and sacred life.
"What do you say to that, Madame Veronique? Oh, there's plenty ofmystery about it all; and, once more, it's better to hold one's tongue!I'll tell you about it when we've left here, right away from the island,and when your little Francois is in your arms, between your father andyou."
Veronique sat silent, gazing into space at the spot to which Honorinehad pointed. With her back turned to her companion and her two handsgripping the gunwale, she stared distractedly before her. It was there,through that narrow opening, that she was to see her child, long lostand now found; and she did not want to waste a single second after themoment when she would be able to catch sight of him.
They reached the rock. One of Honorine's paddles grazed its side. Theyskirted and came to the end of it.
"Oh," said Veronique, sorrowfully, "he is not there!"
"Francois not there? Impossible!" cried Honorine.
She in her turn saw, three or four hundred yards in front of them, thefew big rocks on the beach which served as a jetty. Three women, alittle girl and some old seafaring men were waiting for the boat, but noboy, no red cap.
"That's strange," said Honorine, in a low voice. "It's the first timethat he's failed to answer my call."
"Perhaps he's ill?" Veronique suggested.
"No, Francois is never ill."
"What then?"
"I don't know."
"But aren't you afraid?" asked Veronique, who was already becomingfrightened.
"For him, no . . . but for your father. Maguennoc said that I oughtn'tto leave him. It's he who is threatened."
"But Francois is there to defend him; and so is M. Maroux, his tutor.Come, answer me: what do you imagine?"<
br />
After a moment's pause, Honorine shrugged her shoulders.
"A pack of nonsense! I get absurd, yes, absurd things into my head.Don't be angry with me. I can't help it: it's the Breton in me. Exceptfor a few years, I have spent all my life here, with legends and storiesin the very air I breathed. Don't let's talk about it."
The Isle of Sarek appears in the shape of a long and undulatingtable-land, covered with ancient trees and standing on cliffs of mediumheight than which nothing more jagged could be imagined. It is as thoughthe island were surrounded by a reef of uneven, diversified lacework,incessantly wrought upon by the rain, the wind, the sun, the snow, thefrost, the mist and all the water that falls from the sky or oozes fromthe earth.
The only accessible point is on the eastern side, at the bottom of adepression where a few houses, mostly abandoned since the war,constitute the village. A break in the cliffs opens here, protected bythe little jetty. The sea at this spot is perfectly calm.
Two boats lay moored to the quay.
Before landing, Honorine made a last effort:
"We're there, Madame Veronique, as you see. Now is it really worth yourwhile to get out? Why not stay where you are? I'll bring your father andyour son to you in two hours' time and we'll have dinner at Beg-Meil orat Pont-l'Abbe. Will that do?"
Veronique rose to her feet and leapt on to the quay without replying.Honorine joined her and insisted no longer:
"Well, children, where's young Francois? Hasn't he come?"
"He was here about twelve," said one of the women. "Only he didn'texpect you until to-morrow."
"That's true enough . . . but still he must have heard me blow my horn.However, we shall see."
And, as the man helped her to unload the boat, she said:
"I shan't want all this taken up to the Priory. Nor the bags either.Unless . . . Look here, if I am not back by five o'clock, send ayoungster after me with the bags."
"No, I'll come myself," said one of the seamen.
"As you please, Correjou. Oh, by the way, where's Maguennoc?"
"Maguennoc's gone. I took him across to Pont-l'Abbe myself."
"When was that, Correjou?"
"Why, the day after you went, Madame Honorine."
"What was he going over for?"
"He told us he was going . . . I don't know where . . . . It had to dowith the hand he lost . . . . a pilgrimage . . . ."
"A pilgrimage? To Le Faouet, perhaps? To St. Barbe's Chapel?"
"That's it . . . that's it exactly: St. Barbe's Chapel, that's what hesaid."
Honorine asked no more. She could no longer doubt that Maguennoc wasdead. She moved away, accompanied by Veronique, who had lowered herveil; and the two went along a rocky path, cut into steps, which ranthrough the middle of an oak-wood towards the southernmost point of theisland.
"After all," said Honorine, "I am not sure--and I may as well sayso--that M. d'Hergemont will consent to leave. He treats all my storiesas crotchets, though there's plenty of things that astonish even him. . . ."
"Does he live far from here?" asked Veronique.
"It's forty minutes' walk. As you will see, it's almost another island,joined to the first. The Benedictines built an abbey there."
"But he's not alone there, is he, with Francois and M. Maroux?"
"Before the war, there were two men besides. Lately, Maguennoc and Iused to do pretty well all the work, with the cook, Marie Le Goff."
"She remained, of course, while you were away?"
"Yes."
They reached the top of the cliffs. The path, which followed the coast,rose and fell in steep gradients. On every hand were old oaks with theirbunches of mistletoe, which showed among the as yet scanty leaves. Thesea, grey-green in the distance, girded the island with a white belt.
Veronique continued:
"What do you propose to do, Honorine?"
"I shall go in by myself and speak to your father. Then I shall comeback and fetch you at the garden-gate; and in Francois' eyes you willpass for a friend of his mother's. He will guess the truth gradually."
"And you think that my father will give me a good welcome?"
"He will receive you with open arms, Madame Veronique," cried the Bretonwoman, "and we shall all be happy, provided . . . provided nothing hashappened . . . It's so funny that Francois doesn't run out to meet me!He can see our boat from every part of the island . . . as far off asthe Glenans almost."
She relapsed into what M. d'Hergemont called her crotchets; and theypursued their road in silence. Veronique felt anxious and impatient.
Suddenly Honorine made the sign of the cross:
"You do as I'm doing, Madame Veronique," she said. "The monks haveconsecrated the place, but there's lots of bad, unlucky things remainingfrom the old days, especially in that wood, the wood of the Great Oak."
The old days no doubt meant the period of the Druids and their humansacrifices; and the two women were now entering a wood in which theoaks, each standing in isolation on a mound of moss-grown stones, had alook of ancient gods, each with his own altar, his mysterious cult andhis formidable power.
Veronique, following Honorine's example, crossed herself and could nothelp shuddering as she said:
"How melancholy it is! There's not a flower on this desolate plateau."
"They grow most wonderfully when one takes the trouble. You shall seeMaguennoc's, at the end of the island, to the right of the Fairies'Dolmen . . . a place called the Calvary of the Flowers."
"Are they lovely?"
"Wonderful, I tell you. Only he goes himself to get the mould fromcertain places. He prepares it. He works it up. He mixes it with somespecial leaves of which he knows the effect." And she repeated, "Youshall see Maguennoc's flowers. There are no flowers like them in theworld. They are miraculous flowers . . . ."
After skirting a hill, the road descended a sudden declivity. A hugegash divided the island into two parts, the second of which nowappeared, standing a little higher, but very much more limited inextent.
"It's the Priory, that part," said Honorine.
The same jagged cliffs surrounded the smaller islet with an even steeperrampart, which itself was hollowed out underneath like the hoop of acrown. And this rampart was joined to the main island by a strip ofcliff fifty yards long and hardly thicker than a castle-wall, with athin, tapering crest which looked as sharp as the edge of an axe.
There was no thoroughfare possible along this ridge, inasmuch as it wassplit in the middle with a wide fissure, for which reason the abutmentsof a wooden bridge had been anchored to the two extremities. The bridgestarted flat on the rock and subsequently spanned the interveningcrevice.
They crossed it separately, for it was not only very narrow but alsounstable, shaking under their feet and in the wind.
"Look, over there, at the extreme point of the island," said Honorine,"you can see a corner of the Priory."
The path that led to it ran through fields planted with small fir-treesarranged in quincunxes. Another path turned to the right and disappearedfrom view in some dense thickets.
Veronique kept her eyes upon the Priory, whose low-storied front waslengthening gradually, when Honorine, after a few minutes, stoppedshort, with her face towards the thickets on the right, and called out:
"Monsieur Stephane!"
"Whom are you calling?" asked Veronique. "M. Maroux?"
"Yes, Francois' tutor. He was running towards the bridge: I caught sightof him through a clearing . . . Monsieur Stephane! . . . But why doesn'the answer? Did you see a man running?"
"No."
"I declare it was he, with his white cap. At any rate, we can see thebridge behind us. Let us wait for him to cross."
"Why wait? If anything's the matter, if there's a danger of any kind,it's at the Priory."
"You're right. Let's hurry."
They hastened their pace, overcome with forebodings; and then, for nodefinite reason, broke into a run, so greatly did their fears increaseas they drew nearer to the rea
lity.
The islet grew narrower again, barred by a low wall which marked theboundaries of the Priory domain. At that moment, cries were heard,coming from the house.
Honorine exclaimed:
"They're calling! Did you hear? A woman's cries! It's the cook! It'sMarie Le Goff! . . ."
She made a dash for the gate and grasped the key, but inserted it soawkwardly that she jammed the lock and was unable to open it.
"Through the gap!" she ordered. "This way, on the right!"
They rushed along, scrambled through the wall and crossed a wide grassyspace filled with ruins, in which the winding and ill-marked pathdisappeared at every moment under trailing creepers and moss.
"Here we are! Here we are!" shouted Honorine. "We're coming!"
And she muttered:
"The cries have stopped! It's dreadful! Oh, poor Marie Le Goff!"
She grasped Veronique's arm:
"Let's go round. The front of the house is on the other side. On thisside the doors are always locked and the window-shutters closed."
But Veronique caught her foot in some roots, stumbled and fell to herknees. When she stood up again, the Breton woman had left her and washurrying round the left wing. Unconsciously, Veronique, instead offollowing her, made straight for the house, climbed the step and wasbrought up short by the door, at which she knocked again and again.
The idea of going round, as Honorine had done, seemed to her a waste oftime which nothing could ever make good. However, realising thefutility of her efforts, she was just deciding to go, when once morecries sounded from inside the house and above her head.
It was a man's voice, which Veronique seemed to recognize as herfather's. She fell back a few steps. Suddenly one of the windows on thefirst floor opened and she saw M. d'Hergemont, his features distortedwith inexpressible terror, gasping:
"Help! Help! Oh, the monster! Help!"
"Father! Father!" cried Veronique, in despair. "It's I!"
He lowered his head for an instant, appeared not to see his daughter andmade a quick attempt to climb over the balcony. But a shot rang outbehind him and one of the window-panes was blown into fragments.
"Murderer, murderer!" he shouted, turning back into the room.
Veronique, mad with fear and helplessness, looked around her. How couldshe rescue her father? The wall was too high and offered nothing tocling to. Suddenly, she saw a ladder, lying twenty yards away, besidethe wall of the house. With a prodigious effort of will and strength,she managed to carry the ladder, heavy though it was, and to set it upunder the open window.
At the most tragic moment in life, when the mind is no more than aseething confusion, when the whole body is shaken by the tremor ofanguish, a certain logic continues to connect our ideas: and Veroniquewondered why she had not heard Honorine's voice and what could havedelayed her coming.
She also thought of Francois. Where was Francois? Had he followedStephane Maroux in his inexplicable flight? Had he gone in search ofassistance? And who was it that M. d'Hergemont had apostrophized as amonster and a murderer?
The ladder did not reach the window; and Veronique at once became awareof the effort which would be necessary if she was to climb over thebalcony. Nevertheless she did not hesitate. They were fighting up there;and the struggle was mingled with stifled shouts uttered by her father.She went up the ladder. The most that she could do was to grasp thebottom rail of the balcony. But a narrow ledge enabled her to hoistherself on one knee, to put her head through and to witness the tragedythat was being enacted in the room.
At that moment, M. d'Hergemont had once more retreated to the window andeven a little beyond it, so that she almost saw him face to face. Hestood without moving, haggard-eyed and with his arms hanging in anundecided posture, as though waiting for something terrible to happen.He stammered:
"Murderer! Murderer! . . . Is it really you? Oh, curse you! Francois!Francois!"
He was no doubt calling upon his grandson for help; and Francois nodoubt was also exposed to some attack, was perhaps wounded, was possiblydead!
Veronique summoned up all her strength and succeeded in setting foot onthe ledge.
"Here I am! Here I am!" she meant to cry.
But her voice died away in her throat. She had seen! She saw! Facingher father, at a distance of five paces, against the opposite wall ofthe room, stood some one pointing a revolver at M. d'Hergemont anddeliberately taking aim. And that some one was . . . oh, horror!Veronique recognized the red cap of which Honorine had spoken, theflannel shirt with the gilt buttons. And above all she beheld, in thatyoung face convulsed with hideous emotions, the very expression whichVorski used to wear at times when his instincts, hatred and ferocity,gained the upper hand.
The boy did not see her. His eyes were fixed on the mark which heproposed to hit; and he seemed to take a sort of savage joy inpostponing the fatal act.
Veronique herself was silent. Words or cries could not possibly avertthe peril. What she had to do was to fling herself between her fatherand her son. She clutched hold of the railings, clambered up and climbedthrough the window.
It was too late. The shot was fired. M. d'Hergemont fell with a groan ofpain.
And, at the same time, at that very moment, while the boy still had hisarm outstretched and the old man was sinking into a huddled heap, a dooropened at the back. Honorine appeared; and the abominable sight struckher, so to speak, full in the face.
"Francois!" she screamed. "You! You!"
The boy sprang at her. The woman tried to bar his way. There was noteven a struggle. The boy took a step back, quickly raised his weapon andfired.
Honorine's knees gave way beneath her and she fell across thethreshold. And, as he jumped over her body and fled, she kept onrepeating:
"Francois . . . . Francois . . . . No, it's not true! . . . Oh, can itbe possible? . . . Francois . . . ."
There was a burst of laughter outside. Yes, the boy had laughed.Veronique heard that horrible, infernal laugh, so like Vorski's laugh;and it all agonized her with the same anguish which used to sear her inVorski's days!
She did not run after the murderer. She did not call out.
A faint voice beside her was murmuring her name:
"Veronique . . . . Veronique . . . ."
M. d'Hergemont lay on the ground, staring at her with glassy eyes whichwere already filled with death.
She knelt down by his side; but, when she tried to unbutton hiswaistcoat and his bloodstained shirt, in order to dress the wound ofwhich he was dying, he gently pushed her hand aside. She understood thatall aid was useless and that he wished to speak to her. She stoopedstill lower.
"Veronique . . . forgive . . . Veronique . . . ."
It was the first utterance of his failing thoughts.
She kissed him on the forehead and wept:
"Hush, father . . . . Don't tire yourself . . . ."
But he had something else to say; and his mouth vainly emitted syllableswhich did not form words and to which she listened in despair. His lifewas ebbing away. His mind was fading into the darkness. Veronique gluedher ear to the lips which exhausted themselves in a supreme effort andshe caught the words:
"Beware . . . beware . . . the God-Stone . . . ."
Suddenly he half raised himself. His eyes flashed as though lit by thelast flicker of an expiring flame. Veronique received the impressionthat her father, as he looked at her, now understood nothing but thefull significance of her presence and foresaw all the dangers thatthreatened her; and, speaking in a hoarse and terrified but quitedistinct voice, he said:
"You mustn't stay . . . . It means death if you stay . . . . Escape thisisland . . . . Go . . . Go . . . ."
His head fell back. He stammered a few more words which Veronique wasjust able to grasp:
"Oh, the cross! . . . The four crosses of Sarek! . . . My daughter . . .my daughter . . . crucified! . . ."
And that was all.
There was a great silence, a vast silence which Veronique felt weighingupon
her like a burden that grows heavier second after second.
"You must escape from this island," a voice repeated. "Go, quickly. Yourfather bade you, Madame Veronique."
Honorine was beside her, livid in the face, with her two hands claspinga napkin, rolled into a plug and red with blood, which she held to herchest.
"But I must look after you first!" cried Veronique. "Wait a moment. . . . Let me see . . . ."
"Later on . . . they'll attend to me presently," spluttered Honorine."Oh, the monster! . . . If I had only come in time! But the door belowwas barricaded . . . ."
"Do let me see to your wound," Veronique implored. "Lie down."
"Presently . . . . First Marie Le Goff, the cook, at the top of thestaircase . . . . She's wounded too . . . mortally perhaps . . . . Goand see."
Veronique went out by the door at the back, the one through which herson had made his escape. There was a large landing here. On the topsteps, curled into a heap, lay Marie Le Goff, with the death-rattle inher throat.
She died almost at once, without recovering consciousness, the thirdvictim of the incomprehensible tragedy. As foretold by old Maguennoc, M.d'Hergemont had been the second victim.