CHAPTER VIII
ANGUISH
Had Veronique been alone, she would have yielded to one of those moodsof despondency which her nature, brave though it was, could not escapein the face of the unrelenting animosity of fate. But in the presence ofStephane, who she felt to be the weaker and who was certainly exhaustedby his captivity, she had the strength to restrain herself and announce,as though mentioning quite an ordinary incident:
"The ladder has swung out of our reach."
Stephane looked at her in dismay:
"Then . . . then we are lost!"
"Why should we be lost?" she asked, with a smile.
"There is no longer any hope of getting away."
"What do you mean? Of course there is. What about Francois?"
"Francois?"
"Certainly. In an hour at most, Francois will have made his escape; and,when he sees the ladder and the way I came, he will call to us. We shallhear him easily. We have only to be patient."
"To be patient!" he said, in terror. "To wait for an hour! But they aresure to be here in less than that. They keep a constant watch."
"Well, we will manage somehow."
He pointed to the wicket in the door:
"Do you see that wicket?" he said. "They open it each time. They willsee us through the grating."
"There's a shutter to it. Let's close it."
"They will come in."
"Then we won't close it and we'll keep up our confidence, Stephane."
"I'm frightened for you, not for myself."
"You mustn't be frightened either for me or for yourself . . . . If theworst comes to the worst, we are able to defend ourselves," she added,showing him a revolver which she had taken from her father's rack ofarms and carried on her ever since.
"Ah," he said, "what I fear is that we shall not even be called upon todefend ourselves! They have other means."
"What means?"
He did not answer. He had flung a quick glance at the floor; andVeronique for a moment examined its curious structure.
All around, following the circumference of the walls, was the graniteitself, rugged and uneven. But outlined in the granite was a largesquare. They could see, on each of the four sides, the deep crevice thatdivided it from the rest. The timbers of which it consisted were wornand grooved, full of cracks and gashes, but nevertheless massive andpowerful. The fourth side almost skirted the edge of the precipice, fromwhich it was divided by eight inches at most.
"A trap-door?" she asked, with a shudder.
"No, not that," he said. "It would be too heavy."
"Then what?"
"I don't know. Very likely it is nothing but a remnant of some pastcontrivance which no longer works. Still . . ."
"Still what?"
"Last night . . . or rather this morning there was a creaking sound downbelow there. It seemed to suggest attempts, but they stopped at once. . . it's such a long time since! . . . No, the thing no longer worksand they can't make use of it."
"Who's _they_?"
Without waiting for his answer, she continued:
"Listen, Stephane, we have a few minutes before us, perhaps fewer thanwe think. Francois will be free at any moment now and will come to ourrescue. Let us make the most of the interval and tell each other thethings which both of us ought to know. Let us discuss matters quietly.We are threatened with no immediate danger; and the time will be wellemployed."
Veronique was pretending a sense of security which she did not feel.That Francois would make his escape she refused to doubt; but who couldtell that the boy would go to the window and notice the hook of thehanging ladder? On failing to see his mother, would he not rather thinkof following the underground tunnel and running to the Priory?
However, she mastered herself, feeling the need of the explanation forwhich she had asked, and, sitting down on a granite projection whichformed a sort of bench, she at once began to tell Stephane the eventswhich she had witnessed and in which she had played a leading part, fromthe moment when her investigations led her to the deserted cabincontaining Maguennoc's dead body.
Stephane listened to the terrifying narrative without attempting tointerrupt her but with an alarm marked by his gestures of abhorrence andthe despairing expression of his face. M. d'Hergemont's death inparticular seemed to crush him, as did Honorine's. He had been greatlyattached to both of them.
"There, Stephane," said Veronique, when she had described the anguishwhich she suffered after the execution of the sisters Archignat, thediscovery of the underground passage and her interview with Francois."That is all that I need absolutely tell you. I thought that you oughtto know what I have kept from Francois, so that we may fight our enemiestogether."
He shook his head:
"Which enemies?" he said. "I, too, in spite of your explanations, amasking the very question which you asked me. I have a feeling that weare flung into the midst of a great tragedy which has continued foryears, for centuries, and in which we have begun to play our parts onlyat the moment of the crisis, at the moment of the terrific cataclysmprepared by generations of men. I may be wrong. Perhaps there is nothingmore than a disconnected series of sinister, weird and horriblecoincidences amid which we are tossed from side to side, without beingable to appeal to any other reasons than the whim of chance. In realityI know no more than you do. I am surrounded by the same obscurity,stricken by the same sorrows and the same losses. It's all justinsanity, extravagant convulsions, unprecedent shocks, the crimes ofsavages, the fury of the barbaric ages."
Veronique agreed:
"Yes, of the barbaric ages; and that is what baffles me most andimpresses me so much! What is the connection between the present and thepast, between our persecutors of to-day and the men who lived in thesecaves in days of old and whose actions are prolonged into our own time,in a manner so impossible to understand? To what do they all refer,those legends of which I know nothing except from Honorine's deliriumand the distress of the sisters Archignat?"
They spoke low, with their ears always on the alert. Stephane listenedfor sounds in the corridor, Veronique concentrated her attention on thecliff, in the hope of hearing Francois' signal.
"They are very complicated legends," said Stephane, "very obscuretraditions in which we must abandon any attempt to distinguish betweenwhat is superstition and what might be truth. Out of this jumble of oldwives' tales, the very most that we can disentangle is two sets ofideas, those referring to the prophecy of the thirty coffins and thoserelating to the existence of a treasure, or rather of a miraculousstone."
"Then they take as a prophecy," said Veronique, "the words which I readon Maguennoc's drawing and again on the Fairies' Dolmen?"
"Yes, a prophecy which dates back to an indeterminate period and whichfor centuries has governed the whole history and the whole life ofSarek. The belief has always prevailed that a day would come when,within a space of twelve months, the thirty principal reefs whichsurround the island and which are called the thirty coffins wouldreceive their thirty victims, who were to die a violent death, and thatthose thirty victims would include four women who were to die crucified.It is an established and undisputed tradition, handed down from fatherto son: and everybody believes in it. It is expressed in the line andpart of a line inscribed on the Fairies' Dolmen: 'Four women crucified,'and 'For thirty coffins victims thirty times!'"
"Very well; but people have gone on living all the same, normally andpeaceably. Why did the outburst of terror suddenly take place thisyear?"
"Maguennoc was largely responsible. Maguennoc was a fantastic and rathermysterious person, a mixture of the wizard and the bone-setter, thehealer and the charlatan, who had studied the stars in their courses andwhom people liked to consult about the most remote events of the past aswell as the future. Now Maguennoc announced not long ago that 1917 wouldbe the fateful year."
"Why?"
"Intuition perhaps, presentiment, divination, or subconscious knowledge:you can choose any explanation that you please. As for Ma
guennoc, whodid not despise the practices of the most antiquated magic, _he_ wouldtell you that he knew it from the flight of a bird or the entrails of afowl. However, his prophecy was based on something more serious. Hepretended, quoting evidence collected in his childhood among the oldpeople of Sarek, that, at the beginning of the last century, the firstline of the inscription on the Fairies' Dolmen was not yet obliteratedand that it formed this, which would rhyme with 'Four women shall becrucified on tree:' 'In Sarek's isle, in year fourteen and three.' Theyear fourteen and three is the year seventeen; and the prediction becamemore impressive for Maguennoc and his friends of late years, because thetotal number was divided into two numbers and the war broke out in 1914.From that day, Maguennoc grew more and more important and more and moresure of the truth of his previsions. For that matter, he also grew moreand more anxious; and he even announced that his death, followed by thedeath of M. d'Hergemont, would give the signal for the catastrophe. Thenthe year 1917 arrived and produced a genuine terror in the island. Theevents were close at hand."
"And still," said Veronique, "and still it was all absurd."
"Absurd, yes; but it all acquired a curiously disturbing significance onthe day when Maguennoc was able to compare the scraps of prophecyengraved on the dolmen with the complete prophecy."
"Then he succeeded in doing so?"
"Yes. He discovered under the abbey ruins, in a heap of stones which hadformed a sort of protecting chamber round it, an old worn and tatteredmissal, which had a few of its pages in good condition, however, and onein particular, the one which you saw, or rather of which you saw a copyin the deserted cabin."
"A copy made by my father?"
"By your father, as were all those in the cupboard in his study. M.d'Hergemont, you must remember, was fond of drawing, of paintingwater-colours. He copied the illuminated page, but of the prophecy thataccompanied the drawing he reproduced only the words inscribed on theFairies' Dolmen."
"How do you account for the resemblance between the crucified woman andmyself?"
"I never saw the original, which Maguennoc gave to M. d'Hergemont andwhich your father kept jealously in his room. But M. d'Hergemontmaintained that the resemblance was there. In any case, he accentuatedit in his drawing, in spite of himself, remembering all that you hadsuffered . . . and through his fault, he said."
"Perhaps," murmured Veronique, "he was also thinking of the otherprophecy that was once made to Vorski: 'You will perish by the hand of afriend and your wife will be crucified.' So I suppose the strangecoincidence struck him . . . and even made him write the initials of mymaiden name, 'V. d'H.', at the top." And she added, "And all thishappened in accordance with the wording of the inscription . . . ."
They were both silent. How could they do other than think of thatinscription, of the words written ages ago on the pages of the missaland on the stone of the dolmen? If destiny had as yet provided onlytwenty-seven victims for the thirty coffins of Sarek, were the lastthree not there, ready to complete the sacrifice, all three imprisoned,all three captive and in the power of the sacrificial murderers? And if,at the top of the knoll, near the Grand Oak, there were as yet but threecrosses, would the fourth not soon be prepared, to receive a fourthvictim?
"Francois is a very long time," said Veronique, presently.
She went to the edge and looked over. The ladder had not moved and wasstill out of reach.
"The others will soon be coming to my door," said Stephane. "I amsurprised that they haven't been yet."
But they did not wish to confess their mutual anxiety; and Veronique puta further question, in a calm voice:
"And the treasure? The God-Stone?"
"That riddle is hardly less obscure," said Stephane, "and also dependsentirely on the last line of the inscription: 'The God-Stone which giveslife or death.' What is this God-Stone? Tradition says that it is amiraculous stone; and, according to M. d'Hergemont, this belief datesback to the remotest periods. People at Sarek have always had faith inthe existence of a stone capable of working wonders. In the middle agesthey used to bring puny and deformed children and lay them on the stonefor days and nights together, after which the children got up strong andhealthy. Barren women resorted to this remedy with good results, as didold men, wounded men and all sorts of degenerates. Only it came aboutthat the place of pilgrimage underwent changes, the stone, stillaccording to tradition, having been moved and even, according to some,having disappeared. In the eighteenth century, people venerated theFairies' Dolmen and used still sometimes to expose scrofulous childrenthere."
"But," said Veronique, "the stone also had harmful properties, for itgave death as well as life?"
"Yes, if you touched it without the knowledge of those whose business itwas to guard it and keep it sacred. But in this respect the mysterybecomes still more complicated, for there is the question also of aprecious stone, a sort of fantastic gem which shoots out flames, burnsthose who wear it and makes them suffer the tortures of the damned."
"That's what happened to Maguennoc, by Honorine's account," saidVeronique.
"Yes," replied Stephane, "but here we are entering upon the present. Sofar I have been speaking of the fabled past, the two legends, theprophecy and the God-Stone. Maguennoc's adventure opens up the period ofthe present day, which for that matter is hardly less obscure than theancient period. What happened to Maguennoc? We shall probably neverknow. He had been keeping in the background for a week, gloomy and doingno work, when suddenly he burst into M. d'Hergemont's study roaring,'I've touched it! I'm done for! I've touched it! . . . I took it in myhand . . . . It burnt me like fire, but I wanted to keep it . . . . Oh,it's been gnawing into my bones for days! It's hell, it's hell!' And heshowed us the palm of his hand. It was all burnt, as though eaten upwith cancer. We tried to dress it for him, but he seemed quite mad andkept rambling on, 'I'm the first victim . . . . the fire will go to myheart . . . . And after me the others' turn will come . . . .' That sameevening, he cut off his hand with a hatchet. And a week later, afterinfecting the whole island with terror, he went away."
"Where did he go to?"
"To the village of Le Faouet, on a pilgrimage to the Chapel of St.Barbe, near the place where you found his dead body."
"Who killed him, do you think?"
"Undoubtedly one of the creatures who used to correspond by means ofsigns written along the road, one of the creatures who live hidden inthe cells and who are pursuing some purpose which I don't understand."
"Those who attacked you and Francois, therefore?"
"Yes; and immediately afterwards, having stolen and put on our clothes,played the parts of Francois and myself."
"With what object?"
"To enter the Priory more easily and then, if their attempt failed, tobalk enquiry."
"But haven't you seen them since they have kept you here?"
"I have seen only a woman, or rather caught a glimpse of her. She comesat night. She brings me food and drink, unties my hands, loosens thefastenings round my legs a little and comes back two hours after."
"Has she spoken to you?"
"Once only, on the first night, in a low voice, to tell me that, if Icalled out or uttered a sound or tried to escape, Francois would pay thepenalty."
"But, when they attacked you, couldn't you then make out . . . ?"
"No, I saw no more than Francois did."
"And the attack was quite unexpected?"
"Yes, quite. M. d'Hergemont had that morning received two importantletters on the subject of the investigation which he was making into allthese facts. One of the letters, written by an old Breton noblemanwell-known for his royalist leanings, was accompanied by a curiousdocument which he had found among his great-grandfather's papers, a planof some underground cells which the Chouans used to occupy in Sarek. Itwas evidently the same Druid dwellings of which the legends tell us. Theplan showed the entrance on the Black Heath and marked two stories, eachending in a torture-chamber. Francois and I went out exploring together;and we were attacke
d on our way back."
"And you have made no discovery since?"
"No, none at all."
"But Francois spoke of a rescue which he was expecting, some one who hadpromised his assistance."
"Oh, a piece of boyish nonsense, an idea of Francois', which, as ithappened, was connected with the second letter which M. d'Hergemontreceived that morning!"
"And what was it about?"
Stephane did not reply at once. Something made him think that they werebeing spied on through the door. But, on going to the wicket, he saw noone in the passage outside.
"Ah," he said, "if we are to be rescued, the sooner it happens thebetter. _They_ may come at any moment now."
"Is any help really possible?" asked Veronique.
"Well," Stephane answered, "we must not attach too much importance toit, but it's rather curious all the same. You know, Sarek has often beenvisited by officers or inspectors with a view to exploring the rocks andbeaches around the island, which were quite capable of concealing asubmarine base. Last time, the special delegate sent from Paris, awounded officer, Captain Patrice Belval,[2] became friendly with M.d'Hergemont, who told him the legend of Sarek and the apprehension whichwe were beginning to feel in spite of everything; it was the day afterMaguennoc went away. The story interested Captain Belval so much that hepromised to speak of it to one of his friends in Paris, a Spanish orPortuguese nobleman, Don Luis Perenna,[2] an extraordinary person, itwould seem, capable of solving the most complicated mysteries and ofsucceeding in the most reckless enterprises. A few days after CaptainBelval's departure, M. d'Hergemont received from Don Luis Perenna theletter of which I spoke to you and of which he read us only thebeginning. 'Sir,' it said, 'I look upon the Maguennoc incident as morethan a little serious; and I beg you, at the least fresh alarm, totelegraph to Patrice Belval. If I can rely upon certain indications, youare standing on the brink of an abyss. But, even if you were at thebottom of that abyss, you would have nothing to fear, if only I hearfrom you in time. From that moment, I make myself responsible, whateverhappens, even though everything may seem lost and though everything maybe lost. As for the riddle of the God-Stone, it is simply childish and Iam astonished that, with the very ample data which you gave Belval, itshould for an instant be regarded as impossible of explanation. I willtell you in a few words what has puzzled so many generations of mankind. . . .'"
[Footnote 2: See _The Golden Triangle_, by Maurice Leblanc.]
"Well?" said Veronique, eager to know more.
"As I said, M. d'Hergemont did not tell us the end of the letter. Heread it in front of us, saying, with an air of amazement, 'Can that beit? . . . Why, of course, of course it is . . . . How wonderful!' And,when we asked him, he said, 'I'll tell you all about it this evening,when you come back from the Black Heath. Meanwhile you may like to knowthat this most extraordinary man--it's the only word for him--disclosesto me, without more ado or further particulars, the secret of theGod-Stone and the exact spot where it is to be found. And he does it sologically as to leave no room for doubt.'"
"And in the evening?"
"In the evening, Francois and I were carried off and M. d'Hergemont wasmurdered."
Veronique paused to think:
"I should not be surprised," she said, "if they wanted to steal thatimportant letter from him. For, after all, the theft of the God-Stoneseems to me the only motive that can explain all the machinations ofwhich we are the victims."
"I think so too: but M. d'Hergemont, on Don Luis Perenna'srecommendation, tore up the letter before our eyes."
"So, after all, Don Luis Perenna has not been informed?"
"No."
"Yet Francois . . ."
"Francois does not know of his grandfather's death and does not suspectthat M. d'Hergemont never heard of our disappearance and therefore neversent a message to Don Luis Perenna. If he had done so, Don Luis, toFrancois' mind, must be on his way. Besides, Francois has anotherreason for expecting something . . . ."
"A serious reason?"
"No. Francois is still very much of a child. He has read a lot of booksof adventure, which have worked upon his imagination. Now Captain Belvaltold him such fantastic stories about his friend Perenna and paintedPerenna in such strange colours that Francois firmly believes Perenna tobe none other than Arsene Lupin. Hence his absolute confidence and hiscertainty that, in case of danger, the miraculous intervention will takeplace at the very minute when it becomes necessary."
Veronique could not help smiling:
"He is a child, of course; but children sometimes have intuitions whichwe have to take into account. Besides, it keeps up his courage and hisspirits. How could he have endured this ordeal, at his age, if he hadnot had that hope?"
Her anguish returned. In a very low voice, she said:
"No matter where the rescue comes from, so long as it comes in time andso long as my son is not the victim of those dreadful creatures!"
They were silent for a long time. The enemy, present, though invisible,oppressed them with his formidable weight. He was everywhere; he wasmaster of the island, master of the subterranean dwellings, master ofthe heaths and woods, master of the sea around them, master of thedolmens and the coffins. He linked together the monstrous ages of thepast and the no less monstrous hours of the present. He was continuinghistory according to the ancient rites and striking blows which hadbeen foretold a thousand times.
"But why? With what object? What does it all mean?" asked Veronique, ina disheartened tone. "What connection can there be between the people ofto-day and those of long ago? What is the explanation of the workresumed by such barbarous methods?"
And, after a further pause, she said, for in her heart of hearts, behindevery question and reply and every insoluble problem, the obsessionnever ceased to torment her:
"Ah, if Francois were here! If we were all three fighting together! Whathas happened to him? What keeps him in his cell? Some obstacle which hedid not foresee?"
It was Stephane's turn to comfort her:
"An obstacle? Why should you suppose so? There is no obstacle. But it'sa long job . . . ."
"Yes, yes, you are right; a long, difficult job. Oh, I'm sure that hewon't lose heart! He has such high spirits! And such confidence! 'Amother and son who have been brought together cannot be parted again,'he said. 'They may still persecute us, but separate us, never! We shallwin in the end.' He was speaking truly, wasn't he, Stephane? I've notfound my son again, have I, only to lose him? No, no, it would be toounjust and it would be impossible . . ."
Stephane looked at her, surprised to hear her interrupt herself.Veronique was listening to something.
"What is it?" asked Stephane.
"I hear sounds," she said.
He also listened:
"Yes, yes, you're right."
"Perhaps it's Francois," she said. "Perhaps it's up there."
She moved to rise. He held her back:
"No, it's the sound of footsteps in the passage."
"In that case . . . in that case . . . ?" said Veronique.
They exchanged distraught glances, forming no decision, not knowing whatto do.
The sound came nearer. The enemy could not be suspecting anything, forthe steps were those of one who is not afraid of being heard.
Stephane said, slowly:
"They must not see me standing up. I will go back to my place. You mustfasten me again as best you can."
They remained hesitating, as though cherishing the absurd hope that thedanger would pass of its own accord. Then, suddenly, releasing herselffrom the sort of stupor that seemed to paralyse her, Veronique made upher mind:
"Quick! . . . Here they come! . . . Lie down!"
He obeyed. In a few seconds, she had replaced the cords on and aroundhim as she had found them, but without tying them.
"Turn your face to the rock," she said. "Hide your hands. Your handsmight betray you."
"And you?"
"I shall be all right."
She stooped and str
etched herself at full length against the door, inwhich the spy-hole, barred with strips of iron, projected inwardly insuch a way as to hide her from sight.
At the same moment, the enemy stopped outside. Notwithstanding thethickness of the door, Veronique heard the rustle of a dress.
And, above her, some one looked in.
It was a terrible moment. The least indication would give the alarm.
"Oh, why does she stay?" thought Veronique. "Is there anything to betraymy presence? My clothes? . . ."
She thought that it was more likely Stephane, whose attitude did notappear natural and whose bonds did not wear their usual aspect.
Suddenly there was a movement outside, followed by a whistle and asecond whistle.
Then from the far end of the passage came another sound of steps, whichincreased in the solemn silence and stopped, like the first, behind thedoor. Words were spoken. Those outside seemed to be concerting measures.
Veronique managed to reach her pocket. She took out her revolver and puther finger on the trigger. If any one entered, she would stand up andfire shot after shot, without hesitating. Would not the least hesitationhave meant Francois' death?