BEFORE THE FLAMES
Little Mother Coralie! Coralie concealed in this house into which her
assailants had forced their way and in which she herself was hiding,
through force of circumstances which were incapable of explanation.
His first idea, which would at least have solved one of the riddles, was
that she also had entered from the lane, gone into the house by the
steps and in this way opened a passage for him. But, in that case, how
had she procured the means of carrying out this enterprise? And, above
all, what brought her here?
All these questions occurred to Captain Belval's mind without his trying
to reply to them. He was far too much impressed by the absorbed
expression on Coralie's face. Moreover, a second cry, even wilder than
the first, came from below; and he saw the victim's face writhing before
the red curtain of fire from the hearth.
But, this time, Patrice, held back by Coralie's presence, had no
inclination to go to the sufferer's assistance. He decided to model
himself entirely upon her and not to move or do anything to attract her
attention.
"Easy!" the leader commanded. "Pull him back. I expect he's had
enough."
He went up to the victim:
"Well, my dear Essarès," he asked, "what do you think of it? Are you
happy? And, you know, we're only beginning. If you don't speak, we shall
go on to the end, as the real _chauffeurs_ used to do in the days of the
Revolution. So it's settled, I presume: you're going to speak?"
There was no answer. The leader rapped out an oath and went on:
"What do you mean? Do you refuse? But, you obstinate brute, don't you
understand the situation? Or have you a glimmer of hope? Hope, indeed!
You're mad. Who would rescue you? Your servants? The porter, the footman
and the butler are in my pay. I gave them a week's notice. They're gone
by now. The housemaid? The cook? They sleep at the other end of the
house; and you yourself have told me, time after time, that one can't
hear anything over there. Who else? Your wife? Her room also is far
away; and she hasn't heard anything either? Siméon, your old secretary?
We made him fast when he opened the front door to us just now. Besides,
we may as well finish the job here. Bournef!"
The man with the big mustache, who was still holding the chair, drew
himself up.
"Bournef, where did you lock up the secretary?"
"In the porter's lodge."
"You know where to find Mme. Essarès' bedroom?"
"Yes, you told me the way."
"Go, all four of you, and bring the lady and the secretary here!"
The four men went out by a door below the spot where Coralie was
standing. They were hardly out of sight when the leader stooped eagerly
over his victim and said:
"We're alone, Essarès. It's what I intended. Let's make the most of it."
He bent still lower and whispered so that Patrice found it difficult to
hear what he said:
"Those men are fools. I twist them round my finger and tell them no more
of my plans than I can help. You and I, on the other hand, Essarès, are
the men to come to terms. That is what you refused to admit; and you see
where it has landed you. Come, Essarès, don't be obstinate and don't
shuffle. You are caught in a trap, you are helpless, you are absolutely
in my power. Well, rather than allow yourself to be broken down by
tortures which would certainly end by overcoming your resistance, strike
a bargain with me. We'll go halves, shall we? Let's make peace and treat
upon that basis. I'll give you a hand in my game and you'll give me one
in yours. As allies, we are bound to win. As enemies, who knows whether
the victor will surmount all the obstacles that will still stand in his
path? That's why I say again, halves! Answer me. Yes or no."
He loosened the gag and listened. This time, Patrice did not hear the
few words which the victim uttered. But the other, the leader, almost
immediately burst into a rage:
"Eh? What's that you're proposing? Upon my word, but you're a cool hand!
An offer of this kind to me! That's all very well for Bournef or his
fellows. They'll understand, they will. But it won't do for me, it won't
do for Colonel Fakhi. No, no, my friend, I open my mouth wider! I'll
consent to go halves, but accept an alms, never!"
Patrice listened eagerly and, at the same time, kept his eyes on
Coralie, whose face still contorted with anguish, wore an expression of
the same rapt attention. And he looked back at the victim, part of whose
body was reflected in the glass above the mantelpiece. The man was
dressed in a braided brown-velvet smoking-suit and appeared to be about
fifty years of age, quite bald, with a fleshy face, a large hooked nose,
eyes deep set under a pair of thick eyebrows and puffy cheeks covered
with a thick grizzled beard. Patrice was also able to examine his
features more closely in a portrait of him which hung to the left of the
fireplace, between the first and second windows, and which represented a
strong, powerful countenance with an almost fierce expression.
"It's an Eastern face," said Patrice to himself. "I've seen heads like
that in Egypt and Turkey."
The names of all these men too--Colonel Fakhi, Mustapha, Bournef,
Essarès--their accent in talking, their way of holding themselves, their
features, their figures, all recalled impressions which he had gathered
in the Near East, in the hotels at Alexandria or on the banks of the
Bosphorus, in the bazaars of Adrianople or in the Greek boats that plow
the Ægean Sea. They were Levantine types, but of Levantines who had
taken root in Paris. Essarès Bey was a name which Patrice recognized as
well-known in the financial world, even as he knew that of Colonel
Fakhi, whose speech and intonation marked him for a seasoned Parisian.
But a sound of voices came from outside the door. It was flung open
violently and the four men appeared, dragging in a bound man, whom they
dropped to the floor as they entered.
"Here's old Siméon," cried the one whom Fakhi had addressed as Bournef.
"And the wife?" asked the leader. "I hope you've got her too!"
"Well, no."
"What is that? Has she escaped?"
"Yes, through her window."
"But you must run after her. She can only be in the garden. Remember,
the watch-dog was barking just now."
"And suppose she's got away?"
"How?"
"By the door on the lane?"
"Impossible!"
"Why?"
"The door hasn't been used for years. There's not even a key to it."
"That's as may be," Bournef rejoined. "All the same, we're surely not
going to organize a battue with lanterns and rouse the whole district
for the sake of finding a woman . . ."
"Yes, but that woman . . ."
Colonel Fakhi seemed exasperated. He turned to the prisoner:
"You're in luck, you old rascal! This is the second time to-day that
minx of yours has slipped through my fingers! Did she tell you what
happened this afternoon? Oh, if it hadn't been for an infernal officer
who happened to be passing! . . . But I'll get hold of him yet and he
shall pay dearly for his interference. . . ."
Patrice clenched his fists with fury. He understood: Coralie was hiding
in her own house. Surprised by the sudden arrival of the five men, she
had managed to climb out of her window and, making her way along the
terrace to the steps, had gone to the part of the house opposite the
rooms that were in use and taken refuge in the gallery of the library,
where she was able to witness the terrible assault levied at her
husband.
"Her husband!" thought Patrice, with a shudder. "Her husband!"
And, if he still entertained any doubts on the subject, the hurried
course of events soon removed them, for the leader began to chuckle:
"Yes, Essarès, old man, I confess that she attracts me more than I can
tell you; and, as I failed to catch her earlier in the day, I did hope
this evening, as soon as I had settled my business with you, to settle
something infinitely more agreeable with your wife. Not to mention that,
once in my power, the little woman would be serving me as a hostage and
that I would only have restored her to you--oh, safe and sound, believe
me!--after specific performance of our agreement. And you would have run
straight, Essarès! For you love your Coralie passionately! And quite
right too!"
He went to the right-hand side of the fireplace and, touching a switch,
lit an electric lamp under a reflector between the third and fourth
windows. There was a companion picture here to Essarès' portrait, but it
was covered over. The leader drew the curtain, and Coralie appeared in
the full light.
"The monarch of all she surveys! The idol! The witch! The pearl of
pearls! The imperial diamond of Essarès Bey, banker! Isn't she
beautiful? I ask you. Admire the delicate outline of her face, the
purity of that oval; and the pretty neck; and those graceful shoulders.
Essarès, there's not a favorite in the country we come from who can hold
a candle to your Coralie! My Coralie, soon! For I shall know how to find
her. Ah, Coralie, Coralie! . . ."
Patrice looked across at her, and it seemed to him that her face was
reddened with a blush of shame. He himself was shaken by indignation and
anger at each insulting word. It was a violent enough sorrow to him to
know that Coralie was the wife of another; and added to this sorrow was
his rage at seeing her thus exposed to these men's gaze and promised as
a helpless prey to whosoever should prove himself the strongest.
At the same time, he wondered why Coralie remained in the room.
Supposing that she could not leave the garden, nevertheless she was free
to move about in that part of the house and might well have opened a
window and called for help. What prevented her from doing so? Of course
she did not love her husband. If she had loved him, she would have faced
every danger to defend him. But how was it possible for her to allow
that man to be tortured, worse still, to be present at his sufferings,
to contemplate that most hideous of sights and to listen to his yells of
pain?
"Enough of this nonsense!" cried the leader, pulling the curtain back
into its place. "Coralie, you shall be my final reward; but I must first
win you. Comrades, to work; let's finish our friend's job. First of all,
twenty inches nearer, no more. Good! Does it burn, Essarès? All the
same, it's not more than you can stand. Bear up, old fellow."
He unfastened the prisoner's right arm, put a little table by his side,
laid a pencil and paper on it and continued:
"There's writing-materials for you. As your gag prevents you from
speaking, write. You know what's wanted of you, don't you? Scribble a
few letters, and you're free. Do you consent? No? Comrades, three inches
nearer."
He moved away and stooped over the secretary, whom Patrice, by the
brighter light, had recognized as the old fellow who sometimes escorted
Coralie to the hospital.
"As for you, Siméon," he said, "you shall come to no harm. I know that
you are devoted to your master, but I also know that he tells you none
of his private affairs. On the other hand, I am certain that you will
keep silent as to all this, because a single word of betrayal would
involve your master's ruin even more than ours. That's understood
between us, isn't it? Well, why don't you answer? Have they squeezed
your throat a bit too tight with their cords? Wait, I'll give you some
air. . . ."
Meanwhile the ugly work at the fireplace pursued its course. The two
feet were reddened by the heat until it seemed almost as though the
bright flames of the fire were glowing through them. The sufferer
exerted all his strength in trying to bend his legs and to draw back;
and a dull, continuous moan came through his gag.
"Oh, hang it all!" thought Patrice. "Are we going to let him roast like
this, like a chicken on a spit?"
He looked at Coralie. She did not stir. Her face was distorted beyond
recognition, and her eyes seemed fascinated by the terrifying sight.
"Couple of inches nearer!" cried the leader, from the other end of the
room, as he unfastened Siméon's bonds.
The order was executed. The victim gave such a yell that Patrice's blood
froze in his veins. But, at the same moment, he became aware of
something that had not struck him so far, or at least he had attached no
significance to it. The prisoner's hand, as the result of a sequence of
little movements apparently due to nervous twitches, had seized the
opposite edge of the table, while his arm rested on the marble top. And
gradually, unseen by the torturers, all whose efforts were directed to
keeping his legs in position, or by the leader, who was still engaged
with Siméon, this hand opened a drawer which swung on a hinge, dipped
into the drawer, took out a revolver and, resuming its original position
with a jerk, hid the weapon in the chair.
The act, or rather the intention which it indicated, was foolhardy in
the extreme, for, when all was said, reduced to his present state of
helplessness, the man could not hope for victory against five
adversaries, all free and all armed. Nevertheless, as Patrice looked at
the glass in which he beheld him, he saw a fierce determination pictured
in the man's face.
"Another two inches," said Colonel Fakhi, as he walked back to the
fireplace.
He examined the condition of the flesh and said, with a laugh:
"The skin is blistering in places; the veins are ready to burst.
Essarès Bey, you can't be enjoying yourself, and it strikes me that you
mean to do the right thing at last. Have you started scribbling yet? No?
And don't you mean to? Are you still hoping? Counting on your wife,
perhaps? Come, come, you must see that, even if she has succeeded in
escaping, she won't say anything! Well, then, are you humbugging me, or
what? . . ."
He was seized with a sudden burst of rage and shouted:
"Shove his feet into the fire! And let's have a good smell of burning
for once! Ah, you would defy me, would you? Well, wait a bit, old chap,
and let me have a go at you! I'll cut you off an ear or two: you know,
the way we have in our country!"
He drew from his waistcoat a dagger that gleamed in the firelight. His
face was hideous with animal cruelty. He gave a fierce cry, raised his
arm and stood over the other relentlessly.
But, swift as his movement was, Essarès was before him. The revolver,
quickly aimed, was discharged with a loud report. The dagger dropped
from the colonel's hand. For two or three seconds he maintained his
threatening attitude, with one arm lifted on high and a haggard look in
his eyes, as though he did not quite understand what had happened to
him. And then, suddenly, he fell upon his victim in a huddled heap,
paralyzing his arm with the full weight of his body, at the moment when
Essarès was taking aim at one of the other confederates.
He was still breathing:
"Oh, the brute, the brute!" he panted. "He's killed me! . . . But
you'll lose by it, Essarès. . . . I was prepared for this. If I don't
come home to-night, the prefect of police will receive a letter. . . .
They'll know about your treason, Essarès . . . all your story . . . your
plans. . . . Oh, you devil! . . . And what a fool! . . . We could so
easily have come to terms. . . ."
He muttered a few inaudible words and rolled down to the floor. It was
all over.
A moment of stupefaction was produced not so much by this unexpected
tragedy as by the revelation which the leader had made before dying and
by the thought of that letter, which no doubt implicated the aggressors
as well as their victim. Bournef had disarmed Essarès. The latter, now
that the chair was no longer held in position, had succeeded in bending
his legs. No one moved.
Meanwhile, the sense of terror which the whole scene had produced seemed
rather to increase with the silence. On the ground was the corpse, with
the blood flowing on the carpet. Not far away lay Siméon's motionless
form. Then there was the prisoner, still bound in front of the flames
waiting to devour his flesh. And standing near him were the four
butchers, hesitating perhaps what to do next, but showing in every
feature an implacable resolution to defeat the enemy by all and every
means.
His companions glanced at Bournef, who seemed the kind of man to go any
length. He was a short, stout, powerfully-built man; his upper lip
bristled with the mustache which had attracted Patrice Belval's
attention. He was less cruel in appearance than his chief, less elegant
in his manner and less masterful, but displayed far greater coolness
and self-command. As for the colonel, his accomplices seemed not to
trouble about him. The part which they were playing dispensed them from
showing any empty compassion.
At last Bournef appeared to have made up his mind how to act. He went to
his hat, the gray-felt hat lying near the door, turned back the lining
and took from it a tiny coil the sight of which made Patrice start. It
was a slender red cord, exactly like that which he had found round the
neck of Mustapha Rovalaïof, the first accomplice captured by Ya-Bon.
Bournef unrolled the cord, took it by the two buckles, tested its
strength across his knee and then, going back to Essarès, slipped it
over his neck after first removing his gag.
"Essarès," he said, with a calmness which was more impressive than the
colonel's violence and sneers, "Essarès, I shall not put you to any
pain. Torture is a revolting process; and I shall not have recourse to
it. You know what to do; I know what to do. A word on your side, an
action on my side; and the thing is done. The word is the yes or no
which you will now speak. The action which I shall accomplish in reply
to your yes or no will mean either your release or else . . ."
He stopped for a second or two. Then he declared:
"Or else your death."
The brief phrase was uttered very simply but with a firmness that gave
it the full significance of an irrevocable sentence. It was clear that
Essarès was faced with a catastrophe which he could no longer avoid
save by submitting absolutely. In less than a minute, he would have
spoken or he would be dead.
Once again Patrice fixed his eyes on Coralie, ready to interfere should
he perceive in her any other feeling than one of passive terror. But her
attitude did not change. She was therefore accepting the worst, it
appeared, even though this meant her husband's death; and Patrice held
his hand accordingly.
"Are we all agreed?" Bournef asked, turning to his accomplices.
"Quite," said one of them.
"Do you take your share of the responsibility?"
"We do."
Bournef brought his hands together and crossed them, which had the
result of knotting the cord round Essarès' neck. Then he pulled
slightly, so as to make the pressure felt, and asked, unemotionally:
"Yes or no?"
"Yes."
There was a murmur of satisfaction. The accomplices heaved a breath; and
Bournef nodded his head with an air of approval:
"Ah, so you accept! It was high time: I doubt if any one was ever nearer
death than you were, Essarès." Retaining his hold of the cord, he
continued, "Very well. You will speak. But I know you; and your answer
surprises me, for I told the colonel that not even the certainty of
death would make you confess your secret. Am I wrong?"
"No," replied Essarès. "Neither death nor torture."
"Then you have something different to propose?"
"Yes."
"Something worth our while?"
"Yes. I suggested it to the colonel just now, when you were out of the
room. But, though he was willing to betray you and go halves with me in
the secret, he refused the other thing."
"Why should I accept it?"
"Because you must take it or leave it and because you will understand
what he did not."
"It's a compromise, I suppose?"
"Yes."
"Money?"
"Yes."
Bournef shrugged his shoulders:
"A few thousand-franc notes, I expect. And you imagine that Bournef and
his friends will be such fools? . . . Come, Essarès, why do you want us
to compromise? We know your secret almost entirely. . . ."
"You know what it is, but not how to use it. You don't know how to get
at it; and that's just the point."
"We shall discover it."
"Never."
"Yes, your death will make it easier for us."
"My death? Thanks to the information lodged by the colonel, in a few
hours you will be tracked down and most likely caught: in any case, you
will be unable to pursue your search. Therefore you have hardly any
choice. It's the money which I'm offering you, or else . . . prison."
"And, if we accept," asked Bournef, to whom the argument seemed to
appeal, "when shall we be paid?"
"At once."
"Then the money is here?"
"Yes."
"A contemptible sum, as I said before?"
"No, a much larger sum than you hope for; infinitely larger."
"How much?"
"Four millions."