THE FOURTH ACT
"Captain," said Don Luis, "you've scored two fine blunders. The first
was your not telling me that Grégoire was a woman. The second . . ."
But Don Luis saw that the officer was too much dejected for him to care
about completing his charge. He put his hand on Patrice Belval's
shoulder:
"Come," he said, "don't upset yourself. The position's not as bad as you
think."
"Coralie jumped out of the window to escape that man," Patrice muttered.
"Your Coralie is alive," said Don Luis, shrugging his shoulders. "In
Siméon's hands, but alive."
"Why, what do you know about it? Anyway, if she's in that monster's
hands, might she not as well be dead? Doesn't it mean all the horrors of
death? Where's the difference?"
"It means a danger of death, but it means life if we come in time; and
we shall."
"Have you a clue?"
"Do you imagine that I have sat twiddling my thumbs and that an old hand
like myself hasn't had time in half an hour to unravel the mysteries
which this cabin presents?"
"Then let's go," cried Patrice, already eager for the fray. "Let's have
at the enemy."
"Not yet," said Don Luis, who was still hunting around him. "Listen to
me. I'll tell you what I know, captain, and I'll tell it you straight
out, without trying to dazzle you by a parade of reasoning and without
even telling you of the tiny trifles that serve me as proofs. The bare
facts, that's all. Well, then . . ."
"Yes?"
"Little Mother Coralie kept the appointment at nine o'clock. Siméon was
there with his female accomplice. Between them they bound and gagged her
and brought her here. Observe that, in their eyes, it was a safe spot
for the job, because they knew for certain that you and I had not
discovered the trap. Nevertheless, we may assume that it was a
provisional base of operations, adopted for part of the night only, and
that Siméon reckoned on leaving Little Mother Coralie in the hands of
his accomplice and setting out in search of a definite place of
confinement, a permanent prison. But luckily--and I'm rather proud of
this--Ya-Bon was on the spot. Ya-Bon was watching on his bench, in the
dark. He must have seen them cross the embankment and no doubt
recognized Siméon's walk in the distance. We'll take it that he gave
chase at once, jumped on to the deck of the barge and arrived here at
the same time as the enemy, before they had time to lock themselves in.
Four people in this narrow space, in pitch darkness, must have meant a
frightful upheaval. I know my Ya-Bon. He's terrible at such times.
Unfortunately, it was not Siméon whom he caught by the neck with that
merciless hand of his, but . . . the woman. Siméon took advantage of
this. He had not let go of Little Mother Coralie. He picked her up in
his arms and went up the companionway, flung her on the deck and then
came back to lock the door on the two as they struggled."
"Do you think so? Do you think it was Ya-Bon and not Siméon who killed
the woman?"
"I'm sure of it. If there were no other proof, there is this particular
fracture of the wind-pipe, which is Ya-Bon's special mark. What I do not
understand is why, when he had settled his adversary, Ya-Bon didn't
break down the door with a push of his shoulder and go after Siméon. I
presume that he was wounded and that he had not the strength to make the
necessary effort. I presume also that the woman did not die at once and
that she spoke, saying things against Siméon, who had abandoned her
instead of defending her. This much is certain, that Ya-Bon broke the
window-panes . . ."
"To jump into the Seine, wounded as he was, with his one arm?" said
Patrice.
"Not at all. There's a ledge running along the window. He could set his
feet on it and get off that way."
"Very well. But he was quite ten or twenty minutes behind Siméon?"
"That didn't matter, if the woman had time, before dying, to tell him
where Siméon was taking refuge."
"How can we get to know?"
"I've been trying to find out all the time that we've been chatting
. . . and I've just discovered the way."
"Here?"
"This minute; and I expected no less from Ya-Bon. The woman told him of
a place in the cabin--look, that open drawer, probably--in which there
was a visiting-card with an address on it. Ya-Bon took it and, in order
to let me know, pinned the card to the curtain over there. I had seen it
already; but it was only this moment that I noticed the pin that fixed
it, a gold pin with which I myself fastened the Morocco Cross to
Ya-Bon's breast."
"What is the address?"
"Amédée Vacherot, 18, Rue Guimard. The Rue Guimard is close to this,
which makes me quite sure of the road they took."
The two men at once went away, leaving the woman's dead body behind. As
Don Luis said, the police must make what they could of it.
As they crossed Berthou's Wharf they glanced at the recess and Don Luis
remarked:
"There's a ladder missing. We must remember that detail. Siméon has been
in there. He's beginning to make blunders too."
The car took them to the Rue Guimard, a small street in Passy. No. 18
was a large house let out in flats, of fairly ancient construction. It
was two o'clock in the morning when they rang.
A long time elapsed before the door opened; and, as they passed through
the carriage-entrance, the porter put his head out of his lodge:
"Who's there?" he asked.
"We want to see M. Amédée Vacherot on urgent business."
"That's myself."
"You?"
"Yes, I, the porter. But by what right . . . ?"
"Orders of the prefect of police," said Don Luis, displaying a badge.
They entered the lodge. Amédée Vacherot was a little,
respectable-looking old man, with white whiskers. He might have been a
beadle.
"Answer my questions plainly," Don Luis ordered, in a rough voice, "and
don't try to prevaricate. We are looking for a man called Siméon
Diodokis."
The porter took fright at once:
"To do him harm?" he exclaimed. "If it's to do him harm, it's no use
asking me any questions. I would rather die by slow tortures than injure
that kind M. Siméon."
Don Luis assumed a gentler tone:
"Do him harm? On the contrary, we are looking for him to do him a
service, to save him from a great danger."
"A great danger?" cried M. Vacherot. "Oh, I'm not at all surprised! I
never saw him in such a state of excitement."
"Then he's been here?"
"Yes, since midnight."
"Is he here now?"
"No, he went away again."
Patrice made a despairing gesture and asked:
"Perhaps he left some one behind?"
"No, but he intended to bring some one."
"A lady?"
M. Vacherot hesitated.
"We know," Don Luis resumed, "that Siméon Diodokis was trying to find a
place of safety in which to shelter a lady for whom he entertained the
deepest respect."
"Can you tell me the lady's name?" asked the porter, still on his guard.
"Certainly, Mme. Essarès, the widow of the banker to whom Siméon used to
act as secretary. Mme. Essarès is a victim of persecution; he is
defending her against her enemies; and, as we ourselves want to help the
two of them and to take this criminal business in hand, we must insist
that you . . ."
"Oh, well!" said M. Vacherot, now fully reassured. "I have known Siméon
Diodokis for ever so many years. He was very good to me at the time when
I was working for an undertaker; he lent me money; he got me my present
job; and he used often to come and sit in my lodge and talk about heaps
of things. . . ."
"Such as relations with Essarès Bey?" asked Don Luis, carelessly. "Or
his plans concerning Patrice Belval?"
"Heaps of things," said the porter, after a further hesitation. "He is
one of the best of men, does a lot of good and used to employ me in
distributing his local charity. And just now again he was risking his
life for Mme. Essarès."
"One more word. Had you seen him since Essarès Bey's death?"
"No, it was the first time. He arrived a little before one o'clock. He
was out of breath and spoke in a low voice, listening to the sounds of
the street outside: 'I've been followed,' said he; 'I've been followed.
I could swear it.' 'By whom?' said I. 'You don't know him,' said he. 'He
has only one hand, but he wrings your neck for you.' And then he
stopped. And then he began again, in a whisper, so that I could hardly
hear: 'Listen to me, you're coming with me. We're going to fetch a lady,
Mme. Essarès. They want to kill her. I've hidden her all right, but
she's fainted: we shall have to carry her. . . . Or no, I'll go alone.
I'll manage. But I want to know, is my room still free?' I must tell
you, he has a little lodging here, since the day when he too had to hide
himself. He used to come to it sometimes and he kept it on in case he
might want it, for it's a detached lodging, away from the other
tenants."
"What did he do after that?" asked Patrice, anxiously.
"After that, he went away."
"But why isn't he back yet?"
"I admit that it's alarming. Perhaps the man who was following him has
attacked him. Or perhaps something has happened to the lady."
"What do you mean, something happened to the lady?"
"I'm afraid something may have. When he first showed me the way we
should have to go to fetch her, he said, 'Quick, we must hurry. To save
her life, I had to put her in a hole. That's all very well for two or
three hours. But, if she's left longer, she will suffocate. The want of
air . . ."
Patrice had leapt upon the old man. He was beside himself, maddened at
the thought that Coralie, ill and worn-out as she was, might be at the
point of death in some unknown place, a prey to terror and suffering.
"You shall speak," he cried, "and this very minute! You shall tell us
where she is! Oh, don't imagine that you can fool us any longer! Where
is she? You know! He told you!"
He was shaking M. Vacherot by the shoulders and hurling his rage into
the old man's face with unspeakable violence.
Don Luis, on the other hand, stood chuckling.
"Splendid, captain," he said, "splendid! My best compliments! You're
making real progress since I joined forces with you. M. Vacherot will go
through fire and water for us now."
"Well, you see if I don't make the fellow speak," shouted Patrice.
"It's no use, sir," declared the porter, very firmly and calmly. "You
have deceived me. You are enemies of M. Siméon's. I shall not say
another word that can give you any information."
"You refuse to speak, do you? You refuse to speak?"
In his exasperation Patrice drew his revolver and aimed it at the man:
"I'm going to count three. If, by that time, you don't make up your mind
to speak, you shall see the sort of man that Captain Belval is!"
The porter gave a start:
"Captain Belval, did you say? Are you Captain Belval?"
"Ah, old fellow, that seems to give you food for thought!"
"Are you Captain Belval? Patrice Belval?"
"At your service; and, if in two seconds from this you haven't told me
. . ."
"Patrice Belval! And you are M. Siméon's enemy? And you want to . . . ?"
"I want to do him up like the cur he is, your blackguard of a Siméon
. . . and you, his accomplice, with him. A nice pair of rascals! . . .
Well, have you made up your mind?"
"Unhappy man!" gasped the porter. "Unhappy man! You don't know what
you're doing. Kill M. Siméon! You? You? Why, you're the last man who
could commit a crime like that!"
"What about it? Speak, will you, you old numskull!"
"You, kill M. Siméon? You, Patrice? You, Captain Belval? You?"
"And why not? Speak, damn it! Why not?"
"You are his son."
All Patrice's fury, all his anguish at the thought that Coralie was in
Siméon's power or else lying in some pit, all his agonized grief, all
his alarm: all this gave way, for a moment, to a terrible fit of
merriment, which revealed itself in a long burst of laughter.
"Siméon's son! What the devil are you talking about? Oh, this beats
everything! Upon my word, you're full of ideas, when you're trying to
save him! You old ruffian! Of course, it's most convenient: don't kill
that man, he's your father. He my father, that putrid Siméon! Siméon
Diodokis, Patrice Belval's father! Oh, it's enough to make a chap split
his sides!"
Don Luis had listened in silence. He made a sign to Patrice:
"Will you allow me to clear up this business, captain? It won't take me
more than a few minutes; and that certainly won't delay us." And,
without waiting for the officer's reply, he turned to the old man and
said slowly, "Let's have this out, M. Vacherot. It's of the highest
importance. The great thing is to speak plainly and not to lose yourself
in superfluous words. Besides, you have said too much not to finish your
revelation. Siméon Diodokis is not your benefactor's real name, is it?"
"No, that's so."
"He is Armand Belval; and the woman who loved him used to call him
Patrice?"
"Yes, his son's name."
"Nevertheless, this Armand Belval was a victim of the same murderous
attempt as the woman he loved, who was Coralie Essarès' mother?"
"Yes, but Coralie Essarès' mother died; and he did not."
"That was on the fourteenth of April, 1895."
"The fourteenth of April, 1895."
Patrice caught hold of Don Luis' arm:
"Come," he spluttered, "Coralie's at death's door. The monster has
buried her. That's the only thing that matters."
"Then you don't believe that monster to be your father?" asked Don Luis.
"You're mad!"
"For all that, captain, you're trembling! . . ."
"I dare say, I dare say, but it's because of Coralie. . . . I can't even
hear what the man's saying! . . . Oh, it's a nightmare, every word of
it! Make him stop! Make him shut up! Why didn't I wring his neck?"
He sank into a chair, with his elbows on the table and his head in his
hands. It was really a horrible moment; and no catastrophe would have
overwhelmed a man more utterly.
Don Luis looked at him with feeling and then turned to the porter:
"Explain yourself, M. Vacherot," he said. "As briefly as possible, won't
you? No details. We can go into them later. We were saying, on the
fourteenth of April, 1895 . . ."
"On the fourteenth of April, 1895, a solicitor's clerk, accompanied by
the commissary of police, came to my governor's, close by here, and
ordered two coffins for immediate delivery. The whole shop got to work.
At ten o'clock in the evening, the governor, one of my mates and I went
to the Rue Raynouard, to a sort of pavilion or lodge, standing in a
garden."
"I know. Go on."
"There were two bodies. We wrapped them in winding-sheets and put them
into the coffins. At eleven o'clock my governor and my fellow-workmen
went away and left me alone with a sister of mercy. There was nothing
more to do except to nail the coffins down. Well, just then, the nun,
who had been watching and praying, fell asleep and something happened
. . . oh, an awful thing! It made my hair stand on end, sir. I shall
never forget it as long as I live. My knees gave way beneath me, I shook
with fright. . . . Sir, the man's body had moved. The man was alive!"
"Then you didn't know of the murder at that time?" asked Don Luis. "You
hadn't heard of the attempt?"
"No, we were told that they had both suffocated themselves with gas.
. . . It was many hours before the man recovered consciousness
entirely. He was in some way poisoned."
"But why didn't you inform the nun?"
"I couldn't say. I was simply stunned. I looked at the man as he slowly
came back to life and ended by opening his eyes. His first words were,
'She's dead, I suppose?' And then at once he said, 'Not a word about all
this. Let them think me dead: that will be better.' And I can't tell you
why, but I consented. The miracle had deprived me of all power of will.
I obeyed like a child. . . . He ended by getting up. He leant over the
other coffin, drew aside the sheet and kissed the dead woman's face over
and over again, whispering, 'I will avenge you. All my life shall be
devoted to avenging you and also, as you wished, to uniting our
children. If I don't kill myself, it will be for Patrice and Coralie's
sake. Good-by.' Then he told me to help him. Between us, we lifted the
woman out of the coffin and carried it into the little bedroom next
door. Then we went into the garden, took some big stones and put them
into the coffins where the two bodies had been. When this was done, I
nailed the coffins down, woke the good sister and went away. The man had
locked himself into the bedroom with the dead woman. Next morning the
undertaker's men came and fetched away the two coffins."
Patrice had unclasped his hands and thrust his distorted features
between Don Luis and the porter. Fixing his haggard eyes upon the
latter, he asked, struggling with his words:
"But the graves? The inscription saying that the remains of both lie
there, near the lodge where the murder was committed? The cemetery?"
"Armand Belval wished it so. At that time I was living in a garret in
this house. I took a lodging for him where he came and lived by stealth,
under the name of Siméon Diodokis, since Armand Belval was dead, and
where he stayed for several months without going out. Then, in his new
name and through me, he bought his lodge. And, bit by bit, we dug the
graves. Coralie's and his. His because, I repeat, he wished it so.
Patrice and Coralie were both dead. It seemed to him, in this way, that
he was not leaving her. Perhaps also, I confess, despair had upset his
balance a little, just a very little, only in what concerned his memory
of the woman who died on the fourteenth of April, 1895, and his devotion
for her. He wrote her name and his own everywhere: on the grave and also
on the walls, on the trees and in the very borders of the flower-beds.
They were Coralie Essarès' name and yours. . . . And for this, for all
that had to do with his revenge upon the murderer and with his son and
with the dead woman's daughter, oh, for these matters he had all his
wits about him, believe me, sir!"
Patrice stretched his clutching hands and his distraught face towards
the porter:
"Proofs, proofs, proofs!" he insisted, in a stifled voice. "Give me
proofs at once! There's some one dying at this moment by that
scoundrel's criminal intentions, there's a woman at the point of death.
Give me proofs!"
"You need have no fear," said M. Vacherot. "My friend has only one
thought, that of saving the woman, not killing her. . . ."
"He lured her and me into the lodge to kill us, as our parents were
killed before us."
"He is trying only to unite you."
"Yes, in death."
"No, in life. You are his dearly-loved son. He always spoke of you with
pride."
"He is a ruffian, a monster!" shouted the officer.
"He is the very best man living, sir, and he is your father."
Patrice started, stung by the insult:
"Proofs," he roared, "proofs! I forbid you to speak another word until
you have proved the truth in a manner admitting of no doubt."
Without moving from his seat, the old man put out his arm towards an old
mahogany escritoire, lowered the lid and, pressing a spring, pulled out
one of the drawers. Then he held out a bundle of papers:
"You know your father's handwriting, don't you, captain?" he said. "You
must have kept letters from him, since the time when you were at school
in England. Well, read the letters which he wrote to me. You will see
your name repeated a hundred times, the name of his son; and you will
see the name of the Coralie whom he meant you to marry. Your whole
life--your studies, your journeys, your work--is described in these
letters. And you will also find your photographs, which he had taken by
various correspondents, and photographs of Coralie, whom he had visited
at Salonica. And you will see above all his hatred for Essarès Bey,
whose secretary he had become, and his plans of revenge, his patience,
his tenacity. And you will also see his despair when he heard of the
marriage between Essarès and Coralie and, immediately afterwards, his
joy at the thought that his revenge would be more cruel when he
succeeded in uniting his son Patrice with Essarès' wife."
As the old fellow spoke, he placed the letters one by one under the eyes
of Patrice, who had at once recognized his father's hand and sat
greedily devouring sentences in which his own name was constantly
repeated. M. Vacherot watched him.
"Have you any more doubts, captain?" he asked, at last.
The officer again pressed his clenched fists to his temples:
"I saw his face," he said, "above the skylight, in the lodge into which
he had locked us. . . . It was gloating over our death, it was a face
mad with hatred. . . . He hated us even more than Essarès did. . . ."
"A mistake! Pure imagination!" the old man protested.
"Or madness," muttered Patrice.
Then he struck the table violently, in a fit of revulsion:
"It's not true, it's not true!" he exclaimed. "That man is not my
father. What, a scoundrel like that! . . ."
He took a few steps round the little room and, stopping in front of Don
Luis, jerked out:
"Let's go. Else I shall go mad too. It's a nightmare, there's no other
word for it, a nightmare in which things turn upside down until the
brain itself capsizes. Let's go. Coralie is in danger. That's the only
thing that matters."
The old man shook his head:
"I'm very much afraid . . ."
"What are _you_ afraid of?" bellowed the officer.
"I'm afraid that my poor friend has been caught up by the person who was
following him . . . and then how can he have saved Mme. Essarès? The
poor thing was hardly able to breathe, he told me."
Hanging on to Don Luis' arm, Patrice staggered out of the porter's lodge
like a drunken man:
"She's done for, she must be!" he cried.
"Not at all," said Don Luis. "Siméon is as feverishly active as
yourself. He is nearing the catastrophe. He is quaking with fear and not
in a condition to weigh his words. Believe me, your Coralie is in no
immediate danger. We have some hours before us."
"But Ya-Bon? Suppose Ya-Bon has laid hands upon him?"
"I gave Ya-Bon orders not to kill him. Therefore, whatever happens,
Siméon is alive. That's the great thing. So long as Siméon is alive,
there is nothing to fear. He won't let your Coralie die."
"Why not, seeing that he hates her? Why not? What is there in that man's
heart? He devotes all his existence to a work of love on our behalf;
and, from one minute to the next, that love turns to execration."
He pressed Don Luis' arm and, in a hollow voice, asked:
"Do you believe that he is my father?"
"Siméon Diodokis is your father, captain," replied Don Luis.
"Ah, don't, don't! It's too horrible! God, but we are in the valley of
the shadow!"
"On the contrary," said Don Luis, "the shadow is lifting slightly; and I
confess that our talk with M. Vacherot has given me a little light."
"Do you mean it?"
But, in Patrice Belval's fevered brain, one idea jostled another. He
suddenly stopped:
"Siméon may have gone back to the porter's lodge! . . . And we sha'n't
be there! . . . Perhaps he will bring Coralie back!"
"No," Don Luis declared, "he would have done that before now, if it
could be done. No, it's for us to go to him."
"But where?"
"Well, of course, where all the fighting has been . . . where the gold
lies. All the enemy's operations are centered in that gold; and you may
be sure that, even in retreat, he can't get away from it. Besides, we
know that he is not far from Berthou's Wharf."
Patrice allowed himself to be led along without a word. But suddenly Don
Luis cried:
"Did you hear?"
"Yes, a shot."
At that moment they were on the point of turning into the Rue Raynouard.
The height of the houses prevented them from perceiving the exact spot
from which the shot had been fired, but it came approximately from the
Essarès house or the immediate precincts. Patrice was filled with
alarm:
"Can it be Ya-Bon?"
"I'm afraid so," said Don Luis, "and, as Ya-Bon wouldn't fire, some one
must have fired a shot at him. . . . Oh, by Jove, if my poor Ya-Bon were
to be killed . . . !"
"And suppose it was at her, at Coralie?" whispered Patrice.
Don Luis began to laugh:
"Oh, my dear captain, I'm almost sorry that I ever mixed myself up in
this business! You were much cleverer before I came and a good deal
clearer-sighted. Why the devil should Siméon attack your Coralie,
considering that she's already in his power?"
They hurried their steps. As they passed the Essarès house they saw that
everything was quiet and they went on until they came to the lane, down
which they turned.
Patrice had the key, but the little door which opened on to the garden
of the lodge was bolted inside.
"Aha!" said Don Luis. "That shows that we're warm. Meet me on the quay,
captain. I shall run down to Berthou's Wharf to have a look round."
During the past few minutes a pale dawn had begun to mingle with the
shades of night. The embankment was still deserted, however.
Don Luis observed nothing in particular at Berthou's Wharf; but, when he
returned to the quay above, Patrice showed him a ladder lying right at
the end of the pavement which skirted the garden of the lodge; and Don
Luis recognized the ladder as the one whose absence he had noticed from
the recess in the yard. With that quick vision which was one of his
greatest assets, he at once furnished the explanation:
"As Siméon had the key of the garden, it was obviously Ya-Bon who used
the ladder to make his way in. Therefore he saw Siméon take refuge there
on returning from his visit to old Vacherot and after coming to fetch
Coralie. Now the question is, did Siméon succeed in fetching Little
Mother Coralie, or did he run away before fetching her? That I can't
say. But, in any case . . ."
Bending low down, he examined the pavement and continued:
"In any case, what is certain is that Ya-Bon knows the hiding-place
where the bags of gold are stacked and that it is there most likely that
your Coralie was and perhaps still is, worse luck, if the enemy, giving
his first thought to his personal safety, has not had time to remove
her."
"Are you sure?"
"Look here, captain, Ya-Bon always carries a piece of chalk in his
pocket. As he doesn't know how to write, except just the letters forming
my name, he has drawn these two straight lines which, with the line of
the wall, make a triangle . . . the golden triangle."
Don Luis drew himself up:
"The clue is rather meager. But Ya-Bon looks upon me as a wizard. He
never doubted that I should manage to find this spot and that those
three lines would be enough for me. Poor Ya-Bon!"
"But," objected Patrice, "all this, according to you, took place before
our return to Paris, between twelve and one o'clock, therefore."
"Yes."
"Then what about the shot which we have just heard, four or five hours
later?"
"As to that I'm not so positive. We may assume that Siméon squatted
somewhere in the dark. Possibly at the first break of day, feeling
easier and hearing nothing of Ya-Bon, he risked taking a step or two.
Then Ya-Bon, keeping watch in silence, would have leaped upon him."
"So you think . . ."
"I think that there was a struggle, that Ya-Bon was wounded and that
Siméon . . ."
"That Siméon escaped?"
"Or else was killed. However, we shall know all about it in a few
minutes."
He set the ladder against the railing at the top of the wall. Patrice
climbed over with Don Luis' assistance. Then, stepping over the railing
in his turn, Don Luis drew up the ladder, threw it into the garden and
made a careful examination. Finally, they turned their steps, through
the tall grasses and bushy shrubs, towards the lodge.
The daylight was increasing rapidly and the outlines of everything were
becoming clearer. The two men walked round the lodge, Don Luis leading
the way. When he came in sight of the yard, on the street side, he
turned and said: "I was right."
And he ran forward.
Outside the hall-door lay the bodies of the two adversaries, clutching
each other in a confused heap. Ya-Bon had a horrible wound in the head,
from which the blood was flowing all over his face. With his right hand
he held Siméon by the throat.
Don Luis at once perceived that Ya-Bon was dead and Siméon Diodokis
alive.