_The New
Terror_
[Illustration: “My cry was torn from me by the vision of Cordélia’s
form ... rising between us at the moment when our fingers were
pressing the triggers....”]
_The
New Terror_
_By_ GASTON LEROUX
AUTHOR OF “THE PHANTOM CLUE,” “WOLVES OF THE
SEA,” “MISSING MEN,” ETC.
_FRONTISPIECE BY GEORGE W. GAGE_
NEW YORK
_THE MACAULAY COMPANY_
Published in England under the title
THE BURGLED HEART
_Copyright, 1926, by The Macaulay Company_
_Printed in the United States of America_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I +My Betrothal to Cordélia+ 9
II +The Portrait+ 12
III +Vascoeuil and Hennequeville+ 20
IV +The Wedding+ 29
V +An Unexpected Present+ 39
VI +Patrick+ 47
VII +After the Wedding+ 72
VIII +Dr. Thurel+ 77
IX +I Discover a Change in Cordélia+ 92
X +The Second Night+ 98
XI +The Golden Chamber+ 111
XII +The Thief+ 120
XIII +Happiness Consists in Realities not in Dreams+ 128
XIV +Happy Days+ 138
XV +In Which My Anxiety About Cordélia’s Polygon is Revived+ 141
XVI +The Appointment+ 146
XVII +The Duel+ 164
XVIII +And Now+ ... 178
XIX +The Last Visit+— 185
+A Terrible Tale+ 189
+The Gold Axe+ 229
THE NEW TERROR
CHAPTER I
MY BETROTHAL TO CORDÉLIA
Our parents as good as betrothed us from our earliest infancy. When I
was twelve and she was eight, our friends used to remark that we made
a charming couple, and our mothers were lost in admiration of us. We
would gladly have been married at once we were so fond of one another.
We were first cousins, and were often brought together at holiday time.
At that period Cordélia had already given me her heart, the budding
heart of a little maid of eight.
I was a tall, sturdy boy for my age with a fair, almost reddish-brown
complexion, passionately devoted to every form of sport, but idle in
the school-room. Life in the open air was the one thing that attracted
me. Cordélia, who possessed an inclination for reading and the arts,
acquired her taste for outdoor life from me. Her mother was Italian. My
uncle had married her during a business trip to Turin. When Cordélia
was eight years old she was a talented musician, but she surprised us
still more by the facility with which she drew or painted anything
which interested her or struck her fancy. As for myself, whatever came
from her hands seemed to me in the nature of a marvel.
I loved her all the more for her gifts and I bestowed on her unstinted
admiration. It was I who taught her how to ride. She knew no fear.
Sometimes she gave me a fright, but I could not choose but follow her,
and she did with me as she pleased. I was never a dreamer. Once she
said, “Let us dream,” and I pretended as I stood beside her to dream,
meaning thereby that I kept silent. Then she eyed me with a queer
expression and burst into laughter.
“Kiss me,” she said.
I tried to kiss her and she fled.
We made merry in this way until I was nineteen. I had become a tall,
strongly-built fellow with a freckled face. She considered me the
handsomest of men. She always considered me the handsomest of men.
She herself had become beautiful beyond words. The slenderness of the
unruly young girl had given way to a form of ideal elegance and charm.
She was neither fair nor dark. The color of her hair, which I called
a fluffy radiance was all her own. Her eyes were green, flecked with
gold, whose shades were ever changing. And then her graceful figure!
She was as supple as a reed as the saying is, but by no means frail.
We continued to amuse ourselves like children.
Nevertheless one day we took each other by the hand and went thus
together to our parents asking them to consent to our marriage without
loss of time. We were filled with a wild desire to go for a wedding
trip on horseback. Our parents, to our infinite sorrow, refused to
listen to us. They postponed our trip on horseback for five years from
then, and packed me off to America, which seemed to me a cruel and
bitter mockery. And then I returned for my military service. And after
that I was dispatched to America once more.