Hortense Daniel. A moment's hesitation may undo us all. Speak. No details,
but the actual facts."
"Madame de Lourtier is not my wife. The only woman who has the right to
bear my name is one whom I married when I was a young colonial official.
She was a rather eccentric woman, of feeble mentality and incredibly
subject to impulses that amounted to monomania. We had two children, twins,
whom she worshipped and in whose company she would no doubt have recovered
her mental balance and moral health, when, by a stupid accident--a
passing carriage--they were killed before her eyes. The poor thing went
mad ... with the silent, secretive madness which you imagined. Some time
afterwards, when I was appointed to an Algerian station, I brought her to
France and put her in the charge of a worthy creature who had nursed me and
brought me up. Two years later, I made the acquaintance of the woman who
was to become the joy of my life. You saw her just now. She is the mother
of my children and she passes as my wife. Are we to sacrifice her? Is our
whole existence to be shipwrecked in horror and must our name be coupled
with this tragedy of madness and blood?"
Renine thought for a moment and asked:
"What is the other one's name?"
"Hermance."
"Hermance! Still that initial ... still those eight letters!"
"That was what made me realize everything just now," said M. de Lourtier.
"When you compared the different names, I at once reflected that my unhappy
wife was called Hermance and that she was mad ... and all the proofs leapt
to my mind."
"But, though we understand the selection of the victims, how are we to
explain the murders? What are the symptoms of her madness? Does she suffer
at all?"
"She does not suffer very much at present. But she has suffered in the
past, the most terrible suffering that you can imagine: since the moment
when her two children were run over before her eyes, night and day she had
the horrible spectacle of their death before her eyes, without a moment's
interruption, for she never slept for a single second. Think of the torture
of it! To see her children dying through all the hours of the long day and
all the hours of the interminable night!"
"Nevertheless," Renine objected, "it is not to drive away that picture that
she commits murder?"
"Yes, possibly," said M. de Lourtier, thoughtfully, "to drive it away by
sleep."
"I don't understand."
"You don't understand, because we are talking of a madwoman ... and because
all that happens in that disordered brain is necessarily incoherent and
abnormal?"
"Obviously. But, all the same, is your supposition based on facts that
justify it?"
"Yes, on facts which I had, in a way, overlooked but which to-day assume
their true significance. The first of these facts dates a few years back,
to a morning when my old nurse for the first time found Hermance fast
asleep. Now she was holding her hands clutched around a puppy which she had
strangled. And the same thing was repeated on three other occasions."
"And she slept?"
"Yes, each time she slept a sleep which lasted for several nights."
"And what conclusion did you draw?"
"I concluded that the relaxation of the nerves provoked by taking life
exhausted her and predisposed her for sleep."
Renine shuddered:
"That's it! There's not a doubt of it! The taking life, the effort of
killing makes her sleep. And she began with women what had served her so
well with animals. All her madness has become concentrated on that one
point: she kills them to rob them of their sleep! She wanted sleep; and she
steals the sleep of others! That's it, isn't it? For the past two years,
she has been sleeping?"
"For the past two years, she has been sleeping," stammered M. de Lourtier.
Renine gripped him by the shoulder:
"And it never occurred to you that her madness might go farther, that she
would stop at nothing to win the blessing of sleep! Let us make haste,
monsieur! All this is horrible!"
They were both making for the door, when M. de Lourtier hesitated. The
telephone-bell was ringing.
"It's from there," he said.
"From there?"
"Yes, my old nurse gives me the news at the same time every day."
He unhooked the receivers and handed one to Renine, who whispered in his
ear the questions which he was to put.
"Is that you, Felicienne? How is she?"
"Not so bad, sir."
"Is she sleeping well?"
"Not very well, lately. Last night, indeed, she never closed her eyes. So
she's very gloomy just now."
"What is she doing at the moment?"
"She is in her room."
"Go to her, Felicienne, and don't leave her."
"I can't. She's locked herself in."
"You must, Felicienne. Break open the door. I'm coming straight on....
Hullo! Hullo!... Oh, damnation, they've cut us off!"
Without a word, the two men left the flat and ran down to the avenue.
Renine hustled M. de Lourtier into the car:
"What address?"
"Ville d'Avray."
"Of course! In the very center of her operations ... like a spider in the
middle of her web! Oh, the shame of it!"
He was profoundly agitated. He saw the whole adventure in its monstrous
reality.
"Yes, she kills them to steal their sleep, as she used to kill the animals.
It is the same obsession, but complicated by a whole array of utterly
incomprehensible practices and superstitions. She evidently fancies that
the similarity of the Christian names to her own is indispensable and that
she will not sleep unless her victim is an Hortense or an Honorine. It's
a madwoman's argument; its logic escapes us and we know nothing of its
origin; but we can't get away from it. She has to hunt and has to find. And
she finds and carries off her prey beforehand and watches over it for the
appointed number of days, until the moment when, crazily, through the hole
which she digs with a hatchet in the middle of the skull, she absorbs the
sleep which stupefies her and grants her oblivion for a given period. And
here again we see absurdity and madness. Why does she fix that period at so
many days? Why should one victim ensure her a hundred and twenty days of
sleep and another a hundred and twenty-five? What insanity! The calculation
is mysterious and of course mad; but the fact remains that, at the end of
a hundred or a hundred and twenty-five days, as the case may be, a fresh
victim is sacrificed; and there have been six already and the seventh is
awaiting her turn. Ah, monsieur, what a terrible responsibility for you!
Such a monster as that! She should never have been allowed out of sight!"
M. de Lourtier-Vaneau made no protest. His air of dejection, his pallor,
his trembling hands, all proved his remorse and his despair: "She deceived
me," he murmured. "She was outwardly so quiet, so docile! And, after all,
she's in a lunatic asylum."
"Then how can she ...?"
"The asylum," explained M. de Lourtier, "is made up of a number of separate
buildings scattered over extensive grounds. The sort of cottage in which
Hermance lives stands quite apart. There is first a room occupied by
Felicienne, then Hermance's bedroom and two separate rooms, one of which
has its windows overlooking the open country. I suppose it is there that
she locks up her victims."
"But the carriage that conveys the dead bodies?"
"The stables of the asylum are quite close to the cottage. There's a horse
and carriage there for station work. Hermance no doubt gets up at night,
harnesses the horse and slips the body through the window."
"And the nurse who watches her?"
"Felicienne is very old and rather deaf."
"But by day she sees her mistress moving to and fro, doing this and that.
Must we not admit a certain complicity?"
"Never! Felicienne herself has been deceived by Hermance's hypocrisy."
"All the same, it was she who telephoned to Madame de Lourtier first, about
that advertisement...."
"Very naturally. Hermance, who talks now and then, who argues, who buries
herself in the newspapers, which she does not understand, as you were
saying just now, but reads through them attentively, must have seen the
advertisement and, having heard that we were looking for a servant, must
have asked Felicienne to ring me up."
"Yes ... yes ... that is what I felt," said Renine, slowly. "She marks down
her victims.... With Hortense dead, she would have known, once she had used
up her allowance of sleep, where to find an eighth victim.... But how did
she entice the unfortunate women? How did she entice Hortense?"
The car was rushing along, but not fast enough to please Renine, who rated
the chauffeur:
"Push her along, Adolphe, can't you?... We're losing time, my man."
Suddenly the fear of arriving too late began to torture him. The logic of
the insane is subject to sudden changes of mood, to any perilous idea that
may enter the mind. The madwoman might easily mistake the date and hasten
the catastrophe, like a clock out of order which strikes an hour too soon.
On the other hand, as her sleep was once more disturbed, might she not be
tempted to take action without waiting for the appointed moment? Was this
not the reason why she had locked herself into her room? Heavens, what
agonies her prisoner must be suffering! What shudders of terror at the
executioner's least movement!
"Faster, Adolphe, or I'll take the wheel myself! Faster, hang it."
At last they reached Ville d'Avray. There was a steep, sloping road on the
right and walls interrupted by a long railing.
"Drive round the grounds, Adolphe. We mustn't give warning of our presence,
must we, M. de Lourtier? Where is the cottage?"
"Just opposite," said M. de Lourtier-Vaneau.
They got out a little farther on. Renine began to run along a bank at the
side of an ill-kept sunken road. It was almost dark. M. de Lourtier said:
"Here, this building standing a little way back.... Look at that window on
the ground-floor. It belongs to one of the separate rooms ... and that is
obviously how she slips out."
"But the window seems to be barred."
"Yes; and that is why no one suspected anything. But she must have found
some way to get through."
The ground-floor was built over deep cellars. Renine quickly clambered up,
finding a foothold on a projecting ledge of stone.
Sure enough, one of the bars was missing.
He pressed his face to the window-pane and looked in.
The room was dark inside. Nevertheless he was able to distinguish at the
back a woman seated beside another woman, who was lying on a mattress. The
woman seated was holding her forehead in her hands and gazing at the woman
who was lying down.
"It's she," whispered M. de Lourtier, who had also climbed the wall. "The
other one is bound."
Renine took from his pocket a glazier's diamond and cut out one of the
panes without making enough noise to arouse the madwoman's attention. He
next slid his hand to the window-fastening and turned it softly, while with
his left hand he levelled a revolver.
"You're not going to fire, surely!" M. de Lourtier-Vaneau entreated.
"If I must, I shall."
Renine pushed open the window gently. But there was an obstacle of which he
was not aware, a chair which toppled over and fell.
He leapt into the room and threw away his revolver in order to seize the
madwoman. But she did not wait for him. She rushed to the door, opened it
and fled, with a hoarse cry.
M. de Lourtier made as though to run after her.
"What's the use?" said Renine, kneeling down, "Let's save the victim
first."
He was instantly reassured: Hortense was alive.
The first thing that he did was to cut the cords and remove the gag that
was stifling her. Attracted by the noise, the old nurse had hastened to
the room with a lamp, which Renine took from her, casting its light on
Hortense.
He was astounded: though livid and exhausted, with emaciated features and
eyes blazing with fever, Hortense was trying to smile. She whispered:
"I was expecting you ... I did not despair for a moment ... I was sure of
you...."
She fainted.
An hour later, after much useless searching around the cottage, they found
the madwoman locked into a large cupboard in the loft. She had hanged
herself.
* * * * *
Hortense refused to stay another night. Besides, it was better that the
cottage should be empty when the old nurse announced the madwoman's
suicide. Renine gave Felicienne minute directions as to what she should do
and say; and then, assisted by the chauffeur and M. de Lourtier, carried
Hortense to the car and brought her home.
She was soon convalescent. Two days later, Renine carefully questioned her
and asked her how she had come to know the madwoman.
"It was very simple," she said. "My husband, who is not quite sane, as I
have told you, is being looked after at Ville d'Avray; and I sometimes go
to see him, without telling anybody, I admit. That was how I came to speak
to that poor madwoman and how, the other day, she made signs that she
wanted me to visit her. We were alone. I went into the cottage. She threw
herself upon me and overpowered me before I had time to cry for help. I
thought it was a jest; and so it was, wasn't it: a madwoman's jest? She was
quite gentle with me.... All the same, she let me starve. But I was so sure
of you!"
"And weren't you frightened?"
"Of starving? No. Besides, she gave me some food, now and then, when the
fancy took her.... And then I was sure of you!"
"Yes, but there was something else: that other peril...."
"What other peril?" she asked, ingenuously.
Renine gave a start. He suddenly understood--it seemed strange at first,
though it was quite natural--that Hortense had not for a moment suspected
and did not yet suspect the terrible danger which she had run. Her mind had
not connected with her own adventure the murders committed by the lady with
the hatchet.
He thought that it would always be time enough to tell her the truth. For
that matter, a few days later her husband, who had been locked up for
years, died in the asylum at Ville d'Avray, and Hortense, who had been
recommended by her doctor a short period of rest and solitude, went to stay
with a relation living near the village of Bassicourt, in the centre of
France.
VII
FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW
_To Prince Serge Renine,
Boulevard Haussmann,
Paris_
LA RONCIERE
NEAR BASSICOURT,
14 NOVEMBER.
"MY DEAR FRIEND,--
"You must be thinking me very ungrateful. I have been here three weeks; and
you have had not one letter from me! Not a word of thanks! And yet I ended
by realizing from what terrible death you saved me and understanding the
secret of that terrible business! But indeed, indeed I couldn't help it! I
was in such a state of prostration after it all! I needed rest and solitude
so badly! Was I to stay in Paris? Was I to continue my expeditions with
you? No, no, no! I had had enough adventures! Other people's are very
interesting, I admit. But when one is one's self the victim and barely
escapes with one's life?... Oh, my dear friend, how horrible it was! Shall
I ever forget it?...
"Here, at la Ronciere, I enjoy the greatest peace. My old spinster cousin
Ermelin pets and coddles me like an invalid. I am getting back my colour
and am very well, physically ... so much so, in fact, that I no longer
ever think of interesting myself in other people's business. Never again!
For instance (I am only telling you this because you are incorrigible, as
inquisitive as any old charwoman, and always ready to busy yourself with
things that don't concern you), yesterday I was present at a rather curious
meeting. Antoinette had taken me to the inn at Bassicourt, where we were
having tea in the public room, among the peasants (it was market-day), when
the arrival of three people, two men and a woman, caused a sudden pause in
the conversation.
"One of the men was a fat farmer in a long blouse, with a jovial, red face,
framed in white whiskers. The other was younger, was dressed in corduroy
and had lean, yellow, cross-grained features. Each of them carried a gun
slung over his shoulder. Between them was a short, slender young woman, in
a brown cloak and a fur cap, whose rather thin and extremely pale face was
surprisingly delicate and distinguished-looking.
"'Father, son and daughter-in-law,' whispered my cousin.
"'What! Can that charming creature be the wife of that clod-hopper?'
"'And the daughter-in-law of Baron de Gorne.'
"'Is the old fellow over there a baron?'
"'Yes, descended from a very ancient, noble family which used to own the
chateau in the old days. He has always lived like a peasant: a great
hunter, a great drinker, a great litigant, always at law with somebody, now
very nearly ruined. His son Mathias was more ambitious and less attached to
the soil and studied for the bar. Then he went to America. Next, the lack
of money brought him back to the village, whereupon he fell in love with a
young girl in the nearest town. The poor girl consented, no one knows why,
to marry him; and for five years past she has been leading the life of a
hermit, or rather of a prisoner, in a little manor-house close by, the
Manoir-au-Puits, the Well Manor.'
"'With the father and the son?' I asked.
"'No, the father lives at the far end of the village, on a lonely farm.'
"'And is Master Mathias jealous?'
"'A perfect tiger!'
"'Without reason?'
"'Without reason, for Natalie de Gorne is the straightest woman in the
world and it is not her fault if a handsome young man has been hanging
around the manor-house for the past few months. However, the de Gornes
can't get over it.'
"'What, the father neither?'
"'The handsome young man is the last descendant of the people who bought
the chateau long ago. This explains old de Gorne's hatred. Jerome
Vignal--I know him and am very fond of him--is a good-looking fellow and
very well off; and he has sworn to run off with Natalie de Gorne. It's
the old man who says so, whenever he has had a drop too much. There,
listen!'
"The old chap was sitting among a group of men who were amusing themselves
by making him drink and plying him with questions. He was already a little
bit 'on' and was holding forth with a tone of indignation and a mocking
smile which formed the most comic contrast:
"'He's wasting his time, I tell you, the coxcomb! It's no manner of use his
poaching round our way and making sheep's-eyes at the wench.... The coverts
are watched! If he comes too near, it means a bullet, eh, Mathias?'
"He gripped his daughter-in-law's hand:
"'And then the little wench knows how to defend herself too,' he chuckled.
'Eh, you don't want any admirers, do you Natalie?'
"The young wife blushed, in her confusion at being addressed in these
terms, while her husband growled:
"'You'd do better to hold your tongue, father. There are things one doesn't
talk about in public.'
"'Things that affect one's honour are best settled in public,' retorted the
old one. 'Where I'm concerned, the honour of the de Gornes comes before
everything; and that fine spark, with his Paris airs, sha'n't....'
"He stopped short. Before him stood a man who had just come in and who
seemed to be waiting for him to finish his sentence. The newcomer was a
tall, powerfully-built young fellow, in riding-kit, with a hunting-crop in
his hand. His strong and rather stern face was lighted up by a pair of fine
eyes in which shone an ironical smile.
"'Jerome Vignal,' whispered my cousin.
"The young man seemed not at all embarrassed. On seeing Natalie, he made a
low bow; and, when Mathias de Gorne took a step forward, he eyed him from
head to foot, as though to say:
"'Well, what about it?'
"And his attitude was so haughty and contemptuous that the de Gornes
unslung their guns and took them in both hands, like sportsmen about to
shoot. The son's expression was very fierce.
"Jerome was quite unmoved by the threat. After a few seconds, turning to
the inn-keeper, he remarked:
"'Oh, I say! I came to see old Vasseur. But his shop is shut. Would you
mind giving him the holster of my revolver? It wants a stitch or two.'
"He handed the holster to the inn-keeper and added, laughing:
"'I'm keeping the revolver, in case I need it. You never can tell!'
"Then, still very calmly, he took a cigarette from a silver case, lit it
and walked out. We saw him through the window vaulting on his horse and
riding off at a slow trot.
"Old de Gorne tossed off a glass of brandy, swearing most horribly.
"His son clapped his hand to the old man's mouth and forced him to sit
down. Natalie de Gorne was weeping beside them....
"That's my story, dear friend. As you see, it's not tremendously
interesting and does not deserve your attention. There's no mystery in it
and no part for you to play. Indeed, I particularly insist that you should
not seek a pretext for any untimely interference. Of course, I should be
glad to see the poor thing protected: she appears to be a perfect martyr.
But, as I said before, let us leave other people to get out of their own
troubles and go no farther with our little experiments...."
* * * * *
Renine finished reading the letter, read it over again and ended by saying:
"That's it. Everything's right as right can be. She doesn't want to
continue our little experiments, because this would make the seventh and
because she's afraid of the eighth, which under the terms of our agreement
has a very particular significance. She doesn't want to ... and she does
want to ... without seeming to want to."
* * * * *
He rubbed his hands. The letter was an invaluable witness to the influence
which he had gradually, gently and patiently gained over Hortense Daniel.
It betrayed a rather complex feeling, composed of admiration, unbounded
confidence, uneasiness at times, fear and almost terror, but also love:
he was convinced of that. His companion in adventures which she shared
with a good fellowship that excluded any awkwardness between them, she
had suddenly taken fright; and a sort of modesty, mingled with a certain
coquetry; was impelling her to hold back.
That very evening, Sunday, Renine took the train.
And, at break of day, after covering by diligence, on a road white with
snow, the five miles between the little town of Pompignat, where he
alighted, and the village of Bassicourt, he learnt that his journey might
prove of some use: three shots had been heard during the night in the
direction of the Manoir-au-Puits.
"Three shots, sergeant. I heard them as plainly as I see you standing
before me," said a peasant whom the gendarmes were questioning in the
parlour of the inn which Renine had entered.
"So did I," said the waiter. "Three shots. It may have been twelve o'clock
at night. The snow, which had been falling since nine, had stopped ...
and the shots sounded across the fields, one after the other: bang, bang,
bang."
Five more peasants gave their evidence. The sergeant and his men had
heard nothing, because the police-station backed on the fields. But a
farm-labourer and a woman arrived, who said that they were in Mathias
de Gorne's service, that they had been away for two days because of the
intervening Sunday and that they had come straight from the manor-house,
where they were unable to obtain admission:
"The gate of the grounds is locked, sergeant," said the man. "It's the
first time I've known this to happen. M. Mathias comes out to open it
himself, every morning at the stroke of six, winter and summer. Well, it's
past eight now. I called and shouted. Nobody answered. So we came on here."
"You might have enquired at old M. de Gorne's," said the sergeant. "He
lives on the high-road."
"On my word, so I might! I never thought of that."
"We'd better go there now," the sergeant decided. Two of his men went with
him, as well as the peasants and a locksmith whose services were called
into requisition. Renine joined the party.
Soon, at the end of the village, they reached old de Gorne's farmyard,
which Renine recognized by Hortense's description of its position.
The old fellow was harnessing his horse and trap. When they told him what
had happened, he burst out laughing:
"Three shots? Bang, bang, bang? Why, my dear sergeant, there are only two
barrels to Mathias' gun!"
"What about the locked gate?"
"It means that the lad's asleep, that's all. Last night, he came and
cracked a bottle with me ... perhaps two ... or even three; and he'll be
sleeping it off, I expect ... he and Natalie."
He climbed on to the box of his trap--an old cart with a patched tilt--and
cracked his whip: