YOLANDE’S ORDEAL
When Yolande left Wallace at the door of her room, her heart had
been full to overflowing. Out of all the stark horror and pain that
had filled her life for the past month, this great joy had emerged
like a beautiful butterfly from a dead chrysalis. A long time ago she
had persuaded herself that love of that sort was not for her. Her
father’s great bereavement had caused her to take stock of her life.
She knew that in her Fallières saw the image of his dead wife, and,
although he would have been the last man in the world to have demanded
sacrifices, she had arrived at a decision which she thought would help
to compensate him for his loss.
Now Fate had taken affairs into her own hands. The man of destiny had
magically appeared in the almost monasterial precincts of the Château
Grammont. She had started by admiring him, and had ended by realising
that he had started a train of emotions that could never be stilled.
She did not go to bed at once, for this pleasant revelation was such
as to render sleep impossible at the moment. Her lips still tingled
from Wallace’s last kiss, and she wanted that delicious sensation to
remain. In her was a lot of the child--the wondering child that stared
in awe at birds, flowers, and sunshine. She now stared at her own
reflection in the mirror, and wondered what it was exactly that had
caused Wallace to love her. Then she grew a little ashamed to realise
that she could be happy when her father’s murdered body had lain in
the grave for less than a month.
“Still, I love him,” she thought. “I can’t help myself. Daddy
dear--you will understand.”
She extracted a dozen hairpins, and let her abundant tresses fall in
rippling waves over her shoulders. As she brushed them she paused and
smiled, and then laughed softly. Life was all so wonderful, despite
black clouds and pangs of pain. Her eyes wandered to the vase of roses
which had dropped blood-red petals on the dressing-table.
“Poor flowers,” she murmured, “to fade so soon!”
As she lifted her eyes to the mirror, the brush dropped from her
fingers. There in the polished glass, grim and horrible against the
soft decorations of the room, loomed a shape that seemed to freeze the
very blood in her veins. It was the Thing she had seen as a child--the
hooded Monster of the château. Turning, she saw it face to
face--within two yards of her paralysed form. Her mouth opened to give
vent to a scream of terror, but her tongue seemed cloven to the roof
of her mouth, and no sound came.
A long arm came from out of the dirty brown gown. She saw the fingers
and nails--horrid! Within the hood were two bloodshot eyes and a
hooked nose. A moment of unspeakable terror, and then she was caught
up as if she were a child. All power of resistance had gone, and that
pleasant rose-strewn world which she had enjoyed for so brief a spell
vanished like an evening afterglow.
She was being borne swiftly along corridors--she knew not whither, for
her mind had become almost a complete blank. Then something closed
with a hollow thud and acted as a spur to her volition. She tried to
free her arms, but they were held as if by bonds of steel. For the
first time her voice functioned, and gave utterance to a wild shriek.
“Don’t cry--I shall not harm you!”
It was German and she had difficulty in understanding it, for the
voice which spoke the words was like no other voice she had ever
heard. If an ape could talk she thought it would be like this.
“Let me go!” she gasped.
To her surprise she was put down, but a hideous paw still retained her
left arm. She was in a long passage, cemented all over and illuminated
by electric light. It ran straight as an arrow to a door at the end.
Half-dragged, half-led, she reached this door. Her captor kicked it
open with his enormous boot, and she saw steps leading down into a
less well-lighted place. Lying about were all kinds of unusual
things--rusted canteens, helmets, some wooden cases, several strange
instruments. Yet another door confronted them. This bore a big
padlock, with the key in it. The hooded giant turned it, and they
entered a large chamber containing furniture of sorts.
“There!” he grunted, and let her go.
He gathered the folds of the cloak closely around him and stood
looking down at her, holding his queer garment close under his hooked
nose.
“Why--why have you done this?” she pleaded. “Who are you?”
“S-sh! I was just in time. It is safe here. They are a cunning lot up
there. But we shall beat them yet. Did you hear the firing just now?”
The eyes were ablaze. She saw him slip his hand under the robe, and
uttered a low cry as he pulled out an old razor and slowly opened it.
“Better than a gun,” he mumbled. “They do not fear guns. This makes no
noise. Quietly, quietly I move--in the dark, and they do not see.”
He was stropping the blade of the razor over the palm of his hand with
rhythmic, rapid movements. She closed her eyes, expecting death, but
when she opened them again he had put the weapon away, and was hunting
for something in the corner.
Piled there were dozens of wooden boxes, the majority of which were
open. She saw to her astonishment that these were filled with square,
empty tins which exuded a foul smell, and some of the boxes were
stencilled with the War Department mark of the German Government. It
was immediately clear that here was the chief means by which the
Monster had managed to live--field rations abandoned by the Germans in
their hasty retreat from the château. But now the store seemed
practically exhausted, for it was some minutes before her captor found
an unopened tin, and ripped the top off by pulling at the patent
contrivance with which it was provided.
To her surprise the contents appeared to be quite fresh, but the
pervading odour of the piles of old tins was sufficient to sicken her.
He turned out the slab of meat on to a time-worn enamel plate, and
then went searching for a second plate, which he ultimately found.
Dividing the meat into equal portions he set one before her. When she
did not eat at once, he appeared to ascribe it to the fact that she
possessed no knife nor fork, and went searching among the pile of
oddments again, until he found what he wanted. With them he brought a
bottle of wine, already opened, and a large mug.
“We eat now,” he mumbled. “It is safer down here. The wine is good.
You must drink the wine, Minna.”
“I’m not Minna. You’re making a mistake. For pity’s sake let me
go--let me go!”
The hysterical cry had a different effect upon him to anything she
imagined. He made a hideous noise with his mouth, and, dropping the
plate, brandished the knife before her.
“No squealing! I won’t have it. Dying’s nothing. I’ve seen ’em die by
hundreds. We’ve got to hold on here--orders are to hold on.” Then, in
a lower voice: “There are those people prowling about--searching,
searching. But they’re not clever enough by a lot. I’ll get another of
’em to-night--maybe the young one with the blue eyes that drives so
fast, or that other swine with the hair. They’re working back there in
the mine--three of ’em and a woman. I’ve seen ’em-- Drink, Minna,” he
added piteously. “You’re trembling. Of course it’s hard for a woman,
and you should have stayed away.”
She was trying to understand his rambling talk. It was now evident
that he was demented, and that in his present mood he meant her no
harm. On the contrary, he made affectionate gestures, which if
possible terrified her more than his threats. To pacify him and in
order to give her mind a chance to think clearly she made a pretence
to eat.
While she did this he slunk away into the corner with a plate of food
and the remainder of the wine, eating with his back towards her. Some
of her courage was coming back after the initial shock. She realised
that only cool thinking and subtle acting could save her. She had had
no notion of the existence of this vault in which she sat, and
concluded that it must have been tunnelled out during the months when
the château was occupied by the Germans. The scattered array of army
accoutrement was sufficient to endorse this, but where it started and
where it ended were mysteries.
But the biggest mystery was this enormous demented creature, who
apparently lived here. Where did he come from? Then she recalled his
remark about the “three men and a woman” working back in the “mine.”
That he was referring to Niels and his party was certain, and the news
was interesting, for it led her to the conclusion that the underground
passage must lead to the abandoned tin-mine in the forest.
Soon he slouched back to her, carrying a pile of blankets. He spread
these out on the floor, and muttered to himself as he groped about
again. The object of his search proved to be a dirty pillow. This he
patted as if it were something alive, and laid it at the top of the
blankets.
“Sleep time,” he said.
“I’m not tired.”
“Must sleep. I go up above.”
It was what she wished him to do, for the clammy atmosphere of the
place seemed to choke her. With his departure the way might be open
for escape. She thought of Wallace and Fouchard within a few hundred
yards of her--anxiously searching----
“The young one to-night,” he said. “It makes one less--always one less
of the cursed brood.”
He produced his awful razor and began to strop it again. A cold
shudder went down her spine, as she realised the menace to the man she
loved.
“No!” she cried.
He looked at her sternly.
“I do it for you,” he said. “Pah! it is no time for sentiment. We must
fight.”
“Why?”
“That is a foolish question. Minna, you are tired. You do not know
what you are saying. Look at that! A new one I found.” He held up the
naked razor. “There’s the man Fouchard. He’s a smart one--but I’ll get
him too--perhaps at the same time. Sleep well, Minna--sleep well.”
He pulled the obscuring hood even tighter, and walked with remarkable
agility towards the door through which they had entered the place. It
closed after him with a dull thud--like the fall of earth upon a
coffin.
Immediately she rose to her feet, and gave her mind entirely up to the
question of escape. But on reaching the door she found it was bolted
from outside. It was so stoutly built that she had no hope of
battering it down. The only alternative was to try the other door,
which her captor had hinted led to the mine.
Here she was more successful, for the only fastening was on the
inside. It was a heavy iron bolt, which called for all her strength to
withdraw it. When she swung the door open she found herself looking
into a dark opening tunnelled through the earth, and prevented from
collapse by a series of props. It was damp and chilly, and for a
moment she hesitated. But it was only necessary to think of that
terrifying creature who had just left on his murderous quest, to find
the courage to go on.
She moved slowly down the narrow passage, and for a hundred yards it
ran dead straight. Looking behind her she could see the small oblong
of light made by the open door. But now the tunnel took a sharp
turn--beyond which was pitch blackness. With quaking heart she moved
forward, her feet sinking into mud at times. Moreover there were rats.
She could hear them scampering and squealing about her.
The horror seemed less by contrast with the immediate past. Half
suffocated from lack of oxygen, she went on, feeling her way with her
hands. Now there were boards under her feet, and the sound of her
footsteps echoed weirdly. Then water was encountered. It increased in
depth until it was over her ankles. Still she waded on, with her mind
fixed inflexibly on her object.
The passage seemed to widen, for no longer could she feel both walls
by stretching out her arms, and the air seemed less vitiated. How far
she had come she had no idea, but she recalled that the mine was over
a mile from the château--a mile of this!
A little later a terrible doubt entered her mind. She had the feeling
that she was moving round in a circle. So strong was this impression
that she moved away from the crumbling wall, with the idea of finding
the opposite one. She took a dozen steps, but found nothing. Stumbling
over stones and sinking into mud, she moved quicker, but her groping
hands found no obstruction of any kind. She seemed to be
lost--entombed in the bowels of the earth.