THE ESCAPE
Shuddering, uncertain how to act next, Veronique listened till she no
longer heard the sound of his footsteps. What should she do? The murder
of Stephane had for a moment turned her thoughts from Francois; but she
now once more fell a prey to anguish. What had become of her son? Should
she go to him at the Priory and defend him against the dangers that
threatened him?
"Come, come," she said, "I'm losing my head . . . . Let me think things
out . . . . A few hours ago, Francois was speaking to me through the
wall of his prison . . . for it was certainly he then, it was certainly
Francois who yesterday took my hand and covered it with his kisses
. . . . A mother cannot be deceived; and I was quivering with love and
tenderness . . . . But since . . . since this morning has he not left
his prison?"
She stopped to think and then said, slowly:
"That's it . . . that's what happened . . . . Stephane and I were
discovered below, on the floor underneath. The alarm was given at once.
The monster, Vorski's son, had gone up expressly to watch Francois. He
found the cell empty and, seeing the opening which had been made,
crawled out here. Yes, that's it . . . . If not, by what way did he
come? . . . When he got here, it occurred to him to run to the window,
knowing that it overlooked the sea and suspecting that Francois had
chosen it to make his escape. He at once saw the hooks of the ladder.
Then, on leaning over, he saw me, knew who I was and called out to me
. . . . And now . . . now he is on his way to the Priory, where he is
bound to meet Francois . . . ."
Nevertheless Veronique did not stir. She had an instinct that the danger
lay not at the Priory but here, by the cells. And she wondered whether
Francois had really succeeded in escaping and whether, before his task
was done, he had not been surprised by the other and attacked by him.
It was a horrible doubt! She stooped quickly and, perceiving that the
hole had been widened, tried to pass through it herself. But the outlet,
at most large enough for a child, was too narrow for her; and her
shoulders became fixed. She persisted in the attempt, however, tearing
her bodice and bruising her skin against the rock, and at last, by dint
of patience and wriggling, succeeded in slipping through.
The cell was empty. But the door was open on the passages facing her;
and Veronique had an impression--merely an impression, for the window
admitted only a faint light--that some one was just leaving the cell
through the open door. And from this confused impression of something
that she had not absolutely seen she retained the certainty that it was
a woman who was hiding there, in the passage, a woman surprised by her
unexpected entrance.
"It's their accomplice," thought Veronique. "She came up with the boy
who killed Stephane, and she has no doubt taken Francois away . . . .
Perhaps Francois is even there still, quite near me, while she's
watching me . . . ."
Meanwhile Veronique's eyes were growing accustomed to the semidarkness
and she distinctly saw a woman's hand upon the door, which opened
inwardly. The hand was slowly pulling.
"Why doesn't she shut it at once," Veronique wondered, "since she
obviously wants to put a barrier between us?"
Veronique received her answer when she heard a pebble grating under the
door and interfering with its movement. If the pebble were not there,
the door would be closed. Without hesitating, Veronique went up, took
hold of a great iron handle and pulled it towards her. The hand
disappeared, but the opposition continued. There was evidently a handle
on the other side as well.
Suddenly she heard a whistle. The woman was summoning assistance. And
almost at the same time, in the passage, at some distance from the
woman, there was a cry:
"Mother! Mother!"
Ah, with what deep emotion Veronique heard that cry! Her son, her real
son was calling to her, her son, still a captive but alive! Oh, the
superhuman delight of it!
"I'm here, darling!"
"Quick, mother! I'm tied up; and the whistle is their signal . . .
they'll be coming."
"I'm here . . . . I shall save you before they come!"
She had no doubt of the result. It seemed to her as though her strength
knew no limits and as though nothing could resist the exasperated
tension of her whole being.
Her adversary was in fact weakening and giving ground by inches. The
opening became wider; and suddenly the contest was over. Veronique
walked through.
The woman had already fled down the passage and was dragging the boy by
a rope in order to make him walk despite the cords with which he was
bound. It was a vain attempt and she abandoned it forthwith. Veronique
was close to her, with her revolver in her hand.
The woman let go the boy and stood up in the light from the open cells.
She was dressed in white serge, with a knotted girdle round her waist.
Her arms were half bare. Her face was still young, but faded, thin and
wrinkled. Her hair was fair, interspersed with strands of white. Her
eyes gleamed with a feverish hatred.
The two women looked at each other without a word, like two adversaries
who have met before and are about to fight again. Veronique almost
smiled, with a smile of mingled triumph and defiance. In the end she
said:
"If you dare to lay a finger on my child, I'll kill you. Go! Be off!"
The woman was not frightened. She seemed to be reflecting and to be
listening in the expectation of assistance. None come. Then she lowered
her eyes to Francois and made a movement as though to seize upon her
prey again.
"Don't touch him!" Veronique exclaimed, violently. "Don't touch him, or
I fire!"
The woman shrugged her shoulders and said, in measured accents:
"No threats, please! If I had wanted to kill that child of yours, I
should have done so by now. But his hour has not come; and it is not by
my hand that he is to die."
Veronique, trembling all over, could not help asking:
"By whose hand is he to die?"
"By my son's: you know . . . the one you've seen."
"Is he your son, the murderer, the monster?"
"He's the son of . . ."
"Silence! Silence!" Veronique commanded. She understood that the woman
had been Vorski's mistress and feared that she would make some
disclosure in Francois' presence. "Silence: that name is not to be
spoken."
"It will be when it has to be," said the woman. "Ah, I've suffered
enough through you, Veronique: it's your turn now; and you're only at
the beginning of it!"
"Go!" cried Veronique, pointing her revolver.
"Once more, no threats, please."
"Go, or I fire! I swear it on the head of my son."
The woman retreated, betraying a certain anxiety in spite of herself.
But she was seized with a fresh access of rage. Impotently she raised
her clenched fists and shouted, in a raucous, broken voice:
"I will be revenged . . . You shall see. Veronique . . . . The cross--do
you understand?--the cross is ready . . . . You are the fourth . . . .
What, oh, what a revenge!"
She shook her gnarled, bony fists. And she continued:
"Oh, how I hate you! Fifteen years of hatred! But the cross will avenge
me . . . . I shall string you up on it myself . . . . The cross is ready
. . . you'll see . . . the cross is ready for you! . . ."
She walked away slowly, holding herself erect under the threat of the
revolver.
"Don't kill her, mother, will you?" whispered Francois, suspecting the
contest in his mother's mind.
Veronique seemed to wake from a dream:
"No, no," she replied, "don't be afraid . . . . And yet perhaps I ought
to . . ."
"Oh, please let her be, mother, and let us go away."
She lifted him in her arms, even before the woman was out of sight,
pressed him to her and carried him to the cell as though he weighed no
more than a little child.
"Mother, mother," he said.
"Yes, darling, your own mother; and no one shall take you from me again,
that I swear to you."
Without troubling about the wounds inflicted by the stone she slipped,
this time almost at the first attempt, through the gap made by Francois,
drew him after her and then, but not before, released him from his
bonds.
"There is no danger here," she said, "at least for the moment, because
they can hardly get at us except by the cell and I shall be able to
defend the entrance."
Mother and son exchanged the fondest of embraces. There was now no
barrier to part their lips and their arms. They could see each other,
could gaze into each other's eyes.
"How handsome you are, my darling!" said Veronique.
She saw no resemblance between him and the boy murderer and was
astonished that Honorine could have taken one for the other. And she
felt as if she would never weary of admiring the breeding, the frankness
and the sweetness which she read in his face.
"And you, mother," he said, "do you think that I ever pictured a mother
as beautiful as you? No, not even in my dreams, when you seemed as
lovely as a fairy. And yet Stephane often used to tell me . . ."
She interrupted him:
"We must hurry, dearest, and take refuge from their pursuit. We must
go."
"Yes," he said, "and above all we must leave Sarek. I have invented a
plan of escape which is bound to succeed. But, first of all, Stephane:
what has become of him? I heard the sound of which I spoke to you
underneath my cell and I fear . . ."
She dragged him along by the hand, without answering his question:
"I have many things to tell you, darling, painful things which I must no
longer keep from you. But presently will do . . . . For the moment we
must take refuge in the Priory. That woman will go in search of help and
come after us."
"But she was not alone, mother, when she entered my cell suddenly and
caught me in the act of digging at the wall. There was some one with
her."
"A boy, wasn't it? A boy of your own size?"
"I could hardly see. He and the woman fell upon me, bound me and carried
me into the passage. Then the woman left me for a moment and he went
back to the cell. He therefore knows about this tunnel by now and about
the exit in the Priory grounds."
"Yes, I know. But we shall easily get the better of him; and we'll block
up the exit."
"But there remains the bridge which joins the two islands," Francois
objected.
"No," she said, "I burnt it down and the Priory is absolutely cut off."
They were walking very quickly, Veronique pressing her pace, Francois a
little anxious at the words spoken by his mother.
"Yes, yes," he said, "I see that there is a good deal which I don't know
and which you have kept from me, mother, in order not to frighten me.
For instance, when you burnt down the bridge . . . . It was with the
petrol set aside for the purpose, wasn't it, and as arranged with
Maguennoc in case of danger? So you were threatened too; and the first
attack was made on you, mother? . . . And then there was something that
woman said with such a hateful look on her face! . . . And then . . .
and then, above all, what has become of Stephane? They were whispering
about him just now in my cell . . . . All this worries me . . . . Then
again I don't see the ladder which you brought . . . ."
"Please, dearest, don't let us wait a moment. The woman will have found
assistance . . . ."
The boy stopped short:
"Mother."
"What? Do you hear anything?"
"Some one walking."
"Are you sure?"
"Some one coming this way."
"Oh," she said, in a hollow voice, "it's the murderer coming back from
the Priory!"
She felt her revolver and prepared herself for anything that might
happen. But suddenly she pushed Francois towards a dark corner on her
left, formed by the entry to one of those tunnels, probably blocked,
which she had noticed when she came.
"Get in there," she said. "We shall be all right here: he will not see
us."
The sound approached.
"Stand well back," she said, "and don't stir."
The boy whispered:
"What's that in your hand? A revolver? Mother, you're not going to
fire?"
"I ought to, I ought to," said Veronique. "He's such a monster! . . .
It's as with his mother . . . I ought to have . . . we shall perhaps
regret it." And she added, almost unconsciously, "He killed your
grandfather."
"Oh, mother, mother!"
She supported him, to prevent his falling, and amid the silence she
heard the boy sobbing on her breast and stammering:
"Never mind . . . don't fire, mother . . . ."
"Here he comes, darling, here he comes; look at him."
The other passed. He was walking slowly, a little bent, listening for
the least sound. He appeared to Veronique to be the exact same size as
her son; and this time, when she looked at him with more attention, she
was not so much surprised that Honorine and M. d'Hergemont had been
taken in, for there were really some points of resemblance, which would
have been accentuated by the fact that he was wearing the red cap stolen
from Francois.
He walked on.
"Do you know him?" asked Veronique.
"No, mother."
"Are you sure that you never saw him?"
"Sure."
"And it was he who fell upon you, with the woman, in your cell?"
"I haven't a doubt of it, mother. He even hit me in the face, for no
reason, with absolute hatred."
"Oh," she said, "this is all incomprehensible! When shall we escape this
awful nightmare?"
"Quick, mother, the road's clear. Let's make the most of it."
On returning to the light, she saw that he was very pale and felt his
hand in hers like a lump of ice. Nevertheless he looked up at her with a
smile of happiness.
They set out again; and soon, after passing the strip of cliff that
joined the two islands and climbing the staircases, they emerged in the
open air, to the right of Maguennoc's garden. The daylight was beginning
to wane.
"We are saved," said Veronique.
"Yes," replied the boy, "but only on condition that they cannot reach us
by the same road. We shall have to bar it, therefore."
"How?"
"Wait for me here; I'll go and fetch some tools at the Priory."
"Oh, don't let us leave each other, Francois!"
"You can come with me, mother."
"And suppose the enemy arrives in the meantime? No, we must defend this
outlet."
"Then help me, mother."
A rapid inspection showed them that one of the two stones which formed a
roof above the entrance was not very firmly rooted in its place. They
found no difficulty in first shifting and then clearing it. The stone
fell across the staircase and was at once covered by an avalanche of
earth and pebbles which made the passage, if not impracticable, at least
very hard to manage.
"All the more so," said Francois, "as we shall stay here until we are
able to carry out my plan. And be easy, mother; it's a sound scheme and
we have nearly managed it."
For that matter, they recognized above all, that rest was essential.
They were both of them worn out.
"Lie down, mother . . . look, just here: there's a bed of moss under
this overhanging rock which makes a regular nest. You'll be as cosy as a
queen there and sheltered from the cold."
"Oh, my darling, my darling!" murmured Veronique, overcome with
happiness.
It was now the time for explanations; and Veronique did not hesitate to
give them. The boy's grief at hearing of the death of all those whom he
had known would be mitigated by the great joy which he felt at
recovering his mother. She therefore spoke without reserve, cradling him
in her lap, wiping away his tears, feeling plainly that she was enough
to make up for all the lost affections and friendships. He was
particularly afflicted by Stephane's death.
"But is it quite certain?" he asked. "For, after all, there is nothing
to tell us that he is drowned. Stephane is a perfect swimmer; and so
. . . Yes, yes, mother, we must not despair . . . on the contrary
. . . . Look, here's a friend who always comes at the worst times, to
declare that everything is not lost."
All's Well came trotting along. The sight of his master did not appear
to surprise him. Nothing unduly surprised All's Well. Events, to his
mind, always followed one another in a natural order which did not
disturb either his habits or his occupations. Tears alone seemed to him
worthy of special attention. And Veronique and Francois were not crying.
"You see, mother? All's Well agrees with me; nothing is lost . . . .
But, upon my word, All's Well, you're a sharp little fellow! What would
you have said, eh, if we'd left the island without you?"
Veronique looked at her son:
"Left the island?"
"Certainly: and the sooner the better. That's my plan. What do you say
to it?"
"But how are we to get away?"
"In a boat."
"Is there one here?"
"Yes, mine."
"Where?"
"Close by, at Sarek Point."
"But how are we to get down? The cliff is perpendicular."
"She's at the very place where the cliff is steepest, a place known as
the Postern. The name puzzled Stephane and myself. A postern suggests an
entrance, a gate. Well, we ended by learning that, in the middle ages,
at the time of the monks, the little isle on which the Priory stands was
surrounded by ramparts. It was therefore to be presumed that there was a
postern here which commanded an outlet on the sea. And in fact, after
hunting about with Maguennoc, we discovered, on the flat top of the
cliff, a sort of gully, a sandy depression reinforced at intervals by
regular walls made of big building-stones. A path winds down the middle,
with steps and windows on the side of the sea, and leads to a little
bay. That is the Postern outlet. We repaired it: and my boat is hanging
at the foot of the cliff."
Veronique's features underwent a transformation:
"Then we're safe now!"
"There's no doubt of that."
"And the enemy can't get there?"
"How could he?"
"He has the motor-boat at his disposal."
"He has never been there, because he doesn't know of the bay nor of the
way down to it either: you can't see them from the open sea. Besides,
they are protected by a thousand sharp-pointed rocks."
"And what's to prevent us from leaving at once?"
"The darkness, mother. I'm a good mariner and accustomed to navigate
all the channels that lead away from Sarek, but I should not be at all
sure of not striking some reef or other. No, we must wait for daylight."
"It seems so long!"
"A few hours' patience, mother. And we are together, you and I! At break
of dawn, we'll take the boat and begin by hugging the foot of the cliff
till we are underneath the cells. Then we'll pick up Stephane, who of
course will be waiting for us on some strip of beach, and we'll all be
off, won't we, All's Well? We'll land at Pont-l'Abbe at twelve o'clock
or so. That's my plan."
Veronique could not contain her delight and admiration. She was
astonished to find so young a boy giving proofs of such self-possession.
"It's splendid, darling, and you're right in everything. Luck is
decidedly coming our way."
The evening passed without incidents. An alarm, however, a noise under
the rubbish which blocked the underground passage and a ray of light
trickling through a slit obliged them to mount guard until the minute of
their departure. But it did not affect their spirits.
"Why, of course I'm easy in my mind," said Francois. "From the moment
when I found you again, I felt that it was for good. Besides, if the
worst came to the worst, have we not a last hope left? Stephane spoke to
you about it, I expect. And it makes you laugh, my confidence in a
rescuer whom I have never seen . . . . Well, I tell you, mother, if I
were to see a dagger about to strike me, I should be certain, absolutely
certain, mind you, that a hand would come and ward off the blow."
"Alas," she said, "that providential hand did not prevent all the
misfortunes of which I told you!"
"It will keep off those which threaten my mother," declared the boy.
"How? This unknown friend has not been warned."
"He will come all the same. He doesn't need to be warned to know how
great the danger is. He will come. And, mother, promise me one thing:
whatever happens, you must have confidence."
"I will have confidence, darling, I promise you."
"And you will be right," he said, laughing, "for I shall be the leader.
And what a leader, eh, mother? Why, yesterday evening I foresaw that, to
carry the enterprise through successfully and so that my mother should
be neither cold nor hungry, in case we were not able to take the boat
this afternoon, we must have food and rugs! Well, they will be of use to
us to-night, seeing that for prudence's sake we mustn't abandon our post
here and sleep at the Priory. Where did you put the parcel, mother?"
They ate gaily and with a good appetite. Then Francois wrapped his
mother up and tucked her in: and they both fell asleep, lying close
together, happy and unafraid.
When the keen air of the morning woke Veronique, a belt of rosy light
streaked the sky. Francois was sleeping the peaceful sleep of a child
that feels itself protected and is untroubled by dreams. For a long time
she just sat gazing at him without wearying: and she was still looking
at him when the sun was high above the horizon.
"To work, mother," he said, after he had opened his eyes and given her a
kiss. "No one in the tunnel? No. Then we have plenty of time to go on
board."
They took the rugs and provisions and, with brisk steps, went towards
the descent leading to the Postern, at the extreme end of the island.
Beyond this point the rocks were heaped up in formidable confusion: and
the sea, though calm, lapped against them noisily.
"I hope your boat's there still!" said Veronique.
"Lean over a little, mother. You can see her down there, hanging in that
crevice. We have only to work the pulley to get her afloat. Oh, it's all
very well thought out, mother darling! We have nothing to fear . . . .
Only . . . only . . ."
He had interrupted himself and was thinking.
"What? What is it?" asked Veronique.
"Oh, nothing! A slight delay."
"But . . ."
He began to laugh:
"Really, for the leader of an expedition, it's rather humiliating, I
admit. Just fancy, I've forgotten one thing: the oars. They are at the
Priory."
"But this is terrible!" cried Veronique.
"Why? I'll run to the Priory and I shall be back in ten minutes."
All Veronique's apprehensions returned:
"And suppose they make their way out of the tunnel meanwhile?"
"Come, come, mother," he laughed, "you promised to have confidence. To
get out of the tunnel would take them an hour's hard work; and we
should hear them. Besides, what's the use of talking, mother? I'll be
back at once."
He ran off.
"Francois! Francois!"
He did not reply.
"Oh," she thought, once more assailed by forebodings. "I had sworn not
to leave him for a second!"
She followed him at a distance and stopped on a hillock between the
Fairies' Dolmen and the Calvary of the Flowers. From here she could see
the entrance to the tunnel and also saw her son jogging along the grass.
He first went into the basement of the Priory. But the oars seemed not
to be there, for he came out almost at once and went to the main door,
which he opened and disappeared from sight.
"One minute ought to be plenty for him," said Veronique to herself. "The
oars must be in the hall . . . or at any rate on the ground-floor
. . . . Say two minutes, at the outside."
She counted the seconds while watching the entrance to the tunnel.
But three minutes, four minutes, five minutes passed: and the front-door
did not open again.
All Veronique's confidence vanished. She thought that it was mad of her
not to have gone with her son and that she ought never to have submitted
to a child's will. Without troubling about the tunnel or the dangers
from that side, she began to walk towards the Priory. But she had the
horrible feeling which people sometimes experience in dreams, when
their legs seem paralysed and when they are unable to move, while the
enemy advances to attack them.
And suddenly, on reaching the Dolmen, she beheld a sight the meaning of
which was immediately clear to her. The ground at the foot of the oaks
round the right-hand part of the semi-circle was littered with lately
cut branches, which still bore their green leaves.
She raised her eyes and stood stupefied and dismayed.
One oak alone had been stripped. And on the huge trunk, bare to a height
of twelve or fifteen feet, there was a paper, transfixed by an arrow and
bearing the inscription, "V. d'H."
"The fourth cross," Veronique faltered, "the cross marked with my name!"
She supposed that, as her father was dead, the initials of her maiden
name must have been written by one of her enemies, the chief of them, no
doubt; and for the first time, under the influence of recent events,
remembering the woman and the boy who were persecuting her, she
involuntarily attributed a definite set of features to that enemy.
It was a fleeting impression, an improbable theory, of which she was not
even conscious. She was overwhelmed by something much more terrible. She
suddenly understood that the monsters, those creatures of the heath and
the cells, the accomplices of the woman and the boy, must have been
there, since the cross was prepared. No doubt they had built a
foot-bridge and thrown it over the chasm to take the place of the bridge
to which she had set fire. They were masters of the Priory. And
Francois was once more in their hands!
Then she rushed straight along, collecting all her strength. She in her
turn ran over the turf, dotted with ruins, that sloped towards the front
of the house.
"Francois! Francois! Francois!"
She called his name in a piercing voice. She announced her coming with
loud cries. Thus did she reach the Priory.
One half of the door stood ajar. She pushed it and darted into the hall,
crying:
"Francois! Francois!"
The call rang from floor to attic and throughout the house, but remained
unanswered:
"Francois! Francois!"
She went upstairs, opening doors at random, running into her son's room,
into Stephane's, into Honorine's. She found nobody.
"Francois! Francois! . . . Don't you hear me? Are they hurting you?
. . . Oh, Francois, do answer!"
She went back to the landing. Opposite her was M. d'Hergemont's study.
She flung herself upon the door and at once recoiled, as though stricken
by a vision from hell.
A man was standing there, with arms crossed and apparently waiting for
her. And it was the man whom she had pictured for an instant when
thinking of the woman and the boy. It was the third monster!
She said, simply, but in a voice filled with inexpressible horror:
"Vorski! . . . Vorski! . . ."