 Chapter 9. Face to face. If they seize me, she thought. If it's this Richard's intention to kidnap me without more ado, there's nothing to be done. Before I could be rescued, they would carry me off to their underground lair, and from there I don't know where. And why should it be otherwise? Master of the metal and of Dorothy, the Ruffian, had only to fly. On the instant she saw all the faults of her plan, in order to compel District Chair to risk a sortie that she might capture him during that sortie, she had invented a two-settle ruse, which actual development of Fortune's spite might turn to her undoing. A conflict which turns on the number of seconds gained or lost is extremely doubtful. She went quickly into the house and pushed the disc under a heap of discarded things in a small lumber-room. The necessary hunt for it would delay for a while the enemy's flight. But when she came back to go out of the house, District Chair, grimacing ironically behind his spectacles and under his thick beard, stood on the threshold of the front door. Dorothy never carried a revolver. All her life she never cared to trust to anything but her courage and intelligence. She regretted it at this horrible moment when she found herself face to face with the man who had murdered her father. Her first act would have been to blow out his brains. Devining her vengeful thought, he seized her arm quickly and twisted it, as he had twisted the arm of old Juliet Asire. Then bending over her, he snapped, Where have you put it? Be quick! She did not even dream of resisting, so acute was the pain, and took him to the little room and pointed to the heap. He found the disc at once, weighed it in his hand, examining it with an air of immense satisfaction and said, That's all right, victory at last. Twenty years of struggle come to an end, and over and above what I bargained for. You, Dorothy, the most magnificent and desirable of rewards. He ran his hand over her frock to make sure that she was not armed, then seized her round the body, and with the strength which no one would have believed him to possess, swung her over his shoulder onto his back. You make me feel uneasy, Dorothy, he chuckled. What? No resistance. What pretty behavior, my dear. There must be something in the way of a trap under it all, so I'll be off. Outside she caught sight of the two men who were on guard at the big gate. One of them was the confederate she knew from having seen him at Juliet Asire's cottage. The other, whose face flattened against the bars of a small wicket, was watching the road. Destry-cher called to them. Keep your eyes skinned, boys. You mustn't be caught in the sheepfold. And when I whistle, buck it off back to the hillocks. He himself made for them with long strides without weakening under his burden. She could smell the odor of a damp cellar with which his subterranean lair had impregnated his garments. He held her by the neck with a hard hand that bruised it. They came to the wooden bridge and were just about to cross it. No more than a hundred yards from it, perhaps, among the bushes and rocks, was one of the entrances to his underground lair. Already the man was raising his whistle to his lips. With a deft movement, Dorothy snatched the disc which was sticking up above the top of the pocket into which he had stuffed it and threw it towards the pool. It ran along the ground, rolls down the bank, and disappeared under the water. You little devil! growled the ruffian, throwing her roughly to the ground. Stir and I'll break your head. He went down the bank and floundered about in the visted mud of the river, keeping an eye on Dorothy and cursing her. She did not dream of flying. She kept looking from one to another of the points at the top of the wall above which she expected the heads of the farm servants or the detectives to rise. It was certainly five or six minutes past the hour, yet none of them appeared. Nevertheless, she did not lose hope. She expected Distriture, who had evidently lost his head, to make some mistake of which she could take advantage. Yes, yes, he snarled. You wished to gain time, my dear, and suppose you do. Do you think I'll let go of you? I've got you both. You end the medal, and your bumpkin of a rowl isn't the man to loosen my grip. Besides, if he does come, it'll be all the worse for him. My men have their orders, but good crack on the head. He was still searching. He stopped short, uttered a cry of triumph, and stood upright, the disc in his hand. Here it is, ducky. Certainly the luck is with me, and you've lost. On we go, cousin Dorothy. Dorothy cast the last look along the walls. No one. Instinctively, at the approach of the man she hated, she made as if to thrust him off. It made him laugh, so absurd did any resistance seem. Violently he beat down her outstretched arms, and again swung her onto his shoulder with a movement in which there was as much hate as desire. Say goodbye to your sweetheart, Dorothy, for the good rowl is in love with you. Say goodbye to him. If ever you see him again, it will be too late. He crossed the bridge and strode in among the helix. It was all over. In another thirty seconds, even if he were attacked, no longer being inside of the points on the wall at which the men armed with guns were to rise up, he would have time to reach the mouth of the entrance to his lair. Dorothy had lost the battle. Rowl and the detectives would arrive too late. You don't know how nice it is to have you there, all quivering, and to carry you away with me, against me, without your being able to escape the inevitable, whispered destacher. But what's the matter with you? Are you crying? You musts and my dear, after all, why should you? You would certainly let yourself be lulled one of these days on the bosom of the handsome rowl. Then there's no reason why I should be more distasteful to you than he is there. But hang it, he cried angrily. Haven't you done sobbing yet? He turned her on his shoulder and caught hold of her head. He was dumbfounded. Dorothy was laughing. What was this? What are you laughing at? Is it possible that you dare to laugh? What on earth do you mean by it? This laughter frightened him as the threat of danger? The slut. What was she laughing at? A sudden fury rose in him and setting her down clumsily against a tree. He struck her with his clenched fist, out of which a ring stuck on the forehead, among her hair with such force that the blood spurred it out. She was still laughing as she stammered. You brute! What a brute you are! If you laugh I'll bite your mouth you hussy. He snarled bending over her red lips. He did not dare to carry out the threat, respecting her in spite of himself and even a little intimidated. She was frightened however and laughed no more. What is this? What is it? He repeated. You should be crying and you're laughing. Why? I was laughing because of the plates. She said. What plates? Those which form the case of the metal. These? Yes. What about them? They're the plates of Dorothy's circus. I used to juggle with them. He looked utterly flabbergasted. What's this rot you're talking? It's rot, isn't it? Saint Quentin and I soldiered them together. I engraved the motto on them with a knife and last night we threw them into the pool. But you're mad. I don't understand. With what objects did you do it? Since poor old Juliet Assire babbled some admissions about the river when you tortured her, I was pretty sure you'd fall into the trap. What do you mean? What trap? I wanted to get you to come out of here. You knew that I was here then? Rather, I knew that you were watching us fish up the case and I knew for certain what would happen after that. Believing that this case found at the bottom of the pool under your very eyes contained the metal and seeing moreover that Rao had gone and I was alone at the manor, you wouldn't be able to come. But you have come. He stuttered. The gold metal? It isn't in this case then? No, it's empty. And Rao? Rao, you're expecting him? Yes, alone. With some detectives, he went to meet them. He clenched his fists and growled. You little beast, you denounced me. I denounced you. Not for a second did Distriture think she might be lying. He held the metal disc in his hand, and it would have been easy enough to force it open with his knife. To what end? The disc was empty. He was sure of it. Of a sudden he grasped the full force of the comedy she had played on the pool. It explained to him the odd uneasiness and disquiet he had felt when he was watching that series of actions, the connection of which seemed to him strange. However, he had come. He had plunged blindly with his head down into the trap she had audaciously laid for him before his very eyes. Of what miraculous power was she mistress? And how was he going to slip through the meshes of the net which was being drawn tighter and tighter round him? Let's be getting away, he said, eager to get out of danger. But he was suffering from molastitude of will, and instead of picking up his victim, he questioned her. The disc is empty. But you know where the metal is, he questioned. Of course I know, said Dorothy, who only thought of gaining time and whose furtive eyes were scanning the top of the wall. The man's eyes sparkled. Ah, you do, do you? You must be a fool to admit it. Since you know you're going to tell my dear. If not, he drew his revolver. She said mockingly, just as with Juliette Sire. Twenties what you count, isn't it? You may as well save your breath. It doesn't work with me. I swear, damn it. Words! No, the battle was certainly not lost. Dorothy, though exhausted, her face smeared with blood, clung to every possible incident with grim tenacity. She felt strongly that, in his fury, district sure was capable of killing her. But she was quite as clearly aware of his confusion of ideas and of her power over him. He hadn't the strength to depart and abandon the metal for which he had struggled so desperately. If only his hesitation lasted a few minutes longer, Raoul was bound to appear on the scene. At this moment an incident occurred which appeared to excite her keenest interest, for she leant forward to follow it more closely. The old Baron came out of the manor, carrying a bag, not dressed as usual in a blouse, but in a cloth suit and wearing a felt hat. That showed that he had made a choice, that is to say, in effort of thought. Then there was another such effort. Goliath was not with him. He waited for him, stamped his foot, and when the dog did come, caught him by the collar, looked about him, and took his way to the gate. The two Confederates barred his path. He metered some grumbling complaints and tried to get past them. They shoved him back, and at last he went off among the trees, without losing Goliath, but leaving his bag behind him. His action was easy to understand, and Dorothy and District Chair alike grasped the fact that the old fellow had wanted to go off on the quest of the treasure. In spite of his madness, he had not forgotten the enterprise. The appointed date was engraved on his memory, and on the day he had fixed, he strapped up his bag and started out like a piece of mechanism which one has wound up and which goes off at the moment fixed. District Chair called out to his Confederates, search his bag. Since they found nothing, no metal, no clue, he walked up and down in front of Dorothy for a moment, undecided what course to take, and then stopped beside her. Answer me. Rao loves you. You don't love him. Otherwise I should have put a stop to your little flirtation a fortnight ago. But all the same you feel some obligations towards him in the matter of the metal and the treasure, and you've joined forces. It's just foolishness, my dear, and I'm going to set your mind at rest about the matter, for there's a thing you don't know and I'm going to tell it you. After which I'm sure you'll speak. Answer me then. With regard to this metal, you must be wondering how I come to be hunting for it. Since, as you very well know, I stole it from your father. What do you suppose? I suppose somebody took it from you. You're right, but do you know who it was? No. Rao's father, George Davone. She started and exclaimed, You lie. I do not, he declared firmly. You remember your father's last letter which Cousin Octave read to us at Robberay? The Prince of Argon related how he heard two men talking under his window and saw a hand slip through it towards the table and sneak the metal. Well, the man who had accompanied the other on the expedition and was waiting below was George Davone, and that rogue Dorothy the very next night robbed his comrade. Dorothy was shaking with indignation and importance. It's a lie. Rao's father to take such a trade? A thief? Worse than that, for the Enterprise had not only robbery for its aim, and if the man who poured the poison into the glass and whose tattooed arm was seen by the Prince of Argon does not deny his acts, he doesn't forget that the poison was provided by the other. You lie. You lie. You alone are the culprit. You alone murdered my father. You don't really believe that. And look, here's a letter from him to the old Baron, to his father, that is. I found it among the Baron's papers. Read it. I have at last laid my hand on the indispensable gold piece. On my next leave I'll bring it to you. And look at the date. A week after the death of the Prince of Argon. Do you believe me now, eh? And don't you think that we might come to an understanding between ourselves apart from this milk-soap Rao? This revelation had tried Dorothy sorely. However, she pulled herself together and, putting a good face on it, she asked, what do you mean? I mean that the gold medal brought to the Baron, entrusted by him to his old flame for a while, then hidden I don't know where, belongs to you. Rao has no right to it. I'll buy it from you. At what price? Any price you like. Half the treasure if you demand it. Dorothy saw in the instant how she could make the most of the situation. Here again was a way of gaining some minutes. Decisive minutes, perhaps. A painful and costly way, since she risked handing over to him the key to the treasure. But dare she hesitate? Districher was nearly at the end of his patience. He was beside himself at the notion of the imminent attack with which he was threatened. Let him get carried away by an axis of panic and all would be lost by his ticking flight. A partnership between us? Never. A sharing of the treasure which would make me your ally? A thousand times? No. I detest you. Put an agreement for a few moments. Perhaps. Your conditions? He said. Be quick. Make the most of my allowing you to impose conditions. That won't take long. You have a double object, the medal and me. You must choose between them. Which do you want most? The medal. If you let me go free, I'll give it to you. Swear to me on your honor that you know where it is. I swear it. How long have you known? For about five minutes, a little while ago I did not know. A little fact has just come under my observation which has informed me. He believed her. It was impossible for him to disbelieve her. Everything that she said in that fashion, looking you straight in the face, was the exact truth. Speak. It's for you to speak first. Swear that as soon as my promises fulfilled, I shall be free. The ruffian blinked. The idea of keeping an oath appeared comic to him, and Dorothy was quite aware that his oath had no value of any kind. I swear it, he said. Then he repeated. Speak. I can't quite make out what you are faking. But it doesn't strike me as being gospel truth. So I don't put much faith in it. And don't you forget it. The conflict between them was now at its height, and what gave that conflict its peculiar character was that both of them saw clearly the adversary's game. Dorothy had no doubt that Raul, after an unforeseen delay, was on his way to the manor, and districter who had no more doubt of it than she, knew that all her actions were based on her expectation of immediate intervention, which there was one trifling fact which rendered their chances of victory equal. Districter believed himself to be in perfect security because his two Confederates, glued to the wicket, were watching the road for the coming of the car, while the young girl had taken the admirable precaution of instructing Raul to abandon the car and take the paths which were out of sight of the gate. All her hopes sprang from this precaution. She made her explanation quietly, all the while bearing in mind her keen desire to drag out the interview. I've never ceased to believe, she said, and I'm sure that you are of the same opinion that the Baron has never, so to speak, put in the medal. I hunted everywhere. Districter objected. So did I. But I don't mean that he kept it on him. I meant that he kept it and still keeps it within reach. You do? Yes. He has always managed in such a way that he has only to stretch out his hands to grasp it. Impossible, we should have seen it. Not at all. Only just now you failed to see anything. Just now? Yes, when he was going off, compelled by the bidding of his instinct, when he was going off on the very day he had fixed before he fell ill, he was going off without the medal. With the medal? They searched his bag. The bag wasn't the only thing he was taking with him. What else was there? Hang it all, you were more than a hundred yards away from him. You saw nothing. I saw that he was holding something beside his bag. What? Goliath. Goliath. Districhor was silent, struck by that simple word and all it signified. Goliath, Dorothy went on. Goliath, who never quit at him. Goliath always within reach of his hand, and whom he was holding, whom he is holding at this moment. Look at him. His five fingers are clenched round the dog's collar. Do you understand? Round its collar. Once more Districhor had no doubt. Dorothy's declaration immediately appeared to him to meet all the circumstances of the case. Once more she threw light on the affair. Beyond that light, nothing but darkness and contradictions. He recovered all his coolness, his will to act instantly revived, and at the same time he saw clearly all the precautions to be taken to minimize the risks of the attempt. He drew from his pocket a thin piece of rope with which he bound Dorothy and a handkerchief which he tied across her mouth. If you've made a mistake, darling, all the worse for you, you'll pay for it. And he added in a sarcastic tone. Moreover, if you haven't made a mistake, all the worse for you dress the same. I'm not the man to lose my prey. He hailed his confederates. Hi boys, is there anyone on the road? Not a soul. Keep your eyes open. We'll be off in three minutes. When I whistle, buck it off to the entrance to the caves. I'll bring the young woman along. The threat, terrible as it was, did not affect Dorothy. For her the whole drama was unfolding itself down below between Districhor and the Baron. Districhor ran down from the hillocks, crossed the bridge, and ran towards the old man who was sitting on a bench on the terrace with Goliath's head on his knee. Dorothy felt her heart beating wildly. Not that she doubted that she would find the metal. It would be found in the dog's collar, of that she was sure. But it must be that this supreme effort to snatch a last delay could not fail. If the barrel of a gun doesn't appear above the top of the wall before a minute is up, Districhor is my master. And since she would rather kill herself than submit to that degradation, during that minute her life was at stake. The respite accorded by circumstances was longer than that. Districhor, having flung himself on the dog, met with an unexpected resistance from the Baron. The old man thrust him off furiously, while the dog barked and dragged himself free from the Ruffian's grip. The struggle was prolonged. Dorothy followed its phases with alternating fear and hope, backing up Rao's grandfather with all the force of her will, cursing the energy and stubbornness of the Ruffian. In the end the old Baron grew tired and appeared all at once to lose interest in what might happen. One might have thought that Goliath must have suddenly fallen a victim to the same sense of lastitude. He sat down at his master's feet and let himself be handled with a kind of indifference. With trembling fingers, Districhor cut holds of the collar and ran his fingers along the nail-studded leather under the dog's thick coat. His fingers found the buckle. But he got no further. The dramatic surprise came at last. A man's bust rose above the wall and the voice cried, hands up. At last Dorothy smiled with an indescribable sensation of joy and deliverance. Her plan, delayed by some obstacle, was a success. Near Saint Quentin, who had been the first to appear, another figure rose above the wall, leveled a gun and cried, hands up. Instantly Districhor abandoned his search and looked about him with an air of panic. Two other shouts rang out, hands up, hands up. From the points chosen by the young girl, two more guns were leveled at him, and the men who aimed, aimed straight at Districhor only. Nevertheless, he hesitated. A bullet sing over his head. His hands went up. His confederates were already halfway to the hillocks in their flight. No one paid any attention to them. They ran across the bridge and disappeared in the direction of an isolated hillock which was called the Labyrinth. The big gate flew open. Raoul rushed through it, followed by two men whom Dorothy did not know, but who must be the detective dispatched on his information. Districhor did not budge. He kept his hands up. And doubtless he would not have made any resistance if a false move of the police had not given him the chance. As they reached him they closed round him, covering him for two or three seconds from the fire of the servants on the wall. He took advantage of their error to whip out his revolver and shoot. Four times it cracked. Three bullets went wide. The fourth buried itself in Raoul's leg, and he fell to the ground with a groan. It was a futile outburst of rage and savagery. On the instant the detectives grappled with Districhor, disarmed him and reduced him to impotence. They handcuffed him, and as they did so his eyes sought Dorothy, who was almost out of sight, for she had slipped behind a clump of bushes, and as they sought her they filled with an expression of appalling hate. It was St. Quentin, followed by the Captain, who found Dorothy, and at the side of her blood smeared face they were nearly beside themselves. Silence, she commanded, to catch short their questions. Yes, I'm wounded, but it's a mere nothing. Run to the Baron, Captain. Catch hold of Goliath, pot him, and take off his collar. In the collar you will find behind the metal plate, on which his name is engraved, a pocket forming a lining to it and containing the metal we're looking for. Bring it to me. The boy hurried off. St. Quentin, Dorothy continued, have the detective seen me? No. You must give everyone to understand that I left the manor some time ago, and that's your to meet me at the market-town, Roche-sur-Yon. I don't want to be mixed up with the inquiry. They'll examine me, and it will be a sheer waste of time. Which one's your double-nay? As soon as you get the chance, tell him. Tell him that I've gone for reasons which I will explain later, and that I beg him to keep silent about everything that concerns us. Besides, he is wounded, and his mind is confused, and nobody will think about me. They're going to hunt through the hillocks, I expect, to get hold of Distriture's Confederates. They mustn't see me. Cover me with branches. That's all right, she said when he had done so. As soon as it is getting dark, come, all four of you, and carry me down to the caravan, and we'll start as soon as it stay light. Perhaps I shall be out of sorts for a few days, rather too much over work and excitement, nothing for you to worry about. Do you understand, my boy? Yes, Dorothy. As she had foreseen, the two detectives, having shut up Distriture at the manor, passed at no great distance from her, guided by one of the farm servants. She presently heard them calling out and guessed that they had discovered the entrance to the caves of the labyrinth, down which Distriture's Confederates had fled. Pursued as useless, murmured Dorothy, the quarry has too long a start. She felt exhausted. But for nothing in the world would she have yielded to her lassitude before the return of the captain. She asked Saint Quentin how the attack had come to be so long delayed. An accident, wasn't it? Yes, said he. The detectives made a mistake about the inn, and the farm servants were late getting back from the fate. It was necessary to collect the whole lot, and the car broke down. Once Falcon came running up, Dorothy went on. Perhaps, Saint Quentin, there will be the name of a town, or rather of a chateau on the meadow. In that case, find out all you can about the route and take the caravan there. Did you find it, Captain? Yes, Mummy. Give it to me, pet. What a motion Dorothy felt when she touched the gold meadow so keenly coveted by them all, which one might reckon the most precious of talismans, as the guarantee even of success. It was a meadow twice the size of a five-frank piece, and above all much thicker, less smoothly cut than a modern meadow, less delicately modelled, and of duller golds that did not shine. On the face was the motto, and robberay fortuna. On the reverse, these lines. July 12th, 1921. At noon, before the clock of the chateau of Roche Periaque. The 12th of July. Mother Dorothy. I have time to faint. She fainted. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of The Secret Tomb by Maurice LeBlanc This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 10 Towards the Golden Fleece It was not till nearly three days afterwards that Dorothy got the better of the physical torpor, aggravated by fever, which had overwhelmed her. The four boys gave a performance on the outskirts of Nantes. Montfalcon took the place of the directoress in the leading role. It was a less-taking spectacle, but in it the captain displayed such an animated comicality that the takings were good. Saint Quentin insisted that Dorothy should take another two days' rest. What need was there to hurry? The village of Roche Periaque was at the most sixty-five miles from Nantes so that there was no need for them to set out till six days before the time appointed. She allowed herself to be ordered about by him, for she was still suffering from a profound lassitude as a result of so many ups and downs and such violent emotions. She thought a great deal about Raoul Davernet, but in the spirit of angry revolt against the feelings of tenderness towards the young man with which those weeks of intimacy had inspired her. However little he might be connected with the drama in which the Prince of Argonne had met his death. He was none the less the son of the man who had assisted Destriture in the perpetration of the crime. How could she forget that? How could she forgive it? The quiet pleasantness of the journey soothed the little girl. Her ardent and happy nature got the better of painful memories and past fatigues. The nearer she drew to her goal, the more fully her strength of mind and body came back to her, her joy in life, her childlike gaiety, and her resolve to bring the Enterprise to a successful end. St. Quentin, she said, we are advancing to the capture of the Golden Fleece. Are you bearing in mind the solemn importance of the days that are passing? Four days yet, three days, two days, and the Golden Fleece's hours? Bear in day, St. Quentin, in a fortnight you will be dressed like a dandy. And you, like a princess, replied St. Quentin, to whom this prospect of fortune, promising a less close intimacy with his great friend, did not seem to give any great pleasure. She was strongly of the opinion that other trials awaited her, that there would still be obstacles to surmount and perhaps enemies to fight. But for the time being there was a respite in the truce. The first part of the drama was finished. Other adventures were about to begin. Curious and of a daring spirit, she smiled at the mysterious future which opened before her. On the fourth day they crossed the Veline, the right bank of which they were henceforth to follow, along the top of the slopes which run down to the river. It was a somewhat barren country, sparsely inhabited, over which they moved slowly under a scorching sun which overwhelmed one-eyed magpie. At last, next day, the eleventh of July, they saw on a signpost, roched Periaque, twelve and a half miles. We shall sleep there to-night, declared Dorothy. It was a painful stage of the journey. The heat was suffocating. On the way they picked up a tramp who lay grooming on the dusty grass. A woman and a club-footed child were walking a hundred yards ahead of them without one-eyed magpie being able to catch them up. Dorothy and the four boys took it in turns to sit with the tramp in the caravan. He was a wretched old man, worn out by poverty, whose rags were only held together by pieces of string. In the middle of his bushy hair and unkept beard, his eyes, however, still had a certain glow. And when Dorothy questioned him about the life he led, he confounded her by saying, One mustn't complain. My father, who was a traveling knife-grinder, always said to me, Hyacinth, that's my name, Hyacinth, one isn't miserable while one's brave. Fortune is in the firm heart. Dorothy concealed her amazement and said, That's not a weighty legacy. Did he only leave you this secret? Yes, said the tramp quite simply. That and a piece of advice, to go on the twelfth of July every year and wait in front of the Church of Roch Periak for somebody who will give me hundreds and thousands. I go there every year. I've never received anything but pennies. All the same it keeps one going, that idea does. I shall be there tomorrow, as I was last year, and as I shall be next. The old man fell back upon his own thoughts. Dorothy said no more. But an hour later she offered the shelter of the box to the woman and the club-footed child, whom they had at last overtaken. And questioning this woman, she learned that she was a factory hand from Paris who was going to the Church of Roch Periak that her child's foot might be healed. In my family, said the woman, in my father's time and my grandfather's too, one always did the same thing when a child was ill. One took it on the twelfth of July into the Chapel of St. Fortunat at Roch Periak. It's a certain cure. So, by these two other channels, the legend had passed to this woman of the people and this tramp, but a deformed legend of which there only remained a few shreds of the truth. The Church took the place of the Chateau, St. Fortunat of the Fortune. Only the day of the month mattered. There was no question of the year. There was no mention at all of the metal. And each was making a pilgrimage towards the place from which so many families had looked for miraculous aid. That evening the caravan reached the village, and at once Dorothy obtained information about the Chateau de la Roch Periak. The only Chateau of that name that was well known was some rune six miles further on situated on the shore of the ocean on a small peninsula. We'll sleep here, said Dorothy, and we'll start early in the morning. They did not start early in the morning. The caravan was drawn into a barn for the night, and soon after midnight St. Quentin was awakened by the pungent fumes of smoke into crackling. He jumped up. The barn was on fire. He shouted and called for help. Some peasants, passing along the high road by a happy chance, ran to his assistance. It was quite time. They had barely dragged the caravan out of the barn when the roof fell in. Dorothy and her comrades were uninjured. But one eyed magpie half roasted, refused firmly to let himself be harnessed. The shaft chafed her burns. It was not till seven o'clock that the caravan tottered off, drawn by a wretched horse that they had hired, and followed by one eyed magpie. As they crossed the square in front of the church, they saw the woman and her child kneeling at the end of the porch and the tramp on his quest. For them the adventure would go no further. There were no further incidents, except St. Quentin on the box. They went to sleep in the caravan, leaning against one another. At half-past nine they stopped. They had come to a cottage dignified with the name of an inn, on the door of which they read, Widow Amorex, lodging for man and beast. A few hundred yards away, at the bottom of a slope which ended in a low cliff, the little peninsula of Periax stretched out into the ocean five promontories which looked like the five fingers of a hand. On their left was the mouth of the valane. For the children it was the end of the expedition. They made a meal in a dimly-lighted room, furnished with the zinc counter and which coffee was served. Then, while Castor and Pollux fed one eyed magpie, Dorothy questioned the widow Amorex, a big, cheerful, talkative countrywoman about the runes of Roche Periax. Ah, you're going there too, are you, my dear? The widow exclaimed. I'm not the first, then, said Dorothy. Goodness, no. There's already an old gentleman and his wife. I've seen the old gentleman before at this time of year. Once he slept here. He's one of those who seek. Who seek what? Who can tell? A treasure according to what they say. The people about here don't believe in it. But people come from a long way off who hunt in the woods and turn over the stones. It's a love, then, is it? Why not? The island of Periax. I call it an island because at high tide the road to it is covered belongs to the monks of the monastery of Sarzo, a couple of leagues further on. It seems, indeed, that they're ready to sell the runes in all the land. But who'd buy them? There's none of it cultivated. It's all wild. Is there any other road to it but this? Yes, a stony road which starts at the cliff and runs into the road to Vans. But I tell you, my dear, it's a lost land, deserted. I don't see ten travelers a year. Some shepherds, that's all. At last, at ten o'clock, the caravan was properly installed. And in spite of the entreaties of St. Quentin, who would have liked to go with her and to whom she entrusted the children, Dorothy, dressed in her prettiest frock and adorned with her most striking feature, started on her campaign. The great day had begun. The day of triumph or disappointment, of darkness or light, whichever it might be, for a girl like Dorothy with her mind always alert and of an ever-quivering sensitiveness, the moment was delightful. Her imagination created a fantastic palace, bright with a thousand shining windows, people with good and bad genies, with prince charming and beneficent fairies. A light breeze blew from the sea and tempered the rays of the sun with its freshness. The further she advanced, the more distinctly she saw the jagged contours of the five promenatories and of the peninsula in which they were rooted in a mass of bushes and green rocks. The meager outline of a half-demolished tower rose above the tops of the trees, and here and there among them one caught sight of the gray stones of a room. But the slope became steeper. The van's road joined hers where it ran down a break in the cliff, and Dorothy saw that the sea, very high up at the moment, almost spayed the foot of this cliff, covering with calm shallow water the causeway to the peninsula. On the top were standing upright the old gentleman and the lady of whom the widow Almorex had told her. Dorothy was amazed to recognize Rao's grandfather and his old flame Juliet Assire, the old baron, Juliet Assire. How had they been able to get away from the manor, to escape from Rao, to make the journey, and reach the threshold of the runes? She came right up to them without their even seeming to notice her presence. Their eyes were vague, and they were gazing in dull surprise at this sheet of water which hindered their progress. Dorothy was touched. Two centuries of chimerical hopes had bequeathed to the old baron instructions so precise that they survived the extinction of his power to think. He had come here from a distance, in spite of terrible fatigues and superhuman efforts to attain the goal, groping his way, in the dark, and accompanied by another creature like himself, demented. And, behold, both of them stopped dead before a little water as before an obstacle there was no surmounting. She said to him gently, Will you follow me? It's a mere nothing to go through. He raised his head and looked at her and did not reply. The woman also was silent. Neither he nor she could understand. There were automata rather than living beings, urged on by an impulse which was outside them. They had come without knowing what they were doing. They had stopped and they would go back without knowing what they were doing. There was no time to lose. Dorothy did not insist. She pulled up her frock and pinned it between her legs. She took off her shoes and stockings and stepped into the water which was so shallow that her knees were not wet. When she reached the further shore the old people had not budged. With the dumbfounded air they still gazed at the unforeseen obstacle. In spite of herself, with a compassionate smile, she stretched out her arms towards them. The old bear and again threw back his head. Julieta Sire was as still as a statue. Good-bye, said Dorothy, almost happy at their inaction and at being alone to prosecute the Enterprise. The approach to the peninsula of Periac is made very narrow by two marshes, according to the widow Amorex, reputed to be very dangerous, between which a narrow band of solid ground affords the only path. This path mounted a wooded ravine, which some faded writing on an old board described as Bad Going, and came out to a plateau covered with gorse and tether. At the end of twenty minutes Dorothy crossed the debris of part of the old wall which ran round the Chateau. She slackened her pace. At every step it seemed to her that she was penetrating into a more and more mysterious region in which time had accumulated more silence and more solitude. The trees hugged one another more closely. The shade of the brushwood was so thick that no flowers grew beneath it. Who then had lived here formerly and planted these trees, some of which were of rare species and foreign origin? The road split into three paths, goat tracks, along which one had to walk in this stooping posture under the low branches. She chose at random the middle track of the three and passed through a series of small enclosures marked out by small walls of crumbling stone. Under heavy draperies of ivy she saw rows of buildings. She did not doubt that her goal was close at hand, and her emotion was so great that she had to sit down like a pilgrim who is about to arrive in sight of the sacred spot towards which she has been advancing ever since his earliest days. And of her inmost self she asked this question, Suppose I have made a mistake. Suppose all this means nothing at all. Yes, in the little leather bag I have in my pocket there is a medal, and on it the name of a chateau, and a given day and a given year. And here I am at the chateau at the appointed time, but all the same what is there to prove that my reasoning is sound, or that anything is going to happen. A hundred and fifty or two hundred years is a very long time, and any number of things may have happened to sweep away the combinations of which I believe I have caught a glimpse. She rose. Step by step she advanced slowly. A pavement of different colored bricks, arranged in a design, covered the ground. The arch of an isolated gateway, quite bare, opened high above. She passed through it, and at once, at the end of a large courtyard, she saw, and it was all she did see, the face of a clock. A glance at her watch showed her that it was half past eleven. There was no one else in the runes. And truly it seemed as if there never could be anyone else in this last corner of the world, whether chance could only bring ignorant wayfarers or shepherds in quest of pastureage for their flocks. Indeed there were only fragments of runes, rather than actual runes, covered with ivy and briars. He reported, their revolt, further on a chimney-piece, further still the skeleton of a summer house. Alone, venerable witnesses to a time at which there had been a house, with a courtyard in front, wings on both sides, surrounded by a park. Further off there stood, in groups or infringements of avenues, fine old trees, chiefly oaks, wide spreading, venerable and majestic. At one side of the courtyard, the shape of which she could make out by the position of the buildings which had crumbled to runes, part of the front, still intact, and backed by a small hill of runes, held at the top of a very low first story, this clock which had escaped by a miracle man's ravages. Across its face stretched its two big hands, the colour of rust. Most of the hours, engraved contrary to the usual custom in Roman figures, were afaced. Los and while pelatory were growing between the gaping stones of the face. Right at the bottom of it, under a cover and a small niche, a bell awaited the stroke of the hammer, a dead clock whose heart had ceased to beat. Dorothy had the impression that time had stopped there for centuries, suspended from these motionless hands, from that hammer which no longer struck, from that silent bell and sheltering niche. Then she aspired underneath it, on a marble tablet, some scarcely legible letters, and mounting a pile of stones she could decipher the words, in robbery fortuna. In robbery fortuna, the beautiful and noble motto that one found everywhere, at robbery, at the manor, at the chateau de la roche parriac, and on the metal. Was Dorothy right then? Were the instructions given by the metal still valid? And was it truly a meeting place to which one was summoned, across time and space, in front of this dead clock? She gained control of herself and said, laughing, a meeting place to which I alone shall come. So keen was this conviction of hers that she could hardly believe that those who, like herself, had been summoned would come. This formidable series of chances, thanks to which, little by little, she had come to the very heart of this enigmatic adventure, could not logically be repeated in the case of some other privileged being. The chain of tradition must have been broken in the other families, or have ended in fragments of the truth, as the instances of the tramp and the factory hand proved. No one will come, she repeated. It is five and twenty to twelve. Consequently, she did not finish the sentence. A sound came from the landside, a sound near at hand, distinct from those produced by the movements of the sea or the wind. She listened. It came with an even beat which grew more and more distinct. Some peasant, some moot-cutter, she thought. No, it was something else. She made it out more clearly than nearer it came, which was the slow and measured step of a horse whose hoofs were striking the harder soil of the path. Dorothy followed its progress through one after the other of the enclosures of the old estate, then along the brick pavement, a clicking of the tongue of a rider, urging on his mount at intervals came to her ears. Her eyes fixed on the yawning arch, Dorothy waited almost shivering with curiosity. And suddenly a horseman appeared, an odd-looking horseman, who looked so large on his little horse that one was rather inclined to believe that he was advancing by means of those long legs which hung down so far and pulling the horse along like a child's toy. His check-suit, his knickerbockers, his thick woolen stockings, his clean-shaven face, the pipe between his teeth, his phlegmatic air, all proclaimed his English nationality. On seeing Dorothy, he said to himself, and without the slightest air of astonishment, well, and he would have continued his journey if he had not caught sight of the clock, he pulled in his horse. To dismount he had only to stand on tiptoe and his horse slipped from under him. He nodded the bridle rounder route, looked at his watch, and took up his position not far from the clock. Here is a gentleman who doesn't waste words, thought Dorothy, an Englishman for certain. She presently discovered that he kept looking at her, but as one looks as a woman one finds pretty and not at all as one looks at a person with whom circumstances demand that one should converse. His pipe having gone out, he lit it again, and so they remained three or four minutes, close to one another, serious, without stirring. The breeze blew the smoke from his pipe towards her. It's too silly, said Dorothy to herself, for after all it's very likely that this tacheturn, gentleman, and I have an appointment. Upon my word I'm going to introduce myself, under which name. This question threw her into a state of considerable embarrassment. Aught she to introduce herself to him as Princess of Argonne or as Dorothy the Rope Dancer? The solemnity of the occasion called for a ceremonious presentation and the revelation of her rank, but on the other hand her variegated costume with its short skirt called for less pomp, decidedly Rope Dancer sufficed. These considerations, to the humor of which she was quite alive, had brought a smile to her face. The young man observed it, he smiled too, both of them opened their mouths, and they were about to speak at the same time when an incident stopped them on the verge of utterance. A man came out of the path into the courtyard, a pedestrian with a clean shaven face, very pale, one arm in a sling under a jacket much too large for him, and a Russian soldier's cap. The sight of the clock brought him also to a dead stop. Perceiving Dorothy and her companion, he smiled an expansive smile that opened his mouth from ear to ear, and took off his cap, uncovering a completely shaven head. During this incident the sound of a motor had been throbbing away, at first at some distance. The explosions grew louder, and their burst, once more through the arch, into the courtyard a motorcycle which went bumping over the uneven ground and stopped short. The motor cyclist had caught sight of the clock. Quite young, of a well set up, well proportioned figure, tall, slim, and of a cheerful countenance, he was certainly like the first-comer of the Anglo-Saxon race. Having propped up his motorcycle, he walked towards Dorothy, watch in hand as if he were on the point of saying, you will note that I am not late. But he was interrupted by two more arrivals who came almost simultaneously. A second horseman came trotting briskly through the arch on a big, lean horse, and at the sight of the group gathered in front of the clock drew rain sharply, saying in Italian, gently, gently. He had a fine profile and an amiable face, and when he had tied up his mount he came forward hat in hand as one about to pay his respects to a lady. But, mounted on a donkey, appeared a fifth individual from a different direction from any of the others. On the threshold of the court he pulled up an amazement, staring stupidly with wide open eyes behind his spectacles. Is it possible? he stammered. Is it possible? They've come. The whole thing isn't a fairy tale. He was quite sixty. Dressed in a frock coat, his head covered with a black straw hat, he wore whiskers and carried under his arm a leather satchel. He did not cease to reiterate in a flustered voice. They have come. They have come to the rendezvous. It's unbelievable. Up to now Dorothy had been silent in the face of the exclamations and arrivals of her companions. The need of explanations, of speech even, seemed to diminish in her the more they flocked round her. She became serious and grave. Her thoughtful eyes expressed an intense emotion. Each apparition seemed to her as tremendous an event as a miracle. Like the gentleman in the frock coat with the satchel, she murmured. Is it possible? They have come to the rendezvous. She looked at her watch. Noon. Listen, she said, stretching out her hand. Listen. The English is ringing somewhere at the village church. They uncovered their heads and while they listened to the ringing of the bell, which came to them in irregular bursts, one would have said that they were waiting for the clock to start going and connect with the minute that was passing the thread of the minutes of long ago. Dorothy fell on her knees. Her emotion was so deep that she was weeping. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of The Secret Tomb by Maurice LeBlanc. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 11 The Will of the Marquis de Beau-Grival Tears of joy. Tears which relieved her strained nerves and bathed her in an immense peacefulness. The five men were greatly disturbed, knowing neither what to do nor what to say. Mademoiselle. What's the matter, Mademoiselle? This seemed so staggered by her sobs and by their own presence round her that Dorothy passed suddenly from tears to laughter and yielding to her natural impulse. She began forthwith to dance, without troubling to know whether she would appear to them to be a princess or a rope dancer. And the more this unexpected display increased the embarrassment of her companions, the gayer she grew. Fandango, jig, reel, she gave a snatch of each, with the simulated accompaniment of castanets and the genuine accompaniment of English songs and albergnaut ritonelles. And above all of bursts of laughter which awakened the echoes of rochperiac. But laugh, too, all five of you, she cried. You look like five mummies. It's I who order you to laugh. I, Dorothy, rope dancer and princess of Argonne. Come, Mr. Lawyer, she added, addressing the gentleman in the frock coat. Look more cheerful. I assure you that there's plenty to be cheerful about. She darted to the good man, shook him by the hand, and said, as if to assure him of his status, you are the lawyer, aren't you? The notary charged with the execution of the provisions of a will. That's much clearer than you think. We'll explain it to you. You are the notary. That is the fact, stammered the gentleman. I am my church at a rue, notary at Nantes. At Nantes. Excellent, we know where we are. And it's a question of a gold medal, isn't it? A gold medal which each has received a summons to the rendezvous. Yes, yes, he said more and more flustered. A gold medal, a rendezvous. The 12th of July, 1921. Yes, yes, 1921. At noon. At noon. He made us have to look at his watch. She stopped him. You needn't take the trouble, Maitre De La Rue. We've heard the ingoless. You are punctual at the rendezvous. We are too. Everything is in order. Each has his gold medal. They're going to show it to you. She drew Maitre De La Rue towards the clock, and said with even greater animation. This is Maitre De La Rue, the notary. You understand. If you don't, I can speak English and Italian and Japanese. All four of them protested that they understood French. Excellent, we shall understand one another better than this is Maitre De La Rue. He is the notary, the man who has been instructed to preside at our meeting. In France, notaries represent the dead. So that since it is a dead man who brings us together, you see how important Maitre De La Rue's position is in the matter. You don't grasp it. How funny that is. To me, it is all so clear and so amusing. So strange. It's the prettiest adventure I ever heard of, and the most thrilling. Think now. We all belong to the same family. We are by way of being cousins. Then we ought to be joyful like relations who have come together. And all the more because, yes, I am right. All four of you are decorated. The French croix de guerre. Then all four of you have fought. Fought in France. You have defended my dear country. She shook hands with all of them with an air of affection. And since the American and the Italian displayed an equal warmth of a sudden, with a spontaneous movement, she rose on tiptoe and kissed them on both cheeks. Welcome, cousin from America. Welcome, cousin from Italy. Welcome to my country. And to you, too, also. Greetings. It's settled that we're comrades. Friends, isn't it? The atmosphere was charged with joy and that good humor which comes from being young and full of life. They felt themselves to be really of the same family, scattered members brought together. They no longer felt the constraint of a first meeting. They had known one another for years and years, for ages, cried Dorothy, clapping her hands. So the four men surrounded her, at once attracted by her charm and lightheartedness and surprised by the light she brought into the obscure story which so suddenly united them to one another. All barriers were swept away. There was none of that slow infiltration of feeling which little by little fills you with trust and sympathy. But the sudden in rush of the most unreserved comradeship. Each wished to please and each felt that he did please. Dorothy separated them and set them in a row as if about to review them. I'll take you and turn, my friends. Excuse me, Monceau de la Rue. I'll do the questioning and verify their credentials. Number one, the gentleman from America. Who are you? Your name? The American answered. Archibald Webster of Philadelphia. Archibald Webster of Philadelphia. You received from your father a gold medal? From my mother, mademoiselle. My father died many years ago. And from whom did your mother receive it? From her father. And he, from his, and so on in succession, isn't that it? Archibald Webster confirmed her statement in excellent French, as if it was his duty to answer her questions. And so on in succession, as you say, mademoiselle, a family tradition, which goes back to We Don't Know When, ascribes a French origin to her family, and directs that a certain medal should be transmitted to the eldest son, without more than two persons ever knowing of its existence. And what do you understand this tradition to mean? I don't know what it means. My mother told me that it gave us a right to a share of treasure. But she laughed as she told me and sent me to France rather out of curiosity. Show me your medal, Archibald Webster. The American took the gold medal from his waistcoat pocket. It was exactly like the one Dorothy possessed. The inscription, the size, the dull color were the same. Dorothy showed it to mitre de la rue, and gave it back to the American, and went on with her questioning. Number two, English, aren't you? George Errington of London. Tell us what you know, George Errington of London. The Englishman shook his pipe, emptied it, and answered in equally good French. I know no more. In an orphan from birth, I received the medal three days ago from the hands of my guardian, my father's brother. He told me that, according to my father, it was a matter of collecting a bequest, and according to himself, there was nothing in it, but I ought to obey the summons. You were right to obey it, George Errington. Show me your medal. Right, you're in order. Number three, a Russian doubtless. The man in the soldier's cap understood, but he did not speak French. He smiled his large smile, and gave her a scrap of paper of doubtful cleanliness, on which was written Corabelle, French War, Salonica. War with Rangel. The medal, said Dorothy. Right, you're one of us. And the medal of number four, the gentleman from Italy, Marco Dario of Geneva, answered the Italian, showing his medal. I found it on my father's body in Champagne, one day after we had been fighting side by side. He had never spoken to me about it. Nevertheless, you have come here. I did not intend to. And then, in spite of myself, as I had returned to Champagne, to my father's tomb, I took the train to Vance. Yes, she said, like the others, you have obeyed the command of our common ancestor. What ancestor? And why this command? That is what Montseur de la Rue is going to reveal to us. Come, Montseur de la Rue. All is in order. All of us have the token. It is now in order for us to call on you for the explanation. What explanation? asked the lawyer, still dazed by so many surprises. I don't quite know. How do you mean you don't know? Why this leather satchel? And why have you made the journey from Nantes to Roche Periac? Come, open your satchel and re-twist the documents it must contain. You truly believe. Of course I believe. We have, all five of us, these gentlemen and myself, performed our duty in coming here and informing you of our identity. It is your turn to carry out your mission. We are all ears. The gaiety of the young girl spread around her such an atmosphere of cordiality that even Montseur de la Rue himself felt its beneficent effects. Besides, the business was already in train, and he entered smoothly on ground over which the young girl had traced, in the midst of apparently impenetrable brushwood, a path which he could follow with perfect ease. But certainly, said he, but certainly there is nothing else to do, and I must communicate what I know to you. Excuse me, but this affair is so disconcerting. Getting the better of the confusion into which he had been thrown, he recovered all the dignity which befits a lawyer. They set him in the seat of honor on a kind of shelf formed by an inequality of the ground, and formed a circle round him. Following Dorothy's instructions, he opened his satchel with the air of importance of a man used to having every eye fixed on him, and every ear stretched to catch his every word. And without waiting to be again pressed to speak, embarked on a discourse evidently prepared for the event of his finding himself, contrary to all reasonable expectation, in the presence of someone at the appointed rendezvous. My preamble will be brief, he said, for I am eager to come to the object of this reunion. On the day, it is fourteen years ago, on which I installed myself at Nantes in the office of a notary who's practice I had bought, my predecessor, after having given me full information about the more complicated cases in hand exclaimed, ah, but I was forgetting, not that it's of any importance, but all the same. Look, my dear confere, this is the oldest set of papers in the office, and a measly set, too, since it only consists of a sealed letter with the note of instructions, which I will read to you. Missive entrusted to the strict care of the Sire-Barbière, Scrivener, and of his excessors, to be opened on the twelfth of July, 1921, at noon, in front of the clock of the chateau of Roche-Périac, and to be read in the presence of all possessors of a gold medal struck at my instance. There, no other explanations, my predecessor did not receive any from the man from whom he had bought the practice, the most he could learn, after researches among the old registers of the parish of Périac, was that the Sire-Barbière, Hippolyte Jean, Scrivener, lived at the beginning of the eighteenth century, at what epoch was his office closed, for what reasons were his papers transported to Nantes? Perhaps we may suppose that owing to certain circumstances, one of the lords of Roche-Périac left the country, and settled down at Nantes with his furniture, his horses, and his household down to the village Scrivener. Anyhow, for nearly two hundred years the letter entrusted to the strict care of the Scrivener, Barbière, and his excessors lay at the bottom of drawers and pigeon-holes, without anyone's having tried to violate the secrecy enjoined by the writer of it, and so it came about that in all probability it would fall to my lot to break the seal. My chair de la rue made a pause and looked at his auditors. They were, as they say, hanging on his lips. Pleased with the impression he had produced, he tapped the leather satchel and continued, Need I tell you that my thoughts have very often dwelt on this prospect, and that I have been curious to learn the contents of such a letter. A journey even which I made to the chateau gave me no information, in spite of my searches in the archives of the villages and towns of the district. Then the appointed time drew near. Before doing anything I went to consult the president of the civil court. A question presented itself. If the letter was to be considered a testament to a disposition, perhaps I ought not to open it except in the presence of that magistrate. That was my opinion. It was not his. He was of the opinion that we were confronted by a display of fantasy. He went so far as to murmur the word humbug, which was outside the scope of the law, and that I should act quite simply. A tristing place beneath the elm, he said, joking, has been fixed for you at noon on the twelfth of July. Go then, Montseur de la Rue. Break the seal of the missive in accordance with the instructions, and come back and tell me all about it. I promise you not to laugh if you come back looking like a fool. Accordingly, in a very skeptical state of mind, I took the train to Vans, then the coach, and then hired a donkey to bring me to the runes. You can imagine my surprise at finding that I was not alone under the elm. I mean the clock. At the rendezvous, but that all of you were waiting for me. The four young people laughed heartily. Marco Dario of Genoa said, ah, the same the business grows serious. George Errington of London added, perhaps the story of the treasurer is not so absurd. Montseur de la Rue's letter is going to inform us, said Dorothy. So the moment had come. They gathered more closely round the notary. A certain gravity mingled with the gaiety on the young faces, and it grew deeper when Montseur de la Rue displayed before the eyes of all one of those large square envelopes which formerly one made oneself out of a thick sheet of paper. It was discolored with that peculiar shine which only the laps of time can give to paper. It was sealed with five seals, once upon a time red perhaps, but now of a grayish violet seemed by a thousand little cracks like a network of wrinkles. In the left hand corner at the top, the formula of transmission must have been renewed several times. Traced afresh with ink by the successors of the scrivener Barbier. The seals are quite intact, said Montseur de la Rue. You can even manage to make out the three Latin words of the motto. In rubber a fortuna, said Dorothy. Ah, you know, said the notary, surprised. Yes, Montseur de la Rue. Yes, they are the same as those engraved on the gold medals, and those I discovered just now, half rubbed out under the face of the clock. We have here an indisputable connection, said the notary, which draws together the different parts of the affair and confers on it in authenticity. Open the letter, open it, Montseur de la Rue, said Dorothy impatiently. Three of the seals were broken. The envelope was unfolded. It contained a large sheet of parchment, broken into four pieces which separated and had to be put together again. From top to bottom and on both sides the sheet of parchment was covered with large handwriting with bold straw strokes, which had evidently been written in indelible ink. The lines almost touched in the letters were so close together that the whole had the appearance of an old printed page in a very large type. I'm going to read it, remembered Montseur de la Rue. Don't lose a second for the love of God, cried Dorothy. He took a second pair of glasses from his pocket and put them on over the first in red, written this day, the 12th of July, 1721. Two centuries, gasped the notary and began again, written this day, the 12th of July, 1721, the last day of my existence, to be read the 12th of July, 1921, the first day of my resurrection. The notary stopped short, the young people looked at one another with an air of stupefaction. Archibald Webster, a Philadelphia, observed, this gentleman was mad. The word resurrection is perhaps used in a symbolic sense, said my chair de la Rue. We shall learn from what follows, I will continue. My children, he stopped again and said, my children, he is addressing you. For goodness sake, my chair de la Rue, do not stop again, I beg you, exclaimed Dorothy, all this is thrilling. Nevertheless, no, my chair de la Rue, comment is useless. We're eager to know, aren't we, comrades? The four young men supported her vehemently. Thereupon the notary resumed his reading, with the hesitation and repetitions imposed by the difficulties of the text. My children, on leaving a meeting of the Academy of the Sciences of Paris, to which Monsour de Fontenelle had had the goodness to invite me, the illustrious author of the discourses on the plurality of worlds, seized me by the arm, and said, Marquis, would you mind enlightening me on a point about which it seems you maintain a shrieking reserve? How did you get that wound on your left hand? Get your fourth finger cut off at the very root. The story goes that you left that finger at the bottom of one of your retorts, for you have the reputation, Marquis, of being something of an alchemist, and of seeking, inside the walls of your chateau of Roche-Périac, the elixir of life. I do not seek it, Monsour de Fontenelle, I answered. I possess it. Truly, truly, Monsour de Fontenelle, and if you will permit me to put you in possession of a small file, the pitiless fate will certainly have to wait till your hundredth year. I accept with the greatest pleasure, he said, laughing, on condition that you keep me company. We are of the same age, which gives us another forty good years to live. For, my part, Monsour de Fontenelle, to live longer does not greatly appeal to me. What is the good of sticking stubbornly to a world in which no new spectacle can surprise, and in which the day that is coming will be the same as the day that is done? What I wish to do is to come to life again, to come to life again in a century or two, to make the acquaintance of my grandchildren's children, and see what men have done since our time. There will be great changes here below, in the government of empires as well as in everyday life. I shall learn about them. Bravo, Marquis, exclaimed Monsour de Fontenelle, who seemed more and more amused. Bravo! It is another elixir which will give you this marvelous power. Another, I asserted. I brought it back with me from India, where, as you know, I spent ten years of my youth, becoming the friend of the priests of that marvelous country, from which every revelation and every religion came to us. They initiated me into some of their chief mysteries. Why not in the all? Asked Monsour de Fontenelle, with a touch of irony. There are some secrets which they refused to reveal to me, such as the power to communicate with those other worlds about which you have just discoursed so admirably, Monsour de Fontenelle, and the power to live again. Nevertheless, Marquis, you claim, that secret, Monsour de Fontenelle, I stole, and to punish me for the theft, they sentenced me to the punishment of having all my fingers torn off. After pulling off the first finger, they offered to pardon me if I consented to restore the file I had stolen. I told them where it was hidden, but I had taken the precaution beforehand to change the contents, having poured the elixir into another file. So that at the cost of one of your fingers, you have purchased a kind of immortality, of which you propose to make use. Eh, Marquis, said Monsour de Fontenelle. As soon as I shall have put my affairs in order, I answered, that is to say, in about a couple of years. You are going to make use of it to live again? In the year of Grace, 1921. My story caused Monsour de Fontenelle the greatest amusement, and in taking leave of me, he promised to relate it in his memoirs as a proof of my lively imagination, and doubtless, as he said to himself, of my insanity. Miter de la Rue paused to take breath, and looked round the circle with questioning eyes. Marco Dario of Genoa threw back his head and laughed. The Russian showed his white teeth. The two Anglo-Saxons seemed greatly amused. Rather a joke, said George Arrington, of London, with a chuckle. Some farce, said Archibald Webster of Philadelphia. Dorothy said nothing. Her eyes were thoughtful. Silence fell, and Miter de la Rue continued. Monsour de Fontenelle was wrong to laugh, my children. There was no imagination or insanity about it. The great Indian priests know things that we do not know and never shall know, and I am the master of one of the most wonderful of their secrets. The time has come to make use of it. I am resolved to do so. Last year, my wife was killed by accident, leaving me in bitter sorrow. My four sons, like me of a venturesome spirit, are fighting or in business in foreign lands. I live alone. Shall I drag on to the end in old age that is useless and without charm? No. Everything is ready for my departure and for my return. My old servants, Jeffrey and his wife, faithful companions for thirty years, with the full knowledge of my project, have sworn to obey me. I say goodbye to my age. Learn, my children, the events which are about to take place at the chateau of Rochperiac. At two o'clock in the afternoon I shall fall into a stupor. The doctor, summoned by Jeffrey, will ascertain that my heart is no longer beating. I shall be quite dead as far as human knowledge goes, and my servants will nail me up in the coffin which is ready for me. When night comes, Jeffrey and his wife will take me out of that coffin and carry me on a stretcher to the ruins of Caucasian Tower, the oldest dungeon of the Lords of Periac. Then they will fill the coffin with stones and nail it up again. For his part, Master Barbier, executor of my will and administrator of my property, will find in my drawer instructions, charging him to notify my four sons of my death, and to convey to each of the four his share of his inheritance. Moreover, by means of a special courier, he will dispatch to each a gold medal which I have had struck, engraved with my motto, and the date, the twelfth of July, 1921, the day of my resurrection. This medal will be transmitted from hand to hand, from generation to generation, beginning with the eldest son or grandson, in such a manner that not more than two persons shall know the secret at one time. Lastly, Master Barbier will keep this letter, which I am going to seal with five seals, and which will be transmitted from scrivener to scrivener till the appointed date. When you read this letter, my children, the hour of noon on the twelfth of July, 1921, will have struck. You will be gathered together under the clock of my chateau, fifty yards from old Caucasian tower, where I shall have been sleeping for two centuries. I have chosen it as my resting place, calculating that, if the revolutions which I foresee destroy the buildings in use, they will leave alone that which is already a crumbling ruin. Then, going along the avenue of Oaks, which my father planted, you will come to this tower, which will doubtless be much the same as it is today. You will stop under the arch from which the drawbridge was formerly raised, and one of you counting to the left, from the groove of the portcolis, the third stone above it, will push it straight before him, while another counting on the right, always from the groove, the third stone above it, will do as the first is doing. Under this double pressure, exercised at the same time, the middle of the right wall will swing back inwards and form an incline, which will bring you to the bottom of a stone staircase in the thickness of the wall. Lighted by a torch, you will ascend a hundred and thirty-two steps. They will bring you to a partition of plaster which Jeffrey will have built up after my death. You will break it down with a pickaxe, waiting for you on the last step, and you will see a small massive door, the key of which only turns if one presses at the same time the three bricks which form part of that step. Through that door you will enter a chamber in which there will be a bed behind curtains. You will draw aside those curtains. I shall be sleeping there. Do not be surprised, my children, at finding me younger, perhaps, than the portrait of me which, once you are Nicholas de la Gilaire, the king's painter, painted last year, and which hangs at the head of my bed. Two centuries sleep, the resting of my heart, which will scarcely beat. Well, I have no doubt, have filled up my wrinkles and restored youth to my features. It will not be an old man you will gaze upon. My children, the file will be on a stool beside the bed, wrapped in linen, corked with virgin wax. You will let once break the neck of the file, while one of you opens my teeth with the point of a knife. Another will pour the elixir, not drop by drop, but in a thin trickle, which should flow down to the bottom of my throat. Some minutes will pass. Then, little by little, life will return. The beating of my heart will grow quicker. My breasts will rise and fall, and my eyes will open. Perhaps, my children, it will be necessary for you to speak in low voices, and not light up the room with too bright a light, that my eyes and ears may not suffer any shock. Perhaps, on the other hand, I shall only see you and hear you indistinctly, with enfeebled organs. I do not know. I foresee a period of torpor and uneasiness, during which I shall have to collect my thoughts as one does on awakening from sleep. Moreover, I shall make no haste about it, and I beg you not to try to quicken my efforts. Quiet days in a nourishing diet will insensibly restore me to the sweetness of life. Have no fear at all that I shall need to live at your expense. Unknown to my relations, I brought back from the Indies four diamonds of extraordinary size, which I have hidden in a hiding-place there is no finding. They will easily suffice to keep me in luxury benefiting my station. Since I have to take into consideration that I may have forgotten the secret hiding-place of the diamonds, I have set forth the secret in some lines enclosed herein in a second envelope, bearing the designation, the Codekill. Of this Codekill I have not breathed the word, not even to my servant Jeffrey and his wife. If out of human weakness they bequeath to their children in account revealing my secret history, they will not be able to reveal the hiding-place of those four marvelous diamonds, which they have often admired and which they will seek in vain after I am gone. The enclosed envelope then will be handed over to me as soon as I return to life, in the event, to my thinking impossible, but which nonetheless your interests compel me to take into account. Of destiny having betrayed me, and of your finding no trace of me, you will yourselves open the envelope and learning the whereabouts of the hiding-place, take possession of the diamonds. Then and thereafter I declare that the ownership of the diamonds is vested in those of my descendants who shall present the gold medal, and that no person shall have the right to intervene in the fair partition of them, on which they shall agree among themselves, and I beg them to make that partition themselves as their consciences shall direct. I have said what I have to say, my children. I am about to enter the silence and await your coming. I do not doubt that you will come from all the corners of the earth at the imperious summons of the gold medal. Sprung from the same stock. Be as brothers and sisters among yourselves. Approach with serious minds him who sleeps, and deliver him from the bonds which keep him in the kingdom of darkness. Written by my own hand and perfect health of mind and body, this day, the 12th of July, 1721. Delivered under my hand and seal, Jean-Pierre Augustine de la Roche marquis de Blanc. Major de la Rue was silent, bent nearer to the paper and murmured. The signature is scarcely legible, the name begins with a B or R. The flourish muddles up all the letters. Dorothy said slowly, Jean-Pierre Augustine de la Roche marquis de Belgraveel. Yes, yes, that's it. cried the notary at once. Marquis de Belgraveel. How did you know? End of Chapter 11