 CHAPTER V. PART II It was at this moment that the motor-car containing the examining magistrate and the public prosecutor pulled up outside the chalets. Hennin, who did not expect them until later, said to Orthans, We must be quick, on no account leave Madame Dormeval. Word was sent up to the persons whose evidence might be of any service that they were to go to the beach where the magistrate was beginning a preliminary investigation. He would call on Madame Dormeval afterwards. Accordingly, all who were present left the chalet. No one remained behind, except the true guards and Germaine Astaine. Germaine knelt down for the last time beside the dead man, and, bending low, with her face in her hands, prayed for a long time. Then she rose, and was opening the door on the landing, when Hennin came forward. I should like a few words with you, Madame. She seemed surprised, and replied, What is it, monsieur? I'm listening. Not here. Where then, monsieur? Next door, in the sitting-room. No, she said sharply. Why not? Though you did not even shake hands with her, I presume that Madame Dormeval is your friend? He gave her no time to reflect, drew her into the next room, closed the door, and, at once pouncing upon Madame Dormeval, who was trying to go out and return to her own room, said, No, Madame, listen, I implore you. Madame Astaine's presence did not drive you away. We have very serious matters to discuss, without losing a minute. The two women, standing face to face, were looking at each other with the same expression of implacable hatred, in which might be read the same confusion of spirit, and the same restrained anger. Orthans, who believed them to be friends, and who might, up to a certain point, have believed them to be accomplices, foresaw with terror the hostile encounter which she felt to be inevitable. She compelled Madame Dormeval to resume her seat, while Hennin took up his position in the middle of the room, and spoke in resolute tones. Chents, which has placed me in possession of part of the truth, will enable me to save you both, if you are willing to assist me with a frank explanation that will give me the particulars which I still need. Each of you knows the danger in which she stands, because each of you is conscious in her heart of the evil for which she is responsible. But you are carried away by hatred, and it is for me to see clearly and to act. The examining magistrate will be here in half an hour. By that time you must have come to an agreement. They both started, as though offended by such a word. Yes, an agreement, he repeated, in a more imperious tone. Whether you like it or not, you will come to an agreement. You are not the only ones to be considered. There are your two little daughters, Madame Dormeval. Since circumstances have set me in their path, I am intervening in their defence and for their safety. A blunder, a word too much, and they are ruined. That must not happen. At the mention of her children, Madame Dormeval broke down and sobbed. Germaine Stang shrugged her shoulders and made a movement towards the door. Hainin once more blocked the way. Where are you going? I have been summoned by the examining magistrate. No, you have not. Yes, I have, just as all those have been who have any evidence to give. You were not on the spot. You know nothing of what happened. Nobody knows anything of the murder. I know who committed it. That's impossible. It was Thérèse Dormeval. The accusation was hurled forth in an outburst of rage and with a fiercely threatening gesture. You wretched creature! exclaimed Madame Dormeval, rushing at her. Go, leave the room! Oh, what a wretched woman is! Hortense was trying to restrain her, but Hainin whispered, Let him be. It's what I wanted. To pitch them one against the other and so to let in the daylight. Madame Astin had made a convulsive effort to ward off the insult with a jest, and she sniggered. Her wretched creature? Why? Because I have accused you? Why? For every reason. You're a wretched creature. You hear what I say, Germaine? You're a wretched. Thérèse Dormeval was repeating the insult as though it afforded her some relief. Her anger was abating. Very likely also she no longer had the strength to keep up the struggle. And it was Madame Astin who returned to the attack, with her fists clenched and her face distorted, and suddenly aged by fully twenty years. You, you dare to insult me? You, you after the murder you have committed. You dare to lift up your head when the man whom you killed is lying in there on his deathbed? Ha, if one of us is a wretched creature, it's you, Thérèse, and you know it. You have killed your husband. She leapt forward in the excitement of the terrible words which she was uttering, and her fingernails were almost touching her friend's face. Oh, don't tell me you didn't kill him, she cried. Don't say that. I won't let you. Don't say it. The dagger is there in your bag. My brother felt it while he was talking to you, and his hand came out with stains of blood upon it, your husband's blood, Thérèse. And then, even if I had not discovered any of your words, even if I had not discovered anything, do you think that I should not have guessed in the first few minutes? Why, I knew the truth at once, Thérèse. When a sailor down there answered, Monsieur Dormeval, he has been murdered. I said to myself, then and there, it's she. It's Thérèse. She killed him. Thérèse did not reply. She had abandoned her attitude of protest. Orthans, who was watching her with anguish, thought that she could perceive in her the despondency of those who know themselves to be lost. Her cheeks had fallen in, and she wore such an expression of despair that Orthans moved to compassion, implored her to defend herself. Please, please, explain things. When the murder was committed, you were here, on the balcony. But then, the dagger, how did you come to have it? How do you explain it? Explanations, Snille Germain has said. How could she possibly explain? What do outward appearances matter? What does it matter what anyone saw or did not see? The proof is the thing that tells. The dagger is there, in your bag, Thérèse. That's a fact. Yes, yes, it was you who did it. You killed him. You killed him in the end. How often I've told my brother, she will kill him yet. Frédéric used to try to defend you. He always had a weakness for you. But in his innermost heart he first saw what would happen. And now the horrible thing has been done, a stab in the back, cowered, cowered. And you would have me say nothing? Why, I didn't hesitate a moment. Nor did Frédéric. We looked for proofs at once. And I've denounced you of my own free will, perfectly well aware of what I was doing. And it's over, Thérèse, you're done for. Nothing can save you now. The dagger is in that bag, which you are clutching in your hand. The magistrate is coming. And the dagger will be found, stained with the blood of your husband. So will your pocketbook. They're both there, and they will be found. Her rage had incensed her so vehemently that she was unable to continue and stood with her hand outstretched and her chin twitching with nervous tremors. Reynine gently took hold of Madame Dormeval's bag. She clung to it, but he insisted and said, please allow me, Madame. Your friend Jermain is right. The examining magistrate will be here presently. And the fact that the dagger and the pocketbook are in your possession will lead to your immediate arrest. This must not happen. Please allow me. His insinuating voice diminished Thérèse Dormeval's resistance. She released her fingers one by one. He took the bag, opened it, produced a little dagger with an ebony handle and a gray leather pocketbook. And quietly slipped the two into the inside pocket of his jacket. Jermain has been gazed at him in amazement. You're madness, ye. What right have you? These things must not be left lying about. I shall not worry now. The magistrate will never look for them in my pocket. But I shall denounce you to the police, she exclaimed indignantly. They shall be told. No, no, he said, laughing. He won't say anything. The police have nothing to do with this. The quarrel between you must be settled in private. What an idea, to go dragging the police into every incident of one's life. Madame Astagne was choking with fury. But you have no right to talk like this, monsieur. Who are you, after all? A friend of the woman's? Since you've been attacking her, yes. But I'm only attacking her because she's guilty, for you can't deny it. She has killed her husband. I don't deny it, said Hennien calmly. We are all agreed on that point. Jacques Dormeval was killed by his wife. But I repeat, the police must not know the truth. They shall know it through me, monsieur. I swear they shall. That woman must be punished. She has committed murder. Hennien went up to her, and touching her on the shoulder. You asked me just now by what right I was interfering. And you yourself, Madame. I was a friend of Jacques Dormeval. Only a friend? She was a little taken aback, but at once pulled herself together and replied, I was his friend, and it is my duty to avenge his death. Nevertheless, you will remain silent, as he did. He did not know when he died. That's where you are wrong. He could have accused his wife if he had wished. He had ample time to accuse her, and he said nothing. Why? Because of his children. Madame Astéin was not appeased, and her attitude displayed the same longing for revenge and the same detestation. But she was influenced by Hennien in spite of herself. In the small, closed room, where there was such a clash of hatred, he was gradually becoming the master. And Germaine Astéin understood that it was against him that she had to struggle, while Madame Dormeval felt all the comfort of that unexpected support which was offering itself on the brink of the abyss. Thank you, Messier, she said. As you have seen all this so clearly, you also know that it was for my children's sake that I did not give myself up. But for that, I am so tired. And so the scene was changing, and things assuming a different aspect. Thanks to a few words that fall in the midst of the dispute, the culprit was lifting her head and taking heart, whereas her accuser was hesitating and seemed to be uneasy. And it also came about that the accuser dared not say anything further and that the culprit was nearing the moment at which the need is felt of breaking silence and of speaking, quite naturally, words that are at once a confession and a relief. The time, I think, has come, said Hennien to Thérèse, with the same unvarying gentleness, when you can and ought to explain yourself. She was again weeping, lying huddled in a chair. She too revealed a face aged and ravaged by sorrow. And in a very low voice, with no display of anger, she spoke, in short, broken sentences. She has been his mistress for the last four years. I can't tell you how I suffered. She herself told me of it, out of sheer wickedness. Her loathing for me was even greater than her love for Jacques. And every day I had some fresh injury to bear. She would ring me up to tell me of her appointments with my husband. She hoped to make me suffer so much I should end by killing myself. I did think of it sometimes, but I held out for the children's sake. Jacques was weakening. She wanted him to get a divorce. And little by little he began to consent, dominated by her and by her brother, who is slayer than she is, but quite as dangerous. I felt all this. Jacques was becoming harsh to me. He had not the courage to leave me. But I was the obstacle. And he bore me a grudge. Heavens, the tortures I suffered. You should have given him his liberty, cried Gérmena's thing. A woman doesn't kill her husband for wanting a divorce. Paraz shook her head and answered. I did not kill him because he wanted a divorce. He had really wanted it. He would have left me. And what could I have done? But your plans had changed, Gérmena. Divorce was not enough for you. And it was something else that you would have obtained from him. Another much more serious thing, which you and your brother had insisted on. And to which he had consented. Out of cowardice. In spite of himself. What do you mean, splatter Gérmena? What other thing? My death. Lie, cried Madame Astagne. The heirs did not raise her voice. She made not a movement of a version or indignation. And simply repeated. My death, Gérmena. I have read your latest letters. Six letters from you. Which she was foolish enough to leave about in his pocketbook. In which I read last night. Six letters. In which a terrible word is not set down. But in which it appears between every line. I trembled as I read it. That Jacques should come to this. Nevertheless, the idea of stabbing him did not occur to me for a second. A woman like myself, Gérmena, does not readily commit murder. If I lost my head, it was after that. And it was your fault. She turned her eyes to Hennin, as if to ask him if there was no danger in her speaking and revealing the truth. Don't be afraid, he said. I will be answerable for everything. She drew her hand across her forehead. The horrible scene was being re-enacted within her and was torturing her. Gérmena's thing did not move, but stood with folded arms and anxious eyes, while Ortans-Danielle said distractively awaiting the confession of the crime and the explanation of the unfathomable mystery. It was after that. And it was through your fault, Gérmena. I had put back the pocketbook in the drawer where it was hidden. And I said nothing to Jacques this morning. I did not want to tell him what I knew. It was too horrible. All the same, I had to act quickly. Your letters announced your secret arrival today. I thought at first of running away, of taking the train. I had mechanically picked up that dagger to defend myself. But when Jacques and I went down to the beach, I was resigned. Yes, I had accepted death. I will die, I thought, and put an end to all this nightmare. Only, for the children's sake, I was anxious that my death should look like an accident and that Jacques should have no part in it. That was why your plan of a walk on the cliff suited me. A fall from the top of a cliff seems quite natural. Jacques, therefore, left me to go to his cabin, from which he was to join you later, at the Tois Matilde. On the way below the terrace, he dropped the key of the cabin. I went down and began to look for it with him. And it happened then, through your fold. Yes, Germain, through your fold. Jacques's pocketbook has slipped from his jacket, without his noticing it. And together with the pocketbook, a photograph which I recognized at once. A photograph taken this year of myself and my two children. I picked it up, and I saw. You know what I saw, Germain? Instead of my face, the face in the photograph was yours. You had put in your likeness, Germain, and blotted me out. It was your face. One of your arms was round my elder daughter's neck, and the younger was sitting on your knees. It was you, Germain, the wife of my husband, the future mother of my children. You, who were going to bring them up. You, you! Then I lost my head. Then I had a dagger. Jacques was stooping. I stabbed him. Every word of her confession was strictly true. Those who listened to her felt this profoundly, and nothing could have given Hortense and Renine a kinder impression of tragedy. She had fallen back into her chair, utterly exhausted. Nevertheless, she went on speaking unintelligible words. And it was only gradually, by leaning over her, that they were able to make out. I thought that there would be an outcry and that I should be arrested, but no. It happened in such a way and under such conditions that no one had seen anything. Further, Jacques had drawn himself up at the same time as myself. And he actually did not fall. No, he did not fall. I had stabbed him, and he remained standing. I saw him from the terrace, to which I had returned. He had hung his jacket over his shoulders, evidently to hide his wound. And he moved away without staggering, or staggering so little that I alone was able to perceive it. He even spoke to some friends who were playing cards. Then he went to his cabin and disappeared. In a few moments I came back indoors. I was persuaded that all of this was only a bad dream, that I had not killed him, or that at the worst the wound was a slight one. Jacques would come out again. I was certain of it. I watched from my balcony. If I had thought for a moment that he needed assistance, I should have flown to him. But truly I didn't know. I didn't guess. People speak of presentiments. There are no such things. I was perfectly calm, just as one is after a nightmare of which the memory is fading away. No, I swear to you, I knew nothing until the moment. She interrupted herself, my sobs. Hanin finished her sentence for her until the moment when they came and told you, I suppose. The head stammered, yes. It was not till then that I was conscious of what I had done, and I felt that I was going mad, and that I should cry out to all those people, why it was I who did it? Don't search! Here is the dagger. I am the culprit. Yes, I was going to say that. And suddenly I caught sight of my poor Jacques. He came along. His face was very peaceful, very gentle. And in his presence I understood my duty, as he had understood his. He had kept silent for the sake of the children. I would be silent too. We were both guilty of the murder of which he was the victim. And we must both do all we could to prevent the crime from recoiling upon them. He had seen this clearly in his dying agony. He had had the amazing courage to keep his feet, to answer the people who spoke to him and to lock himself up to die. He had done this, wiping out all his faults with a single action. And in so doing had granted me his forgiveness because he was not accusing me and was ordering me to hold my peace and to defend myself against everybody, especially against you, Germaine. I would like to utter these last words more firmly. At first wholly overwhelmed by the unconscious act which she had committed in killing her husband she had recovered her strength a little in thinking of what she had done and in defending herself with such energy. Faced by the intriguing woman whose hatred had driven both of them to death and crime she clenched her fists ready for the struggle, all quivering with resolution. Germaine's tank did not flinch. She had listened without a word with a relentless expression which grew harder and harder as Thérèse's confession became more precise. No emotion seemed to soften her and no remorse to penetrate her being. At most, towards the end her thin lips shaped themselves into a faint smile. She was holding her prey in her clutches. Slowly with her eyes raised to a mirror she had just her head then she walked to the door. Thérèse darted forward Where are you going? Where I choose? To see the Examinant Magistrate? Very likely. He shall not pass. As you please, I'll wait for him here and you'll tell him what? What, all that you have said, of course all that you have been silly enough to say? How could he doubt the story? You have explained it all to me so fully. Thérèse took her by the shoulders. Yes, but I'll explain other things to him at the same time, Germain. Things that concern you. If I'm ruined, so shall you be. You can't touch me. I can expose you, show your letters. What letters? Those in which my death was decided on. Lies, Thérèse. You know that famous plot exists only in your imagination. Neither Jack nor I wished for your death. You did at any rate your letters condemn you. Lies! They were the letters of a friend to a friend. Letters of a mistress to her paramour. Prove it. They are there in Jack's pocketbook. No, they're not. What's that you say? I say that those letters belong to me. I've taken them back. Or rather, my brother has. You've stolen them, you wretch! And shall give them back again! Cried Thérèse, shaking her. I haven't been. My brother kept them. He has gone. Thérèse staggered and stretched out her hand to Hénin with an expression of despair. Hénin said, What she says is true. I watched the brother's proceedings while he was feeling in your bag. He took out the pocketbook, looked through it with his sister, came and put it back again, and went off with the letters. Hénin paused and added, or at least with five of them. The two women moved closer to him. What did he intend to convey? The Frédéric Asting had taken away only five letters, what had become of the sixth. I suppose, c'est Hénin, that when the pocketbook fell on the shingle, that sixth letter slipped out at the same time as the photograph, and that Messier Dormeval most have picked it up, for I found it in the pocket of his blazer, which had been hung up near the bed. Here it is. It's signed Germaine Asting. And it is quite enough to prove the writer's intentions. And the murderous counsels, which she was pressing upon her lover. Madame Asting had turned gray in the face, and was so much disconcerted that she did not try to defend herself. Hénin continued, addressing his remarks to her. To my mind, madame, you are responsible for all that happened. Pennyless, no doubt. And at the end of your resources you tried to profit by the passion with which you inspired Messier Dormeval in order to make him marry you, in spite of all the obstacles, and to lay your hands upon his fortune. I have proofs of this greed for money, and these abominable calculations and can supply them, if need be. A few minutes after I had felt in the pocket of that jacket you did the same. I had removed the sixth letter, but had left a slip of paper which you looked for eagerly and which also must have dropped out of the pocketbook. It was an uncrossed check for a hundred thousand francs of Messier Dormeval in your brother's name. Just a little wedding present? What may I call pin-money? Acting on your instructions your brother dashed off my mother to Lejave to reach the bank before four o'clock. I may as well tell you that he will not have cash to check, for I had the telephone message sent to the bank to announce the murder of Messier Dormeval, which stops all the payments. The upshot of all this is that the police, and the schemes of revenge, will have in their hands all the proofs that are wanted against you and your brother. I might add, as an edifying piece of evidence, the story of the conversation which I overheard between your brother and yourself in a dining-car on the railway between Brest and Paris a fortnight ago. But I feel sure that you will not drive me to adopt these extreme measures and that we understand each other. Isn't that so? You are strong so long as a fight is possible and while a gleam of hope remains are easily swayed in defeat. Jermaine was too intelligent not to grasp the fact that the least attempt at resistance would be shattered by such an adversary as this. She was in his hands. She could but yield. She therefore did not indulge in any play-acting nor in any demonstration such as threats, outbursts of fury or hysterics. She bowed. We are agreed, she said. What are your terms? Go away. If ever you were called upon for your evidence say that you know nothing. She walked away. At the door, she hesitated and then between her teeth she said the check. Hennin looked at Madame Dormeval who declared let her keep it. I would not touch that money. When Hennin had given Thérèse Dormeval precise instructions as to how she was to behave at the inquiry and to answer the questions put to her he left the chalet, accompanied by Hortense Daniel. On the beach below the magistrate and the public prosecutor were continuing their investigations taking measurements, examining the witnesses and generally laying their heads together. When I think, said Hortense, that you have the dagger and it strikes you as awfully dangerous I suppose, he said, laughing. It strikes me as awfully comic. Aren't you afraid of what? That they may suspect something? Lord, they won't suspect a thing. We shall tell those good people what we saw and our evidence will only increase their perplexity, for we saw nothing at all. For Prudence's sake, we will stay a day or two to see which way the wind is blowing. But it's quite settled. They will never be able to make head or tail of the matter. Nevertheless, you guessed the secret and from the first, why? Because instead of seeking difficulties where none exist, as people generally do, I always put the question as it should be put, and the solution comes quite naturally. A man goes to his cabin and locks himself in. Half an hour later, he is found inside dead. No one has gone in. What has happened? There is only one answer. There is no need to think about it. As the murder was not committed in the cabin, it must have been committed beforehand and the man was already mortally wounded when he entered his cabin. And forthwith, the truth in this particular case appeared to me. Madame d'Ormeval, who was to have been killed this evening, forestalled her murderers and while her husband was stooping to the ground, in a moment of frenzy stabbed him in the back. There was nothing left to do but look for the reasons that prompted her action. When I knew them, I took her part unreservedly. That's the whole story. The day was beginning to wane. The blue of the sky was becoming darker and the sea even more peaceful than before. What are you thinking of, as Penine after a moment? I'm thinking, she said, that if I too were the victim of some machination, I should trust you whatever happened, trust you through and against all. I know, as certainly as I know that I exist, that you would save me, whatever the obstacles might be. There's no limit to the power of your will. He said very softly, there's no limit to my wish to please you. End of Chapter 5, Part 2. Chapter 6, Part 1 of the Eight Strokes of the Clock. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leni. The Eight Strokes of the Clock by Mojiz Leblanc. Chapter 6, Part 1. The Lady with the Hatchet. One of the most incomprehensible incidents that preceded the Great War was certainly the one which was known as the episode of The Lady with the Hatchet. The solution of the mystery was unknown and would never have been known, but circumstances in the cruelest fashion obliged Prince Henning, or should I say Arsene Lupin, to take up the matter and had I not been able today to tell the true story from the details supplied by him. Let me recite the facts. In a space of 18 months five women disappeared, five women of different stations in life, all between 20 and 30 years of age and living in Paris or the Paris district. I will give their names. These five women disappeared without the possibility of discovering a single particular to explain why they had left their homes, why they did not return to them, who had enticed them away and where and how they were detained. Each of these women, a week after her departure, was found somewhere or other in the western outskirts of Paris and each time it was a dead body that was found, the dead body of a woman who had been killed by a blow on the head from a hatchet. And each time, not far from the woman who was firmly bound, with blood and her body emaciated by lack of food, the marks of a carriage-wheels proved that the corpse had been driven to the spot. The five murders were so much alike that there was only a single investigation embracing all the five inquiries and, for that matter, leading to no result. A woman disappeared. A week later, to a day, her body was discovered and that was all. The objects that fastened her were similar in each case. So were the tracks left by the wheels. So were the blows of the hatchet, all of which were struck vertically at the top and right in the middle of the forehead. The motive of the crime? The five women had been completely stripped of their jewels, purses and other objects of value. But the robberies might well have been attributed to marauders or any passers-by, who were confined in deserted spots. Were the authorities to believe in the execution of a plan of revenge or of a plan intended to do away with a series of persons mutually connected, persons, for instance, likely to benefit by a future inheritance? Here again, the same obscurity prevailed. Theories were built up only to be demolished forthwith by an examination of the facts. Trails were followed and at once abandoned. And suddenly there was a sensation. A woman, engaged in sweeping the roads, picked up on the pavement a little notebook which she brought to the local police station. The leaves of this notebook were all blank, excepting one, on which was written a list of the murdered women, with their names set down in order of date and accompanied by three figures, Radu, 132, Vernice, 118 and so on. Certainly no importance would have been attached to these entries which anybody might have written since everyone was acquainted with the sinister list. But instead of five names, it included six. Yes, below the words Grollinger, 128, there appeared Williamson, 114. Did this indicate a sixth murder? The obviously English origin of the name limited the field of the investigations which did not, in fact, take long. It was ascertained that a fortnight ago a Miss Hermione Williamson, a governess in a family at Potowi had left her place to go back to England and that, since then, her sisters, though she had written to tell them that she was coming over, had heard no more of her. A fresh angrier was instituted. A postman found the body in the Middon Woods. Miss Williamson's skull was split down in the middle. I did not describe the public excitement at this stage, nor the shutter of horror which passed through the crowd when it read this list written without a doubt in the murderer's own hand. What could be more frightful than such a record? Kept up to date, like a careful tradesman's ledger. On such a day I killed so and so. On such a day, so and so. And the sum total was six dead bodies. Against all expectation, the experts in handwriting had no difficulty in agreeing and unanimously declared that the writing was that of a woman, an educated woman, possessing artistic tastes, imagination and an extremely sensitive nature. The lady with the hatchet as the journalists christened her was decidedly no ordinary person and scores of newspaper articles made a special study of her case exposing her mental condition and losing themselves in far-fetched explanations. Nevertheless, it was the writer of one of these articles, a young journalist whose chance discovery made him the center of public attention, who supplied the one element of truth and shed upon the darkness the only ray of light that was to penetrate it. In casting about for the meaning of the figures which followed the six names, he had come to ask himself whether those figures did not simply represent the number of the days separating one crime from the next. All that he had to do was to check the dates. He had once found that his theory was correct. Mademoiselle Vernice had been carried off one hundred and thirty-two days after Madame Ladoux. Mademoiselle Kovro, one hundred and eighteen days after Honorine Vernice and so on. There was therefore no room for doubt and the police had no choice but to accept a solution which so precisely fitted the circumstances. The figures corresponded with the intervals. There was no mistake in the records of the lady with the hatchet. But then one deduction became inevitable. Miss Williamson, the latest victim, had been carried off on the 26th of June last and her name was followed by the figures, a hundred and fourteen. Was it not to be presumed that a fresh crime would be committed a hundred and fourteen days later, that is to say, on the 18th of October? Was it not probable that the horrible business would be repeated in accordance with the murderer's secret intentions? Were they not bound to pursue to its logical conclusion the argument which ascribed to the figures, to all the figures, to the last as well as to the others their value as eventual dates? Now it was precisely this deduction that was drawn and was being weighed and discussed during the few days that preceded the 18th of October when logic demanded the performance of yet another act of the abominable tragedy. And it was only natural that, on the morning of that day, Prince Hennin and Orthans when making an appointment by telephone for the evening should allude to the newspaper articles which they had both been reading. Look out, said Hennin laughing, if you meet the lady with the hatchet and if the good lady carries me off what am I to do? Strew your path with little white pebbles and say until the very moment when the hatchet flashes in the air I have nothing to fear. He will save me. He is myself. And I kiss your hands. Till this evening, my dear. That afternoon Hennin had an appointment with Rosentret and Daubrec to arrange for their departure for the States. Footnote. See the Telltale film. And the footnote. Before four and seven o'clock he bought the different editions of the evening papers. None of them reported an abduction. At nine o'clock he went to the gymnas where he had taken a private box. At half past nine as Orthans had not arrived he rang her up though without thought of anxiety. The maid replied that Madame Daniel had not come in yet. Seized with a sudden fear Hennin hurried to the furnished flat where Orthans was occupying for the time being near the Parc Monceau and questioned the maid whom he had engaged for her and who was completely devoted to him. The woman said that her mistress had gone out at two o'clock with a stamped letter in her hand saying that she was going to the post and that she would come back to dress. This was the last that had been seen of her. To whom was the letter addressed? To Yusseur. I saw the writing on the envelope. Prince Serge Hennin He waited until midnight but in vain. Orthans did not return nor did she return next day. Not a word to anyone said Hennin to the maid say that your mistress is in the country and that you are going to join her. For his own part he had not a doubt. Orthans's disappearance was explained by the very fact of the date the 18th of October of the lady with the hatchet. The abduction, said Hennin to himself precedes the blow of the hatchet by a week. I have therefore at the present moment seven full days before me. Let us say six to avoid any surprise. This is Saturday. Orthans must be set free by midday on Friday and to make sure of this I must know her hiding place by nine o'clock on Thursday evening at the latest. Hennin wrote Thursday evening, nine o'clock in big letters on a card which he nailed above the mental piece in his study. Then at midday on Saturday the day after the disappearance he locked himself into the study after telling his men not to disturb him except for meals and letters. He spent four days there almost without moving. He had immediately sent for a set of all the leading newspapers which had spoken in detail of the first six crimes. When he had read and re-read them he closed the shutters, drew the curtains and lay down on the sofa in the dark with the door bolted thinking. By Tuesday evening he was no further advanced than on the Saturday. The darkness was as dense as ever. He had not discovered the smallest clue for his guidance nor could he see the slightest reason to hope. At times notwithstanding his immense power of self-control and his unlimited confidence in the resources at his disposal at times he would quake with anguish. Would he arrive in time? There was no reason why he should see more clearly during the last few days than during those which had already lapsed. And this meant that Orton Sanielle would inevitably be murdered. The thought tortured him. He was attached to Orton's by a much stronger and deeper feeling than the appearance of the relations between them would have led an onlooker to believe. The curiosity at the beginning the first desire the impulse to protect Orton's to distract her to inspire her with a relish for existence all this had simply turned to love. Neither of them was aware of it because they barely saw each other save at critical times when they were occupied with the adventures of others and not with their own. But at the first onslaught of danger Hennin realized the place which Orton's had taken in his life and he was in despair at knowing her to be a prisoner and a martyr and had been unable to save her. He spent a feverish agitated night turning the case over and over from every point of view. The Wednesday morning was also a terrible time for him. He was losing ground. Giving up his hermit-like seclusion he threw open the windows and paced to and fro through his rooms ran out into the street and came in again before the thought that obsessed him. Orton's is suffering Orton's is in the depths she sees the hatchet she's calling to me she's in treating me and I can do nothing. It was at five o'clock in the afternoon that on examining the list of the six names he received that little inward shock which is a sort of signal of the truth that is being sought for a light shot through his mind. It was not to be sure that brilliant light in which every detail is made plain but it was enough to tell him in which direction to move. His plan on campaign was formed at once. He sent Adolphe, his chauffeur to the principal newspapers with a few lines which were to appear in type among the next morning's advertisements. Adolphe was also told to go to the laundry at Courbevois where Mademoiselle Corvreau the second of the six victims had been employed. On the Thursday Hynine did not stir out of doors. In the afternoon he received several letters in reply to his advertisement. Then two telegrams arrived. Lastly, at three o'clock there came a pneumatic letter bearing the Trocadero postmark which seemed to be what he was expecting. He turned up a directory noted an address. Messier de Lourtier Vanou retired colonial governor 47 Bisse, Avenue Clauber and ran down to his car. Adolphe 47 Bisse, Avenue Clauber End of Chapter 6, Part 1 Chapter 6, Part 2 of the Eight Strokes of the Clock This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Lény The Eight Strokes of the Clock by Maurice Leblanc Chapter 6, Part 2 He was shown into a large study furnished with magnificent bookcases containing old volumes in costly bindings. Messier de Lourtier Vanou was a man still in the prime of life wearing a slightly grizzled beard and, by his affable manners and genuine distinction commanding confidence and liking. Messier de Lourtier I have venture to call on your excellency because I read in last year's newspapers that you used to know one of the victims of the lady with the hatchet, Honorine Vernice. Wow, of course I knew her, cried Messier de Lourtier. My wife used to employ her as a dressmaker by the day. Poor girl. Messier de Lourtier A lady of my acquaintance has disappeared as the other six victims disappeared. What? exclaimed Messier de Lourtier with a start. But I have followed the newspapers carefully. There was nothing on the 18th of October. Yes. A woman of whom I am very fond, Mme. Mortens Daniel, was abducted on the 17th of October. And this is the 22nd. Yes. And the murder will be committed on the 24th. Horrible, horrible. It must be prevented at all costs. And I shall perhaps succeed in preventing it with your excellency's assistance. But have you been to the police? No. We are faced by mysteries which are, so to speak, absolute and compact, which offer no gap through which the keenest eyes can see, and which it is useless to hope to clear up by ordinary methods, such as inspection of the scenes of the crimes, police enquiries, searching for fingerprints, and so on. As none of those proceedings served any good purpose in the previous cases, it would be waste of time to resort to them in a seventh similar case. An enemy who displays such skill and subtlety would not leave behind her any of those clumsy traces, which are the first things that a professional detective seizes upon. Then what have you done? Before taking any action, I have reflected. I gave four days to thinking the matter over. M. de Lourtier-Vannot examined his visitor closely and, with a touch of irony, asked, and the result of your meditations. To begin with, Cédrenine, refusing to be put out of countenance, I have submitted all these cases to a comprehensive survey, which hitherto no one else had done. This enabled me to discover their general meaning, to put aside all the tangle of embarrassing theories and, since no one was able to agree as to the motives of all this filthy business, to attribute it to the only class of persons capable of it. That is to say, lunatics, your excellency. M. de Lourtier-Vannot started. Lunatics? What an idea! M. de Lourtier-Vannot the woman known as the lady with the hatchet is a mad woman. But she would be locked up. We don't know that she's not. We don't know that she's not one of those half-mad people, apparently harmless, who are watched so slightly that they have full scope to indulge their little manias, their wild-beast instincts. Nothing could be more treacherous than these creatures. Nothing could be more crafty, more patient, more persistent, more dangerous, and at the same time more absurd and more logical, more slovenly and more methodical. All these epithets, M. de Lourtier, may be applied to the doings of the lady with the hatchet. The obsession of an idea and the continual repetition of an act are characteristics of the maniac. I do not yet know the idea by which the lady with the hatchet is obsessed, but I do know the act that results from it, and it is always the same. The victim is bound with precisely similar robes. She is killed after the same number of days. She is struck by an identical blow with the same instrument in the same place, the middle of the forehead, producing an absolutely vertical wound. An ordinary murderer displays some variety. His trembling hand swerves aside and strikes Ory. The lady with the hatchet does not tremble. It is as though she had taken measurements, and the edge of her weapon does not swerve by a hair's breadth. Need I give you any further proofs or examine all the other details with you? Surely not. You now possess the key to the riddle, and you know as I do that only a lunatic can behave in this way, stupidly, savagely, mechanically, like a striking clock or the blade of the guillotine. M. de Lourtier van Oud nodded his head. What is so? One can see the whole affair from that angle. And I am beginning to believe that this is how one ought to see it. But if we admit that this madwoman has the sort of mathematical logic which governed the murders of the six victims, I see no connections between the victims themselves. She is struck at random. Why this victim rather than that? Ah, serrenin. Your Excellency is asking me a question which I asked myself from the first moment. The question which sums up the whole problem, and which caused me so much trouble to solve. Why Ortans Daniel rather than another? Among two millions of women who might have been selected, why Ortans? Why Little Vernice? Why Miss Williamson? If the affair is such as I conceived it, as a whole, that is to say, based upon the blind and fantastic logic of a madwoman, a choice was inevitably exercised. Now, in what did that choice consist? What was the quality or the defect or the sign needed to induce the lady with the hatchet to strike? In a word, if she chose and she must have chosen, what directed her choice? Have you found the answer? Hennin paused and replied. Yes, Your Excellency, I have. And I could have found it at the very outset, since all that I had to do was to make a careful examination of the list of victims. But these flashes of truth are never kindled, saving the brain over-stimulated by effort and reflection. I stared at the list twenty times over, before that little detail took a definite shape. I don't follow you, said Messier de Lourtier Van Law. Messier de Lourtier, it may be noted that, if a number of persons are brought together in any transaction or crime or public scandal or whatnot, they are almost invariably described in the same way. On this occasion, the newspapers never mention more than their surnames, in speaking of Madame Ladoux, Mademoiselle Ardain, or Mademoiselle Coffreau. On the other hand, Mademoiselle Vernice and Miss Williamson were always described by their Christian names as well, Honorine and Hermione. If the same thing had been done in the case of all the six victims, there would have been no mystery. Why not? Because we should at once have realized the relation existing between the six and we should have realized it on comparing those two Christian names with that of Hortense de Niel. You understand now, don't you? You see the three Christian names before your eyes. Messier de Lourtier Van Law seemed to be perturbed. Turning a little pale, he said, what do you mean? What do you mean? I mean, continue defining in a clear voice, sounding each syllable separately. I mean that you see before your eyes three Christian names we begin with the same initial in which all three, by a remarkable coincidence, consist of the same number of letters as you may prove. If you inquire at the Courbevois laundry where Mademoiselle Courvreau used to work, you will find that her name was Hilarie. Here again, we have the same initial and the same number of letters. There's no need to seek any further. We are sure, are we not, that the Christian names of all the victims and this gives us, with absolute certainty, the key to the problem which was set us. It explains the Madwoman's choice. We now know the connection between the unfortunate victims. There can be no mistake about it. It's that and nothing else. And how this method of choosing confirms my theory? What proof of madness? Why kill these women rather than any others? Because their names begin with an H and consist of eight letters. You understand me, Messier de Lourtier, do you not? The number of letters is eight. The initial letter is the eighth letter of the alphabet and the word, wheat, eight begins with an H, always the letter H and the implement used to commit the crime was a hatchet. Is your Excellency prepared to tell me that the lady with the hatchet is not a Madwoman? Hainin interrupted himself and went up to Messier de Lourtier Vanu. What's the matter, Your Excellency? Are you unwell? No, no, said Messier de Lourtier with the perspiration streaming down his forehead. No, but all this story is so upsetting. Only thing, I knew one of the victims and then Hainin took a water bottle and tumbler from a small table, filled the glass and handed it to Messier de Lourtier who sipped a few mouthfuls from it and then pulling himself together continued in a voice which he strove to make firmer than it had been. Very well. We'll admit your supposition. Even so, it is necessary that it should lead to tangible results. What have you done? This morning, I published in all the newspapers an advertisement worded as follows Excellent cook 6 situation right before 5 p.m. to Rermini, Boulevard, Rosemont, etc. You continue to follow me, don't you, Messier de Lourtier? Christian names beginning with an age and consisting of 8 letters are extremely rare and are all rather out of date. Hermini, Hillary, Hermione Well, these Christian names for reasons which I do not understand are essential to the mad woman. She cannot do without them. To find women bearing one of these Christian names and for this purpose only she summons up all her remaining powers of reason discernment, reflection and intelligence. She hunts about. She asks questions. She lies in wait. She hardly understands but in which certain details, certain capital letters catch her eye and consequently I did not doubt for a second that this name of Hermini printed in large type would attract her attention and that she would be caught today in the trap of my advertisement. Did she write? Several ladies wrote the letters which are usual in such cases to offer a home to the so called Hermini but I received an express letter which struck me as interesting from home. Read it, Messier de Lourtier. Messier de Lourtier vano snatched the sheet from Hermini's hands and cast a glance at the signature. His first movement was one of surprise as though he had expected something different. Then he gave a long, loud laugh of something like joy and relief. Why do you laugh, Messier de Lourtier? You seem pleased. No, but this letter is signed by my wife. And you were afraid of finding something else? Oh no, but since it's my wife he did not finish his sentence and said to Hermini, come this way. He led him through a passage to a little drawing room where a fair-haired lady with a happy and tender expression on her comely face was sitting in the midst of three children and helping them with their lessons. She rose. Messier de Lourtier presented his visitor and asked his wife, Susan, is this express message from you? Je m'armois à l'Hermini boulevard Rosemont? Yes, she said. I sent it. As you know our parlor mates leaving and I'm looking out for a new one. Hainine interrupted her. Excuse me, madam, just one question. Where did you get the woman's address? She flushed, her husband insistent. Tell us, Susan, who gave you the address? I was rung up by whom? She hesitated and then said, your old nurse, Felicienne? Yes. Messier de Lourtier cut short the conversation and, without permitting Hainine to ask any more questions, took him back to the study. You see, Messier, that nomadic letter came from a quite natural source. Felicienne, my old nurse, who lives not far from Paris on an allowance which I make her, read your advertisement for, after all, he added, laughing. I don't suppose that you suspect my wife of being the lady with the hatchet. No. Then the incident is closed, at least on my side. I have done what I could. I have listened to your arguments and I am very sorry that I can be of no more use to you. He drank another glass of water and sat down. His face was distorted. Hainine looked at him for a few seconds as a menu look at a failing adversary who has only to receive the knockout blow and, sitting down beside him, suddenly gripped his arm. Your Excellency, if you do not speak, Hortense Daniel will be the seventh victim. I have nothing to say, Messier. What do you think I know? The truth. My explanations have made it plain to you. Your distress, your terror are positive proofs. But after all, Messier, if I knew, why should I be silent? For fear of scandal. If so a profound intuition assures me, something that you are constrained to hide, the truth about this monstrous tragedy which suddenly flashed upon you, this truth, if it were known, would spell dishonor to you, this grace, and you are shrinking from your duty. Messier de Luhtier did not reply. Hainine leaned over him and, looking him in the eyes, whispered, there will be no scandal. I shall be the only person in the world to know what has happened and I am as much concerned as yourself in not attracting attention because I love Wachtanz Daniel and do not wish her name to be mixed up in your horrible story. They remained face to face during a long interval. Hainine's expression was harsh and unyielding. Messier de Luhtier felt that nothing would bend him if the necessary words remained unspoken. But he could not bring himself to utter them. You are mistaken, he said. You think you have seen things that don't exist. Hainine received a sudden and terrifying conviction that if this man took refuge in a solid silence there was no hope for Wachtanz Daniel and he was so much infuriated by the thought that the key to the riddle laid there within the reach of his hand that he clutched Messier de Luhtier by the throat and forced him backwards. I'll have no more lies. A woman's life is at stake. And speak at once, if not... Messier de Luhtier had no strength left in him. All resistance was impossible. It was not that Hainine's attack alarmed him or that he was yielding to this act of violence, but he felt crushed by that indomitable will which seemed to admit no obstacle and he stammered. You are right. It is my duty to tell everything whatever comes of it. Nothing will come of it. I pledge my word on condition that you save Wachtanz Daniel. A moment's hesitation may undo us all. Speak. No details. But the actual facts. Madame de Luhtier is not my wife. The only woman who has the right to bear my name is one whom I married when I was a young colonial official. She was a rather eccentric woman, a feeble mentality and incredibly subject to impulses that amounted to monomania. We had two children, twins, whom she worshipped and in whose company she would no doubt have recovered her mental balance and moral health when, by a stupid accident, a passing carriage, they were killed before her eyes. The poor thing went mad with the silent, secretive madness which you imagined. Sometime afterwards, when I was appointed to an Algerian station, I brought her to France and put her in the charge of a worthy creature who had nursed me and brought me up. Two years later I made the acquaintance who was to become the joy of my life. You saw her just now. She's the mother of my children and she passes as my wife. Are we to sacrifice her? Is our whole existence to be shipwrecked in horror and must our name be coupled with this tragedy of madness and blood? Heineen thought for a moment and asked what is the other one's name? Hermans. Hermans. Still that initial. Still those eight letters. That was what made me realize everything just now. When you compare the different names, I had once reflected that my unhappy wife was called Hermans and that she was mad and all the proofs leapt to my mind. But though we understand the selection of the victims, how are we to explain the murders? What are the symptoms of her madness? Does she suffer at all? She does not suffer very much at present but she has suffered in the past suffering that you can imagine. Since the moment when her two children were run over before her eyes, night and day she had the horrible spectacle of their death before her eyes without a moment's interruption for she never slept for a single second. Think of the torture of it. To see her children dying through all the hours of the long day and all the hours of the interminable night. Nevertheless, Heineen objected, it is not to drive away that picture that she commits murder? Yes, possibly. Said Missier de Lugtier thoughtfully, to drive it away by sleep. I don't understand. You don't understand because we are talking of a madwoman and because all that happens in that disordered brain is necessarily incoherent and abnormal. Obviously. But all the same, is your supposition based on facts that justify it? Yes, on facts which I had in a way overlooked but with today assume their true significance. The first of these facts dates a few years back to a morning when my old nurse for the first time found Hermann's fast asleep. Now, she was holding her hands clutched around a puppy which she had strangled and the same thing was repeated on three other occasions. And she slept. Yes, each time she slept a sleep which lasted for several nights. In what conclusion did you draw? I concluded that the relaxation of the nerves provoked by taking life exhausted her and predisposed her for sleep. Fennin shuddered. That's it. There's not a doubt of it. The taking life, the effort of killing makes her sleep. And she began with women, what had served her so well with animals. All her madness has become concentrated on that one point. She kills them to rob them of their sleep. She wanted sleep and she steals the sleep of others. That's it, isn't it? For the past few years she has been sleeping. Stammered Monsieur de Lourtier. Hennin gripped him by the shoulder and it never occurred to you that her madness might go further that she would stop at nothing to win the blessing of sleep. Let us make haste, Monsieur. All this is horrible. They were both making for the door when Monsieur de Lourtier hesitated. The telephone bell was ringing. It's from there, he said. From there? Yes. My old nurse gives me the news at the same time every day. He unhooked the receivers and handed one to Hennin, who whispered in his ear the questions which he was to put. Is that you, Felicienne? How is she? Not so bad, sir. Is she sleeping well? Not very well lately. Last night, indeed, she never closed her eyes. So she's very gloomy just now. What is she doing at the moment? She's in her room. Go to her, Felicienne, and don't leave her. I can't. She's locked herself in. You must, Felicienne. Break open the door. I'm coming straight on. Hello? Hello? Oh, damnation. They've cut us off. Without a word, the two men left the flat and ran down to the avenue. Hennin hustled Monsieur de Lourtier into the car. What a dress! Ville d'avrée. Of course, in the very center of her operations, like a spider in the middle of her web, oh, the shame of it. He was profoundly agitated. He saw the whole adventure in its monstrous reality. Yes, she kills them to steal their sleep as she used to kill the animals. It is the same obsession, but complicated by a whole array of utterly incomprehensible practices and superstitions. She evidently fancies that the similarity of the Christian names to her own is indispensable and that she will not sleep unless her victim is an Ortens or an Honorine. It's a madwoman's argument. Its logic escapes us, and we know nothing of its origin. But we can't get away from it. She has to hunt and has to find. She has to find and carries off her prey beforehand and watches over it for the appointed number of days until the moment when, crazily, through the hole which she digs with a hatchet in the middle of the school, she absorbs the sleep which supervises her and grants her oblivion for a given period. And here again we see absurdity and madness. Why does she fix that period at so many days? Why should a victim ensure her 120 days of sleep in another 125? What insanity! This is mysterious and, of course, mad. But the fact remains that, at the end of 100 or 125 days, as the case may be, a fresh victim is sacrificed. And there have been six already, and the seventh is awaiting her turn. Ah, Messier, what a terrible responsibility for you! Such a monster as that! She should never have been allowed out of sight. Messier de Lourtier Vanneau made no protest. His air of dejection, his pallor, his trembling hands, put his remorse on his despair. She deceived me, he murmured. She was outwardly so quiet, so docile. And after all, she is in a lunatic asylum. Then how can she? The asylum, explained Messier de Lourtier, is made up of a number of separate buildings scattered over extensive grounds. The sort of cottage in which Hermann's lives stands quite a part. There's first a room occupied by Felicien, then Hermann's bedroom and two separate rooms, as it's windows overlooking the open country. I suppose it is there that she locks up her victims. But the carriage that conveys their dead bodies? The stables of the asylum are quite close to the cottage. There's a horse and carriage there for station work. Hermann's no doubt gets up at night, harnesses the horse, and slips the body through the window. And the nurse, who watches her. Felicien is very old and rather deaf. But by day she sees her mistress moving to and fro, doing this and that. Must we not admit a certain complicity? Never. Felicien herself has been deceived by Hermann's as hypocrisy. All the same, it was she who telephoned to Madame de Lourtier first about that advertisement. Very naturally, Hermann's, who talks now and then, who argues, who buries herself in the newspapers which she does not understand, as you were saying just now, but reads through them attentively, must have seen the advertisement. And, having heard that we were looking for a servant, she began to ring me up. Yes, yes. That is what I felt, said Heineen slowly. She marks down her victims. With Ortan's dead, she would have known, once she had used up her allowance of sleep, where to find an eighth victim. But how did she entice the unfortunate women? How did she entice Ortan's? The car was rushing along, but not fast enough to please Heineen, who raided the chauffeur. Push her along, Adolf, can't you? Suddenly, the fear of arriving too late began to torture him. The logic of the insane is subject to sudden changes of mood, to any perilous idea that may enter the mind. The mad woman might easily mistake the date and hasten the catastrophe, like a clock out of order which strikes an hour too soon. On the other hand, as her sleep was once more disturbed, might she not be tempted to take action without waiting for the appointed moment? Was this not the reason why she had locked herself in her room? Heavens! What agony is her prisoner must be suffering? What shudders of terror at the executioner's least movement? Faster, Adolf, or I'll take the wheel myself! Faster, hang it! At last they reached Vildavre. There was a steep, sloping road on the right, and walls interrupted by a long railing. Drive round the grounds, Adolf. You mustn't give warning of our presence, must we, Messier de Lourtier? Where's the cottage? Just opposite, said Messier de Lourtier van O. They got out a little farther on. Hennin began to run along a bank at the side of an ill-capped sunken road. It was almost dark. Messier de Lourtier said, Here, this building standing a little way back. Look at that window on the ground floor. It belongs to one of the separate rooms. And that is obviously how she sleeps out. But the window seems to be barred. Yes, and that is why no one suspected anything, but she must have found some way to get through. The ground floor was built over deep cellars. Hennin quickly clambered up, finding a foothold on a projecting ledge of stone. Sure enough, one of the bars was missing. He pressed his face to the window pane and looked in. The room was dark inside. Nevertheless, he was able to distinguish at the back a woman seated beside another woman who was lying on a mattress. The woman seated was holding her forehead in her hands and gazing at the woman who was lying down. It's she, with her eyes wide open. The woman sat down, lying down. It's she, whispered Messier de Lourtier, who had also climbed the wall. The other one is bound. Hennin took from his pocket a glazer's diamond and cut out one of the panes without making enough noise to arouse the madwoman's attention. He next slid his hand to the window fastening and turned it softly. While with his left hand he leveled a revolver. You're not going to fire, surely? Messier de Lourtier vanohe entreated. If I must, I shawl. Hennin pushed open the window gently. But there was an obstacle of which he was not aware, a chair which toppled over and fell. He leapt into the room and threw away his revolver in order to seize the madwoman. But she did not wait for him. She rushed to the door, opened it and fled with a hoarse cry. Messier de Lourtier made us, though, to run after her. What to the use, said Hennin kneeling down. Let's save the victim first. He was instantly reassured. Ortans was alive. The first thing that he did was to cut the cords and remove the gag that was stifling her. Attracted by the noise, the old nurse had hastened to the room with a lamp which Hennin took from her, cast in its light on Ortans. He was astounded. Though livid and exhausted with emaciated features and eyes blazing with fever, Ortans was trying to smile. She whispered, I was sure of you. She fainted. An hour later, after much useless searching around the cottage, they found the madwoman locked into a large cupboard in the loft. She had hanged herself. Ortans refused to stay another night. Besides, it was better that the cottage should be empty when the old nurse announced the madwoman's suicide. Hennin gave Felicienne minute directions as to what she should do and say. Assisted by the chauffeur and Messier de l'Ortier, carried Ortans to the car and brought her home. She was soon convalescent. Two days later, Hennin carefully questioned her and asked her how she had come to know the madwoman. It was very simple, she said. My husband, who is not quite sane as I have told you, is being looked after at Ville d'Avray, and I sometimes go to see him without telling anybody I'd met. That was how I came to speak to that poor madwoman and how, the other day, she made signs that she wanted me to visit her. We were alone. I went into the cottage. She threw herself upon me and overpowered me before I had time to cry for help. I thought it was a jest, and so it was, wasn't it? A madwoman's jest? She was quite gentle with me. All the same she let me starve. But I was so sure of you. And weren't you frightened? Of starving? No. Besides, she gave me some food now and then I took her. And then I was sure of you. Yes, but there was something else, that other peril. What other peril? She asked, ingenuously. Hanin gave a start. He suddenly understood. It seemed strange at first, though it was quite natural, that Ortens had not for a moment suspected and did not yet suspect the terrible danger which she had run. Her mind had not connected with her own adventure the murderers committed by the lady with the hatchet. He thought that it would always be time enough to tell her the truth. For that matter, a few days later her husband, who had been locked up for years died in the asylum at Vildavre. And Ortens, who had been recommended by her doctor a short period of rest and solitude, went to stay with a relation living near the village of Bascour in the center of France. End of Chapter 6 Part 2 Chapter 7 Part 1 of the Eight Strokes of the Clock Chapter 7 Part 1 of the Eight Strokes of the Clock This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Lény The Eight Strokes of the Clock by Mohisse Leblanc Chapter 7 Part 1 Footprints in the Snow Footprints in the Snow Footprints Ärgenina Boulevard Ross medicines Paris and the plants near Bascour November 14 Bridge to victory maison You must be thinking very ungrateful. I have been here for three weeks and you've had not a word of thanks. Instead, I understand quite bad story that you spoke to me terrible business. But indeed, indeed, I couldn't help it. I was in such a state of prostration after it all. I needed rest and solitude so badly. Was I to stay in Paris? Was I to continue my expeditions with you? No, no, no. I had had enough adventures. Other peoples are very interesting, I admit. But when one is oneself the victim, and barely escapes with one's life. Oh, my dear friend, how horrible it was! Shall I ever forget it? Here, at La Hossière, I enjoy the greatest peace. My old spinster cousin, Yermelin, pats and cuddles me like an invalid. I am getting back my collar, and am very well physically. So much so, in fact, that I no longer everything of interesting myself in other peoples business. For instance, I am only telling you this because you are incorrigible, as inquisitive as any old charwoman, and always ready to busy yourself with things that don't concern you. Yesterday, I was present at a rather curious meeting. Antoinette had taken me to the inn at Bacicourt, where we were having tea in the public room, among the peasants. It was market day. When the arrival of three people, two men and a woman, caused a sudden pause in the conversation. One of the men was a fat farmer, in a long blouse, with a jovial red face, framed in white whiskers. The other was young, was dressed in corduroy, and had lean, yellow cross-grain features. Each of them carried a gun, slung over his shoulder. Between them was a short, slender young woman, in a brown cloak and a fur cap, whose rather thin and extremely pale face was surprisingly delicate and distinguished looking. Father, son, and daughter-in-law whispered my cousin, What? Can that charming creature be the wife of that clod-hopper? And the daughter-in-law of Baron de Gaulle. Is the old fellow over there a Baron? Yes, descended from a very ancient noble family, which used to own the chateau in the old days. He has always lived like a peasant, a great hunter, a great drinker, a great litigant, always at law with somebody, now very nearly ruined. His son Matthias was more ambitious, and less attached to the soil, and studied for the bar. Then he went to America. Next, the lack of money brought him back to the village, whereupon he fell in love with a young girl in the nearest town. The poor girl consented, no one knows why, to marry him. And for five years past she has been leading the life of a hermit, or rather of a prisoner, in a little manor house close by, the Manoahu Pui, the well manor. With the father and the son, I asked. No, the father lives at the far end of the village on a lonely farm. And is Master Matthias jealous? A perfect tiger. Without reason? Without reason, for Natalie de Gaon is the straightest woman in the world, and it is not her fault if a handsome young man has been hanging around the Manor House for the past few months. However, the de Gaon can't get over it. What, the father neither? The handsome young man is the less descendant of the people who bought the chateau long ago. This explains old de Gaon's hatred. Jérôme Vignal, I know him, and am very fond of him, is a good-looking fellow, and very well off. And he has sworn to run off with Natalie de Gaon. It's the old man who says so, whenever he has had a drop too much. There, listen. The old chap was sitting among a group of men who were amusing themselves by making him drink, and plying him with questions. He was already a little bit on, and was holding forth with a tone of indignation, and a mocking smile, which formed the most comic contrast. He's wasting his time, I tell you, the cockscomb. It's no manner of use, he's poaching round our way, and making ship's eyes at the wench. The covers are watched. If he comes too near, it means a bullet. Hey, Matthias. He gripped his daughter in lost hand. And then the little wench knows how to defend herself too, he chuckled. Hey, you don't want any admirers, do you, Natalie? The young wife blushed, in her confusion at being addressed in these terms, while her husband growled. You'd do better to hold your tongue, Father. There are things one doesn't talk about in public. Things that affect one's honor are best settled in public, retorted the old one. Where I'm concerned, the honor of the de Gaullean comes before everything. And that fine spark with his perisiers shunned, he stopped short, before him stood a man, who had just come in, and who seemed to be waiting for him to finish his sentence. The newcomer was a tall, powerfully built young fellow, in riding kit, with a hunting crop in his hand. His strong and rather stern face was lighted up by a pair of fine eyes, in which shone an ironical smile. The young man seemed not at all embarrassed. On seeing Natalie, he made a low bow, and when Matthias de Gaulleans took a step forward, he eyed him from head to foot, as though to say, well, what about it? And his attitude was so hotty and contemptuous, that the de Gaulleans lunged their guns, and took them in both hands, like sportsmen about to shoot. The son's expression was very fierce. Jerome was quite unmoved by the threat. After a few seconds, turning to the innkeeper, he remarked. How I say, I came to see Old Vaseur, but his shop is shut. Would you mind giving him the holster of my revolver? It wants a stitcher, too. He handed the holster to the innkeeper, and added, laughing. I'm keeping the revolver, in case I need it. You never can tell. Then, still very calmly, he took a cigarette from a silver case, lit it, and walked out. We saw him through the window, vaulting on his horse, and riding off at a slow trot. Old de Gaulleans tossed off a glass of brandy, swearing most horribly. His son clapped his hand to the old man's mouth, and forced him to sit down. Natalie de Gaulleans was sweeping beside them. That's my story, dear friend. As you see, it's not tremendously interesting, and does not deserve your attention. There's no mystery in it, and no part for you to play. Indeed, I particularly insist that you should not seek a pretext for any untimely interference. Of course, I should be glad to see the poor thing protected. She appears to be a perfect martyr. But, as I said before, let us leave other people to get out of their own troubles, and go no farther in our little experiments. Hanin finished reading the letter, read it over again, and ended by saying, That's it. Everything's right as right can be. She doesn't want to continue our little experiments, because this would make the seventh, and because she's afraid of the eighth, which, under the terms of our agreement, has a very particular significance. She doesn't want to, and she does want to, without seeming to want to. He rubbed his hands. The letter was an invaluable witness to the influence which he had gradually, gently and patiently gained over Ortans Daniel. It betrayed a rather complex feeling, composed of admiration, unbounded confidence, uneasiness at times, fear, and almost terror, but also love. He was convinced of that. His companion in adventures, which she shared with a good fellowship that excluded any awkwardness between them, she had suddenly taken fright, and a sort of modesty, mingled with a certain cockatry, was impelling her to hold back. That very evening, Sunday, Hanin took the train. And, at break of day, after covering by diligence on a road white with snow, the five miles between the little town of Pompignyà, where he alighted, and the village of Bassicourt, he learned that his journey might prove of some use. Three shots had been heard during the night, in the direction of the Manoir-Roupuis. Three shots, surgeon, I heard them as plainly as I see you standing before me, said a peasant whom the gendarme were questioning in the parlor of the inn which Hanin had entered. So did I, said the waiter, three shots. It may have been twelve o'clock at night. The snow, which had been falling since nine, had stopped, and the shots sounded across the fields, one after the other. Five more peasants gave their evidence. The sergeant and his men had heard nothing, because the police station backed on the fields. But a farm laborer and a woman arrived, who said that they were in Matthias' de Gaullein service, that they had been away for two days because of the intervening Sunday, and that they had come straight from the manor house, where they were unable to obtain admission. The gate of the grounds is locked, surgeon, said the man. It's the first time I've known this to happen. Messiah Matthias comes out to open it himself every morning at the stroke of six, winter and summer. Well, it's past eight now. I called and shouted. Nobody answered. So we came on here. You might have inquired at old Messiah de Gaulleins, said the sergeant. He lives on the high road. Oh, my word! So I might. I never thought of that. Would better go there now, the sergeant decided. Two of his men went with him, as well as the peasants and a locksmith, whose services were called into requisition. Hennin joined the party. Soon, at the end of the village, they reached old de Gaullein's farmyard, which Hennin recognized by Uchtan's description of its position. The old fellow was harnessing his horse and trap. When they told him what had happened, he burst out laughing. Three shots. Bang, bang, bang. Why, my dear sergeant, there are only two barrels to Matthias' gun. What about the locked gate? It means that the leds asleep, that's all. Last night he came and cracked a bottle with me, perhaps two, or even three, and he'll be sleeping it off, I expect, he and Natalie. He climbed onto the box of his trap, an old card with a patched tilt, and cracked his whip. Good-bye, gentlemen, all. Those three shots of yours won't stop me from going to the market at Pompignin, as I do every Monday. I have a couple of calls under the tilt. And they're just fit for the butcher. Good day to you. The others walked on. Hennin went up to the sergeant and gave him his name. I'm a friend of Mademoiselle Hermelin, of La Rancière, and it's too early to call on her yet. I shall be glad if you allow me to go round by the manor with you. Mademoiselle Hermelin knows Madame de Gaullein, and it will be a satisfaction to me to relieve her mind, for there's nothing wrong at the manor house, I hope. If there is, replied the sergeant, we shall read all about it, as plainly as on a map, because of the snow. He was a likable young man, and seemed smart and intelligent. From the very first, he had shown great acuteness in observing the tracks which Matthias had left behind him the evening before on returning home, tracks which soon became confused with the footprints made in Gaullein and Cumming by the farm laborer and the woman. Meanwhile, they came to the walls of a property of which the lotsmith readily opened the gate. From here onward a single trail appeared upon the spotless snow, that of Matthias. And it was easy to perceive that the sun must have shared largely in the father's libations, as the line of footprints described sudden curves which made it swerve right up to the trees of the avenue. Two hundred yards farther stood the dilapidated two-storied building of the Manuaho Pui. The principal door was open. Let's go in, said the sergeant. And the moment he had crossed the threshold, he muttered, oh, oh, the Gaullein made a mistake in not coming. They've been fighting in here. The big room was in disorder. Two shattered chairs, the overturned table, and much broken glass in China bore witness to the violence of the struggle. The tall clock lying on the ground had stopped at twenty past eleven. With the farm girl showing them the way, they ran up to the first floor. Neither Matthias nor his wife was there. But the door of their bedroom had been broken down with a hammer which they'd discovered under the bed. Hainin and the sergeant went downstairs again. The living room had a passage communicating with the kitchen which lay at the back of the house and opened on a small yard fenced off from the orchard. At the end of this enclosure was a well, near which one was bound to pass. Now, from the door of the kitchen to the well, the snow, which was not very thick, had been pressed down to this side and that, as though a body had been dragged over it. And all around the well were tangled traces of trampling feet, showing that the struggle must have been resumed at this spot. The sergeant again discovered Matthias' footprints, together with others which were shapelier and lighter. This letter went straight into the orchard by themselves, and thirty yards on, near the footprints, a revolver was picked up and recognized by one of the peasants as resembling that which Jehom Vinyal had produced in the inn two days before. The sergeant examined the cylinder. Three of the seven bullets had been fired. And so the tragedy was little by little reconstructed in its main outlines. And the sergeant, who had ordered everybody to stand aside and not to step on the side of the footprints, came back to the well, leaned over, put a few questions to the farm girl, and going up to Reynine Westford. It all seems fairly clear to me. Reynine took his arm. Let's speak out plainly, sergeant. I understand the business pretty well, for, as I told you, I know mademoiselle Hermelin, who is a friend of Jehom Vinyals, and also knows mademoiselle de Gaon. Do you suppose? I don't want to suppose anything. I simply declare that someone came there last night. By which way? The only tracks of a person coming towards the manor are those of Messier de Gaon. That's because the other person arrived before the snowfall, that is to say, before nine o'clock. Then he must have hidden in a corner of the living room, and waited for the return of Messier de Gaon, who came after the snow. Just so. As soon as Matthias came in, the man went for him. There was a fight. Matthias made his escape through the kitchen. The man ran after him, to the well, and fired three revolver shots. And where's the body? Down the well. Reynine protested. Oh, I see. Aren't you taking a lot for granted? Why, sir? The snow's there, to tell the story. And the snow plainly says that, after the struggle, after the three shots, one man alone walked away and left the farm. One man only. And his footprints are not those of Matthias de Gaon. Then, where can Matthias de Gaon be? But the well can be dragged? No. The well is practically bottomless. It is known all over the district, and gives its name to the manor. So you really believe? I repeat what I say. Before the snowfall, a single rifle, Matthias, and a single departure, the stranger. And Madame de Gaon, was she too killed and thrown down the well like her husband? No. Carried off. Carried off? Remember that her bedroom was broken down with a hammer. Come, come, Sergeant. You yourself declared that there was only one departure, the strangers. Stoop down. Look at the man's footprints. See how they sink into the snow until they actually touch the ground. Those are the footprints of a man, laden with a heavy burden. The stranger was carrying Madame de Gaon on his shoulder. Then there is an outlet this way? Yes, a little door of which Matthias de Gaon always had the key on him. The man must have taken it from him. A way out into the open fields? Yes. A road which joins the departmental highway, three quarters of a mile from here. And do you know where? Where? At the corner of the château. Jehrom Vignal's château? By Jove. This is beginning to look serious. If the trail leads to the château and stops there, we shall know where we stand. The trail did continue to the château, as they were able to perceive after following across the undulating fields on which the snow lay heaped in places. The approach to the main gates had been swept, but they saw that another trail, formed by the two wheels of a vehicle, was running in the opposite direction to the village. The sergeant rang the bell. The porter, who had also been sweeping the drive, came to the gates with a brim in his hand. In answer to a question, the man said that Monsieur Vignal had gone away that morning, before anyone else was up, and that he himself had harnessed the horse to the trap. In that case, Sartreynine, when they had moved away, all we have to do is to follow the tracks of the wheels. That will be no use, said the sergeant. They have taken the way away. At Pompignin station, where I came from, but they would have passed through the village. They have gone just the other way, because it leads to the town, where the express trains stop. The procurator general has an office in the town, all telephone, and, as there is no train before eleven o'clock, all that they need to do is to keep a watch at the station. I think you are doing the right thing, sergeant, said Sartreynine, and I congratulate you on the way in which you have carried out your investigation. They parted. Heinein went back to the inn in the village, and sent a note to Wachtanz Daniel by hand. My very dear friend, I seem together from your ladder that, touched as always by anything that concerns the heart, you were anxious to protect the love affair of Jérôme and Nathalie. Now, there is every reason to suppose that these two, without consulting their fair protectress, have run away, after throwing Matthias the going down a well. Forgive me for not coming to see you. The whole thing is extremely obscure, and, if I were with you, I should not have the detachment of mind which is needed to think the case over. It was then half past ten. Heinein went for a walk into the country, with his hands clashed behind his back, and without vouchsafing a glance at the exquisite spectacle of the white meadows. He came back for lunch, still absorbed in his thoughts, and indifferent to the talk of the customers of the inn, who on all sides were discussing recent events. He went up to his room, and had been asleep some time, when he was awakened by a tapping at the door. He got up and opened it. Is it you? Is it you? He whispered. Wachtanz and he stood, gazing at each other for some seconds, in silence, holding each other's hands, as though nothing, no irrelevant thought and no utterance, must be allowed to interfere with the joy of their meeting. Then he asked, was I right in coming? Yes, she said gently. I expected you. Perhaps it would have been better if you had sent for me sooner, instead of waiting. Events did not wait, you see, and I don't quite know what's to become of Jean-Homme Vignal and Nathalie de Gaulle. What, haven't you heard? She said quickly. They've been arrested. They were going to travel by the express. Arrested? No, Heinein objected. People are not arrested like that. They have to be questioned first. That's what's being done now. The authorities are making a search. Where? At the chateau. And, as they are innocent, for they are innocent, aren't they? You don't admit that they are guilty any more than I do? He replied, I admit nothing. I can't admit nothing, my dear. Nevertheless, I am bound to say that everything's against them. Except one fact. Which is that everything is too much against them. It is not normal for so many proofs to be heaped up, one on top of the other, and for the men who commit a murder to tell his story so frankly. Apart from this, there's nothing but mystery and discrepancy. Well? Well, I'm greatly puzzled. But you have a plan? None at all, so far. Ha! If I could see him, Jean-Homme Vignal, and her, Nathalie de Gaulle, and hear them, and know what they are saying in their own defense. But you can't understand that I shan't be permitted either to ask them any questions or to be present at their examination. Besides, it must be finished by this time. It's finished at the chateau, she said, but it's going to be continued at the manor house. Are they taking them to the manor house? He asked eagerly. Yes. At least, judging by what was said to the chauffeur of one of the procurators' two cars. Oh, in that case, exclaimed Renine, the things done, the manor house. Wa! We shall be in the front row of the stalls. We shall see and hear everything. And, as a word, a tone of voice, a quiver of the eyelids will be enough to give me the tiny clue I need. We may entertain some hope. Come along. He took her by the direct route which he had followed that morning. Leading to the gate which the locksmith had opened. The gendarmes on duty at the manor house had made a passage through the snow, beside the line of footprints, and around the house. Chents enabled Renine and Ochtans to approach Ansin, and through a side window, to enter a corridor near a back staircase. A few steps up was a little chamber which received its only light through a sort of bullseye from the large room on the ground floor. Renine, during the morning visit, had noticed the bullseye which was covered on the inside with a piece of cloth. He removed