Chapter V

IT was about half-past nine, and Uncle Graff had dined in the Rue de Provènce as usual. Baudoin approached him, and whispered in his ear—

“Two ladies have called, and one of them wishes to speak to M. Marcel.”

“What kind of a woman is she?” asked the uncle.

“A very respectable-looking person, sir. The other must be a governess or a lady’s maid.”

“Where are they?”

“In the ante-chamber.”

“Turn on the electricity in my room, and show them in.”

Baudoin did as he was ordered. Uncle Graff continued his descent, murmuring to himself—

“Another of Marcel’s escapades! I wonder what it is this time.”

On approaching his room he saw, standing by the door, a young lady dressed in black, and wearing a veil. Uncle Graff’s first impression was a favourable one. Pointing to a seat, he said kindly—

“My nephew, madame, is not at home. Cannot I—”

He was not allowed to finish the sentence. The young lady said in beseeching tones—

“Monsieur, it is a question of life or death.”

“For whom?” asked Uncle Graff, anxiously.

“For your nephew!”

“How have you been informed of this? And who are you?”

The visitor replied immediately—

“I am Mademoiselle Lichtenbach, monsieur, and I place myself entirely at your disposal.”

As she spoke she removed her veil. Uncle Graff, stupefied, recognized the daughter of his enemy. She was pale and trembling, but resolute.

“Who has sent you?” he asked.

“My father! He thought that if he came himself, perhaps you would not receive him. At this very moment, perhaps, your nephew is running the most serious danger. My father, who has just received news of it, begged me to come and tell you.”

“But how did he receive his information?” asked Graff, suspiciously.

“Ah, monsieur! begin by taking the necessary measures to help M. Marcel,” said Marianne, eagerly. “Afterwards you may ask what questions you please.”

“At whose hands lies the peril?”

“At the hands of the same band which killed General de Trémont. My father has been informed of these intrigues. Act without losing a moment.”

“But what can we do?” exclaimed Uncle Graff, carried away by the young lady’s eagerness.

“I will explain to you. Wait a moment.”

Passing her hand over her forehead, she said in piteous accents—

“Yes, that was it. A woman he knew at Ars.”

“The Italian?”

“Yes, doubtless. He loved her, and they knew he would be pleased to see her again.”

She paused. The pallor of her face increased. What she was relating seemed to torture her.

“So they wrote to him to fix a rendezvous. And they are expecting him this very evening, in a solitary out-of-the-way house. But he will not find the one he expects to meet, but, instead, a band of villains, determined to employ the most violent measures to force him to reveal a secret that they cannot fathom. Now do you understand?”

“Yes. ‘Where is this house?”

“See, here is the address written on this piece of paper.”

Graff read—

“Boulevard Maillot, 16 bis. And you say that he was expected there about ten o’clock?”

As though in obedience to his words, the timepiece struck the hour at the very instant.

Graff rang the bell. Baudoin appeared.

“Quick, Baudoin, a carriage! You will accompany me. Have you a good revolver?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then bring it with you. Do not say a word to any one. I will rejoin you in the yard. Ten o’clock! We will be there, all the same, and if they have harmed the child, let them beware!”

Baudoin had already left the room. Marianne, motionless, watched Uncle Graff make his preparations. He took up a bundle of bank-notes, a revolver, and a heavy steel-headed stick. Then he appeared to remember that Mademoiselle Lichtenbach was in the room. Coming up to her, he said kindly—

“My child, I thank you for the service.”

“Oh, monsieur!” exclaimed Marianne, her eyes gleaming with suppressed tears; “save him, that is the main thing!”

“He shall be informed, mademoiselle, of what you have risked for his sake. I know what this errand must have cost you.”

Marianne smiled sadly.

“I am returning to-morrow to the convent, doubtless for ever. Life is full of sadness and pain.”

Graff waited no longer, but rushed out into the street, as the brougham of Mademoiselle Lichtenbach vanished in the distance. Baudoin was standing near the cab. Graff leapt into the carriage and said—

“To the Porte Maillot! You, Baudoin, mount with me. I want to speak to you.”

* * * * *

Marcel had never felt so calm as on the evening he made his way towards the Place de l’Etoile.

When he entered the carriage it immediately started off along the Avenue de la Grande-Armée, wheeled round at the Porte Maillot, and, after a two minutes’ further run, came to a halt in a dark-looking avenue, near a garden gate. Marcel stepped out, and the carriage disappeared. A small door, hidden in the ivy, was now opened, and a valet in livery appeared. Marcel followed him in the direction of a house which raised its sombre mass in front. A single light shone from a window on the first floor. Mounting a flight of steps, he entered an ante-chamber. Suddenly an exclamation was heard in the next apartment, a rapid step was heard, a door overhung with tapestry was flung open, and Sophia, her face convulsed by the violence of her emotion, appeared. Her looks expressed the terror she felt, but not a word did she utter. Taking Marcel by the wrist, she drew him into the room she had just left—a bedroom—quickly turned the key in the lock, bolted another door, and, seizing the young man in her arms, whispered in his ear—

“Wretched man that you are! How did you come here?”

At the same time, and without appearing to be able to help herself, her lips sought Marcel’s neck, and she kissed him with a delirious rapture.

“Then it was not you who summoned me?”

“I! _Grand Dieu_! I would give ten years of my life if you were anywhere but in this house at this moment. Ah! the wretches! They have deceived me!”

“Who are the wretches you speak of?” asked Marcel, firmly.

“Ah! Do not question me! I cannot, must not, speak!”

“Are you jesting?” said Marcel, ironically.

“Poor child! You do not know them!”

“Madame, is your brother among them?”

She laid her hands on his mouth, those beautiful white hands, and he remained silent. Then, clasping him to her breast with passionate ardour, her eyes filled with tears—she stammered out—

“Oh! Marcel, Marcel!”

A sudden pallor came over her; she clung to him to prevent herself from falling, and her shapely head, with its wealth of raven hair, lay on the shoulder of the one she loved with hopeless passion.

A sharp knock on the door brought them back to the reality of life.

“Listen!” said Sophia.

She drew near the door, asked a short question in a foreign language, and received an immediate reply. Apparently reassured, she opened the door, saying to Marcel—

“It is Milo.”

Milona entered, and the door was carefully closed again.

“Have they sent you?” asked Sophia.

“Yes, mistress.”

“What do they want?”

“To come to an understanding with you.”

“I shall not go.”

“They have provided for that contingency.”

“Well?”

“They have told me to repeat to you their demands from the young master.”

“Silence! I do not wish him to know them!”

“Would you rather they mount the stairs and kill him?”

A deep silence followed. Sophia twisted about her arms, and groaned in despair. Her beautiful features were convulsed by powerless rage and exasperated dismay. Grinding her teeth, she flew to the mantel-piece, seized a short, sharp dagger, which she brandished aloft with a terrible skill.

“Milo, you will not abandon me?”

“Never! I will die for you, that you know well!”

“Marcel is armed; so we are three! Oh! I will defend him with my last breath!”

“Against them?” said Milona. “Can you hope to do such a thing? It would be impossible to resist them. They are all waiting below, in the dining-room, ready for anything!”

“Oh! _Mon Dieu_! How mad I am! Do I not know them? Oh! Marcel, why did you place yourself at their mercy?”

Flinging her poniard on to the ground, she sat down, overcome with emotion, buried her head in her hands, and burst into tears. Marcel, turning to the Dalmatian, asked, in calm accents—

“Tell me, in a word, what it is they want from me?”

Milona cast a questioning glance at her mistress. As Sophia made no sign, the servant explained—

“They want the famous secret, which will give value to the powder they stole from you!”

Marcel smiled, and then frowned in disdain.

“Ah! that is what is puzzling them. I am glad to know that they have not succeeded in discovering what they were so interested in knowing. Milona, you may tell them that they will never learn it from me!”

“We shall see about that before long!” exclaimed Agostini, passionately, from behind the door.

“Ah! you are listening, you villain?” said Marcel, in vibrating tones. “I am very pleased to know it, for such a procedure simplifies things considerably! Tell your acolytes that I am not afraid of them; I have in my hand a revolver which will answer for the lives of six men. If they like, I will open the door, and the dance shall begin.”

“Take time for reflection!” replied a deep, guttural voice—that of Hans. “Do not do anything stupid!”

“Who is that?” asked Marcel. “He does not appear so stupid as the others.”

“One would think you know us!” railed the bandit. “Patience! We will give you half an hour in which to decide. If, within thirty minutes, you have not given us satisfaction, I will undertake to make you speak. The night is damp—there is a good fire below!”

Steps were now heard descending the staircase. Milona silently left the room, and Marcel and Sophia remained alone. The time-piece pointed to ten minutes past ten.

“You heard them,” said Sophia. “Now you know what they propose to do. They want your secret.”

“Very well! I have told them they shall not have it!”

Looking at the young woman, he saw that a shudder came over her. Laying his hand on her shoulder, he added—

“But I wish to know yours.”

“Mine?” exclaimed the young woman, with a terrified gesture.

“Yes! Who and what are you?”

She smiled sadly.

“A broken-hearted woman who loves you!”

“Empty words! You say you love me. The only proof of this confession I ask for is that you be sincere with me.”

Hiding her face in her hands, she exclaimed—

“Never! You would hate me if I told you!”

“Then it is true that you are the most abominable creature on earth?”

“Oh! my darling, do not insult me!”

“You will not speak? Then I will ask your accomplices downstairs. I imagine it will be a pleasure to them to give me information about you.”

He started towards the door. She leapt forward. “Madman! You do not know the danger you are running! Stay here by my side.”

He looked steadily into her eyes, and asked again—“Who are you?”

She groaned.

“Why are you so pitiless?”

“If you do not speak, it is because you are well aware that my scorn for you would be so great, that nothing but disgust would remain in my memory from this past happiness!”

She stood up, and proudly answered—

“Poor Marcel, you are mistaken—you would still love me. If I pleased, nothing could withdraw you from me!”

She looked at him as she spoke, and under the influence of her glance Marcel felt all his resolutions melt away, a feeling of languor came over him, and he lost the faculty of will-power.

“Death is all around us,” she whispered. “Let us forget everything. Do not think any more, my love—leave your poor tortured heart in peace.”

Suddenly a sound of footsteps was heard throughout the house, and cries coming from outside. Then came a sound as though a door had been torn from its hinges, followed by a revolver-shot. At the same time was heard a voice, which Marcel knew well.

“Help! Baudoin, help!”

Then another shot, followed by a volley of oaths. Marcel, on his feet, exclaimed—

“It is my uncle Graff! _Mon Dieu_! They are killing him!”

“Stay here, do not stir!” said Sophia, in beseeching tones.

He made no reply, but rushed forward into the corridor, found the staircase, and, in the semi-darkness, saw in the hall, on the ground floor, a group of three men, in a hand-to-hand conflict with Graff, who, half-stifled, and encircled by their arms, was trying in vain to make use of his revolver. In front of the entrance-door Hans and Baudoin were engaged in a fierce struggle. The brave servant had his forehead gashed open, and the blood was flowing freely, but he had obtained a firm hold on his terrible opponent, and succeeded in holding him harmless for the moment.

Standing above the balustrade, Marcel took aim at one of the three men who were strangling his uncle. A flash followed, and the man fell. At the same moment a shot was heard behind Marcel, and a ball whizzed past his ear. Turning round, he found himself face to face with Agostini, who was preparing to repeat the shot. With a sudden blow he dashed aside the weapon, seized the Italian by the waist, and, his strength doubled by the fury and rage which now possessed him, raised him in the air, and flung him over the rails of the staircase.

At this exploit, Hans, powerless to strike Marcel, who was descending the steps four at a time, gave a howl of fury. He shook Baudoin with such energy that he forced him to abandon his hold. Then he placed him under his knee, and his iron arm was already raised to deal the deathblow, when Marcel rushed to the rescue with a terrible blow in the body, which hurled the colossus to the ground. He immediately rose to his feet, however, and, taking up a position in a corner, shouted out aloud—

“Help! Here, you others! Help!”

But the others had by this time too much to do. The police, attracted by the firing, invaded the house. Uncle Graff, at liberty, now came up with his revolver. But Baudoin, in hoarse tones, exclaimed—

“Monsieur Graff, leave him to me—he is mine! It is he who killed my General!”

He then took from the old man’s hand his steel-headed stick, disdaining a firearm, which would have made the combat unequal, and fell upon Hans. The bandit swore frightfully on seeing that all was lost; he struck a blow with his iron fist, but Baudoin lightly stepped aside. Then the stick whizzed through the air, and the steel head descended. Hans, struck on the temple, rolled over the flag-stones, and fell like an ox to the ground. This was a signal for a general rout. The three men who still resisted now leapt through the open windows, and vanished like shadows into the garden.

“All escape is cut off; do not trouble about them,” exclaimed the head detective. “Let us see after the wounded and the dead.”

Uncle Graff wished to take Marcel into his arms, question him, and assure himself that he was safe and sound; but, on turning round, he found Baudoin wiping away with his handkerchief the blood and perspiration flowing from his forehead. Marcel, as soon as the issue of the struggle left no room for doubt, had immediately thought of Sophia. Now that danger for him had disappeared, it loomed forth with a terrible aspect for her. The police, who had restored the situation by intervening to save him, would now appear on the scene for her ruin. He mounted the stairs more quickly than he had descended, for he felt that the time in which anything could be done was short indeed.

Rushing into the room, the door of which was still open, he drew the bolts on Sophia with as much fear and solicitude as she had drawn them on himself. She had remained standing, leaning pensively against the mantelpiece, as though devoid of interest in what was taking place on the floor beneath. Milona stood by her side; she had doubtless told her of the defeat of her companions. Marcel, in terrified ardour, rushed up to her.

“The house is in the hands of the police, do you not know? Why are you still here?”

“I was waiting for you,” replied Sophia, calmly. “But it means ruin to you!”

“How does that affect you?”

“I will not consent to it! I cannot endure the idea that you should suffer threatenings and torture for having defended me.”

A light came into Sophia’s face.

“Then will you still allow me to see you?”

He replied, firmly—

“Impossible! After what has taken place between us, I must never see you again! I cannot, I must not! For your own sake!”

Her tranquil, careless look returned.

“Then leave me to my fate!”

“No! I will not do that! You, ruined on my account, when— Will you torture my thoughts by the frightful memory of the past?”

“Oh, Marcel, if I could only please you! If you would only love me! How dearly I would pay you for such happiness!”

She smiled. Tears filled her eyes, and she looked so beautiful that a shudder ran through his whole body. Turning aside, he said—

“Wretched woman! what will become of you?”

She showed him a ring, the bezel of which was made of a bead of chased gold.

“Look at this bead of gold; it contains liberty and death at the same time. Pour its contents into a glass of water, and all is over, without suffering.”

She stretched out her hand towards a tray containing a bowl of water and a glass.

“I forbid you!” cried Marcel, dismayed.

She looked at him with a terrible intensity, whilst her face shone with superhuman ardour.

“Nothing without you!” she said. “Everything with you! Decide!”

“Impossible!”

With a sorrowful smile, she continued—

“Reflect! You know what I am. If you wish, I will live, but only to be yours. I will come whenever you want me, and will not trouble you in any way. Oh! every expiation and sacrifice, every grief and pain imaginable, to be yours once more!”

Steps were heard mounting the staircase. Marcel, terror-struck, said—

“They are coming! They will take you! If you wish to save your life, leave the room at once!”

“Let them come! They will only take me if I am willing. I have nothing to fear from any other than yourself. Do you wish me to live? Swear that you will see me again!”

At that supreme moment the pale faces of General de Trémont and poor Laforêt, of Agostini, dead, and Hans, lying on the blood-stained stone, rose before Marcel’s imagination, and an insurmountable horror came over him. He bent his head without a word. A slight noise of something touching glass caused him to look up. He saw Sophia drinking the poison. Rushing up, he dashed from her hands the empty glass. Smiling, she said—

“Too late!”

“Open! Open!” exclaimed several voices behind the door.

Sophia found sufficient strength to say—

“Open now, Milona!”

The Dalmatian obeyed. A veil came over Sophia’s eyes, her cheeks turned deadly pale. Milona, terrified, fell to the ground, her dark, dishevelled hair falling round her face like a funeral veil.

“Where is the woman?” shouted M. Mayeur from the staircase, as he came on the scene, panting and triumphant. “She has not been allowed to escape, I hope!”

He appeared, accompanied by Graff, and stood, as though petrified, on the threshold.

Marcel, pointing to Sophia, who had just breathed her last, said—

“Here she is!”

The Ténébreuse, ever elusive, had this time taken refuge in the darkness of eternal night.