The Golden Triangle Part 21

"Besides the pendant, Essares Bey held in his hand this bit of blotted paper, on which you can see a few straggling, hurriedly-written words.

The only ones that are more or less legible are these: 'golden triangle.' What this golden triangle means, what it has to do with the case in hand, I can't for the present tell. The most that I am able to presume is that, like the pendant, the sc.r.a.p of paper was s.n.a.t.c.hed by Essares Bey from the man who died at nineteen minutes past seven this morning and that, when he himself was killed at twenty-three minutes past twelve, he was occupied in examining it."

"And then there is the alb.u.m," said Patrice, making his last point. "You see how all the details are linked together. You may safely believe that it is all one case."

"Very well," said M. Ma.s.seron. "One case in two parts. You, captain, had better follow up the second. I grant you that nothing could be stranger than this discovery of photographs of Mme. Essares and yourself in the same alb.u.m and in the same pendant. It sets a problem the solution of which will no doubt bring us very near to the truth. We shall meet again soon, Captain Belval, I hope. And, once more, make use of me and of my men."

He shook Patrice by the hand. Patrice held him back:

"I shall make use of you, sir, as you suggest. But is this not the time to take the necessary precautions?"

"They are taken, captain. We are in occupation of the house."

"Yes . . . yes . . . I know; but, all the same . . . I have a sort of presentiment that the day will not end without. . . . Remember old Simeon's strange words. . . ."

M. Ma.s.seron began to laugh:

"Come, Captain Belval, we mustn't exaggerate things. If any enemies remain for us to fight, they must stand in great need, for the moment, of taking council with themselves. We'll talk about this to-morrow, shall we, captain?"

He shook hands with Patrice again, bowed to Mme. Essares and left the room.

Belval had at first made a discreet movement to go out with him. He stopped at the door and walked back again. Mme. Essares, who seemed not to hear him, sat motionless, bent in two, with her head turned away from him.

"Coralie," he said.

She did not reply; and he uttered her name a second time, hoping that again she might not answer, for her silence suddenly appeared to him to be the one thing in the world for him to desire. That silence no longer implied either constraint or rebellion. Coralie accepted the fact that he was there, by her side, as a helpful friend. And Patrice no longer thought of all the problems that hara.s.sed him, nor of the murders that had mounted up, one after another, around them, nor of the dangers that might still encompa.s.s them. He thought only of Coralie's yielding gentleness.

"Don't answer, Coralie, don't say a word. It is for me to speak. I must tell you what you do not know, the reasons that made you wish to keep me out of this house . . . out of this house and out of your very life."

He put his hand on the back of the chair in which she was sitting; and his hand just touched Coralie's hair.

"Coralie, you imagine that it is the shame of your life here that keeps you away from me. You blush at having been that man's wife; and this makes you feel troubled and anxious, as though you yourself had been guilty. But why should you? It was not your fault. Surely you know that I can guess the misery and hatred that must have pa.s.sed between you and him and the constraint that was brought to bear upon you, by some machination, in order to force your consent to the marriage! No, Coralie, there is something else; and I will tell you what it is. There is something else. . . ."

He was bending over her still more. He saw her beautiful profile lit up by the blazing logs and, speaking with increasing fervor and adopting the familiar _tu_ and _toi_ which, in his mouth, retained a note of affectionate respect, he cried:

"Am I to speak, Little Mother Coralie? I needn't, need I? You have understood; and you read yourself clearly. Ah, I feel you trembling from head to foot! Yes, yes, I tell you, I knew your secret from the very first day. From the very first day you loved your great beggar of a wounded man, all scarred and maimed though he was. Hush! Don't deny it!

. . . Yes, I understand: you are rather shocked to hear such words as these spoken to-day. I ought perhaps to have waited. And yet why should I? I am asking you nothing. I know; and that is enough for me. I sha'n't speak of it again for a long time to come, until the inevitable hour arrives when you are forced to tell it to me yourself. Till then I shall keep silence. But our love will always be between us; and it will be exquisite, Little Mother Coralie, it will be exquisite for me to know that you love me. Coralie. . . . There, now you're crying! And you would still deny the truth? Why, when you cry--I know you, Little Mother--it means that your dear heart is overflowing with tenderness and love! You are crying? Ah, Little Mother, I never thought you loved me to that extent!"

Patrice also had tears in his eyes. Coralie's were coursing down her pale cheeks; and he would have given much to kiss that wet face. But the least outward sign of affection appeared to him an offense at such a moment. He was content to gaze at her pa.s.sionately.

And, as he did so, he received an impression that her thoughts were becoming detached from his own, that her eyes were being attracted by an unexpected sight and that, amid the great silence of their love, she was listening to something that he himself had not heard.

And suddenly he too heard that thing, though it was almost imperceptible. It was not so much a sound as the sensation of a presence mingling with the distant rumble of the town. What could be happening?

The light had begun to fade, without his noticing it. Also unperceived by Patrice, Mme. Essares had opened the window a little way, for the boudoir was small and the heat of the fire was becoming oppressive.

Nevertheless, the two cas.e.m.e.nts were almost touching. It was at this that she was staring; and it was from there that the danger threatened.

Patrice's first impulse was to run to the window, but he restrained himself. The danger was becoming defined. Outside, in the twilight, he distinguished through the slanting panes a human form. Next, he saw between the two cas.e.m.e.nts something which gleamed in the light of the fire and which looked like the barrel of a revolver.

"Coralie is done for," he thought, "if I allow it to be suspected for an instant that I am on my guard."

She was in fact opposite the window, with no obstacle intervening. He therefore said aloud, in a careless tone:

"Coralie, you must be a little tired. We will say good-by."

At the same time, he went round her chair to protect her.

But he had not the time to complete his movement. She also no doubt had seen the glint of the revolver, for she drew back abruptly, stammering:

"Oh, Patrice! . . . Patrice! . . ."

Two shots rang out, followed by a moan.

"You're wounded!" cried Patrice, springing to her side.

"No, no," she said, "but the fright . . ."

"Oh, if he's touched you, the scoundrel!"

"No, he hasn't."

"Are you quite sure?"

He lost thirty or forty seconds, switching on the electric light, looking at Coralie for signs of a wound and waiting in an agony of suspense for her to regain full consciousness. Only then did he rush to the window, open it wide and climb over the balcony. The room was on the first floor. There was plenty of lattice-work on the wall. But, because of his leg, Patrice had some difficulty in making his way down.

Below, on the terrace, he caught his foot in the rungs of an overturned ladder. Next, he knocked against some policemen who were coming from the ground-floor. One of them shouted:

"I saw the figure of a man making off that way."

"Which way?" asked Patrice.

The man was running in the direction of the lane. Patrice followed him.

But, at that moment, from close beside the little door, there came shrill cries and the whimper of a choking voice:

"Help! . . . Help! . . ."

When Patrice came up, the policeman was already flashing his electric lantern over the ground; and they both saw a human form writhing in the shrubbery.

"The door's open!" shouted Patrice. "The a.s.sa.s.sin has escaped! Go after him!"

The policeman vanished down the lane; and, Ya-Bon appearing on the scene, Patrice gave him his orders:

"Quick as you can, Ya-Bon! . . . If the policeman is going up the lane, you go down. Run! I'll look after the victim."

All this time, Patrice was stooping low, flinging the light of the policeman's lantern on the man who lay struggling on the ground. He recognized old Simeon, nearly strangled, with a red-silk cord round his neck.

"How do you feel?" he asked. "Can you understand what I'm saying?"

He unfastened the cord and repeated his question. Simeon stuttered out a series of incoherent syllables and then suddenly began to sing and laugh, a very low, jerky laugh, alternating with hiccoughs. He had gone mad.