The Secret of Sarek Part 37

"Vorski! . . . Vorski! . . ."

CHAPTER XI

THE SCOURGE OF G.o.d

Vorski! Vorski! The unspeakable creature, the thought of whom filled her with shame and horror, the monstrous Vorski, was not dead! The murder of the spy by one of his colleagues, his burial in the cemetery at Fontainebleau; all this was a fable, a delusion! The only real fact was that Vorski was alive!

Of all the visions that could have haunted Veronique's brain, there was none so abominable as the sight before her; Vorski standing erect, with his arms crossed and his head up, alive! Vorski alive!

She would have accepted anything with her usual courage, but not this.

She had felt strong enough to face and defy no matter what enemy, but not this one. Vorski stood for ignominious disgrace, for insatiable wickedness, for boundless ferocity, for method mingled with madness in crime.

And this man loved her.

She suddenly blushed. Vorski was staring with greedy eyes at the bare flesh of her shoulders and arms, which showed through her tattered bodice, and looking upon this bare flesh as upon a prey which nothing could s.n.a.t.c.h from him. Nevertheless Veronique did not budge. She had no covering within reach. She pulled herself together under the insult of the man's desire and defied him with such a glance that he was embarra.s.sed and for a moment turned away his eyes.

Then she cried, with an uncontrollable outburst of feeling:

"My son! Where's Francois? I want to see him."

"_Our_ son is sacred, madame," he replied. "He has nothing to fear from his father."

"I want to see him."

He lifted his hand as one taking an oath:

"You shall see him, I swear."

"Dead, perhaps!" she said, in a hollow voice.

"As much alive as you and I, madame."

There was a fresh pause. Vorski was obviously seeking his words and preparing the speech with which the implacable conflict between them was to open.

He was a man of athletic stature, with a powerful frame, legs slightly bowed, an enormous neck swollen by great bundles of muscles and a head unduly small, with fair hair plastered down and parted in the middle.

That in him which at one time produced an impression of brute strength, combined with a certain distinction, had become with age the ma.s.sive and vulgar aspect of a professional wrestler posturing on the hustings at a fair. The disquieting charm which once attracted the women had vanished; and all that remained was a harsh and cruel expression of which he tried to correct the hardness by means of an impa.s.sive smile.

He unfolded his arms, drew up a chair and, bowing to Veronique, said:

"Our conversation, madame, will be long and at times painful. Won't you sit down?"

He waited for a moment and, receiving no reply, without allowing himself to be disconcerted, continued:

"Perhaps you would rather first take some refreshment at the sideboard.

Would you care for a biscuit and a thimbleful of old claret or a gla.s.s of champagne?"

He affected an exaggerated politeness, the essentially Teutonic politeness of the semibarbarians who are anxious to prove that they are familiar with all the niceties of civilization and that they have been initiated into every refinement of courtesy, even towards a woman whom the right of conquest would permit them to treat more cavalierly. This was one of the points of detail which in the past had most vividly enlightened Veronique as to her husband's probable origin.

She shrugged her shoulders and remained silent.

"Very well," he said, "but you must then authorize me to stand, as behooves a man of breeding who prides himself on possessing a certain amount of _savoir faire_. Also pray excuse me for appearing in your presence in this more than careless attire. Internment-camps and the caves of Sarek are hardly places in which it is easy to renew one's wardrobe."

He was in fact wearing a pair of old patched trousers and a torn red-flannel waistcoat. But over these he had donned a white linen robe which was half-closed by a knotted girdle. It was a carefully studied costume; and he accentuated its eccentricity by adopting theatrical att.i.tudes and an air of satisfied negligence.

Pleased with his preamble, he began to walk up and down, with his hands behind his back, like a man who is in no hurry and who is taking time for reflection in very serious circ.u.mstances. Then he stopped and, in a leisurely tone:

"I think, madame, that we shall gain time in the end by devoting a few indispensable minutes to a brief account of our past life together.

Don't you agree?"

Veronique did not reply. He therefore began, in the same deliberate tone:

"In the days when you loved me . . ."

She made a gesture of revolt. He insisted:

"Nevertheless, Veronique . . ."

"Oh," she said, in an accent of disgust, "I forbid you! . . . That name from your lips! . . . I will not allow it . . . ."

He smiled and continued, in a tone of condescension:

"Don't be annoyed with me, madame. Whatever formula I employ, you may be a.s.sured of my respect. I therefore resume my remarks. In the days when you loved me, I was, I must admit, a heartless libertine, a debauchee, not perhaps without a certain style and charm, for I always made the most of my advantages, but possessing none of the qualities of a married man. These qualities I should easily have acquired under your influence, for I loved you to distraction. You had about you a purity that enraptured me, a charm and a simplicity which I have never met with in any woman. A little patience on your part, an effort of kindness would have been enough to transform me. Unfortunately, from the very first moment, after a rather melancholy engagement, during which you thought of nothing but your father's grief and anger, from the first moment of our marriage there was a complete and irretrievable lack of harmony between us. You had accepted in spite of yourself the bridegroom who had thrust himself upon you. You entertained for your husband no feeling save hatred and repulsion. These are things which a man like Vorski does not forgive. So many women and among them some of the proudest had given me proof of my perfect delicacy that I had no cause to reproach myself.

That the little middle-cla.s.s person that you were chose to be offended was not my business. Vorski is one of those who obey their instincts and their pa.s.sions. Those instincts and pa.s.sions failed to meet with your approval. That, madame, was your affair; it was purely a matter of taste. I was free; I resumed my own life. Only . . ."

He interrupted himself for a few seconds and then went on:

"Only, I loved you. And, when, a year later, certain events followed close upon one another, when the loss of your son drove you into a convent, I was left with my love una.s.suaged, burning and torturing me.

What my existence was you can guess for yourself; a series of orgies and violent adventures in which I vainly strove to forget you, followed by sudden fits of hope, clues which were suggested to me, in the pursuit of which I flung myself headlong, only to relapse into everlasting discouragement and loneliness. That was how I discovered the whereabouts of your father and your son, that was how I came to know their retreat here, to watch them, to spy upon them, either personally or with the aid of people who were entirely devoted to me. In this way I was hoping to reach yourself, the sole object of my efforts and the ruling motive of all my actions, when war was declared. A week later, having failed in an attempt to cross the frontier, I was imprisoned in an internment-camp."

He stopped. His face became still harder; and he growled:

"Oh, the h.e.l.l that I went through there! Vorski! Vorski, the son of a king, mixed up with all the waiters and pickpockets of the Fatherland!

Vorski a prisoner, scoffed at and loathed by all! Vorski unwashed and eaten up with vermin! My G.o.d, how I suffered! . . . But let us pa.s.s on.

What I did, to escape from death, I was ent.i.tled to do. If some one else was stabbed in my stead, if some one else was buried in my name in a corner of France, I do not regret it. The choice lay between him and myself; I made my choice. And it was perhaps not only my persistent love of life that inspired my action; it was also--and this above all is a new thing--an unexpected dawn which broke in the darkness and which was already dazzling me with its glory. But this is my secret. We will speak of it later, if you force me to. For the moment . . ."

In the face of all this rhetoric delivered with the emphasis of an actor rejoicing in his eloquence and applauding his own periods, Veronique had retained her impa.s.sive att.i.tude. Not one of those lying declarations was able to touch her. She seemed to be thinking of other things.

He went up to her and, to compel her attention, continued, in a more aggressive tone:

"You do not appear to suspect, madame, that my words are extremely serious. They are, however, and they will become even more so. But, before approaching more formidable matters and in the hope of avoiding them altogether, I should like to make an appeal, not to your spirit of conciliation, for there is no conciliation possible with you, but to your reason, to your sense of reality. After all, you cannot be ignorant of your present position, of the position of your son . . . ."

She was not listening, he was absolutely convinced of it. Doubtless absorbed by the thought of her son, she read not the least meaning into the words that reached her ears. Nevertheless, irritated and unable to conceal his impatience, he continued:

"My offer is a simple one; and I hope and trust that you will not reject it. In Francois' name and because of my feelings of humanity and compa.s.sion, I ask you to link the present to the past of which I have sketched the main features. From the social point of view, the bond that unites us has never been shattered. You are still in name and in the eyes of the law . . ."