The Time Mirror Part 16

And then, suddenly, he stopped. Stopped coldly and completely, as if he had been turned to stone. Deep within him an idea was growing. An idea so stupendous that it made his brain reel within his skull.

He whirled on the drunk.

"What did you say your name was?"

"'M Gustav Jerbette. 'M pain'er. Bes' dam' pain'er--"

The next instant the tipsy one was reeling backward into his room under the impetus of a powerful shove.

"Hey! Wha's idea?" he burbled. "Qui' pushin'--"

"Shut up, you stew-b.u.m! I'm going to sober you up if I have to kill you!

You've got a job to do!"

The doctor was a grave, bearded man. At last he rose from beside Elaine's straw bed in the fire-gutted chateau.

"How is she, doctor? Is there any hope?" Mark's voice was choked with emotion, his face drawn and haggard with strain.

Slowly, the medical man shook his head.

"I am sorry, _m'sieur_," he said quietly. "I can offer you little solace. Her lungs already are filling. I doubt that she can last until morning."

The other was breathing hard. His eyes were like fiery gimlets.

"Isn't there anything you can do?" he begged, half-sobbing. "Can't you at least give her something so she'll recover consciousness? I must talk to her--"

"That I can do."

The physician turned back to the bed. Raised the dying girl's head from the pallet to administer doses of several medicines.

"I have done all I can," he said. "From here it is in the hands of _Le Bon Dieu_."

Dazedly, Mark thanked him. Paid him with coins from Jacques Rombeau's wallet.

The door to the room beyond opened on sagging hinges and Gustav Jerbette stepped out. His eyes still were red-rimmed from drink, but otherwise he appeared sober.

"It's done," he said in a disgusted tone. "Lord knows it looks like nothing in this world or the next, but it's done."

Again Mark dealt out coins.

The old peasant entered the room.

"The baron is furious," he reported grimly. "They are searching every hut and hovel--"

The doctor shifted his feet nervously.

"Since there is nothing more I can do--" he murmured.

Mark seemed to shake off the strange, dream-like la.s.situde that gripped him.

"Of course, gentlemen. All of you have done your best. But there isn't any need of your staying longer, imperiling your lives by the chances of Baron Morriere's vengeance. Please leave--and my thanks go with you."

Out they marched, a weird procession: painter, doctor, peasant. Only the old man hesitated at the door.

"G.o.d be with you, friend!" he whispered, and pulled the heavy portal shut behind him.

Like a man in a trance, Mark watched them go. His feet were spread apart; fists clenched. Nor did the Sphinx at Giza look out upon the world with a face more grey or stony or implacable than was his.

"History!" he cried aloud, and his voice was half-hysterical. "d.a.m.n history! I'll beat it yet! Those devils shan't have Elaine--"

"Jacques!"

It was Elaine. Wanly she looked up from the pallet where she lay. Tried to force a smile.

Mark dropped to his knees beside her.

"Elaine! My darling!"

The girl raised a hand that trembled. Caressed his forehead.

"Poor Jacques!" she whispered. "He looks so worried; so frightened--"

"And good cause he has, too!"

Mark whirled, every muscle taut, at that harsh voice.

There, in the doorway, backed by his guardsmen, stood the Baron Morriere!

Tension hung over the silence of the room like smoke above a battlefield.

"Did you think you'd get away, you fool?" the n.o.ble gloated. "Did you think you'd escape Raoul Morriere's vengeance?"

Mark was breathing hard. His face was pale, his eyes over-bright. Deep within his brain words were pounding, with the beat of a giant sledge....

"_I shall defeat fate!_" those words throbbed. "_I shall rewrite history! Not as I wanted to. No. But they shall not have Elaine--_"

His hand clashed down, then, as a cobra strikes. Down to the broad bladed knife Jacques Rombeau carried in his belt. All his mind, all his heart, was concentrated on this one thing: Even though lightning should strike him this very instant, he would seize that knife. Whip it out.

Bury it to the hilt in Elaine's breast, that death--not Baron Morriere's retainers--might claim her!

But his hand clutched empty air. He stared down in shocked incredulity.

Stared down, and remembered--

He had given that knife to the old peasant before he went to Paris! And he had failed to ask it back!