CHAPTER XI
THE SCOURGE OF GOD
Vorski! Vorski! The unspeakable creature, the thought of whom filled herwith shame and horror, the monstrous Vorski, was not dead! The murder ofthe spy by one of his colleagues, his burial in the cemetery atFontainebleau; all this was a fable, a delusion! The only real fact wasthat Vorski was alive!
Of all the visions that could have haunted Veronique's brain, there wasnone so abominable as the sight before her; Vorski standing erect, withhis 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, butnot this one. Vorski stood for ignominious disgrace, for insatiablewickedness, for boundless ferocity, for method mingled with madness incrime.
And this man loved her.
She suddenly blushed. Vorski was staring with greedy eyes at the bareflesh of her shoulders and arms, which showed through her tatteredbodice, and looking upon this bare flesh as upon a prey which nothingcould snatch from him. Nevertheless Veronique did not budge. She had nocovering within reach. She pulled herself together under the insult ofthe man's desire and defied him with such a glance that he wasembarrassed 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 fromhis 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 andpreparing the speech with which the implacable conflict between them wasto open.
He was a man of athletic stature, with a powerful frame, legs slightlybowed, an enormous neck swollen by great bundles of muscles and a headunduly 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 massive andvulgar aspect of a professional wrestler posturing on the hustings at afair. The disquieting charm which once attracted the women had vanished;and all that remained was a harsh and cruel expression of which he triedto correct the hardness by means of an impassive 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 yousit down?"
He waited for a moment and, receiving no reply, without allowing himselfto 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 glassof champagne?"
He affected an exaggerated politeness, the essentially Teutonicpoliteness of the semibarbarians who are anxious to prove that they arefamiliar with all the niceties of civilization and that they have beeninitiated into every refinement of courtesy, even towards a woman whomthe right of conquest would permit them to treat more cavalierly. Thiswas one of the points of detail which in the past had most vividlyenlightened 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, asbehooves a man of breeding who prides himself on possessing a certainamount of _savoir faire_. Also pray excuse me for appearing in yourpresence in this more than careless attire. Internment-camps and thecaves of Sarek are hardly places in which it is easy to renew one'swardrobe."
He was in fact wearing a pair of old patched trousers and a tornred-flannel waistcoat. But over these he had donned a white linen robewhich was half-closed by a knotted girdle. It was a carefully studiedcostume; and he accentuated its eccentricity by adopting theatricalattitudes and an air of satisfied negligence.
Pleased with his preamble, he began to walk up and down, with his handsbehind his back, like a man who is in no hurry and who is taking timefor reflection in very serious circumstances. Then he stopped and, in aleisurely tone:
"I think, madame, that we shall gain time in the end by devoting a fewindispensable minutes to a brief account of our past life together.Don't you agree?"
Veronique did not reply. He therefore began, in the same deliberatetone:
"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 namefrom 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 beassured of my respect. I therefore resume my remarks. In the days whenyou loved me, I was, I must admit, a heartless libertine, a debauchee,not perhaps without a certain style and charm, for I always made themost of my advantages, but possessing none of the qualities of a marriedman. These qualities I should easily have acquired under your influence,for I loved you to distraction. You had about you a purity thatenraptured me, a charm and a simplicity which I have never met with inany woman. A little patience on your part, an effort of kindness wouldhave been enough to transform me. Unfortunately, from the very firstmoment, after a rather melancholy engagement, during which you thoughtof nothing but your father's grief and anger, from the first moment ofour marriage there was a complete and irretrievable lack of harmonybetween us. You had accepted in spite of yourself the bridegroom who hadthrust himself upon you. You entertained for your husband no feelingsave hatred and repulsion. These are things which a man like Vorski doesnot forgive. So many women and among them some of the proudest had givenme proof of my perfect delicacy that I had no cause to reproach myself.That the little middle-class person that you were chose to be offendedwas not my business. Vorski is one of those who obey their instincts andtheir passions. Those instincts and passions failed to meet with yourapproval. That, madame, was your affair; it was purely a matter oftaste. 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 followedclose upon one another, when the loss of your son drove you into aconvent, I was left with my love unassuaged, burning and torturing me.What my existence was you can guess for yourself; a series of orgies andviolent adventures in which I vainly strove to forget you, followed bysudden fits of hope, clues which were suggested to me, in the pursuit ofwhich I flung myself headlong, only to relapse into everlastingdiscouragement and loneliness. That was how I discovered the whereaboutsof your father and your son, that was how I came to know their retreathere, to watch them, to spy upon them, either personally or with the aidof people who were entirely devoted to me. In this way I was hoping toreach yourself, the sole object of my efforts and the ruling motive ofall my actions, when war was declared. A week later, having failed in anattempt to cross the frontier, I was imprisoned in an internment-camp."
He stopped. His face became still harder; and he growled:
"Oh, the hell that I went through there! Vorski! Vorski, the son of aking, mixed up with all the waiters and pickpockets of the Fatherland!Vorski a prisoner, scoffed at and loathed by all! Vorski unwashed andeaten up with vermin! My God, how I suffered! . . . But let us pass on.What I did, to escape from death, I was entitled to do. If some one elsewas stabbed in my stead, if some one else was buried in my name in acorner of France, I do not regret it. The choice lay between him andmyself; I made my choice. And it was perhaps not only my persistent loveof life that inspired my action; it was also--and this above all is anew thing--an unexpected dawn which broke in the darkness and which wasalready dazzling me with its glory. But this is my secret. We will speakof it later, if you force me to. For the moment . . ."
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In the face of all this rhetoric delivered with the emphasis of an actorrejoicing in his eloquence and applauding his own periods, Veronique hadretained her impassive attitude. Not one of those lying declarations wasable to touch her. She seemed to be thinking of other things.
He went up to her and, to compel her attention, continued, in a moreaggressive tone:
"You do not appear to suspect, madame, that my words are extremelyserious. They are, however, and they will become even more so. But,before approaching more formidable matters and in the hope of avoidingthem altogether, I should like to make an appeal, not to your spirit ofconciliation, for there is no conciliation possible with you, but toyour reason, to your sense of reality. After all, you cannot be ignorantof your present position, of the position of your son . . . ."
She was not listening, he was absolutely convinced of it. Doubtlessabsorbed by the thought of her son, she read not the least meaning intothe words that reached her ears. Nevertheless, irritated and unable toconceal his impatience, he continued:
"My offer is a simple one; and I hope and trust that you will not rejectit. In Francois' name and because of my feelings of humanity andcompassion, I ask you to link the present to the past of which I havesketched the main features. From the social point of view, the bond thatunites us has never been shattered. You are still in name and in theeyes of the law . . ."
He ceased, stared at Veronique and then, clapping his hand violently onher shoulder, shouted:
"Listen, you baggage, can't you! It's Vorski speaking!"
Veronique lost her balance, saved herself by catching at the back of achair and once more stood erect before her adversary, with her armsfolded and her eyes full of scorn.
This time Vorski again succeeded in controlling himself. He had actedunder impulse and against his will. His voice retained an imperious andmalevolent intonation:
"I repeat that the past still exists. Whether you like it or not,madame, you are Vorski's wife. And it is because of this undeniablefact that I am asking you, if you please, to consider yourself soto-day. Let us understand each other; if I do not aim at obtaining yourlove or even your friendship, I will not accept either that we shouldreturn to our former hostile relations. I do not want the scornful anddistant wife that you have been. I want . . . I want a woman . . . awoman who will submit herself . . . who will be the devoted, attentive,faithful companion . . ."
"The slave," murmured Veronique.
"Yes," he exclaimed, "the slave; you have said it. I don't shrink fromwords any more than I do from deeds. The slave; and why not? A slaveunderstands her duty, which is blindly to obey, bound hand and foot,_perinde ac cadaver_; does the part appeal to you? Will you belong to mebody and soul? As for your soul, I don't care a fig about that. What Iwant . . . what I want . . . you know well enough, don't you? What Iwant is what I have never had. Your husband? Ha, ha, have I ever beenyour husband? Look back into my life as I will, amid all my seethingemotions and delights, I do not find a single memory to remind me thatthere was ever between us anything but the pitiless struggle of twoenemies. When I look at you, I see a stranger, a stranger in the past asin the present. Well, since my luck has turned, since I once more haveyou in my clutches, it shall not be so in the future. It shall not be soto-morrow, nor even to-night, Veronique. I am the master; you mustaccept the inevitable. Do you accept?"
He did not wait for her answer and, raising his voice still higher,roared:
"Do you accept? No subterfuges or false promises. Do you accept? If so,go on your knees, make the sign of the cross and say, in a firm voice,'I accept. I will be a consenting wife. I will submit to all your ordersand to all your whims. You are the master.'"
She shrugged her shoulders and made no reply. Vorski gave a start. Theveins in his forehead swelled up. However, he still contained himself:
"Very well. For that matter, I was expecting this. But the consequencesof your refusal will be so serious for you that I propose to make onelast attempt. Perhaps, after all, your refusal is addressed to thefugitive that I am, to the poor beggar that I seem to be; and perhapsthe truth will alter your ideas. That truth is dazzling and wonderful.As I told you, an unforeseen dawn has broken through my darkness; andVorski, son of a king, is bathed in radiant light."
He had a trick of speaking of himself in the third person whichVeronique knew of old and which was the sign of his insupportablevanity. She also observed and recognized in his eyes a peculiar gleamwhich was always there at moments of exaltation, a gleam which wasobviously due to his drinking habits but in which she seemed to seebesides a sign of temporary aberration. Was he not indeed a sort ofmadman and had his madness not increased as the years passed?
He continued, and this time Veronique listened.
"I had therefore left here, at the time when the war broke out, a personwho is attached to me and who continued the work of watching your fatherwhich I had begun. An accident revealed to us the existence of thecaves dug under the heath and also one of the entrances to the caves. Itwas in this safe retreat that I took refuge after my last escape; and itwas here that I learnt, through some intercepted letters, of yourfather's investigations into the secret of Sarek and the discoverieswhich he had made. You can understand how my vigilance was redoubled!Particularly because I found in all this story, as it became more andmore clear to me, the strangest coincidences and an evident connectionwith certain details in my own life. Presently doubt was no longerpossible. Fate had sent me here to accomplish a task which I alone wasable to fulfil . . . and more, a task in which I alone had the right toassist. Do you understand what I mean? Long centuries ago, Vorski waspredestined. Vorski was the man appointed by fate, Vorski's name waswritten in the book of time. Vorski had the necessary qualities, theindispensable means, the requisite titles . . . . I was ready, I set towork without delay, conforming ruthlessly to the decrees of destiny.There was no hesitation as to the road to be followed to the end; thebeacon was lighted. I therefore followed the path marked out for me.Vorski has now only to gather the reward of his efforts. Vorski has onlyto put out his hand. Within reach of his hand fortune, glory, unlimitedpower. In a few hours, Vorski, son of a king, will be king of the world.It is this kingdom that he offers you."
He was becoming more and more declamatory, more and more of the emphaticand pompous play-actor.
He bent towards Veronique:
"Will you be a queen, an empress, and soar above other women even asVorski will dominate other men? Queen by right of gold and power even asyou are already queen by right of beauty? Will you? . . . Vorski'sslave, but mistress of all those over whom Vorski holds sway? Will you?. . . Understand me clearly; it is not a question of your making asingle decision; you have to choose between two. There is, mark you, thealternative to your refusal. Either the kingdom which I am offering, orelse . . ."
He paused and then, in a grating tone, completed his sentence:
"Or else the cross!"
Veronique shuddered. The dreadful word, the dreadful thing appeared oncemore. And she now knew the name of the unknown executioner!
"The cross!" he repeated, with an atrocious smile of content. "It is foryou to choose. On the one hand all the joys and honours of life. On theother hand, death by the most barbarous torture. Choose. There isnothing between the two alternatives. You must select one or the other.And observe that there is no unnecessary cruelty on my part, no vainostentation of authority. I am only the instrument. The order comes froma higher power than mine, it comes from destiny. For the divine will tobe accomplished, Veronique d'Hergemont must die and die on the cross.This is explicitly stated. There is no remedy against fate. There is noremedy unless one is Vorski and, like Vorski, is capable of everyaudacity, of every form of cunning. If Vorski was able, in the forest ofFontainebleau, to substitute a sham Vorski for the real one, if Vorskithus succeeded in escaping the fate which condemned him, from hischildhood, to die by the knife of a friend, he can certainly discoversome stratagem by which the divine will is accomplished, whi
le the womanhe loves is left alive. But in that case she will have to submit. Ioffer safety to my bride or death to my foe. Which are you, my foe or mybride? Which do you choose? Life by my side, with all the joys andhonours of life . . . or death?"
"Death," Veronique replied, simply.
He made a threatening gesture:
"It is more than death. It is torture. Which do you choose?"
"Torture."
He insisted, malevolently:
"But you are not alone! Pause to reflect! There is your son. When youare gone, he will remain. In dying, you leave an orphan behind you.Worse than that; in dying, you bequeath him to me. I am his father. Ipossess full rights. Which do you choose?"
"Death," she said, once more.
He became incensed:
"Death for you, very well. But suppose it means death for him? Suppose Ibring him here, before you, your Francois, and put the knife to histhroat and ask you for the last time, what will your answer be?"
Veronique closed her eyes. Never before had she suffered so intensely,and Vorski had certainly found the vulnerable spot. Nevertheless shemurmured:
"I wish to die."
Vorski flew into a rage, and, resorting straightway to insults,throwing politeness and courtesy to the winds, he shouted:
"Oh, the hussy, how she must hate me! Anything, anything, she acceptsanything, even the death of her beloved son, rather than yield to me! Amother killing her son! For that's what it is; you're killing your son,so as not to belong to me. You are depriving him of his life, so as notto sacrifice yours to me. Oh, what hatred! No, no, it is impossible. Idon't believe in such hatred. Hatred has its limits. A mother like you!No, no, there's something else . . . some love-affair, perhaps? No, no,Veronique's not in love . . . What then? My pity, a weakness on my part?Oh, how little you know me! Vorski show pity! Vorski show weakness! Why,you've seen me at work! Did I flinch in the performance of my terriblemission? Was Sarek not devastated as it was written? Were the boats notsunk and the people not drowned? Were the sisters Archignat not nailedto the ancient oak-trees? I, I flinch! Listen, when I was a child, withthese two hands of mine I wrung the necks of dogs and birds, with thesetwo hands I flayed goats alive and plucked the live chickens in thepoultry-yard. Pity indeed! Do you know what my mother called me? Attila!And, when she was mystically inspired and read the future in these handsof mine or on the tarot-cards, 'Attila Vorski,' that great seer wouldsay, 'you shall be the instrument of Providence. You shall be the sharpedge of the blade, the point of the dagger, the bullet in the rifle, thenoose in the rope. Scourge of God! Scourge of God, your name is writtenat full length in the books of time! It blazes among the stars thatshone at your birth. Scourge of God! Scourge of God!' And you, you hopethat my eyes will be wet with tears? Nonsense! Does the hangman weep? Itis the weak who weep, those who fear lest they be punished, lest theircrimes be turned against themselves. But I, I! Our ancestors feared butone thing, that the sky should fall upon their heads. What have _I_ tofear? I am God's accomplice! He has chosen me among all men. It is Godthat has inspired me, the God of the fatherland, the old German God, forwhom good and evil do not count where the greatness of his sons is atstake. The spirit of evil is within me. I love evil, I thirst afterevil. So you shall die, Veronique, and I shall laugh when I see yousuffering on the cross!"
He was already laughing. He walked with great strides, stamping noisilyon the floor. He lifted his arms to the ceiling; and Veronique,quivering with anguish, saw the red frenzy in his bloodshot eyes.
He took a few more steps and then came up to her and, in a restrainedvoice, snarling with menace:
"On your knees, Veronique, and beseech my love! It alone can save you.Vorski knows neither pity nor fear. But he loves you; and his love willstop at nothing. Take advantage of it, Veronique. Appeal to the past.Become the child that you once were; and perhaps one day I shall dragmyself at your feet. Veronique, do not repel me; a man like me is not tobe repelled. One who loves as I love you, Veronique, as I love you, isnot to be defied."
She suppressed a cry. She felt his hated hands on her bare arms. Shetried to release herself; but he, much stronger than she, did not letgo and continued, in a panting voice:
"Do not repel me . . . it is absurd . . . it is madness . . . . You mustknow that I am capable of anything . . . Well? . . . The cross ishorrible . . . . To see your son dying before your eyes; is that whatyou want? . . . Accept the inevitable. Vorski will save you. Vorski willgive you the most beautiful life . . . . Oh, how you hate me! But nomatter: I accept your hatred, I love your hatred, I love your disdainfulmouth . . . . I love it more than if it offered itself of its own accord. . . ."
He ceased speaking. An implacable struggle took place between them.Veronique's arms vainly resisted his closer and closer grip. Herstrength was failing her; she felt helpless, doomed to defeat. Her kneesgave way beneath her. Opposite her and quite close, Vorski's eyes seemedfilled with blood; and she was breathing the monster's breath.
Then, in her terror, she bit him with all her might; and, profiting by asecond of discomfiture, she released herself with one great effort,leapt back, drew her revolver, and fired once and again.
The two bullets whistled past Vorski's ears and sent fragments flyingfrom the wall behind him. She had fired too quickly, at random.
"Oh, the jade!" he roared. "She nearly did for me."
In a second he had his arms round her body and, with an irresistibleeffort, bent her backwards, turned her round and laid her on a sofa.Then he took a cord from his pocket and bound her firmly and brutally.
There was a moment's respite and silence. Vorski wiped the perspirationfrom his forehead, filled himself a tumbler of wine and drank it down ata gulp.
"That's better," he said, placing his foot on his victim, "and confessthat this is best all round. Each one in his place, my beauty; youtrussed like a fowl and I treading on you at my pleasure. Aha, we're nolonger enjoying ourselves so much! We're beginning to understand thatit's a serious matter. Ah, you needn't be afraid, you baggage: Vorski'snot the man to take advantage of a woman! No, no, that would be to playwith fire and to burn with a longing which this time would kill me. I'mnot such a fool as that. How should I forget you afterwards? One thingonly can make me forget and give me my peace of mind; your death. And,since we understand each other on that subject, all's well. For it'ssettled, isn't it; you want to die?"
"Yes," she said, as firmly as before.
"And you want your son to die?"
"Yes," she said.
He rubbed his hands:
"Excellent! We are agreed; and the time is past for words that meannothing. The real words remain to be spoken, those which count; for youadmit that, so far, all that I have said is mere verbiage, what? Just asall the first part of the adventure, all that you saw happening atSarek, is only child's play. The real tragedy is beginning, since youare involved in it body and soul; and that's the most terrifying part,my pretty one. Your beautiful eyes have wept, but it is tears of bloodthat are wanted, you poor darling! But what would you have? Once again,Vorski is not cruel. He obeys a higher power; and destiny is againstyou. Your tears? Nonsense! You've got to shed a thousand times as manyas another. Your death? Fudge! You've got to die a thousand deathsbefore you die for good. Your poor heart must bleed as never woman's andmother's poor heart bled before. Are you ready, Veronique? You shallhear really cruel words, to be followed perhaps by words more cruelstill. Oh, fate is not spoiling you, my pretty one! . . ."
He poured himself out a second glass of wine and emptied it in the samegluttonous fashion; then he sat down beside her and, stooping, said,almost in her ear:
"Listen, dearest, I have a confession to make to you. I was alreadymarried when I met you. Oh, don't be upset! There are greatercatastrophes for a wife and greater crimes for a husband than bigamy.Well, by my first wife I had a son . . . whom I think you know; youexchanged a few amicable remarks with him in the passage of the cells. . . . Between ourselves, he's a regular bad lot, that excelle
ntRaynold, a rascal of the worst, in whom I enjoy the pride ofdiscovering, raised to their highest degree, some of my best instinctsand some of my chief qualities. He is a second edition to myself, but healready outstrips me and now and then alarms me. Whew, what a devil! Athis age, a little over fifteen, I was an angel compared with him. Now itso happens that this fine fellow has to take the field against my otherson, against our dear Francois. Yes, such is the whim of destiny, which,once again, gives orders and of which, once again, I am theclear-sighted and subtle interpreter. Of course it is not a question ofa protracted and daily struggle. On the contrary, something short,violent and decisive: a duel, for instance. That's it, a duel; youunderstand, a serious duel. Not a turn with the fists, ending in a fewbruises; no, what you call a duel to the death, because one of the twoadversaries must be left, on the ground, because there must be a victorand a victim, in short, a living combatant and a dead one."
Veronique had turned her head a little and she saw that he was smiling.Never before had she so plainly perceived the madness of that man, whosmiled at the thought of a mortal contest between two children both ofwhom were his sons. The whole thing was so extravagant that Veronique,so to speak, did not suffer. It was all outside the limits of suffering.
"There is something better, Veronique," he said, gloating over everysyllable. "There's something better. Yes, destiny has devised arefinement which I dislike, but to which, as a faithful servant, I haveto give effect. It has devised that you should be present at the duel.Capital; you, Francois' mother, must see him fight. And, upon my word, Iwonder whether that apparent malevolence is not a mercy in disguise. Letus say that you owe it to me, shall we, and that I myself am grantingyou this unexpected, I will even say, this unjust favour? For, when allis said, though Raynold is more powerful and experienced than Francoisand though, logically, Francois ought to be beaten, how it must add tohis courage and strength to know that he is fighting before his mother'seyes! He will feel like a knight errant who stakes all his pride onwinning. He will be a son whose victory will save his mother . . . atleast, so he will think. Really the advantage is too great; and you canthank me, Veronique, if this duel, as I am sure it will, does not--and Iam sure that it will not--make your heart beat a little faster . . . .Unless . . . unless I carry out the infernal programme to the end. . . . Ah, in that case, you poor little thing! . . ."
He gripped her once more and, lifting her to her feet in front of him,pressing his face against hers, he said, in a sudden fit of rage:
"So you won't give in?"
"No, no!" she cried.
"You will never give in?"
"Never! Never! Never!" she repeated, with increasing vehemence.
"You hate me more than everything?"
"I hate you more than I love my son."
"You lie, you lie!" he snarled. "You lie! Nothing comes above your son!"
"Yes, my hatred for you."
All Veronique's passion of revolt, all the detestation which she hadsucceeded in restraining now burst forth; and, indifferent to what mightcome of it, she flung the words of hatred full in his face:
"I hate you! I hate you! I would have my son die before my eyes, I wouldwitness his agony, anything rather than the horror of your sight andpresence. I hate you! You killed my father! You are an unclean murderer,a halfwitted, savage idiot, a criminal lunatic! I hate you!"
He lifted her with an effort, carried her to the window and threw her onthe ground, spluttering:
"On your knees! On your knees! The punishment is beginning. You wouldscoff at me, you hussy, would you? Well, you shall see!"
He forced her to her knees and then, pushing her against the lower walland opening the window, he fastened her head to the rail of the balconyby means of a cord round her neck and under her arms. He ended bygagging her with a scarf:
"And now look!" he cried. "The curtain's going up! Boy Francois doinghis exercises! . . . Oh, you hate me, do you? Oh, you would rather havehell than a kiss from Vorski? Well, my darling, you shall have hell; andI'm arranging a little performance for you, one of my own composing anda highly original one at that! . . . Also, I may tell you, it's too latenow to change your mind. The thing's irrevocable. You may beg andentreat for mercy as much as you like; it's too late! The duel, followedby the cross; that's the programme. Say your prayers, Veronique, andcall on Heaven. Shout for assistance if it amuses you . . . . Listen, Iknow that your brat is expecting a rescuer, a professor of clap-trap, aDon Quixote of adventure. Let him come! Vorski will give him thereception he deserves! The more the merrier! We shall see some fun!. . . And, if the very gods join in the game and take up your defence, Ishan't care! It's no longer their business, it's my business. It's nolonger a question of Sarek and the treasure and the great secret and allthe humbug of the God-Stone! It's a question of yourself! You have spatin Vorski's face and Vorski is taking his revenge. He is taking hisrevenge! It is the glorious hour. What exquisite joy! . . . To do evilas others do good, lavishly and profusely! To do evil! To kill,torture, break, ruin and destroy! . . . Oh, the fierce delight of beinga Vorski!"
He stamped across the room, striking the floor at each step and hustlingthe furniture. His haggard eyes roamed in all directions. He would haveliked to begin his work of destruction at once, strangling some victim,giving work to his greedy fingers, executing the incoherent orders ofhis insane imagination.
Suddenly, he drew a revolver and, brutishly, stupidly, fired bulletsinto the mirrors, the pictures, the window-panes.
And, still gesticulating, still capering about, an ominous and sinisterfigure, he opened the door, bellowing:
"Vorski's having his revenge! Vorski's having his revenge!"