CHAPTER VII
FRANCOIS AND STEPHANE
Long the mother and son remained thus, kneeling against the wall thatdivided them, yet as close together as though they were able to see eachother with their frenzied eyes and to mingle their tears and kisses.They spoke both at once, asking each other questions and answering themat random. They were in a transport of delight. The life of each flowedover into the other's life and became swallowed up in it. No power onearth could now dissolve their union or break the bonds of love andconfidence which unite mothers and sons.
"Yes, All's Well, old man," said Francois, "you may sit up as much andas long as you like. We are really crying this time . . . and you willbe the first to get tired, for one doesn't mind shedding such tears asthese, does one, mother?"
As for Veronique, her mind retained not a vestige of the terriblevisions which had dismayed it. Her son a murderer, her son killing andmassacring people: she no longer admitted any of that. She did not evenadmit the excuse of madness. Everything would be explained in some otherway which she was not even in a hurry to understand. She thought only ofher son. He was there. His eyes saw her through the wall. His heart beatagainst hers. He lived; and he was the same gentle, affectionate, pureand charming child that her maternal dreams had pictured.
"My son, my son!" she kept on repeating, as though she could not utterthose marvellous words often enough. "My son, it's you, it's you! Ibelieved you dead, a thousand times dead, more dead than it is possibleto be . . . . And you are alive! And you are here! And I am touchingyou! O Heaven, can it be true! I have a son . . . and my son is alive!. . ."
And he, on his side, took up the refrain with the same passionatefervour:
"Mother! Mother! I have waited for you so long! . . . To me you were notdead, but it was so sad to be a child and to have no mother . . . to seethe years go by and to waste them in waiting for you."
For an hour they talked at random, of the past, of the present, of ahundred subjects which at first appeared to them the most interestingthings in the world and which they forthwith dropped to ask each othermore questions and to try to know each other a little better and toenter more deeply into the secret of their lives and the privacy oftheir souls.
It was Francois who first attempted to impart some little method totheir conversation:
"Listen, mother; we have so much to say to each other that we must giveup trying to say it all to-day and even for days and days. Let us speaknow of what is essential and in the fewest possible words, for we haveperhaps not much time before us."
"What do you mean?" said Veronique, instantly alarmed. "I have nointention of leaving you!"
"But, mother, if we are not to leave each other, we must first beunited. Now there are many obstacles to be overcome, even if it wereonly the wall that separates us. Besides, I am very closely watched; andI may be obliged at any moment to send you away, as I do All's Well, atthe first sound of footsteps approaching."
"Watched by whom?"
"By those who fell upon Stephane and me on the day when we discoveredthe entrance to these caves, under the heath on the table-land, theBlack Heath."
"Did you see them?"
"No, it was too dark."
"But who are they? Who are those enemies?"
"I don't know."
"You suspect, of course?"
"The Druids?" he said, laughing. "The people of old of whom the legendsspeak? Rather not! Ghosts? Not that either. They were just simplycreatures of to-day, creatures of flesh and blood."
"They live down here, though?"
"Most likely."
"And you took them by surprise?"
"No, on the contrary. They seemed even to be expecting us and to belying in wait for us. We had gone down a stone staircase and a very longpassage, lined with perhaps eighty caves, or rather eighty cells. Thedoors, which were of wood, were open; and the cells overlooked the sea.It was on the way back, as we were going up the staircase again in thedark, that we were seized from one side, knocked down, bound,blindfolded and gagged. The whole thing did not take a minute. Isuspect that we were carried back to the end of the long passage. WhenI succeeded in removing my bonds and my bandage, I found that I waslocked in one of the cells, probably the last in the passage; and I havebeen here ten days."
"My poor darling, how you must have suffered!"
"No, mother, and in any case not from hunger. There was a whole stack ofprovisions in one corner and a truss of straw in another to lie on. So Iwaited quietly."
"For whom?"
"You promise not to laugh, mother?"
"Laugh at what, dear?"
"At what I'm going to tell you?"
"How can you think . . . ?"
"Well, I was waiting for some one who had heard of all the stories ofSarek and who promised grandfather to come."
"But who was it?"
The boy hesitated:
"No, I am sure you will make fun of me, mother, I'll tell you later.Besides, he never came . . . though I thought for a moment . . . Yes,fancy, I had managed to remove two stones from the wall and to open thishole of which my gaolers evidently didn't know. All of a sudden, I hearda noise, someone scratching . . ."
"It was All's Well?"
"It was Master All's Well coming by the other road. You can imagine thewelcome he received! Only what astonished me was that nobody followedhim this way, neither Honorine nor grandfather. I had no pencil or paperto write to them; but, after all, they had only to follow All's Well."
"That was impossible," said Veronique, "because they believed you to befar away from Sarek, carried off no doubt, and because your grandfatherhad left."
"Just so: why believe anything of the sort? Grandfather knew, from alately discovered document, where we were, for it was he who told us ofthe possible entrance to the underground passage. Didn't he speak to youabout it?"
Veronique had been very happy in listening to her son's story. As he hadbeen carried off and imprisoned, he was not the atrocious monster whohad killed M. d'Hergemont, Marie Le Goff, Honorine and Correjou and hiscompanions. The truth which she had already vaguely surmised now assumeda more definite form and, though still thickly shrouded, was visible inits essential part. Francois was not guilty. Some one had put on hisclothes and impersonated him, even as some one else, in the semblance ofStephane, had pretended to be Stephane. Ah, what did all the restmatter, the improbabilities and inconsistencies, the proofs andcertainties! Veronique did not even think about it. The only thing thatcounted was the innocence of her beloved son.
And so she still refused to tell him anything that would sadden him andspoil his happiness; and she said:
"No, I have not seen your grandfather. Honorine wanted to prepare himfor my visit, but things happened so hurriedly . . ."
"And you were left alone on the island, poor mother? So you hoped tofind me here?"
"Yes," she said, after a moment's hesitation.
"Alone, but with All's Well, of course."
"Yes. I hardly paid any attention to him during the first days. It wasnot until this morning that I thought of following him."
"And where does the road start from that brought you here?"
"It's an underground passage the outlet of which is concealed betweentwo stones near Maguennoc's garden."
"What! Then the two islands communicate?"
"Yes, by the cliff underneath the bridge."
"How strange! That's what neither Stephane not I guessed, nor anybodyelse, for that matter . . . except our dear All's Well, when it came tofinding his master."
He interrupted himself and then whispered:
"Hark!"
But, the next moment, he said:
"No, it's not that yet. Still, we must hurry."
"What am I to do?"
"It's quite simple, mother. When I made this hole, I saw that it couldbe widened easily enough, if it were possible also to take out the threeor four stones next to it. But these are firmly fixed; and we shouldneed an implement of some kind."
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"Well, I'll go and . . ."
"Yes, do, mother. Go back to the Priory. To the left of the house, in abasement, is a sort of workshop where Maguennoc kept his garden-tools.You will find a small pick-axe there, with a very short handle. Bring itme in the evening. I will work during the night; and to-morrow morning Ishall give you a kiss, mother."
"Oh, it sounds too good to be true!"
"I promise you I shall. Then all that we shall have to do will be torelease Stephane."
"Your tutor? Do you know where he is shut up?"
"I do almost know. According to the particulars which grandfather gaveus, the underground passages consist of two floors one above the other;and the last cell of each is fitted as a prison. I occupy one of them.Stephane should occupy the other, below mine. What worries me . . ."
"What is it?"
"Well, it's this: according to grandfather again, these two cells wereonce torture-chambers . . . 'death chambers' was the word grandfatherused."
"Oh, but how alarming!"
"Why alarm yourself, mother? You see that they are not thinking oftorturing me. Only, on the off chance and not knowing what sort of fatewas in store for Stephane, I sent him something to eat by All's Well,who is sure to have found a way of getting to him."
"No," she said, "All's Well did not understand."
"How do you know, mother?"
"He thought you were sending him to Stephane Maroux's room and he heapedit all under the bed."
"Oh!" said the boy, anxiously. "What can have become of Stephane?" Andhe at once added, "You see, mother, that we must hurry, if we would saveStephane and save ourselves."
"What are you afraid of?"
"Nothing, if you act quickly."
"But still . . ."
"Nothing, I assure you. I feel certain that we shall get the better ofevery obstacle."
"And, if any others present themselves . . . dangers which we cannotforesee? . . ."
"It is then," said Francois, laughing, "that the man whom I am expectingwill come and protect us."
"You see, my darling, you yourself admit the need of assistance . . . ."
"Why, no, mother, I am trying to ease your mind, but nothing willhappen. Come, how would you have a son who has just found his motherlose her again at once? It isn't possible. In real life, may be . . .but we are not living in real life. We are absolutely living in aromance; and in romances things always come right. You ask All's Well.It's so, old chap, isn't it: we shall win and be united and live happyever after? That's what you think, All's Well? Then be off, old chap,and take mother with you. I'm going to fill up the hole, in case theycome and inspect my cell. And be sure not to try and come in when thehole is stopped, eh, All's Well? That's when the danger is. Go, mother,and don't make a noise when you come back."
Veronique was not long away. She found the pick-axe; and, forty minutesafter, brought it and managed to slip it into the cell.
"No one has been yet," said Francois, "but they are certain to come soonand you had better not stay. I may have a night's work before me,especially as I shall have to stop because of likely visits. So I shallexpect you at seven o'clock to-morrow . . . . By the way, talking ofStephane: I have been thinking it over. Some noises which I heard justnow confirmed my notion that he is shut up more or less underneath me.The opening that lights my cell is too narrow for me to pass through.Is there a fairly wide window at the place where you are now?"
"No, but it can be widened by removing the little stones round it."
"Capital. You will find in Maguennoc's workshop a bamboo ladder, withiron hooks to it, which you can easily bring with you to-morrow morning.Next, take some provisions and some rugs and leave them in a thicket atthe entrance to the tunnel."
"What for, darling?"
"You'll see. I have a plan. Good-bye, mother. Have a good night's restand pick up your strength. We may have a hard day before us."
Veronique followed her son's advice. The next morning, full of hope, sheonce more took the road to the cell. This time, All's Well, reverting tohis instincts of independence, did not come with her.
"Keep quite still, mother," said Francois, in so low a whisper that shecould scarcely hear him. "I am very closely watched; and I think there'ssome one walking up and down in the passage. However, my work is nearlydone; the stones are all loosened. I shall have finished in two hours.Have you the ladder?"
"Yes."
"Remove the stones from the window . . . that will save time . . . forreally I am frightened about Stephane . . . . And be sure not to make anoise . . . ."
Veronique moved away.
The window was not much more than three feet from the floor: and thesmall stones, as she had supposed, were kept in place only by their ownweight and the way in which they were arranged. The opening which shethus contrived to make was very wide; and she easily passed the ladderwhich she had brought with her through and secured it by its iron hooksto the lower ledge.
She was some hundred feet or so above the sea, which lay all whitebefore her, guarded by the thousand reefs of Sarek. But she could notsee the foot of the cliff, for there was under the window a slightprojection of granite which jutted forward and on which the ladderrested instead of hanging perpendicularly.
"That will help Francois," she thought.
Nevertheless, the danger of the undertaking seemed great; and shewondered whether she herself ought not to take the risk, instead of herson, all the more so as Francois might be mistaken, as Stephane's cellwas perhaps not there at all and as perhaps there was no means ofentering it by a similar opening. If so, what a waste of time! And whata useless danger for the boy to run!
At that moment she felt so great a need of self-devotion, so intense awish to prove her love for him by direct action, that she formed herresolution without pausing to reflect, even as one performs immediatelya duty which there is no question of not performing. Nothing deterredher: neither her inspection of the ladder, whose hooks were not wideenough to grip the whole thickness of the ledge, nor the sight of theprecipice, which gave an impression that everything was about to fallaway from under her. She had to act; and she acted.
Pinning up her skirt, she stepped across the wall, turned round,supported herself on the ledge, groped with her foot in space and foundone of the rungs. Her whole body was trembling. Her heart was beatingfuriously, like the clapper of a bell. Nevertheless she had the madcourage to catch hold of the two uprights and go down.
It did not take long. She knew that there were twenty rungs in all. Shecounted them. When she reached the twentieth, she looked to the left andmurmured, with unspeakable joy:
"Oh, Francois . . . my darling!"
She had seen, three feet away at most, a recess, a hollow which appearedto be the entrance to a cavity cut in the rock itself.
"Stephane . . . Stephane," she called, but in so faint a voice thatStephane Maroux, if he were there, could not hear her.
She hesitated a few seconds, but her legs were giving way and she nolonger had the strength either to climb up again or to remain hangingwhere she was. Taking advantage of a few irregularities in the rock andthus shifting the ladder, at the risk of unhooking it, she succeeded, bya sort of miracle of which she was quite aware, in catching hold of aflint which projected from the granite and setting foot in the cave.Then, with fierce energy, she made one supreme effort and, recoveringher balance with a jerk, she entered.
She at once saw some one, fastened with cords, lying on a truss ofstraw.
The cave was small and not very deep, especially in the upper portion,which pointed towards the sky rather than the sea and which must havelooked, from a distance, like a mere fold in the cliff. There was noprojection to bound it at the edge. The light entered freely.
Veronique went nearer. The man did not move. He was asleep.
She bent over him; though she did not recognize him for certain, itseemed to her that a memory was emerging from that dim past in which allthe faces of our childhood gradually fade away. This one
was surely notunknown to her: a gentle visage, with regular features, fair hair flungwell back, a broad, white forehead and a slightly feminine countenance,which reminded Veronique of the charming face of a convent friend whohad died before the war.
She deftly unfastened the bonds with which the wrists were fastenedtogether.
The man, without waking immediately, stretched his arms, as thoughsubmitting himself to a familiar operation, not effected for the firsttime, which did not necessarily interfere with his sleep. Presumably hewas released like this at intervals, perhaps in order to eat and atnight, for he ended by muttering:
"So early? . . . But I'm not hungry . . . and it's still light!"
This last reflection astonished the man himself. He opened his eyes andat once sat up where he lay, so that he might see the person who wasstanding in front of him, no doubt for the first time in broad daylight.
He was not greatly surprised, for the reason that the reality could nothave been manifest to him at once. He probably thought that he was thesport of a dream or an hallucination; and he said, in an undertone:
"Veronique . . . Veronique . . ."
She felt a little embarrassed by his gaze, but finished releasing hisbonds; and, when he distinctly felt her hand on his own hands and on hisimprisoned limbs, he understood the wonderful event which her presenceimplied and he said, in a faltering voice:
"You! You! . . . Can it be? . . . Oh, speak just one word, just one!. . . Can it possibly be you?" He continued, almost to himself, "Yes, itis she . . . it is certainly she . . . . She is here!" And, anxiously,aloud, "You . . . at night . . . on the other nights . . . it wasn't youwho came then? It was another woman, wasn't it? An enemy? . . . Oh,forgive me for asking you! . . . It's because . . . because I don'tunderstand . . . . How did you come here?"
"I came this way," she said, pointing to the sea.
"Oh," he said, "how wonderful!"
He stared at her with dazed eyes, as he might have stared at some visiondescended from Heaven; and the circumstances were so unusual that he didnot think of suppressing the eagerness of his gaze.
She repeated, utterly confused:
"Yes, this way . . . . Francois suggested it."
"I did not mention him," he said, "because, with you here, I felt surethat he was free."
"Not yet," she said, "but he will be in an hour."
A long pause ensued. She interrupted it to conceal her agitation:
"He will be free . . . . You shall see him . . . . But we must notfrighten him: there are things which he doesn't know."
She perceived that he was listening not to the words uttered but to thevoice that uttered them and that this voice seemed to plunge him into asort of ecstasy, for he was silent and smiled. She thereupon smiled tooand questioned him, thus obliging him to answer:
"You called me by my name at once. So you knew me? I also seem to . . .Yes, you remind me of a friend of mine who died."
"Madeleine Ferrand?"
"Yes, Madeleine Ferrand."
"Perhaps I also remind you of her brother, a shy schoolboy who usedoften to visit the parlour at the convent and who used to look at youfrom a distance."
"Yes, yes," she declared. "I remember. We even spoke to each othersometimes; you used to blush. Yes, that's it: your name was Stephane.But how do you come to be called Maroux?"
"Madeleine and I were not children of the same father."
"Ah," she said, "that was what misled me!"
She gave him her hand:
"Well, Stephane," she said, "as we are old friends and have renewed ouracquaintance, let us put off all our remembrances until later. For themoment, the most urgent matter is to get away. Have you the strength?"
"The strength, yes: I have not had such a very bad time. But how are weto go from here?"
"By the same road by which I came, a ladder communicating with the upperpassage of cells."
He was now standing up:
"You had the courage, the pluck?" he asked, at last realizing what shehad dared to do.
"Oh, it was not very difficult!" she declared. "Francois was so anxious!He maintained that you were both occupying old torture-chambers . . .death-chambers . . . ."
It was as though these words aroused him violently from a dream and madehim suddenly see that it was madness to converse in such circumstances.
"Go away!" he cried. "Francois is right! Oh, if you knew the risk youare running. Please, please go!"
He was beside himself, as though convulsed by the thought of animmediate peril. She tried to calm him, but he entreated her:
"Another second may be your undoing. Don't stay here . . . . I amcondemned to death and to the most terrible death. Look at the ground onwhich we are standing, this sort of floor . . . . But it's no usetalking about it. Oh, please do go!"
"With you," she said.
"Yes, with me. But save yourself first."
She resisted and said, firmly:
"For us both to be saved, Stephane, we must above all things remaincalm. What I did just now we can do again only by calculating all ouractions and controlling our excitement. Are you ready?"
"Yes," he said, overcome by her magnificent confidence.
"Then follow me."
She stepped to the very edge of the precipice and leant forward:
"Give me your hand," she said, "to help me keep my balance."
She turned round, flattened herself against the cliff and felt thesurface with her free hand.
Not finding the ladder, she leant outward slightly.
The ladder had become displaced. No doubt, when Veronique, perhaps withtoo abrupt a movement, had set foot in the cave, the iron hook of theright-hand upright had slipped and the ladder, hanging only by the otherhook, had swung like a pendulum.
The bottom rungs were now out of reach.