The Secret of Sarek Part 40

The groups turned and advanced in opposite directions.

"Don't come any nearer," Vorski ordered. "Let the two adversaries take their places. Halt, both of you. Good. And not a word, do you hear? If either of you speaks, I shall cut him down without mercy. Are you ready?

Begin!"

So the terrible thing was commencing. In accordance with Vorski's will, the duel was about to take place before the mother, the son was about to fight before her face. How could she do other than look? She opened her eyes.

She at once saw the two come to grips and hold each other off. But she did not at once understand what she saw, or at least she failed to understand its exact meaning. She saw the two boys, it was true; but which of them was Francois and which was Raynold?

"Oh," she stammered, "it's horrible! . . . And yet . . . no, I must be mistaken . . . . It's not possible . . ."

She was not mistaken. The two boys were dressed alike, in the same velvet knickerbockers, the same white-flannel s.h.i.+rts, the same leather belts. But each had his head wrapped in a red-silk scarf, with two holes for the eyes, as in a highwayman's mask.

Which was Francois? Which was Raynold?

Now she remembered Vorski's inexplicable threat. This was what he meant by the programme drawn up by himself, this was to what he alluded when he spoke of a little play of his composing. Not only was the son fighting before the mother, but she did not know which was her son.

It was an infernal refinement of cruelty; Vorski himself had said so. No agony could add to Veronique's agony.

The miracle which she had hoped for lay chiefly in herself and in the love which she bore her son. Because her son was fighting before her eyes, she felt certain that her son could not die. She would protect him against the blows and against the ruses of the foe. She would make the dagger swerve, she would ward off death from the head which she adored.

She would inspire her boy with dauntless energy, with the will to attack, with indefatigable strength, with the spirit that foretells and seizes the propitious moment. But now that both of them were veiled, on which was she to exercise her good influence, for which to pray, against which to rebel?

She knew nothing. There was no clue to enlighten her. One of them was taller, slimmer and lither in his movements. Was this Francois? The other was more thick-set, stronger and stouter in appearance. Was this Raynold? She could not tell. Nothing but a glimpse of a face, or even a fleeting expression, could have revealed the truth to her. But how was she to pierce the impenetrable mask?

And the fight continued, more terrible for her than if she had seen her son with his face uncovered.

"Bravo!" cried Vorski, applauding an attack.

He seemed to be following the duel like a connoisseur, with the affectation of impartiality displayed by a good judge of fighting who above all things wants the best man to win. And yet it was one of his sons that he had condemned to death.

Facing her stood the two accomplices, both of them men with brutal faces, pointed skulls and big noses with spectacles. One of them was extremely thin; the other was also thin, but with a swollen paunch like a leather bottle. These two did not applaud and remained indifferent, or perhaps even hostile, to the sight before them.

"Capital!" cried Vorski, approvingly. "Well parried! Oh, you're a couple of st.u.r.dy fellows and I'm wondering to whom to award the palm."

He pranced around the adversaries, urging them on in a hoa.r.s.e voice in which Veronique, remembering certain scenes in the past, seemed to recognize the effects of drink. Nevertheless the poor thing made an effort to stretch out her bound hands towards him; and she moaned under her gag:

"Mercy! Mercy! I can't bear it. Have pity!"

It was impossible for her martyrdom to last. Her heart was beating so violently that it shook her from head to foot; and she was on the point of fainting when an incident occurred that gave her fresh life. One of the boys, after a fairly stubborn tussle, had jumped back and was swiftly bandaging his right wrist, from which a few drops of blood were trickling. Veronique seemed to remember seeing in her son's hand the small blue-and-white handkerchief which the boy was using.

She was immediately and irresistibly convinced. The boy--it was the more slender and agile of the two--had more grace than the other, more distinction, greater elegance of movement.

"It's Francois," she murmured. "Yes, yes, it's he . . . . It's you, isn't it, my darling? I recognize you now . . . . The other is common and heavy . . . . It's you, my darling! . . . Oh, my Francois, my dearest Francois!"

In fact, though both were fighting with equal fierceness, this one displayed less savage fury and blind rage in his efforts. It was as though he were trying not so much to kill his adversary as to wound him and as though his attacks were directed rather to preserving himself from the death that lay in wait for him. Veronique felt alarmed and stammered, as though he could hear her:

"Don't spare him, my darling! He's a monster, too! . . . Oh, dear, if you're generous, you're lost! . . . Francois, Francois, mind what you're doing!"

The blade of the dagger had flashed over the head of the one whom she called her son; and she had cried out, under her gag, to warn him.

Francois having avoided the blow, she felt persuaded that her cry had reached his ears; and she continued instinctively to put him on his guard and advise him:

"Take a rest . . . . Get your breath . . . . Whatever you do, keep your eyes on him . . . . He's getting ready to do something . . . . He's going to rush at you . . . . Here he comes! Oh, my darling, another inch and he would have stabbed you in the neck! . . . Be careful, darling, he's treacherous . . . there's no trick too mean for him to play . . . ."

But the unhappy mother felt, however reluctant she might yet be to admit it, that the one whom she called her son was beginning to lose strength.

Certain signs proclaimed a reduced power of resistance, while the other, on the contrary, was gaining in eagerness and vigour. Francois retreated until he reached the edge of the arena.

"Hi, you, boy!" grinned Vorski. "You're not thinking of running away, are you? Keep your nerve, d.a.m.n it! Show some pluck! Remember the conditions!"

The boy rushed forward with renewed zest; and it was the other's turn to fall back. Vorski clapped his hands, while Veronique murmured:

"It's for me that he's risking his life. The monster must have told him, 'Your mother's fate depends on you. If you win, she's saved.' And he has sworn to win. He knows that I am watching him. He guesses that I am here. He hears me. Bless you, my darling!"

It was the last phase of the duel. Veronique trembled all over, exhausted by her emotion and by the too violent alternation of hope and anguish. Once again her son lost ground and once again he leapt forward. But, in the final struggle that followed, he lost his balance and fell on his back, with his right arm caught under his body.

His adversary at once stooped, pressed his knee on the other's chest and raised his arm. The dagger gleamed in the air.

"Help! Help!" Veronique gasped, choking under her gag.

She flattened her breast against the wall, without thinking of the cords which tortured her. Her forehead was bleeding, cut by the sharp corner of the rail, and she felt that she was about to die of the death of her son. Vorski had approached and stood without moving, with a merciless look on his face.

Twenty seconds, thirty seconds pa.s.sed. With his outstretched left hand, Francois checked his adversary's attempt. But the victorious arm sank lower and lower, the dagger descended, the point was only an inch or two from the neck.

Vorski stooped. Just then, he was behind Raynold, so that neither Raynold nor Francois could see him; and he was watching most attentively, as though intending to intervene at some given moment. But in whose favor would he intervene? Was it his plan to save Francois?

Veronique no longer breathed; her eyes were enormously dilated; she hung between life and death.

The point of the dagger touched the neck and must have p.r.i.c.ked the flesh, but only very slightly, for it was still held back by Francois'

resistance.

Vorski bent lower. He stood over the fighters and did not take his eyes from the deadly point. Suddenly he took a pen-knife from his pocket, opened it and waited. A few more seconds elapsed. The dagger continued to descend. Then quickly he gashed Raynold's shoulder with the blade of his knife.

The boy uttered a cry of pain. His grip at once became relaxed; and, at the same time, Francois, set free, his right arm released, half rose, resumed the offensive and, without seeing Vorski or understanding what had happened, in an instinctive impulse of his whole being escaped from death and revolting against his adversary, struck him full in the face.

Raynold in his turn fell like a log.

All this had certainly lasted no longer than ten seconds. But the incident was so unexpected and took Veronique so greatly aback that, not realizing, not knowing that she ought to rejoice, believing rather that she was mistaken and that the real Francois was dead, murdered by Vorski, the poor thing sank into a huddled heap and lost consciousness.

A long, long time elapsed. Then, gradually, Veronique became aware of certain sensations. She heard the clock strike four; and she said:

"It's two hours since Francois died. For it was he who died."

She had not a doubt that the duel had ended in this way. Vorski would never have allowed Francois to be the victor and his other son to be killed. And so it was against her own child that she had sent up wishes and for the monster that she had prayed!

"Francois is dead," she repeated. "Vorski has killed him."

The door opened and she heard Vorski's voice. He entered, with an unsteady gait:

"A thousand pardons, dear lady, but I think Vorski must have fallen asleep. It's your father's fault, Veronique! He had hidden away in his cellar some confounded Saumur which Conrad and Otto discovered and which has fuddled me a bit! But don't cry; we shall make up for lost time . . . . Besides everything must be settled by midnight. So . . ."