The Eight Strokes of the Clock, Maurice Leblanc [summer books TXT] 📗

not coming down. Besides,” he added, gruffly, “it is not her business⁠ ⁠… and still less is it yours, my dear child.”

Prince Rénine came up to Hortense. He was a young man, very smartly dressed, with a narrow and rather pale face, whose eyes held by turns the gentlest and the harshest, the most friendly and the most satirical expression. He bowed to her, kissed her hand and said:

“May I remind you of your kind promise, dear madame?”

“My promise?”

“Yes, we agreed that we should repeat our delightful excursion of yesterday and try to go over that old boarded-up place the look of which made us so curious. It seems to be known as the Domaine de Halingre.”

She answered a little curtly:

“I’m extremely sorry, monsieur, but it would be rather far and I’m feeling a little done up. I shall go for a canter in the park and come indoors again.”

There was a pause. Then Serge Rénine said, smiling, with his eyes fixed on hers and in a voice which she alone could hear:

“I am sure that you’ll keep your promise and that you’ll let me come with you. It would be better.”

“For whom? For you, you mean?”

“For you, too, I assure you.”

She coloured slightly, but did not reply, shook hands with a few people around her and left the room.

A groom was holding the horse at the foot of the steps. She mounted and set off towards the woods beyond the park.

It was a cool, still morning. Through the leaves, which barely quivered, the sky showed crystalline blue. Hortense rode at a walk down winding avenues which in half an hour brought her to a countryside of ravines and bluffs intersected by the highroad.

She stopped. There was not a sound. Rossigny must have stopped his engine and concealed the car in the thickets around the If crossroads.

She was five hundred yards at most from that circular space. After hesitating for a few seconds, she dismounted, tied her horse carelessly, so that he could release himself by the least effort and return to the house, shrouded her face in the long brown veil that hung over her shoulders and walked on.

As she expected, she saw Rossigny directly she reached the first turn in the road. He ran up to her and drew her into the coppice!

“Quick, quick! Oh, I was so afraid that you would be late⁠ ⁠… or even change your mind! And here you are! It seems too good to be true!”

She smiled:

“You appear to be quite happy to do an idiotic thing!”

“I should think I am happy! And so will you be, I swear you will! Your life will be one long fairytale. You shall have every luxury, and all the money you can wish for.”

“I want neither money nor luxuries.”

“What then?”

“Happiness.”

“You can safely leave your happiness to me.”

She replied, jestingly:

“I rather doubt the quality of the happiness which you would give me.”

“Wait! You’ll see! You’ll see!”

They had reached the motor. Rossigny, still stammering expressions of delight, started the engine. Hortense stepped in and wrapped herself in a wide cloak. The car followed the narrow, grassy path which led back to the crossroads and Rossigny was accelerating the speed, when he was suddenly forced to pull up. A shot had rung out from the neighbouring wood, on the right. The car was swerving from side to side.

“A front tire burst,” shouted Rossigny, leaping to the ground.

“Not a bit of it!” cried Hortense. “Somebody fired!”

“Impossible, my dear! Don’t be so absurd!”

At that moment, two slight shocks were felt and two more reports were heard, one after the other, some way off and still in the wood.

Rossigny snarled:

“The back tires burst now⁠ ⁠… both of them.⁠ ⁠… But who, in the devil’s name, can the ruffian be?⁠ ⁠… Just let me get hold of him, that’s all!⁠ ⁠…”

He clambered up the roadside slope. There was no one there. Moreover, the leaves of the coppice blocked the view.

“Damn it! Damn it!” he swore. “You were right: somebody was firing at the car! Oh, this is a bit thick! We shall be held up for hours! Three tires to mend!⁠ ⁠… But what are you doing, dear girl?”

Hortense herself had alighted from the car. She ran to him, greatly excited:

“I’m going.”

“But why?”

“I want to know. Someone fired. I want to know who it was.”

“Don’t let us separate, please!”

“Do you think I’m going to wait here for you for hours?”

“What about your running away?⁠ ⁠… All our plans⁠ ⁠… ?”

“We’ll discuss that tomorrow. Go back to the house. Take back my things with you.⁠ ⁠… And goodbye for the present.”

She hurried, left him, had the good luck to find her horse and set off at a gallop in a direction leading away from La Marèze.

There was not the least doubt in her mind that the three shots had been fired by Prince Rénine.

“It was he,” she muttered, angrily, “it was he. No one else would be capable of such behaviour.”

Besides, he had warned her, in his smiling, masterful way, that he would expect her.

She was weeping with rage and humiliation. At that moment, had she found herself face to face with Prince Rénine, she could have struck him with her riding-whip.

Before her was the rugged and picturesque stretch of country which lies between the Orne and the Sarthe, above Alençon, and which is known as Little Switzerland. Steep hills compelled her frequently to moderate her pace, the more so as she had to cover some six miles before reaching her destination. But, though the speed at which she rode became less headlong, though her physical effort gradually slackened, she nevertheless persisted in her indignation against Prince Rénine. She bore him a grudge not only for the unspeakable action of which he had been guilty, but also for his behaviour to her during the last three days, his persistent attentions, his assurance, his air of excessive politeness.

She was nearly there. In the bottom of a valley, an old park-wall, full of cracks and covered with moss and weeds, revealed the ball-turret of a château and