The Secret of Sarek, Maurice Leblanc [the ebook reader .txt] 📗

friend who has taken shelter down here. But why has he not left his shelter? Why did you not show him the way?”

The passage had been chipped smooth throughout, with a rounded ceiling and a very dry granite floor, which was amply ventilated by the openings. There was not a mark, not a scratch of any kind on the walls. Sometimes the point of a black flint projected.

“Is it here?” asked Véronique, when All’s Well stopped.

The tunnel went no farther and widened into a chamber into which the light filtered more thinly through a narrower window.

All’s Well seemed undecided. He listened, with his ears pricked up, standing on his hind-legs and resting his forepaws against the end wall of the tunnel.

Véronique noticed that the wall, at this spot, was not formed throughout its length of the bare granite but consisted of an accumulation of stones of unequal size set in cement. The work evidently belonged to a different, doubtless more recent period.

A regular partition-wall had been built, closing the underground passage, which was probably continued on the other side.

She repeated:

“It’s here, isn’t it?”

But she said nothing more. She had heard the stifled sound of a voice.

She went up to the wall and presently gave a start. The voice was raised higher. The sounds became more distinct. Someone, a child, was singing, and she caught the words:

“And the mother said,
Rocking her child abed:

‘Weep not. If you do,
The Virgin Mary weeps with you.’ ”

Véronique murmured:

“The song⁠ ⁠… the song⁠ ⁠…”

It was the same that Honorine had hummed at Beg-Meil. Who could be singing it now? A child, imprisoned in the island? A boy friend of François’?

And the voice went on:

“ ‘Babes that laugh and sing
Smiles to the Blessed Virgin bring.

Fold your hands this way
And to sweet Mary pray.’ ”

The last verse was followed by a silence that lasted for a few minutes. All’s Well appeared to be listening with increasing attention, as though something, which he knew of, was about to take place.

Thereupon, just where he stood, there was a slight noise of stones carefully moved. All’s Well wagged his tail frantically and barked, so to speak, in a whisper, like an animal that understands the danger of breaking the silence. And suddenly, about his head, one of the stones was drawn inward, leaving a fairly large aperture.

All’s Well leapt into the hole at a bound, stretched himself out and, helping himself with his hind-legs, twisting and crawling, disappeared inside.

“Ah, there’s Master All’s Well!” said the young voice. “How are we, Master All’s Well? And why didn’t we come and pay our master a visit yesterday? Serious business, was it? A walk with Honorine? Oh, if you could talk, my dear old chap, what stories you would have to tell! And, first of all, look here⁠ ⁠…”

Véronique, thrilled with excitement, had knelt down against the wall. Was it her son’s voice that she heard? Was she to believe that he was back and in hiding? She tried in vain to see. The wall was thick; and there was a bend in the opening. But how clearly each syllable uttered, how plainly each intonation reached her ears!

“Look here,” repeated the boy, “why doesn’t Honorine come to set me free? Why don’t you bring her here? You managed to find me all right. And grandfather must be worried about me.⁠ ⁠… But what an adventure!⁠ ⁠… So you’re still of the same mind, eh, old chap? All’s well, isn’t it? All’s as well as well can be!”

Véronique could not understand. Her son⁠—for there was no doubt that it was François⁠—her son was speaking as if he knew nothing of what had happened. Had he forgotten? Had his memory lost every trace of the deeds done during his fit of madness?

“Yes, a fit of madness,” thought Véronique, obstinately. “He was mad. Honorine was quite right: he was undoubtedly mad. And his reason has returned. Oh, François, François!⁠ ⁠…”

She listened, with all her tense being and all her trembling soul, to the words that might bring her so much gladness or such an added load of despair. Either the darkness would close in upon her more thickly and heavily than ever, or daylight was to pierce that endless night in which she had been struggling for fifteen years.

“Why, yes,” continued the boy, “I agree with you, All’s Well. But all the same, I should be jolly glad if you could bring me some real proof of it. On the one hand, there’s no news of grandfather or Honorine, though I’ve given you lots of messages for them; on the other hand, there’s no news of Stéphane. And that’s what alarms me. Where is he? Where have they locked him up? Won’t he be starving by now? Come, All’s Well, tell me: where did you take the biscuits yesterday?⁠ ⁠… But, look here, what’s the matter with you? You seem to have something on your mind. What are you looking at over there? Do you want to go away? No? Then what is it?”

The boy stopped. Then, after a moment, in a much lower voice:

“Did you come with someone?” he asked. “Is there anybody behind the wall?”

The dog gave a dull bark. Then there was a long pause, during which François also must have been listening.

Véronique’s emotion was so great that it seemed to her that François must hear the beating of her heart.

He whispered:

“Is that you, Honorine?”

There was a fresh pause; and he continued:

“Yes, I’m sure it’s you.⁠ ⁠… I can hear you breathing.⁠ ⁠… Why don’t you answer?”

Véronique was carried away by a sudden impulse. Certain gleams of light had flashed upon her mind since she had understood that Stéphane was a prisoner, no doubt like François, therefore a victim of the enemy; and all sorts of vague suppositions flitted through her brain. Besides, how could she resist the appeal of that voice? Her son was asking her a question⁠ ⁠… her son!

“François⁠ ⁠… François!” she stammered.

“Ah,” he said, “there’s an answer! I knew it! Is it you, Honorine?”

“No, François,” she said.

“Then who is it?”

“A friend of