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

the old man who says so, whenever he has had a drop too much. There, listen!’

“The old chap was sitting among a group of men who were amusing themselves by making him drink and plying him with questions. He was already a little bit ‘on’ and was holding forth with a tone of indignation and a mocking smile which formed the most comic contrast:

“ ‘He’s wasting his time, I tell you, the coxcomb! It’s no manner of use his poaching round our way and making sheep’s-eyes at the wench.⁠ ⁠… The coverts are watched! If he comes too near, it means a bullet, eh, Mathias?’

“He gripped his daughter-in-law’s hand:

“ ‘And then the little wench knows how to defend herself too,’ he chuckled. ‘Eh, you don’t want any admirers, do you Natalie?’

“The young wife blushed, in her confusion at being addressed in these terms, while her husband growled:

“ ‘You’d do better to hold your tongue, father. There are things one doesn’t talk about in public.’

“ ‘Things that affect one’s honour are best settled in public,’ retorted the old one. ‘Where I’m concerned, the honour of the de Gornes comes before everything; and that fine spark, with his Paris airs, shan’t.⁠ ⁠…’

“He stopped short. Before him stood a man who had just come in and who seemed to be waiting for him to finish his sentence. The newcomer was a tall, powerfully-built young fellow, in riding-kit, with a hunting-crop in his hand. His strong and rather stern face was lighted up by a pair of fine eyes in which shone an ironical smile.

“ ‘Jérôme Vignal,’ whispered my cousin.

“The young man seemed not at all embarrassed. On seeing Natalie, he made a low bow; and, when Mathias de Gorne took a step forward, he eyed him from head to foot, as though to say:

“ ‘Well, what about it?’

“And his attitude was so haughty and contemptuous that the de Gornes unslung their guns and took them in both hands, like sportsmen about to shoot. The son’s expression was very fierce.

“Jérôme was quite unmoved by the threat. After a few seconds, turning to the innkeeper, he remarked:

“ ‘Oh, I say! I came to see old Vasseur. But his shop is shut. Would you mind giving him the holster of my revolver? It wants a stitch or two.’

“He handed the holster to the innkeeper and added, laughing:

“ ‘I’m keeping the revolver, in case I need it. You never can tell!’

“Then, still very calmly, he took a cigarette from a silver case, lit it and walked out. We saw him through the window vaulting on his horse and riding off at a slow trot.

“Old de Gorne tossed off a glass of brandy, swearing most horribly.

“His son clapped his hand to the old man’s mouth and forced him to sit down. Natalie de Gorne was weeping beside them.⁠ ⁠…

“That’s my story, dear friend. As you see, it’s not tremendously interesting and does not deserve your attention. There’s no mystery in it and no part for you to play. Indeed, I particularly insist that you should not seek a pretext for any untimely interference. Of course, I should be glad to see the poor thing protected: she appears to be a perfect martyr. But, as I said before, let us leave other people to get out of their own troubles and go no farther with our little experiments.⁠ ⁠…”

Rénine finished reading the letter, read it over again and ended by saying:

“That’s it. Everything’s right as right can be. She doesn’t want to continue our little experiments, because this would make the seventh and because she’s afraid of the eighth, which under the terms of our agreement has a very particular significance. She doesn’t want to⁠ ⁠… and she does want to⁠ ⁠… without seeming to want to.”

He rubbed his hands. The letter was an invaluable witness to the influence which he had gradually, gently and patiently gained over Hortense Daniel. It betrayed a rather complex feeling, composed of admiration, unbounded confidence, uneasiness at times, fear and almost terror, but also love: he was convinced of that. His companion in adventures which she shared with a good fellowship that excluded any awkwardness between them, she had suddenly taken fright; and a sort of modesty, mingled with a certain coquetry; was impelling her to hold back.

That very evening, Sunday, Rénine took the train.

And, at break of day, after covering by diligence, on a road white with snow, the five miles between the little town of Pompignat, where he alighted, and the village of Bassicourt, he learnt that his journey might prove of some use: three shots had been heard during the night in the direction of the Manoir-au-Puits.

“Three shots, sergeant. I heard them as plainly as I see you standing before me,” said a peasant whom the gendarmes were questioning in the parlour of the inn which Rénine had entered.

“So did I,” said the waiter. “Three shots. It may have been twelve o’clock at night. The snow, which had been falling since nine, had stopped⁠ ⁠… and the shots sounded across the fields, one after the other: bang, bang, bang.”

Five more peasants gave their evidence. The sergeant and his men had heard nothing, because the police-station backed on the fields. But a farm-labourer and a woman arrived, who said that they were in Mathias de Gorne’s service, that they had been away for two days because of the intervening Sunday and that they had come straight from the manor-house, where they were unable to obtain admission:

“The gate of the grounds is locked, sergeant,” said the man. “It’s the first time I’ve known this to happen. M. Mathias comes out to open it himself, every morning at the stroke of six, winter and summer. Well, it’s past eight now. I called and shouted. Nobody answered. So we came on here.”

“You might have enquired at old M. de Gorne’s,” said the sergeant. “He lives on the highroad.”

“On my word, so I might! I never thought of that.”

“We’d better go there now,” the sergeant decided. Two of his men went with him, as well as the peasants and a