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

everything is possible to the man who is bent on winning you.”

Then she said:

“I demand that you shall restore to me a small, antique clasp, made of a cornelian set in a silver mount. It came to me from my mother and everyone knew that it used to bring her happiness and me too. Since the day when it vanished from my jewel-case, I have had nothing but unhappiness. Restore it to me, my good genius.”

“When was the clasp stolen?”

She answered gaily:

“Seven years ago⁠ ⁠… or eight⁠ ⁠… or nine; I don’t know exactly⁠ ⁠… I don’t know where⁠ ⁠… I don’t know how⁠ ⁠… I know nothing about it.⁠ ⁠…”

“I will find it,” Rénine declared, “and you shall be happy.”

II The Water-Bottle

Four days after she had settled down in Paris, Hortense Daniel agreed to meet Prince Rénine in the Bois. It was a glorious morning and they sat down on the terrace of the Restaurant Impérial, a little to one side.

Hortense, feeling glad to be alive, was in a playful mood, full of attractive grace. Rénine, lest he should startle her, refrained from alluding to the compact into which they had entered at his suggestion. She told him how she had left La Marèze and said that she had not heard of Rossigny.

“I have,” said Rénine. “I’ve heard of him.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, he sent me a challenge. We fought a duel this morning. Rossigny got a scratch in the shoulder. That finished the duel. Let’s talk of something else.”

There was no further mention of Rossigny. Rénine at once expounded to Hortense the plan of two enterprises which he had in view and in which he offered, with no great enthusiasm, to let her share:

“The finest adventure,” he declared, “is that which we do not foresee. It comes unexpectedly, unannounced; and no one, save the initiated, realizes that an opportunity to act and to expend one’s energies is close at hand. It has to be seized at once. A moment’s hesitation may mean that we are too late. We are warned by a special sense, like that of a sleuthhound which distinguishes the right scent from all the others that cross it.”

The terrace was beginning to fill up around them. At the next table sat a young man reading a newspaper. They were able to see his insignificant profile and his long, dark moustache. From behind them, through an open window of the restaurant, came the distant strains of a band; in one of the rooms a few couples were dancing.

As Rénine was paying for the refreshments, the young man with the long moustache stifled a cry and, in a choking voice, called one of the waiters:

“What do I owe you?⁠ ⁠… No change? Oh, good Lord, hurry up!”

Rénine, without a moment’s hesitation, had picked up the paper. After casting a swift glance down the page, he read, under his breath:

“Maître Dourdens, the counsel for the defence in the trial of Jacques Aubrieux, has been received at the Élysée. We are informed that the President of the Republic has refused to reprieve the condemned man and that the execution will take place tomorrow morning.”

After crossing the terrace, the young man found himself faced, at the entrance to the garden, by a lady and gentleman who blocked his way; and the latter said:

“Excuse me, sir, but I noticed your agitation. It’s about Jacques Aubrieux, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes, Jacques Aubrieux,” the young man stammered. “Jacques, the friend of my childhood. I’m hurrying to see his wife. She must be beside herself with grief.”

“Can I offer you my assistance? I am Prince Rénine. This lady and I would be happy to call on Madame Aubrieux and to place our services at her disposal.”

The young man, upset by the news which he had read, seemed not to understand. He introduced himself awkwardly:

“My name is Dutreuil, Gaston Dutreuil.”

Rénine beckoned to his chauffeur, who was waiting at some little distance, and pushed Gaston Dutreuil into the car, asking:

“What address? Where does Madame Aubrieux live?”

“23 bis, Avenue du Roule.”

After helping Hortense in, Rénine repeated the address to the chauffeur and, as soon as they drove off, tried to question Gaston Dutreuil:

“I know very little of the case,” he said. “Tell it to me as briefly as you can. Jacques Aubrieux killed one of his near relations, didn’t he?”

“He is innocent, sir,” replied the young man, who seemed incapable of giving the least explanation. “Innocent, I swear it. I’ve been Jacques’ friend for twenty years⁠ ⁠… He is innocent⁠ ⁠… and it would be monstrous.⁠ ⁠…”

There was nothing to be got out of him. Besides, it was only a short drive. They entered Neuilly through the Porte des Sablons and, two minutes later, stopped before a long, narrow passage between high walls which led them to a small, one-storeyed house.

Gaston Dutreuil rang.

“Madame is in the drawing-room, with her mother,” said the maid who opened the door.

“I’ll go in to the ladies,” he said, taking Rénine and Hortense with him.

It was a fair-sized, prettily-furnished room, which, in ordinary times, must have been used also as a study. Two women sat weeping, one of whom, elderly and grey-haired, came up to Gaston Dutreuil. He explained the reason for Rénine’s presence and she at once cried, amid her sobs:

“My daughter’s husband is innocent, sir. Jacques? A better man never lived. He was so good-hearted! Murder his cousin? But he worshipped his cousin! I swear that he’s not guilty, sir! And they are going to commit the infamy of putting him to death? Oh, sir, it will kill my daughter!”

Rénine realized that all these people had been living for months under the obsession of that innocence and in the certainty that an innocent man could never be executed. The news of the execution, which was now inevitable, was driving them mad.

He went up to a poor creature bent in two whose face, a quite young face, framed in pretty, flaxen hair, was convulsed with desperate grief. Hortense, who had already taken a seat beside her, gently