The Teeth of the Tiger, Maurice Leblanc [top 10 inspirational books TXT] 📗

pause. Leaning over her, M. Desmalions studied her face with concentrated attention. Then, as she did not speak, he put his hand to the bell on his table and struck it three times.

Don Luis did not stir from where he stood, with his eyes despairingly fixed on Florence. A battle was raging within him between his love and generosity, which led him to believe the girl, and his reason, which obliged him to suspect her. Was she innocent or guilty? He did not know. Everything was against her. And yet why had he never ceased to love her?

Weber entered, followed by his men. M. Desmalions spoke to him and pointed to Florence. Weber went up to her.

“Florence!” said Don Luis.

She looked at him and looked at Weber and his men; and, suddenly, realizing what was coming, she retreated, staggered for a moment, bewildered and fainting, and fell back in Don Luis’s arms:

“Oh, save me, save me! Do save me!”

The action was so natural and unconstrained, the cry of distress so clearly denoted the alarm which only the innocent can feel, that Don Luis was promptly convinced. A fervent belief in her lightened his heart. His doubts, his caution, his hesitation, his anguish: all these vanished before a certainty that dashed upon him like an irresistible wave. And he cried:

“No, no, that must not be! Monsieur le Préfet, there are things that cannot be permitted⁠—”

He stooped over Florence, whom he was holding so firmly in his arms that nobody could have taken her from him. Their eyes met. His face was close to the girl’s. He quivered with emotion at feeling her throbbing, so weak, so utterly helpless; and he said to her passionately, in a voice too low for any but her to hear:

“I love you, I love you.⁠ ⁠… Ah, Florence, if you only knew what I feel: how I suffer and how happy I am! Oh, Florence, I love you, I love you⁠—”

Weber had stood aside, at a sign from the Prefect, who wanted to witness the unexpected conflict between those two mysterious beings, Don Luis Perenna and Florence Levasseur.

Don Luis unloosed his arms and placed the girl in a chair. Then, putting his two hands on her shoulders, face to face with her, he said:

“Though you do not understand, Florence, I am beginning to understand a good deal; and I can already almost see my way in the mystery that terrifies you. Florence, listen to me. It is not you who are doing all this, is it? There is somebody else behind you, above you⁠—somebody who gives you your instructions, isn’t there, while you yourself don’t know where he is leading you?”

“Nobody is instructing me. What do you mean? Explain.”

“Yes, you are not alone in your life. There are many things which you do because you are told to do them and because you think them right and because you do not know their consequences or even that they can have any consequences. Answer my question: are you absolutely free? Are you not yielding to some influence?”

The girl seemed to have come to herself, and her face recovered some of its usual calmness. Nevertheless, it seemed as if Don Luis’s question made an impression on her.

“No,” she said, “there is no influence⁠—none at all⁠—I’m sure of it.”

He insisted, with growing eagerness:

“No, you are not sure; don’t say that. Someone is dominating you without your knowing it. Think for a moment. You are Cosmo Mornington’s heir, heir to a fortune which you don’t care about, I know, I swear! Well, if you don’t want that fortune, to whom will it belong? Answer me. Is there anyone who is interested or believes himself interested in seeing you rich? The whole question lies in that. Is your life linked with that of someone else? Is he a friend of yours? Are you engaged to him?”

She gave a start of revolt.

“Oh, never! The man of whom you speak is incapable⁠—”

“Ah,” he cried, overcome with jealousy, “you confess it! So the man of whom I speak exists! I swear that the villain⁠—”

He turned toward M. Desmalions, his face convulsed with hatred. He made no further effort to contain himself:

“Monsieur le Préfet, we are in sight of the goal. I know the road that will lead us to it. The wild beast shall be hunted down tonight, or tomorrow at least. Monsieur le Préfet, the letter that accompanied those documents, the unsigned letter which this young lady handed you, was written by the mother superior who manages a nursing-home in the Avenue des Ternes.

“By making immediate inquiries at that nursing-home, by questioning the superior and confronting her with Mlle. Levasseur, we shall discover the identity of the criminal himself. But we must not lose a minute, or we shall be too late and the wild beast will have fled.”

His outburst was irresistible. There was no fighting against the violence of his conviction. Still, M. Desmalions objected:

“Mlle. Levasseur could tell us⁠—”

“She will not speak, or at least not till later, when the man has been unmasked in her presence. Monsieur le Préfet, I entreat you to have the same confidence in me as before. Have not all my promises been fulfilled? Have confidence, Monsieur le Préfet; cast aside your doubts. Remember how Marie Fauville and Gaston Sauverand were overwhelmed with charges, the most serious charges, and how they succumbed in spite of their innocence.

“Does the law wish to see Florence Levasseur sacrificed as the two others were? And, besides, what I ask for is not her release, but the means to defend her⁠—that is to say, an hour or two’s delay. Let Deputy Chief Weber be responsible for her safe custody. Let your detectives go with us: these and more as well, for we cannot have too many to capture the loathsome brute in his lair.”

M. Desmalions did not reply. After a brief moment he took Weber aside and talked to him for some minutes. M. Desmalions did not seem very favourably disposed toward Don Luis’s request.