The Eight Strokes of the Clock by Maurice Le Blanc

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M. de Lourtier-Vaneau made no protest. His air of dejection, his pallor,
his trembling hands, all proved his remorse and his despair: "She deceived
me," he murmured. "She was outwardly so quiet, so docile! And, after all,
she's in a lunatic asylum."

"Then how can she ...?"

"The asylum," explained M. de Lourtier, "is made up of a number of separate
buildings scattered over extensive grounds. The sort of cottage in which
Hermance lives stands quite apart. There is first a room occupied by
Felicienne, then Hermance's bedroom and two separate rooms, one of which
has its windows overlooking the open country. I suppose it is there that
she locks up her victims."

"But the carriage that conveys the dead bodies?"

"The stables of the asylum are quite close to the cottage. There's a horse
and carriage there for station work. Hermance no doubt gets up at night,
harnesses the horse and slips the body through the window."

"And the nurse who watches her?"

"Felicienne is very old and rather deaf."

"But by day she sees her mistress moving to and fro, doing this and that.
Must we not admit a certain complicity?"

"Never! Felicienne herself has been deceived by Hermance's hypocrisy."

"All the same, it was she who telephoned to Madame de Lourtier first, about
that advertisement...."

"Very naturally. Hermance, who talks now and then, who argues, who buries
herself in the newspapers, which she does not understand, as you were
saying just now, but reads through them attentively, must have seen the
advertisement and, having heard that we were looking for a servant, must
have asked Felicienne to ring me up."

"Yes ... yes ... that is what I felt," said Renine, slowly. "She marks down
her victims.... With Hortense dead, she would have known, once she had used
up her allowance of sleep, where to find an eighth victim.... But how did
she entice the unfortunate women? How did she entice Hortense?"

The car was rushing along, but not fast enough to please Renine, who rated
the chauffeur:

"Push her along, Adolphe, can't you?... We're losing time, my man."

Suddenly the fear of arriving too late began to torture him. The logic of
the insane is subject to sudden changes of mood, to any perilous idea that
may enter the mind. The madwoman might easily mistake the date and hasten
the catastrophe, like a clock out of order which strikes an hour too soon.

On the other hand, as her sleep was once more disturbed, might she not be
tempted to take action without waiting for the appointed moment? Was this
not the reason why she had locked herself into her room? Heavens, what
agonies her prisoner must be suffering! What shudders of terror at the
executioner's least movement!

"Faster, Adolphe, or I'll take the wheel myself! Faster, hang it."

At last they reached Ville d'Avray. There was a steep, sloping road on the
right and walls interrupted by a long railing.

"Drive round the grounds, Adolphe. We mustn't give warning of our presence,
must we, M. de Lourtier? Where is the cottage?"

"Just opposite," said M. de Lourtier-Vaneau.

They got out a little farther on. Renine began to run along a bank at the
side of an ill-kept sunken road. It was almost dark. M. de Lourtier said:

"Here, this building standing a little way back.... Look at that window on
the ground-floor. It belongs to one of the separate rooms ... and that is
obviously how she slips out."

"But the window seems to be barred."

"Yes; and that is why no one suspected anything. But she must have found
some way to get through."

The ground-floor was built over deep cellars. Renine quickly clambered up,
finding a foothold on a projecting ledge of stone.

Sure enough, one of the bars was missing.

He pressed his face to the window-pane and looked in.

The room was dark inside. Nevertheless he was able to distinguish at the
back a woman seated beside another woman, who was lying on a mattress. The
woman seated was holding her forehead in her hands and gazing at the woman
who was lying down.

"It's she," whispered M. de Lourtier, who had also climbed the wall. "The
other one is bound."

Renine took from his pocket a glazier's diamond and cut out one of the
panes without making enough noise to arouse the madwoman's attention. He
next slid his hand to the window-fastening and turned it softly, while with
his left hand he levelled a revolver.

"You're not going to fire, surely!" M. de Lourtier-Vaneau entreated.

"If I must, I shall."

Renine pushed open the window gently. But there was an obstacle of which he
was not aware, a chair which toppled over and fell.

He leapt into the room and threw away his revolver in order to seize the
madwoman. But she did not wait for him. She rushed to the door, opened it
and fled, with a hoarse cry.

M. de Lourtier made as though to run after her.

"What's the use?" said Renine, kneeling down, "Let's save the victim
first."

He was instantly reassured: Hortense was alive.

The first thing that he did was to cut the cords and remove the gag that
was stifling her. Attracted by the noise, the old nurse had hastened to
the room with a lamp, which Renine took from her, casting its light on
Hortense.

He was astounded: though livid and exhausted, with emaciated features and
eyes blazing with fever, Hortense was trying to smile. She whispered:

"I was expecting you ... I did not despair for a moment ... I was sure of
you...."

She fainted.

An hour later, after much useless searching around the cottage, they found
the madwoman locked into a large cupboard in the loft. She had hanged
herself.

* * * * *

Hortense refused to stay another night. Besides, it was better that the
cottage should be empty when the old nurse announced the madwoman's
suicide. Renine gave Felicienne minute directions as to what she should do
and say; and then, assisted by the chauffeur and M. de Lourtier, carried
Hortense to the car and brought her home.

She was soon convalescent. Two days later, Renine carefully questioned her
and asked her how she had come to know the madwoman.

"It was very simple," she said. "My husband, who is not quite sane, as I
have told you, is being looked after at Ville d'Avray; and I sometimes go
to see him, without telling anybody, I admit. That was how I came to speak
to that poor madwoman and how, the other day, she made signs that she
wanted me to visit her. We were alone. I went into the cottage. She threw
herself upon me and overpowered me before I had time to cry for help. I
thought it was a jest; and so it was, wasn't it: a madwoman's jest? She was
quite gentle with me.... All the same, she let me starve. But I was so sure
of you!"

"And weren't you frightened?"

"Of starving? No. Besides, she gave me some food, now and then, when the
fancy took her.... And then I was sure of you!"

"Yes, but there was something else: that other peril...."

"What other peril?" she asked, ingenuously.

Renine gave a start. He suddenly understood--it seemed strange at first,
though it was quite natural--that Hortense had not for a moment suspected
and did not yet suspect the terrible danger which she had run. Her mind had
not connected with her own adventure the murders committed by the lady with
the hatchet.

He thought that it would always be time enough to tell her the truth. For
that matter, a few days later her husband, who had been locked up for
years, died in the asylum at Ville d'Avray, and Hortense, who had been
recommended by her doctor a short period of rest and solitude, went to stay
with a relation living near the village of Bassicourt, in the centre of
France.

VII

FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW

_To Prince Serge Renine,
Boulevard Haussmann,
Paris_

LA RONCIERE
NEAR BASSICOURT,
14 NOVEMBER.

"MY DEAR FRIEND,--

"You must be thinking me very ungrateful. I have been here three weeks; and
you have had not one letter from me! Not a word of thanks! And yet I ended
by realizing from what terrible death you saved me and understanding the
secret of that terrible business! But indeed, indeed I couldn't help it! I
was in such a state of prostration after it all! I needed rest and solitude
so badly! Was I to stay in Paris? Was I to continue my expeditions with
you? No, no, no! I had had enough adventures! Other people's are very
interesting, I admit. But when one is one's self the victim and barely
escapes with one's life?... Oh, my dear friend, how horrible it was! Shall
I ever forget it?...

"Here, at la Ronciere, I enjoy the greatest peace. My old spinster cousin
Ermelin pets and coddles me like an invalid. I am getting back my colour
and am very well, physically ... so much so, in fact, that I no longer
ever think of interesting myself in other people's business. Never again!
For instance (I am only telling you this because you are incorrigible, as
inquisitive as any old charwoman, and always ready to busy yourself with
things that don't concern you), yesterday I was present at a rather curious
meeting. Antoinette had taken me to the inn at Bassicourt, where we were
having tea in the public room, among the peasants (it was market-day), when
the arrival of three people, two men and a woman, caused a sudden pause in
the conversation.

"One of the men was a fat farmer in a long blouse, with a jovial, red face,
framed in white whiskers. The other was younger, was dressed in corduroy
and had lean, yellow, cross-grained features. Each of them carried a gun
slung over his shoulder. Between them was a short, slender young woman, in
a brown cloak and a fur cap, whose rather thin and extremely pale face was
surprisingly delicate and distinguished-looking.

"'Father, son and daughter-in-law,' whispered my cousin.

"'What! Can that charming creature be the wife of that clod-hopper?'

"'And the daughter-in-law of Baron de Gorne.'

"'Is the old fellow over there a baron?'

"'Yes, descended from a very ancient, noble family which used to own the
chateau in the old days. He has always lived like a peasant: a great
hunter, a great drinker, a great litigant, always at law with somebody, now
very nearly ruined. His son Mathias was more ambitious and less attached to
the soil and studied for the bar. Then he went to America. Next, the lack
of money brought him back to the village, whereupon he fell in love with a
young girl in the nearest town. The poor girl consented, no one knows why,
to marry him; and for five years past she has been leading the life of a
hermit, or rather of a prisoner, in a little manor-house close by, the
Manoir-au-Puits, the Well Manor.'

"'With the father and the son?' I asked.

"'No, the father lives at the far end of the village, on a lonely farm.'

"'And is Master Mathias jealous?'

"'A perfect tiger!'

"'Without reason?'

"'Without reason, for Natalie de Gorne is the straightest woman in the world
and it is not her fault if a handsome young man has been hanging around the
manor-house for the past few months. However, the de Gornes can't get over
it.'

"'What, the father neither?'

"'The handsome young man is the last descendant of the people who bought the
chateau long ago. This explains old de Gorne's hatred. Jerome Vignal--I
know him and am very fond of him--is a good-looking fellow and very well
off; and he has sworn to run off with Natalie de Gorne. It's 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, sha'n'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.

"'Jerome 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.

"Jerome was quite unmoved by the threat. After a few seconds, turning to
the inn-keeper, 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 inn-keeper 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...."

* * * * *

Renine 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, Renine 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 Renine 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 high-road."

"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 locksmith whose services were called
into requisition. Renine joined the party.

Soon, at the end of the village, they reached old de Gorne's farmyard,
which Renine recognized by Hortense's description of its position.

The old fellow was harnessing his horse and trap. When they told him what
had happened, he burst out laughing:

"Three shots? Bang, bang, bang? Why, my dear sergeant, there are only two
barrels to Mathias' gun!"

"What about the locked gate?"

"It means that the lad's asleep, that's all. Last night, he came and
cracked a bottle with me ... perhaps two ... or even three; and he'll be
sleeping it off, I expect ... he and Natalie."

He climbed on to the box of his trap--an old cart with a patched tilt--and
cracked his whip:

"Good-bye, gentlemen all. Those three shots of yours won't stop me from
going to market at Pompignat, as I do every Monday. I've a couple of calves
under the tilt; and they're just fit for the butcher. Good-day to you!"

The others walked on. Renine went up to the sergeant and gave him his name:

"I'm a friend of Mlle. Ermelin, of La Ronciere; and, as it's too early to
call on her yet, I shall be glad if you'll allow me to go round by the
manor with you. Mlle. Ermelin knows Madame de Gorne; and it will be a
satisfaction to me to relieve her mind, for there's nothing wrong at the
manor-house, I hope?"

"If there is," replied the sergeant, "we shall read all about it as plainly
as on a map, because of the snow."

He was a likable young man and seemed smart and intelligent. From the very
first he had shown great acuteness in observing the tracks which Mathias
had left behind him, the evening before, on returning home, tracks which
soon became confused with the footprints made in going and coming by the
farm-labourer and the woman. Meanwhile they came to the walls of a property
of which the locksmith readily opened the gate.

From here onward, a single trail appeared upon the spotless snow, that of
Mathias; and it was easy to perceive that the son must have shared largely
in the father's libations, as the line of footprints described sudden
curves which made it swerve right up to the trees of the avenue.

Two hundred yards farther stood the dilapidated two-storeyed building of
the Manoir-au-Puits. The principal door was open.

"Let's go in," said the sergeant.

And, the moment he had crossed the threshold, he muttered:

"Oho! Old de Gorne made a mistake in not coming. They've been fighting in
here."

The big room was in disorder. Two shattered chairs, the overturned table
and much broken glass and china bore witness to the violence of the
struggle. The tall clock, lying on the ground, had stopped at twenty past
eleven.

With the farm-girl showing them the way, they ran up to the first floor.
Neither Mathias nor his wife was there. But the door of their bedroom had
been broken down with a hammer which they discovered under the bed.

Renine and the sergeant went downstairs again. The living-room had a
passage communicating with the kitchen, which lay at the back of the house
and opened on a small yard fenced off from the orchard. At the end of this
enclosure was a well near which one was bound to pass.

Now, from the door of the kitchen to the well, the snow, which was not
very thick, had been pressed down to this side and that, as though a body
had been dragged over it. And all around the well were tangled traces of
trampling feet, showing that the struggle must have been resumed at this
spot. The sergeant again discovered Mathias' footprints, together with
others which were shapelier and lighter.

These latter went straight into the orchard, by themselves. And, thirty
yards on, near the footprints, a revolver was picked up and recognized by
one of the peasants as resembling that which Jerome Vignal had produced in
the inn two days before.

The sergeant examined the cylinder. Three of the seven bullets had been
fired.

And so the tragedy was little by little reconstructed in its main outlines;
and the sergeant, who had ordered everybody to stand aside and not to step
on the site of the footprints, came back to the well, leant over, put a few
questions to the farm-girl and, going up to Renine, whispered:

"It all seems fairly clear to me."

Renine took his arm:

"Let's speak out plainly, sergeant. I understand the business pretty
well, for, as I told you, I know Mlle. Ermelin, who is a friend of Jerome
Vignal's and also knows Madame de Gorne. Do you suppose ...?"

"I don't want to suppose anything. I simply declare that some one came
there last night...."

"By which way? The only tracks of a person coming towards the manor are
those of M. de Gorne."

"That's because the other person arrived before the snowfall, that is to
say, before nine o'clock."

"Then he must have hidden in a corner of the living-room and waited for the
return of M. de Gorne, who came after the snow?"

"Just so. As soon as Mathias came in, the man went for him. There was a
fight. Mathias made his escape through the kitchen. The man ran after him
to the well and fired three revolver-shots."

"And where's the body?"

"Down the well."

Renine protested:

"Oh, I say! Aren't you taking a lot for granted?"

"Why, sir, the snow's there, to tell the story; and the snow plainly says
that, after the struggle, after the three shots, one man alone walked
away and left the farm, one man only, and his footprints are not those
of Mathias de Gorne. Then where can Mathias de Gorne be?"

"But the well ... can be dragged?"

"No. The well is practically bottomless. It is known all over the district
and gives its name to the manor."

"So you really believe ...?"

"I repeat what I said. Before the snowfall, a single arrival, Mathias, and
a single departure, the stranger."

"And Madame de Gorne? Was she too killed and thrown down the well like her
husband?"

"No, carried off."

"Carried off?"

"Remember that her bedroom was broken down with a hammer."

"Come, come, sergeant! You yourself declare that there was only one
departure, the stranger's."

"Stoop down. Look at the man's footprints. See how they sink into the snow,
until they actually touch the ground. Those are the footprints of a man,
laden with a heavy burden. The stranger was carrying Madame de Gorne on his
shoulder."

"Then there's an outlet this way?"

"Yes, a little door of which Mathias de Gorne always had the key on him.
The man must have taken it from him."

"A way out into the open fields?"

"Yes, a road which joins the departmental highway three quarters of a mile
from here.... And do you know where?"

"Where?"

"At the corner of the chateau."

"Jerome Vignal's chateau?"

"By Jove, this is beginning to look serious! If the trail leads to the
chateau and stops there, we shall know where we stand."

The trail did continue to the chateau, as they were able to perceive after
following it across the undulating fields, on which the snow lay heaped in
places. The approach to the main gates had been swept, but they saw that
another trail, formed by the two wheels of a vehicle, was running in the
opposite direction to the village.

The sergeant rang the bell. The porter, who had also been sweeping the
drive, came to the gates, with a broom in his hand. In answer to a
question, the man said that M. Vignal had gone away that morning before
anyone else was up and that he himself had harnessed the horse to the trap.

"In that case," said Renine, when they had moved away, "all we have to do
is to follow the tracks of the wheels."

"That will be no use," said the sergeant. "They have taken the railway."

"At Pompignat station, where I came from? But they would have passed
through the village."

"They have gone just the other way, because it leads to the town, where the
express trains stop. The procurator-general has an office in the town. I'll
telephone; and, as there's no train before eleven o'clock, all that they
need do is to keep a watch at the station."

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