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The Eight Strokes of the Clock by Maurice Le Blanc

M >> Maurice Le Blanc >> The Eight Strokes of the Clock




She was on the point of saying, she was even preparing her words:

"You know, our agreement says it must be the Halingre clock. All the other
conditions have been fulfilled ... but not this one. So I am free, am I
not? I am entitled not to keep my promise, which, moreover, I never made,
but which in any case falls to the ground?... And I am perfectly free ...
released from any scruple of conscience?..."

She had not time to speak. At that precise moment, there was a click behind
her, like that of a clock about to strike.

A first stroke sounded, then a second, then a third.

Hortense moaned. She had recognized the very sound of the old clock, the
Halingre clock, which three months ago, by breaking in a supernatural
manner the silence of the deserted chateau, had set both of them on the
road of the eight adventures.

She counted the strokes. The clock struck eight.

"Ah!" she murmured, half swooning and hiding her face in her hands. "The
clock ... the clock is here ... the one from over there ... I recognize its
voice...."

She said no more. She felt that Renine had his eyes fixed upon her and this
sapped all her energies. Besides, had she been able to recover them, she
would have been no better off nor sought to offer him the least resistance,
for the reason that she did not wish to resist. All the adventures were
over, but one remained to be undertaken, the anticipation of which wiped
out the memory of all the rest. It was the adventure of love, the most
delightful, the most bewildering, the most adorable of all adventures. She
accepted fate's decree, rejoicing in all that might come, because she was
in love. She smiled in spite of herself, as she reflected that happiness
was again to enter her life at the very moment when her well-beloved was
bringing her the cornelian clasp.

The clock struck the hour for the second time.

Hortense raised her eyes to Renine. She struggled a few seconds longer. But
she was like a charmed bird, incapable of any movement of revolt; and at
the eighth stroke she fell upon his breast and offered him her lips....

THE END

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