The Eight Strokes of the Clock (4 page)

The truth was becoming apparent. The light of day was breaking. The count muttered:

“Yes, that’s what must have happened. I expect that my cousin d’Aigleroche …”

“The murderer,” Rénine continued, “stopped up the loophole neatly with a clod of earth. No one would ever know that two dead bodies were decaying on the top of that tower, which was never visited and of which he took the precaution to demolish the wooden stairs. Nothing therefore remained for him to do but to explain the disappearance of his wife and his friend. This presented no difficulty. He accused them of having eloped together.”

Hortense gave a start. Suddenly, as though the last sentence were a complete and to her an absolutely unexpected revelation, she understood what Rénine was trying to convey:

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean that M. d’Aigleroche accused his wife and his friend of eloping together.”

“No, no!” she cried. “I can’t allow that! … You are speaking of a cousin of my uncle’s? Why mix up the two stories?”

“Why mix up this story with another which took place at that time?” said the prince. “But I am not mixing them up, my dear madame; there is only one story, and I am telling it as it happened.”

Hortense turned to her uncle. He sat silent, with his arms folded, and his head remained in the shadow cast by the lampshade. Why had he not protested?

Rénine repeated in a firm tone:

“There is only one story. On the evening of that very day, the 5th of September at eight o’clock, M. d’Aigleroche, doubtless alleging as his reason that he was going in pursuit of the runaway couple, left his house after boarding up the entrance. He went away, leaving all the rooms as they were and removing only the firearms from their glass case. At the last minute, he had a presentiment, which has been justified today, that the discovery of the telescope which had played so great a part in the preparation of his crime might serve as a clue to an enquiry; and he threw it into the clock-case, where, as luck would have it, it interrupted the swing of the pendulum. This unreflecting action, one of those which every criminal inevitably commits, was to betray him twenty years later. Just now, the blows which I struck to force the door of the drawing room released the pendulum. The clock was set going, struck eight o’clock … and I possessed the clue of thread which was to lead me through the labyrinth.”

“Proofs!” stammered Hortense. “Proofs!”

“Proofs?” replied Rénine, in a loud voice. “Why, there are any number of proofs, and you know them as well as I do. Who could have killed at that distance of eight hundred yards, except an expert shot, an ardent sportsman? You agree, M. d’Aigleroche, do you not? … Proofs? Why was nothing removed from the house, nothing except the guns, those guns which an ardent sportsman cannot afford to leave behind—you agree, M. d’Aigleroche—those guns which we find here, hanging in trophies on the walls!—Proofs? What about that date, the 5th of September, which was the date of the crime and which has left such a horrible memory in the criminal’s mind that every year at this time—at this time alone—he surrounds himself with distractions and that every year, on this same 5th of September, he forgets his habits of temperance? Well, today is the 5th of September … Proofs? Why, if there weren’t any others, would that not be enough for you?”

And Rénine, flinging out his arm, pointed to the Comte d’Aigleroche, who, terrified by this evocation of the past, had sunk huddled into a chair and was hiding his head in his hands.

Hortense did not attempt to argue with him. She had never liked her uncle, or rather her husband’s uncle. She now accepted the accusation laid against him.

Sixty seconds passed. Then M. d’Aigleroche walked up to them and said:

“Whether the story be true or not, you can’t call a husband a criminal for avenging his honour and killing his faithless wife.”

“No,” replied Rénine, “but I have told only the first version of the story. There is another which is infinitely more serious … and more probable, one to which a more thorough investigation would be sure to lead.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this. It may not be a matter of a husband taking the law into his own hands, as I charitably supposed. It may be a matter of a ruined man who covets his friend’s money and his friend’s wife and who, with this object in view, to secure his freedom, to get rid of his friend and of his own wife, draws them into a trap, suggests to them that they should visit that lonely tower and kills them by shooting them from a distance safely under cover.”

“No, no,” the count protested. “No, all that is untrue.”

“I don’t say it isn’t. I am basing my accusation on proofs, but also on intuitions and arguments which up to now have been extremely accurate. All the same, I admit that the second version may be incorrect. But, if so, why feel any remorse? One does not feel remorse for punishing guilty people.”

“One does for taking life. It is a crushing burden to bear.”

“Was it to give himself greater strength to bear this burden that M. d’Aigleroche afterwards married his victim’s widow? For that, sir, is the crux of the question. What was the motive of that marriage? Was M. d’Aigleroche penniless? Was the woman he was taking as his second wife rich? Or were they both in love with each other and did M. d’Aigleroche plan with her to kill his first wife and the husband of his second wife? These are problems to which I do not know the answer. They have no interest for the moment; but the police, with all the means at their disposal, would have no great difficulty in elucidating them.”

M. d’Aigleroche staggered and had to steady himself against the back of a chair. Livid in the face, he spluttered:

“Are you going to inform the police?”

“No, no,” said Rénine. “To begin with, there is the statute of limitations. Then there are twenty years of remorse and dread, a memory which will pursue the criminal to his dying hour, accompanied no doubt by domestic discord, hatred, a daily hell … and, in the end, the necessity of returning to the tower and removing the traces of the two murders, the frightful punishment of climbing that tower, of touching those skeletons, of undressing them and burying them. That will be enough. We will not ask for more. We will not give it to the public to batten on and create a scandal, which would recoil upon M. d’Aigleroche’s niece. No, let us leave this disgraceful business alone.”

The count resumed his seat at the table, with his hands clutching his forehead, and asked:

“Then why …?”

“Why do I interfere?” said Rénine. “What you mean is that I must have had some object in speaking. That is so. There must indeed be a penalty, however slight, and our interview must lead to some practical result. But have no fear: M. d’Aigleroche will be let off lightly.”

The contest was ended. The count felt that he had only a small formality to fulfill, a sacrifice to accept; and, recovering some of his self-assurance, he said, in an almost sarcastic tone:

“What’s your price?”

Rénine burst out laughing:

“Splendid! You see the position. Only, you make a mistake in drawing me into the business. I’m working for the glory of the thing.”

“In that case?”

“You will be called upon at most to make restitution.”

“Restitution?”

Rénine leant over the table and said:

“In one of those drawers is a deed awaiting your signature. It is a draft agreement between you and your niece, Hortense Daniel, relating to her private fortune, which fortune was squandered and for which you are responsible. Sign the deed.”

M. d’Aigleroche gave a start:

“Do you know the amount?”

“I don’t wish to know it.”

“And if I refuse? …”

“I shall ask to see the Comtesse d’Aigleroche.”

Without further hesitation, the count opened a drawer, produced a document on stamped paper and quickly signed it:

“Here you are,” he said, “and I hope …”

“You hope, as I do, that you and I may never have any future dealings? I’m convinced of it. I shall leave this evening; your niece, no doubt, tomorrow. Good-bye.”

In the drawing room, which was still empty, while the guests at the house were dressing for dinner, Rénine handed the deed to Hortense. She seemed dazed by all that she had heard; and the thing that bewildered her even more than the relentless light shed upon her uncle’s past was the miraculous insight and amazing lucidity displayed by this man: the man who for some hours had controlled events and conjured up before her eyes the actual scenes of a tragedy which no one had beheld.

“Are you satisfied with me?” he asked.

She gave him both her hands:

“You have saved me from Rossigny. You have given me back my freedom and my independence. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

“Oh, that’s not what I am asking you to say!” he answered. “My first and main object was to amuse you. Your life seemed so humdrum and lacking in the unexpected. Has it been so today?”

“How can you ask such a question? I have had the strangest and most stirring experiences.”

“That is life,” he said. “When one knows how to use one’s eyes. Adventure exists everywhere, in the meanest hovel, under the mask of the wisest of men. Everywhere, if you are only willing, you will find an excuse for excitement, for doing good, for saving a victim, for ending an injustice.”

Impressed by his power and authority, she murmured:

“Who are you exactly?”

“An adventurer. Nothing more. A lover of adventures. Life is not worth living except in moments of adventure, the adventures of others or personal adventures. Today’s has upset you because it affected the innermost depths of your being. But those of others are no less stimulating. Would you like to make the experiment?”

“How?”

“Become the companion of my adventures. If anyone calls on me for help, help him with me. If chance or instinct puts me on the track of a crime or the trace of a sorrow, let us both set out together. Do you consent?”

“Yes,” she said, “but …”

She hesitated, as though trying to guess Rénine’s secret intentions.

“But,” he said, expressing her thoughts for her, with a smile, “you are a trifle skeptical. What you are saying to yourself is, ‘How far does that lover of adventures want to make me go? It is quite obvious that I attract him; and sooner or later he would not be sorry to receive payment for his services.’ You are quite right. We must have a formal contract.”

“Very formal,” said Hortense, preferring to give a jesting tone to the conversation. “Let me hear your proposals.”

He reflected for a moment and continued:

“Well, we’ll say this. The clock at Halingre gave eight strokes this afternoon, the day of the first adventure. Will you accept its decree and agree to carry out seven more of these delightful enterprises with me, during a period, for instance, of three months? And shall we say that, at the eighth, you will be pledged to grant me …”

“What?”

He deferred his answer:

“Observe that you will always be at liberty to leave me on the road if I do not succeed in interesting you. But, if you accompany me to the end, if you allow me to begin and complete the eighth enterprise with you, in three months, on the 5th of December, at the very moment when the eighth stroke of that clock sounds—and it will sound, you may be sure of that, for the old brass pendulum will not stop swinging again—you will be pledged to grant me …”

“What?” she repeated, a little unnerved by waiting.

He was silent. He looked at the beautiful lips, which he had meant to claim as his reward. He felt perfectly certain that Hortense had understood, and he thought it unnecessary to speak more plainly:

“The mere delight of seeing you will be enough to satisfy me. It is not for me but for you to impose conditions. Name them: what do you demand?”

She was grateful for his respect and said, laughingly:

“What do I demand?”

“Yes.”

“Can I demand anything I like, however difficult and impossible?”

“Everything is easy and 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 from Rossigny.

“I have,” said Rénine. “I’ve heard from 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 sleuth hound, 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.