File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (classic literature books TXT) π
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- Author: Emile Gaboriau
Read book online Β«File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (classic literature books TXT) πΒ». Author - Emile Gaboriau
No! He would seize the one chance of salvation left him: a forlorn, desperate, perilous chance, but still a chanceβthe river.
Holding a pistol in either hand, he ran and leaped upon the edge of a little promontory, projecting three yards into the Rhone.
This cape of refuge was formed by the immense trunk of a fallen tree.
The tree swayed and cracked fearfully under Gastonβs weight, as he stood on the extreme end, and looked around upon his pursuers; there were fifteen of them, some on the right, some on the left, all uttering cries of joy.
βDo you surrender?β called out the corporal.
Gaston did not answer; he was weighing his chances. He was above the park of La Verberie; would he be able to swim there, granting that he was not swept away and drowned the instant he plunged into the angry torrent before him?
He pictured Valentine, at this very moment, watching, waiting, and praying for him on the other shore.
βFor the last time I command you to surrender!β cried the corporal.
The unfortunate man did not hear; he was deafened by the waters which were roaring and rushing around him.
In a supreme moment like this, with his foot upon the threshold of another world, a man sees his past life rise before him, and seldom does he find cause for self-approval.
Although death stared him in the face, Gaston calmly considered which would be the best spot to plunge into, and commended his soul to God.
βHe will stand there until we go after him,β said a gendarme: βso we might as well advance.β
Gaston had finished his prayer.
He flung his pistols in the direction of the gendarmes: he was ready.
He made the sign of the cross, then, with outstretched arms, dashed head foremost into the Rhone.
The violence of his spring detached the few remaining roots of the old tree; it oscillated a moment, whirled over, and then drifted away.
The spectators uttered a cry of horror and pity; anger seemed to have deserted them in their turn.
βThat is an end of him,β muttered one of the gendarmes. βIt is useless for one to fight against the Rhone; his body will be picked up at Arles to-morrow.β
The hussars seemed really remorseful at the tragic fate of the brave, handsome young man, whom a moment before they had pursued with so much bitter zeal. They admired his spirited resistance, his courage, and especially his resignation, his resolution to die.
True French soldiers, their sympathies were now all upon the side of the vanquished, and every man of them would have done all in his power to assist in saving the drowning man, and aiding his escape.
βAn ugly piece of work!β grumbled the old quartermaster who had command of the hussars.
βBast!β exclaimed the philosophic corporal, βthe Rhone is no worse than the court of assizes: the result would be the same. Right about, men; march! The thing that troubles me is the idea of that poor old man waiting to hear his sonβs fate. I would not be the one to tell him what has happened. March!β
XIII
Valentine knew, that fatal evening, that Gaston would have to walk to Tarascon, to cross the bridge over the Rhone which connected Tarascon with Beaucaire, and did not expect to see him until eleven oβclock, the hour which they had fixed upon the previous evening.
But, happening to look up at the windows of Clameran, she saw lights hurrying to and fro in an unusual manner, even in rooms that she knew to be unoccupied.
A presentiment of impending misfortune chilled her blood, and stopped the beatings of her heart.
A secret and imperious voice within told her that something extraordinary was going on at the chateau of Clameran.
What was it? She could not imagine; but she knew, she felt, that some dreadful misfortune had happened.
With her eyes fastened upon the dark mass of stone looming in the distance, she watched the going and coming of the lights, as if their movements would give her a clew to what was taking place within those walls.
She raised her window, and tried to listen, fancying she could hear an unusual sound, even at such a distance. Alas! she heard nothing but the rushing roar of the angry river.
Her anxiety grew more insufferable every moment; and she felt as if she would faint were this torturing suspense to last much longer, when the well-known, beloved signal appeared suddenly in Gastonβs window, and told her that her lover was about to swim across the Rhone.
She could scarcely believe her eyes; she must be under the influence of a dream; her amazement prevented her answering the signal, until it had been repeated three times.
Then, more dead than alive, with trembling limbs she hastened along the park to the river-bank.
Never had she seen the Rhone so furious. Since Gaston was risking his life in order to see her, she could no longer doubt that something fearful had occurred at Clameran.
She fell on her knees, and with clasped hands, and her wild eyes fixed upon the dark waters, besought the pitiless waves to yield up her dear Gaston.
Every dark object which she could distinguish floating in the middle of the torrent assumed the shape of a human form.
At one time, she thought she heard, above the roaring of the water, the terrible, agonized cry of a drowning man.
She watched and prayed, but her lover came not.
Still she waited.
While the gendarmes and hussars slowly and silently returned to the chateau of Clameran, Gaston experienced one of those miracles which would seem incredible were they not confirmed by the most convincing proof.
When he first plunged into the river, he rolled over five or six times, and was then drawn toward the bottom. In a swollen river the current is unequal, being much stronger in some places than in others; hence the great danger.
Gaston knew it, and guarded against it. Instead of wasting his strength in vain struggles, he held his breath, and kept still. About twenty-five yards from the spot where he had plunged in, he made a violent spring which brought him to the surface.
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