The Secret Tomb by Maurice Leblanc (i like reading .txt) 📕

rest about my wound. It is a mere nothing, no complications to be afraid of. At the most a little fever at night, which bothers the major; but all that will pass. We will say no more about it, but come straight to my journey to Bar-le-Duc.

“Octave, I may tell you without any beating about the bush that it has not been useless, and that after a patient search I ended by ferreting out from among a pile of boots and that conglomeration of useless objects which one brings away with one when one bolts, the precious medal. At the end of my convalescence when I come to Paris I will show it to you. But in the meantime, while keeping secret the indications engraved on the face of the medal, I may tell you that on the reverse are engraved these three Latin words: ‘In Robore Fortuna.’ Three words which may be thus translated: ‘Fortune is in the firm heart,’ but which, in view of the presence of this word ‘Robore’ and in spite of the difference in the spelling, doubtless point to the Château de Roborey as the place in which the fortune, of which our family legends tell will consequently be hidden.

“Have we not here, my dear Octave, a step forward on our path towards the truth? We shall do better still. And perhaps we shall be helped in the matter, in the most unexpected fashion, by an extremely nice young person, with whom I have just passed several days which have charmed me⁠—I mean my dear little Yolande.

“You know, my dear friend, that I have very often regretted not having been the father I should like to have been. My love for Yolande’s mother, my grief at her death, my life of wandering during the years which followed it, all kept me far away from the modest farm which you call my country seat, and which, I am sure, is no longer anything but a heap of ruins.

“During that time, Yolande was living in the care of the people who farmed my land, bringing herself up, getting her education from the village priest, or the schoolmaster, and above all from Nature, loving the animals, cultivating her flowers, lighthearted and uncommonly thoughtful.

“Several times, during my visits to Argonne, her common sense and intelligence astonished me. On this occasion I found her, in the field-hospital of Bar-le-Duc, in which she has, on her own initiative, established herself as an assistant-nurse, a young girl. Barely fifteen, you cannot imagine the ascendancy she exercises over everyone about her. She decides matters like a grown person and she makes those decisions according to her own judgment. She has an accurate insight into reality, not merely into appearances but into that which lies below appearances.

“ ‘You do see clearly,’ I said to her. ‘You have the eyes of a cat which moves, quite at its ease, through the darkness.’

“My dear Octave, when the war is finished, I shall bring Yolande to you; and I assure you that, along with our friends, we shall succeed in our enterprise⁠—”

The Count stopped. Dorothy smiled sadly, deeply touched by the tenderness and admiration which this letter so clearly displayed. She asked:

“That isn’t all, is it?”

“The letter itself ends there,” said the Count. “Dated the 16th of January, it was not posted till the 20th. I did not receive it, for various reasons, till three weeks later. And I learnt later that on the 15th of January Jean d’Argonne had a more violent attack of fever, of that fever which baffled the surgeon-major and which indicated a sudden infection of the wound of which your father died⁠ ⁠… or at least⁠—”

“Or at least?” asked the young girl.

“Or at least which was officially stated to be the cause of his death,” said the Count in a lower voice.

“What’s that you say? What’s that you say?” cried Dorothy. “My father did not die of his wound?”

“It is not certain,” the Count suggested.

“But then what did he die of? What do you suggest? What do you suppose?”

V “We Will Help You”

The Count was silent.

Dorothy murmured fearfully, full of the dread with which the utterance of certain words inspired one:

“Is it possible? Can they have murdered.⁠ ⁠… Can they have murdered my father?”

“Everything leads one to believe it.”

“And how?”

“Poison.”

The blow had fallen. The young girl burst into tears. The Count bent over her and said:

“Read it. For my part, I am of the opinion that your father scribbled these last pages between two attacks of fever. When he was dead, the hospital authorities finding a letter and an envelope all ready for the post, sent it all on to me without examining it. Look at the end.⁠ ⁠… It is the writing of a very sick man.⁠ ⁠… The pencil moves at random directed by an effort of will which was every moment growing weaker.”

Dorothy dried her tears. She wished to know and judge for herself, and she read in a low voice:

“What a dream!⁠ ⁠… But was it really a dream?⁠ ⁠… What I saw last night, did I see it in a nightmare? Or did I actually see it?⁠ ⁠… The rest of the wounded men⁠ ⁠… my neighbors⁠ ⁠… not one of them was awakened. Yet the man⁠ ⁠… the men made a noise.⁠ ⁠… There were two of them. They were talking in a low voice⁠ ⁠… in the garden⁠ ⁠… under a window⁠ ⁠… which was certainly open on account of the heat.⁠ ⁠… And then the window was pushed.⁠ ⁠… To do that one of the two must have climbed on to the shoulders of the other. What did he want? He tried to pass his arm through.⁠ ⁠… But the window caught against the table by the side of the bed.⁠ ⁠… And then he must have slipped off his jacket.⁠ ⁠… In spite of that his sleeve must have caught in the window and only his arm⁠ ⁠… his bare arm, came through⁠ ⁠… preceded by a hand which groped in my direction⁠ ⁠… in