The Golden Triangle by Maurice Leblanc (top rated books of all time TXT) 📕

loved your great beggar of a wounded man, all scarred and maimed though he was. Hush! Don’t deny it!⁠ ⁠… Yes, I understand: you are rather shocked to hear such words as these spoken today. I ought perhaps to have waited. And yet why should I? I am asking you nothing. I know; and that is enough for me. I shan’t speak of it again for a long time to come, until the inevitable hour arrives when you are forced to tell it to me yourself. Till then I shall keep silence. But our love will always be between us; and it will be exquisite, Little Mother Coralie, it will be exquisite for me to know that you love me. Coralie.⁠ ⁠… There, now you’re crying! And you would still deny the truth? Why, when you cry⁠—I know you, Little Mother⁠—it means that your dear heart is overflowing with tenderness and love! You are crying? Ah, Little Mother, I never thought you loved me to that extent!”

Patrice also had tears in his eyes. Coralie’s were coursing down her pale cheeks; and he would have given much to kiss that wet face. But the least outward sign of affection appeared to him an offense at such a moment. He was content to gaze at her passionately.

And, as he did so, he received an impression that her thoughts were becoming detached from his own, that her eyes were being attracted by an unexpected sight and that, amid the great silence of their love, she was listening to something that he himself had not heard.

And suddenly he too heard that thing, though it was almost imperceptible. It was not so much a sound as the sensation of a presence mingling with the distant rumble of the town. What could be happening?

The light had begun to fade, without his noticing it. Also unperceived by Patrice, Mme. Essarès had opened the window a little way, for the boudoir was small and the heat of the fire was becoming oppressive. Nevertheless, the two casements were almost touching. It was at this that she was staring; and it was from there that the danger threatened.

Patrice’s first impulse was to run to the window, but he restrained himself. The danger was becoming defined. Outside, in the twilight, he distinguished through the slanting panes a human form. Next, he saw between the two casements something which gleamed in the light of the fire and which looked like the barrel of a revolver.

“Coralie is done for,” he thought, “if I allow it to be suspected for an instant that I am on my guard.”

She was in fact opposite the window, with no obstacle intervening. He therefore said aloud, in a careless tone:

“Coralie, you must be a little tired. We will say goodbye.”

At the same time, he went round her chair to protect her.

But he had not the time to complete his movement. She also no doubt had seen the glint of the revolver, for she drew back abruptly, stammering:

“Oh, Patrice!⁠ ⁠… Patrice!⁠ ⁠…”

Two shots rang out, followed by a moan.

“You’re wounded!” cried Patrice, springing to her side.

“No, no,” she said, “but the fright⁠ ⁠…”

“Oh, if he’s touched you, the scoundrel!”

“No, he hasn’t.”

“Are you quite sure?”

He lost thirty or forty seconds, switching on the electric light, looking at Coralie for signs of a wound and waiting in an agony of suspense for her to regain full consciousness. Only then did he rush to the window, open it wide and climb over the balcony. The room was on the first floor. There was plenty of latticework on the wall. But, because of his leg, Patrice had some difficulty in making his way down.

Below, on the terrace, he caught his foot in the rungs of an overturned ladder. Next, he knocked against some policemen who were coming from the ground-floor. One of them shouted:

“I saw the figure of a man making off that way.”

“Which way?” asked Patrice.

The man was running in the direction of the lane. Patrice followed him. But, at that moment, from close beside the little door, there came shrill cries and the whimper of a choking voice:

“Help!⁠ ⁠… Help!⁠ ⁠…”

When Patrice came up, the policeman was already flashing his electric lantern over the ground; and they both saw a human form writhing in the shrubbery.

“The door’s open!” shouted Patrice. “The assassin has escaped! Go after him!”

The policeman vanished down the lane; and, Ya-Bon appearing on the scene, Patrice gave him his orders:

“Quick as you can, Ya-Bon!⁠ ⁠… If the policeman is going up the lane, you go down. Run! I’ll look after the victim.”

All this time, Patrice was stooping low, flinging the light of the policeman’s lantern on the man who lay struggling on the ground. He recognized old Siméon, nearly strangled, with a red-silk cord round his neck.

“How do you feel?” he asked. “Can you understand what I’m saying?”

He unfastened the cord and repeated his question. Siméon stuttered out a series of incoherent syllables and then suddenly began to sing and laugh, a very low, jerky laugh, alternating with hiccups. He had gone mad.

When M. Masseron arrived, Patrice told him what had happened:

“Do you really believe it’s all over?” he asked.

“No. You were right and I was wrong,” said M. Masseron. “We must take every precaution to ensure Mme. Essarès’ safety. The house shall be guarded all night.”

A few minutes later the policeman and Ya-Bon returned, after a vain search. The key that had served to open the door was found in the lane. It was exactly similar to the one in Patrice Belval’s possession, equally old and equally rusty. The would-be murderer had thrown it away in the course of his flight.

It was seven o’clock when Patrice, accompanied by Ya-Bon, left the house in the Rue Raynouard and turned towards Neuilly. As usual, Patrice took Ya-Bon’s arm and, leaning upon him for support as he walked, he said:

“I can guess what you’re thinking, Ya-Bon.”

Ya-Bon grunted.

“That’s it,” said Captain Belval, in a tone of approval. “We are entirely in agreement all along the line. What strikes you first and