The Hollow Needle by Maurice Leblanc (best book clubs .txt) 📕

driver obtained leave to stable it at the end of the village, in an old deserted cart-shed. In addition to the driver, who was none other than Valméras, there were three young men, who occupied themselves in the manufacture of wickerwork chairs: Beautrelet and two of his Janson friends.

They stayed there for three days, waiting for a propitious, moonless night and roaming singly round the outskirts of the park. Once Beautrelet saw the postern. Contrived between two buttresses placed very close together, it was almost merged, behind the screen of brambles that concealed it, in the pattern formed by the stones of the wall.

At last, on the fourth evening, the sky was covered with heavy black clouds and Valméras decided that they should go reconnoitring, at the risk of having to return again, should circumstances prove unfavorable.

All four crossed the little wood. Then Beautrelet crept through the heather, scratched his hands at the bramble-hedge and, half raising himself, slowly, with restrained movements, put the key into the lock. He turned it gently. Would the door open without an effort? Was there no bolt closing it on the other side? He pushed: the door opened, without a creak or jolt. He was in the park.

“Are you there, Beautrelet?” asked Valméras. “Wait for me. You two chaps, watch the door and keep our line of retreat open. At the least alarm, whistle.”

He took Beautrelet’s hand and they plunged into the dense shadow of the thickets. A clearer space was revealed to them when they reached the edge of the central lawn. At the same moment a ray of moonlight pierced the clouds; and they saw the castle, with its pointed turrets arranged around the tapering spire to which, no doubt, it owed its name. There was no light in the windows; not a sound.

Valméras grasped his companion’s arm:

“Keep still!”

“What is it?”

“The dogs, over there⁠—look⁠—”

There was a growl. Valméras gave a low whistle. Two white forms leapt forward and, in four bounds, came and crouched at their master’s feet.

“Gently⁠—lie down⁠—that’s it⁠—good dogs⁠—stay there.”

And he said to Beautrelet:

“And now let us push on. I feel more comfortable.”

“Are you sure of the way?”

“Yes. We are near the terrace.”

“And then?”

“I remember that, on the left, at a place where the river terrace rises to the level of the ground-floor windows, there is a shutter which closes badly and which can be opened from the outside.”

They found, when they came to it, that the shutter yielded to pressure. Valméras removed a pane with a diamond which he carried. He turned the window-latch. First one and then the other stepped over the balcony. They were now in the castle, at the end of a passage which divided the left wing into two.

“This room,” said Valméras, “opens at the end of a passage. Then comes an immense hall, lined with statues, and at the end of the hall a staircase which ends near the room occupied by your father.”

He took a step forward.

“Are you coming, Beautrelet?”

“Yes, yes.”

“But no, you’re not coming⁠—What’s the matter with you?”

He seized him by the hand. It was icy cold and he perceived that the young man was cowering on the floor.

“What’s the matter with you?” he repeated.

“Nothing⁠—it’ll pass off⁠—”

“But what is it?”

“I’m afraid⁠—”

“You’re afraid?”

“Yes,” Beautrelet confessed, frankly, “it’s my nerves giving way⁠—I generally manage to control them⁠—but, today, the silence⁠—the excitement⁠—And then, since I was stabbed by that magistrate’s clerk⁠—But it will pass off⁠—There, it’s passing now⁠—”

He succeeded in rising to his feet and Valméras dragged him out of the room. They groped their way along the passage, so softly that neither could hear a sound made by the other.

A faint glimmer, however, seemed to light the hall for which they were making. Valméras put his head round the corner. It was a night-light placed at the foot of the stairs, on a little table which showed through the frail branches of a palm tree.

“Halt!” whispered Valméras.

Near the night-light, a man stood sentry, carrying a gun.

Had he seen them? Perhaps. At least, something must have alarmed him, for he brought the gun to his shoulder.

Beautrelet had fallen on his knees, against a tub containing a plant, and he remained quite still, with his heart thumping against his chest.

Meanwhile, the silence and the absence of all movement reassured the man. He lowered his weapon. But his head was still turned in the direction of the tub.

Terrible minutes passed: ten minutes, fifteen. A moonbeam had glided through a window on the staircase. And, suddenly, Beautrelet became aware that the moonbeam was shifting imperceptibly, and that, before fifteen, before ten more minutes had elapsed, it would be shining full in his face.

Great drops of perspiration fell from his forehead on his trembling hands. His anguish was such that he was on the point of getting up and running away⁠—But, remembering that Valméras was there, he sought him with his eyes and was astounded to see him, or rather to imagine him, creeping in the dark, under cover of the statues and plants. He was already at the foot of the stairs, within a few steps of the man.

What was he going to do? To pass in spite of all? To go upstairs alone and release the prisoner? But could he pass?

Beautrelet no longer saw him and he had an impression that something was about to take place, something that seemed foreboded also by the silence, which hung heavier, more awful than before.

And, suddenly, a shadow springing upon the man, the night-light extinguished, the sound of a struggle⁠—Beautrelet ran up. The two bodies had rolled over on the flagstones. He tried to stoop and see. But he heard a hoarse moan, a sigh; and one of the adversaries rose to his feet and seized him by the arm:

“Quick!⁠—Come along!”

It was Valméras.

They went up two storys and came out at the entrance to a corridor, covered by a hanging.

“To the right,” whispered Valméras. “The fourth room on the left.”

They soon found the door of the room. As they expected,