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

He shook off the obsession, however. He had two revolvers with him. What had he to fear?

“You’re coming in, aren’t you, Coralie?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I somehow thought you seemed undecided, anxious⁠ ⁠…”

“It’s quite true,” said Coralie. “I feel a sort of hollowness.”

“Why? Are you afraid?”

“No. Or rather yes. I’m not afraid for today, but in some way for the past. I think of my poor mother, who went through this door, as I am doing, one April morning. She was perfectly happy, she was going to meet her love.⁠ ⁠… And then I feel as if I wanted to hold her back and cry, ‘Don’t go on.⁠ ⁠… Death is lying in wait for you.⁠ ⁠… Don’t go on.⁠ ⁠…’ And it’s I who hear those words of terror, they ring in my ears; it’s I who hear them and I dare not go on. I’m afraid.”

“Let’s go back, Coralie.”

She only took his arm:

“No,” she said, in a firm voice. “We’ll walk on. I want to pray. It will do me good.”

Boldly she stepped along the little slanting path which her mother had followed and climbed the slope amid the tangled weeds and the straggling branches. They passed the lodge on their left and reached the leafy cloisters where each had a parent lying buried. And at once, at the first glance, they saw that the twentieth wreath was there.

“Siméon has come,” said Patrice. “An all-powerful instinct obliged him to come. He must be somewhere near.”

While Coralie knelt down beside the tombstone, he hunted around the cloisters and went as far as the middle of the garden. There was nothing left but to go to the lodge, and this was evidently a dread act which they put off performing, if not from fear, at least from the reverent awe which checks a man on entering a place of death and crime.

It was Coralie once again who gave the signal for action:

“Come,” she said.

Patrice did not know how they would make their way into the lodge, for all its doors and windows had appeared to them to be shut. But, as they approached, they saw that the backdoor opening on the yard was wide open, and they at once thought that Siméon was waiting for them inside.

It was exactly ten o’clock when they crossed the threshold of the lodge. A little hall led to a kitchen on one side and a bedroom on the other. The principal room must be that opposite. The door stood ajar.

“That’s where it must have happened⁠ ⁠… long ago,” said Coralie, in a frightened whisper.

“Yes,” said Patrice, “we shall find Siméon there. But, if your courage fails you, Coralie, we had better give it up.”

An unquestioning force of will supported her. Nothing now would have induced her to stop. She walked on.

Though large, the room gave an impression of coziness, owing to the way in which it was furnished. The sofas, armchairs, carpet and hangings all tended to add to its comfort; and its appearance might well have remained unchanged since the tragic death of the two who used to occupy it. This appearance was rather that of a studio, because of a skylight which filled the middle of the high ceiling, where the belvedere was. The light came from here. There were two other windows, but these were hidden by curtains.

“Siméon is not here,” said Patrice.

Coralie did not reply. She was examining the things around her with an emotion which was reflected in every feature. There were books, all of them going back to the last century. Some of them were signed “Coralie” in pencil on their blue or yellow wrappers. There were pieces of unfinished needlework, an embroidery-frame, a piece of tapestry with a needle hanging to it by a thread of wool. And there were also books signed “Patrice” and a box of cigars and a blotting-pad and an inkstand and penholders. And there were two small framed photographs, those of two children, Patrice and Coralie. And thus the life of long ago went on, not only the life of two lovers who loved each other with a violent and fleeting passion, but of two beings who dwell together in the calm assurance of a long existence spent in common.

“Oh, my darling, darling mother!” Coralie whispered.

Her emotion increased with each new memory. She leant trembling on Patrice’s shoulder.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Yes, dear, yes, we had better. We will come back again.⁠ ⁠… We will come back to them.⁠ ⁠… We will revive the life of love that was cut short by their death. Let us go for today; I have no strength left.”

But they had taken only a few steps when they stopped dismayed.

The door was closed.

Their eyes met, filled with uneasiness.

“We didn’t close it, did we?” he asked.

“No,” she said, “we didn’t close it.”

He went to open it and perceived that it had neither handle nor lock.

It was a single door, of massive wood that looked hard and substantial. It might well have been made of one piece, taken from the very heart of an oak. There was no paint or varnish on it. Here and there were scratches, as if someone had been rapping at it with a tool. And then⁠ ⁠… and then, on the right, were these few words in pencil:

Patrice and Coralie, 14 April, 1895
God will avenge us

Below this was a cross and, below the cross, another date, but in a different and more recent handwriting:

14 April, 1915

“This is terrible, this is terrible,” said Patrice. “Today’s date! Who can have written that? It has only just been written. Oh, it’s terrible!⁠ ⁠… Come, come, after all, we can’t⁠ ⁠…”

He rushed to one of the windows, tore back the curtain that veiled it and pulled upon the casement. A cry escaped him. The window was walled up, walled up with building-stones that filled the space between the glass and the shutters.

He ran to the other window and found the same obstacle.

There were two doors, leading probably to the bedroom on the right and to a room next to the