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

so thin that it was nearly a sharp edge, served her as a tightrope. She climbed trees and let herself drop from branch to branch. Springing upon the big horse of Dario she forced him through the paces of a circus horse. Then, seizing the bridle of the pony, she did a turn on the two of them, lying down, standing up, or astride.

She performed all these feats with a modest grace, full of reserve, without a trace of coquetry. The young men were no less enthusiastic than amazed. The acrobat delighted them. But the young girl inspired them with a respect from which not one of them dreamt of departing. Who was she? They called her princess, laughing; but their laughter was full of deference. Really they did not understand it.

It was not till three in the afternoon that they decided to carry the adventure to its end. They all started to do so in the spirit of picnickers. Maître Delarue, to whose head the good wine of Anjou had mounted in some quantity, with his broad bow unknotted and his tall hat on the back of his head, led the way on his donkey, chanting couplets about the resurrection of Marquis Lazarus. Dario, of Genoa, imitated a mandolin accompaniment. Errington and Webster held over Dorothy’s head, to keep the sun off it, an umbrella made of ferns and wild flowers.

They went round the hillock, which was composed of the debris of the old château, behind the clock and along a beautiful avenue of trees centuries old, which ended in a circular glade in the middle of which rose a magnificent oak.

Maître Delarue said in the tone of a guide:

“These are the trees planted by the Marquis de Beaugreval’s father. You will observe their vigor. Venerable trees, if ever there were any! Behold the oak king! Whole generations have taken shelter under his boughs. Hats off, gentlemen!”

Then they came to the woody slopes of a small hill, on the summit of which in the middle of a circular embankment, formed by the ruins of the wall that had encircled it, rose a tower oval in shape.

“Cocquesin tower,” said Maître Delarue, more and more cheerful. “Venerable ruins, if ever there were any! Remnants of the feudal keep! That’s where the sleeping Marquis of the enchanted wood is waiting for us, whom we’re going to resuscitate with a thimbleful of foaming elixir.”

The blue sky appeared through the empty windows. Whole masses of wall had fallen down. However, the whole of the right side seemed to be intact; and if there really was a staircase and some kind of habitation, as the Marquis had stated, it could only be in that part of the tower.

And now the arch, against which the drawbridge had formerly been raised opened before them. The approach to it was so blocked by interlaced briars and bushes, that it took them a long time to reach the vault in which were the stones indicated by the Marquis de Beaugreval.

Then, another barrier of fallen stones, and another effort to clear a double path to the two walls.

“Here we are,” said Dorothy at last. She had directed their labors. “And we can be quite sure that no one has been before us.”

Before beginning the operation which had been enjoined on them they went to the end of the vault. It opened on to the immense nave formed by the interior of the keep, its stories fallen away, its only roof the sky. They saw, one above the other, the embrasures of four fireplaces, under chimneypieces of sculptured stone, full now of wild plants.

One might have described it as the oval of a Roman amphitheater, with a series of small vaulted chambers above, of which one perceived the gaping openings, separated by passages into distinct groups.

“The visitors who risk coming to Roche-Périac can enter from this side,” said Dorothy. “Wedding parties from the neighborhood must come here now and then. Look: there are greasy pieces of paper and sardine-tins scattered about on the ground.”

“It’s odd that the drawbridge vault hasn’t been cleared out,” said Webster.

“By whom? Do you think that picnickers are going to waste their time doing what we have done, when on the opposite side there are easy entrances?”

They did not seem in any hurry to get to work to verify the statements of the Marquis; and it was rather to have their consciences clear and to be able to say to themselves without any equivocation, “The adventure is finished,” that they attacked the walls of the vault.

Dorothy, sceptical as the others, again carelessly took command, and said: “Come on, cousins. You didn’t come from America and Russia to stand still with folded arms. We owe our ancestor this proof of our good will before we have the right to throw our medals into drawers. Dario, of Genoa⁠—Errington, be so good as to push, each on the side you are, the third stone at the top. Yes: those two, since this is the groove in which the old portcullis worked.”

The stones were a good height above the ground, so that the Englishman and the Italian had to raise their arms to reach them. Following Dorothy’s advice, they climbed on to the shoulders of Webster and Kourobelef.

“Are you ready?”

“We’re ready,” replied Errington and Dario.

“Then push gently with a continuous pressure. And above all have faith! Maître Delarue has no faith. So I am not asking him to do anything.”

The two young men set their hands against the two stones and pushed hard.

“Come: a little vigor!” said Dorothy in a tone of jest. “The statements of the Marquis are gospel truth. He has written that the stone on the right will slip back. Let the stone on the right slip back.”

“Mine is moving,” said the Englishman, on the left.

“So is mine,” said the Italian, on the right.

“It isn’t possible!” cried Dorothy incredulously.

“But it is! But it is!” declared the Englishman. “And the stone above it, too. They are slipping back from