File No. 113 by Émile Gaboriau (summer beach reads .txt) 📕

“It is useless for one to fight against the Rhone; his body will be picked up at Arles tomorrow.”

The hussars seemed really remorseful at the tragic fate of the brave, handsome young man, whom a moment before they had pursued with so much bitter zeal. They admired his spirited resistance, his courage, and especially his resignation, his resolution to die.

True French soldiers, their sympathies were now all upon the side of the vanquished, and every man of them would have done all in his power to assist in saving the drowning man, and aiding his escape.

“An ugly piece of work!” grumbled the old quartermaster who had command of the hussars.

“Bast!” exclaimed the philosophic corporal, “the Rhone is no worse than the court of assizes: the result would be the same. Right about, men; march! The thing that troubles me is the idea of that poor old man waiting to hear his son’s fate. I would not be the one to tell him what has happened. March!”

XIII

Valentine knew, that fatal evening, that Gaston would have to walk to Tarascon, to cross the bridge over the Rhone which connected Tarascon with Beaucaire, and did not expect to see him until eleven o’clock, the hour which they had fixed upon the previous evening.

But, happening to look up at the windows of Clameran, she saw lights hurrying to and fro in an unusual manner, even in rooms that she knew to be unoccupied.

A presentiment of impending misfortune chilled her blood, and stopped the beatings of her heart.

A secret and imperious voice within told her that something extraordinary was going on at the château of Clameran.

What was it? She could not imagine; but she knew, she felt, that some dreadful misfortune had happened.

With her eyes fastened upon the dark mass of stone looming in the distance, she watched the going and coming of the lights, as if their movements would give her a clue to what was taking place within those walls.

She raised her window, and tried to listen, fancying she could hear an unusual sound, even at such a distance. Alas! she heard nothing but the rushing roar of the angry river.

Her anxiety grew more insufferable every moment; and she felt as if she would faint were this torturing suspense to last much longer, when the well-known, beloved signal appeared suddenly in Gaston’s window, and told her that her lover was about to swim across the Rhone.

She could scarcely believe her eyes; she must be under the influence of a dream; her amazement prevented her answering the signal, until it had been repeated three times.

Then, more dead than alive, with trembling limbs she hastened along the park to the riverbank.

Never had she seen the Rhone so furious. Since Gaston was risking his life in order to see her, she could no longer doubt that something fearful had occurred at Clameran.

She fell on her knees, and with clasped hands, and her wild eyes fixed upon the dark waters, besought the pitiless waves to yield up her dear Gaston.

Every dark object which she could distinguish floating in the middle of the torrent assumed the shape of a human form.

At one time, she thought she heard, above the roaring of the water, the terrible, agonized cry of a drowning man.

She watched and prayed, but her lover came not.

Still she waited.

While the gendarmes and hussars slowly and silently returned to the château of Clameran, Gaston experienced one of those miracles which would seem incredible were they not confirmed by the most convincing proof.

When he first plunged into the river, he rolled over five or six times, and was then drawn toward the bottom. In a swollen river the current is unequal, being much stronger in some places than in others; hence the great danger.

Gaston knew it, and guarded against it. Instead of wasting his strength in vain struggles, he held his breath, and kept still. About twenty-five yards from the spot where he had plunged in, he made a violent spring which brought him to the surface.

Rapidly drifting by him was the old tree.

For an instant, he was entangled in the mass of weeds and debris which clung to its roots, and followed in its wake; an eddy set him free. The tree and its clinging weeds swept on. It was the last familiar friend, gone.

Gaston dared not attempt to reach the opposite shore. He would have to land where the waves dashed him.

With great presence of mind he put forth all his strength and dexterity to slowly take an oblique course, knowing well that there was no hope for him if the current took him crosswise.

This fearful current is as capricious as a woman, which accounts for the strange effects of inundations; sometimes it rushes to the right, sometimes to the left, sparing one shore and ravaging the other.

Gaston was familiar with every turn of the river; he knew that just below Clameran was an abrupt turning, and relied upon the eddy formed thereby, to sweep him in the direction of La Verberie.

His hopes were not deceived. An oblique current suddenly swept him toward the right shore, and, if he had not been on his guard, would have sunk him.

But the eddy did not reach as far as Gaston supposed, and he was still some distance from the shore, when, with the rapidity of lightning, he was swept by the park of La Verberie.

As he floated by, he caught a glimpse of a white shadow among the trees; Valentine still waited for him.

He was gradually approaching the bank, as he reached the end of La Verberie, and attempted to land.

Feeling a foothold, he stood up twice, and each time was thrown down by the violence of the waves. He escaped being swept away by seizing some willow branches, and, clinging to them, raised himself, and climbed up the steep bank.

He was safe at last.

Without taking time to breathe, he darted in the direction of the park.

He came just in