The Eight Strokes of the Clock by Maurice Leblanc (best non fiction books to read TXT) 📕

end, the necessity of returning to the tower and removing the traces of the two murders, the frightful punishment of climbing that tower, of touching those skeletons, of undressing them and burying them. That will be enough. We will not ask for more. We will not give it to the public to batten on and create a scandal which would recoil upon M. d’Aigleroche’s niece. No, let us leave this disgraceful business alone.”

The count resumed his seat at the table, with his hands clutching his forehead, and asked:

“Then why⁠ ⁠… ?”

“Why do I interfere?” said Rénine. “What you mean is that I must have had some object in speaking. That is so. There must indeed be a penalty, however slight, and our interview must lead to some practical result. But have no fear: M. d’Aigleroche will be let off lightly.”

The contest was ended. The count felt that he had only a small formality to fulfil, a sacrifice to accept; and, recovering some of his self-assurance, he said, in an almost sarcastic tone:

“What’s your price?”

Rénine burst out laughing:

“Splendid! You see the position. Only, you make a mistake in drawing me into the business. I’m working for the glory of the thing.”

“In that case?”

“You will be called upon at most to make restitution.”

“Restitution?”

Rénine leant over the table and said:

“In one of those drawers is a deed awaiting your signature. It is a draft agreement between you and your niece Hortense Daniel, relating to her private fortune, which fortune was squandered and for which you are responsible. Sign the deed.”

M. d’Aigleroche gave a start:

“Do you know the amount?”

“I don’t wish to know it.”

“And if I refuse?⁠ ⁠…”

“I shall ask to see the Comtesse d’Aigleroche.”

Without further hesitation, the count opened a drawer, produced a document on stamped paper and quickly signed it:

“Here you are,” he said, “and I hope.⁠ ⁠…”

“You hope, as I do, that you and I may never have any future dealings? I’m convinced of it. I shall leave this evening; your niece, no doubt, tomorrow. Goodbye.”

In the drawing-room, which was still empty, while the guests at the house were dressing for dinner, Rénine handed the deed to Hortense. She seemed dazed by all that she had heard; and the thing that bewildered her even more than the relentless light shed upon her uncle’s past was the miraculous insight and amazing lucidity displayed by this man: the man who for some hours had controlled events and conjured up before her eyes the actual scenes of a tragedy which no one had beheld.

“Are you satisfied with me?” he asked.

She gave him both her hands:

“You have saved me from Rossigny. You have given me back my freedom and my independence. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

“Oh, that’s not what I am asking you to say!” he answered. “My first and main object was to amuse you. Your life seemed so humdrum and lacking in the unexpected. Has it been so today?”

“How can you ask such a question? I have had the strangest and most stirring experiences.”

“That is life,” he said. “When one knows how to use one’s eyes. Adventure exists everywhere, in the meanest hovel, under the mask of the wisest of men. Everywhere, if you are only willing, you will find an excuse for excitement, for doing good, for saving a victim, for ending an injustice.”

Impressed by his power and authority, she murmured:

“Who are you exactly?”

“An adventurer. Nothing more. A lover of adventures. Life is not worth living except in moments of adventure, the adventures of others or personal adventures. Today’s has upset you because it affected the innermost depths of your being. But those of others are no less stimulating. Would you like to make the experiment?”

“How?”

“Become the companion of my adventures. If anyone calls on me for help, help him with me. If chance or instinct puts me on the track of a crime or the trace of a sorrow, let us both set out together. Do you consent?”

“Yes,” she said, “but.⁠ ⁠…”

She hesitated, as though trying to guess Rénine’s secret intentions.

“But,” he said, expressing her thoughts for her, with a smile, “you are a trifle sceptical. What you are saying to yourself is, ‘How far does that lover of adventures want to make me go? It is quite obvious that I attract him; and sooner or later he would not be sorry to receive payment for his services.’ You are quite right. We must have a formal contract.”

“Very formal,” said Hortense, preferring to give a jesting tone to the conversation. “Let me hear your proposals.”

He reflected for a moment and continued:

“Well, we’ll say this. The clock at Halingre gave eight strokes this afternoon, the day of the first adventure. Will you accept its decree and agree to carry out seven more of these delightful enterprises with me, during a period, for instance, of three months? And shall we say that, at the eighth, you will be pledged to grant me.⁠ ⁠…”

“What?”

He deferred his answer:

“Observe that you will always be at liberty to leave me on the road if I do not succeed in interesting you. But, if you accompany me to the end, if you allow me to begin and complete the eighth enterprise with you, in three months, on the 5th of December, at the very moment when the eighth stroke of that clock sounds⁠—and it will sound, you may be sure of that, for the old brass pendulum will not stop swinging again⁠—you will be pledged to grant me.⁠ ⁠…”

“What?” she repeated, a little unnerved by waiting.

He was silent. He looked at the beautiful lips which he had meant to claim as his reward. He felt perfectly certain that Hortense had understood and he thought it unnecessary to speak more plainly:

“The mere delight of seeing you will be enough to satisfy me. It is not for me but for you to impose conditions. Name them: what do you demand?”

She was grateful for his respect and said, laughingly:

“What do I demand?”

“Yes.”

“Can I demand anything I like, however difficult and impossible?”

“Everything is easy and