Part 30 (1/2)
”No, I had to come. It is fate which is persecuting us.”
”Don't believe it,” said Stephane. ”Everything will come right.”
”Too late!” said she, shaking her head.
”Why? How do we know that Francois has not left his cell? You yourself thought so just now . . . .”
She did not reply. Her face became drawn and very pale. By virtue of her sufferings she had acquired a kind of intuition of the evil that threatened her. This evil now surrounded her on every hand. A second series of ordeals was before her, more terrible than the first.
”There's death all about us,” she said.
He tried to smile:
”You are talking like the people of Sarek. You have the same fears . . .”
”They were right to be afraid. And you yourself feel the horror of it all.”
She rushed to the door, drew the bolt, tried to open it; but what could she do against that ma.s.sive, iron-clad door?
Stephane seized her by the arm:
”One moment . . . . Listen . . . . It sounds as if . . .”
”Yes,” she said, ”it's up there that they are knocking . . . above our heads . . . in Francois' cell . . . .”
”Not at all, not at all: listen . . . .”
There was a long silence; and then blows were heard in the thickness of the cliff. The sound came from below them.
”The same blows that I heard this morning,” said Stephane, in dismay.
”The same attempt of which I spoke to you . . . . Ah, I understand!
”What? What do you mean?”
The blows were repeated, at regular intervals, and then ceased, to be followed by a dull, continuous sound, pierced by shriller creakings and sudden cracks, like the straining of machinery newly started, or of one of those capstans which are used for hoisting boats up a beach.
Veronique listened, desperately expectant of what was coming, trying to guess, seeking to find some clue in Stephane's eyes. He stood in front of her, looking at her as a man, in the hour of danger, looks at the woman he loves.
And suddenly she staggered and had to press her hand against the wall.
It was as though the cave and indeed the whole cliff were bodily moving from its place.
”Oh,” she murmured, ”is it I who am trembling like this? Is it from fear that I am shaking from head to foot?”
Seizing Stephane's hands, she said:
”Tell me! I want to know! . . .”
He did not answer. There was no fear in his eyes bedewed with tears, there was nothing but immense love and unbounded despair. He was thinking only of her.
Besides, was it necessary for him to explain what was happening? Did not the reality itself become more and more apparent as the seconds pa.s.sed?