Of all the visions that could have haunted Véronique's brain, there was none so abominable6 as the sight before her; Vorski standing7 erect8, with his arms crossed and his head up, alive! Vorski alive!
She would have accepted anything with her usual courage, but not this. She had felt strong enough to face and defy no matter what enemy, but not this one. Vorski stood for ignominious9 disgrace, for insatiable wickedness, for boundless10 ferocity, for method mingled11 with madness in crime.
And this man loved her.
She suddenly blushed. Vorski was staring with greedy eyes at the bare flesh of her shoulders and arms, which showed through her tattered12 bodice, and looking upon this bare flesh as upon a prey13 which nothing could snatch from him. Nevertheless Véronique did not budge14. She had no covering within reach. She pulled herself together under the insult of the man's desire and defied him with such a glance that he was embarrassed and for a moment turned away his eyes.
Then she cried, with an uncontrollable outburst of feeling:
"My son! Where's François? I want to see him."
"Our son is sacred, madame," he replied. "He has nothing to fear from his father."
"I want to see him."
He lifted his hand as one taking an oath:
"You shall see him, I swear."
"Dead, perhaps!" she said, in a hollow voice.
"As much alive as you and I, madame."
There was a fresh pause. Vorski was obviously seeking his words and preparing the speech with which the implacable conflict between them was to open.
He was a man of athletic15 stature16, with a powerful frame, legs slightly bowed, an enormous neck swollen17 by great bundles of muscles and a head unduly18 small, with fair hair plastered down and parted in the middle. That in him which at one time produced an impression of brute19 strength, combined with a certain distinction, had become with age the massive and vulgar aspect of a professional wrestler20 posturing21 on the hustings22 at a fair. The disquieting23 charm which once attracted the women had vanished; and all that remained was a harsh and cruel expression of which he tried to correct the hardness by means of an impassive smile.
He unfolded his arms, drew up a chair and, bowing to Véronique, said:
"Our conversation, madame, will be long and at times painful. Won't you sit down?"
He waited for a moment and, receiving no reply, without allowing himself to be disconcerted, continued:
"Perhaps you would rather first take some refreshment24 at the sideboard. Would you care for a biscuit and a thimbleful of old claret or a glass of champagne25?"
He affected26 an exaggerated politeness, the essentially27 Teutonic politeness of the semibarbarians who are anxious to prove that they are familiar with all the niceties of civilization and that they have been initiated28 into every refinement29 of courtesy, even towards a woman whom the right of conquest would permit them to treat more cavalierly. This was one of the points of detail which in the past had most vividly30 enlightened Véronique as to her husband's probable origin.
She shrugged31 her shoulders and remained silent.
"Very well," he said, "but you must then authorize32 me to stand, as behooves33 a man of breeding who prides himself on possessing a certain amount of savoir faire. Also pray excuse me for appearing in your presence in this more than careless attire34. Internment-camps and the caves of Sarek are hardly places in which it is easy to renew one's wardrobe."
He was in fact wearing a pair of old patched trousers and a torn red-flannel waistcoat. But over these he had donned a white linen35 robe which was half-closed by a knotted girdle. It was a carefully studied costume; and he accentuated36 its eccentricity37 by adopting theatrical38 attitudes and an air of satisfied negligence39.
Pleased with his preamble40, he began to walk up and down, with his hands behind his back, like a man who is in no hurry and who is taking time for reflection in very serious circumstances. Then he stopped and, in a leisurely41 tone:
"I think, madame, that we shall gain time in the end by devoting a few indispensable minutes to a brief account of our past life together. Don't you agree?"
Véronique did not reply. He therefore began, in the same deliberate tone:
"In the days when you loved me . . ."
She made a gesture of revolt. He insisted:
"Nevertheless, Véronique . . ."
"Oh," she said, in an accent of disgust, "I forbid you! . . . That name from your lips! . . . I will not allow it . . . ."
He smiled and continued, in a tone of condescension42:
"Don't be annoyed with me, madame. Whatever formula I employ, you may be assured of my respect. I therefore resume my remarks. In the days when you loved me, I was, I must admit, a heartless libertine43, a debauchee, not perhaps without a certain style and charm, for I always made the most of my advantages, but possessing none of the qualities of a married man. These qualities I should easily have acquired under your influence, for I loved you to distraction44. You had about you a purity that enraptured45 me, a charm and a simplicity46 which I have never met with in any woman. A little patience on your part, an effort of kindness would have been enough to transform me. Unfortunately, from the very first moment, after a rather melancholy47 engagement, during which you thought of nothing but your father's grief and anger, from the first moment of our marriage there was a complete and irretrievable lack of harmony between us. You had accepted in spite of yourself the bridegroom who had thrust himself upon you. You entertained for your husband no feeling save hatred48 and repulsion. These are things which a man like Vorski does not forgive. So many women and among them some of the proudest had given me proof of my perfect delicacy49 that I had no cause to reproach myself. That the little middle-class person that you were chose to be offended was not my business. Vorski is one of those who obey their instincts and their passions. Those instincts and passions failed to meet with your approval. That, madame, was your affair; it was purely50 a matter of taste. I was free; I resumed my own life. Only . . ."
He interrupted himself for a few seconds and then went on:
"Only, I loved you. And, when, a year later, certain events followed close upon one another, when the loss of your son drove you into a convent, I was left with my love unassuaged, burning and torturing me. What my existence was you can guess for yourself; a series of orgies and violent adventures in which I vainly strove to forget you, followed by sudden fits of hope, clues which were suggested to me, in the pursuit of which I flung myself headlong, only to relapse into everlasting51 discouragement and loneliness. That was how I discovered the whereabouts of your father and your son, that was how I came to know their retreat here, to watch them, to spy upon them, either personally or with the aid of people who were entirely52 devoted53 to me. In this way I was hoping to reach yourself, the sole object of my efforts and the ruling motive54 of all my actions, when war was declared. A week later, having failed in an attempt to cross the frontier, I was imprisoned55 in an internment-camp."
He stopped. His face became still harder; and he growled56:
"Oh, the hell that I went through there! Vorski! Vorski, the son of a king, mixed up with all the waiters and pickpockets57 of the Fatherland! Vorski a prisoner, scoffed59 at and loathed60 by all! Vorski unwashed and eaten up with vermin! My God, how I suffered! . . . But let us pass on. What I did, to escape from death, I was entitled to do. If some one else was stabbed in my stead, if some one else was buried in my name in a corner of France, I do not regret it. The choice lay between him and myself; I made my choice. And it was perhaps not only my persistent61 love of life that inspired my action; it was also—and this above all is a new thing—an unexpected dawn which broke in the darkness and which was already dazzling me with its glory. But this is my secret. We will speak of it later, if you force me to. For the moment . . ."
In the face of all this rhetoric62 delivered with the emphasis of an actor rejoicing in his eloquence63 and applauding his own periods, Véronique had retained her impassive attitude. Not one of those lying declarations was able to touch her. She seemed to be thinking of other things.
He went up to her and, to compel her attention, continued, in a more aggressive tone:
"You do not appear to suspect, madame, that my words are extremely serious. They are, however, and they will become even more so. But, before approaching more formidable matters and in the hope of avoiding them altogether, I should like to make an appeal, not to your spirit of conciliation64, for there is no conciliation possible with you, but to your reason, to your sense of reality. After all, you cannot be ignorant of your present position, of the position of your son . . . ."
She was not listening, he was absolutely convinced of it. Doubtless absorbed by the thought of her son, she read not the least meaning into the words that reached her ears. Nevertheless, irritated and unable to conceal65 his impatience66, he continued:
"My offer is a simple one; and I hope and trust that you will not reject it. In François' name and because of my feelings of humanity and compassion67, I ask you to link the present to the past of which I have sketched68 the main features. From the social point of view, the bond that unites us has never been shattered. You are still in name and in the eyes of the law . . ."
He ceased, stared at Véronique and then, clapping his hand violently on her shoulder, shouted:
"Listen, you baggage, can't you! It's Vorski speaking!"
Véronique lost her balance, saved herself by catching69 at the back of a chair and once more stood erect before her adversary70, with her arms folded and her eyes full of scorn.
This time Vorski again succeeded in controlling himself. He had acted under impulse and against his will. His voice retained an imperious and malevolent71 intonation72:
"I repeat that the past still exists. Whether you like it or not, madame, you are Vorski's wife. And it is because of this undeniable fact that I am asking you, if you please, to consider yourself so to-day. Let us understand each other; if I do not aim at obtaining your love or even your friendship, I will not accept either that we should return to our former hostile relations. I do not want the scornful and distant wife that you have been. I want . . . I want a woman . . . a woman who will submit herself . . . who will be the devoted, attentive73, faithful companion . . ."
"The slave," murmured Véronique.
"Yes," he exclaimed, "the slave; you have said it. I don't shrink from words any more than I do from deeds. The slave; and why not? A slave understands her duty, which is blindly to obey, bound hand and foot, perinde ac cadaver74; does the part appeal to you? Will you belong to me body and soul? As for your soul, I don't care a fig75 about that. What I want . . . what I want . . . you know well enough, don't you? What I want is what I have never had. Your husband? Ha, ha, have I ever been your husband? Look back into my life as I will, amid all my seething76 emotions and delights, I do not find a single memory to remind me that there was ever between us anything but the pitiless struggle of two enemies. When I look at you, I see a stranger, a stranger in the past as in the present. Well, since my luck has turned, since I once more have you in my clutches, it shall not be so in the future. It shall not be so to-morrow, nor even to-night, Véronique. I am the master; you must accept the inevitable77. Do you accept?"
He did not wait for her answer and, raising his voice still higher, roared:
"Do you accept? No subterfuges78 or false promises. Do you accept? If so, go on your knees, make the sign of the cross and say, in a firm voice, 'I accept. I will be a consenting wife. I will submit to all your orders and to all your whims79. You are the master.'"
She shrugged her shoulders and made no reply. Vorski gave a start. The veins81 in his forehead swelled82 up. However, he still contained himself:
"Very well. For that matter, I was expecting this. But the consequences of your refusal will be so serious for you that I propose to make one last attempt. Perhaps, after all, your refusal is addressed to the fugitive83 that I am, to the poor beggar that I seem to be; and perhaps the truth will alter your ideas. That truth is dazzling and wonderful. As I told you, an unforeseen dawn has broken through my darkness; and Vorski, son of a king, is bathed in radiant light."
He had a trick of speaking of himself in the third person which Véronique knew of old and which was the sign of his insupportable vanity. She also observed and recognized in his eyes a peculiar84 gleam which was always there at moments of exaltation, a gleam which was obviously due to his drinking habits but in which she seemed to see besides a sign of temporary aberration85. Was he not indeed a sort of madman and had his madness not increased as the years passed?
He continued, and this time Véronique listened.
"I had therefore left here, at the time when the war broke out, a person who is attached to me and who continued the work of watching your father which I had begun. An accident revealed to us the existence of the caves dug under the heath and also one of the entrances to the caves. It was in this safe retreat that I took refuge after my last escape; and it was here that I learnt, through some intercepted86 letters, of your father's investigations87 into the secret of Sarek and the discoveries which he had made. You can understand how my vigilance was redoubled! Particularly because I found in all this story, as it became more and more clear to me, the strangest coincidences and an evident connection with certain details in my own life. Presently doubt was no longer possible. Fate had sent me here to accomplish a task which I alone was able to fulfil . . . and more, a task in which I alone had the right to assist. Do you understand what I mean? Long centuries ago, Vorski was predestined. Vorski was the man appointed by fate, Vorski's name was written in the book of time. Vorski had the necessary qualities, the indispensable means, the requisite88 titles . . . . I was ready, I set to work without delay, conforming ruthlessly to the decrees of destiny. There was no hesitation89 as to the road to be followed to the end; the beacon90 was lighted. I therefore followed the path marked out for me. Vorski has now only to gather the reward of his efforts. Vorski has only to put out his hand. Within reach of his hand fortune, glory, unlimited91 power. In a few hours, Vorski, son of a king, will be king of the world. It is this kingdom that he offers you."
He was becoming more and more declamatory, more and more of the
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