She shook her head and said slowly: “No, I haven’t!”
Ralph burst out furiously: “That is to say, you don’t trust me. It’s a splendid affair; you wish to keep it entirely to yourself. Right. We’ll be going. You will have a clearer view of the situation outside.”
With that he caught her in his arms and swung her over his shoulder as he had done at their first meeting at the foot of the cliff and, so burdened, walked towards the door.
“Stop!” she said.
This feat of strength, accomplished with an incredible ease, finished her taming. She felt that she had better not provoke him further.
He set her down on her feet. She sank on to a chair and said: “What is it you want to know?”
“Everything. First of all the reason for your coming here and for that scoundrel’s murdering Bridget Rousselin.”
“The bandeau with the stones in it,” she said.
“But they’re worthless—imitation garnets, imitation topazes, opals, beryls—”
“Yes. But there are seven of them.”
“What of it? What was the object of his murdering her? It was so simple to bide your time and ransack her rooms the first chance you got,” he suggested.
“Evidently. But it looked as if other people were on the track of them.”
“Other people?”
“Yes. Early this morning, acting on my instructions, Leonard made inquiries about this Bridget Rousselin, for last night I noticed the bandeau she was wearing; and he reported that people were prowling about this house.”
“People? What people?” he said quickly.
“Emissaries of the Belmonte woman.”
“The woman who is mixed up in the business?” he asked.
“Yes. You find her everywhere.”
“Well, what of it? Was that a reason for murder?”
“He must have lost his head. And it was my fault for telling him that I must have the bandeau at any cost.”
“Well, you see what it is: We’re at the mercy of a brute who loses his head and murders senselessly, stupidly. It’s time to make an end of it, look you. I’m much more strongly inclined to believe that the people who were prowling round this house this morning were emissaries of Beaumagnan. Now you’re not of a force to measure yourself against Beaumagnan. Let me take over the management of the affair. If you want to succeed, it is through me, and through me only, that you will succeed.”
Josine weakened. Ralph asserted his superiority in a tone of such conviction that she had, so to speak, a strong physical impression of it. She saw him greater than he was and more powerful, more richly endowed than any other man she had known, equipped with a more subtle spirit, keener eyes, more diverse methods of action. She bent before this implacable will, before this immense energy that no consideration could turn from its course.
“Very well. I will tell you everything,” she said. “But why here?”
“Here—and nowhere else,” said Ralph firmly, knowing well that if the Countess of Cagliostro was once really herself again, he would obtain nothing.
“Very well,” she said again, in a tone of bitter resignation. “Very well. I give in, since our love is at stake, and you seem to take it so little into account.”
Ralph experienced a sensation of profound pride. For the first time he was conscious of exercising a real ascendancy over others, and of the extraordinary power with which he imposed his decisions on them. Truly the Countess was not in complete command of her usual resources. The supposed murder of Bridget Rousselin had to a considerable degree undermined her power of resistance, and the spectacle of the trussed-up Leonard added to her nervous distress. But how swiftly he had seized his opportunity and profited by his advantage to establish by threats and terrorizing, by force and cunning, his definite victory!
Now, he was the master. He had forced Josephine Balsamo to surrender and at the same time disciplined his own love. Kisses, caresses, seductive wiles, the enchantment of passion, the obsession of desire, he no longer feared any of them, since he had gone to the very verge of a rupture.
He picked up the rug which lay in front of the fire place and rendered Leonard deaf by throwing it over him. Then he went back to Josine and sat down facing her.
“Fire away,” he said.
“Since you will have it,” she said in a tone of resignation, “we’ll go straight through with it and make an end of it as quickly as possible. I’ll spare you the details and come to the main facts straight away. It won’t take long, and it won’t be complicated. Two and twenty years ago then, during the months which preceded the Franco-Prussian war, Cardinal de Bonnechose, Archbishop of Rouen and senator, making a confirmation tour through the Caux country, was caught in a terrible storm and had to take shelter in the Château de Gueures, which was at that time inhabited by its last owner, the Chevalier des Aubes. He dined there. That night, as he was about to go to the bedroom they had got ready for him, the Chevalier des Aubes, an old man of nearly eighty, decrepit, but in full possession of his faculties, asked for a private interview with him. This was at once granted and lasted a long time. Here is a resumé of the revelations to which the cardinal listened, a resumé which he himself drew up later, of which I shall not change a single word. I know it by heart:
“ ‘Monseigneur,’ the chevalier began, ‘I shall not astonish you by saying that my early years were spent in the middle of the great revolutionary tumult. At the time of the Terror I was twelve years old. I was an orphan, and every day I accompanied my aunt des Aubes to the neighboring prison, where she distributed the little money she could spare and tended the sick. They imprisoned all kinds of unfortunates and tried and condemned them as the fancy took them. So it came about that I saw a good deal of
