“Still, the Priory belongs to you.”
“No, no, Véronique d’Hergemont no longer exists and the Priory no longer belongs to anyone. Let it all be put up to auction. I don’t want anything of that accursed past.”
“And how will you live?”
“As I used to by my work. I am sure that François approves, don’t you, darling?”
And, with an instinctive movement, turning to Stéphane, as though he had a certain right to give his opinion, she added:
“You too approve, don’t you, dear Stéphane?”
“Entirely,” he said.
She at once went on:
“Besides, though I don’t doubt my father’s feelings of affection, I have no proof of his wishes towards me.”
“I have the proofs,” said Don Luis.
“How?”
“Patrice and I went back to Sarek. In a writing-desk in Maguennoc’s room, in a secret drawer, we found a sealed, but unaddressed envelope, and opened it. It contained a bond worth ten thousand francs a year and a sheet of paper which read as follows:
“ ‘After my death, Maguennoc will hand this bond to Stéphane Maroux, to whom I confide the charge of my grandson, François. When François is eighteen years of age, the bond will be his to do what he likes with. I hope and trust, however, that he will seek his mother and find her and that she will pray for my soul. I bless them both.’
“Here is the bond,” said Don Luis, “and here is the letter. It is dated April of this year.”
Véronique was astounded. She looked at Don Luis and the thought occurred to her that all this was perhaps merely a story invented by that strange man to place her and her son beyond the reach of want. It was a passing thought. When all was considered, it was a natural consequence. Everything said, M. d’Hergemont’s action was very reasonable; and, foreseeing the difficulties that would crop up after his death, it was only right that he should think of his grandson. She murmured:
“I have not the right to refuse.”
“You have so much the less right,” said Don Luis, “in that the transaction excludes you altogether. Your father’s wishes affect François and Stéphane directly. So we are agreed. There remains the God-Stone; and I repeat my question. What are we to do with it? To whom does it belong?”
“To you,” said Véronique, definitely.
“To me?”
“Yes, to you. You discovered it and you have given it a real signification.”
“I must remind you,” said Don Luis, “that this block of stone possesses, beyond a doubt, an incalculable value. However great the miracles wrought by nature may be, it is only through a wonderful concourse of circumstances that she was able to perform the miracle of collecting so much precious matter in so small a volume. There are treasures and treasures there.”
“So much the better,” said Véronique, “you will be able to make a better use of them than anyone else.”
Don Luis thought for a moment and added:
“You are quite right; and I confess that I prepared for this climax. First, because my right to the God-Stone seemed to me to be proved by adequate titles of ownership; and, next, because I have need of that block of stone. Yes, upon my word, the tombstone of the Kings of Bohemia has not exhausted its magic power; there are plenty of nations left on whom that power might produce as great an effect as on our ancestors the Gauls; and, as it happens, I am tackling a formidable undertaking in which an assistance of this kind will be invaluable to me. In a few years, when my task is completed, I will bring the God-Stone back to France and present it to a national laboratory which I intend to found. In this way science will purge any evil that the God-Stone may have done and the horrible adventure of Sarek will be atoned for. Do you approve, madame?”
She gave him her hand:
“With all my heart.”
There was a fairly long pause. Then Don Luis said:
“Ah, yes, a horrible adventure, too terrible for words. I have had some gruesome adventures in my life which have left painful memories behind them. But this outdoes them all. It exceeds anything that is possible in reality or human in suffering. It was so excessively logical as to become illogical; and this because it was the act of a madman … and also because it came to pass at a season of madness and bewilderment. It was the war which facilitated the safe silent committal of an obscure crime prepared and executed by a monster. In times of peace, monsters have not the time to realize their stupid dreams. Today, in that solitary island, this particular monster found special, abnormal conditions …”
“Please don’t let us talk about all this,” murmured Véronique, in a trembling voice.
Don Luis kissed her hand and then took All’s Well and lifted him in his arms:
“You’re right. Don’t let’s talk about it, or else tears would come and All’s Well would be sad. Therefore, All’s Well, my delightful All’s Well, let us talk no more of the dreadful adventure. But all the same let us recall certain episodes which were beautiful and picturesque. For instance, Maguennoc’s garden with the gigantic flowers; you will remember it as I shall, won’t you, All’s Well? And the legend of the God-Stone, the idyll of the Celtic tribes wandering with the memorial stone of their kings, the stone all vibrant with radium, emitting an incessant bombardment of vivifying and miraculous atoms; all that, All’s Well, possesses a certain charm, doesn’t it? Only, my most exquisite All’s Well, if I were a novelist and if it were my duty to tell the story of Coffin Island, I should not trouble too much about the horrid truth and I should give you a much more important part. I should do away with the intervention of that phrase-mongering humbug of a Don Luis and you would be the fearless and
