The Secret of Sarek

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Excerpt

Into the picturesque village of Le Faouet, situated in the very heart of Brittany, there drove one morning in the month of May a lady whose spreading grey cloak and the thick veil that covered her face failed to hide her remarkable beauty and perfect grace of figure.

The lady took a hurried lunch at the principal inn. Then, at about half-past eleven, she begged the proprietor to look after her bag for her, asked for a few particulars about the neighbourhood and walked through the village into the open country.

The road almost immediately branched into two, of which one led to Quimper and the other to Quimperlé. Selecting the latter, she went down into the hollow of a valley, climbed up again and saw on her right, at the corner of another road, a sign-post bearing the inscription, “Locriff, 3 kilometers.”

“This is the place,” she said to herself.

Nevertheless, after casting a glance around her, she was surprised not to find what she was looking for and wondered whether she had misunderstood her instructions.

There was no one near her nor any one within sight, as far as the eye could reach over the Breton country-side, with its tree-lined meadows and undulating hills. Not far from the village, rising amid the budding greenery of spring, a small country house lifted its grey front, with the shutters to all the windows closed. At twelve o’clock, the angelus-bells pealed through the air and were followed by complete peace and silence.

Véronique sat down on the short grass of a bank, took a letter from her pocket and smoothed out the many sheets, one by one.

The first page was headed:

“DUTREILLIS’ AGENCY.

“Consulting Rooms. “Private Enquiries. “Absolute Discretion Guaranteed.”

Next came an address:

“Madame Véronique, “Dressmaker, “BESANÇON.”

And the letter ran:

"MADAM,

"You will hardly believe the pleasure which it gave me
to fulfill the two commissions which you were good
enough to entrust to me in your last favour. I have
never forgotten the conditions under which I was able,
fourteen years ago, to give you my practical
assistance at a time when your life was saddened by
painful events. It was I who succeeded in obtaining
all the facts relating to the death of your honoured
father, M. Antoine d'Hergemont, and of your beloved
son François. This was my first triumph in a career
which was to afford so many other brilliant
victories.

"It was I also, you will remember, who, at your
request and seeing how essential it was to save you
from your husband's hatred and, if I may add, his
love, took the necessary steps to secure your
admission to the Carmelite convent. Lastly, it was I
who, when your retreat to the convent had shown you
that a life of religion did not agree with your
temperament, arranged for you a modest occupation as a
dressmaker at Besançon, far from the towns where the
years of your childhood and the months of your
marriage had been spent. You had the inclination and
the need to work in order to live and to escape your
thoughts. You were bound to succeed; and you
succeeded.

"And now let me come to the fact, to the two facts in
hand.

"To begin with your first question: what has become,
amid the whirlwind of war, of your husband, Alexis
Vorski, a Pole by birth, according to his papers, and
the son of a king, according to his own statement? I
will be brief. After being suspected at the
commencement of the war and imprisoned in an
internment-camp near Carpentras, Vorski managed to
escape, went to Switzerland, returned to France and
was re-arrested, accused of spying and convicted of
being a German. At the moment when it seemed
inevitable that he would be sentenced to death, he
escaped for the second time, disappeared in the Forest
of Fontainebleau and in the end was stabbed by some
person unknown.

"I am telling you the story quite crudely, Madam, well
knowing your contempt for this person, who had
deceived you abominably, and knowing also that you
have learnt most of these facts from the newspapers,
though you have not been able to verify their absolute
genuineness.

"Well, the proofs exist. I have seen them. There is no
doubt left. Alexis Vorski lies buried at
Fontainebleau.