The Bloody Doll Read online

  “But we don’t have the right to wait for six days!”

  “That’s just my opinion! But you can go today to find Benedict, in his country house, and bring him back here, without losing a single hour! We’ll talk about it and decide what to do.”

  Then he stood up and returned the box to her.

  I scuttled away... my job was done... I had heard too much without knowing what it was all about... but after I heard the story of what happened to the seventh, I began to understand a little more...”

  XX

  What Happened To The Seventh

  Christine was unable to catch a train to Corbillières until two in the afternoon, and then she boarded the wrong train. She had confused the local train with the express. By mistake, she had boarded the local, which did not stop at Corbillères. She was forced to disembark at Laroche and wait for a train that would take her back in the direction of Paris.

  When, finally, she got off the train at Corbillières, it was seven in the evening. She had expected to be there for a matter of three hours, at the most, and to take Benedict Masson back with her on the express at ten o’clock. By eleven, they would be back in Paris; on the same night, they would decide with Jacques what plan to follow, and the next morning (since Jacques could not leave Gabriel at the moment) she would set off for Coulteray with Benedict.

  She was determined to save the unfortunate woman who, so many times, had turned to her for help without receiving a fair hearing. She condemned herself for her own blindness. She did not understand how she could for so long have been innocent of the negative influence of the Marquis, to the point where she had, in turn, become one of his victims. She had also been hit! She had also been bitten from a distance by the monster! She had not been dreaming when she saw him leaning over her, sucking up her blood with his gluttonous lips, through the scratch from the rosebush! A kiss so hideous that she had not wanted to believe in it when she awoke! A crime from another age that she had banished to the domain of nightmares.

  Yes, and there was also the calcium chloride, that clotted blood, and the sodium citrate, that made blood flow. And he had his trocar, with which he bit from a distance, with which he destroyed from a distance! This could only happen in our time! Science... science in the service of vampirism! Vampirism that was more than just a nightmare!

  It was no longer the funereal, ghostly and legendary phenomenon that petty modern minds rejected, with immediate disdain: it was the most monstrous of all passions, and the most ancient – the lust for human blood, abetted by chemistry and mechanics...

  And she remembered the words of Jacques Cotentin, who always explained, in a tone of circumspection and prudence that had often made her laugh: “The lie is less in the thing that is related to us that we do not understand, than in our ignorance! The darkness envelops us pitilessly, so that we stumble over each step, even as we grope our way along.” Corbillières on the Water! When she left the small station and found herself standing in the deserted square – in between four platanus trees, from which vantage point it was possible to look out over the marshy plain, covered, at the moment, with thick black clouds that were driven by the west wind, the last remnants of a rainstorm that, all afternoon, had mingled the waters of the heavens with those of the Earth – Christine finally understood (or believed she understood) the reason why, every time she had spoken of Corbillières-les-Eaux, Benedict Masson had told her: “Whatever you do, don’t go there!”

  She had never seen a sadder place on earth.

  And this was where he lived...

  It was into this mortal solitude that he had gone to take refuge after the brutal, and almost tragic, scene that had separated them.

  She did not blame him.

  On the contrary, she blamed herself. Everything had been her fault. Why had she been so tender with him that fatal evening..?

  Certainly, she had no reason to reproach herself for being flirtatious with him. She had let herself drift most naturally into allowing him into her confidences, just as she would have done with anyone else – she had felt for him, for his particularly unsociable character, for his fervent talent, which she never hesitated in describing as genius, for all of his peculiar morals, a sympathy, an almost irresistible attraction...

  Except in one respect! She could not overcome a stirring of disgust at his physical approach!

  She had not been strong enough to endure the kiss of the ugly man!

  But, really: she should have been able to anticipate it and not have allowed herself to be forced into a position where Benedict Masson, with his imprudent attitude, would feel he had the right to demand it from her...

  She wanted to forget that scene full of rage and curses... She had been insulted – wounded, even: he had rejected her like an object of hatred that he wanted to break into little pieces... and now he had come to bury himself here!

  Where? In what corner?

  Who would conduct her to his house?

  Night arrived. The evening did not make her feel particularly brave.

  Truly, this part of the country gave her an impression that hung around her shoulders like a damp and icy burial shroud.

  She thought of returning to Paris on the first available train, to return the following morning in full daylight, with Jacques...

  But the sad, anguished, despairing figure of the Marchioness appeared to her, showing her the agony that she suffered daily in the depths of the Chateau Coulteray. Did the poor woman wonder if she had called for help in vain: that Christine would arrive only when it was too late? The last phrase of her final letter passed before her eyes: “Now hurry! He will kill me, if I don’t die quickly enough...”

  A young lad came out of the only inn, looking slyly at this beautiful lady who seemed to have lost her way.

  “Do you know where Benedict Masson lives?” she asked him.

  “The Redskin?” he replied, “of course I know... I used to fetch his provisions until about eight days ago... before Annie showed up!”

  “Who’s Annie?”

  “His latest one! He says she’s his little niece... she’s the one that fetches his things now. But she hasn’t been seen by anyone for two days... another one that ran away, just like all the others! Without asking him first!”

  “Will you take me to Benedict Masson’s villa?” She held a forty sous piece out to him. The young lad snatched the tip and said, simply:

  “Follow me! By the way, my name’s Philippe!” Before going any further it may be necessary, in order to understand what follows, to cast a glance back at what has happened, or what could have happened, in Corbillères since the episode at the Green Tree when old Violette and Benedict Masson confronted each other. We will recall that the latter had threatened the gamekeeper, saying that he would hold him responsible if his little niece Annie went away like all the others, whereupon Mother Muche had warned old Violette to be careful. But old Violette was not a man who could be intimidated easily.

  He changed none of his habits and continued to patrol around the hovel where the bookbinder lived, so that he might see Annie for himself when she went out for provisions.

  He even risked revealing his face from between the reeds; but she went her own way, hastening her steps, avoiding any conversation with the old gamekeeper, almost certainly obeying orders that Benedict Masson had imposed on her...

  However, two days later, as he was trying to clean his boat outside her hut, he saw the girl appear, looking very frightened...

  “Hey, mister!” she sighed, “have you, by any chance, seen his keys?”

  “What?” he asked, with a frown...

  “His keys... he’s lost them... he’s been looking everywhere... he was in a state that made me shudder... I’ve never seen him like that... ah, just when you think you know people... all for a bunch of keys... I thought he was going to tear me into bits... but I haven’t seen them, the keys, that is! And now he’s looking for them outside the house... he’s down in the little clearing by the willows
, sniffing ‘round like a dog, with his nose in the grass.”

  Old Violette took great interest in what Annie had told him.

  He lit his pipe and let out a hearty laugh.

  “For all that’s worth stealing from his place, he might as well just leave all the doors open... what does he think that anyone would want with his keys, and what does he use them for? Maybe he imagines he’s got treasure!”

  “Ah, Monsieur, he locks every door behind him, and I’m not allowed to go down to the cellar... he has unfathomable ways but he is not a bad fellow, really...”

  “Just a moment ago you told me that you were worried he would tear you into pieces... you two must have a great understanding!”

  “To be sure, he loses his temper when things don’t go along with his ideas...”

  “And just what kind of ideas does he have... perhaps you can tell me? You have known them for longer than I have,” he uttered, casting a sidelong glance at Annie.

  But either she did not understand, or she pretended that she did not understand. One can be sure of nothing with young girls. She replied naïvely:

  “For the moment, his idea is simply to find his keys!”

  Then, the voice of Benedict Masson could be heard, in the distance, calling: “Annie... Annie!”

  “I’m going! If he finds out that I’ve spoken to you, I’ll hear about it in all colours of language!”

  The next day, old Violette had the occasion to speak to Annie again... or, rather, it was she who addressed the following words to him:

  “He’s found them... his keys, that is!”

  “So, where were they?”

  “I don’t know... he didn’t say... all he told me was that he had found them, but he had a look on his face, the like of which I will never forget! What could I have done wrong? He isn’t at all like he was in those first few days with me!”

  “Yeah, yeah... we all know about that,” sneered old Violette, “the first days… all is new, all is beautiful!”

  “But tell me, Monsieur Violette, where did they all go... the others, that is?”

  “Ah, that, my little one, we don’t know!”

  “What I mean is that, when they went, someone must have seen them go past! All that I brought with me was a trunk... I can’t have been the only one! If I wanted to go, I would need a porter!”

  “So, do you want to go away, Annie?”

  “Well... yes, I do! But I dare not tell him that! I’m afraid here... he knows that I spoke to you... he made such a scene! Look out, he’s coming out of the house!”

  And she slid down behind the hedge like a snake.

  At seven in the morning on the following day, old Violette stood hidden behind an old wall on the village’s edge, waiting for the young girl to appear. He knew that she would be coming this way to fetch provisions. As she walked past, he showed the tip of his bearded snout. She ran towards him, breathlessly:

  “Ah, there you are, I’ve been looking for you... I can’t stay there any longer... I can’t stay there!”

  “Then get out of there, right now!”

  “But I can’t leave without my trunk!”

  “If that’s all that’s bothering you, I’ll go and fetch it for you myself!”

  “No, don’t do that! It would be a disaster... oh, the way he feels about you! But here’s what you can do: send Bicot, the waiter from the inn, to me at around three o’clock, with a cart... the ‘Redskin’ (that’s what they call him here, in Corbillères, by the way) goes out every day after his lunch and goes skulking around in the grass; though precisely where, I don’t know... and takes his afternoon nap. He doesn’t come back until after four... Bicot can fetch my trunk and I’ll follow him... you can watch from a distance! But, I tell you now, don’t show yourself, because he could get nasty... and then it won’t be you taking care of things, I assure you!” The same evening, in the Green Tree, old Violette repeated this final conversation with Annie to Mother Muche:

  “I did everything she asked,” he explained to her, “I warned Bicot. At three o’clock, I was already in the little clearing behind the willows. Bicot arrived with his cart. He whistled...the bedroom window was opened, but it was Benedict Masson who showed his ugly face.

  “‘What do you want?’ he shouted, coarsely, at Bicot.

  “‘Begging your pardon, mister, I’ve come for miss Annie’s trunk,’ Bicot came back, not exactly getting the impression he was at a wedding.

  “‘Annie’s changed her mind... she’s not leaving any more!’ Benedict shouted, and then slammed the window shut. Off went Bicot, back towards the village, with his cart.

  “I was tempted to show myself, but then I said to myself: ‘and what good would that do? That could spoil everything! Better to wait for the little girl!’ But the little girl didn’t come out again; neither did Benedict, for that matter! What do you think, Mother Muche?”

  “I’ll tell you again what I’ve told you before. I saw that man’s face once! I’ll remember it for the rest of my life: when he came here, into the courtyard, with his stick, all dressed up like a savage, a real Redskin, that’s why they call him that around here, and he was looking for you everywhere! I’m telling you again because, for your sake, I hope she doesn’t disappear like all the others did!”

  “In the Name of God... what if he’s the one who makes them disappear?”

  “All the more reason!”

  “Until tomorrow, Mother Muche, I’ll take my leave. I’ll let you know what happens. I’ll keep an eye out for the girl in Corbillères when she goes out to fetch her provisions.” But Mother Muche neither saw old Violette the next day, nor the day after that. She never saw him again!

  In a word, as the young lad who had led Christine along the muddy trails through the swamp after she had arrived in Corbillères had said, no-one had seen Annie since the night before last. So let us continue on our way with Christine, towards the abode of Benedict Masson which, as night fell, mixed its gloomy shadow with the mournful reflections in the pond’s leaden waters. The wind was blowing stronger, wet and icy, rustling through the weeping willows, pale and twisted, like shivering ghosts singing their plaintive laments over the bent rushes; sometimes whistling, even howling horribly, as if they were exhaling their last breaths, full of earth and water, only to resume immediately with an unfettered fury.

  They had been walking for half an hour; young Philippe bounding through the mud as if he was in his element.

  Christine, attempting to avoid the puddles, her skirt flapping like a flag, both hands holding onto the hat in which she had travelled, was struggling against the wind that seemed to have taken a final decision to snatch it from her when, suddenly, she stopped.

  A jet of fire was rising above Benedict’s funereal dwelling.

  Flames, ashes and sparks escaped with a sinister hum from one of the chimneys that hung onto the roof; and this conflagration, blown from one side to the other by the sudden gusts of wind, seemed to threaten to consume the house in its entirety.

  “There’s a fire in the chimney,” the young lad cried, “and maybe he doesn’t know!”

  They broke into a run, and soon reached a small wooden bridge which stood on posts driven into the middle of the reeds. They clung to it for a moment, to prevent themselves from being blown away by the squall.

  The pond was swept by genuine waves, brought together by the swelling currents that bubbled in from the neighbouring swamps, and seemed to boil as if in a tank. Suddenly, like a trail of blood, it reflected the flames that roared above the roof... and in the middle of this reflection, there lay a corpse!

  It came from out of the depths of the night, carried along on the tumultuous waters, and was thrown down before Christine and the boy who accompanied her, as if they could still do something to help it. Mute with horror, they watched it go sliding under the bridge, arms outstretched, face already rotting, its open mouth gaping in a horrible grimace that seemed to be issuing some kind of final plea.

  “
It’s old Violette!” cried little Philippe, as soon as he was able to catch his breath.

  Once again, he started to run – only, this time, in the opposite direction – back towards Corbillères with all the agility his young legs could muster, augmented tenfold by terror... and left Christine on her own. Meanwhile Mademoiselle Norbert, finding herself abandoned, did not hesitate to start running in the direction of the house, as a refuge, if only to warn Benedict of the danger he was in from the fire that had not ceased blazing in his chimney, and was getting worse.

  Fortunately, the wind settled down in a south-westerly direction, throwing back the incendiary plume away from the roof of the house towards the little willow copse, where the trees huddled together, and seemed from time-to-time to rear up into the tragic night, with arms that were twisted, tortured, suppliant.