The Seventh Guest by Gaston Boca

Author:Gaston Boca [Boca, Gaston]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-12-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER VI

The vigil

That we had been outmanoeuvred, lured there for who knows what purpose by a superior will to our own, was no more in dispute than the presence of a mediaeval wall at the far end of the bedroom.

No sooner had the writing desk been pushed against the door than an intense desire to flee seized us.

Yes, but where else to take refuge?

I placed my coffee-pot on the table, within easy reach.

Troubert wiped his brow with a chequered handkerchief. Émile awaited orders. We were good at giving orders!

D’Arlon wanted his wife to sit on the sofa. But she stood up and leant upright against the dividing wall.

The only sound now was our heavy breathing.

The awful, dire décor!

A red eiderdown slept between the twisted black columns of the Renaissance bed. The Empire desk blocking the door was as massive as a rock. Heavy two-handed swords hung crossed on the wall.

Mixed in with these enormous remnants of splendour, meteorites fallen from a bygone era, the wardrobe, the table and the sofa were shoddy bits of furniture which would have been crushed to pulp if the Empire desk had been in a bad mood.

Truth be told, there was no reason for the Empire desk to have been in a bad mood. But such an impression is characteristic of our state of mind at the time.

The same duality and opposition could be seen in the surroundings. The dividing walls were made of brick and plaster, and covered with vulgar wallpaper. But the walls of the keep, the famous XIth century walls, stood in contrast. Intruding almost one third of the way into the room, its rough stones were covered with mouldy tapestry and adorned with shiny trappings.

It was to this wall, in the final analysis, that we owed the impression of being irredeemably driven. It blocked the light. It muffled the sounds. It was as if, I repeat, someone was managing events, issuing silent orders through an invisible megaphone.

Someone murmured—I believe it was Troubert:

‘Act like rats.’

Triel went over to the window. He checked the latches on the shutters, then opened them slightly in order to take a brief look at the park.

In fact, we weren’t really prisoners, because we could still use that egress… Should we flee in the night, then, pursued by the invisible one?

Triel closed the shutters again. He went over to the writing desk to take a candlestick, which he placed in the middle of the table. His calm steps resonated in the silence.

‘Have you a lighter, Monsieur Troubert?’

He lit the three candles. Without that precaution, which nobody had thought of, we would have run the risk of being plunged into total darkness at any moment.

For a moment, everyone looked at the three flickering flames.

Then each returned to his secret preoccupation.

D’Arlon and Émile stared at the door to the dining room as if they feared a new attack from that quarter, through a suddenly pulverised desk. Troubert paced up and down in front of the arched doorway like a dog who senses the enemy.

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